Driving home with Elaine last night from a day out, we were listening to The Roches Christmas CD and "Angels We Have Heard on High (Gloria in Excelsis Deo!), a song I first learned when I was 6 years old. In the church choir for children. My sister was also part of that grand assemblage.

So, my mother gets a call from the poor, beleaguered leader of this wonderful singing group, and as near as I can recollect from my mother's story the conversation went a little something like this....

"Hello?" Mother answered the phone with fear and trembling

"Mrs. <Mark's Mom>?" a voice asked.

--EDITORIAL ASIDE--
Since <Mark's Mom> is also my Sister's Mother, I'll just refer to her in this post as Mrs....um....lessee....Oh! Smith! Yes, how original....beats hell out of typing that long, redacted name and also doesn't slight my sister or leave her out being as how we share the same parentage....
--END EDITORIAL ASIDE--

"Yes," Poor Mrs. Smith sighed, expecting more tales of her son picking through the trash, or causing disruptions in Sunday School

"Mrs. Smith, we have a small problem with your children in the choir" the beleaguered director of the Grand Assemblage pronounced. Mrs. Smith thought to herself, "Now, why doesn't this surprise me?"

Getting a hold of herself, Mrs. Smith asked, "What is the problem?" The 'This time' left out, yet implied I am sure....

"Well, it is an interesting problem. We are teaching the children to sing 'Angels We Have Heard On High' and your two darling angels have really gotten a hold of the words, and the music and sing it with great gusto and belief." The director told her.

"So, what's the problem?" asked Mrs. Smith, reaching for the whiskey bottle, knowing the boom was about to fall.

"As I said, everything is fine...except they insist on singing so well and loudly about two steps out of key with everyone else..." said the voice of the director.

Mrs. Smith set down the whickey bottle, knowing that grand calamity had not struck this day (and wanting to save the nerve calming tonic for when it was truly needed) and said, "Oh...is that all?"

"Yes, Mrs. Smith, that is all...but it will be a big problem the day of the performance if your dear, sweet, angels sing so loud and in a totally different key from all the rest of the children...." the voice of the director trailing off.

"Well, Director...I can help you with this. I shall help you with this. This will not be a problem for you at all. Pray, tell me what key you are doing the program in?" Mrs. Smith bravely asked. She was secure in her ability to solve what sounded like a trifling problem.

"Oh, bless you Mrs. Smith, bless you...we are going to do the program in the Key of C and your dear, sweet angels typically sing it in E, and sometimes G and once in F#, but if you could get them to sing it just this one time, this one solitary time in C, I would be forever grateful." prattled on the Director.

Grand assurances were made, promises agreed to and all was well with both women.

Until the day of the church program, that is.

You see, for all the work my poor mother put into getting us to sing "Angels We Have Heard On High" in the Key of C, which we finally learned to do at home to her great satisfaction...well, I think my Sister did a better job of actually not singing it in a different key than did I. I am pretty certain that I sang part of it note perfect, in the Key of E and part in the Key of A, just to add variety. And at quite a loud level of WRONG KEY, I might add. So, Sister got the lessons from Mother down pat and I....well, I mucked things up, it seems.

I cannot help but think of this whenever I hear that song at Christmas-time. It never fails to make me smile.

------
Notes: My mother did not reach for a whiskey bottle when she got a phone call about me. And it is a good thing, as she never would have sobered up. I was constantly in trouble for one thing or another. My sister, on the other hand, was a good kid and her biggest problem was simply being my little sister. Having to follow a mess like me through school was no picnic for her.

As far as it goes, I only remember my mother drinking the occasional glass of wine. The bottle of booze made for a good bit of satire...or, at least I hope it did. I also don't know how true the conversation is (not much, would be my guess) but the story itself is true. And I did sing the song in several different keys...in one show.

This is an easy one. So many popular songs have been played to absolute death. Just pummeled into our heads by too many plays on the radio, car stereo's or iPods, that to hear them just "One More Time" is enough to make projectile vomiting look like a great try out sport in the next Olympiad...

I could listen to most any song by Led Zeppelin over and over again. At one point in time I had made a point of listening to 'Stairway to Heaven' on an almost daily basis. It was a great stress reducer, and that idea came from one of my friends from Michigan, lo those many moons ago.

I could also listen to 'Year of the Cat' or 'Song on the Radio' by Al Stewart everyday and it wouldn't strike me as often enough. Great songs both. Loved them both for years and years.

More recent songs that have seeped into my pores include 'The Way it Is' and 'Maybe Tonight' by Nicole Atkins. Or 'My Favorite Things' by John Coltrane. Songs that bear and improve to my mind with repeated listenings.

But the one song that really does it for me, always makes me reach for the volume knob to crank it up, is 'Born to Run' by Springsteen. I've loved it since I was a boy, when it came out in 1975 and rattled my little General Electric AM Clock Radio...it was the first song I remember playing 'air guitar' to. It was one of those first songs that got blasted out of my cheap car stereo speakers when I got my first car stereo, it is just one of those songs that have become more than just a song, but a valued friend.

To this day, hearing that song makes me feel like a 15 year old boy ready to take on the world...

I vividly remember hearing "Rapper's Delight" for the first time back at "World of Wheels" roller rink in Ann Arbor, MI. Having an avowed aversion to Disco at the time (at least publicly. Privately, I had 'Knock on Wood' and 'Ring My Bell' on 45 rpm record...), I totally missed the song 'Good Times' by Chic, so hearing the funky rhythm track and great groove on this new song with people Rhyming to the beat was totally new to me.

