dannysplace

Appointment with Myself (37)

2006-05-26T19:46:00.000-04:00

I've made an appointment with myself for next Thursday, May 25, 2006, A. D. (after daylight). I'll see myself at 2:30 PM, as about that time I get sleepy.

When I get home, the first order of business—the main purpose of my appointment-- will be to head to the bedroom and keel over. I will not, for example, ask embarrassing questions of myself.

I will also resist jumping on the scales to learn that I am, pound for pound, a candidate for Most Improved Couch Potato.

I will refrain from asking my age, which medical people are always so curious about. I think the question is a test to see if I'm still with it. They seem to suspect that I'm already wandering around, lost in space.

If I forget my age, I can still compute it, though the answer is too absurd. (Someone who was born in 1945 and will be eligible for Social Security next year should be a dignified human being, not someone who trips over his shoes).

I will not display any curiosity about various orifices of my body; I will not at any time bend over to check my prostate. (It's fine, though invisible to the naked eye).

I will not draw blood to check any of my levels. I'll take a pass on voiding into a Dixie cup and sliding it into a slot to be snapped up by an impatiently waiting lab tech.

I will not read the Six Steps detailing how to clean up before depositing your sample. (I always ignore this; I throw away the little wet-nap that is issued with the Dixie cup, and wash up afterwards, like a normal person).

The subject of my bowels will not come up. I will not press for a home kit to take samples to be tested at a later time, perhaps by the same person who has shown such an inordinate interest in bodily fluids.

I will not suddenly decide I need additional appointments for still more tests at later dates and other locations. No tests will be ordered; and, nothing, I repeat, nothing, will be said about my colon.

I will not quiz myself about family history (they all came from Hidalgo, IL, and were once stranded on the National Trail in 1836). I will not try to remember the ages of my siblings or what childhood diseases they may have had. (Will pass over the chicken pox epidemic of 1919).

After a nice nap I will wake up, look at the clock, and roll back over. My appointment with myself will end only when I'm ready for it to end.

I will not, while awake, brood over life's mysteries, or while asleep, dream about crazy things. I will keep my brain in neutral; I will not bother myself with routine chores, which are after all, routine. I will make a detailed "to-do list", suitably highlighted, numbered, dated, and ready for immediate shredding.

If I have any other, less important appointments coming up, I will not brood about them. I’ll mark them as play dates, or party days. I’ll wear my cowboy outfit complete with cap guns just to indicate what I think of them. When someone calls me Mr. Dunne, I’ll enjoy the questioning note in their voices when they realize I'm sixty going on six.

If, at a later time, I decide I'm not having any fun, I’ll make another appointment with myself.

Watch TV, Lose Weight, Be Happy! (36)

2006-05-13T06:45:00.000-04:00

I prefer to watch TV lying down; it’s part of my exercise plan. Not that I watch a lot of TV, particularly since Dawson’s Creek is no longer on. For those of you who missed my first column (a show of hands please) I explained that Dawson’s Creek was the greatest show in the history of television.

Recently we moved our exercise equipment to the bedroom. “Our equipment” is the wonderful Air Glider, which can be ordered from QVC for practically nothing, particularly if you use the easy-pay plan (minimum payments only until your 2025 tax refund).

The idea was that I would exercise more if I could watch TV during my “workout”. This is in quotes, as after two minutes of warm-up exercises, which consisted of flapping my arms like a large bird, I would collapse on the carpet without ever actually using the Air Glider. So this was another fine notion shot down. The main exercise I got was tripping over the thing on the way to the kitchen.

But thanks to cable, I still manage to exercise while I watch TV. For some reason, I can’t read the screen information on the guide and menu pages. I have to jump off the bed fifty times an evening and stand in front of the TV to see what’s on. My extensive research indicates that I burn up 750 calories hopping off the bed and staggering over to the TV to read the program guide.

I don’t recommend lying down while watching TV without consulting a doctor first. My research shows that 9 out of 10 doctors surveyed agreed that you shouldn’t try this at home if you are taking any medicine including baby aspirin, or if you are of childbearing age (six to ninety, according to the Enquirer), or if you think you may be pregnant within your lifetime, or if you are under the least bit of stress, i. e., you are still alive.

For those readers who will consult their doctors and take proper precautions, meaning having a team of EMT’s at your side during your workout, watching TV is downright healthful.

I myself get exercise trotting back and forth to the kitchen for those essential snacks that TV seems to call for, stuff that has to be opened. Usually the snacks come in plastic wrap that has to be wrestled to the ground before you can start nibbling.

For example to break into a bag of chips and re-close it with a handy bag-clip will take me, on average, 1.5 minutes, which equals 34.9 calories burned. I give myself extra points if the chips, pretzels, popcorn, or Frosted Flakes, fly all over the kitchen and I have to chase them to their new landing sites on the moon.

Another guaranteed calorie reducer is to watch something with commercials and time your snack breaks so you have to rush around to get back before the show resumes.

Have you ever noticed when you’re waiting for the commercials to end, it takes forever as in a entire Presidential administration, but when you’re in the kitchen fixing a little something to nibble on, the commercials stop just as you are opening the refrigerator door?

So you grab whatever is closest, maybe a tub of margarine--you can pry it open while watching, then hang on to it until the next commercial--and sprint back to the bedroom, taking care not to bang your head into any walls. This is good for 69.7-calorie loss in itself.

Oh, well it’s not like I’m missing Dawson’s Creek.

Sleep Eating (35)

2006-05-05T19:44:00.000-04:00

Sleep Eating

How do I know I’m eating in my sleep? The evidence is usually there the next morning. I sometimes wake up with a loaf of bread in my arms.

I often don’t know that I’m on a late night eating binge. Sometimes in mid snack I will wake myself up by crashing into a corner wall. I may then realize that I’m getting ready to chow down on something not edible, doggie treats for example.

One night I discovered that I was fiddling with a box of Equal packets to see if they might be snack worthy. Turned out they weren’t. But it took me a while to figure that out.

I must have concluded (sorrowfully) that they weren’t edible, but only after much experimentation, including pouring water on them. (I assume I did this for they were wet the next morning).

My next treat appeared to be Miracle –Gro Plant Food, but that didn’t seem to hit the spot, so I moved on in my search for vittles that would get me through the night, or, in the words of that fine country song, “Help Me Make Through the Night When the Kitchen is Closed”.

Our kitchen is generally well supplied with snack foods, but they’re usually gone by 3:00 AM, which leaves the rest of the night. Hence my experiments with food substitutes or sometimes even with non-snack food, say frozen biscuits, which I’ve discovered are better heated up.

I sometimes go back to bed only to get up an hour later to check the kitchen again on the off chance I didn’t eat everything already in my previous seven food foraging expeditions (I wear my “Raiders of the Lost Ark” hat).

One night I noticed my bare feet seemed to be sticking to the floor. Strange. What could it be? I checked the freezer—no ice cream left—must have lost a little of it, a quart or so judging from how big an area of the floor is yucky, while trying to spoon it out of the box. I usually eat over the kitchen sink, but’s it hard to be neat when you’re asleep.

I have a willing helper in my pre-dawn forays: our little dog, Precious, a nine- pound Pomapoo. On the way back from the kitchen I will take a little something to chew on in bed, a handful of crackers to go with the six I just popped into my mouth. Precious is ever alert to these late night snack attacks. Sometimes I realize she’s staring at me, waiting for a bite. I always give her a sample.

In the morning I can tell if it’s been a busy night, as there will be a few foreign objects in bed, say the usual crackers plus a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats, which my sleeping self finds quite tasty straight from the box.

I consult (silently) with Precious about these discoveries; I pretend to be using a whiskbroom and dustpan, my standard tidy-up equipment. Precious and I always converse in pantomime, as we don’t want to disturb anyone who might be trying to sleep (a cub scout troop, for example).

Precious will look alarmed that I’m suggesting that we trash the leftovers. I understand perfectly. She would rather do it herself. (She’s a woman). She begins following the cracker crumb trail and eats every bite.

Some mornings I wake up, and check the sheets. Nothing there—must have been a quiet night.

Except for the loaf of bread on the night stand.

My Secret Life (34)

2006-04-28T20:30:00.000-04:00

Last Saturday when I was supposed to be getting ready for work—who says men can’t multi-task? -- I caught part of a news segment. Maybe you saw it. It was the one about living a secret life.

Exhibit A: Your average everyday housewife with three children and one (apparently clueless) husband. This young and attractive woman is a PTA member, church choir leader, a hospital volunteer, who in her spare time, holds down a full-time job as a legal secretary.

What “secret life” could she have? Well, you could have knocked me over with a birthday balloon: she is a prostitute. She looks like the girl next door, which would be the title of the Lifetime Movie that’s sure to be made about her except they have already used it 7,000 times.

The working title is said to be: My Secret Life as a Call Girl: A Moment of Truth Movie in Which the Heroine Carla Luanne Smith-Siddons Makes the Startling Discovery that it was Her Husband’s Fault.

It seems she was getting bored with being your average everyday housewife. Glenn Campbell was singing throughout the segment; he later complained while riding a horse that he was “getting cards and letters from people I don’t even know”.

This was such a great news video that I tried to track it down on the Internet, but nothing came up. I regret particularly the loss of the very helpful list of hints that you, the viewer, might be having a secret life without even being aware of it.

I’m sure I have a secret life; I probably just haven’t told myself about it. Inspired by this great piece of TV, I decided to do a little research in my very own billfold. (It beat getting ready for work.)

First thing I did was to check my photo ID only to discover that it was obviously a picture of my Dad. Whoops! It’s me. Could it be I’ve gotten old? Is my Secret Life that I’m now masquerading in broad daylight as one of my parents? Shocking isn’t, it?

I’ve noticed that for some time now younger people (defined as practically everybody else) actually call me Mr. Perhaps this is my secret life: I’ve been pretending to be an adult for many years, so long in fact I’m now passing myself off as two weeks short of being a geezer. This is absurd of course; it’s hard to be an adult when your actual age (six) keeps tripping you up.

My secret life really comes home when strangers draw a bead on me and claim me as one of their own. They are usually rather old looking people. I listen intently while wondering, “Who are these people and why are they talking to me?”

They think they know me, even call me by my first name as though we are bosom buddies. (I know, I know—poor word choice since you are now thinking of Tom Hanks and that other guy.)

This used to puzzle me, but I’ve decided that there are people who apparently know someone who looks like me, probably my exact double, but who keep coming up to me by mistake.

Frankly, I’m sick of it. If I had wanted to be an old person, I would have been born at the end of WW II, would have graduated from high school when The Beach Boys were on the charts, and would have voted for the first time in 1968.

Oh, crap. That is me.

Sleepwalking Towards Hidalgo (33)

2006-04-14T18:59:00.000-04:00

I began my sleepwalking career at age five. I slept downstairs, as did Mom and Dad. Brothers Jim, seventeen, and Jack, fifteen, slept upstairs; they were second story men. The “big boys” were out roller-skating the evening I took my first tour.

After a fresh snow that winter night, I walked out on our front porch and headed for downtown Hidalgo (POP. 100), which was closed.

I was making tracks, like a Man with a Mission, or a five year old with the midnight munchies. I was probably going to Meeker’s Grocery. Reba, the owner, was asleep along with the rest of Hidalgo. There was nothing else to do. Only three families in Hidalgo had TV, but they were tucked in as well.

Television was a still a great novelty, but only the test pattern was playing at that hour. The lucky three households stayed up to watch the test pattern at first, but gave it up after a few nights as, heck fire, they had to get up the next morning.

At age five I was having scary enough dreams without watching TV—bears seemed to be chasing me, for example. Sometimes I would smoke a few cigarettes to calm my nerves.

But this night was different, as I was on the prowl. Luckily Mom thought she heard something. Dad didn’t think so. Women were always hearing something, according to Dad.

Mom got up to look around and came back after checking my room: “Danny’s gone!”

Dad ran out on the snow-covered porch in his bare feet and Fruit-of-the-Looms. He banged his toes on a porch post and spoke loudly.

“Where’s Jack and Jim?”

“They’re not home yet”.

“For crying out loud. Who said they could stay out this late? They need to be looking after their little brother.”

“Dad, get some clothes on!”

“What in the crap for? Who’s going to see me?” Which was a good point as there wasn’t a single light on in town.

Dad raced to the corner and found that I had just turned the block. He caught up with me and asked, “You going someplace, Bub?”

Shortly after Dad delivered me to Mom, Jim and Jack got home separately just as he was getting ready to turn out the lights.

“It’s about time. Jack, why didn’t you ride home with Jim?”

“The Houser Girls dropped me off. Jim didn’t want to be bothered with me.”

“That’s not true. You just don’t like my friends”.

“You boys are brothers—act like it! Get to bed. Your Mom and I’ve had enough commotion for one night. Not to mention Danny.”

Dad looked around. “Where’s Danny?”

“He was just here”, Mom said.

Dad looked out the front door. “Well, what’s he doing on the porch?”

I had gone to sleep standing up and was getting ready to make the return trip downtown.

This time, after a little encouragement from Dad, Jack and Jim were in hot pursuit.

From Dusk to Dawn (32)

2006-04-06T18:58:00.000-04:00

From Dusk to Dawn

"Anybody got any gas money?”

Dale had pulled up at the Standard Station in Greenup. His brother Don and I fumbled in our pockets and came up with a total of 47 cents. Which in 1962 would have probably bought about two gallons of gas. We were on our way to Fairview Drive-in at Casey, 9 miles over.

Fairview was known for its exciting “Buck Night”, which was when you and seventeen of your closest buddies could pile into one car (the lucky ones got to ride in the trunk) and get in for a dollar.

