My entry into the 2012 Erma Bombeck Humor Writing Contest was slammed into the jusdges' trash cans with more velocity than a Blake Griffin dunk through an orange NBA rim.

So once again, I'm a LOSER. I should have known. My 22 year old daugher didn't get it. My wife kindly cautioned: "I guess I just don't think it's that funny."

I tried to appeal to the largely female judging panel by talking about my inner "Texas-high-school-cheer-mom" and stuff like that, hoping they'd think I was a woman (I forgot that strategy when I started talking about my wife later on).

Then I hoped that writing about Words With Friends would appeal to the word-geeek side of the judges, but then I guess that backfired too. Oh well, at least the contest gave me an excuse to write and made me jettison a lumbering 500 words from a previous blog post on the same topic.

So that I can end a two month posting drought on this blog, I'll post my contest entry here. The esteemed winners' entries are posted at the following link:

http://www.wclibrary.info/erma/winners_current.asp

My heartfelt congratulations and strangulations go out to them....
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
All's Fair in Words With Friends
I’m compulsively obsessed with Words With Friends. It’s the electronic version of Scrabble, and it’s turned me into someone I no longer recognize. The game has caused me to contemplate heretofore unthinkable things—like  cheating or opening a dictionary.

Words With Friends, like another WWF—the World Wrestling Federation, is simply raw, bone-crushing and contorted competition.  It brings out my inner Texas-high-school-cheer-mom, and prevents me from carrying out important daily activities like working, sleeping, or going to the bathroom.

Words With Friends particularly interferes with my work day, which has now been reduced to something akin to a kindergarten recess. Well-meaning people, who are theoretically contributing to our country’s gross domestic product, send me game requests and make moves all the business day long.  And unlike Alec Baldwin’s flight attendant, these requests and moves are difficult to ignore.

Last week while I was on a conference call, I put this guy on speaker phone while I scoured my computer screen for a place to put my “Q.” At a critical juncture on the call the guy asked me a question to which I started to shout “Quasar!”

But this crazy game doesn’t just hamper my work productivity. A dangerous feature of Words With Friends is that there are no pesky time limits in between moves. So after scoring a Triple Letter/Triple Word, I have ample time to go mow the lawn, make nachos, or vacation in Paris. All this anonymity and “down time” is fraught with danger, however, as it allows me to dream sketchy dreams like buying black market vowels from a Colombian vowel-Lord.

 
My depravity is fully unleashed when I play my wife. She is a wordsmith, par excellence, so I will resort to all manner of deceptive practices in my attempts to beat her. Last week while she was in the shower, I happened to walk by her computer and behold, there before me was the game we were playing against one another.  I seized the opportunity and made an especially skillful move on her behalf.  
 
Can I help it if her only play—“IT”—is only worth two points?

Me later: “Honey, haven’t we discussed you not logging off and leaving your computer unattended?  And, let’s not miss the point—most people shower well before 3:15 p.m. on weekdays.”

I highly recommend Words With Friends, unless you have burdensome demands on your life such as a job or family. If not, then indulge yourself, but don’t let the intensity of the competition change who you are at your core.

It’s time for me to run. I’ve got a 10 o’clock with a Proper Noun who represents a Consonant Cartel.

(End)

About Greg: 

When not brokering commercial real estate in Missouri, Greg Finley scribbles about business, sports, and life in the country at www.finleyriver.com .  He’s been published in  the Wall Street Journal under a headline entitled For Sale: Staples-Anchored Shopping Center in Rolla, Missouri. Perhaps his greatest work of fiction was crafted while serving as the lead author of the 1988 Olathe, Kansas Comprehensive Plan. It was during this project that he was accused of feeding at the public trough. Indeed he was. While in college, Greg once missed a 49 ½ yard field goal wide right by a hair. This event has been responsible for decades of night sweats. He lives in the Kansas City hinterlands with his wife and five children.

Rendering Lard

We’re spending this Christmas with my wife Sandee’s family in Alabama. So upon our arrival last night we, like most families during this time of year, began eating and talking and talking about eating. After some time I was introduced to a new delicacy—the microwaveable bag of fried pork skins.

The wonder of the microwaveable bag of pork skins is a story for another day, but it was those pork skins that started a conversation that held us captive for a good bit of the evening.

After I “popped” the bag of pork skins I walked around the family room and shook them out the bag into everyone’s hands. While doing this I made the mistake of casually asking Sandee’s dad (“Papa,” “Big Dave,” or simply “Mr. Hill,” depending on who you are) what part of the pig the pork skin came from.

As Mr. Hill sat in his recliner, he could have insulted me for asking such a dumb son-in-law question (they are pork skins after all), but instead he overlooked it and launched into a tale about pork processing at home from when he was a 9-year-old boy. The story won’t soon be forgotten.

As we were munching on the pork skins he began, “You see when you butcher a hog, you first dip it in scalding hot water so you can more easily scrape off the hair.” As we checked our pork skins for any remaining pig hair, he continued, “It’s amazing—I’ve seen hogs that were completely covered with black hair but by the time we’d scrape ‘em clean, they’d be as white as the palm of my hand here.”

“So that’s where you get those skins there,” he said. By this time I was the only one that was still reaching into the bag for a second handful of skins. Everyone else was wondering what happened to the black hair that had been scraped off the pig whose skin they were now digesting.

Mr. Hill went on: “My Daddy used to say, ‘we’d cook everything but the oink,’ and we sure did. We’d bake the tongue, scrape inside the head to get the head cheese or pressed meat as we called it, and then sometimes we’d even bake the pig’s ears. The worst thing though would be making chittlin’s from the intestines. We’d boil them and would they ever stink! We’d turn them inside out as we cleaned them. Finally we’d fry ‘em up and I'm tellin' you, they tasted good! Pickled the feet too,” he said.

At this point Sandee took the conversation to a place no one really wanted to go. “Who was the first person,” she asked, “who thought of the idea of cleaning a pig’s intestines so they could boil, fry, and then eat them? What sort of person thinks of such a thing?”

No one really had an answer for that question, and few wanted to think about it long enough to conjure one up. But even if they did, Sandee followed it up with another: “Why,” she said, “did you all bake the tongue when everything else was fried?” Papa didn’t seem to know the answer to this question either but stated that the baked tongue was sliced in a very thin fashion to achieve maximum palatability.

“One other thing, we used to do,” Mr. Hill said, “was to make lard. You know just below the skin is all that pig fat—the lard. We’d scrape all that lard off then put it in a big 15 gallon iron pot. We’d heat it under a big fire until it’d liquefy and then the ‘cracklin’s’ would come to the top. We'd skim those off and that’s what we used to make cracklin’ cornbread and cracklin’ biscuits,” he said. “Then all that lard would sort of be strained and then we’d pour it into buckets to store for later use. We called that process Rendering Lard.”

Sandee suggested Rendering Lard would be a great name for our next diet. I thought it a more proper name for our son Davis’s next rock band.

Mr. Hill saved the best part of his memories for last, however, as he described to us the process of actually killing the pig. “We’d have this little chute that Granddaddy and me would force the pig in to,” he said. “Now Daddy hated killing the pig anyway but one time we had an especially large hog to slaughter—must’ve weighed 600 pounds—and Daddy was especially nervous about it,” he said.

Papa continued: “So how he’d do it is to get above the hog, straddle it sort of, then take a sledge hammer and knock it in the head. Well this one time—on this 600 pound hog—just as he was comin’ down on pig’s head with the sledge, the hog reared back so daddy wasn’t able to get him with a good blow. Boy that pig got mad! He chased Daddy around that pen until Daddy pulled his pistol and shot him. The bad thing about that though is he didn’t catch him clean with the shot so the hog squealed and got madder and ran around after him some more. Daddy emptied the pistol on him but the hog still wasn’t dead. Finally though he ran around in circles until he all of a sudden dropped. Hogs are mean. They aren’t docile like some people think.” I didn't have tangible evidence to refute this last statement, but wondered if we shouldn't study a control group of pigs who were not shot at and beat on with a sledge hammer before passing judgment on that particular hog for his contrary personality.

Now that story might not have been about a Red Ryder BB gun, or a snowstorm, or someone coming back home for Christmas after World War II, but I think it’s one of the greatest Christmas stories I’ve ever heard. I'm glad my kids got to hear it first hand. Someday I hope I'll be able to tell one that is half as good.

But since I can’t, I think I’ll just go render some lard.

