By SCOTT/STEVE/STEE/S.M. STEUCK
of The Gazette
I think I’m going to change my name to Steve.
Not because I like the name, although it’s not bad, but because I’ve had nearly a half-dozen people call me that in the past five years.
All these incidences of being called Steve have been work-related. I’m out on a story and I introduce myself as Scott, but a few minutes into a conversation the other person refers to me as Steve. Most of the time I don’t correct that person because I figure it’s inconsequential to both of us as to whether or not I should be addressed by my given name.
I used to think people did this because they literally heard Steve when I said I’m Scott, but aside from the “S” at the beginning of each name they sound nothing alike.
Then I thought maybe I have multiple personalities and I actually introduce myself as Steve only to switch back to my Scott personality midway through a conversation, leaving me baffled as to why this person is calling me Steve. But if this were the case, then I would find myself in a lot more conversations in which I have no clue as to what is going on.
After a lot of contemplation on this issue, I’ve determined that people do this because I look like a Steve. Certain names usually match certain types of individuals; for example, a Thor is going to look like a Viking warrior, while a Marvin will seem book smart.
I’m not sure what a Steve is supposed to look like, but he must look like me. I feel sorry for all the Steves out there, because if they think they look like Brad Pitt, they are absolutely wrong. I hate to break it to you guys, but that’s the public speaking, or at least the six or so people who have mistaken me for a Steve.
I also have another good reason to change my name to Steve. Apparently another Scott Steuck exists. I’ve always assumed there probably was another one out there, but I thought that person with a great name, and probably an equally charming personality, was living elsewhere in this country.
Nope. The other Scott Steuck lives here in Portage County. I found this out after applying for a library card here and the librarian said she needed a middle initial from me since there was another Scott Steuck already in their system, this one apparently from Junction City.
I could understand this if my name were Scott Smith or Steve Johnson, but Scott Steuck?
I’d like to ask this person to leave this county, so I could be the only Scott Steuck here. But that would be rude of me since he was here first, as I just moved to this county in April.
I could leave, but I kind of like it here. It’s a nice area and the people are friendly.
My only other option is to change my name to Steve Steuck. I’m not crazy about this option, because that would be a lot of work. Plus Steve has a “v” in it and I’m not fan of that letter, although I do like the two “e”’s. Maybe I will drop the “v” and become Stee Steuck. I kind of like that.
One person who doesn’t like Stee or Steve is my wife. She said she wouldn’t have married me if I were a Steve. Since we’re already married, I could change my name and she’d be stuck with a Steve, which would be kind of funny.
I suppose I could drop my first name entirely and become a one-name person, like Prince and Madonna. Unfortunately, most people can’t pronounce Steuck, so that’s probably not a good idea.
S.M. Steuck. First and middle initials followed by last name – that’s how names were printed in newspapers and books many years ago. My grandpa always says if it worked then, it’ll work now. I’ll agree with him on that one.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Love for movies gets passed from parent to child
I took my 3-year-old son, Braden, to see his first movie in a theater Saturday. It was both an exhilarating and joyous experience for both of us.
We went to see “Kung Fu Panda," a movie I hyped all week to him in order to get him excited for it. By the time we arrived for the matinee show, he was running wild with “Kung Fu Panda” mania, which was further energized when he saw a large cardboard cutout of Po, the panda hero in the movie, in the theater’s lobby.
Braden’s excitement reached a near-explosion point when he saw the one thing any good movie experience needs – popcorn, which also happens to be one of his favorite treats. But even popcorn couldn’t contain him when he saw a poster for “Wall-E,” another movie I’ve been hyping because I plan on taking him the weekend of June 27. “Wall-E” he screamed, running from me to give the poster a hug as I was in line getting popcorn.
I didn’t want him to take any more surprise sojourns, especially in a place with a lot of people, so I gave him a warning: “Braden, you need to stay by me and listen to everything I tell you, or we will go home.”
My wife and I have given him this warning several times before and we followed through on it if he misbehaved, so he knew he needed to take me seriously or his fun day was going to come to an abrupt end.
In the theater Braden asked me about the “wall” everybody was facing. I told him it was the movie screen and it’s like a giant television, except a projector from the back of the theater would put the movie on the screen. I pointed out the projector room, but this didn’t interest him because at the time it wasn’t operating.
He was more interested in all the people, many of them children, piling into the theater, filling nearly all the seats. When somebody sat down next to him, he jumped onto my lap where he remained for most of the movie.
When the movie started, Braden’s head turned to watch the projector, since it was now actually doing something. I grew up in an era where projectors were used in the classroom, so I probably take them for granted. He couldn’t even see most of the projector, so he’ll only know it as a hole in the wall with a light that shines onto the screen.
Braden sat on my lap eating popcorn for nearly an hour after the movie began, captivated by the giant screen and the funny animated story on it. He laughed when others laughed and sometimes when no one else did, perhaps thinking everyone else would follow suit if he laughed first.
After an hour, though, Braden became restless, something he is prone to if confined to one place for too long and if he becomes tired. We were sitting in an aisle seat, so he thought he could hang out in the aisle. I told him no, although giving him a strong verbal warning was out of the question.
A whispered warning was not, though. I reiterated my earlier warning, prompting him to get back on my lap where he enjoyed the rest of the movie.
When it was over he wanted more popcorn, to which I replied no, and to see it again, to which again I replied no. He also wanted to see “Wall-E,” which I told him was impossible since it hasn’t opened yet. I did tell him that we will go see it in a couple of weeks; he just needs to make sure he is a good boy between now and then.
Taking Braden to the movie theater has been something I’ve been looking forward to since he was born. My mother took me to a lot of movies when I was a kid, and those trips to the theater are some of my fondest memories. To this day, I can remember every movie I saw as a kid in the theater with my mother, starting with “The Fox and the Hound” in the early 1980s and ending with “Terminator 2: Judgment Day” as a freshman in high school.
I love a good movie, and sometimes even a bad one, when I see it at a movie theater. My mother passed this passion onto me and I’m hoping to pass it onto Braden. Judging by our first experience together, I have to say we’re off to a good start.
We went to see “Kung Fu Panda," a movie I hyped all week to him in order to get him excited for it. By the time we arrived for the matinee show, he was running wild with “Kung Fu Panda” mania, which was further energized when he saw a large cardboard cutout of Po, the panda hero in the movie, in the theater’s lobby.
Braden’s excitement reached a near-explosion point when he saw the one thing any good movie experience needs – popcorn, which also happens to be one of his favorite treats. But even popcorn couldn’t contain him when he saw a poster for “Wall-E,” another movie I’ve been hyping because I plan on taking him the weekend of June 27. “Wall-E” he screamed, running from me to give the poster a hug as I was in line getting popcorn.
I didn’t want him to take any more surprise sojourns, especially in a place with a lot of people, so I gave him a warning: “Braden, you need to stay by me and listen to everything I tell you, or we will go home.”
My wife and I have given him this warning several times before and we followed through on it if he misbehaved, so he knew he needed to take me seriously or his fun day was going to come to an abrupt end.
In the theater Braden asked me about the “wall” everybody was facing. I told him it was the movie screen and it’s like a giant television, except a projector from the back of the theater would put the movie on the screen. I pointed out the projector room, but this didn’t interest him because at the time it wasn’t operating.
He was more interested in all the people, many of them children, piling into the theater, filling nearly all the seats. When somebody sat down next to him, he jumped onto my lap where he remained for most of the movie.
When the movie started, Braden’s head turned to watch the projector, since it was now actually doing something. I grew up in an era where projectors were used in the classroom, so I probably take them for granted. He couldn’t even see most of the projector, so he’ll only know it as a hole in the wall with a light that shines onto the screen.
Braden sat on my lap eating popcorn for nearly an hour after the movie began, captivated by the giant screen and the funny animated story on it. He laughed when others laughed and sometimes when no one else did, perhaps thinking everyone else would follow suit if he laughed first.
After an hour, though, Braden became restless, something he is prone to if confined to one place for too long and if he becomes tired. We were sitting in an aisle seat, so he thought he could hang out in the aisle. I told him no, although giving him a strong verbal warning was out of the question.
A whispered warning was not, though. I reiterated my earlier warning, prompting him to get back on my lap where he enjoyed the rest of the movie.
When it was over he wanted more popcorn, to which I replied no, and to see it again, to which again I replied no. He also wanted to see “Wall-E,” which I told him was impossible since it hasn’t opened yet. I did tell him that we will go see it in a couple of weeks; he just needs to make sure he is a good boy between now and then.
Taking Braden to the movie theater has been something I’ve been looking forward to since he was born. My mother took me to a lot of movies when I was a kid, and those trips to the theater are some of my fondest memories. To this day, I can remember every movie I saw as a kid in the theater with my mother, starting with “The Fox and the Hound” in the early 1980s and ending with “Terminator 2: Judgment Day” as a freshman in high school.
I love a good movie, and sometimes even a bad one, when I see it at a movie theater. My mother passed this passion onto me and I’m hoping to pass it onto Braden. Judging by our first experience together, I have to say we’re off to a good start.
Bad mornings don't have to last all day
Overcoming a bad morning is difficult to accomplish. Overcoming a really bad morning is almost impossible. I was able to do so Monday, a feat that will help me get through future bad-morning days.
The morning started like any other morning. My 3-year-old son, Braden, woke me out of bed when he got up at 6:30 a.m. Knowing I had a lot to accomplish at work that day, I figured we’d speed things up. I gave him breakfast and got myself ready. When he was done with breakfast, I got him ready and we were off, nearly a half-hour earlier than normal.
Well, at least I thought we were off until I tried to open the garage door. The spring-action handle was broke, not allowing me to gain access to my car. I tried for 15 minutes to turn the handle enough to open it, to no avail, while Braden ran around the parking lot, oblivious to my problem.
After a callus started to form on my hand, I decided it was time to call for some help. One of the few advantages to living in an apartment is when you have a problem that needs fixing, a landlord is responsible for doing so. I called the apartment manager and he sent a person to the scene immediately.
Unfortunately, this person was as stumped as I was on how to open it. His solution was to call another maintenance worker, someone he said could fix anything. Since I didn’t know how long this was going to take, and I couldn’t call someone else to pick me up because I needed a car seat to take Braden to daycare, I went back to the apartment, prepared to work from home.
As I started preparing to do this, my doorbell rang; it was the other maintenance worker saying he got my garage door open. Big monkey wrenches work wonders, he said.
Late for work, I thanked him, grabbed Braden and took off. I ended up behind a bus on my journey, and normally they don’t bother me, but since I was already later than I wanted to be, every bus stop seemed an eternity. And I became really irritated at the bus stops where the kids weren’t there – leave without them if they don’t have the courtesy to be there on time.
After getting off the bus’ route, daycare and work seemed like clear targets. They became blurry again when I came to a railroad crossing with the world’s slowest and longest train crossing it. I’m sure I could have found an alternate route, but I figured I needed the time to collect myself as I watched each railcar cross the street, much like a little kid that looks each way three times before making a turtle-like assault to the other side.
By the time I got to Braden’s daycare, I was ready for him to put up a fight against me leaving him there, something he usually does if his favorite teacher isn’t there. Fortunately she was, making it the first fortunate thing to happen to me all morning.
I arrived at work an hour later than I wanted, with a full slate of articles in front of me that I needed to write by the end of the day. Normally, I could stay late and work until they were finished, but my in-laws were coming up that evening so I needed to be done by 5:30 p.m.
I was expecting my computer, an ancient beast that belongs in a museum for old computers, to give me problems, something it’s been doing for awhile now. I figured that would be my luck, given my terrible morning.
Lo and behold, my computer had a good day and allowed me to focus on writing the articles I needed to complete. I believe computers do have minds of their own, and this one knew that if it would have tested my patience that day it would have ended up out my window onto Church Street. The next day, knowing I wasn’t as irritable, it reverted to its old ways and acted up again.
I don’t remember much of the workday, except the end when all my articles were completed and ready for layout. I didn’t finish by 5:30 p.m., but my in-laws were late anyhow, allowing me to get home in time. We had a good time, making my bad morning a distant memory and giving me enough optimism to believe the next time I have a bad morning it doesn’t have to last all day.
The morning started like any other morning. My 3-year-old son, Braden, woke me out of bed when he got up at 6:30 a.m. Knowing I had a lot to accomplish at work that day, I figured we’d speed things up. I gave him breakfast and got myself ready. When he was done with breakfast, I got him ready and we were off, nearly a half-hour earlier than normal.
Well, at least I thought we were off until I tried to open the garage door. The spring-action handle was broke, not allowing me to gain access to my car. I tried for 15 minutes to turn the handle enough to open it, to no avail, while Braden ran around the parking lot, oblivious to my problem.
After a callus started to form on my hand, I decided it was time to call for some help. One of the few advantages to living in an apartment is when you have a problem that needs fixing, a landlord is responsible for doing so. I called the apartment manager and he sent a person to the scene immediately.
Unfortunately, this person was as stumped as I was on how to open it. His solution was to call another maintenance worker, someone he said could fix anything. Since I didn’t know how long this was going to take, and I couldn’t call someone else to pick me up because I needed a car seat to take Braden to daycare, I went back to the apartment, prepared to work from home.
As I started preparing to do this, my doorbell rang; it was the other maintenance worker saying he got my garage door open. Big monkey wrenches work wonders, he said.
Late for work, I thanked him, grabbed Braden and took off. I ended up behind a bus on my journey, and normally they don’t bother me, but since I was already later than I wanted to be, every bus stop seemed an eternity. And I became really irritated at the bus stops where the kids weren’t there – leave without them if they don’t have the courtesy to be there on time.
After getting off the bus’ route, daycare and work seemed like clear targets. They became blurry again when I came to a railroad crossing with the world’s slowest and longest train crossing it. I’m sure I could have found an alternate route, but I figured I needed the time to collect myself as I watched each railcar cross the street, much like a little kid that looks each way three times before making a turtle-like assault to the other side.
By the time I got to Braden’s daycare, I was ready for him to put up a fight against me leaving him there, something he usually does if his favorite teacher isn’t there. Fortunately she was, making it the first fortunate thing to happen to me all morning.
I arrived at work an hour later than I wanted, with a full slate of articles in front of me that I needed to write by the end of the day. Normally, I could stay late and work until they were finished, but my in-laws were coming up that evening so I needed to be done by 5:30 p.m.
I was expecting my computer, an ancient beast that belongs in a museum for old computers, to give me problems, something it’s been doing for awhile now. I figured that would be my luck, given my terrible morning.
Lo and behold, my computer had a good day and allowed me to focus on writing the articles I needed to complete. I believe computers do have minds of their own, and this one knew that if it would have tested my patience that day it would have ended up out my window onto Church Street. The next day, knowing I wasn’t as irritable, it reverted to its old ways and acted up again.
I don’t remember much of the workday, except the end when all my articles were completed and ready for layout. I didn’t finish by 5:30 p.m., but my in-laws were late anyhow, allowing me to get home in time. We had a good time, making my bad morning a distant memory and giving me enough optimism to believe the next time I have a bad morning it doesn’t have to last all day.
Grandchildren, parents can learn from grandparents
Thank god for grandparents. They have patience and wisdom that greatly benefits grandchildren.
Although a nook in the back of my brain contained this insight, I didn’t fully understand the importance of grandparents until this past weekend, when I observed my father-in-law teaching my 3-year-old son, Braden, how to fish.
Like any young boy, Braden loves everything about the outdoors, especially the wonderful creatures in it. Last year he and I found a grass snake that he was quick to hold when I asked if he wanted to. He also kissed a fish and put a worm in his mouth when I jokingly told him he should eat it.
Braden was also the boy at his daycare who attempted to catch a frog outside that all of the other kids ran from.
So this past weekend when we went to my in-laws lake home near Wautoma, my wife and I promised Braden he could go fishing on Grandpa’s boat. Unfortunately, high winds and crummy weather prevented fishing from a boat, although fishing from the shore was possible.
Saturday night, before a line of storms moved in, I got my fishing pole out and attempted to fish. I say attempted because I must have been doing something so wrong that I couldn’t even get a nibble.
Braden, inside the house at the time, must have voiced his desire to join me, because Grandpa brought him out, with his new SpongeBob pole and a lifejacket.
As I fished from another dock, I watched Grandpa show him how to cast and reel the practice lure in. They did this for a half-hour, with Braden saying “I did it” every time he made a successful cast, which was only once out of every five tries. He laughed every time he released the casting button too late, causing the lure to fall straight down into the water.
Grandma even helped Braden a little, observing a small bass follow the lure to shore once, which was once more than anything following my lure.
It wasn’t until the next day, when the weather was a little better and I attempted to help Braden fish, that his grandparents’ patience and wisdom, as well as that of most all grandparents, became apparent.
Watching Braden and his grandparents fish the previous day was a joy, but attempting to re-create that joy with him and me was not easy because I became quickly agitated when he didn’t listen to my instructions. After just a few minutes, I put a stop to our fishing escapade.
I was annoyed because he wasn’t listening to me and I was a little scared that his restlessness was going to end up with him falling in the cold lake. I was also frustrated because I couldn’t understand why Braden listened so well to his grandparents and not to me.
But then I realized he acted the same way with them at first, but they had the patience and wisdom to talk him out of bad behavior in favor of listening to their every instruction.
Later, after contemplating our failed fishing attempt, I decided to try again with Braden, this time using a worm and bobber instead of casting for fish – which was a real test because waiting for a fish to take a worm sometimes requires real patience.
Braden was excited to go fishing again, and his excitement once again resulted in bad listening skills. This time, thinking about how his grandparents handled him, I talked to him like they did and he quickly became the good boy I hoped for.
Several minutes later, my patience with him, which I learned from his grandparents, and his patience with the fishing process that he previously didn’t possess allowed him to catch his first fish, a little bluegill.
I had him kiss the bluegill, and then we released it. “Bye fishie,” he said as it swam away.
The patience and wisdom of Braden’s grandparents may someday allow him to become a great fisherman, or at least better than me, and hopefully a great person.
Their patience and wisdom is also teaching me how to be a better parent. Thank god for grandparents.
Although a nook in the back of my brain contained this insight, I didn’t fully understand the importance of grandparents until this past weekend, when I observed my father-in-law teaching my 3-year-old son, Braden, how to fish.
Like any young boy, Braden loves everything about the outdoors, especially the wonderful creatures in it. Last year he and I found a grass snake that he was quick to hold when I asked if he wanted to. He also kissed a fish and put a worm in his mouth when I jokingly told him he should eat it.
Braden was also the boy at his daycare who attempted to catch a frog outside that all of the other kids ran from.
So this past weekend when we went to my in-laws lake home near Wautoma, my wife and I promised Braden he could go fishing on Grandpa’s boat. Unfortunately, high winds and crummy weather prevented fishing from a boat, although fishing from the shore was possible.
Saturday night, before a line of storms moved in, I got my fishing pole out and attempted to fish. I say attempted because I must have been doing something so wrong that I couldn’t even get a nibble.
Braden, inside the house at the time, must have voiced his desire to join me, because Grandpa brought him out, with his new SpongeBob pole and a lifejacket.
As I fished from another dock, I watched Grandpa show him how to cast and reel the practice lure in. They did this for a half-hour, with Braden saying “I did it” every time he made a successful cast, which was only once out of every five tries. He laughed every time he released the casting button too late, causing the lure to fall straight down into the water.