So, nothing to do I had to get a copy of it. Which I did. At Musicland in the Briarwood Mall. I rode my bike clean across town, and across a couple of majorly heavy traffic roads to get there. Heck, I-94 was nearby, couple that with a mall and other business in the area. It was about 4 miles or so from our house, which for a kid on a bike wasn't all that far.

I was surprised that there wasn't a 45 of the song, just a 12 Inch Single. Never was a 45, I found out years later. Over 14 minutes on one side and an edited version on the flip side. I paid something like $3.50 for the record, more than a 45, but less than an LP. With that record tucked under my arm, I road back home and learned the words to that song as fast as I could.

I used to know all the words, and could recite them without the record to prompt me. Sort of like reciting poetry, but with a beat you could bug out to...or just dance. We had no idea at the time that this sort of music would ultimately become so popular the world over and such an influence on popular culture. We just thought it was a cool record that was fun to listen to.

It sure looked out of place in my record collection amongst the BTO, Boston, Ted Nugent and Beatles. Who cared...I liked it.

Musicland is gone now, all of them. Closed down recently as the company went bankrupt and malls fell out of favor as the ultimate shopping destinations, and it's been years since most record stores actually sold records. Although, I was pleased to see familiar record bins with new records at the local shop...now, if only I had a turntable...

I figured out pretty early in life that the dollar-two-ninety-eight costumes available for purchase were pretty crappy.  The Spider-Man costume had HOLES where the eyes were.  I mean, who needs to see, right?  Gotta be right in the costume....

I don't remember how old I was this particular year, but I hadn't really given serious thought to what I was going to wear that Halloween, just looking forward to the pillowcase full of candy.  I asked my mother what I should throw together.  Her response?  "A Hippie..."

It was an intriguing idea.  At this time, they weren't an endangered species as they are now.  There were still plenty of them around, at least in very Liberal Ann Arbor.  So, I figured nobody would have any problem figuring out what I was.  Pretty obvious, right?

Mother still had some wigs from when wigs were a big deal.  She had a short blond wig, and a wig with long blond hair.  Mother was a brunette.  I don't remember her every wearing the wigs, and I'm certain that her coloring would've been a dead giveaway...but I digress.

She plopped the long blond wiggy tresses on my head and brought out makeup.  I do recall the horror at the notion of putting makeup on my boyish features...but it was pretty tame.  She took some eye liner or something similar and gave me a 5 O'Clock shadow that shamed my dad.  I started to panic again at the sight of the lipstick tube, but Mother told me that it was for zits.  She took this old tube of apparently no good lipstick and scooped little blobs of it and stuck them to my face.  Lipstick being a natural adhesive (well, except for all the unnatural parts...and the fish scales...) to places other than lips, they stayed.

To top this grand costuming event off, she placed a gardening hat I never saw her wear on my head.  She told me, in all seriousness, that "I needed a big floppy hat to be a proper Hippie."

Right.

I thought I looked a million bucks.  Nobody else was dressed like I was, I even had a Peace Symbol on a string around my neck. I think I'd picked it up in 2nd grade or something.  And nobody...NOBODY could guess what I was.

I gave up, told 'em I was a hobo with a skin problem and filled the candy sack.

One other thing...I am eternally grateful there is no photographic evidence of this.

I know, I know, I'm beating this subject to death.  Sort of like the whole dead horse analogy.  However, I was really uptight about this before hand.  For the first time in many, many years, I was nervous about driving to the town where I lived, and have friends and many memories.  This was my state of mind on Friday night.

Why?  I hadn't done much, if anything, to keep in touch with any people from there.  I distinctly remember feeling that I couldn't wait to shake the dust of Centralia off the soles of my shoes after Graduation.  I did that.  I left town to live in Columbia within 30 days.  I never went back for anything more than a visit.  I didn't go out of my way to keep in touch with anyone.

Thing is, while I thought I was trying to escape Centralia, I was really trying to escape myself.  In this, I found over the weekend that I wasn't alone.  I was amazed at how many people had left.  Then come back home.  Something pulled them back.  Something told them it was okay to come home after being away.  Some came back because of spouses, some came back with spouses.  Point is, I think they all realized that Centralia itself wasn't the problem.  It was something else.  For me, my problem was me.    Others had their own reasons.

The other thing that struck me repeatedly was how everyone had mellowed.  From a comment from one of the attendees, at the Five year reunion, attitudes from High School/Adolescense were still intact.  Now?  By and large, they were all gone.  Or muted to a great degree.

All in all, I am so very glad I went.  I am sorry that some people I hoped to see weren't there.  Maybe at some point down the line that will happen, maybe it won't.  I do remember feeling Graduation Night that there were a lot of our classmates I would never see again.  That is still the case.  But I find myself looking forward to a 30th Reunion.  Strange as that sounds to me...I guess it is time I stop trying to run away from my past.

So, today we go back to our lives.  Those who have stayed in touch will continue to do so.  I'm sure that some will make attempts to stay in touch after the reunion, and I know there are a few people I don't want to lose touch with.  Even if it only through the occasional Facebook message or update.  Tomorrow starts another week, and this Reunion will become much like our school days, and that's a memory...

Here's the group photo taken at the Centralia High School, Class of 1984 Reunion.  It was a nice gathering.  The food was good and of course, people made jokes about the cafeteria ladies...

