Lately, I've been hearing alot of people talking about the upcoming softball season. Listening to some of them talk, you would think that they've just signed a seven figure deal with the New York Yankees. It's amazing how seriously some guys take it.
When I played softball years ago, I used to get a kick out of some of the things I saw. For instance, there was this one guy who bought this really expensive bat. I remember the brand name was DeMarini. I have to admit it sure sounded bad ass. Well anyway, he would show up with his wonder stick wrapped up in this velvet-like sleeve. He would tell anyone within earshot about how this bat was made of some special composite material, similar to "the stuff they made the space shuttle out of". You would have thought he had the Hope Diamond in that velvet sleeve.
The funny part is, although he would let people touch his magic bat, he wouldn't let anyone hit with it. And now that I think about it, I don't even think I ever saw him hit with it. He told us something about the warranty being voided if he used it when the temperature was under sixty-five degrees. This was hard for me to believe since it was made from "that space shuttle stuff".
Then there was this other guy who prided himself on being an "opposite field" hitter. Normally, a right handed hitter, especially in slow pitch softball, will naturally "pull" everything to the left side of the field. But not this guy. He would intentionally swing late and drive everything down the right field line. The worst part of it was that most of his balls went foul. And it just so happened that there was a patch of woods down the right field line. So, we'd have to sit back and watch the drama play out as the other team ran in and out of the woods to retrieve ball after ball. More than once, I felt like ripping the bat out of his hand and cracking his skull with it.
One time, we were preparing to play this team from another town. I had heard that they were pretty good, but I had no idea. Arriving late, these guys roll up to field in one those motor coach buses. This in itself was a little disturbing. As they began to exit the bus, my whole team stopped what they were doing and watched them. Almost everyone of these guys had the physique of juiced-up Jose Canseco. They all had these neatly pressed uniforms which were way overkill for a recreational league. And most of them were wearing eye-black which gave them an even more menacing look. My team of bar room misfits was in for a long afternoon.
When these guys took batting practice, balls were flying out the park quicker than lake trout on the first of the month. On the rare occasion that one of them actually hit a ground ball, it skipped through the infield like a Scud missile! As my team's shortstop, I immediately turned to my coach and said, "If you think I'm getting in front of that, you're out of your f*cking mind!"
I think they wound up beating us something like 102-0. It was truly a Bad News Bears episode...
The umpires could be quite a group too. There was this one ump who reminded me of Leslie Neilson's character in The Naked Gun. If there was a strike, he would give the exagerated, slow motion arm signal as he loudly belted out, STRIKE TWO!" The guy acted like he was umping a game at Fenway Park.
And this particular ump absolutely hated to have any of his calls questioned. When there was a close play, I would sometimes mess with him by turning my back and yelling "Ah, Bullshit! Even Stevie Wonder could see that he was out!"
He would get all fired up and scream, ""Who said that? Who said that call was bullshit??" The angrier he got, the more we laughed.
And then there were the guys who sat they play softball for "exercise". Let me tell you something, if you plan to get in shape by playing softball, you're going to be disappointed. You spend ninety-nine percent of the time waiting for something to happen. I'm not even sure if slow-pitch softball qualifies as a sport. I mean, if you can drink beer while you play, is it really a sport?
KW
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Dealing With The Bully
By now, most of us have probably seen the video of the recent bullying incident in Australia. If not, let me quickly recap:
A little punk displays his inability to keep his hands to himself by instigating a fight with another schoolmate. Although the victim in this case is much larger, it's clear that he doesn't want to fight. After taking a punch to the face and a few body shots, the big kid finally decides that he's had enough and it's time to take care of business. He effortlessly picks the the little punk up and whips him to the ground. The dazed little bully struggles to his feet and limps away with his deflated ego. It sounds like a happy ending but not so fast....
Both kids were suspended in this case! And although this incident took place in Australia, the same thing is happening in America. Why is it mandatory that both kids involved a schoolyard fight get punished? It's probably fair in some cases. But, if little Johnny walks up and punches little Billy in the nose, shouldn't Billy have the right to defend himself? Again, why should both kids get suspended? I think it sends a message to the good kid that fighting is never an option no matter what the circumstances. Hey, the French had this attitude during World War II and we all saw how that worked out!
Maybe if the schools did more to prevent the bullying in the first place, it wouldn't come down to this. I knew someone who was bullied several years ago. The schools' attitude? If we don't see it happen, there's nothing we can do about it. Yeah, thanks for your help.
With bullying being a recurring problem in today's schools, it has literally become a federal issue. And this is where it gets interesting. Instead of addressing bullying as a general harassment issue, the Department of Justice has thrown race into the mix. Surprise, surprise.....
Our wondeful Department of "Justice" will only investigate bullying cases if the victim is considered protected under the 1964 Civil Rights legislation. In essence, only discrimination against a victim’s race, sex, national origin, disability, or religion will be considered by DOJ.
Are you kidding me?
What happens if a white Catholic boy bullies another white Catholic boy? Or perhaps if a black Protestant teenage girl bullies another black Protestant teenage girl? Hey, here's a tough one.... What if a blind kid bullies a deaf kid. According to to the DOJ's guidelines, I guess there's no problem since they're both disabled? Sounds a bit ridiculous, doesn't it?
