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Exploding Coaches, Erupting Teachers, & Big Helen’s Cataclysmic Death Slide

May 8, 2023 / Big Joe

When I say my high school days were mostly spent as a C+ student, I’m not bragging about my abilities to write computer code. Far from it. When I was in high school we slid 3 x 5 floppy discs inside terminal ports. I never embraced or fully understood the DOS world. The same could be said for geometry, chemistry, or most STEM subjects. I figured school wasn’t really my thing and college would be a struggle, at best. Some of us aren’t that smart.

During my first year of high school, Dennis Patrick was my freshman football coach. His fiery temperament and explosive personality pushed us to achieve at a high level for fear of incurring his wrath during practice or games. Not all of my friends appreciated his approach or particularly cared for his coaching style. I get it. When emotionally inflamed, he tended to grab players by their facemasks and jerk them around. Coach Patrick could be a hard, unforgiving coach. He also taught U.S. History.

As fate would have it, Fort Hunt High School placed me into his class my junior year.

He brought the same intensity inside the classroom that he carried onto the football field. I brought the same mediocre academic zeal to U.S. History that I carried to all of my other classes. Any illusion that Mr. Patrick might practice selective athletic favoritism rapidly faded early in the first quarter. As with coaching, he targeted the under-performers. With my sub-par test scores, I painted a proverbial bullseye on my back. And he had excellent aim.

He berated me during class for my U.S. History half-heartedness. I performed relatively well on the football field two years prior, so I was unaccustomed to his unwanted classroom attention. No previous teacher ever got up in my face like Dennis Patrick. Frankly, he embarrassed me in front of my classmates. It’s one thing to act like you’re too cool for school. It’s a completely different matter to made the fool. However, he provided a way out.

After successfully cultivating a D that first quarter, he required me and the other academic laggards to outline the textbook’s required readings. Of course I wasn’t really reading the textbook. Not shockingly, this greatly contributed to my lack of understanding in his classroom. Now he forced me to not only read the damn thing, but submit a written account of each chapter. It was not necessarily difficult work, just time consuming.

Weird thing happened.

The more hours I spent reading and outlining the textbook, the more U.S. History I comprehended and mentally retained for subsequent regurgitation. When called upon in class, I actually spouted correct answers instead of mumbling incorrectness or providing dumb looks. The second quarter culminated in a C. Not great, but definitely an improvement. This putting work into academics seemed to produce some discernible results. Who knew?

I don’t believe the other U.S. History teacher required it, but Dennis Patrick assigned us a yearlong 20 page research paper. He said universities would require works that properly cited sources and denoted references and we should know how to complete such a project before entering their esteemed halls. He established an academic year’s timeframe with due dates and benchmarks to measure and guide our progress. Just my dumb luck to get this new learning opportunity.

A 20 page paper seemed like a daunting task. I never wrote anything comparable in length and complexity. A whole school year at least built in a psychological time buffer. It’s not like it’s due next week. And like a coach, he provided step by step instruction on what he expected and how to complete the task. Crawl, walk, run. We’ll start with the basics and build upon them as time passes. We were eating the elephant one bite at a time. Too bad elephant sucks.

I chose to write about the May 18, 1980 Mount St. Helen’s eruption.

My father’s work travels took him to the Pacific Northwest in the early 80’s. The devastating explosion covered surrounding areas in a layer of volcanic ash. In a brilliant marketing move, a hotel bagged this ash into logo marked ziplocks as a memento for customers. My dad brought one home to me. The eruption fascinated me and now I could actually touch its aftermath. I was weird like that. Nothing’s really changed.

All other written assignments up this scholastic point pertained to English classes and were restricted to dissecting books and plays I never wanted to read in the first place. Mr. Patrick allowed us to choose our research paper’s topic. Mount St. Helen was headline news around the world. The tremendous forces of nature violently unleashed on that small community were absolutely apocalyptic. Kind of like Dennis Patrick with novice football players or lazy students.

I learned how to add footnotes and cite research sources. National Geographic became my new favorite publication. Meanwhile, I continued reading the textbook chapters and submitting the written outlines. When called upon in class I now spurted out answers concerning the Federalists and the Democratic Republicans. I referenced historical economic theories of mercantilism and protectionism and seamlessly provided examples of each. Who knew that Whigs didn’t go on your head?

The third quarter I achieved a B. Its shape is not far removed from the D, yet far more academically rewarding. The benefits of reading the textbook and outlining the chapters exponentially increased my desire to learn more and score higher. I actually toyed with the idea of getting an A for the final quarter. Is this how the smart kids felt?

I was not unfamiliar with that grade.

Okay, those classes were typically electives. I got A’s in Physical Education and Gourmet Foods. Except for Sue Hickman’s P.E. class my senior year. Sgt. Sue gave me a C. She forgot the class was supposed to be fun. In fairness, I behaved like an elitist jock and Sue didn’t practice athletic favoritism either. I got the grade I deserved.

Meanwhile back in U.S. History, I discovered my outlines were valuable study guides for tests. The contagion of academic success rapidly spread. The more I achieved, the more I wanted to top my last performance. It really wasn’t any different than sports. I’d just never been given a roadmap to scholastic success, or in this case, had the roadmap stuffed inside my proverbial facemask.

I completed the academic fourth quarter with an A in U.S. History. And I actually understood and enjoyed the topic and could speak quasi-intelligently about it. Maybe not today, but they say memory is the second thing to go. Also, that 20 page research paper proved a fairly painless task. I tackled the assignment better than any opponent I faced on the football field. Inked across the paper’s cover page sat a previously inconceivable A.

I received a B as my cumulative U.S. History grade.

I started slow, but finished strong. I felt proud of how far I’d progressed. I also enjoyed not being the target of Mr. Patrick’s verbal assaults he unleashed on the unknowing, unstudied, and unprepared high school U.S. History desk dwellers. I felt a little bad for them, but Mr. Patrick provided them with the same roadmap. They just never opened their academic Rand-McNally.

I’ve never missed particles of saliva landing on my face while enduring a coach’s or teacher’s tongue lashings. I’ve also never not gained something valuable from it, as well. I likely just need a good slap in the face every so often. And no, that’s not an invitation. But old D.P. taught me how to succeed in the classroom. It was ridiculously simple, but I’d never learned it before my junior year U.S. History class. He was a touch nuts, but probably the best teacher I ever had. And that’s my kind of nuts.

Mr. Virginia Vice, Señor Escobar, & What The Pirate Missed

April 17, 2023 / Big Joe

One of my high school friends is a full-blooded Columbian.

Her parents immigrated from South America and opened a family-run business. Her two older sisters married Columbian nationals who moved to the U.S. as well. She met my childhood friend in high school and they married shortly after college. He’s half Puerto Rican and Caucasian. All of the good Columbian men were taken.

