Swinging On A Star

He was an ordinary looking guy. Slightly balding, a shade under six feet with a penchant for flannel shirts. Originally from Nipawin, Saskatchewan, he was anything but ordinary. He was actually the one guy that kept Eric Holder, Janet Napolitano and their crack security forces up late into the wee hours. To them he was simply known as Johnny the Terrorist and they kept a close eye on his comings and goings as he moved about the Great White North.

How this simple physicist/electrical engineer had come by his status as America's most feared terrorist was cloaked in mystery. After-all, he had a home in Denver, Colorado, drank American beer, worked for a U.S. corporate entity, paid taxes and had lived eleven months out of the past year in that resort haven known as Antarctica right smack dab on the South Pole. Maybe it was the way he dressed when taking his morning walk down there in 65 degree below zero weather and the wind howling along at 45 MPH. I mean he did look a little slumped over and a bit suspicious. Maybe it was his little habit of playing with lasers? After-all, that was what the insane Chief Inspector Dreyfus was going to use to eliminate London in the movie "The Return of the Pink Panther." Thank God for Clouseau!"

To the people that knew him in the States, the one's that drank heavily and patronized a sinister Irish Pub called Lansdowne, (The Irish could never spell) he seemed a friendly sort, certainly not an ideologue bent on our destruction. He really wasn't a seventy two virgin's kind of guy, and as a matter of fact he was hard pressed with one. He recalled one evening that the only virgins he was familiar with were the one's back in the seventh grade and he was quite sure, what with Canadian's being overly horny from the cold, that they were probably classified differently by now. He was never seen reading the Bible, the Koran, the Torah, or even The Farmer's Almanac, yet if Janet Napolitano was on your case, you musta read something. Maybe, it was all that math he took in college. That'd drive most people over the edge. All we knew in Denver was they weren't letting him back in the States come hell or high water.

It was baffling to say the least. I mean, his lawn wouldn't need to be fertilized just yet and the taxes weren't due until April, but damn, when you'd just spent eleven months in Antarctica studying Global Warming, shooting lasers into the air a guy'd like to sleep in his own house and soak up a few warm February days in Denver before heading back to the coldest, driest place on Earth. Something was amiss, but we had received word that Janet and Eric Holder were actually patrolling the Canadian Border with matching Toyota Prius's, (The breaks were fixed) and they both were sporting a picture of Johnny, taken the a year after he'd graduated, and it was pasted on the dash boards of their cars.

Back at The Department of Home Land Security they were analyzing voice recordings they had received from tapping his friend's phones and they were trying to understand if there was some sort of code in the conversation. For example in one excerpt Johnny's heard saying to an unidentified friend, "I haven't seen a pair of pink thongs in over a year and I'm getting sick and tired of drinking Labatts up here. I'd kill for a hand crafted beer or for that matter a hand job!" Hand job??? There had to be something in that and the D.H.S. was determined to crack the code. There was also this little piece of troubling information from his past.

It came to light that Johnny had worked with toxic chemicals when he was in his late teens. That little tidbit had come across Eric Holder's desk a month ago and for him, it was the little detail that tied everything together for America's top lawyer. When Johnny was but seventeen he'd had a pet Skunk named of all things, "Stinky."

"There! Right there!" Holder screamed to his aids, "There's the little detail we've missed! This S.O.B. had a skunk! Not only is owning a wild animal against the law down here, but it was a Skunk! for Christ Sakes" An aid interrupted, "But Boss, he was living in Canada and a citizen at the time and lots of Canadian's own Skunks. They use them to drive away the Moose. The Moose hate Skunks!" "I don't give a whip about that!" screamed Holder, "This looks suspicious to me. Get Napolitano on the phone now!"

So there we were. Simple folks in our own right, American's, proud carriers of the flag and it turns out one of our own, well kinda our own, was a terrorist and not being allowed back into the country to see to his house, to do some additional training for work before flying right back out after getting drunk one last time for Antarctica. Then one of our smarter colleagues at the Pub hit on a quick solution to the problem. He got ahold of Johnny and instructed him to go purchase a small five kiloton nuke or at least a few bags of Ammonia and fertilizer and to strap whichever one on his back in one of those nice Kelty backpacks and then to be sure and buy a one way ticket to Denver, making sure he paid for it in Canadian Loonies and while purchasing the ticket he should chant something from the Koran, or the Catholic church or at least from The Dark Side of the Moon, preferably "The Great Gig in the Sky," but to be damn sure he was passionate about it and that should turn the trick.

Well, it worked! We're meeting Johnny the terrorist tonight at the Pub. It seems that upon arrival they read him his rights, hailed him a cab and told him to get lost. Turns out a lot of them D.H.S. guys take vacations this time of year. A bit odd if you ask me, but nobody's asking, at least not yet. God I hope he leaves the bomb at home!

I was down at the Pub the other evening contemplating the wonders of Obama Care, my underwear, and welfare when I turned to my right and there in all his glory was Father Kelby. Adorned in a button down hat and matching Soccer shirt he smiled at me, downed his beer and said, “Now that I’m pissed up it’s time to go tend to my flock.” With that he whirled around, side stepped a chair, looped around a woman, fumbled with the door and was gone.

I pondered that for a minute and then determined his “Flock” was in for a treat that evening when they received his sermon. He was certainly an English clergyman that was indeed full of the “Spirit.” As I was thinking of all the possible subjects that Father Kelby could address that evening following his consumption of four beers and a snoot of something sweet smelling in a glass snifter a voice from behind me said, “Bloody shitty day this has been. You American’s are a pain in the butt you are. How are ya mate?”

It was my English friend Justin. I replied, “I’m good Justin, did you have a rough day?” He looked at me with exasperation and said, “What is it with you American’s and the non-stop questions? You’re an insecure bunch that you are. Bruce, a Guinness please and hurry!”

