Admit it, how many of you saps out there have fallen for the ole "banana in the tailpipe" routine during Christmas? Don't play stupid with me; that's usually my role and I know when the guys out there are being timid. I'm referring to the ploy usually taken by the spousal unit where upon she gets you to agree to NOT exchanging gifts during the Holiday Season. Yep, I thought so...it happens quite frequently. It happened to me last year.
It wasn't the first time where I fell victim to the cunning and manipulative mind that is Claudia Laugisch and I thought she really meant it when she said, "don't get me anything." Valentine's Day of 2005 was one of those occasions where she stated this; this particular day comes right after the holidays and we just didn't have a whole lot to spend on each other. I knew even the slightest gesture was better than nothing and even though we weren't exactly swimming in dough I said, "what the hell" and got her some candy, flowers and a Neil Diamond cd. I was proud of myself...until she handed me my Valentine's bag. I was thinking how sweet it was of her to get me some candy and a card. Oh yeah, there was candy and a card alright...not to mention the 1983 Sports Illustrated Collectors edition of NC STATE's National Basketball Championship. You know the one with Sidney Lowe, Thurl Bailey and Derek Whitenburg on the cover. It was in mint condition; she bid for it on eBay. I wanted to stab an ice pick in my throat and Needless to say, the Niel Diamond cd resides in my truck.
Fast forward to last Christmas. A very similar scenario, trying to make ends meet and our budget is just a little tight...she suggests questionably, "lets not exchange gifts this year?" I eye her quizzically and my mind races back to the shattered and broken carcass of my psyche after the Valentine's Day massacre in 2005, "Are you sure about that?" I ask. She is quite adamant in her response and I think nothing of it as we found ourselves completely swamped trying to prepare for Christmas, a wedding and working our asses off. Last year was one of those weird years where we were extremely busy in December.
We spent the joyous occasion at Claudia's sister's place in DC as we usually do. It's Christmas morning and the kids, Max and Joe are making out like bandits with their gifts and it's a special year as Brenda and Pete have welcomed baby Evie to their family the previous July and it's her first Christmas. I'm having a great time watching the kids and Max hands me a present to open. I look at it and see the card, it read, "To Mark, From Claudia." You can well imagine my shock of seeing this present before me, especially as it was the last one under the tree. There I am, with her family starring at me as I open the gift...I'm praying that it's underwear, a tie, anything that says "inexpensive and frugal" so I can play it off like it's no big deal.
It was a surreal moment as I pealed back the wrapping and lifted up a box that read, "GARMIN." I was hoping like hell that somehow a large elephant would suddenly appear and trample around the room just so the focus wasn't on me. Can someone say, "Awkward??" It's been said, "that which does not kill you can make you stronger," really applied that day. Claudia knew I was embarrassed and gave me a wide berth and incredibly, I was saved by the fact that Claudia's gift from her sister was a Kindle book reader and she was so consumed with it that she didn't focus on the fact that her worthless husband of 20 years didn't get her a Christmas gift!!
Let this be a lesson for all you men. A woman that you deeply love is going to approach you and tell you that it's ok if you don't get her a gift for Valentine's Day, or for her Birthday and yes, even Christmas. She's not a guy or a close friend you were in combat with who would be thrilled with a just a six pack under the tree...she's woman...which means your going to be fighting a losing battle if your trying to read her mind or even understand her. Get her the gift and make it special...it doesn't matter if she doesn't get you anything...you just make sure that something for her is under that fricken tree!!
As for me, Claudia hasn't kicked me to the curb yet...which means she's either gotten over last year's debacle or she is allowing me to redeem myself this coming Christmas. She damn sure won't be getting a Mercedes Benz...but it will be significant enough that I might be able turn the tables on her this year with a little one-upsmanship. Ain't Love Grand? Take care everyone and have a safe and wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
A Giant in a Field of Lost Shoes
I found myself starring out at a long line of white uniformed clad cadets running across, what is known as the "Field of Lost Shoes." It was a pseudo reenactment of what a real Corp of VMI Cadets actually did in the Battle of New Market, Virginia, in May of 1864 during the Civil War. Those cadets, ranging in age from 15 to 21, charged across that field under cannon and musket fire, and even had to overcome a driving rain on a recently plowed field. The valiant cadets, as they moved forward, constantly lost their footwear due to the suction of the muddy terrain...hence the "Field of Lost Shoes." Undaunted, they stormed the Union lines, overran an artillery battery and forced a retreat. Not bad for what amounted to be a bunch of snot nosed kids.
I was there for a particular reason; my niece, Paige Marie, was amongst those cadets plodding their way across that field minus the cannon and musket fire and driving rain. She had just participated in the Cadet Oath that a "rat" must abide by during their tenure at the Virgina Military Institute and the reenactment was a time served lesson to remind them that a cadet must always be ready when called upon. Anyways, there I was panning up and down the line searching in vain for any particular body movement that I would consider to be a LAUGISCH trait. I then noticed one particular cadet who's stature was smaller and the fact that the M-14 rifle she was toting around was damn near taller than she was. None the less, there she was hoofing it across the "Field of Lost Shoes" on her way to glory.
Your guess is as good as mine as to why on God's green Earth she chose the regimented and Spartan conditions of VMI for her choice of college. She's a girl for Christ Sake and naturally, she's my niece. Now before anyone starts jumping my ass about that last comment...pump your brakes and give me an opportunity to explain myself. I don't have a problem with women doing this or for that matter what most would consider "Mens Work." Heck, I work with women on a daily basis and even have had one as my direct supervisor for a spell...and naturally, being married for 21 years, it suffices to say that Claudia has been "in charge" for most of that duration except on Sundays and American Holidays. I will even go as far to say that the finest officer I served under in the Army...was a woman and a West Pointer.
Back to that niece of mine. It wasn't like she decided upon VMI as a dare or just for "shits and giggles." Oh no, she planned this out and she was well aware of the academic and physical requirements. She does come from a long line of military veterans...both her grandfathers are long tenured Army veterans and survivors of Vietnam and her father and I combined for 20 years as fellow Army Redleg Artillerymen. As much as I would like to believe she is following in that traditional vein, I think her reasoning is just as simple that she has decided to challenge herself mentally and physically. She has a lot of endearing qualities that remind me of my mother, which would be her Grandma Helen. If you know the woman then you are well aware of her outspoken ways and she has a pugnacious, bulldog mentality honed from a lifetime of people telling her she shouldn't do this or shouldn't do that because of her physical handicap. Her hands have prevented her from doing most things normal folks take for granted, but I and most of my family don't view it as her handicap...just a hindrance.
Paige is Helen Jr. in my book....but, with a complete set of hands. She is outspoken as dear Mom and has the same "pugnacious bulldog" quality that her Grandmother possesses. As much as our family tries to figure out why she chose VMI, I just resign myself to the fact that this a path of education she is suited for when you realize who her grandmother is. If she ever finds herself feeling down or just can't quite muster the motivation to do one more push-up I would hope she conjures up Dear 'Ole Mom's spirit and guts it out.
"Paigy" is going to be fine and will make us even prouder; I applaud her for choosing the "path less traveled" but she's still my niece...that cute little girl who would yell "Stupid Boy!" at the TV when we watched horror movies together and I can't help but smile when I here that infectious laugh of hers. Here's to you young lady...Hip-Hip-Hooray!!
I was there for a particular reason; my niece, Paige Marie, was amongst those cadets plodding their way across that field minus the cannon and musket fire and driving rain. She had just participated in the Cadet Oath that a "rat" must abide by during their tenure at the Virgina Military Institute and the reenactment was a time served lesson to remind them that a cadet must always be ready when called upon. Anyways, there I was panning up and down the line searching in vain for any particular body movement that I would consider to be a LAUGISCH trait. I then noticed one particular cadet who's stature was smaller and the fact that the M-14 rifle she was toting around was damn near taller than she was. None the less, there she was hoofing it across the "Field of Lost Shoes" on her way to glory.
Your guess is as good as mine as to why on God's green Earth she chose the regimented and Spartan conditions of VMI for her choice of college. She's a girl for Christ Sake and naturally, she's my niece. Now before anyone starts jumping my ass about that last comment...pump your brakes and give me an opportunity to explain myself. I don't have a problem with women doing this or for that matter what most would consider "Mens Work." Heck, I work with women on a daily basis and even have had one as my direct supervisor for a spell...and naturally, being married for 21 years, it suffices to say that Claudia has been "in charge" for most of that duration except on Sundays and American Holidays. I will even go as far to say that the finest officer I served under in the Army...was a woman and a West Pointer.
Back to that niece of mine. It wasn't like she decided upon VMI as a dare or just for "shits and giggles." Oh no, she planned this out and she was well aware of the academic and physical requirements. She does come from a long line of military veterans...both her grandfathers are long tenured Army veterans and survivors of Vietnam and her father and I combined for 20 years as fellow Army Redleg Artillerymen. As much as I would like to believe she is following in that traditional vein, I think her reasoning is just as simple that she has decided to challenge herself mentally and physically. She has a lot of endearing qualities that remind me of my mother, which would be her Grandma Helen. If you know the woman then you are well aware of her outspoken ways and she has a pugnacious, bulldog mentality honed from a lifetime of people telling her she shouldn't do this or shouldn't do that because of her physical handicap. Her hands have prevented her from doing most things normal folks take for granted, but I and most of my family don't view it as her handicap...just a hindrance.
Paige is Helen Jr. in my book....but, with a complete set of hands. She is outspoken as dear Mom and has the same "pugnacious bulldog" quality that her Grandmother possesses. As much as our family tries to figure out why she chose VMI, I just resign myself to the fact that this a path of education she is suited for when you realize who her grandmother is. If she ever finds herself feeling down or just can't quite muster the motivation to do one more push-up I would hope she conjures up Dear 'Ole Mom's spirit and guts it out.
"Paigy" is going to be fine and will make us even prouder; I applaud her for choosing the "path less traveled" but she's still my niece...that cute little girl who would yell "Stupid Boy!" at the TV when we watched horror movies together and I can't help but smile when I here that infectious laugh of hers. Here's to you young lady...Hip-Hip-Hooray!!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Ramen Noodle Man
"Well, hello my friends...hello...it's good to see you once again." That was Neil Diamond for all the rock stars out there. I fail miserably trying to sing his stuff, it sounds much better when I type it...although, I have considered adding "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show" to my karaoke playlist...but let's face reality here, I don't have the voice to pull that shit off. Anyways, I have been noticeably absent from blogging this summer due to this thing called work. I don't know about you, but I have been straight up busting ass since July 4th...but I'm not complaining. This Fat Bastard is just glad to have a J-O-B period.
I usually have a routine at work where I hit the gym for some weight training at lunch and afterward I do SUBWAY. I do love that place...12" ham on wheat with lettuce, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms, cucumbers, banana peppers, jalapenos and the customary vinegar & oil, S&P and oregano. I know what your thinking, "Christ Mark, that's not a sub...it's a salad wrapped in bread!" It really is but I'm a creature of habit and it has very little fat. I love it so much that I would be willing to challenge their spokesperson "Jared" to a no holds barred, "Texas Cage-Loser Leave Town Match." Have you seen that guy? I have no doubt in my mind that I could take him...hey, I'm lifting weights now, that has to account for something...by the way, I'm bench-pressing 170 lbs...snort, flex, sigh...yeah, I'm a regular 'ole "muscle man." ( If you haven't quite figured out that I'm full of shit, I just don't know what to tell you.)
That routine has had to change somewhat. I still go to the gym, but work has picked up to the point that I have had to skip my usual stop at SUBWAY and have something to eat at the office. How many of you out there bring your lunch to work? Yeah, it's gotten to the point that I'm having to do the same, but I gotta tell ya...I really hate trying to figure out what to bring in the morning and I'm too damn lazy at night to slap together a PB&J sandwich and put it in a bag. I will eat them, but come on Man! I'm 47 years old and it's not cool at my advanced age to show up at work and tell my coworkers that I'm eating sandwiches that "Mommy" made me. It also prevents that one friggin comedian in the office from asking me "Where's your Scooby-Doo Lunch box and Thermos?"(I did have one when I was eight and it was the coolest)
So what does a hip, cool-mo-dee Environmental Engineer like myself do on these occasions? Es cargo? Scampi? If your patiently waiting for me to tell you and you haven't caught the title of my thread, then maybe I'm targeting the wrong audience...Yes, I eat Ramen Noodles. No, it's not quite as revealing as say "I know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried," or "I once worked at NASA," but that right there is my life in a nut shell...Ramen friggin Noodles. I know, working for the NCDOT is not like living in Sparta or the Hanoi Hilton and if I can afford SUBWAY on a daily basis, then I can damn sure afford some cheap frozen dinners or something at least a little more exotic than Ramen friggin Noodles.
My problem is that I'm just a simple minded SOB. Sure, I love tasty and other Worldly foods but there's something about them, them being the noodles, that keeps me grounded in reality. I ate Ramen Noodles in college to make ends meet...trying to pay bills, taking 15 semester hours and working the graveyard shift at UPS made 10 packs of noodles for a dollar a sound financial decision. I didn't eat them when I was in the Army, but I did eat enough MRE's and cold food to appreciate Grandma's Sunday dinner spread. More than anything, eating the noodles is just convenient. All it takes is a bowl, fill it with water and the noodles. Add the little "seasoning" packet, nuke it for four minutes and viola!! Lunch is ready after about 5 minutes to allow the noodles to "fatten" up and for that little "something, something" I squirt a little hot sauce on them.
I have visions of opening up my own little Bar one day, yep, even have the name..."Der Kreiger." That's "The Warrior" for you all you non-Germanic types and every little drinking establishment has a special night, such as "Open Mike," "College Night" and "Karaoke Night." My theme night will be dedicated to veterans and as such I will have discounts on warm crappy beer and even break out MRE's for that extra touch and yes Ramen noodles. There's nothing better than to sit around a bar and hear America's finest bitch about warm beer and crappy food. So, if you find your self roaming Tobacco Road in the near future and see a marquee that reads, "Veterans Night, Warm Beer and Noodles," come on in and we'll swap some stories and I'll serve you up nice hot-piping bowl of Ramen Noodles. Take care folks.
I usually have a routine at work where I hit the gym for some weight training at lunch and afterward I do SUBWAY. I do love that place...12" ham on wheat with lettuce, tomatoes, olives, mushrooms, cucumbers, banana peppers, jalapenos and the customary vinegar & oil, S&P and oregano. I know what your thinking, "Christ Mark, that's not a sub...it's a salad wrapped in bread!" It really is but I'm a creature of habit and it has very little fat. I love it so much that I would be willing to challenge their spokesperson "Jared" to a no holds barred, "Texas Cage-Loser Leave Town Match." Have you seen that guy? I have no doubt in my mind that I could take him...hey, I'm lifting weights now, that has to account for something...by the way, I'm bench-pressing 170 lbs...snort, flex, sigh...yeah, I'm a regular 'ole "muscle man." ( If you haven't quite figured out that I'm full of shit, I just don't know what to tell you.)
That routine has had to change somewhat. I still go to the gym, but work has picked up to the point that I have had to skip my usual stop at SUBWAY and have something to eat at the office. How many of you out there bring your lunch to work? Yeah, it's gotten to the point that I'm having to do the same, but I gotta tell ya...I really hate trying to figure out what to bring in the morning and I'm too damn lazy at night to slap together a PB&J sandwich and put it in a bag. I will eat them, but come on Man! I'm 47 years old and it's not cool at my advanced age to show up at work and tell my coworkers that I'm eating sandwiches that "Mommy" made me. It also prevents that one friggin comedian in the office from asking me "Where's your Scooby-Doo Lunch box and Thermos?"(I did have one when I was eight and it was the coolest)
So what does a hip, cool-mo-dee Environmental Engineer like myself do on these occasions? Es cargo? Scampi? If your patiently waiting for me to tell you and you haven't caught the title of my thread, then maybe I'm targeting the wrong audience...Yes, I eat Ramen Noodles. No, it's not quite as revealing as say "I know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried," or "I once worked at NASA," but that right there is my life in a nut shell...Ramen friggin Noodles. I know, working for the NCDOT is not like living in Sparta or the Hanoi Hilton and if I can afford SUBWAY on a daily basis, then I can damn sure afford some cheap frozen dinners or something at least a little more exotic than Ramen friggin Noodles.