Grandma even helped Braden a little, observing a small bass follow the lure to shore once, which was once more than anything following my lure.
It wasn’t until the next day, when the weather was a little better and I attempted to help Braden fish, that his grandparents’ patience and wisdom, as well as that of most all grandparents, became apparent.
Watching Braden and his grandparents fish the previous day was a joy, but attempting to re-create that joy with him and me was not easy because I became quickly agitated when he didn’t listen to my instructions. After just a few minutes, I put a stop to our fishing escapade.
I was annoyed because he wasn’t listening to me and I was a little scared that his restlessness was going to end up with him falling in the cold lake. I was also frustrated because I couldn’t understand why Braden listened so well to his grandparents and not to me.
But then I realized he acted the same way with them at first, but they had the patience and wisdom to talk him out of bad behavior in favor of listening to their every instruction.
Later, after contemplating our failed fishing attempt, I decided to try again with Braden, this time using a worm and bobber instead of casting for fish – which was a real test because waiting for a fish to take a worm sometimes requires real patience.
Braden was excited to go fishing again, and his excitement once again resulted in bad listening skills. This time, thinking about how his grandparents handled him, I talked to him like they did and he quickly became the good boy I hoped for.
Several minutes later, my patience with him, which I learned from his grandparents, and his patience with the fishing process that he previously didn’t possess allowed him to catch his first fish, a little bluegill.
I had him kiss the bluegill, and then we released it. “Bye fishie,” he said as it swam away.
The patience and wisdom of Braden’s grandparents may someday allow him to become a great fisherman, or at least better than me, and hopefully a great person.
Their patience and wisdom is also teaching me how to be a better parent. Thank god for grandparents.
Crazy neighbors make for taboo subject
This is the column my wife, Jenny, does not want me to write. She told me I shouldn’t do so when I mentioned to her that I was thinking about doing it.
I don’t blame her, because it’s about people we’ve known and the things I will say about them are not so flattering. But I can’t help it. It’s a subject that’s been in my head since a dog nearly attacked me.
The subject is not dogs, nor is it people that own dogs, because I have nothing against either. Instead, the subject is crazy neighbors.
Several weeks ago a crazy neighbor told her dog to “get” me, causing the big animal to bark at me and genuinely scare me.
When I got upset, the neighbor was baffled and “sorry” that I “didn’t get the joke.”
The joke isn’t funny when you’re walking with your 3-year-old who doesn’t know that not all dogs are fun-loving puppies who like to be cuddled. He was ready to hug the barking dog, while I was quickly devising exit plans to get us away from a potentially dangerous situation.
Having just met the neighbor the day before I didn’t realize her sense of humor was telling her dog to “get” somebody walking with a young child. And judging by our conversation the previous day, one in which she told me all cops are out to get people in this town and social services will snatch your child away if you say the wrong thing in public, I figured she was crazy enough to actually want her dog to “get” me.
This is not the first time I’ve had a crazy neighbor. When I was single shortly after graduating from college and living in an unfamiliar city, another crazy neighbor once had the nerve to tell cops that were called to the apartment complex that I was responsible for a domestic issue there.
Two small problems about this story for the crazy neighbor, who was the real culprit, were that I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time and I was at work in another city when the incident occurred. Needless to say he was rightfully arrested when the cops completed their investigation.
I grew up next to a crazy neighbor for a few years. This neighbor babysat my sister and me on occasion and would always tell us she wished somebody would make a bicycle with a banana seat that was perpendicular to the bicycle and not parallel to it. She wanted one because she was wide, which doesn’t make her crazy, but she always talked about it, probably because my bicycle had a banana seat. Even at a young age I realized that she was a little too obsessed with the topic.
Not all my neighbors have been crazy. In high school we lived next to a friendly middle-aged couple who allowed me to fish the Fox River from the docks on their property in Berlin. Some of my best memories from those years were when friends of mine would come over and we would spend all night fishing for catfish.
In junior high we lived next to a 95-year-old woman who still used a cooking stove heated with wood. She was sharper than most people I knew and shared many stories about days of old. The only thing semi-crazy about her was her name – Olga.
Although I don’t necessarily want crazy neighbors, especially ones that tell their dog to “get” me, they do make for interesting conversations. Anytime Jenny and I want to share a good laugh we talk about some of these neighbors.
Although they make for a good life, Jenny is afraid that one of these people will read this column and be upset by my remarks.
I disagree. They’re crazy, so they’ll probably be flattered that they kind of made the newspaper. If not, then they’ll set their dogs on me, call the cops and make me ride on a bicycle with a perpendicular banana seat.
Or maybe they’ll just think I’m the crazy neighbor who babbles in the paper like a little 3-year-old.
I don’t blame her, because it’s about people we’ve known and the things I will say about them are not so flattering. But I can’t help it. It’s a subject that’s been in my head since a dog nearly attacked me.
The subject is not dogs, nor is it people that own dogs, because I have nothing against either. Instead, the subject is crazy neighbors.
Several weeks ago a crazy neighbor told her dog to “get” me, causing the big animal to bark at me and genuinely scare me.
When I got upset, the neighbor was baffled and “sorry” that I “didn’t get the joke.”
The joke isn’t funny when you’re walking with your 3-year-old who doesn’t know that not all dogs are fun-loving puppies who like to be cuddled. He was ready to hug the barking dog, while I was quickly devising exit plans to get us away from a potentially dangerous situation.
Having just met the neighbor the day before I didn’t realize her sense of humor was telling her dog to “get” somebody walking with a young child. And judging by our conversation the previous day, one in which she told me all cops are out to get people in this town and social services will snatch your child away if you say the wrong thing in public, I figured she was crazy enough to actually want her dog to “get” me.
This is not the first time I’ve had a crazy neighbor. When I was single shortly after graduating from college and living in an unfamiliar city, another crazy neighbor once had the nerve to tell cops that were called to the apartment complex that I was responsible for a domestic issue there.
Two small problems about this story for the crazy neighbor, who was the real culprit, were that I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time and I was at work in another city when the incident occurred. Needless to say he was rightfully arrested when the cops completed their investigation.
I grew up next to a crazy neighbor for a few years. This neighbor babysat my sister and me on occasion and would always tell us she wished somebody would make a bicycle with a banana seat that was perpendicular to the bicycle and not parallel to it. She wanted one because she was wide, which doesn’t make her crazy, but she always talked about it, probably because my bicycle had a banana seat. Even at a young age I realized that she was a little too obsessed with the topic.
Not all my neighbors have been crazy. In high school we lived next to a friendly middle-aged couple who allowed me to fish the Fox River from the docks on their property in Berlin. Some of my best memories from those years were when friends of mine would come over and we would spend all night fishing for catfish.
In junior high we lived next to a 95-year-old woman who still used a cooking stove heated with wood. She was sharper than most people I knew and shared many stories about days of old. The only thing semi-crazy about her was her name – Olga.
Although I don’t necessarily want crazy neighbors, especially ones that tell their dog to “get” me, they do make for interesting conversations. Anytime Jenny and I want to share a good laugh we talk about some of these neighbors.
Although they make for a good life, Jenny is afraid that one of these people will read this column and be upset by my remarks.
I disagree. They’re crazy, so they’ll probably be flattered that they kind of made the newspaper. If not, then they’ll set their dogs on me, call the cops and make me ride on a bicycle with a perpendicular banana seat.
Or maybe they’ll just think I’m the crazy neighbor who babbles in the paper like a little 3-year-old.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Crabs shouldn't elicit 'Ewww' response
I’ve got crabs.
And they’re not just mine. I share them with my wife, Jenny, and son, Braden, as they are now part of our ever-growing family.
Most people would be afraid to admit they own crabs, probably because the reaction you receive when you tell someone you have crabs is “Ewww, crabs.” But in my opinion these hermit crabs are so cute that I want to talk about them, despite other peoples’ opinions.
Jenny purchased the crabs last weekend while shopping without me. If I had been there, I would have said “Ewww, crabs,” and not allowed her to purchase them. But since I wasn’t there to stop her, she bought them for Braden.
Braden is a spunky 3-year-old who is not afraid of any animals, including worms, which he put in his mouth once after I jokingly told him he should eat them. That surprised me because the boy doesn’t put most of the food he is given unless it’s a peanut butter sandwich, chicken tenders, hot dogs, cookies, Captain Crunch cereal, grapes or apples.
So when Jenny brought home the crabs, he was elated. Especially when he saw the bright painted seashells they came in.
We’ve already got two cats, BigE and Priscilla, named after Elvis and his wife, and a goldfish named Dorothy, which Braden named after Elmo’s goldfish, also named Dorothy.
Jenny asked Braden what he wanted to name the crabs. He didn’t understand the question and said one was green and the other was rainbow, the colors of their seashells.
Jenny suggested he should call the rainbow one Sebastian, the name of the crab in “The Little Mermaid.”
Understanding the question better, Braden said the other one should be named Roast Beef – not because he likes to eat it but because he likes the “Toe” poem I always tell him when putting on his socks. You know, the one that goes “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none, and this little piggy went ‘wee-wee-wee’ all the way home.”
It’s an unusual name, but we like it. Maybe with a name of a food most everybody likes, people would be less likely to say “Ewww, crabs” when I mention that I have crabs.
With Sebastian and Roast Beef as official members of the Steuck clan, the number of animal members in it is greater than the number of human ones. That’s odd for me because I didn’t grow up with many pets – just a dog or cat every once in a great while. I’d like a dog again, but until Braden is old enough to take care of it, specifically clean up after it does its “duty,” a dog is something that will wait.
Crabs are a new experience. They make Braden laugh every time they come out of their shells, and they’re clean and easy to care for.
They also come in an enclosed aquarium, which prevents BigE from trying to eat the crabs. We have to keep Dorothy out of reach from BigE, because she has tried a few times to paw the fish out of its fishbowl.
Although BigE is actively trying to make the Steuck clan smaller, while Jenny is the opposite and making it bigger, I’m content to keep it at three people and five animals. Unless Jenny would allow me to have a tarantula or a pot-bellied pig, then I’d gladly increase it again.
Tarantulas are cool, and something I’ve been minorly obsessed with since seeing the “Gilligan’s Island” episode as a boy that featured the giant spider crawling on Gilligan while he slept. I even allowed a pet store owner once to put a tarantula on top of my then full-haired head.
Snakes are even cooler, and something I’ve taken Braden out on unsuccessful missions to find. Someday we will bring one back to Jenny, who is deathly afraid of them. She reacts the way most people react to crabs – “Ewww, snakes.”
I’ll never understand this “Ewww” reaction to any animal, especially crabs. They are after all just wonderful creatures in a world full of them. And people that keep telling me that I should go to a doctor to take care of my crabs are plain ignorant. Veterinarians, not doctors, take care of animals. Fools.
And they’re not just mine. I share them with my wife, Jenny, and son, Braden, as they are now part of our ever-growing family.
Most people would be afraid to admit they own crabs, probably because the reaction you receive when you tell someone you have crabs is “Ewww, crabs.” But in my opinion these hermit crabs are so cute that I want to talk about them, despite other peoples’ opinions.
Jenny purchased the crabs last weekend while shopping without me. If I had been there, I would have said “Ewww, crabs,” and not allowed her to purchase them. But since I wasn’t there to stop her, she bought them for Braden.
Braden is a spunky 3-year-old who is not afraid of any animals, including worms, which he put in his mouth once after I jokingly told him he should eat them. That surprised me because the boy doesn’t put most of the food he is given unless it’s a peanut butter sandwich, chicken tenders, hot dogs, cookies, Captain Crunch cereal, grapes or apples.
So when Jenny brought home the crabs, he was elated. Especially when he saw the bright painted seashells they came in.
We’ve already got two cats, BigE and Priscilla, named after Elvis and his wife, and a goldfish named Dorothy, which Braden named after Elmo’s goldfish, also named Dorothy.
Jenny asked Braden what he wanted to name the crabs. He didn’t understand the question and said one was green and the other was rainbow, the colors of their seashells.
Jenny suggested he should call the rainbow one Sebastian, the name of the crab in “The Little Mermaid.”
Understanding the question better, Braden said the other one should be named Roast Beef – not because he likes to eat it but because he likes the “Toe” poem I always tell him when putting on his socks. You know, the one that goes “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef, this little piggy had none, and this little piggy went ‘wee-wee-wee’ all the way home.”
It’s an unusual name, but we like it. Maybe with a name of a food most everybody likes, people would be less likely to say “Ewww, crabs” when I mention that I have crabs.
With Sebastian and Roast Beef as official members of the Steuck clan, the number of animal members in it is greater than the number of human ones. That’s odd for me because I didn’t grow up with many pets – just a dog or cat every once in a great while. I’d like a dog again, but until Braden is old enough to take care of it, specifically clean up after it does its “duty,” a dog is something that will wait.
Crabs are a new experience. They make Braden laugh every time they come out of their shells, and they’re clean and easy to care for.
They also come in an enclosed aquarium, which prevents BigE from trying to eat the crabs. We have to keep Dorothy out of reach from BigE, because she has tried a few times to paw the fish out of its fishbowl.
Although BigE is actively trying to make the Steuck clan smaller, while Jenny is the opposite and making it bigger, I’m content to keep it at three people and five animals. Unless Jenny would allow me to have a tarantula or a pot-bellied pig, then I’d gladly increase it again.
Tarantulas are cool, and something I’ve been minorly obsessed with since seeing the “Gilligan’s Island” episode as a boy that featured the giant spider crawling on Gilligan while he slept. I even allowed a pet store owner once to put a tarantula on top of my then full-haired head.
Snakes are even cooler, and something I’ve taken Braden out on unsuccessful missions to find. Someday we will bring one back to Jenny, who is deathly afraid of them. She reacts the way most people react to crabs – “Ewww, snakes.”
I’ll never understand this “Ewww” reaction to any animal, especially crabs. They are after all just wonderful creatures in a world full of them. And people that keep telling me that I should go to a doctor to take care of my crabs are plain ignorant. Veterinarians, not doctors, take care of animals. Fools.
Moving is task no one enjoys
Moving is something nobody enjoys, although I’m beginning to think that I do since I’ve done it more than 15 times in my lifetime.
No, I’m not a nomad or Cane from “Kung Fu,” wandering the Earth. I moved a lot with my family as a kid, and since graduating from college 10 years ago I’ve lived in apartments in four cities before settling down, getting married and buying my first home in Wautoma.
After more than a year of trying, my wife and I finally sold that home last week to move to Plover in order to be closer to our jobs. We loved our house, and selling it was one of the hardest things we’ve ever had to do, although we know in the long run it will be for the better, especially since fuel costs are rising quicker than the balloons that whisked the priest away two weeks ago.
My wife and I decided to move to an apartment for a year or two while we continue to search for the perfect house in our price range or a lot of land to eventually build a home.
Moving from a two-story, four-bedroom home on a double lot complete with a garage and a storage shed into a two-bedroom apartment is not an easy task. Even though we are fairly young, we accumulated a lot of stuff over the years, most of which we hardly ever used. To rid ourselves of some of this stuff, we held a rummage sale prior to moving.
We’ve held rummage sales on an almost annual basis, but this one was the mother of all rummage sales. You name it and we had it. To make sure we didn’t have any rummage sale leftovers, we put prices on everything to make sure it sold.
The few items left at the end of the two-day sale we put on the curb with a sign that said “free.” Although these leftovers seemed like junk, which is probably why they didn’t sell, the word “free” is a magnet that quickly drew people to forage through our pile, leaving just a few things for the garbage collector. One person’s junk is another person’s treasure, some old adage says, although I could revise it to say one family’s junk is many people’s treasures.
Selling items we no longer needed wasn’t enough to squeeze us into an apartment, though. We had to rent a 10’x15’ storage unit and determine which items we wanted to keep there. Some of these decisions were easy, but others were a little more difficult, especially when my wife and I differed on opinions.
For example, I thought we should bring our camping supplies to the apartment, as I hope to go camping this year, but my wife thought that would take up space we didn’t have. She correctly determined that we would get the camping equipment out of storage when we wanted to go.
Filling up the storage space was easy, and I thought that by doing so we would be left with the apartment essentials on moving day, requiring just one U-Haul load in our move. I was wrong. We filled the 17-foot U-Haul up and still had a lot left. This extra stuff required multiple trips back and forth in several vehicles to empty the house.
Loading the U-Haul was surprisingly easy, although unloading it was tough. Why? Because we wanted an upper apartment, which had a little more space.
After four years of living in a house, life in an apartment is an adjustment, especially since we now have a kid who is used to jumping around, yelling and doing things he had free roam to do in our own house. My wife is convinced the neighbors are going to start a petition and have us kicked out of the apartment, but I think their barking dogs puts us all on equal ground.
We’re settled in now, but we’re not getting too comfortable. We know at least one more move looms in our future. We’re already budgeting for Two Guys and a Truck, so we can watch from the sideline as other people do the grunt work. Maybe I’ll direct them, seeing as I have enough experience doing their job.
No, I’m not a nomad or Cane from “Kung Fu,” wandering the Earth. I moved a lot with my family as a kid, and since graduating from college 10 years ago I’ve lived in apartments in four cities before settling down, getting married and buying my first home in Wautoma.
After more than a year of trying, my wife and I finally sold that home last week to move to Plover in order to be closer to our jobs. We loved our house, and selling it was one of the hardest things we’ve ever had to do, although we know in the long run it will be for the better, especially since fuel costs are rising quicker than the balloons that whisked the priest away two weeks ago.
My wife and I decided to move to an apartment for a year or two while we continue to search for the perfect house in our price range or a lot of land to eventually build a home.
Moving from a two-story, four-bedroom home on a double lot complete with a garage and a storage shed into a two-bedroom apartment is not an easy task. Even though we are fairly young, we accumulated a lot of stuff over the years, most of which we hardly ever used. To rid ourselves of some of this stuff, we held a rummage sale prior to moving.
We’ve held rummage sales on an almost annual basis, but this one was the mother of all rummage sales. You name it and we had it. To make sure we didn’t have any rummage sale leftovers, we put prices on everything to make sure it sold.
The few items left at the end of the two-day sale we put on the curb with a sign that said “free.” Although these leftovers seemed like junk, which is probably why they didn’t sell, the word “free” is a magnet that quickly drew people to forage through our pile, leaving just a few things for the garbage collector. One person’s junk is another person’s treasure, some old adage says, although I could revise it to say one family’s junk is many people’s treasures.
Selling items we no longer needed wasn’t enough to squeeze us into an apartment, though. We had to rent a 10’x15’ storage unit and determine which items we wanted to keep there. Some of these decisions were easy, but others were a little more difficult, especially when my wife and I differed on opinions.
For example, I thought we should bring our camping supplies to the apartment, as I hope to go camping this year, but my wife thought that would take up space we didn’t have. She correctly determined that we would get the camping equipment out of storage when we wanted to go.
Filling up the storage space was easy, and I thought that by doing so we would be left with the apartment essentials on moving day, requiring just one U-Haul load in our move. I was wrong. We filled the 17-foot U-Haul up and still had a lot left. This extra stuff required multiple trips back and forth in several vehicles to empty the house.
Loading the U-Haul was surprisingly easy, although unloading it was tough. Why? Because we wanted an upper apartment, which had a little more space.
