Consumable Music

The other day, I commented on Jimmy Buffet, and my desire to be his side kick as 'Mayor of Margaritaville'. After that post, I got to thinking about other musicians, their music, and what they like to sing about. Amazingly enough, they sing about things other than 'love', and 'sex'. Quite a few sing about things that can be consumed. Then the iPod song list started to develop in my head. To get you really jazzed up, you could start by doing a few lines with Eric Clapton. "She don't mind, she don't mind, she don't mind, ..... cocaine". To bring you back down to earth, the group Chumbawamba had a whole menu of drink selections. Start with a whiskey, then vodka, switch to lager, chase it with a cider. Definite hangover! Truly "pissing the night away". After that bender, you might find yourself in a gay bar, having a pina coloda with Barry Manilow. And probably my favorite, checking out the peaches at the market with Steve Miller Band. Figuratively speaking, peaches are some of my favorite fruit :)

Running For Office

Don't get your hopes up, I'm not running for any public office. I am actually politically neutral. True, I don't have a right to complain about government, or the way things are run, simply because I refuse to vote, BUT you can't blame 'poorly run government' on me. But one position I would consider is, assistant to the mayor of Margaritaville. I don't want to be mayor, that's Jimmy Buffet's position, but to be his 'right hand man' would be a dream job. "Sure Mr. Buffet, I'll plug in the blender". "I would be happy to set up your microphone Jimmy". "Can I call you Jimmy"? That's such a catchy tune, I would be happy to listen to that daily. Have a drink, sing a song, have another drink, sing another song. All in a day in the life of the mayor of Margaritaville. And as you well know, the more you drink, the better your singing becomes ..... at least in your own mind.

Injured Reserve List

Every so often I make the rash decision of joining in an athletic event that I haven't played in years, and have definitely NOT trained for. I think to myself, "I'm an all around athletic guy. I should be able to make a good showing. Even though I'm out of shape, I've watched plenty on TV". So last night I took my bowling prowess on the road. My kids got invited to go bowling, so by extension, I got to bowl also. After being coerced with beer, I was primed and ready for some pin knockdown! First, I find the biggest piece of crap ball, and decide to play with that (Bowling balls come with 5 holes in them, right?). It was very apparent I'm not the athlete I used to be, or the bowler I've ever been. And where was my team!? I was yelling, "Hard, Hard!", and my sweepers were no where to be found! I think that severely handicapped my game. One problem, right off the bat - my ring finger got hung up in the ball as I was throwing, and did something bad. It was slightly swollen last night, when I got home, and is quite a bit sore this morning. I guess its just the ring finger, not my index or thumb. So if my coach needs me, just give me a shot of cortizone, and send me back out. All in all, the evening was a lot of fun. The kids had a blast, I enjoyed hanging out with friends, and best of all, I put on a bowling clinic that will not soon be forgotten. The biggest pain, more so than my finger, was having to change my shoes.

It's Official

Well, yesterday was somewhat difficult, not physically, but mentally. I had the overwhelming chore of sharing some 'less than desirable' news with my fellow lessees. Let me explain the situation. My current shop is located in Irvington. If you're not sure where Irvington is, it's a little sleepy suburb just northwest of Omaha. There is a building I lease part of it with three other businesses, (all in some form of construction), to help keep the cost affordable. Yes, this building is big enough, but from time to time, we do get into each other's way. The location is off the beaten path, sandwiched behind some auto repair shops, and a dairy farm. For the most part, it's nice and quiet, and we've had no trouble with vandals or thieves, the four years I've been there. NOT the ideal place for a business wanting to grow. So I'm off to the big city, a.k.a. Omaha, down to the 60th & 'L' St. area, into a brand new building. There are so many 'positives' to this move, I can't even start to relate. The former arrangement sort of worked for awhile, due to the patience and my ability to make molehills out of mountains. But, there's only so much a person can accept, before it becomes a constant source of irritation, and no longer a place I looked forward to helping me use my creative abilities. When I first agreed to this arrangement, I was excited, as were the other tenants, to create and share ideas and work. The last two years, it has become a place I have to go to, to perform my '9 to 5' job, without any incentive to do anything creative. In one word, 'drudgery'. For all I know, it may have even affected my ability to write blog material. I would come home from work, eat, do paperwork if necessary, watch TV, fall asleep in front of TV, wake up and go to bed. That's time I'll never get back. Maybe now, I won't waste so much time doing nonproductive, mundane things, unless I choose to do so, rather than being sucked into that vacuum, because life has been sucked out of me. The new shop is still going to be a shared experience, but with a fellow concrete artist, who has even more of a burning passion than I do. We both have very creative and unique ideas, and we've agreed to help one another on our projects. I'm sure there's going to be a learning curve, but we both are focused in the same direction. Its only been 24 hours since I broke the news, but I can already feel my mojo coming back (different mojo than Austin Powers). In the meantime, I still have two more weeks at the old shop. I hope its not too uncomfortable, or awkward. I can only imagine the conversations around the water cooler.

Face Bored

So just as I suspected, after joining Facebook, it sucks a huge amount of time out of my life, and I get to read posts from bored house wives, who apparently have these miserable existences according to their constant whining and complaining. There's a few individuals who actually have something intelligent to share, or strike up a thread that is actually worth responding to, but, in large, I get to experience the pathetic existence of several individuals who are SOOO caught up in their misery, the only thing they have to offer is negative 'crap'! One thing I have enjoyed, following certain companies who have something interesting, fun, or tangible to me and the public. This is the main reason for continuing to put up with the rest of the parasitic, life sucking, 'joy' pulverizing, hordes that are flooding Facebook with such massive amounts of wallowing in pity. I feel the need to comment, but on the other hand, I don't want to come off as 'cruel' to those who are worth listening to. Good thing for the blog, so I can get this poison out of my system. To the majority: The only reason you have 659 friends on Facebook, people are collecting you for posterity. You don't really think they would be your friend in person, having to listen to the endless whining about how horrible your life is, do you? To the minority: Continue doing what you're doing to make social networking a tolerable, and sometimes enjoyable experience. I will continue to bite my tongue online, but amid certain crowds, I may have to speak up and take the chance of not being quoted on Facebook.

Sea Sick

Today was a rather blustery day! I know, I sound like I'm narrating A. A. Milne's, WINNIE THE POOH. But that's not it at all. If you could imagine yourself out on a local lake, with gusts of 35 - 40 mph, white caps lapping up over the edge of your dinghy, not only would you be in peril, but probably launching up any groceries consumed beforehand! It was so windy today ..... (can I get a, 'How windy was it'?), it was so windy, when I lifted the toilet seat today, the water in the bowl was moving back and forth. So the question that crosses my mind is, "If my commode is indoors, and the gale force winds are outdoors, and my house is withstanding said winds, why is the water in the bowl white capping"? Do I have any friends out there who are plumbers/part time meteorologists? How about sailors/ meteorologists? Plumbers/ sailors? There has to be a logical explanation. I feel a government grant is in my near future to study this phenomenon.

Hibernation

So most of yesterday was spent cleaning up the yard, putting away the patio furniture, cleaning out gutters, and picking up leaves. There was only one small thing I didn't have time for, but I might catch that today. But that brings to close another outdoor season for me. Somewhat of a sad day, but winter WILL come, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. It's about time to turn into an old grizzly bear and suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, plus put on my winter coat, and hibernate. I guess I've got another month of football before it gets real depressing. Hopefully by then, I'll have just a couple of months of bearlike attitude for my family to endure, and then it will all be better. In the meantime, make sure I have plenty of seasonal food and drink, chocked full of calories, to help keep my weight up during the frigid months. Another important thing to remember, don't wake a sleeping grizzly, at least until end of March/beginning of April. Then you can poke me with a stick:)

Facial Hair

This is usually a very disturbing topic for women, but men can have some real fun with it. I am a fan of facial hair, and I'm not a fan of facial hair. It looks good on some people (always men), but not all guys (including myself) look good with a lot scruff. I have no problem growing a beard. It comes in fast and furious! My drawback is, it itches so bad you would swear I need a flea dip. I haven't grown a full beard since before I was married. I had it for about a month and a half, and during that time it was pure torture. Besides the constant scratching, a woman asked me if I was Iranian. That's the last thing I wanted to deal with, was a hostile, pro-US lynch mob, stringing me up by my toes because I'm able to grow facial hair. So my one and only experience with a beard was not a positive one. Since then, I've gone probably four or five days at a time without shaving, and its definitely bristly enough to scrub the leftovers off your iron pans. Another observation I've made over the years, when I let me beard go for a few more hours than I should have, there's quite a bit of gray coming in along my jawline. I'm normally not a vain person, but my gray beard definitely makes me look older than I really am, or am willing to admit:) I still like to incorporate some strategically placed facial hair for the personal affect it has on my self image. I don't like to have the latest trend, but I have my own style, which conforms to really nobody, but me individually. I think mutton chops are amazingly creative, but I insist on toning it down quite a bit, and am OK with just some nicely defined sideburns. I like the idea of a soul patch (the little spot of hair just under the bottom lip), but sometimes I'm a bit self conscious, thinking this probably looks like a middle aged guy trying too hard to look cool, when it may come off as kind of creepy. Occasionally, I let grow for a couple of days before I get the weed whacker out, and it comes off. A mustache by itself is totally out of the question! Tom Selleck, and every 1980's porn star, were the only ones to pull this off successfully. Not sure if 'successfully' is the right word, but you know what I mean. The quandary I find myself in though, is the extremely clean feeling I have after taking the time to actually shave. The smooth skin with no steel wool growing out of your face, is a very pleasing feeling, and I've been clean shaven for so many years now. I'm pretty sure the authorities, and my family, would put out a missing persons bulletin on me if I chose to grow a beard again. To top that off, somebody's going to mistake me for Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's brother.