Even better were the Dusk to Dawn spectaculars, one of which we were on our way to this particular Saturday night. “Dawn” meant you saw four or five movies, if you were still awake at 4:00 AM.

We were pretty sophisticated guys: we smoked Marlboros and probably stunted our growth by a quarter of an inch while regularly burning holes in our T-shirts.

I think the warning labels on cigarettes came around our senior year, when the Surgeon General determined that cigarette smoking might be hazardous to your health, but, hey don’t worry, we were told, Live Modern, Smoke L&M, just as recommended by Matt, Kitty, Chester, and Doc, the Gunsmoke health experts.

Dale didn’t light up, as Route 40 was a heavily traveled two-lane highway that demanded his full concentration. Soon he had to slow down for a truckload of chickens.

He stuck his head out the window (practically standing up with one foot on the accelerator) to see if the lane was clear. After all, we had to get a move on as the show started at dusk, which of course was at 7:53 PM CST.

It was still daylight when we reached Casey. Even so, some of the less patient movie patrons began honking their car horns to indicate they were ready for show time, dusk or not.

Within a few minutes the Snack Bar Players (Mr. Tasty Hot Dog who dipped himself in mustard, for example) appeared onscreen and the show started.

I volunteered to make the snack bar run.

Dale was a little skeptical. “Are you sure you won’t get lost, Danny? It’s nighttime--with your sense of direction you’ll probably take a wrong turn and wind up in somebody’s cornfield.”

“Oh, he’s not that bad, Dale”, Don said.

“What about the time he got lost in downtown Greenup when he had his paper route?” Dale asked.

“Hey, I’m not 12 years old anymore”, I said.

“OK, but if you’re not back in 15 minutes, I’m calling your Mom”, Dale said.

I ignored this remark and made my way to the snack bar. I got back well within the 15 minute limit even though it was dark and I was carrying a truckload of snacks, which I could barely see over.

I climbed into the back seat and started to hand out everybody’s order. I stopped in mid-delivery when I noticed a couple—not Dale and Don—sitting extremely close together.

I fell over myself and my Pepsi/popcorn delivery trying to get out of a stranger’s back seat.

I finally stumbled upon Dale’s car. I climbed in and said, “You’ll never guess what I just saw.”

“Never mind that--what took you so long? And where’s the rest of the popcorn?” Dale asked.

“I got in the wrong car. There’s was this couple up front who were practically sitting on top of each other. “

“Hey, what was going on? Did you see something?” Don asked.

“No, they were just sitting close—they weren’t doing anything. They were old married people.”

“How old?” Dale asked.

“At least 25”.

What I Learned in High School (31)

2006-03-23T19:04:00.000-05:00

What I Learned in High School

I began high school in 1959, B.C. (before cable). This was of course during the Dark Ages; people actually wrote in Roman numerals. Post-it notes recovered from that era were scribbled over with numbers like XXXIVVCCLM, which meant The Dow Jones had lost 3.77 points in light trading.

I was a not-too-proud member of the class of 1963. Don’t try to do the math—this only means I was there when The Beverly Hillbillies first drove into America’s living rooms. It also indicates that I was around the first time Elvis was alive.

Basically what I learned in high school was that I was never ever going to school again. My best high school moment was graduation: I had been packed for four years, but still had to sit through thousands of hours of exciting learning, practically none of which I remember.

I liked high school so well I never gave any serious consideration to college, which to me sounded like another four years of homework. So I was going to have to get a job. I had three choices: factory work, farm work, or office work. All these options were unpleasant. (Hint: They all had the word “work” in them.)

Besides, it was well known that there was no life after high school. We, the Class of 1963, pitied the poor devils that were already out in the real world; their lives were over. At the same time we could hardly wait to get out of school.

Several of us guys, after a grim meeting with our guidance counselor, decided we were going to hit Route 66. This brilliant idea was based on the TV show of the same name. Now if you are of a certain age (middle) you are saying to yourself—“Route 66—What a great show!” The rest of you are saying, “Was that on the Travel Channel?”

The premise of this extremely realistic series was that two young guys traveled to a different place every week and had neat adventures. They drove all over the USA, but stayed on Route 66, as it had a catchy theme song. Nelson Riddle and his orchestra provided the background music.

It was a great life. Every week Buzz Murdoch (George Maharis) and Tod Stiles (Martin Milner) drove their Corvair, a car highly recommended by Ralph Nader, to a different town and had new adventures[1]. “New adventures” consisted mostly of meeting girls, breaking their hearts, and moving on to the next town.

Of course the guys had to take a job occasionally, just to buy gas and burgers, not to mention pay their motel bills. Amazingly enough, Buzz and Tod didn’t use credit cards even though they were on the road most of the year, since TV shows ran as many as 39 episodes those days.

So they might work for a week or two, bank their (probably minimum) wages, before hitting the trail again and singing, “I get my kicks on Route 66!” Ah, they don’t write lyrics like that anymore.

Work wasn’t boring as they only stayed on the job for maybe a week, unless the Boss had a cute daughter, which meant they might hang around for a two-part show.

Our high school guidance counselor got mighty tired of hearing about “Route 66”. We thought it was a fine career plan; of course some of us had only recently given up on our previous dream, that of becoming Roy Rogers.

Even so, not one of us actually took up the Route 66 life. I was somewhat handicapped myself in that I didn’t know how to drive. Well, actually I didn’t learn to drive until I was a senior. But my driving ability peaked that year when I pulled up to a fire hydrant and wondered why nobody had parked in such a great spot.

So I didn’t hit the road. Every year though, when spring is budding out and causing my allergies to flare up, I think back to the Route 66 Plan.

I once thought I had run into the Route 66 Guys at a gas station. They had obviously taken a side trip to Route 40. I was disappointed-- I barely recognized them. They had gotten old, an awful thing of course. Glad it didn’t happen to me.

What was really surprising though was that they were talking with Elvis.

.

[1] That sound you just heard was Route 66 fans coming out of their chairs and yelling, “It was a Corvette, not a Corvair, you numbskull!” It’s good to get readers’ attention. Besides, Ralph Nader, author of “Your Go-Cart is Unsafe at Any Speed”, works best with Corvair.

Beloved Wives Day ( 30)

2006-02-18T17:55:00.000-05:00

“Beloved Wives Day” (30)

A group of Japanese men hoping to encourage the nation’s legions of workaholic husbands to head home early and show their wives some appreciation have proclaimed Tuesday “Beloved Wives Day”.

“This is from Reuters, their Oddly Enough news, just in case they’re listening in and want credit”, I said to Phyllis, who sat patiently while I read to her from an article a friend had sent me.

“I don’t think Reuters is here in your computer room. Oh, no, you’re going to write about this, aren’t you?” Phyllis said.

I ignored this outburst and kept reading: The group, which calls itself the “Japan Doting Husbands Association” urged men to get home by 8 p. m. and say thanks to their wives for all they do. Many men can’t put their feelings of gratitude toward their wives into words. Work is number one for them.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“You mean you think I’m good at expressing myself?”

“Oh, no. You can talk all right-- you’ll say anything to anybody. I mean you’re not exactly a workaholic.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? I come home to my wife and puppy dog.”

I read another bit of the article. “Here’s another section I’m good at. It talks about the five “golden rules” including going home early, calling wives by their given name and looking them in the eyes when talking.”

“Oh, that’s rich. You never look me in the eyes—you’re always staring into your computer screen, or watching TV, or reading something. You are actually married to your computer. When I want to get your attention, I practically have to e-mail you.”

“Say, that’s an idea. Why don’t we set up your own personal e-mail account—you could send me a message—I always check my mail.”

“No, thanks. I’ll just call from work to make sure you haven’t set the kitchen on fire.”

I ignored this—I’ve never actually set the kitchen on fire. I did once try to pop some microwave popcorn and mistakenly set the dial on “beverage” rather than “popcorn”. I’ll have to admit that there was a lot of black smoke and the house smelled like it had been on fire. It’s also true that particular bag of Orville Redenbacher had a hole in it, as though it had been shot, but no real damage was done.

“Here’s something else: The group—the Doting Husbands –has its own homepage, which includes a column where husbands can write down their feelings they are to shy to say out loud.”

“You mean to tell me these guys have to get on the Internet to talk with their wives? What kind of a wimp does that? Sounds to me like they need a dose of Dr. Phil.”

“I thought women liked the sensitive type—you know, like that English guy, Hugh Grant, in Six Weddings and Three Funerals, or whatever it was called”.

“Hugh Grant? Who’s he?”

“Oh, that’s right-he doesn’t do those slasher pictures you like. Maybe they’ll show one of his movies on Lifetime so you can catch it.”

“Anyway, the article goes on to say the Japanese marriages are under great pressure. In 2004, more than one in three marriages ended in divorce.”

“Sounds like some of those Japanese girls are getting smart”.

“You mean you wouldn’t put up with a husband who was married to his work and who wrote comments at a web site, because he couldn’t get home on time?”

“I would be setting him out on a street corner.”

“Kind of harsh, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you say about women whose husbands don’t work?”

“No, I say women who support husbands who won’t work should throw them out. If it were me, I’d set them out with the garbage.”

I try one more time. “Here’s a guy with a broken heart—listen to this: I’m sorry I had a car accident. I’m sorry I’m away so much on business trips. I’m sorry I end up sleeping at the office so often.”

“He sounds like a “sorry” excuse for a husband, I’d say.”

“Maybe we should start “Beloved Wives” night right here. On your nights off, I could make sure I get home early, make it a point to call you by your given name (Sweetheart), and say thanks for all the things you do”.

“No, don’t do that—I’ll think I’m in the wrong house. “

“Why don’t we start tonight? Hey, how about I fix us some microwave popcorn?”

“How about you staying out of my kitchen, Buster?”

Movie Night (29)

2006-02-05T18:06:00.000-05:00

My wife, Phyllis, works evenings as a nurse. When she has a night off she likes to watch movies in the comfort of our bedroom; she prefers Lifetime movies and scary movies.

I like to say if you’ve seen one Lifetime movie, you’ve seen them all. They even have similar titles like, When a Tall, Good-looking, Rich, Stranger Calls, What Shall I Wear?; The Stranger in My Bedroom Who Looks Exactly Like My Brother’s Picture on the Milk Carton; and my all time favorite: Stranger in the Guest House Who Walks Around Without a Shirt Most of the Movie (he turns out to be the pool guy).

I can at least rest my eyes (snooze) during these movies, but if Phyllis settles on a horror film, I know I’m in for it, as scary stuff makes me nervous. I know I’ll be hiding under the covers for half the movie; the other half I’ll heading out to the kitchen to take on truckloads of extremely nourishing snacks. I eat a lot when I’m nervous.

I’ll start with the closest thing in the cabinet, while keeping one eye on the TV; it may take me a few seconds to realize I’m eating raisin bran from the box. Then I may mow down a bag of chips and a quart of ice cream. Next it’s time for more salt, so a few pretzels are in order. I’ll stall until the mayhem slows down, or maybe even, a commercial blessedly shows up.

I time my kitchen breaks to coincide with the moment the axe murderer or serial killer is about to do somebody in. If my timing’s off, I’m still in the bedroom, I dive under the covers, but not always quickly enough as I sometime catch a glimpse of the latest victim with flying body parts, which are later stuffed into a Hefty bag.

There are three of us watching the movie as our puppy dog, Precious, always joins us, or to be more accurate we join her as she lets us sleep on her bed. Precious doesn’t care what we watch as long as the volume is down so she can get her much needed puppy rest.
Sometimes I enlist her assistance as a ruse to leave the movie when I know a crucial moment is coming up (the slasher is getting ready to strike, you can tell by the creepy music).

Usually, I’ll say to Precious: “Do you need to go out? Don’t you need to potty? Daddy will take you out right now”. Precious will yawn and stretch and indicate that she wants to continue napping, but will go out if I think it’s absolutely necessary, i.e., I sense another round of flying body parts.

Phyllis recognizes this move as the dodge it is, but contents herself with asking, “Don’t you think you ought to tie yourself up before going outside?” (My robe belt is trailing along beside me after my latest dash to the kitchen.)

Going out often turns out to be a bad idea, as Precious will think it’s a fine time to tour the neighborhood rather than keeping her mind on Puppy Business. She is sometimes distracted by giant worms, night crawlers, which are creepy in themselves. She would love to bite into one and take it home to Mom, but I discourage her. Since I’m in my bathrobe I’m not exactly dressed to go touring.

And I soon begin hearing footsteps though I see nobody; the neighborhood is very dark; there are way too many shadows, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, which means the Serial Killer is behind us. At this moment I pick Precious up and run back to the house.

I’m out of breath when I return to the bedroom. Phyllis says, “Did you see a ghost or something? Maybe we should have watched Lifetime.”

“We could catch the last half of Switched at Birth”, I say, “or How I Married My Twin Brother. I bet nobody is hacked to death in that one”.

“Maybe next time—I want to finish this one”.

“Why don’t I just take a shower and meet you back here for the news?”

I like to take long showers. By the time I get out, Phyllis has finished her scary movie and started a Lifetime masterpiece, The Suzie Wilkinson Story: Based on The Absolutely True Story of How I Ran for My Life from my Handsome But Brutal Ex-husband/Boyfriend Who Was a Box of Rocks, But Looked Dreamy Without a Shirt.

“Oh, this looks good”, I’ll say. As I head to the kitchen.

What Have I've Been Doing the Last Sixty Years? (28)

2006-01-29T17:37:00.000-05:00

Well, I’m glad you asked. I’ve made a list. I was surprised, for one thing, by the hours I’ve spent grooming, considering how little effect it has had on my appearance. I might as well start with a few numbers.

I’ve probably shaved at least 15,330 times in the last forty years. Many of those years I used a blade, probably cut myself twice a week, for a total of 4,368 bloodlettings.

