I'm a Neanderthal, We’re Making a Comeback

At first, I was a little sad I was labeled part Neanderthal by 23 and Me, the website that can dissect our spit and determine how much family inbreeding has turned us into hideous creatures. Oh sure, I've been called a Neanderthal before for acting like a clumsy doofus who could screw up a perfect campfire. There was a time when I, too, would open an encyclopedia and see a picture of a Neanderthal and laugh at their little skull with no defined chin along with hairy shoulders and a hunchback torso. Even though I may possess some of these qualities, thank God my forehead brow doesn't protrude over my eyeballs.

I wasn't going to accept being labeled an ancient apeman lying down. I needed to know what my people were all about. The research told me there was a time when Neanderthals kicked some Homo Sapien butt. They were inferior to us in so many ways with their pencil necks, beady eyes, and male pattern baldness. No wonder we beat their pathetic scrawny asses all the way to the Fjords.

Like any great culture and kingdom, we were seduced with power and fell prey to wicked ways. We started screwing all of their fair maidens, which over time weakened us as rulers. The purity of our tribe got so jacked up with wimpiness that we became inflicted with club foot, sinus, yeast infections, and the worst of all...erectile dysfunction.

Ever since Andre the Giant passed, we have been without a true leader. We need to be organized to make our big come back. These damn homo saps are screwing things up so bad. They have an obsession with appearances by having expensive medical procedures like expanding their butt cheeks to look more like us. We need to purify our species and weed out all of these hordes of snot-nosed preppy hairballs and foo foo salad eating cretins. If we pull this off, our people will rule the world again, perhaps in the next 5000 years. Yes, it's a dream but not entirely impossible, so we need to start Neanderthal breeding right now!

Be Now Here

It could have been any weekday commute, but on this chilly December morning, I rolled down the car window. The cool rush of air punched me in the face with a sobering reality. I sat in the numbing traffic on Highway 101, crawling along, stop, start, brake lights, and fifty yards of freedom to be immediately followed by the same repeating cycle. Like many drivers before, I thought about the loss of precious time while stuck in this bubble.

The trick is to break up this monotonous pattern with some clarity and fun. Blue Oyster Cults, "Don't Fear the Reaper” played on the stereo, in dire need of a volume adjustment. I turned the music up louder and louder until I heard the cowbell. More cowbell, please. I sang the words even though I didn't know them. Fellow drivers glanced over to see why my window was rolled down with my arm resting on the opening. Most of them turned their heads quickly when I looked back at them. They didn't want to make a connection.

Finally, on the last stretch of my commute, a dark-haired woman in the next lane caught my eye. I turned my head to give her a good gander and saw she was in a rapture of singing. Full animation. We gave each other a smile and a wave then we were back to our business. I turned right to exit; she proceeded into the abyss of commute anguish. A bond was made with another human being from the insulated world of our auto cocoons.

As we maneuver through our lives, the hours we squander when we are on autopilot add up. Days are lost, weeks and years fly by as we go through the motions of our day-to-day routines. The only way to slow down this cycle of repetitive living is to deny the miseries from setting in.

Your life unravels slowly when the concept of time is not something you are conscious of. The cliché of “living in the moment” is right up there with "have a nice day" as meaningless words when one has no intent in pursuing. What does it mean to live in the moment? Thousands of books and teachings exist about how to achieve this state.

I didn't want to read a thousand books, so I read only one. I took away a single sentence I could use right away. It said, "Focus less on what's going on in your mind and more on what's going on in the room, less on your mental chatter and more on yourself as part of something."

The next time you find yourself sitting in a wall of traffic, take a deep breath, turn off the air conditioner, roll down the window, put on some Beethoven, and be part of a long snake of cars and slowly slither. Fighting the timekeeper will only make the driving experience worse. Your state of mind will transform, and you can..."have a nice day."

Shaming is More Popular Than Ever

Ever since the day's news has been reported, large heaping doses of salacious vitriol get spoon-fed to the masses. It is always presented with a generous amount of embellishment of ghastliness to cater to worse in all of us. Gossip and innuendo will always sell more than happy puppy stories or fact-based science discussions.

I always scratch my head about this constant barrage of negative word barf filtering its way through all forms of media. All we can do to avoid the freak show is walk around in a bubble with blinders on and earplugs inserted. It's gotten so bad lately. I think it has become a daily addiction for a lot of folks. I heard the term "Outrage porn," which sounds like a reasonably accurate description. Why does this happen, and why do people want this? The only thing I can come up with is the chance for viewers to feel fortunate we are not the poor saps being written about. We wish the misfortune never happens to us as it did to people who lost their home in a fire or the family who died on the interstate. We can hope for the best to learn from it and never again play with matches, text and drive or eat the old romaine lettuce in our refrigerator.

Since the old days of privacy and confidentiality are now officially gone with the invention of camera phones, doing stupid acts in the open are being documented for further research and public viewing. Unfortunately, this includes all the silly, perverted, and hideous things along with the more innocent, like singing dreadful karaoke or dancing with your shirt off at a Rolling Stones concert. Shaming is right around the corner when you are exposed to social media.

We as people better grow some thick skin and learn to accept a new level of humiliation in our lives. You either get immune to seeing your public embarrassment or don't indulge in anything that resembles too much fun. My wife still likes to show our family and friends when we were on vacation in Puerto Vallarta while I performed a tequila enhanced cha-cha on stage at a resort. I sit there and laugh at my lack of rhythm while others chuckle at my expense. I'm lucky if this is all I need to worry about in my closet of secrets being exposed. The problem is this won't be the last time I drop my guard and let loose with a series of off-beat dance moves.