The first time I met a Columbian, I didn’t even know it. I was too involved in childhood pirate fantasies, donning an eye patch, toting a plastic sword, and sporting a makeshift bandolier crafted from a weathered and worn 1970’s hippie belt. The two Columbian men wore dress shoes, slacks, sports coats, and open collared dress shirts. And sunglasses inside my cluttered, dark home.

They visited my brother. At that time, my brother wore his hair long. You know, like late 1970’s weed smoker long. His friends sported the Ted Nugent look as well. They wore cutoff jeans, listened to loud rock-n-roll, and smoked anything that held a flame. Of course Ted abstained from drug use. These two Columbian men were also different. But unlike The Nuge, they stood in stark contrast to my brother and his pot smoking pals.

Upon initial impressions they appeared quite civil.

They rang the doorbell of our middle class suburban home. They acted polite and reserved. My brother acted the same way, which was completely out of character when greeting his social guests. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or embarrassed by their presence. They did look kinda weird without frayed jean shorts on. What did I know? I was too busy swashbuckling my way through a make believe San Juan Harbor.

But a certain unease hung in the air. Perhaps the inability to fully see their eyes behind the tinted lenses fostered this disarming sensation. Maybe it was the nervous vibes my brother gave off. Looking back, they probably wore sport coats to hide the weapons tucked into their waistbands or snugly snapped inside their holsters. I lacked the capacity to truly appreciate or recognize this armed discretion.

Was I in danger? Perhaps from secondhand smoke, but that was yet defined as a thing. Maybe they were some sort of drug kingpins, but most likely just low level narco-enforcers. I say this because I learned years later that my brother was not only moving coke for Columbians, but skimming drugs and money from them as well. Not his finest hour.

My brother Bill wasn’t a bad guy.

Quite the contrary. However, his cartel cohorts may have been some evil jokers. Late 70’s, early 80’s Columbian drug traffickers were not known for their kind demeanors and dispositions. Not that the following decades made them more affable. Looking back, they could have been absolute sociopaths that never experienced remorse or regret. Repetition can really desensitize a guy.

Naturally, when Columbian drug thugs visit your mother’s home and you’re faced with the consequences of your actions, you make radical life changes. I mean, you don’t want Tony Montana pissed off at you. I know, I know. Scarface was Cuban, but you and I get the point. Fascinatingly, my brother did not. Addicts are funny like that.

Bill’s friends gave him the nickname “Chopper”. People that didn’t know him mistakingly thought that my brother flew helicopters at some point in his life. He did get high, but not aeronautically. One of his close friends, George, explained it to me. He said my brother didn’t cut lines of cocaine, he chopped lines of cocaine. Hence, a nickname is born.

Although a continent away, Pablo Escobar and his Columbian associates were not people to jerk around. Bill may have wanted to change his ways, but he failed to heed the warnings. So to cut their losses and insure against future disloyalty from subsequent replacements, the Columbians eventually placed a contract on my brother’s life. Nothing personal. It was just business. Of course their business was death, one way or another.

I’m sure this is not how Bill saw his life scripted.

An abrupt change of plans constituted the most viable path to survival. A barber sheared his long, flowing locks and Bill enlisted in the United States Navy. Fortunately it was the early 80’s and the military was not overly selective of enlisted personnel. You were slinging coke for Columbians? Welcome! You’re on cot number 37.

Now I had no idea this was all unfolding under the surface. I do not know if the rest of my family was also in the dark. I just knew my brother cut his hair. That was freaky enough for this Blackbeard wannabe. When I discovered the truth years later, I thought Bill’s undisciplined and reckless life of addiction represented an utter lack of foresight and planning. Who would pen such a story?

If he hadn’t joined the Navy, perhaps the Columbians or some de facto hitman would have killed him. Maybe he would have simply disappeared, never to be seen again, leaving us to wonder what became of our brother, nephew, cousin, and son. A few years later, federal indictments came down. My brother was called off of his ship in the Indian Ocean to testify.

I think the government let him slide since he attempted to change his life.

That and testify. However, by the time he returned to the states, those indicted pled guilty, avoiding a trial and Bill spilling his side of the beans. Bill’s weakness became his saving grace. His addictive behaviors and tendencies forced him to flee from a world rapidly spiraling downward. In the end his shortcomings ultimately delivered him from a life destined for an early demise. God’s grace can play out in funky ways.

As far as I know, nobody ever again arranged business decisions and partnerships to exterminate my brother. Like a feline felon, he used his nine lives in their entirety. Ultimately his death had nothing to do with a calculated, corporate decision handed down from ruthless businessmen. Unless you want to pin the blame on big tobacco for lung cancer fatalities. The drug business is seedy no matter what side of the law it falls on.

I wonder how long those Columbians that visited my house lived or how their lives played out. Maybe they’re still alive today. I doubt it. The life expectancy in that line of work isn’t too great. I know this now. Back then I was lost in a childhood fantasyland, pretending to be a rule breaking, weapon wielding Caribbean pirate. And that sounds more Puerto Rican than Columbian.

WHOA, HOA!

March 10, 2023 / Big Joe

Smokey, this is not ‘Nam. This is bowling. There are rules. -The Big Lebowski

Walter spoke whole hearted, prophetic truth. Any experience within the geographic confines of Vietnam likely shares little in common with bowling. And yes, like them or not, there are in fact rules.

Some rules are guardrails. Primarily designed to keep us on track, for steering off course could lead to certain disaster. We ponder the purpose of their inane creation, thinking them so blatantly obvious that they must have been crafted for the moronic, dull-witted masses. Who would drive down the illicit embankment into the forbidden forest? You see what happens, Larry?

But over time those ignored guardrails garnered noticeable attention. Sometimes the metallic surface is scraped, brushed by a hapless fender or two. Nothing too serious, but definitive contact, nonetheless. Sometimes they’re bent and pushed backwards, tested by a more ardent rule rebel. And other times they’re a twisted, gnarled heap of absolute disobedience. Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear, well, he eats you.

Saturday, Donny, is Shabbos, the Jewish day of rest. That means that I don’t work, I don’t drive a car, I don’t f***ing ride in a car, I don’t handle money, I don’t turn on the oven, and I sure as s**t *don’t f***ing roll! -The Big Lebowski

Moses had rules, too. Well, they weren’t his rules, per se. And none of them involved recreational league sports. But he did relay them to the Israelites in the desert. Super big ones required stone tablets etched by the hand of God. Written rules tend to hold a greater significance, regardless of their medium. However, we tend to understand them more topically than in depth. Deeper rule study can prove monotonous and mind-numbing. Ever done a Leviticus or Deuteronomy bible study? You are entering a world of pain.

On Mount Sinai, God made a covenant with Moses reaffirming his promises to Abraham’s descendants. A covenant is a binding agreement between two parties in order to work together toward a common goal. Maybe because I think of covenants as biblical, it personally seems like a higher edict than a simple rule or even a written law. Isn’t it interesting that home owner associations call their rules a covenant?