I have showered exclusively for about twenty-nine years, as opposed to the tub baths I took when I lived at home with the folks. So I’ve probably showered around 10, 585 times.

I’ve gone to work over 10,500 times in the last forty-two years.[1]

I’ve watched 54,750 hours of TV in the last 50 years. My TV viewing started in the Davy Crockett era and hit its zenith in the years 2000-2003 when I stumbled across the greatest show in the history of television. For me TV has never been the same since Dawson’s Creek went off the air. [2]

I’ve spent over 153,300 hours sleeping in the last sixty years. This estimate could be low; as I haven’t included the many times I nodded off at work.

I haven’t spent a lot of time voting. [3]The last time I went to the polls was in 1984 when Coolidge[4] was running for his second term; I’m basically apolitical which means “a plague on both your houses”.

I managed to have a mid-life crisis at every milestone birthday. Age 40 turned out not to be a problem as I got (very happily) married later that year; at age 50 I don’t remember what, if anything, happened. At 60, which was only last year, the only thing that comes to mind is I somehow managed to tear up my computer printer while trying to change the ink. In anticipation of reaching 70, I’m now working on my memory, particularly those puzzling lapses when I think, Do I need to go to the bathroom, or did I just do that?

I’ve had two minor surgeries, both performed by the same surgeon, who has taken an inordinate interest in my waterworks. But, on the whole, I’ve been healthy.

I’ve sneezed and coughed through several allergies. I’ve probably taken about 19,710 sinus/allergy pills in the last 28 years. [5]

Between 1982 and 1988 I smoked over 43,800 cigarettes without actually setting myself on fire.[6]

So there you have it, my first sixty years.

I thought when I got older I would have time for other things—like reading great books--but I’ve since learned that getting older only means having more chores. For example, I’m late for work nearly every morning now as I have to rearrange the hair on the back of my head to hide my bald spot, which on a clear day can be seen from miles away.

READER ALERT: I plan to explore this subject at greater depth in my book titled “Grooming for Geezers”. Don’t miss it when it comes out in 2012!

[1] This raises the question whether I went to work without showering on 85 occasions. You would have to include the tub baths to get the bathing total. (I ran out of paper before I could figure this.)
[2] You didn’t know Dawson’s Creek was the greatest show in the history of television? Try watching it from the beginning through all six seasons and tell me what you think.
[3] My folks were Franklin D. Roosevelt Democrats. Mom in particular took a dim view of Republicans. She was, for example, bitter all her life about Herbert Hoover. Her dislike of Hoover began even before his term as President during the Great Depression. (Incidentally, whenever Mom heard the phrase The Great Depression: she always remarked, “What was so great about it?”) Mom’s distaste for Hoover went back to World War I when he made it a law that you had to buy so much yellow corn meal to go with your regular non-yellow corn meal. It was Hoover’s fault that Mom had to eat corn bread made from “that old yellow corn meal”. And she never forgave him for it. I haven’t researched this, but I think Hoover was running the Food for Peace Program, and not doing a good job, according to Mom.
[4] Actually, it was The Gipper, but history buffs like to catch mistakes.
[5] If I now had all these pills in my medicine cabinet, I could of course start my own meth factory.
[6] I forget exactly what that cheerful statistic is about losing a minute of life for every cigarette you smoke—something like that. This would mean I lost 730 hours, or about 30.416 days. These lost days would amount to about 3 minutes a day over 40 years. What would I have done with three extra minutes a day? Probably just hit the “snooze” button one more time.

The Least Smart Things List, Example No. 1 (26)

2006-01-14T09:02:00.000-05:00

The Least Smart Things List, Example No. 1

Over the years I’ve thought of making a list of “The Least Smart Things I’ve Done”, the things that wake me up in the middle of the night, that cause me to say, to no one in particular, “How stupid!”

Many things on this list couldn’t be published of course; Phyllis (my wife and caretaker) is the only person on the planet who is privy (oh, let’s find a better word than that) to many of The Least Smart Things I’ve Done, and she is, of course, sworn to secrecy.

The first Least Smart Thing that comes to mind—that I can talk about anyway--occurred shortly after Phyllis and I got married twenty years ago (the smartest thing I ever did). I early on ran into a new problem as my wife, a nurse and a very competent person, was used to pumping her own gas.

I had never done that as I had always gone to a full service place. I had a firm rule about my car: I never raised the hood, as one or two things, usually both, would happen: I would hurt myself or get dirty.

So I always patronized what used to be called service stations, which you may or may not remember depending on whether you are a mature (old) person like myself, or whether you are a youngster who is just this second learning that people haven’t always pumped their own gas.

But one evening early in our marriage, I decided my car needed gas. I had always been of the school that just because I was running on empty didn’t mean it was anything to get excited about. I might have waited a day or two in my previous life. There were always a couple of gallons of gas left in your tank, right? Phyllis thought my attitude was dangerously lax; if she had only half a tank she was refueling.

So that winter evening I planned to fill up so my little wife wouldn’t be worried about me being stranded six blocks from home. I congratulated myself for being so thoughtful. Then I made a fateful decision: I would give the full-service station a skip; I would just pull in and get my own darned gas.

It might have been wiser to have waited until daylight for this little experiment, because it would have been dangerous, even if I could have seen what I was doing. I boldly pulled in at Phyllis’s preferred filling station and tried to remember how she managed to pump her own gas. Nothing was coming to me.

Even so, I thought I might as well take the gas cap off—seemed like a good place to start. The next thing, obviously, was to grab hold of the pump (Step A) and begin to fill the tank (Step B). Somehow I never got to Step B.

The gas wouldn’t come out no matter how hard I squeezed the pump. “What to do?” I could have asked someone, but that would have been too embarrassing. I hadn’t actually pumped any gasoline; therefore, I didn’t owe anything. No one seemed to be watching-- I decided to make a run for it. I hightailed it out as though I had just watched American Graffiti and remembered an urgent date to race somebody on a two-lane road.

I drove to the other end of town to a full-service station. I asked the attendant to fill her up, which he proceeded to do.

He came back around shortly after he started and said. “Hey, what happened to your gas cap?”

I played it cool. Darned if I knew. I told the guy I would ask around to see if anyone might have seen it.

I then headed back to the self-serve station to find my missing gas cap. I searched all over the place, and soon drew a crowd, as people were curious why I was crawling around on the concrete.

“Just lost my gas cap”, I said. “Happens to people all the time, you know”. (The crowd parted after this rather strange claim.)

The bad news was I had to tell Phyllis when she got home from work that I had somehow lost my gas tank cap.

“You tried to get your own gas? And you drove home without a gas cap? You didn’t light up did you?”

“Not until I got back in the car”, I explained.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t blow yourself up. No more of this: I’ll get your gas from now on, Sweetheart”.

And so she has for over twenty years now. I haven’t lost any gas caps since. I guess I can scratch this one from my list of Least Smart Things I’ve Done, as it won’t come up again.

Now if I just knew what to do about the other 497 things.

I Plan to Take My Love Handles With Me (25)

2006-01-07T17:52:00.000-05:00

We (the Vienna Boys Choir) didn't talk about New Year's resolutions in our last column. I summoned up all my will power and decided not to try to improve myself this year. I don’t plan, for example, to lose weight; and I won’t be too hard on myself about exercise.

I’ve lost weight before, but this past year I overdid it. I took off pounds in the wrong places, around my face and neck; I was no longer a fathead, but I had new wrinkles cropping up that made me look older than your average geezer. Not the effect I had in mind.

Of course I couldn't get rid of my "love handles" no matter how much weight I lost. I now weigh 167 pounds, up from 160. A couple of years ago I was weighing in at 183, which meant at 5’8” it was time to take me to market. So the good news is I’ve still lost weight, but I don't look like a bag of bones, which I did when I got down to 160 (“love handles” included).

How did you do it? I can hear you asking, that is, if you are of a certain age (60.7 years).

Tell us so we, too, can regain weight and look, if not young, at least not like the Wrath of God.

The secret: I had to start snacking again. Shocking, isn’t it? Yes, children, I went back to eating in the middle of the night.  I ate ice cream from the box and potato chips from the bag (the only way they taste right).

I no longer tried to resist snack attacks, which is when boxes of cookies and crackers fall out of the kitchen cabinets, throw themselves at you, and take their clothes off. No, they didn’t actually do that, although I did notice the Ritz crackers flaunting themselves after peeling off their plastic wrappers.

My wife had been hiding the snacks so I wouldn’t get into them at night. She no longer does that (she thought I was beginning to look like death warmed over).

It was hard work eating every free moment, but I was determined to look not necessarily good, but better. I’m happy to report I no longer resemble Dead Man Walking.

Although I lost too much weight last year, I’ve never gone overboard on exercise.  I have, however, been jumping on and off something called an Air Glider for a couple of years now, which Phyllis (my wife and personal trainer) ordered through QVC.  I didn’t get off to a flying start—at first, I lay down and sobbed after the warm-up exercises—but finally I worked my way up to a 20 minutes session three times a week.

I started slowing down on my exercise after last year’s checkup when my waterworks specialist (urologist) revealed I had a hernia. I had realized for some time that something wasn't quite right in Australia, or Down Under, but I thought maybe it was just a simple matter of my underwear losing its snap.  At my checkup with my regular doctor a few months later, it appeared I had the beginnings of a second hernia. Thank you so much for that bulletin.

So for several months now I've not been jumping on the Air Glider very often. (Helpful health hint: Jumping on anything is not a good idea for guys with waterworks problems.) Don't remember the last time I was on it, to tell the truth. About the only exercise I get these days is when we walk our little dog, Precious, a nine-pound Pomapoo.

I exercise maybe twenty minutes a week now—that sounds about right, don’t you think? One of the things I love about exercise recommendations is just when I got up to twenty minutes, three times a week, everything I read said you should do at least thirty minutes a day, or even forty-five minutes a day. The only thing I can do for forty-five minutes straight without having an EMT crew standing by is to take a nap.

They (the Winners of Spoilsport News Awards for Learned Reports That Claim Whatever You are Currently Doing is Not Enough) also like to carry on about how important it is for everybody—including senior citizens, or in other words old people like myself—to do strength training. If I can walk from the kitchen to the living room and carry a cup of coffee and a Danish at the same time, that’s strong enough for me. In a normal day the heaviest thing I’ll lift will be a stapler.  I’ll skip the barbells, if you don’t mind.

To sum up, I'm eating more and exercising less. Which means I'll be keeling over any day now. At least I won't resemble a walking corpse. That's something, isn’t it?

Happy New Year!

Low Profile (24)

2006-01-01T09:34:00.000-05:00

I’ve grown accustomed to people not recognizing me, particularly if they haven’t seen me for a few years, as I’ve put on a few pounds. (“Few pounds” as in I have to carry my “love handles” in a sidecar.) I’ve gotten used to reintroducing myself, even to relatives. This doesn’t come up often, as I don’t get out much--I’ve generally kept a low profile.

But occasionally, usually when my wife thinks I need to be aired off, I’ll be in line somewhere and run into someone, who will give me a very blank look. I’ve learned how to deal with it: I say: “Hi, I’m Danny, your double first cousin once removed.” (There’s a lot of that in my family.)

Or, I’ll say to some youngster, “I’m your Great-Great Uncle, which means your mother is the daughter of one of my grand nieces.” Usually people will start moving away from me when I get into these sorts of discussions.

I’m careful what I say about second cousins, however; I was once under the delusion that I had second cousins. Apparently, I don’t. What I have are double first cousins once removed in some cases and just plain first cousins once removed and sometimes twice removed. I draw the line at twice removed; after that, you’re only “kissing cousins” or something.

I can usually convince even distant relatives that I am who I say I am. Where I run into
trouble is when I talk with non-relatives who know my siblings, but draw a blank when it
comes to me. (I think this is accounted for by being the youngest of seven children
with a ten-year gap between me and my brother Jack, who preceded me as the baby of the
family.) They’ll say: “No, we don’t remember you. Were you adopted or something?”

A conversation like this sometimes makes me doubt my own identity. I’ve thought of returning to my old hometown of Hidalgo to see if anybody remembers me. It’s true we left Hidalgo when I was eleven, about 50 years ago now. I’m sure none of the original settlers are still living; they have probably passed over to that great Wagon Train in the Sky, and are even now being watched over by Ward Bond.

I can see myself poking around Hidalgo just to see if anyone recognizes me. But based on my last visit it’s probably not a good idea. It seemed like a ghost town. I thought about knocking on somebody’s door just to see if they were any signs of life.

What was strange was that Phyllis, my wife and driver, and I didn’t see any people out on the street or in their yards. I decided what we had run across was just a movie set of a small town with false fronts that would fall in if you pushed them. That probably nobody lived there anymore. I was pretty sure we had stumbled into a forgotten Twilight Zone episode.

I could hear the Twilight Zone theme—it was time to run before the Rod Serling voice over came through: “This is a story about a man looking for himself in the little town where he spent his boyhood. Will he be welcomed? Will he be hailed as a conquering hero? Or has he just entered The Twilight Zone?”

Finally, just as we were getting ready to leave town, we saw a little girl playing in her front yard. I thought about stopping and asking to talk with her mother. But with Rod Serling’s voice in my head I asked Phyllis to drive on for fear we would never see Kansas again.

Phyllis didn’t think that stopping to chat was a good idea anyway. The little girl would have been warned about talking with strangers, or even worse, a middle-aged man trying to establish that he had in fact once lived in his hometown.

On the way home I explained to Phyllis what probably would have happened. I would have asked the little girl’s mother if she remembered the Dunne family. She would have said that she did; she would have named over all my siblings.

“And which one are you?” she would have asked.

I would have answered, “None of the above.”

She would have said, “Didn’t know they had you. Did they adopt you later?”