Gamer

On last night's news, they aired a segment on a new Monopoly game board. They broke tradition, and went circular along with an electronic device in the middle, to keep track of everyone's property and cash. The premise is still the same, but just a 21st century update. That got me thinking about playing when I was a kid, and also the times I've played with my kids. Why is it that game is so much fun? We used to play when there was a snow day from school, or a rainy day during the summer, or at night while staying over at someone's house. Definitely a good filler of time, and most enjoyable. Then it got me thinking of all the other other games we played. Remember Trouble, with the popper and dice in the middle? There was Sorry, Clue, Chinese Checkers, Life, and I'm sure I'm leaving a few out. These games have proven and continue to prove to be a success. It seems kids only want to play video games these days, but I guarantee they will thoroughly enjoy themselves if they partook in board games. The interaction with other people, rather than the video game, is one of the most important features of the game. You can see why they push 'family game night'. The benefits are far reaching and lasting. So after that little bit on the news last night, I was thinking of calling my cousin, Keith, and seeing if he would like to get together for a marathon game of Risk. Quite possibly the best game ever made.

What's That Smell?

It's a scientific fact that certain smells, scents, or odors can trigger responses in the human brain. Smells are a very powerful tool used against us powerless humans. It can take us back to a very memorable moment, good or bad. Provided our olfactory system works correctly, I'm sure we all have familiar scents that immediately transport us to a certain time, and place, where we initially encountered such pleasurable aromas. Most of my favorites came from my grandparent's kitchen. Regardless if anything was cooking, there was a constant faint lingering of garlic. You sensed it the very moment you walked in the front door. Another delightful aroma actually comes from two different sources - the smell of roasting peppers! As a youngster, we occasionally stopped by grandma & grandpa's house for Sunday dinner ( 3 out of 4 Sundays a month ). Summer time meant the whole family was going to occasionally be rewarded with the combination of sazitsa and peppers! The smell of Grandma roasting the peppers in the oven was divine, and if you timed it just right, she frequently had to open the broiler to turn them, and you would catch a blast of the roasted happiness going on there. The second time happened in New Mexico. I happened to be visiting Dad during the month of Sept./Oct., which happens to be chile harvest season. I recall, standing at a farmer's market, waiting in line to purchase half a bushel of roasted green chiles, and the constant waft of the peppers tumbling in the roaster and giving off their lovely fragrance. I can picture it like it happened yesterday. So this evening, I found myself standing at the BBQ grill, carrying on the family ritual of roasting the last harvest of green peppers from a friend's garden, and just thoroughly enjoying the experience, even though I was actually working. Meanwhile, my wife is inside preparing dinner. Moments earlier, she just pulled fresh baked homemade dinner rolls out of the oven ( can you smell it? ), followed by the browning of some bacon and garlic, that was eventually going to accompany some type of tomato product, to thus become tomato gravy over rice. Yeah baby! The aroma therapy was a nice way to wind down from the day.

Bad Form

That's actually a quote from the movie, "Hook". But lately, that quote seems to apply to the decisions I've made concerning business. First, I chose to do work for a contractor, who was somewhat slow in paying, but had always paid his tile bill. Then he landed this hair brain idea to make a jump in the size and quality of home to build, likely driven by greed. He had always built a pretty nice home, but he was impatient with the progress his company was making, and thought this $850,000 home would not only show the housing market he's the real deal, but if he sold it, that would propel his company financially. It backfired, then crashed and burned. I had no choice but to put a lien on the home, because his tile bill was approaching the $14,000 mark, and that was too big a hit for a small fry like me to absorb. Well, I recently received a letter, stating the house was entering into foreclosure, and Great Western Bank, whom the loan is through, will be putting it on the market for public auction, and will be the first bidder at whatever the balance of the loan is. If the bank actually gets the house at auction, my lien is null and void, and someone just received a top notch tile job, compliments of Kevin. You're welcome. Didn't see that one coming! The next issue, I should have nipped in the bud much earlier, but I was fearful I needed the extra help. I hired a tilesetter who has a fair amount of talent, but is a social menace. First of all, the title 'tilesetter' usually means the individual was too dumb, lazy, or a combination of both, to get an education, and since the trade has NO set standards like it did 25 - 30 years ago, the lowest forms of mankind have found a way to make fairly decent money, for less than desirable craftsmanship. I'm not a believer in evolution, but the tile trade, as a whole, could make a strong statement otherwise. So the guy I hired has this unique quality of saying and doing things, to make the people around him very uncomfortable. He's very self centered, and any conversation will eventually be manipulated toward him, and he will elaborate with some story, or phrase, that would leave you feeling violated. After warning him several dozen times to keep his mouth shut, and just set tile, I finally got the last warning I would ever receive from one of the best builders I've ever worked for. I took that information, processed it, and acted upon it. So this week finds me short handed on help, but the complaints about this guy are history. It's sad, because I thought he was just a diamond in the rough, and working for me, and the quality type people I surround myself with, I could somehow mold him into a top notch craftsman. Bad form Kevin! My wife once said, "When people show you how they are... believe them". So, a couple of unfortunate mistakes on my part, now I just need to learn from them.

Rise and Shine!

When I was growing up, I lived with my grandparents for a few of my formative years. Just about every single morning, they were out of bed before the crack of dawn. I thought, "It must be their generation". Nobody it their right mind would ever want to get up that early, day in, and day out. On your days off, EVERYONE wants to sleep a little longer. Not my grandparents. As much as I hate to admit it, the older I get, the less time I can physically spend in bed. I set my alarm for 6AM, and probably 25% of the time it actually goes off to wake me up. I have slid into a creature of deeply entrenched habit. Now, I'm normally awakened by the fact that someone turned the plumbing on, and I have to get out of bed to relieve myself. I'm sure my wife is thrilled to hear this tidbit of info, rather than me sleeping thru this sensation;) Of course, this occurs approximately 5 - 10 minutes BEFORE my alarm is set to go off. So I start my day a little grumpy, having been denied these few minutes of precious sleep. If my morning 'nature's call', does not nudge me out of bed, then my aching back tells me its had enough of horizontal, and wants to be vertical for awhile. So out of bed I drag myself, just to make the aches and pains subside. Last Saturday, I thought, "Finally, my chance to sleep in awhile". I had nothing really pressing planned for early in the morning, so a few extra winks were on the agenda. I purposely do NOT set my alarm on the weekend, because there are NO 'tile emergencies' on the weekend. Honestly people, there are NO 'tile emergencies' ever! Don't try to convince me or yourself otherwise. That's a rant for another day. Back to Saturday morning. Snoozing along, catching up on some REM, no twinges, urges, aches, or pains shoving my carcass out of bed, then I gently, and refreshed from my slumber, awake fully aware, and ready for the day. A good mood came over me, thinking to myself, "Finally, a good night's sleep"! I roll over to bask in the fact I've slept well beyond what my body normally allows, to check the time on my alarm clock, and do some quick math, to see how much sleep I gained, to apply that toward my deficit. 6:05AM. #@!$%

In Plain Sight

I have a friend named Tom who has a unique ability. From time to time, I find myself in the car, on a little bit of a road trip with him. He happens to have a couple of good fishing holes south of the border. I'm talking the Nebraska border. But Tom has this keen sense about spotting certain wildlife, and this is done even while driving. I can be staring out the window, gazing off into a corn field, and Tom will blurt out 'deer', or 'turkey'. I'm in a state of confusion and asking, "Where, where"? Then the deer, or turkey, or pheasant, or ground squirrel, or dragonfly, come into plain? view. I asked him once, how he has such a keen eye for wildlife? First, he grew up in the country, and has trained his eye to spot it at a young age. He said once he exits the city, he has an image in his mind, and any movement, or slight discrepancy on the horizon, triggers his response. I've tried to pay attention to this while driving on road trips, but growing up a city kid, I'm not sure what a deer looks like. Of course, this happens to me other than excursions through the countryside. I can open my tool box, and stare for three minutes, looking for a tool hidden in plain sight. It happened to me this morning. I opened the fridge looking for jelly, and stood there, just like my kids do, staring into a camouflaged environment, while letting the 'cold' flow freely out of the appliance, thus warming my food, and cooling my house, all while running my electric bill up. So I finally found the jelly, hiding somewhat behind the eggs, sitting very still, hoping to not be noticed. But since I've been training my mind and my eye, and the two are now in 'sync', there was no way it was going to escape my notice. OK, admittedly, I still have a lot of fine tuning. I think some people just have 'it', and some people (me) don't. I'm just fortunate I've never challenged Tom to a game of 'slug bug'. Chances are, I would probably notice the deer.