My problem is that I'm just a simple minded SOB. Sure, I love tasty and other Worldly foods but there's something about them, them being the noodles, that keeps me grounded in reality. I ate Ramen Noodles in college to make ends meet...trying to pay bills, taking 15 semester hours and working the graveyard shift at UPS made 10 packs of noodles for a dollar a sound financial decision. I didn't eat them when I was in the Army, but I did eat enough MRE's and cold food to appreciate Grandma's Sunday dinner spread. More than anything, eating the noodles is just convenient. All it takes is a bowl, fill it with water and the noodles. Add the little "seasoning" packet, nuke it for four minutes and viola!! Lunch is ready after about 5 minutes to allow the noodles to "fatten" up and for that little "something, something" I squirt a little hot sauce on them.
I have visions of opening up my own little Bar one day, yep, even have the name..."Der Kreiger." That's "The Warrior" for you all you non-Germanic types and every little drinking establishment has a special night, such as "Open Mike," "College Night" and "Karaoke Night." My theme night will be dedicated to veterans and as such I will have discounts on warm crappy beer and even break out MRE's for that extra touch and yes Ramen noodles. There's nothing better than to sit around a bar and hear America's finest bitch about warm beer and crappy food. So, if you find your self roaming Tobacco Road in the near future and see a marquee that reads, "Veterans Night, Warm Beer and Noodles," come on in and we'll swap some stories and I'll serve you up nice hot-piping bowl of Ramen Noodles. Take care folks.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Give Me Some Real Football
So who's watching any of this Soccer World Cup? I'm being truthful when I tell you that I don't really enjoy "The World's Game," but I'm drawn to this World Cup like a moth to a flame. A more appropriate analogy would be that I'm a very large bug stuck on your windshield...come on...you've seen me, the grotesquely large insect that when struck by the car made everyone think that somehow it was a small bird. Yep, that's me, I'm wearing my ass for a hat, barely have a pulse and I have one Marty Feldman eye still attached to my mangled corps that is now interwoven in the wiper blades. I'm now stuck there waiting for the wind pressure to whisk me away, or God forbid, the driver should hit his intermittent wiper switch and smear my carcass all over the rest of the glass.
So here I am, just your average bug on the windshield of life, starring at the ongoings of this thing the World calls football. There is a certain level of this sport that you have to appreciate, man...those guys are amazing in how they dribble the ball down the field, the stamina...it has a certain grace that in time, most Americans could learn to accept. It leads to the question: why isn't this sport as mainstream in the good 'ole USA as American Football, Baseball, Basketball and Hockey?
That answer unfolded right before my very own eyes as I watched the final 30 minutes of the USA vs. Algeria match. A trio of us decided to catch lunch at a Sports pub that had it on and let me be honest with you..I had no intention of watching it because it was soccer...it was because it was the USA and our country could be engaging another country in tiddlywinks and I would want us to stomp the shit out of them. Yes...I'm that ugly American that hates to lose.
Anyways, back to the reason why soccer ranks somewhere between "Curling" and "Horseshoes" in the American sports landscape. It was an exciting match that had a lot at stake for the American squad; they had to win to advance to the quarterfinals. A loss or tie and it was over. This is what is so incredibly wrong with soccer; after ninety damn minutes of regulation the score was 0-0...if I see one more World Cup match end in a 0-0 draw I'm going to puke! Seriously, I went to the can twice and came back and asked "What did I miss?" and my sardonic office mate, Jeff, telling me they panned the crowd and showed former President Bill Clinton "hitting on an unsuspecting intern." While I'm ranting about why soccer frustrates me...they do seem to have the same inexplicable shoddy officiating as other American sports...but damn if I didn't think someone out there doesn't want America to advance as we have been seriously hosed on two goals.
The drama that unfolded afterwards will be the talk of sportscenter til at least Saturday and God Bless Landon Donavon for putting the dagger into the hearts of those cheating little bastards from Algeria.
Yeah, that's right I called them cheaters. Did you see how many penalties they had to call on them? Don't get me started on our previous match where we had a game winning goal and half our guys were being mugged and a foul was called on us. How does soccer handle misconduct? A yellow card...are you fricking kidding me? That's another thing about soccer that infuriates the hell out of me...there are too many ways to cheap shot someone and get away with it...which is also why this sport is slow to catch on in this country. Most Americans pride themselves on sportsmanship and we know how to take care of the ones that get out of line...we invented the "Bench Clearing Brawls" in Baseball, we have "Enforcers" in Hockey and we have "Hatchet Men" in Basketball. and least we forget, the infamous "Clothesline" or "Crackback" in our own real Football. By no means am I defending some horrifically bad American Sports misconduct through the ages, but the cowardly display I see in soccer shouldn't be tolerated in America.
With all that going against it, there I am...watching and jumping with euphoria as our newest sports hero Donovan keeps this team on a course with destiny. We Americans, least wise this one, likes it when we are the underdog on the World Stage and I can't help but compare this team to a ragtag group of American College kids who stunned the world back in the winter of 1980...so, grab your "Vuvuzela" and meet me at the pub and we'll root for our scrappy lads and pray that we can see a couple of more goals scored. Cheers.
So here I am, just your average bug on the windshield of life, starring at the ongoings of this thing the World calls football. There is a certain level of this sport that you have to appreciate, man...those guys are amazing in how they dribble the ball down the field, the stamina...it has a certain grace that in time, most Americans could learn to accept. It leads to the question: why isn't this sport as mainstream in the good 'ole USA as American Football, Baseball, Basketball and Hockey?
That answer unfolded right before my very own eyes as I watched the final 30 minutes of the USA vs. Algeria match. A trio of us decided to catch lunch at a Sports pub that had it on and let me be honest with you..I had no intention of watching it because it was soccer...it was because it was the USA and our country could be engaging another country in tiddlywinks and I would want us to stomp the shit out of them. Yes...I'm that ugly American that hates to lose.
Anyways, back to the reason why soccer ranks somewhere between "Curling" and "Horseshoes" in the American sports landscape. It was an exciting match that had a lot at stake for the American squad; they had to win to advance to the quarterfinals. A loss or tie and it was over. This is what is so incredibly wrong with soccer; after ninety damn minutes of regulation the score was 0-0...if I see one more World Cup match end in a 0-0 draw I'm going to puke! Seriously, I went to the can twice and came back and asked "What did I miss?" and my sardonic office mate, Jeff, telling me they panned the crowd and showed former President Bill Clinton "hitting on an unsuspecting intern." While I'm ranting about why soccer frustrates me...they do seem to have the same inexplicable shoddy officiating as other American sports...but damn if I didn't think someone out there doesn't want America to advance as we have been seriously hosed on two goals.
The drama that unfolded afterwards will be the talk of sportscenter til at least Saturday and God Bless Landon Donavon for putting the dagger into the hearts of those cheating little bastards from Algeria.
Yeah, that's right I called them cheaters. Did you see how many penalties they had to call on them? Don't get me started on our previous match where we had a game winning goal and half our guys were being mugged and a foul was called on us. How does soccer handle misconduct? A yellow card...are you fricking kidding me? That's another thing about soccer that infuriates the hell out of me...there are too many ways to cheap shot someone and get away with it...which is also why this sport is slow to catch on in this country. Most Americans pride themselves on sportsmanship and we know how to take care of the ones that get out of line...we invented the "Bench Clearing Brawls" in Baseball, we have "Enforcers" in Hockey and we have "Hatchet Men" in Basketball. and least we forget, the infamous "Clothesline" or "Crackback" in our own real Football. By no means am I defending some horrifically bad American Sports misconduct through the ages, but the cowardly display I see in soccer shouldn't be tolerated in America.
With all that going against it, there I am...watching and jumping with euphoria as our newest sports hero Donovan keeps this team on a course with destiny. We Americans, least wise this one, likes it when we are the underdog on the World Stage and I can't help but compare this team to a ragtag group of American College kids who stunned the world back in the winter of 1980...so, grab your "Vuvuzela" and meet me at the pub and we'll root for our scrappy lads and pray that we can see a couple of more goals scored. Cheers.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Amish Children of the Corn
I'd be lying to you if I told you that we Laugisch's have a great sense of direction. Alas, Poor Yorick...we did not inherit the "know where the hell your going" gene from the old man. Dad could drive anywhere and for that matter, drive anything without the assistance of a map. He was just that good. He and Mom showed up the weekend of my wedding...driving all the way from North Carolina to Claudia's house in Lawton, OK, without directions. Granted, it wasn't that difficult to drive I-40 for 2 days til you heard cannon fire, but we only gave him a street and house number and he found it without calling us. Yeah, dad could navigate in a hurricane and not lose his bearings.
His kids...not so good when it comes to finding our way on America's roads. If I had to rank in order, from the most able pathfinder to the one most likely to get lost in their driveway, it would be : Me, Fred, Laurie and Hank. Naturally, I will not admit to being the worst but I have had my moments as you shall soon find out. This past weekend Brother Hank, myself, his daughter Paige, son Henry and last but not least, my other nephew Tyler, all headed up to Ohio to extricate Brother Fred from his failed attempt of establishing a Laugisch enclave there. Ironically, it only seems that we get "ass backward" lost when we're driving to Ohio and it would sadly be the case on this trip also. It was just last August where a similar expedition took place in which we were hauling his belongings up there and where I'll begin my latest tale of woe.
Fred was moving to Wilmington, OH. Anybody want to guess what kind of country we're talking here? If you said Corn, then your close, but if you said Amish Corn Country...ding...ding...we have a winner!! Please, don't get me wrong, it wasn't as if we were Custer's Seventh Cavalry riding into Little Big Horn...oh no, this was a beautiful area, and it is definitely not a slight on the hard working Amish folk...but when your towing a loaded U-haul trailer at 1:00 am and your gas light comes on because your an idiot...then it becomes a surreal forboding landscape. I will confess that I was the driver in question and I have a tendency to drive with my wrist/palm over the steering wheel which will block my view of the gas gauge. Why is this such a problem? It being Amish Country shouldn't have been all that big of a deal...but it appears the Amish folk of South Central Ohio like to close up shop when the sun goes down. In the back of your mind you know this about the Amish, but I tend to tune out information that actually might be useful when I get stupid.
I know most of you out there are saying, "What a dumbshit...just keep driving until you reach an open gas station, Mr. Environmental Engineer!" This is where it gets a little tricky. We were using a Garmin GPS Navigational Device and as some of you might know, they have the capability to locate the nearest gas station. It basically gave us two options: Stay on the known four lane highway and hit the station thirty miles down the road or take the lesser known route fifteen short miles away. I'm not joking when I say this...seriously, we were on a 4 lane highway and we were thirty miles away from a gas station. To add to our problems, I really didn't know how long that damn gas light had been on and I've heard mechanics say you have about 2 or 3 gallons remaining once it illuminates. Remember, we were also towing a loaded trailer. Being the leader I was, I took command and chose the short route to the nearest Hamlet.
After all, it's not like the gas station was in the middle of a corn field; it was clearly marked as a town. So we arrive at the first gas station and if you've been paying attention you might have guessed that it was closed. It was then that Carmin...she's the voice of the Garmin (You like how we did that? Carmin from the Garmin...yeah, we are a creative lot for a bunch of lost souls) tells us the next gas station was 12 more miles away. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure this one out: drive back 15 miles to the 4 lane highway with the fuel light on and chance that we can make it the thirty miles to a known gas station that is open or listen to this broad yapping to us from the GPS. I nervously decide to continue our scenic ride through Amish Corn Country.
We were meandering our way through the town center when Hank says, "Why don't you ask that guy at the ATM where an open gas station is?" Yes, there was an individual who appeared to have no vehicle standing at an ATM trying to retrieve money from it. I drive over to him and it was evident that we startled him. I said, "Excuse me sir, we're looking for the nearest open gas station...can you point us in the right direction?" He looks at me strangely and scratches his beard...I'm assuming he was Amish but he was a very creepy looking dude...he says, "Why don't you just give me a ride to my house and I'll fill you up?" How many movie scenarios do you think were running through my mind of three innocent bystanders being lured to an abandoned farm house and then getting hacked into little pieces by some strange Amish guy? Besides, how wierd was is it that we find a guy at an ATM with no obvious transportation who has his own gas pump at home? It seems he didn't think it was all that good of an idea either once he realized there were three of us in the truck, or that he didn't feel his axe blade was sharp enough this particular evening. Anyways, he quickly adds, and points to the road "Nah, lets not do that...here's what you do... head two miles out of town and turn left on the first dirt road and take that for about ten miles til you run into the next town...I'm pretty sure that station will be open." I don't know about you, but when I'm traveling somewhere...and I'm lost and looking for a gas station in the middle of the night...directions that lead me down a ten mile dirt road is something I don't want to hear!
As strange as it appeared, and it damn sure was strange, Carmin confirmed this guy's directions. We get on this dirt road and it is nothing but corn fields as far as the eye can see. My brother Hank has proven over the years to be a guy who could handle pressure; we were in the Army together and I genuinely knew he would be the last person to just lose his cool. It struck me odd, when out of the blue he remarks, "This is not good man...it's right out of the movie, 'Children of Corn.' Remember that scene where all those freakish kids run out of the corn field and attack that car? That guy gave us directions to mislead us and now he's calling all his buddies and they will be waiting for us some where on this damn road!!" The thought had crossed my mind to, but I definitely wasn't going share my suspicions like he had and make a very tense situation that more unbearable.
So, there we were, driving down this endless dirt road awaiting the moment when Malachai and his band of "circus freak" kids jump out of the corn and descend upon the Laugisch men like locusts. That was the most harrowing ten miles I've ever driven. It was a winding, twisting road which forced us to only drive at 25 mph and any time the wind blew the corn...we got real nervous. Finally we see the sky over the horizon lighten up and we knew we had to be close. Once we saw the "Chevron" sign we all blew a sigh of relief. I patted the dash of the "Red Dragon" and quietly said, "Thank you girl...you'll get an extra gas treatment for not getting us killed." Everything else after this little incident was rather anti-climatic...we got gas, bid adieu to the fearful corn and let Carmin guide us the rest of the way to Wilmington.
This last trip, albeit not on the level of intrepidation as our frightful adventure through Amish Corn, made us decide that...Fred is on his own for his next move and there is no way I can look at another ear of corn and not think of that stupid movie...thanks for nothing Stephen King.
His kids...not so good when it comes to finding our way on America's roads. If I had to rank in order, from the most able pathfinder to the one most likely to get lost in their driveway, it would be : Me, Fred, Laurie and Hank. Naturally, I will not admit to being the worst but I have had my moments as you shall soon find out. This past weekend Brother Hank, myself, his daughter Paige, son Henry and last but not least, my other nephew Tyler, all headed up to Ohio to extricate Brother Fred from his failed attempt of establishing a Laugisch enclave there. Ironically, it only seems that we get "ass backward" lost when we're driving to Ohio and it would sadly be the case on this trip also. It was just last August where a similar expedition took place in which we were hauling his belongings up there and where I'll begin my latest tale of woe.
Fred was moving to Wilmington, OH. Anybody want to guess what kind of country we're talking here? If you said Corn, then your close, but if you said Amish Corn Country...ding...ding...we have a winner!! Please, don't get me wrong, it wasn't as if we were Custer's Seventh Cavalry riding into Little Big Horn...oh no, this was a beautiful area, and it is definitely not a slight on the hard working Amish folk...but when your towing a loaded U-haul trailer at 1:00 am and your gas light comes on because your an idiot...then it becomes a surreal forboding landscape. I will confess that I was the driver in question and I have a tendency to drive with my wrist/palm over the steering wheel which will block my view of the gas gauge. Why is this such a problem? It being Amish Country shouldn't have been all that big of a deal...but it appears the Amish folk of South Central Ohio like to close up shop when the sun goes down. In the back of your mind you know this about the Amish, but I tend to tune out information that actually might be useful when I get stupid.
I know most of you out there are saying, "What a dumbshit...just keep driving until you reach an open gas station, Mr. Environmental Engineer!" This is where it gets a little tricky. We were using a Garmin GPS Navigational Device and as some of you might know, they have the capability to locate the nearest gas station. It basically gave us two options: Stay on the known four lane highway and hit the station thirty miles down the road or take the lesser known route fifteen short miles away. I'm not joking when I say this...seriously, we were on a 4 lane highway and we were thirty miles away from a gas station. To add to our problems, I really didn't know how long that damn gas light had been on and I've heard mechanics say you have about 2 or 3 gallons remaining once it illuminates. Remember, we were also towing a loaded trailer. Being the leader I was, I took command and chose the short route to the nearest Hamlet.