We as people of the modern world should carry on like no one is watching, or we will be doomed to act like controllable tiny robots. Don't lose your sense of humor because somebody wants to document your behavior. I say give them something to look at. This doesn't mean that you should go Sean Penn on them, break their camera, and then push them to the ground. We are now in the age of overt exhibitionism and endless selfies, so no need to ever worry that you have something so shocking that it shouldn't be seen. If you have skeletons in your closet, I hope they were there before 1998.

Ghosts

I don't know what percentage of people believe in ghosts, but I think the number is above the fifty percent threshold. I've never seen any ghosts or spirits hanging around me. They defy all known science. Let's just put this part to rest; no argument is available at this point. If we are to venture down this rabbit hole of unseeable entities visiting us or around in some fifth dimension, there is no debate here again. People want to believe in the spirit world because it gives them comfort. It's that simple. An unknown and invisible being or dead person who can oversee your actions and talk to you is more of a debate about how mentally healthy you are. I want to think my loved ones who have passed look over me, but wouldn't there also be the evil entities who wish to create havoc and scare you. Halloween is the best advertising for these such pests, which cause problems in society. I guess that's why they call this supernatural. You can't see the bastards, and they don't fight fair. All ghosts are conjured about in your mind. If you want to believe in them, that is your truth, but no one else's. Make up your spirits and give them names and talk to them. If it helps you and makes you a decent human being, let no one tell you differently. Boo 

Carnival Food

Why is carnival food the best tasting grub on the planet? I have eaten some very exquisite food in my lifetime, but it will never compare to a corndog at the county fair. The smell of cotton candy is so far-reaching and brings happy thoughts to all who intake the odor of burning sugar. Cotton candy tastes just okay for me, and I can only take in so much of the sugary spider weblike stuff before I toss it. Kids will get a sugar high that puts them into the stratosphere of crazed behavior that most adults can't handle. Anything deep-fried is the true essence of the county fair and carnival food. I never had a deep-fried artichoke heart until I went to a fair. Corn on the cob on a stick?... what the hell is going on here. I can't find those sticks anywhere in the store. Snow cones only come out perfect at an outdoor event. When you try to make them at home, they fall apart. Churros, corndogs, and dipped cones round out my list of favorites. Any sign of healthy food choices has been banned from these places. But there will be a day when some politician feels the need to pass a law requiring salad to be put into the mix.

I'm in a Band

When you tell somebody you are in a band, the next thing they usually ask is, "You're... in a band?" Yes, I'm in a band, and we have practices and will be performing soon. There are only a few more cooler things to say than, “I'm in a band.” If someone asks what instrument you play? Of course, you tell them, and hopefully, they are impressed by your skill. If you are just a backup singer and shake a tambourine, they might not be as enthralled, but they are still intrigued. So, the moral of this story is: If you want to impress somebody and let them know that you are a cool cat, tell them you are in a band. Of course, this might last for a fleeting moment because your group of two bass players and a tuba may not be too popular. When your big moment comes to perform in front of people, don't be surprised if no one pays much attention. If you are in a band whose job is to provide background music, no one cares who you are unless you play the wrong notes. If you are in a dance band, you are part of the show, and the audience looks at you during a performance. So, if you want people's adoration, you need to be a performer. For instance, Mick Jagger and drummer Charlie Watts; who do you think people want to see?

Is Smoking Weed Making America Great Again?

I have never used one of those pipe gadgets that you see people tooting on. They inhale long and hard on the "vape pen" (I am told this is what they are called), then out comes an odorless bellow of smoke or vapor. My first inclination is they are smoking weed. Maybe it's tobacco, and it's a healthier way to smoke. But you know the vape pen was made for the discreet pot smoker. So now weed is legal in most places, you still don't find people firing up a joint. Trust me, whip out a doobie and notice how people judge you. You will be looked at as a low-life or "just another stoner." I think that the stoners should be very proud to finally contribute to the tax the government needs. Nothing is more American than paying taxes. Now, entrepreneurs running pot businesses sell everything from pot food, pot clothing, pot pills to pot medicine. It is also creating a whole new generation of farmers who are growing the organic crop. Our forefathers knew about hemp because it made good rope, and rope settled the west. How American is that? Smoke weed and support our great nation.

There is No Place Like Home

I could only avoid the inevitable for so long. Things around the house were breaking, and appliances were going kaput on me right after their warranties expired. The myriad of malfunctions got going with car repairs and the obnoxious "check engine light," which illuminated on the dashboard, informing me, "this is going to cost you, buddy." This was followed by a doctor calling to tell me I needed a colonoscopy. My lower back ached, and I went on a diet where I drank green sludge made in a blender. My body pleaded with me, "can you lay off the donuts?" You see... life is an endless rerun of repairs and maintenance and guarantees that have deceased.

Now I sat and pondered my next move before I fell asleep in the recliner. I woke up, and the nightmare was a harsh reality, so I walked out into the garage to notice my toolbox had a cobweb connected to it and stretched to the ceiling. When the spiders found more use for my tools, the time had come. I would start first thing tomorrow morning. I used this line many times with the missus, but this time I meant business.

If I needed to fix everything, I wanted to do it as fast as possible, so I would be able to do more essential things like binge on Netflix for hours on end. I would repair every squeaky door, wiggly handle, burnt-out light bulb, a dripping faucet, loose board, nut, and screw, and for chrissakes, those mysterious pools of water the show up on the kitchen floor.