About a Dog

Editor's Note: This story is not funny, but we didn't have anywhere else to go with it....

Much has been written about the dog. He’s man’s best friend and all that. We’ve cried about dogs from Old Yeller to Marley and Me. But those stories have always been about someone else.

Yesterday while walking my youngest daughter’s puppy I discovered our oldest dog Drover out in our pond. He was several yards from the bank, looking at me with a look that was a combination of sheepishness and of fear and of discomfort from the late October chill.

At first I thought Drover was simply going for an Indian summer swim, or more accurately a wade. Such an activity was not out of character for him, as often I would observe the four muddy paws that betrayed him.

But this time it was different. He wasn’t moving, and no amount of coaxing or cajoling could dislodge him from his muddy berth. He was stuck in the Missouri muck that had accumulated from a decade of spring gulley washers.

Freeing himself from his quagmire would have been a snap for Drover in his youth. An amalgamation of large breeds—Great Pyrenees and Coon Hound mostly—he had once been a rugged specimen of vigor and strength. But the years have not been kind to his large frame. Arthritis and other age-related maladies have taken their toll on him. Lately he would mostly lie around, and getting to his feet was indeed a chore, as the hours in one place would leave his arthritic joints “stoved up.”

So there he was, trapped, with little hope of unaided escape. After getting our puppy back in her kennel, I put on some boots and waded out to my loyal friend. If the water was cold, which I’m sure it was, I didn’t really notice. After getting a collar and leash on him, I tried to pull him out like a winch on a tow truck. The collar kept slipping over his head, and I began to fear it would act more like a noose than a lifeline.

So I regrouped, throwing the collar and leash aside. After freeing myself from the mud, I was finally able to pull him to the bank where he lay shivering and unable to stand or really move at all. The long odyssey to shore had taken all the surviving energy out of him. I couldn’t stand him up, so I went back to my house and called our vet, Dr. Morse, for some advice.

After our consultation I decided to try to get Drover to our barn and put him under some heat lamps. This process took about an hour as I had to carry him inches at a time until I could finally hoist him into the SUV. My little ambulance then took him to the barn, where I managed to lift him out and set him on the floor under the warming red lamps.

Dr. Morse suggested an elixir of maple syrup and water to give Drover an energy boost. He’d have none of it, and just lay cold and lifeless on the concrete floor.

After a warming night among soft blankets in the barn, Drover now lies in Dr. Morse’s office, his fate to be determined after a couple of days of observation.

I never really understood the degree of sadness that some people seemed to experience about their pet. After all, they are just animals. And, from an eternal context, I still believe a pet’s significance is over-rated.

But I realized something as I pondered whether or not these days are Drover’s last. A dog is indeed part of a family and indeed provides pleasure in-and-of himself. But a pet like Drover represents so much more.

As I think about Drover’s 13 years I see snapshots of our family and snapshots of myself. During his first night with us, I pulled his fluffy whining body up with me onto the couch where he finally fell asleep with me until morning.

I see him in the back yard when we lived “in town,” playing with the kids. I see him in on our little back deck in my daughters’ Little Tikes castle, a structure that he eventually commandeered for his dog house.

I can still hear him in the middle of a night in 1999, whining and crying out in that same back yard while I was desperately trying to go back to sleep in my warm bed. When the racket wouldn’t stop I went to investigate, and discovered he’d somehow gotten himself entangled in one of the swings of our kids’ swing set. It took me several minutes to free him from his contorted state, perhaps a sad foreshadowing of what one day lie ahead. Finally freed, he didn’t look back to thank me, but just wandered back off to bed, undoubtedly asleep again before I was.

One day I put together a chain link pen for Drover. I remember while constructing that thing, looking at the directions, frustrated no doubt, I got a call from my friend Al Reed. That day Al told me about the birth of his only son. After hanging up I went on back to putting together Drover’s pen.

The memories of Drover flow on. They are good memories of the dog himself, but more than that they are a thread that weaves our family together. Drover is somewhat of a final link to an earlier time when my identity was that of a father of young children.

As long as a dog lives, the family in some sense is linked to the era from which he first came. Drover is the last vestige of a time when I was young myself and the final composition of our family was still not yet fully revealed.

It is perhaps one of the great sorrows of family life that a child grows up while his or her dog grows old. I did it with the dog I got when I was eight years old. One day while I was at college my father called me and told me he’d taken Spotty (yes, I know, an original name) to Wayside Waifs in Kansas City to be put to sleep. It was time. Practically unnoticed during the presumed busyness of my collegiate life, I paused for but a moment, not fully realizing what a step out of boyhood and into manhood that day was.

And so it is with our children. Drover came into our lives as a free puppy that we weren’t even sure we really wanted. And since that time he has remained a fixture, outlasting other dogs as he presided over our kingdom with patriarchal formality. Never really playful, he just “showed up” every day. You knew he loved you, by his nuzzle and by his presence.

As Drover lies in the vet’s office I know it is only a matter of time. He may survive a few more days, or months, or even a year, but his vibrant dog’s life continues to ooze out of him. He is a sobering picture of the Apostle Paul’s statement that “the whole creation has been groaning with the pains of childbirth until now” (Romans 8:23b) When he goes, a big part of my kids’ childhood will go with him. And a little bit of me as well.

I don’t know if dogs go to Heaven. If they do I know our focus on them will be minimal as we gaze on the beauty and glory of our Savior. But while on this temporal Earth, Drover has been a rich blessing to me and my family. Taken mostly for granted, his companionship and unconditional love will be sorely missed. In this picture of the Fall, we are reminded that our hope must be in eternity and in the grace that overcomes the groaning.

And now the cycle begins anew, as my youngest daughter’s puppy, just four months old, grows and frolics and provides a new context and a new backdrop for more years of precious family memories.

May they be as sweet as those given to us by Drover, our kind and loyal companion and friend.

All's Fair in Words With Friends

As if Facebook wasn’t addictive enough, I now have another distraction in the Zynga app for Facebook called “Words With Friends.” Words With Friends (WWF) is essentially Scrabble with unlimited opportunities for participants to cheat.

WWF is played on your computer or other electronic device which sort of makes it Scrabble on steroids. One can play several different games at the same time, and there is no time limit during which you must make your move. This latter feature is critical as it affords one the opportunity to go make nachos or vacation in Paris between moves.

But WWF, like it’s cousin the World Wrestling Federation, is not just a game but bone-crushing, contorted , and sometimes serious competition. It certainly gets one's competitive juices going, and in some instances it keeps people from carrying out important daily activities like working, sleeping or going to the bathroom.

It's especially distracting when people send me game requests or "moves" during the business day, which is loosely defined as "when I happen to be sitting at my desk." Last week I was in a critical phone discussion about a real estate contract that will certainly never close and pay actual money. Thus, I put the party on speaker phone while I scoured my computer screen trying to find a strategic placement for the “Q” and other random letters which I’d been dealt. When asked an important question about a key paragraph in the contract, I started to blurt out “Quasar!” As if this wasn’t bad enough, I contemplated concluding the call by saying “while I have no substantive issues with this contract, I believe your use of the word ‘estoppel’ should be disqualified because it might be a proper noun.”

WWF causes one to contemplate drastic things like cheating, stealing, and opening a dictionary. The other night in a desperate attempt to keep my wife from taking a three game lead in a best of seven series, I started dreaming of buying vowels on the black market from a Colombian vowel-lord. Since there is no time limit for making a play in WWF, one has unlimited opportunities to consult friends, relatives, or the late Noah Webster. If particularly devious, you may consult Scrabble websites by asking questions like “What’s a five letter word that starts with Z and ends with R and has a J as the third letter?”

I would never do any of these things, unless the game is against my wife. She is a wordsmith, par excellence, so I will resort to all manner of deceptive practices in my attempts to beat her. Last week while she was taking a shower, I happened to walk by her computer and noticed the game we were playing against each other right there on the screen in front of me. It was her turn so I decided to help out by making a move for her. It just so happens the word “IT” was the only play I could see in the three seconds I had to make the decision. Can I help it if “IT” is only worth two points? She should’ve logged out before taking a shower....

Not only is my wife extremely competent--dare I say talented--but she knows words that I shouldn’t know. The best example is her use of profanity against me. While engaged in WWF competition, I will not resort to using synonyms for “defecate” and the like, but she employs them freely, demonstrating no shame in the lengths she will go to ensure my humiliation. As a gentleman, I will not resort to the use of such words, unless of course they are recommended by scrabblefinder.com.