After all, it's not like the gas station was in the middle of a corn field; it was clearly marked as a town. So we arrive at the first gas station and if you've been paying attention you might have guessed that it was closed. It was then that Carmin...she's the voice of the Garmin (You like how we did that? Carmin from the Garmin...yeah, we are a creative lot for a bunch of lost souls) tells us the next gas station was 12 more miles away. You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure this one out: drive back 15 miles to the 4 lane highway with the fuel light on and chance that we can make it the thirty miles to a known gas station that is open or listen to this broad yapping to us from the GPS. I nervously decide to continue our scenic ride through Amish Corn Country.
We were meandering our way through the town center when Hank says, "Why don't you ask that guy at the ATM where an open gas station is?" Yes, there was an individual who appeared to have no vehicle standing at an ATM trying to retrieve money from it. I drive over to him and it was evident that we startled him. I said, "Excuse me sir, we're looking for the nearest open gas station...can you point us in the right direction?" He looks at me strangely and scratches his beard...I'm assuming he was Amish but he was a very creepy looking dude...he says, "Why don't you just give me a ride to my house and I'll fill you up?" How many movie scenarios do you think were running through my mind of three innocent bystanders being lured to an abandoned farm house and then getting hacked into little pieces by some strange Amish guy? Besides, how wierd was is it that we find a guy at an ATM with no obvious transportation who has his own gas pump at home? It seems he didn't think it was all that good of an idea either once he realized there were three of us in the truck, or that he didn't feel his axe blade was sharp enough this particular evening. Anyways, he quickly adds, and points to the road "Nah, lets not do that...here's what you do... head two miles out of town and turn left on the first dirt road and take that for about ten miles til you run into the next town...I'm pretty sure that station will be open." I don't know about you, but when I'm traveling somewhere...and I'm lost and looking for a gas station in the middle of the night...directions that lead me down a ten mile dirt road is something I don't want to hear!
As strange as it appeared, and it damn sure was strange, Carmin confirmed this guy's directions. We get on this dirt road and it is nothing but corn fields as far as the eye can see. My brother Hank has proven over the years to be a guy who could handle pressure; we were in the Army together and I genuinely knew he would be the last person to just lose his cool. It struck me odd, when out of the blue he remarks, "This is not good man...it's right out of the movie, 'Children of Corn.' Remember that scene where all those freakish kids run out of the corn field and attack that car? That guy gave us directions to mislead us and now he's calling all his buddies and they will be waiting for us some where on this damn road!!" The thought had crossed my mind to, but I definitely wasn't going share my suspicions like he had and make a very tense situation that more unbearable.
So, there we were, driving down this endless dirt road awaiting the moment when Malachai and his band of "circus freak" kids jump out of the corn and descend upon the Laugisch men like locusts. That was the most harrowing ten miles I've ever driven. It was a winding, twisting road which forced us to only drive at 25 mph and any time the wind blew the corn...we got real nervous. Finally we see the sky over the horizon lighten up and we knew we had to be close. Once we saw the "Chevron" sign we all blew a sigh of relief. I patted the dash of the "Red Dragon" and quietly said, "Thank you girl...you'll get an extra gas treatment for not getting us killed." Everything else after this little incident was rather anti-climatic...we got gas, bid adieu to the fearful corn and let Carmin guide us the rest of the way to Wilmington.
This last trip, albeit not on the level of intrepidation as our frightful adventure through Amish Corn, made us decide that...Fred is on his own for his next move and there is no way I can look at another ear of corn and not think of that stupid movie...thanks for nothing Stephen King.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
I'm With Stupid
You don't stay married for twenty odd years without having a few tifs every once in awhile. Strange, how I seem to end up on the losing end of most of them...Claudia has her "teacher" persona when she's around most adults where she is all professional like...she's the wonderful person we all know and love, but when it's just the two of us hooking horns...watch out, she can brawl! She has an old saying, which she uses quite regularly, "I'm not afraid of any man I can whoop!" She's a tough 'ole girl who has a heck of a punch...which I gladly take to the ribs when I drop my guard and forget I'm not fighting "Mother Teresa."
I have one major rule when the two of us are in public together: Don't call me STUPID. Trust me on this, there is a unwritten rule of marriage where the wife should never...ever call her husband STUPID...it will prevent a lot of arguments. It's not like I don't deserve it sometimes but no man needs to be yelled at in Dairy Queen, because he forgot she wanted a Dilly Bar! No, Claudia has not belittled me in the grocery store in this manner,yet...she is too far sophisticated for such a common retort. Her justification is that STUPID people dream of calling people like me, STUPID,and that it's hurtful for "Good STUPID People" to stoop to the level of a "Galactically Incompetent Amoeba." Teachers...I swear, you ask them not to call you STUPID and they break out a dictionary and make you feel less than STUPID.
I dare say there is no self respecting husband that should ever allow himself to take such a verbal ass kicking. What gives them the right to just explode like a grenade when we're about to watch the game? Dad always said, "never take a knife to a gun fight." So, guys...there's no need for violence in these situations...just prepare yourself mentality and you'll be just fine. For myself, I carry the finest come back as if it were a six gun strapped to my side. Now, it can't be lame and it has to piss the wife off so bad that she is either reaching for the knife block or throwing her hands up in disgust at what she perceives is the most retarded individual she has ever met. Also, you can't use it whenever you like...it has to be your nuclear option in a serious fight. My "comeback" is not only clever, but it's the honest to God's truth. You see I actually worked with nuclear weapons in the Army and when I utter the line "It's not like they're going to let me work with nuclear weapons!" has become a sure fired, argument ender.
The use of such a weapon, the comeback,...placed in the hands of a pro...can make that annoying spousal unit turn tail. Claudia doesn't have a lot of faith in my ability to handle menial tasks. I've given her plenty of reasons why she shouldn't...like the time I dug into the yard and cut the phone line after she insisted I wait or when she asks, "do you know where we're going?" and I don't have a single clue but like most men, we drive around til we see something familiar (Thank God for Garmin). This one particular incident I was trying to install a ceiling fan that we had just purchased. After we get it home and I take an extreme amount of time reading the instructions, she now has second thoughts as to my ability or credentials...and is begging me to stop and have an electrician do it. First, that pissed me off more than anything. Secondly, I wasn't quite willing to wave the white flag and call in the cavalry. I told her to go watch TV and leave me to my work. She grudgingly obliged and I set about to conquer Mt. Everest. Incredibly, after two hours I get it installed...like I said...it was my first fan and I was going to take my time to get it right and I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of my failure. I turn the power on, flip the switch and, EUREKA, one neatly installed fan in the bedroom.
It's now her turn to check it out and give it the "A-OK." She's quite impressed with my handy work but she just can't let it go that it took me two hours. She states, "you still could have called an electrician and he'd have had it up in twenty minutes." I'm packing up all my tools at this time and I'm about to blow my lid, but I calmly look at her and say, "Your right babe, eleven years in the Army. I mean, it's not like they're going to let me work with nuclear weapons. It's crazy to think that I could handle such NASA like technology." She stares at me with those Hazel eyes of hers and the look could burn a hole right through me. She turns and saunters down the hall, throwing up her hands and releasing that incredibly "pissed off" sigh that women do when their men folk aggravate them. Yep...'ole Mark was the master of his domain that day...and he slept pretty good on the couch that night as well.
I have one major rule when the two of us are in public together: Don't call me STUPID. Trust me on this, there is a unwritten rule of marriage where the wife should never...ever call her husband STUPID...it will prevent a lot of arguments. It's not like I don't deserve it sometimes but no man needs to be yelled at in Dairy Queen, because he forgot she wanted a Dilly Bar! No, Claudia has not belittled me in the grocery store in this manner,yet...she is too far sophisticated for such a common retort. Her justification is that STUPID people dream of calling people like me, STUPID,and that it's hurtful for "Good STUPID People" to stoop to the level of a "Galactically Incompetent Amoeba." Teachers...I swear, you ask them not to call you STUPID and they break out a dictionary and make you feel less than STUPID.
I dare say there is no self respecting husband that should ever allow himself to take such a verbal ass kicking. What gives them the right to just explode like a grenade when we're about to watch the game? Dad always said, "never take a knife to a gun fight." So, guys...there's no need for violence in these situations...just prepare yourself mentality and you'll be just fine. For myself, I carry the finest come back as if it were a six gun strapped to my side. Now, it can't be lame and it has to piss the wife off so bad that she is either reaching for the knife block or throwing her hands up in disgust at what she perceives is the most retarded individual she has ever met. Also, you can't use it whenever you like...it has to be your nuclear option in a serious fight. My "comeback" is not only clever, but it's the honest to God's truth. You see I actually worked with nuclear weapons in the Army and when I utter the line "It's not like they're going to let me work with nuclear weapons!" has become a sure fired, argument ender.
The use of such a weapon, the comeback,...placed in the hands of a pro...can make that annoying spousal unit turn tail. Claudia doesn't have a lot of faith in my ability to handle menial tasks. I've given her plenty of reasons why she shouldn't...like the time I dug into the yard and cut the phone line after she insisted I wait or when she asks, "do you know where we're going?" and I don't have a single clue but like most men, we drive around til we see something familiar (Thank God for Garmin). This one particular incident I was trying to install a ceiling fan that we had just purchased. After we get it home and I take an extreme amount of time reading the instructions, she now has second thoughts as to my ability or credentials...and is begging me to stop and have an electrician do it. First, that pissed me off more than anything. Secondly, I wasn't quite willing to wave the white flag and call in the cavalry. I told her to go watch TV and leave me to my work. She grudgingly obliged and I set about to conquer Mt. Everest. Incredibly, after two hours I get it installed...like I said...it was my first fan and I was going to take my time to get it right and I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction of my failure. I turn the power on, flip the switch and, EUREKA, one neatly installed fan in the bedroom.
It's now her turn to check it out and give it the "A-OK." She's quite impressed with my handy work but she just can't let it go that it took me two hours. She states, "you still could have called an electrician and he'd have had it up in twenty minutes." I'm packing up all my tools at this time and I'm about to blow my lid, but I calmly look at her and say, "Your right babe, eleven years in the Army. I mean, it's not like they're going to let me work with nuclear weapons. It's crazy to think that I could handle such NASA like technology." She stares at me with those Hazel eyes of hers and the look could burn a hole right through me. She turns and saunters down the hall, throwing up her hands and releasing that incredibly "pissed off" sigh that women do when their men folk aggravate them. Yep...'ole Mark was the master of his domain that day...and he slept pretty good on the couch that night as well.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Governor for a Day
There are three of us Laugisch brothers. I've introduced you to the "Singing Mule" Fred and you all are quite aware that the failings in my life stem from me being a Wolfpacker, but there is one other among us that I have yet to expose to this audience. Henry. I prefer, Hank, but most people in his life use his proper name. He being a Laugisch, I doubt he worries too much how anyone will address him; Hank is opinionated as any of us, and is starting to master the art of the political argument much like our dear mother...but not quite. Believe me, when you go to talk politics with Faith Helen Page Laugisch you had better come prepared to debate...she can definitely bring the "heat."
Hank is a year older than me and we always had to share a room while growing up. Let's see, there is my sister Laurie who was always going to have her own room and Fred was the oldest, so that left Hank and me to decide how we were going to stack our bunks in the broom closet. Believe it or not, we graduated High School together, it seems he couldn't handle the rigors of first grade on his own, so Mom and Dad decided to pull him out and wait for his younger and more mature brother to hold his hand for 12 friggin years. Only later did I find out that he really didn't need anyone to hold his hand...he is a great manipulator and could get a Baptist minister to drink moonshine in five minutes.
For the most part in our lives we have gotten along great, but it also means we are very competitive. He pulls for Satan (heels), I bleed Wolfpack Red. He loves some Washington Redskins and I pulled for the Cowboys. I have since changed allegiance to the Panthers. I swore that once a pro team was established in NC I would root for them and I detest everything that the current Cowboy owner, Jerry Jones, represents. Hank's also a die hard Cincinnati Reds fan and I root for my beloved Atlanta Braves. He can't stand the fact that he taught me how to play chess and hasn't beaten me in twenty years, and that I hold a lifetime "one on one" basketball series edge over him to the tune of 685-4. He will never figure out how to stop my left handed "Tommy Burleson" hook shot.
As we are competitive in most everything, politics is no different. Let me preface this by saying, I don't discuss politics with someone unless I know them. This might be the only blog of mine that you read regarding some of my political leanings. As I have learned, most Americans are not very "thick-skinned" when it comes to talking about religion or politics; therefore the only thing you need to know about them, they are one and the same: American. Basically, I can find common ground with the most ardent "yellow dog" Democrat and staunchest "Bible Thumping" Republican.
Every now and again Hank will get the better of me in a political discussion and have me backed into a corner. Mind you, it doesn't happen very often and I'm able to get out of it, usually, because I have a card up my sleeve that he has no defense against...he has never once voted in a general election. Yeah, that's right, unpatriotic SOB! Rumor has it though, that his daughter, Paige, may have shamed him last November into actually doing the deed, but until I visually lay my eyes upon a voter registration card we'll continue to call him a communist. On these occasions he'll start railing against a certain politician or a law he finds stupid or how things would be different if he were the governor. Invariably, I'll interrupt him and ask, "Did you vote this year?" He'll respond by saying, "No, what's that got to do with it?" I end it by telling him, "If you don't vote, you don't have anything to bitch about!" I usually get up and walk away and as I trail out the door, I tell him, "I'm not arguing politics with a guy too damn lazy to vote!"
Hank got me to thinking, especially the part about how things would be different if he were the the governor. Well, I don't desire to hold such a lofty position in politics, but damn if I wouldn't like to see a few things changed. If there were some device that could do that...make me governor for a day...I would love to tweak a particular pet peeve of mine: Prison.
As I only have one day in office I figured the penal system would be the perfect place to start..and to be quite honest, it would be an easy fix. My main beef with prison is that I personally don't think it is all that intimidating...and am I the only one who has a problem with an individual being sentenced to "Life" and twenty years later the scumbag is out walking the streets? Back to the issue about prisons. Today, prisoners have it made with all the rights of a law abiding citizen...3 hots and a cot, free medical care, Internet, college courses and yes...cable TV. Much to my consternation, I find it abominable that convicted felons live better than most soldiers do in the military.
My philosophy is that prison should be a place to deter crime, not rehabilitate. Therefore, in Mark's world prison should be the place where a criminal should start thinking about changing his day job. Here's how we make it happen:
1. Remove all the recreational items such as TV, books, Internet, movies, games and yes...weight lifting equipment. Sorry. It's suppose to be prison...not day camp and we don't need anymore criminals who can bench press a Volkswagen. This also includes taking out the air conditioning and letting them use fans. Hey, if it was good enough for me in the Army, it's damn good enough for criminals.
2. Work them from sun-up to sundown. Make them break big rocks into little rocks til there are no more. It doesn't have to be creative or productive and they don't even have to leave the facility...they could dig holes and fill them back up and start back over again. There are a million things we could make these morons do and my point is to make it so physically exhausting that all they want to do at night is...sleep.
3. This is the most important step. They do need some comfort music to whistle too while they work. So, I suggest installing speaker systems throughout the prisons and playing only two songs on a repeat loop. Here's the torture in all that. It would be two songs from the eighties that made me want to slash my wrists: Boy George and Culture Club's "Ill Tumble For You," and Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." There is no way in the world that anyone would want to endure that on a daily basis.
That's it. See how easy that would be? Three lousy paragraphs and I have made the streets of North Carolina safer than probably 150 years of social reform in the penal system. Whew! That was quite tiresome and as I stated it would probably consume my day as governor. That was easy compared to my next challenge and it will require more than a day as our State's top executive: Getting Brother Hank to become a registered voter and a better chess player. Vaya Con dios everybody!
Hank is a year older than me and we always had to share a room while growing up. Let's see, there is my sister Laurie who was always going to have her own room and Fred was the oldest, so that left Hank and me to decide how we were going to stack our bunks in the broom closet. Believe it or not, we graduated High School together, it seems he couldn't handle the rigors of first grade on his own, so Mom and Dad decided to pull him out and wait for his younger and more mature brother to hold his hand for 12 friggin years. Only later did I find out that he really didn't need anyone to hold his hand...he is a great manipulator and could get a Baptist minister to drink moonshine in five minutes.
For the most part in our lives we have gotten along great, but it also means we are very competitive. He pulls for Satan (heels), I bleed Wolfpack Red. He loves some Washington Redskins and I pulled for the Cowboys. I have since changed allegiance to the Panthers. I swore that once a pro team was established in NC I would root for them and I detest everything that the current Cowboy owner, Jerry Jones, represents. Hank's also a die hard Cincinnati Reds fan and I root for my beloved Atlanta Braves. He can't stand the fact that he taught me how to play chess and hasn't beaten me in twenty years, and that I hold a lifetime "one on one" basketball series edge over him to the tune of 685-4. He will never figure out how to stop my left handed "Tommy Burleson" hook shot.