Hiring a handyman was an option since my wife chomped at the bit to hire such a human being. She even showed me an advertisement by some guy named "Mr. Honey-Do." I became upset that this Mr. Honey-Do went right for the juggler of us "master of our domain" types." If I didn't get on the ball with these repairs, Mr. Honey-Do would be in my home fixing my running toilet and wobbly doorknobs. I imagined him now lecturing me on how to fix this stuff while I stood listening enthralled about rubber gaskets. It wasn't going to happen on my watch. Mr. Honey-Do would need to find another home to rescue and a wife to cozy up to. I knew if I relented once, he would be over my house all the time. He would be on a first-name basis, no more Mr. Honey-Do but his real name, Stanley.

I started my mission. The repair list looked daunting, but I was going to tackle this strategically. I developed a flow chart, material requisition breakdown, and a progress report. I thought this would impress my wife with my attention to detail and understanding of the process. In addition, I set up a separate bank account for the funds I would be managing for the plan. It was now an official project that I had a complete grasp on.

I eventually got through most of the repairs, not all of them, because I think you have to leave a little behind to keep you honest. If I were to fix everything, then put away the tools in some cabinet and throw away all of my record keeping, I would be surely doomed. Doomed by Murphy's Law, "everything that can go wrong will go wrong." Never has this been truer when applied to owning a home.

The way I view it is; life is solving problems, therefore pick good issues and avoiding ones makes matters worse. Mr. Honey-Do never made his way into our house, but I always find his business card in the junk drawer. Someday I might need him, but for now, I'm the real Mr. Honey-Do, but I go by Mr. Fix-it.

Money in my Pocket

When I find crumbled-up laundered money in my clothes, I am thrilled. As I unravel the greenback, I hope it's the hundred-dollar bill I lost not so long ago. Unfortunately, the big surprise is only a five-spot, but, oddly, I do feel a little luckier after this discovery. For some reason, I'm not overly excited when I find a credit card in an old coat. By the time I saw the old card, it was already canceled and has since been replaced.

When real money is in my pocket, I want to "make it rain " everywhere I go. When all I got is a wallet full of plastic, the best I can do is hope there is a cash machine around to make a transaction. Society is going in the direction of being currency-free, but I don't think that this will ever happen ultimately. You understand some things on this planet cannot ever exist in the cyber world, and one is the gratification that one receives when a tangible object is placed in their hands for services rendered. Take one day walking around a big city and see how many folks love being handed a tip for doing things for you. Everybody from the doorman at a hotel, the bartender, the Uber driver, the maid, and yes, even the stripper will smile with gratitude. Flashing your credit card is a cold, impersonal procedure. I don't think strippers carry transaction devices on their bodies, yet I believe this is possible by now.

When the day comes when paper currency is eliminated, I guarantee that one piece of paper will be replaced by something else. This might be an IOU slip or a coupon that has monetary value or perhaps a gift card, or a computer chip, or maybe a button on your shirt that contains economic worth. I know the finger and face recognition swipe will be the way of the future, but it will be a long slow process.

In fact, for years, I have been hearing about the penny going away. Well, this should probably happen because a one center makes no sense. Why does something cost 83 cents versus 80? I have loads of pennies that need to be sent packing; I just haven't gotten around to spend hours on end to cash in five thousand one centers. On the contrary, I bend over to pick up a penny on the ground thinking good luck is coming my way, but I don't get the same feeling when I find a Macy's card.

The Popsicle Man

What happened to the popsicle man? Where is that truck that brought cool refreshing treats to our neighborhood during a hot summer day? There was the "Merry-go-round" song that sent you into a frenzy followed by the scrounging up of a quarter and then running like your hair was on fire to catch him down the street. Recently, I saw a fellow driving one of these popsicle truck rigs down a road near my home, and he was moving way too fast. What a rookie. There was no way he was going to sell any popsicles that way. Maybe the truck was just a cover for him delivering drugs. A real popsicle man goes ten miles an hour. Any faster, and you lose the little tikes who want a treat or an elderly person from getting their walker moving fast enough. Lastly, the popsicle man has to be a happy person. You can't be a grumpy jerk. Just because the "Merry-Go-Round song drives you nuts, you don't have to take it out on your patrons. Bring back the popsicle man. Maybe Amazon can start a new branch of their business.

Pulling off to the side of the Highway

I have good memories of family vacations when we all piled into our station wagon and headed out on the open road. I also remember the roadside breakdowns. My father would buy used station wagons that often didn't have much life in them. This made for some precarious situations when the car either overheated or blew an axle bearing. As a family, we spent many an hour on the side of the highway waiting for my dad to figure things out. We would be stranded until we could reconvene our vacation plans which sometimes turned into a trip back home.

Did you ever need to pull off onto the highway strip along the side of the road for any purpose? It can be an odd experience for various reasons. First of all, the items discarded on the side of the road can tell a story. On one such occasion, car trouble sent me to the embankment. I got out of the car to open the hood and noticed lying next to my vehicle were women's thong underwear. All I can say is "why?" and ten feet over sat an ice chest. This scene had a "mystery novel setting" all over it.

In the past, I did a lot of driving for a living. I didn't do a roadside pullover until I took a work partner along for a ride. My passenger was an older and grizzled veteran of the business road trip. He told me to pull over because he needed to pee. Instead of finding a gas station, he wanted me to drive to the side of the highway. He got out, left the car door open for shelter, and proceeded to let the yellow river flow. We got back into the car in two minutes, and off we went to continue our journey.