I highly recommend WWF, unless you have burdensome demands on your life such as a job or family. If not, then have at it, but don’t let the intensity of the competition change who you are at your core.

I must go now. I’ve got an 11 o’clock with a Proper Noun who represents the Consonant Cartel.

A Penny Pilfered is a Penny Earned

It was a plain sign, barely legible in black marker and affixed with a clear piece of tape to the cash register. Yet, as it hung over the little container of pennies on the convenience store counter, it spoke volumes about the state of the U.S. economy. Its words were simple yet eerie: “Need one or two, take ‘em. Need three, get a job loser!”

The sign in this rural convenience store in the Upper South went up shortly after one customer took fifteen (15) pennies from the small, brown tray so that he could apparently purchase an 89¢ can of Dr. Pepper for 74¢. Showing little regard for his fellow consumers who would follow, he emptied this community chest and forced dozens of subsequent customers to break nickels and dimes, and in a couple of extreme instances— Susan B. Anthony Dollars.

Yes, we have indeed fallen on hard times. Forget indicators such as housing starts and retail sales and unemployment and manufacturers’ orders. Apparently the American consumer, in a desperate need to pinch pennies, has stooped to pinching pennies, literally, from the community penny pot.

Economists disagree as to the origin of the community penny pot. Indeed, this practice represents a relatively new medium of exchange and it is almost exclusively the domain of the convenience store. I figured this out when I asked the clerk at Dillard’s to slide me some pennies to supplement by maxed-out AMEX card for a recent clothing purchase. She had obviously never shopped at Lazy Lee’s Bait and Convenience. But the community penny pot, like most good ideas, was borne from a desire to solve a problem—bankruptcy. No, actually that is the problem Mr. Dr. Pepper was trying to solve.

Initially the community penny pot was designed to rid or minimize ourselves of annoying loose change. You’ve seen the signs—“Need a penny, take one; got a penny, give one.” Sure the concept reeks of socialist principles, but it has worked and given us pride as in some small way we would leave the convenience store thinking that we’d beaten somebody out of something and helped us forget we just spent $1.69 for that 20 oz. Co-Cola. We could also leave satisfied knowing that we had just given two cents to the next guy in line, even though we would never consider taking him to lunch.

Unfortunately, I believe excessive penny pilfering is not isolated but in fact widespread. It offers us evidence that much larger economic forces are at work. Like most economic laws, like life insurance, these forces are not easily understood and undoubtedly global in scope. Let’s dig a little deeper—under the cushions if you please—and see if we can tell what’s going on.

One theory: increased copper prices. After all, copper is trading at about $4 per pound on the New York Mercantile Exchange. These numbers reflect a jump of about 100% in just a few short years.

Let’s do the math here. According to my Pitney Bowes postage scale, ten pennies weigh .8 ounces. Everyone knows (except for me 10 minutes ago), however that a penny is no longer 100% copper but instead 2.5% copper with the remaining 97.5% comprised of donut glaze, Snicker’s residue, and caramelized dryer lent. The rest of the metal is actually copper plated zinc, and zinc is spotting at around a dollar per pound.

If copper and zinc outstrip the face value of the coins, a veritable avalanche of economic repercussions will follow. People will begin robbing children’s piggy banks. Consumers will take to making change out of offering plates. The man who once pilfered 15 pennies for a Dr. Pepper will now do something much more ethical but equally troubling economically and toss back three nickels.

Another Theory: Uh, don't have one. Read on....

The resurgence of penny popularity will have far-reaching implications. Indeed, the fallout will impact economic and non-economic walks of life. In random acts of physical exertion not seen in post-depression America, I foresee a day in the near future when people young and old will once again, stop in their tracks and actually bend down and pick up one of these little coins. I can see a new demand  for 50¢ rolls of coins. I can see people paying pennies for thoughts worth much less.

I can see children across the country once again wearing money belts and nerdy money changers. I can see businessmen proudly wearing new shiny pennies in Italian loafers, finally understanding the coins are worth more than the shoes. I can see parents and children thinking twice before putting a penny and three quarters in a theme park vending machine with the intent of transforming the coin into a trinket.

But most importantly, I can see a day when Mr. Dr. Pepper will once again get a job. And then, and only then, will we be reunited with economic equilibrium.

Tons and Tons and Tons

Have you ever heard expressions like “It hit me like a ton of bricks,” or “He made tons of money?” How about “My wife has gained a ton of weight!?” (These words have never come from my lips and are only uttered by men who have little regard for their lives) Or have you ever read a sign that said something like the following: “Bridge Ahead—Weight Limit 5 tons?” If you’ve answered “yes” to any of these questions, then congratulations! You now have a frame of reference from which you can appreciate this column.

A ton is a lot of weight. In case you thought one size fits all for tons, I offer you a brief tutorial. A “short ton,” to be exact, is 2,000 pounds. It is a generally accepted notion that if we want to speak about things that weigh a whole lot, we speak in terms of tonnage. Sometimes we invoke the term “metric ton.” A metric ton is 1,000 kilograms or 2,204.6 pounds. The metric ton has some unknown and unnecessary correlation to liters, Celsius temperature, kilometers, and the French.

Most metric measurements, like the French, are wimpy and effeminate. However, there is something very manly about anything, even fanny packs, purchased by the metric ton. One does not need to know how to convert metric tons into any sensible measuring unit, like the bushel. It is simply enough to know that the ton is a whole lot of weight. We men look at one another knowingly, and exude respect for a fellow male who orders anything by this measurement.

But something about tonnage changed after I moved to the country. It suddenly became a fairly insignificant unit of measurement. The biggest, baddest dump truck I could find could only hold 20 tons of sand and about the same amount of gravel. (“One inch Clean” not a “Crusher Run”)

There is something very satisfying about a dump truck backing down your driveway. It signals to all within earshot that you mean business. The dump truck declares to all who draw near that a country man is hard at work. Dump trucks carry the stuff with which boyhood dreams are forged—sand, gravel, dirt, and dead animals. These boyhood dreams come to life at the first sighting of a dump truck approaching a grown man’s property.

Recently I ordered 20 tons of sand for three reasons: I had built a sandbox, I wanted to build a golf green and sand trap, and that was how much Jimmy Ghin’s dump truck could hold. I had no idea how much twenty tons of sand was. I thought, when delivered, it would create a 30’ mountain on my property and, once leveled across my 9.73 acres (per survey), that 20 tons of sand would make my property look pretty much like the Sahara Desert and a maybe even a lot like the set of Rat Patrol.

Upon delivery, I found my little sandbox took 1-2 tons. Then, the rest was distributed between my green and sand trap. It eventually melded into the landscape until I hardly recognized any difference. In fact, I even needed some more but even though the cost was only $14.95 per ton, I was told for delivery there was a 15 ton minimum order. What sort of world do we live in when a guy can’t order 14 tons of a macho commodity like sand, gravel, or cow manure without being considered a lightweight?

It was a lot of fun ordering sand and gravel and such by the ton. But something else gave me even more satisfaction than the dump truck backing down my driveway— the sight of my kids playing on the ten ton pile of sand on the “green” before we smoothed it out.

From where I sat, they appeared to be having tons of fun. And for me that was worth every penny of that $14.95 per, metric or otherwise.

Bisque Management

The Friendly Fish Lice (Louse?) enjoying
Trout Almondine'

One recent morning I was checking email at our kitchen island when I had the chance to observe my younger daughters packing their school lunches. What at first appeared to be run-of-the-mill meals I soon realized would be totally stand-up fare at French Laundry in San Francisco.

Their backpack-style lunch boxes were being stuffed with plastic containers of lobster bisque as well as about 2 pounds of mixed strawberries, raspberries and blackberries. I was impressed by their taste and wondered why I was left to fend for myself with hot pockets and expired salami.

I didn’t realize it before that morning, but it appears my children are participating in a school lunch subsidy program, the primary benefactor of which is ME to the tune of over $17.67 per meal. I know high level executives who don’t get $15 per diems and are forced to study the McDonald’s value menu in search of something that will pass muster with the CFO.

But not us. We’ve taken a “no child left behind” mentality when it comes to the quality of the noon time meal. When I questioned my wife about this she informed me she got a good deal on the bisques at Costco. She said the intention was for the girls to split one of the containers. The girls evidently didn’t get the memo.