Rules According to Kevin

We all have standards and personal rules we live by. Some folks are stricter than others, some live by the rule that there should be no rules. I fall somewhere in between, with what I feel is a happy balance. Some of my rules though, have an unusual twist. Let me share:) Ever notice how some folks can say and do what they please, and don't really care if they step on someone's feelings, but when you call them on it, they feel persecuted? Those people don't realize they have feeling, until you hurt them. So I feel rule 1. Slightly hurt their feelings in return., is a good rule. Let me explain. You have helped them get in touch with their feelings, AND, if they have some form of religious upbringing, 'forgiveness' is an essential part of being devout. So you are helping them to cultivate the act of 'forgiveness'. It should be viewed as a public service. Rule 2. If it's not broke, don't fix it. This is an old one, but carries a great amount of wisdom. If your plumbing doesn't need fixed, trust me, DO NOT mess with it! Rule 3. Spanking a child is not a crime. It's not a crime, if the intent was to correct a blatant wrongdoing, and was not done to inflict pain, other than the butt. There should also be an explanation why the punishment is given, and not enforced in a moment of rage. Otherwise, a paddling does no harm, and may prevent a jail sentence in the future. Rule 4. If it belongs to me, ask before using it. Chances are, I will let you, unless you just take liberties with my stuff, then it becomes a possession issue. Rule 5. If you're born in the state of Nebraska, and happened to be reared by Cornhusker fearing parents, the Saturday football game should be watched, listened to, or attended, unless of course, there's an emergency. Every effort should be made though, to take in some form of the game, and interruptions are inexcusable, unless there's an injury or death, or something like the house catching fire. If the house catches fire early enough in the game, maybe a relative or neighbor will let you watch the remainder at their house. Rule 6. There is no sympathy if you've been warned ahead of time. There's also no sympathy if I've been through it while you stood by watching, and then you didn't pay attention to my mistakes, and made the same mistake I made. Rule 7. Don't try to sell me on the latest gimmick. Refer to Rule 2. Rule 8. I've learned this one the hard way. It's a rule my wife pointed out, and has served me well over the years. When someone shows you how they really are, believe them. Don't think that you're something special, and they will treat you differently. Rule 9. There is ALWAYS somebody smarter, tougher, better looking, and richer. The sooner you come to grips with this fact, the smoother your life will be. Rule 10. If we're not friends in 3-D world, we're not going to be friends on Facebook, Myspace, or any other social network. Friends should shake hands, not point and click.

Happy Cab Service

OK, one more Keith story, and I promise I'll stop. At least the stories won't be directly pointed to Keith, but his name may arise from time to time. Prior to being married, I had a love for cars, ... still do, but not as much as Keith. Since we were so much like brothers, there was a built in form of competition between us, just as with the case of any siblings. Keith had a hot car, (the Chevelle mentioned earlier) and I felt the need to purchase one also. Up to this point, my inner hippie prevailed, and I only drove a VW Beetle. It had its quirks, but I loved that car, and drove it into the ground. So I had the opportunity to purchase a 1975 Firebird from a relative. My first experience with somewhat of a muscle car. A couple of lessons learned here. First, don't buy used vehicles from relatives, unless you know the history of the car, and are aware of the things that may need fixed. Second, make sure you have enough money to fix said problems. So I bought the car, and it came with a set of new back tires. They were low profile and wide, just what a muscle car should be equipped with. The following weekend, I had plans to take the tires and get them mounted on my slotted mag rims - I know what you're thinking, way to cool! Instead of putting them in the garage, in my grandfather's way, I put them next to the garage between the privacy fence. There was about three feet between the garage and fence, with the eaves hanging over the six foot fence, there was hardly enough room to walk, and definitely not visible, unless you were in the yard snooping around. So Saturday arrives, and first thing on my weekend agenda is to have my tires mounted. I walk around to the side of the garage, and they're no longer there! Yes, they've been stolen. And no, I did not call the police. What's the point, they're not going to find two tires in all of Omaha. So I went about my day, mad as hell. Later that day, while doing yard work, I saw a blue pickup with side boards, drive down the alley, and pull into a garage where there happened to be a Happy Cab service. About an hour later, the truck pulls out of the garage with all kinds of tires and rims piled high, and there on top are my two tires! So then did I call the police? No, they were not going to exact my revenge and take away the rage I was experiencing. Who in the world could actually help me with my predicament? That evening, I had plans to go out partying, I mean socializing with Keith and a few of my buddies. I related my story to them, and as the evening wore on, and the influence of fermented barley took hold, it became apparent that Keith would be the perfect person to help me do something stupid, daring, bold, malicious, and unsanitary. We arrived back at our house about two in the morning, and before clocking out for the evening, we decided to stroll down the alley. In our mind altered state, we hailed a cab, and viola! There was a Happy Cab at our service. Being a safety conscious person, Keith thought he should check the tire pressure with his tire gauge, before this cab carried unwary passengers. Since it was dark, he mistaken his pocket knife for a tire gauge, and unfortunately, this cab had four flat tires. Sorry, no fares tonight. I thought I would see if the cab was locked, because I had witnessed theft in the neighborhood, and I wanted to make sure to keep the honest people honest. Because of carelessness on their part, the door was left unlocked, so I opened it. After opening it, I was distracted by the fact my bladder had expanded to ridiculous proportions, and I felt the need to relieve the pressure that was exerted on my abdomen. I had a momentary lapse of where, and what I was doing, (must have been from excessive 'socializing') and mistakenly began to use the Happy Cab's bathroom. Whoops, Happy Cabs don't have bathrooms! I didn't figure this out until I finished, and was looking for the lever on the urinal. Sorry about the dash and the front seat. One good thing came from this whole experience. I was no longer upset about losing my tires. Thanks to Keith for listening to me, and being the loving, caring, person he is, helped me through this trying time in my life.

Last Meal

I don't know what it is that draws me to a kitchen, but I like to spend extraordinary amounts of time in one. Cooking is not only a necessity if you like more than a sandwich, but for me, it's another creative outlet, and a way to make family and friends happy. Preparing food can also be an art form. Some dishes are so beautiful, you don't want to stick a fork in it. But you do anyway. The artist (chef or cook) considers complete devouring of their creation, a compliment to their display. So today I was preparing the peppers for our annual camping trip/family reunion, and thinking to myself just how much I love Italian sausage and peppers! Of course, every Italian's sausage and peppers are better than the next guy's, but I must truly say, "I like mine better than any I've ever had". And I've killed off my fair share of sazitsas! So the longer I'm standing in front of the stove, occasionally stirring my little pan of bell pepper ecstasy, I got to thinking, "This is quite possibly my favorite meal"! I think if I were on death row, this would be the last meal I request. One small technicality though ... I would have to be the one to prepare the sausages and make the peppers. I would make sure they would allow me enough time to make my family's world renown sausage, and my great grandmother's peppers, and teach someone to carry on the dish. Plus, I would have to make enough to feed the guards and executioners. I have a hard time cooking for 1 or 2 people. OK, everybody's fat and happy, let's get on with it.

The Dark Ages

Let's get back to Keith. There's a couple of more stories that cannot be left unspoken. You and I made it through the prepubescent years with badly self inflicted injuries, but they patched us up, and sent us back out into the world, to see what else we could maim, destroy, mastermind plans, and torment those who may have been slightly younger, smaller, and weak minded. So we finally make it to our teenage years. I blazed the trail for us, and was eager for you to join in the next level of stupidity, and sometimes illegal acts. You finally reached the age to drive, and you hung up the beloved dirt bike (the preferred mode of transportation and the daily frustration of taking apart and reattaching the hand brake), and you got a Chevelle for your first car. Probably not the wisest choice for someone with your level of fearlessness, for this car had some 'get up and go'! I remember you loved to race, and seemed to have a measure of success. So one day, you were invited to hang out with me and my friends at the ballpark down in Papillion, and you volunteered to drive. While in Papillion, we all engaged in some underage, illegal activity, which involved consumption. Since you were fairly new at this mischief, it didn't take long for you to feel the effects. So you wisely? gave me the keys, and I drove us around, in your car for the rest of the evening. Illegal activities are sometimes followed by 'Big Mac attacks'. So we found ourselves cruising Dodge St., and going through a drive-thru for fast food nourishment. After pulling back out on Dodge, we were immediately stopped at a red light, and next to a new Nissan Z. You encouraged me to give it a little gas to try to entice our neighbor in the next lane, to a friendly little race. I believe some rather unkind words were exchanged between yourself, and the driver of the Z. Your next action, though antagonistic, was one of the funniest things I've ever witnessed! After you were finished with the niceties, you threw a half eaten Whopper at the driver's window. He saw it coming, so quickly moved his head back to avoid two all beef patties, ketchup, mustard, pickle, all on a sesame seed bun, upside his head. His girlfriend, who happened to be in the passenger seat, wasn't as fortunate, and took the full brunt of your fastball, right in the face! The light turned green, and I floored it! There's one more story I'm going to relate, but that will be the next chapter.

Farewell!

