Game On

This kind of correlates with Monday’s post that featured a bit about how kids now get graduation celebrations at every interval of their scholastic careers and trophies basically just for participating in sports.  I think that dilutes the importance of actually accomplishing anything like graduating high school or college, or winning some kind of tournament or championship. 

But closer to home, I wonder what the prevailing theory is on this:  Grownups, do you let kids win when you play against them at home?  For me, I tend to think that you shouldn’t.  (Yes, this is a post from another childless douche with big opinions on how other people’s kids should be raised.)

I may not have kids, but I used to be one and my dad never let us win at anything.  I remember being in maybe 1^st or 2^nd grade and I had this little tic-tac-toe game with pegs on a board and I must have played my dad about a zillion games and I never once beat him.

As we got older, played a lot of ball games with each other.  We almost always had a basketball hoop in the driveway, no matter where we lived.  We didn’t necessarily play one-on-one, but we played a lot of H-O-R-S-E.  Dad still kicked our asses. 

Now Dad was not a tall guy… he was 5’8” in his best days and has been shrinking ever since.  I was taller than he was by 9^th grade.  By the next year, I was a lot taller and it still took me a real tussle to beat him at H-O-R-S-E.  He’d just sit back in the far corner of our “court” and sink one two-hand set shot after another.

Sometimes I’d say, “You better watch out, Dad, I’m getting bigger than you.”

He’s say, “Taller.  You’re getting taller than me.  You’ll never be bigger.”

There was a time in the late 70’s where racquetball got real big.  We got a family membership at a new local racquetball club so Dad had the opportunity to kick our asses at a whole new sport.  He, my brother Ed and I would play these 3-way “cut-throat” games and between the two of us, still couldn’t beat him.  He’d always hit these kill shots that would just die in the corner and there was nothing we could do about it.  It was like the tee-shirts used to say, “Age and treachery will always overcome youth and exuberance.”

But we stuck at it and began to learn how to compensate.  By this time, I was about 6’3” and could cover a lot of ground, and eventually, I could hit my own kill shots.  Plus, I could play closer to the wall and he would have a hard time getting the balls over my head.  (I still had some hops, back then.)

Finally, I won a game.  Man, that was huge to me.  I finally beat the Old Man at something.  Soon after, my brother starting winning as well.  And shortly after that, Dad stopped playing us.  It was like he was saying, “My work here is done.  Now go forth and whup ass.”

See, this was a real milestone to me and it never could have happened if he had just let us win at things throughout our childhood.  Perhaps it’s just wanting to reinforce the notion that the parents are always one step ahead.  If I’d always won at things, regardless of smarts or skill, perhaps it would have lowered him in my eyes.  Next thing I know, I’m Little Prince Shithead, acting all dismissive of my parents and being a general pain in the ass because I think I’m all that.

I’ve seen it happen before.  Back when I was married, (cold chill runs down back,) I had a stepson to deal with.  As I’ve mentioned before, the kid and his mom had some real problems with each other.  And to add to the stack, the kid always had to win at everything or else he’d whine and cry.  And when he “won”, he’d gloat like crazy.  Obviously, that grew to become a conflict that colored everything any time we tried to play a game, from street hockey to Monopoly.

I mean, if Future Ex or I landed on Boardwalk or Park Place, he’d throw a fit if we dared buy it before he could.    If we rolled the dice and our move landed us past his property, he’d whine and sulk.  And if he wasn’t winning soon enough, he’d start cheating.

I have no doubt that kid’s in therapy somewhere today. 

Anyway, now I’m at the point where I’m playing with my nephews whenever I come to visit.  I’m not sure what my brother does, but I still use the same philosophy my dad did.

Last weekend, I was playing football with 4-year old Sammy, our game being that he had the ball and had to run past me.  The first play, he came at me and I lowered my forearm and blasted him into the ground, then jumped on him.

Nah, just kidding… I’d just move laterally and reach out to scoop him up, turn him upside down, put him down again and stuff the football up the back of his shirt, to send him back to try again.  It was fun for both of us.  But I still was not about to let him run by me.  Even when big newly graduated brother Daniel tried to come in and block for him.  Then I’d latch onto Daniel, push him back into Sammy, then grab them both up and take the ball.  Old age and treachery…

Daniel and Sammy play ball on the OSU campus before the Navy game last September.