Justin had recently arrived from England with his lovely wife and two daughters and was adjusting to life in Capitalist America. I always took pity on him and tried to help him understand the culture and why we did what we did. I figured I’d better answer his question so I replied, “Remember Justin, Americans are nothing more than the world’s dysfunctional people. We couldn’t get along in our native countries, so we all immigrated here and have a goal of driving the rest of the world crazy.” He looked at me and said, “Well you’re doing a bloody good job of it!” He went on, “I get one more person asking me what’s an English guy doing selling computer information for an American company and I’m going bloody bonkers I tell you! You blokes don’t exactly have a handle on the Queen’s English yourselves.” He pounded down the Guinness. “Bruce, another one mate, quickly please! Americans you can have em, that’s for sure.”

While I was absorbing the negativity concerning the fatherland I noticed that someone was writing furiously to my left. It was Tony, another Englishman.  I smiled and said, “Hey Tony, watcha doing?” Without even looking up he said, “Writin me will, that’s what I’m doing.” “What?” I asked, “Why would you be writing your will, er especially on a napkin for heaven’s sake?” He looked at me like I might be the stupidest person he’d ever met, or even worse an American. “For heaven’s sake, well I guess you got that part right. I’m writing my will because based on my research today the planet Niburu will approach in early 2012 and once aligned with the proper galaxy’s, we’re toast. I ‘m making sure I’m prepared.” I kinda gave him that “Huh?” look and said, “What’s the planet Niburu?” He studied me for a second and said, “I can’t believe you’re asking me that. You Americans won’t be dominating the world for long once ole Niburu arrives. It’s gonna kick your bloody butts and then it’s gonna put an end to this planet once and for all, you wait and see if I’m not right.” Not trying to be an argumentative American I asked, “What good’s the will then if it’s the end of the world?”

He fixed me with a cold stare and didn’t move. Then wadding up the napkin and tossing it at me he said, “You American’s are a pain in the ass! You always have to be right about everything don’t you!” As I ducked I heard Justin say, “Here, here, I’ll drink to that.” Yup, I’ve never seen an Irish Pub quite like this one. I just can’t wait to meet Englishman number four. He ought to be a treat. 

I was sitting at the bar last Monday preparing to enjoy a beer and I could see, it was for the most part a slow night. I was feeling a tad down as I had violated a sacred trust earlier in the day and my conscience wouldn't give me any rest. You see, on Friday I had been entrusted with another man's Dutch Pastry and following a moment of weakness and hunger Tuesday morning, I had torn it to shreds and devoured a large portion of it. As I finished wiping the crumbs from my face my cell phone rang. It was a man named Ivan on the phone, the very person to whom the Dutch Pastry belonged to and I felt like the proverbial child with his hand in the cookie jar.

The phone squawked, "Bill, Ivan here, ah, I thought I'd come over to your place and pick up that pastry you've been holding for me." Boy did I feel busted and the "Look" I got from the "Eye" doctor when he arrived to claim his treat wasn't something I'd soon forget. He was a strapping 6' 5" of Nebraskan and none too pleased to be getting what was left of his pastry. I decided I was going to drink an additional beer that evening to see if I couldn't get that "Look" and the words, "Well, I sure as hell hope you enjoyed my Dutch pastry you pig," out of my mind. I was humiliated.

As I sat there I suddenly felt a cold dark chill come over me. I looked to my right and then to my left. It was the Pub's lady manager and she had come forth to glare. No one knew her name, but on rare occasions she would walk to the far end of the bar and glare at each and every one of us. I looked down so as to avoid the cold gaze. I knew she relished tossing people out and as this was the only place I could afford to drink at, I made no eye contact. There was a hissing noise and then, just like that, she was gone. I breathed a small sigh of relief having escaped with my seat at the bar still intact.

A couple of minutes later Bruce the bartender appeared. As he walked towards me he wobbled awkwardly sort of like a cart with one round wheel and a square wheel. Because he was wobbling his head bounced back and forth like one of those bobble head dolls. I smiled at him and said, "Heh Bruce." I wasn't prepared for what followed. With a look that could kill he said, "Don't you start on me mister or your butt's out of here! I've got hemorrhoids that feel like they've been basted in Cajun hot sauce, gout in my right foot and a splitting head ache. So help me God you order anything that requires me to bend, squat, or lift and I'll toss your rear outa here so fast you'll think you just dreamed about coming down here tonight!" Well, he seemed serious and as I said, this was the only place I could afford drink at so I offerd, "Your pick big fella." As he poured whatever it was he picked he said, "Hemorrhoids and I have to deal with ass holes like you. Ha, ha, that was funny, I crack myself up sometimes. Ha, crack myself up! My cracks cracking, that's my frigging problem!"

Well I took my beer and continued to keep my head down. I slowly looked to my left and realized that Mike, the angry young man, had sat down a couple of seats to my left. Pleasantly I said, "Hey Mike, how are you?" He replied, "Kiss my butt, jerk off!" I determined he was just fine as the reply from him was quite normal. Maybe his negative Karma would be of help to Bruce as he dealt with his physical crisis. You know, this was shaping up to be one of those nights where I like to go to the Pub, keep to myself and ponder the wonders of life, or if that fails, the best looking woman sitting across the bar from me. This was obviously one of those evening's. Bruce glared my way, "I suppose you want another one?" I didn't smile and simply nodded yes.

Just then there was a commotion to my left and it was my Cuban friend Manny. "Bill, you have no idea how stressed I am today." "What's wrong?" I asked. He replied, "I'm going to have a baby any minute now and I'm not even at the hospital. We're talking three centimeters man!" I sat there at first somewhat nonplussed and then I offered, "Why don't you start breathing rhythmically and I'll go in back and ask for some hot water?" He looked at me funny and then at Mike, the angry young man. Mike just shook his head and said: "Idiot, the man's an idiot! You're so frigging stupid." Manny grabbed at his cell phone and said "Hello, hello? What? No Bill, I don't want any Dutch Pastry! I'm having a baby any minute now and you're offering me Dutch Pastry? You gone Loco or what man?" He looked at Mike and Mike said, "He's an idiot too!"