Over the next two years of partnering up on road trips, we pulled over many times, sometimes to pee, others to vomit, smoke, or stretch. I think this is how things were done back in the early days of interstate freeways. The majority of drivers often ignore the side of the highway, but some of us know that it will always be there for our convenience.

Road Trippin' Issue 4 - The Vehicles We Love to Hate

    Every driver has a car for which they have disdain. Mine happens to be the Priuses. Please forgive me owners. The little egg-shaped car makes my blood pressure rise, and then I have evil thoughts. I take a deep breath and ignore their presence, like dirty laundry and dishes. These elevations in blood pressure increase happen when I see them driving in the fast lane. They have all right by law to be in the lane, but I have always viewed their presence in the far-left lane as a violation of civility. Why do I have this hatred? Do I need therapy?

     It all started when they were the first car to drive solo in commuter lanes, just because they had a little sticker on their bumper. Then when they got in the commuter lane, they felt safe and could drive below the normal traffic flow. It was like they were giving us the middle finger. I know I am not alone in my thoughts.

     I cannot find myself purchasing one because I also detest the shape: no style and so generic, so commie. I am sure the Ford Pinto took the same abuse, so maybe it is normal behavior. Now the roads are filled with copycat versions, and the future is clear. If you want a car that is sexy-looking and fast, then you will be judged as a selfish jerk who doesn't care about the environment. As long as I don't see a Prius pickup truck, I feel something left for us angry self-centered drivers.

Fast Food Menu's Are Getting Ridiculous - Road Trippin' Issue 3

Fast food establishments are trying so hard to be all things to all people. When you walk into one of these chains, the first thing you notice is the wall-to-wall menu. For Chrissakes, there are four hundred choices. Don’t they know the reason why we are here? It’s to get a damn meal and get the heck out of there, and hopefully, nobody sees us. When you tell somebody you ate there, look how they judge you. So what, I like Big Macs… shoot me.

      Why do they serve all the different kinds of salads? This is just a waste of time and money.  Give the people what they want, a dollop of grease and fat with a healthy dose of salt. I don't go to Jack in the Box for a limp-looking salad containing a mealy orange tomato served in a plastic container. If I do order a salad at a burger joint, I must be trying to ward off a guilt complex about my decision to order an extra-large offering of French fries. The secret phrase at Mcdonald's is, "Go Big." This command allows you to get a bucket of soda and a large shipment of fries for a fraction of the cost.

      Please, fast food management people, condense the menu. I don’t know why there needs to be fifteen different versions of an egg sandwich and twenty different hamburgers. Decide on the weight; a quarter-pound, a third-pound, or two ounces. Make fast food easy, no math. And lastly, the menu at the drive-through is also too long. You don't want to be sitting in your car waiting behind the mini-van with screaming kids who only want the toy. Then you see the parent trying to reason with them about their choices. “But honey, you should have a juice box instead of a chocolate shake.”  Hey, van mom! They get a dam chicken nugget meal and let’s get movin’.  I’m done with your exhaust fumes.”  Let’s make fast food fast again. 

The Routes You’ll Never Forget - Road Trippin’ Issue 2

The roads and highways that you have traveled that have breath-taking beauty are hard to forget. I have only been through some of these routes once, but they have never left my memory of what they revealed. I know I can put these roads on that list;

(1) The Redwood Highway in Northern California. This stretch of road winds through enormous groves of redwood trees that rise a few hundred feet above you. You feel like you are in some other world giving meaning to the word enchanted forest.

(2) The route through the Continental Divide in Colorado. Drifting through the high elevations and the various passes over 10,000 feet is a sight to take in. You can stop and enjoy the views of where east meets west. 

(3) Driving through Yosemite Valley for the first time will make your jaw drop. There is a reason that this special place inspires millions of people to keep coming back. Waterfalls and granite peaks make every person who arrives break out their camera. 

(4) The flat fields of Kansas may sound boring to some, but those images have never left my memory. You can see for miles. For instance, when you see a wheat silo, you think it has to be just up the road but is seven miles away. You become infatuated with guessing how far away structures are down the road.

(5) The road to Cooperstown, New York to the Baseball Hall of Fame. Driving throughout the Catskills in the summer was extraordinary.  For one thing, I was excited to see the Hall of Fame but as a Californian, driving through rolling green hills in the summer is something you don't see in the western half of the United States. 

(6) The road to Sedona, Arizona, is tucked away in the middle of the state as part of Red Rock Country. When you get close to Sedona, you can see the reddish mountains awaiting your arrival. They have a presence like none other, and you are drawn to them like a magnet. Without getting metaphysical on you, I have to say that you feel something different about yourself when you arrive. You feel the calming and presence of something unique. No wonder they have a connection to UFOs.

(7) Driving in the high desert of New Mexico to Ghost Ranch, the place Georgia O'Keefe painted for decades. The high desert, with its soothing light and magnificent multi-layered cliff walls, red hills, and mesas, surround you on your road trip.  You can see why she came here and didn't want to leave.

I can go on and list other routes that are forever accessible in my brain.  I want to take so many different trips and try to get one or two in a year. I still want to do more travel in the southern US. I have driven through northern Georgia, which is so lush and beautiful. There is a little German town called Helen which brings back great memories.  The states of the north are still awaiting me and especially the fall colors. I still haven't seen the rock formations of Utah or Yellowstone Park, to name a few.  As long as I can drive, I will keep exploring and taking in the great roads of the USA.