Last night, as you know, was the last baseball game played at Rosenblatt stadium. My daughter had been mentioning it for a couple of weeks in advance, that it would be fun to attend. I had my reservations. First, I didn't really want to spend money that we should be saving, or applying to bills, or buying consumables. Second, I didn't want to battle the crowds and search for parking half of the game. And finally, the Royals aren't leaving Omaha, just leaving Rosenblatt, so I can still go see a game whenever my other obligations mentioned previously, are met. At the last minute, a friend called with four free tickets. So the game was a 'go'! I phoned another friend, and him, myself, and my kids ventured out to the ball park. Amazingly enough, we found parking rather quickly, and didn't have to walk all that far. Plus, it was public land, so parking was no charge. I immediately thought, "I need to remember this parking space for next time". Ooops, there isn't going to be a 'next time'. So we get in the gates, get our drinking privileges wrist band, turn, and get into the $1 beer line. It happened to be $1 beer night. So far, very 'econo'. Then the traffic jam! We arrived a little late, probably the end of the first inning, and it took us until the bottom of the fourth inning to get to our seats. "Forget about going to the bathroom kids"! We were enjoying the game, but my interest was directed to the surrounding people, and observing their reaction to the reality that was setting in. 'We're at the last baseball game to ever be played at Rosenblatt'! It was a night of reminiscence, awkward elation over the Royals actually winning, and sadness pulling at the heart strings. The 'diamond on the hill', which has been an iconic Omaha landmark, was soon to go down in history, only to be remembered in Cooperstown, NY, at the Baseball Hall of Fame, and the moments etched into our memories of great baseball games, and baseball players. I know it's just a game, but baseball is an American pasttime, and when that pasttime has been welcoming folks from across the country for 60 years, it's definitely going to change the complexion of Omaha and the way others now view the entrance to our city. It's going to appear we're missing a tooth or something that obvious. Following the game, on the big screen, they had commentary from baseball players who came through Omaha, they had long time season ticket holders, grounds crew members who've worked there from the age of 14 on, and, of course, Steve Rosenblatt, the son of Johnny. Fireworks followed, but prior to that, I turn to my children, and they're both crying. Now keep in mind, we haven't visited Rosenblatt all that regularly, but apparently, just enough to have a lasting effect on my children. They've been to the zoo next door quite a bit, and it was always brought to our attention from our kids, 'There's Rosenblatt stadium where they play baseball', with a sense of pride in their voice. I guess, what would seem to have been a landmark of permanence in their lives, is becoming a harsh reality that it won't be there anymore. Thus the emotional moment. The fireworks were a hit as usual, then ... it was over. The crowd, as it was exiting, just seemed to shuffle along, nobody in a hurry to leave, soaking in the final moments of nostalgia. People had smiles on their faces, but the smile just held back the tears welling up in their eyes. I witnessed that on several people. The mascots were standing at the entrance, accommodating all who wanted their picture taken. We took advantage of their availability, and the kids hugged Casey as I snapped a picture. Then we walked away. As we're heading to the car, my friend and I expressed our gratitude for actually making the effort to go. I thought, "I'm ashamed that I was not even considering going to the game". It was a wonderful evening. I was happy, sad, but most of all, proud to be a part of the whole experience of partaking in the making of Omaha history.

More Keith

I warned you there would be volumes! I may even have enough stories and details to cut a movie deal. Maybe you remember a few mishaps happened at Uncle Sam and Aunt Kris' house? They would have a few annual parties that friends and family were invited to. The two that stick in my mind are, the fourth of July parties, and the lasagna feed parties. I believe on each on of these occasions, but probably in different years, two separate incidents occurred in which you either hurt yourself, broke something, or both. The first that comes to mind was on the fourth of July. You and I are out in front of their house, in the street, playing frisbee. I threw the frisbee to you, but it was sailing over your head. You were back pedaling to catch the throw, when, I believe you hit a deflection in the concrete, tripped falling backwards, became airborne and parallel with the ground, and landed on your back and head, knocking yourself out cold. You were a teenager at the time, and amazingly enough, you had never received a concussion until that moment. You may have helped others experience their first concussion, but never one of your own. Another time, all of us grandkids were in the back yard playing, and you and I were the only ones old enough, the adults entrusted us with some fireworks. I think they were just black cats. Nothing powerful enough to maim, but definitely loud enough to adversely affect your hearing while blowing up in your hand, or right next to your ear as you're throwing. Now if you remember, they had a dog named Mack. A St. Bernard who was very lovable, but the equivalent of two and a half dogs. So we're out back goofing around on the swing set, kids are running and screaming, just what a dog loves out of children. You happened to be sitting on the swing at the time, and the dog, after running around the swing set several times, gaining momentum, for no apparent reason, decides to hop on your lap. Keep in mind the location of the swing set. There was really only one spot for it. The yard, after entering, immediately sloped downward, at the halfway point, leveled off for a few feet, then finished sloping to the back fence, and finally into the golf course. So the level section of yard was the only choice for a swing set. Well the dogs momentum, coupled with his weight, sent you, him, and the swing set, rolling down the yard. I remember the slide slamming to the ground, and breaking in half. Fortunately, nobody else was on the swing set at the time, and you and the dog were tangled in the chains of the swing. No one was hurt, but the swing set was history! This would have won money on America's Funniest Videos. Some other momentous events that involved broken bones, were your foot getting rolled over by the big wheel, and your broken arm after being bet that you couldn't jump over the creek in the golf course. After the 'big wheel' incident, Grandpa made you a homemade cast for your foot. As a teenager, you broke your arm a second time, during football practice. That break seemed a little more severe. I don't think there's been any broken bones (yours or anyone else's) since that last break as a teenager. I think it's finally safe to stand next to you now.

Where To Start?

Keith, Keith, Keith. I'm not sure where to start. I could write volumes on your escapades! I've known you the longest, so I have the most history with you. This may have to be more than one entry. Fortunately, I wasn't present for every single occurrence, that's why I may still be alive with only some broken bones and scrapes and bee stings and a little mental anguish and a small amount of trauma. You were not only dangerous to yourself, but a potential danger to anyone within thirty yards of you. I guess that's why you were so fun to be around. If there's an element of danger, or a possible act of stupidity that needed to be performed, you were first in line, and the rest of us were there to either cheer you on, or be at the ready to run home and tell an adult to call an ambulance. Evil Kenevil had nothing on you, except you outgrew the stuntman phase of your life. Once, when we were little, before any other grandkids were in existence, we were at our grandparents house on 60th & Bancroft, playing in the back yard. You may not remember this, but trust me, you were there. We had built a makeshift fort out of the lawn chairs available. I remember grabbing the dog dish full of water, and you and I washing our hands and face in it. I also showed you where to go pee. It was behind the bush off in the corner. But one particular day, you and I got to work. I was given (as a gift), a two wheel plastic dolly made just for busy-minded kids, such as ourselves. Our grandmother, as everyone knows, had an incredible green thumb, and she had strategically placed some planters with flowers, around the back yard to beautify her little corner of the earth. So you and I decided that day, to put the dolly to good use? We loaded up a half dozen or so flower boxes, and proceeded to haul them down to the patio, dump them out, and build some dirt roads for our hot wheels. I couldn't understand the rage, followed by a spanking, that accompanied this act. After all, what's a dolly for, if your going to get a spanking for using it? And so began our childhood chocked full of disciplinary actions. Not long after that, you guys moved to a duplex off of 66th & Western area. Everyone who knows me well, knows the following story. You and I were going to play football one day, and in the upper portion of your closet were two football helmets, and a football. I was six at the time, and what happened next will be with me for the rest of my life. Since we couldn't reach the helmets and ball, and we were warned by your mom to not climb in the closet, the only logical thing to do was get the desk in your room, and move it over to the closet, and get down our stuff. Since I was older, I engineered the project, you were just my helper. I would climb onto the upper part of the desk, thus making it top heavy, and not OSHA approved, and you were given the menial task of weighting down the desk, by holding on to the chair. A very sound plan. Who would have foreseen the unexpected 'call of nature' that suddenly overcame you? That wasn't factored in when I formulated the plan. So you hastily excused yourself, let go of the desk, ran out of the room to the bathroom, and the rest is history. When my elbow hit your bedpost, I can still hear the break, and visualize my arm going the wrong direction. To this day, I have a killer scar! I'm actually going to thank you for the experience, because I got tons of attention, missed a huge amount of school, and the chicks have always been impressed with my scar, and the fabricated stories that followed. Well this is a start. Put on your seat belts, there's going to be more!

The First Grand Daughter

Ahhh Michelle.... the oldest female grandchild. It must have been a sigh of relief for the whole family when a girl arrived, after having two hellish imps join the family. Unlike the rest of us, you never did anything too outrageously stupid (or at least I'm aware of), while you were younger. I do remember though, you were probably in about the third grade, and every morning seemed to be a knock down drag out with your mom about various subjects. One of the funniest, you were arguing before school about your hair. You must have been having a bad hair day, and it was your mom's fault. Another one of your childhood complaints involved the kids that lived at the bottom of the hill. I don't know which one of the Wenninghoffs, in particular, irked the hell out of you, but that was a daily topic for discussion. Then the teenage years arrived, and whoa! We won't relate anything incriminating, but there was one time where I almost got you in hot water, and I wasn't even aware that I was doing it. One night, you were out with Jen (at least that's the story), and you called around eleven o'clock to tell Grandma you weren't coming home, but spending the night at Jen's. Julie and I were dating at the time, and she was over watching a movie with me. Typical of me, put me in front of a TV, and count the minutes before I dose off. Remind you of another male member of the family? So the phone rings, Julie wakes me from apparently a rather deep sleep, and hands me the phone. Please keep in mind, I don't remember any of this. We proceed to have this conversation where you tell me to relay the information to Grandma, about spending the night at Jen's. I guess my response was coherent, because Julie didn't question anything I happened to say to you. I hung up the phone and went back to stage four deep sleep. The next morning, our grandparents are in a panic because you didn't come home last night, and you were in big trouble for not calling. I, of course, was siding with the hysterical grandparents, thinking, "Boy is she gonna get it when she gets home"! Julie chimed in, in behalf of your defense, and notified the grandparents of the truth. Another page in your life came when it was time for you to get a car. I couldn't believe my eyes when you bought, close to the ugliest car on the face of the earth - the Gremlin! Then there was the Datsun Grandpa fixed up for you. I remember him installing the motor one day. He just picked it up, and set it in the car. I thought he would certainly need some help. He then told me it was about as heavy as a sewing machine. He said the slower this car went, the less likely you were to get yourself in trouble. Only if staying out of trouble were that simple.