As we are competitive in most everything, politics is no different. Let me preface this by saying, I don't discuss politics with someone unless I know them. This might be the only blog of mine that you read regarding some of my political leanings. As I have learned, most Americans are not very "thick-skinned" when it comes to talking about religion or politics; therefore the only thing you need to know about them, they are one and the same: American. Basically, I can find common ground with the most ardent "yellow dog" Democrat and staunchest "Bible Thumping" Republican.
Every now and again Hank will get the better of me in a political discussion and have me backed into a corner. Mind you, it doesn't happen very often and I'm able to get out of it, usually, because I have a card up my sleeve that he has no defense against...he has never once voted in a general election. Yeah, that's right, unpatriotic SOB! Rumor has it though, that his daughter, Paige, may have shamed him last November into actually doing the deed, but until I visually lay my eyes upon a voter registration card we'll continue to call him a communist. On these occasions he'll start railing against a certain politician or a law he finds stupid or how things would be different if he were the governor. Invariably, I'll interrupt him and ask, "Did you vote this year?" He'll respond by saying, "No, what's that got to do with it?" I end it by telling him, "If you don't vote, you don't have anything to bitch about!" I usually get up and walk away and as I trail out the door, I tell him, "I'm not arguing politics with a guy too damn lazy to vote!"
Hank got me to thinking, especially the part about how things would be different if he were the the governor. Well, I don't desire to hold such a lofty position in politics, but damn if I wouldn't like to see a few things changed. If there were some device that could do that...make me governor for a day...I would love to tweak a particular pet peeve of mine: Prison.
As I only have one day in office I figured the penal system would be the perfect place to start..and to be quite honest, it would be an easy fix. My main beef with prison is that I personally don't think it is all that intimidating...and am I the only one who has a problem with an individual being sentenced to "Life" and twenty years later the scumbag is out walking the streets? Back to the issue about prisons. Today, prisoners have it made with all the rights of a law abiding citizen...3 hots and a cot, free medical care, Internet, college courses and yes...cable TV. Much to my consternation, I find it abominable that convicted felons live better than most soldiers do in the military.
My philosophy is that prison should be a place to deter crime, not rehabilitate. Therefore, in Mark's world prison should be the place where a criminal should start thinking about changing his day job. Here's how we make it happen:
1. Remove all the recreational items such as TV, books, Internet, movies, games and yes...weight lifting equipment. Sorry. It's suppose to be prison...not day camp and we don't need anymore criminals who can bench press a Volkswagen. This also includes taking out the air conditioning and letting them use fans. Hey, if it was good enough for me in the Army, it's damn good enough for criminals.
2. Work them from sun-up to sundown. Make them break big rocks into little rocks til there are no more. It doesn't have to be creative or productive and they don't even have to leave the facility...they could dig holes and fill them back up and start back over again. There are a million things we could make these morons do and my point is to make it so physically exhausting that all they want to do at night is...sleep.
3. This is the most important step. They do need some comfort music to whistle too while they work. So, I suggest installing speaker systems throughout the prisons and playing only two songs on a repeat loop. Here's the torture in all that. It would be two songs from the eighties that made me want to slash my wrists: Boy George and Culture Club's "Ill Tumble For You," and Cyndi Lauper's "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." There is no way in the world that anyone would want to endure that on a daily basis.
That's it. See how easy that would be? Three lousy paragraphs and I have made the streets of North Carolina safer than probably 150 years of social reform in the penal system. Whew! That was quite tiresome and as I stated it would probably consume my day as governor. That was easy compared to my next challenge and it will require more than a day as our State's top executive: Getting Brother Hank to become a registered voter and a better chess player. Vaya Con dios everybody!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Great Dog Naming Debate
We're very dog friendly here at 41 Planters Glen Drive. Although, we're not, "bring your Great Dane or Irish Wolfhound over and let them take a 'Clydesdale' dump in our yard" friendly, but for the most part canines fair well at Casa Laugisch. We even had the distinct pleasure of sharing our home with a certain brown Cocker Spaniel for ten years. Buster was an awesome dog but I refuse to care for another animal that has to spend the entire day by itself. We don't have children and are both working professionals...least wise, Claudia is a professional teacher...I dabble at being a professional. I cant bear to think of how lonely that can be for a dog to be couped up in a house all day...waiting and waiting. We decided that we would forgo the responsibility of taking on another pet til at least one of us was retired.
It has been decreed that, regardless of what breed we decide to adopt, it will be a combo pair, either a brother-brother, sister-sister or the dealers choice, sister-brother, combo. She is leaning toward the brother-sister combo and I'm in favor of two boys. It got us to thinking about prospective names for these beasts.
Do you know the most popular dog name? According to this organization, Veterinarian Pet Insurance, Max has been the most popular dog name for the past six years. Here's the top ten: Max, Baily, Buddy, Molly, Maggie, Lucy, Daily, Bella, Jake and Rocky. Those names are fine if your generation was watching Howdy Doody, some are ok, but the others have to go. There was one interesting name that didn't make the top ten, but I was more surprised anyone would name their dog this: Gizmo. As this is my blog and I get to make the rules, that right there is a stupid name and the result of poor parenting...you know this is where Mom and Dad just caved into the kids wishes and allowed the protector of the family to walk through life with some moronic title. I'm here to put an end to this, right now.
I will get to what Claudia and I decided upon for the names of our future dogs in a minute, but in the mean time I'm going to give a remedial course in how to name your dog. Male dogs are easy, because, naturally, I'm a guy and I usually leave the "foo-foo" stuff to Claudia anyways. To start, the Dog is a symbol of strength and they react strongly to visible leadership..."Muffy" is not going to be the Alpha male of the pack no matter what breed it is...that's a name for a Gerbil. Hondo is a name I always wanted to give a dog. It is a tribute to one of my favorite authors, Louis La Mour and his book by the same name. Duke and Dutch are solid names as are Patton, Ike and MacArthur which keeps you grounded to that leadership theme. You could also classify male dogs in the blue collar category, especially if they're lacking that distinct leadership trait and go with Hank, Ralph or Stan. These are the dogs that will carry the mail for you, chase the cats and cars and annoyingly bark at anyone who comes in the yard. My sister, Laurie, had a brindle colored French/Belgian Mastiff that was close to 160 lbs...he was a big bastard and had a fitting name...Titan.
As for the girl canines, I tend to feel they deserve a feminine quality to their name, but be careful and remember...Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.... Dixie is a favorite for me living here in the South. I love the previously mentioned Molly and Claudia's sister Brenda and her family had a chocolate lab named Madison who was the most majestic and lady-like dog I have ever known. Some others I'm fond of are Daisy, Biscuit, Lulu, and Ema. One of the more striking names I've heard was Abbey Rose, man...I love that handle.
Back to our little quandary of future names. It goes without saying that the breed has to play an important part in all this...you'll get a chuckle out of this one...we're going to get 2 English Bulldogs. Yeah, I knew you would like it...can you see me and Claudia walking these short, fat behemoths in the park? Anyways, as I said earlier she is leaning toward the Brother-Sister combo and naming them Ike and Tina...please, I hope no one needs me to help them get that one. I like it and it is a helluva a conversation piece. My names, if I get the opportunity to pick 2 brothers would be Thurl and Cozelle. It's a WOLFPACK thing...Thurl Bailey and Cozelle McQueen were stalwarts on the 1983 NCAA championship team and I thought it would be a fitting honor to name my dogs after them. There you have it...how to name your dog...go forth and make this a better world for that lovable four legged friend of yours and give them a name they can be proud of.
It has been decreed that, regardless of what breed we decide to adopt, it will be a combo pair, either a brother-brother, sister-sister or the dealers choice, sister-brother, combo. She is leaning toward the brother-sister combo and I'm in favor of two boys. It got us to thinking about prospective names for these beasts.
Do you know the most popular dog name? According to this organization, Veterinarian Pet Insurance, Max has been the most popular dog name for the past six years. Here's the top ten: Max, Baily, Buddy, Molly, Maggie, Lucy, Daily, Bella, Jake and Rocky. Those names are fine if your generation was watching Howdy Doody, some are ok, but the others have to go. There was one interesting name that didn't make the top ten, but I was more surprised anyone would name their dog this: Gizmo. As this is my blog and I get to make the rules, that right there is a stupid name and the result of poor parenting...you know this is where Mom and Dad just caved into the kids wishes and allowed the protector of the family to walk through life with some moronic title. I'm here to put an end to this, right now.
I will get to what Claudia and I decided upon for the names of our future dogs in a minute, but in the mean time I'm going to give a remedial course in how to name your dog. Male dogs are easy, because, naturally, I'm a guy and I usually leave the "foo-foo" stuff to Claudia anyways. To start, the Dog is a symbol of strength and they react strongly to visible leadership..."Muffy" is not going to be the Alpha male of the pack no matter what breed it is...that's a name for a Gerbil. Hondo is a name I always wanted to give a dog. It is a tribute to one of my favorite authors, Louis La Mour and his book by the same name. Duke and Dutch are solid names as are Patton, Ike and MacArthur which keeps you grounded to that leadership theme. You could also classify male dogs in the blue collar category, especially if they're lacking that distinct leadership trait and go with Hank, Ralph or Stan. These are the dogs that will carry the mail for you, chase the cats and cars and annoyingly bark at anyone who comes in the yard. My sister, Laurie, had a brindle colored French/Belgian Mastiff that was close to 160 lbs...he was a big bastard and had a fitting name...Titan.
As for the girl canines, I tend to feel they deserve a feminine quality to their name, but be careful and remember...Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.... Dixie is a favorite for me living here in the South. I love the previously mentioned Molly and Claudia's sister Brenda and her family had a chocolate lab named Madison who was the most majestic and lady-like dog I have ever known. Some others I'm fond of are Daisy, Biscuit, Lulu, and Ema. One of the more striking names I've heard was Abbey Rose, man...I love that handle.
Back to our little quandary of future names. It goes without saying that the breed has to play an important part in all this...you'll get a chuckle out of this one...we're going to get 2 English Bulldogs. Yeah, I knew you would like it...can you see me and Claudia walking these short, fat behemoths in the park? Anyways, as I said earlier she is leaning toward the Brother-Sister combo and naming them Ike and Tina...please, I hope no one needs me to help them get that one. I like it and it is a helluva a conversation piece. My names, if I get the opportunity to pick 2 brothers would be Thurl and Cozelle. It's a WOLFPACK thing...Thurl Bailey and Cozelle McQueen were stalwarts on the 1983 NCAA championship team and I thought it would be a fitting honor to name my dogs after them. There you have it...how to name your dog...go forth and make this a better world for that lovable four legged friend of yours and give them a name they can be proud of.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Biting the Hair of the Dog
It has now become a rite of Spring, and for the past four years my buddy Loyd has taken me out and gotten me completely, "In the gutter, lying drunk." That's as good as a description that comes to mind and it was far from my intention of ending up that way, on the contrary, it was only suppose to be a few round of beers, some great Ruckus Pizza and take in a local Rock & Roll band. All it took was for some stranger to offer us a single round of Tequila and it was Nightmare on Elm Street all over again. Last year, it got so bad I had to sleep in a lawn chair outside his RV... I knew I was going to heave (hurl, pimento parade, spew...whatever you call it) and I definitely didn't want to do it inside...it seems as if the year before somebody might have accidentally "relieved" themselves in the corner of the trailer after our night on the town. I know, how is it that Loyd still considers me a friend?
Mind you, it isn't exactly his fault...he's not holding a pistol to my head...the bottom line is that I'm an absolute panty waste of an alcohol drinker. Loyd, on the other hand is the complete opposite, the man can hold his liquor...and I mean that it in a good way; he has this rare disposition found in few men who can drink straight grain alcohol as if it were water, and then proceed to plow the back forty. As usual, I refuse to accept responsibility for my own actions when modern science can explain it away. I wasn't that much of a drinker before my weight loss, and now that I have shed some of my inner child, I just don't belly up to the bar all that well anymore...and that might be a blessing in disguise. Don't let my cute little Blog title fool you, yes, I do enjoy beer, but I don't make it a routine. In fact I would classify myself as a "social alcoholic," if such a title exists. What that means is I usually partake in alcohol consumption at gatherings and after about 4 or 5 beers...I'm toast. Claudia and I usually flip a coin before we leave to see who will be the designated driver, but on most of these occasions she is the one dragging my ass back to the "hoosegow." 4 or 5 beers doesn't usually put me in the "obliterated" category but it will get me in trouble with "Johnny Lawman" and the last thing I want to do, is encourage anyone to drink and drive...it's just not worth it.
Anyways, I can hold my own when it comes to beer, it's when men decide to be men and desire the straight stuff that the train starts coming off the tracks for me. I enjoy a mixed drink every now and again. My brother-in-law, Pete, got me hooked on "CC and 7" and he has absolutely the best Margarita recipe that I have ever tasted; I just don't do well with straight shots of liquor. Personally, I just don't find straight anything in alcohol all that tasty...bourbon, scotch, vodka, moonshine...none of it. We men though, are a proud lot and when the call goes out for "shots," we have to defend our manhood...it's in our blood, the nature of the world. So, what is Mark's booze "kryptonite?" Without hesitation...RUM. I avoid it like the plague and have vivid nightmares of when I was a young lad of nineteen living in the barracks and trying to make my mark in the world...I failed miserably.
Every good Army Story starts out with, "You're not going to believe this shit...," so, "you're not going to believe this shit" when I tell you about the time a handful of us young GI's were downtown in the local Gasthaus enjoying life, drinking the local beer and having a grand 'ole time. It's a story that has been re-hashed many times so I'll skip to the part where the evil "Rum" ferry has magically armed all of us with a single shot of her potion. We end up toasting one another, how we hate every Sergeant in the unit, the Commander and eventually the Army.
Fast forward to the next morning...I'm saying this because, truthfully, I couldn't remember anything between the time we drank those shots of Bacardi 151 RUM and the annoying knock at our barracks door and our Section Sergeant barking at us to make PT formation. I could hear him speaking (yelling was more like it) to me and I was physically awake but I couldn't move or talk...it was that bad. I could see the leg of my room mate and knew he was lying on the floor, but that was about the extent of it as he was probably in the same condition as your faithful super hero.
Sergent Allen, our section sergeant at the time, wasn't about to let 2 snot nosed PFC's(Private First Class is a rank in the Army) make a fool of him. He was able to get the CQ keys and promptly opened our door. As I mentioned, I was completely immobile, but awake...the look on Sergeant Allen's face and the fact that he covered his mouth told me that something had gone horribly wrong the evening before...he was intermittently yelling at me to, "get up!" and trying to cover his mouth. He left frustrated but more determined; he reappeared in less than ten minutes with another soldier carrying water hoses. You can imagine the scene and the complete mess that was made when he "unleashed the hounds" on 2 drunken, young sots lying in their own bile. Least wise, that is what they told me, because, truly, I don't remember vomiting...and yeah, sports fans...this was an epic FUBAR on my part.
The good thing out of that, was once the sergeant turned the hose on us, it relieved my fear that I was paralyzed. The not so good result of this was the Commander and First Sergeant were disturbed by the actions of two of their young Privates. It was decreed that myself and my room-mate would be made an example of. I got busted down to PRIVATE, loss of 1/2 month's pay, 2 months extra duty and a month restricted to post. The "Piece De Resistance" of the punishment was that we had to vacate our room and set up a 10 man Arctic tent in front of the barracks and move all our belongings, bunk, locker and gear in as well.
Recall that I said we were "restricted" to post for a month? The part that really sucked for us was that we never got any sleep. Between all the floor scrubbing, room painting and kitchen details assigned as "extra duty" after the end of Work Day formation, we were constantly having to defend our tent from the other assholes in the billets who would pull up our stakes in the middle of the night or even worse on weekends, when they would return from downtown and decide to mess with us...it was actually hilarious as hell, but imagine having to re-stake your tent at odd hours of the night for 30 friggin days...we were two tired mo-fos when we were allowed to move back into the billets and to this day I have never taken a shot of rum again.
