How a Dead Tree Made My Thigh Twitch

Sometimes, my train of thought runs at breakneck speed and easily jumps onto a parallel track quicker than a cheetah with dysentery.

Case in point . . .

During a recent trek across South Dakota on I-90, Beloved was driving, and I was staring out the window at mile after mile of nothingness. Suddenly, just off the highway at an exit ramp, I saw a deathly-white tree, devoid of any leaves, and the train left the station.

That reminds me of the tree in "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." Man, Christopher Walken was super creepy in that. Who else was in  -  oh yeah, Johnny Depp. He was in "Sweeney Todd," too. Talk about super creepy. I can't believe high schools do that musical. At least "Little Shop of Horrors" has fun songs and a sense of humor. ActorBoy did great in that, but boy, when he jumped into the carnivorous plant/puppet at the end and stabbed his leg on an exposed bolt...eww.

Then Beloved asked me why I grabbed my inner thigh, and she got all confused when I said, "Did you see that dead tree back there?"

Pizza Delivery & the DJ

 

It was a dark Sunday night in late November.

I was co-starring in a strange little play titled Winterthing in a strange little midwestern town called Fort Wayne.

One of the co-stars I was sharing the stage with was an eight-year-old wonder named Melanie. Her part required her to be a whiny little snot that inspired everyone to want to slap her. The good news was that even though she did the appropriate face-slapping inspiration on stage, in truth, she was a sweet gal with dark, shoulder-length hair, black, round-rimmed glasses, and a smile that could melt the hardest heart.

On the Sunday night in question, Beloved and I had been enlisted to take Melanie home with us for a sleepover while her parents were out of town. All three of us were looking forward to it, partly because it would involve Beloved and Melanie going with me to a strange little radio station while I did my once-a-week shift on the air, playing whatever songs I felt like. (Oh...those were the days!)

Part of the fun was ordering a pizza from the strange little shop across the street. (Are you old enough to remember when getting a pizza delivered was a smile-inducing, unique event?)

Melanie was oh so happy as she practically skipped into the studio carrying the pizza and gleefully placed it on the turntable that was playing the song currently going out to the tens of people listening live.

I screamed. Melanie screamed. We all screamed.

The pizza survived. The song did not. Melanie’s sense of confidence and well-being may have sustained a deadly blow.

Marco SansPolo vs The Bunnies: A Cautionary Tail

 

Marco SansPolo (MSP), the relatively tiny, rat-like creature that passes for a dog in the Roth Haus, got uncharacteristically active the other day. He went all "My Ancestors Were Wolves!" on a pair of baby bunnies in our back yard.

One bunny was rendered bloody, immobile, and breathing in shallow gasps, leaving me the inglorious task of putting him out of his misery. The second seemed not so much injured as just frozen in fear.

When I bent down to give Bunny Number Two a closer look, she scampered away and, perhaps thinking it was a tunnel to a land devoid of giant bloggers, ran into an empty flower pot that was resting on its side. It was a small flower pot, but the rabbit kept working her legs as if still running away, even though her head was firmly pressed against the bottom of the flower pot.

That's when the single egg that hadn't been found by the grandkids on Easter popped out of the pot.

Beloved and I tried to be sad for the plight of the bunnies, but we couldn't stop laughing for a good two minutes.

A Bank, a Pad, and the End of Logic

 

I am concerned about the future of humanity.

Well, to be truthful, I am concerned about the present of humanity and whether there will BE any future.

Let me explain...

I had to go to a local bank and renew my signatory status on a particular account.

I was ushered into a bank associate's office where I sat down, and a small, dark pad with some unknown significance was pushed to my side of the desk. It seems I would be using the attached, inkless pen to sign my name on the pad and my signature would be electromagically placed in a computer document.

The bank associate informed me that "this first signature is to give us permission to use your electronic signature instead of actually signing a piece of paper."

I immediately burst out laughing.

I thought it was hilarious that I was electronically signing something to authorize the electronic signing of things. How could that electronic signature be seen as authoritative without me having already signed such a document?

The bank associate smiled and said, "You're the only person who has ever seen how silly this is."

My concern for humanity's future isn't the irony of electric signatures to authorize electric signatures. My concern for humanity's future is that, out of the hundreds of people this bank associate has walked through the process, I am the only one to notice the irony.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus  -  and bring a pen.

Mouse in My Pants

 

It was sometime in the late 1960s or early 1970s. I was somewhere between 10 and 14...maybe 15. I was on the second floor of our barn in Northeastern Indiana, "helping" my dad clean out the corn crib.

I say "helping" because I remember doing a lot of watching and very little actual shoveling or sweeping.