Ms. Incognito

Ahhh Samantha... Sam, Sam, Sam. Once again, another 'Sam', this time the female version. You were always around, but never really in the mix of chaos, like the rest of the neighborhood kids. Outside of your brother, I never remember you getting into a fight with anyone. If fact, you seemed to make friends with opposing sides. You were the mediator, the common denominator, friend to all. There must have been one instance though, where you upset Keith and myself for some unknown reason. What that reason is, I couldn't tell you. But, you had this huge Barbie townhouse thing, that had an elevator, and all the latest amenities. Who knows, you may have done nothing to us, and Keith and I were just being cruel. I'm sure there was a 'logical' reason for our stupid act of unkindness. We found some red crayons, or paint, or markers, or lipstick, something RED, and proceeded to cover every last square inch of your townhouse with RED. I just remember while engaged in my act of malicious graffiti, I'm thinking, "We sure are getting even with her"! After the crime was done, that feeling soon changed to a feeling of 'dread', because you were going to show your parents what happened to your Barbie townhouse, and they were going to deduce the crime to either Keith, myself, or both. After all, who else was capable of such a moronic crime? There was no possible way we could hide this thing - it was the size of a small piece of furniture, and it wasn't a toy you were done playing with, because it was fairly new. I guess we were smart enough to not lie about the fact, but we still paid dearly. Sitting on anything for a whole week, was torture in itself. Let's now change directions. There was one occasion where you were finally getting some retribution on your brother. His greatest possession in all the earth, was his dirt bike. One day, you hopped on his bike and was riding in front of your house. Of course this did not sit well with him. In his mind, this was equivalent to destroying someone's Barbie townhouse. He came running outside to physically remove you from the seat of his bike, but you would start pedaling faster to get away. This cat and mouse game went on for quite a few passes in front of the house. Your brother was getting rather frustrated that you were compiling miles on HIS bike, so he formulated a plan. He went inside and grabbed a blanket. He was going to throw the blanket over head as you rode by. He figured you would have to slow down enough to get the blanket off, and this would give him ample opportunity to catch you and evict you from his prized possession. His plan worked better than expected. He threw the blanket in front of you as you were speeding by, the blanket actually got caught in the front forks, stopped instantly, and launched you over the handlebars! Amazingly enough, you were able to avoid losing your front teeth, unlike your younger brother. I don't remember any real injury out of the incident, except for some loss of wind, and maybe a little road rash. But once you got your composure back, you immediately lost it again on Keith. I'm sure there are many more stories (some involving Keith), but those are definitely the ones that are burned into my memory. By the way, I found a Barbie townhouse on Ebay, maybe I can talk Keith into going halves.

The Little Sister

Ahhh yes, Brenda, Brenda, Brenda. Growing up, little sister was synonymous with the term 'annoyance'. You were fine until somebody taught you to walk and talk. Then you were a thorn in my side. You just wanted to do everything I was doing, and go everywhere I was going, and if you were neither doing nor going, you were into my stuff. But that's what younger siblings do, and this is how families figure the pecking order. So you fulfilled your role, and have grown into a responsible adult. So let's start at an earlier time in our lives. As you were very well aware, our mother had an unusual relationship with animals, unbalanced if you will. Mostly dogs, but at one point we had two bunny rabbits. One was tame, the other was a wild rabbit we found in our yard as a baby, kept it, and nurtured it to maturity. And if you remember, Bob built a two room rabbit hutch, which in the eyes of a youngster, was like the Hilton for hares. So, one day, you and I decide to go out and look at the rabbits for awhile. Now rabbits, being the skittish sort of mammal, are easily startled. If you remember, the hutch sat up off of the ground, and you were just tall enough to see in. We approach the hutch, and the wild rabbit didn't catch sight of us until we were right next to his cage. This scared him so bad, there was an immediate flurry of activity, and he shot out a stream of urine that went across my shirt and your face. Of course we were grossed out, but since you got the brunt of it, I couldn't help but laugh. Now being the bigger brother, almost seven years your senior, and a male to boot, there should have been zero reason whatsoever for me to want to play with ANY toy you ever possessed. But, I must admit, you had some really cool crap. You had those safari figurines (I don't know what they were called), and there were guys on motorcycles, a safari jeep, some animals, really cool stuff. Of course, being the bigger brother, whenever I showed the smallest iota of attention to you, you were more than willing to accommodate. So once in awhile, I would grab your figurines, line them up across from one another, and play football with them. Another really cool toy you had were weebles, and the McDonald's restaurant that went with it. Eventually you grew to the age where you were too old for toys, but too young for boys. You became a Skateland fixture, and a roller skating junkie, because that was the popular thing to do at that time. I don't know where you met him, but Bobby Massey became your latest obsession. It seemed we couldn't have any type of conversation without the mention of heart throb, teenage sensation, Bobby Massey. First you loved him, then you hated him, then you loved to hate him. My God, the emotional demolition derby! And one last observation, those were some rather impressive mall bangs back then!

Teeth, Who Needs Em?

Ahhh, my dear cousin Rik. The only true towhead of the lot. I'm sure an apology would be in store from me, and on behalf of your older brother, would be appropriate for the treatment (just shy of torture) we put you through. But if we apologized, that would mean we were sincerely sorry for our actions, beg for forgiveness, and pray that our past crimes never again resurface. So we can't do that. You were Keith's personal punching bag, stray dog, voodoo doll, and skid mark. You wanted to be bigger, and do the things the bigger kids were doing, but Keith was going to haze you to the nth degree, to make sure you were worthy. I think he made you cry almost every day of your life until you reached school, and were able to make friends outside of your immediate family. You wonder where Keith got it? From me. I did the exact same thing to him when he was that age. He was just helping you through your rite of passage to become a part of our family. You should really thank him for all his hard work. Especially the numerous times he would stick a football in your hands and tell you to start running. First of all, you were too small to even carry a football, so you had to hug it with both arms around it. Then Keith would chase you down, and tackle you. It was your typical 'David and Goliath' situation. The only difference - David won his battle - you never did. So Keith proceeds to play quarterback one day, and you were to fulfill the role of running back. You were pretty darn fast for a little guy, probably because of the daily terror you faced. But for once, it appears you and Keith are teammates? Keith calls out his cadence, the ball is hiked from his imaginary center, he turns, hands the ball off to you, and instantly is transformed into the ferocious linebacker. He chases you the length of the yard, all you have to do is reach the fence before he gets to you, and you're spared impending doom. He makes a last ditch effort, since you were just a few steps away, and dives for your feet and is able to trip you up. Since you kept the football in your hands, rather than dropping it (that would have been a fumble, Keith would have picked it up, then humiliated you by rubbing the fact in your face), you fell forward on the ball and hit your mouth on the tip of the ball, knocking out your two front teeth. Fortunately, (is this a fortunate event?) those were baby teeth he helped you remove from your smile. I remember the dentist making you a partial, and you being the youngest person I knew with false teeth. Another time, we were all out at dam site 16, fishing, I believe it was your first attempt at fishing. We had the perfect set up for a young kid. It was actually an ice fishing pole. Perfect length for a little kid to maneuver. So I got you all set up with a worm and bobber, and gave you a crash course on casting. You were a wild man! Your first cast hooked into your brother's sock. Got that out, so let's try again. Another cast shortly afterwards hooked into my elbow, and you couldn't understand what the hang up was, so you kept tugging, burying the hook further into my skin! I had to yell at you to stop while my arm is being flung involuntarily into the air. So I got that hook out. I then moved you down the bank about 15-20 yards away, and banned you from coming near the rest of mankind, while you were armed with a fishing pole. So about ten minutes goes by, and you're casting and reeling in as fast as you can, making it nearly impossible for any fish to even realize there's potential food in the water. Regardless, you weren't injuring anyone. Then you come walking over towards me, and I see you're crying. Keith is nowhere near you, so I'm a little puzzled why you would be experiencing trauma. You approach and cry, "Get it out Kev". I look, and see a waterlogged worm hanging off the back of your head, and the hook stuck in your scalp. I tried VERY hard not to laugh because you were in pain. But what a great story! I think I'm current on my tetanus shot, so if you would ever like to go fishing again, that would be OK.

What Goes Down, Must Come Up!

Ahhh Angie....... Ang, Ang, Ang. I had a difficult time titling this entry, because you really didn't stand out in a crowd full of idiots, otherwise known as relatives, until you were much older and wiser? I remember you being just about the happiest child on earth, and we relentlessly teased you about you report card. Because of our inferior genetics, we were all a bit envious of your straight A's. SHOW OFF! Sorry, I'm still a bit resentful. But, there were two incidents that stick in my memory, and I can't help but chuckle just by writing this. You had a knack for being rather stealthy, and you were involved in an early form of 'drive-bys'. You had these moments where you were rather ninja like, and before anyone realized, you made your move toward their open beer bottle or can, swigged as much as a five year old can shotgun, and just like a shadow, you were gone, and a good quarter of a can was now devoid of malt beverage. Of course, every thief has their moment. Unfortunately, our family has had their fair share of smokers. And unfortunately, just about anything served as an ashtray. You know where I'm going with this right? So one day, while your parents, and or other miscellaneous adults, happened to be sitting at the table, drinking a few afternoon brews to take the edge off, and probably playing marathon rounds of pyramid solitaire, you decided to strike while everyone was engrossed in card games. You quietly walked to the table next to your mother, reached up, grabbed a beer can and threw back! Little did you realize the can of beer was inadvertently booby trapped with cigarette ashes and butts! I just remember a lot of coughing, gagging, spitting, and topped off with some crying. Quite possibly one of the funniest things I've ever witnessed. Sorry it was at your expense. Another incident happened on Aunt Gin's front porch. You somehow got a hold of some money, and was putting it in your mouth. I think you accidentally swallowed it? But while your mom was there to pick you up at the end of the day, you threw up about 36 cents on Aunt Gin's porch. Ah yes, the loving, watchful care of our dear Aunt Gin.