Back to Loyd and our most recent adventure: I didn't cause any physical damage( this means I didn't get sick), which for me is a victory. Once the walls started moving I knew it was over and stuck solely to water, but even if you put lipstick on a pig...it's still a pig. All the water in the world wasn't going to flush out the tequila that had already made it to my brain. I retreated to the back seat of the car and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning in the RV (damn if I can remember how we got there) with a massive headache. There sitting across from me was Loyd, bright eyed and bushy tail drinking a Bloody Mary. He had politely laid out some Alka-Seltzer and water and offered me some of his concoction. His only advice was, "Hair of the dog...drink it!!" I being a panty waste knew that wasn't going to happen; it was only 3 hours later that I could actually function and made it to the shower.
I have no illusions of grandeur about all this...it is what it is...and I hardly feel the need to improve this aspect of my life as it happens so infrequently but, if you find the Dogwoods blooming and the birds singing and haven't heard from me in a while, just drive out to Carter Finley Stadium and prop my "pickled" carcass up against whatever object will support me and kick me til I groan...it will be much appreciated.
Mind you, it isn't exactly his fault...he's not holding a pistol to my head...the bottom line is that I'm an absolute panty waste of an alcohol drinker. Loyd, on the other hand is the complete opposite, the man can hold his liquor...and I mean that it in a good way; he has this rare disposition found in few men who can drink straight grain alcohol as if it were water, and then proceed to plow the back forty. As usual, I refuse to accept responsibility for my own actions when modern science can explain it away. I wasn't that much of a drinker before my weight loss, and now that I have shed some of my inner child, I just don't belly up to the bar all that well anymore...and that might be a blessing in disguise. Don't let my cute little Blog title fool you, yes, I do enjoy beer, but I don't make it a routine. In fact I would classify myself as a "social alcoholic," if such a title exists. What that means is I usually partake in alcohol consumption at gatherings and after about 4 or 5 beers...I'm toast. Claudia and I usually flip a coin before we leave to see who will be the designated driver, but on most of these occasions she is the one dragging my ass back to the "hoosegow." 4 or 5 beers doesn't usually put me in the "obliterated" category but it will get me in trouble with "Johnny Lawman" and the last thing I want to do, is encourage anyone to drink and drive...it's just not worth it.
Anyways, I can hold my own when it comes to beer, it's when men decide to be men and desire the straight stuff that the train starts coming off the tracks for me. I enjoy a mixed drink every now and again. My brother-in-law, Pete, got me hooked on "CC and 7" and he has absolutely the best Margarita recipe that I have ever tasted; I just don't do well with straight shots of liquor. Personally, I just don't find straight anything in alcohol all that tasty...bourbon, scotch, vodka, moonshine...none of it. We men though, are a proud lot and when the call goes out for "shots," we have to defend our manhood...it's in our blood, the nature of the world. So, what is Mark's booze "kryptonite?" Without hesitation...RUM. I avoid it like the plague and have vivid nightmares of when I was a young lad of nineteen living in the barracks and trying to make my mark in the world...I failed miserably.
Every good Army Story starts out with, "You're not going to believe this shit...," so, "you're not going to believe this shit" when I tell you about the time a handful of us young GI's were downtown in the local Gasthaus enjoying life, drinking the local beer and having a grand 'ole time. It's a story that has been re-hashed many times so I'll skip to the part where the evil "Rum" ferry has magically armed all of us with a single shot of her potion. We end up toasting one another, how we hate every Sergeant in the unit, the Commander and eventually the Army.
Fast forward to the next morning...I'm saying this because, truthfully, I couldn't remember anything between the time we drank those shots of Bacardi 151 RUM and the annoying knock at our barracks door and our Section Sergeant barking at us to make PT formation. I could hear him speaking (yelling was more like it) to me and I was physically awake but I couldn't move or talk...it was that bad. I could see the leg of my room mate and knew he was lying on the floor, but that was about the extent of it as he was probably in the same condition as your faithful super hero.
Sergent Allen, our section sergeant at the time, wasn't about to let 2 snot nosed PFC's(Private First Class is a rank in the Army) make a fool of him. He was able to get the CQ keys and promptly opened our door. As I mentioned, I was completely immobile, but awake...the look on Sergeant Allen's face and the fact that he covered his mouth told me that something had gone horribly wrong the evening before...he was intermittently yelling at me to, "get up!" and trying to cover his mouth. He left frustrated but more determined; he reappeared in less than ten minutes with another soldier carrying water hoses. You can imagine the scene and the complete mess that was made when he "unleashed the hounds" on 2 drunken, young sots lying in their own bile. Least wise, that is what they told me, because, truly, I don't remember vomiting...and yeah, sports fans...this was an epic FUBAR on my part.
The good thing out of that, was once the sergeant turned the hose on us, it relieved my fear that I was paralyzed. The not so good result of this was the Commander and First Sergeant were disturbed by the actions of two of their young Privates. It was decreed that myself and my room-mate would be made an example of. I got busted down to PRIVATE, loss of 1/2 month's pay, 2 months extra duty and a month restricted to post. The "Piece De Resistance" of the punishment was that we had to vacate our room and set up a 10 man Arctic tent in front of the barracks and move all our belongings, bunk, locker and gear in as well.
Recall that I said we were "restricted" to post for a month? The part that really sucked for us was that we never got any sleep. Between all the floor scrubbing, room painting and kitchen details assigned as "extra duty" after the end of Work Day formation, we were constantly having to defend our tent from the other assholes in the billets who would pull up our stakes in the middle of the night or even worse on weekends, when they would return from downtown and decide to mess with us...it was actually hilarious as hell, but imagine having to re-stake your tent at odd hours of the night for 30 friggin days...we were two tired mo-fos when we were allowed to move back into the billets and to this day I have never taken a shot of rum again.
Back to Loyd and our most recent adventure: I didn't cause any physical damage( this means I didn't get sick), which for me is a victory. Once the walls started moving I knew it was over and stuck solely to water, but even if you put lipstick on a pig...it's still a pig. All the water in the world wasn't going to flush out the tequila that had already made it to my brain. I retreated to the back seat of the car and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning in the RV (damn if I can remember how we got there) with a massive headache. There sitting across from me was Loyd, bright eyed and bushy tail drinking a Bloody Mary. He had politely laid out some Alka-Seltzer and water and offered me some of his concoction. His only advice was, "Hair of the dog...drink it!!" I being a panty waste knew that wasn't going to happen; it was only 3 hours later that I could actually function and made it to the shower.
I have no illusions of grandeur about all this...it is what it is...and I hardly feel the need to improve this aspect of my life as it happens so infrequently but, if you find the Dogwoods blooming and the birds singing and haven't heard from me in a while, just drive out to Carter Finley Stadium and prop my "pickled" carcass up against whatever object will support me and kick me til I groan...it will be much appreciated.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Ode to Cubbie Fan
Some say it is a dying sport. It will soon be viewed much like the burned out wreckage that Boxing has become, where every once in a while Americans will watch on the oft chance that history might be repeated or we hear the snippets of the immortal verbiage "Down goes Frazier!!" echoed by the iconic Howard Cosell that makes us remember that it was once the "Sport of Kings." Baseball doesn't loom as large on the American landscape as it once did; however, it is not going to go quietly into the night until one fan base has their say so. Cubbies.
Admiration is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Cubs fans, due mostly to their unflappable support of a team that hasn't given them a lot to root for, these oh...so many years. Unadulterated pity is the second most common emotion and pure scorn is the third as you realize that by seasons end, they'll have their beating hearts ripped from their bodies once again, and will be left pondering during those cold, blustery Chicago winters why God hates them so...they are literally, sports version of the Bible's "Job."
As I write this on the second day of the 2010 Major League season I sadly report that my Bravos ripped the Cubs 16-5 on opening day. Lets face it folks, it's one thing to be a Red Sox fan and having to endure the "Curse of the Bambino" and not to have won a World Series since 1918, but they at least got there on multiple occasions and have been competitive...and during this first decade of the new millenia won 2 titles in 2004 and 2007. The Cubs have not even graced the Fall Classic since 1946 and their last championship was 1908. Um...that's 102 years of "suckdom!"
Seriously, what is the most memorable thing you know about the Cubs? Off the top of my head, the late voice of Harry Caray singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch and that they reside in venerable Wrigley Field with Ivy covered brick walls in the outfield. When the first thing you think of when talking about a team isn't championships...or that the most popular mode of transportation when they did win one was the Horse and Buggy...you've got some major problems. Really, does anyone have a deep seated resentment of this team? I honestly and truly hate the damn Yankees and anything associated to UNC-CH but how can anyone hate these guys? Here's the kicker: Their complete success at being inept has allowed them to become the poster child for the ubiquitous "lovable loser," and has garnered them legions of fans. Which makes them the perfect team to pull for if you enjoy despair and misery. There must be hoards of miserable people in the United States because I would rank their numbers just behind the damn Yankees and Red Sox. I'm willing to bet that we all know of at least one Cubs fan that would die to have their ashes scattered over that ballpark.
That someone for me is my boss Barney. Get this: He's not from Chicago...which blows my mind as to how he even wound up as a Cubs Fan. Barney hails from Tobaccoville, NC. I just don't envision that little hamlet being this deep rooted haven for misplaced Cub fans nor would I suspect, that it has the technological capability of reaching the Cubs radio broadcast or TV affiliate. Times have changed though, and Cable and Satellite have made it a smaller world...but come on, man! He comes from the middle of BFE, North Cacalacky, and is a Cubs fan?
Barney is the engineer that I dream of being...which is why he is probably my boss...he is quite capable in our field and creates spreadsheets that boggle my mind...I know, that doesn't take a whole helluva lot...but you get the picture. There is one other thing about him that I haven't told...he is a fine graduate of NC STATE University, as is yours truly...which only means he's very good with numbers and has probably driven a tractor or two in his lifetime. Some of you have already figured out where I'm going with this, but for the rest of you...when you combine the magnitude of losing that the Cubs have heaped upon you with the utter despair of being a Wolfpack Fan since Jimmy V was run out of town 30 years ago your dealing with universal forces that Zeus himself couldn't conjure up. Appearance wise Barney seems like a normal individual, he's got a great family, wife and kids that love and adore him. He's very active in the community with his church and is also the manager of his son's T-Ball team, but deep inside this man is a burning rage that can only be doused by a singular championship from one of his beloved teams. From where I'm sitting I don't see that happening anytime soon and that is only going to fuel the fire in this poor man's soul.
I get Barney for a multitude of reasons...which is why if he should ever lose his friggin mind at work...I'm going to be the only one to walk away with just a limp. I lived with a Cubs fan whilst I was growing up in the form of dear 'ole dad. Henry C. Laugisch was really from Chicago and often he would tell us of the stories of visiting friends who lived next to Wriggly Field and watching the games from their balconies...he didn't mention anything about the cubs losing, but it was implied. Dad wasn't a die hard Cubbie as Barney is today, but he would at least keep track of them when they were playing well and tell us "this is the year!!" Sadly, he and millions of cubbies never got to experience that one fleeting moment.
Personally, I think the Cubs and their intensely loyal fans have suffered enough...can you imagine what would happen if they did win the series? My hat goes off to you...Cubbies...and without a doubt I will root for 'em when they're not playing Atlanta this year but maybe this is how it's suppose to be...that one constant you can always count on like lightening after thunder, the changing of the seasons and the migration of birds. Good luck Cubs, America is pulling for you.
Admiration is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Cubs fans, due mostly to their unflappable support of a team that hasn't given them a lot to root for, these oh...so many years. Unadulterated pity is the second most common emotion and pure scorn is the third as you realize that by seasons end, they'll have their beating hearts ripped from their bodies once again, and will be left pondering during those cold, blustery Chicago winters why God hates them so...they are literally, sports version of the Bible's "Job."
As I write this on the second day of the 2010 Major League season I sadly report that my Bravos ripped the Cubs 16-5 on opening day. Lets face it folks, it's one thing to be a Red Sox fan and having to endure the "Curse of the Bambino" and not to have won a World Series since 1918, but they at least got there on multiple occasions and have been competitive...and during this first decade of the new millenia won 2 titles in 2004 and 2007. The Cubs have not even graced the Fall Classic since 1946 and their last championship was 1908. Um...that's 102 years of "suckdom!"
Seriously, what is the most memorable thing you know about the Cubs? Off the top of my head, the late voice of Harry Caray singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch and that they reside in venerable Wrigley Field with Ivy covered brick walls in the outfield. When the first thing you think of when talking about a team isn't championships...or that the most popular mode of transportation when they did win one was the Horse and Buggy...you've got some major problems. Really, does anyone have a deep seated resentment of this team? I honestly and truly hate the damn Yankees and anything associated to UNC-CH but how can anyone hate these guys? Here's the kicker: Their complete success at being inept has allowed them to become the poster child for the ubiquitous "lovable loser," and has garnered them legions of fans. Which makes them the perfect team to pull for if you enjoy despair and misery. There must be hoards of miserable people in the United States because I would rank their numbers just behind the damn Yankees and Red Sox. I'm willing to bet that we all know of at least one Cubs fan that would die to have their ashes scattered over that ballpark.
That someone for me is my boss Barney. Get this: He's not from Chicago...which blows my mind as to how he even wound up as a Cubs Fan. Barney hails from Tobaccoville, NC. I just don't envision that little hamlet being this deep rooted haven for misplaced Cub fans nor would I suspect, that it has the technological capability of reaching the Cubs radio broadcast or TV affiliate. Times have changed though, and Cable and Satellite have made it a smaller world...but come on, man! He comes from the middle of BFE, North Cacalacky, and is a Cubs fan?
Barney is the engineer that I dream of being...which is why he is probably my boss...he is quite capable in our field and creates spreadsheets that boggle my mind...I know, that doesn't take a whole helluva lot...but you get the picture. There is one other thing about him that I haven't told...he is a fine graduate of NC STATE University, as is yours truly...which only means he's very good with numbers and has probably driven a tractor or two in his lifetime. Some of you have already figured out where I'm going with this, but for the rest of you...when you combine the magnitude of losing that the Cubs have heaped upon you with the utter despair of being a Wolfpack Fan since Jimmy V was run out of town 30 years ago your dealing with universal forces that Zeus himself couldn't conjure up. Appearance wise Barney seems like a normal individual, he's got a great family, wife and kids that love and adore him. He's very active in the community with his church and is also the manager of his son's T-Ball team, but deep inside this man is a burning rage that can only be doused by a singular championship from one of his beloved teams. From where I'm sitting I don't see that happening anytime soon and that is only going to fuel the fire in this poor man's soul.
I get Barney for a multitude of reasons...which is why if he should ever lose his friggin mind at work...I'm going to be the only one to walk away with just a limp. I lived with a Cubs fan whilst I was growing up in the form of dear 'ole dad. Henry C. Laugisch was really from Chicago and often he would tell us of the stories of visiting friends who lived next to Wriggly Field and watching the games from their balconies...he didn't mention anything about the cubs losing, but it was implied. Dad wasn't a die hard Cubbie as Barney is today, but he would at least keep track of them when they were playing well and tell us "this is the year!!" Sadly, he and millions of cubbies never got to experience that one fleeting moment.
Personally, I think the Cubs and their intensely loyal fans have suffered enough...can you imagine what would happen if they did win the series? My hat goes off to you...Cubbies...and without a doubt I will root for 'em when they're not playing Atlanta this year but maybe this is how it's suppose to be...that one constant you can always count on like lightening after thunder, the changing of the seasons and the migration of birds. Good luck Cubs, America is pulling for you.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Scrap the Caddy Clyde
I think my truck is possessed...or maybe I'm just not that good of a driver. The "Red Dragon" and I ended up in a fender bender this morning. I own a 2005 Toyota Tacoma Pre-Runner and it's the best truck I have ever owned, but damn if we haven't had problems over the years with other cars.
Including today's blunder, I have been in 5 altercations since driving it off the dealership back in October of '05. None of which have been my fault except this most recent mishap. There was the incident where I had my own consulting job, providing environmental compliance inspections for work sites, where the roadway gave way and I slid into a huge boulder...it scrapped the side pretty good but no real damage. Then I was "hit & run" on opening night after the Canes won the Stanley Cup in '06. Some asshole, excuse my language, backs into me and drives off...I was parked underneath a street lamp that had a security camera...which wasn't functioning. Then I was sideswiped in my assigned parking lot by the guy next to me. He was nice enough to find me in my office and tell me what happened...but guess what? That's right...he didn't have any insurance! Two months after that little experience I'm heading home on NC 401 in rush hour traffic; I hear screeching brakes behind me and look up just in time to see a Honda Civic neatly try and park itself under my rear bumper. It suffered the brunt of the impact and I only had to replace my bumper. I have come to the disappointing conclusion, that, where vehicles are involved I don't have a damn "Lucky Irish" bone in my body.