The whole Dutch pastry problem was Bill, the bachelor banker's fault. He'd gone back to visit relatives in Iowa and had become enamored with Dutch pastry. He must have brought back eight cases of the stuff and then he realized it would go stale if it wasn't eaten. The next thing you know he was calling everybody up and giving it to them as gifts. That's how I got into trouble, holding Ivan's pastry while being quite hungry. It was a bad combination to be sure. Now I carried a great guilt as one that couldn't be trusted with another man's Dutch pastry. What next, their lady friends?

Well the air was literally filled with a crackling tension. My, whatever it was I was drinking, was flatter than a pancake but I wasn't about to say anything to Bruce. Mike looked down the bar at guy sitting quietly looking at his cell phone and said, "Put that cell phone away and what are you smiling about?" Manny was furiously working his cell phone and saying things like, "Why in the hell don't they call? Damn, Lavita SUCKS! What's this? Now what? Another text message from Bill!" Message: "Manny, the Dutch Pastry is from Iowa!" Mike growled, "He's such a dope!" All of a sudden Eric the United Pilot showed up with a blond chick none of us had ever seen before. I looked at my watch and it was indeed the following week so the Earth's rotation, the Ocean tides and Eric's weekly girlfriends were still properly aligned and properly synched.
Eric said with a smile,"Hey everybody, how's it going? Hi Mike." "Up your's!" Mike growled back. Spying Manny, "Heh Manny!" Manny in an exasperated voice, "What? hey man, I don't have time for that, I'm having a baby." Eric looked at me. "Ah Bill?" I replied pleasantly, "Hey, nice shirt fly boy." Just then Bruce appeared and he said to Eric, "What? What the hell are you doing here; can't you see I'm in pain? I suppose you think I'm going to take your order and wait on you hand and foot?"

Well this had Eric back on his heels for a minute, but he was after all an airline pilot and they trained for everything including this scenario in the flight simulators, so he said with a smile, "I'd like to introduce you guys to my neighbor Bambi O'Reilly." Good grief I thought to myself, he's dating an Irish stripper, what next? Well there were looks exchanged, a couple of grunts and Mike the angry young man even said something nicer like, "Yeah, whatever."

I pondered the atmosphere and determined that maybe I should have stayed home and studied the Bhagavad Gita but I was determined to hang on and if Bruce approved, maybe even have that third beer and that would just about make my evening. Just then another friend, I guy named Dodger showed up and yelled, "All four of ya are morons! Hey Eric, who's the babette? I swear I know her from somewhere." Bambi looked at Dodger and said, "Shaboom big fella." Well ole Dodger didn't miss a beat. He grinned that Dodger grin of his and said, "Dollar billsville, that's where I know you from! Hey Bruce, I'll have my usual." To which Bruce replied pleasantly, "The hell you will. Gotta bend over for that and that ain't happening mister! You'll have a beer and like it!"

Dodger kinda blinked and looked at me and said, "What's with him?" I smiled pleasantly and said, "Hemorrhoids again, can't you tell?" Dodger shook his head slowly and said, "Not that again. Drank beer for a week the last time he grew them." Bruce buzzed by and said to no one in particular, "I wonder if Aloe, Cucumber cream and Neosporin would at least relieve the itch?" And then not a second later I heard Manny scream, "It's a boy!" The Bhagavad Gita was starting to sound downright enticing! Then Ivan walked through the door and fixing me in his gaze screamed, "Pig!" I could tell it was going to be a long night.

I got the news the other day that my dear Aunt Mae had passed away right before Thanksgiving. She was ninety two, a grand lady and a long time member of the local Presbyterian Church in Cedar Falls, Iowa. Unfortunately, she passed away in Tennessee while visiting her daughter Jane and her husband Steve which immediately created a bit of a logistics problem. You see the good folks at the Cedar Falls Presbyterian Church had dibs on holding Mae’s funeral.

The next morning when Steve and Jane went to the funeral home in Tennessee to make arrangements to ship my dear aunt home they were told it would cost them a $1.50 a mile. Steve went ballistic, “I ain’t paying no $801 to ship my dear mother-in-law back to Iowa. Ain’t she been through enough without having to suffer this indignity?” Well, the director of the funeral home suggested, they could always fly her back, but of course that would be even more expensive. So Steve huddled with Jane and they announced that, “Seeing how we’re going back to Iowa for HER funeral, she can ride along with us!” Steve instructed the gentleman at the funeral home to “Prepare her for the long journey.”

Well, he probably hadn’t thought that one all the way through. The next thing you know they were standing next a corrugated box from American Container Concepts and written in black magic marker was the name “Mae Peterson, Cedar Falls, Iowa.” Well they had said prepare her for the journey and now they had 534 miles to drive before they could get her safely to the Lambs of Light Funeral Home in Cedar Falls. Granted she was in a card board box, but it was actually a nice one with a real sturdy look to it and nice white nylon rope handles. The outside corners of the box were reinforced and Steve had always heard that American Container Products were first rate. Steve got busy and ripped the back seat out of the minivan and with Jane’s help; they wedged Aunt Mae in on the right side next to the stowaway jack. They placed several cushions strategically around the box to secure it just in case of an emergency stop. Steve didn’t relish the idea of having Aunt Mae sitting in his lap blankly staring into his face if he happened to have a driving mishap.     