I enjoyed seeing my classmates.  Many of whom I hadn't thought about in years.  It wasn't nearly as traumatic as I had thought it could be.  It was very pleasant.  I surprise myself by looking forward to the 30th Reunion.

It has been 25 years (plus a summer, a few pounds, a couple of marriage choices that didn't work out, more jobs than I have fingers and so forth) since I graduated from High School.  It's a place I have tried to get away from and never left.   I fear it is much like that for many people, truth be told.  We spend the biggest part of our first years out of High School trying to escape, yet prove the bastards wrong.  You know the ones, right? The ones who sold us short, put us down, or worse yet...ignored us.

Then, somewhere along the line, you realize most of it was in your mind.  And, that they were wrong.  Wronger than Wrongy Wrongerson, type wrong.  We were at the beginning of our adult lives, not the end of something.  It just seemed like that at the time.

I am more true to myself than I was back then.  I am the person I should have allowed myself to be in my school days.  I so desperately wanted to be one of the "cool" kids, and I was about as cool as a an ice cube left on the counter.  About an hour later...and it took me until I was in my late 20's to realize that.

At any rate, I look forward to the Reunion in a way a few years ago, I wouldn't have.  I am more at peace with myself, with who I am now and not who I was many moons ago.  I just hope it doesn't rain.  Tailgating and High School football games are no fun in the rain...

It is written (somewhere, I dunno where) that all good things come to an end.  It would seem that this includes 99 cent styrofoam antenna toppers that have topped an antenna for close to five years.

It would appear that after five years, little is left of the red paint on the mask of the Wall Crawling Antenna Topper.  Being hit by bugs, rain, rocks from uncovered dump trucks and who knows what else has finally defeated the Wall Crawling Antenna Topper where Doc Ock, The Green Goblin or a punk kid from down the street who likes to steal things never could.

So long Spider-Man Antenna Topper.  You are now no longer topping the antenna of our car.  No, you have earned your eternal rest (and I mean eternal, this stuff never breaks down) in a landfill somewhere.  Where I have no doubt you'll continue to Fight The Good Fight, whatever that is.

You've been retired and replaced.  A rubbery Missouri Tiger head now resides on that antenna you so stoutly guarded for lo, these almost five years.

Thank you, Spider-Man Antenna Topper. 

I was polishing up my boots last night.  This was a couple of days after I put a shine on my boat shoes (Topsider's, I believe they are properly called) and I wondered...how many people actually shine their shoes anymore?  How many know how?

I was reminded of a time when I was a boy.  There was a local barber shop where my dad took me to get my hair cut.  Couple of neat old guys cut hair there.  Claire and Joe were their names.  They both wore blue barber's smocks or jackets and dark pants.  The barber shop could have been decorated for a Hollywood movie, as it was as stereotypical as the come.  It was in a strip mall, had painted concrete walls, nondescript linoleum on the floors and small to large piles of hair.  On the wall opposite the barber chairs (something I really wanted to own at some point) were the ubiquitous displays of nail clippers, nose hair trimmers and plastic pocket combs.

One day, Joe suggests that I learn how to shine shoes and offers me a job as the shoe shine boy of the joint.  Provided I learn to do it, buy the materials and like that.  Not a bad idea for a 13 year old kid.  Especially with a captive audience like Old Men getting their hair cut on Saturday's.  It didn't come to pass, but I did learn to shine my shoes out of it.  Complete with buffing rag and the brush.

It's something that I enjoy doing.  There's a tactile pleasure, and the sounds and smells.  The aroma of shoe polish lingers for a while, both in the room and on the shoes.  It's a male smell, or one I associate with men at any rate.

----

Fall is arriving early this year around here.  At least, it seems to me it is.  The leaves are turning all over the place.  Mostly the leaves that turn a sickly yellow, then fall to the ground in bundles when the wind blows.  Almost sounds like rainfall so many fall at once.

With the arrival of Fall weather, the stomach starts to crave comfort foods.  Grilled cheese and tomato soup, chili, Beef Stroganoff, homemade chicken noodle soup and the like.  We had Beef Stroganoff for dinner this Saturday past.  It was pretty cool outside, so it made for a wonderful comfort food dinner, complete with Asiago Cheese bread.  Cup of hot tea...

----

My friend, Tom Lammers, has written another novella.  This one is entitled "Obadiah Gray and the Mystery of the Centurion’s Testament" which is yet another period piece.  It is also another do-it-yourself publishing effort, which means that while I'm sure it will be a pleasure to read, it's a pain in the ass to get copies off.  Tom wrote "Augustus Green in the Lair of the Pye-a-Saw" which I reviewed here, and you can now buy a copy from the Missouri Botanical Garden Press.  I'll be writing a review of "Obidiah Gray" as soon as I read it.  It's next on the 'To Be Read' pile.

You can also buy a copy of Tom's novella, "Obadiah Gray and the Mystery of the Centurion’s Testament" from the Missouri Botanical Garden Press.

---

I've bought 6 of the Beatles remasters and I must say, the pick of the litter so far is "Magical Mystery Tour" which is just stunning in the clarity of the remaster.  Sounds like you are there, and since it was recorded over 40 years ago, that's amazing.  "Sgt. Pepper's" also benefits greatly from the remastered sound.  My older CD copy sounds tinny and thready by comparison.  Whilst I'd love to have the Mono Box Set, I'll content myself with buying a CD or two every pay period until I have them all.  Again.

There are times your past comes around to bite you in the ass.  It is a rule that is never expected.  I think Congress passed it into law in between Sugar Pop tariffs and protecting Dust Bunnies by putting them on the protected species list.  At least, that is what it seems like Congress does and when they would pass such a law.  Whatever...