The Youngest

Ahhh Sam.... Sam, Sam, Sam. We used to call you Sammy, since your dad was a Sam, and your grandfather was a Sam. By the time you came along and joined the group, I was ready to enter my teenage years. Since you were the last born, I always felt a little sorry for you, thinking you really had nobody your age to play with. The only kid in the neighborhood I remember you playing with was the little boy two doors down, with the blue lips. That kid was hell on wheels! Since there was a time where I lived with you guys, I thought I would let you hang out with me, kind of my personal assistant, or rather, more like my 'mini me'. After all, intellectually speaking, we were probably the same age, but I had a car. I'm sure you taught me some new cuss words, thanks to the kid with the blue lips. I remember at an early age you had an affinity for tools. Probably around three years old, you somehow managed to procure a screwdriver, and then proceeded to take the cold air return register off the wall. What was truly amazing was, you had the correct screwdriver! Then, of course, there is the time you were a constant source of irritation to Uncle Dick, as he's trying to work on his truck. Your natural curiosity, coupled with your love for mechanical devices, was just too much for you to resist. You had to be in Uncle Dick's garage lending a hand where possible, regardless of the fact Uncle Dick needed no help. Here's the good part! So Uncle Dick finally caves in under the relentless pressure you placed upon him, to give you tools to play with. He had a small ball peen hammer he stuck in your hand, and sent you on your merry way. One small problem though, ..... he didn't provide you with your own truck to work on! So you quietly strolled to the front of the truck (since Uncle Dick was at the back end, you thought you could do more good at the front), and proceeded to 'fix' his headlight with your hammer! I'm surprised he even let you live after that incident. Another priceless memory I have, you rode along with me to my grandpa Sam's shoe repair shop one Saturday. Yes, another Sam, but can a family really have too many? Probably. So we're at his shop talking to him, and he's perched on a stool. This was probably a cruel practical joke to play on a five year old, but too funny nonetheless. He asked if you could reach down and scratch his ankle, because he couldn't reach it, which probably was the truth, considering the round shape of my grandfather. So you obediently obliged and proceeded to help out an old man by fulfilling his request. Unbeknowst to you, he was a double amputee. The look of horror on your face was priceless when you started scratching his prosthetic ankle, and how quickly you withdrew your hand after realizing, 'something just ain't right here'! Well there's a few more stories, but I think they're best left off paper, and saved for times when we're face to face, around a campfire, sharing a moment of reminiscence.

Family Tree

My wife gave me some inspiration last night, to continue writing this blog. For several weeks, I've felt blogged down, blogged out, and a bit blogged due to the time of the month. But I got better (please reread that, but with a British accent). She reads another friend's blog who happened to dig up old pics of her siblings and relatives, and put those in blog form. I thought, I only have one sister, BUT, all of my cousins are just like brothers and sisters to me, that I can relate some family history to the rest of the world. Don't panic. I promise not to relate anything cruel or harsh, but slightly embarrassing maybe:) And I certainly won't give out last names, and I may have to change some names to protect the innocent. I will probably throw in some of my 'brighter moments' as well. So, eight grandkids equates to at least seven blog entries. I may be able to post some pics with the help of my wife, to substantiate my stories. I'll try not to embellish too much. Enjoy!

Make Me Proud

Earlier today, my fifteen year old sent me a text message, asking if we could go to the baseball game tonight, and as an added bonus, 38 Special was playing a free concert in the parking lot afterwards. I had to oblige. 38 Special was one of those bands who had a half dozen songs that received uber amounts of playing time, and the songs became part of your road trip music. Everyone in the eighties knew the words to 'Back where you belong'. So before the show, we secured our spot rather close to the stage and waited in anticipation. They opened with 'Rockin' into the Night', and I caught my children dancing, and belting out the words as loud as they possibly could. They seemed to enjoy themselves thoroughly. On the way home, they're talking a mile a minute about the music, the musicians, the crowd, etc. So I had to ask if they actually enjoyed their parents' music. Usually I catch crap for liking, and or listening to the music I cut my teeth on, so it was a total surprise, but brought a smile to my face when they admitted to enjoying themselves tonight. I can only imagine the smile our parents had, when they caught us singing along to the Beatles or the Beach Boys, as we were driving in the car. Truly amazing how the next generation carries over a little from their parents:)

Music To My Ears?

Yesterday the temperature in my truck read 99 degrees, it's 5PM, and I'm stuck in a huge traffic mess at 84th & I80. So to keep myself in a good mood, and suppress any feelings of road rage, I roll up the windows, turn on the AC, and start to enjoy the song on the radio. Happens to be some Pink Floyd - perfect music for chillin' out to. Then, out of nowhere, this little Honda 'pimple', slammed to the ground, blacked out windows, a muffler that belongs on a Peterbilt, pulls up next to me, and starts to, beyond vibrate, more like thumping my truck with their, probably stolen, stereo system. The inside of my truck was shaking, and Pink Floyd was no longer distinguishable. At moments like these, it takes every fiber of my being to prevent me from breaking the law, or a windshield, or a head. I was attempting to make the most of an undesirable situation, but some inconsiderate puke, in his thundering tin can, has to go and infringe upon my personal space. If I could get away with it, I would quietly exit my vehicle, enter his vehicle on the passenger side, close the door, lean a little to the right, and let the sauerkraut I ate the night before, fill his compact car, with its limited supply of oxygen, with an aroma that would not be soon forgotten, and then excuse myself. The Bible says, 'an eye for an eye'. This would be bleeding ears for mustard gas, and then I would call it even. I wouldn't have been so upset if he had pulled up, rolled down his window and said, 'Hey, what are you listening to?', then change the music to Pink Floyd, rather than the offensive rap music that comes along with owning a monster stereo system worth 5 times more than the vehicle that houses it. In my estimation, the letter 'c' in rap, is silent.

Sticky vs. Slimy

Which would I prefer? Depends on a couple of factors. Are we talking on me, or on someone else? Last night, after having a couple of cold, adult beverages with friends, the topic of children arose. Since all of us present have children, we all have first hand experience, plus the stories that accompany them. We first discussed how much more in tune we were mentally prior to offspring. It was determined by our panel that adults with children, suffer brain loss due to two different factors. Figuratively speaking, children stand on your head until brain seepage occurs. Spending untold hours of untold days, compiled into years, conversing on an adolescent level, an adult cherishes conversation with another adult. This activity may slow down the process, but may also prolong the agony. Second factor actually involves physical harm to the adult. Children will, on a regular basis, undo something that took an adult several hours, or even days to accomplish, in ten minutes. This is when the self inflicted harm comes into play. Do I put my fingers around this little person's throat, or do I bang my head against a wall? Study shows most adults opt for the wall. But back to the subject at hand, sticky vs. slimy. Which do kids prefer? After interviewing a few choice specimens, children enjoy both. It required them to be engaged in messy, playful, sometimes delicious fun. Slimy was preferred, but sticky seemed to prevail. Sticky seemed more reasonable to children because some type of sweetened food product would be involved, and dirt would stick to the affected areas afterward, much better than a slimy mess. After partaking in this study panel, it was determined that adults occasionally drink to make the pain go away, and we usually drink together while discussing our children and the ill effects of raising them. I guess this is a form of therapy.

What's In a Name?

Does it really matter how you label it, as long as you call it something? I started my annual pilgrimage to the couch, in front of the TV, to pay homage to the final season of CWS at the 'Blatt'. Yes the new stadium is probably going to be spectacular, and the CWS will thrive in Omaha for quite some time, but it's going to be played at the TD Ameritrade Park. Yes, the city whored itself out to big business, just so we could get a new stadium, and keep another big business in Omaha. Since the name, 'Johnny Rosenblatt Stadium', is going by the wayside with the stadium itself, the CWS is losing a certain ambience about it. It's no longer directly connected to Omaha's past, and is changing the identity of the CWS. College baseball has morphed into big business, just like every other sport that becomes popular. What happens if TD Amertrade goes belly up, or gets bought by Morgan Stanley? The name changes. Johnny Rosenblatt is a permanent name in Omaha history, it's not going anywhere. Plus, he was an actual person whom people had a personal connection to. He could offer a handshake, or better yet, a hug. I don't think I would get the same warm fuzzies receiving a hug from TD Ameritrade. Is TD Ameritrade even capable of hugging? Fortunately, I have memories of a Johnny Rosenblatt Stadium, where families would come to share in America's greatest pastime, and share those magical moments with perennial fans from LSU, or to cheer on our home teams, Creighton and Nebraska, when they entered the CWS for the first time. I'm glad their experiences came at the 'Blatt', where the CWS originated, rather than TD Amertrade Park. I guess all good things run their course in life. Time to stop having fun, and get down to business.

