The name game

Yesterday morning I was shaving, mentally somewhere else entirely, when I noticed a trickle of blood from my chin. Hadn’t felt a thing, but the razor had apparently been just a bit too aggressive at that spot.

That reminded me of the old joke that goes something like:

Q : What do you call a man who cuts himself shaving?

A: Nick.

And THAT thought got me to wondering how many other, similarly punful names could be so used.

I thought of another one or two I’d heard before, and then tried to be creative and think of more. I’m sure that if I Googled some of the humor sites I could find a hundred such name jokes, but all of the ones below that do NOT have an asterisk are made up by me (even if not original).

Here’s my list, with the answers in the first comment. Some are pretty obvious; all are bad. See how many you can get, and then how many others you already know or can come up with on your own. (No fair searching the web!)

What do you call a man who:

1. Repeatedly cuts himself shaving? (I already GAVE you this one.)*
2. Lights up a room with his smile?
3. Can lift up one end of a car with his bare hands?
4. Has no arms or legs, and falls into a pool?*
5. Has a nose like a bird’s beak?
6. Is a homosexual member of the upper chamber of parliament?
7. Always knows the direction to his house?
8. Can force open a stuck window barehanded?
9. Smells like an outhouse?
10. Has a colorful birthmark on his face?
11. Is short and skinny with a flat head?
12. Burglarizes homes?
13. Operates a P.A. system?
14. Likes to run after women?
15. Loves to try on clothes?
16. Keeps his gas tank topped off?
17. Is always cleaning his house?
18. Is a probate attorney?
19. Plays practical jokes?
20. Enjoys cutting his grass?
21. Wears an ear stud?


How about a woman who:

1. Is a partner in a law firm?
2. Loves to sing Christmas songs?

(See first comment for my answers . . . And I apolgize in advance!)

A quick retort

A local family friend informed me yesterday that they had seen the promotional gasoline price in our paper and hurried to the store to fill up, only to find bags over the pump handles and a “Sold Out’ sign. But they were encouraged to see that a tank truck had arrived and was getting ready to fill the store’s tanks.

They drove off to run an errand and returned a short time later to find the bags removed but the posted price changed to $1.39!

This reminded me of a story a different friend told me many years ago:

He had gone into a part-time retail business from his home selling, of all things, motorcycle riders’ garments. You know; leather pants, jackets, and the like. (He was a motorcycle enthusiast, as you might have guessed.)

He complained to me about the difficulty of “stocking” enough of all sizes so if a customer wanted something he would have it. Otherwise they’d go somewhere else. Also his business, like most, was very price competitive.

He told me of a customer who browsed, found exactly the item he wanted (and in the right size!), but complained that my friend’s stuff was too expensive. “There’s a place on the other side of town that sells this same thing for 10% less,” he griped.

My friend asked, “Why didn’t you buy it there?”

“Well, he was out of them.”

My friend snorted and said, “Hell, when I’M out of stock, mine are free!”

I’ve never forgotten that as an example of a real zinger retort.

And maybe THAT’S why the store posted the $1.19 price for gas, ‘cause when you don’t have any you can sell it REAL cheap!

Confession

Okay, okay. The gasoline price posted below WAS legitimate, but it was a special promotional price only, and has since been raised at that store back to the prevailing price of $1.39.

But it WAS legitimate for a few hours, at least! I swear!

Another reason to be jealous?

The scanned image below is from the front page of today's local newspaper.

Anybody else seen prices like that lately?

Happy New Year!!

Now don't be TOO jealous . . .

. . . but today, December 29, Carol walked over to our across-the-back-fence neighbors to ask them about—oh, it doesn't matter what. She just went to ask a question.

When she came back some 30 minutes or so later (and Carol doesn't tend to be chatty, so that tells you something about the neighbor) she was carrying a small paper sack. She put the sack on the kitchen counter.

Just now I walked into the kitchen and glanced inside the sack. There I saw four ripe (or nearly ripe) home-grown tomatoes.

No, our neighbors don't have a greenhouse or an indoor garden. The have a regular, run-of-the-mill back yard vegetable garden, and it's still producing.

Yes, we did have one light frost a few weeks ago, but the neighbors covered the plants with plastic and they (the plants) survived just fine. To those of you shoveling snow and fighting ice-slick roads on your daily commute, I apologize.

I know: it DOES get really hot here in the summer. No question about that. But there are some years when we don't have any winter at all.

All in all, I'd say things pretty much balance out.

Aftermath

Defined as: English class—at least during my last year of high school.

