We're screwed. OR: Ted Nugent and the Dixie Chicks walk into a bar...

I stand before you today, my friends, with a troubled heart.
Brothers and Sisters, our society makes less sense with every passing week, and this weighs heavily upon my furrowed brow.

can I get an Amen?

Not too long ago, at least not too long ago for those of us who are of a certain age,  there were three women, my friends.    Three women who possessed great talent.   God had blessed them with the ability to play multiple musical instruments, write music, and sing like angels.

Halleluia.
Halleluiah

Praise jesus!    Way easier to spell, so we'll stick with that, going forward.

And the lord above brought these three women together, and their parts blended together to make a better whole, and they became famous, sold millions of records, sold out arenas world wide,  and won prestigious musical awards and accolades.  Testify!

Friends, they were so popular that radio executives and concert promoters and corporate sponsors from around the world happily would have stood in line to hold the three women's hair back, while they threw up.     And it was good.

If you like that sort of music.  I honestly don't know any of their songs, but that's not the point here....

Until one night, my friends, when on stage during a concert in a land far away, one of the three women told the crowd that, gasp!  Horrors!!!! She was ashamed to be from the same state as the president of the United States.      EGADS!   Gadzooks!!!!

This, at a time in history where americans who traveled abroad would, when asked, regularly claim to be from Canada, because of how unpopular that president and our politics were, globally.

Oh, my brothers and sisters, punishment for such blasphemy was swift and terrible.
Overnight, their music was pulled from rotation at country stations around the country.  People were encouraged to boycott their concerts.  There were even, if memory serves, cd burnings.   People were calling for them to leave 'Murica, if they hated it so much.  Such a swift and total change in fortunes has  rarely been witnessed, 'lo these many years.
And if that were not enough, my children, all of the sudden, it was decided that the woman who had uttered the blasphemous statement, was deemed to be... physically unattractive, and should be told about it.

They became punchlines for pundits, and were all that was wrong and unpatriotic about some people in this great country of ours, can I get an amen?

Fast forward to a few days ago.   I'm punching pre-sets on my drive home, trying to find music.
Classic Rock station #1 had just started STRANGLEHOLD, by Ted Nugent.

It is, quite possibly, one of the longest and most repetitive songs in the history of rock and roll.  It's a nice little jam for the first couple of minutes, and then it just repeats itself over and over and over and over... And the drum fills are uninspired at best, down right annoying at worst....

Anyhow, beyond thinking about it's mediocrity, and the fact that I was due to come across my daily Pink Floyd song (not cause for celebration in my car) on one of the stations at any moment, I didn't give it much more thought.

Until the very next day, when classic rock station # 2 played the same damn song, at roughly the same time.     I can state with all honesty that I'd gone 20 years or longer without hearing this song, until this past thursday, and here it was, 2x in 24 hours.
To be honest, if it wasn't for the digital display on the radio, I wouldn't even have known it was the Nuge...

The Nuge......... a B list guitarist of mediocre musical fame, 20 years past his last hint of mainstream success, 30 years past the prime of his career, whatever that may have been....

The Nuge, who, not too long ago my friends,  said in an interview or while on stage that he thought that the current president of the United States should "suck on my machine gun."  

The Nuge, who had been so inflammatory in interviews, that he came under the scrutiny of the US Secret Service, shortly before the election of 2012, and was investigated as a possible threat to the well being of the president of the united states.

And oh, my brothers and sisters, punishment for such blasphemous and un-american behavior was swift and terrible, praise the lord!
He was not asked to appear on talk shows anymore.
The dozens and dozens of people that own his cd's got together and burned them, after washing their ears out with holy water.
The reaction from radio stations across the nation was so swift and so harsh that he took one of his machine guns and shot the radio out of the dash of his pick up truck.

And it was goo... what's that?     It didn't happen like that at all?
He got more offers for talk radio than ever before?
Some cracker  politician even went so far as to invite him to attend the State of the Union address as his personal guest?

Surely, brothers and sisters, thou are bullshitting me, right?
Can I get an amen?
Please?
Pretty please?

No "amen"on the whole "bullshitting me" thing?

Oh, dear.