Fortunately for them the weather was rather nice and they were able to drive with the windows down a few inches for “Proper Ventilation” and they made sure their stops at the McDonalds along the way were drive-thru events only. As they got ever closer to Iowa Jane kept saying to Steve, “I sure hope she’s alright back there.” Finally he blurted out, “Jane, for Christ sakes she’s dead!” Then a second later he said, “Ah, I didn’t mean to cuss in front of your mother.” Jane just glared at him and then said to the box, “Hang in there Mom and pay no attention to him.” Nine hours later they finally arrived in Cedar Falls. It was a little after nine o’clock and they headed straight for the Lambs of Light Funeral Home to deliver their cargo. Unfortunately, the doors were locked tight as a coffin and there was no one to be found. Jane was frantic, “Now what do we do?” Replied Steve, “We get a room at the motel, that’s what we do.” So they headed for the nearest motel which just happened to be a Comfort Inn.

When Steve had finished checking in he went back to the minivan where he found his wife talking to the corrugated box. Jane was telling her mother not to worry, that they would get her inside in just a few minutes and she hoped the fact that the name of the motel was the “Comfort Inn” was somehow comforting to her mother. Steve rolled his eyes and said, “Let’s get inside and get some rest. It’s been a long day and a long trip.” Jane stood there with her mouth open, “What about mother! We can’t just leave her in the car. Shouldn’t we take her into the room with us?” Steve stood there for a second thinking and then said, “We’re going to look really silly carrying a long corrugated box with your dead mother inside it through the lobby of the motel. I think she’s better off out here where it’s going to be in the thirties tonight if you get my drift.” Jane stood there blinking her eyes. “I can’t believe you just said that! God damn it she’s YOUR mother-in-law! Oops, sorry Mom.”

Steve finally convinced Jane that her mother would be much better off staying in the car, that the cool temperatures would promote a much better viewing tomorrow at the funeral home. Motels tended to have those heaters you couldn’t control and that could spell big problems for Jane’s Mom. Jane finally relented but not before she placed a blanket over the corrugated box to keep her mother warm and gave the box a kiss. Steve just stood there and shook his head. With the van blinking its lights to indicate that Aunt Mae was safely tucked in they slowly made their way back to the room.

Later as they both wearily got ready for bed there was a long silence just before turning in. Jane got into bed first and just laid there thinking of her mother. Finally Steve climbed into bed beside her and he gently put his arm around her waist. Jane placed her hand on his arm and held it tight. Suddenly Steve said, “I doubt your mom’s ever hung out in the parking lot of a Comfort Inn all night before.” Jane thought for a second and then whispered, “You know you’re right. She met Daddy in a corn field.” They both giggled and then quietly went to sleep. Tomorrow Aunt Mae would be reunited with the ladies sewing circle from the local Presbyterian Church and she’d once again be amongst her friends.         

As the Thanksgiving Holiday approached I found myself thinking of my Uncle Harold. My Uncle Harold was the center piece of each and every family Thanksgiving dinner for twenty five years. There was one simple reason for this family legacy. Uncle Harold had the ability to render an entire group of heathens quiet and reverent for two plus minutes by virtue of being the only family member that could do a good Thanksgiving rendition of “Grace.” He wasn’t just good; he was marvelous and his prayers were full of style and flowing drama. Sometimes they went on for more than the two allotted minutes and the gravy got cold and then there was the year, 1981 I think it was, where he simply wouldn’t stop and mold started sprouting on the mashed potatoes. It was during those times that Uncle Harold was really in spirit and you didn’t want to mess with spirit, at least not anything you couldn’t drink if you were a part of my family. You only had to worry about the food at Thanksgiving time because “Grace” was Uncle Harold’s domain and he was damn proud of it. Why it was as if Moses himself had stopped by to give a helping hand or in this case a helping prayer. Thanksgiving after Thanksgiving Uncle Harold literally Kicked “Grace” through the family goal posts (The Lions and Packers being respectfully turned off) and thus properly blessed and civilized we could get on with the eating and drinking, with the decided edge towards drinking.

Where Michael Jordan was the face of pro basketball, Brett Farve the face of pro football and Barry Bonds the face of Major League baseball, Uncle Harold was the face of “Professional Grace” throughout my entire adult life. As a young adult and living far away from home I sometimes had to travel more than a thousand miles to get back to Iowa for Thanksgiving, but the thought of Uncle Harold giving grace, those two magical minutes or “More” and wondering whether you might be featured, “Lord, bless Bill and be with him on his long journey home,” always sustained me as the freeway sign said Grand Island, Nebraska, 85 miles. Being featured in Uncle Harold’s Thanksgiving recitation of grace created another smaller but lucrative family industry, the industry of the wager. There were always three or four side bets as to who was going to be featured in this year’s prayer. I usually had a better than fifty percent chance built in because of the sacrifice of distance traveled and besides, I hadn’t been around very much to piss Uncle Harold off. I usually wagered ten bucks on myself and more often than not, collected some sizable gas money.

Where Uncle Harold acquired this unique ability is somewhat of a mystery. He owned a small Roller Mill company and was pretty wealthy and married to my Dad’s sister Mae. I mean if you own a Corn Roller Mill company in Iowa you “ARE” somebody! They were church going people Harold and Mae and he held church going titles like “Elder” and such. Their three kids grew up to be fine young adults and the lone son John became a missionary and he’s currently teaching religion and sanitation somewhere in South America. Despite all this, there was a dark side to Uncle Harold.

Uncle Harold might have been the meanest most demanding customer a restaurant ever served. I was especially sensitive to this because I was a big shot in the restaurant industry at the time and was appalled one day to watch the Michael Jordan of “Grace” reduce a poor innocent waitress into a tearful stuttering heap. I sometimes felt like Uncle Harold might have been a reincarnated former slave owner from the early 1800’s Deep South. I could visualize him giving the lead slave Tobias a few instructions just before gathering the family in the wagon and heading off to Sunday church. There was also the fact that Uncle Harold was an alcoholic and maybe his ability to give the perfect prayer came from some facet of channeling spirit as well as drinking it. There was also the time I watched Uncle Harold jump off the roof of his house and break his leg. Somehow that just didn’t fit one who could take a group of heathens and turn them into pious, grateful, God fearing folk with a simple two minute prayer right before Thanksgiving dinner, so we never ever brought that up. Still, all in all Uncle Harold held every member of the family in the palm of his hand each and every year when the call went out to gather for Thanksgiving Grace.