After four years of living in a house, life in an apartment is an adjustment, especially since we now have a kid who is used to jumping around, yelling and doing things he had free roam to do in our own house. My wife is convinced the neighbors are going to start a petition and have us kicked out of the apartment, but I think their barking dogs puts us all on equal ground.
We’re settled in now, but we’re not getting too comfortable. We know at least one more move looms in our future. We’re already budgeting for Two Guys and a Truck, so we can watch from the sideline as other people do the grunt work. Maybe I’ll direct them, seeing as I have enough experience doing their job.
Wife's purse is 'Pit of Doom'
My wife, Jenny, like most women, carries a purse, or what I call the “Pit of Doom.” I call it this because whatever she puts into it may never come out again.
For example, this week she had to rent a U-Haul, which required her driver’s license. The U-Haul guy waited and waited, and so did others behind her in line, as she dug through her purse searching for the one item that should be easily accessible.
It may have been in her wallet, but the wallet was in her purse and even that was not an easy find. Fortunately, her father was with her and he provided his license so she could rent the U-Haul.
If it had been a police officer waiting for her to find the license, she may have been put in jail under the suspicion of being one of those pesky Canadians who try to sneak into our country for the nearly identical exchange rate on money and the disease-free fishing available here.
Had she been arrested, I would have felt sorry for the evidence person who would have had to document all the items in her possession while processing her. Going through her purse would have been an all-day job, and one taxpayers would have had to foot the bill for, not that they don’t have enough bills to worry about.
When Jenny got home, she emptied her purse in an attempt to find the lost driver’s license. The stuff that piled out of her purse amazed me. It included anything one would need to survive on a desert island, except food and water, although I may have found these essentials if I had been brave enough to search through the pile.
When I make fun of her “Pit of Doom” pile, she shushes me and says everything in her purse is essential and she always knows how to find what she is looking for. Clearly this is the case, since she is searching for a driver’s license she can’t find.
She eventually found it; I’m not sure where because I didn’t have enough courage to ask her where in no man’s land she found it.
Jenny’s father said her mother is the same way. He told me how $20 bills would appear out of nowhere in the purse, exciting her because she knew she had put that money in there and couldn’t figure out where it was.
On the rare occasion I have a $20 bill, I know where it is at all times. Most of the time it’s in my wallet, which is all I need to hold the essentials I need to survive away from the house. If it’s not in my wallet, it’s in my pocket or some other location only I know of and is safe from people that aren’t me.
I believe my brain is magnetically attached to any money bills I possess. After spending them, I have to train myself to think that it no longer belongs to me.
The funniest aspect of my wife’s “Pit of Doom” is that she has a Coach purse. Coach makes some of the most fashionable purses around and they are not cheap. Jenny said her purse is one of the most important items she owns and spending a little extra money to get a better one is something she doesn’t mind.
I won’t argue with her on that, because I agree; however, I find it funny that on the outside the purse is the equivalent of a Miss America, but on the inside it’s completely ugly.
Not all women have a “Pit of Doom.” When I asked one of my co-workers if she had one, she explained that she read a book on better organization that allowed her to make her purse something no one would fear.
She showed me how the smaller items are categorized and put into smaller containers in her purse, each with a different textured feel so she can reach into it and know which container to grab to find the object she is looking for. This allowed her to free up enough space to put her own “filing cabinet,” as I called it, for the many papers she carries around. This filing cabinet is actually two folders, but it definitely works.
She also has room to carry a leisure book for reading when she has time.
After seeing her purse I was actually a little envious that it still isn’t socially acceptable for men to carry man-purses.
If it were socially acceptable and I found that I was more like my wife than I thought and had a disorganized man-purse, I would hope she would call it my “Sarlacc Pit,” the pit Jabba the Hut tried to feed Han Solo, Luke Skywalker and Chewbacca into in “Return of the Jedi.” That would be way too cool.
For example, this week she had to rent a U-Haul, which required her driver’s license. The U-Haul guy waited and waited, and so did others behind her in line, as she dug through her purse searching for the one item that should be easily accessible.
It may have been in her wallet, but the wallet was in her purse and even that was not an easy find. Fortunately, her father was with her and he provided his license so she could rent the U-Haul.
If it had been a police officer waiting for her to find the license, she may have been put in jail under the suspicion of being one of those pesky Canadians who try to sneak into our country for the nearly identical exchange rate on money and the disease-free fishing available here.
Had she been arrested, I would have felt sorry for the evidence person who would have had to document all the items in her possession while processing her. Going through her purse would have been an all-day job, and one taxpayers would have had to foot the bill for, not that they don’t have enough bills to worry about.
When Jenny got home, she emptied her purse in an attempt to find the lost driver’s license. The stuff that piled out of her purse amazed me. It included anything one would need to survive on a desert island, except food and water, although I may have found these essentials if I had been brave enough to search through the pile.
When I make fun of her “Pit of Doom” pile, she shushes me and says everything in her purse is essential and she always knows how to find what she is looking for. Clearly this is the case, since she is searching for a driver’s license she can’t find.
She eventually found it; I’m not sure where because I didn’t have enough courage to ask her where in no man’s land she found it.
Jenny’s father said her mother is the same way. He told me how $20 bills would appear out of nowhere in the purse, exciting her because she knew she had put that money in there and couldn’t figure out where it was.
On the rare occasion I have a $20 bill, I know where it is at all times. Most of the time it’s in my wallet, which is all I need to hold the essentials I need to survive away from the house. If it’s not in my wallet, it’s in my pocket or some other location only I know of and is safe from people that aren’t me.
I believe my brain is magnetically attached to any money bills I possess. After spending them, I have to train myself to think that it no longer belongs to me.
The funniest aspect of my wife’s “Pit of Doom” is that she has a Coach purse. Coach makes some of the most fashionable purses around and they are not cheap. Jenny said her purse is one of the most important items she owns and spending a little extra money to get a better one is something she doesn’t mind.
I won’t argue with her on that, because I agree; however, I find it funny that on the outside the purse is the equivalent of a Miss America, but on the inside it’s completely ugly.
Not all women have a “Pit of Doom.” When I asked one of my co-workers if she had one, she explained that she read a book on better organization that allowed her to make her purse something no one would fear.
She showed me how the smaller items are categorized and put into smaller containers in her purse, each with a different textured feel so she can reach into it and know which container to grab to find the object she is looking for. This allowed her to free up enough space to put her own “filing cabinet,” as I called it, for the many papers she carries around. This filing cabinet is actually two folders, but it definitely works.
She also has room to carry a leisure book for reading when she has time.
After seeing her purse I was actually a little envious that it still isn’t socially acceptable for men to carry man-purses.
If it were socially acceptable and I found that I was more like my wife than I thought and had a disorganized man-purse, I would hope she would call it my “Sarlacc Pit,” the pit Jabba the Hut tried to feed Han Solo, Luke Skywalker and Chewbacca into in “Return of the Jedi.” That would be way too cool.
Global warming may cause beer shortage
Beer lovers, take note, global warming may cause you to pay more at the tap.
According to a recent report, global warming is making it difficult for harvesters to grow malting barleys, an essential ingredient in making beer. A barley shortage would mean the price of beer is going to go up, or if things get bad, production of beer will end.
Who cares about polar bears wandering around the Arctic looking desperately for food? Who cares about large chunks of the polar ice caps breaking off into the ocean? Who cares about the extreme weather that is becoming a more common occurrence? Who cares about replacing oil energy with renewable energy?
Why should these problems matter if we don’t have any beer?
In reality these problems matter a lot if you want your beer because global warming has caused all of them and could lead to a beer shortage, if we’re not careful.
And if these problems do matter to you, not having any beer to drown your sorrow about them is just another problem to add to your list. It never ends.
I’m hoping a beer shortage may finally lead millions to actually follow the many “green” tips to help save the planet they hear about on Earth Day, which was celebrated Tuesday. People that don’t care about the Earth, or at least about how mankind is affecting the planet through its overuse of oil and other wasteful means, might rethink how they are making a difference in the world on a daily basis, not just on Earth Day, if they have to pay more at the tap or if the tap runs dry.
After all, beer is Wisconsin’s unofficial state drink. It’s so popular here our professional baseball team is named the Brewers, and too much brew is probably why that team hasn’t been to the playoffs in 26 years. I would gladly exchange a beer shortage for a playoff trip for the Brewers; however, not for the harm of the environment.
Beer is so popular in Wisconsin that nobody blinks when a church holds a polka service and serves beer following it. I know Jesus turned water into wine, but wasn’t that at a wedding or some other less-holy event?
Although I’m not a fan of the major beer brands, mainly because they are kind of bland, I do occasionally enjoy a micro-brewed beer, which is offered by several outstanding local breweries. I don’t want to pay more for this treat and I certainly don’t want this treat to never be available to me again.
I’ll bet these breweries are not going to like paying more for malting barleys and they’ll be the first to say people need to do something to curb global warming.
I could give a list of tips to help do this, but by now most people are familiar with them. The main one, reducing usage of oil products such as gas, is something that may occur without even trying, given the high prices we’re now paying at the pump.
I know some people may argue with me that global warming is a myth. Those people, I hope, will end this foolish belief when they have to pay $30 for a six-pack of beer.
Although I don’t want to see beer prices rise or shortages to occur, there is one potential benefit – a reduction in the number of drunk drivers. A recent survey revealed Wisconsin has the highest percentage of people in the United States who have driven drunk in the past year. That’s not a No. 1 ranking Wisconsin should take pride in.
But we should try to reduce this percentage through other prevention means, like education and stiffer penalties.
We should make it a priority to save the environment and end global warming for the good of the planet and mankind, and then we can have our beer at church.
According to a recent report, global warming is making it difficult for harvesters to grow malting barleys, an essential ingredient in making beer. A barley shortage would mean the price of beer is going to go up, or if things get bad, production of beer will end.
Who cares about polar bears wandering around the Arctic looking desperately for food? Who cares about large chunks of the polar ice caps breaking off into the ocean? Who cares about the extreme weather that is becoming a more common occurrence? Who cares about replacing oil energy with renewable energy?
Why should these problems matter if we don’t have any beer?
In reality these problems matter a lot if you want your beer because global warming has caused all of them and could lead to a beer shortage, if we’re not careful.
And if these problems do matter to you, not having any beer to drown your sorrow about them is just another problem to add to your list. It never ends.
I’m hoping a beer shortage may finally lead millions to actually follow the many “green” tips to help save the planet they hear about on Earth Day, which was celebrated Tuesday. People that don’t care about the Earth, or at least about how mankind is affecting the planet through its overuse of oil and other wasteful means, might rethink how they are making a difference in the world on a daily basis, not just on Earth Day, if they have to pay more at the tap or if the tap runs dry.
After all, beer is Wisconsin’s unofficial state drink. It’s so popular here our professional baseball team is named the Brewers, and too much brew is probably why that team hasn’t been to the playoffs in 26 years. I would gladly exchange a beer shortage for a playoff trip for the Brewers; however, not for the harm of the environment.
Beer is so popular in Wisconsin that nobody blinks when a church holds a polka service and serves beer following it. I know Jesus turned water into wine, but wasn’t that at a wedding or some other less-holy event?
Although I’m not a fan of the major beer brands, mainly because they are kind of bland, I do occasionally enjoy a micro-brewed beer, which is offered by several outstanding local breweries. I don’t want to pay more for this treat and I certainly don’t want this treat to never be available to me again.
I’ll bet these breweries are not going to like paying more for malting barleys and they’ll be the first to say people need to do something to curb global warming.
I could give a list of tips to help do this, but by now most people are familiar with them. The main one, reducing usage of oil products such as gas, is something that may occur without even trying, given the high prices we’re now paying at the pump.
I know some people may argue with me that global warming is a myth. Those people, I hope, will end this foolish belief when they have to pay $30 for a six-pack of beer.
Although I don’t want to see beer prices rise or shortages to occur, there is one potential benefit – a reduction in the number of drunk drivers. A recent survey revealed Wisconsin has the highest percentage of people in the United States who have driven drunk in the past year. That’s not a No. 1 ranking Wisconsin should take pride in.
But we should try to reduce this percentage through other prevention means, like education and stiffer penalties.
We should make it a priority to save the environment and end global warming for the good of the planet and mankind, and then we can have our beer at church.
Wilderness of back hair entangles writer
I’m not sure if it can be considered a hairstyle, but back hair must be the latest hairstyle trend, because I saw a lot of it in Wisconsin Dells this past weekend when I went there with my wife and son.
We stayed at The Wilderness, a resort with three indoor waterparks, so a lot of our time was spent in the presence of people wearing swimsuits, which is something I’m used to since I practically grew up in the water. But never before have I seen so much back hair as I did at The Wilderness.
Every which way I turned I bumped into men with fields of back hair, featuring a variety of colors. There were fields of gold, fields of gray, fields of brown, fields of red, fields of black and fields of white.
Back hair is something that always catches my attention, probably because I don’t have any and it reminds me of Bigfoot, a childhood passion of mine. Usually, when I’m at a place with people in swimsuits, I’ll see maybe one or two people with back hair. They always stand out from the hairless-back people and are instantly recognizable to me even when I see them later wearing a shirt.
I wasn’t able to distinguish them so easily at The Wilderness, because it honestly seemed like one in three men there had back hair. The resort was booked, which meant thousands of people were there this weekend. Using this ratio and my quick form of math, which is basically guessing a number, that meant at least 270 men there had back hair. That’s a whole lotta back hair.
At first I thought I was seeing the same few men over and over again, but after awhile I realized they were all different people. At this point I noted to my wife that I had never seen so much back hair in my life. After further contemplation, I came up with several theories for this:
* In these times of economic recession, men that once paid for wax removal of back hair cut this luxury from their budgets.
* Inspired by the Saturday Night Live “Chia Head” commercial parody from many years ago, men are allowing their back hair to grow for transplant to the top of their balding heads. If this works for them, I’ll be very jealous that I don’t have back hair because I would like hair on the top of my head again.
* Waiting for a real thick field of back hair, the men are planning on shaving advertisements on their backs to earn extra money, which is very similar to people who get paid to drive around in vehicles with ads on them. In our overly-commercialized society, a back-hair ad would definitely stand out. Who would dare resist buying expensive Nike shoes if you saw the logo shaved into the back hair of a pale white guy laying on the beach?
* The back hair is being used to cover up a large tattoo the guy realized too late he shouldn’t have gotten. It’s hard to change “I Love Jessica Ann” into “I Love Mom” using current tattoo techniques, or if you don’t really care for your mother, when the relationship ends after you find out Jessica Ann has been loving your friends Joe, Ralph, Larry and Heidi.
* Locks of Love has found a way to fuse back hairs together to make wigs, and these men are doing their part for a greater good.
* I was at The Wilderness during a Star Wars convention and the men were all Chewbacca impersonators, which would be especially disappointing to me to not realize the convention was taking place while I was there since I do a mean Yoda impersonation.
This last theory caused me to look at the reason I was at The Wilderness in the first place. My wife was running a genetics conference and maybe all of the back-haired men were all there to provide hair samples for the doctors at the conference. I really love my wife, and knowing she may be responsible for putting me in the presence of so much back hair is yet another reason to love her more.
We stayed at The Wilderness, a resort with three indoor waterparks, so a lot of our time was spent in the presence of people wearing swimsuits, which is something I’m used to since I practically grew up in the water. But never before have I seen so much back hair as I did at The Wilderness.
Every which way I turned I bumped into men with fields of back hair, featuring a variety of colors. There were fields of gold, fields of gray, fields of brown, fields of red, fields of black and fields of white.
Back hair is something that always catches my attention, probably because I don’t have any and it reminds me of Bigfoot, a childhood passion of mine. Usually, when I’m at a place with people in swimsuits, I’ll see maybe one or two people with back hair. They always stand out from the hairless-back people and are instantly recognizable to me even when I see them later wearing a shirt.
I wasn’t able to distinguish them so easily at The Wilderness, because it honestly seemed like one in three men there had back hair. The resort was booked, which meant thousands of people were there this weekend. Using this ratio and my quick form of math, which is basically guessing a number, that meant at least 270 men there had back hair. That’s a whole lotta back hair.
At first I thought I was seeing the same few men over and over again, but after awhile I realized they were all different people. At this point I noted to my wife that I had never seen so much back hair in my life. After further contemplation, I came up with several theories for this:
* In these times of economic recession, men that once paid for wax removal of back hair cut this luxury from their budgets.
* Inspired by the Saturday Night Live “Chia Head” commercial parody from many years ago, men are allowing their back hair to grow for transplant to the top of their balding heads. If this works for them, I’ll be very jealous that I don’t have back hair because I would like hair on the top of my head again.
* Waiting for a real thick field of back hair, the men are planning on shaving advertisements on their backs to earn extra money, which is very similar to people who get paid to drive around in vehicles with ads on them. In our overly-commercialized society, a back-hair ad would definitely stand out. Who would dare resist buying expensive Nike shoes if you saw the logo shaved into the back hair of a pale white guy laying on the beach?
* The back hair is being used to cover up a large tattoo the guy realized too late he shouldn’t have gotten. It’s hard to change “I Love Jessica Ann” into “I Love Mom” using current tattoo techniques, or if you don’t really care for your mother, when the relationship ends after you find out Jessica Ann has been loving your friends Joe, Ralph, Larry and Heidi.
* Locks of Love has found a way to fuse back hairs together to make wigs, and these men are doing their part for a greater good.
* I was at The Wilderness during a Star Wars convention and the men were all Chewbacca impersonators, which would be especially disappointing to me to not realize the convention was taking place while I was there since I do a mean Yoda impersonation.
This last theory caused me to look at the reason I was at The Wilderness in the first place. My wife was running a genetics conference and maybe all of the back-haired men were all there to provide hair samples for the doctors at the conference. I really love my wife, and knowing she may be responsible for putting me in the presence of so much back hair is yet another reason to love her more.
Unexplained Conference doesn't explain anything
When I was young and people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I answered that I wanted to be a Bigfoot hunter. Searching the woods of the Great Northwest for the mythical creature sounded like the ideal job.
Reality set in when I discovered Bigfoot hunter is not a career option, as no one pays people to do it and it is something people with large bank accounts do on their own. So I chose journalism as a career option and although the pay isn’t much better than if I had set out for the woods yelling “Here Bigfoot, Bigfoot, Bigfoot; here Bigfoot, Bigfoot, Bigfoot,” at least I could occasionally write about my Bigfoot passion when something like The Unexplained Conference came to Stevens Point Saturday, April 5.
I interviewed Chad Lewis, a paranormal investigator who organized the annual conference, and wrote a story about the event for the April 4 edition of The Gazette. I also decided to attend it, convincing my wife and two co-workers to come with me.
I went to learn more about local Bigfoot stories, while one of my co-workers went to learn more about the Stevens Point portal to hell Lewis promised to talk about at the convention.
Because I was media I was able to get some of us in for free. This was good because if I had paid the $8 admission cost everyone else was required to pay, it would have been the worst $8 I would have ever spent in my life, even worse than the $5 or so I spent in the early 1990s to see “Joe vs. the Volcano,” the worst movie I ever paid money to see. However, “Joe vs. the Volcano” is “Star Wars” when compared to The Unexplained Conference.
More than 200 people paid to attend the conference; many of them hoping, like me, to learn more about an array of fascinating subjects, like UFOs, ghosts and crop circles. Some of them probably attended after reading the preview I wrote about the conference. I apologize now if you were one of those people and I would refund your money if I had a career that paid more money.