He's touring with two other nostalgia acts this spring and summer, and the classic rock stations in Chicago are not only promoting the tour, and putting his two almost hits from 35 years ago back into heavier rotation, they appear to be putting him forward as the face and voice of that tour?
Heard Bobby Skafish announce it thusly (I paraphrase):
"Ted Nugent announced today that he'll be touring with REO and Styx again this year, and was quoted as saying 'Those guys deserve me'...

Why are they even mentioning his name on air, let alone playing his music and supporting his tours?
Jesus Willy Christ, he said the president should suck on a machine gun!!!!   Surely that's worse than "I'm embarrassed to be from the same state...."

New rule, commercial radio stations across the country.  If the secret service investigates someone for threats against the president of the United States,  you should not be enabling his career.


And, my friends, you're telling me that many of the same folks who felt that "I'm embarrassed to be from the same state as our president"  was un-American and wrong, and should be punishable by death, and all held hands as they got high off the fumes of burning compact discs,  and screamed "if you don't love 'Murica, you can leave! Oh, and you're ugly"...
Are the same members of god's flock who are now saying "Yeah, terrible Ted!  that's tellin' him!!!!  USA USA!!!!"  and  can be found running out to Walmart to see if they have restocked the firearms department since their last visit?

Brothers and sisters, they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions.  I fear we are a bit light on good intent at this point, and have started to pave it with ignorance and hypocrisy.


Go in peace, brothers and sisters.  I need some quiet time to reflect on this.  And perhaps enough brown liquor to get my hands to stop shaking.    

Euchre, or something like it.

It's 7:00 on a saturday morning, and a man's thoughts turn to Euchre.

Not true.   It turned to Euchre yesterday.  
On the way to family game night at my daughter's school.

"It's family game night", I thought to myself.   And in my family, for many generations, "family game" equals.... euchre.

For those of you who don't know what euchre is..... I pity your ignorance.  a crucial part of your upbringing was missed.  You are incomplete.  How sad.

No, wait.     For those of you that don't know what euchre is, it's a card game.  Typically played by two teams of two people.   It can be adjusted and modified to play three man, or even two man euchre.
But for the sake of this post, we'll just stick with the traditional 2 on 2.

And this game has been the centerpiece of my family's get-togethers since before I was born.
I learned to play when I was... eight years old, I think.   Over some winter holiday when my not-very-healthy grandparents were visiting, and... it was how we could interact with them.  They were not up for much else.    And since it was the one thing that everyone did on both sides of the family when they were together, it seemed like a good skill to obtain.

And it was.   We had more fun with grandma Murray that morning than I can recall ever having before, or after.  And we were in the club.  We had the tools to more fully participate in all subsequent family visits.  Doors were opened.   Interactions with grandparents and aunts and uncles took on greater depth.

Laughter, always laughter, ensued.  And continues to ensue, whenever the cards come out...

Today, 37 years after my first game,  memories of random euchre game moments, quotes from my grandma, a woman who at age 90 could still hold her own at the euchre table, more so than in many aspects of her life; family legend.... thick with euchre references.

That one time, 20 years ago, when so and so euchred my loan.  
"Aunty Missy Cards"
"Dad could go alone with a hand consisting of a Subway punch card, two uno cards, a beer coaster and a get out of jail free card..."

And I delight in the fact that my nieces and nephews have picked the game up and are carrying the tradition on...

Little known fact about euchre.   It's magic.
24 cards can generate untold amounts of conversation and laughter.   Not just for the four people playing, but for the numerous others who are sitting around, watching, kibitzing.   Because when those 24 cards are in play, it's where the fun is.

On a non-family side note:   It's magic does not end at family gatherings.     I was delighted, upon going away to college, to discover that euchre was not an "Ohio thing", and that lots of people for SE MI grew up playing it as well.   It was nothing short of amazing how the same game, the same 24 cards, could put you in a room with virtual strangers, and in moments you were laughing with new friends.
It all started with someone sticking their head into your doorway.
"We need a 4th for euchre.  do you play?"
F*ck yes I play!    

And strangers become friends,

Anyhow, back to family game night...

Peeling it all back, removing the cards, the table, the ritual of it all, it boils down to tradition.
"Euchre"  doesn't HAVE to be... euchre.

But I hope, for all my friends out there, that you grew up a "Euchre" in your family.
And my hope for all who read this is that they pass their euchre along and down and keep it going.