Bullying has been going on forever and unfortunately it will probably continue. Sure, the bullies often go on to a life of underachievement and a guest spot on The Jerry Springer Show. But it's no consolation to the kid who continues to get tormented.
In my opinion, a little "schoolyard justice" seems to be a better approach than what our Department of Justice has offered. Maybe our DOJ and school systems could learn something from a school kid in Australia who refused to take it anymore....
KW
A little punk displays his inability to keep his hands to himself by instigating a fight with another schoolmate. Although the victim in this case is much larger, it's clear that he doesn't want to fight. After taking a punch to the face and a few body shots, the big kid finally decides that he's had enough and it's time to take care of business. He effortlessly picks the the little punk up and whips him to the ground. The dazed little bully struggles to his feet and limps away with his deflated ego. It sounds like a happy ending but not so fast....
Both kids were suspended in this case! And although this incident took place in Australia, the same thing is happening in America. Why is it mandatory that both kids involved a schoolyard fight get punished? It's probably fair in some cases. But, if little Johnny walks up and punches little Billy in the nose, shouldn't Billy have the right to defend himself? Again, why should both kids get suspended? I think it sends a message to the good kid that fighting is never an option no matter what the circumstances. Hey, the French had this attitude during World War II and we all saw how that worked out!
Maybe if the schools did more to prevent the bullying in the first place, it wouldn't come down to this. I knew someone who was bullied several years ago. The schools' attitude? If we don't see it happen, there's nothing we can do about it. Yeah, thanks for your help.
With bullying being a recurring problem in today's schools, it has literally become a federal issue. And this is where it gets interesting. Instead of addressing bullying as a general harassment issue, the Department of Justice has thrown race into the mix. Surprise, surprise.....
Our wondeful Department of "Justice" will only investigate bullying cases if the victim is considered protected under the 1964 Civil Rights legislation. In essence, only discrimination against a victim’s race, sex, national origin, disability, or religion will be considered by DOJ.
Are you kidding me?
What happens if a white Catholic boy bullies another white Catholic boy? Or perhaps if a black Protestant teenage girl bullies another black Protestant teenage girl? Hey, here's a tough one.... What if a blind kid bullies a deaf kid. According to to the DOJ's guidelines, I guess there's no problem since they're both disabled? Sounds a bit ridiculous, doesn't it?
Bullying has been going on forever and unfortunately it will probably continue. Sure, the bullies often go on to a life of underachievement and a guest spot on The Jerry Springer Show. But it's no consolation to the kid who continues to get tormented.
In my opinion, a little "schoolyard justice" seems to be a better approach than what our Department of Justice has offered. Maybe our DOJ and school systems could learn something from a school kid in Australia who refused to take it anymore....
KW
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Cameras Everywhere
Several years ago, we were introduced to those dreaded red light cameras. These cameras were initially installed at several busy downtown intersections. Of course, the politicians told us the cameras were being put in place "for our safety". But in reality, it was just another way to pick the pockets of the working class.
I drive through downtown Baltimore regularly, and it's not uncommon to hear people locking up their brakes as the traffic light turns yellow. Who can blame them for not wanting to get a $75 photo ticket? Of course, this always creates the potential for a rear end collision. But remember, these red light cameras are here to keep us safe.
As politicians normally do, they ignored the public's general opposition to these cameras and proceeded to push for more of them. There's no denying that the cameras were a steady source of revenue for their budgets. So, not surprising, they looked into even more ways to milk daily commuters.
Before long, the speed cameras were born. Using the ol' smoke and mirrors trick, the speed cameras were rolled into school zones and "construction" zones. I mean, how could anyone object to giving a speeding ticket to someone blazing through a school zone? When politicians tell you "We're doing it for the kids", in my opinion, they're usually masking their true intentions.
The same could be said of construction zones. Of course, people should drive responsibly in an area where men are working. But the problem I have is that I hardly ever any work being done. On the Baltimore beltway, there's a construction zone near the Liberty Road exit. This is the most inactive "work zone" I've ever seen. For the most part, the only work being done is by the red light camera (which works around the clock). The worse part about all of this is that people are well aware of the camera and they slow down to a crawl to avoid ticket. Of course, this always creates a massive traffic backup. But that's ok because all of this makes things safer, right?
There's no doubt in my mind that these cameras were installed more in the name of profit than for public safety. Call me cynical, but I believe that it's always about the money.
To be fair, I guess if you drive at the posted speeds and don;t go through red lights, you'll likely be ok. However, with any technology, there are glitches and mishaps. And if I'm not mistaken, there's something in the Sixth Amendment that gives us the right to face our accuser. How are we supposed to face an accuser that's not even human? Will they cart they camera into the courtroom and set it in the witness chair?
Plus, shouldn't we at least get the opportunity to talk our way out of a speeding ticket to real cop? I mean, how are you going to explain to a camera that you were doing 55 in a 40 because you're suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome??