The first clue many people, including us, received that the conference was a sham was found in the lobby of the conference room. Conference organizers and presenters were selling “Vampire Hunting Kits” and ghost-finding equipment, which was similar to the equipment Dan Akroyd and Bill Murray used in “Ghostbusters,” a fictional movie.
Inside the conference attendees were subjected to four presentations. The opening presentation, by Lewis about a variety of paranormal subjects, was semi-good, mainly because he was a good speaker and presented the material in an interesting way. He talked about Bigfoot, which pleased me, and shared a variety of paranormal stories he has investigated throughout Wisconsin.
The second presentation featured Lewis’ partner, Terry Fisk, who spoke about the after-life. A horrible public speaker who used “um” so many times my wife started counting but stopped when she couldn’t keep up, Fisk basically gave an academic lecture on the matter, putting many people to sleep.
I didn’t fall asleep, instead I started passing notes to my wife. “Larry King’s picture is the scariest thing here,” I wrote to my wife after he put the talk show host’s picture up while debunking a debunker’s belief that the after-life doesn’t exist.
“Someone should debunk this guy’s theory that he should be a public speaker,” my wife wrote back. She followed this message with “This guy does radio on a regular basis? Someone pays him to do that?”
Yes, members of the duped public who buy tickets for conferences like this one, along with the books and vampire-hunting and ghostbusting merchandise sold there.
One of my co-workers said it best, “This was basically a couple of former college students who figured out a way to make money doing this.”
Fisk’s presentation wasn’t even the worst the conference had to offer. A werewolf-hunting video shot by Lewis and two other conference presenters took that honor, as the video was nothing but these guys running around in the woods and hanging processed chicken from trees in hopes of finding a werewolf.
I’m sure if werewolves exist, they are probably more attracted to freshly-killed, bleeding animals. I also suspect these guys should have tried their search during a full moon, if that legend is correct.
I don’t know if they ever found a werewolf, since the video was cut short, to the applause of everyone, in order to get to the fourth presentation, which really wasn’t a presentation since it was a question-and-answer session with a warlock and his paranormal-investigating partner.
In order for me to ask questions about anyone, I like to know a little about that person before I ask questions. Attendees got nothing about these two guys, although people did manage to ask some questions about mysterious lights in Upper Michigan.
It appeared as though the warlock and his partner knew a few things, but one of my co-workers correctly pointed out they gave broad answers that people wanted to hear, rather than specific ones that would have been more complete.
We left in the middle of their “presentation,” although we weren’t the first to leave. Nearly one-third of the attendees had left before the werewolf video, wisely saving time that could be better spent.
Even without spending money for admission, I lost $15 spending money for a babysitter and two hours I could have spent playing with my son. The worst part of the whole ordeal is that I’m not a skeptic about the unexplained; I’m always interested in learning more and believe I did not get that with this conference.
Maybe I’m just jealous I didn’t figure out a way to make money hunting for Bigfoot like these guys did.
Reality set in when I discovered Bigfoot hunter is not a career option, as no one pays people to do it and it is something people with large bank accounts do on their own. So I chose journalism as a career option and although the pay isn’t much better than if I had set out for the woods yelling “Here Bigfoot, Bigfoot, Bigfoot; here Bigfoot, Bigfoot, Bigfoot,” at least I could occasionally write about my Bigfoot passion when something like The Unexplained Conference came to Stevens Point Saturday, April 5.
I interviewed Chad Lewis, a paranormal investigator who organized the annual conference, and wrote a story about the event for the April 4 edition of The Gazette. I also decided to attend it, convincing my wife and two co-workers to come with me.
I went to learn more about local Bigfoot stories, while one of my co-workers went to learn more about the Stevens Point portal to hell Lewis promised to talk about at the convention.
Because I was media I was able to get some of us in for free. This was good because if I had paid the $8 admission cost everyone else was required to pay, it would have been the worst $8 I would have ever spent in my life, even worse than the $5 or so I spent in the early 1990s to see “Joe vs. the Volcano,” the worst movie I ever paid money to see. However, “Joe vs. the Volcano” is “Star Wars” when compared to The Unexplained Conference.
More than 200 people paid to attend the conference; many of them hoping, like me, to learn more about an array of fascinating subjects, like UFOs, ghosts and crop circles. Some of them probably attended after reading the preview I wrote about the conference. I apologize now if you were one of those people and I would refund your money if I had a career that paid more money.
The first clue many people, including us, received that the conference was a sham was found in the lobby of the conference room. Conference organizers and presenters were selling “Vampire Hunting Kits” and ghost-finding equipment, which was similar to the equipment Dan Akroyd and Bill Murray used in “Ghostbusters,” a fictional movie.
Inside the conference attendees were subjected to four presentations. The opening presentation, by Lewis about a variety of paranormal subjects, was semi-good, mainly because he was a good speaker and presented the material in an interesting way. He talked about Bigfoot, which pleased me, and shared a variety of paranormal stories he has investigated throughout Wisconsin.
The second presentation featured Lewis’ partner, Terry Fisk, who spoke about the after-life. A horrible public speaker who used “um” so many times my wife started counting but stopped when she couldn’t keep up, Fisk basically gave an academic lecture on the matter, putting many people to sleep.
I didn’t fall asleep, instead I started passing notes to my wife. “Larry King’s picture is the scariest thing here,” I wrote to my wife after he put the talk show host’s picture up while debunking a debunker’s belief that the after-life doesn’t exist.
“Someone should debunk this guy’s theory that he should be a public speaker,” my wife wrote back. She followed this message with “This guy does radio on a regular basis? Someone pays him to do that?”
Yes, members of the duped public who buy tickets for conferences like this one, along with the books and vampire-hunting and ghostbusting merchandise sold there.
One of my co-workers said it best, “This was basically a couple of former college students who figured out a way to make money doing this.”
Fisk’s presentation wasn’t even the worst the conference had to offer. A werewolf-hunting video shot by Lewis and two other conference presenters took that honor, as the video was nothing but these guys running around in the woods and hanging processed chicken from trees in hopes of finding a werewolf.
I’m sure if werewolves exist, they are probably more attracted to freshly-killed, bleeding animals. I also suspect these guys should have tried their search during a full moon, if that legend is correct.
I don’t know if they ever found a werewolf, since the video was cut short, to the applause of everyone, in order to get to the fourth presentation, which really wasn’t a presentation since it was a question-and-answer session with a warlock and his paranormal-investigating partner.
In order for me to ask questions about anyone, I like to know a little about that person before I ask questions. Attendees got nothing about these two guys, although people did manage to ask some questions about mysterious lights in Upper Michigan.
It appeared as though the warlock and his partner knew a few things, but one of my co-workers correctly pointed out they gave broad answers that people wanted to hear, rather than specific ones that would have been more complete.
We left in the middle of their “presentation,” although we weren’t the first to leave. Nearly one-third of the attendees had left before the werewolf video, wisely saving time that could be better spent.
Even without spending money for admission, I lost $15 spending money for a babysitter and two hours I could have spent playing with my son. The worst part of the whole ordeal is that I’m not a skeptic about the unexplained; I’m always interested in learning more and believe I did not get that with this conference.
Maybe I’m just jealous I didn’t figure out a way to make money hunting for Bigfoot like these guys did.
Geeks, nerds should not be 'cool'
Ten years ago a person would never admit to being a geek or nerd, but today nearly everybody does. Why? Because it’s now “cool” to be one. Personally, I don’t like this trend because it disturbs the natural order of how things should be. By making geeks and nerds “cool,” they become part of an elite crowd that doesn’t necessarily accept everyone.
Geeks and nerds became semi-cool when they used their impressive computer knowledge to take advantage of the newly-emerging Internet to make a lot of money in the 1990s, but they really became cool when Hollywood put them in the spotlight and made them the heroes, love attractions and stars of movies and television shows.
In the past geeks and nerds were portrayed in Hollywood with characters such as Steve Urkel in “Family Matters,” Screech in “Saved by the Bell,” Skippy in “Family Ties,” Brainy Smurf in “The Smurfs” and the entire cast of nerds in “Revenge of the Nerds.” These characters made people laugh, but nobody wanted to be them.
But then Hollywood noticed that by portraying geeks and nerds as heroes, love interests and stars people instantly felt more of a connection to those characters. The first of these characters were Diane Court, a nerd that was smarter than anyone in her class, and Lloyd Dobler, a likeable kick-boxing geek, in “Say Anything,” the movie everyone remembers as the one where John Cusak’s Dobler holds a boombox over his head playing “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel to win the affection of Ione Skye’s Court.
Court is why Ross Gellar, a true nerd, was at the center of the love story in “Friends” and able to get Rachel Greene, played by true babe and “cool” person Jennifer Aniston, a complete non-geek/nerd who would have been prom queen at any high school she would have attended.
Dobler is why Seth, Evan and McLovin, the super geeks in “Superbad,” are the life of the party and why the jocks and “cool” people that harass them look like fools.
As someone that was on the fringes of all the crowds in school, including the nerd, geek, jock and “cool” crowds, mainly because I was nice to everyone, but who never became a solid part of any specific crowd, I was able observe how each crowd operated and why they were necessary.
As a partial nerd, because I did get good grades, I noticed that most nerds basked in the glory of straight A’s and being the teacher’s pet. Most nerds were loners, or had just a few close friends, usually other nerds or maybe a geek or two. These people went on to become the brains in our society.
As a partial geek, because I enjoyed video games and science fiction, I noticed that geeks interacted well with each other but went out of their way to avoid contact with people from other crowds. Seeing “Star Wars” more than a dozen times wasn’t enough to be a geek, you had to know every line and quote them in real-life situations. Geeks went on to become the innovators in our society.
The jocks I hung out with were usually jocks in the not-so-popular sports like cross country, wrestling and track. They were usually nice, fairly smart and always funny. I got along best with this crowd because I shared these traits, even though I wasn’t a jock myself. The jocks in the more popular sports were more like the stereotypical jock Hollywood usually portrays, although only a few jocks were actually like this stereotype. Jocks went on to become the builders in our society.
The “cool” crowd is probably the hardest group to define. Some people thought they were cool but weren’t and others didn’t think they were but actually were. Coolness is something you either possess or you don’t; you don’t necessarily gain it by hanging around with other cool people.
Several people in the “cool” crowd at my high school didn’t talk to me while I was in school, probably because I didn’t talk to them, but I have talked to them since graduating and I learned they are actually pretty cool. That is why they have gone on to become our society’s leaders.
Although it is wrong to put people in these specific categories and say they are either brains, innovators, builders or leaders, this classification would probably be true seven out of 10 times, in my unofficial estimation.
By putting geeks and nerds in the “cool” crowd, and then putting “cool” people as outcasts where they can’t become leaders, we could seriously mess with the order of life. Geeks and nerds are not meant to be leaders and “cool” people are not meant to think for us.
I didn’t realize our natural social order was getting messed up until my wife, Jenny, falsely pointed out to me that she was a geek/nerd and correctly that it is now cool to be a geek/nerd.
As much as she wants to be a geek/nerd, she’s not. She’s smart, but she’s not a brainiac (just ask her to do math). She has no elements of geekiness, although she would argue that since she’s focused and uses highlighters and colored folders at work to stay highly organized, she’s a geek. Sorry honey, but organizational skills don’t make a person a geek.
I would actually argue she’s an anti-geek, since she doesn’t understand many of my geek obsessions and she’s never even seen the original “Star Wars” trilogy. Jenny argues this point. To quote: “Personally, I think that the ‘Star Wars’ reference has been an over-used assessment of geek eligibility.”
Nice try. I agree that it may be used a little too often, but there’s a reason it is – because “Star Wars” created the modern geek, which did not exist pre-1977.
By claiming to be a nerd/geek, Jenny, whom I think is “cool,” will only make actual geeks and nerds feel like they are part of an elite crowd and won’t become the brains and innovators they need to be. They’ll try to be leaders.
If these role-reversals existed when Bill Gates and Steve Jobs were younger, then Microsoft and Apple may never have been invented and our country would have a different president.
Wait a minute. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Geeks and nerds became semi-cool when they used their impressive computer knowledge to take advantage of the newly-emerging Internet to make a lot of money in the 1990s, but they really became cool when Hollywood put them in the spotlight and made them the heroes, love attractions and stars of movies and television shows.
In the past geeks and nerds were portrayed in Hollywood with characters such as Steve Urkel in “Family Matters,” Screech in “Saved by the Bell,” Skippy in “Family Ties,” Brainy Smurf in “The Smurfs” and the entire cast of nerds in “Revenge of the Nerds.” These characters made people laugh, but nobody wanted to be them.
But then Hollywood noticed that by portraying geeks and nerds as heroes, love interests and stars people instantly felt more of a connection to those characters. The first of these characters were Diane Court, a nerd that was smarter than anyone in her class, and Lloyd Dobler, a likeable kick-boxing geek, in “Say Anything,” the movie everyone remembers as the one where John Cusak’s Dobler holds a boombox over his head playing “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel to win the affection of Ione Skye’s Court.
Court is why Ross Gellar, a true nerd, was at the center of the love story in “Friends” and able to get Rachel Greene, played by true babe and “cool” person Jennifer Aniston, a complete non-geek/nerd who would have been prom queen at any high school she would have attended.
Dobler is why Seth, Evan and McLovin, the super geeks in “Superbad,” are the life of the party and why the jocks and “cool” people that harass them look like fools.
As someone that was on the fringes of all the crowds in school, including the nerd, geek, jock and “cool” crowds, mainly because I was nice to everyone, but who never became a solid part of any specific crowd, I was able observe how each crowd operated and why they were necessary.
As a partial nerd, because I did get good grades, I noticed that most nerds basked in the glory of straight A’s and being the teacher’s pet. Most nerds were loners, or had just a few close friends, usually other nerds or maybe a geek or two. These people went on to become the brains in our society.
As a partial geek, because I enjoyed video games and science fiction, I noticed that geeks interacted well with each other but went out of their way to avoid contact with people from other crowds. Seeing “Star Wars” more than a dozen times wasn’t enough to be a geek, you had to know every line and quote them in real-life situations. Geeks went on to become the innovators in our society.
The jocks I hung out with were usually jocks in the not-so-popular sports like cross country, wrestling and track. They were usually nice, fairly smart and always funny. I got along best with this crowd because I shared these traits, even though I wasn’t a jock myself. The jocks in the more popular sports were more like the stereotypical jock Hollywood usually portrays, although only a few jocks were actually like this stereotype. Jocks went on to become the builders in our society.
The “cool” crowd is probably the hardest group to define. Some people thought they were cool but weren’t and others didn’t think they were but actually were. Coolness is something you either possess or you don’t; you don’t necessarily gain it by hanging around with other cool people.
Several people in the “cool” crowd at my high school didn’t talk to me while I was in school, probably because I didn’t talk to them, but I have talked to them since graduating and I learned they are actually pretty cool. That is why they have gone on to become our society’s leaders.
Although it is wrong to put people in these specific categories and say they are either brains, innovators, builders or leaders, this classification would probably be true seven out of 10 times, in my unofficial estimation.
By putting geeks and nerds in the “cool” crowd, and then putting “cool” people as outcasts where they can’t become leaders, we could seriously mess with the order of life. Geeks and nerds are not meant to be leaders and “cool” people are not meant to think for us.
I didn’t realize our natural social order was getting messed up until my wife, Jenny, falsely pointed out to me that she was a geek/nerd and correctly that it is now cool to be a geek/nerd.
As much as she wants to be a geek/nerd, she’s not. She’s smart, but she’s not a brainiac (just ask her to do math). She has no elements of geekiness, although she would argue that since she’s focused and uses highlighters and colored folders at work to stay highly organized, she’s a geek. Sorry honey, but organizational skills don’t make a person a geek.
I would actually argue she’s an anti-geek, since she doesn’t understand many of my geek obsessions and she’s never even seen the original “Star Wars” trilogy. Jenny argues this point. To quote: “Personally, I think that the ‘Star Wars’ reference has been an over-used assessment of geek eligibility.”
Nice try. I agree that it may be used a little too often, but there’s a reason it is – because “Star Wars” created the modern geek, which did not exist pre-1977.
By claiming to be a nerd/geek, Jenny, whom I think is “cool,” will only make actual geeks and nerds feel like they are part of an elite crowd and won’t become the brains and innovators they need to be. They’ll try to be leaders.
If these role-reversals existed when Bill Gates and Steve Jobs were younger, then Microsoft and Apple may never have been invented and our country would have a different president.
Wait a minute. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Rocks, marbles not meant for heads
My son, Braden, has rocks in his head.
Okay, I’m not completely sure he has rocks in his head, but he did have one pebble in his ear.
My wife, Jenny, and I discovered this when we took Braden to the doctor for his annual appointment. “You’ve got a pebble in your ear,” the doctor told him and us when checking his ears.
Both Jenny and I thought she was joking with him. We laughed when she told us this information, which caused her to revise her statement. “No really, he has a pebble in his ear,” she said.
The doctor finished Braden’s check-up before attempting to remove the pebble. She and an assistant “irrigated” his ear, which caused him to laugh. When that didn’t work, they attempted to remove it with a little stick devise used to remove things trapped in unusual places. This worked, but not without a little crying on Braden’s part.
The pebble, a smooth little rock the size of a pea, was trapped in his ear for an indefinite amount of time, since Braden denies ever putting it in his ear. He’s only 3, so we’ll never know the true answer, but I’m guessing it’s been there for some time.
As a boy about the same age as Braden, I stuck a marble up my nose. I have no idea why I did so, but I probably heard somebody say that somebody had marbles in their head, so I wanted to be like that somebody.
I remember my parents and their friends all gathering around me as they contemplated a way to remove the marble. I’m not clear as to how they did so, but I remember crying while they were doing it. To this day, I don’t like people sticking things into my head, which is why I’m not a fan of dentists.
I’m also not a big fan of doctors, especially when I consider the check-up useless, like I did for Braden’s check-up. He’s healthy and taking him to the doctor seemed to be a waste of everyone’s time. But after the doctor found the pebble and quickly removed it, I’m not so skeptical anymore.
After all, he could have grown up without removing the pebble and truly had rocks in his head.
Okay, I’m not completely sure he has rocks in his head, but he did have one pebble in his ear.
My wife, Jenny, and I discovered this when we took Braden to the doctor for his annual appointment. “You’ve got a pebble in your ear,” the doctor told him and us when checking his ears.
Both Jenny and I thought she was joking with him. We laughed when she told us this information, which caused her to revise her statement. “No really, he has a pebble in his ear,” she said.
The doctor finished Braden’s check-up before attempting to remove the pebble. She and an assistant “irrigated” his ear, which caused him to laugh. When that didn’t work, they attempted to remove it with a little stick devise used to remove things trapped in unusual places. This worked, but not without a little crying on Braden’s part.
The pebble, a smooth little rock the size of a pea, was trapped in his ear for an indefinite amount of time, since Braden denies ever putting it in his ear. He’s only 3, so we’ll never know the true answer, but I’m guessing it’s been there for some time.
As a boy about the same age as Braden, I stuck a marble up my nose. I have no idea why I did so, but I probably heard somebody say that somebody had marbles in their head, so I wanted to be like that somebody.