They got the last laugh, though.  I was totally wiped out Monday morning.  Youth and exuberance does have its benefits.  I have no doubt that one day, I will not be able to catch Daniel if he decides to run around me.  Or Sammy will give me a shoulder and knock me flat on my back.  But Uncle Bluz never dives. They’re going to have to earn it.  .

It’s already happened to me once before.  My buddy Rik’s daughter Kyrie once challenged me to a race.  This was in 2003 and she was about 8.  She was playing soccer and thought she was pretty quick, so as we were sitting around the back yard having a few beers early one evening, (me, not her) she said, “Uncle Bluz, I bet I can beat you in a race around the house.”

I figured, my long legs versus her little ones would be no contest.  Little did I know, this was yet another time that kid played me for a sucker.

We took off and as we hit the first corner dead even, I realized that this might be a problem because I don’t corner so well.  She scooted around the corner like she was on a monorail.  I caught up by the 2^nd corner then zing, she catapulted around that one too.  The 3^rd corner was downright ugly.

Have you ever seen one of those nature shows where the cheetah is running down one of those little dinner-antelopes and right as the cheetah pounces, the antelope zigs and the cheetah goes rolling ass over elbows across the savannah?  Well that was me.  I hit the third corner, my feet shot out from under me and I went flying along the grass like I’d just been thrown from a moving car.  Kyrie won, walking in.

Obviously I blamed it on the slick grass.  But I knew not to race Kyrie anymore, unless it was a short race and there were no turns.  (And I got a head start.)

So now I throw it to the parents… Do you let your kids win at stuff?  Or do you make them work to beat the old man (or lady)?

How Did We Get Here From THERE?

I got this email the other day that had a series of old magazine ads.  Wow, have we ever come a long way in our national attitudes... most of us, anyway.  There are still pockets of resistance here and there, but whattya gonna do?  So let's look at some of these ads... they can't be that bad, can they?  I mean, this is America!
(Note: you can click any of these images to see a larger version.)

Wow... right out of the gate... woman as "doormat."  Or is it "conquest?"  I can't even tell what this is an ad for... (Stupid small print)  Leggs?  How does this sell pantyhose?

Jon Benet Ramsey - The Pre-quel.  Coming to a molester near you.

Two smoking Santas... you wonder if he ever singed his beard.  "If it's good enough for a beloved fictional character, it's good enough for me."

"When Dr. Emphysema tells you to 'turn your head and cough', he beats you to it."   Personally, I don't trust anyone that looks like Spiro Agnew.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!  And you're supposed to BUY something that has this picture in the ad???  Someone's going to have to rock me to sleep, tonight.

"Yes, I can squeeze a bowling ball out from my lady-parts, but I can't open this lil' old ketchup bottle!  Please help me, Del Monte!"

Just like the Lutherans... hooking them while they're young.  I'm betting there's some Seagrams in there too.

Whoa!  Quoting the ad: "...if he discovers you're still taking chances on getting flat, stale coffee... woe be unto you!"  Woe be unto you???  Who's running that ad agency, Leviticus?  Did they really spank over coffee back in the day?  I never saw that on Ozzie and Harriet.  Although I suspect Desi might have turned Lucy over his knee a time or two.  

Ooh, dusting in heels... Crazy Brunette, is that your grandmother?  I love the dusting apron.

This one really isn't that bad of an idea.  It's just very sneaky.  The jewelery business has been using this angle for years.

I'm only including this one because I used to collect beer cans, back before I was old enough to empty them myself.  And the flat-top can was always a big find.  Now admit it... did you really know that you used to have to use a can opener (called a "churchkey") to open a beer?  (Fan, Dog, Bagger, I know you know...)

I wish you could see the type on this one, but it's an ad for... get this... Lysol-Brand Douche!  Ahhhh-hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaa.  I can just see it... "Oh my, I don't feel so fresh... ~pshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhht~  Yay!  I feel so much better now!  I can tear down these giant cobwebs my husband somehow spun. Where's my apron?  Where are my heels?"

Oh.  Yeah.  She'll follow your heinous smoke-breath anywhere.  Like to a dentist's office to clean those second-hand yellow teeth.

But then again, it worked on Sugar Snow.

And you wonder where all the "boy bands" got their start... By putting their heads together around a Bradley Group Shower.  Why didn't they just call it, "Sausage-Fest Plumbing"?