I guess there will always be mixed opinions on the red light/speeding cameras. But from most of the people I've spoken to, it seems that there's still a general feeling of disapproval. But like a tax, once it's put in place, it's never going away. In fact, it usually gets worse. So, expect to see more cameras coming to a location near you.....
KW
I drive through downtown Baltimore regularly, and it's not uncommon to hear people locking up their brakes as the traffic light turns yellow. Who can blame them for not wanting to get a $75 photo ticket? Of course, this always creates the potential for a rear end collision. But remember, these red light cameras are here to keep us safe.
As politicians normally do, they ignored the public's general opposition to these cameras and proceeded to push for more of them. There's no denying that the cameras were a steady source of revenue for their budgets. So, not surprising, they looked into even more ways to milk daily commuters.
Before long, the speed cameras were born. Using the ol' smoke and mirrors trick, the speed cameras were rolled into school zones and "construction" zones. I mean, how could anyone object to giving a speeding ticket to someone blazing through a school zone? When politicians tell you "We're doing it for the kids", in my opinion, they're usually masking their true intentions.
The same could be said of construction zones. Of course, people should drive responsibly in an area where men are working. But the problem I have is that I hardly ever any work being done. On the Baltimore beltway, there's a construction zone near the Liberty Road exit. This is the most inactive "work zone" I've ever seen. For the most part, the only work being done is by the red light camera (which works around the clock). The worse part about all of this is that people are well aware of the camera and they slow down to a crawl to avoid ticket. Of course, this always creates a massive traffic backup. But that's ok because all of this makes things safer, right?
There's no doubt in my mind that these cameras were installed more in the name of profit than for public safety. Call me cynical, but I believe that it's always about the money.
To be fair, I guess if you drive at the posted speeds and don;t go through red lights, you'll likely be ok. However, with any technology, there are glitches and mishaps. And if I'm not mistaken, there's something in the Sixth Amendment that gives us the right to face our accuser. How are we supposed to face an accuser that's not even human? Will they cart they camera into the courtroom and set it in the witness chair?
Plus, shouldn't we at least get the opportunity to talk our way out of a speeding ticket to real cop? I mean, how are you going to explain to a camera that you were doing 55 in a 40 because you're suffering from Irritable Bowel Syndrome??
I guess there will always be mixed opinions on the red light/speeding cameras. But from most of the people I've spoken to, it seems that there's still a general feeling of disapproval. But like a tax, once it's put in place, it's never going away. In fact, it usually gets worse. So, expect to see more cameras coming to a location near you.....
KW
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Eat, Drink & Be Irish
I'm not sure if St. Patrick's Day is considered an official "holiday", but there's no doubt that it's certainly one of America's most festive days. It doesn't matter what part of the world your ancestors hail from, on March 17 everyone is Irish. And the Irish sure know how to throw a party!
Bartenders around the country will spend the day pouring ending pints of Guinness draught. Keep in mind that the recommended pouring method for "the perfect pint" of Guinness takes almost two minutes. If bartenders get many requests for this method, it's going to be a long day.
Although I would consider myself an experienced beer drinker, I have never quite acquired a taste for Guinness. I realize that, to the people of Ireland, this borders on sacrilege. I mean no disrespect. But when it comes to Irish beers, I prefer the more traditional lager style such as Harp, Smithwick's and or perhaps even a Kilkenny's Irish Cream Ale. And although it's technically an American beer, I have to give a shout out to Killian's Irish Red. With this being said, Smithwick's is probably my overall favorite. And of course, there's always a story.....
Irish pubs attract me much like a toy store attracts a child. So, it should come as no surprise that while in New York City last year, I was in heaven. I felt magnetically drawn to the first Irish bar that crossed my path. I wasted no time ordering a Smithwick's draft. The waitress gave me a funny look, but nonetheless fulfilled my request. Never wanting to spoil the party, I eventually asked for a couple more. By the third Smithwick's order, the waitress had heard enough. She rolled her eyes and said, "I'm not bringing you another beer until you learn how to pronounce it!"
I immediately assumed the "deer in the headlights" look....
Now, keep in mind, I'm from Baltimore where the beer of legend is Natty Boh. So, I pick up the Smithwick's coaster from the table and hold it up like I'm getting ready to read to a class of first graders. I slowly drag my index finger along the colorful Smithwick's font and deliberately enunciated each syllable, "Smith...Wicks." I guess I showed her, huh?
The waitress just stared at me like I was an idiot, then shook her head.......
Seizing the opportunity to teach me some Irish culture, she tells me that it's actually pronounced Smiddicks. Although it defied the rules of pronunciation, I took her word for it. But seriously, how was I supposed to know this? It was bad enough that Smithwicks lacked the traditional "th" sound, but what happened to the "w"? And where in the hell does the "D" sound come from?? In any event, the waitress actually did me a favor. Now, when I order an Irish beer, I proudly ask for a Smiddicks. This inevitably projects the "I'm smarter than I look" image.
So, drag that green sweater out of the closet and grab yourself a heaping plate of corned beef and cabbage. And whether you're celebrating with a Smiddicks, a Guinness or a even a watered down American light beer with green food coloring, may you have a festive and enjoyable St Patrick's Day!