About a month ago I got the announcement.  25 years since I graduated from High School and everyone wants to get together to see who went bald, got fat, lost weight or married the trophy wife (Hint:  It was me!).  I have long felt I will never escape those hallways.  Sure, I don't have to worry about who to ask to the prom or what the notes being passed around in class are about.  I mean, that stuff usually doesn't amount to much anyhow. The notes, I mean.  We all remember just how important it was to the REST OF OUR LIVES who we went to Prom or Morp (the opposite of Prom at our High School.  Dress as oddly as you could.  Think of it as Prom for Goth's where Goth's don't live) and being on the football team actually meant something.

You can run, but you can't hide from those days.  That is as true as you can't go home again.  Which certainly makes for one of the oddest, yet truest conundrums and oxymoron's in Popular Culture.

High School for me was traumatic.  For different reasons than most kids, because it was not a laugh riot or lot of fun for many kids.  No, my reasons for shuddering and working very hard to forget as much of my High School life as possible was because I went to 4 different schools.  I dropped out, then dropped back in.  I got my diploma when I was 20.  I lost it somewhere along the way.  I got a replacement and have no idea where that one is either.  I still have the pocket sized diploma around here somewhere.  Looks like hell after carrying it around in my wallet for 15 years, but I still have that.  Weird, huh?

I had girlfriends in High School.  I had regular friends in High School, but I was a royally fucked up mess in the head in High School.  Some people saw past that and wanted to be friends.  Some people were even more fubar'd than I was and were my friends.  I was grateful to both.  I think we all felt like this at one point or another during those "halcyon" days.  Only the mists of time appear to wipe the ugh from High School.

However, an interesting thing happened to my angst over the years.  I finally reached a point where I just didn't give a damn.  I hadn't seen anyone from where I finally graduated on anything like a remotely regular basis and those that I did?  We spoke for a couple of minutes and that was that.  I was fine with that.

My curiosity started getting the better of me, and then Facebook happened.  Some of my classmates friended me (Is it me, or is that still a weird thing to do to somebody?) and I started to remember that High School wasn't all wailing and gnashing of teeth.  It wasn't all misery all the time.  It was yucks on the Vo-Tech bus teasing Sheila such that she remembered me with a smile.  It was Patti and her 'Miss Aircraft Carrier' banner and Burger King Crown (Long story and I don't want to share.  Ask Patti...) and how she had to explain that one to her teenage children when she found it in a box of stuff.  Damned if she hadn't saved it.

It was thinking about Crazy Steve and how we've seen each other a few times over the years.  Yep.  He's still as strange as a 3 Dollar bill.  But, he was my friend.  It was thinking about poor April and how long she has been gone.  Or my Graduation night.  How I went to a party, dragged by some other people, and was treated well by people who barely spoke to me during the year.  Our paths seldom crossed, I guess. 

Or how it was a few years after graduation before I could hear "Separate Ways (Worlds Apart)" by Journey and not automatically think of my lone year at Centralia High School, where I am a member of the Class of '84?  That was our class song.  I voted for 'Taking Care of Business' by Bachman-Turner Overdrive.  Why, for the love of good cheese, do I remember stupid shit like this?  Why does it matter?

Because, it was during a time in our life when EVERYTHING mattered.  Or so it seemed.

Our reunion activities include a tailgate at the High School homecoming game.  We'll be gawked at by some of the current students, maybe introduced to a few because they are the children of people I went to school with.  We'll watch a football game in a special reserved section of the stadium and have a few laughs.  The next evening, no kids allowed as it's cocktails and dinner at a posh joint in Columbia. 

So, in my dreams, I'd love to show up in a Jeep.  4 Wheel drive, with those huge tires, sort of jacked up in the air.  With a thunderous stereo system blasting my 'Cool' out of the speakers.  Music so good, so loud and so on the edge that nobody has heard of it.  But, loves it.  I'd like to be thin.  I'd like to have a more "successful" career or not care that I squandered so much of myself over the years.  I'd like to not worry about it over much.

Actually, except for being overweight, I don't really care all that much.  I mean, I don't have regular relationships with my old classmates and I doubt it will change.  It could, but I would feel better if it did because of who I am now, the man I've become over the years, than how much I haven't changed physically over the years.  I'm curious, to be honest.

This of course, I'll be thinking with a shit eatin' grin on my face as I show up to the football tailgate on my bright shiny red motorcycle. 

I always did like an entrance. 

For most, the news of Patrick Swayze's passing was one of sadness.  Nor was it unexpected, because the survival rate from his particular form of cancer is still so very low.  It is tragic for his family, and the people around him who loved him.

With the exception of 'Dirty Dancing,' I haven't watched anything with Patrick Swayze in it since I split up with my ex-wife almost 18 years ago that I could avoid.  'Ghost' was sort of hard to avoid, but I haven't watched it since it came out.  I didn't watch his recent series on A&E or anything else he was in.  And it wasn't Swayze's fault.  I had nothing against the man or his work on-screen.  He wasn't a great actor, but he wasn't bad either.

No, the reason I avoided anything with Swayze in it is the memory attached to his movies when I was with my ex-wife.  You see, she loved to look at Patrick Swayze.  She wasn't unlike most women in the world, and I had no real problem with that.  I mean, a little bit of fantasy isn't a bad thing and I was pretty comfortable in where I stood in her life.  Or where I thought I stood.

