Southern Illinois Werewolf

Werewolves are fearsome things, or so my wide-eyed Grandsons told me.  They're regular folks that grow hair and fangs and howl at the moon.  They sometimes attack little boys, according to Tommy and Adam, who were six and five, respectively.  Their narrative was rich with animation and weird postures.

The next day I realized I had to give them a way to fight these werewolves.  I thought about giving them a silver bullet and gun, but settled for that time honored standard of werewolf repellants- "Howl Out" werewolf spray.  I dumped the window cleaner and used the spray bottle to concoct the most effective spray a kid had ever seen.  Starting with a base of grape kool-aid, I basically cleaned out the cabinet.  I added garlic juice, onion flakes, nutmeg, a sardine, coffee, some "Hi Karate", and a bay leaf to give it that homemade flavor. 

I'll admit that I tend to get a little carried away when I'm being creative, and this time was no exception.  I made a label with instructions, warnings, and listed the contents.  I lied about the contents on the label, but what the FWA (Food and Werewolf Administration) doesn't know won't hurt them. 

I presented the Grandsons with my werewolf spray with great fanfare.  They listened raptly as I explained all the nuances of werewolf repelling.  I must have done a good job because their mother (my daughter) smiled a little, which in itself is a cause for celebration. They learned the werewolf must be sprayed as heavily as possible, but too much could kill it, which would be hard to explain to the werewolf police.  Care must also be taken not to get spray in its' face, it could put an eye out.  Then you'd end up with a blind werewolf bumping into stuff.

My daughter called me the next day.  It had to do with her furniture which used to be white.  It seems Adam had awakened from a dream about werewolves. Sure there was one in the house, and being a brave little man, he handled it.  He denied the vile thing the use of the living room by spraying everything: The walls, the couch, the floor, the TV. Their mom awoke to a purple stain everywhere, including the formerly white couch with matching white easy chair and ottoman.  The carnage was amplified by the powerful aroma of rotting fish mixed with other nasty things.  She wasn't impressed when I reminded her that it's stupid to have white furniture when you have kids.  My adult children have no sense of humor.

Shortly thereafter it occurred to me that we had an opportunity for a real adventure.  I found a real good drawing of a wolf footprint, enlarged it, and made a stencil.  The next day I used it and some black spray-paint to make wolf tracks on my daughters walk and porch. For good measure, I added a footprint to the kids' bedroom window. 

When they got off of the school bus they noticed the tracks right away, and realized the beast had looked in their window.  I helped with the charade by long explanations of werewolf behavior gleaned from late night TV and cheap novels.  They drank in my every word. To quote my guru, Montgomery Burns, "Excellent".

The next was the third and final phase of the adventure.  I went into the city to a costume shop and spent big bucks on a really good werewolf mask.  Driving over to the werewolf proofed house of my daughter, I killed the engine and headlights and coasted up the driveway.  Before easing out of the car I donned the mask and admired myself in the mirror. I looked like a character from "The Howling". The snout was in a snarl, and the rubber lips pulled back to reveal hideous teeth. Cool.

Easing up onto the porch, I kicked over the lawn chairs with a bang.  I imagined the kids went still but instead Tommy almost caught me when he opened the door and looked out.  Thank goodness he didn't see my car. I ran around to the side of the house, tripped over a bicycle, and let out a horrendous howl of pain.  Limping to the back door, I slapped it repeatedly with my paws and growled as loudly as I could. 

I put my ear to the door and the house was quiet. Too quiet.  Were they up to something inside?  Had to much fake fur and latex on my head muffled my hearing?   I felt my senses heighten as I pondered the question. 

I  nursed my bruised knee as I limped back to the porch and fell over the stupid bike again.  Hobbling up the steps I took several deep breaths to steady myself.  I let out loud howls in rapid succession as I leaped through the door. Landing in a crouch in the living room, I hoped my knee would hold as I growled and reached out my paw.

As long as I live I'll never forget seeing the Adam clinging to his mother. But something was amiss. I'd forgotten Tommy had a hockey stick until I saw him swinging it at my head.  As it crossed into my line of sight, I started to scream "Wait!" before everything faded to black.

                    *  *  *  *  *

The exam lights in the E.R. were blinding when I awoke.  I raised my throbbing head and looked over to see my daughter and wife with amused looks on their faces.  They and the nurse must have shared a joke because she was smirking too.  Not expecting any compassion I stayed silent during the skull and knee x-rays and suturing of my head. 
I sat quietly and stared straight ahead when we arrived at home.  The Grandsons laughed at my stitches and limped around the living room on my new cane, saying, "Look, I'm an old grandpa wolf". Brats.