KW
Bartenders around the country will spend the day pouring ending pints of Guinness draught. Keep in mind that the recommended pouring method for "the perfect pint" of Guinness takes almost two minutes. If bartenders get many requests for this method, it's going to be a long day.
Although I would consider myself an experienced beer drinker, I have never quite acquired a taste for Guinness. I realize that, to the people of Ireland, this borders on sacrilege. I mean no disrespect. But when it comes to Irish beers, I prefer the more traditional lager style such as Harp, Smithwick's and or perhaps even a Kilkenny's Irish Cream Ale. And although it's technically an American beer, I have to give a shout out to Killian's Irish Red. With this being said, Smithwick's is probably my overall favorite. And of course, there's always a story.....
Irish pubs attract me much like a toy store attracts a child. So, it should come as no surprise that while in New York City last year, I was in heaven. I felt magnetically drawn to the first Irish bar that crossed my path. I wasted no time ordering a Smithwick's draft. The waitress gave me a funny look, but nonetheless fulfilled my request. Never wanting to spoil the party, I eventually asked for a couple more. By the third Smithwick's order, the waitress had heard enough. She rolled her eyes and said, "I'm not bringing you another beer until you learn how to pronounce it!"
I immediately assumed the "deer in the headlights" look....
Now, keep in mind, I'm from Baltimore where the beer of legend is Natty Boh. So, I pick up the Smithwick's coaster from the table and hold it up like I'm getting ready to read to a class of first graders. I slowly drag my index finger along the colorful Smithwick's font and deliberately enunciated each syllable, "Smith...Wicks." I guess I showed her, huh?
The waitress just stared at me like I was an idiot, then shook her head.......
Seizing the opportunity to teach me some Irish culture, she tells me that it's actually pronounced Smiddicks. Although it defied the rules of pronunciation, I took her word for it. But seriously, how was I supposed to know this? It was bad enough that Smithwicks lacked the traditional "th" sound, but what happened to the "w"? And where in the hell does the "D" sound come from?? In any event, the waitress actually did me a favor. Now, when I order an Irish beer, I proudly ask for a Smiddicks. This inevitably projects the "I'm smarter than I look" image.
So, drag that green sweater out of the closet and grab yourself a heaping plate of corned beef and cabbage. And whether you're celebrating with a Smiddicks, a Guinness or a even a watered down American light beer with green food coloring, may you have a festive and enjoyable St Patrick's Day!
KW
Monday, March 14, 2011
One Big Slumber Party
Can someone explain to me what's up with people wearing their pajamas in public? Have people become so lazy that it's just too much effort for them to change into some real clothes before they go out? Sure, I expect to see this type of thing at Walmart. But I'm seeing it everywhere these days....
I saw a teenage girl in the mall this weekend. Not only was she sporting her plaid flannel pajamas, but she had on a pair of furry slippers to boot! Back in the day, high school girls would spend three hours primping before they even thought about going out into public. They wouldn't have been caught dead wearing pajamas to a shopping mall. But today, the underachieving, just-woke-up look is the new fashion trend.
And it's not just the young girls who are sporting the Jerry Springer look. I was driving through West Baltimore last week and saw a middle aged woman standing at a bus stop. As I got closer, I noticed that she was wearing a pair of Scooby-Doo pajamas. Yes, that's right, Scooby-freggin'-Doo! The woman looked utterly ridiculous yapping on her cell phone near Security Boulevard in her juvenile sleepwear. With my window slightly cracked, I could hear her as she dropped multiple f-bombs to the caller to the other end. This made the whole thing seem a bit surreal. I just shook my head and giggled as I thought to myself,"What would Scooby Do?"
All things considered, I guess wearing pajamas is better than the "pants on the ground" look. Maybe it's better to look lazy than foolish?
I don't know, maybe I'm showing my age. But I think you should give the impression that you at least care a little about your appearance. I say leave the pajamas at home. And if you absolutely must wear them out in public, try to limit them to Walmart....
KW
I saw a teenage girl in the mall this weekend. Not only was she sporting her plaid flannel pajamas, but she had on a pair of furry slippers to boot! Back in the day, high school girls would spend three hours primping before they even thought about going out into public. They wouldn't have been caught dead wearing pajamas to a shopping mall. But today, the underachieving, just-woke-up look is the new fashion trend.
And it's not just the young girls who are sporting the Jerry Springer look. I was driving through West Baltimore last week and saw a middle aged woman standing at a bus stop. As I got closer, I noticed that she was wearing a pair of Scooby-Doo pajamas. Yes, that's right, Scooby-freggin'-Doo! The woman looked utterly ridiculous yapping on her cell phone near Security Boulevard in her juvenile sleepwear. With my window slightly cracked, I could hear her as she dropped multiple f-bombs to the caller to the other end. This made the whole thing seem a bit surreal. I just shook my head and giggled as I thought to myself,"What would Scooby Do?"
All things considered, I guess wearing pajamas is better than the "pants on the ground" look. Maybe it's better to look lazy than foolish?
I don't know, maybe I'm showing my age. But I think you should give the impression that you at least care a little about your appearance. I say leave the pajamas at home. And if you absolutely must wear them out in public, try to limit them to Walmart....