So what happened in this most recent accident? I hate running behind, but I found myself doing it this morning and that tends to make me "press the envelope" more than I should. Although, in this particular incident, I was stopped at an intersection waiting for the green light on Jones St. downtown Raleigh and I noticed another car in my rear view mirror coming through the previous intersection...and pretty damn fast. My light turns green and I proceed through the light. Mind you, the turn into the parking lot was just past this intersection on the right hand side across form the Governor's mansion...you literally have to slow down or brake like I did ,just to make the turn. It was apparent that the guy behind me was in a bigger hurry than me and was annoyed that he had to slow for some guy "Driving Miss Daisy" around. He completely distracted me to the point that I cut short my turn into the lot. I had seen this Chevrolet parked on the side near the entrance and thought I was going to clear it and initially, when I felt the car brush up against the other car, I thought it was just the curb...not the usual "metal on metal" sound you normally get. It just didn't feel right and I cleared the entrance and pulled over. I walked around to my side and sure enough, there was a crease of white paint on my back passenger door panel.
"Whew...," I sort of breathed a sigh of relief knowing that I could live with the slight damage. After all, it is a truck and a ding like this will just give it a little character. I then walked the 75 feet to the other car and was in total shock to the damage I caused. I couldn't believe that such a "lite" collision could be so destructive...seriously, at the time I wasn't even sure I had hit the car. What the hell are these new automobiles made of...Lego blocks? The driver side bumper was peeled back...it was the only true damage that I could tell...but it was far enough exposed that as I leaned in closer for a better view and I could see STYROFOAM between the PLASTIC bumper and the actual car body. My mind instantly raced back to the movie, EVERY WHICH WAY BUT LOOSE with Clint Eastwood and that Orangutan. Eastwood has a line in it, "Scrap the caddy Clyde" where he instructs the ape to tear apart the gangsters Cadillac. I'm thinking an eight year old child with one arm tied behind his back could have done the same damage to that car before I hit it.
I could have driven away...I guess...it didn't cross my mind til the police officer thanked me for NOT DRIVING AWAY!! I've been through this...the "hit and run" thing and it sucks when your on the end that gets the proverbial shaft. Besides I have a TEXAS sized conscience and I knew that this car belonged to some old lady who probably didn't have a dime to her name. Sure enough, after calling the cops and their dispatcher tracking down the owner, out from the Archives Building from across the other side of the Governor's mansion walks up this lady. She had to be in her late fifties or early sixties...and has her arms crossed in that little old lady manner and looks at me...knowing that I'm the "rat bastard" that has ruined her day. She walks around her car and surveys the damage and I can tell she is also astounded to the damage that I caused and frustratingly asks, "How did you hit my parked car?" I was at a loss for words and the only thing I could tell her was, "sorry, it was an accident."
She had every right to be mad or angry...after all it was my fault...I'm thinking she thought that I was going to admit to something like "texting" while driving or that I was an incorrigible drunk that finally got caught. She eventually realized that I wasn't this horrible monster after the police officer explained to her that I had actually called them and she also verified to her that I had insurance. We exchanged info and I said "sorry" fifty more times and the police officer gave us a copy of the accident report. The lady walked back to her car and just starred at the damage. I left, shaking my head, and wondering why some people have "shitty" luck.
Including today's blunder, I have been in 5 altercations since driving it off the dealership back in October of '05. None of which have been my fault except this most recent mishap. There was the incident where I had my own consulting job, providing environmental compliance inspections for work sites, where the roadway gave way and I slid into a huge boulder...it scrapped the side pretty good but no real damage. Then I was "hit & run" on opening night after the Canes won the Stanley Cup in '06. Some asshole, excuse my language, backs into me and drives off...I was parked underneath a street lamp that had a security camera...which wasn't functioning. Then I was sideswiped in my assigned parking lot by the guy next to me. He was nice enough to find me in my office and tell me what happened...but guess what? That's right...he didn't have any insurance! Two months after that little experience I'm heading home on NC 401 in rush hour traffic; I hear screeching brakes behind me and look up just in time to see a Honda Civic neatly try and park itself under my rear bumper. It suffered the brunt of the impact and I only had to replace my bumper. I have come to the disappointing conclusion, that, where vehicles are involved I don't have a damn "Lucky Irish" bone in my body.
So what happened in this most recent accident? I hate running behind, but I found myself doing it this morning and that tends to make me "press the envelope" more than I should. Although, in this particular incident, I was stopped at an intersection waiting for the green light on Jones St. downtown Raleigh and I noticed another car in my rear view mirror coming through the previous intersection...and pretty damn fast. My light turns green and I proceed through the light. Mind you, the turn into the parking lot was just past this intersection on the right hand side across form the Governor's mansion...you literally have to slow down or brake like I did ,just to make the turn. It was apparent that the guy behind me was in a bigger hurry than me and was annoyed that he had to slow for some guy "Driving Miss Daisy" around. He completely distracted me to the point that I cut short my turn into the lot. I had seen this Chevrolet parked on the side near the entrance and thought I was going to clear it and initially, when I felt the car brush up against the other car, I thought it was just the curb...not the usual "metal on metal" sound you normally get. It just didn't feel right and I cleared the entrance and pulled over. I walked around to my side and sure enough, there was a crease of white paint on my back passenger door panel.
"Whew...," I sort of breathed a sigh of relief knowing that I could live with the slight damage. After all, it is a truck and a ding like this will just give it a little character. I then walked the 75 feet to the other car and was in total shock to the damage I caused. I couldn't believe that such a "lite" collision could be so destructive...seriously, at the time I wasn't even sure I had hit the car. What the hell are these new automobiles made of...Lego blocks? The driver side bumper was peeled back...it was the only true damage that I could tell...but it was far enough exposed that as I leaned in closer for a better view and I could see STYROFOAM between the PLASTIC bumper and the actual car body. My mind instantly raced back to the movie, EVERY WHICH WAY BUT LOOSE with Clint Eastwood and that Orangutan. Eastwood has a line in it, "Scrap the caddy Clyde" where he instructs the ape to tear apart the gangsters Cadillac. I'm thinking an eight year old child with one arm tied behind his back could have done the same damage to that car before I hit it.
I could have driven away...I guess...it didn't cross my mind til the police officer thanked me for NOT DRIVING AWAY!! I've been through this...the "hit and run" thing and it sucks when your on the end that gets the proverbial shaft. Besides I have a TEXAS sized conscience and I knew that this car belonged to some old lady who probably didn't have a dime to her name. Sure enough, after calling the cops and their dispatcher tracking down the owner, out from the Archives Building from across the other side of the Governor's mansion walks up this lady. She had to be in her late fifties or early sixties...and has her arms crossed in that little old lady manner and looks at me...knowing that I'm the "rat bastard" that has ruined her day. She walks around her car and surveys the damage and I can tell she is also astounded to the damage that I caused and frustratingly asks, "How did you hit my parked car?" I was at a loss for words and the only thing I could tell her was, "sorry, it was an accident."
She had every right to be mad or angry...after all it was my fault...I'm thinking she thought that I was going to admit to something like "texting" while driving or that I was an incorrigible drunk that finally got caught. She eventually realized that I wasn't this horrible monster after the police officer explained to her that I had actually called them and she also verified to her that I had insurance. We exchanged info and I said "sorry" fifty more times and the police officer gave us a copy of the accident report. The lady walked back to her car and just starred at the damage. I left, shaking my head, and wondering why some people have "shitty" luck.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Karaoke Mule Days
I'm a LAUGISCH in name and fiercely proud of it, but what courses through my veins mostly, is Harnett County, PAGE blood. If I had to pick one animal that typifies the PAGE men, it would be the MULE! Somewhere in our lineage, there has to be a family crest with this beast of burden firmly affixed upon it. I know the first thing most folks will think of when it comes to this notoriously under-valued animal is it's well deserved reputation for being stubborn. It goes without saying that the first observable characteristic of a PAGE man is his stubbornness...Lord, we were either blessed or cursed with this affliction and it has driven many a woman married to our kind, out of their damn minds.
Before we further tarnish the reputation of this animal in comparison to PAGE men, let's get some facts straight for the non-farming types in my readership. A mule is a cross between a male (Jackass) donkey and your standard horse mare. Strangely, a mule can't reproduce because it has an odd number of chromosomes. No, I did not know that before making this entry but I figured because you have been such a keen audience, I would throw in a little "Did you know" to go along with my typical wit and wisdom. You can thank me later. The prized characteristic of this animal was it's ability to work...basically haul and pull stuff...all damn day. Farmers further came to appreciate the Mule because it was a lower maintenance animal than most horses and could tolerate extreme weather conditions better. We Page men are that way... we can work all day if necessary and some of us have stayed out in the sun too long but give us a pack of nabs and a cold bottle of Mountain Dew and we're good to go. Now, don't go thinking that Page men could build the Egyptian Pyramids if that notion crossed our minds....no, it doesn't mean we all work smart, fast or efficient...it just means we're a hard working lot!
So, who's the King Mule of the Page Dynasty? Most people living in the Raven Rock community would probably come to the conclusion that my grandfather, the late, great Laurie James Page would be at the top of that list, but he runs a distant second to another Page man: Brother Fred. Frederick Karl Laugisch is the King Mule in our family and it's not even close. Oh, he's had a couple of challenges for that distinction from the likes of Grandpa, Uncle Roger and myself, but each and every time after the dust settled, there sat Fred basking in the glory of all his orneriness.
I'll give him his due, as a brother I should because he is the most caring of us all and would give you his last dime...and shirt if it called for it. What makes him so damn stubborn? Who the hell knows...but he will attempt to "dive deeper, swim farther and come up drier" at the whisper of a dare... naturally, with mixed results. When he latches onto a notion or thought, your going to play hell trying to prove him otherwise. Take for example, Karaoke. He graduated from college a few years back and the family loaded up a van and drove to Ohio for the ceremony. He reserved a large meeting room in the hotel for the graduation party, complete with a Karaoke machine.
A man has got to know his limitations and I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I'm any good at it...I'm not...and usually it takes a lot of prodding and "liquid courage" for me to grab the mike. I have come to learn that when your not a good Karaoke singer, like me, the respectable thing to do for your audience is to find a nice, short, song that you're familiar with and shouldn't butcher too bad. My "go to" song when I'm up on the stage making an ass of myself is "King of the Road," by Roger Miller. It's about 3 minutes long, the words and verses are easy to remember and everybody walks away with their hearing intact.
I was a huge fan of the Eagles for the majority of my teenage years and adult life. That all came to a sudden and frightening ending when Fred grabbed the mike that night to sing "Hotel California." It's got a great melody and the words are fairly easy to understand, "what's the problem, Mark?" It's 7 minutes long folks. Rinse and repeat...It's 7 FRIGGIN MINUTES LONG!! Lord, it was erie to think that the sound coming from Fred was akin to a "Mule" braying away at the night but that is exactly what it sounded like. The problem was, you found yourself sitting there thinking, "Wow, he is really terrible." Then it hits you, as you realize at first, "Oh, he's singing the Eagles..." then your heart pounds and your mind races as you see the death of Rock & Roll before you, "Oh Mother of God!!..It's Hotel California...IT'S 7 FRIGGIN MINUTES LONG!!" We all sat there with contorted faces and mixed emotions, "could this be the worse sound ever emitted from a human?
Mind you now, Fred had "thrown back" quite a few beers before embarking upon his quest to destroy this song and because he had to stare down at the monitor to read the words he had no clue to what effect this had upon his audience. After he finishes, he literally looks around at us and asks, "How was that, pretty good, Uh?" Seriously, he thought he had won a Grammy or something and started to work the room to get some feedback. This is where he earns his money for being stubborn. Criticism does not affect him in the least as he was bound and determined to find that one person who thought his version was better than anything Don Henley could ever muster.
Sadly, my story doesn't end there. In retrospect, we all collectively, as an audience , should have given him a standing ovation as he now torments us at every opportunity to prove beyond a doubt that he is the "Master" of that damn song. He is like a Shark in the water whenever we have family gatherings and if there is somehow a Karaoke machine around he circles it in anticipation and waits like the stubborn mule that he is, til we drop our guard...and like poison we hear, "On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair..." Keep on Rockin in the Free world brother...we still love you.
Before we further tarnish the reputation of this animal in comparison to PAGE men, let's get some facts straight for the non-farming types in my readership. A mule is a cross between a male (Jackass) donkey and your standard horse mare. Strangely, a mule can't reproduce because it has an odd number of chromosomes. No, I did not know that before making this entry but I figured because you have been such a keen audience, I would throw in a little "Did you know" to go along with my typical wit and wisdom. You can thank me later. The prized characteristic of this animal was it's ability to work...basically haul and pull stuff...all damn day. Farmers further came to appreciate the Mule because it was a lower maintenance animal than most horses and could tolerate extreme weather conditions better. We Page men are that way... we can work all day if necessary and some of us have stayed out in the sun too long but give us a pack of nabs and a cold bottle of Mountain Dew and we're good to go. Now, don't go thinking that Page men could build the Egyptian Pyramids if that notion crossed our minds....no, it doesn't mean we all work smart, fast or efficient...it just means we're a hard working lot!
So, who's the King Mule of the Page Dynasty? Most people living in the Raven Rock community would probably come to the conclusion that my grandfather, the late, great Laurie James Page would be at the top of that list, but he runs a distant second to another Page man: Brother Fred. Frederick Karl Laugisch is the King Mule in our family and it's not even close. Oh, he's had a couple of challenges for that distinction from the likes of Grandpa, Uncle Roger and myself, but each and every time after the dust settled, there sat Fred basking in the glory of all his orneriness.
I'll give him his due, as a brother I should because he is the most caring of us all and would give you his last dime...and shirt if it called for it. What makes him so damn stubborn? Who the hell knows...but he will attempt to "dive deeper, swim farther and come up drier" at the whisper of a dare... naturally, with mixed results. When he latches onto a notion or thought, your going to play hell trying to prove him otherwise. Take for example, Karaoke. He graduated from college a few years back and the family loaded up a van and drove to Ohio for the ceremony. He reserved a large meeting room in the hotel for the graduation party, complete with a Karaoke machine.
A man has got to know his limitations and I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I'm any good at it...I'm not...and usually it takes a lot of prodding and "liquid courage" for me to grab the mike. I have come to learn that when your not a good Karaoke singer, like me, the respectable thing to do for your audience is to find a nice, short, song that you're familiar with and shouldn't butcher too bad. My "go to" song when I'm up on the stage making an ass of myself is "King of the Road," by Roger Miller. It's about 3 minutes long, the words and verses are easy to remember and everybody walks away with their hearing intact.
I was a huge fan of the Eagles for the majority of my teenage years and adult life. That all came to a sudden and frightening ending when Fred grabbed the mike that night to sing "Hotel California." It's got a great melody and the words are fairly easy to understand, "what's the problem, Mark?" It's 7 minutes long folks. Rinse and repeat...It's 7 FRIGGIN MINUTES LONG!! Lord, it was erie to think that the sound coming from Fred was akin to a "Mule" braying away at the night but that is exactly what it sounded like. The problem was, you found yourself sitting there thinking, "Wow, he is really terrible." Then it hits you, as you realize at first, "Oh, he's singing the Eagles..." then your heart pounds and your mind races as you see the death of Rock & Roll before you, "Oh Mother of God!!..It's Hotel California...IT'S 7 FRIGGIN MINUTES LONG!!" We all sat there with contorted faces and mixed emotions, "could this be the worse sound ever emitted from a human?
Mind you now, Fred had "thrown back" quite a few beers before embarking upon his quest to destroy this song and because he had to stare down at the monitor to read the words he had no clue to what effect this had upon his audience. After he finishes, he literally looks around at us and asks, "How was that, pretty good, Uh?" Seriously, he thought he had won a Grammy or something and started to work the room to get some feedback. This is where he earns his money for being stubborn. Criticism does not affect him in the least as he was bound and determined to find that one person who thought his version was better than anything Don Henley could ever muster.
Sadly, my story doesn't end there. In retrospect, we all collectively, as an audience , should have given him a standing ovation as he now torments us at every opportunity to prove beyond a doubt that he is the "Master" of that damn song. He is like a Shark in the water whenever we have family gatherings and if there is somehow a Karaoke machine around he circles it in anticipation and waits like the stubborn mule that he is, til we drop our guard...and like poison we hear, "On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair..." Keep on Rockin in the Free world brother...we still love you.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Listen to the Music
What the hell happend? I know, and I appologize. My intention was for this to be a every week blog, but "Life" sort of took over. I had to work and pay the bills. I won't guarantee a weekly entry, but I'll try. Here's my latest attempt in sobriety.