I read parts of my HOA covenant. It was carved into ethereal tablets on the worldwide web and stored on an ark-like server. I don’t believe God created them, but the HOA may disagree. Over the past twenty years I’ve seen them get fairly holier than thou about some of the man-made, pedantic rules. You said it, man. Nobody f***s with the Jesus.

You know a lotta ins, lotta outs, lotta what-have-you’s. -The Big Lebowski

I’m no fan of overgrown lawns, peeling paint, sagging roofs, dangling downspouts, collapsing fences, cars on blocks, empty vodka and half & half bottles, or other general suburbanite clutter scattered on the property. But it’s the little infractions that the board says are up to their discretion as to whether it’s a covenant violation. I define their discretion as their personal preferences, practices, and proclivities.

I received an HOA covenant violation notices for an illegal playground slide color, an improperly located basketball hoop, windblown winter trash wedged between my side fence and house, and worn-off paint on my front step kick plates. I would not consider these stone tablet violations, but rather minor noncompliance issues that are open for interpretation. And, uh, it’s a lot of strands to keep in my head, man. Lotta strands in old Duder’s head.

They said I couldn’t have a yellow slide because it was not an earth tone. I told them it wasn’t yellow, but wheat colored. Wheat is pretty earthy. They relented. The basketball hoop was mobile, so we moved it in front of different houses in the cul-de-sac to avoid HOA targeting. They caught on to our little trick and gave us all violation notices. We relented. I didn’t know the trash was there because I don’t do lawn work in February. That one was a win-win. Neither of us liked the trash where the wind relocated it.

Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man. -The Big Lebowski

Who cares about the slide’s color? It really tied the room together. If everybody in the cul-de-sac wants the hoop in the street, why can’t we leave it there? Am I wrong? However, trash doesn’t belong outside of its proper receptacle and the steps should get touched up. I have four months to remedy this heinous paint transgression.

Total disclosure, the worn off paint has been there for a couple of years. I’ve seen it and thought, I should fix that. Then I inspect the board and contemplate whether I need to replace the entire piece. What about the railing’s and spindle’s paint? And then I look at the twenty year old decking and think, maybe that needs replacing. Now it’s evolved into a far larger, complicated, and pricey endeavor than simply dabbing on some paint. If you’re not into the whole brevity thing.

Of course, I’d need to consult the HOA architectural review committee (ARC) by submitting my plans to them and await their discretionary findings. This could takes weeks. Will I have to pull a work permit? By this point, I’ve talked myself out of the project and decided that the paint wear adds character to the house. It expounds the property’s rustic charm. Why would would I alter this effect? Besides, what qualifications are required to be on the ARC anyway?

Donny, you’re out of your element! -The Big Lebowski

Perhaps they have training in architectural engineering. Maybe they’re horticulturists or arborists and are well versed with plants and trees. Possibly they’ve studied design and possess years of professional work experience in this field. No. Conceivably, by dumb luck, some of them possess these attributes, either past or present. More to the point, they are just volunteers who enjoy telling others what to do, especially if they can lord their discretion over you.

I asked years ago if I could replace my wood railing and spindles on the front porch. The climate here is quite dry, and it takes a toll on paint and wooden surfaces. Besides, it looks so 80’s. I wanted to replace them with a Trex-type product or possibly a metallic option. A woman on the ARC wrinkled her nose and promptly told me that those options wouldn’t look nice, even though she approved one of them on the back deck. Look nice according to who? Does constant peeling paint look better? Strikes and gutters, ups and downs.

But I’ll fix this issue, no doubt. It’s no big infraction and you’d have to stop and look closely to see it, but it is there. My procrastination caught up with my decision stagnation and confabulation. But it does make you wonder if the ARC really has that much time to creep around the neighborhood spying on its residents, or do they draw from a pool of community snitches. Regardless, by the time the weather warms it will get repainted, replaced, or redone. Why? Because…

The Dude abides. -The Big Lebowski

Fire and Flood, Water and Blood

January 13, 2023 / Big Joe

There’s a stretch of road leading north out of Lyons, Colorado. If you’ve ever traveled to Estes, CO, you’ve likely driven this route. It does not capture the splendor of the Rocky Mountain National Park located up ahead, but it does offer an amusing natural dichotomy for those of us prone to imbecilic entertainment.

A creek rolls down from the mountains, cascading and winding around rocks, mesas, and towering cliff walls. A few inflatable rafts navigate the often turbulent waves, fishers cast their lines, and waders dip their hike-weary feet into the icy cold flow. Pines trees and a smattering of aspens populate the brown granite landscape, which remains otherwise dry absent the narrow, rushing waterway running alongside the road where Captain Obvious parked his rental.

On the opposite side of the road from the creek a posted sign reads, “If flooding, move to higher ground.” Do we really need a reminder to activate this basic, primordial instinct? Unless I’m on oceanfront property standing on the shoreline, I’d like to imagine water rising past my ankles that rapidly approaches my knees would illicit an appropriate survival response.

Fortunately, geographic elevation is readily available in these Colorado foothills. If you’re physically capable, ascension opportunities abound. While statistically unaware, I doubt this area tallies an inordinate amount of flooding deaths. Maybe an occasional, past aberrant weather anomaly created sudden deluges. Perhaps this explains the painfully obvious and possibly necessary signage. Aye aye, Captain!

Ironically, the hillside opposite the creek is populated by a grove of burnt evergreens. The same land that justifies the need to warn people about rising waters also experiences fire danger. Disappointingly, these two events never occur at the same time. Then again, maybe that would be bad. If people moved to higher ground from a flood, they’d travel directly into a blaze. Thank God for opposite flood and fire seasons. Very Coloradan.

However, we’ve all heard that opposites attract. My wife and I are good examples. Before ever meeting we both took the Myers-Briggs personality test in our early twenties. As fate would have it, we scored as polar opposites on this assessment. We’ve been married for 27 years. Neither Myers nor Briggs said whether this was a good idea or not. We’ll reassess at the three decade mark and let them know.

According to this psychological standardized test we should, most likely, agree on little. As human being with varying perspectives and individual experiences we do not agree on everything. Who does? That would be like getting your way all of the time. Crap, that actually sound kind of nice, but ultimately a male spousal fantasy. A guy can dream.

Fortunately we’ve consistently agreed on furniture choices throughout the years. However, some couples struggle mightily when reaching a couch consensus. Functionality or feng shui? Is it a sofa or a davenport? Sectionals, ottomans, recliners, leather, fabric, or all/none of the above? That’s without bringing color palettes into the discussion. Are you monochromic or a kaleidoscope craving freak? No, you can’t be in-between. Just choose one, dammit!