But before I go into details, let me first wish everyone a fantastic what's-left-of-the-holidays. Christmas Day here in South Texas was peaceful and warm. In fact, late in the afternoon Carol and I took a walk around the neighborhood wearing shorts and tee shirts. (Us, not the neighborhood.)

The closest thing we saw to "white" this Christmas was the puffy clouds in the otherwise hazy-clear sky.

But I digress . . .

The (awful-sounding) procedure described in the post immediately below this one was apparently successful. I am essentially pain free. I say "essentially" because there is still a tiny twinge every now and then on the right side, but compared to the way it had been for the preceding two weeks . . . well, there's no comparison.

From what I read on the Internet (so it HAS to be true!), relief gained from this epidural injection is rarely permanent, and sometimes only lasts a week or two. In longer cases relief is gained for from 6 months to a year. In some instances, a regimen of two or even three such injections is required.

Yeah, I'm hoping to be on the long end of that relief time scale.

For those of you who have suggested chiropractic treatment and/or just time (which heals all wounds . . . or brings them to a fatal conclusion), I'm generally inclined to use those treatments also. This time I let myself be talked into going to a neurologist, who looked at the MRI images and said, "Do NOT get your back 'adjusted!' It will NOT help, and it might do further damage." He was quite emphatic.

Well, I know that some doctors take a very dim view of chiropractic treatment. "Quackery" is a descriptive term often used. However, I know a lot of people (my wife among them) who have had considerable success with chiropractors. I've been to one myself in the past for what I call "traditional" lower back pain.

My problem this time is fear. This sciatic nerve problem is NOT my traditional back pain. It includes long-lingering numbness in my foot and ankle, causing doctors to wonder if I have permanent nerve damage from this alleged bulging disc. They measure strength and calf-muscle size to see if I'm atrophying. They are talking about the possibility of giving up (permanently) activities that I have enjoyed for decades.

So yeah, I got scared.

However I plan to take this one step at a time. If this one-to-three injection treatment is unsuccessful and my friendly neurologist tells me that my next and only other option is surgery, you can bet I'll first try some alternatives.

In the meantime, I'll revel in my pain free state for as long as it lasts!

I might even go back to English class, but it's not likely.

I got shot in the back yesterday!

(WARNING: This post will of absolutely no interest to anyone, except possibly my family.)

Ever had a bout of sciatica? I hope not. It ain’t no fun, I promise.

Facts: The sciatic nerves exit the spinal column way down in the lower back between vertebrae L5 and S1 (L is for lumbar, or lower back, and S is for Sacrum, which adjoins the pelvic bone.) The nerve at its root (an aside here: who knew that nerves had roots? Maybe its pre-Latin name was Kunta Kinte? I wonder if Alex Hailey had sciatica) is about as big around as one of your fingers. Which finger? I don’t know—how big are your fingers? Anyway, it’s a pretty big nerve.

This nerve extends all the way down each leg to your toes. When it becomes inflamed or irritated, the pain starts in your butt (yeah, I know, it’s a real pain in the a$$), extends down the back of your thigh and calf, all the way to the sole of your foot.

This is NOT your typical everyday lower back pain. I’ve been subject to those pains off and on for many years, usually on the left side. They last about two weeks and then subside. This sciatica is a burning aching throbbing mess, located more in the leg than in the back. In my case it has included persistent numbness in the sole and toes of my right foot.

Yes, I went to a family doctor. He sent me to a neurologist, who ordered an MRI and did some other tests better described in a Nazi torture spy novel than on this blog. Suffice it to say that the tests involved electrodes, needles, and a device I refer to (kindly) as a cattle prod. They SAY they are measuring the time an electric “impulse” can travel through your nerves to determine if there’s nerve damage. I say, “HA!!” They’re really seeing how far they can raise the voltage before your leg jerks high enough to kick the technician in the face, and your grunts turn to screams. Each time the doc hits you with another jolt he says, “Sorry.” But I can hear the sadistic sneering smile in his voice. (Great sibilance there, eh?)

Not satisfied with that infliction of pain, the Neurologist’s suggested treatment (following an MRI, which I guess was supposed to add some semblance of objective logic to his devious plan) was an ESI.

Sounds innocent, right? That acronym stands for Epidural Steroid Injection. What it means, in layman’s terms, is that a different sadist (excuse me, I mean “doctor”) gets to stick a big, long needle in your back. Using a fluoroscope to position the tip of the needle precisely, he tries to inject cortisone (the steroid) in just the right spot. Too “shallow” and the steroid does little good. Too “deep” and there could be damage or other problems.

Well, I underwent that procedure yesterday.