I remember my parents and their friends all gathering around me as they contemplated a way to remove the marble. I’m not clear as to how they did so, but I remember crying while they were doing it. To this day, I don’t like people sticking things into my head, which is why I’m not a fan of dentists.
I’m also not a big fan of doctors, especially when I consider the check-up useless, like I did for Braden’s check-up. He’s healthy and taking him to the doctor seemed to be a waste of everyone’s time. But after the doctor found the pebble and quickly removed it, I’m not so skeptical anymore.
After all, he could have grown up without removing the pebble and truly had rocks in his head.
Eccentricities explain off-planet behavior
My wife, Jenny, told me last week I’m eccentric. I can’t say that I disagree with her.
She said I’m eccentric because sometimes she doesn’t know what planet I’m on some of the time.
I’d like to believe that I’m on Earth, like all humans are, unless you were one of the lucky few to step foot on the moon, although that is technically not a planet. Many conspiracy theorists would argue, though, that humans haven’t even stepped foot on the moon, because they believe the government faked the moon landings to win one of the many battles of the Cold War.
I don’t believe in this conspiracy theory or many others, which Jenny argues is just one of the many reasons I’m eccentric. Most people believe the conspiracy theory that Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone in assassinating John F. Kennedy. I do not, writing on a number of occasions in this column that I don’t, which led one reader to write me saying I was wrong to believe Oswald acted alone.
I’ve studied the evidence, watched numerous documentaries and read many books. All of the conclusive evidence shows that Oswald acted alone, and any evidence that suggests otherwise can be contradicted by other evidence.
But hey, I’m eccentric and I’m allowed to believe something most people don’t believe.
I’m also allowed to do stuff non-eccentric people shouldn’t do. For example, while shopping in a grocery store I like to sing “Shop the Pig” while kicking my feet together, embarrassing Jenny, making my son laugh and causing strangers to give me funny looks.
I’m also allowed to wear clothes Jenny says don’t match. Color-coding has never been my strong point and frankly I don’t care if black shoes don’t go with a mostly brown outfit. If it’s comfortable and clean, I’ll wear it, even if the non-eccentric public disapproves of it.
Being eccentric also allows me to be a clown, although I’m afraid of real clowns. I’m a clown in the sense that I can say and do weird things that will make people laugh. People that know me realize that’s just part of my personality and they continue to love me just the same without knocking me for my eccentricities.
I have almost-total freedom by being eccentric and I love it. Although when I’m not eccentric and acting normal, people sometimes think that I’m being grumpy.
What these people don’t know is that it’s all part of my eccentricity. By acting like a serious non-eccentric, I assure myself that people won’t be able to read me all of the time. By appearing grumpy when I’m not, or by appearing happy when I’m grumpy, I become a much more complicated person. I’m not sure why I want to be complicated, but I know I don’t want to be simple.
The one trait I have that is not eccentric is my desire for organization and cleanliness. I’m a neat-freak, which may actually be eccentric. Although most other eccentrics I know are not. My father-in-law is one of them, and his amazing ability to attract clutter is his most obvious eccentricity.
Jenny said I was eccentric after I pointed to an eccentric-looking guy and asked her what he did for a living. “Professor,” she instantly responded, giving me the answer I was looking for. I said he looked eccentric, so he must be a professor.
She told me that I’m eccentric, but I’m not a professor.
I’m not, although I’d love to be one someday. I’m a reporter, a job held by many other eccentrics. Maybe that is why the news is full of weird stories about other eccentrics. And maybe that is why conspiracy theories even exist – eccentric reporters find eccentric stories to make themselves look fairly normal compared to the crackpot ideas others have. Unfortunately these eccentric stories sometimes become main stream and the eccentric reporters are left looking even more eccentric.
She said I’m eccentric because sometimes she doesn’t know what planet I’m on some of the time.
I’d like to believe that I’m on Earth, like all humans are, unless you were one of the lucky few to step foot on the moon, although that is technically not a planet. Many conspiracy theorists would argue, though, that humans haven’t even stepped foot on the moon, because they believe the government faked the moon landings to win one of the many battles of the Cold War.
I don’t believe in this conspiracy theory or many others, which Jenny argues is just one of the many reasons I’m eccentric. Most people believe the conspiracy theory that Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone in assassinating John F. Kennedy. I do not, writing on a number of occasions in this column that I don’t, which led one reader to write me saying I was wrong to believe Oswald acted alone.
I’ve studied the evidence, watched numerous documentaries and read many books. All of the conclusive evidence shows that Oswald acted alone, and any evidence that suggests otherwise can be contradicted by other evidence.
But hey, I’m eccentric and I’m allowed to believe something most people don’t believe.
I’m also allowed to do stuff non-eccentric people shouldn’t do. For example, while shopping in a grocery store I like to sing “Shop the Pig” while kicking my feet together, embarrassing Jenny, making my son laugh and causing strangers to give me funny looks.
I’m also allowed to wear clothes Jenny says don’t match. Color-coding has never been my strong point and frankly I don’t care if black shoes don’t go with a mostly brown outfit. If it’s comfortable and clean, I’ll wear it, even if the non-eccentric public disapproves of it.
Being eccentric also allows me to be a clown, although I’m afraid of real clowns. I’m a clown in the sense that I can say and do weird things that will make people laugh. People that know me realize that’s just part of my personality and they continue to love me just the same without knocking me for my eccentricities.
I have almost-total freedom by being eccentric and I love it. Although when I’m not eccentric and acting normal, people sometimes think that I’m being grumpy.
What these people don’t know is that it’s all part of my eccentricity. By acting like a serious non-eccentric, I assure myself that people won’t be able to read me all of the time. By appearing grumpy when I’m not, or by appearing happy when I’m grumpy, I become a much more complicated person. I’m not sure why I want to be complicated, but I know I don’t want to be simple.
The one trait I have that is not eccentric is my desire for organization and cleanliness. I’m a neat-freak, which may actually be eccentric. Although most other eccentrics I know are not. My father-in-law is one of them, and his amazing ability to attract clutter is his most obvious eccentricity.
Jenny said I was eccentric after I pointed to an eccentric-looking guy and asked her what he did for a living. “Professor,” she instantly responded, giving me the answer I was looking for. I said he looked eccentric, so he must be a professor.
She told me that I’m eccentric, but I’m not a professor.
I’m not, although I’d love to be one someday. I’m a reporter, a job held by many other eccentrics. Maybe that is why the news is full of weird stories about other eccentrics. And maybe that is why conspiracy theories even exist – eccentric reporters find eccentric stories to make themselves look fairly normal compared to the crackpot ideas others have. Unfortunately these eccentric stories sometimes become main stream and the eccentric reporters are left looking even more eccentric.
Here's hoping 3 is not the new 2
My 2-year-old son, Braden, turns 3 on St. Patrick’s Day. I hope 3 is nothing like 2, because 2 is too much for someone like me, who is 33, and if 3 is like 2, then that’ll be way too much for someone that's 33.
I’m hoping 3 is better than 2, especially now that he’s potty-trained and fairly able to do many of the things young toddlers can’t, like getting dressed, brushing teeth and following directions.
But 2 has been bad, and I’m praying 3 isn’t the new 2, as I have been told, because Braden’s newfound ability to speak somewhat articulately (well at least the important words, like “please don’t,” “that’s naughty” and “I want to go to Chili’s mommy”) has come with a heavy price – the ability to argue.
I’m not one who should complain about someone that argues, since many would probably say that I’m not truly happy in a conversation unless I’m arguing about what the other person is saying.
When Brett Favre retired last week, everyone sang his praises like he was Jesus, Gandhi, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Michael Jordan, The Beatles and the guy cheering for Johnny to put Daniel-san in a “body bag” in “The Karate Kid” rolled into one. I told anyone that would listen that one championship in 17 seasons is not that impressive. Even Trent Dilfer has one championship. That’s right, Trent Dilfer.
Former co-workers of mine never took me seriously many times when I was being serious, because they thought I was trying to provoke an argument. “Brett Favre is going to rehab for Vicodin addiction,” I told them once. “Whatever, don’t be ridiculous,” they responded. Ten minutes later the entire state of Wisconsin was talking about it.
My wife doesn’t take me seriously, either. I can tell her a simple fact that she might not like, such as news about a good restaurant closing down, and if she questions it and I have any type of smile on my face, she won’t believe me. “Why are you smirking?” she’ll ask, assuming that I’m just trying to start an argument.
I’ll admit that once in awhile I’ll tell her little fibs just to keep her on her toes and to get a reaction. Most of the time these fibs involve something she likes, such as her favorite actor, Josh Brolin. “Josh Brolin was busted last night for driving 100 mph over the speed limit with cocaine all over his face,” I’ll lie to her.
“Whatever,” my wife will say. “He’s not that stupid.”
“Sure he is. Plus he’s a bad actor,” I will argue.
It annoys my wife, but it’s fun for me.
But now my 2-year-old soon to be 3 is paying me back for my arguing hobby.
For example, Braden noticed the sunny skies and melting snow this week. “It’s summertime,” he told me.
“No, it’s still winter, but it’ll be spring soon,” I responded.
“No, it’s summertime.”
The kid is either a big fan of Will Smith’s song “Summertime” or he’s picking an argument with the king of arguers. Unfortunately, the king can’t win when the kid won’t budge on his opinion. No matter what I told him, he was convinced it was summertime and I wasn’t going to change his mind.
In many ways, I’m very proud he’s inherited this trait, but it’s tiring to argue with him, especially when I don’t have the time or energy to argue.
Many say 30 is the new 20. I’m fine with that, although I’d rather 30 be 30; 20 was fine when I was younger, but I much prefer being older and wiser. But if 3 is the new 2, then I hope 33 is the new 23, because I’ll need the extra energy to argue with the new 2.
I’m hoping 3 is better than 2, especially now that he’s potty-trained and fairly able to do many of the things young toddlers can’t, like getting dressed, brushing teeth and following directions.
But 2 has been bad, and I’m praying 3 isn’t the new 2, as I have been told, because Braden’s newfound ability to speak somewhat articulately (well at least the important words, like “please don’t,” “that’s naughty” and “I want to go to Chili’s mommy”) has come with a heavy price – the ability to argue.
I’m not one who should complain about someone that argues, since many would probably say that I’m not truly happy in a conversation unless I’m arguing about what the other person is saying.
When Brett Favre retired last week, everyone sang his praises like he was Jesus, Gandhi, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Michael Jordan, The Beatles and the guy cheering for Johnny to put Daniel-san in a “body bag” in “The Karate Kid” rolled into one. I told anyone that would listen that one championship in 17 seasons is not that impressive. Even Trent Dilfer has one championship. That’s right, Trent Dilfer.
Former co-workers of mine never took me seriously many times when I was being serious, because they thought I was trying to provoke an argument. “Brett Favre is going to rehab for Vicodin addiction,” I told them once. “Whatever, don’t be ridiculous,” they responded. Ten minutes later the entire state of Wisconsin was talking about it.
My wife doesn’t take me seriously, either. I can tell her a simple fact that she might not like, such as news about a good restaurant closing down, and if she questions it and I have any type of smile on my face, she won’t believe me. “Why are you smirking?” she’ll ask, assuming that I’m just trying to start an argument.
I’ll admit that once in awhile I’ll tell her little fibs just to keep her on her toes and to get a reaction. Most of the time these fibs involve something she likes, such as her favorite actor, Josh Brolin. “Josh Brolin was busted last night for driving 100 mph over the speed limit with cocaine all over his face,” I’ll lie to her.
“Whatever,” my wife will say. “He’s not that stupid.”
“Sure he is. Plus he’s a bad actor,” I will argue.
It annoys my wife, but it’s fun for me.
But now my 2-year-old soon to be 3 is paying me back for my arguing hobby.
For example, Braden noticed the sunny skies and melting snow this week. “It’s summertime,” he told me.
“No, it’s still winter, but it’ll be spring soon,” I responded.
“No, it’s summertime.”
The kid is either a big fan of Will Smith’s song “Summertime” or he’s picking an argument with the king of arguers. Unfortunately, the king can’t win when the kid won’t budge on his opinion. No matter what I told him, he was convinced it was summertime and I wasn’t going to change his mind.
In many ways, I’m very proud he’s inherited this trait, but it’s tiring to argue with him, especially when I don’t have the time or energy to argue.
Many say 30 is the new 20. I’m fine with that, although I’d rather 30 be 30; 20 was fine when I was younger, but I much prefer being older and wiser. But if 3 is the new 2, then I hope 33 is the new 23, because I’ll need the extra energy to argue with the new 2.
Free goodies lead to great connections
The Portage County Business Expo, held Tuesday, March 4, at the Ramada Stevens Point, offered local businesses an opportunity to show off their services and good for other people in the business community.
For those attending, it was an opportunity to get free stuff. People were given a plastic bag when they registered and it could be used to load up on many of the goods businesses were giving away to promote themselves.
I had the opportunity to be on both sides, handing out copies of the last two issues of the paper at The Portage County Gazette booth and grabbing a few goodies for myself while walking around to see what other businesses had to offer.
I confined myself mainly to food samples, letting my stomach serve as my bag. Cookies, cake, popcorn, beer, deviled eggs, southwest chicken casserole – an endless buffet was available to me, in addition to the great lunch provided at the event.
Food was used as an enticement to draw people to a lot of booths, although the majority of them using food did not sell that product.
It worked, since I found myself talking to quite a few people at a number of booths that I normally wouldn’t talk to. Honestly, I’ve got a great bank and would never change, but the popcorn another bank was giving away was great. If they would have had a movie playing and some soda, I might be transferring money from my current account to that bank.
At times I felt like a little kid in a grocery store that gives away a lot of sample product. It took me back to when I was a young lad going up and down aisles, taking multiple samples even though I didn’t have any money to purchase the items. Back then I wondered why the store clerks never prevented me from doing so, but they were smart. They knew I went back to my mother and told her to buy those products because they were good. It’s the same reason many commercials are aimed at kids.
The main purpose for the Business Expo isn’t to necessarily sell products; it is meant to help business people establish contacts with other businesses and learn better ways to operate.
For me this meant meeting people in the business community that could provide ideas and subject material for future stories. I met a number of these people and gave them my business card. I’m expecting some phone calls in the near future, which means our readers can expect even better business coverage in this paper – a win-win situation from the Business Expo.
In addition to food samples to draw people to booths, many businesses gave away a variety of office supplies and other little goodies. I took home just two things – a calculator and a slot machine gumball machine. Calculators are always useful, but the gumball machine was more for my son. I’m going to fill it with candy and allow him to take a spin when he’s a good boy.
Other than those two items, the rest of the goodies would have been clutter to me. And clutter is something I can do without, especially since I’ll be moving someday in the near future after the sale of our house is finalized.
I’m thankful my father-in-law didn’t come to the Business Expo, though. He has an uncanny ability to attract clutter. It’s an ability he got from his father and hopefully one that will make him rich someday when he decides to hold a massive rummage sale to eliminate the clutter.
I saw a few other people with this same ability, including one lady that had three bags full of stuff. I’m betting she made more business connections than anybody else and will soon be super successful.
For those attending, it was an opportunity to get free stuff. People were given a plastic bag when they registered and it could be used to load up on many of the goods businesses were giving away to promote themselves.
I had the opportunity to be on both sides, handing out copies of the last two issues of the paper at The Portage County Gazette booth and grabbing a few goodies for myself while walking around to see what other businesses had to offer.
I confined myself mainly to food samples, letting my stomach serve as my bag. Cookies, cake, popcorn, beer, deviled eggs, southwest chicken casserole – an endless buffet was available to me, in addition to the great lunch provided at the event.
Food was used as an enticement to draw people to a lot of booths, although the majority of them using food did not sell that product.
It worked, since I found myself talking to quite a few people at a number of booths that I normally wouldn’t talk to. Honestly, I’ve got a great bank and would never change, but the popcorn another bank was giving away was great. If they would have had a movie playing and some soda, I might be transferring money from my current account to that bank.
At times I felt like a little kid in a grocery store that gives away a lot of sample product. It took me back to when I was a young lad going up and down aisles, taking multiple samples even though I didn’t have any money to purchase the items. Back then I wondered why the store clerks never prevented me from doing so, but they were smart. They knew I went back to my mother and told her to buy those products because they were good. It’s the same reason many commercials are aimed at kids.
The main purpose for the Business Expo isn’t to necessarily sell products; it is meant to help business people establish contacts with other businesses and learn better ways to operate.
For me this meant meeting people in the business community that could provide ideas and subject material for future stories. I met a number of these people and gave them my business card. I’m expecting some phone calls in the near future, which means our readers can expect even better business coverage in this paper – a win-win situation from the Business Expo.
In addition to food samples to draw people to booths, many businesses gave away a variety of office supplies and other little goodies. I took home just two things – a calculator and a slot machine gumball machine. Calculators are always useful, but the gumball machine was more for my son. I’m going to fill it with candy and allow him to take a spin when he’s a good boy.
Other than those two items, the rest of the goodies would have been clutter to me. And clutter is something I can do without, especially since I’ll be moving someday in the near future after the sale of our house is finalized.
I’m thankful my father-in-law didn’t come to the Business Expo, though. He has an uncanny ability to attract clutter. It’s an ability he got from his father and hopefully one that will make him rich someday when he decides to hold a massive rummage sale to eliminate the clutter.
I saw a few other people with this same ability, including one lady that had three bags full of stuff. I’m betting she made more business connections than anybody else and will soon be super successful.
Celeb reality takes over airwaves
In case you haven’t noticed, reality shows have taken over our television; “Big Brother,” “Survivor,” “Trading Spouses,” “Supernanny,” “My Big Redneck Wedding” and “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” are just a few of these shows and they all feature real people, like you and me.
“Survivor” was one of the first of these shows and it caught people’s attention because it was so different from regular TV programs. Nine years and hundreds of reality shows later, this genre is as popular as regular TV, although many people despise it. I’d like to think I’m one of these people, but in truth I watch my fair share of reality.
Especially now, since a new genre of reality shows, one featuring celebrities, has shattered normal people’s hopes of ever becoming famous through reality television. Shows like “Celebrity Apprentice,” “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew,” “Gone Country,” “Dancing with the Stars,” “Rock of Love 2 with Brett Michaels,” “Flavor of Love 3,” and “Celebrity Fit Club” have all taken away airtime for you and me to become famous.
Celeb reality, as it is called, is nothing like reality, just like regular reality television is nothing like reality. Instead of watching a bunch of Joe Schmos act like fools for their 15 minutes of fame, with celeb reality we get to watch a bunch of has-beens and B-list celebrities act like fools to get some of their last few minutes of fame.
I’ll start with Bret Michaels. Back in the day, from 1986 to 1991, his band Poison was often near the top of the charts and he had girls, parties and money every which way he turned. Then Nirvana happened and he and all his hair-metal buddies never had a hit record again. Poison is now on the nostalgia circuit, playing at venues a fraction of the size they used to play.
Michaels’ hair fell out, like it should since he is in his forties, but he did not want to age gracefully. He put on a bandana, then hair extensions, and found VH1, which gave him not only one but two dating shows. Much like “The Bachelor,” this show has Michaels living with a bunch of girls looking for their true love in a nice mansion and every week he gives the girls some tasks that help him decide which girls to keep and which ones to eliminate.