Road Trippin’ (America’s Real Pastime) Issue 1

There are stretches of highways and railroad tracks you may never travel again, but you become curious when you look out your window. You might ask yourself what people do in this city for a living, what do they do for fun? You try to place yourself there, walking the streets and conversing with the townsfolk. Of course, it happens quite often if you are out on the open road. It might be a town you stopped in for lunch en route or to fill up your gas tank.

A lot of you have driven US Route 50, the 3000 mile stretch across the USA. It's called the "Loneliest Highway" for a reason. You can drive through long stretches of beautiful vistas and open spaces. I love these sections where you can easily drift into a trance, unfocused on the sights around you but at the same time at one with everything.

As I crossed Nevada, the radio broadcasted only one or two AM stations, no CD player, the outside temperature hovering near a hundred degrees, and my Jeep didn’t have air-conditioning, only hot wind. A filling station and cafe appeared in the distance like the cliched mirage.

I filled up the tank and strolled into the cafe for a bite and to cool off. I sat down at the counter and found myself among at least ten to twenty other patrons. Some of these folks looked too comfortable not to be locals. This establishment must be the only place around for miles to get a meal and cool drink. I ordered the standard fare for a roadside diner, burger, fries, and a bottomless iced tea. I devoured the hamburger and was eager to be back on the road to reach Ely by dark.

As I'm paying the waitress at the cash register, I almost jumped out of my skin when a low flying aircraft screamed over the café. A whooshing sound followed the roar of the jet. The whole place seemed to shift sideways for a moment. I grabbed the counter and looked at the waitress and asked,

“What in the Hell just happened?”

She gave me the one response I wasn’t expecting,

            “What?”

 I looked her square in the eyes and pointed up, "Ah come on, that."

She laughed and unemotionally replied, "Oh, that happens all the time around here. The spaceships buzz us all the time, heading over to Area 51."

       Her deadpan delivery caught me off guard. All I could do was nod my head as she went about her business.

I heard a few laughs from inside as I headed out the door. I guess this is a source of humor for the locals, watching passing-through patrons wet themselves. Later on, I researched the place to see if this could be a UFO destination, and those were aliens in that café. I did find that the Naval Air Base in Fallon wasn’t too far away.

This is why I find road tripping as the true American pastime, not some sport played by kids and millionaires. The love of the open road is the one thing most Americans share as a common thread, certainly not religion and politics anymore. The road trip is the last piece of real freedom that cannot be degraded unless your vehicle blows a gasket somewhere in Green River, Utah. Long live lonely highways, roadside eateries, and friendly locals, and a stereo that works.

Modified Camper Shells are the Hottest Trend On the Road →

Most of us like a shiny new toy, but some folks like to rebuild an old one. The landfills of America are filled with a billion old toys that were thrown out when they served their purpose.  When we age, we carry that same mentality with our adult possessions. Have you been to the dump lately? Just look around at the mass carnage of our old possessions and think that a lifetime of our junk is here, along with all your neighbor's stuff.

When I was driving down the road the other day, I couldn’t help notice a fellow driver had customized his camper shell by adding another shell on top, a double-decker shell that is one of a kind.  A couple of days later, I saw another one. I asked myself, is this the latest trend in truck accessories?  Maybe the same fabricator is spewing these contraptions out of his garage. God Bless him.  Most folks will laugh and scoff at such work but give the guy credit; his old shell is not sitting in a landfill, which offers more room for all of our old possessions. I say keep up the excellent work, you truck shell fabricators, for making the world a cleaner place.

The Sound of Bad Music; My Unfavorite Things and All the Big Hits

I pulled my electric guitar out of the cozy confines of the velvet-lined case, strapped it on, plugged the cord into the amplifier, turned the volume up obnoxiously high, and scraped the strings with unbridled passion. The windows rattled, the dog hid, my wife yelled,

"Turn it down, I'm on the phone with my mother."

I tuned her out while I plucked power chords sounding so thick and beefy that metalheads would have saluted me with respect. I felt free and primal while I soared with the guitar gods. My idea of jamming to AC'DC's Back in Black would be exactly what the neighbors needed. For all I know, my distorted tones sounded like someone jackhammering on the front driveway.

Non-electric guitar players won't understand the euphoric feeling of creating such a grandiloquent expression except for maybe drummers who are just as deaf but endure more verbal abuse. I pity the parents of beginner percussionists who withstand the nerve-shattering pounding. The mayhem usually starts when their child receives a five-piece toy drum kit for their birthday given to them by a non-parent. The father proceeds to set it up while cussing about the person who bought it. The next thing you hear, the kid is beating the holy hell out of the things while the parents laugh and try to be patient with little Johnny's self-expression. After the cuteness wears off, the noise factor becomes a restriction on playing, or someone in the family blows a gasket and hides the drumsticks.

I enjoy listening to the dozens of instruments of a symphony orchestra. I'm awed at the level of talent it takes to be part of this large group of musicians. The skill required to perform in such an ensemble makes me wonder how they study their craft. For instance, how do you practice the kettle drums? The massive beast of a drum must send the neighbors into bellowing war chants, "Kill the idiot," directed at the individual who's pounding the damned things.

