Swallowed by Utah

Nearing the end of our drive to Ogden UT, we descended into a deep canyon and were met with a series of industrial-strength wind gusts.

We already had been introduced to western winds that morning when, just west of Cheyenne on I-80, we passed two semis - one jack-knifed in a big ditch, the other on its side, both blown off the road. The wind kept at us all day as we crossed the high plains and the mountains.

One shouldn’t expect too much wind in a canyon, not anything like the mountains. These blasts, however, seemed driven by the devil. They carried sand and small rocks from the canyon walls, drove them into the newly repaired paint of our car and pitted the front window in a thousand places, as though with bird shot. For good measure we were slammed on the side with a mightily flung and good-sized piece of metal, branding the Accord with yet another reason to have stayed home.

Welcome to Utah, pilgrims.

We had come there to celebrate the promotion of my Air Force son to the rank of tech sergeant. It’s a big deal, rank-wise and pay-wise.

His squadron held an informal ceremony, which included the symbolic pasting-on of the stripes by the fists of airmen. Maybe because Mom was watching, Lance didn’t take much of a beating. However, Mom and Lance’s wife, Shannon, got the first chance to take a shot at him and here’s a an official Air Force photo of the unbridled cruelty of that moment.



We had planned to stay four days, that we might get reacquainted with our 17-month-old grandson, Preston. This is when I began teaching him how to write, as he snatched my pen, clicked it several times before surrendering it, only to grab it from my pocket again.



Though four days would have been plenty, storms from the northwest kept barreling across northern Utah and bringing snow and high winds to Wyoming. That was when Ohio was in the 70’s, flowers coming on strong and folks back here were frolicking in summer clothes. It was only after the eighth day that we found a clear trough in the weather to follow eastward back to Ohio.

Playing with one’s grandson for days on end is pretty neat, but better things might happen to a person than being stuck so far away and for so long.

THE WORLD’S SHORTEST BOOKS

MY APPLIED CHRISTIANITY
By Rev Jesse Jackson
***
THINGS I LOVE ABOUT BILL
By Hillary Clinton
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THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE
By Al Gore
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MY MORALS
By George W. Bush with introduction
By Richard Nixon

Bar stool buckaroo makes underdog history

Licking County Ohio has as its trademark the name “Land of Legend” to commemorate famous folks like the drummer boy of Shiloh and Johnny Appleseed, whose stories live on. So far, one of the most interesting of its famous people has yet to be recognized as anything but a ne’er-do-well and a sot. Such is the lot of Kile Wygle, former owner, driver, and wrecker of a widely renowned motorized bar stool.

So far, Kile has to his credit a four-page police report, a nine-stanza poem by Carl Vine, a 4-minute song by country singer Bryan Lewis,

a write-up in Smoking Gun, the wrath of Licking County Child Support Enforcement Agency, about 227 media reports according to a Google news search, punishment for DUI, and the chagrin of having his famous wheels taken from him by a court and auctioned at eBay to pay his debt for child-support.

And all because he drank 15 beers before ripping off a 20-mph ride on a motorized bar stool and dumping himself onto the street. In general I’m for underdogs, and if there ever were a guy whose lot in life is “Underdog,” it’s Kile: He can’t win for losing.

Something he’ll never lose, however, are bragging rights that he has done more than anyone else in recent years to bring fame to Newark and Licking County. That has to be worth at least a mention in local history books forevermore.

Carl Vine hits the big time

Carl Vine, one of my favorite humorists, is among 10 semi-finalists in a national writing contest by the Robert Benchley Society.

I’ve read parts of “Chips off the Old Benchley,” because Benchley - who died in 1945 - was one of Dad’s favorite humorists and he kept that book around home for as far back as I can remember. That could have caused my affinity for Carl’s brand of humor.

Carl, a Johnstown resident who blogs for the Advocate and elsewhere, won this esteemed position for the essay, SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS FOR COMPLETING ANY TAX FORM The winner will be announced August 17th.

Grand winner or not, here’s a local boy who’s making it big time as a writer. Cheers to Carl, whose e-mail address is: aesculusioensis@embarqmail.com

I married a potty-mouth

(Written 2/26/06)
I am married to a woman whose very own son called her “potty-mouth.” The reason is because she said the WORD and I heard it and told him about it and now I’m telling everyone.

I surely wouldn’t make a deal of it were it not for the fact that she gets hyper whenever she hears someone else say the WORD. Especially me, knowing as she full well knows, that I would never say the WORD unless circumstances so demanded.