The Ex had made some poor choices with the men in her life and had some lousy things happen to her as a result.  One guy was crazy and scary, one had other, more personal issues, and you get the picture.  So, my being male put me on the suspect list without having actually done anything.  I knew this and wasn't worried because I knew myself fairly well and knew that a commitment was a commitment and that she had nothing to worry about.

She didn't quite see it that way.  Being that I was male and was on the suspect list as a result, meant that I was probably guilty even if I wasn't.  In other words, I was guilty until proven innocent and we all know how difficult it is to prove a negative.  Not impossible, but it helps if there is some logic and rational thought on both sides.

Which, in her case, was lacking.  

See, she could watch Swayze movies, or Jean Claude Van Damme flicks for that matter, with her eldest daughter and the two of them could ooh and ahh over these guys to their hearts content.  She told me it was because she knew herself and her motives and that I had nothing to worry about.  BUT!  The other side of that coin is that any movie that had a pretty girl in it that I took any interest in was stopped, or not watched to begin with.

An example, if you will;  We rented a small stack of movies one weekend.  One of which was "See No Evil, Hear No Evil" with Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder.  It also had Joan Severance and her NAKED boobies in a couple of scenes (Believe it or not, I had to look this shit up).  Whilst I was at work or out running errands or something, they watched this movie.  When I got home, I said I wanted to watch the movie, totally unaware that NAKED boobies were part of the movie.  Before she started the movie she told me there was a couple of places where I had to turn my head.  I asked why and was told there were things I shouldn't see.

I was then and am now, a grown man.  I had fathered a child by this woman, had been married before and had seen more than my share of NAKED boobies in movies before so the idea of being told there were parts of a movie I shouldn't see?  Well, it got my male hackles up.  So, when the first instance of turning my head came around, I managed to sneak a peek.  And got caught...

Which meant I spent the night on the couch and had one helluva fight with this crazy lady who I was growing increasingly convinced was NEVER going to trust me.  Not then, not ever.  That I had become the designated recipient of her anger over her previous shitty choices where men were concerned.  I took their punishment for most of the time we were together, as a matter of fact.  Big reason we split up.  Her lack of trust in me.  And I had given her no reason not to.  She just simply bug shit, paranoid crazy.

The hypocrisy of her watching Patrick Swayze movies and my getting in trouble for watching Women's Figure Skating with her step-father (true story) really started to eat at me.  Gnawed at me like a dog with a bone.  Big reason we split.  There were a few others, and I know I was no picnic to live with then (still not easy to live with now), but not being trusted while being expected TO trust?  No fucking way.

Those are the thoughts that flashed across my flu addled mind when I heard that Patrick Swayze had died.  Along with the fact that I hurt for his family and friends.

My time with my Ex-wife taught me a few lessons in life:

1. Some people, no matter how hard you try or want them to, will not change or believe you.  Even when it isn't your fault
2. There are a few times, no matter how apparently stupid it seems, that just doing what your wife asks, is the wise course
3. It's a damn good thing I never tried to get her to watch "Stripes" together.  I would have had a loofah shoved right up my ass.  ;-)

It has been eight years since the world around us changed.  Eight years since the horror, anguish, anger and heroism of that otherwise beautiful September morning.  Eight years...

I don't need photo's or video clips to remind me.  Those images are indelibly stamped in my mind.  I still see them.  I see the planes striking the twin towers, the billowing clouds of smoke, ash and fear engulfing the streets of Lower Manhattan.  Or the damage done to the Pentagon.  Or the heroism in that field in Pennsylvania.  I don't need a documentary to remind me.  We live in a post 9/11 World.  Now it is truly all different.

One ill-conceived war, another one that cannot be won in the conventional sense and new rules, regulations and "guidelines" and our safety being politicized.  The surge in Flag-waving Patriotism and flags everywhere.  Then a fade to the way it was just months later.  Just a few examples of the changes wrought in our Society.  Never mind the way life changed for the families of the victims, the families of the Hero's in all three areas of devastation and terror.

Life changed that day.  Some of those wounds will never heal, never go away, nor should they.  We should never forget what happened that day.  I know that I never will.  I just hope that the bickering over memorials will end, and some semblance of sanity returns regarding 'safety' in our everyday lives.

I also hope that something like that never, ever happens again.  Sadly, I know that it will.  Maybe not here, but it happens elsewhere around the world.  Daily, it seems.  Maybe not on the same scale, but terrorism happens.  I pray it ends.

I apologize in advance, but I don't get along with the LJ Cut technology and as a result I'm gonna picture spam you....


We saw this on the way home yesterday.  It is located in Atlas, Illinois (sah-loot!).  The sign has been there for years and years in pretty much its current condition.  Makes me laugh/smile every time I drive past it.  Needed a photo of it. 





























I think matte finish prints and cheap frames will make this a fine Christmas gift, don't you?  It is, after all, Roadside America.

In a previous post, I mentioned our old friends Neil and Michelle.  Here is a photo of those two fine souls. 





























The Flamingo goodness is in the bag, in case you were interested.  It is still in there even if you're not interested.
The stunning backdrop is the Kroll's East parking lot. 

Another place we visited was Peninsula State Park where the Eagle Bluff Lighthouse is located in all its restored and tended glory.


























































I wish I'd brought the field of vision up and gotten less lawn in the shot.  It really looks wonky this way with the light up top being cut off like it is.  Of course, Elaine is in the picture, so you can't go wrong there.