I remember my school lunches growing up. It was a special day indeed when my mother cut my PBJ diagonally instead of straight across. The diagonal cut was especially wonderful when it did not reveal a hidden heal of the loaf. It was also really cool when I got an individual bag of Fritos or Lays instead of fumbling through a baggie to find an amalgamation of chips and pretzels and such. The piece de resistance was finding a Twinkie or even better, a chocolate pudding Snack Pack.

But there’s nothing too good for our children. We don’t trifle with processed foods…only the best to feed the brains of our young scholars. Next we’ll be fetching in gourmet lunch boxes FedEx from Curtis Stone.

Our family’s choices of school lunches unfortunately raised other more pressing questions, the most glaring of which was: What is bisque, anyway? I assumed it was French for “things that can be mopped up with a biscuit. I guess I did know it was some kind of soup, but I didn’t know the difference between bisque and soup and chowder and etouffe and stew and bullion and bouillabaisse and chili and genetically engineered Hormel canned chili.

So instead of continuing my work and attempting to make real money, I researched the definition of bisque. I found one which best suited this column, which was from gold standard Wikipedia. It said: Bisque is a smooth, creamy, highly-seasoned soup of French origin, classically based on a strained broth (coulis) of crustaceans. Basically bisque is a soup made up of ground up lobster claws and such, or she crab guts, or crawdad pinchers. But as the definition explains it can be made up of any crustacean “parts,” which leads us to another even more gut-wrenching question: What…is a crustacean?

We’ve all heard of the most famous crustaceans—lobsters, crabs, crawdads (crayfish/crawfish), shrimp, etc. These are generally aquatic animals. But what about the “lesser crustaceans?” These would include both “parasitic crustaceans” and “terrestrial crustaceans.” You’ve maybe heard of some of these. The parasitic crustaceans would be critters such as fish lice and tongue worms while the most famous terrestrial crustacean is the friendly woodlice (a distant cousin to the kindly “roly-poly”).

I’m appalled that these crustaceans do not have their very own bisque named after them. After all, I’m sure these creatures can be ground up into a very formidable and tasty coulis of their own. Yes, I know their names wouldn’t just roll off your tongue and may not look good on the menu of a French restaurant, but you have to admit the price point of TONGUE WORM BISQUE would be much more affordable for the family of a real estate broker during an economic downturn.

But I guess until a cheaper version of crustacean coulis becomes available, or until I’m ready to go hunt for some fish lice to make my own, my wife will continue to search for bargains at Costco. We will settle for only the best for our young scholars. Bring on the bisques and the berries and the Crème Brulee for a school lunch that will be the envy of all my kids’ friends.

And all the while I’ll be back in my office wondering...If the salami has yet to be opened, did it really spoil four months ago?

Thoughts on Turning 50




Not Enough Fingers to Say "50"
Ready to go trout fishing in my new hip waders!

  The great American Philosopher Oprah Winfrey once said “Life Begins at 50.” But she was not talking about age, she was talking about United States Dollars—in Billions. But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who have net worths of, say, less than Oprah’s? How are we to deal with such a milestone anniversary?

One’s 50th birthday is a time of reflection and contemplation—the reflection in the mirror triggers contemplation of plastic surgery. But instead of turning to the scalpel, I’ve turned to the pen; a catharsis of sorts I suppose.


But why write a blog post about turning 50 on a blog that’s supposed to be humorous? After all, nothing about turning 50 is funny. But then everything about turning 50 is funny. If  it’s not, then you’ve taken yourself way too seriously over the last 49 years and 364 days.

When you’re 50 and you’ve been diagnosed with a shoulder “impingement,” and it’s excruciatingly painful to throw a curve ball or hit your son on a deep (or even shallow) post pattern, it’s easy to reminisce about how great you used to be and how the years have robbed you of all your glory. But it’s the seasoning and maturity of 50 that tells you and shows you that your curveball always hung anyway, and any guy hitting below the Mendoza Line could “take you yard.” It seems that 50 releases you from pretension. At 50 you must come clean.

Fifty graciously reveals to you your mortality. It shows you that you’ve trusted, like Ponce De Leon, in your youthful vitality, that you’ve often foolishly relied on a strength that rested inside you and that was of your own manufacture. Fifty (and Jerry Seinfeld) teaches you that you are actually well passed mid-life, unless of course you plan on living to be a centurion. Fifty reminds you that true strength comes from outside of you.

But most of all 50 gently reminds you that this temporal life is not all there is. It shows you the folly of your self-sufficiency and, divested of your youthful vigor, that an eternity awaits which is not tainted with insulin resistance or wrinkled skin or shoulder impingements. It frees you to joyfully and hopefully acknowledge with absolute certainty that which should have been realized and practiced and reveled in at 25, 35, and 43—that we live amidst a fallen world and that aging and death, although a consequence of the Fall, point to a future glory which is infinitely superior to even that of catching a deep post for a touchdown.

I’m embarrassed to admit that 50 once dogged me. It hunted me down and loomed large on the horizon. It was a giant boulder tethered to my ankles and pulling me downward toward the ocean floor, further and further into the suffocating abyss. But as with any disoriented thinking, down seems up and up seems down. As I awoke this morning I was given a transformed perspective. I was surprised that the boulder that was 50, instead of dragging me deeper into the darkness, was actually pulling me to the surface where I gasped a fresh breath of air that is the rest of my life.

In Psalm 90 Moses asks the Lord: “So teach us to number our days, that we should gain a heart of wisdom.” In the same Psalm he talks of the brevity of our lives and that the years “are soon gone and we fly away.” I’m hoping my 50th birthday will begin a time where I go beyond lip service and genuinely embrace these truths not as a consolation prize, but as the focus and goal and expectancy of all I say and do.

Now that will be something to celebrate.

Long Form Birth Certificate: Not Just For Heads of State

Who knew that there were various forms of birth certificates? Who knew, except for vital statistics geeks, that birth certificates came in an array of styles, colors, and options, not unlike their sister documents the 1040 income tax return (the "long form") and the 1040A ("not-as-long-form")? Maybe census takers knew. After all, they're in the habit of randomly picking every house without a rabid pit-bull to administer their "long form" interview. Maybe they knew what we didn't.

But we can now thank Donald Trump for bringing Hawaii's long form birth certificate into the public eye. Evidently Trump dispatched an investigative team (future Presidential aides Gary Busey and Meat Loaf) to the Aloha State to get to the bottom of the controversy surrounding President Obama's birth certificate. Obama had been under attack by his political opponents and accused of arrogance from his political allies for only releasing the short form version of the document. Today Trump claimed victory for smoking out the document from inside the stacks of Hawaii-5-0.

But the really stunning news from today's disclosure, irrespective of your political leanings, is that we continue to labor within yet another two-class system: those with only short form birth certificates and those with proudly possess both short and long forms. As we attempt to break down the various socio-economic walls and barriers that separate us, yet another schism emerges which makes us realize we're just lost in some endless game of Whack-A-Mole.

We've always heard the criteria. We've always heard about the "stuff" of Presidents. They're left handed or they're Masons or they're from the Skull and Bones Society. But the long form birth certificate has taken us by surprise. Yet another lofty difference between the "haves" and "the wanna haves."

But Wait! There is hope! For me personally, that is (but probably not for you). I just pulled out my birth certificate and am proud to report that I possess a long form birth certificate as well. In fact, my birth certificate is almost as voluminous as President Obama's (see photo above). His contains 23 boxes; mine contains 21. That's pretty doggone close. If not Presidential then my birth certificate is at least Gubernatorial. And it far exceeds any measly and laughable "short form," which reportedly just reports date of birth, whether or not the doctor was there or not, and if he was what he was watching on TV when he was telling the labor and delivery nurse what to do.

In fact, the Prez and I have a lot of stuff in common when our birth certificates are placed side-by-side. Although he's younger than me, we were both born in 1961--both during the baseball season in which Maris and Mantle were starring in a movie directed by Billy Crystal. We also both had mothers who were born in Kansas and were given middle names after famous kings (POTUS after King Hussein of Jordan and me after King Charles the Finley of the Kansas City Athletics).

The similarities continue. Surprisingly, neither the Prez nor I resided on farms at the time of our birth. We both were urban dwellers, delivered within well-defined city limit boundaries. Both of us were delivered by M.D.s and thus neither of us endured the disgrace of being delivered by D.O.s, midwives, or police officers. Neither of us were part of a set of triplets or sextuplets, although neither Hawaii nor Missouri were sophisticated enough at the time to even put a box on the form to check for sextuplets.

