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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
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."
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