If you are currently cringing in sympathy, you don’t need to. Like a trip to the dentist, the anticipation is worse than the reality.

The good news is that I had an excellent doctor doing the injection. He first deadened the area with Novocain or something similar, just like the dentist does before drilling. He said that little injection would feel like a bee sting, but it was very mild. After that there was no pain at all.

Yes, when he told me he was guiding the needle to JUST the right spot (the most critical part of all this) I wanted to stop breathing so as not to move my abdomen. But all THAT does is make you want to take deeper breaths later! Fortunately, the entire procedure from the numbing injections until the big needle was out only took about 10 minutes. He slapped a little Band-Aid on my back and said we were finished! Music to my ears!

Then (and ONLY then) he showed me the needle! I thanked him for waiting. I think I would have fainted dead away at the thought of that telephone pole being shoved into my spine!

Now, as I type this some 20 hours after being “shot,” I think it all may have been worth it. It will take 2-3 days to determine if I get full relief based on just one shot (and if not I might have to face one or even two more!), but I can already tell that there has been some improvement.

Before the doctor shook my hand and left, I asked him if I would be able to play golf after this. He assured me I would. I then thanked him profusely, and admitted that I never really had been able to play before.

Somehow I think he’d heard that one already.

Laxative? Oh, yes!

Regular readers will remember that seven years ago Carol and I took a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Africa. We traveled with Carol’s cousin Linda and her husband Les.

In fact, for a full, detailed journal of the trip complete with our hundreds of pictures of wildlife (some of them actually pretty good) and scenery, scroll down to the bottom of the right sidebar for a link to my home page and you’ll find another link there to our Africa trip pics.

During that journey we spent a few days in the Serengeti. The topography was mostly flat (plains) with some gently rolling areas. But here and there dotting the landscape were rock outcroppings called “kopjes” (“kopje” in the singular – pronounced “copy”). Rather than take a thousand words to describe them, here’s a picture of a typical kopje.

On our first full-day game drive in the Serengeti we had packed a picnic lunch. At about noon our guide pulled up to a kopje near a shade tree and scouted around a bit to ensure no dangerous animals were lurking nearby before we got out of the vehicle for our meal. The men headed to the left around a rock while the women rounded a rock in the other direction for some privacy so we could relieve ourselves.

That experience was brought vividly to mind yesterday when I received the picture below in an email entitled “African laxative.”

Here is the email:

"Oh yes it is!

African Laxative; about to start working . . . "

Do you remember Dave Barry?

Dave was a humor columnist for the Miami Herald, but was syndicated and in papers across the country. A couple of his trademark phrases were: “An alert reader sent me this report . . .” and “I am not making this up!”

Typically he would write about things like exploding toilets, fish that rained from the sky, and similar “extreme” topics; extending them to ridiculous levels and making me laugh out loud with great regularity.

When I saw the article excerpted below in my local paper this morning, I knew it was JUST the kind of thing Dave would have been able to use as fodder for one of his columns. You can Google “AP” or the writer’s name and find the entire article if you like (or click THIS LINK:)

Dec 5, 6:27 PM EST

Farmers target EPA report they say might tax cows

By BOB JOHNSON Associated Press Writer

MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- For farmers, this stinks: Belching and gaseous cows and hogs could start costing them money if the federal government decides to charge fees for air-polluting animals.

Farmers so far are turning their noses up at the notion, which they contend is a possible consequence of an Environmental Protection Agency report after the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in 2007 that greenhouse gases from motor vehicles amounts to air pollution.

"This is one of the most ridiculous things the federal government has tried to do," said Alabama Agriculture Commissioner Ron Sparks, an outspoken opponent of the fees.


Now, Dave Barry would have focused on the flatulence issue. That was just his style! He probably would have written something like this:

An alert reader in Victoria, TX sent me an AP article in which is reported that an EPA study may result in a tax on flatulent farm animals. (I am NOT making this up.)

The claim is that the “emissions” of these animals should be considered a pollutant (no question there—in my mind, at least), and may contribute to Global Warming.

The article wasn’t clear if the contribution to warming came from the content of these emissions or the temperature of them. I suppose more study is needed on that issue, but I don’t think I’ll volunteer to help in the effort.

I question whether the emissions would be considered “greenhouse gasses” or not. I’ve been inside greenhouses before, and they never smelled particularly like cow flatulence. Well, except the ones that used cow manure for fertilizer.

Pigs and chickens were also mentioned as contributors to the flatulence problem and possibly subject to the proposed tax.