Graduation Party of Nine

This weekend, I went to a graduation party for my nephew Daniel.  After much hard work, sweat and toil, he graduated from… 5^th grade.  They had a big to-do during a church service for the entire graduating class of nine students; they got diplomas, gave speeches and offered gifts back to their school.  For passing the 5^th grade. 

You know what I got to do after passing 5^th grade?  I got to go to 6^th grade.  Whooptee freakin’ do!  Maybe I’m just a bitter old man now, but I got along just fine with only two graduations… high school and college.  What’s with the increments?

Is it really necessary that every minor or non-accomplishment that our children make requires a plaque or trophy?  Dammit, we were supposed to keep out eyes on the big prize… you graduate high school, you got the ceremony, the party, and got to be King for a Day, and tried to get laid.

It’s the same with Little League… I played a half dozen years of Little League and I was pretty good.  You know how many trophies I have?  Zero.  Nada.  Zippo.  Only the players on a team that won some kind of championship or made an all-star team got a trophy.

Now everyone gets a trophy just for playing, because we don’t want The Children to suffer from low self-esteem.  This prepares The Children for the future how?  God forbid one day they successfully make a photocopy at the office and there’s not a framed certificate waiting for them when they return.

But I didn’t really even want to talk about this.  I actually wanted to talk about the graduation itself, because I’m really proud of my nephew and he’s an amazing kid.  This was his last year at this school.  It’s a Lutheran school that only goes up to 5^th grade, so next year he’s going to a Catholic school.  My parents came into town for the occasion and we all went to the service on Sunday.

That’s right… Mr. Darwinfish had to go to church.  I don’t know how the rafters didn’t come tumbling down. 

Unfortunately I got stuck sitting next to my brother’s mother-in-law… his very churchy mother-in-law.  In fact, she is often referred to as “The Church Lady,” not only because she resembles the Dana Carvey SNL character physically, but in demeanor as well.

She’s always going on about the Lord or the Bible or how good things would be if only it could be like it was back in 1949.  And she’s always trying to stick me with the Jesus needle, usually with others around.  I don’t make a big deal about what I think of religion around my nephews.  Their parents put them in private schools and it’s their call.  I stay out of it.  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let the Church Lady use me for a punching bag.

A couple years ago, she was nattering to Daniel about the Bible while the poor kid was trying to watch cartoons or something, when she turns to me and goes, “Bluz, do YOU know what happened at Mt. Sinai?”

I said, “Yeah, I had my heart procedure done there.”

That shut her up for a minute or two.  I knew the answer she wanted, but I really didn’t want to play.  Which brings me to yesterday.

When she sat down beside me, she tried to give me the bulletin that had all the songs and prayers and stuff.  I said “no thanks, I don’t need one.”  Silly me, I thought that would be it. 

Ten minutes later, she hands it to me again.  I thought she wanted me to pass it down to my mom so I started to do so, then she says, “No, that’s for you.”

Again, I said, “I don’t want one.”

She said, “Well how will you know what the responses are?”

I said, “I’m not responding.”

That stopped the interrogation for the day.  Unfortunately, all I really did was give her something new to cluck about at Bridge Club this week.  Not that I give a shit…

I’m sorry but there’s zero chance of me standing up there and mouthing a bunch of crap that not only do I not believe in, but things with which I actively disagree.  Even when I was still marginally in the Catholic Church, I never felt comfortable speaking the group prayers.  And forget singing.  I don’t sing… ever.  And if I did, it would be drunken karaoke, not these church dirges.

My brother always calls Lutheranism “Catholic Lite”, now with less guilt.  What he didn’t say was that they do tend to go on…  I swear, every song they did, they had to go through five freakin’ verses.  At least the Catholics know how to burn through a service in an hour… They keep the songs short.

Next, I got to sit through the most offensive sermon I’ve heard since the one where they denounced “Monty Python’s Life of Brian” because it dared to suggest people think for themselves.  The point of this spiel was that in the entire world, there are only two religions and two Gods:  one that comes straight from God (Christianity, of course) and one that is man-made (everything else). 

I’d guess the Jews and Muslims might have something to say about that… quite possibly it might even be similar, but the two labels would be switched around.  I just couldn’t get over the audacity to presume that only those in their little Christianity Club, this Jesus-Come-Lately group that is a fraction as old as many other ancient religions, can claim divinity. 