Generally my Mother and then in later years after she passed, my sister or cousin would give the call to the table. “Hey everybody! It’s time to eat dinner! Uncle Harold would you please say grace?” The last part was totally unnecessary because even my little three year old niece knew who the King of Grace was and it was after all, what I had driven all those miles for. So with everybody putting down their glasses of beer, homemade schnapps, homemade wine, wine in a box, shots of whiskey, and seven and seven’s and with my youngest brother Steve outside puking in a ditch by the driveway, Uncle Harold, hands clasped, would sidle up to the table with eyes closed in preparation for prayer. Of course at that very moment my cousin’s husband Larry would be in the middle of slurring another dirty joke to my cousin Dave but fortunately Uncle Harold always started grace with the famous “Clearing of the throat” sound and that silenced everything and everybody. Why outside even the cows and chickens stood quietly when they heard the clearing of Uncle Harold’s throat. My brother Steve would rollover onto his side in the ditch and wipe his face off out of respect and Larry would catch himself in mid punch line and lower his head. Uncle Harold, like a great tenor would begin. There’d be one more clearing of the throat, probably because these magical words required a clear and firm voice, especially considering the audience. “Aahhrruummpphh, aaahhhrrruuummmpphh, aarruummpphh” For God’s sake, I’d think to myself, put it in gear. “Dear Heavenly Father we ask that you bless this food before us this day.” I always liked that first sentence. When you’re hungry there’s nothing better than mashed potatoes, turkey and those little snow peas and knowing they’ve been properly blessed. I would literally start drooling at this point. “And Lord, bless each and every one of the assembled here today. Bless their families and be with my nephew Bill on his long arduous journey back to Utah.” I’d flinch ever so perceptively and think to myself, “SCORE!”Boy did I like getting top billing in Uncle Harold’s prayers! While he continued I started adding up my take, ten, fifteen, twenty. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my brother in law mouth the words “Damn!” Uncle Harold continued, “Lord bless those that are away from their families on this day and be with those that have lost loved ones this past year.” God, what style he had. He was the “Mozart of Grace” I swear. “Be with each of us on this special day and help us remember the many blessings that thou hast bestowed upon us!” That part of grace usually followed Uncle Harold’s having had to have listened to a couple of family members bitching about the President and his handling of current political affairs, a man I might add that Uncle Harold had voted for. It was tough being a Republican in a Socialist State like Iowa. “We ask you Lord to bless the marriage of Carla and Gilbert.” Carla and Gilbert! Who in the hell is Carla and Gilbert? I did a quick review of the family and there wasn’t a Carla and Gilbert as far as I could tell. I snuck a peek and didn’t see anybody that could be mistaken for a Carla or Gilbert and there were plenty of looks and eyes darting my way as if maybe I knew who the mysterious Carla and Gilbert were. Oh, well, even the great ones slip up once in a while. “We bless and rejoice in the knowing that you sent your son Jesus here so that we may be saved.” At this point it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Nobody, I mean nobody wanted to be caught glancing around, fidgeting, snickering or passing gas at this juncture of grace lest they be struck down by a bolt of lightning with Uncle Harold shouting, “Smite the heathen!” Then there would be the dramatic five second pause before Uncle Harold said, “We ask these blessings in thy name, Amen.” Everybody would raise their heads, smile and thank Uncle Harold. Then with someone going outside to pee and fetch my brother Steve the scrum to eat would begin.

Though hungry, I was always just a little sad and depressed at this time because Uncle Harold went back to being the real Uncle Harold and that quiet couple of minutes had now become a scene of utter chaos and destruction as the heathens; my family fought over drum sticks and macadamia nut casserole. Someone always got cut up a little bit in the jostling for the best pieces of turkey so you had to be on your toes. I knew that someday the two minutes or more with Uncle Harold would be but a fond memory and I hoped and prayed I had at least three hundred and sixty five more days to wait before this scene would play out again and Uncle Harold would be center stage standing between the mashed potatoes and the Jell-O delight. All in all, it was good to be with my family, the food and drink were truly a blessing and thankfully my brother Steve had stopped puking and was now quietly asleep in the basement. Another wonderful Thanksgiving day with the Kenny’s, Mohr’s, Britt’s, and Weber’s was well under way and if you were indeed related to them, you might as well suck it up and enjoy yourself. Besides, I knew that I had once again witnessed the master of grace and I was filled with a special gratitude on this special day.

Later as we helped carry Uncle Harold to his car, we knew he would be in good hands because Aunt Mae always drove home after dinner and she was into abstinence, especially since that time he’d driven them through Clyde Bodein’s corn crib. After his passing a couple of family members had tried their hand at saying grace and filling Uncle Harold’s shoes, but nobody came close and my brother Gary was actually booed one year which caused me to worry about whether it was possible for your food to be blessed when people were booing the grace giver. It was a tough crowd trained over the years in a style only Uncle Harold could produce. Gary was way into a personal conversational style with God that had the rest of us feeling left out. But after someone had again fetched Brother Steve from outside, (this time he was located in the barn) I was happy to discover the food tasted just fine and so I ate my fill. Eventually we decided to scratch grace, what with Uncle Harold being gone and knowing that we were

From Merles Place

“We’ll be right back!” Jeez Louise I’m gettin sick and damn tired of those words. I got all worked up the other day cause my favorite football team, "Da Bears" was playing the pukes from Cincinnati. I settled myself onto the couch in my officialy logo’d Bear Snuggy, with a snoot of Jimmy Beam close by ready to watch “FOOTBALL!” Now listen closely brothers and sisters. “I turned the Boob tube on to watch Football.” I didn’t turn the damn thing on to watch commercials and promos about some dufus comedy that the supposed experts say is the funniest show ever. Yeah right and then it gets cancelled two weeks later on account watching paint dry was a lot funnier.