Now we all know that the EPA must have conducted scientific research to determine these findings, but one wonders just how they went about measuring the content and the quantity of flatulence produced by these animals. I picture white-coated scientists hovering around the back ends of cows, holding measuring devices designed to capture and analyze . . . well . . . gas. (The scientists holding the devices, not the cows.)

But doesn’t that sort of thing depend on diet? I know it does with me! You know; beans and cabbage? Isn't it the same with cows and pigs? I wonder if their studies concluded whether grass in cows produced the same quantity and quality of emissions as, maybe, slops in hogs?

And why do you suppose they limited their study to farm animals? Do they think that dogs and cats don’t produce digestive tract emissions?

I used to have a bulldog that could out-produce any other animal I know of when it came to flatulence. And he always chose to produce it, in copious quantities, when he was in the middle of the family as we all watched a movie on TV. That dog could clear a room in seconds flat! If the EPA ever found out about him, I’d likely have to pay a huge tax for pollution.

Farmers were quoted as saying that the whole effort to tax these animals smelled. You could almost say they felt the EPA was being chickensh__ about the whole business. The EPA’s response was that they never really proposed a specific tax, so the whole affair is bullsh__.

Further reports are almost certainly forthcoming. I’ll be waiting with bated breath (and a clothespin on my nose) to bring you any additional word on the subject.


(Actually Dave would have done a much better job with a topic like this, but I lack his flair for the absurd.)

Quick update on the post below

Yes, the one about 1-800-goog4411.

I've used it three or four times now, and it works seamlessly. Just yesterday Carol and I were leaving the golf course (go figure) heading home when she wondered if our local Wal Mart pharmacy had received a prescription her mother had been waiting for. She suggested we stop by on the way home and check.

Neither one of us was thrilled by the idea, since it would have been out of the way. But then she said, "Why don't you use that Google thing on your cell phone and call them?"

No, I don't just happen to have the number of the Wal Mart pharmacy in my phone book. But I called the Google number, said, "Victoria, Texas. Wal Mart Pharmacy."

I was automatically connected within less than 30 seconds. Pretty slick, especially if you're out of town!

Now the Google web site assures me that there is no charge for this service. But I guess I'll know for certain when I get my next month's cell phone bill.

Have you seen this?

Here's a number worth putting in your cell phone, or your home phone speed dial: 800-goog-411 (or, for the alpha-digitally challenged among us, 800-466-4411). This is an awesome service from Google, and it's free -- great when you are on the road.

Don't waste your money on information calls and don't waste your time manually dialing the number. I am driving along in my car and I need to call the golf course and I don't know the number. I hit the speed dial for the number above.

The voice at the other end says, "City & State." I say, " Garland , Texas." He says, "Business, Name or Type of Service." I say, Firewheel Golf Course." He says, "Connecting" and Firewheel answers the phone. How great is that? This is nationwide and it is absolutely free!

Click on the link below and watch the short clip for a quick demonstration.

http://www.google.com/goog411/

Tell all your friends you read it here first. Unless you read it somewhere else first, in which case . . . Aw, forget it.

Thanks, Hale!

Hale McKay, better known as the Pointmeister, sent me this cartoon in response (sort of) to my last post.

Since one of the points I made to the high school students concerned the need for brevity in a resume, (especially for an entry-level job, for which prior experience is not a requirement), I thought it was very appropriate.

Some folks seem to think that the impressiveness quotient of a resume or curriculum vitae increases in direct proportion to its weight and/or page count. (Kinda like that last sentence!) But in most cases, less is more.

I promised you a report

. . . about my presentations to the high school seniors on the topic of "Getting the Job."

They went very well. Most of my audience stayed awake through my entire spiel and I got a few laughs at some parts. Some were (naturally) more interested than others, and there were a fair number of questions.

Probably most gratifying was the reaction of the teachers who heard me, and one who didn't.

Those who did hear me all agreed that the information, although pretty fundamental, was important for the students to hear. And they were gracious enough to say that it was presented well.

I had put together a two-page (actually one piece of paper, front and back) bullet-point outline of the important points, dos and don'ts, etc., without the anecdotes that were in my talk. This was intended as a handout. Most of the students didn't take any, so I had a stack of them on the table at my company's booth that was set up in the large auditorium. A small number of those copies were picked up over the two-day program.

One teacher from a different high school (who had not heard my talk) picked up a handout and sent me an email today complimenting it and saying she intended to make copies and give them to all of her students because they needed to know those things. She felt it would have more impact coming from "someone in industry rather than a teacher, because students don't think teachers know anything about the real world."

I replied thanking her for her kind words, and offering to make my talk to her students. She was thrilled and we've set a date in early December.

So, yes; it was gratifying. And hopefully a few of the students might have learned something. That would be a real plus!