KW
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Backyard Mechanic
With today's more sophisticated computerized engines, the backyard mechanic is disappearing faster than Charlie Sheen's career. Back in the day, you could fix almost engine problem with a set of combination wrenches and a screwdriver. But today, you need electronic diagnostic tools and a degree in mechanical engineering.
When I was sixteen and first started driving, my dad showed me how to change the oil in my car. Although it was a relatively simple task, it gave me a sense of accomplishment knowing that I was capable of performing a maintenance procedure on an automobile. I couldn't wait to get my hands dirty!
The one thing my dad neglected to mention was that you should never change your oil on a windy day. So, being oblivious to the weather conditions, I eagerly crawled under my car to perform my first solo oil change. I carefully positioned the drain pan under the oil plug. I unscrew the plug and the oil comes spewing out like a gusher in a Texas oil field. The gusting wind causes the oil to spray everywhere except into the drain pan. Dirty oil runs down my arm and splatters across my face as I frantically try to screw the plug back it. I don't think there's an ounce of oil left in the engine by the time I finally got it back in. When it was over, I looked like I had just worked a double shift on an oil rig and the street looked like the crash site of the Exxon Valdez. To make matters worse, I ruined a perfectly good Def Leppard concert shirt!
Never being one to learn from his mistakes, a few months later I decided that it was time to change the spark plugs. And I figured while I was at it, I might as well change the wires too. I mean, how hard could it be? So, I pull all of the old wires off and take all of the old spark plugs out. Then I install the new plugs and attach the new wires to them. So far, so good. But I ran into a snag when I went to put the other end of the wires on the distributor cap. I couldn't remember the way the old ones came off. After thinking about it for a minute or two, I decided it probably didn't matter. So, I ad libbed and put them on in no particular order. Bad decision!
When I started the car, the engine was making noises that I never heard before. It was sputtering and hesitating with reckless abandon. I was thinking that it might blow up so I turned it off. Now, keep in mind that this engine had eight cylinders. So, figuring out the correct combination would be like picking the winning lottery number.
Although I knew my Dad would mentally browbeat me for this, I had no choice but to ask for his help.
After I told him about my latest blunder, I just sat back with my oil-slicked hair and absorbed his tirade for what seemed like forever. When he eventually finished, we walked out to the car. As my dad cursed me under his breath, we tried endless wire combinations with no luck. Then, I remembered that I had a friend that worked in an auto parts store. Maybe he could help me. Sure enough, he was able to provide me with the correct sequence for the wires. I was happy to have my car running but I was disappointed that I didn't call him first!
I'm happy to report that my mechanical ability has gotten somewhat better over the years. However, if it requires more than a wrench or a screwdriver, I let the professionals handle it....
KW
When I was sixteen and first started driving, my dad showed me how to change the oil in my car. Although it was a relatively simple task, it gave me a sense of accomplishment knowing that I was capable of performing a maintenance procedure on an automobile. I couldn't wait to get my hands dirty!
The one thing my dad neglected to mention was that you should never change your oil on a windy day. So, being oblivious to the weather conditions, I eagerly crawled under my car to perform my first solo oil change. I carefully positioned the drain pan under the oil plug. I unscrew the plug and the oil comes spewing out like a gusher in a Texas oil field. The gusting wind causes the oil to spray everywhere except into the drain pan. Dirty oil runs down my arm and splatters across my face as I frantically try to screw the plug back it. I don't think there's an ounce of oil left in the engine by the time I finally got it back in. When it was over, I looked like I had just worked a double shift on an oil rig and the street looked like the crash site of the Exxon Valdez. To make matters worse, I ruined a perfectly good Def Leppard concert shirt!
Never being one to learn from his mistakes, a few months later I decided that it was time to change the spark plugs. And I figured while I was at it, I might as well change the wires too. I mean, how hard could it be? So, I pull all of the old wires off and take all of the old spark plugs out. Then I install the new plugs and attach the new wires to them. So far, so good. But I ran into a snag when I went to put the other end of the wires on the distributor cap. I couldn't remember the way the old ones came off. After thinking about it for a minute or two, I decided it probably didn't matter. So, I ad libbed and put them on in no particular order. Bad decision!
When I started the car, the engine was making noises that I never heard before. It was sputtering and hesitating with reckless abandon. I was thinking that it might blow up so I turned it off. Now, keep in mind that this engine had eight cylinders. So, figuring out the correct combination would be like picking the winning lottery number.
Although I knew my Dad would mentally browbeat me for this, I had no choice but to ask for his help.
After I told him about my latest blunder, I just sat back with my oil-slicked hair and absorbed his tirade for what seemed like forever. When he eventually finished, we walked out to the car. As my dad cursed me under his breath, we tried endless wire combinations with no luck. Then, I remembered that I had a friend that worked in an auto parts store. Maybe he could help me. Sure enough, he was able to provide me with the correct sequence for the wires. I was happy to have my car running but I was disappointed that I didn't call him first!
I'm happy to report that my mechanical ability has gotten somewhat better over the years. However, if it requires more than a wrench or a screwdriver, I let the professionals handle it....