Times being when they were, I was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of, if not official bell-bottoms, at least a pair of pants with a healthy flare at the end of each leg.

This proved to be a poor choice in attire.

There were several ears of corn trapped between some slats of wood and the outer wall of the barn. When FlatulenceKing (my father) yanked on those slats, a mouse ran out from the comfort of its corn palace, across the barn floor, and directly into the warm safety of my pants' leg.

To be precise, the little varmint hooked its claws into the inside of my left pant leg and headed north as fast as it could scamper.

I trapped it against my thigh just as it reached the halfway point between my knee and my future generations.

With panic on my face and in my voice, I exclaimed, "What do I do?!?"

Dad grinned and said, "Squeeze as hard as you can."

Well...you can bet your sweet bippy I squeezed as hard as I could. I squeezed until my fingernails drew blood from the heel of my hand through two layers of fabric.

And then the moment of truth.

I released my deathgrip, vigorously shook my leg, and watched the flea-taxi hit the floor and scamper away.

Then I had to go help my dad get off the floor...where he was rolling and laughing.

SNL, Disney, and My Cowbell Embarrassment

 

Apparently, I'm weird.

Well ... maybe unique is a better word.

Case in point:

Back in the days when Will Ferrel was a Saturday Night Live cast member, there was a particular sketch featuring Mr. Ferrel in a too-small-for-him shirt, playing cowbell as Blue Oyster Cult records their hit, "Don't Fear the Reaper." As the record producer, Christopher Walken repeatedly interrupts the recording to ask for ... and later, forcefully demand ... more cowbell.

It was pretty hilarious and even ended up being featured as a whole episode of the recent docuseries on SNL's 50 years of existence.

Okay ... now ...

Go back to the theatrical release of Disney's "live action" remake of The Jungle Book. I'm sitting in a packed movie theater. Mowgli is sitting in the orangutans' temple, which is strewn with found objects and treasures collected by the apes, about to meet their monarch, King Louie.

With the what-I-thought-was-common knowledge that Christopher Walken was the voice of King Louie, I saw Mowgli reach into the pile of stuph and pull out, with curiosity and confusion, a cowbell.

I laughed mightily.

I was the only one.

Apparently, I'm weird.

The Superiority of Technology Strikes Again

 

WHEREAS...
In terms of the age of the universe, it wasn't very long ago when I was desperately applying for any and all technical writer positions within driving distance of my domicile.

THEREFOR...
I still get contacted from time to time by recruiters hoping to receive a placement fee by getting me hired for some 6-month contract or other.

THE ISSUE IS...
     1.  I am no longer searching for a short-term contract job to keep my head above water.
     2.  I do not answer calls from anyone not in my phone's contact list.
     3.  Most of the recruiters who leave messages are apparently calling from a particular sub-continent known for having call centers and considering cows sacred.
     4.  The transcription robot for my voicemail doesn't do well with heavy accents.

FOR INSTANCE...
The following is an exact reproduction of a transcript of a recent voice message:

Hi June this site Fasel I'm calling you from CCS global tech. This call is regarding the position of technical right foot in Saint Paul Minnesota so if you're available in the job market, you can always call me back on my number that 610-******* all you can I have shared you the job description from my email that thought about that sea global tech. You can always go ahead and vote me on the seat. Thank you.

Technical right foot...Is that a motorized prosthesis?

Also...my dad voted me on the seat more than once. It was never a pleasant experience.

Marriage Tip #237: Do Not Attempt to Even the Score

 

I had a laughable conversation with a friend.

He told me his wife has an...interesting...behavior pattern when they are relaxing on the couch watching a television show or movie.

Apparently, she feels it is necessary to point out to her husband whenever an actor she considers good-looking appears on the screen.

As in "That guy right there is good-looking. I'm just saying."

My friend wasn't sure what kind of societal catastrophe or black hole of ignorance was being avoided by her "just saying" this information.

I said I wasn't sure either, but I AM sure of something else: He would be wise to refrain from returning the favor. You know, just keep his opinions about the relative attractiveness of any given actress completely to himself.

Neither of us wanted to even think about how that exchange would go down.

Then my friend added this "ba-dum-tiss" final thought: "And the thing is. None of these so-called good-looking men look anything at all like me."

24,472 Days and Counting

 

According to Calculate How Many Days You Have Lived, today, being the 67th anniversary of my birth, I am 24,472 days old.

That's 3,496 weeks.

3,496 Monday mornings.

24, 472 instances of closing my eyes and entering the altered state of consciousness known as sleep.

If I've averaged eight hours of sleep a night, I have been asleep for over 22 years.