They really do the hard-sell there, especially to the children, and they use all the psychological tricks to boot.  All the children were right up front, directly in front of the pulpit.  The pastor was way up high, looming over their head, speaking from on high.  And of course he was mic’d, so his voice would boom.  What child would dare question anything he says? 

Another thing that I keyed in on was when the Pastor went on about thanking the parents, saying how they must have felt it was vital to their children’s interest to attend this Lutheran school and hear his message.

I think I’d make room for the notion that maybe a few parents were just trying to keep their kids out of the zoo that is the Baltimore Public School system.  But that’s just me.  Even I might choose a little religion for my kids over the daily beatings, drugs and criminal activity that take place in the local public schools.  So don’t get ahead of yourself, eh, padre?

After a solid hour and twenty, the service finally came to an end.  Daniel was chosen to go up and read the statement describing the class gift to the school, and the boy nailed it.  Then after much picture-taking, we all retired to the basement area for lunch, where the kids could finally relax and be kids again.

They began rolling a slide show that covered the kids’ years together that culminated in the pictures from this spring’s trip to New York City.  They spent three days there, and got to go up in the Empire State Building, ride the Staten Island Ferry, go to the Natural History Museum and Central Park, and many other cool things.

Later, the kids got to go up and read a thing about what their favorite memories from the school were.  Most prominently mentioned the New York trip, and almost everyone emphasized how much they liked going there with their friends.

What really struck me was how much these kids like each other.  I don’t know if it’s the byproduct of the religious curriculum or of having only nine in the class, but it was quite remarkable.  There were five girls and four boys; one of each was African-American.  As their teacher gave out the class awards, they huddled together at the side of the makeshift stage.  Boys and girls, black and white, they talked together, had their arms around each other, laughing all together for the last time they’d have the chance.

I actually choked up a little.  If only more kids got to have this experience, maybe there would be a lot less hate in the world.  And when hate did raise its ugly head, there would be more kids prepared to smack it back down because they knew better than to believe it.

Maybe the Lutherans are onto something after all.

 Congratulations to the 5^th Grade Class of 2010.  (My nephew is on the far left.)

Eventually we escaped back to my brother’s place, where the party began in earnest and we could concentrate on the other important things in life.

Award Dance Part 3

Obviously there’s no accounting for taste in the blogosphere because somehow, I managed to receive another award. 

Sharp-eyed viewers might have spotted it on my side bar earlier this week, but here it is front and center, courtesy of frequent commenter and very cool blogger Woman: Confused and her blog "Musings of a Confused Woman".  Check her out… when she’s not mining the depths of her inner turmoil, she’s telling bawdy bedroom stories; very much in the vein of a Versatile Blogger!

Now these awards always seem to come with rules, which I customarily break.  One of them is to give out a bunch more awards, but that always makes me queasy… I hate having to pick and choose among blog friends and rather than risk anyone feeling left out, I prefer to leave the whole step out.

The other rule is to tell 7 things about me.  OK, I guess I can do that, although if you’ve been following along for any length of time, I’ve already blogged about eleventy hillion jillion things about myself.  But what the heck, what’s 7 more?

1.      I am the oldest child of 2 oldest children, making me the Alpha Grandchild of my family… the Trailblazer… the Pioneer.  And it must have been pretty stressful handling all that responsibility because…

2.      I’ve had 2 heart surgeries.  No major cutting, but I’ve had a catheter ablation to correct chronic atrial fibrillation.   (That’s when they snake a catheter from a blood vessel in your groin (yowza!) all the way up into your heart, then burn the renegade electrical packets that trigger the irregular heartbeat.)  Then a couple years later, I had another one.  This story is definitely a post in itself.  And to think, I only even went to the doctor because my hands hurt.  Because I also have…

3.      Delayed Pressure Urticaria.  That’s a form of hives that appear the day after I have sustained contact with a hard or sharp cornered surface.  They usually go away by the following day.  I KNOW… Bizarre… but very painful, especially when they occur on the hands and feet.  I went to the doctor to find out what the hell was wrong with me and they picked up the irregular heartbeat.  And I’m like, that’s fine, but what about my freakin’ hands??  I first got them the year I turned 40… It’s like, “Happy Birthday to You”, then BANG, you start falling the hell apart.

4.      Everyone has had favorite bands, yes?  I’ve had a very weird progression of favorite bands.

Early Junior High: Elton John  (all over the radio, all the time.)