KW
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Blood Drive
Every now and then, I like to feel like I'm doing something for humanity. Something as small as donating blood comes immediately to mind. I guess in some ways, you can look at it as giving the gift of life.
Well, a few years ago, I was running all over town looking for plumbing parts for my swimming pool. It was a hot, humid day and I wasn't having much luck. At some point, I got somewhat lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Since stopping and asking for directions wasn't an option (I'm a guy), I zig-zagged through the community hoping to eventually stumble on a main road.
After driving aimlessly for about fifteen minutes, I rode past a local firehouse. A large sign out front announced that there was a blood drive currently taking place inside. Impulsively, I decided to stop and go in. I figured that I could make myself feel better by giving a pint of blood. In exchange, I would get a cold drink, a bag of cookies and possibly directions on how to get home.
So, I sign in and wait to be called. After a few minutes, a young woman calls me back. She takes my personal information and then attempts to take my pulse and blood pressure. As she's doing this, she starts to make these weird faces. When I ask her what's wrong, she tells me, "Nothing. Just stay there. I'll be right back."
This should have been a hint for me to get up and run for the door. But I obeyed her order. She quickly returned with woman who appeared to be her supervisor. The supervisor then proceeded to retake my pulse and blood pressure. Her reaction was similar to the first girl's. Again, I ask, "Is something wrong?"
The supervisor replies, "Well, according to these readings, you're dead."
I assure them that I'm 100% alive. They seem to almost doubt me, then they go and get another blood pressure sleeve. Thankfully, the new sleeve showed that my heart was indeed pumping blood through my system. I don't know who was more relieved, me or the two women....
After this adventure, I was summoned over to one of those Red Cross lounge chairs by a large woman who resembled boxing legend Joe Frazier. In a gravely voice, she tells me to sit down and prop left arm up. Afraid to question her, I do as I'm told. She then starts to splash this purple solution all over the crease between my upper and lower arm. Keeping the conversation to a bare minimum, she ties off my arm and begins to flick it in an attempt to arouse a hidden vein. By the time she's ready to stick me, my arm already feels like it's been lit up by a disgruntled bumblebee.
Smokin' Joe finally speaks up and says, "You're gonna feel a little prick." As I fight the urge to make a juvenile attempt at sexual humor, she slams the needle into my arm. The pain came instantly and lasted indefinitely. It felt like she had pressed a lit cigarette against my skin! And just when I think it can't get any worse, she nonchalantly says, "Oops. I missed. I'm gonna have to do it again." Definitely, not something I wanted to hear.
So, the heavyweight champ plunges to needle into my arm again. But this time, with the needle halfway in, she proceeds to probe for the vein. After what seemed like an hour, she proudly announces, "Got it!" After a few more "adjustments", my blood finally begins to flow into a clear plastic bag below.
By this time, my arm is throbbing with so much pain that I think that I might actually pass out. Lying there on the lounge chair with my eyes rolling back into my head and a needle stuck in my arm, I must have resembled a strung-out junkie. Like a recurring nightmare, the beast of a woman appeared before me and asked if I would like something to drink. In a weak voice, I replied, "A double shot of Jim Beam. No ice please..."
At last, she cracked a smile and said, "You so funny. Here, have a can of Coke. You look like you could use the sugar."
When the pint size bag was finally full, the woman (who finally introduced herself as Monique) tried to sweet-talk me into giving a second pint of blood. Monique informed me that it would pumped out of my body and stripped of the "platelets', and then pumped back into my body. I couldn't help but think that Monique got some kind of commission for "selling" this second pint of platelets. She was only halfway through her explanation when I cut her off with an emphatic "Hell, no!"
Then, she calls me a big baby. Can you believe this? I muster up whatever adrenaline I have left in my body and say, "Big baby? Are you kidding me? After the near death experience that you just put my through, you want more from me? Forget about that. Give me my bag of cookies, I'm going home!"
Of course, this would have been alot better if I actually knew how to get home. Luckily, as I exited the firehouse with maimed arm, I spotted a fireman smoking a cigarette. I casually asked him for the way back to I-95. Shortly afterward, I was on my way home....
The next day..........
I woke up to discover that my arm had a softball sized bruise from the previous day's workout with Smokin' Joe. I seriously considered never giving blood again.
Then, the phone rings and I see from the caller ID that it's the Red Cross. I figure they're calling to see if my left arm was still functioning. Or perhaps, they're calling to offer some kind of compensation. But to my surprise, they're actually calling to ask me to donate more blood! Speechless, I dropped the phone as the Red Cross caller continued to deliver the script.
I had nightmares about Monique for a long time. I often wonder how many more victims followed in my footsteps. And how many of them survived to tell about it.........
KW
Well, a few years ago, I was running all over town looking for plumbing parts for my swimming pool. It was a hot, humid day and I wasn't having much luck. At some point, I got somewhat lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Since stopping and asking for directions wasn't an option (I'm a guy), I zig-zagged through the community hoping to eventually stumble on a main road.