Anyway, my wife is one of those folks on Medicare who thinks the world should still live by the rules of the 1960s, maybe even 50’s. Back then, when you said the WORD in the presence of your elders you’d collect a case of whup-butt. Now you don’t get anything. Except me, when I say it in front of her and then I get - at the least - a case of rolled eyes and often much more.

This word-usage issue arose recently when we were in Meijers and I got tired of shopping with a re-shopper. A re-shopper is a person who shops the daylights out of an item, including the reading of ingredients labels of every competitor. At last she finds The One Product That Will Do - and this is where normal shoppers throw the thing in the cart and go on to the next challenge. But this is where the re-shopper holds it in her hand, and then begins to re-shop, studying every competitor all over again.

So it was recently at Meijers with this weighty popcorn-shopping hurdle. Only one brand and size would do - I already knew this - because she never buys any other. Still, this one certain brand had to be examined closely, accurately, minutely, excruciatingly. I was sooo tired of this. We had been in the store forever and we were still in the popcorn aisle.

I had the audacity to sigh or something, maybe suggested we move along. But she was determined to get the full measure of shopping enjoyment nonetheless. The re-shopping began.

I don’t remember what I said at that point, but I’m sure it was polite and right on target.

My wife didn’t think so. “Shut the WORD up,” she whispered between clenched teeth.

YES! She finally said it! The WORD Rule is moot! Irrelevant! Annihilated! Annulled! Rescinded! Canceled!, Dissolved!


My son called her next day. “Hey, potty-mouth… I know where you can get help for that.”

As for me, I say: Home free!

Dear elderly Valentine (sequel)

I confessed here on Valentine's Day that I had slipped my wife a recycled expression of love when I gave her a card I found in my desk drawer from a previous year. I wondered if she had been fooled by it, or merely keeping quiet.

It was yesterday (2/17/09) before we had the chance to go to a restaurant for what we called a Valentine dinner. Overwhelmed with curiosity (and a speck of guilt) I asked her her then if she knew her beautiful card was recycled.

She said no, though she wondered why there was no envelope. She also admitted that she had some old Valentine cards stashed away and considered giving me one of them.

I found it hard to believe she'd be so deceptive as to even think of giving me a used card.

Dear elderly Valentine ...

Early this morning I realized it is Valentine's Day and I probably should scoot off to a discount store for a card and bouquet. That's when I remembered seeing a week or so ago some kind of old card in a drawer where I was rummaging for scratch paper.

At that moment I didn't stop to identify the card. All I remember was it was big and had red on it. Could this be a spare card I might have bought in some previous year that could be made to fit today's declaration of eternal love?

When I looked, it was - to my great joy - a really pretty Valentine card. But my joy turned to dismay when I opened it to find that I'd already given it to my wife and I had, moreover, written some mushy stuff on it. I don't remember how or why it got in the scratch paper drawer.

Dare I take a chance and try to give her the same card twice?

Age 74 has not been kind to my memory nor to hers. I blame my bad memory on it being overstuffed with important things. I don't know what causes hers.

I figured it was worth a try; I had much to gain and little to lose. I put it on the kitchen table before she came downstairs.

She loved it and didn't notice it didn't even have an envelope.

Bad memory usually isn't among the innumerable advantages of the golden years, but it saved me a few bucks today.

Or maybe she did remember the card and will retaliate later. If so, I may pay dearly.

Medicated chimney sweep

This is a rerun of an essay I published Friday, November 18, 2005 entitled "A medicated chimney sweep is fun to watch"

Maybe you remember my essay on the terrors of the annual cleaning of my chimney. Well, it only got worse when we remodeled and placed a skylight on the lower-level roof exactly where the feet of the ladder are supposed to go when climbing toward the top of the chimney.

I looked at it long and hard and decided to hell with it. The ladder will not fit. I called a furnace guy who is my friend and who claimed to be able to clean my chimney. He looked at it and said he’d rather not try it, thank you.

So I called Mr. professional chimney sweep. He showed up with all the markings of a pro - dirty face and hands and a black blanket to put on the floor. He did not, however, wear the tall hat I had hoped for.

Trouble with him was he had an operation on his toe only two days earlier and was still on pain medication, which I quickly came to believe was making him loopy.

For one thing, his ladder slipped and he was dangling from the slippery slate, upper-level roof by hanging onto the chimney. I happened to be watching and I scurried up to the first-level roof and righted his ladder. Otherwise, he might still be there.

Later, he came within three feet of spilling soot from the interior stove pipe as he was taking it out of the house. The crap went, instead, all over the back steps.

At last he was ready to put it back together, a job that has its own combination, but one that should be easy for a non-medicated chimney sweep. It took my friend a good half hour because he kept breaking tools and making mistakes.