Anyways I took a sip of my Beam, settled back all comfy in my snuggy and then spent the next thirty minutes listening to several boobs goin on like they actually knew a thing or two about the game of football. Of course after each asinine comment the “Lead Boob” would promo a television show about Cross Dressing Christian Couples and then say, “We’ll be right back.” Unfortunately for me, he and his trio of “Boobettes” fulfilled their promise and they did indeed come right back. Well, finally after six minutes of commercials, one where sexy girls float up a guys nostril while he shaved and then another one where a guy my age talked about how you could give Mr. Winkie a drug and get laid that very night and then finally a guy my age was a talkin about peeing too much. Finally, THEY ACTUALLY KICKED THE DAMN FOOTBALL OFF AND SOMEBODY GOT TACKLED and then, then, then they broke for another commercial where I learned about feminine Hygiene and Beer that would attract beautiful half naked women and then finally they got back to the game.

Well on the very first play the quarterback throws an incompletion and the “Color Guy" who was actually white said the ball was poorly thrown. Well damn, how’d he figure that one out seeings how it sailed five feet over the receivers head? On the very next play the tail back fumbled and, you guessed it, they said, “We’ll be right back.” Then I was treated to some guys messing with Sasquatch, a drug that’d probably kill ya if ya ever took it and a Taco Bell commercial that was promoting a hell of a lot more than taco’s. Why even ole Merle turned a tad pink in the face. I mean, women dressed in black promotin tacos? What's this world coming to? Then it was back to the football game, at least I think there was a game going on. So, after being treated to six replays of the dumb ass fumbling the football, the other team marches up to the line of scrimmage. Of course the quarterback didn’t like the play he had called so he immediately calls a time out and you guessed it, the magic words “Annnd We’ll be right back” were uttered and I was then treated to a laxative, a lizard selling insurance and Neanderthals bowling before it was back to the game where the idiot white colored guy told me the quarterback had been confused with the defense, that’s why he called a time out. DUH, Really?

I finally gave up, turned the damn game off and put my “Girls gone Wild” 3D video on and spent the rest of my Sunday afternoon marveling at the wonders of the fairer sex while I provided my own, highly insightful, commercial free commentary and not once did I say “We’ll be right back.” After all, I had the remote and all I had to do was just hit the damn pause button when we had to go to the John and I was the only one there, so there was no sense in tellin myself what I already knew. I knew I'd be right back. No sense beatin a dead horse! Beam me up Scotty!

I got up this morning after a really good night’s sleep and headed downstairs to make some coffee.  As I neared the bottom of the steps, IT HAPPENED! I doddered! I swear, I DODDERED!  I even looked it up in my Miriam Webster’s Dictionary. There was no doubt, it was definitely a dodder. She said: (To progress feebly and unsteadily. Infirm and enfeebled.) Yup, cause what I did was miss the second to the last step at the bottom of the stairs and fell ass over applesauce up against the front door. That’s an official dodder according to Miriam!

Stunned and shaken I picked myself up and headed for the kitchen to make my coffee. I noticed the empty bag of Fritos from last night’s highly nutritious dinner on the kitchen counter so I grabbed it and headed to the garage to toss it in the trash.  As I stepped into the garage I just happened to glance over in the far corner and there staring back was my snow shovel. The mere sight of it pulled a muscle in my back. I just looked at it for crying out loud! Dodder? Did I just dodder again? Then I realized that I was standing in the middle of the garage in my bare feet, in my under pants and it was five above outside! My God, that’s strong evidence of doddering! What next? I gingerly skipped back in the house and looked for the Advil. Where was the damn Advil? More doddering? My mind was racing and all I could think of was the BLE words. Words like SIMPLE, FEEBLE, IMMOBILE, and PIDDLE.

I decided to skip the coffee. You can blame that one on PIDDLE and I headed carefully back upstairs to shower. I also needed to go to the bathroom. Didn’t I just go? For that matter, where was the bathroom? Doddering? After taking care of business, again? I turned on the shower and tripped stepping over the edge of the bath tub and almost went into shock because the water was ice cold. It was ice cold because that’s where I had it set. “Doddering,” I was sure of it. I got the water steaming hot and reached for the soap. AHHH! The same back muscle I pulled looking at the snow shovel flared again and I dropped the soap. Not being able to bend over I decided to try and pick the bar of soap up with my toes. I just about had it when all of a sudden I slipped, watched as the soap dish did a three sixty and found myself up-side down in the tub, the bar of soap was resting on my stomach and I had a wedgy involving my Biotin B-Complex Thickening Shampoo and my butt. Big “Dodder” that one. I decided against continuing with the shower. A doddering person shouldn’t be anywhere near water, he might drown. I carefully dried myself off treating the towel as a potential deadly weapon. I didn’t dare shave in my condition. You don’t mix doddering and razor blades and I’ll be damned if I was going to stick a tooth brush in my mouth. I started to get dressed and realized I had my underwear on backwards. “Doddering?” Then I bent over to tie my shoes and started to grunt like a pig. “Doddering?” The socks didn’t match either unless one argyle and one black sock are a new fashion statement. My God, what on earth was going on? Yesterday, I went to bed a former power lifter, Mountain Climber, and long distance biker. Today I wake up and I’m a doddering old fool. It comes on that quickly?