How do you learn the gong, the bassoon, or the trombone in an apartment or tract home neighborhood? I once lived across the street from a young man who was learning trumpet. There are no walls thick enough to dampen the awful noise from a beginner on this horn. A month of 'Three Blind Mice' was proceeded by 'Old McDonald.' These are songs every parent loves singing to their children. For me, they had reduced them to relentless torture, and I would do anything to make the pain go away. I guess I can be thankful he wasn't learning the marching band tuba, otherwise known as the Sousaphone. I can see it now; the family must put on those headphones that the ground crew wear for directing aircraft, and the Chrystal glassware must be secured. In addition, the poor kid playing the tuba will never impress the student body on talent show day.

Are these the same kids who grow up to find new ways to upset their fellow human beings? Take my neighbor, for instance, who sits on his Harley Davidson, revving the engine as it brings him to orgasm. Then we have the guy on the block who owns the king of all-leaf blowers. This contraption is a Volkswagen motor strapped on his back connected to a bazooka, allowing him to blow all debris to smithereens. The biggest noise crime of them all is the fellow who lives behind me. He will use every power tool invented by Black and Decker on a Sunday morning. In a perfect and harsh world, he will be paid back with relentless high-pitched drilling on his deathbed.

The children who learn stringed instruments such as violin, viola, and the cello can find notes that can make a catfight sound good. There is a fine line between the right note to play and the misplayed one, which can be heard over a whole ensemble. After years of practice and dedication to their instruments, the sour musical notes somehow disappear, and parents don't have to cringe during class recitals.

The next time when you are listening to an orchestra, think about the families and neighborhoods who must have tolerated the thousands of pitiful noises and spine curling racket. There will be a time after much patience and practice, the flute, which once sounded like a squeaky screen door, can now make me think of leaping long hair gnomes prancing through the forest. When a drummer finally learns his craft, the beats can be so satisfying that a hideous dancer like myself can find the rhythm. Lastly, even the vaulted bagpipes can bring tears to my eyes when an experienced player hits the first line of the notes of 'Amazing Grace.'

The Loudest Rock Bands of All Time

The Who - 126 decibels in 1976.

Heavy metal band, Manowar - 129.5 decibels in 1994

Punk Band, Gallows - 132.5 decibels in 2007

And the winner is Kiss, coming in at 136 decibels at a 2009 concert.

First Class State of Mind

     When you board a plane and work your way down the aisle after you pass through first-class, you say to yourself, "someday." I have never sat in first class, not even business class. I always figured I could suffer in my cheap seat for long enough to justify my budget restraint. I will eat the small bag of nuts and pay for my cocktails and accept my fate. I always try to get a row seat to hang into the aisle for an extra few inches. The only problem with the aisle seats is the reality that you will get bumped into by passerby's and maybe even the drink cart. 

        I have noticed over the years that each plane has a few seats that give more legroom than first class. There are the planes that have emergency exits with extra room. Some aircraft have two rows on each side with extra spacing. Other planes have a row right after first class ends that has a lot of extra room. In fact, the seat on the end has three leg spaces. So if you book your flights early, look for those rows if you want a little extra space. It's not first-class, but it feels a lot better, especially when the person in front of you decides to recline their seat. 

Bully Slam.....It's All Over

Most everyone in the whole wide world has experienced the wrath of a bully. I will never understand why bullies decide to be bullies. Is there a membership or secret society to join? Is there a handshake or signal to greet other bullies?  You can stand up to them, tell a parent or adult or ignore them.  I tried all three, and none of them stopped this one particular bully. In my case, the bully tormented me for years, but I was able to stop him on some occasions.  This is the story of one time when he got more than he expected.

            Richard Mahoney was the one kid on the block that I thought was raised by a pack of wolves. The kid was unpredictable like an animal. He was bigger and would torment all those who were smaller and weaker. Unfortunately, I was one of his victims. He lived with his mother, stepfather, and his Grandma. The other neighbor kids viewed it; Richard could do no wrong as long as the Grandma was around. Richard and I would be playing just fine, then he would lose his temper, and he would proceed to physically and mentally torment me. My arm would get pummeled by punches for not playing GI Joes according to his plan. If GI Joe didn't obey orders, I would get scolded and beaten by Richard, the drill sergeant. I would yelp in pain, and then Grandma would tell me to keep the noise down.

           I don't know why I took so much abuse from this mean dude; I even tried getting other kids to knock some sense into him. I often asked my brother Mark to perform this duty. Mark was the self-proclaimed king of wrestling on the block. Every kid feared him because he lived for wrestling and taking on all challengers at once. It was a regular occurrence for him to throw down mattresses and pads and take on as many kids as possible.

            Mark studied the dubious art of professional wrestling and not the boring kind you learn in school. We're talking about the entertaining and borderline authentic style on television every night. He knew all the wrestlers' moves and their status of being either a "good guy" or a "bad guy." A wrestling match with Mark usually involved getting punched and choked with an assortment of submission holds. Mark's specialty move was to spin you into a dizzy stupor and then body slam you to the ground. This signified the end of the match and a warning to stay down on the floor. Mark body slammed Richard many times, but I started to think that this only made things worse for me. If Richard got body slammed, I was sure to get bullied next time he got me alone. I was safe if Richard played in a group situation because he would be ganged up on if he pulled any dirty tricks.