It's been a few years since then.  Tommy is looking forward to joining the NHL, and Adam is becoming a wild wolf expert.  The realtor says to sell the house we've got to get the wolf prints out of the concrete somehow.  As for me, the scar on my head is barely noticeable when I wear a hat, and I have a new brace to support my mangled knee.  My wife and daughter still tell the story of the Southern Illinois werewolf every time the moon is full or when they want to embarass me.  They take great relish in my humiliation. If I could make a spray to repel them...

Fini.

Old white blues by Charlie "Bland Geezer" Melton

My wife's menopausal,
She can't get her fill.
she doses up my oatmeal
with that Viagra pill.
I got the...
Old impotent white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

The doc checked my prostate,
It's big as a lime.
When I'm in the bathroom
it takes overtime.
I got the...
Old swollen white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

We both go to Walmart,
It ain't quite so far.
Then we spend hours looking
for the damned car.
I got the...
Old forgetful white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.


The kids come on over,
Monthly to see if I’m OK.
Visits curiously coincide
with my pension payday.
I got the...
Old stingy ass white man, blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

I bought me a RV,
A condo on wheels.
I'll either miss payments
or skip lots a' meals.
I got the...
Old month to month white man blues.
Now what do I do?
There's nuttin' I can do.

Fini
(artwork credited to creator.)

Grandson Repair and Reclamation

The other day I was complaining that my Grandson was disrespectful by getting damaged. He can’t do chores. I ended up having to do them because I’m not allowed to hire a live-in cheerleading mower assistant.

We took the boy to an orthopedic surgeon, which for the record does not work for free. They charge more than a plumber on a national holiday. They charge more than a lawyer with a condo in Aspen. We drove “up north” to the ortho-dude office in “Mount Carmel” even though I’ve never seen a mountain of any kind in this state. Maybe there used to be a mountain and it was sold to pay a surgeon.

We took the grand-malingerer to the clinic and filled out 57 pages of forms. We eventually got in an exam room. When the surgeon came in the room the female spousal entity lit up like a menorah on the last day of Hanukah. She was as happy as a squirrel in a bird feeder. She was smiling like Hillary when Bernie dropped out. The wife thought the doc was pretty but I don’t know why she’d think that. What’s so great about a rich man with muscles and a head full of hair? While she was all googly-eying the doc I actually listened to him. He determined the kid needed surgery. I’d said the same thing that morning, but nobody stared longingly at me. We scheduled for Friday because Doctor Hunk could get him in and fix him first, because, hey, he has great hair.

Friday came along and we checked in to the surgery center and coffeeteria. I think the hospital is Latin for “The Dreadful Center for Hopelessly Long Waiting Times”. It was 0700 hours because we were first. Boy got all prepped, gowned, pasteurized, and homogenized. He had to be ready because we were first.

Hospitals follow the book of Matthew when Jesus said “The first shall be last and the last shall be first.” A man went in because he was an emergency or was paying cash. We got bumped by a lady for mowing her foot off or something equally trivial. I’m pretty sure another man went in because he and the doc had a tee time. A local politician’s 2nd cousin’s wives plumbers’ neighbor got to go in and get something done to something. I made many trips to the complimentary coffee bar. I noticed that in the hall a couple of women were trying to break their own bones so they could visit Doctor Perfect Hair with the muscles.

About 1400 hours we were up. The kid went in for his one hour surgery that only took 2 ½ hours. By the time he came out of the OR he was malnourished, dehydrated, and as bored as a Senator without a pay-off.

We finally got released and headed home. I’d had enough coffee that I could have flown, but I trudged along on Highway 1. With the many miles to drive and my overly-caffeinated brain I thought up some alternatives to the way it went at the hospital.
Driving so far and waiting all day to get repaired is stupid. Why couldn’t we just stay at home and get a call when they’re ready for us? They could give us one of those pagers like at Olive Garden and we could drive on up when it goes off. Better yet, how about a RV with a surgical suite? They could plan a route just like FedEx and pull up, roll you in one door and out the other. They could partner with Dominos and deliver pizza at the same time. It would work.

Maybe set up operating rooms at the golf course. Doctors seem to end up there anyway. “Let’s see, a broken femur? You go to hole 3. Clavicles are on the first tee. Uninsured? You’re in the sand trap. Watch out, Osteopath playing through.” The malpractice lawyers can hang out in the clubhouse
.
They could even schedule you like the cable company. “The surgeon will be at your location Monday between 8:00 AM and 12:00 PM to repair your hip and fix your internet. Please be washed up, gowned, and off of the Wifi”.

If all of that won’t work, maybe just improve the conditions at the hospital. Everyone is either bored or nervous, so give families something to do. Put exercise bikes connected to generators in the waiting rooms. People will get healthier and pass the time while generating 110 volts AC. You can even take the electricity generated off of the bill. “Mr. Smith, you generated 7 megawatts so we’ll be taking $42 off of your bill. Mrs. Jones, you had 14 family members pedaling like crazy. The surgery bill is paid and we owe you $873. Please come again.