Then why am I always so tired??!?

My Semi-Embarrassing Afternoon with William Windom

 

It was 1979...maybe 1980. I managed the box office at the historic Embassy Theatre in downtown Fort Wayne, Indiana. Coming up on a particular evening was a one-man show featuring the works of James Thurber. The one man starring in said show was none other than William Windom...a name meaningless to most people under the age of 40...an awful lot of people over 40 can't quite place it either.

But make no mistake, William Windom was a real-life Hollywood quasi-big shot. In the Fifties and early Sixties, he appeared both on Broadway and in many television shows like Hallmark Hall of Fame and Twilight Zone. He is most well-known for his co-starring role with Inger Stevens in The Farmer's Daughter (Those who remember it at all remember the chair/escalator that ran along the stairs to the second floor of the house.) and his starring role as a cartoonist with a wild imagination in My World and Welcome to It.

If you're a fan of 1962's To Kill a Mockingbird, you have seen him go up against Gregory Peck's Atticus Finch in the courtroom.

In later years, he also had a recurring role in Murder She Wrote as Dr. Seth Hazlitt.

It was Windom's work in My World and Welcome to It that led to his one-man show and his arrival in the Summit City: Fort Wayne, Indiana.

Ticket sales were less than impressive, so in an attempt to get more tushes in the theatre's seats, we had arranged for a meet-and-greet with Mr. Windom at a high-end department store in Fort Wayne's largest mall. I was his only companion at the event...me and the supply of tickets I had on hand to sell to the fawning crowd.

There we were, sitting at a table not far from the fragrance counter, hoping people would wander by, recognize his face, and go, "Well, now that I've met the guy, I simply must buy some tickets to his show!"

About halfway through the afternoon, a high school classmate (named Andy Williams...#NoJoke) walked up to the table because he was excited to see ME. I kind of had to interrupt Andy in order to introduce him to Mr. William Windom. Andy heard my intro, looked at the Emmy-winning star and said to him, "Hey! Did you know that Dewey is a really good actor, too?"

I was grateful for the positive evaluation and all but seriously, I felt like hiding under the table.

It was like I had turned to Buddy Rich or Ringo Starr and proudly announced that I played the bass drum in my freshman marching band.

Blogger ROFLs Over Sunday Dinner

 

They say laughter helps a person's digestion, so I'm pretty sure the fish and chips I had last Sunday were digested most excellently.

Beloved and I went out for lunch with a group of friends from church. I should have known it was going to be unique because as we all started claiming seats around the long table, all the men sat on one end and all the women sat at the other. [My parallel thinking just kicked in: "Well of course all the men sat on one end. How many ends do you think a man has?"]

Other than that totally unexplainable seating arrangement, the meal was going fine. Conversations were flowing, with one comment leading to another at a comfortable rate.

I mentioned the chandelier in the restaurant's entryway that was made out of beer bottles, which led to telling my tablemates about my son-in-law's home brewing efforts and that he won first place in a couple categories at the state fair. That led to some comments about the highly-specialized variations available in the world of beerosity.

There was then a slight pause in the conversational flow and I filled it with the totally unnecessary, "I have never tasted beer." And that quickly led to the following conversation...

Steve: You've not missed much.

Me: I can't get past the awful smell.

Steve: Now see, I like the smell of beer, but not the taste.

Me: I'm like that with coffee.

Steve: I'm like that with gasoline.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

At which point, I needed to lift myself off the floor and put my end back in my seat.

Failed Bank Robbery Emphasizes Marital Conflict of Interests

 

Prologue
Whenever Beloved and I visit a new location, we are immediately set at odds with each other.

I'm the kind of person who likes to stop and read the little informational signs and descriptive text put up by museums and chambers of commerce and restroom attendants. Beloved, on the other hand, prefers to comment on a location's visual beauty or lack thereof and move on.

Why My Way Is Better
While visiting Beloved's brother in Wyoming, we took a day trip to Red Lodge, Montana...home of several gift shops, geode dispensaries, and jerky emporiums. We were strolling down the sidewalk when I noticed an iron plaque attached to a building's cornerstone. Beloved walked into the store while I, of course, stopped to read the plaque:

"FOILED BANK ROBBERY SITE: On Sept. 18, 1887, the Sundance Kid (Harry Longbaugh), Kid Curry and others of the 'Wild Bunch' rode into Red Lodge after escaping from jail in Belle Fourche, S.D., and announced their intention of making an unauthorized withdrawal from the Carbon County Bank. They botched the job and Sheriff John Dunn rode off in hot pursuit. After an 80-mile chase, he and his posse captured them near Lavina. The robbers were returned to the Deadwood, S.D. jail, where they again escaped."