A group of us would often play with toy squirt guns. It was one hot summer day, and we gathered to have a squirt gunfight.  Steve Shawn, the neighborhood toy gun collector, had brought an assortment of artillery. Richard and I had our eyes on the same weapon, a pistol with a huge water compartment. We both strongly insisted on having that weapon. I couldn't back down to Richard in front of the neighborhood army. Richard tried to strong-arm the gun from me. We struggled to the ground and rolled on the grass, and I momentarily got Richard's grubby hands off of the weapon. Then the unexpected happened; the gun came down on Richard's head. His head was hard like a watermelon. I guess I smacked him good because he immediately loosened his grip and stopped wrestling. He was holding his head and squirming on the ground. We all stared in silence. Richard got up and ran home, leaving drips of blood on the sidewalk. I was horrified. Steve Shawn immediately announced,

          "It was Richard's fault, and he deserved it."

Others agreed. I guess he did deserve some sense knocked into him, but I wish I didn't split his head open.

         I got a sick feeling in my stomach. Even if it was Richard's fault, you don't pistol-whip your neighbor. I panicked and ran home, and I couldn't help but notice the blood drops leading to his house. I ran inside my house to the bedroom, knowing this wasn't over. I felt bad for Richard. I hoped his brains didn't spill out. I expected the worse. Not only was I probably going to get punished by my parents, but also the wrath of Richard was lurking in my future. Even worse, his Grandma was going to lose her mind.

            If the Grandma were going to come over and lecture my parents, I would have to apologize to Richard. It was only a matter of time before I was going to have to take my medicine. Richard was going to go ballistic on me when he got me alone. It took about an hour before Grandma came over and gave my parents the lowdown. I stayed in my room while the conference was going on. I tried to read their lips, but the words were undetectable. The meeting took about five minutes, with both sides departing on what looked like peaceful terms. This put me at some ease. Eventually, my Dad came into my room to give me the verdict. One year of hard labor and to be Richard's best friend was probably the worst I could imagine.

            My Dad was reasonably calm with no sense of anger in his face. Now I was baffled. I crack the neighborhood bully with a toy pistol over the head, and I don't get punished. This sounded perfectly logical in my mind, but did it to my Dad? He diplomatically told me to apologize to Richard and then left the room, no yelling and no solitary confinement.

            I momentarily thought I was home free, a quick apology, and I was out of there. Then a warm nervous feeling engulfed my stomach. I have to go face to face with Richard, cracked-open-watermelon head, Richard. I should have asked for solitary confinement. I thought my death was inevitable; he would go berserk if he saw my face. I guess my Dad knew what he was doing when he laid down this punishment.

            I decided to wait until another day when Richard's blood stopped boiling. I would stay in my room until this episode passed away. I had enough toys in my room to keep me entertained for at least a week. Just as I began digging out some Hot Wheels to play with, I hear my Dad's voice, "Come out and apologize to Richard, right now!" My Dad's voice of reason suddenly disappeared to be replaced by the voice of the unsympathetic.

           I made the slow death walk to Richard's house while bugles played Taps. I tried to imagine the worst outcome, a big black eye, and a fat lip. The best outcome would be that he was under heavy sedation, and he could not perform an act of violence. I made my way up to the door stoop. His porch was overgrown with shrubs and wildflowers giving it that spooky movie effect. I rang the doorbell and waited for the monster to appear. I stood there a few seconds, but there was no response, one more ring, and I was gone. Better yet, I could leave now and say that nobody was home. Just as I came to that decision, the door opened. My body was tense like a guitar string. I looked up to see that it was Richard's mother.

            Richard’s mother was the extreme opposite of his Grandma. She was friendly and sweet, like a TV mom. She greeted me with the same warmth and pleasant manner just as before the pistol beating. I immediately felt a little safer. How could Richard beat me in front of his mom? If it were Grandma, she would have held my arms while Richard knocked my block off.

           Richard was asked to come to the door. I heard him lift his body out of a vinyl chair and rustle himself towards the door. There he stood, with a patch on his head. Richard had a flat-top haircut so that I could see the taped-on patch. His eyes met mine, and they looked red and watery. I suppose he balled his eyes out and contemplated my death at the same time. I said hi, sorry, how it was an accident and how he could have the gun next time in one long breath. He said nothing; he just stared at me with a blank expression. The silence lasted a few seconds before his mom told him to respond. He looked at her and sniffled. Under the lowest voice tones I ever heard emitted from his mouth, he said, "Yeah, okay." Silence again grasped the moment. Mrs. Mahoney dismissed us both, and we went our ways.

           I knew this was just the start of a war. On the walk home, I knew I had to go into hiding for at least two months, or most of the summer. I also thought about letting Richard take his anger out on me, but deep down, I knew Richard wouldn't be satisfied with only one beating. This would certainly go on all summer long.

            As days passed, I stayed inside to play with all of my toys. A few visitors from the neighborhood came by to show their support for what I had done. They assured me it would be okay to go outside, and they would protect me from Richard. I thought about it for a few minutes and took the guys up on their offer.

          For weeks things were back to normal. I was a hero for a short period. I didn't see Richard often in those weeks, just here and there and going on trips with his folks. The attention must have gone to my head because I was feeling fearless of Richard. Now I know how Mafia bosses think with a group of bodyguards to protect them.

          Richard began hanging out on his front porch to watch the neighborhood action. I loved the fact that he wasn't playing with us. I realized if he were asked to play, that would be an end to my well-being. He looked like he was thinking of ways he was going to destroy me. He was breaking me down with his cold stares. I was no longer fearless; the reality of being beaten was overtaking my thoughts.