But I really need to stop boasting. Suffice it to say that I now know I've got a little more going for me than I thought I had when I woke up this morning. Me and the POTUS and the Long Form. It's not so bad, this view from the top.

But if you only possess the short form in your safe deposit box, and have to go through life wondering if you were born within city limits or if lived on a farm or were delivered by Marcus Welby, don't lose heart. Some of us and our potential were recognized from places even as obscure and remote as the delivery room of the Kapiolani Maternity & Gynecological Hospital in Honolulu.

Yes, people like us are given the Long Form. And the rest of you losers will just have to join Busey and Meat Loaf as Donald Trump staffers.

Andrew Gold's Lonely Boy: A Critical Analysis

While strolling through my local Price Chopper last Spring, I was serenaded by the 1977 hit single Lonely Boy by Andrew Gold. Hearing the song somehow evoked memories of high school football two-a-days, and I was suddenly overcome by the urge to stink. My next move was to promptly go home and downloaded this iconic song from the Oracle of iTunes.   Because I’m avoiding preparing my turkey for its Thanksgiving frying, I decided to dissect this song for your pre-Thanksgiving pleasure. It’s a song about loss and the fleeting period of one’s life called toddlerhood. And it’s a song about a desperate longing to be an only child and to pummel all the other kids in first grade.

The song begins with a complicated piano descant consisting of two chords. These chords are pounded over and over until we are finally rescued by these opening lines:

He was born on a summer day, 1951

And with the slap of a hand
He had landed as an only son

From these lines we learn that the Lonely Boy is at his core a baby boomer. Born into the bliss of post-WWII Americana, the boy was slapped by the obstetrician (probably family practitioner) while his father bought cigars at the gift shop. For those in Generations X, Y, Z and Facebook, this was an ancient tradition that was obliterated when it became politically correct, if not mandated, that the birthing experience be a sort of clean-room family reunion. This was a paradigm shift from which we as a society won’t soon recover. But we digress…

The first verse continues and we learn of the Lonely Boy’s (let’s call him “LB”) parents’ first reaction to this new and emerging experience of parenthood:

His mother and father said "what a lovely boy"
We'll teach him what we learned
Ah yes, just what we learned
We'll dress him up warmly and
We'll send him to school
We'll teach him how to fight
To be nobody's fool

Most parents in 1951 would be thinking about protecting their newborn from nuclear holocaust or wondering what the impact of the Eisenhower Interstate System would be on urban sprawl. But not LB’s parents. Instead, they were obsessed with warm coats and street-fighting. Fortunately before we can fully contemplate the parents’ obsession with schoolyard bullying, we are rescued by the catchy and melodic chorus:

Oh, oh, what a lonely boy
Oh, what a lonely boy
Oh, what a lonely boy

We’re not sure why he was born lonely, but it may have had something to do picking on the babies in neo-natal intensive care. We learn little more about LB during the ensuing two years, and presume his father is busy attaching a pediatric punching bag on the aerial mobile in his crib and working on his rope-a-dope footwork as he’s fitted for his white high-top walking shoes. Then, finally, we get another glimpse through the window of LB’s life as the next verse pounds on….

In the summer of '53 his mother
Brought him a sister
But she told him "we must attend to her needs,
She's so much younger than you"
Well, he ran down the hall and he cried
Oh, how could his parents have lied?
When they said he was an only son
He thought he was the only one

This verse is rich and provides much fodder for psychological analysis. We learn that LB’s little sister, simply by virtue of being born, creates the greatest case of sibling rivalry observed in history until the creation—much later—of Drs. Miles and Frasier Crane. We also learn that LB was in fact a genius, capable, at birth, of discerning the meaning of being the “only son.” And we learn that his parents were not only abusive war mongers, but turned their back on young LB as he reached his second birthday, forcing him to terrorize the hallways of preschool and kindergarten on his own, devoid of any parental love, support, or munitions.

After Mr. Gold shouts the chorus a second time, we engage a killer guitar solo that lasts an electrifying 16 years. In reality, this solo only takes about 47 seconds of the song, but when it concludes we discover LB has reached adulthood and we find him dodging the Vietnam draft. Let’s rejoin the song as passes from the innocent Fifties into the turbulent psychedelic Sixties…

He left home on a winter day, 1969
And he hoped to find all the love
He had lost in that earlier time

Evidently his parental hatred had festered long enough. He had fought all the fights and attended all the schools and worn all the coats that his parents would fund. So he moves out, in search of the love that he lost when his sister had the audacity of being born. It’s at this point the story shifts to LB’s sister, and we’re saddened to learn that the dysfunction of this family has festered into a multi-generational slugfest. Consider:

Well, his sister grew up
And she married a man
He gave her a son
Ah yes, a lovely son
They dressed him up warmly
They sent him to school
They taught him how to fight
To be nobody's fool

Learning nothing from the train wreck that was her brother’s life, the sister married someone just like her father, and adopted the values and mores of her mother as they pertained to parenting on the edge. The sister and her husband employed the narrow focus that had rendered LB a ne’er-do-well. Ignoring the past, they were doomed to repeat it with the nephew that LB, sadly, would never meet.

After some more guitar licks, and some energetic keyboards, the piano reins us back in and we’re bid farewell as Andrew Gold sings one last time:

Oh, oh, what a lonely boy
Oh, what a lonely boy
Oh, what a lonely boy

What can we learn from this almost forgotten 1977 classic? You can do a lot with two hard charging chords. But when the music ends a few lessons remain. Surely we can teach our children well, and let them lead the way by discouraging violence. Sure, we need to dress them up warmly and we need to avoid truancy at all costs. But besides that, let’s encourage family unity and avoid sibling rivalry. Make sure your newborn understands there in fact may be other children that come into your nest. And most importantly, make sure you read him, in utero, How to Win Friends and Influence People. That way he'll not be so lonely in the hospital nursery.

And maybe he'll stick around past his 18th birthday.
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Editors Note: Follow this link http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCOS2vOxuXE to watch Andrew Gold's performance of Lonely Boy on Youtube.

Ready, Fire, Aim

As we approach Independence Day, our nation’s 234th Birthday, the staff at Finley River would like to explore some ways we who live in the country celebrate this historic holiday vis-a’-vis our city-dwelling counterparts. The chief difference can be summarized in one word—bottlerocket (which my spell checker says is in fact two words). The term bottle rocket has been around for millennia. In fact, most historians agree the projectile itself predates the invention of the bottle. The word(s) bottle rocket find their origin in an extinct Chinese dialect where it meant “firecracker on bamboo sold at six-for-one.”

You see, we country folk have a huge advantage over our city slicking brethren. We may freely purchase, detonate, and use as legal tender the bottle rocket while our urban friends may do so only at their peril. The bottle rocket, astonishingly, is illegal in most municipalities. In some cities all fireworks are outlawed, but the purpose of this column is not to criticize any municipal corporation which has a name beginning with “The People’s Republic of….”

But many, many, American municipalities, even those who freely promote fireworks extravaganzas, have passed ordinances against the bottle rocket ordnance. These laws have forced urbanites to conduct clandestine day trips to the country to buy black market bottle rockets with the express purpose of smuggling them back to suburbia, and in some extremely chilling cases, into the Central Business District. In many instances, these black market bottle rockets are then fired toward unsuspecting cedar shake shingles.

We’d like to suggest today that the bottle rocket has been much maligned in suburbia because the city dweller has not learned the proper way to enjoy the bottle rocket. Even a cursory observation of Fourth of July activities has shown us that the bottle rocket is not a fire hazard if it is never aimed higher than a roof line. In the country this is not a factor because we are too busy shooting them at each other. When your brother, cousin, or rural mail carrier is the target, the fire hazard is non-existent. (Granted, an exception may arise if your rural mail carrier happens to be hiding from you on the roof. If this happens, then all bets are off but we recommend cooler heads prevail and you issue an “ally ally income free” to this important Federal employee)

You see, while country folk are enjoying bottle rockets in this fashion, city dwellers are placing them in bottles, lighting them, and watching them soar at anywhere from a 45 to 90 degree trajectory. Said trajectory is like a beautiful football punt with great hang time that lands behind the line of scrimmage. It may look pretty, but it doesn’t accomplish its purpose, which in our case is by-and-large the infliction of pain on a trusted relative. Further, it offers the perfect trajectory to end up smoldering on a bunch of shake shingles. Not good.