Now you see? If I hadn't stopped and read that, I never would have had a giggle at the expense of 19th Century jailors, and I never would have known that Red Lodge's claim to fame was an unproductive visit from the Sundance Kid.

It made me feel instantly connected to Robert Redford.

And even more importantly, if I hadn't taken a picture of the plaque, I wouldn't have anything to blog about today and you would be looking at a blank webpage.

Oh, the agony!

Who NEEDS Me?

 

From January 1962 until June 1979, I grew up on a 40-acre plot of land called Hilltop Farm, located three-and-a-half miles north of Uniondale, Indiana.

For as long as I can remember, there have been 311 people living in Uniondale, located on a curve of U.S. 224 in northern Wells County, nestled close to the grain elevator by the railroad tracks...

Welcome to Uniondale, Indiana, the town so small it makes a hobbit hole look like a mansion. If you're looking for a place where everyone knows everyone else's business (whether they want to or not), you've found it!

But don't let the size of this town fool you. Uniondale may be small, but it's full of surprises. For instance, did you know that the town's annual corn festival is actually a front for a secret society of corn enthusiasts? It's true! They meet in an underground bunker beneath the festival grounds to discuss the merits of different corn breeds and trade kernels like they're precious gems.

And if you're looking for excitement, look no further than Uniondale's famous "traffic jam" - a daily occurrence where the two cars in town both try to use the same road at the same time. It's a sight to behold!

But despite its quirks, Uniondale is a charming little town with a lot of heart. The locals are friendly (some might say a little too friendly), and there's always something going on. So if you're ever passing through, be sure to stop and say hi. Who knows? You might just end up staying a while...whether you want to or not.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Now the thing is, everything between the picture and the row of asterisks was written by ChatGPT as a response to my statement, "Write a short humorous blog post about Uniondale, Indiana."

I am increasingly becoming unnecessary.

Dewey/Debbie Joined Their Hearts, It's Grand

 

Forty-four years ago today
Beloved and I said, "Okay"
What it really was was, "Yes, I do
I only wanna be with you."
So let me introduce to you
The two who've been one all these years
Dewey/Debbie Joined Their Hearts, It's Grand

When Dewey/Debbie Joined Their Hearts, It's Grand
Though sometimes, the going got rough
Dewey/Debbie Joined Their Hearts, It's Grand
But Jesus helped, and that's enough
Dewey/Debbie Joined Their, Dewey/Debbie Joined Their
Dewey/Debbie Joined Their Hearts, It's Grand

It's wonderful to be here
Although the trip's been long
Good and bad have both been had
There's no real reason to be sad
'Cause now we sing this song

Well, we're never gonna stop the show
But I thought you might like to know
It's not always rainbows and wine
But all in all, we get along just fine
So let me introduce to you
In love for forty-four short years
Dewey/Debbie Joined Their Hearts, It's Grand

Blew Swayed Shoos

 

According to the 423rd greatest song of all time, there are a lot of terrible things that are still not as bad as scuffing a person's blue suede shoes.

Carl Perkins gives the listener permission to:

• Knock me down
• Step on my face
• Slander my name all over the place
• Burn my house
• Steal my car
• Drink my liquor from an old fruit jar

However...

...don't you DARE put the bottom of your shoe on the top of his.

It's the kind of down-home, dirt-lane, farm-boy, song that should have been written on a potato sack.

Oh but wait...

...it was! #TrueTruth

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Fun Fact: I had a pair of BROWN suede shoes once. Stupid purchase if you care about your shoes looking clean.

Just sayin'.

Stage Kissing

 

I recently took a trip down memory lane...thinking about my long and varied history in both community and semi-professional theater.

At one time or another, I've been a pompous king, a groveling peasant, an evil surgeon, a fairy godmother, a French puppeteer, a clownish disciple, a stranded brother, a British pickpocket, a German etiquette instructor, a comical conman, an over-the-hill hillbilly, a fearful fiance, an overly-cheerful radio star, a Civil War amputee, a World War II general, the inventor of the handled grocery bag, a locust-hunting governor, a pioneer preacher, a soon-to-be-slaughtered pig, and even a singing and dancing dog.

Out of all those roles (and many others), there have been only two theatrical productions in which my character has kissed another performer:
       1. Johnathan Harker in Dracula
       2. Tony in The Boyfriend

Tony's kiss of Polly was a highly-stylized, poo-poo-peedoo farce that I had forgotten about until I started writing the previous paragraph. (Sorry, Vickie.)