I would have said, “No, I was the youngest; I lived in this town my first eleven years. I used to play cowboys, always had my gun and holster set on. Had a Shetland pony that used to run off. I was a Cub Scout. Went to grade school here. I lived just down the block.”

“I remember my mother talking about the pony; she said the Dunne boys were always trying to get it back in the barn”.

“So your mother remembered me?”

“I guess she thought the pony belonged to Jack and Jim. I wonder why she didn’t mention you?”

I would have explained, “I was keeping a low profile”.

Hidalgo: The Beginning, or I Am Born (23)

2005-12-24T18:25:00.000-05:00

Hidalgo: The Beginning, or I Am Born

PREFACE

Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the second best known writer from Hidalgo, Illinois (POP. 100). Which means you won’t be seeing me hawking my book on the Today Show any time soon. (My “book” is incomplete, similar to my high school geometry grade.)

And who is Hidalgo’s best-known writer? It’s probably on the tip of your tongue, isn’t it? No? Give up? His name was Winfred (or “Winnie”, as I like to call him) Van Atta, author of Shock Treatment, which was made into a movie that Mr. Van Atta later sniffed at: “It ran the gamut of emotion from A to B”. This line was stolen from Dorothy Parker of course.

Incidentally, Van Atta’s family name was Vanatta. He thought this was too plain for an Author so he changed it to Van Atta. And of course he became world famous. You have heard of him, haven’t you?

What say we have a little quiz? Class, name three of his other novels. How about just one? I’m sure Van Atta won some prizes. He made a famous Oscar speech; he got the nod for his screenplay (category: based on work from another source which means only the title was used) of his novel, Shock Treatment. He gave an emotional speech: “You really, really like me!”

Come to think of it that was Sally Field. I’m sure Van Atta won some awards, probably the William Faulkner Ole Miss Award for Best Regional Novel Featuring Weird People That In Real Life You Would Drive Hundreds of Miles Just to Avoid Running into Them.

Actually, I think one of his books was nominated for The Edgar Award, which is named for Edgar Allan Poe who wrote all those very popular Vincent Price movies (The Pit and the Pendulum, The House of the Seven Gables, and Lassie, Come Home.) Poe’s Oscar speech was also a humdinger. I’m sorry I don’t have the space to quote it, but it was for the best murder mystery based on material (calico) stolen from another source.

As soon as my book is finished (working title: My Life on the Prairie: The Early Years, 1910-1950), I plan to write the movie version. I’m sure it will fit the best screenplay or story or long-winded tale adapted from another source category. It will probably be a shoo-in for the Oscar. My speech will begin: “I’m proud to represent Hidalgo; I’m only sorry my old friend, Winfred Van Atta, another Hidalgo boy, is not able to be here. I know he would have been proud…” I’m sure there won’t be a dry eye in Hidalgo.

It is now time to move on to:

CHAPTER ONE (in which the hero manages to get born without going to a hospital, or calling anybody on a cell phone)

“Who said we were going to call him Denny”? Dad said about 4:42 AM, local time.

It was a very cold morning when Dad inquired about the baby’s name. It had been the coldest winter since records were first kept by the folks who invented handwriting (the Good Sumerians). This was odd as the date was March 25, when it was technically spring, on that day in 1945 when I was born. I don’t remember much about it. I’m the baby of the family, if a sixty -year old person can be called a baby.

Although all of us seven children-I have four brothers and two sisters-- are still at large, it is unclear to us exactly what happened that night .The mystery of the baby’s name was solved, eventually, but it was still a long day’s journey into the night and the predawn hours before things broke loose.

It had not been an easy birth. The baby didn’t come out right; he had to be assisted into the world with the doctor’s tools. (Many years later when the baby was supposedly grown up he heard on TV that the sort of birth he had experienced was traumatic; that a child never got over it, that it marked him for life, etc. “It was almost enough to make you give up TV”, he said.) And the birth was at home, like that of the other six children born to this family. Still everything was all right with mother and child except for the confusion over the baby’s name.

Brothers Jack and Jim were the only children still living at home at the time. Jack was nearly ten; Jim had just turned twelve. When the boys heard that a baby was coming, they decided to continue living at home, at least until they had jobs. Jim’s birthday in fact had occurred only five days before the birth of the boy whose name, according to Dad was not Denny, “for crying out loud”.

Jack, who is our star witness and principal supporting player in this drama, says that they (the Brothers Dunne) were sent to town just when the situation was getting interesting. . Being sent to town meant going to Hidalgo, a place where things tended to fold up early. So we’ll assume this was early in the evening, well before bedtime. This was in the dark ages, 1945, B. T (Before Television).

What did the boys do to occupy themselves until it was time to go home? I had thought about making this story into a reality show and having Jack and Jim return to Hidalgo to reconstruct the scene for us. They could have easily played themselves, although their appearance has changed somewhat after sixty years (they are a little taller).

I thought maybe the three of us might work up a little video to go with the script, which would show how things went on that important day. But I decided to go with my usual method of research, which shuns legwork in favor of making stuff up.

As to what the boys did, there weren’t that many options available; the nightlife of Hidalgo consisted of three or four grocery stores. They probably dropped in at Reba’s (sometimes pronounced “Reebie’s”) Meeker’s Grocery. Reba’s sign also said “Home Cooked Meals”, but not many people took her up on that as they could, well, get that kind of grub at home.

I like to think the boys each had the Pepsi and Planter’s Peanuts combo. The peanuts were not necessarily eaten on the side; the preferred method was to pour a few peanuts into the Pepsi bottle and then drink a little pop and chomp on a few peanuts at the same time. Very tasty.

You say you’ve never heard of Pepsi-soaked peanuts? Try them sometime—they’re delicious. Still with Pepsi at a nickel a bottle, the boys wouldn’t have gone overboard by drinking themselves into a sugar-salt coma.

Clarence’s Pool Hall may have been open, but the boys were a little young for billiards. So they probably drank pop and discussed why they were went sent to town.

“Mom’s having a baby, that’s why”, Jack said.

Jim responded: “There’s more to it than that. You’re just too young to know about it, that’s all.”

This remark infuriated Jack who was already wound up; he had been waiting for weeks for Mom to have this baby, which was supposed to be a girl named Judy Kay. That a girl’s name had been chosen led to unforeseen consequences. Namely, that there was way too much time spent on girl rather than boy names. (This is just speculation on my part, though I was considered to be a remarkable child, I took no notes at the time, preferring to spend my early hours mastering the art of burping.)

After an exciting evening in Hidalgo the Brothers Dunne walked home—a two-block journey-- in silence, as Jack instructed Jim to never speak to him again. (Jim was not necessarily crushed by this idea: “Fine with me, Buddy!”) The brothers early on practically invented sibling rivalry, but they both were very kind to me even beyond my “cute period”, which only lasted about two weeks.

I doubt that they called Dad for a ride home. I almost wish they had; I’m sure his response would have been interesting, but not necessarily suitable for home viewing. Although he normally used phrases that sounded like he was swearing, they were really harmless. A favorite exclamation was something that sounded like “Galnt dang it!” short for maybe, Gal Dang It. Anyway on his particular evening, I’m sure he was not in a mood to be bothered. Besides, kids weren’t carted here and there in 1945, not in Hidalgo, particularly.

At the same time the family was waiting for the birth of a child, another drama was taking place. Sister Betty was making plans to be married, which she did the day after I was born. Years later I congratulated Betty on her excellent timing in getting out of the house before it was time to take care of Baby. It was just a coincidence, but it makes a better story to say that Betty knew when to light out for the territory.

So it wasn’t a restful night for anybody, particularly for Jack who woke up every hour wondering if his sibling had been born. The event finally occurred around 4:00 AM. Jack was so excited he burst out into the streets of Hidalgo and began knocking on people’s doors to let them know about his baby brother. This was much appreciated of course.

Jack caused such a commotion that lights came on all over town, which led some people to believe that the War had ended. One neighbor lady explained it to her spouse, who was modeling his red flannel underwear on the street in downtown Hidalgo. “Oh, it’s only the little Dunne boy gone crazy telling everybody about his new baby brother.”

Her husband was disappointed: “Damn! I was hoping Hitler had been shot, or something”. Eventually, everyone went back to bed.

After Jack’s early morning excursion to take the good news to Hidalgo, he somehow managed to have a chat with Dr. Massie, who had a few questions for him. Why Dr. Massie decided to interview a not quite ten year old boy in the early morning hours has never been satisfactorily explained. Apparently no adults were around to grill. Mom and Dad were with the baby, no doubt stunned after having six children already; they were probably wondering if they would ever get all their offspring raised. (They were quite right to be concerned, as I lived with them for over thirty years.)

Dr. Massie was a fairly young man who was somewhat excited himself. He got a shock after the birth when Dad asked him how much he owed him. The fee was $45, a considerable amount of change at the time. For Dad, the hard times of the Depression and World War II had eased somewhat, so he quickly pulled out his billfold and handed over the cash. Dr. Massie was so overcome—he was used to people paying him in produce and promises—he said, “You mean you’re going to pay it all now?”

It is my theory that Dr. Massie was so stunned by collecting $45 in cash that he plain forgot to ask the parents a few questions including the name of the just born.

On his way out of the house he realized that his work was not quite finished; he stopped in the kitchen where Jack was fixing himself a little breakfast, a fried egg sandwich. (It had been a long time since the Pepsi-Planters snack of the previous night.)

Jack was happy to accommodate the good doctor. He was proud to have his baby brother; it made him feel kind of important to be finally included in the process. Jack was the youngest, and was always getting left out—he was sick and tired of it.

The only problem was he didn’t quite have his facts straight. He proudly (and innocently) reeled off the baby’s name as “Denny Kenneth”: Jack was close, according to the authorities (Mom and Dad); the name was Danny Kenneth, or Danny K., which Mom later said was her choice.

The birth certificate managed to get all three names wrong, even the last name by omitting the “e” in Dunne. Thus it read “Denny Kenneth Dunn”. Still no harm was done.

No harm except Dad wanted to know, “Who said we were going to call him Denny”? When this storm broke, Jack was in another part of the forest (under his bed upstairs), and Jim wisely played innocent. It all blew over.

Sixty years later, though, some family members still call me Denny, or Den. I kind of like it, actually.[1]
[1] No wonder the boy became a writer: he was plagued with an identity crisis from the beginning. This has probably accounted for his tendency to try on different hats. In his cowboy days, which lasted until about age fourteen, he pretended to be Roy Rogers. Later in his so-called maturity he liked to pretend to be somebody else for a day. Currently he is Hidalgo’s second best known writer.

The Annotated Diary Entries of D. K. Dunne (22)

2005-12-17T10:12:00.000-05:00

The Annotated Diary Entries of D. K. Dunne (22)

There is great excitement in the literary world today, as it was announced that an early diary has surfaced that reveals that D. K. Dunne, the author of “Hidalgo: The Town, Not the Horse”, was once a high school sophomore.[1] The diary, written when the budding author, was fourteen going on fifteen, sheds new light on the teen years that have so mystified latter day critics.

The man at the center of this literary storm --D(anny) K(enneth) Dunne--has been silent thus far. A spokesperson(someone who did not want even his gender revealed) said that the author is not answering his door; but that he does, however, occasionally sneak a glance through the peephole.

It is thought by some observers that the author has been behaving strangely lately, but other sources say he has recently seen The Aviator, and is only doing his Howard Hughes impression. In any case Dunne, it is said, plans to lie low until the diary hubbub dies down.

And indeed much has been made of the very first diary entry dated 2-16-60, 8:00 PM. It reads: Went to school as usual. Latin test today. Don’t think I did too well. Well, back to TV. 2]

This entry indicates the author’s early interest in popular culture. It is no wonder that he later wrote several articles about TV detectives. It was his thesis that Cannon and Barnaby Jones, to name only two of his subjects, were landmark series that deserved close study if one wanted to get a grip on Western Civilization, not to mention the early use of car phones. [3]

The next diary entry of 2-25-60 6:00 PM indicates a gap of nine days between posts. Scholars speculate that the intrepid boy diarist was honing his craft by taking time out for real life experience, such as the adventure later described in “Newspaper Boy”, when he got lost in downtown Greenup.

Other scholars, however, are quick to note that the author was reputed to be twelve, not fifteen, when he delivered papers. Thus there are many unknowns in the life of the man often called the Toast of Hidalgo.

The second entry, or the next diary entry as described in Paragraph six above, [4]reads: Had big snowstorm today. School let out early. Don’t know whether or not there’s going to be school tomorrow.[5] Dad got stuck in Kenny’s ditch when we were going after Mom. [6] Jim had to pull him out with the propane truck. [7]

This entry indicates the author’s early preference for short sentences; it will doubtless be copied/pasted by all PHD candidates who plan to examine the diarist’s life and works in toto.[8]

An even longer gap occurs before the next entry of 4-1-60; the date is uncertain as Mr. Dunne's handwriting when he was young is almost always difficult to read.

The entry in question reads: Betty brought Aunt Maude up yesterday. She brought me a tie for my birthday. I am getting ready to go to school. Will report later.[9]

Mr. Dunne’s birthday is on March 25, which indicates that the April 1 date is inaccurate; it is also possible that Aunt Maude was late in delivering the tie. It is likely that we will never know the answer to this conundrum.

Although the literary public is eagerly awaiting the release of the complete diary, insiders say readers may be disappointed, as it has many gaps that may raise more questions than it answers.