Just good ol’ boys. Never meanin’ no harm . . .

As all you regular readers will no doubt remember, way back in the dark ages (Vietnam era) I used to fly F-4 Phantom jets off the USS Forrestal.

For a long time I didn’t really keep up with any of the other pilots from my squadron, but more recently contacts have been reestablished. You know how older men love to reminisce about the good old days. So now I exchange emails occasionally with some of the guys.

Probably my all-time favorite was my squadron Commanding Officer (CDR Ron Miller) during my second cruise to the Mediterranean. This was back during the old cold war, and the primary role of the sixth fleet in the Med was one of “showing the flag” and serving as an armed presence to deter any possible aggression by . . . whoever.

Why was Ron my favorite? As the skipper, he could choose any pilot he wanted to be his wingman, and he wanted me. Now each one of us thought KNEW we were personally the best pilot in the squadron. The ultimate measure (as in the movie “Top Gun”) was which pair of pilots could whip other pilots in dogfighting.

Oh, excuse me. We didn’t call it “dogfighting.” We called it “ACM,” an acronym for “Air Combat Maneuvering.” EVERY phrase had its acronym in those days, but it was still dogfighting.

Well, Ron and I just seemed to intuitively know what the other was going to do in advance. We worked so well as a team that the two of us in two-plane formation almost never lost a dogfight. Truth be told, I probably wasn’t a better pilot than any of the rest of them (although I’d have fought you if you said that in public back then). It was just one of those synergies where the two of us together were better than any other two, and even better than either one of us when paired with a different wingman.

Kinda like Simon and Garfunkel. Each was good, but together they were special and unlike any other duo.

Okay, all that to say this:

Last week Ron Miller cc’ed me on an email he sent to another of his friends who had served in the US Air Force on Crete during the time we were in the med. I am the “wingie” John he refers to. And yes, I remember the incident very well.


Here's a little story about one of my days on Crete. I was the CO of VF-11, the "World Famous Red Rippers" (oldest continuous fighter squadron in the Navy.) We were on USS Forrestal for a 7 month Med cruise. Ship dropped anchor on the W. end, S. side of the island late in the afternoon. We had sent about 6 of our birds (F4s) to the airfield just above us there on the West end.

The Greeks flew F-84s from there. My wingman and I were scheduled to fly first thing the next morning. So, early on, we gathered our flight gear and were hauled ashore in one of the ship's boats. I had a really good young pilot as my "wingie" so decided to act up a bit, and we planned it all out.

We were taking off to the South, which would take us nearly over the ship. I rolled first, to be followed by John just seconds later. It was gear up, leave her in afterburner, nose over crossing the bluff, then pull up into the first half of a huge loop. John intercepted me near the top, and joined up as we rolled out on heading. I don't remember, but I suspect that we were over 10,000 feet.

On return an hour or so later, we came into the "break" at 450 knots in tight formation, etc. Great fun.

Just after landing, my Ops officer found me and said: "Better lay low because the CAG (Commander, Air Group) is looking for you." The aircrew briefing on the ship (which we missed) said the Greeks had pretty strict air rules, so don't do anything out of the ordinary -- no aerobatics, no high speeds, etc.

So, what happened to me? Nothing at all. You see, the CAG was a bit of a cutup himself (but that's another story.)

Yep, that was us back in the glory days. Spending the taxpayers money having fun.

Just Good Ol’ Boys. Never Meanin’ No Harm.

Big Blue

The picture below was taken with a cell phone camera in poor light. But you can see what it is. It's the license plate on Carol's car.

In Texas it is possible to order specialty license tags with certain pictures on them. They cost about $30 extra, but the money goes to support the "cause" portrayed on the tag.

In this case, the $30 goes to the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department to support their many programs for the conservation and preservation of Texas wildlife. Hence the motto, "Keep Texas Wild."

The combination of letters and numbers on the tag is random. So a year ago, when Carol got herself a nice, new Ford Expedition to replace our 12-year-old Dodge van, she wanted a license tag that pictured a Texas Horned Lizard. These critters are better known locally as "horny toads." (I am NOT making that up!)

Anyway, when the tags arrived and Carol saw the number/letter combination, she said it looked to her like "Big Blue"

Well, okay. That's a good way to remember your tag number when you check in at a motel and they want to know which vehicle is yours. So for a year we've been referring to her tag number as "Big Blue."

Now if you'll scroll down a few posts you'll see that I also just got a new vehicle. And like my wonderful wife, I decided to support Texas wildlife by putting a horny toad on MY ride also! Last week I went to the county tax office to order mine. The receipt shows what MY number/letter combination will be.