My daughter just walked in, clutching a bear, all sleepy-eyed.
Good morning, peanut.

"What are you writing about?"
"Euchre."
"What's that?"
"It's a card game.  You're gonna love it in a couple of years..."

It was too good of a deal to pass up....

Happy New Years, everyone.

We happened to be walking past a new consignment shop this past saturday.
(4 days ago.  4 LONG days ago...)

And there, in the window of the shop, was an extremely cute headboard / footboard with matching bedside table.    It was perfect for Fiona's room.

Fiona's 5.5 years old, and has been on us recently to buy her a bedside table.  She likes the ones in our room, and apparently feels she would benefit from having a similar convenience next to her own bed.

So, there the pieces were in the window.    Whilst we had not planned to furniture shop that afternoon, we also have learned to maintain flexibility in such matters, over time.

"I'm almost positive I've seen these exact pieces in __________ catalog"  Wendy mentions quietly to me as we enter the store.
"They're wicked expensive."

So we look around a bit, find a very nice guy to help us, we looked at the pieces, and at the extremely reasonable prices on them, taked the guy down a bit, and ended up purchasing the bed and table.

How could we not?  It was just too good a deal to pass up.

"Does it come with rails?"  I asked before we left.

Nope, but they should attach to any standard frame.......

We stop by a hardware store near the consignment shop, a ndget the requisite bolts, nuts and washers for it.

We get it home, and go online and see the frame in the catalog, and congratulate ourselves on getting such a great deal.

And.... the metal frame that Fiona's bed is sitting on, does not have footboard attachments.

Strike one.

No problem, I hate the metal frame in the spare room, we'll buy a new one for Fiona's room, and use hers in the spare room.  

6 phone calls later, I find a place that both sells the frame I need, AND has it in stock.  And it's only.... 30 minutes away.     But closes in 10 minutes.

Sunday morning, I took a drive to the bed store that had the frame, bought it (for more than the headboard and footboard cost me) and realized I'd need narrower bolts....   Stopped at another hardware store on the way home from the bed store, made sure I had the right bolts for the new frame, and got home.

Only to discover that the large holes that were pre-drilled on the head/footboard did not line up with the new bed frame, and therefore would not line up with any standard  bed frame.

Strike two.

What to do, what to do... ponder...ponder.... ponder.....     I set up the new frame, it's easy peasy, and put Fiona's bed on it.  At least she'll be able to sleep.   I took her old frame to the spare room, swapped it out with the frame-I-hate, and took solace in the fact that at least something worked out just the way I pictured it.  

After much deliberation and lots of swearing, I decide that there's one more thing I can try, before taking an ax to our too-good-of-a-deal-to-pass-up.   I can measure new frame holes against the wood of the head/footboard, and very carefully drill new, small holes, attaching the boards to the frame in a way that would keep them from being weight-bearing.   Attach them for strictly cosmetic reasons, in other words.

I got a pencil, lined it all up, realized it would be close but  juuuuuuusssssttttt doable, as long as I did not allow them to be be load bearing.   No problem......

Went to a 3rd hardware store for the narrow bolts (and nuts and washers); the drill bit that would be exactly the right size; and a wee-tiny little wrench for tightening the wee tiny nuts onto the wee tiny bolts.    Get 'em all home, and.... the battery on my drill is dead.


#$^($%&(#$^( GOD #($%^&(#$%&(@#$^(GOAT F(#$%^&(#$^(#% SUCKER!!!

I had used the drill for, like... 2 minutes, 3 days earlier, and didn't pop the battery out and plug it back in.....

Strike 3.  
(At least.  I'm not counting each individual trip to a hardware store as a separate strike...)


Fast forward to today.   The drill's fully charged, the holes are drilled as planned, everything lines up, and.... the bolts are too long.   I chose the side of caution when I bought them, and... they won't work.

Back to the hardware store, shorter bolts, come home, slap it together and.... there it is, looking cute in Fiona's room, and she's terribly excited about the whole thing.

And we are too, because it was simply too good of a deal to pass up.

(If I don't think about the fact that I've spent 4x more on frames and gas and bolts and drill bits and wrenches and band aids and the $$$ my time is worth.... )

Not sure about y'all, but this is, sadly, not that unusual.     I've dozens of tiny plastic bags of various nails and nuts and such from hardware stores all over south suburban chicago in my tool box, each trip costing me less than $5, and therefore not worth a special trip just to return them.