Any of these can work better than the current system. Maybe he who is first can at least move up to the middle. Also, Dr. Dreamy needs to go somewhere, anywhere, else.
Fini.

My Proof of God

Bob, I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve always been proud to call you my friend.
You made the statement the other day that you’re an atheist. I recognize that you have the right to believe, or not believe whatever you want. It’s one of our most basic freedoms. I acknowledge that, but as your friend I have the right to tell you when you’re wrong.

Bob, you believe that there’s no God. You’re wrong.
I’ve heard a way to understand the existence of God. Draw a large circle. Imagine the circle represents the entire universe. Imagine all of the knowledge that can be absorbed in the universe. Imagine all of the knowledge of physics, and mathematics, and history, and everything else possible in the entire universe is represented in that circle. Now imagine all of the knowledge that you have. If all of the knowledge that exists everywhere is illustrated as a circle, then the knowledge we each possess is a mere pin prick in that circle. What we know is nearly insignificant when compared to what could be known. In all of that knowledge that we do not possess, is there room for God? Is there room for knowledge of God’s existence in all that we don’t possess? Yes, there is. It’s only logical that there is room for God in the universe of knowledge.

I think we all have a need for God. I think that people in all cultures have always sought God. I think it’s coded in our DNA. That means every cell of our body is seeking God. It’s a form of magnetism, just like iron seeks a magnet. We came from God, and we can’t truly rest until we reach God.

The way I think about it is like this. If I understand Newton he stated there is a gravitational force between objects. No matter how far apart you move them the force between them remains. If they have an attraction when next to each other, they will still have an attraction when one is moved to the other side of the universe. The force will be small, but it’s there. That’s the way it is between each person and God. We have a force between us that draws us.

Let me put it another way. All water flows to the sea. Any water anywhere will end up in the sea. It’s where it belongs. It will flow hundreds of mile to become part of the ocean. It always does this because the sea is where it belongs. Even if it evaporates it will condense to liquid and flow to the sea.

We belong with God and we move ever so slowly to Him. Our souls will never rest until they join God.
How can I make these assumptions? I can because of what we do. We seek. We always want more, and seek out “more”. You and I went in the service because we wanted “more”. We each had a need to find whatever is out there. None of us are ever truly content with where we are, or who we are. In some way all of us are always seeking. We marry to find more, and to be more fulfilled. We work to get more. We read to accrue more knowledge. We drink, or do drugs, or gamble in our quest for more of a thing: More peace, more acceptance, more love, more of something.

My point is that we spend out entire lives looking for more and we’re never satisfied. The only people I know that are truly satisfied are those that have found God. You can see a look of peace on the faces of those that have found God.

You know what I mean. You may think that they’re idiots and that they’re lying to themselves because of their inner peace. You may think their fulfillment is delusional. I propose to you that the rest of us are delusional and idiotic. We look for all the wrong things to fill an emptiness that we have from being apart from God. We deny where the invisible force, the magnetism, is drawing our souls.

Bob, you don’t believe in God but you must acknowledge the possibility of God. If you do that, then you know your belief can be wrong. That is the first step to God. It’s the first step to fulfillment. It’s what you’ve been seeking.
Fini.

Be Strong- Wear Plaid!

(Photo credit to originator)

Here is wisdom. A real man doesn’t worry how he appears to others. A man is emotionally and mentally strong. He does as he must, but he chooses his path and how he gets to his destination. His feelings, if “man-feelings” really exist, are his and his alone. He doesn’t care what you think.

I saw a guy the other day that is a brave, strong man. He didn’t have big muscles or a monster truck. He had the wardrobe of a warrior. I hope he’s reading this because he’s a great example to men everywhere. His clothing said, “I know who I am and I don’t care what you think. Bring me pie, then go away and leave me alone.” He wore a pith helmet, which was part of the Air Force tropical uniform that I never had occasion to wear. His clothing was an assortment of every color and texture ever to leave a textile mill. The clash of colors would make a designer’s head explode. It was awesome. He reminded me of times when men were macho and tough.

I watch a lot of old TV shows from the before-time when Hollyweird had a soul. I get to watch things like “Matlock” and “Diagnosis Murder” and “Leave It to Beaver”. In the evening I enjoy Carol Burnett and Johnny Carson and every Star Trek series ever produced.

Johnny Carson is particularly entertaining. The jokes and banter are dated and hearken back to a simpler time when you could hurt peoples’ feelers without remorse or legal action. A safe zone was unheard of in that era. Johnny told jokes that hurt feelings and he dressed like he defied anyone to laugh. He even wore a plaid sport coat when sitting with Don Rickles, the king of insults. Rickles insulted everything and everyone but never dared insult Johnny’s jacket.