A spokesman for Mr. Dunne, who only wishes to be identified as First Reader, is encouraging the author to include the diary in a revised version of his autobiography, “A Very Modest Book Proposal, or My Life on the Prairie.”[10]

[1] The “Hidalgo” story is set in a small town (POP. 100) in the Midwest during the 50’s; it is a humorous memoir of a boy and his pony. It later served as the basis for a made for TV movie, which proved so popular, it is repeated every year during the Christmas season. Fans of the story, however, were offended that Jiggs the Pony was played by Eddie, a Jack Russell Terrier.
[2] “Word” indicates that “Latin test today” is an incomplete sentence. The young Mr. Dunne (picture John-Boy Walton with his nickel notebook) was either ignorant of this, or was hell bent on being original.
[3] Some critics say his chapter on “Mannix” includes a complete summary of Western Thought from Aristotle to Sartre. We (the staff of The Washington Post) think he was just kidding.
[4] The Reader is advised to skip returning to Page One and counting paragraphs; it’s not important. You’ll never get through this article and its various and sundry footnotes if you question everything.
[5] This sentence indicates the author’s early preoccupation with future time.
[6] It is assumed that “Kenny” was a neighbor, but what his last name was and whatever happened to him are questions not answered by the diary. PHD candidates who are bent on solving this mystery are already in the field canvassing the old neighborhood, or would be if they could find it.
[7] Jim is the diarist’s older brother who figures in the Hidalgo story, as he and his brother Jack were given the job of chasing Jiggs the Pony with a lasso whenever he tried to get the heck out of Dodge. Jack, according to a source close to the story (his baby brother), once said that Jiggs made his life a living hell. Childhood, this report from the front indicates, is not all it’s cracked up to be.
[8] If this makes you think of The Wizard of Oz, it can’t be helped. Such is the power of words!
[9] “Will report later,” indicates the author’s keen interest in recording his life; it is clear the itch to express himself was strong even at that early age. He did not, however, post again for another six days. One can only guess as to his activity during this period. Some early speculation--people always want to jump to the wrong conclusion about these matters-- centers on the possibility that this was Mr. Dunne’s “coming of age” period. A source close to the author (Peter Pan) says he has never come of age. We (the Committee appointed by Congress to write this report) suspect Mr. Dunne is dodging this question. Other observers assert that this matter was cleared up in Mr. Dunne’s celebrated blog, which at last count had an e-mailing list of thirteen.
[10] Not sold at better bookstores.

Losing It (21)

2005-12-10T11:16:00.000-05:00

Losing It (21)

My new worry—I try to come up with a new one every week—is not that I’m getting older, fatter, balder, the usual suspects, but that I’m slowly and surely, losing what little memory I have left.

I used to be good at remembering important stuff like who starred in the Saturday morning TV shows back in the 50’s. When friends of a certain age (i. e., those almost as old as me) discuss the Saturday morning shows they usually bring up Fury (about a horse), or My Friend Flicka (also about a horse), or Rin Tin Tin (about the U. S. Cavalry in the Wild West despite being named for a German Shepherd). I have a theory about this dog: I think he also played Bullet on The Roy Rogers Show; he probably led a double life, though not as confusing as that of Lassie who pretended to be a girl.

My friends can tell you all about Peter Graves and Bobby Diamond (the stars of Fury, as I’m sure you remember). I like to chime in with my favorite example, the TV series The Gallant Men. Now I’m not even certain the show was called The Gallant Men. But I’m sure it concerned the French Foreign Legion and what tough fighters they were. (This was in the 50’s before the French became the weenies they are today.)

Although I’m no longer certain of the show’s title, I still remember the stars: Larry “Buster” Crabbe and Fuzzy Knight. Some people accuse me of making these names up. Nowadays I just refer skeptics to Google, which settles any arguments, as there are whole web sites devoted to these worthies. Even though I seem to be losing my grasp of trivia, at least I still know who Elmo Lincoln was (the first movie Tarzan whose yell never quite came off as he was a silent film star)[1].

(WARNING: FOOTNOTES AHEAD)

Not being able to remember trivia is one thing, but what really bothers me is I can’t recall what little history I once knew. At one time I could name all the Presidents of the U. S. in order; now I usually get lost around old No. 7. (He’s on the $20 bill—I’ll think of his name later).

The War of 1812 is my favorite date, as it helpfully tells you what that very important year was about. It turns out the War of 1812 was actually a mini-series which technically ended in 1814-- during sweeps week-- with a peace treaty. But General Andrew Jackson didn’t hear about it and beat the stuffing out of the British at the Battle of New Orleans (from the song of the same name) in 1815, technically after the war was over, according to that great historian and popular singer, Johnny Horton.[2]

Andrew Jackson was known as “Old Hickory.” (You couldn’t be a general in the 19th century unless you had a catchy name like Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too)[3]. The “Old Hickory” nickname had its origins in Jackson’s hot temper; when riled he was apt to pick up a hickory log and lambaste the daylights out of his soldiers. (With civilians he was a little more composed: he merely slapped them with a glove and challenged them to a duel: “Pistols or swords—name your poison!”)

When questioned by the press (a bunch of anti-war fruitcakes) about killing British soldiers after the war was over, the General said: “I don’t give a crap about any peace treaty. I beat the redcoats, I’m going to be President, so watch your mouth.” Jackson liked to shake his finger at the press while he lined them out. He later posed for the famous "Uncle Sam Wants You" poster.

Most historical dates—unlike the War of 1812-- are bare of any hints. Strangely enough, I often remember exact dates, but can’t for the life of me recall what happened. For example, December 17, 1903 comes to mind, but was that when Wright Brothers first flew, or did they just fall off their bicycles that time?

April 3, 1882 also sticks in my mind: I think that was the date that Bob Ford shot Jesse James, but maybe it’s F. D. R.’s birth date.[4]

When I still had some memory for historical trivia, I used to tease people with questions like: What office did Aaron Burr hold when he shot Alexander Hamilton?[5] Was Burr arrested, impeached, imprisoned or otherwise chastised for killing Hamilton? I don’t remember now. All I know is Hamilton’s portrait is on the $10 bill. Hamilton was also inducted into The Founding Fathers Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (be sure to look him up the next time you’re at the Museum in Akron, Ohio).

At one time I would have known the answers to all these pressing historical questions. Of course at one time I could have bent over and tied my shoelaces without getting dizzy.

No, I’m not going to think about being dizzy—that will be next week’s worry.

[1] Larry “Buster’ Crabbe also played Tarzan; Fuzzy Knight, however, did not. Fuzzy spent his days competing for character roles; he usually found that George “Gabby” Hayes had beaten him to the draw.
[2] Jackson was bitter the rest of his life that no one told him the War of 1812 was already over; he blamed the news media, particularly “those knuckleheads at CNN.”
[3] William Henry Harrison was the victor at the Battle of Tippecanoe and was President for about 30 days before he keeled over from getting a bad cold on Inauguration Day and eating strawberries and cream. (Probably too many preservatives.) His running mate (Tyler, Too) became President and thereafter was called John Tyler, as it would have been too silly to call him Tyler, Too.
[4] I'm sure you remember that very popular bar room ballad with lyrics that included " 'Twas a dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard and laid poor Jesse in his grave”. (This little ditty was covered by, I believe, The Sex Pistols.) “Mr. Howard” was the alias Jesse was going by at the time he was dispatched by Mr. Ford, the “dirty little coward.”
[5] Burr was Vice President of the U. S. Thomas Jefferson was somewhat put out with him; he began shopping around for a new vice president, preferably one that had a nicer hobby than dueling.

George Washington Checks In (20)

2005-11-26T07:45:00.000-05:00

Father of His Country Stuns the Nation

Will Guest Star in Ghost Whisperer Episode During November Sweeps

Former President Says He Doesn’t Feel a Day Over 273 Years Old

CBS Entertainment Division held a press conference today to announce that George Washington had showed up at the Ghost Whisperer set for an early makeup call. The former president had apparently returned from the spirit world just in time to film a Thanksgiving episode.

Several reporters questioned why Washington had chosen Ghost Whisperer when The West Wing, or Commander in Chief might have been more suitable.

Sources close to the former president (other ghosts) explained that Washington was a fan of the show’s star, Jennifer Love Hewitt. Besides, he didn’t want to compete, “with that M*A*S*H* fellow or the Lady President”. He seemed to think he would make a bigger splash on The CBS show.

The General, as he prefers to be called, is said to have his lines memorized and is anticipating completing his guest role so he can return to the spirit world in time to watch the broadcast version on his dish.

Washington explained that high tech worked well in the other world; he was sorry, for example, that TV wasn’t available in his day, as he would have enjoyed the sports, but was glad he didn’t have that “blasted cable news” following his every move.

The actual plot line of the script is a closely guarded secret. Washington is said to be upset over present day insiders who leak to the press, and was assured that the script would not fall into the wrong hands. “What tommyrot—in my day I would have drawn and quartered those scoundrels!”

Within minutes of the announcement, however, a Washington Post forum appeared on the Internet that gave full details of the script (after a spoiler alert).

Bob Woodward said Washington had given him the plot in an earlier conversation when he was interviewing him for his instant book “Washington Returns to Earth”.

Woodward did not say when he himself would return.

President Bush Proclaims National Day of No News (19)

2005-11-19T09:50:00.000-05:00

Says Sports and Weather Can Be Covered

Entertainment Tonight Given Special Waiver for Hollywood Couple of the Week Series

President Bush, according to White House sources, ( staff members planning to write insider books) “has had it up to his eyeballs with the news media”.

After recently stunning the nation’s Capital by taking a day off to play with his dog, Barney, the President said today he was setting aside next Tuesday as a National Day of No News.

Official Washington Insiders (leakers) and the Press (leakees) were both agog over the statement as they live on the latest rumors, gossip, and downright whoppers that pass for news coverage in the nation’s Capital. Reporters and their sources fell over one another in their panic to get one last story out before next Tuesday.

One reporter who was overrun in the pressroom—she still had marks on her forehead caused by wing-tip shoes--said, “It was like the last flight out of Saigon”. Some younger reporters didn’t understand the reference to Viet Nam until it was explained that the war had been rerun during the 2004 Election (“Oh, The Swift Boat thing” they said.)

The President was asked about the rights of a free press. “The Press is pretty darned free with their coverage. I just want to give the American people a break from all those cable news birds that think they know everything”.

The Washington Press Corps took the proclamation —as they do all news coming out of their hometown—very seriously. And Congress, after giving a heads up to their reporter friends, held their own press conferences to denounce The National No News Day as Unconstitutional, not to mention harmful to their fund raising campaigns.

One Very Important Senator (one of 100) explained, “Besides, if you’re not on TV, you won’t be invited to the right parties".

The Press was represented by all the major news organizations except the Washington Post staff, which was attending a seminar led by Bob Woodward on “How To Keep Yourself Out of the Story”.

C-Span will have cameras turned on to capture every moment of the No News Day. Brian Lamb, C-Span founder, said it would not be a problem as they were used to dead air from their non-stop coverage of The House and Senate.

How to Become a Better Old Person (18)

2005-11-12T11:02:00.000-05:00

How to Become a Better Old Person[1]

(Footnotes—a new blog feature—will be found at the bottom of the page, according to Word which is certainly the last you- know- what on these matters.)

The other night, while holding my arms over my head and waiting for my deodorant to dry, it occurred to me that I was turning into an old person. “It’s time to work on becoming a better old person,” I said to myself while staring at the Geezer in the glass.

The next morning, after a wild night of waking every hour to make sure I was still alive, I made new rules for myself. If I’m going to be old, I thought, I might as well do it right. If I feel cranky, I darned well plan to be cranky. It’s such a strain to be nice when sometimes all you want to do is to slap certain persons silly.

So, as a public service, let me pass along my thoughts on becoming a better old person (geezer).

If you are naturally hard of hearing like me, you’ll have a head start on being an old person, as you’ll miss a lot of foolish remarks, which will have the happy effect of making you less irritable. Generally what people say is boring anyway; they usually just drone on about their own pathetic lives instead of focusing on you, the interesting person in any exchange.

If you hear perfectly well, just pretend you don’t. Practice a blank look on your face when people talk. Maybe, not right away, but in the fullness of time, they will give up talking about their children or their grandchildren who are so good at sports.[2]

If someone does go on at length about the kiddies, interrupt them with the details of your latest doctor’s appointment, the more embarrassing the better. Describe your encounter with an examination table that was so cold you shot up to the ceiling when you landed on it.

Don’t be shy about describing your latest colon test. Were you put out, or did you stay awake for the procedure? Did your BP take a dive; did you turn pale? Were you held over in the exam room because you very nearly passed out?

Be sure to note this in your diary. Or better yet, if you have a newspaper column, write up your medical problems for the locals to discuss. Everyone will be extremely interested in the results of your annual check-up. [3]

Make a point of not lifting anything heavier than a potato chip bag. If you’re a guy, politely explain your hernias (I have one which is about to give birth to another one) prevent you from lifting. Start wearing a post-it note on your shirt that says “Sorry, no lifting done here”. [4]

For your mental health, give up watching TV News, particularly the Talking Heads on both the right and the left. It’s OK to check the headlines at Yahoo, but skip the stories. They will only upset you and distract you from your goal of becoming a better old person.

The Constitution clearly says you are not required to follow the news. You are only required to pay your cable bill. The Founders knew not many people would be interested in government, which is a good thing. Otherwise we would all be yelling at one another like the idiots on TV.[5]

Speaking of your Constitutional rights, tell everyone you meet how many meds you are on and bitch about how much they cost. It’s your right.

I now take eleven pills a day, up from zero a couple of years ago. One is a blood pressure med; the others are over the counter allergy/sinus remedies. Some days I take twenty-two pills as I forget I’ve taken them earlier. [6]

I’m sorry—I have to bring this article to a close, as it is time once more to let my deodorant dry. Chores never cease, do they? Besides, I’ve run out of footnotes. As a consolation prize, please read this week’s crop (no quiz!).