My wife used to say her style was French country. Then she heard on HGTV that French country equated to not really having a design preference. Dis-nous que c’est pas vrai! I don’t know what we call our fashion preference. How about relaxed rustic? I like that. Maybe anti-modern, or is that too broad with a hint of negativity? It’s kind of stupid to even care.

Of course Katharine Briggs and her daughter, Isabel Myers, never said that personality types needed to stay within their groupings or seek opposites. All of their work merely stressed that recognizing and understanding personal differences would lead to better communications and relationships. So it’s nice for opposites to still attract, polar or otherwise. Besides, the basic premise behind every romantic comedy and Hallmark movie would be dashed to their corny bits if it wasn’t true.

Consequently, brides would no longer dream of their wedding day and every family would suffer the cascading effects. But blood is thicker than water and family always survives. Ehhh, that depends. Some families circle the wagons and stand shoulder to shoulder, dodging the flaming arrows together. And some families will bleed each other for a nickel. Mo’ money, mo’ money!

A co-worker shared such story from a small rural town, located just west of nowhere, U.S.A. Upon the demise of the final grandparent, a delusional family member believed it was his birthrate to inherit everything. Naturally, the will divided it up evenly between the surviving family. To this day, siblings no longer talk with each other even though they live in the same tiny town, go to the same tiny church, and divvied-up the same tiny inheritance. That’s big time!

Wanting to have it all isn’t supposed to be taken literally. I have more crap now than I ever imagined. I’m at the point of wanting to give things away, not accrue more stuff. It’s nice to have nice things, but do you have a nice spare room to build your newly acquired nice stack of unnecessary junk you’d struggle to give away at a flea market? Like Stephen Wright said, “you can’t have everything. Where would you put it?”

If I moved myself with my own sweat, with my own money, would I bend over and pick up box after box or build a really awesome bonfire in the middle of my cul-de-sac? I’ve witnessed relatives spend months moving junk from one residence to another residence halfway across the country, just to have the same stacked boxes scratch off the popcorn texture from their cheesy ceilings. Aren’t hoarders super neat?

Our neighbor is helping his 20 something year old son retrofit a work van into, well, a home. With exorbitant rent prices and few worldly possessions, this young man chose to go ultra-minimalist. He’ll have a mobile home with the cranial clearance fit for a great dane. He’s excited about this next adventure and his parents are excited to reclaim their basement.

Heads may get scratched fathoming the practicality of this endeavor, but he’s young. Head scratching ideas of our youth usually lead to entertaining stories shared during life’s later moments otherwise spent obsessing over receding hairlines and expanding waistlines. Sure, he doesn’t have a pot to piss in, but that could be a great house warming gift since there’s no plumbing.

I’ve seen friends later in life, kids grown and out of the house, looking to purchase a bigger home. Typically, less people does not equate to a need for more space. However, I had a D in high school geometry, so spacial relations was never my strong suit. Maybe if they lived in a van for a few months, they’d recognize the rewards of downsizing. Or one of them would go missing and I’d recognize the rewards of snitching out the last spouse standing (or crouching in the back of the van).

This coming from the guy sitting alone in my basement with a fully stocked bar, a bedroom, a bathroom with a shower, a sliding glass door leading outside to a fire pit, and two other floors upstairs I’m currently ignoring. A luxury, yes. A necessity, no. Yet I still have it and never contemplated my possession preponderance until I began tickling these computer keys to write this nonsense. Luxury and necessity. See. Opposites still attract.

My Body, My Pants – AKA, This Blog Defined

August 24, 2022 / Big Joe

I owned a super cool pair of green Costco workout shorts in the early 90’s.

I know, you probably had a pair, too. Elastic waist, inner drawstring, a lateral vee cut mid-thigh, all woven together in a fire-retardant poly-fiber blend. Yours may have been blue, black, red, or whatever spectrum of discount color you chose. Either way, I understand. You looked bad ass in them.

I don’t have a digital record of these gems and I likely do not possess an old photo laying inside some weathered shoebox buried under a pile of mix tapes and Sony Betamaxes to prove my point. If this sounds unfamiliar, you’ll just have to take my word for how damn nice these gyms shorts looked and felt. They were cooler than a mullet.

This purchase occurred before I met my wife.

I’m certain of this because she strongly disapproved of them, which negates the possibility of them entering my marital wardrobe post wedding day. Full disclosure, I think she hated them. Maybe green triggered a subconscious PTSD memory. Maybe the fabric caused physical discomfort or tactile irritation when sorting laundry. Or maybe it was their length.

Through the late 80’s and early 90’s society granted fashion tolerance for mid thigh shorts. This I believe to be an irrefutable fact. By the mid 90’s the male short’s hemline lengthened to the top of the knee. This seemed an oxymoron as nothing appeared short to my discerning eyes. Why would I fancy fabric touching my knees? Shorts are for hot weather. Less fabric, the greater the airflow on the skin, the greater the summer comfort level. Yet another irrefutable fact.

This fashion switch baffled me. I understood the departure from the silly 80’s nonsense and readily accepted the grunge rock apparel of the early 90’s. No more glam rock BS and hairband eccentricities. Plaid flannel rose in popularity, which played right into my dresser drawer options. But man capris? Now I was the outsider, jeered and mocked for my quadricep exposing and hamstring flashing choices.

My wife said those green shorts made me look like a participant in a gay pride parade.

In the 90’s those only existed in San Fransisco, as far as I knew. 24/7 news was just catching on. Mainstream social media was about a decade away. I still read a physical newspaper that smeared black ink on my fingertips. The self-important, incessantly posting masses were largely silent, leaving us to rely on a few major corporations to broadcast the news of the day. I had no idea that hemlines and rainbows represented sexual preference.

But on the bright side, I was clearly ahead of my time, foretelling of a near future rich in diversity and social justice. Surely I was a visionary, the populous’s prophetic voice. Unfortunately my short’s defense sounded more like a pathetic voice. On a practical note I thought about booking a surprise flight for my wife and I to the Golden Gate city just to get one more justifiable wear out of old greenie before the heterosexual fashion police banished them into the rag bin.

Ironically, now I’m told my shorts are too long.

Seriously? That rag bin got dumped decades ago. At this point, I think I’m too old to give a damn about what’s in vogue. Still, I’d like to find some shorter shorts. Nothing drastic, but a few inches would be nice. Although I’ve been falsely shamed into thinking I must hide my legs along with a decent portion of my knees. Time is so funny, fickle, and, well, forever.

But nobody knows history if it’s not recorded somehow and somewhere, which is why I write this blog. All stories in this collection are dad shorts. Just brief scribblings about my life, relayed to my children so they might better understand the causal effect of my rusty, spinning, cognitive wheels and my overall goofdom. Yes, this includes clothing.

And maybe a perspective that time is cyclical. Everything old comes back around again, one way or another. Maybe one day my kids will catch themselves sounding or acting like their dear old dad. That’s high humor to an old fart like me. Irrefutably.