Another key difference between urban and rural firework detonation can only be understood by exploring the eerie world of the so-called “Ancient Mystical Elements.” Evidently some philosopher of antiquity (with too much time on his hands) sought to distill all of matter into four elements—Earth, Water, Air and Fire.

Silly Philosopher! Evidently he conjured up this theory without consulting the so-called “Periodic Chart of the Elements.” Anyone who might have slept through Chemistry class, with their head cocked just right, would know that there are way more than four “elements.” In fact today we have a whopping 118 known elements to place and color on our Periodic Chart—and this doesn’t count other items which are currently being studied for elevation to elemental status—like Silly String.

But what does this all have to do with today’s topic--Fireworks in the Country? After all, everyone knows that gunpowder is mostly carbon (periodic symbol “C”). The point is this: We here in the country don’t just detonate fireworks (i.e. “Fire”) via the Air or from the ground (i.e. “Earth”), we also consider Water a key part of our July Fourth pleasure.

You see, a lot can be learned about our fragile ecosystems by detonating fireworks in the numerous ponds, streams, cisterns, & “potty ponds” that we have out here in the country. For instance, if you have a need for a fish census in your pond but haven’t the time to catch and tag all your crappie, then anyone knows you simply light and casually drop an M-80 off your dock and your fish will magically come to the surface and plead “count me!” Soon after they are counted they will regain their bearings, collect their "inards," and return to last year’s Christmas tree (crappie bed).

Fireworks may also be aimed in the general direction of one’s “potty pond.” Potty ponds are bodies of water which hold “effluent.” They make great targets for a hydroponic pyrotechnic displays. Many country people have found such efforts superior ways to deliver “fertilizer” to key portions of acreage in the vicinity of their sweet corn. You simply miss these opportunities if you live in an urban, suburban, or other traffic-signaled environment.

We realize we could continue by offering additional exhibits on the differences between urban and rural fireworks. However, it is obvious that this post is deteriorating rapidly and we don’t want to spoil anyone’s appetite for homemade ice cream (we prefer to make ours with sweetened condensed milk AND heavy whipping cream by the way).

And, it’s time to actually quit writing and go outside and let all the fun commence. I think I’ll be able to do that as soon as I get that pesky rural mail carrier off my roof.

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Editor’s Note(s):

1. In case there is any doubt, we are JOKING here. We are strong advocates of fireworks safety and encourage the few of you who are actually reading this to discharge all fireworks safely and under the supervision of an adult! For more information on fireworks safety, please visit the following link:  http://www.FireworkSafety.com

2. We are also serious about something else that may have appeared to be a joke above. We really do utilize sweetened condensed milk AND heavy whipping cream in the same homemade ice cream recipe. This is very hard on the ice cream freezer’s motor, so beware.

3. No brother, cousin, rural mail carrier, fish or sweet corn was harmed, contemplated to be harmed, or contaminated with organic matter in the writing of this column.

4. We are joking that Silly String is really being considered as an “element.” It is actually being considered as the Eighth Wonder of the Modern World.

Considering a Day Trip(s) to the U.S. Open

Ah, Pebble Beach…the greatest meeting of land, water, and unadulterated greed. As we prepare for this week’s United States Open, to be held at the venerable Pebble Beach Golf Links, imagine the following exchange taking place in a bedroom near a master bath....
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“Hi honey, I’m home!” says husband to wife.

“You’re late dear!” says wife to husband. “I tried to call you but your phone just went to voicemail. I was worried sick! Did you have to work late again?”

“No dear,” says husband, “remember, I went to the U.S. Open today. We discussed that this morning at 3:57 a.m. while I was leaving for the airport.”

“Oh that’s right sweetie,” says wife, “You’ll have to forgive me, my Advil P.M. was still hard at work keeping me comatose when you kissed me goodbye. That seems like yesterday!”

“Well, sweet cakes, that’s because it was yesterday,” says husband. “It’s now 1:45 a.m. on Friday. Yesterday was mostly Thursday!

“Why, I declare,” says wife to husband, “I guess it is Friday. At least you can sleep-in tomorrow and go to work late.” (The wife’s voice fades as the husband steps in the shower near the master bath)

The husband eventually emerges from the shower, shaves, and puts on new golf attire. “Honey, I’m off again to the Open. I’ll be home again in about 22.5 hours. Would you mind washing this plaid Izod outfit you bought me at the thrift store? I want to wear it again Saturday.”

“Saturday?!” The wife sits bolt upright in bed. “What do you mean Saturday?” Her slumber is now supplanted by slow burning but accelerating wrath.

“Would you rather I wore it Sunday? I can wear the argyle Satur-“

“Sunday?!?” The wife gasps. “But that’s Father’s Day! You were supposed to assemble the grill we bought you then cook for the neighborhood!”

“Darling, we’ve been over this a thousand times. I’m commuting this year to the United States Open. I went to great lengths to explain this to you while you were alphabetizing the spices a few weeks ago.” The husband reaches into his briefcase to reveal a camouflage dossier and travel itinerary. “Once again, our recreation budget would not allow me to book an affordable hotel room within 100 miles of the Monterrey Peninsula. I had two free flights on Southwest and found deals on two other airlines for $300 each—round trip. One night at the Monterey Marriott is $757.78. I sleep about as well on the plane as I would at the Marriott. So…I’m commuting. Now give me a big smooch and fry a couple of eggs over easy…please honey lover?!”

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If the above scenario seems far-fetched, think again. If this story’s dialogue seems slightly over-the-top, you’re right. But only the wife’s anger at her husband has been embellished under the umbrella of “literary license.”

You see, golf fans everywhere who would like to attend this great golf tournament are being forced to reconsider because of the outlandish and opportunistic price gouging perpetrated by the hospitality industry in and around Pebble Beach and the larger Monterey/Carmel/Pacific Grove area of California. Even thought tickets to the event are reasonable and at least three airports—San Francisco, Oakland, and San Jose—offer travelers reasonable airfares, the tournament attendee is slapped in the face when attempting to find a room—any room— in an inn.

Even rooms at Motel 6, the brand whose spokesman Tom Bodett promises to “leave the light on” for you, have been going for rates exceeding $300 per night. So much for “economy lodging.”

So why wouldn’t an astute golf fan consider community to the Open to avoid paying these outrageous room charges and their accompanying “hospitality taxes?” I believe the idea has merit.

Originally at this point in this “essay” we had planned to demonstrate the infinite wisdom demonstrated by commuting to Pebble Beach this year. However, in the interest of sound journalism we must confess that the idea has a few holes. Not the least of which we’ve discovered is traffic, drive time, traffic, unprecedented inconvenience, and the lack of a direct flight from Kansas City International to Pebble Beach’s number 1 Fairway.

So I’ll leave it to Michael Lewis (The Blindside, Moneyball) to research the market inefficiencies of commuting to Pebble Beach from Garden City, Missouri. For now, we’ve done our job. We’ve floated the idea out there for the general public and academia to digest.

Thus, instead of flying home tomorrow night after Day 1's competition, we'll just sing to our GPS System: Do you know the way to San Jose?

One Man's "Late" is Another Man's "Early"

Memorial Day marks the unofficial beginning of summer. As such, it’s a time for us to ask ourselves some serious and probing questions: Will the bubbling crude in the Gulf ever be stopped? Are we about to enter a double-dip recession? At what point on the American calendar is it too late to take down my Christmas lights?


When I was growing up my father made it abundantly clear to me that nothing spelled “L-O-S-E-R” quite like the homeowner who could not get around to taking down his Christmas lights by Groundhog Day. We would snicker at those in the general vicinity of our neighborhood who had seemed to have lost their stepladder on New Year’s Day. We gawked with dismay at those who would drive in and out of their driveways each spring morning, apparently oblivious that Santa’s sleigh and reindeer were still on the roof above them, laughing at their unprecedented display of sloth.

So now, here on May 31, I stand sufficiently humbled. I’ve become the loser of my childhood, as my Christmas lights remain firmly attached to my house instead of tangled in the attic as in previous years. But I’m even in worse shape than anybody I can remember from my youth. I remember no neighbor or other human homeowner (circa 1970’s or any other non-leisure suit bearing epoch), who couldn’t take care of this light-taking-down business by Memorial Day. My Christmas lights now stare down at me each day, a mocking monument to my inability to even master one of the seven habits of highly effective numbskulls.