[1] This title is only a working title unless I blog it. Which would mean I couldn’t think of anything better. Sorry.
[2] People who show pictures of the little darlings at play will be banished in the New World Order.
[3]Don’t mention the hospital’s name, as the staff will be waiting for you with cattle prods.
[4] T-shirts are also available that read, “I’m recovering from surgery—sorry I can’t help”.
[5] The Bill of Rights will be found in your textbook under The Founding Fathers’ Greatest Hits: Volume I, The Early Years.
[6] I know you’re dying to know the names of the pills, but I can’t spell them without looking at the bottles, which are inconveniently located in the kitchen cabinet. Suffice it to say they are harmless unless chewed rather than swallowed.

President Bush Takes a Day Off (17)

2005-11-05T07:55:00.000-05:00

Says He’s Going Back to the Constitution

Plans to Cut Work Day in Half to Spend More Time with Barney, the White House Dog

This morning when the White House Press Corps gathered for their daily briefing they were stunned to find no one in the pressroom. Instead the President’s daily schedule was posted. It read: “Gone to play with Barney”.

The reporters—from force of habit--began shouting as though a press conference were going to be held anyway; after a few minutes of head butting and jockeying for position, they began calling their sources.

Insiders close to the White House—they live in the same time zone—painted a picture of a President whose persona had changed overnight from embattled Chief Executive to Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. Some feared the President had gone wacko, but most thought he just needed a vacation.

These sources explained that the President was getting very weary of all the criticism from his conservative supporters (“Those birds are never happy”) over the Harriet Miers Supreme Court nomination fiasco (“She’s a fine person, but who knew she couldn’t pass an eighth grade Constitution test?”)

Staff members close to the story who did not wish to be identified (they wore their very scary—to Republicans—Bill and Hilary Clinton Halloween masks) said the President had a sudden moment of clarity while surfing his way to The White House site.

Bush likes to linger over press releases at the site to read something good about his administration. On an impulse he followed a link to the Constitution and discovered it had very little to say about the President’s duties.

He smacked his head and said, “I’ve been making this too hard. I’ll execute the laws and approve treaties. If nothing is happening in those areas, I’ll take the day off. This ought to make all those strict constructionist right-wingers happy. Besides, I’ve been neglecting Barney something terrible what with all this political stuff.” And then, sources said, he began playing ball with his dog.

Vice President Cheney was so alarmed at the news that the President had apparently gone around the bend that he surfaced from the White House basement. The Vice President’s staff—those who were not busy leaking the news that they never knew “Scooter”—said he feared he might have to assume the President’s duties, which he has always been reluctant to do, as it would seriously interfere with his current job of running the world.

The President said, “Relax, Dick. Read the Constitution—you have even less to do than me. The Constitution says you can preside over the Senate—good luck with that.”

Shortly after the Vice President’s appearance a ball landed in the pressroom with Barney in hot pursuit. To the surprise of the few reporters left, President Bush ran in, scooped up the White House Pooch, and did an unscheduled photo-op.

“It’s good to see the little fellow having fun. And I’m feeling better myself since I realized I’m not all that important. According to the Constitution, the Congress is supposed to do the heavy lifting. The next time they want to do something dumb and then blame me for it, I’ll tell them to include me out.”

And with that the President ignored the shouted questions from the reporters and said to his dog, “Barney, what say we rustle up a little grub?”

The word on the President’s schedule for tomorrow is that he and Barney will be making a holiday video. “Barney,” the President said, “gets more hits than anybody at the site”.

Ex-Presidents in Family Court (16)

2005-10-29T08:50:00.000-04:00

Bush-Clinton Request To Be Made Permanent Team

White House Rocked by News that Former President Bush Plans to Adopt Bill Clinton

The American public has become accustomed to seeing former presidents Bush and Clinton make joint appearances in their work for disaster relief. This morning, however, the ex- presidents made a surprise court visit. The proceedings were so unexpected that Court TV had to rely on video taken by a security camera.

Former President George H. W. Bush petitioned the court to become Bill Clinton’s legal guardian. A lawyer for the elder Bush (one of the few Republican attorneys not working the White House leak case) read a bilingual (English and Lawyer Speak) statement that said Bush stands ready to become Bill Clinton’s daddy.

Representatives from Children and Family Services (former cast members of TV’s “Judging Amy”) confirmed that Clinton wants be adopted. Clinton spoke on his own behalf, which the court allowed with the admonition: “Keep it short; remember, you are not running for office”. Clinton addressed the court without notes, but appeared to be squinting as though he were looking for a teleprompter.

“For all practical purposes, I am an orphan. My natural father died before I was born. My stepfather has been dead for many years; my Mother, Virgina Kelly, author of Leading With My Heart, died a few years ago. I, too, am an author. My book describes my early life and explains how important family is to me.”

The former president choked up for a moment. “But now I live all by myself in a big old house in New York; Hilary stays in Washington and hardly ever leaves her Senate office except to fly to California to raise money for her Presidential Campaign. My dog and I are ready to move to Texas.”

Former President Bush spoke up to say that “Bill is like the son I never had; I know Barbara and I are just the ticket he needs to grow up to be somebody.”

A reporter pointed out that Clinton had already become President. “That’s true. But still we gotta think of the boy’s future. I think he has a good chance to head the U. N. and eventually rule the world. His foreign policy is a lot like mine. With my diplomatic contacts I’m sure I can help Bill with his ambitions.”

A source close to the White House—he double bunks with a Secret Service agent—said President Bush is concerned that his father is spending a little too much time with Bill Clinton. “The guy’s OK to raise money with, but Dad needs to cut out the sleepovers for pizza and movies”.

Another White House source, when asked the President’s response to the news that his father is planning to adopt Clinton, quoted Bush as saying, “I’m calling Mom!”

Another Greenup Press Week (15)

2005-10-22T07:43:00.000-04:00

It’s time to revisit The Greenup Press. You remember the Press, don’t you? It has the weekly scoop on what’s going on in my hometown of Greenup, IL (Pop. 1500). I like to read it and make “smart remarks” about some of the items. As the Press isn’t online (darn), I feel it’s my duty to share. Here are a few highlights since I first covered it in July (Blog No. 6).

Bulletin from the Timothy News:

“Don & Brenda P. spent a few days in Kentucky while there, they took in the World’s Longest Yard Sale.”

(Maybe it just seemed long.)

From the Liberty Hills News:

“Gina M. left Wednesday morning to go back to Northern IL. University for the fall semester. Her uncle Brent B. also took a truck load of things for her. I didn’t know it took so much stuff to go to school, but she says she needs every bit of it. Anyhow she is all moved in and taking training to be a floor counselor in her dorm. The students will all be moving in next week so she will be very busy on those days helping new students get to their rooms.”

(Is this one of those “party” schools?)

“We had a little excitement here in Greenup last week. My end of town was closed off awhile due to a unknown object that was found about one block from me.

It was handled as a bomb threat that turned out that it was not. It sure made a lot of extra work and scare for local and state officials. It was decided that the boxes were meant to trap mosquitoes to check for Niles infected mosquitoes. I feel kind of sorry for the guy that put them out as I bet he sure got in trouble. Anyhow I guess it was good training for everyone. At least we now know we have trained personnel if we should need it.”

(Trained personnel? Let’s have a few names please.)

From Letter To The Editor:

In response to Mr. C.’s letter to the editor, as commander of the American Legion I am at all the dances and we have very little trouble. We did not have any fights at the dance that ended at 1:30. Yes, one young man took his frustrations out on a door.”

(It’s good to know the Commander attends all the dances, but maybe in his next report he could explain the “frustrations out on a door”—sounds sort of kinky, don’t you think?)

From Class Offered Notice:

“On Tuesday, November 1, at 7 pm at Toledo Village Hall, Effingham Center Educators Beverly C. and Pat H. will present “Celebrate the Holidays: Make it Simple”. Beverly will give several holiday recipes featuring a variety of convenience foods. Pat will share simple, inexpensive ideas for quick ways to add a festive look to packaging (gift wrapping). You will also learn about some new small kitchen ware on the market”.

(Sounds like the girls will be selling something.)

From Museum News:

“It would be nice if we had a variety store where one could buy a pair of anklets and things such as this without going out of town”.

(Interesting, but what happened to the Museum News?)

And, finally, from the Jack Oak News (our favorite column):

“Mon. Oct. 10th Keith and Anita B. both kept Doctor appointments in Champaign. We are both going to live unless some unforeseen thing occurs”.

And on that cheerful note, we must bid farewell to the Village of Greenup.

See you next week.

This Date in History (14), or What Our Ancestors Did When They Thought Nobody Was Looking

2005-10-15T10:29:00.000-04:00

On this date (Thursday):

Carrie Nation smashed up her first saloon and told the drunks what she thought of them.

Wilbur and Orville Wright fell off a cliff even though they were wearing feathers.

Thomas A. (for Adele) Edison invented the movies, but closed his studio when the star of The Great Train Robbery, Bronco Billy Anderson, jumped off the screen and left the country with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

Susan B. Anthony said of the new coin with her image: “Looks like two bits to me”.

Thomas Jefferson exceeded his credit limit with The Louisiana Purchase; Visa was not amused.

Millard Fillmore, President of The U.S, disappeared. No one missed him.

In 1890 the Census Bureau declared the frontier was closed, which confused thousands of people on their way to Disneyland. Many cancelled their motel reservations.

In 1893 The U. S. allowed people to settle the Cherokee Strip, which further puzzled the pioneers who had bought the Government’s previous story that the Frontier—not to mention The Sands—was closed. (See paragraph 7, line 1, Schedule C above).

Today was the 80th birthday of Britain’s former Prime Minister Margaret “The Iron Lady” Thatcher. After a wee bit too much champagne, the old girl called up Argentina and threatened to declare war on them if they so much as looked at The Falkland Islands.

And, finally, an update on last week’s report on the James Brothers: On Thursday Frank and Jesse filed for a divorce. Judge Roy Bean, however, pointed out that the Brothers were never married, which made their petition null and void, not to mention stupid. (After this ruling, Judge Bean—The Law West of the Pecos-- is pretty confident that he’ll be named to the Supreme Court).

Informed sources (barflies) say Jesse is now seeking to be declared an emancipated person capable of living on his own. Sources close to the story (they have cable) indicated Frank thought this was pretty funny.

Spokesmen for both parties say they plan to remain friends, but will be dating others. The Dalton Gang was mentioned as a possibility.

The Return of Frank and Jesse (13)

2005-10-08T10:01:00.000-04:00

Famous Old West Outlaws Hold News Conference

Skeptical Press Question “Frank and Jesse James”

Famed Duo Attired in Long Yellow Dusters and Three Piece Suits from Warner Bros. Outlet Store

At a hastily called press conference, reporters in St. Louis, Missouri questioned the famous James Brothers. Jesse James read from a prepared statement, managing to hit all the reporters in the front row with his spittle. James was a little hard to follow, as his remarks were more in the nature of a rant, rather than a statement.

“I am sick and tired of reading about all these so-called outlaws, who are trying to horn in on my glory. (His brother Frank glared at him.) Well, our glory. We were the greatest outlaw gang in history. The modern world is going to hell in a hand basket, excuse my French.”

The outlaw was interrupted by several reporters shouting at him (they were in training for the White House press corps). The AP reporter finally got James’s attention.

“Who do you think you’re kidding? I know for a fact that you, ‘Jesse’, are deader than last week’s celebrity. And isn’t true, ‘Frank’, you spent several years in prison after your outlaw career was over?”

Jesse managed to get a word in: “Don’t that beat all. You press guys haven’t changed a bit. To get back to the subject, I am fed up with people who claim to be the West’s greatest outlaws. And don’t get me started on Butch and Sundance—Bob Redford and Paulie Newman—what a pair of fakers! And if I hear another word about the Reno Brothers being the first train robbers, I swear I’ll have a conniption fit.”

James was so overwrought he made a quick gesture towards his inside jacket pocket, which caused an uproar as several reporters hit the floor in anticipation of gunplay.

“What a bunch of weenies”, James said. Even Frank managed a grin.

James pulled out several folded sheets of paper and waved them at the reporters.

“ Speaking of weenies, I’m going to sue those Google Guys if they don’t straighten up. Every time I Google my name all I get is garbage about some biker who married a floozy actress that followed him to the hospital after a stupid accident.”

James stop to squint at his Google search: “Sandra Bullock—that’s the girl friend of the guy using my name. He even says he’s a direct descendent of the outlaw Jesse James. Give me a break. I mean Tom Hanks may be a descendent of Abe Lincoln— though why anybody would want to be related to that Yankee upstart, who claimed to be a Southerner, is beyond me. But I’m here to tell you that I am the original, the one and only Jesse James.”

Jesse was shaking all over himself at the end of this tirade; his brother Frank tried to calm him down.

“Don’t get your drawers in a snit, Jesse! Remember what the Bible says: Do unto others, and do it first.” (The older brother was famous for quoting-- or misquoting--Shakespeare and The Bible).

The elder James led Jesse out of the banquet room. Reporters were still shouting questions at the outlaws who were as oblivious as a couple of ex-Presidents.

“Oh, sure, Frank—show off what a faker you are! You’re always so high and mighty! Why Mom liked you best is the biggest mystery of my life. And another thing, why do people always say Frank and Jesse James when everybody knows I’m the famous one? Answer me that Brother, since you’re so smart…”

The Brothers had left behind a press kit with clippings of their exploits. They were as famous as rock stars in their day (June 6, 1876).

The James Gang included at times the Younger Brothers, The Ford Brothers and their Lincolns, Stacey Keach and The Quaids. The Gang was notorious for trashing hotels, ordering room service, and riding their horses up to the top floor of their hotel.