After driving aimlessly for about fifteen minutes, I rode past a local firehouse. A large sign out front announced that there was a blood drive currently taking place inside. Impulsively, I decided to stop and go in. I figured that I could make myself feel better by giving a pint of blood. In exchange, I would get a cold drink, a bag of cookies and possibly directions on how to get home.
So, I sign in and wait to be called. After a few minutes, a young woman calls me back. She takes my personal information and then attempts to take my pulse and blood pressure. As she's doing this, she starts to make these weird faces. When I ask her what's wrong, she tells me, "Nothing. Just stay there. I'll be right back."
This should have been a hint for me to get up and run for the door. But I obeyed her order. She quickly returned with woman who appeared to be her supervisor. The supervisor then proceeded to retake my pulse and blood pressure. Her reaction was similar to the first girl's. Again, I ask, "Is something wrong?"
The supervisor replies, "Well, according to these readings, you're dead."
I assure them that I'm 100% alive. They seem to almost doubt me, then they go and get another blood pressure sleeve. Thankfully, the new sleeve showed that my heart was indeed pumping blood through my system. I don't know who was more relieved, me or the two women....
After this adventure, I was summoned over to one of those Red Cross lounge chairs by a large woman who resembled boxing legend Joe Frazier. In a gravely voice, she tells me to sit down and prop left arm up. Afraid to question her, I do as I'm told. She then starts to splash this purple solution all over the crease between my upper and lower arm. Keeping the conversation to a bare minimum, she ties off my arm and begins to flick it in an attempt to arouse a hidden vein. By the time she's ready to stick me, my arm already feels like it's been lit up by a disgruntled bumblebee.
Smokin' Joe finally speaks up and says, "You're gonna feel a little prick." As I fight the urge to make a juvenile attempt at sexual humor, she slams the needle into my arm. The pain came instantly and lasted indefinitely. It felt like she had pressed a lit cigarette against my skin! And just when I think it can't get any worse, she nonchalantly says, "Oops. I missed. I'm gonna have to do it again." Definitely, not something I wanted to hear.
So, the heavyweight champ plunges to needle into my arm again. But this time, with the needle halfway in, she proceeds to probe for the vein. After what seemed like an hour, she proudly announces, "Got it!" After a few more "adjustments", my blood finally begins to flow into a clear plastic bag below.
By this time, my arm is throbbing with so much pain that I think that I might actually pass out. Lying there on the lounge chair with my eyes rolling back into my head and a needle stuck in my arm, I must have resembled a strung-out junkie. Like a recurring nightmare, the beast of a woman appeared before me and asked if I would like something to drink. In a weak voice, I replied, "A double shot of Jim Beam. No ice please..."
At last, she cracked a smile and said, "You so funny. Here, have a can of Coke. You look like you could use the sugar."
When the pint size bag was finally full, the woman (who finally introduced herself as Monique) tried to sweet-talk me into giving a second pint of blood. Monique informed me that it would pumped out of my body and stripped of the "platelets', and then pumped back into my body. I couldn't help but think that Monique got some kind of commission for "selling" this second pint of platelets. She was only halfway through her explanation when I cut her off with an emphatic "Hell, no!"
Then, she calls me a big baby. Can you believe this? I muster up whatever adrenaline I have left in my body and say, "Big baby? Are you kidding me? After the near death experience that you just put my through, you want more from me? Forget about that. Give me my bag of cookies, I'm going home!"
Of course, this would have been alot better if I actually knew how to get home. Luckily, as I exited the firehouse with maimed arm, I spotted a fireman smoking a cigarette. I casually asked him for the way back to I-95. Shortly afterward, I was on my way home....
The next day..........
I woke up to discover that my arm had a softball sized bruise from the previous day's workout with Smokin' Joe. I seriously considered never giving blood again.
Then, the phone rings and I see from the caller ID that it's the Red Cross. I figure they're calling to see if my left arm was still functioning. Or perhaps, they're calling to offer some kind of compensation. But to my surprise, they're actually calling to ask me to donate more blood! Speechless, I dropped the phone as the Red Cross caller continued to deliver the script.
I had nightmares about Monique for a long time. I often wonder how many more victims followed in my footsteps. And how many of them survived to tell about it.........
KW
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The Westboro Follies
Sometimes in life, it seems like the bad guys win. And that's exactly what happened yesterday when the Supreme Court ruled that the Westboro Baptist Church is protected under the First Amendment to protest at military funerals.
Before anyone starts to give me a lesson on the Constitution, I understand the First Amendment. Yeah, I know people have the right to express themselves. But just because you have the right to act like an asshole, it doesn't mean that you should. Anyone who thinks that it's right to disrupt a funeral, especially a military funeral, is just as delusional as the imbeciles at Westboro.
If you're wondering about who exactly Westboro Baptist Church is, let me give you an overview.WBC is located in Topeka, Kansas and is led by a knucklehead named Fred Phelps. The congregation consists mostly of Phelps's large family and a few other nit-wits who like the attention. The "church" has gained notoriety by protesting homosexuality, primarily by picketing at funerals. They also seem to be fond of desecrating the American flag.
WBC gained the most attention when they started showing up at military funerals. They say God is killing our soldiers because of America's general immorality and tolerance of homosexuality. Shouldn't there be some kind of law against public displays of lunacy? And how do these morons find all of this time to protest? Do any of them have real jobs?