And finally, just because I like trains. here's a Union Pacific locomotive.  Unfortunately, I can not find what sort of loco this is and I feel dumber than dirt as a result.  Anyone know? 





























This was taken at the Rochelle Railroad Park in Rochelle, Il.  Lots of trains go through there.

We had an absolutely wonderful time.  So many things to see and do, and we are just plain worn out, lemme tell you.  However, that's the thing about vacation, you get home pooped out.  But, it's a good sort of pooped out.

However, there was one fatality on the trip.  Thursday morning my iPhone died.  The bottom half of the touch screen quit working the way it was supposed to.  I could see it just fine, however the little swipe to unlock it would not work.  Nor would it work to answer the phone.  It powered on and off just fine and as a perfect example of a high tech gizmo working well in paperweight mode, it did just fine.  However, I want more than that out of my phone.  So, Dad found an AT&T store, I replaced my iPhone with an iPhone 3G for not a ton of money, they made it work and off we went.  Yay!

More yay on that:  Dad told me he'd heard a story about some guy in New York City who had an iPhone poop out on him.  He didn't want to spend the money to get it fixed (or something like that) so he found another iPhone that didn't work and made one that worked out of the parts of two that didn't.  Sort of like people used to do with Model T's way back when.  My Grandpa Stratton did that, as a matter of fact.  Only in his case, it was three flivvers to make one that ran.  But I ramble...

Dad's story got me to thinking.  Where on earth did they get broken iPhones to cobble together parts and what have you?  I Googled 'broken iphone' and found a place that will not only buy my iPhone that works great in paperweight mode, but will send me packing materials and not charge me postage.  The best part is that if they actually pay the quoted price, I upgraded for free. Yay me!

Other than the phone shooting craps, we found a neat bookstore in Green Bay where I found a book of poetry by Ferlinghetti, and a few A.A. Fair (Erle Stanley Gardner) novels I needed for my collection.  The bookstore is called The Reader's Loft.  It has great atmosphere and two cats that sleep there.  Elaine played with Bailey the cat while I looked at books.  Heck, we waited around for them to total up the books I'd brought in for trade.  I'd taken a box of books to the local book store to trade and they didn't take the westerns.  Not because they didn't want them, but they didn't have anyplace to put them.  I just left the box in the car, so they were with me.  I did okay on that as well.  :-)

Next door to that bookstore was a place that sold, get this, Frou-Frou Vinegar's, Frou-Frou Olive Oil's and TEA!  I bought me some Organic Jasmine Green Tea and these nifty disposable tea bags that I can put my loose tea in and make a cup.  Very spiffy.

We did some other running around and went for gyro's at a new place (I don't know how new, I don't live in West De Pere) near the St. Norbert's College campus.  The restaurant used to be a Subway and is now called something like "Gyro's and Stuff" but I can't remember.  Food was good and service was prompt.  I like what Elaine got and that was a thing called a Vegetarian Cheater's Gyro.  They put just three long strips of gyro meat on an otherwise loaded veggie gryo thingie.  The Greek fries were good, even if we didn't finish all of them.  Dad's wife, Mary just loves gyro's and now they know the place near their home is worth frequenting.  I'm glad of that.

Another thing I found out is that she has taken up the craft of Garage Sales.  I say craft because the idea of just going to buy other people's junk doesn't hold much interest for her, but finding things that are useful to her, for very little money does.  She's pretty good at it, as far as that goes.  I think she bought a power saw for my dad for very cheap.  Cheap is good.

Saturday afternoon, while Dad and I went to the National Railroad Museum, Elaine and Mary went rummage sale-ing.  They really enjoyed themselves.  Dad and I did as well.  Of course, there's just something about the Male Animal and trains...

Thursday evening, Elaine and I got the chance to catch up with a couple of my old friends from when I lived in Green Bay. Neil and Michelle.  I've known the two of them *cough, cough* years and played a small part in their wedding which was *harumph* years ago.  They have a small place up near Sturgeon Bay near Potawatomi State Park.  Neil has told me that there are pink flamingo's all over the place up there.  Leftover's from the previous owner of the small place.  They elected to not only keep them, but they have added to it.

We elected to help them with their American Kitsch by presenting them with a Pink Flamingo Ice Bucket and matching Pink Flamingo (plastic) Goblets.  Complete with Flamingo heads on the rims and feet at the base.  Kitschy is one way of describing them.  Neil laughed out loud, he got a real kick out of them, and Michelle liked them as well.  Seeing them was wonderful.  Best part about my friendship with those two is how they just accepted Elaine and made her comfortable and welcome when she met them *mutter, mutter* years ago for the first time.

Well, we did some other things and I'm sure I'll write about them later.  I just wanted to say how good a trip it was and how much fun we had.  It is also quite good to be home.

 

Which was pretty amusing to a room full of kids and parents that didn't worry about such things.

My 5th Grade teacher was Mr. Smith. His first name was Dean. He didn't coach basketball. He retired at the end of the year. I'm sure there was a connection...

But the teacher I have the fondest memories of is Mrs. Rothstein. She was my 9th grade English teacher at Tappan Junior High School in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She had bright red hair in a late 60's style and a passion for English. Reading in particular and sharing that passion with her students.

She introduced me to the joy of reading "Literature." I read To Kill a Mockingbird in her classroom for the first time. It has since become my favorite book. I read Of Mice and Men in that class as well. I recently re-read it and was still moved by the power of Steinbeck's writing. Especially in such a short novel.