It is the kiss in Dracula that prompted this post and practically put me off pecking permanently.

I was a freshman in high school. I was fairly shy around girls that I had any interest in. I was not a greatly experienced kisser by any means.

All of which is to say that I was nervous when it came time to rehearse The Kiss.

We said our lines. I started leaning in. I quickly licked my lips. The second our lips met, my co-star backed away, wiping her mouth and saying, "You don't have to slobber all over me!"

I honestly don't remember if I was given a chance to redeem myself or if we took the kiss out of the performances, but I'll never forget that moment of humiliation.

To this day, I'm amazed that I ever helped create four children.

I Have a Hate-Hate Relationship With Exercise

 

In a fit of all-too-fleeting health consciousness, I purchased lifetime access to an online exercise instruction site that promised to be quick and easy with short periods of high-intensity energy output interspersed with longer periods of low-impact activity. It sounded doable and was a reasonable price.

It also was a waste of my money.

But to be honest, it's not their fault, it's mine. When it comes to exercise regimens, I am about as unregimented as they come. Just can't turn it into a habit.

I've owned it for close to a year now and have never done anything beyond the 3-minute warm-up section. Of course, just that is enough to get me breathing with some effort and sweating with some gusto.

I can't seem to get beyond some of the goofy things the instructor says in an attempt to be encouraging:

"Awesome work."  -  Pretty sure you have no clue as to the quality of the work I'm doing.

"Really make sure that you're always breathing."  -  I'm paying for this stellar advice?

"Your back should be getting a little bit warmer here."  -  Oh yeah? And maybe your face should be getting out of mine right about now.

"Feel your core warming up as you pull your belly button in toward your spine."  -  If I could pull my belly button toward my spine, I wouldn't need to be exercising!

Still...I've heard that laughing has some of the same aerobic benefits as a good workout, so maybe this is helping after all.

Flashes of Summers Forever Gone

 

Not only does the beginning of October signal the absolute end of summerlikeness and the beginning of the acceptivity of pumpkin spice-osity*, this time around the sun, I have been having flashbacks of scenes from summers in my personal past that have an extremely high likelihood of never being repeated.

• Stretching out on my back in the grass while a kitten stretches out on my belly
• Riding my bike around the countryside for hours with no helmet or shade-providing hat of any kind, no sunscreen, no water supply, and positively no supervision
• Coming home from a hard day's ride with a streak of tar splattered up the back of my white t-shirt
• Whiling away hours under a bridge, looking for frogs and tossing rocks in the "crick"
• Arranging bales in the hayloft to create two opposing castles
• Finding my brother's copy of The Naked Ape in said hayloft
• Reading the passing billboards while lying on my stomach in the over-the-cab bed of our camper.

• FlatulenceKing waking up early and driving us several miles further down the road while everyone else was still asleep.
• The bone-shocking difference between the cut-it-with-a-knife humidity outside and the meat-locker cold inside at my aunt and uncle's home in Orlando.
• Igniting farts in the driveway of that home with my brother and brother-in-law.
• Seeing our Illinois cousins once a year and being expected to behave as if We Missed Each Other So Much
• Feeling like summer was never going to end

_______
* He said, knowing full well that some flotsam of humanity have been pumpkining it to high heaven since the end of August, like Marty McFly Pete Townsending all up in the face of stunned teenagers in the Fifties.

You're Not Being Paranoid If They're Actually Watching You

 

One of the side effects of getting to be a certain age in the midst of a pandemic is an increase in one's meals being of the carry out variety. Disposable cash and lack of cooking initiative form kind of a perfect duo to make driving to a restaurant only to pick up your order and take it home a decidedly-less-than-rare occurrence.

I had kind of a creepy experience the other day while waiting for our Chicken Fajitas and Pollo con Chorizo.

There I stood in the area usually used by patrons waiting to be seated and the hairs on the back of my neck started calling attention to themselves. I had a distinct feeling that I was being watched.

And then I saw it.

"Watched" doesn't cover it. "Stared At" is more like it.

Perhaps even "Ogled."

"I've Got a Job for You"

 

Back when I was between jobs and surviving on unemployment and part-time hours at FastStop, I signed up to be part of a website where people would post available freelance jobs and people like me would offer their services. Need an officiant for your wedding? I was your man. Want somebody to proofread your Master's thesis? Hit me up.

However...

One of the posted jobs just didn't seem kosher:

"i have a research paper due by tomorrow night and i have to summarize 5 articles and just pick out stuff from the article that relates to my thesis its basically a lit review from 2-5 pages"

Would have been quicker to just say "Help! Can you do my homework for me?!?"

#TrueStory