Left field for the Sox or industrial gaskets?

I was driving around the other day, not lost yet, and saw a business that announced "Industrial Gaskets" and I wondered, where did that idea come from? I mean, when asked as a child, "What do you want to do when you grow up?" imagine this, squeaky little voice and earnest facial expression: "I want to have an Industrial Gasket store!"

It set me to wondering what happens to lead people into different capacities as adults; I mean, do children want to grow up to be podiatrists, mattress salespeople, septic tank specialists?

I wanted to play professional baseball. For the Red Sox. Left field. I gave it up when, at the age of 15, I realized I couldn't see well enough to distinguish between the rotation of a curve ball and the spin of a fast ball. Two pitches that didn't break on two consecutive at-bats resulted in two beanings that drove the point home. But at least I got to first base, although they had to point me in the direction. Explains a lot, I think.

Then I wanted to be a writer, but why? Maybe it was the positive attention from my friends for writing grisly, warped-humor poems in high school. More likely, it was a creative writing teacher when I was a senior who encouraged me, and still does. Maybe it was the fun of making things up that people liked.

So that's what I am now - a writer. Pretty happy about that. I would've made a lousy industrial gasket guy.

Whale-watchin'

Some of you reading this doubt that there are demons. Had you been on a recent flight with me from Charlotte to Seattle, your minds would have been changed. I don't know the filthy little brat's name, but he emitted shrieks and shouts accompanied with outright temper tantrums and screams of "NO!" for about four and a half of the five and a half hour flight. His parents were incompetents, so everyone else on the flight suffered. He should be a prize when he's fourteen.

Other than that, our cruise to Alaska turned out well. There's a whole subculture of people who cruise their lives away; some of these folks had been on fifteen or twenty cruises. This was our first.

Alaska is breathtaking. The scenery, the people, the wildlife all made the trip a pleasure.

They love their wildlife in Alaska. Even in the little towns there are places where creatures could hang out. For instance, I saw a Moose Lodge in Ketchikan and an Eagles' club of some kind in Skagway. We saw a black bear crossing a city street in Ketchikan, bald eagles all over the place (including one in a tree that we got within six feet of before it took flight), and eighteen hump-backed whales in one place - a rarity.

Speaking of whales, there were quite a few on the ship. One had red hair and an attitude. And I must say, I have never seen so many morbidly obese people in my life. With "dining anytime" privileges, I had a pretty good run at being a fat boy myself. I was on first name terms with the sausage chef, Guido; and the bacon chef, Arnauld.

My long-suffering wife, Lisa, ate fruit and salmon. That's why women outlive men. More sense.

Even at night there were interesting amenities, such as first-run movies in our cabin. We watched "The Life of Pi" one night and I told Lisa when it was over that they'd never get me on an ocean-going vessel. She gave me a strange look. Women.

So now we're back at the Carenen Cottage and a simpler life. My diet starts today, and I'm sure that somewhere, somehow, Guido and Arnauld are cheering me on.

At least the shirt was clean...

People rarely ask me for advice, and I'm okay with that. As a result, however, sometimes I kindly offer advice, even though it has not been sought. Here's my advice to you: Don't put an open tube of Super Glue in your mouth. You're welcome. No charge.

Understand that this advice comes from someone who hit himself in the head with a baseball bat when just a mere boy, who walked into a stop sign and split his head open resulting in profuse bleeding for which I was unaware until the lady at the dry cleaners screamed, and who was struck on the head by lightning shortly after being married.

Head issues. I'll admit it.

The reason I advise against placing an open tube of Super Glue in one's mouth is born out of experience. A few days ago I was gluing a chair spindle into the place it was supposed to be. So I placed the Super Glue in the hole in the chair and some more on the spindle Then I replaced the spindle in the proper place, but that took two hands; one to hold the chair and one to push the spindle.

What to do with the Super Glue? I figured I could gently hold the tube in my mouth, and I could. Still, some oozed out onto the roof of my mouth, which I worked with for the nest few days, making funny faces for which people held me accountable.

My younger daughter asked me why I didn't hold it with the opening outside my mouth, and I told her, "I didn't want to get any on my shirt."

At that, she began laughing much harder and longer than I thought necessary, without explanation.