Inappropriate

So today I decided to engage in our door - to - door activity. And in order to take part in such activity, one must be neatly dressed, not slovenly, nor anything inappropriate. After all, we're coming to your door, the last thing we want to do is scare you off (even though we do anyway). This morning I had an overwhelming urge to wear my flip flops. This would actually be inappropriate, because it doesn't really meet up with certain dress standards, at least in this country. So the adult reasoning took over, and forced me into wearing dress shoes. It's only for a few hours, I reasoned, then I can wear my flip flops everywhere else I please. This wrestling in mind took me back to my high school days. When I was a teenager, I was somewhat rebellious, but in a passive way. I would push the envelope, but would not make a spectacle of myself. When I was finally called upon my actions, I always had a smart retort, which usually hindered my cause. One day, at school, I was called to the office immediately by the vice principal. On my way, I'm running thru my mind, trying to figure out what in the world I had done. This happened to be a time when I was on my best behavior, so this really had me stumped. When I arrived in his office, he called attention to my footwear - flip flops - my shoe of choice. He then threw the high school handbook in front of me, and asked me to turn to a certain page, and read a certain section involving dress code about shoes. So far so good, I don't see any infractions on my part. He then asked me my definition of shoe. My answer was very succinct, "Something you wear on your feet". We then looked up a definition in the dictionary, to further clarify his reason for 'harshing my gig'. Webster sided with the principal, and said it was a foot 'covering', thus nullifying my right to wear flip flops in school. The first remark that popped into my head, and this would have had a negative response I'm sure, was to ask why flip flops were sold in department stores in the 'SHOE' section. If they're not really a shoe, shouldn't they have their own spot elsewhere in the store? Amazingly enough, wisdom prevailed, and I said nothing. I was made to go to my gym locker and change my flip flops. In protest, I wore my football cleats for the rest of the day, thus prompting fellow students to ask, "What's up with the cleats"? This gave me an opportunity to tell them how 'THE MAN' was repressing me. I may have lost the flip flop battle, but did I really:)

Brand Spanking New

Getting something new is always a treat, but can have its down side also. Let me explain. First, think of how you feel when getting a new pair of shoes. Think of how you feel when you find them on sale, in your size, and happen to be the exact color you were searching for. You can't help but feel good about your acquisition. How about the feeling when you get a little bigger ticket item, such as a new car? When it has 8 miles on the odometer, no stains on the seats from messy kids' stuff, and that new car smell. You may actually enjoy this purchase for quite some time. The 'newness' doesn't wear off as quickly as that new pair of shoes. Then the negative side of things. Friends and family may give you crap for buying a brand spanking new whatever it is. This is all in an attempt to make you feel guilty because they may not be able to purchase new, big ticket, items. Even if they can, you can still expect some flack for your purchase. I recently bought some new work jeans. First, I get ribbed for having wore out jeans that I wear to work, then I get ribbed for buying two new pair. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. What folks don't realize is, the jeans have to be new at some time in their life. Same as a new car, it too, had to have a beginning, and someone had to be the first owner. I really appreciate the attitude of one friend. He was at work one day, and a fellow workmate had bought a brand spanking new car. This happened to be the exact model this friend would have bought if he were in the market for a new car. After seeing the car in person, it was love at first sight. His workmate had to point out the painful obvious, that my friend would not spend that much money for something that new. Those who know him, know how painful it is for him purchase something brand spanking new, and part with a large sum of money, even though he probably has it stashed in a mattress at home. His response was, 'Yes, but in ten years, this car is going to be mine'! As much as a miser as some people strive to be, they still have to make new purchases whether they like it or not. There's absolutely nothing wrong with buying things second hand. My family would probably be wearing skins from animals we found dead on the road, if were not for thrift stores. But certain consumables, such as, say, toilet paper, should NOT be purchased second hand or used, for obvious reasons. It really doesn't bother me that bad when people 'harsh my gig' because I'm wearing new work jeans. I'm in no way being pretentious, just trying to get the most for my money, while still trying to look presentable. If I were trying to show off, I would invite you over to check out my new roll of butt wipe. Soft isn't it?

Straight As An Arrow

Last night, I scurried home to try to beat the threat of bad weather. My lawn was at the point of needing mowed, and I wanted to get it finished before the rain, hail, and flooding. My lawn is somewhat of a chore (mainly because I'm too cheap to buy a self propelled mower), but I actually enjoy mowing the grass - MY GRASS ONLY, for you wise guys out there thinking that you would love to extend my enjoyment to your yard! My wife made a comment on how straight I keep the rows while pushing the mower up and down the yard. I'm not really anal retentive about much, but this is one of my issues I deal with on a daily basis. Since I set tile for a living, my rows have to be dead-on straight, otherwise they will tell on you, and then we have problems. So my training has carried over into other aspects of my life. When my roof was reshingled, I made it clear that the horizontal rows, which are clearly seen from ground level, better be straight, or there will have to make another attempt to get it right before any money exchanged hands. Lawn mowing is another opportunity for me to exercise my abilities to make straight lines. I used to be overly critical of myself, and if I needed to underline something in a book or magazine, I would spend untold amounts of time looking for a straight edge. Didn't matter if it was a ruler, an envelope, another magazine, I had to have straight lines! I tried a highliter for awhile, but I don't like the fact that the information is not specifically singled out on my page. To me, it appears a toddler just colored randomly on my paper. I have since relaxed on the underlining issue, and attempt to just freehand it. I still try to get it as straight as possible. If I have to read what I've underlined orally, I then have a problem. The underlined sentences seem to run together, and I may accidentally read the same line twice. So I have to be overly conscious while I'm reading to not make that mistake. Yeah, I know I have a few quirks. If you had to do something for me in a linear pattern, I know my 'straight line fetish' would frustrate most folks. Just don't offer to mow my lawn, and we should remain on speaking terms.

Skills

My youngest daughter is at the age now, where she is almost maintenance free. She can dress herself, and she can forage for something to eat without mom or dad having to prepare her something. She has moved from the larvae stage to the caterpillar stage. She has entered the time in her life where money and a ride are more important than help putting her shoes on. Keep in mind, she's almost eight, so her needs/wants that involve money, are not quite as burdensome as my fifteen year old. So she's at the age now where she can help with chores around the house. She can dust, vacuum, even cook herself a grilled cheese sandwich. She is now equipped with skills. Remember, she's only eight, so some of those skills need some time to be honed. You've probably heard, or even used the term 'mad skills'. Her skills are more along the lines of 'maddening skills'. She can do certain things, but sometimes (more often than not) she makes a mess in the process. One such skill that comes to mind, is her ability to butter a piece of bread. We must go through twice the amount of butter, peanut butter, jelly, etc. than we did a year ago. When she wishes to prepare a piece of toast or bread, we end up with butter on the countertop, the front of the cabinet, her clothes, her glasses, occasionally my clothes,.... it's everywhere! The knife she's used to spread her coat of goodness, has substance halfway up the handle. I have entered the kitchen behind her, and leaned up against the countertop, and got peanut butter on my pants. I once tried to pick up a glass that had been left over from the night before, and it was concreted to the countertop with dried jelly. So as much as I appreciate the fact that she has the abilities to fend for herself, I can't wait for the day when she displays a little more control over her motor skills, and they progress from 'maddening' to just plain old 'mad'.

I Need a Rest

What a busy weekend! I had multiple things on the 'honey do' list, multiple engagements, multiple spontaneous plans and events, and, amazingly enough, I think I accomplished everything but one. WHEW! I need to go to work today to relax from the weekend. What's wrong with that scenario? The madness started right after work on Friday evening, and finished at around 11 PM Sunday night. Friday night was pizza making along with a couple of beers, some friends, and fire on the patio. The next morning involved a trek to the farmer's market on a quest for greens. Then, indirectly involved with my wife's garage sale while trying to keep our children, and the children next door, from breaking our junk that was for sale, and entertaining them. Following the sale was a mad rush to box up everything that didn't sell, and ship it off to Goodwill. This had to be accomplished before 4 PM, because we had a graduation party to attend. Made the graduation party in time, but prior to the party, we had to visit Nobbies to search for some last minute costumes accessories for a 5K run we were going to participate in. I know, you're thinking, "Costumes and 5K"? It's called the 'Dignity Run'. Leave your dignity at home, get dressed up, and run around Elmwood park in costume. What a blast! Some of the costumes were brilliant. That concluded Saturday, which was all I could muster the energy for anyway. Sunday morning was our meeting, followed by a trip to Louie M's for lunch. Came home, mowed the lawn, broke down a bunch of cardboard for recycling, took out the garbage, loaded tools on my truck for Monday, and snuck in a cat nap while watching a James Bond movie. Then off to a friend's house for a little wine and cheese party, and bidding farewell to another friend's little brother, who happens to live in Paris. That's France, not Texas. Just reliving the weekend long enough to fill up a blog, has me exhausted again. I may have to go back to bed.

Sparky

This would happen to be the endeared moniker most electricians hate, but other tradesmen love to refer to our friends who play with electricity. Over the years, there's been several electricians I've worked around. Some good, some not so good. At present, there happens to be three electricians I would actually let work in my house. They've been at their trade for awhile, and they're still alive! They're also not scary individuals, living in a van down by the river, unlike the tile trade. They actually have to attend classes, and become certified, because we're talking about potential danger to themselves, and the public. It's a little different than gluing something shiny to your wall. Unfortunately, there's only one electrician I can call on to help me out when something shorts out, and needs an expert's 'know how'. He's been a friend of our family's for quite a few years. He shows up to practically all our family functions, he helps out when there's a, say, a fence building project, he's been to weddings, funerals, etc. etc. In fact, he was hanging out with my cousin, and pretty much adopted himself into our family, when they were in high school. So we've known him through some of his teenage years prior to his fascination with everything electrical. I'm pretty sure he would be offended if we were to call another electrician to come into our house and have something done, so he remains the sole wiring jockey of our domicile. But, each time he comes to our house, he has all these grandiose electrical ideas and solutions, that are probably going to run me into the hundreds of dollars. He's all about having the right light wash over something, or getting rid of light fixtures in place of can lights, running cable TV to my patio, and the list just keeps compiling. Fortunately, my budget for electrical work keeps him at bay. Otherwise, Sparky would be a permanent light fixture at my house.