Later Junior High: KC and the Sunshine Band (saw them on Mike Douglas Show and was knocked out… they moved like they were like the Temptations with horns.)

Early High School: Abba (don’t laugh… those chicks were hawt!)

Later High School: Southern Rock… (Charlie Daniels, Molly Hatchet, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Blackfoot, the Outlaws… I was digging it all.)

Early College: Meat Loaf.  (To me, greatest rock singer ever.)

Later College to present day: AC/DC  (Greatest party band ever.)

5.      I have 254 DVDs, 409 rock CDs, (most by any 1 group: 22 AC/DC, followed by 12 each of Meat Loaf and George Thorogood).  I have seen 104 concerts.  I’ve been to 159 professional sports events, including 66 football games and 81 baseball games.  And I know all these things because…

6.      I am a Spreadsheet Monster.  I don’t know why I feel the need to quantify everything I do, but it’s always been there, since I was a kid sorting my baseball and football cards.  If they would have had Excel back then, I’m sure I would have had tracking sheets on those too.

7.      I love rhymes and wordplay.  I know you probably already know that but it’s one of my favorite things.  I was reminded of this the other day when I found another old email exchange I had with my friend, FP (not the sitcom friend this time) that started at “normal” before skidding out of control, as you’ll see:

I believe it started with me not going to some kind of party.

FP: Party pooper.  Every party needs a party pooper...that's you!

Bluz: You can only be a party pooper if you're at the party... ;oP

FP: Well, you can poop the party if you don't go

Bluz: That would be some looong distance pooping.  (the party was in Delaware)

FP: Long enough to make you pooped?

Bluz: Absolutely... so pooped, I'd need to be scooped.

FP: Scooped with a pooper scooper.

Bluz: That was the idea... preferable not by a Trooper.  (and we’re off…)

FP: Yeah, after the trooper scoops you with the party pooper scooper, he could make you become a stooper.

Bluz: So if I'm large enough to need a oversized pooper scooper, and have had too much beer, then the Trooper would be a stooper using the super pooper scooper on my stupor.

FP: And end up on a TV Blooper.

Bluz: And if he had been spying on me beforehand and he played basketball , he'd be a Snooper Hooper Trooper Stooper using the super pooper scooper on my stupor blooper.

FP: Yeah, well maybe you can avoid this whole snooper hooper trooper stooper super party pooper scooper on your stupor blooper by going maybe instead to Hershey Park on the Super Dooper Looper?

Bluz: I'll buy a new car so I can avoid this whole snooper hooper trooper stooper super party pooper scooper on my stupor blooper and take my Mini-Cooper to the Super Dooper Looper.

FP: That would be super de dooper!

Bluz: The last one made your head explode, didn't it?

FP: It still does not exclude you from being a party pooper.

Bluz: If I act the fool, will I be a smarty party pooper?

FP: No, a farty party pooper.

Bluz: A wise guy who's eaten too many beans followed by a lemon pie... a farty tarty smarty party pooper.

FP: And the wise guy's name is Marty.

Bluz: A stout fellow… Hearty Marty the farty tarty smarty party pooper.

I believe that’s when her head exploded.

Solid Rock and Holy Rollers

As I mentioned in the previous post, the place we got a flat tire, while on the way to Cincinnati, was about 5 miles shy of the Solid Rock Church, which is famous for its 62-foot “drowning Jesus” sculpture. It has been scaring the life out of little children trapped in the back seats of cars for many years now.

Shot taken by me, screaming up I-75, as evidenced by the image of my camera in the side mirror.  A miracle?

I put some thoughts down back in 2006 after I first saw it and I figured now would be a good time to dig it back up and kick it around again.

As Christmas season rolls up on us once again, thoughts turn to all matters holy, which leaves me pondering the perennial question, “What the hell is wrong with people?”

I’m reflecting on something I saw this summer as I was vacationing back in Ohio, and while driving to and from visiting my sister in Cincinnati, passed The Solid Rock Church on the east side of I-75 in Monroe Ohio.  Normally I don’t pay much attention to churches that I drive by, but this one had such a subtle, tasteful marketing tactic, I couldn’t help but notice. 

Actually, I believe their marketing is visible from the International Space Station. 