I've learned one thing from this whole weight loss ordeal I'm putting myself through: Everybody's a damn expert, then again, I think that qualifies for most things in life. You buy a car or a laptop, invariably someone is going to tell you that you should have done this or should have bought that. No different with exercise. Man, I can't begin to tell you how many "gurus" have told me the proper technique for walking running, and even stretching. Who knew??
Anyways, I was searching for something to motivate me when I first started running as I hadn't quite perfected my little breathing technique. The best advice came from an unlikely source. I went so far as to get the nice running shoes...and associated running socks. I wasn't aware there was such a categorization for them. You've got crew socks, ankle socks and yes...running socks. Hey, a man has got to look good when he's sweating his ass off, if you know what I mean. I got all that and even those nice "wick" breathing shirts that don't hold as much sweat as your regular garden variety, cotten T's...but I was lacking something.
I typically mope around the house when I get frustrated, or as Claudia would tell you, "whine like a little girl" when something doesn't go my way. After about 2 weeks of this she had finally had enough and hands me her IPOD that I had gotten her for Valentine's Day. She said, "Take this and load it with your stupid music, go running and quit bothering me with your sniveling!!" She has this way of making you feel infinitesimal on these occasions, she is a teacher after all, and you instantly realize how moronic you've been.
It was an eye opener. It has become the one piece of exercise equipment that I just cant live without and was the "missing link" to my motivation; to this day I would be lost without it and I didn't need an expert to tell me what to get or what kind of music to put on it. Had I been allowed to have one when I was in the Army, whew...I dare say my PT test runs would have been a little faster. I just think having a little music when you work makes it a lot easier to handle.
I have always said that the U.S. Army was the perfect social Utopia where all walks of life could come together and generally get along. Simply put, everyone was green or "camo" or today, "digital." In eleven years of service I shared rooms with rednecks, Porta Ricans, Mexicans, blacks, real New Yorkers, a few "Southies,"(not rebels...Boston Irish) some Asian dude...I think he was actually Korean...and my first ever roommate was a Mandan Souix Indian from Nebraska that loved some Country Music. Now, don't go getting crazy on me if your're somehow offended by my use of the word "brothers" in lieu of Blacks or African Americans( and as I review this, the "Asian dude" comment could be misconstrued also). Seriously, how stupid do you sound when someone asks, "where have you been?" If your response was I was hanging out in the barracks with the "Blacks" or the "African Americans," then your an idiot. "I was hanging out with the Brothers in the barracks!" which sounds more appropiate. I'm not trying to ruffle any feathers, just telling a story.
So what did I learn form the Brothers in the Barracks? They have a certain smoothness that white people can't replicate. Sorry, it's just a fact of life and it is more so in the music I heard in the barracks. Not this new stuff "Hip Hop" or "rap." I'm talking about the old school R&B and Soul artists such as Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Stevie Wonder, Big 'Ole Barry White, Stylistics, Manhattans, Earth, Wind & Fire and Freddy Jackson. I would throw Prince in there as R&B, but quite a few Brothers just didn't know how to categorize him and his music...if you know what I mean. My wife, the self appointed "Queen of Soul" in our relationship, can be considered a "Motown" afficionado." More on the lines of Aretha Franklin and Diana Ross and whenever we clean house and put the satellite music on the TV, it is the Motown Sound that we end up scrubbing floors to. My all time favorite Motown song is "Papa was a Rolling Stone" by the Temptations and just happens to be the best song to do an exercise warm-up...it's about 6 minutes long.
Now, when I get to running I need something a little more up tempo and I usually revert to my Southern Rock & Roll roots. I'm a self confessed Allman Brothers Junkie, but they are not "running" music. A 20 minute version of "Tie Me to the Whipping Post" is great for getting stuck in traffic but very annoying when the rubber meets the road. I average about 30 minutes to run 3 miles, and somedays I do 4 miles, so that takes about 50 minutes with a cool down. Without further ado, here is my top 10 favorite running songs that get me through a workout:
Fool in the Rain-Led Zepplin
Can't you Hear me Knocking-Rolling Stones
I ain't Got Nobody(That I can depend on...)-Santana
Eminence Front-The Who
Man in the Box-Alice in Chains
Jane Says-Jane's Addiction(Steel Drum Version)
Shoot the Thrill-AC/DC
Alone in the Dark-John Hiatt
Champagne Jam-Atlanta Rythm Section
Boom, Boom...Out got the Lights-Pat Travers
As an honorable mention, because I do use it most often when I cool down, is Stevie Ray Vaughn's "Little Wing. Oh!...I love that song. Now, as much as I would like to debate everyone over my selection, it is not open to interpretation...remember, it's my blog and I'm the expert on my music. That's it for this week, keep on truck'in and make sure your IPOD is loaded and fully charged.
I've learned one thing from this whole weight loss ordeal I'm putting myself through: Everybody's a damn expert, then again, I think that qualifies for most things in life. You buy a car or a laptop, invariably someone is going to tell you that you should have done this or should have bought that. No different with exercise. Man, I can't begin to tell you how many "gurus" have told me the proper technique for walking running, and even stretching. Who knew??
Anyways, I was searching for something to motivate me when I first started running as I hadn't quite perfected my little breathing technique. The best advice came from an unlikely source. I went so far as to get the nice running shoes...and associated running socks. I wasn't aware there was such a categorization for them. You've got crew socks, ankle socks and yes...running socks. Hey, a man has got to look good when he's sweating his ass off, if you know what I mean. I got all that and even those nice "wick" breathing shirts that don't hold as much sweat as your regular garden variety, cotten T's...but I was lacking something.
I typically mope around the house when I get frustrated, or as Claudia would tell you, "whine like a little girl" when something doesn't go my way. After about 2 weeks of this she had finally had enough and hands me her IPOD that I had gotten her for Valentine's Day. She said, "Take this and load it with your stupid music, go running and quit bothering me with your sniveling!!" She has this way of making you feel infinitesimal on these occasions, she is a teacher after all, and you instantly realize how moronic you've been.
It was an eye opener. It has become the one piece of exercise equipment that I just cant live without and was the "missing link" to my motivation; to this day I would be lost without it and I didn't need an expert to tell me what to get or what kind of music to put on it. Had I been allowed to have one when I was in the Army, whew...I dare say my PT test runs would have been a little faster. I just think having a little music when you work makes it a lot easier to handle.
I have always said that the U.S. Army was the perfect social Utopia where all walks of life could come together and generally get along. Simply put, everyone was green or "camo" or today, "digital." In eleven years of service I shared rooms with rednecks, Porta Ricans, Mexicans, blacks, real New Yorkers, a few "Southies,"(not rebels...Boston Irish) some Asian dude...I think he was actually Korean...and my first ever roommate was a Mandan Souix Indian from Nebraska that loved some Country Music. Now, don't go getting crazy on me if your're somehow offended by my use of the word "brothers" in lieu of Blacks or African Americans( and as I review this, the "Asian dude" comment could be misconstrued also). Seriously, how stupid do you sound when someone asks, "where have you been?" If your response was I was hanging out in the barracks with the "Blacks" or the "African Americans," then your an idiot. "I was hanging out with the Brothers in the barracks!" which sounds more appropiate. I'm not trying to ruffle any feathers, just telling a story.
So what did I learn form the Brothers in the Barracks? They have a certain smoothness that white people can't replicate. Sorry, it's just a fact of life and it is more so in the music I heard in the barracks. Not this new stuff "Hip Hop" or "rap." I'm talking about the old school R&B and Soul artists such as Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Teddy Pendergrass, Stevie Wonder, Big 'Ole Barry White, Stylistics, Manhattans, Earth, Wind & Fire and Freddy Jackson. I would throw Prince in there as R&B, but quite a few Brothers just didn't know how to categorize him and his music...if you know what I mean. My wife, the self appointed "Queen of Soul" in our relationship, can be considered a "Motown" afficionado." More on the lines of Aretha Franklin and Diana Ross and whenever we clean house and put the satellite music on the TV, it is the Motown Sound that we end up scrubbing floors to. My all time favorite Motown song is "Papa was a Rolling Stone" by the Temptations and just happens to be the best song to do an exercise warm-up...it's about 6 minutes long.
Now, when I get to running I need something a little more up tempo and I usually revert to my Southern Rock & Roll roots. I'm a self confessed Allman Brothers Junkie, but they are not "running" music. A 20 minute version of "Tie Me to the Whipping Post" is great for getting stuck in traffic but very annoying when the rubber meets the road. I average about 30 minutes to run 3 miles, and somedays I do 4 miles, so that takes about 50 minutes with a cool down. Without further ado, here is my top 10 favorite running songs that get me through a workout:
Fool in the Rain-Led Zepplin
Can't you Hear me Knocking-Rolling Stones
I ain't Got Nobody(That I can depend on...)-Santana
Eminence Front-The Who
Man in the Box-Alice in Chains
Jane Says-Jane's Addiction(Steel Drum Version)
Shoot the Thrill-AC/DC
Alone in the Dark-John Hiatt
Champagne Jam-Atlanta Rythm Section
Boom, Boom...Out got the Lights-Pat Travers
As an honorable mention, because I do use it most often when I cool down, is Stevie Ray Vaughn's "Little Wing. Oh!...I love that song. Now, as much as I would like to debate everyone over my selection, it is not open to interpretation...remember, it's my blog and I'm the expert on my music. That's it for this week, keep on truck'in and make sure your IPOD is loaded and fully charged.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Big Daddy Baker
I run now and for some strange reason I enjoy it. Yeah, it is a crazy world, I even braved the freezing temperatures a couple of weeks ago and completed my third 5k event. It was a combination 5k/Polar Plunge being held on the hallowed grounds of my beloved NC STATE University. No, I did not do the deed and take the plunge...that is for a younger and more chemically altered crowd. I fared well, 28:35 considering it was a stupid grand prix event that I totally ignored when I registered. I was looking for a nice little fun run to challenge myself but I ended up on a "race" course where the other 600 participants were there to "rub paint," and I'll go ahead and accuse the organizers of conspiring to have 3/4 of the course uphill! Least wise, it felt that way. Anyways, the overall winner clocked in at just under 16:08. That's 16 minutes and 8 seconds to run 3.15 miles! That dude was moving out. I'll just give you a little perspective for those not familar with running: That's a 5:12 per mile pace. The famed British runner Roger Bannister was the first person to break the sub 4 minute mile barrier back in 1953. I'm willing to bet that Forest Gump could have been a great Olypmic Mile runner.
There was one thing in the Army besides freezing my ass off in Graffenwohr, Germany, that I absolutely despised: Running. I know, your saying, "Mark, Running is as much a part of the Army as Cholesterol is to the Hardee's Hamburger chain." Yes, I am well aware of a soldier's need to be able to run, but the Army never showed me how to run, they just told me to run.
I was horribily cursed in the Fall of 1981 to have as my Drill Sergeant for US ARMY Basic Training at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, one SSG Cecil Baker. Ok, it's not like I went straight form the country club righ into wearing Army fatigues, on the contrary I was well versed on how the Army was going to be...as I have so eloquently stated in one of my previous posts I was blessed to have as a father, none other than SFC Henry C. Laugisch. An Airborne Jump Master and veteran of that little conflict our country has a hard time coming to grips with, Vietnam. I once saw a commedian talk about his days growing up in an Army family, he stated, "Never sneak up on a Vietnam Veteran trying to take a nap." Words to live by my friends.
I'm thinking that Drill Sergeant Baker and I didn't get along very well because he couldn't pronounce my name. His dislike for me usually occurred at Mail Call as he attempted to pronounce my fine Prussian title. Moreso than anything Drill Sergeant Baker was more embarrassed at his inability to command the English language and decided to make an example of yours truly by having me do pushups until he pronounced it correctly. I learned real quick that regardless of what configuration of "LAUGISCH" that came out of his mouth and him asking, "is that how you say it?" My response was always, "Yes, Drill Sergeant." There I was for eight weeks answering to "Lanquish," "Longish" or "Lugnish." I've been dealing with that my entire life, except now I had "Rambo's Hell Spawn Father" threatening me with bodily harm.
His nickname amongst the other Drill Sergeants was "Big Daddy Baker" and they too, were a little wary of this guy. If I had to point to what was wrong with the man, I would suggest that during his tenure in 'nam he got to close to the areas where they were spraying Agent Orange and it affected him mentally...he was that unstable...perfect for being a Drill Sergeant.
One particular morning while we were having PT, Drill Sergeant Baker decided he wanted to test the mettle of our platoon and have an extended run...a 5 mile run to be exact. Now, for all of his psychotic mannerisms, Baker could flat out run. It was the damnest thing to see this guy smoke 5 or 6 cigarettes and drink 4 or 5 cups of java and proceed to run the majority of us 18-20 year olds into the Oklahoma ground. On this morning he adds a caveat to our adventure: "Anyone who falls out of the run will suffer severe consequences." I had visions of being strung up in the laundry room by this crazed Vietnam Vet and having my toenails pulled from my body. We start running and I'm feeling good up to about the 4 mile point. My disdain for running in the Army stems from the fact that your always running at someone else's pace. Who's brilliant idea was it to have the 6' 4" former cross-country star at the front of the formation? Not to mention, while we're trying to keep up with this gazelle, Drill Sergeant Baker is keeping us in running fromation with cadence songs. How it works is that he'll call out a verse and we repeat it back...only thing was that when this man sang cadence he sounded like a drunken sailor making his way back from liberty...I had no idea what he was singing at times.
Here I am running at someone elses pace and trying to keep up with Drill Sergeant Baker's sing along and then it happens...disaster, my impending doom...whatever you want to call it...we had almost finshed the run with our barracks compound a mere 500 yards away but the guy behind me inadvertly trips me. I try to right myself by falling into the guy in front of me and turned my ankle in the process. I pulled myself out of the formation and rolled into the grass on the side of the trail clutching at my ankle, which was already starting to swell...I could tell it was sprained.
Each Basic Training platoon is assigned several Drill Instructors and on this occasion all of ours were present for this run. Drill Sergeant Baker instructed one of the others to take over and he proceeded to make his way towards me. Have you ever starred into a pair of eyes that intended to kick the ever living crap out of you? I can honestly say that I was physically afraid of that man...at that moment. He leaned over me and put his palms on his knees like a football coach and calmly said, "What can I do to motivate you to finish this run, son?" I really didn't know how to take his calmness as it was down right frightful, I said, "I don't know Drill Sergeant, I was tripped in formation and turned my ankle real bad. I just don't think I can finish the run." There is a specific language that Drill Sergeants use to inspire individuals in the Army and most of it is unsuitable for all you fine folks reading this blog. let me paraphrase his response, which by the way was still a very calm, even tone which made him even scarier, "Well, son, I saw you fall and I know it hurts, but if you don't get up and catch the platoon before they reach the barracks compound, I'm going to insert my foot in your rectum so far that you'll be wearing your glutius maximus for a hat!"
I could smell my own fear lingering in the air. I knew that if I didn't get up off the ground in the next few seconds that this man was going kill me. I wasn't quite at the age or the rank to openly challenge anyone and knowing that he already had a particular disdain for me I quickly made it to my feet and started to limp-run to the compound. I assumed he was just wanting me to start moving...he wasn't joking about catching the platoon and he screamed in my ear, "I said catch up to the platoon LUNGISH!!" I took off into a sprint and the pain in my foot subsided only because this friggin lunatic was running stride for stride with me and I could smell the coffee and cigarettes as he exhaled. I made it to the platoon as the other Drill Sergeant who was in charge ordered "Quick Time...March!!" which signaled an end to the run. I have never felt so relieved as to hear those words.
I knew that wasn't going to be the end of my ordeal, it was a Friday and that evening everyone in the platoon was awarded off-post passes except yours truly, sadly I was restricted to post and given extra duty by "Big Daddy Baker" to paint the laundry room. To be quite honest I was in no mood to go downtown with my foot; I avoided going to sick-call only because I knew it would take a about a week in a soft cast to recover. That meant one thing: Recycle my training. I wasn't about to take that chance and potentially endure the madness of being in Drill Seageant Baker's platoon again.
I think about that nightmare all the time as I struggled with the runs and PT tests...lets just say I was able to pass them but I could have done a whole lot better. I later discovered what was really hindering me was my inability to control my breathing. Remember, I said the Army told me to run, so I decided when I began this weight loss program that I was going to figure out this whole running and breathing thing. The internet is an amazing tool and I found a breathing technique that really works for me. There are a hundred different methods to use and I could write about it forever. My advice is to find one, try it and see if it is for you. As for myself, I have come to grips with my past running failures and now, truly enjoy the experience. Hope to see you all out there running...except "Big Daddy Baker."