Anyway, as the Animals warned in their hit single, "The House of the Rising Sun," just be sure you " . . . don't do what I have done."

You're welcome.

Carenen Cottage Red

I am not an oenologist, nor have I ever been a sommelier, and never will be. Wine is not my passion, but it is my delight. I have tried several hundred over the decades, ranging from a delightful Boone's Farm Strawberry, vintage last week, to a bottle of Merlot that cost over five ($5) dollars! And now I have settled on what I call "The Carenen Cottage Red," a modestly-priced but wonderful full, red wine that we enjoy with everything, even fried possum road kill.

Let me share the label with you by means of explaining my affection for this particular liquid pleasure. What follows is mostly word-for-word from the back of the bottle itself.

'This is a pleasurable, comfortable wine, reflecting the comforts of home. It is a wine for everyday life. It is made from grapes grown in a perfect climate, grapes kissed by soft winds bearing the scent of Zephirine Drouhin roses. To truly appreciate this wine, please withhold judgement until after the sixth glass. And kindly remember that consumption of this beverage might impair your judgment, so you should not operate heavy equipment, automobiles, or trucks if you can't, using both hands, find your derriere. If you are pregnant, don't drink this wine until after the baby is delivered. Then have all you want, behavior which may lead to becoming pregnant again. But that's your problem.

A lack of this wine may cause health problems, surliness, and generally crummy behavior, so drink up!'

If you are interested in acquiring this wine for yourselves, I will give you a hint. It's from California. Cheers!

Ab-tastic

I have decided that I am not going to shred my abs. I was in the supermarket the other day looking for 9-volt batteries, good marshmallows, and frozen berries (a new diet) and I gazed at the magazines on the rack just down from the battery display. Since there were no 9-volt batteries, I took another look at the magazines.

Mostly bikini-clad girls standing next to choppers and hot rods, tattooed athletes with surly facial expressions, and fitness magazines. One of the fitness magazines suggested that I should "Shred" my abs.

I like my abs just fine. They're there, just like yours, and over the decades I have done thousands of crunches, knee-ins, and twists holding barbell plates in my hands. But I have never shredded my abs.

I like my abs just fine. So much so, I have coated them with a comfortable layer of protective padding that keeps them warm and happy.

In keeping with that theme, there was a diet book next to the magazine about the abs (the abs magazine had a man showing off more than his shredded abs with no sense of modesty whatsoever). On the cover of the diet book was the heading, "Eat All Your Favorite Foods and Lose 30 Pounds!"

On the way out, I added a second bag of marshmallows to my little green carry basket. I like my abs just fine.

Be Better, Boston!

As I write this, my team, the last-place (last year) Boston Red Sox are beating The Forces of Evil in the very pit of Hell. That means the Red Sox are whipping the Yankees in the new Yankee Stadium. This bodes well for the season, and the possibility of a 162-0 record still exists.

Opening Day, Opening Day, are there better words in the English lexicon? All things are possible, the sights and sounds of smells of baseball have returned, and all is well, at least for the moment.

My most memorable Opening Day was 1971, when using a ticket I ordered when I was still living in Israel, I got to see the Red Sox and Yankees in Fenway Park. With snow flurries most of the time. With the great Yaz making a sliding catch in left field, one leg in front of him to keep him from sliding into the wall down the left field line.

I have been a Red Sox fan for 57 years and counting, and that includes mostly bad seasons. Never a front-runner, it was a delight to win the World Series in '04, ending 86 years of futility.

A good friend of mine is a serious, committed Cubs fan. It's been over a century, 113 years, since they've won a World Series so, after Boston, I'm pulling for Chicago. A dream World Series would be Boston and the Cubs. Right now, it is possible.

Play Ball!

Lips and Lagers

My walks down life's roads have taken me many places. I lived on a kibbutz in Israel and harvested grapefruit when I wasn't shoveling out chicken houses. I was in the Philippines in the Air Force, spent my freshman year of college in California before graduating from the University of Iowa, and worked in an officer's club in Germany. I've hitchhiked all over the country, I milked an English Bulldog once, and also hit myself in the head with a baseball bat.