Picture, if you will, a sculpture of Jesus; arms lifted in praise of his Holy Father.  Now picture that same sculpture bursting forth from a lake, as if just surfacing from an underwater breath-holding contest, standing 62 feet from chest (at waterline) to the top.

Creepy!

This monstrosity is the erstwhile lawn jockey on a sprawling church grounds, or “campus” if you will.  (I was going to refer to it as an “estate”, but I’m a big believer in the separation of church, and estate.) 

I could tell that whatever denomination this represented, it raked in some serious cash.  Whatever patter these guys were pushing, it was apparent that it was working.  It occurred to me that while sometimes I strain for blog ideas, other times they just drop right on my head.  This was something I had to look into.  Possible alternate names for the church alone could fill a blog entry, but I decided I wanted to dig just a bit deeper on this whole thing.

Within minutes of my first Googling, I had to discard my first name idea.  It seems that many bloggers before me had beheld this sight, and committed their thoughts to cyberspace.  Worst of all, most had already referred to it as “Touchdown Jesus”, which I realize is borrowed from the Notre Dame icon, but is still quite a bit snappier than my initial idea of calling the organization, “The Church of the Converted Extra Point.”

There was a wealth of information at the church’s own website, www.solidrockchurch.org.  Turns out that these folks are evangelicals.  (I know, big surprise, huh?)  The church was founded by Lawrence and Darlene Bishop.  Their belief system covered the usual holy-roller tenets… The Holy Trinity, Son of God and literal bodily resurrection, speaking in tongues, the redemption of the saved and the damnation of the unsaved come judgment day, and of course, tithing.  In fact, they’ve even gone so far as to set up electronic “I-Tithing”, solely for our convenience of course.  We all know that shepherds can’t properly tend to their flock without an efficient method of fleecing them.  “Welcome to the Church for Those With Too Much Discretionary Income.  Praise Jesus for delivering us cyber-billing, in Pay-Pal we trust, amen”.

Being evangelicals, I’m a little surprised they have Jesus chest deep in their lake.  Shouldn’t he really be walking on top?  Instead they look like The Church of the Drowning Savior.  And shouldn’t the cross be bigger than He is?  It looks like he’s wearing it like one of those oversized Flava Flav necklaces.  “The Church of the Holy Fa-shizzle, can I get an A-mizzle?”

There were other news articles covering some intrafamilial fleecing.  It seems that Darlene Bishop’s recently deceased brother was a successful songwriter, and late in his terminal illness, signed over the executorship of his estate to her.  This included his monetary holdings as well as a song catalog, all said to be worth over a million bucks.  His children, who haven’t seen a penny yet, suggest he was coerced into signing it and accuse her of squandering the money.  According to the articles, she has admitted that she gave $40,000 to her church, $100,000 to a daughter to buy a house and denies knowing what a song catalog is, despite having recorded 5 of her late brother’s songs from said catalog, to sell on her own CDs. 

Current note: It appears Ms. Bishop somehow won this suit in 2007 due to insufficient proof, and is now being sued for the wrongful death of her brother.  It seems when he got cancer, she said that the Lord healed her of her breast cancer and counseled him to forego medical treatment.  His condition soon worsened and he died.  And it turns out she never had breast cancer.  There are several other listings of various lawsuits against these clowns on the first Google page alone.  Now back to 2006 when the outcome was unknown:

Is all of this true?  I don’t know… the trial was to have started in early December.  Do I believe it?  Absolutely.  It’s charlatans like this that prey on the weak of mind and weak of spirit.  It’s funny that however much God loves you; he still needs your money.  God needs your money, but the purveyors of the message live in mansions and work in expansive Spanish-deco “churches” paid for by the hard work of their sheep.  It disgusts me.  Was that 62 feet of Jesus built to glorify Him, or the Bishops?

Here’s a tenet from the Gospel according to Me, in other words, Bluz 3:16…  Anyone who claims to know the will of God is a fool or a con, and once the plate is passed, it’s usually the latter. 

Some things are destined to remain a mystery.  But there is a great amount of money to be made if you can convince people otherwise.  It’s especially sad that the most vulnerable among us are often the first to be taken in, and taken for all they’re worth.  I read some of the blog entries skeptical of this church, and judging from the resulting comments that defended it, they seemed to be using a computer at a library that couldn’t afford “spell-check.”  I was definitely tempted to take them to the Church of the Holy Roller-ball Red Pen.  