But it's a new year, and a new me, and I've already been back to the first of those stores, with my little plastic bag o' bolts.

"You want to RETURN these?"  they ask, with a certain astonishment
Yep.  here's the receipt.

"And here's your... $3.80."  they say in return with a "Don't spend it all in one place..." undertone.  

I put the most of the refund right into a donation canister for some charity, on the counter at the hardware store.

"Thanks!"  I reply cheerfully, as I stuffed most of it into the canister.

 I haven't felt this good in 4 days.....

Cobb, Clemente, Rose, and... this blog

Hey, everyone.   

Hit a kinda cool milestone the other day, with this thing.

It received it's 3000th hit.

See, that's why I listed Cobb, Clemente and Rose in the post title.

It's a baseball reference. 3000 hits... big milestone for ball players...

never mind.

I started this, 4.5 years ago, just.. because.   Because it was suggested by someone who made it sound like fun.   Because I'm lazy about writing unless I impose deadlines / assignments for myself.

Because... I could.

And I was fairly sure it would just sit out there on "the internets" without anyone reading it.   

And it sorta did, for awhile. 

And then y'all started checking it out a bit, and a bit more....

Anyhow  - Thanks everyone.  Thanks to those who read it, follow it, occasionally comment on it.

Hope that you continue to get something out of the transaction, moving forward.  

Thoughts at Christmas 2012

Seems, in reviewing past history here, that I’m in need of at least one “Christmas-related” entry, to keep the multi-year streak alive.   

Thoughts at Christmas, 2012.

We’re not sure our daughter believes in Santa.
She's only five years old.

I remember lying awake in a bedroom I shared with my brother in the farmhouse my family was renting at the time, when I was five.   It was Christmas eve, and at one point in the night, we SWORE we heard sleigh bells.    

But like with most kids, by the time the folks made it official, we were ready to accept it as gospel.  The logistics of the operation simply made it too much to accept.

Back to my daughter:   She doesn’t get excited about Santa, doesn’t ask a lot of questions about him. 

“Do you want to watch this Christmas cartoon?”
 “No thanks, how about a Wild Kratts?”

Maybe this has as much to do with the fact that Rankin Bass made really… bad cartoons, as it is an issue of Santa belief.   

(See old post, highlighting top 5 holiday tv shows.  No I’m serious. Go find it, read it, and come back.  Now!  I’m going to count to five…)

 I’m quite sure that if there is doubt, the fact that she’s seen him in 4 different places in the last 10 days, and he tends to look quite different each time, doesn’t help.

“If he’s Santa, and is getting ready for Christmas, why is he posing for photos in my gym?” she may be thinking to herself.   And at the zoo, and in a parking lot at the village community center, and at a freakin’ pancake breakfast….

And likely at another pancake breakfast, this coming weekend.   (Yay pancakes!)

He’s freakin’ everywhere.   

Can’t believe we  actually stood in line and spent money to get pictures taken with him at the mall, in 2010. 

 

But if she isn’t buying it, she’s not saying so, and how do you broach the subject with your child?          

So, hon – you believe in Santa or what?
Of course I do, daddy.  Why do you ask?

Oh… uh… no reason.  Have a cookie.

Which leads to a serious issue:  If you’re not active in a church, and Santa’s not a big deal, what do you do to instill a sense of wonder and magic in your five year old, for Christmas? 

This has been weighing heavily on me the last couple of weeks, as I don’t want it to be simply about receiving presents.   

And at what age can you hope to get her to understand  why it’s better to give than to receive; why the story of Scrooge is so meaningful?

Confession: I struggle with getting excited about Christmas, every year.  

You dedicate so much time and effort into the gearing up for it, preparing for it, shopping, decorating..What are we gonna cook on Christmas eve, what are we gonna cook for our dinner on Christmas day; did we make sure that all the kids on the list got equal treatment; can we finally remove ____ from our extended gifting list, as we didn’t get anything from them last year… blah blah blah…..  

   

Jesus.    