For the life of me, I really can't understand Westboro's mentality. OK, so they're opposed to homosexuality. So, what? Many Americans are opposed to homosexuality. But they don't show up with picket signs at funerals and make asses out of themselves!
When my son was serving in Iraq, my family worried about him every day and prayed for his safe return. Fortunately, he made it home safe. But many other brave men and woman aren't so lucky. I can't imagine the excruciating pain and mental anguish that their families go through. To have the morons from Westboro show up is like pouring salt on an open wound. This nonsense has to be stopped!
While recently attending a viewing for a local fallen firefighter (who also happened to be a family friend), I noticed what appeared to be a group of bikers holding American flags standing at the hall's entrance. My cousin informed me that they were actually retired military guys who went around to funerals to keep the Westboro idiots in check. When I left the viewing, I thanked them for what they do. I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before someone pushed one of these guys over the limit. If it ever happens, I'm betting against the Westboro jerks!
So, as a result of the recent Supreme Court ruling, the Westboro scumbags will, no doubt, be doing a victory dance at a funeral near you. And sadly, there's nothing that we can legally do about it. There's a fine line between exercising your freedom of speech and abusing it. Funerals are sacred events and should be protected, in some way, from outside interference and distractions. (The Respect for America's Fallen Heroes Act signed into law by President Bush in 2006 prohibits any protest within 300 feet of a cemetery's entrance, 60 minutes before or after any funeral. However, this only applies to cemeteries under control of the National Cemetery Administration.)
Countless troops have made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve our most basic freedoms. Police officers, firefighters and rescue workers put their lives on the line every day to keep us safe. And how does Westboro thank them? They disrupt their funerals and trash our flag. If these jackasses hate America so much, why don't they just leave? I hear Saudi Arabia has a low tolerance for homosexuality. This might be a great place for Westboro to set up their pathetic excuse for a church. Of course, they won't have the Supreme Court to protect their sorry asses over there!
Although they might have scored a small victory yesterday, the callous bastards of Westboro will always be losers to the rest of America!
KW
Before anyone starts to give me a lesson on the Constitution, I understand the First Amendment. Yeah, I know people have the right to express themselves. But just because you have the right to act like an asshole, it doesn't mean that you should. Anyone who thinks that it's right to disrupt a funeral, especially a military funeral, is just as delusional as the imbeciles at Westboro.
If you're wondering about who exactly Westboro Baptist Church is, let me give you an overview.WBC is located in Topeka, Kansas and is led by a knucklehead named Fred Phelps. The congregation consists mostly of Phelps's large family and a few other nit-wits who like the attention. The "church" has gained notoriety by protesting homosexuality, primarily by picketing at funerals. They also seem to be fond of desecrating the American flag.
WBC gained the most attention when they started showing up at military funerals. They say God is killing our soldiers because of America's general immorality and tolerance of homosexuality. Shouldn't there be some kind of law against public displays of lunacy? And how do these morons find all of this time to protest? Do any of them have real jobs?
For the life of me, I really can't understand Westboro's mentality. OK, so they're opposed to homosexuality. So, what? Many Americans are opposed to homosexuality. But they don't show up with picket signs at funerals and make asses out of themselves!
When my son was serving in Iraq, my family worried about him every day and prayed for his safe return. Fortunately, he made it home safe. But many other brave men and woman aren't so lucky. I can't imagine the excruciating pain and mental anguish that their families go through. To have the morons from Westboro show up is like pouring salt on an open wound. This nonsense has to be stopped!
While recently attending a viewing for a local fallen firefighter (who also happened to be a family friend), I noticed what appeared to be a group of bikers holding American flags standing at the hall's entrance. My cousin informed me that they were actually retired military guys who went around to funerals to keep the Westboro idiots in check. When I left the viewing, I thanked them for what they do. I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before someone pushed one of these guys over the limit. If it ever happens, I'm betting against the Westboro jerks!
So, as a result of the recent Supreme Court ruling, the Westboro scumbags will, no doubt, be doing a victory dance at a funeral near you. And sadly, there's nothing that we can legally do about it. There's a fine line between exercising your freedom of speech and abusing it. Funerals are sacred events and should be protected, in some way, from outside interference and distractions. (The Respect for America's Fallen Heroes Act signed into law by President Bush in 2006 prohibits any protest within 300 feet of a cemetery's entrance, 60 minutes before or after any funeral. However, this only applies to cemeteries under control of the National Cemetery Administration.)
Countless troops have made the ultimate sacrifice to preserve our most basic freedoms. Police officers, firefighters and rescue workers put their lives on the line every day to keep us safe. And how does Westboro thank them? They disrupt their funerals and trash our flag. If these jackasses hate America so much, why don't they just leave? I hear Saudi Arabia has a low tolerance for homosexuality. This might be a great place for Westboro to set up their pathetic excuse for a church. Of course, they won't have the Supreme Court to protect their sorry asses over there!
Although they might have scored a small victory yesterday, the callous bastards of Westboro will always be losers to the rest of America!
KW
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