So out of all the alternate names I came up with, which did I like best?  Sadly, I liked the one that Rik, my traveling partner, suggested:  The Church of the Tribute to the Movie “Platoon.” 

Priceless!

Your Whitehouse Report - Part 4

When we last left our hero on Wednesday, he was about to eat.

Today’s entrée: Rib Eye Steaks

To paraphrase Jeff Goldblum, “That is one big pile of meat.”

On Thursday, we took off for Bluz Sister’s place in Cincinnati.  As we passed Findlay Ohio, I noticed the conspicuous lack of “Welcome to Findlay – Home of Ben Roethlisberger” signs.  Go figure.

I learned that there is a drawback to big motorcycle-riding women wearing spaghetti-strap tops… Those upper arms were flapping in the wind like bat wings.  It’s a wonder she could get up any speed at all, with that parachute effect going.

While perusing the Reader’s Digest in the car, Rik unearthed a little tidbit for us:  The fear of bald men is called “Peladophobia.”  See, that’s why I refuse to shave my head… It’s for all the peladophobiacs out there, so that they never have to see anything like this:

Rik, John and some other guy that’s not me.

My favorite bumper sticker from the trip: “When Fascism comes, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross.”  In other words, it’ll be on Fox “News.”

About 45 minutes outside Cincinnati, we heard the unmistakable whup-whup-whup-whup of a flat tire.  We pulled over on the median side, where we had some room, and found that the rear driver’s side tire was flat.  I wasn’t too worried… there were 3 guys in that car that were capable of changing a tire.

Unfortunately, the tire had other ideas.  We could not.  Get.  The fucker.  Off.

The lugs came right off, but no matter how much we pried and kicked at it, the wheel would not budge.  We called 911 and they said they’d send a trooper.  In the meantime, we continued to try to move the tire.

Then, just to make sure we were completely screwed, the thunder and lightning started, followed by a whole bunch of big fat raindrops.  I considered getting my camera out to document the misery, but I think John might have beaten me to death with his cell phone.

Eventually, a trooper rolled up behind us, but it didn’t look like he was personally going to be much help… dude couldn’t have been more than 5’9”, 175lb, and was so young looking, I thought he was going to ask for our help with his homework.  But he did have a nice long pry-bar.  Couple minutes later, we were able to yank that tire off, pop on the donut and get back to rolling.  The whole pit stop took about a half hour.

The funny thing was that if we would have went about 5 miles further, we would have broken down right in front of the Solid Rock Church, which features this tasteful display:

Nothing says humility like a 62-foot half-Jesus.

I did a post on this place several years ago, at my old site, and I’ll probably re-run it here soon.  Suffice to say, the Solid Rock Church is one of those evangelical mega-churches, whose “founders” are as crooked as the day is long.  But if we’d have broken down in front of Touchdown Mega-Jesus, I’d have no choice but to take it as a sign that my heathen ways were being called into question.

But since we didn’t, I guess I’ll be merrily on my way.

We rolled up to Bluz Sister’s estate tired and wet, but none the worse for wear.

We decided to bail on seeing the Reds/Pirates game that night and see the Reds/Astros on Friday.  So instead of baseball, it was time once again for:

In between shots, I had the chance to stroll the grounds and shoot some pictures of Bluz Sister’s horticultural endeavors.

This is a plant whose name sounds like “Chlamydia”, which is how we referred to it so frequently, I’ve forgotten what the name actually is.

Bluz Sister also has a whimsical sense of humor:

She also showed me her new house-brand of wine:

Mindbling, Wormy and Hot Mama (of “Bitchburgh”) need to get in on some of this!

Going to visit my sister is a lot like visiting my parents.  Both places put out enough exquisite food to choke a horse.  Bluz Sister had just taken an apple pie out of the oven as we arrived.

I considered putting a hole in the pie before I took this shot.  What kept me from doing so was knowing that my sister would have then put a hole in me.

After the cornholing, brother-in-law Scotty saw to the grilling.  First up, brats:

We spent the evening munching brats, drinking beer and laughing long into the night.  I vaguely remember watching the movie “Cloverfield” and digging into that pie.

I wasn’t even out of the shower the next morning when Scotty had a batch of Tony Packo’s hot dogs back on the grill. 

These were the things that Klinger was always going on about on MASH.