I was really hoping for something like "LTL BL" which I could christen "Little Blue," since my car is smaller than hers and blue in color. But no such luck. What I got was "FJ 50P."

Carol looked at that and immediately said, "Oh, 'Fat John, 50 Plus!'"

Needless to say, despite having my very own horny toad license plates on their way, I am NOT pleased with the memory aid she has come up with! I mean, come on! There are LOTS of potentially complimentary (or at least neutral) memory aids she could have thought up using "FJ." "Fighter Jockey" comes to mind, recalling my days as a Navy F-4 Phantom pilot.

But alas, I fear that my car will forever be known to the two of us as "Fat John," for once spoken some words just can't be taken back or forgotten.

So I guess that the next time Carol makes some snide remark about a bit of "middle-age spread" appearing on or near my waistline I'll have to tell her, "I just trying to live up to my car's nickname."

An opportunity

This week I get to address four groups of 30 local high school seniors.

The occasion is what the school district calls Career Days. Presentations are made to all four high school grades on various topics, to include:

· information about specific jobs that are available locally – what the job pays, what the duties are, what education and/or experience is required to get the jobs, etc.,
· information about further educational opportunities after high school – trade schools, community college, four-year universities, etc.,
· information about obtaining financial aid for further education, and
· “life skills” required to GET a job and to be successful in the workplace

My topic is called “Getting the Job.” I’m going to cover all the usual stuff about resumes, job applications and interview dos and don’ts. But I also plan to hit them with some life philosophy.

I plan to start out by telling them, “I’ve been a human resources manager longer than any of you have been alive. I may not have ‘seen it all,’ but I’ve seen a lot!”

My tips and advice are specific.

Examples:

“Do not even TAKE your cell phone to an interview, but if you do take it turn it OFF! Do not DARE answer it if it rings, unless you can tell me you’re expecting an emergency call.”

“Leave the cologne and after-shave at home. If I detect any odor during your visit, it should be the smell of soap.”

“Do not assume your Sunday best clothing is appropriate for an interview. If in doubt, call and ask what the interviewer would prefer you to wear.” (At my plant, if you came dressed in a coat and tie in the Texas summer I’d think you had a screw loose!)

“Fill in EVERY blank on an application. Use “N/A” if appropriate, but put something in there. Otherwise I'll think you're careless.”

“ALWAYS print ‘Open’ in the inevitable blank asking for ‘Salary Desired’.”

But before I talk to them about the actual interview I will ask for a show of hands of those who consider themselves shy. Then I plan a 2-minute lecture on the fact that they can CHOOSE not to be shy! No, it isn’t easy. Yes, it takes some practice and some work.

I used to be shy and scared to death to speak in front of a group. But in the Navy I was an instructor in the Flight Training Command, and had to give training lectures to student pilots. Sure, I stumbled and fumbled at first, but I quickly realized that was stupid! These younger students didn’t know as much as I did, and if they laughed at a gaffe, so what!? I didn’t get sick and die.

I watched others and learned both good and bad ways of handling awkward situations in front of a group. And in a fairly short while I became good at speaking in front of others, and proud of it! People would come up to me after a presentation and compliment me on my delivery.

And guess what? I haven’t been shy since. (Maybe a bit of an arrogant egotist, but hey, who’s perfect?)

So, you high school seniors, DON’T be shy. Shyness is NOT an endearing quality in the workplace or in life, and it can hold you back in your career. Get over it.

Rah! Rah!

Okay, end of lecture. I’m looking forward to what kind of reaction I get from the students. Each “talk” is only 25 minutes, so I don’t know if I’ll get everything in or not.

I’ll let you know.

Reality check

Did you ever have your self-imaged abruptly changed?

You know; you're going along minding your own business, thinking of yourself as you usually do (in my case, as a middle-aged man in pretty good shape and not all that bad-looking), and some stranger addresses you as "Gramps?"

No, it didn't happen to me quite that way. Let me explain.

On Halloween I had just picked up my brand new hybrid car (see post below). Sure, the salesman at the dealership showed us all the features including how to sync up my bluetooth-capable cell phone with the car's hands-free phone system (a pretty slick setup!) But I hadn't had time to really internalize or practice finding the different controls and using them. So I was busy checking out features while driving instead of paying attention to driving.

It was dark, and I was on the same stretch of road where I had hit the deer a few weeks ago. I didn't feel as if I was driving fast at all, and activated the cruise control while Carol and I played with the ambient lighting selector. Within a minute the red and blue lights of a highway patrol cruiser were flashing behind me. I immediately pulled over. The car was quiet, engine off.