Somewhere To Be … Or Not To Be

May 28, 2022 / Big Joe

Most mattresses do not incorporate aerodynamics into their design.

They lack the lightweight construction of a kite. They do not have the wingspan of a hang glider. They do not possess necessary propulsion components required for flight. There’s no magic carpet supernatural phenomena at play. Any airborne activity is typically attributable to human miscalculation or excessive alcohol consumption. Sometimes those two go hand in hand.

Unintentional mattress flight, when coupled with an automotive vehicle, can be quite the conundrum. It doesn’t matter if it’s strapped to a Subaru’s roof or flopping inside the bed of an F-150. If it catches air, a helpless feeling descends upon the driver. A bit unnerving for anybody cruising behind them, too. This I know from experience.

As I motored through my neighborhood streets, I spied a mattress precariously flopping against the cab of a light duty pickup truck. Cars in the adjoining lane drove below the posted speed limit for fear of getting too close. I tooled along behind the pickup looking for an opening so I could shoot around. I had somewhere to be. The mattress looked fine. That is, until it didn’t.

It probably could have been positioned better in the bed. It definitely could have been ratcheted down tighter. It was exceedingly windy without the added air streaming over the hood and the cab. Enough air worked its way under the mattress and lifted a corner above the top of the Nissan. And that’s all it took for it to float up and out of the truck bed.

I scrubbed my speed as I witnessed the impending predicament.

The woman in the next lane over did likewise. As the mattress shot up from the bed (no pun intended), it made an unexpected lane change, without even signaling. How rude. Fortunately, the other female driver mashed her brakes a bit harder and avoided running over the now landed bed. Thank goodness, because nobody likes sleeping on skid marks (pun intended).

In times past I would have thought “you made your bed, now lie in it” and drove around the debacle. Like I said earlier, I had somewhere to be. However, the Nissan stopped directly in front of me. The driver in the adjoining lane sat motionless due to the bedding obstacle. A young man exited the Nissan, slowly followed by his female passenger.

The young man apologized to the driver next to me. He turned to get the mattress even though his female compadre didn’t really seem like she wanted to help. He hurriedly secured the mattress the exact same way as before lift off. The other lane of traffic began to flow. Cars behind me changed lanes and passed. Normally, I would have joined them. Today for some reason, I got out of my truck.

No, I wasn’t going to start a fist fight in an uncontrollable fit of road rage.

I knew a repeat performance would occur if I didn’t offer some advice and assistance. I recognized the mattress was a memory foam. These can easily get folded in half. He took my advice. We ratcheted the tie back down and it fit securely and snugly in the truck. You might say we put the mattress to bed. O.k., maybe you’d never say that.

It felt good to help him. He clearly appreciated my assistance. By the time I got back in my truck, we were the only two on the road. I’d say about 15 cars passed us while we situated things. I’m sure most of them didn’t know the reason for the temporary stoppage. A slight annoyance in their otherwise routine Sunday afternoon, I’m sure. We handled it while they had somewhere to be.

If I had a reservation at a hard to get in restaurant, maybe I drive by like everyone else. If it was a work day, maybe I don’t stop. If it was earlier in the day when we were running late for church, maybe I pass him by. But blessed are those who are merciful. I don’t typically walk around saying those words or acting them out. But just a few hours before, the application of mercy and grace was stressed to me. Oddly, I actually remembered it. Mattress boy didn’t need my judgement. He needed help, regardless of my plans.

Kind of like one fine afternoon back in 1986 when I sat broke down on the side of I-95 in my 1975 Oldsmobile Delta 88.

Ironically, I was not too far from Mechanicsville, VA. My car simply lost power and I coasted to a rest on the righthand shoulder of the highway. This was particularly frustrating as my brother and I did a fair amount of maintenance and repair to the car the day before. This machine should have been humming right along.

I performed the obligatory check under the hood. The engine was still there. Having ruled out spontaneous motor disappearance, I stared at the hoses, wires, and weathered machinery, completely baffled. Personal smart phones did not exist in 1986. There was no texting somebody for advice. I couldn’t FaceTime my brother to decipher the problem. I couldn’t even call a tow truck. I was kinda on my own.

About that time, a beat up blue and white Dodge International pulled in behind me. The gentlemen inside the rusted truck wore overalls tucked into his boots. I think he had a shirt on underneath, but I can’t be sure. He offered me a ride to a garage in the next town. I was not in a position to decline his offer. I hopped in the single cab truck and admired his shotgun mounted on the rack. He sported coke bottle thick lenses set inside a thick black horn-rimmed frame. They looked as cloudy and dirty as the windshield he navigated through.

It was a short trip and few words were spoken.

This was fine because I had trouble understanding him anyway. For a time I wondered if I had inadvertently volunteered for a lead role in a “Deliverance” sequel. I didn’t want to judge as tons of other cars zoomed passed my stranded vehicle, but he chose to stop. If he had somewhere to be, he put it on hold to help a complete stranger. Still, Ned Beatty kept popping into my head. I never practiced on demand squealing and I hoped today would not be a violation debut.

Thankfully, he did as promised and dropped me off at a local garage. I hopped into their tow truck and showed them where the car broke down. They hitched it up and pulled it back to their shop. I had no idea what this might cost. They sort of had this young college kid over a barrel. Now I feared becoming a proverbial Ned Beatty.

They asked me if recent work had been done to the car. I explained that my brother and I worked on it yesterday. They said a wire from the alternator to the battery had been disconnected which drained the battery. They were amused when I told them that I paid my brother with beers as he helped me with the car. By the time we finished, inebriation had set in. The repairmen assumed he probably knocked off the wire while drunk and hadn’t realized it.

Those mechanics found this so entertaining, they didn’t charge me for diagnosing and fixing the problem. They didn’t even charge me for the tow. Hopefully the one guy that stopped to help me knew these good old boys, heard the story, and got a chuckle or two for himself. Ned Beatty completely vanished from my mind.

I probably shouldn’t have judged a hillbilly by his overalls, but I did. All of the people with money, prestige, and a full schedule kept driving south on I-95 while I stood on the shoulder of the road like a snooty idiot. My Delta 88 dilemma got solved because somebody showed me a little mercy and gave me a bit of grace. Instead of having somewhere to be, it turned out that hillbilly had somewhere not to be, plus the kindness in his heart to know the difference.

The Furry Green Ball Musical Mystery of Previous Parenting

May 19, 2022 / Big Joe

My mother played the piano.

Neither my siblings nor I ever played the piano or took lessons. I do not recall my sister or brothers sharing stories of pecking away on the ivories or attempting to learn piano sheet music. A piano sat in our house, but only my mother mastered it. She played often during my childhood, but never pushed me to learn its mysteries.