They liked to order videos of movies that portrayed their exploits. Their critiques were on the harsh side, as they would usually shoot out the TV before the pizza arrived.

Later in the day Jesse James dialed a local TV station from his cell phone while on horseback. He said he and Frank were galloping towards Meramac Caverns, as a local farmer’s barn helpfully proclaimed that Jesse’s hideout was nearby. (The barn also had large lettering inviting them to “Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco”.)

Jesse wanted the press to know he had Googled his name; the first thing that now came up was the AP report of his morning news conference. James was crowing that he was now Ranked No. 1 in Google Search. “It’s about time,” he said.

He rang off shortly afterwards as Frank was heard in the background, “You’ve got another think coming if you actually believe I’m going to stay in a cave overnight!”

The hotel manager later said he saw the James Boys in the alley where their horses were hitched at parking meters, but they galloped off before he could bill them for the room damages.

Local reporters who researched their own newspaper’s files found that James’s death in 1882 had been front-page news. Several men over the years had claimed to be Jesse James—he was often sighted at the same gas station with Elvis.

But this James, said one of the old-time reporters, was the first one to complain about Sandra Bullock.

The U. S. Gets Born (12)

2005-10-01T08:55:00.000-04:00

On September 17, 1787 The Founding Fathers adopted the Constitution, an Orphan born in Philadelphia. James Madison and Alexander Hamilton had a stern disagreement over who would be Daddy.

G. Morris (first name always written as G. as nobody then or now could spell it) said he was the Father, as he had actually written the words with his pen, a $0.98 cent Bic, which doubled as a lighter.

Wise old Ben Franklin was in charge of settling disputes. He made a speech about the rising or setting sun picture that was on George Washington’s chair (also his screen saver).

Ben said the Orphan Constitution would survive. (Or something like that: the original video has been lost.) Just to be on the safe side Children and Family Services were called (Ben had just invented the cell phone).

Although the Orphan was now adopted, he had to be approved by the Original Thirteen Colonies who were now states under The Articles of Confederation, Part 17, line 46, Row 6B, except for Massachusetts, which thought it was a commonwealth.

Massachusetts was so confused that it passed The Somewhat Gay Marriage Law, which provided for couples that were not necessarily gay, but were at least moderately cheerful, to be eligible for call waiting and high speed Internet access.

Things became so muddled that James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and John Jay (The McGuire Sisters of Journalism) wrote a series of pamphlets to explain the new Constitution, which had citizens shaking their heads and exclaiming: “What the heck are these guys trying to say?”

Sample sentence: “The executive branch will be co-equal with the legislative branch which will be overruled by the Supreme Court unless they are not wearing their robes in which case they will declare themselves obscene”.

The Founders went back to their laptops and wrote still more of the Famous Federalist Papers though the People begged for mercy.

Madison finally made an overseas call for help to Thomas Jefferson, who along with John Adams (the original Adams, not one of his 37 descendents also named John) conveniently managed to be in Paris, France during the controversy. Jefferson said: (this is a direct quote from the original phone log):

“Madison, who gave you my number? Why do you think I crossed the Atlantic if not to get away from your pesky questions? How are you ever going to succeed me as President if you can’t handle a crisis on your own?”

Sensing that his mentor was having a bad day, Madison said Jefferson was cutting out on him.

Jefferson gave phone to John Adams who yelled (to be sure they could hear him in America):

“What’s this nonsense about Massachusetts? What are “gay couples”? Aren’t all happily married couples “gay”? I’ve only been gone two years, and already the Country along with our Mother Tongue is going to hell in a hand basket.”

Jefferson took the phone back to tell Madison to add Bill of Rights to the new Constitution.

Madison said: “What bill? The overseas phone call?” Jefferson gave up, and told Madison to expect a fax with the details.

So the Orphan Constitution had a rough time of it for about two years, which was compounded by much bickering over expense accounts that seemed to indicate heavy drinking by the people’s representatives.

This dust up came about as one busybody delegate had snitched on his brethren. Geo. Washington termed him an old blue nose and gave him a stout cursing; he heartily wished the little you-know-what was in the army so he could have had him flogged.

But after two years of wrangling the Constitution was passed and the new country was poised to live happily ever. There was, however, a little hitch when Geo. Washington was to be sworn as the first President. He arrived at the District of Columbia, but was ten years early as the White House had not yet been built.

“Accursed Yahoo Search!” thundered the General.

He then took an Amtrak special to New York only to be told that the new government had makeshift quarters at the Philadelphia Holiday Inn. “By God! This is worse than a floating crap game!” (This is not exactly what he said, but this is a family blog.)

Washington was so put out by this mix-up that he had his advance man strung up by his heels and made him answer questions from The Press. Washington was a fun guy.

And so the Constitution was no longer an orphan. The original document can be read online with nice exhibits of, for example, G. Morris’s Bic Pen, which doubled as a lighter.

Remember: you are reading this on the Internet-- it has to be true. I’ve lost my original link, but if you Google “G. Morris Bic Pen”, I think you might be surprised.

By the way, I’ll be offline the rest of the weekend.

Newspaper Boy (11)

2005-09-24T08:52:00.000-04:00

One afternoon when I came home from school Mom greeted me, “Aren’t you the boy that always wanted a paper route?”

When had I ever said I wanted a paper route? I really didn’t have time. I had to practice my card tricks--I was going to be a magician.

But I didn’t want to disappoint Mom. Sonny, the kid who was giving up the route, would show me the ropes. At fourteen, he was two years older; Mom said he had other interests. What those were I didn’t know. Whoever invented the word “clueless” must have had me in mind.

Showing me the ropes only lasted two days; Sonny said if I could figure out what customers I had missed I would have the route in hand. Of course I didn’t have a clue. Sonny assured me I would be able to handle it. He jumped on his bike and flew off to pursue his “other interests”.

I did have the route pretty well memorized, but I wasn’t good at folding papers. I just threw them in my bicycle basket and tried to keep them from blowing away. Between chasing runaway papers and crashing my bike into people’s porches—I wasn’t made to ride a bike and throw a newspaper at the same time-- the route was getting longer and longer.

The very next afternoon it got dark early thanks to a thunderstorm; I was running even later. I was about to make my last few deliveries, when a car pulled up blinding me with its lights. It was Dad. “What in the crap are you doing out here at this time of night?” He didn’t wait for an answer—I was on my way home as fast as I could pedal.

When I got home, I heard Mom saying, “I don’t want that boy out at night riding his bike”. I heard Dad say, “He can give that paper route back to Sonny what’s-his- name”.

So it was decided my newspaper days were over. I didn’t know whether to be elated or sad. The paper route money would have come in handy for magic supplies, but there were a lot of things around the house that could be used as props.

The next evening I used some of those “props” as the folks had gone to The Store. I launched my career in magic by filling the dining room table with dishes. The idea was to pull the tablecloth (quickly) out from under the dishes. I practiced until I heard Dad and Mom pull in. It was show time; I gave the folks a demonstration.

The next morning we were still finding broken crockery.

“Maybe we should have let him kept his paper route,” Dad said.

“I liked it better when he played cowboys,” Mom said.

Cowboys! Great idea, Mom! I was twelve, but I was working my way back to six.

1846, or Where Were You CNN? (10)

2005-09-17T09:26:00.000-04:00

In 1846 apparently nothing happened. It was the most important year in our history, but CNN was asleep; C-Span took a powder. Luckily people who claimed to have been alive at the time took notes.

For example, a very famous American was born that year. He was a Pony Express rider at fourteen, and later went into show business with James Butler “Wild Bill” Hickox and Martha Jane “Calamity Jane” Cannary.

He lived a very long life—so long, that he re-invented himself in the 1950’s by changing his name to “Buffalo Bob” Smith and taking Howdy Doody as his new partner. (He had no choice; he had outlived “Will Bill” and “Calamity Jane”.)

Who was this famous American? . Why, none other than William F. (for Freddie). “Buffalo Bill” Cody. He was sometimes mistaken for Wild Bill Hickox, or even General George Armstrong “Yellow Hair” Custer, as they each had long blond hair that came down to their belt buckles.

Their hair was so long they were known as The Three Hippies; they of course burned their draft cards to protest the Viet Nam War. But they were all great Americans. They eventually came home from Canada after President Jimmy Carter pardoned them. They then took their act on the road, eventually replacing The Three Tenors.

But to return to 1846, not only was Buffalo Bill born, we also managed to get ourselves in a war with Mexico. Bill enlisted at age 2; the only thing that prevented Teddy Roosevelt from joining up was he wasn’t born until 1859.

The war wasn’t an accident; The President—quick, who was the President in 1846—give up? James Knox Polk (coming back to you now?) wisely went to war, as it was necessary to give our budding generals from West Point, Robert E. Lee and U. S. Grant, a chance to meet and greet before they reported to the set of “Gone With the Wind”.

A few Mexicans were killed, but it was a small price to pay for some necessary war games. A few bleeding hearts, like Abe Lincoln, protested the war. Lincoln’s heart, however, stopped bleeding in 1861 when he refused to let the South leave the Union.

The Mexican War produced several heroes who became public nuisances, as they ran for office; one eventually became President. So the war was well worth fighting on that score alone. In fact, the hero who became POTUS (President of the you- know -what) made news as recently as 1991.

I’m sure you remember the story. Zachary Taylor held office for only a few months before he keeled over under what some deemed suspicious circumstances. It was thought that he had been poisoned; somebody actually wrote a whole book about this theory. The author made such a fuss that Taylor was dug up and examined with a very fine magnifying glass. Verdict: he died of natural causes. The author of the book has since disappeared along with the advance he got from his publisher.

“Old Rough and Ready” Taylor’s brief tenure as POTUS pales in comparison to his contribution in 1846, when he was largely responsible for the successful Mexican War Games, a dry run for the Civil War, though Dwight David “Ike” Eisenhower later tried to take credit for the exercises.

And why was this the most important year in our history? It made it possible for the Civil War to be held, which has remained a great industry and a nice hobby for amateur soldiers. Sort of makes you proud to be an American, doesn’t it?

Drive Time (9)

2005-09-10T09:23:00.000-04:00

I drove to work this morning with the nagging feeling that I had missed a news bulletin. Something was not quite right. Then it hit me: it was back- to- school time. I made up a headline for the story I had obviously missed:

Driving Age Lowered to Twelve

This accounted for those little children who wore their caps backwards and could barely see over their steering wheels. For reasons best known to themselves, they preferred to drive down the middle of the road.

While I was trying to dodge these little people, who only yesterday were on the playground plotting to crash driver’s ed., I made a point of glaring at them. One of the Munchkins rewarded me with a puzzled look.

I imagined his thoughts: “What? Somebody else is driving on this street that belongs to us high school students only? What’s that old Geezer doing driving anyway?”

I had barely recovered from my close encounters with drivers supposedly 16, when three people in a row, average age 52.7 years, or old enough to know better, failed to use their turning signals.

These people were the parents and grandparents of the aforementioned, headline-grabbing twelve-year old drivers. We live in a small town, it’s true, but a little warning that somebody might be taking a left to The Store would be nice. I made up another headline:

One Hundred Million Vehicles Recalled as Turning Signals Defective

Half of all American drivers don’t use turning signals. They think (apparently) that blinkers are optional equipment and that turning signal use is for other people; they themselves can’t be bothered as they are in a lather to get to the other side of town. (Some people would be in a hurry to get to Hell.)

The only thing worse than idiot drivers are idiot drivers talking on cell phones. What I really love--to get to my pet peeve--are people who call a business and the first thing out of their mouths is, “Let me talk to Bob”. I created a headline for this group:

People Who Can’t Identify Themselves Barred from Using Telephones

Millions of Americans call businesses and ask for Jack or Susan. Were they brought up in a barn? I want to say: “NO, you may not talk with Jack until you say who you are. Did you notice when I answered the phone I said: This is Danny; may I help you? Didn’t that give you a clue that you are supposed to identify yourself? Apparently not, you worthless scum.”

Well, I certainly feel better.

Vacation (8)

2005-09-01T22:40:00.000-04:00

Vacation

I have actually gone on vacation only twice in the last sixty years. In 1978 my nephew Dana and I went to Beverly Hills, California; we were just a couple of single guys raising heck of course.

I was then a boy of thirty-three; Dana was twenty-seven. Going to Hollywood was a natural choice as we were show biz people in the making. Later that year we auditioned for our first community theatre play. It later opened nearly on Broadway (a street in Mattoon, Illinois.)

I retired from the stage over twenty years ago, but Dana has been active all these years. This is only right, as he is the talent in the family.

We didn’t-- at first-- seem to have a talent for traveling. We flew from St. Louis directly to Los Angeles without a hitch. We were not, however, to see much of anything but the hotel the first couple of days. We were supposed to have been on a bus tour, but we couldn’t locate the bus.

Our first disappointment came at the airport when a limousine did not meet us. We inquired about this and were told that the shuttle bus was the limousine, so stop whining already.

After checking in at our hotel, we asked where the tour bus would be. We got in line early the next morning at the designated area-- if you could call it getting in line, as we were the only two people around, a clue perhaps that we were misinformed. We saw busses, but they flew by as though we had just got off the boat.

Later back in our hotel room it occurred to us to call the Bell Captain. He answered the phone himself and said that the bus took off from Robinson’s Department Store. (Famous retail establishment, which we later discovered, sold dry goods at several times retail.)

The next morning we showed up at Robinson’s; again we were the only people in line. After several long minutes we saw our bus, or at least a bus whizzing by. We waved at the driver to let him know he had forgotten something, or someone. But once again we were stranded.

We checked with the Bell Captain who this time gave us more specific instructions (he finally realized who he was dealing with): the bus stopped on the opposite side of the building. The next morning we were in the right area, and got off on our Hollywood tour, a bit delayed, but still worthwhile.