So just a couple of days ago I found myself in Florida having lunch at a joint call "Squid Lips," and I thought, how did I end up here?

I found myself accidentally stumbling into introspection there at good ol' Squid Lips, and then I fought that off. Introspection slows me down. And I was left with deep philosophical questions as I sat there, namely: why do my cars' windshield wipers always wear out on the exact sight line that I need to see clearly, and why do birds of all varieties always crap on that same sight line?

And then I ordered another Sam Adams Boston Lager.

Charming Children

I like (most) children. What I do not like is children being manipulated to sell everything from used cars (tiny voice: "Get a great deal at Paw Paw's Cars.") to heat pumps (squeaky little voice: "Go to Dinglebutt's Heating and Cooling. That's my daddy!"). Usually it's the parents' idea, I suspect. A chance for the world to discover their precious little future American Idle dropout while making a couple of bucks using the child. A recent, local ad on the radio is a prime example. A little girl says something like this: "Mommy, why does Grandpa not like me?" It turns out it's a hearing aid commercial, but every time I hear that ad on the radio, I turn it off and answer: "Well, little princess, it's because you're a shallow, insipid, conceited, and self-centered little twit who is never satisfied unless she's entertained every waking moment and catered to as if you were a drug-soaked rock star. If you weren't such a demanding little thorn in everyone's side, maybe more people, including Grandpa, could stand to be around you. Clearly, you're going to be a selfish, high-maintenance, whiny drama queen who will turn everyone away because you want to the Most Important Person in the Room. And you're not.

I feel better now, but I just had to vent for my mental health. Let children be children.

Sternums Ain't Sexy

Recently, while going through the checkout lane at my favorite supermarket, I scanned the magazines available for purchase while the lady was checking me through.

Two headlines on women's magazines caught my eye. One said, simply, "Suddenly Slender." The other, also simply stated, proclaimed "Instant Bliss."

It's not as if women in this country aren't constantly harassed with lies about how they should look. So "Suddenly Slim" lie didn't surprise me. It just made me angry. You ladies need to understand that red-blooded American males are not turned on by seeing where your ribs attach to your sternum. Please don't wear low-cut dresses that reveal a skeleton if you are interested in attracting Y-chromosome attention.

On the other hand, I identified with the "Instant Bliss" message. I didn't read the article, of course. I already knew. "Instant Bliss" can be attained. It's hot brats and cold beer.

By the way, the lady checking me out had a nice figure. No need for her to be desirous of becoming suddenly slim. I was buying olives for my wife, peanut butter for me, and marshmallows for the dog (that's how she takes her meds). The lady announced the total, then took a look at what I had purchased.

"New diet," I said, attempting to be humorous.

"Oh," she said, genuinely interested, eyebrows going up as she reviewed the items as she bagged them. "Maybe I'll try that."

I smiled and left, striding out into a gray, cold, and drizzly day.

Real Romantic

Valentine's Day is looming and so I'm going to come right out and say it: I am a romantic. The Oxford English Dictionary's second defintion of romantic is, "of, characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality. . . " Further, the OED defines "idealized" as "regard or represent as perfect or better than reality."

My idealized view of reality has many faces. For example, I believe certain scenes in movies are real. The battle scenes in The Lord of the Rings, for example, are real and make my heart swell every time I see them. They make me want to participate. I believe, and I don't want any additional footage trying to convince me that special effects, camera angles, and choreography were involved. I DON'T WANNA HEAR IT!

Another face of my romanticism works for me in literature. For example, I believe every word of The Life of Pi. I believe the story. I believe Richard Parker was a real tiger and that he and Pi made it to Mexico and Richard Parker strolled off into the jungle and found a girl tiger and they had cubs and a nice habitat and pizza delivery. So don't tell me Richard Parker was a symbol for something else. He was a tiger.

Also, I tend to be a romantic when it comes to sports. I believe my Iowa Hawkeyes will win next year's BCS championship and this year's Final Four. And the Red Sox will win the next World Series.

Finally, I must say that my romantic view of my long-suffering wife is based on facts that interface perfectly with "an idealized view of reality" and "perfect or better than in reality." You can look it up.