I played the drum in elementary and middle school band. Mostly because my musical preferences leaned toward the Beatles and I fantasized about being Ringo Starr. Don’t ask. Maybe I erroneously believed learning percussion to be easier than a guitar or keyboard. For some reason I recall my sister perhaps playing the flute. Either way, that creative musical flow halted by adolescence in all of us.

My father played tennis.

Tennis trophy cups proudly stood upon shelves, collecting dust. As a kid, their majesty and splendor fascinated me. I fantasized them as some type of ornate chalice, a holy grail of sorts. I secretly played with them. I’m not sure anybody really cared, though. They belonged to my dad and he was never around. I’m sure they were forged from some priceless pewter alloy, manufactured in Thailand or Cambodia, later sold in a neighborhood little league trophy store.

When I recall the times I held a tennis racket on the hardcourt as my father instructed me on the subtle nuances of the game, the grand total adds up to zero. Now that I think about, I never even saw him play tennis. But I did stuff marbles, Hot Wheels, and Planet of the Apes action figures inside his sports mementos. In that regard, we experienced a super strong father-son connection. That’s OK. I’m sure nobody taught Dr. Zaius how to serve an ace either.

I love music, I just don’t play it.

An acoustic guitar sits on a stand in my basement, mocking me for my inability to harmoniously pluck, strum, or pick its strings. I once took lessons. I can now indiscriminately butcher basic guitar chords. It looks so easy when I watch others perform. I’m sure they practiced countless hours to get where they are today. My hours of toil felt more like wearing shoes on the wrong feet than musical mastery.

A keyboard lies unceremoniously shoved back inside its original container in a storage room. It may have originally been mine, but I never really tickled its keys. Michael Row the Boat Ashore and Puff the Magic Dragon played on one hand was as far as I got. My daughter took piano lessons for a couple of years and performed in two recitals, but it was never really her thing either. Likewise my son took guitar lessons, but that spark never turned into a flame.

I never played tennis.

I understand that my father told people I would become a formidable tennis star back in my youth. I used to throw tennis balls against a brick wall on the back of our house, but I never employed a racket or navigated shots over a net. I don’t suppose that personified me as tennis prodigy material. Bored kid with an absent dad, maybe. It’s a wonder I never got into more trouble.

My mother did sign me up for sports. I played youth football one year with kids my age. The bracket was called ankle biters. After the ankle biter year, we were divided up by weight. I played with boys 3 years older than me. That resulted in a broken arm before the season ever began and ended my football career until high school. Pop Warner football was so gladiatorial back in the ’70’s. Fortunately basketball teams were not selected based on physical size. I played with friends my age. I managed to break 2 bones over the years, but I still enjoyed it more.

My nephew is musically talented.

The onus of carrying on the instrument playing gene may squarely rest with him. As I recall, he can sing, pluck a guitar, and play the piano. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he played other musical instruments as well. Heck, he’s even toured around the world playing in a band. He definitely carried my mother’s melodic torch farther than any of us.

My wife played the french horn in high school. It sounds like any other brass instrument, but adds a snooty flair at the end of each note. Actually I have no idea what a french horn sounds like. I don’t think they garner much attention from modern day music. However, if the right artist adopts its sound, the french horn could become the next hot thing on the country and western scene or cast a new mold in the hip hop world. Impossible n’est pas français!

I taught my wife how to play basketball.

I never fully prepared her for a successful run in the WNBA, but she picked up the basics. She truly has a smothering defense. In the mid ’90’s she’d run up to me on the court, wrap her arms around me, and yell “hugging”. This is not sanctioned in any United States basketball camp and I certainly never taught her this move. However, I never dissuaded the technique either. Games should be fun and basketball is a contact sport anyhow.

Horse is more our game. Sure, it does not incorporate her defensive abilities, but not everybody gets to be Dennis Rodman. Sometimes sports go hugless. Our last horse competition occurred during the 2020 lockdown. My wife, daughter, and I found an open court at a local elementary school. In keeping with pandemic pandering, a woman drove up behind my parked truck and wrote down my tag. How dare we play basketball outside with members of the same household. We might have inadvertently infected dozens of nearby prairie dogs.

Mysteriously, neither parent pushed their passion.

While I was a kid, my mother played the piano everyday, even if for only a moment. None of her children shared that mindset or musical panache. Maybe piano was her secret talent and she didn’t want to share that with us. I doubt it. My oldest brother played tennis, but he was it. Perhaps my father found it so exhausting trying to mentor him that he gave up hope on us younger kids. A more likely scenario than the first, but I still say no.

Maybe I should have hammered out notes on the ivories with a tennis racket or used the piano as a practice wall for my Penn’s and Wilson’s. Perhaps either parent would have taught me to use that particular instrument correctly. Instead the only keyboard I use is on a laptop and the only tennis ball in my house belongs to the dog. In that, no mysteries lie.

When My Cigarette Smoking Role Model Made Sense

May 11, 2022 / Big Joe

Some role models smoke.

It’s funny to say, because that’s not considered role model behavior. It doesn’t matter who you are. Even Barack Obama was a tobacco smoker, and he ran the United States for 8 years. Naturally, that habit stayed mostly hidden from public view. Maybe he would have related to more republicans if he bummed a smoke from John Boehner and puffed away with him on the Capitol steps or the South Lawn. It’s a nice thought, but I’m likely over-romanticizing cigarettes and underestimating politic’s oppositional resistance.

Hollywood stars and recording artists are far less preoccupied with hiding their perceptual flaws from the masses. I suppose it looks cooler to blow smoke as a musician or an actor than a politician since elected officials constantly worry about public image and trending poll numbers. That’s incredibly ironic considering politicians spend hours upon hours blowing smoke into orifices predominantly unseen.

My high school vice principal, Mr. Travis, smoked avidly. He also fought in World War II as a United States Marine and always struck me as an undercover badass. Mr. Travis was one of the kindest men that ever scarred the crap out of me. He never did anything specific to earn that distinction. I just sensed it best to stay on his good side. And I did.

He smoked a cigarette cooler than anybody I’ve known before or since. He turned his smoking hand palm up and held it with all five fingers. This practice took on the appearance of inhaling an illicit substance. Maybe seeing my vice principal take a drag like that at the high school football game in front of the whole world without any hesitation gave him an untouchable persona that I admired and wished to attain. He probably held his cigarette palm up because his sergeant did it that way on Iwo Jima. Semper Fi, baby.

My brother, Bill, unashamedly smoked cigarettes.

He smoked cigarettes with a drive and an intensity that is best described as unadulterated enthusiasm. Bill was not a smoker, but rather a tobacco zealot. He enjoyed it so much, it made non-smokers want to buy ashtrays. Cigarettes became his natural extensions. It was almost as if his fingers were meant to emit plumes of white and gray tobacco smoke throughout my childhood home.