These tasks include making them wrestle pigs, play mud football and piecing together a motorcycle – you know the everyday things people have a potential love interest do to see if he or she is the right person. Personally, I had my wife change the oil in my car and then had her bungee jump with her eyes blindfolded before I proposed to her. When she did these things, I knew she was the one for me. Love and compatibility had nothing to do with it.
Another celeb reality show featuring people way past their prime is “Gone Country” on CMT. Celebrities on this show include heavy-metalist Dee Snider of Twisted Sister, Carnie Wilson of Wilson Phillips, Marcia Brady of the Brady Bunch (she has a real name but who really cares what it is), one-hit wonder Sisqo (remember “Thong Song”), Julio Iglesis Jr. (this guy is more D-list than B-list since the only thing he’s done to earn any fame is have a famous father), some “American Idol” failure and former R&B superstar-turned-crackhead Bobby Brown.
This show gives these celebrities a country makeover, with the winner earning a Nashville recording contract. However, very little time is spent doing this and most of the camera time goes to Brown who gets drunk often, pees all over his room and Snider while sleepwalking, and exposes himself while sleeping to Wilson and Brady.
The rest of the time is devoted to Brady, who is basically crazy. She gets excited easily, cries often, fails to perform because of stage fright and fawns all over Brown.
To sum up this show, it’s brilliant. The reason people watch reality television is to see crazy people grabbing at air for fame and this show has way more of that than any other.
Another brilliant show is “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.” Dr. Drew, known to most people as a sex expert, is also a rehab specialist. He brings in celebrities with substance-abuse problems, like actors Daniel Baldwin and Jeff Conaway, porn star Mary Carey, former professional wrestler Chyna, former child actress Jaimee Foxworth, actress Brigitte Nielsen, another “American Idol” failure and several others.
Unlike the other celeb reality shows, most of these former stars are serious about being on the show. Conaway, best known for his roles in “Grease” and “Taxi,” is in the worst shape, going through heavy withdrawal and seeming much older than he actually is because of the heavy toll drugs took on his body.
I said most because Baldwin was the only one on the show without a current problem and the first to leave, because the married-man-with-child-on-the-way tried to start something up with the porn star. In a show that actually gives people a real glimpse at something – the dangers of addiction and the hardship people have in overcoming them – the one person that acts like other celebrities on other shows comes off looking like the biggest fool.
I’m waiting for a television genius to combine all of these celeb reality shows using the biggest fools like Baldwin, Michaels, Brown and Brady. It could be called “Rock of Country Rehab.” The celebrities would each try to find their love interest while getting a country makeover and undergoing rehab. The rehab portion wouldn’t be for addiction issues, although Brown could probably use it. It would be for their addiction to fame.
Now that’s a show everyone would watch.
“Survivor” was one of the first of these shows and it caught people’s attention because it was so different from regular TV programs. Nine years and hundreds of reality shows later, this genre is as popular as regular TV, although many people despise it. I’d like to think I’m one of these people, but in truth I watch my fair share of reality.
Especially now, since a new genre of reality shows, one featuring celebrities, has shattered normal people’s hopes of ever becoming famous through reality television. Shows like “Celebrity Apprentice,” “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew,” “Gone Country,” “Dancing with the Stars,” “Rock of Love 2 with Brett Michaels,” “Flavor of Love 3,” and “Celebrity Fit Club” have all taken away airtime for you and me to become famous.
Celeb reality, as it is called, is nothing like reality, just like regular reality television is nothing like reality. Instead of watching a bunch of Joe Schmos act like fools for their 15 minutes of fame, with celeb reality we get to watch a bunch of has-beens and B-list celebrities act like fools to get some of their last few minutes of fame.
I’ll start with Bret Michaels. Back in the day, from 1986 to 1991, his band Poison was often near the top of the charts and he had girls, parties and money every which way he turned. Then Nirvana happened and he and all his hair-metal buddies never had a hit record again. Poison is now on the nostalgia circuit, playing at venues a fraction of the size they used to play.
Michaels’ hair fell out, like it should since he is in his forties, but he did not want to age gracefully. He put on a bandana, then hair extensions, and found VH1, which gave him not only one but two dating shows. Much like “The Bachelor,” this show has Michaels living with a bunch of girls looking for their true love in a nice mansion and every week he gives the girls some tasks that help him decide which girls to keep and which ones to eliminate.
These tasks include making them wrestle pigs, play mud football and piecing together a motorcycle – you know the everyday things people have a potential love interest do to see if he or she is the right person. Personally, I had my wife change the oil in my car and then had her bungee jump with her eyes blindfolded before I proposed to her. When she did these things, I knew she was the one for me. Love and compatibility had nothing to do with it.
Another celeb reality show featuring people way past their prime is “Gone Country” on CMT. Celebrities on this show include heavy-metalist Dee Snider of Twisted Sister, Carnie Wilson of Wilson Phillips, Marcia Brady of the Brady Bunch (she has a real name but who really cares what it is), one-hit wonder Sisqo (remember “Thong Song”), Julio Iglesis Jr. (this guy is more D-list than B-list since the only thing he’s done to earn any fame is have a famous father), some “American Idol” failure and former R&B superstar-turned-crackhead Bobby Brown.
This show gives these celebrities a country makeover, with the winner earning a Nashville recording contract. However, very little time is spent doing this and most of the camera time goes to Brown who gets drunk often, pees all over his room and Snider while sleepwalking, and exposes himself while sleeping to Wilson and Brady.
The rest of the time is devoted to Brady, who is basically crazy. She gets excited easily, cries often, fails to perform because of stage fright and fawns all over Brown.
To sum up this show, it’s brilliant. The reason people watch reality television is to see crazy people grabbing at air for fame and this show has way more of that than any other.
Another brilliant show is “Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.” Dr. Drew, known to most people as a sex expert, is also a rehab specialist. He brings in celebrities with substance-abuse problems, like actors Daniel Baldwin and Jeff Conaway, porn star Mary Carey, former professional wrestler Chyna, former child actress Jaimee Foxworth, actress Brigitte Nielsen, another “American Idol” failure and several others.
Unlike the other celeb reality shows, most of these former stars are serious about being on the show. Conaway, best known for his roles in “Grease” and “Taxi,” is in the worst shape, going through heavy withdrawal and seeming much older than he actually is because of the heavy toll drugs took on his body.
I said most because Baldwin was the only one on the show without a current problem and the first to leave, because the married-man-with-child-on-the-way tried to start something up with the porn star. In a show that actually gives people a real glimpse at something – the dangers of addiction and the hardship people have in overcoming them – the one person that acts like other celebrities on other shows comes off looking like the biggest fool.
I’m waiting for a television genius to combine all of these celeb reality shows using the biggest fools like Baldwin, Michaels, Brown and Brady. It could be called “Rock of Country Rehab.” The celebrities would each try to find their love interest while getting a country makeover and undergoing rehab. The rehab portion wouldn’t be for addiction issues, although Brown could probably use it. It would be for their addiction to fame.
Now that’s a show everyone would watch.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Snowfall exposes walking uphill in blizzard myth
Compared to recent years, this winter’s snowfall seems like a record amount. Snowmobilers, skiers and other people that enjoy the outdoors in winter have had plenty of reason to celebrate, since the snow that has all but disappeared in the last decade has returned with a vengeance.
Many older people have said to me that this year is more like the winters they remember as kids. Back when snow was piled as high as the telephone poles. Back when snow kept them from getting their vehicles out of their driveways and forcing them to walk to work. Uphill both ways and always in a blizzard (which would explain the copious amounts of snow). Back when technology didn’t exist and they were forced to do everything the old-fashioned way – manually.
Guess what old folks? Your hardships are being exposed as fallacies because this year’s snowfall is not only a record amount for the last decade, it is near the all-time record. In fact Madison smashed its all-time record with the last snowstorm and we’re only in February.
I don’t mean to rub this fact in your faces, but I will. For years, people in my generation have had to constantly be reminded by our parents and grandparents that we’ve had it so easy. “Life is so easy for you,” all my grandparents have said to me. “When I was young…” and then they would provide plenty of examples telling me of their hardships.
The main hardship, of course, was the weather and how they had to endure it walking uphill both ways to school and work.
And work always consisted of a 12-hour day of hard, manual labor with no bathroom or meal breaks following an eight-hour school day. By the time they walked uphill 10 miles to school and work, and then back home, where they ate a piteous meal of cabbage and possum for their only food of the day, they were lucky to get four hours of sleep.
I almost forgot. One hour of the time they got for sleeping was spent walking uphill one mile and back in a blizzard to the outhouse.
Appreciating modern conveniences, like indoor plumbing, that were all invented shortly before my birth in 1974, I never argued with my parents or grandparents about the hardships they had to endure.
Why would I? Life hasn’t been that rough, at least not compared to what they told me it was like for them growing up.
I never complained about a 90-minute bus ride to school because I wasn’t walking uphill both ways in a blizzard.
I never complained about unloading a truckload of wood into our basement and then neatly stacking it near the wood furnace because I didn’t have to carry the wood uphill several miles in a blizzard.
I never complained about doing dishes every night because I didn’t have to walk uphill in a blizzard to fetch some water from a well and then walk uphill the other way to fetch some wood to heat this water in order to do the dishes.
I never complained about having a paper route I did on my bike every day after school, for a measly $30 a week that I had to collect from the customers, because I had the luxury of using a bike, another modern convenience invented shortly before my birth in 1974, rather than walking uphill in a blizzard for the entire route.
I’m complaining now. Not because I hated doing these things, but because I did them under the false pretense that I had it easy doing them compared to my elders. As someone quick to get a guilty conscience, I kept my complaints to myself and my ulcer. Now knowing that this winter’s snowfall is what my parents and grandparents experienced, I realize that life wasn’t as difficult as they exaggerated it to be.
Our grandparents probably wonder why our home is not immaculately cleaned like their homes when they visit, especially since all of the modern conveniences – like vacuums and brooms – should nearly do the job for us.
I’ll tell them why. Our modern conveniences make life easier, but they also bring new challenges. To afford all of these conveniences, we need a double income. Since we both work, our 2-year-old son needs to go to daycare, which is not cheap and limits the amount we can spend on modern conveniences. The chores at home still need to be completed, which means we are both working when we get home to do them.
I know life wasn’t easy for my parents and grandparents. However, knowing that it wasn’t as tough for them as they said it was and that it hasn’t been as easy as they have made me feel it has been for me, I feel like I’m on more equal ground with them.
Now my son, he really seems like he’ll have it easy. I can’t wait to tell him how difficult life was for me compared to him. Especially the winter of 2007-08 when it seemed like I was always walking uphill several miles in a blizzard…
Many older people have said to me that this year is more like the winters they remember as kids. Back when snow was piled as high as the telephone poles. Back when snow kept them from getting their vehicles out of their driveways and forcing them to walk to work. Uphill both ways and always in a blizzard (which would explain the copious amounts of snow). Back when technology didn’t exist and they were forced to do everything the old-fashioned way – manually.
Guess what old folks? Your hardships are being exposed as fallacies because this year’s snowfall is not only a record amount for the last decade, it is near the all-time record. In fact Madison smashed its all-time record with the last snowstorm and we’re only in February.
I don’t mean to rub this fact in your faces, but I will. For years, people in my generation have had to constantly be reminded by our parents and grandparents that we’ve had it so easy. “Life is so easy for you,” all my grandparents have said to me. “When I was young…” and then they would provide plenty of examples telling me of their hardships.
The main hardship, of course, was the weather and how they had to endure it walking uphill both ways to school and work.
And work always consisted of a 12-hour day of hard, manual labor with no bathroom or meal breaks following an eight-hour school day. By the time they walked uphill 10 miles to school and work, and then back home, where they ate a piteous meal of cabbage and possum for their only food of the day, they were lucky to get four hours of sleep.
I almost forgot. One hour of the time they got for sleeping was spent walking uphill one mile and back in a blizzard to the outhouse.
Appreciating modern conveniences, like indoor plumbing, that were all invented shortly before my birth in 1974, I never argued with my parents or grandparents about the hardships they had to endure.
Why would I? Life hasn’t been that rough, at least not compared to what they told me it was like for them growing up.
I never complained about a 90-minute bus ride to school because I wasn’t walking uphill both ways in a blizzard.
I never complained about unloading a truckload of wood into our basement and then neatly stacking it near the wood furnace because I didn’t have to carry the wood uphill several miles in a blizzard.
I never complained about doing dishes every night because I didn’t have to walk uphill in a blizzard to fetch some water from a well and then walk uphill the other way to fetch some wood to heat this water in order to do the dishes.
I never complained about having a paper route I did on my bike every day after school, for a measly $30 a week that I had to collect from the customers, because I had the luxury of using a bike, another modern convenience invented shortly before my birth in 1974, rather than walking uphill in a blizzard for the entire route.
I’m complaining now. Not because I hated doing these things, but because I did them under the false pretense that I had it easy doing them compared to my elders. As someone quick to get a guilty conscience, I kept my complaints to myself and my ulcer. Now knowing that this winter’s snowfall is what my parents and grandparents experienced, I realize that life wasn’t as difficult as they exaggerated it to be.
Our grandparents probably wonder why our home is not immaculately cleaned like their homes when they visit, especially since all of the modern conveniences – like vacuums and brooms – should nearly do the job for us.
I’ll tell them why. Our modern conveniences make life easier, but they also bring new challenges. To afford all of these conveniences, we need a double income. Since we both work, our 2-year-old son needs to go to daycare, which is not cheap and limits the amount we can spend on modern conveniences. The chores at home still need to be completed, which means we are both working when we get home to do them.
I know life wasn’t easy for my parents and grandparents. However, knowing that it wasn’t as tough for them as they said it was and that it hasn’t been as easy as they have made me feel it has been for me, I feel like I’m on more equal ground with them.
Now my son, he really seems like he’ll have it easy. I can’t wait to tell him how difficult life was for me compared to him. Especially the winter of 2007-08 when it seemed like I was always walking uphill several miles in a blizzard…
Poker player lost without game opportunities
Texas Hold ’Em is the greatest card game ever and I don’t have enough opportunities to play it.
For those not familiar with this poker game, players are dealt two cards, which they keep hidden from other players, and they can use these cards, along with five community cards, to try to make the best five-card hand.
The best hand doesn’t necessarily win, though, because like any poker game, players can bluff people out of the hand through the four betting rounds.
Most people are probably familiar with Texas Hold ’Em because it is on television more than “Seinfeld” re-runs. It is the featured game at the Main Event during the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas every year, and it is usually the featured game during the World Poker Tour, shown on the Travel Channel.
Many of the best Texas Hold ’Em Players are celebrities – Doyle Brunson, Phil Hellmuth, Johnny Chan, and my favorite, Daniel Negreanu, are just a few of the big names. They’ve all made millions playing the game and will continue to make millions more.
I’d love to make millions playing the game, but I’m too scared to bet much more than the $10 buy-in during games I have with friends and relatives. I’d have to win a lot of games to make that kind of dough. Since poker is often a game where luck beats skill, and it is a game that takes several hours to complete, I wouldn’t possess enough good fortune or time to make enough money for retirement.
My bigger problem, though, is I don’t have enough opportunities to play the game. Several years ago my friends would come to my house on a weekly basis and we’d play a game, which had a pot between $60 and $100 depending on the number of players.
I made much more than I ever lost, mainly because I was able to “read” my friends and figure out when they were bluffing or had serious hands.
It’s even easier when I get together with relatives, especially my sisters-in-law, and we play a game. More often than not I go home with the pot.
But I don’t get together with relatives often, and my friends are too busy to play a regular game, so I’ve become a poker player without a game. Much like a hunter without a gun, a toddler without a toy, a dog without a bone, or an Oceanic Flight 815 survivor on a mysterious island, I’m lost.
I’ve been lost for the last year. It started when I packed up my poker chips and table in anticipation of moving to Stevens Point. We’re still at our house in Wautoma, waiting for the sale to finalize, leaving me without my poker weapons.
The only three games I have played during this time have been with relatives. I’m 3-0, taking home a measly $50 since the number of players has been minimal and the buy-ins were only $5. It’s hard to become a poker-playing millionaire this way.
I could become an Internet player, but that’s no fun. It’s hard to “read” players when you can’t see them and it’s even harder to taunt them when you can’t talk to them.
Not all players taunt. It’s a tactic to take people off their game, although it can sometimes backfire. Nothing is worse than taunting somebody and then having that player take you down, allowing him or her to return the taunts two-fold and publicly embarrass you.
I use my taunts moderately. If I sense a player is genuinely weak and taunting will make him or her weaker, I’m not afraid to let the taunts fly. More times than not that will really throw the player off and I will take his or her chips after forcing a stupid play.
Stupid play is usually the biggest factor in causing a person to lose. I had a friend that once put all of her chips in the pot on the first hand in an attempt to bluff another player out. The other player quickly called all her bets and obviously had a big hand. When the cards were flipped over, my friend had a lousy pair of eights, while the other player had four-of-a-kind. Smart players would have held up on the betting or folded if suspecting their opponent held a big hand because of the bet.
Unfortunately, I haven’t even had the luxury of watching stupid players in a long time. I even stopped watching poker on television, mainly because the pros I like to watch never get any airtime because the game has become overrun with amateurs – people like me that wish to become pro but unlike me because they actually put money on the line to do so.
Oh well, at least I’ve had plenty of time to practice my taunting. I feel sorry for the next fool that plays me.
For those not familiar with this poker game, players are dealt two cards, which they keep hidden from other players, and they can use these cards, along with five community cards, to try to make the best five-card hand.
The best hand doesn’t necessarily win, though, because like any poker game, players can bluff people out of the hand through the four betting rounds.
Most people are probably familiar with Texas Hold ’Em because it is on television more than “Seinfeld” re-runs. It is the featured game at the Main Event during the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas every year, and it is usually the featured game during the World Poker Tour, shown on the Travel Channel.
Many of the best Texas Hold ’Em Players are celebrities – Doyle Brunson, Phil Hellmuth, Johnny Chan, and my favorite, Daniel Negreanu, are just a few of the big names. They’ve all made millions playing the game and will continue to make millions more.
I’d love to make millions playing the game, but I’m too scared to bet much more than the $10 buy-in during games I have with friends and relatives. I’d have to win a lot of games to make that kind of dough. Since poker is often a game where luck beats skill, and it is a game that takes several hours to complete, I wouldn’t possess enough good fortune or time to make enough money for retirement.
My bigger problem, though, is I don’t have enough opportunities to play the game. Several years ago my friends would come to my house on a weekly basis and we’d play a game, which had a pot between $60 and $100 depending on the number of players.
I made much more than I ever lost, mainly because I was able to “read” my friends and figure out when they were bluffing or had serious hands.
It’s even easier when I get together with relatives, especially my sisters-in-law, and we play a game. More often than not I go home with the pot.
But I don’t get together with relatives often, and my friends are too busy to play a regular game, so I’ve become a poker player without a game. Much like a hunter without a gun, a toddler without a toy, a dog without a bone, or an Oceanic Flight 815 survivor on a mysterious island, I’m lost.
I’ve been lost for the last year. It started when I packed up my poker chips and table in anticipation of moving to Stevens Point. We’re still at our house in Wautoma, waiting for the sale to finalize, leaving me without my poker weapons.
The only three games I have played during this time have been with relatives. I’m 3-0, taking home a measly $50 since the number of players has been minimal and the buy-ins were only $5. It’s hard to become a poker-playing millionaire this way.