Nanny-nanny

The weather's been a bit blunt lately, not only in the north, but here in the Upstate of South Carolina as well. All the blizzards remind me why my long-suffering wife and Ivacated Iowa when we finished school up there. We made our decision the morning we let our Bulldog (Dudley) out and, when he didn't come back as usual, we looked out the front window and saw him frozen to a fire hydrant.

Which brings me to the nanny-local-weather and the nanny state we live in. They tell us to dress warmly when it's cold, take an umbrella when it's raining, don't shovel too much snow when you're trying to dig out from a blizzard, and don't get wet when the weather's bad. I appreciate the advice. I mean, I would never have figured any of that out on my own. I did figure out not to put my tongue on the flagpole when it's -15 degrees. And I remembered not to ever do that again, and I learned that independently. Once was enough.

What's next? Well, I suspect the gummint will start fining people for not listening to them. Heart attack from shoveling heavy snow? Big fine. Out in a misty morning without an umbrella. Medium fine. Not dressing warmly when it's cold out (THEY will decide what's cold out), maybe just a warning. Seriously, if the feds can tell us what kind of light bulbs and commodes we can have . . .

Fruitcake and Follicles

This is truly the season of giving, but have you noticed that everyone who has something to sell claims their product or service is 'the perfect gift for Christmas'? I just heard on the radio a commercial claiming that their product was 'the perfect gift for Christmas.' The product is a HAIR REMOVAL SYSTEM! It's not an ordinary hair removal system because it works with men and women, all races, all ages, all hair types, and any place on the human body. Not to mention people who breathe in and out. Now, I ask you: Would you like to receive a HAIR REMOVAL SYSTEM for Christmas? What does that mean for the giver (idiot)? They think you're some kind of simian creature who needs to stop combing their back hair and have all that foliage removed? And what about the receiver (victim)? Did you know you had a problem? Maybe you didn't realize you had a problem, and now an idiot has subtly suggested that might be the case.

As for me, I'm quite content with fruitcake. Figures.

Just another tequila mockingbird...

Things and more things filter through my mind, snips and snatches I can't explain. And sometimes things happen to me that are just plain weird. So I'll share a few. Why do people look at the hymnal in their hands when they're singing the "Hallelujah Chorus" with 1,328 "Hallelujahs" in a row? Same for that song with all the "glorias" in it, "Angels We Have Heard On High." Same words, over and over again, singers looking at the book. LOOK UP, PEOPLE! YOU LOOK STUPID!

I never knew it before today, but "Tequila Mockingbird" was that novel written by Harper Lee. Students really need to read more. Maybe they were thinking of Jimmy Buffett.

How do I explain having a cat in my underwear the other day at our "escape cottage"? I could explain it, but I won't. But if I don't explain it . . .

I did not watch one minute of any college football game last week. No wonder I don't feel well. It's been decades since I could say that, and trust me, it's not going to happen again.

I have had two concussions in my lifetime, both provided by baseball bats. One, by my older sister. One by me. Both stories should generate concerns, by you, about my cerebral functioning. On the other hand, it might explain a few things.

I was struck by lightning one time on I-95 south of Jacksonville, Florida. That might explain some of my snarled synapses, too.

Do you detect a pattern?

Cottage Comforts

It's not "little." We prefer "cozy." It's not a "cabin." We prefer "cottage." And due to a delightful configuration of circumstances, it is our "home." We still have the condo as our primary residence, but the cottage is home every chance we get.

Our long-term plan is to live simply and well, and a smaller residence in a beautiful setting was key. Two years of driving around appealing neighborhoods had been frustrating and fruitless. Too big. Too expensive. Too fancy. Too far. Too crowded. Too new.

We like older homes, enjoying their charm and craftsmanship and solid feel so, even though we considered building, we did not fully embrace that approach.

And then our friend Melinda found our home for us. She later admitted hesitancy, thinking the cottage wasn't big enough, that Lisa and I couldn't be interested in a two-bedroom, one bath house. But her hesitancy dissipated and she gave us the word. And when we drove down the narrow lane and saw the cozy white cottage nestled up against the mountain with deep woods on one side and a lovely meadow on the other, we were sure.

Now, every chance we get, we retreat to the beauty, peace, and tranquility of our cottage, where I can nap and write and nap some more and Lisa can attend to an array of established plantings while planning more.