However, the greatest lesson I learned was just because something was considered a classic or literature didn't make it a hard book to read or a boring book to read. In fact, the only literature I've read that was dull was Shakespeare. That has to say more about me than it does The Bard. Thing is, that summer between Jr. High and Huron High School I spent reading the entirety of Sherlock Holmes. I probably wouldn't have bothered if not for the lessons I learned in Mrs. Rothstein's class.

She wrote a book that was published the year I was in her class. I used to have a copy of it, and thanks to the brilliance of the Intertubes and online marketplaces, I can get another copy. It is titled And Other Foolish Questions I Have Answered.  I remember reading it a couple of times over the years, but like many things from my younger days, I lost it.  Right along with my Tappan yearbooks....

I sometimes wonder what became of many of the teachers I had over the years.  Most of them it is just curiosity.  In a few cases, I hope they are well.  I hope Mrs. Rothstein is well.  She certainly affected me and my reading direction for many years.

Elaine and I decided to go where the winds blew us today.  And boy howdy, did the winds blow.  They brought rain, they blew such a mess they did.

We were in Fulton, stopped to get gas, check the oil and so forth.  Fulton is the town due East of Columbia.  Among other claims to fame, it is the town where Westminster College is, and that's the location where Winston Churchill made his famous "Iron Curtain" speech back in the 40's.  It's also the hometown of Henry Belleman, the author of Kings Row.  It was made into a film with noted 'B' actor and later President, Ronald Reagen.

So, we pulled into the lot and up to the gas pump.  It was raining.  Coming down pretty good, as a matter of fact.  But, and this is important, it was coming straight down.  Since there was a canopy over the pumps, I was mostly dry and had little chance of actually getting wet until and unless I ran into the actual store.  Which I had to do to get some oil.  Still, things are okay.

Until...all hell breaks loose.  Well, not really but close enough.  Ever been inside and looked outside when it is raining sideways?  Ever seen some poor schmoe on TV getting clobbered by rain going sideways?  I was that poor schmoe in the rain when it was going sideways.  Trying to put oil into the crankcase and keep water out of said crankcase.  Water and Motor Oil don't mix so well, dont'cha know.

I gave up.  Slammed the hood and headed for the car.  The inside of the car.  Where it was dry.  Since it had been raining sideways, my glasses were covered with sideways rain.  Could've been upside down rain for as well as I could see, come to that.  Ever try cleaning glasses with a wet shirt tail?  I don't recommend it.

A few minutes pass, then the sideways turns off and the down turns back on.  Back to the oil, complete that task, then to the gas.  At this point, the down rain was on full blast.  Some idiot decided that putting a drain spout from the canopy right next to the gas pump aimed at the area where the person pumping gas from said pump into their car was a good idea.  *headdesk*  After getting my second shower of the day, and paying for the privilege, we finally pulled out of the gas station lot and set sail down the road. 

Fulton has brick streets in the downtown area.  It adds to the charm of the area.  It also creates some spectacular whitewater from strom runoff.  Hitting some bricks and shooting straight into the air, or little rapids down by the sidewalk.  Or, in the middle of the street.  Something you just don't get much with concrete of asphalt streets.  Like I said, it adds to the charm.  And the bumps in the road...

We drove around the area, into and out of rain squalls all day. Seems we'll be getting some sympathetics storms due to Claudette in the Gulf Coast.  I bought some classical CD's (Chopin, Bach, Beethoven and various selections by Anne-Sophie Mutter, the violinist) and Elaine got a new cookbook.  We devoured dinner at the Longhorn in Jefferson City.  Man, I love their pork chop's.  How they always cook them to stay juicy I'll never know...just terrific.

We had a wonderful day today.  Just wonderful.  Even with the extra shower....

I know I've mentioned before, in glowing terms, of my involvement with the online community of Middle Aged Fourth Graders...been a part of the group for more than 5 years.  Big part of my life.  Lots of fun and laughs to be had.

Until recently, that is.  Recently, it seems as if tempers are shorter and more personal discussions were popping up.  Opinions were being throw out as fact, and phrases like 'preposterous' and other dismissive terms were being bandied about.  And I was right along in there, being pretty darn combative myself.  To the point that on Saturday night when I read something somebody wrote, I could feel the surge in my blood pressure and my vision blurred from sheer anger.

Nothing in an online community should bring this sort of reaction to bear.  Nothing in the world of comic books, music, movies or Pop Culture in general is worth that sort of stress.  So, I quit.  Nothing dramatic, just a note to the group owner to tell him I had left, that I felt I was part of the problem and that I cared too much about most of the guys to continue cause a problem.

He'd quit an hour before I had...

So, I realized I wasn't alone.  That I wasn't the only one who felt things had gotten out of hand.  These feelings had been building in me for quite some time.  I stayed a member (after having gone no email once not long ago) out of habit, a sense of obligation and because the volume of material in my inbox kept me from getting bored (honest...).

I have missed the cozy, almost "winter around the cracker barrel" atmosphere for some time.  At times, I felt like we had all gotten TOO comfortable and familiar with one another.  That some common sense or contempt or a lack of fore thought had crept in gently around the edges then made a break for the center.  All I know is that I fed into it, contributed to it and couldn't stand it any longer.  I couldn't seem to ignore the bait, and I was unable or unwilling to let some things go.  So, I am hardly blameless.

I miss the guys, but in some respects, I've missed the peace for some time.  I will continue to miss the guys.  Just not enough to go back.  Life is just too damn short.