The trooper approached on the passenger side and tapped on the window. I had been waiting for him to come to the driver side. I fumbled around for what seemed like forever trying to find the button to lower the electric window on Carol's side of the car.

He grinned patiently, and then introduced himself and asked if I had my driver's license and proof of insurance (a requirement in Texas). I told him I had JUST picked up the car, was still trying to figure out all the features, and confessed I hadn't been watching my speed. He politely explained that he'd clocked me at 62 in a 55 zone.

We discussed the fact that I DID have proof of insurance, but only because the dealer had asked me to phone my insurance company and request them to fax over a copy. In the middle of that discussion the car . . . Well, the car screeched at me!

This horrible, LOUD "R-R-R-R-E-E-E-E" noise made me jump, and the trooper jerked his head back from the window. Carol and I looked at each other in confusion. The car did it again; "R-R-R-R-E-E-E-E!" The trooper then said (a bit condescendingly, I thought), "THAT's your phone."

OH! YEAH! The salesman had synched it to the car, and now the whole CAR was ringing!

Well, I had no idea how to answer it! (I now know there's a button on the steering wheel, but at the time . . .) I grabbed at the phone itself and started pushing buttons. All I wanted was for the car to stop screeching. It did, and the trooper again waited patiently while I said, "It's my daughter."

I turned to the phone and said in haste, "I can't talk now. I'll call you back and explain." Then I hung up on her.

The trooper said he would go back to his car and just write me a warning. I thanked him, feeling like a total idiot. But it wasn't over yet. As he walked back toward his car, my engine started! (Remember, this is a hybrid. When you stop, the gasoline engine stops. But if you have the air conditioning on, eventually the engine starts and will run a while to power the compressor for the A/C.)

I quickly shut it off and sat there, face burning. Carol was reminding me that when you are stopped by the police you are supposed to shut off your engine and leave it off, or else they are likely to think you're going to drive away. When the trooper came back with my warning we apologized for the engine starting and told hime we hadn't intended to start it, that it just started by itself because I'd forgotten to turn off the key, and . . .

He smiled and held up his hand. "I understand," he said. "It'll do that every time you stop at a light, too. That's the way they work. That's one of the ways they save gas."

At this point I REALLY felt like an idiot. And I knew HE thought I was an idiot, too.

He asked us where we were going. We told him straight home. He nodded and said, "Good. Please drive safe."

As he walked away I think I saw myself through his eyes. And what I saw was a gray-haired man approaching senility, with little command of anything the least bit technical or mechanical. An old fella who ought to be in bed once the sun went down.

Now that is NOT me! But it was an ugly reality check regardless, to realize that people might see me that way.

Getting old sucks, but it probably beats checking out early! (Hey, at least he took pity and only wrote me a warning!)

My new ride!

Dear readers (*sigh* . . . both of you),

As you saw in my last post, my poor old commute-to-work car met its demise in a close encounter with Bambi’s mom. One of you (Kenju) asked what I would be driving to work now.

The short-term answer was that I used a borrowed vehicle. Fortunately for us, Carol’s mother lives nearby, doesn’t drive any more, but has a Honda minivan. Periodically she asks me to drive it to work and back just to keep it in running condition. She was happy (she said) to let me use it for a few months until the car I had ordered last June was delivered.

What had I ordered that took so long? Well, I knew that my old Mazda (12 years old with 195,000 miles on it) wouldn’t last too many more years (months?), and I had begun lusting after the 2009 Ford Escape hybrid. It is Ford’s small SUV with better gas mileage than my little 4-cylinder, 5-speed Mazda, but with lots of room and hauling capacity. Seemed like a great compromise when gas was over $4 per gallon!

So, on the first day the ‘09 models could be ordered, I ordered one. That was June 4. They told me it would be October at the earliest before the car was ready; and more likely January! Well, okay. My Mazda was still running. I didn’t NEED a new car yet. January would be acceptable. You know, Merry Christmas and all!

What made the ’09 model more attractive than the ’08 was that the newer one came with stability control features lacking before. There were some other nice features, but that was the main reason.

Anyway, last Friday, October 31 (Halloween! Spooky, no?), I got a call at work from the Ford dealer.

My new car was in!

Since I know you’re just DYING to see it, here it is. Yesterday morning I sat in the car reading the manuals and trying to figure out all the features, hybrid charactaristics and nuances, while Carol walked around it snapping photos:

For you in the harsher climes, yes I live in South Texas. Yes, this shot was taken on November 1. Yes, it's still "late summer" here (we played golf yesterday with bright sunshine, temps in the mid 80s, and sweated in our shorts and short-sleeve shirts!)