And while I write this, I know we behave this way  because we DO care about each other; we do love the kids on our list, we DO want to instill a sense of importance and relevancy to the day…

 And I approach Christmas for myself with no expectations, yet still manage to frequently feel a sense of disappointment,  which is stupid, and all on me, and I know it, but… there it is.      

And I really don’t want my daughter, who’s already happy and full of imagination and wonder and whimsy, to grow up feeling the same way.  

Not on my watch, anyhow.  

Confessions of a dad. #1

Confessions of a Dad.  #1

So, last night, I went in the tank, when playing “Sorry!” with my daughter.

I threw it. 

She needed one specific card to win, and the deck needed shuffling anyhow…

I saw the card, and made sure that she’d get it, on her 2^nd turn. 

This was no professional grade slight of hand. Those who’ve played euchre with me over the last 35 years know that I actually suck at stacking decks, and therefore simply never bother to try.    

She’s five, you see.  And was far too busy playing with her game pieces and talking to her mom to pay any attention to what I was doing….

Ok darlin’, it’s your turn… Hey!  It’s the card you need!  You won!  Great job sweety!.   Not bad for your first try at the game.

Now go brush your teeth and put on your pajamas.

I love you, but it was getting really late, and you WERE ahead,  so probably would have won eventually, and we all had lots of fun….

It was getting really late…

Which brings me to bedtime stories.

Sometimes, I… skim a bit.   Less so now that you’re older, and better able to follow narratives.  

The Little House on The Prairie books?  

I skimmed the shit out of those.   

So much for my father of the year award.

A whole page spent on describing the minutia of dress making cira 1880?  Gray poplin under skirt, with enough room for hoops in case…….

Oh, hell no.  I’m a DAD!!!  Skim!  

You really didn’t miss anything important, I’m pretty sure.

But I WAS reading to you.  Snuggled up with you on your bed, reading you chapter books that I knew you were enjoying, modulating my voice as it got later and later, to become a little quieter, a little more soothing… 

So, no harm, no foul, right? Can I have a hug?

Excellent.

Oh, and sometimes, when we say “it’s time to go.  2 more minutes!” when you are not done having fun yet?

There’s no real reason for it.  “time to go”  is relative sometimes, based solely on a whim, on how we feel about it at that very moment. 

It's a harsh reality, best not to think about it too much.

Would you like me to read you a book?  maybe play a board game?

When kayaks attack, or... I had it coming....

So, my kayak attacked me this morning.

I built it a nice rack to hang upon, on the wall of my garage.  

And there it was, laying in wait this morning.

And there I was, minding my own business, sliding by it to get into my car to go to work, like I have done countless mornings before.

All of the sudden, I found myself snared, entangled in the strap I keep on the front end of it.  It had wrapped itself around my lunch pail and neck.    

Keeping my cool, I spun myself free, and hopped into the car, quickly shutting the door behind me.  I looked out the driver’s side window, to make sure there would be no further aggression, and drove out of the garage.

Oddly enough, I understand.  I haven’t really been there for it.  I’ve not given it the attention it deserves.   We never go out anymore, I never take it anywhere nice…

Our relationship’s never been overly exciting, more a casual thing than any kind of serious commitment.   We go out and have fun together a couple of times a summer, maybe I’ll let it go on vacation with me if the circumstances are right.   But, up until now, it's worked for me, and I assumed for it as well.

But for whatever reason, it’s not moved from its nice rack, so far this calendar year.

If this is the kayak’s reaction to a year of me not paying it enough attention, I dread going anywhere near the corner of the basement where my fishing gear is stored.  

Yeah, we had a lovely weekend away together in Wisconsin, back in May.   But since then….

And since my fishing gear is full of pointy metal objects and knives and lead weights, I could be in big trouble, if I turn my back at the wrong time.     

Bad things could happen.

And my pristine, unwrinkled, so-clean-you-could-eat-off-of-it IL fishing license will sit on the shelf, laughing as it all goes down.  

On the other hand, my camping gear should LOVE me, as we dusted IT off, and took it away for a weekend in the woods for the first time in over six years, a few weeks ago.

And it was awesome, and smelled of promise of more to come.    

And wood smoke.

And Citronella oil.

Maybe that’s what promise smells like, to camping gear….

Anyhow, you’d think it would have my back, protect me from violent kayak-tic outbursts.

Where’s the gratitude?