I very carefully went back down the steps. It took me five minutes. I wanted to error on the side of caution. I needed some fresh air. I know, I’ll go get the mail. I figured a breath of fresh air would do me good and clear my troubled mind. I stepped outside and started down the driveway when it hit me. Where’s the mail box??? I “Doddered” again. Panic stricken I screamed out, “I’m not an animal, I’m a human being!” What the hell was I doing quoting John Merrick from the “Elephant Man?” My God, what next? Some eight year old boy leading me by the hand up to a police officer going “Officer, I found this nice old man wandering the street. He seems lost.” Great, he’s on TV that evening for saving my ass, get’s a medal and a Citation from the Police Department and I get a blanket, some warm broth and a Paramedic screaming in my face, “CAN YOU FEEL YOUR TOES?” I was in the “Dodder” Zone! Just then there was a back fire down the street. I looked in that direction and DAMN, there’s was the mail box!

With spirits now rising I headed down the street, constantly glancing over my shoulder to keep my house in sight. I opened the mail box and there were three pieces of mail. The first one was from AARP informing me that people my age can now get low cost Life Insurance. (Great!) The second piece of mail was from Robertson’s Mortuary letting me know my “Surviving Family” would be treated kindly. (Gee, that’s nice.)  The third piece was an ad for one of those alarm companies that had this product you wear around your wrist and you can talk to the technician when you can’t get up. Sadly I realized it would probably have come in handy that morning. “Hello, I’m standing in my garage and can’t find my way home!”

 I headed back to house devastated, a certifiable doddering old man when all of a sudden I had a wonderfully lucid thought. “I need a drink. A Scotch!” I was able to safely navigate my way back into the house and then into the kitchen. I grabbed a large coffee cup. (Another lucid thought.) Now, where’s my Scotch? WHERE’S MY SCOTCH???? And then I actually had another lucid thought. It was in the Dish Washer where I had left it. Did I just dodder again? Didn’t matter, I had the Scotch in tow and filled my cup to the brim. Granted, it was 8:48 AM, but I was going through a personal crisis. And then, another lucid thought. (They were “Pouring” in now.) “I wonder what’s on ESPN?” ESPN always let’s a man know he’s got his bearings and that he’s grounded. But just as quickly I wondered: “Where’s the remote?” (I can’t turn the TV on without the remote, WHERE”S THE REMOTE?) I finally found the remote in the empty Fritos bag in the trash can out in the garage. “I “Doddered” again, I was sure of it.

That did it! I was exhausted, on my heels and wrestling with the idea that life going forward would be me as doddering 60 year old fool. (There I’d be driving down the road, “left” turn signal continually flashing while actually turning “right,” heading straight down a one way street, people frantically waving their arms and then a quick left, taking out the fire hydrant, fire trucks, TV cameras, Little blond reporters and the six o’clock news helicopter filming me and the entire aftermath!) I decided to cancel the day. I decided right then and there I was skipping the entire day and going back to bed. Fortunately, the Scotch had made me sleepy. I still had my “Personal Development” expertise and I remembered that one of the very important things a person should do every time they go to sleep is make sure their last thought is a good thought. I settled in and worked on relaxing my breath, and did a little meditation exercise. I wiggled my toes, stretched my legs, relaxed my arms, gently closed my eyes and thought, (DON’T FORGET TO WAKE UP!)    

Hi! Thanks for stopping by! By way of introduction, I’m the “Life’s way too short” guy. I know, it’s hard to believe, but I’m the guy that wants to wake you up and inspire you to be everything you possibly can be. That’s a pretty tall order for an average man like me. Average, you ask? Why, I was so average my parents almost named me “John Generic Kenny,” but they finally relented and named me Bill and skipped the “Generic” middle name altogether. The only gift I think I’m privy to in this world is this internal hour glass of mine that senses the sand relentlessly flowing through the narrow neck in the glass to the inevitable “Time’s up” completion point. Of course, the cruel joke is that right at the moment we die and move on to our next spiritual existence, we suddenly understand “All That Is” and we go “Damn” I wish I’d have taken that belly dancing course when I’d had the chance!” 

And that my friend is my point! You don’t want to be there laying on your death bed, starting to get that floating towards the ceiling sensation and realize you never gave your fabulous tummy its day in the spotlight! I mean, there you are floating slowly upwards towards the very attractive Hunter ceiling fan secure in the knowledge you’re immortal, but kicking still yourself for not taking the course when you had the opportunity; “I coulda knocked em dead in Cairo!” You’re also aware of how easy it would have been to have experienced being a belly dancer, or a writer, or a photographer, or a pilot. Now it’s too late and it would have been such a kick in the britches!

I’m always amazed at how many people I observe, people that seem to have it all, and yet they’re obviously quite unhappy and restless with life. They’ve been told from the time they were little one’s that if you had a good job, earned a couple, three promotions, and worked hard for some forty odd years you could retire and live happily ever after. Of course when you’re young you’re not exactly doing the math which says, “Happily ever after” is a pipe dream if you’re in your sixties, living on Social Security and a small retirement fund and thinking you’re going to be able to “Live it Up!” Nope, you start thinking about this when you’re in your fifties and you suddenly realize you’re not where you thought you’d be at that point in your life. Suddenly you’re going; “Crap” it looks like visiting the Greek Isles is out of the question! I guess I’ll go shopping Walmart instead.” By the way, in case you didn’t know this, the Greek Isles are the better choice in terms of pure joy. Nothing against Walmart, but trust me on this.