I could become an Internet player, but that’s no fun. It’s hard to “read” players when you can’t see them and it’s even harder to taunt them when you can’t talk to them.
Not all players taunt. It’s a tactic to take people off their game, although it can sometimes backfire. Nothing is worse than taunting somebody and then having that player take you down, allowing him or her to return the taunts two-fold and publicly embarrass you.
I use my taunts moderately. If I sense a player is genuinely weak and taunting will make him or her weaker, I’m not afraid to let the taunts fly. More times than not that will really throw the player off and I will take his or her chips after forcing a stupid play.
Stupid play is usually the biggest factor in causing a person to lose. I had a friend that once put all of her chips in the pot on the first hand in an attempt to bluff another player out. The other player quickly called all her bets and obviously had a big hand. When the cards were flipped over, my friend had a lousy pair of eights, while the other player had four-of-a-kind. Smart players would have held up on the betting or folded if suspecting their opponent held a big hand because of the bet.
Unfortunately, I haven’t even had the luxury of watching stupid players in a long time. I even stopped watching poker on television, mainly because the pros I like to watch never get any airtime because the game has become overrun with amateurs – people like me that wish to become pro but unlike me because they actually put money on the line to do so.
Oh well, at least I’ve had plenty of time to practice my taunting. I feel sorry for the next fool that plays me.
Non-handiness leads to novel idea
By nature I’m not a very handy person. If given some boards and nails and told to build a birdhouse, I’d probably construct something that would provide less shelter than if the bird just stayed outside in the elements.
However, I’m good at following directions. I’ve amazed myself by putting together build-it-yourself furniture, making a good meal and resolving complicated computer issues when given the proper information through instructions, recipes or guidance.
But I’ve found a better way to overcome my non-handiness. I call it Ingoocho.
What is Ingoocho?
I’ll explain. This past weekend my wife and I decided to recaulk our bathtub. I had no idea how to do that, so I went on the Internet, googled “how to recaulk bathtub” and clicked on the first link.
The instructions at the link were a work of art. And I mean that in a non-ironic sense, because they were easy to understand and right to the point.
So simple in fact, I gave them to my wife, Jenny, and she did the entire project without my help.
INternet, GOOgle, Click and Hand Off. Ingoocho. If life were always so easy, I’d have it made.
Hey, I need to replace the starter in my car. Not a problem. Ingoocho. Thanks Jenny.
I’m hungry for an authentic Mexican enchilada meal. Ingoocho mi mama.
Braden my son, I know you’re only two, but kids today are supposed to be technologically savvy. I need you to figure out this iPod for me. Don’t worry kid. Ingoocho.
It would probably take a long time before any of the people around me caught on that I was passing everything off to them. They’d appreciate the great instructions so much they wouldn’t even notice I was being a complete bum.
Once in awhile, in order to keep this scam going, I’d just Ingooc and do the task myself and not hand it off to someone else. I enjoy cooking, so maybe I’ll make myself look good making a great meal every so often.
I’m so impressed by my idea, especially since it worked so well this past weekend, that I might just write a self-help reference guide to Ingoocho.
It could include detailed instructions on the proper technique to Ingoocho, the do’s and the don’ts, charts telling people when they should use it, and the top 10 tips for using it most effectively.
Heck, I’d even throw in a few ways you could lose weight through Ingoocho. I’m sure they wouldn’t help anyone actually lose weight, since the whole concept of Ingoocho is laziness, but most books with weight-loss tips don’t really work either. It would just guarantee me a best seller.
Maybe Oprah would even select it as her Book Club pick. In fact, if I fabricate everything in the book and say it’s based on my life story, then she would surely pick it. James Frey did it with “A Million Little Pieces” and she picked that book.
Best of all, I could probably Ingoocho this idea. My wife is a good writer. This column could serve as the how-to-guide for writing the book.
My job is done then. Look for “Ingoocho: The Guide to Self-Laziness, Weight Loss and the Heart-Breaking Story of the Tragic Life of Scott Steuck” at bookstores everywhere this fall. And on Oprah.
However, I’m good at following directions. I’ve amazed myself by putting together build-it-yourself furniture, making a good meal and resolving complicated computer issues when given the proper information through instructions, recipes or guidance.
But I’ve found a better way to overcome my non-handiness. I call it Ingoocho.
What is Ingoocho?
I’ll explain. This past weekend my wife and I decided to recaulk our bathtub. I had no idea how to do that, so I went on the Internet, googled “how to recaulk bathtub” and clicked on the first link.
The instructions at the link were a work of art. And I mean that in a non-ironic sense, because they were easy to understand and right to the point.
So simple in fact, I gave them to my wife, Jenny, and she did the entire project without my help.
INternet, GOOgle, Click and Hand Off. Ingoocho. If life were always so easy, I’d have it made.
Hey, I need to replace the starter in my car. Not a problem. Ingoocho. Thanks Jenny.
I’m hungry for an authentic Mexican enchilada meal. Ingoocho mi mama.
Braden my son, I know you’re only two, but kids today are supposed to be technologically savvy. I need you to figure out this iPod for me. Don’t worry kid. Ingoocho.
It would probably take a long time before any of the people around me caught on that I was passing everything off to them. They’d appreciate the great instructions so much they wouldn’t even notice I was being a complete bum.
Once in awhile, in order to keep this scam going, I’d just Ingooc and do the task myself and not hand it off to someone else. I enjoy cooking, so maybe I’ll make myself look good making a great meal every so often.
I’m so impressed by my idea, especially since it worked so well this past weekend, that I might just write a self-help reference guide to Ingoocho.
It could include detailed instructions on the proper technique to Ingoocho, the do’s and the don’ts, charts telling people when they should use it, and the top 10 tips for using it most effectively.
Heck, I’d even throw in a few ways you could lose weight through Ingoocho. I’m sure they wouldn’t help anyone actually lose weight, since the whole concept of Ingoocho is laziness, but most books with weight-loss tips don’t really work either. It would just guarantee me a best seller.
Maybe Oprah would even select it as her Book Club pick. In fact, if I fabricate everything in the book and say it’s based on my life story, then she would surely pick it. James Frey did it with “A Million Little Pieces” and she picked that book.
Best of all, I could probably Ingoocho this idea. My wife is a good writer. This column could serve as the how-to-guide for writing the book.
My job is done then. Look for “Ingoocho: The Guide to Self-Laziness, Weight Loss and the Heart-Breaking Story of the Tragic Life of Scott Steuck” at bookstores everywhere this fall. And on Oprah.
Time travel makes for great fiction, bad reality
One subject that has always fascinated me is time travel.
Although time travel is not possible yet, without it we wouldn’t have many great works of fiction, both in literature and in movies and television.
This includes Mark Twain’s under-appreciated “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court”; “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” a most excellent comedy featuring a young Keanu Reeves; Audrey Niffenegger’s “The Time Traveler’s Wife,” one of the best books I read last year, and soon to be a movie; H.G. Wells’ “The Time Machine,” which is considered the Godfather of all time travel fiction; and the three “Terminator” movies, as well as the new television show based on these movies.
Don’t forget about “Quantum Leap,” a television show from the late 1980s featuring a character that traveled through time correcting the mistakes of others as he was kept from returning to his own time.
Or the three “Back to the Future” movies. I could watch Michael J. Fox tear through Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” to a stunned audience years before the song was ever written a hundred times before getting bored of it.
Most recently, the television show “Journeyman” caught my attention. I loved it, as did many other people, but television executives once again decided high-quality programming isn’t something people want to watch, so they cancelled it. I wish I could cancel them.
The entire concept of time travel is mind boggling. I remember writing an essay about the possibility of it ever existing back in high school, which led me to research the topic. I learned that some scientists believe it is theoretically possible; however, it could never be accomplished physically, unless we discovered some sort of alien technology far superior to the technology currently available.
Time travel, if it were possible, poses many moral questions. Would it be acceptable to travel back in time and change something for the better? The answer seems simple, but what if changing even some minor detail changed the present completely.
For example, if I were to go back in time and convince my father to take better care of himself so he wouldn’t die at an early age, my life, as well as other’s around me, would be completely different today.
Why? Well, when my mother remarried, my uncle met his future wife at her wedding. They have since produced two lovely children, including my Godson. I met my wife at their wedding, and we have a wonderful son, a person I can’t fathom the notion of being without.
I loved my father, but would I change my current situation to bring him back? Never.
That’s what memories are for. Granted, as legendary punk rocker Johnny Thunders once sang, “you can’t put your arms around a memory,” but a memory can allow a person to travel through time – in his or her own mind.
The type of time travel I’d like to see would allow people to see the past and future as a ghost-like entity, but participating in past and future events would not be allowed. Maybe this time travel has already been invented in the future, which could explain ghosts.
I’d love unlocking some of history’s greatest mysteries through time travel. For once and for all, we could prove that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. We could learn how the pyramids were built. We could discover the identity of Jack the Ripper.
We could also prevent future mistakes. If we knew a nuclear apocalypse would wipe out mankind, then we could learn to be a peaceful world, instead of one that relies on war to solve problems.
But we should be doing that now. A time machine is not needed to show us mankind is destructive.
Knowing our future might not be a great thing, especially if it is grim. I think I’ll just continue to enjoy time travel through fiction and memories, and hope it never becomes a reality.
Although time travel is not possible yet, without it we wouldn’t have many great works of fiction, both in literature and in movies and television.
This includes Mark Twain’s under-appreciated “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court”; “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” a most excellent comedy featuring a young Keanu Reeves; Audrey Niffenegger’s “The Time Traveler’s Wife,” one of the best books I read last year, and soon to be a movie; H.G. Wells’ “The Time Machine,” which is considered the Godfather of all time travel fiction; and the three “Terminator” movies, as well as the new television show based on these movies.
Don’t forget about “Quantum Leap,” a television show from the late 1980s featuring a character that traveled through time correcting the mistakes of others as he was kept from returning to his own time.
Or the three “Back to the Future” movies. I could watch Michael J. Fox tear through Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” to a stunned audience years before the song was ever written a hundred times before getting bored of it.
Most recently, the television show “Journeyman” caught my attention. I loved it, as did many other people, but television executives once again decided high-quality programming isn’t something people want to watch, so they cancelled it. I wish I could cancel them.
The entire concept of time travel is mind boggling. I remember writing an essay about the possibility of it ever existing back in high school, which led me to research the topic. I learned that some scientists believe it is theoretically possible; however, it could never be accomplished physically, unless we discovered some sort of alien technology far superior to the technology currently available.
Time travel, if it were possible, poses many moral questions. Would it be acceptable to travel back in time and change something for the better? The answer seems simple, but what if changing even some minor detail changed the present completely.
For example, if I were to go back in time and convince my father to take better care of himself so he wouldn’t die at an early age, my life, as well as other’s around me, would be completely different today.
Why? Well, when my mother remarried, my uncle met his future wife at her wedding. They have since produced two lovely children, including my Godson. I met my wife at their wedding, and we have a wonderful son, a person I can’t fathom the notion of being without.
I loved my father, but would I change my current situation to bring him back? Never.
That’s what memories are for. Granted, as legendary punk rocker Johnny Thunders once sang, “you can’t put your arms around a memory,” but a memory can allow a person to travel through time – in his or her own mind.
The type of time travel I’d like to see would allow people to see the past and future as a ghost-like entity, but participating in past and future events would not be allowed. Maybe this time travel has already been invented in the future, which could explain ghosts.
I’d love unlocking some of history’s greatest mysteries through time travel. For once and for all, we could prove that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. We could learn how the pyramids were built. We could discover the identity of Jack the Ripper.
We could also prevent future mistakes. If we knew a nuclear apocalypse would wipe out mankind, then we could learn to be a peaceful world, instead of one that relies on war to solve problems.
But we should be doing that now. A time machine is not needed to show us mankind is destructive.
Knowing our future might not be a great thing, especially if it is grim. I think I’ll just continue to enjoy time travel through fiction and memories, and hope it never becomes a reality.
Griping shopper just wants to give up
The Gazette prides itself in being a watchdog for the community. It serves as your eyes and ears through the in-depth page one articles about issues in the Portage County community, the editorials on page four and even the little tidbits in the “What did you expect for 50 cents?” column (or as we call it, Whadaya) on the back page.
This back-page column, which is meant to be light-hearted, oftentimes contains gripes Gazette staffers sometime have about bad drivers, inattentive people and my favorite – poor customer service. Another staff member and I came up with a long list of these gripes about shopping during a discussion earlier this week. I realized what was meant to be a few Whadaya tidbits was actually a full column.
The list we came up with starts in the parking lot.
I fully support and appreciate designated parking spots for disabled people. But do we really need spots for senior citizens, expectant mothers and other perfectly capable people?
All the seniors I know that go shopping are easily able to get from their vehicles to the store’s door. The ones that can’t usually are able to park in a disabled spot.
And expectant mothers are even more capable. The only reason for them not being capable is if they are on doctor’s orders to maintain bed rest until the baby’s birth. Then they should be at home complying with the doctor’s orders and not shopping.
I may be too harsh in my feelings on this, but that’s because my wife was insistent on doing things herself when she was pregnant. Pandering to her needs was not allowed, unless it involved obtaining specific foods for her cravings. I’m still not over her craving of a combination of pickles and pineapple.
The list then moves onto shopping-cart etiquette.
Pushing a cart should be like driving a car. Stay on the right. Don’t go in the middle. Be respectful when passing slower shoppers.
Sounds easy, but judging by recent experiences, it seems most people haven’t figured out these simple rules. People walk where they please, usually taking up the entire aisle, and passing them is difficult, even when using proper manners.
I don’t like to spend a lot of time in a grocery store. My mission when I’m there is to move through the store as quickly as possible, and not get in other people’s way. My hope some day is that the majority of people feel the same way, making a trip to the store a pleasure and not a chore.
The third item on our list is the amount of advertising people are bombarded with while shopping.
I have nothing against posters, signs and other advertising material hanging on the walls, from the ceiling and in aisles at the store, but I do have an issue with advertising on shopping carts and on the floor.
Don’t get me wrong, because I know the importance of advertising. It provides me with a weekly paycheck, since The Gazette relies on advertisers to keep us going. But on the floor and on the carts? Come on. That’s just one step closer to advertising on toilet paper. When that day comes, and it will, corporate America’s marketing techniques will literally go down the toilet.
The final item on our list is customer service.
Let me start with an example. Last week while checking out at a chain store, a manager told my cashier to turn her light off. The cashier seemed happy and quickly did so. She then told the lady in line behind me, who already had her items on the checkout counter, that she should use a different lane.
As someone who worked at a chain store for six years throughout high school and college, I was a bit shocked. We were always taught to finish with the customers we had.
The lady was not pleased, but complied. She ended up third in line at another checkout.
Even more shocking to me, though, another lady got in line behind me and put her items on the counter. The cashier looked at me and rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath.
I really wanted to say something to the cashier. Not only was she very inconsiderate in dealing with the other lady, but she made it clear to me that she wasn’t pleased with this new lady. Complaining about customers to other customers was a big no-no when I worked at a store.
Then again, we were required to take customers to any items they were looking for and make sure full attention to their needs were met before leaving them. Those days, just a short decade ago, seem to be gone forever.
I told my co-worker that I would like to give up on shopping forever, based on our gripes. Unfortunately, necessity for food and other important items requires that I go every once in awhile. Maybe my gripes here and in Whadaya will inspire some store managers to change a few things and a few store clerks to care about the people that help them earn their paychecks. I can hope.
This back-page column, which is meant to be light-hearted, oftentimes contains gripes Gazette staffers sometime have about bad drivers, inattentive people and my favorite – poor customer service. Another staff member and I came up with a long list of these gripes about shopping during a discussion earlier this week. I realized what was meant to be a few Whadaya tidbits was actually a full column.
The list we came up with starts in the parking lot.
I fully support and appreciate designated parking spots for disabled people. But do we really need spots for senior citizens, expectant mothers and other perfectly capable people?
All the seniors I know that go shopping are easily able to get from their vehicles to the store’s door. The ones that can’t usually are able to park in a disabled spot.
And expectant mothers are even more capable. The only reason for them not being capable is if they are on doctor’s orders to maintain bed rest until the baby’s birth. Then they should be at home complying with the doctor’s orders and not shopping.
I may be too harsh in my feelings on this, but that’s because my wife was insistent on doing things herself when she was pregnant. Pandering to her needs was not allowed, unless it involved obtaining specific foods for her cravings. I’m still not over her craving of a combination of pickles and pineapple.
The list then moves onto shopping-cart etiquette.
Pushing a cart should be like driving a car. Stay on the right. Don’t go in the middle. Be respectful when passing slower shoppers.
Sounds easy, but judging by recent experiences, it seems most people haven’t figured out these simple rules. People walk where they please, usually taking up the entire aisle, and passing them is difficult, even when using proper manners.
I don’t like to spend a lot of time in a grocery store. My mission when I’m there is to move through the store as quickly as possible, and not get in other people’s way. My hope some day is that the majority of people feel the same way, making a trip to the store a pleasure and not a chore.
The third item on our list is the amount of advertising people are bombarded with while shopping.
I have nothing against posters, signs and other advertising material hanging on the walls, from the ceiling and in aisles at the store, but I do have an issue with advertising on shopping carts and on the floor.
Don’t get me wrong, because I know the importance of advertising. It provides me with a weekly paycheck, since The Gazette relies on advertisers to keep us going. But on the floor and on the carts? Come on. That’s just one step closer to advertising on toilet paper. When that day comes, and it will, corporate America’s marketing techniques will literally go down the toilet.
The final item on our list is customer service.
Let me start with an example. Last week while checking out at a chain store, a manager told my cashier to turn her light off. The cashier seemed happy and quickly did so. She then told the lady in line behind me, who already had her items on the checkout counter, that she should use a different lane.
As someone who worked at a chain store for six years throughout high school and college, I was a bit shocked. We were always taught to finish with the customers we had.
The lady was not pleased, but complied. She ended up third in line at another checkout.
Even more shocking to me, though, another lady got in line behind me and put her items on the counter. The cashier looked at me and rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath.
I really wanted to say something to the cashier. Not only was she very inconsiderate in dealing with the other lady, but she made it clear to me that she wasn’t pleased with this new lady. Complaining about customers to other customers was a big no-no when I worked at a store.
Then again, we were required to take customers to any items they were looking for and make sure full attention to their needs were met before leaving them. Those days, just a short decade ago, seem to be gone forever.
I told my co-worker that I would like to give up on shopping forever, based on our gripes. Unfortunately, necessity for food and other important items requires that I go every once in awhile. Maybe my gripes here and in Whadaya will inspire some store managers to change a few things and a few store clerks to care about the people that help them earn their paychecks. I can hope.
Air Force should use UFOs to their advantage
I believe in UFOs. I also believe in Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, ghosts and other supernatural entities.
Many people, including the U.S. Government, don’t. That’s fine. I have my reasons for believing in the hard-to-believe, and I’m sure the people that don’t have their reasons.
But dozens of people in Stephenville, Texas, want a valid explanation for the UFOs they’ve been seeing at night in their community, and the U.S. Government’s best explanation seems to be that these people are hallucinating.
Among the hallucinators is Steve Allen, a freight company owner and pilot who saw an object last week that was a mile long and half a mile wide. “It was positively, absolutely nothing from these parts,” he told a news reporter there.