We’re talking about the late 1970’s and 1980’s. Tobacco smoking ranked as a fairly mainstream indulgence during this era. We still looked upon drinking and driving as an accepted consequence of leading a normal life. Besides, 9 out of 10 medical doctors recommended unfiltered Camel cigarettes. Vehicle manufacturers built automobiles equipped with a standard ashtray and lighter. Secondhand what?

Bill never understood a non-smoking section in restaurants and bars. I’m sure the thought of being locked down on an airplane for an extended period without his smokes seemed intolerable. He felt smoking to be an unalienable right afforded every United States citizen, regardless of location. He definitely advocated the right to smoke tobacco and never wavered from that stance.

Unlike so many tobacco users, Bill never attempted to kick the habit or cut back nicotine inhalations. He never even talked about. He thoroughly enjoyed smoking and made no excuses for his preferred pastime. He never chewed Nicorette gum or wore a nicotine patch. He didn’t switch to cigarettes with less tar or better filters, as if healthy options existed. He just just proudly puffed away on his menthol cigarettes.

Bill never considered himself a role model.

He used to tell me that he was a role model for what not to do. I never felt that way about him, but to say he led a colorful life feels inadequate. He’s likely one of the few people in U.S. Park Police history whose Virginia arrest for unlawfully firing a handgun across the Potomac River at the state of Maryland resulted in a United States naval career. The legal system works in mysterious ways.

During my junior year in high school, a nasty car accident in Virginia Beach put Bill in an ICU for several weeks. He lay bedridden with a myriad of broken bones, most notably a skull fracture that left him less than lucid. He made two requests. Sneak him a cigarette and “shuffle” his nuts. Our oldest brother, Bob, told him that the nurse said he could go in the hallway, smoke a cigarette, and come back in and tell Bill how good it was. This infuriated Bill which didn’t bode well for him getting his second request done by us. Nursing has its challenges.

He went a month or two in the ICU, not smoking. Once transferred into a normal hospital ward and able to wheelchair himself outside, he resumed smoking. Some patients might have taken this opportunity to kick the habit, but not Bill. After all, he’s not just a smoker, but a tobacco zealot. This was nothing more than an unscripted and unwanted break from something that made him happy. It’s good to be who you are, without reservations.

Bill was hardly averse to smoking non-over the counter substances either. In the past, society largely considered smoking marijuana a taboo. Of course weed was illegal and cigarettes were not. Ironically, I believe current societal acceptance for marijuana smoking increased over tobacco while also gaining an enhanced legal footing. Marijuana attitudes largely reversed, which would have made Bill somewhat of a progressive in this arena. Aren’t forward thinkers role models?

Bill passed away on January 21, 2011.

He died from lung cancer, which was caused by, you guessed it, climate change. If there had been a few more ice bergs in this crazy world, I’d still have my brother around to make me cough inside his smoke filled automobile. Perhaps if I’d aggressively lobbied for polar icecap awareness he might still be alive.

I don’t personally smoke, but if I ever got my hands on one of those old ashtrays from my childhood home, I’d consider it a family heirloom. I’d definitely display it in a fairly obvious spot in my house. Maybe I’d retro fit it with beer nuts and put it on my basement bar top.

Although there were definitely certain lessons to be learned from his choices and pitfalls to avoid, I never considered Bill the antithesis of a role model. He had a big heart that he wore on his sleeve. I always knew where I stood with him, as he hardly ever pulled a punch. I came to respect that blunt honesty, in all of its rawness. Life isn’t always unicorns and pixie dust. However, that may depend on what you’re smoking.

The Valueless Visit We Ignorantly Ignore

April 24, 2022 / Big Joe

A maid visits our office every Tuesday

I purposely chose the word visit. It seems more like a stopover than an actual work related event. She does clean the toilets. Quite frankly this is the most important part of her visit for me. That’s the one thing none of us ever clean, but the one thing that always needs cleaning.

Sometimes she vacuums. Every other week she mops the floor in the two bathrooms and the kitchenette. We wouldn’t clean those areas either, so her visit is still good from that perspective. She collects garbage from the trashcans, too. This is not a figurative or literal heavy lift, but since she’s visiting, why not.

She never steps inside our offices. We place our trashcans outside the door if we want her to empty them and replace the trash bag. It’s an unspoken agreement. Mostly because she doesn’t really speak English, but I don’t necessarily want her loitering through my personal work area either.

This wasn’t always the case.

She used to enter for an alleged dusting and an abbreviated vacuuming, which were never overly productive visits. Once she knocked over a dead cactus plant from my office windowsill. I do not normally use my office to store dead things. The cactus needed little water, so I hoped it was just in a dormant period and still alive. I’m fairly certain it was not.

The maid put all doubt to rest after she applied the laws of gravity to it. Most certainly a mistake and entirely fixable. After all, she’s a maid. Cleaning is her gig. The pot was filled with dry dirt and a cactus skeleton, may he rest in peace. The plant and container were both quite small. Likewise the mess was of little significance.

She apologized in broken English. In broken Spanish, I assured her that it was no big deal. Things happen on visits. She briefly scurried about the spill site. This was normal since her visits are more based on speed than thoroughness. On non-floor mopping days, she visits for about 15 minutes. Mop days can reach upwards of 25-30 minutes. Toilet cleanliness is the sole measurement for performance review, though.

Not too long after her departure on cactus day, I glanced over to the area where Humpty Dumpty was pushed. Yes, the pot was back on the window sill. The majority of the dirt was back in the pot. By saying majority, yes, some dirt remained on the carpet. Some was also on the baseboard. Some was on the windowsill, too.

This was odd because, remember, she’s a maid. She vacuums. She dusts. She collects garbage. This is all encapsulated in the definition of cleaning. All I could think was “what an odd visit”. I vacuumed the dirt within a matter of a few seconds. It took longer to get the vacuum out and put it away. Like I said, small plant, small pot, no big deal.

Not too long afterwards, I realized visiting replaced working.

It’s not about doing a great job. It’s not even about doing a decent job. It’s really just about showing up. Do I prioritize visits? It’s not the quality of the visit or how long I stay. It’s being there, seen or unseen. Productivity and job satisfaction are not really part of the equation.

The Covid pandemic certainly drove this point home. There are some private and government offices that have still not required their employees to start revisiting the office. However, they have visited the notion of remote working for the remainder of their adult lives. With current gas prices, I can’t blame them.

Still an occasional visit would be nice. It’s not like you have to do anything special during your visit. Just show up and flit about the place for a brief time and then pack up your anxieties and head back home. You never know. Maybe during your absence, the powers that be slapped a fresh coat of paint on the walls to spruce things up and entice more visitations. Color can be so transformative.

My home office is burnt orange. Nobody in our family attended the University of Texas. It’s actually rather shocking that my Nebraskan wife choose this color. Husker red is more her hue. But not for remote working. I enjoy the burnt orange and she hasn’t repainted it, so all must be aesthetically pleasing. Hook ‘em horns.