Recently, a friend came by, looked around, and said, "You know, John, this is a special place." I cannot argue with him.

So we've been blessed for sure. We thank God, and thank Melinda, too. Now it's time for me to say, "Y'all come see us now, y'heah?"

The beer is plentiful and cold.

We're gonna cheer until we hear the final gun

I love college football. Autumn colors, crisp air, joyful crowds, fervent tail-gating, peppy bands, and noble competition on the gridiron among mostly-amateur student-athletes. But the main reason I love college football is this: If there were no college football, there would be no Iowa Hawkeyes college football team.

Being from Iowa, being a University of Iowa grad (stunning many of my high school teachers), and being from the same neighborhood that produced Kenny Ploen made it inevitable, and delightful, for me to love those Hawkeye football teams forever.

You might be asking yourself, who is Kenny Ploen? First, his last name is pronounced "Plane." (His first name is pronounced "Kenny.") Next, he was an All-American quarterback at Iowa. Finally, he quarterbacked us to our first victory in the Rose Bowl, 117-2, against Southern Cal (I might be fuzzy on the details, but we did beat someone from out west. Mark Twain said he had a perfect memory, even for things that didn't happen, and I kind of like that.)

I was a mere child at the time and, later, when I got to shake his hand and get his autograph at a church dinner, I was over the moon happy. And that cinched it.

I was hooked on the black and gold, and have remained there ever since. Living in South Carolina makes it difficult for me to get to Nile Kinnick Stadium in Iowa City, which is named after the 1939 Heisman Trophy winner, Nobel Prize winner in Literature, former Governor of Iowa, and concert pianist when he wasn't performing open heart surgery with a Swiss Army knife on the battlefields in France.

But I do have a satellite dish and a wide screen HD television. And I do get to watch their games from the comfort and convenience of my living room, where I wear my Iowa regalia and shout encouragement to my Hawks, even though Lisa reminds me that, "They can't hear you, John." And I can record the games to watch again and again.

This year begins on September 1st. In Chicago's Soldier Field. A new season. Another chance to go undefeated and unscored upon.

And if you listen carefully beginning at 3:30 Eastern Daylight Time, you just might be able to hear me shout "GO HAWKS!" They can hear it, and you can, too. It takes faith.

Cover, Causes, Conundrums and Credits

I promised you that I would soon have my book cover available, and that is now the case. If you want to see what the book will look like, go to www.neverlandpublishing.com and click on the "Titles" spot, scroll down a little and look for me on the right. I also now have my editing "suggestions" to address, but the publisher had very few suggestions, so I should have it all back to them this week. I also promised to offer to you the first chapter soon, and that will be coming before much longer. This post is a potpourri of ideas that jump into my warped brain. For example, surely you have watched news programs that cover fires and plane crashes and car wrecks. Often, they wonder out loud about the "cause" of any of these, and then dribble on and on about what might have been behind the problem. This makes me wonder why they can't be candid and concise. Cause for plane crashes? Gravity. Cause for fires? Heat. Cause for automobile accidents? Physics.

When we lived in Macon, Georgia, the telephone book had this listing under government offices: "Gun permits/Marriage Licenses." I am not making this up. Those departments were in the same office in the Bibb County Courthouse. This was brought to mind as I was looking for a bidness in the Greenville, South Carolina phone book where I noticed that "Demolition" and "Dentist" were on the same page. In more ways than one.

Finally, at the end of movies there is an unending trail of credits to people who were involved in making the movie. Sometimes I watch to get an idea of what it really takes to make a movie and why it's so expensive. Lots of people have to be paid. Anyway, the role I would like to have someday would be the "gaffer." I don't know what a real gaffer does, and I don't want to know. But I see the gaffer as an old fart with a stubby cigar in his teeth, a weathered derby propped back on his bald head, three-day whiskers, and a brown paper bag in a pudgy hand. I could do that.