This episode—though it had a happy ending—did me in for travel for years afterwards. Dana, however, has been on the road or in the air or at sea practically ever since. Just last weekend a bulletin came in e-mail form: he was off with friends to see a play in Chicago. He was traveling by train I understand.

Lost Weekend (7)

2005-08-26T05:45:00.000-04:00

My wife had many chores lined up for the weekend; she always does. She also gets a load of work done on her days "off.” When I'm home, I do my computer surfing, watch TV, and read.

If I'm off, it's pretty obvious. I'll be wearing my bathrobe in the middle of the day. This doesn't matter, as almost no one comes to see us. My wife suggests the bathrobe could be the reason. I don't think so; I’m sure other people are also watching TV, computer surfing, and reading. Unless they are women of course.

In that case they are doing household chores and, in many instances, working outside the home. Sometimes they stop to give birth, but they are back multi-tasking before you know it.

If a guy gave birth, he would have to have a year off. Actually, two years, as he would be in bed for nine months followed by a year of recuperation.

Women probably deserve better husbands or boyfriends. But most of them are stuck with us guys, a very different breed.

Speaking of dogs, you'll notice that guy dogs are clueless, running around trying to find new spots to fertilize, while girl dogs are checking their planners to see when the puppies are due.

I think women could stand for guys being less dog-like. I sometimes offer to help my wife with the chores; I'll suggest that possibly I could whip up a little lunch.

For some reason my wife gets a little agitated when I head towards the kitchen. I don't know why. Unless she remembers how I lived in my bachelor days; I like to tell her how I prepared meals.

One of my favorites was scrambled eggs, which I was pretty proud of as I actually used the stove. I would break the eggs directly into the skillet--I didn't fool with beating them and adding milk. I would eat them from the pan while standing over the kitchen sink. Saved time doing dishes, of course. For some reason, my wife always orders me out of the kitchen when I suggest I cook.

Women really need to let their guys help out. We could be trusted with a meal or a load of laundry. I think we might surprise our spouses and girlfriends given the chance. I try this notion out on my wife.

"Your apartment was a surprise all right--your clothes hamper was running over into the next county. You told me yourself you didn't do laundry until you ran out of underwear! No, really, I don't need any help. Why don't you go watch TV?"

It works every time.

Greenup Press Week (6)

2005-08-19T06:11:00.000-04:00

Greenup, Illinois (POP. Fifteen Hundred) is my second hometown. My folks and I moved there from Hidalgo (POP. One Hundred) in 1956 when I was eleven--it was at least a day's ride.

It is also home to The Greenup Press which I mentioned in Blog 2. (You did read it, didn't you?) No need to refer back; I'll be nice and just quote myself:

" For those of you not acquainted with the Press it's a local weekly that has the lowdown on who stayed over night, who had Sunday dinner at Grandma’s, and a complete notation of doctor visits."

"There’s no national or world news, thank you very much, just brief bulletins from the communities of Jack Oak and Liberty Hill covering what the columnists, their friends and family did the past week. I like to make “smart” remarks about some of the items. Not nice of me of course. It’s a pity the paper isn’t online. It’s probably my duty to share it with others."

So this week I'm going to pass along a few items from recent issues of The Press. On the front page of the July 21 issue appeared this bulletin:

"Notice-Due to lack of interest and help. The Greenup Fire/EMS FAll Festival has been cancelled."--Chairperson Anne R.

(No bitterness here.)

Another front page article was actually a news story: a trial no less. The details--drunken motorcycle riding, serious fisticuffs, and way too much bodily injury--I'll pass over. I can't, however, resist quoting from the cross examination:

"Mrs. O. said the Mr. C. had to be 'bagged'. O. explained the procedure was performed because C. had quit breathing."

A little later in the proceedings The State asked another witness Miss. W. why she decided to bag the the patient.

"Because he had quit breathing."

(The State needs to pay more attention.)

This week's issue also had a article entitled: CCDC (Cumberland County Development Corporation) Meeting Held. The Committee Reports were noteworthy:

Finance--Nothing new to report.

Membership--Nothing new to report.

Publicity--Nothing new to report.

Tourism--Nothing new to report.

Executive--President Dan C. reported that the executive committee had decided to postpone its decision regarding the director position for three more months to give the group more time to determine the direction it is going.

(From the committee reports the " direction" appears to be "nowhere".)

There was also discussion of a "Shop at Home" campaign which would endeavor to educate the public about what it actually costs to shop at the "big boxes."

(Explain to me the "big boxes").

The proceedings of the County Board meeting were also covered in another article. My highlights:

"The (phone) system had been struck by lightning in a recent storm. After a short discussion the board decided to purchase the equipment. Board member Sherwood voted no."

"...Circuit Clerk noted that the copier in her office was needing to be replaced. ...The monthly agreement is $78 for the new machine. The Board agreed to take over the service agreement. Sherwood voted no."

(Sherwood appears to be a pretty tough customer.)

As interesting as these articles are, for real Greenup Press fans the highlights usually come from the columns. Here are some samples from the Jack Oak News:

"We met Amelia B. and Nikki K. at their home and went out for a late lunch at Cheddar's. The new pug "Gabe" had just returned from the Vet's having been neutered and implanted with an ava chip for indentification purposes. Didn't slow him down one bit."

"Don't forget to attend the Muddy Creek Concert and Summer Picnic on August 5th at the Neil Park in Toledo. The cost is very reasonable and small children are free."

"Keith and Anita had their evening meal at the Airport Steakhouse in Mattoon."

Lydia and Joe C. and Joyce L. visited Kim N. at her new apartment in Charleson Saturday. Paul, Carol, and Michelle V., Cheryl and Bart N. and Shara G. were all helping move in. They had lunch at the Airport Steakhouse in Mattoon."

(The Airport Steakhouse seems to be the place to go.)

"Sorry there was no news last week but I only had two articles and I will just include them this week. There will not be news next week because I will be busy making news and I'll report the next week. "

(Guess we can skip the evening news next week.)

And what news did our busy Jack Oak columnist make you may ask. I was curious myself as were my friends who are also Greenup Press fans. We had to wait two weeks until this very day, Thursday August 19, 2005 when the latest edition of the press arrived in the mail. (We agreed I could not blog until this mystery was solved.)

Here's the pertinent information from today's column:"We drove to Morrisville, PA and Belmar, N. J. Visited with Diana C. and Frank G. and swam in the Ocean. Gettsyburg on Wednesday and started back home on Thursday. We all had a great time together and arrived back at Twelve Oaks after lunch on Friday."

So there you have it--our intrepid girl Columnist "swam in the Ocean" and visited Gettysburg, the battlefield, or perhaps just the town. (This is not clear.)

I was also struck by "back at Twelve Oaks after lunch on Friday." Wasn't Twelve Oaks the name of one of the plantations in Gone With The Wind? Quick! Someone Google this for me. That's another great thing about The Press--it's so educational.

It's a pity--as I've often said--it's not online. I will try to revisit it from time to time for another blog entry to help keep us up with the important news. I mean you really wouldn't want something big to happen in say, Jack Oak, and not hear about it? No, it's too terrible to think about.

See you next week.

Warning: Diet and Exercise May be Hazardous to Your Health (3)

2005-07-30T02:07:00.000-04:00

I sense no one else is going to speak; since I have the floor, let’s explore what may happen if you do everything right. Someone should have warned me years ago about the risks of healthy living.

Let's say you quit smoking, which makes you a nervous wreck of course. You used to have a nice hobby, smoking, which helped you to relax. (I stopped smoking over the 4th of July weekend of 1988; it was three days of headaches and dizzy spells. It was so hard to quit I’ve never been temped to take it up again.)

So you replace that habit with eating everything in the kitchen when you go home at night. You will soon be dragging around an extra twenty pounds if you work it right. Then you may the have related problem of high blood pressure, which is not helped by the gallon of coffee you drink daily, or those salty snacks you inhale straight from the bag.

In time—it only took me two years--you may lose the weight you gained, and then where will you be? If you are of a certain age, losing weight makes you look--brace yourself--older. Your skin is looser; all the better to highlight those lovely wrinkles your flab used to conceal.

I seriously considered putting on a tie again, after not wearing one for twenty-five years, to hide my ugly neck wrinkles. So losing weight isn't a panacea either, for you could find yourself looking like a geezer.

And what about exercise-- that supposed cure-all for every ailment including flab? Let’s say you ride a stationary bike for several years before learning it’s not the best thing for guys as it interferes with, shall we say, their waterworks?

Not that I’m speaking from personal experience of course, but I do think exercise bikes should have a warning label: "Guys do you value your waterworks? Think twice before jumping on this equipment”.

Had I known how much fun the “diet and exercise combo” was going to be I would have first gone out on a bender. Well, not out except to the kitchen to wolf down every salty thing I could have found. Next I would have topped that off with a gallon of ice cream eaten straight from the box while standing up over the kitchen sink.

Am I addicted to junk food? No, I can quit any time. Actually my wife has to hide all the snacks before we go to bed. She claims I get up and eat in my sleep. She also says I wake her up banging the kitchen cabinet doors at night in my search of the edible. Sometimes all I find are doggie treats—not bad, really, if you’re asleep, that is.

After a bender my wife will ask me the next morning: “Did you have a snack attack in the kitchen last night?” I’m always given away by the trail of cookies crumbs. Not a pretty picture, but it beats the heck out of one taken recently which highlighted my scrawny chicken-like, old neck.

Here’s the sorry truth: no one said healthy living was pretty.

What's happened since I last blogged? (2)

2005-07-23T09:22:00.000-04:00

What’s happened since I last blogged? Do you really want to know? Is this going to be a serial blog? (The floor is now closed to questions.) For the answers, grab yourself a cup of coffee and pull up a chair. Clothing optional. (You look fine in your tattered bathrobe.)

I’ve decided not to let this blog be a repeat of my diary that is, trust me, so dull I read it aloud to my wife so she can go to sleep. My family and friends deserve something more than a rehash of the week that was.

My brother Jack has encouraged me to get the blog news out to the rest of the family. Our niece Jeanne in turn asked about the Yahoo Writing With Humor website, as she wanted to check out the stuff I've posted there. All this has sparked a weeklong spate of blog related e-mail, which has been very pleasant.

(Why does spell-check question “blog” every time I type it; isn’t Word a Microsoft product? I think those people know what a blog is—can’t they change their stupid program?)

Let’s agree I won’t foist off disguised diary entries. It would really be better to post the few funny pieces I’ve submitted to my Yahoo Humor Writers Group. I’ve sent some of them to my family, usually just the ones that relate to the good old days as we like to talk about where we came from (Hidalgo, IL).

I would prefer to write something original—don’t I wish—each week and leave the diary/log/blog entries to someone else who leads a more interesting life. This may put too great a strain on your correspondent of course. By next week I may be reduced to sending links to news stories with “smart” remarks attached.

Hey, I actually like this idea; I may do that sometime particularly if The Greenup (IL) Press has a few good items. For those of you not acquainted with the Press it's a local weekly that has the lowdown on who stayed over night, who had Sunday dinner at Grandma’s, and a complete notation of doctor visits.

There’s no national or world news, thank you very much, just brief bulletins from the communities of Jack Oak and Liberty Hill covering what the columnists, their friends and family did the past week. I like to make “smart” remarks about some of the items. Not nice of me of course. It’s a pity the paper isn’t online. It’s probably my duty to share it with others.

One of my favorite examples occurred last year: “Mary, Jarod, and Christopher visited Saturday with Bill and Nancy T. Nancy gave Mary a permanent. Jarod spent the night.” At least Jarod didn’t have to get his hair done.

Yes, I may try that among other things. Until then, keep your powder dry and (in winter) coast across the bridges, as Dad used to say.

Does the world need another blog? (1)

2005-07-16T09:38:00.000-04:00

Does the world need another blog? Of course not. I've been up since 3:00 AM (Central Daylight Time except there was no daylight). I often get in trouble while surfing; I always find it hard to sign up for anything. Every user name is apparently already in use. I've now forgotten what one I came up with.

The question is specifically: Do I need a blog? I'm a member of Yahoo's Writing with Humor Group--I've already committed a fair amount of embarrassing e-mail on that site which is open to the public. And just this morning (around 4:30) I signed up with another Yahoo group which is Andy Borowitz's fan club. I am a fan, but I had an ulterior motive I realize now. I just wanted to post a piece I had written about Borowitz and Harold Bloom.

I was surprised to see--shortly after 7:00--my 481 word essay had appeared at the site. The instructions said all posts had to be approved by the moderator which in this case is Borowitz himself. Didn't hear anything from him directly, but it was nice of him to allow the thing to be posted.

So now I am bracing myself to make an another entrance on The World Wide Web. This is the height of foolishness as I can't write enough to cover a postcard without an aggravated sinus/allergy headache. I've practically stopped posting to my Yahoo Humor Writers group as I laid a very large egg at that site on the twentieth of June. I've had a mild case of writer's block since--I say mild as I hardly qualify as a writer. (I joined the group 1-15-05; practically the only other writing I've done was for Chandra Clarke's online humor writing class I took last year.)

So I am a new writer, a beginner if you will. What's wrong with that you say? Nothing except the word "new" doesn't seem to fit someone who was born in the middle of the last century. I was born in 1945, the last year of World War II. I turned sixty on March 25. I am still up and working full time--not a drag on society just yet. What's shocking about being sixty is as I don't feel wise and mature as I always assumed I would. As a youngster, I was very immature for my age. Now that I am in my middle years--no doubt I'll live to be 120--I am still immature for my age. This is a disconcerting discovery. This can only mean that I will NEVER grow up. And on that happy note I must take a break. My sinus/allergy headache is calling for over the counter meds. And another cup of coffee, if you don't mind.