Despite its connection to the Longhorns, our home office color works well for us. Years ago we painted it light blue. It wasn’t bad, but neither of us loved it. Color is funny. What feels appealing one moment can turn into a “what was I thinking” moment, in short order.

Empirically, all color is defined as the way objects reflect or emit light.

Black is the complete absorption or absence of light. White fully reflects and scatters all visible wavelengths of light. I read that, technically, neither black nor white are colors, but merely shades that augment colors. Huh? By that definition, a zebra is a colorless animal. What about Dalmatians? I’m sure both species protest such characterizations.

Have you ever noticed that most office space is painted white or some bland, marshmallow variant? If you work in the government, you may see battleship gray as an option, too. Neither are particularly inspirational. Conversely, don’t we want to feel inspired while we work? Could color make a significant impact?

I’m certain productivity levels would increase qualitatively if we broadened the spectrum. Perhaps employers should conduct pigment parties, where employees select their own colors, provided they’re also willing to roll it and brush it on themselves. Their office, their option, their labor. Invest in some paint and watch your profits soar.

We’re talking about ownership. We desire to have a say in how our worksite looks. If you’ve been working from home doing the pandemic shuffle, isn’t your wall color one you chose? Maybe not if your renting, but that’s really just defined as a longterm visit anyway.

But that’s not the point.

Would visits lessen and employment productivity improve if we personalize work a tad? This may not be an option in a hospital or a mechanic’s garage, which are ironically similar. Professionals tinkering with parts, trying to calculate why something doesn’t operate correctly. Regardless, let those peeps paint the break room. No harm, no foul. Of course prolonged breaks may become problematic, but at least you could easily find them.

Of course, this does not effect our maid, whose work is clearly defined as a visitation. Maybe I could get her opinion on swatches for the restrooms and kitchenette. Anything would be better than snow blind white. And maybe she’d visit for longer than 30 minutes. She can still go through the motions, but with a little more zest and enthusiasm. The dead plants would be so appreciative.

The Intolerable Inequities of Genetic Code and Metallic Construction

April 7, 2022 / Big Joe

I’m bald by choice.

The other option is sporting a receding hairline and bare spots. A few unruly follicles and cowlicks might have held out for an unplanned and unlikely growth spurt, but that was never really in the cards. Pulling the trigger to shave my head didn’t come with any sort of fear and loathing. At least not in Denver. I never dragged a razor over my scalp in Las Vegas.

Some bald guys are hat wearing fashionistas. I don’t think this is a poor decision. Anybody that sunburned their head will emphatically promote the practicality of cranial coverings. Outside of baseball caps and winter beanies, I do not own headgear classified as apparel or an accessory item. I’m sure I could pull off a fedora, but I’m more of a “what not to wear” kinda guy. My focus pivots around practicality not Prada.

A hat can act as a buffer zone.

At 6 foot 5 inches I’ve lacerated, bruised, and otherwise traumatized my grape more often than I can recall. There are great advantages to height, but my skull scarring attests to its pitfall as well. It’s the unsung villain of being tall. No adult male under the United States average height of 5′ 9″ gives a hoot, though. They discount our dome damage while we covet their leg room.

My favorite is the doorway that’s not vertically adjusted for its diminished clearance due to a bottom step. None was more damaging than a New York State Emergency Management mobile command center that I stepped into. It seriously needed a “duck” sign on its only door. I’m fairly certain this was an OSHA violation of some sort. They failed to management this potential emergency.

This was a trailer packed with a wide array of sophisticated, high-end technology, but woefully lacking regarding human anatomy integration. At least for us above the national height average. To make matters worse, the trailer doorway was constructed with aluminum.

Aluminum trailer doorways are incredibly thin material. This finely smelted metal is also, not surprisingly, quite sharp. It’s like lining an entranceway with dull paring knives. Not necessarily dangerous unless an appropriate amount of pressure is applied. Jamming my noggin into the top of the 6 foot doorframe upon entrance is considered an appropriate amount of pressure. I now know this.

To say it hurt understates the obvious.

The wound site bled and oozed for days. I’m not sure a hat, functional or fashionable, would have made a difference. The injury was so personally significant, I despised anything related to New York State or City for approximately three years. I almost developed a post traumatic stress disorder reaction whenever I saw a trailer. If it wasn’t for beer cans, I might still hate aluminum based on this experience alone.

Even before this cranial catastrophe I’d considered cans the new bottles. Cans take up less refrigerator space, cans are lighter than bottles, cans cool quicker than bottles, you can drink from cans poolside without property management recourse, and nobody ever shattered a can after accidentally knocking it off the counter. Cans provide a safer and more convenient alternative.

For this very reason I believe beer, when consumed from a can, is largely a therapeutic practice.

Over the last three years, beer cans and beer consumption desensitized me to aluminum. As a matter of fact, I’m not afraid of any kind of metal anymore. Machete’s and swords don’t even phase me. Drinking beer from a can has truly been a cathartic experience that I will continue into the foreseeable future.

I still swig beer from a bottle or tap on occasion, but the aluminum can possesses curative properties the other two sorely lack. However, I made significant progress through transference. By pouring a beer can into a frosted pint glass, I can associate aluminum’s psychological restorative properties onto this new vessel. Glass, pint or otherwise, can heal.

Subsequently, this heightened state of cognition regarding beer poured into a glass shifted to other beverages.

For several months I researched this phenomenon by drinking bourbon from a glass. It’s almost a double whammy as I pour the bourbon from a glass bottle into a glass tumbler. Further research is necessary to ascertain the merits of other liquors and wine.

I hoped by the end of these studies I would reach a level of self-actualization. Through undaunted quasi-clinical trials with alcohol, aluminum cans, frosted pints, and glass tumblers, I yearned to discover the fulfillment of my hidden talents and potentialities. Abraham Maslow would be so proud.

However, as I was just about to complete this groundbreaking personal discovery, an incident occurred. While stepping up onto a landing at my in-laws house, I inadvertently rammed my bare head into the wooden doorframe. Interestingly, this coincided during some final field research with aluminum beer cans and glasses of bourbon. A causal effect is yet determined.

This step had been in the house as long as I’d been in the family. I crossed over this landing many times. For some unknown reason on this particular evening I misjudged the step in accordance with my head clearance to the doorframe. Although it did not cut as deeply as the aluminum doorframe, the wood still managed to gouge a decent sized area, along with jamming my neck in the process. The headache added a cherry on top.

It appears that years of self-diagnosis, research, and therapeutic process may have been lost. They say whenever one door closes, another one opens. Just make sure you can fit through it before you take that next fateful step. Unless you’re that 5’9″ average height. In that case you can just go pound sand since your head is clear of any such abuse.