There was one thing in the Army besides freezing my ass off in Graffenwohr, Germany, that I absolutely despised: Running. I know, your saying, "Mark, Running is as much a part of the Army as Cholesterol is to the Hardee's Hamburger chain." Yes, I am well aware of a soldier's need to be able to run, but the Army never showed me how to run, they just told me to run.
I was horribily cursed in the Fall of 1981 to have as my Drill Sergeant for US ARMY Basic Training at Ft. Sill, Oklahoma, one SSG Cecil Baker. Ok, it's not like I went straight form the country club righ into wearing Army fatigues, on the contrary I was well versed on how the Army was going to be...as I have so eloquently stated in one of my previous posts I was blessed to have as a father, none other than SFC Henry C. Laugisch. An Airborne Jump Master and veteran of that little conflict our country has a hard time coming to grips with, Vietnam. I once saw a commedian talk about his days growing up in an Army family, he stated, "Never sneak up on a Vietnam Veteran trying to take a nap." Words to live by my friends.
I'm thinking that Drill Sergeant Baker and I didn't get along very well because he couldn't pronounce my name. His dislike for me usually occurred at Mail Call as he attempted to pronounce my fine Prussian title. Moreso than anything Drill Sergeant Baker was more embarrassed at his inability to command the English language and decided to make an example of yours truly by having me do pushups until he pronounced it correctly. I learned real quick that regardless of what configuration of "LAUGISCH" that came out of his mouth and him asking, "is that how you say it?" My response was always, "Yes, Drill Sergeant." There I was for eight weeks answering to "Lanquish," "Longish" or "Lugnish." I've been dealing with that my entire life, except now I had "Rambo's Hell Spawn Father" threatening me with bodily harm.
His nickname amongst the other Drill Sergeants was "Big Daddy Baker" and they too, were a little wary of this guy. If I had to point to what was wrong with the man, I would suggest that during his tenure in 'nam he got to close to the areas where they were spraying Agent Orange and it affected him mentally...he was that unstable...perfect for being a Drill Sergeant.
One particular morning while we were having PT, Drill Sergeant Baker decided he wanted to test the mettle of our platoon and have an extended run...a 5 mile run to be exact. Now, for all of his psychotic mannerisms, Baker could flat out run. It was the damnest thing to see this guy smoke 5 or 6 cigarettes and drink 4 or 5 cups of java and proceed to run the majority of us 18-20 year olds into the Oklahoma ground. On this morning he adds a caveat to our adventure: "Anyone who falls out of the run will suffer severe consequences." I had visions of being strung up in the laundry room by this crazed Vietnam Vet and having my toenails pulled from my body. We start running and I'm feeling good up to about the 4 mile point. My disdain for running in the Army stems from the fact that your always running at someone else's pace. Who's brilliant idea was it to have the 6' 4" former cross-country star at the front of the formation? Not to mention, while we're trying to keep up with this gazelle, Drill Sergeant Baker is keeping us in running fromation with cadence songs. How it works is that he'll call out a verse and we repeat it back...only thing was that when this man sang cadence he sounded like a drunken sailor making his way back from liberty...I had no idea what he was singing at times.
Here I am running at someone elses pace and trying to keep up with Drill Sergeant Baker's sing along and then it happens...disaster, my impending doom...whatever you want to call it...we had almost finshed the run with our barracks compound a mere 500 yards away but the guy behind me inadvertly trips me. I try to right myself by falling into the guy in front of me and turned my ankle in the process. I pulled myself out of the formation and rolled into the grass on the side of the trail clutching at my ankle, which was already starting to swell...I could tell it was sprained.
Each Basic Training platoon is assigned several Drill Instructors and on this occasion all of ours were present for this run. Drill Sergeant Baker instructed one of the others to take over and he proceeded to make his way towards me. Have you ever starred into a pair of eyes that intended to kick the ever living crap out of you? I can honestly say that I was physically afraid of that man...at that moment. He leaned over me and put his palms on his knees like a football coach and calmly said, "What can I do to motivate you to finish this run, son?" I really didn't know how to take his calmness as it was down right frightful, I said, "I don't know Drill Sergeant, I was tripped in formation and turned my ankle real bad. I just don't think I can finish the run." There is a specific language that Drill Sergeants use to inspire individuals in the Army and most of it is unsuitable for all you fine folks reading this blog. let me paraphrase his response, which by the way was still a very calm, even tone which made him even scarier, "Well, son, I saw you fall and I know it hurts, but if you don't get up and catch the platoon before they reach the barracks compound, I'm going to insert my foot in your rectum so far that you'll be wearing your glutius maximus for a hat!"
I could smell my own fear lingering in the air. I knew that if I didn't get up off the ground in the next few seconds that this man was going kill me. I wasn't quite at the age or the rank to openly challenge anyone and knowing that he already had a particular disdain for me I quickly made it to my feet and started to limp-run to the compound. I assumed he was just wanting me to start moving...he wasn't joking about catching the platoon and he screamed in my ear, "I said catch up to the platoon LUNGISH!!" I took off into a sprint and the pain in my foot subsided only because this friggin lunatic was running stride for stride with me and I could smell the coffee and cigarettes as he exhaled. I made it to the platoon as the other Drill Sergeant who was in charge ordered "Quick Time...March!!" which signaled an end to the run. I have never felt so relieved as to hear those words.
I knew that wasn't going to be the end of my ordeal, it was a Friday and that evening everyone in the platoon was awarded off-post passes except yours truly, sadly I was restricted to post and given extra duty by "Big Daddy Baker" to paint the laundry room. To be quite honest I was in no mood to go downtown with my foot; I avoided going to sick-call only because I knew it would take a about a week in a soft cast to recover. That meant one thing: Recycle my training. I wasn't about to take that chance and potentially endure the madness of being in Drill Seageant Baker's platoon again.
I think about that nightmare all the time as I struggled with the runs and PT tests...lets just say I was able to pass them but I could have done a whole lot better. I later discovered what was really hindering me was my inability to control my breathing. Remember, I said the Army told me to run, so I decided when I began this weight loss program that I was going to figure out this whole running and breathing thing. The internet is an amazing tool and I found a breathing technique that really works for me. There are a hundred different methods to use and I could write about it forever. My advice is to find one, try it and see if it is for you. As for myself, I have come to grips with my past running failures and now, truly enjoy the experience. Hope to see you all out there running...except "Big Daddy Baker."
Thursday, February 25, 2010
I'll Take The "Blame Game" for a 1000 Alex.
Yeah, my fatness has never been my fault...in this climate of being politically correct...I have decided to focus the blame elsewhere. It's what I do best and how I roll. You might be suprised though, by the culprits of this henous crime.
I'll start with dear 'ole Mom. If you don't know by now, Helen Page was born cripple, her hands were deformed and she has never been able to grip or hold anything quite well...of course, unless it was an extension cord that she could sling like a whip at her three angelic sons who were calmly brushing their teeth one morning when she went nutsy fagan...but, that's a story in and of itself. That has never stopped her though, as she can drive a car and has managed to outwit more people than not and is one of the most politically opinionated souls I have ever known. Sometimes it's good and sometimes it's not. Anyways, being raised by this woman in the seventies was an experience that my siblings and I shall not forget. This is not an indictment of her parenting skills, oh heavens no, on the contrary, we had a very good upbringing.
Being from Fayetteville and living at 4624 Cheltenham Road for all those years you could well imagine the influence the US Army had on our neighborhood. Specifically, everyone's father, with the exception of Mr. Dalton and Mr. Fisher who were in Law Enforcement, all were soldiers. That's right, everybody's old man was either a Green Beret, Screaming Eagle, Sky Soldier or All American. During Vietnam, Dad had to do his tour and it was just Mom and the four of us little ones. Times are always tough it seems. The difficulty of putting food on the table back in the sixties and seventies is no different than our present day struggles, nowadays, we just think it's more expensive. I can vividly recall back then, having to "ration" many of the items in our pantry til the next payday. Unlike today, bi-monthly paychecks were unheard of and payday was always once and at the end of each month.
Back then, to save money or call me crazy...torture her kids, Mom decided that there was an alternative to Whole Milk. She would buy this powdered milk crap called "PET." Well, lets just say that you didn't even have to refrigerate the stuff. As God is my witness, it was the most disgusting thing I have ever had to consume...almost as hideous as Powder Eggs. To make matters worse, she wasn't buying Capt. Crunch or Honey Combs or Coco Puffs like any other normal family...no, we Laugisch's had to endure generic Corn Flakes or those "Powered Puffs" thingamajigs in bags you could get five for a dollar. Here we are eating this bland and disgusting combination for breakfast and the only way to even swallow it was to drown it in heaps of sugar...they hadn't quite perfected fake sugar back then. How does this make my mother an accessory to my fatness? Because, having to eat like we were in a Gulag for all those years, she turned me into a Sweet Junkie when I became 18. Yeah, that's right. The moment I turned that magical age I ran into the Piggly Wiggly, bought the largest box of America's Greatest Navel Commander's cereal (Capt Crunch for those that didn't get that), some real milk, a large Jethro-like container to pour it in and leaned up against the rear tire of my car and gorged myself on the most heavenly tasting morsels I thought I had ever eaten . Going forward in my life I struggled mightly with the sweets. Can you see now why she is to blame?
There's one other true villian in all this crazy mess. Grandma. I know, you probably read in my profile that I would rob a bank for her or walk over hot coals if she asked...yes, it's true, I would do all of that, but when it comes to my weight gain...she is the Devil. First, she spawned my mother, which makes her guilty by association. Secondly, she is the greatest Southern cook to ever whistle Dixie. Paula Dean seems to be all the rage these days but I'm willing to bet Clara Page, even in her nineties could give her a run for her money. Two of my favorite items she made from scratch were her buttermilk biscuits and fried chicken. I spent 5 summers with her while picking tobacco for a local farmer and there was nothing better than walking in from a hard day at work and smelling those biscuits rising in the oven. Her "fresh" fried chicken on Sunday after Church was something to behold. I hope I don't have to explain "fresh" in this context...but for all my Northern readers it involves a "live" chicken in the morning and the #1 rule of being a chicken on a farm is: Your either producing eggs or you become Sunday Dinner. Does that help? If your wondering, I do know how to "pluck" a chicken.
My other siblings to a certain degree were picky eaters. I, on the other hand would eat anything you put on my plate...with one exeption, squash; for some reason boiled squash was not something I enjoyed. I do love vegetables and there were many a meal at my Grandparents house that only involved them. Grandma's garden could rival what Harris Teeter puts out on their produce floor. I'm deadly serious when I say it was a big damn garden! 4 rows each, most summers, of corn, butter beans, snap peas, cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes (these were those little red ones that you had to dig to China to get to all them), cucumbers, peppers and of course squash. One other thing I forgot to mention, my grandparents were the product or the generation that survived the Great Depression. Food was something that they took seriously but it never went to waste. Moreso than anything, they enjoyed watching me eat...hell, I enjoyed eating and coupled with working hard in tobacco fields all day, I built up a ravenous appetite. Are you seeing where I'm going with this? Grandma is only guilty because she loved to cook for me and strangly, watch me eat. I blame her for developing my heathly palete and not explaining to me what it was going to do to me when I was still consuming massive amounts of good food but not burning the calories in a more sedentary lifestyle.
I would be remiss if I didn't add that my wife is a pretty damn good cook in her own right; I really don't want to have explain to her why I think she is the second best cook in my life, but this is Grandma, the Patron Saint of Raven Rock. I call it like I see it. Til next time, Adios Muchachos!
I'll start with dear 'ole Mom. If you don't know by now, Helen Page was born cripple, her hands were deformed and she has never been able to grip or hold anything quite well...of course, unless it was an extension cord that she could sling like a whip at her three angelic sons who were calmly brushing their teeth one morning when she went nutsy fagan...but, that's a story in and of itself. That has never stopped her though, as she can drive a car and has managed to outwit more people than not and is one of the most politically opinionated souls I have ever known. Sometimes it's good and sometimes it's not. Anyways, being raised by this woman in the seventies was an experience that my siblings and I shall not forget. This is not an indictment of her parenting skills, oh heavens no, on the contrary, we had a very good upbringing.
Being from Fayetteville and living at 4624 Cheltenham Road for all those years you could well imagine the influence the US Army had on our neighborhood. Specifically, everyone's father, with the exception of Mr. Dalton and Mr. Fisher who were in Law Enforcement, all were soldiers. That's right, everybody's old man was either a Green Beret, Screaming Eagle, Sky Soldier or All American. During Vietnam, Dad had to do his tour and it was just Mom and the four of us little ones. Times are always tough it seems. The difficulty of putting food on the table back in the sixties and seventies is no different than our present day struggles, nowadays, we just think it's more expensive. I can vividly recall back then, having to "ration" many of the items in our pantry til the next payday. Unlike today, bi-monthly paychecks were unheard of and payday was always once and at the end of each month.
Back then, to save money or call me crazy...torture her kids, Mom decided that there was an alternative to Whole Milk. She would buy this powdered milk crap called "PET." Well, lets just say that you didn't even have to refrigerate the stuff. As God is my witness, it was the most disgusting thing I have ever had to consume...almost as hideous as Powder Eggs. To make matters worse, she wasn't buying Capt. Crunch or Honey Combs or Coco Puffs like any other normal family...no, we Laugisch's had to endure generic Corn Flakes or those "Powered Puffs" thingamajigs in bags you could get five for a dollar. Here we are eating this bland and disgusting combination for breakfast and the only way to even swallow it was to drown it in heaps of sugar...they hadn't quite perfected fake sugar back then. How does this make my mother an accessory to my fatness? Because, having to eat like we were in a Gulag for all those years, she turned me into a Sweet Junkie when I became 18. Yeah, that's right. The moment I turned that magical age I ran into the Piggly Wiggly, bought the largest box of America's Greatest Navel Commander's cereal (Capt Crunch for those that didn't get that), some real milk, a large Jethro-like container to pour it in and leaned up against the rear tire of my car and gorged myself on the most heavenly tasting morsels I thought I had ever eaten . Going forward in my life I struggled mightly with the sweets. Can you see now why she is to blame?
There's one other true villian in all this crazy mess. Grandma. I know, you probably read in my profile that I would rob a bank for her or walk over hot coals if she asked...yes, it's true, I would do all of that, but when it comes to my weight gain...she is the Devil. First, she spawned my mother, which makes her guilty by association. Secondly, she is the greatest Southern cook to ever whistle Dixie. Paula Dean seems to be all the rage these days but I'm willing to bet Clara Page, even in her nineties could give her a run for her money. Two of my favorite items she made from scratch were her buttermilk biscuits and fried chicken. I spent 5 summers with her while picking tobacco for a local farmer and there was nothing better than walking in from a hard day at work and smelling those biscuits rising in the oven. Her "fresh" fried chicken on Sunday after Church was something to behold. I hope I don't have to explain "fresh" in this context...but for all my Northern readers it involves a "live" chicken in the morning and the #1 rule of being a chicken on a farm is: Your either producing eggs or you become Sunday Dinner. Does that help? If your wondering, I do know how to "pluck" a chicken.
My other siblings to a certain degree were picky eaters. I, on the other hand would eat anything you put on my plate...with one exeption, squash; for some reason boiled squash was not something I enjoyed. I do love vegetables and there were many a meal at my Grandparents house that only involved them. Grandma's garden could rival what Harris Teeter puts out on their produce floor. I'm deadly serious when I say it was a big damn garden! 4 rows each, most summers, of corn, butter beans, snap peas, cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes (these were those little red ones that you had to dig to China to get to all them), cucumbers, peppers and of course squash. One other thing I forgot to mention, my grandparents were the product or the generation that survived the Great Depression. Food was something that they took seriously but it never went to waste. Moreso than anything, they enjoyed watching me eat...hell, I enjoyed eating and coupled with working hard in tobacco fields all day, I built up a ravenous appetite. Are you seeing where I'm going with this? Grandma is only guilty because she loved to cook for me and strangly, watch me eat. I blame her for developing my heathly palete and not explaining to me what it was going to do to me when I was still consuming massive amounts of good food but not burning the calories in a more sedentary lifestyle.
I would be remiss if I didn't add that my wife is a pretty damn good cook in her own right; I really don't want to have explain to her why I think she is the second best cook in my life, but this is Grandma, the Patron Saint of Raven Rock. I call it like I see it. Til next time, Adios Muchachos!
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