Ford calls this color "light ice-blue metallic." It looks almost silver in these shots because I lightened them up a bit for detail. The first picture (up above this one) is pretty close to the real color, on my monitor at least.

I have another story to tell about my first driving experience in this car, but that will wait for another post.

Oh deer. ME!?

(That's a takeoff on the POINTMEISTER'S post for today!)

On tuesday morning at about 6 a.m. I was merrily (well, maybe a better adverb would be "sleepily") driving to work.

I had just left the house. I wasn't even out of the city limits yet. But I WAS on a divided boulevard with a 55 mph speed limit (which I was actually obeying, Christina!) (. . . for once).

In the glare of the headlights of the oncoming traffic I saw a flicker of motion.

Gee, that looked like something moving between me and that car . . . Must have been an animal! Where there's one, there are usually more. Oh, SH---BAM!!

I had just the barest instant to flick the wheel to the left in reaction to the sight of the deer running straight across from right to left about two feet in front of my right headlight.

It happened so fast (plus it was pitch dark out there -- no street lights) that I never saw which way the body of the instantly-dead deer flew. I was now in the median, still going about 55, and fighting for control of the car.

Now, the experts will tell you that when you see an animal in front of you and can't stop, DON'T swerve. Likely you'll just lose control of the car and crash, doing MUCH worse damage to life and property than if you just hit the animal. They tell you to drive THROUGH the animal, let the car absorb the damage, and come to a controlled stop.

Yeah, right. I know all that.

But the experts don't tell you how to prevent that reflexive instinct to avoid a collision. I had swerved before I had a conscious thought about what to do.

Anyway, I did regain control, eased back onto the pavement, came to a controlled stop, and got out to inspect the damage. I didn't even have to clean out my pants! Must have been my fighter-pilot training and instincts. (Or something.) (Aside: They say that just before you really screw up a night carrier landing, first you say it, and then you DO it.)

Before I even looked at the front of the car I knew it was totalled. Why? Well, this was my commute-to-work car. It's a little Mazda Protege (great gas mileage!) that is 12 years old and has 196,000 miles on it. That means the current value of the car is about $1,900, if I'm REALLY lucky. Just replacing the hood, headlight and front fender would cost that much, or more.

Sure enough, all of those were mashed pretty thoroughly. In addition, when I struck the front shoulder of the deer, the back end slammed around into the passenger-side door denting it in and leaving a large smear of . . . well . . .deer poop right by the handle.

Believe it or not, the car was still drivable. So after ensuring that the deer carcass was not impeding traffic I decided there was no sense calling the police. They darn sure weren't going to ticket the deer! I drove on to work.

As of today, two things are official:

1. My car has had the damage estimated and has been declared a total loss. It will be driven away to some salvage yard tomorrow. It's epitaph ought to be, "I fought the deer, and I won."

2. My new nickname at work is "Deerslayer." That alternates with "Bambi Murderer," and a few other attempts at humor

I just told them to go open my passenger door, and then smell their hand.

Georgia golf course pics

Back to our September vacation trip. When we last visited this topic, Carol and I had just left Chicago.

From there we headed down to Georgia to play some golf. And believe it or not, I don't have a single picture of a golf course to show you.

But all of these pictures were taken on or at a golf course.

First, a walking stick. No, not the stick you use when you hike, the insect! Have you ever seen one? Very aptly named. This guy was resting on the front of our car when we finished a round in a brief shower.

Often we've seen smaller walking sticks, but this one was about 6 inches from tip to tip. Obviously their appearance provides excellent camouflage when they're in or near trees or bushes. On a white Ford Expedition it's questionable whether any predator would have been fooled.

But take a close look at this guy's body. Pretty good disguise, I'd say!


Next we found some pileated woodpeckers. We have additional pictures of these birds from other locations. They're very impressive at nearly a foot in height, and it's hard to miss that brilliant topknot.

The one below had just found something in a hole in a dead tree trunk and was working to get it out. I hope it was tasty.

Then we saw an even bigger bird beside a fairway. This gobbler seems to know that Thanksgiving is not that far away. He wouldn't let us get close at all.

Finally, here are some pictures containing evidence of an animal we DIDN'T see. Check out these trees. Notice anything?

Take a closer look at the second tree from the left . . .

Now take a REAL close look. Somehow I don't think a chain saw did that.

We never saw Bucky, but he must not live far away. Some of the other nearby trees had evidence of his "busy" work!

(Next installment: On to Florida!)

(Coming soon.)

(I hope.)