Another hallucinator is machinist Ricky Sorrells who spotted a UFO and watched it through his rifle’s telescopic lens. He said it was very large and without seams, nuts or bolts.
Although I personally don’t know these people, I’m sure I could safely bet they’re not crackheads or dropping acid.
They must be if people believe the official explanation from Maj. Karl Lewis, a spokesman for the 301st Fighter Wing at the Joint Reserve Base Naval Air Station in Fort Worth, Texas. He said the object these people have seen may have been an illusion caused by two commercial airplanes. “Lights from the aircraft would seem unusually bright and may appear orange from the setting sun,” he said.
I’m no expert, although as a kid I wanted to be a supernatural investigator and Bigfoot searcher, but I’m no fool either, and this explanation sounds like complete rubbish to me.
One of these men is a pilot and would know if he was looking at an airliner.
The other looked at it through his rifle scope and provided a very specific description.
I’m sure the dozens of other people who saw it could also provide specific details and multiple reasons it wasn’t two airliners causing them to hallucinate.
These UFOs may or may not be alien invaders. With billions and billions of stars and probably just as many planets, the likelihood of more intelligent life out there is a definite possibility.
More likely, though, the explanation can be found on our own planet – probably in our own country.
I believe in the supernatural, but I’m much more of a skeptic when it comes to conspiracy theories. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone in assassinating President John F. Kennedy and I don’t believe the media is controlled by a few individuals who only feed the people what they want them to hear.
But I’m 100 percent behind the notion that the U.S. Government is behind something it doesn’t want us to know about – something like new jet fighter technology.
I can respect their wish for secrecy, but if they’re going to fly it for the public to see, then they need to own up to it. Or at least come up with a better lie.
I’ve got one. The Air Force is making a new recruitment video using Hollywood producers and loads of special effects. The UFOs are part of this technologically advanced video. Look for it at the nearest recruitment booth.
Not only would it shut up conspiracy theorists, but it might get the Air Force a few recruits, even without a video. People looking for the video might actually see what the Air Force has to offer and sign up.
Heck, if this little strategy convinced me that the Air Force had alien-like technology, I’d probably sign up – even though at 33 I’m way past the age of joining the military.
Then again, they might not want me. After all, I believe in UFOs, Bigfoot, and the Headless Horseman.
Many people, including the U.S. Government, don’t. That’s fine. I have my reasons for believing in the hard-to-believe, and I’m sure the people that don’t have their reasons.
But dozens of people in Stephenville, Texas, want a valid explanation for the UFOs they’ve been seeing at night in their community, and the U.S. Government’s best explanation seems to be that these people are hallucinating.
Among the hallucinators is Steve Allen, a freight company owner and pilot who saw an object last week that was a mile long and half a mile wide. “It was positively, absolutely nothing from these parts,” he told a news reporter there.
Another hallucinator is machinist Ricky Sorrells who spotted a UFO and watched it through his rifle’s telescopic lens. He said it was very large and without seams, nuts or bolts.
Although I personally don’t know these people, I’m sure I could safely bet they’re not crackheads or dropping acid.
They must be if people believe the official explanation from Maj. Karl Lewis, a spokesman for the 301st Fighter Wing at the Joint Reserve Base Naval Air Station in Fort Worth, Texas. He said the object these people have seen may have been an illusion caused by two commercial airplanes. “Lights from the aircraft would seem unusually bright and may appear orange from the setting sun,” he said.
I’m no expert, although as a kid I wanted to be a supernatural investigator and Bigfoot searcher, but I’m no fool either, and this explanation sounds like complete rubbish to me.
One of these men is a pilot and would know if he was looking at an airliner.
The other looked at it through his rifle scope and provided a very specific description.
I’m sure the dozens of other people who saw it could also provide specific details and multiple reasons it wasn’t two airliners causing them to hallucinate.
These UFOs may or may not be alien invaders. With billions and billions of stars and probably just as many planets, the likelihood of more intelligent life out there is a definite possibility.
More likely, though, the explanation can be found on our own planet – probably in our own country.
I believe in the supernatural, but I’m much more of a skeptic when it comes to conspiracy theories. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone in assassinating President John F. Kennedy and I don’t believe the media is controlled by a few individuals who only feed the people what they want them to hear.
But I’m 100 percent behind the notion that the U.S. Government is behind something it doesn’t want us to know about – something like new jet fighter technology.
I can respect their wish for secrecy, but if they’re going to fly it for the public to see, then they need to own up to it. Or at least come up with a better lie.
I’ve got one. The Air Force is making a new recruitment video using Hollywood producers and loads of special effects. The UFOs are part of this technologically advanced video. Look for it at the nearest recruitment booth.
Not only would it shut up conspiracy theorists, but it might get the Air Force a few recruits, even without a video. People looking for the video might actually see what the Air Force has to offer and sign up.
Heck, if this little strategy convinced me that the Air Force had alien-like technology, I’d probably sign up – even though at 33 I’m way past the age of joining the military.
Then again, they might not want me. After all, I believe in UFOs, Bigfoot, and the Headless Horseman.
Dirty cars would lead to nation of lawbreakers
I’m usually a law-abiding citizen, but last Friday I broke the law and a state trooper caught me.
I wasn’t aware that I was breaking the law when the trooper pulled me over on Interstate-39, shortly after work with my wife and kid in tow. I knew I wasn’t speeding and I knew all my lights were in working order, since my car was in the shop earlier that day and several bulbs were replaced that weren’t working.
So when the trooper asked if I knew what I was doing wrong, I had to tell him that I honestly didn’t know.
“I can’t read your license plate,” he told me.
In other words, I had a dirty car.
For someone like me that strives to follow all rules, yet live on the edge of them, hearing that my license plate was so dirty that it wasn’t readable was a huge letdown.
Why couldn’t the trooper have said that I looked superbad and he was just making sure someone kept me in line?
That would have been cool.
Or why couldn’t he have just been a little mysterious and said nothing except that I should wash my car?
It could have been a cool little puzzle that we brought to the attention of everyone we know to help us solve it.
No – he had to tell me that my plate was unreadable.
Even when I’m breaking the law, I’m not that cool.
The only case of a law-breaking incident lamer than mine that I can think of is O.J. Simpson’s white Bronco car chase where all the participants went slower than the speed limit and nearly the entire country watched.
I thanked the trooper after he let me go with a warning. I told him that I appreciated the fact that he was doing his job and making sure he was keeping the roads safe.
I wanted to add that dirty cars don’t cause accidents, just the dumb fools that sometimes drive them. But my wife was sitting next to me and she always makes it clear when I need to keep my smart alec remarks to myself.
My wife is a little smart alec herself, though. After the trooper left, she told me she was hoping I had been speeding, so she could give me a guilt trip like the many times I have given her one for speeding.
I have not washed my car since this incident. I washed the license plate, making it readable, but I’m not a big believer in car washes. A clean-looking car is nice for the day it lasts, but cars are meant to get dirty, and they will continue to get dirty, especially in the winter. I wait until I know the salty road season is over early in the spring, and then I pay to clean the car for the first and only time in the year.
Maybe I’m wrong, but wouldn’t it be better for the environment and our groundwater supply if more people used the car wash less often.
Then again, we’d probably need a bigger police force to make sure our license plates are readable. A nation of dirty cars would be a nation of a lot of lawbreakers.
I wasn’t aware that I was breaking the law when the trooper pulled me over on Interstate-39, shortly after work with my wife and kid in tow. I knew I wasn’t speeding and I knew all my lights were in working order, since my car was in the shop earlier that day and several bulbs were replaced that weren’t working.
So when the trooper asked if I knew what I was doing wrong, I had to tell him that I honestly didn’t know.
“I can’t read your license plate,” he told me.
In other words, I had a dirty car.
For someone like me that strives to follow all rules, yet live on the edge of them, hearing that my license plate was so dirty that it wasn’t readable was a huge letdown.
Why couldn’t the trooper have said that I looked superbad and he was just making sure someone kept me in line?
That would have been cool.
Or why couldn’t he have just been a little mysterious and said nothing except that I should wash my car?
It could have been a cool little puzzle that we brought to the attention of everyone we know to help us solve it.
No – he had to tell me that my plate was unreadable.
Even when I’m breaking the law, I’m not that cool.
The only case of a law-breaking incident lamer than mine that I can think of is O.J. Simpson’s white Bronco car chase where all the participants went slower than the speed limit and nearly the entire country watched.
I thanked the trooper after he let me go with a warning. I told him that I appreciated the fact that he was doing his job and making sure he was keeping the roads safe.
I wanted to add that dirty cars don’t cause accidents, just the dumb fools that sometimes drive them. But my wife was sitting next to me and she always makes it clear when I need to keep my smart alec remarks to myself.
My wife is a little smart alec herself, though. After the trooper left, she told me she was hoping I had been speeding, so she could give me a guilt trip like the many times I have given her one for speeding.
I have not washed my car since this incident. I washed the license plate, making it readable, but I’m not a big believer in car washes. A clean-looking car is nice for the day it lasts, but cars are meant to get dirty, and they will continue to get dirty, especially in the winter. I wait until I know the salty road season is over early in the spring, and then I pay to clean the car for the first and only time in the year.
Maybe I’m wrong, but wouldn’t it be better for the environment and our groundwater supply if more people used the car wash less often.
Then again, we’d probably need a bigger police force to make sure our license plates are readable. A nation of dirty cars would be a nation of a lot of lawbreakers.
2008 may be normal
2008 may go down as the most normal year in my life, if it is anything like the way I celebrated its arrival on New Year’s Eve.
My wife, Jenny, and I celebrated New Year’s Eve with two other couples. Those couples had never met each other before, so it was up to Jenny and me to break the tension that comes from awkward situations in which people don’t know each other.
Jenny did a great job to remedy this situation, providing the evening’s only highlight. She made some great hor’dourves and mixed a great champagne drink before heading to the restaurant where we had a reservation.
Starting with good food and drinks, I thought we’d have a special evening. But the restaurant, our favorite one ever, was a huge letdown. We were ushered to our table right away, not even getting a chance to order a drink from the bar. Normally, quick service like this, and meeting a reservation on time, would be cause for a celebration, but we had a long evening and didn’t want to rush it.
Our food was good, but not great, which it usually is at this restaurant. My steak was charred on the outside, which I hate, and fairly raw on the inside, leaving a very lackluster taste. Nobody at our table was impressed with their food, which was disappointing.
We left the restaurant when our meal was over and proceeded to a local bar. I’m 33 and married with a child, so I haven’t gone to a bar in years. But I thought we’d have fun, especially since it had a live band.
Sitting around a smokey bar and listening to a mediocre band was not enjoyable. I remember looking at my watch and groaning because it was 9:30 p.m., two and a half hours before the arrival of the new year.
I thought about other more enjoyable things I could be doing with two and a half hours. I could see a movie, read more of the Eric Clapton autobiography I was deep into, figure out the iPod I bought Jenny for Christmas or be at home in my bed and dreaming about how 2008 will be a great year.
Instead I watched some guy down the bar from us throw up all over himself.
I guess I should be more optimistic about 2008. My celebration was boring, but at least I didn’t throw up all over myself. Imagine the year that guy is going to have.
One of the couples we were with left at 10 p.m. They made no real attempt to talk with anybody and seemed bored out of their minds.
The other couple had a good time, though. They knew people at the bar and were social.
We left the bar for home at 11:59 p.m., but heard the New Year’s countdown as we were walking out the door. Thirty seconds later someone lit some fireworks, which were neither thunderous nor mundane; they were normal, which I predict is exactly how 2008 will be for me. But that’s the way I want it.
My wife, Jenny, and I celebrated New Year’s Eve with two other couples. Those couples had never met each other before, so it was up to Jenny and me to break the tension that comes from awkward situations in which people don’t know each other.
Jenny did a great job to remedy this situation, providing the evening’s only highlight. She made some great hor’dourves and mixed a great champagne drink before heading to the restaurant where we had a reservation.
Starting with good food and drinks, I thought we’d have a special evening. But the restaurant, our favorite one ever, was a huge letdown. We were ushered to our table right away, not even getting a chance to order a drink from the bar. Normally, quick service like this, and meeting a reservation on time, would be cause for a celebration, but we had a long evening and didn’t want to rush it.
Our food was good, but not great, which it usually is at this restaurant. My steak was charred on the outside, which I hate, and fairly raw on the inside, leaving a very lackluster taste. Nobody at our table was impressed with their food, which was disappointing.
We left the restaurant when our meal was over and proceeded to a local bar. I’m 33 and married with a child, so I haven’t gone to a bar in years. But I thought we’d have fun, especially since it had a live band.
Sitting around a smokey bar and listening to a mediocre band was not enjoyable. I remember looking at my watch and groaning because it was 9:30 p.m., two and a half hours before the arrival of the new year.
I thought about other more enjoyable things I could be doing with two and a half hours. I could see a movie, read more of the Eric Clapton autobiography I was deep into, figure out the iPod I bought Jenny for Christmas or be at home in my bed and dreaming about how 2008 will be a great year.
Instead I watched some guy down the bar from us throw up all over himself.
I guess I should be more optimistic about 2008. My celebration was boring, but at least I didn’t throw up all over myself. Imagine the year that guy is going to have.
One of the couples we were with left at 10 p.m. They made no real attempt to talk with anybody and seemed bored out of their minds.
The other couple had a good time, though. They knew people at the bar and were social.
We left the bar for home at 11:59 p.m., but heard the New Year’s countdown as we were walking out the door. Thirty seconds later someone lit some fireworks, which were neither thunderous nor mundane; they were normal, which I predict is exactly how 2008 will be for me. But that’s the way I want it.
Nicknames can lead to identity crisis
My son, Braden, no longer calls me “Daddy.” He’s deemed it appropriate to call me “Scott,” like his mother, my wife Jenny, does.
Trying to teach him to call me “Daddy” again has not been easy. He hears Jenny call me “Scott” and then hears me reply to her. Using his 2-year-old logic, which technically is correct, he deduces that I’m Scott and that I will respond if he calls me Scott.
I do respond when he calls me Scott; I tell him that I’m Daddy and that he needs to refer to me as such.
“No, you’re Scott,” he responds.
“To you, I’m Daddy,” I argue, but it’s hard to argue with him, because I am Scott.
I have also been called Scotty; Beam Me Up Scotty; Scottie Too Hottie, after some professional wrestler, although I’d like to believe it’s because of stunning good looks; Steuck One, Steuck Two, Steuck Three, You’re Out; and the Steuck Monster, which is probably more appropriate than Scottie Too Hottie.
None of these nicknames actually shortens my name, which is usually the point of a nickname. Fortunately, none of these nicknames have actually been widely used in place of my name. All of them, except Scotty, were concocted by people I knew, but not that well, that were trying to be funny. These people continued to use the nickname until it wasn’t funny anymore. Interestingly enough, or maybe just by coincidence, I am no longer friends with the people that came up with these nicknames.
I’ve learned that the people that come up with nicknames are usually the people that like to draw attention to themselves. Getting people to laugh at their nicknames is something they take great pride in.
For example, the person that came up with Steuck One, Steuck Two, Steuck Three, You’re Out was in a gym class with me in high school. During our baseball unit, I swung at a pitch and missed. He quickly took my last name and substituted it for the word “strike,” which is similar to the pronunciation of my last name, although it doesn’t rhyme.
For the rest of the unit, anybody that swung and missed had a “Steuck One, Steuck Two, etc.” For those brief moments, when it was used, the person that came up with the nickname was a hero, and he loved it. Of course, people eventually forgot he came up with it, and the hero status transferred to me because it was my name.
I like to believe that the nickname guy is still out there trying to top that nickname and that his life won’t be fulfilled until he does. Good luck, I say.
I’m not one to usually call someone by a nickname, unless that is the person’s preferred name. But I do call one person by a nickname quite often – Braden. I call him “B-Rad,” pronounced Bee Rad.
I came up with this name when another friend asked if I had his “rap” name. My friends and I all have names for ourselves if we were rappers. I am Scotty Rock, mainly because it sounds kind of cool and because I prefer to rock out, not because I’m a brother to Kid Rock or anything.
So I came up with B-Rad for Braden, and I’ve called him that quite often, many times with my wife telling me to stop calling him that.
Braden didn’t mind, until he learned his full name was Braden Steuck. Now when I call him B-Rad, he says “Not B-Rad. I’m Braden Steuck.”
I argue with him and tell him “No, you’re B-Rad.”
I’m going to give the poor kid an identity crisis. At least he calls me by my real name, even if it’s not appropriate.
Trying to teach him to call me “Daddy” again has not been easy. He hears Jenny call me “Scott” and then hears me reply to her. Using his 2-year-old logic, which technically is correct, he deduces that I’m Scott and that I will respond if he calls me Scott.
I do respond when he calls me Scott; I tell him that I’m Daddy and that he needs to refer to me as such.
“No, you’re Scott,” he responds.
“To you, I’m Daddy,” I argue, but it’s hard to argue with him, because I am Scott.
I have also been called Scotty; Beam Me Up Scotty; Scottie Too Hottie, after some professional wrestler, although I’d like to believe it’s because of stunning good looks; Steuck One, Steuck Two, Steuck Three, You’re Out; and the Steuck Monster, which is probably more appropriate than Scottie Too Hottie.
None of these nicknames actually shortens my name, which is usually the point of a nickname. Fortunately, none of these nicknames have actually been widely used in place of my name. All of them, except Scotty, were concocted by people I knew, but not that well, that were trying to be funny. These people continued to use the nickname until it wasn’t funny anymore. Interestingly enough, or maybe just by coincidence, I am no longer friends with the people that came up with these nicknames.
I’ve learned that the people that come up with nicknames are usually the people that like to draw attention to themselves. Getting people to laugh at their nicknames is something they take great pride in.
For example, the person that came up with Steuck One, Steuck Two, Steuck Three, You’re Out was in a gym class with me in high school. During our baseball unit, I swung at a pitch and missed. He quickly took my last name and substituted it for the word “strike,” which is similar to the pronunciation of my last name, although it doesn’t rhyme.
For the rest of the unit, anybody that swung and missed had a “Steuck One, Steuck Two, etc.” For those brief moments, when it was used, the person that came up with the nickname was a hero, and he loved it. Of course, people eventually forgot he came up with it, and the hero status transferred to me because it was my name.
I like to believe that the nickname guy is still out there trying to top that nickname and that his life won’t be fulfilled until he does. Good luck, I say.
I’m not one to usually call someone by a nickname, unless that is the person’s preferred name. But I do call one person by a nickname quite often – Braden. I call him “B-Rad,” pronounced Bee Rad.
I came up with this name when another friend asked if I had his “rap” name. My friends and I all have names for ourselves if we were rappers. I am Scotty Rock, mainly because it sounds kind of cool and because I prefer to rock out, not because I’m a brother to Kid Rock or anything.
So I came up with B-Rad for Braden, and I’ve called him that quite often, many times with my wife telling me to stop calling him that.
Braden didn’t mind, until he learned his full name was Braden Steuck. Now when I call him B-Rad, he says “Not B-Rad. I’m Braden Steuck.”
I argue with him and tell him “No, you’re B-Rad.”
I’m going to give the poor kid an identity crisis. At least he calls me by my real name, even if it’s not appropriate.
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