So what’s this “Average Man’s” point? Well, it’s that you don’t have to be “Average,” that’s my point. I’ll use myself as the example. I spent thirty years in the “Corporate World” working 50 to 80 hours a week for a few people that enriched themselves based on my hard work. When my father passed away at the ripe ole age of sixty nine, his last two years spent being nauseous as he battled cancer; it sent shock waves through me, shock waves that said; “MY GOD! LIFE REALLY “IS” SHORT!” A great “Truth“ was unveiled to me and I realized I was getting nothing out of working my fool butt off. There were so many things outside of work that I wanted to do. Suddenly, the brevity of this life became a bit of an obsession. My Dad had been here 69 years and then he was gone, retirement be damned. So, this “Average Man” resolved to change that. I went and took dance lessons! Yes! I admit it; I took dance lessons with my wife and I became quite the dancer. We were a classy looking pair out there on the dance floor doing the Rumba! I was amazed, as the hips actually worked in rhythm with the music! I took courses and workshops to improve my photography skills and became a skilled landscape photographer, actually selling images on a stock photo web-site. I began writing, although there might be a small fraction of readers that might possibly question my skill level, but what the hell, critic’s be damned. I wrote a screen play titled “4 Crying Out Loud!” I did, I “ACTUALLY” wrote a screen play. Don’t know if I can sell it, but it was a labor of love I’ll never forget. Intimidated by computers and the Internet I decided to become an Internet marketer and set about learning as much as I could about the Internet and “Marketing” on the Internet specifically. Recently I decided I wanted to learn how to play the guitar. So, I went and got me a “Geeetar” and I’m lovingly strumming away! Now, I’m no Jimmy Page, but I love the sound and the feel and how it soothes my Irish soul.

Now if an average 60 year old man can learn to Rumba, play guitar and fancy himself a photographer, and we didn’t even bring up the 15,000’ volcano in Ecuador I climbed, then why can’t you? If you’re happy, then keep doing what you’re doing. However, if you’re someone that’s got the trappings of success and yet deep down in your heart there’s something still amiss, then let me give you a gentle push. Start listening to “YOU” because you’re the one and only person that can do anything about “YOUR” happiness. Nobody, not your parents, friends, or spouse can really impact your happiness like you can. You may think they can, but why then are you still unhappy? Only you know what really makes you happy, so only you can do anything about it. Hey, it’s probably the reason they invented Karaoke! Trust me on this! All those singers crooning away in front of a bunch of strangers! Why? Because for them it’s fun and it makes them happy! Every last one of us has God given talents and when we’re in our groove, when we’re doing the thing we enjoy, we’re happy.  That’s why we’re here after all! We’re here to experience pure joy! Contrary to popular belief, “Life was meant to be enjoyed!” So remember, I’m the “Life’s too short guy!” Don’t fritter away the years and find yourself floating past the ceiling fan, noticing that it needs to be dusted, and wistfully think, “I had this great stomach, what was I thinking?” Go for it, it’s a short life and it’s “YOUR” life! It’s way more fun to simply “Swing on a Star!”

So there I was, running late again. I had exactly one hour to get downtown to hear my number one American, Al Gore speak at the Denver Center For Performing Arts. He was going to speak for an hour about the threat of Global Warming and the disaster that would surely occur if we didn’t wise up fast and start living “Green Lives.” I had to hurry, I didn’t want to be late and miss one word from this “Messiah” of Earth Preservation.

As I walked in the general direction of where my car was parked under the two feet of October snow, I could barely see three feet in front of me. How was I going to find my car, I wondered? I was pretty sure it was one of the large white humps that we’re just a few feet away. I was so excited and emotional! I was finally going to have the chance to listen to Al come down squarely on them idiot Corporations for destroying the Earth! Yes, there were tears in my eyes of, well, sure I was walking into a full frontal assault of blinding snow, but I preferred to pick the reasons for my tears, so they were for Al.

I was going to listen to Al Gore, the very genius behind the movie “Love Story." I’d shed some tears back in College forty years ago when I had first seen that movie. Ali McGraw made me cry and I had no idea Ryan McNeal was actually playing Al. Well, I picked out the white hump that was sure to be my SUV and began clawing away at the snow. Funny I thought, it’d be perfect if Captain Ahab was adorned along the side of this massive white hump. I chuckled at my clever wit. Oh well, time was running short and I needed to free the vehicle from the tons of snow draped all over it. As I dug, anger swept over me. There was no doubt that the snow I was peeling away from my car was warmer than it was a year ago and I certainly was sweating. Damn it, they’re destroying the Earth, I thought! I finally started to make out the vehicle underneath the snow. It was Blue and my SUV was Silver. Wrong car!

I glanced at my watch to check the time. Well I tried to glance at my watch. It was under my thermal coat, my Eddie Bauer heavy shirt and my long johns. I’d have to estimate the time until I could locate, unearth and start my car. There, there! The wind had blown the snow off the grill of the white hump next to the Blue SUV that I had just uncovered. That was my license plate all right! I kicked some more snow away and there was my Obama bumper sticker and I started to dig furiously. Finally the windows were clear and I had the two feet of snow on the hood cleared off. I was getting excited. As soon as I cleared the four foot drift by the driver’s door I was going to be on my way. Sweating and grunting I forced my way into the car and heard the rumble of the engine as I turned the key. I was off!

As I made my way towards downtown Denver fifteen miles away, while traveling at a safe ten miles per hour, I reflected on the great man I was about to see. This was probably the greatest American ever and that’s with apologies to ole George Washington. I mean this man invented the Internet while serving as Clinton’s VP, he’d won the Nobel Peace Prize thus wresting away the title “Greatest Democrat” from Jimmy Carter and now he was literally saving the world just like Christopher Reeves in all those Superman movies. How a man could move through several different realms as a great political leader, great artist, great scientist and do it with such ease baffled me.

Damn I thought, look at the pollution these fools are spewing from their cars! Cars sitting in the snow just idling away were one of the evils Al had warned all of us about. We needed to get rid of the damn things. Just think how much nicer the world would be if we were all moving along in horse drawn sleighs or by dog sled. I knew I was going to be late, but even catching the last of my hero’s remarks would be worth it. I turned on my radio as I approached downtown Denver in hopes of catching some news, any news the announcer was jabbering away. What timing, the announcer was saying, saying, what, saying, WHAT? The Al Gore speech had been cancelled due to cold weather and he was going to speak in Orlando this evening instead. Why the S.O.B.!!!!