           The day finally came when Richard met me alone. I walked outside one day to the beautiful sunshine of a summer morning. I looked over at Richards' house like I habitually did those days and didn't see him sitting on the porch. That thought always put me at ease and allowed me to play with joy and reckless abandon. I wanted to ride my bike over to a friend's house down the street. We were going to ride our bikes through the orchards, where there were unlimited amounts of trails and hills to explore.

            I was rolling down the driveway on my stingray bicycle when I felt a tug on my back seat bar. I quickly turned to find Richard hot on my tail; he had a stronghold on my bike. I knew he would throw me down if I didn't bale out. I jumped off, leaving my bike with Richard, which caught him off guard. He stumbled and fell on top of the bike, but only to rise immediately to his feet. He made a quick lunge at me with his hands landing on my chest. I fell backward with great anticipation of hitting the concrete. It seemed as though he was on top of me before I even was on the ground. He was yelling, slapping, and slugging with unbridled glee, which I had no way of stopping. I just tried my best to block some of the blows. I just wanted him to ask me to beg for forgiveness, and then it would all end. I had no way escaping his power; he was in complete domination of my poor, meek soul.

             I wasn't saying my last prayers just yet, but they were answered when I felt the weight of Richard lifted from my body. God had intervened against Goliath. My brother had grabbed Richard by the shirt collar, raised him, and tossed him. To Mark, this was just another routine wrestling move you did to save your tag team partner. Richard was back up on his feet fast with venom spewing from his fangs. He was chattering about how I did him wrong. Mark would not hear any of this nonsense; he proceeded to put Richard in a headlock. He gave him a nuggie rub on the head and pulled his underwear so far up that it looked like a parachute on his back.

I guess that's what it took to calm him down; it always seemed to work on me. Richard had that look again, where he had to fight back the tears. Mark warned him that if he ever touched me again, he would destroy him and his Grandma. I couldn't believe my ears, and this was too good to be true. For the first time, Richard was speechless. He retreated quickly and silently back to his home.

           Later that summer, Richard's family moved across town. Unfortunately, he went to the same school as me, and I no longer had the luxury of having Mark protecting me. Richard continued to harass me for a few more years until I grew a little taller. I eventually was able to not back down from him. I now wonder what happened to him because all bullies finally get a hefty dose of bad karma. Like in wrestling, when a good guy overcomes all the dirty tricks pulled on him to manage a body slam on the bad guy that ends the match.

Flying Purgatory

I took a flight to Phoenix on Southwest Airlines who does not have assigned seating.  It is a cattle call for first come first serve unless you are wise enough to pre-book, then you get to bypass the hordes of cows. After jockeying for positions in the line to board, my wife and I got separated. She ended up sitting behind my row between two men while I got stuck in a row between a large man and a stout-faced woman. When I say large man, he was overflowing into my personal space. I never got to claim the armrest between us for the duration of the flight. On the right sat a woman dealing with phlegm while she read her Danielle Steele novel. This wasn't going to be easy with my six-foot frame scrunched between Mr. Big and Ms. Post Nasal Drip for an hour and a half.

         Meanwhile, my wife is laughing and carrying on with a lad from Ireland and an Indian fellow while I sat in passenger purgatory. I say purgatory because all I could do was close my eyes and meditate away the hopeless situation. After we reached the elevation where in-flight service starts, I pondered my drink choice. The stewardess asked us what we wanted when I usually go for coffee or tea in the morning. In this case, I knew I needed something more potent, so a gin and tonic were coming my way, purely for medical purposes.

         While I sipped my gin and tonic, the guy on my right somehow maneuvered his body enough to pop a DVD into his laptop. I ignored his choice of viewing pleasure but couldn't help hearing gunfire and explosions blasting out of the confines of his earbuds. I peered over to see him watching an action movie with a high body count.  I closed my eyes and took in the slow numbing of my brain from the cocktail.

           I was soon startled when Mr. Smooth, next to me, spilled his Coke and ice on the lap of his pants. This sparked a wave of activity bordering on chaos. Ice on the crotch in an airline seat is the pandemonium that needs to be avoided at all costs. In this case, the reality of the situation was an "icebreaker" for me to get to know my fellow passengers. I waved over the stewardess for help with this emergency. I stood up to give the guy enough room to get his torso under control. The stewardess directed the lady and me on my right to move out of our seats while her spill team swooped in for an emergency clean-up. Poor guy was doused with Coke and ice on his private parts that left a large wet spot. He went to the restroom, and we were allowed back into the row.

           I got total usage of the armrest for ten minutes before he graced us with his presence. He squandered back into his seat, but this time he didn't resume the "Battle of the Bulge" on his laptop. When he finally got himself under control, he wanted to talk. For the next hour, he didn't stop talking. I guess you could say we became friends. Just two guys talking about the usual stuff like work, sports, and traveling.  He was a parts salesman on his way to do some business in Mesa, and flying is a part of the gig. 

          Flying on a plane is one of the few situations in our life when we are forced to sit next to a stranger for an extended period. The decision to interact or not interact is a decision that is made early on in the flight. Sometimes I make an effort to engage, but you will soon find out if it's reciprocated. I believe most passengers want to be left alone to enjoy their crosswords with noise-reduction headphones. I personally wish I could sleep, but it never happens for whatever reason.  So if a fellow passenger wants to talk, I am all for it because it takes my mind off the fact that I don't have the armrest, and I can smell a dirty diaper. Someday I will be in first-class; meanwhile, I sit with the rest of the low-budget travelers with our little bags of peanuts and little booze bottles in purgatory.

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