Hit The Big Time

Obviously, if your song makes it on the radio, you've done something right. If you continue to make beautiful music, and end up with hit after hit, you're a musical genius, on your way to becoming an icon. So what happens to a person, whose career has been marked by success, and the road is paved in gold, and as I'm walking through the grocery store, there is canned music with someone else's voice singing their hit song? I'm sure their career is still considered a success, but has their stardom been tarnished a bit? As an artist, don't you have to agree to let your music be processed and canned, like Del Monte green beans, and played throughout the grocery store or mall? Is this considered a sellout? Many feel, when an artist lends his/her song to a TV commercial, that's as bad as child abuse. Diehard fans consider this a betrayal of their loyal fanship. The artist may just view it as another way to earn a paycheck. Or perhaps they're bound by a contract that rapes and pillages their music, and lends it to any commercial contract that will give them a nickel. The artist may have signed such a contract, thinking this was their lucky break, and the only way to get their music heard. My feeling is, apparently that particular song playing at HyVee today, has run its course of popularity, and its time to pasture it. (Sorry Chumba Wumba). I guess HyVee doesn't have access to current top 40, or the latest Indie rock. So if you find your rock n' roll career has slowly faded over the years, and you're tired of playing county fairs for $5 a head ticket price, and packing out the local bars where the fire marshall allows no more than 64 people, I would search out these stores playing the bastardized version of my song, and ask them for a gig. Maybe you can get the redemption price from double coupon day, instead of proceeds from ticket sales. I would also insist on a name tag, and a spot in their commercial.

Recall

Have you noticed that practically all consumer products, from your Prius, to your Motrin, are too dangerous for us 'informed consumers' to use. I haven't searched, but I'm sure there's a list of everything on the recall chopping block, that a consumer can search out to see if it's safe to use. When I was younger, I don't remember really any recalls to speak of. Ford didn't recall the Pinto, they just warned everyone of the possible firebomb you could be rolling around in. And now all of our toys are unsafe due to lead paint. It's due to the fact everything is made in China now. But I'm sure Taiwan and Mexico used the same paint when I was younger, and China probably bought it from those countries on close out. It appears that companies are so gun shy, they over think the worst case scenarios, and then push the emergency button to avoid any type of lawsuit that may occur from some freak accident. For instance, I never once came close to hanging myself on the cord to the blinds while jumping on the bed. And I jumped on the bed a lot! But my parents didn't even consider suing the company that made the chest of drawers, for having 90 degree edges, when I flew head first into it and had to have stitches in my eyebrow. There were no qualms over bad design on the school desk I fell from or the makers of the bed, (with a bedpost), that my arm hit and shattered my elbow. It was my fault. No one else was to blame when my friend's older brother threw a screwdriver, and it stuck into the back of his little brother's head. We were attempting this with our eyes closed. This was not oversight on the behalf of the screwdriver manufacturer to fail to put a warning label on the screwdriver, saying you should keep your eyes open while throwing your screwdriver. The chain link fence people never put a disclaimer for those of us who decided to lick an icicle in the wintertime, warning you that your tongue would freeze to the fence. Do you remember how hot the metal slide was at the park in the dead of summer? Yeah, it burned the back of your legs the first time down, but you kept going back for more until your skin toughened, and then it was fun. It didn't matter that our Halloween costumes weren't flame retardant. There were no recall on seat belts in automobiles. Seat belts were an option until 1972. It's just simply amazing we've lived through all of this danger, surrounding us at all times. I guess the generations after us are more fragile, and perhaps need the extra protection. Honestly, these are things I really don't worry about. Even as a kid, there was no chance of keeping me in a bubble! I had a world to conquer in my unsafe clothing, with my toxic toys, and my use of household tools and products for entertainment purposes only! I may live on the edge today, and attempt to drink out of the hose:)

Transcending Generations

You can tell the worth of a good comedian, if he can coin a term, or catch phrase, and have it become a part of everyday conversation, no matter where you may happen to find yourself, locally or abroad. Then, when the quip is expressed by someone who is actually younger than when the performance took place, that's just stellar that it's being carried on by the next generation. Over the weekend, we're all in my truck, cruising along, and listening to a Kings of Leon cd. Side point - Kings of Leon rock! A certain song starts to play, and my youngest daughter says, "I think it needs more cowbell". Of course this gets a chuckle from everyone in the truck, but I got to thinking afterward, has she seen that SNL skit? I think Will Ferrell did that before she was even born. Kudos to Will Ferrell for doing something so brilliantly funny, that it has stuck. My seven year old has developed the sense to figure out comedic irony and satire. I'm not sure if I should thank Will Ferrell for helping to teach my daughter this quality. She's the kind of person who may start working up her own material. I may have a class clown in the making. Her older sister is very quick witted also, but she likes to use her wit to completely destroy a person's self confidence, or self worth. When she lets a zinger fly, just hope it doesn't hit you in the side of the head on the way to its target. It will hurt and possibly leave a bruise.

Just Like Grandpa

Well the fence building project was a smashing success. It's finished and my cousin has a beautiful privacy fence, that from the outside appears to be a fortress. That was his objective. So after we wrapped up the last few boards and screws, put our tools away, and cleaned up the yard a bit, my cousin treated us to Famous Dave's. Now I'm the type of person who can go, go, go, all day long, and the minute I stop working and relax, my muscles start to feel very fatigued. Then I drink a beer, and forget about it! So as I'm preparing my plate full of barbecue scrumptiousness, I accidentally drop my napkin on the floor. As I bend over to pick it up, I release a groan out of partial pain, partial protest that I dropped it in the first place. Someone asked if I was in that much pain, and I said, "Well, my dogs are barking". I know for a fact, everyone in the room under the age of 35, probably had no idea what that phrase meant. It was something my grandfather used to say all the time, when describing how his feet felt at the end of a work day. I used to think some of his sayings were a little on the corny side, but I would never tell him that. Now that I'm older, and starting to feel the ill effects of working like a 25 year old, but in a 44 year old body, these sayings of my grandfather seem to fit. It's kind of a funny way of saying, "My feet are killing me", and not sound quite so whiny about it. Everyone knows your feet hurt, but whining about it makes them irritated with you. So I find myself, as time marches on, using these once 'ridiculous' sayings, that Grandpa used to say. I guess I'm just practicing to be the old guy someday.

Tom Sawyer

My cousin asked me several weeks ago to help him build a privacy fence. Of course I obliged before considering anything else that might be happening in my life on that date. So this is the weekend I've lent my 'grunt skills', sprinkled with an occasional carpentry skill. (Thank you carpenters, for teaching me little tidbits). So my cousin has called on family members (current and ex), along with a friend who happens to be an electrician. He's in a construction trade, surely he knows how to build a fence! So there's not one of us who has been trained as a carpenter, but honestly, a privacy fence is not rocket science. Now my cousin, who happens to be an auto mechanic, announced early on in the project, that he's just not built for this kind of work. He is correct. His mind is geared (sorry for the pun) toward machinery, and making mini combustible explosions of fossil fuels, within a cast steel or aluminum block. His job requires a little more precision and little less brute strength most of the time. So throughout the day, while most of us were digging holes, setting posts, mixing concrete, cutting through tree roots, putting up pickets, he was doing things he felt more comfortable with. He worked hard, but in a different manner. There was a moment when he had a stroke of genius, and put together a post extraction contraption. It involved wooden posts bolted together, a chain, and a pulley system with a tool called a 'come along'. We had some remaining metal posts that needed to be discarded, but were firmly cemented in. This engineering marvel made the job ten times easier. He also spent the day 'gophering'. We needed 10' 2x4's, more bags of concrete, new sawz all blades, and beer. Unlike Tom Sawyer, he was on site for the majority of the day, but like Tom Sawyer, he did get his fence finished with a little help from his friends.

Boys and Their Games

I remember growing up in Northwest Omaha, the neighborhood I lived in was teeming with kids. A blue collar, semi Catholic neighborhood with kids from newborn to teens. I was seven when we moved to this part of town, and was somewhat heartbroken when I had to leave behind my two best buds (Trevor and Bill) from the Benson area. Little did I realize, the area of town we were moving to had so many kids living in it, that I was bound to find some new friends. In a 2 - 3 block radius, we had enough kids to play football, baseball, kick the can, hide and go seek in the dark, war, snowball fights, racing dirt bikes on a homemade trail on a vacant lot, and did I mention football?. Myself and another kid my age were about the two oldest on the block. I take that back. There were teenagers, but they were too busy smoking pot, and making out with one another. So then there was our age bracket, in which I was one of the oldest. So when it came time to square off and make up teams, I was usually a captain. Since my cousin lived four houses down the street from me, he was an automatic first round draft choice on my team. It didn't matter how good he was, blood is thicker than water, thus the first round status, along with the big paycheck. My main opponent, James, has a brother the same age as my cousin, so his first choice was also obvious. Then we started drafting for talent. There always seem to be one or two kids left over, so we had some replacements if someone needed a spell. The competition was fierce, and sometimes ended up with opposing players standing toe to toe, ready to go at it! And you thought that was only in professional sports. This was all at a time when there were no special training camps for kids interested in sports. We had leagues we could join, but no off season training for individuals who excelled. The street out in front of our house was the training camp. This is where all great athletes started, in the streets, vacant lots, playgrounds, frozen ponds, empty parking lots, wherever kids could find enough room to play a game. So last night, I had to tune in to the NFL draft to see where my new favorite football player was going to reside, and which team I would now have to root for. While watching Mr. Suh get drafted to the Detroit Lions, it took me back to my adolescent days playing in the street with my friends. I just got to thinking about selecting our teams and teammates, and things really haven't changed from the time we were kids, to the time a person is selected to play in the NFL. Sure, the pay is better, but picking your team is no different than sandlot ball. Little did I realize, I was not only playing backyard football to become a star someday, but being a captain was also training me to be a general manager.