I find solace in the fact that even though tomorrow is June 1, the season we know as summer technically doesn’t begin for another three weeks, when one of the most important solstices of the summer—the MLB June Amateur Draft—takes place. This critical solstice, while important, should not be confused with the lesser-known “Summer Equinox,” which does not exist. Great Astronomers and weathermen since Galileo Galilei have recognized that the equinoxes are celebrated only in March (Vernal—after Vern Gosdin) and September (Autumnal—after “Fall”) when we have nothing better to do than note that the days and nights are equal in length at the equator (right…as if we’re ever actually going to be there).

But the point is that I have three weeks until it’s really summer. That’s a lot of time to evaluate my options. But by then the U.S. Open will have concluded and we’ll be thinking about buying fireworks so if you can’t call it summer by then, well then, you must be in New Zealand.

But what really should be the deadline for taking one’s Christmas lights down? Is there a point on the Roman or any other lesser calendar at which a guy should just yield to his loserness and decide he’s simply going to parlay his sloth and inability to launch into getting a jump on next year’s decorating? According to my calculations, the mid-point between January 1 (the theoretical appropriate time to take down the lights) and November 15 (perhaps the earliest anyone would put up their lights) is a none other than June 14—Flag Day. Yes, Flag Day. I am now declaring June 14 the “Official Point of No Return for Christmas Light Takedowns.”

I think Flag Day makes sense for a variety of reasons. While you’re walking outside to put your US Flag in its holder, why not spend a little extra time and drag out the ladders and take your lights down? You’re already in a decorating mood. The neighbors will hear your clanging ladders but not look over because they assume you’re just putting up flags. By the time they again look at your house they will not have noticed that you have removed all empirical evidence of your loserness. They may even forget you even forgot to take them down in the first place. Also, the last summer thought your neighbors will have of you will be of that nice Patriot who zealously celebrated Flag Day.

But what, you may ask, happens if Flag Day comes and goes and your Holiday Display is still firmly attached to your sagging gutters? You may wonder how I personally will handle this situation when I wake up on the morning of June 15. I fully intend to handle this situation by acting like it was my plan all along. I will simply acknowledge that I have a 5-6 month head start on all other 2010 Holiday Decorators.

Think of the benefits of leaving your Christmas lights up throughout the remainder of the summer. First, you avoid endangering your life by climbing on ladders, roofs, and hornets nests. Instead, you use your time much more wisely by enjoying various summer activities such as smoking baby back ribs, watching your sons cut grass, or sipping Arnold Palmers poolside. Second, consider an Independence Day lightshow on July 4th. You can invite your friends over and have a “countdown” ala New Year’s Eve then flip “the big switch” and illuminate the night sky. If you want to save money on fireworks, simply have one of your children stay inside and vigorously flip the light switch on and off for 35-40 minutes, thus simulating a patriotic fireworks display.

The benefits will endure throughout the remainder of the summer and pay big dividends long after the first autumn frost. Come Thanksgiving, you’ll be out frying turkeys instead of crawling up to your attic to untangle the lights which had mysteriously since last year wrapped themselves around that highchair your wife is saving “for the grandkids.” If that doesn’t get you going, then picture yourself this coming December parked in a lawn chair on your property line, sipping a steaming latte, as you watch your neighbor traverse his ladder and downspouts, leaning at a 45 degree angle right before he rides down his icy roof to his frozen concrete driveway below. If that’s not entertainment I don’t know what is! And YOU made it all happen by getting a jump on everyone else in the neighborhood. You bucked the trend, didn’t succumb to peer pressure, and stood your ground while others thought you were an idiot.

We may be onto something here. Don’t let those pesky neighbors or homeowners’ associations bother you. You’re making your life easier!

And while you and I may be losers in June, we’ll have the last laugh in December.

On the Precipice of 50

Today marks the 49th Anniversary of my birth, which means if I remember any trigonometry at all I’m embarking on my 50th year. It’s an odd phenomenon in our culture, that we can't just be the age we are, we're always going on the next year. So no longer 16 going on 17, I'm 49 going on THE END.

So here I stand, peeking over this cliff with my fiftieth birthday staring back at me from below. It taunts me, really, with so many questions that yet remain unanswered. Things like how do we attain world peace; who is the family of man; and what, really, is the function of the gall bladder? Will I figure any of these things out before May 18, 2011?

What is there to show for these 49 years? Oh sure, there were some highlights in the early years. Dirty diapers, tetanus shots, leisure suits, and high school graduation to name a few. But these feats required little effort, little moxie. Showing up was sufficient.

Then I entered my “adult years,” went to college, and learned new and important and world-changing things like how to bounce a quarter off a table. My education there was not limited to parlor games, however. I also learned to expand my worldview and recognize that we are citizens of a larger planet, so I purposed to learn the Greek alphabet and to hate the Ruskies’ hockey team.

In college I was also introduced to fashion. I learned about the invention of a new color called argyle and the art of wearing a polo inside a button down (I actually never did this—thankfully). I learned that it really was o.k. to wear shorts that showed way too much of my legs and that wearing Topsiders did not mean I had to like Ted Turner. I even learned something about my masculinity. Yes, I could wear pink and plaid and not get beaten up.

But I had to leave college and grow up and find a job so I went to graduate school because my parents let me. There I learned that not everyone thought like I did. There I learned that some people contemplated more lofty, weighty, and meaty things than choosing between pepperoni and Italian sausage pizzas. There I learned that people thought my then-hero John Ashcroft was a “fringe idiot,” and that Marxism was not only a viable but preferable system to which you could hitch your proverbial wagon. But I survived graduate school and they did not manage to convert me to Marxism nor even dissuade me from voting for Reagan in his second term.

So after that I did the only Marxist thing I knew to do and went to work for the government. While working for the government I learned how to violate fundamental constitutional rights by annexing entire subdivisions into the city limits while the unsuspecting residents watched the Cosby Show.

My learning was not limited to city planning, however. Valuable, life-changing concepts were introduced to me. Things like “comp time” and “personal days” and “field work (on the golf course)” began to capture my full attention. Other "life skills" were acquired, like how to stretch a 15 minute coffee break into a referendum on the jelly doughnut.

Sometime during “the government years” I married my best friend and we embarked on a bit of a kamikaze 23 years that have added five children and multiple dogs and even a rodent or two to the mix. We moved from the suburbs then to the exurbs then finally to the country. If the goal was to move as far away from civilization as possible, then only Siberia remains.

But I still vow to see many questions answered before I'm actually 50. During the next year I resolve to finally and fully understand terminology such as Universal Life, Double Indemnity, and Oil Viscosity. It is my quest.

CAUTION: We will now shift into a serious gear....

Ecclesiastes 7:1 says that "the day of a man's death is better than the day of his birth." I often wonder how that can be, and can only understand it at the Cross of Christ. Somewhere below the precipice of 50, 60, 70 and beyond is a Cleft in the Rock. And it's there that everything makes sense and that all things are made new. Aged and ravaged and diseased bodies will be made whole once more. And all the groanings and longings of creation will be quieted and satisfied.

And all my questions will finally be answered. Better yet, they'll be rendered insignificant.

Photos Compliments of Michael R. Finley

Walkin' in a Winter Blunderland

In the words of the great military officer candidate Zach Mayo: "I got no place left to go." With this column, that is.  Back in January, with about 36 hours to spare, I decided to enter this year's Erma Bombeck Writing Contest. My offering was slapped into the proverbial stands like Cole Alrich swatting away a layup at Allen Field House. So since "they" didn't publish it, I figured I'd throw it out here so it could endure some more abuse. Please read this then follow the link to the winners' entries and tell me where I went wrong.  I think my main problem is I can't write even a salutation in less than 450 words. That limit was the laughingly small number of words I could use for the contest entry. How can anyone develop a funny story, let alone a timeless masterpiece in 450 words?  So I guess I'm not in the business of winning contests, I'm in the business of crafting timeless masterpieces.

If you believe that, you should join Zach Mayo-Naise by dropping and giving me 20.

Winter Blunderland...