In some respects, it felt like Old Home Week for me.  Besides finding an old school chum in the pages of a Lit Mag, writing about the time we were both in Jr. High, I saw an old friend from High School.

I graduated, finally, from Centralia High School.  I went to almost as many High Schools as I have fingers, dropped out and went back.  Graduated when I was 20.  Main thing is that I did graduate. 

Because I was such a mess, I shook the dust of Centralia from my shoes on my way out of town.  I did little to stay in touch with anyone.  I'm fairly certain that I felt my reasons were valid, had merit and made sense at the time.  For the life of me, I can't fathom what they were now, some 25 years later.

There were a handful of people I worked hard to not forget, even if I didn't stay in touch.  They, by virtue of being the people they were, had earned (in my whacked view of the world) a place in my memory and my heart.  One of those people was a girl named Patti.

Patti was a sweet kid.  Great smile, and a certain loudness that covered a painful, awkward shyness.  Sharp as a tack, and she could sing.  I knew her from Choir.  Being a guy, I showed that I thought she was A-Okay by picking on her.  Patti, to her everlasting credit, realized that I wasn't being mean and took it in good humor.  Like I said, smart.

The one year I went to school with her, I watched her blossom as a singer.  She was timid, lacking confidence.  She had a great voice, but didn't project.  Well, there was an amusing incident I won't share because I'm evil that way, but after that, she started to SING OUT!  And we could hear her.  And it was good.

The interwebs have made Old Home Week possible at any hour of the day or night.  Not too many moons ago, I get a friend request from Patti on Facebook.  Or I put one in for her.  I don't remember, and it doesn't matter.  It was Old Home Week.  A couple of other classmates from CHS showed up on Facebook.  I started to reconnect with, what in hindsight, was some fo the best times of my teenage years.

Patti and I have done some catching up via email and she still lives in the area.  She is involved with her church's Youth Group.  Friday she sends an email, asking what our plans for the weekend were.  She then mentions a fundraising BBQ in Centralia and says it would be great if we could come up.  She would love to meet my wife (I don't recall her saying it would be great to see me anywhere in that email).

We went.  She met my wife, and I got to see somebody from my long ago.  25 years is one hell of a long time.   Elaine liked her and she seemed to like Elaine (what's not to like, right?).  All in all, it was time well spent.

I grew up in Ann Arbor, MI.  I tend to call the Green Bay area 'home' but I lived the longest in A-Squared as a kid.  Almost seven years.

I have some vivid memories, vague memories and memories I wish I didn't have and others I'm not sure about at all.  It gets confusing. 

There was a kid in my class, slight and smart.  He was the target of the bullies and the Cool Kids.  Teased him, and worse.  For several years,
I've sort of wondered what became of him.  Where he ended up, what he was doing.  With the mess of my life in Michigan, there weren't many
people I really wanted to ever hear from again.  This kid was one of them.  I had good memories of him.  I have no idea if he reciprocated.

Today, I went to the local Barnes & Noble to buy the New York Times.  The local gas station where I have bought them in the past was sold out.
Whilst I was at B&N, I took a pass through the Magazine rack.  It happens to be near the newspaper rack, so it wasn't much of a stretch.  I looked for
and found the latest issue of 'Trains' magazine, then I went to the Arts rack to see what there was to see.

With my interest in furthering my writing skills, the idea of actually reading current poetry as published in the Lit Mags seems like a natural to me.
So, I looked around.  Living in a university town, there are more Lit Mags at the mall book store than you might find otherwise.  I looked at The 'this' Review
and The 'that' Review, then I saw a magazine called "The Normal School" which sounded intriguing.  The cover looked cool and the price was $5.50.

We have a winner!

I looked around some more, made my purchases ($36 and change worth), a stop to Save Big Money at Menard's and I found myself at home.  I tossed the B&N bag on the dining room table, did a few chores, and fixed dinner.  We ate, and I put the dirties in the kitchen.

I sat down to look at my magazines, and pulled out "The Normal School" first and looked at the back cover.  There was the list of contributors, and I perused them.  Not with any expectation of actually recognizing them, but I just do before I crack a lit mag.  No real reason.  And there it was. That aforementioned kid from Jr. High?  His name was on the list.

I flipped to the front, aiming for the Table of Comments, found it, his name and page number appeared, I followed directions and found him.  I looked around for the brief bio about the author around the piece, but it wasn't there.  So, I read the first couple of paragraphs.

My years in Ann Arbor came flooding back in a torrent.  A flash flood of awful and scary and sad and misery and names I'd not thought of in years.  Yet, they still had the power to make me cringe at the thought of seeing them in school on Monday.  And this kid?  He'd thought about going Columbine on them years before Columbine happened.  And part of me wouldn't have blamed him.  Those kids he named were by and large Rat Bastards.  Mean because they could be and no other reason.

So, the former classmate I wondered about?  He's alive and well and parlaying his anger and torment into great pieces of modern literature.  In some ways, he is getting the last laugh.

(in which I emo all over my shoes...and quite possibly yours....)


Years ago, I used to sit at the now departed Denny's, swill coffee, smoke cigarettes, eat soup and grilled cheese sammiches, read books and write horrifically bad poetry.  At that time, I believe it would be safe to say that I was aspiring to be wretched.

I had the tormented, uber-sensitive shit down pat but I just couldn't write worth two shits.  It was dreadful.

For example


I am so very proud to admit that I threw away the notebooks with that drool in there.  To think I wasted paper and ink to spew such nonsense.  You'd think I was this guy...



Thanks be to G*d I got over all that...