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.