In between more rounds of cornhole, I got a visit from their primary cat, Fletcher.  (They also have a secondary, back-up cat, Gracie, who is very skittish around big strange guys.  I think she has peladophobia.)

Fletch, however, is one of those “people cats” that just has to be in the middle of everything.  He’s 10 now and in pretty good shape.  Gracie keeps him pretty active; in fact he’s lost about 4 pounds in the last year.

We had dinner before going to the game:

Just like mama used to make.  Stuffed shells yield stuffed people.

We had a dinnertime discussion about the various benefits of making meatballs out of ground beef versus ground turkey.  John suggested that if you use ground turkey, they should be called “fowl balls.”

While we considered getting walk-up tickets at the box office, we ended up getting 5 together for close to face value from a guy on the corner.  While there is always that chance that the tickets would be bogus, they were just fine and yielded us seats along the first base line, about 30 rows back, halfway between first base and the outfield wall.

This was my first trip to Great American Ball Park, so I took a mess of pictures.  (I will spare you from most of them.)

Scoreboard in left-centerfield.

Dusk falls on the ballpark.

They had one really great idea there… a live band playing between innings.  I don’t know why more teams don’t do this.  It beats the hell out of the usual lame stadium anthems.

An all-time great band name.  (And logo.)

Before the game, they had a bald eagle release from the outfield, who flew to his handler down by the pitcher’s mound, right at the end of the National Anthem.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a meaningful picture so I didn’t try.  But they got him real good on the scoreboard.  You could see how right after he got his treat from the handler, the big bird just kind of glared at the people in the stands, like, “I keel you all.” 

Gotta love those birds of prey.

The game ended up very good for Cincinnati, who won 15-6.  I admit that we left in the 7^th after it was 14-2.  Once you hit a football score, the game is pretty much over.  But we did get to see a pinch-hit grand slam, which doesn’t come along very often.

Saturday morning, Bluz Sister sent us back on the road with a nutritious breakfast.  And in addition to the toast, sausage and eggs:

What are these colorful round things?  Oddest shaped meat I’ve ever seen…

Of course, Fletcher had to include himself in breakfast too:

"Did someone say 'treats'?"

 The last big event of my vacation was scheduled for the drive home:  a trip to Myles Pizza in Bowling Green.  This was the pizza I lived on when I was in college.  I swear they could have bought another delivery car solely from the business I gave them.  I can’t even count how many classes I skipped, just because someone asked me that fateful question, “Hey, wanna go in on a pizza with me?”

“Hmmm, I can either sit in that boring-ass History of Broadcasting class, or I can dig into a large black olive and mushroom pizza and play cards.” 

History of Broadcasting did NOT win out very often.

Anyway, this pizza was amazing, so every year when I come back home, we always take a field trip to Myles.  We were going to go earlier in the week and take Rik’s kids, but soccer practices kept getting in the way.  Meanwhile we had to go right past Bowling Green to get home from Cincinnati, so that was a perfect Plan B.

This is why I keep coming back to Myles:

This puts the “pie” in pizza pie.  It’s as thick as an apple pie.

In all fairness, the pizzas were not this big when I was in school, but they were still bigger than your average Pizza Hut/Domino’s/Little Caesars.  But now, they’re just incredible.  We each had about 2 slices and were completely full.  I always over-order too, expressly so I can bring home leftovers… Some for me, some for Pinky, and some for my boss.  Ever since I gave him a slice 2 years ago, I think he’s more excited about getting some than I am. 

It’s always an adventure getting the pizza through airport security.  They want to know what’s in the foil.  I always tell them, “Leftover pizza, and it’s not for sale!” 

I was sad to see the trip come to an end, although I’m pretty lucky it ended when it did.  With all the feasting on this incredible food, I’m surprised Southwest Airlines didn’t see me coming and swap their 737 for one of these:

So, I’m home now, safe and sound.  It’s always nice to be back in one’s own bed.  Time to start working on losing the 8 pounds I gained last week.  But I don’t know how I’m going to deal with having to go to work again; I’ll just have to play it by ear.

Bluz to boss:  It’s past noon… Here’s your pizza… where’s the beer?

Final note:  In addition to being an outstanding gardener and chef, Bluz Sister is also an accomplished watercolorist.  Check out her web page here and consider it for all your decorative art needs.  Tell her “The bluzdude sent me.”

Thank you to all who provided such amazing food and hospitality and made this vacation so special!