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!
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