Peculiarly Potent Potpourri

This posting, dear readers, will be short, a veritable potpourri of bits and pieces that have lingered on my mind. Hope you enjoy. First, I will be killed in a parking lot, and not by muggers. You heard it here first. I will not pass away sweetly in my sleep, be killed in a car wreck, or fall victim to a plunging and fiery meteorite (although, in a sense, that would be cool). No, I will be killed in a parking lot by some dimwit who is doing one or any combination of the following: mistaking the gas pedal for the brake, applying makeup, confusing reverse and drive, buzzed on drugs and/or alcohol, reading a map, chatting on a cell phone, or spilling a hot drink in their lap. Just thought I'd let you know because I've had several close calls. I am to parking lot peabrains what trailer parks are to tornadoes. Just sayin'.

Speaking of tornadoes, my long-suffering wife and I recently returned from a 2,800 mile trip to Iowa and Oklahoma, where we survived a midnight tornado. In a single wide. My sister assured me that we were okay, and that the single wide was anchored by steel cables in concrete. Which meant that the single wide would stay put. All that told me was that we would be sucked through the roof  into a raging, black vortex of death. My wife woke up, realized that our affairs were in good order, and went back to sleep. I remained wide awake for the two hours of the storm, concentrating on naming the capitols of the states. But, because we weren't in a parking lot, we dodged that one.

Anyway, on the trip, I noticed the names of rivers. And it occurred to me that, if a river has a name, the source of that name should be in that river. Buffalo River should have a buffalo. Spoon River should have a spoon. And French Broad River should have a, well, never mind.

On the above-mentioned trip, we passed through a town in Missouri. Peculiar town. I mean, that was the name of the town. Peculiar, Missouri. I'm serious. Which led to all kinds of weird thoughts in my head. What do you call the sports teams? The Peculiar Perverts, with a mascot being a man in a raincoat? One would be born in the Peculiar Hospital, go to Peculiar schools, have Peculiar friends. And so on. Although as far as names go, I'm partial to Frog Level, North Carolina. Or Lost Nation, Iowa. What fun!

My younger daughter, acclaimed published poet, wedding planner, and book concierge, recently drove by an empty church that was up for sale. By owner. With a phone number. Think about that.

Enough rambling.

ALERT! In my next blog, I will offer up, free of charge, the prologue to my upcoming novel, Signs of Struggle, due out come autumn. Stay tuned, dear readers. And thanks for stopping by.

Thoughts for Food

I have been for years, and continue to be, a thinker with regard to proper nutrition. Never one to back off from the ultimate test of food and drink value - does it taste good? - I have accumulated, over the years, a wealth of nutritional wisdom that you, intelligent reader, can now access via my "curlylarryandme" blog. At no extra charge, or initial charge, for that matter. First of all, biblical support for my premises: Since the Bible says in Proverbs, "A merry heart maketh like a medicine," does it not follow that food which makes one happy is a way to stay healthy without prescriptions and over-the-counter remedies? Look at me! Thank you. Also, the Bible said that it is not what goes into a man's mouth that defiles him, but what comes out of his mouth, I rest my case. I refer to this as my "Twinkie Defense" for much that I have found to be true. Now, there's no record of Jesus eating Twinkies, I am certain had they been available, He would have tried them. Not to mention Ho-Ho's, Ding-Dongs, and my personal favorite, Banana Flips (a fruit serving with a filling of protein-rich cream).

A few years ago all the food experts were saying butter was bad, and that a vegetable-based spread was better. Recent research says, no, not so fast pleasure-destroyers, that butter is actually good for you. I knew this in 9th grade. Much the same for red meat, gray meat, pink meat, and white meat. People who do not eat any of those things tend to be sullen, depressed, and envious of we free spirits who imbibe.

One brown beer per day is good for women. Two beers of any kind each day is good for men. This is recent, but I've known it all along. What else is good for women, in particular? Chocolate. I knew that, and so did lots of other guys over the centuries. I mean, what do we give women for Valentine's Day? Let's move on.

One final comment. Being slightly overweight (to me, that means within 30 lbs of what the nutrition snots/busybodies/nerds demand) is a good thing. Doctors who have wisdom will tell you that. It must be true, not only because I saw it on the news, but because I said so. My weight varies between 177 and 210, and you'll never meet a happier, healthier person.

Now, if this doesn't free you up and cheer you up, I give up. More next week, but perhaps another topic that will make you feel good about yourself, or give you a light moment laughing at me. Shalom!