The whole thing got pretty tedious but I consider it a success: The chimney is clean, he didn’t break anything of mine, and he didn’t kill himself. But I had to agree with him when he muttered something about maybe he should have waited another day before coming back to work.

What bad weather?

While humans were shoveling and sliding and plowing and worrying, there was a better lifestyle and this cat knew exactly what it was - in a sun puddle behind the wood stove.

Stop making waves, for God's sake

Sister Mary Katherine entered the Monastery of Silence.

The priest said, "Sister, this is a silent monastery. You are welcome here as long as you like, but you may not speak until directed to do so."

Sister Mary Katherine lived in the monastery for five years before the priest said to her, "Sister Mary Katherine, you have been here for five years. You may speak two words."

Sister Mary Katherine said, "Hard bed."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the priest said, "We will get you a better bed."

After another five years, Sister Mary Katherine was summoned by the priest. "You may say another two words, Sister Mary Katherine."

"Cold food," said Sister Mary Katherine, and the priest assured her that the food would be better in the future.

On her 15th anniversary at the monastery, the priest again called Sister Mary Katherine to his office.

"You may say two words today."

"I quit," said Sister Mary Katherine.

"It's probably best," said the priest. "You've done nothing but complain since you got here."

The people in your office will love this

Turn up the volume on your computer and enjoy this little pastime.

Really bad campaign slogans

The Washington Post asked readers to help invent some bad ideas for campaign slogans. You can read the list here

Here's a few I gleaned from a quick skim-through:

McCain:
Come on, look at the wives.
At least Chaney won't be pulling his strings - or will he?
It's not too late to win Vietnam.
Vote McCain. And you damn kids get off of my lawn.
My Hot Wife Owns Bud, How Am I Not Already President?

Obama:
The new religious left.
In your heart, you know he's Wright.
Obama: Because He's not Bush
Be part of the Obama Nation!
B.O.: The smell of success

"Political Correctness" defined

In case this has not yet reached your Internet mailbox, here's a definition to remember. It's said (on an Internet forum) to be the winning entry in a 2007 Texas A & M competition for best definitions of contemporary terms:

"Political Correctness" is a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical, minority and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous liberal mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end.

All Points Bulletin for the psychic gnome who escaped from jail

"Small medium at large!"

The danger in not believing in blonde jokes

A blonde, wanting to earn some extra money decided to hire herself out as a "handywoman" and started canvassing the neighborhoods.

She went to the front door of the first house and asked the owner if he had any odd jobs for her to do.

"Well, I guess I could use somebody to paint my porch," he said. "How much will you charge me?"

The blonde quickly responded, "How about $50?"

The man agreed and told her that the paint and everything she would need was in the garage.

The man's wife, hearing the conversation, said to her husband, "Does she realize that our porch goes all the way around the house?"

He responded, "That's a bit cynical, isn't it?"

The wife replied, "You're right. I guess I'm starting to believe all those dumb blonde jokes ."

A short time later, the blonde handywoman came to the door to collect her money. "You finished already?" the husband asked.

"Yes," the blonde replied, "and I had paint leftover, so I gave it two coats - no extra charge ."

Impressed, the man reached into his pocket for the $50 and handed it to her.

"And by the way," the blonde added ... "it's not a Porch -- it's a Lexus."

Clueless (Stop me if you've heard this...)

Dear Abby:

My husband is a liar and a cheat. He has cheated on me from the beginning, and, when I confront him, he denies everything. What's worse, everyone knows that he cheats on me. It is so humiliating.

Also, since he lost his job six years ago, he hasn't even looked for a new one. All he does all day is smoke cigars, cruise around and shoot the breeze with his buddies while I have to work to pay the bills.

What should I do?

Signed: Clueless

___________
Dear Clueless:

Grow up and dump him. Good grief, woman. You don't need him anymore!

You're A United States Senator from New York running for President of the United States.

Act like one.

Dog face

Aren't you glad that dogs don't look like this? How could such a creature aspire to be man's best friend?

Still, great job by some unidentified artist.

OSU fans are everywhere

Here's a photo that came along in one of those e-mail forward things. No info about the photographer or jet crew.

Big bang

If you want a straight answer, ask a three-year-old

Amber: Why do you wear a shirt, PopPop?

PopPop: Because if I didn't, people would think I'm too poor to buy a shirt.

Amber: Why to you wear a shirt, Mimi?

Mimi: To keep me warm.

Mimi: Why do you wear a shirt, Amber?

Amber: So nobody can see my boobies.