Some realizations strike abruptly, like a recent epiphany that I hadn’t seen my ribcage since Reagan’s second term. Others come slowly, like THIS WINTER’S NOT ENDING. Our family spent Christmas in Alabama, so we missed the snow that blanketed our ten acres. Wondering what remained of the White Christmas back home, we pointed our two cars northward on December 27, negotiating the 674 miles loaded with kids, presents, and Social Networking. Although our state’s snowplow had indeed cleared our road, when we reached our property we discovered a massive snow barricade between our cars and driveway—it seemed to say: “Merry Christmas from the D-O-T.” I then did what any lucid parent with a wife and five children looking on would do—I floored it. Suddenly stopped, I jumped out to motion my son (driving the other car) over to the shoulder. He interpreted my complicated hand gestures as “Son, drive your car into the ditch.” We spent the next two hours engaged in activities therapists would describe as “family bonding.” We excavated the first car, “log-chained” the second, and portaged presents, suitcases and French fries down 177’ of icy driveway. Welcome home.


The next wave of snow wreaked havoc New Year’s Eve as I employed my turkey fryer to boil some birds in 375⁰ peanut oil. Left to cool, the fryer was commandeered by our “outside dogs” (the ones we forget to feed). It was later uncovered near our pond. Fortunately, after the first snow I had told the kids to put the four shovels back in the barn. That explains why they could not now be found, undoubtedly in the general vicinity of the driveway but lying invisible under snow.

Snow followed snow, ushering in subzero temperatures and wind chills—an invitation to all mice within two miles to hunker down inside our garage. To the mice’s pleasure, the garage refrigerator’s door was left open. Finally one of us got around to closing it. The mice probably didn’t complain too much; the temps in the fridge were warmer than those in the garage. Good thing we’d stocked up with an array of fine meats and cheeses.

My despair continued through January. But just when it seemed no end was in sight, I awoke this morning and glimpsed a sod-colored oasis. A beautiful oval patch of brown grass was peeking from above the subterranean warmth of our septic tank. Like Noah receiving a dove’s olive leaf, it was my first sign that travail was subsiding.

Like a groundhog that didn’t see his shadow, I’ve decided to celebrate. I think I’ll fire up that peanut oil and see what I’ve got left to cook from the fridge.

END

Check out the Global winner and honorable mentionees of this year's contest:
Humor Category - Global


http://www.wclibrary.info/erma/winners_current.asp

First Place: Barb Best - Sherman Oaks, CA, United States

Honorable Mention: Nancy Berk - Pittsburgh, PA, United States

Honorable Mention: Amy Mullis - Moore, SC, United States

Honorable Mention: Bob Shirley - Kingsland, GA, United States

Honorable Mention: Sarah Stirman - Abilene, TX, United States

Truman Corners: Trials and Tributes

Author’s Note: Maybe I’m too much of a neophyte in the craft of writing to have seen it coming. When one of my Facebook friends posted a nostalgic status update last fall about Grandview Plaza and Truman Corners, I immediately conceived of writing what I thought would be a witty, humorous piece from the perspective of a young boy about a shopping center of his youth and the perceived trials and tribulations with which it was fraught. But I’m learning that stories and columns and “pieces” rarely leave the station of my mind and arrive, unaltered, at their intended destinations. Somewhere along the way they get hijacked, commandeered, or just plain take me on a Sunday drive in the country. Such is the case with what you’re about to read. The hoped-for wit came slowly; the humor sluggishly, and I’m all the better for it. I hope you enjoy, and I hope you appreciate, even if just a little better, someone who shaped you into who you are today.

Truman Corners Circa Early 1960s. Photo Courtesy Jackson County Advocate

Dollar General and Trickling Pork

I'm pleased to announce the Federal stimulus package is officially working. How do I know this? Because Garden City, Missouri (pop. 1,500) just welcomed the arrival of its first national retailer--Dollar General Stores.

I live in the Kansas City hinterlands, in "the country" so to speak, some fifteen minutes from the closest Wal-Mart and almost an hour from a regional mall. So imagine our joy when Dollar General arrived, just four miles away in Garden City, to give us another outlet for the purchase of Spam, potted meat and other products which were once part of a pig. But seriously, heretofore our trips to Garden City have only involved excursions to C-Store Casey's to purchase staples like pizza and essential items like vegetable pizza. Now that we have DG, an entire 9,014 square feet of shopping paradise awaits.

If you live in a slightly larger metropolitan area, say, Tokyo, you may at this point be somewhat envious to hear of our new Dollar General since you can't shop like we do. My only advice to you is to be patient, "sit tight" and hope market forces (Economic Stimulus Money) visit a yen near you. In the meantime, try not to salivate as I give you a "virtual tour" of DG's "merchandise mix" (a complicated formula which measures the ratio of Mossy Oak to Hormel products). Perhaps you can begin developing your own personal shopping list for the day Economic Stimulus monies "trickle up" and a Dollar General finally comes to your town.

Dollar General's website says the company stands for convenience, quality brands and low prices. The company also boasts that it carries "items you just can't live without, you know, things like detergent, soap, socks, underwear…" and as I observed personally, ladies French purses and "Exfoliating Moisturizing Ointment."

As my initial stroll through the store revealed, Dollar General's most popular aisles are dedicated to health and beauty products. These products include well known brands like Crest, Sauve, and Tylenol. But if one digs deeper, an entire cosmos of store-branded merchandise unfolds before you. Men will recognize Old Spice as a manly fragrance worn primarily by reeking fishermen at sea. Old Spice is a very popular brand among "men of a certain age," but juxtaposed at eye level with Old Spice Body Wash was Dollar General's brand—"BodySense." I was impressed by the deep discount offered by BodySense over the Old Spice brand—so impressed that I purchased some BodySense Invigorating Sport Body Wash for $2.50 (compared to the Old Spice version at $3.75). I am happy report that I was not disappointed in my purchase and the BodySense brand body wash is definitely thicker than water.

Sense is not limited to one's body at Dollar General, however. Consider the chain's health brand "HealthSense." HealthSense produces an array of products for the cost-conscious consumer. Because HealthSense does not have to spend costly fees on advertising and brand development strategies, it doesn't have to come up with catchy names for its products. Consider this product's name instead: "Maximum Strength Heartburn Prevention." That product does the consumer a favor by not wasting his or her valuable time trying to figure out what's inside the box. No confusion with pesky brand names like Tums or Pepacid. 

HealthSense shines most when considering its baby products. Some of my favorites are "Infants' Gas Relief" and "Creamy (as opposed, presumably, to Chunky) Diaper Rash Ointment." Where were these products when my wife and I were new parents? Perhaps receiving my greatest admiration was what must be HealthSense's flagship product—the venerable "Freezer Pop Electrolyte Solution Variety Pack." That's good news for you parents who still have barfing infants. Back when my children were babies and had lost valuable and helpful electrolytes, they demanded variety. Sadly no variety was available and we only had orange pops to stick in the freezer. Now DG's pops are delivered in a host of flavors and colors, allowing you to now sport a kaleidoscope of vomit stains on your pajamas.

Now for my favorite section—Food. In the DG freezer case you'll find Tombstone Pizzas and TGI Fridays Wings. But DG stays true to its Southern roots by offering a customer favorite—Curly's Pulled Pork Sandwiches. The store's menu also sports a variety of packaged cookies, crackers, and cereals for your pre-diabetic pleasure. Here Dollar General also offers a value brand—Clover Valley. Clover Valley offers a veritable smorgasbord of popular food stuffs like peanut butter ($2.50 compared to JIF at $3.50) and soy sauce. I can go along with Clover Valley on many items, but I draw the line on the soy sauce. I'm neither buying nor eating any Chinese condiment that doesn't have some sort of authentic name. Can you imagine going to P.F. Chang's, ordering Moo Goo Gai Pan, then asking your server for some Clover Valley soy sauce? No Sir.

Men are not forgotten at DG. In fact, at least one-half aisle is dedicated to hardware and automotive products. A respectable assortment of motor oils and shop towels are available, and, for the adventuresome male with a sensitive side, Dollar General carries Bahama Bag Company's "Tahitian Vanilla Scent Pouch" for placement under the seat of your car. From the looks of the pickups and SUVs in our DG's parking lot, I'd say they should've conducted a little better market research before putting that product in our store.

If you don't yet have a Dollar General near your billfold, don't lose heart. The Federal Stimulus Monies are just kicking in, and soon you'll be able to catch the rising tide we've experienced here in Garden City.

Ben Bernanke and the United States Congress will get their way, and when they do there'll be Curly's Pulled Pork in every pot.