Johnny wore a plaid sports coat because he could. It’s like my “Dupo Fire and Rescue” shirt. Sure, it’s got a few holes and a couple of bleach spots. I like it anyway. It understands me. That shirt really gets me. I don’t care what others think of it.

It’s like when I was a kid and had to wear a suit and tie to Stokes Chapel church. I’d rather be impaled on a pike than wear that get-up. I’d look across the congregation and see the men in bib overalls and brogans. I’d see the women’s disapproval and the male indifference to that disapproval. Sometimes a man would wear a white shirt and tie with the bibs, showing that he’d had to compromise with the wife. The other men would be sad he’d lost his manhood. It left an imprint on me.

Sure, it’s only clothing. It doesn’t mean anything. You can be a man and dress in a socially acceptable way. You can do that but eventually you’ll lose your manliness. First you wear a shirt with a collar because your spouse is quieter that way. Then, before you know it you’re carrying her purse and shopping for female hygiene stuff. Eventually you’ll be doing housework and crying for no particular reason. Your body will cease making male hormones and you’ll be a girlie-man.

I remember back when I used to be a man that didn’t care what others thought. I ended up at a posh resort on the Mediterranean. The place was full of society types and old European money. I’m proud to say I’m the only person on that fancy beach wearing cut-off fatigue pants and cowboy boots. They weren’t even the fancy boots; they were the clean-the-stalls, kick-dirt-clods boots. I didn’t get many looks from the women but the men envied me like I’d envied the guys at church.

So why care? I’m trying to save you, the young male. I’m trying to keep your “Y” chromosomes from mutating to girlie-man genes. I don’t want you to be reduced to caring what others think. If you start to dress well it won’t be long before you’re moisturizing and talking about feelings. Don’t think it’ll be easy. People everywhere will try to change you. The girlie-man conspiracy has even tried to eliminate ugly plaid jackets. Stand strong and wear what you want, not what they put in the magazines and on Wall-Mart racks. Dress like you want, and defy wives and others. Rock that pith helmet and plaid. Never, ever wear a tie with your bibs. That’ll be the end for you.

I choose to close now. I have to hide the tie my wife bought me.
Fini.

Saving is Losing

Save it for a rainy day. That’s the advice. The axiom is all about delaying gratification so that you’ll have the money or food available when you really need it. There’s even a fable about an ant and a grasshopper that illustrates the point. I’m here to tell you; don’t do it.

I subscribed to that philosophy, except for the money part. For money I follow the Federal Government rule. That rule states to make sure you spend every cent as quickly as possible so that you’ll get more because you need it. It also insures that you get a bigger budget next year. It works for me except for the more money part, I never get more money but I’m hoping that someday I will.

I have a few possessions that I’ve saved for a rainy day. I’m thinking that I made a mistake. I’ve pretty much cheated myself for years.

One of my cherished possessions was a gift from She-Who-Rules. One Christmas she bought me a really nice custom knife with an embossed leather sheath. It was really fancy and would’ve looked great on my belt back when I could see the belt below my gut. I got the knife out the other day and it had rusted. I’d saved it for a rainy day and would never get to enjoy it.

I also have this pair of boots that are pretty fancy. They’re made from an exotic species that may be extinct by now. I’ve had them for years but kept them put up for a special occasion. Back in the day they cost upward of $25 at Hart’s Kosher Shoes and Deli. Anyway, I put them on and they looked real good but the stitching started breaking when I walked. The exotic animal hide cracked. It seems I saved them for nothing. All those years ago I could have enjoyed the comfort of eradicating a cute little forest creature to have awesome footwear. The rainy day I was saving for must have come while I was napping.

It’s like when we went to an estate sale recently. The estate owners had passed away, and the kids hired one of those companies that get rid of things. The inventory included all kinds of collectables still in the boxes. There were ancient kids’ toys still new in the box and decorative plates that never decorated anything. The heirs even sold nice picture frames complete with the photos of the deceased. I’m thinking the benefactors wouldn’t be amused that their cherished knick-knacks went for $1.99. Saving stuff just didn’t pan out for them.

My friend Bud is a saving kind of guy and has all kinds of things put back for the apocalypse. He’s even kept everything his parents put back for their apocalypse which probably includes what their parents put back. It may go back generations. Some nephew is going to either get rich from all the brick-a-brac or fill a landfill somewhere. He’ll curse the junk left behind for a rainy day that hasn’t arrived for eons.

I went back and looked at Aesop’s Fable about the wisdom of saving. It has more than one interpretation. In some cases it’s the ant and the grasshopper, and in others it’s the ant and the cicada. I think the moral of that version is that bugs can be loud and annoying. There’s a version that portrays the ant as a selfish miser trying to make the other insects starve unless they pay severe markups or maybe subscribe to an overpriced service or something like that.

The point is, don’t think saving is always good. You can save that t-bone steak in the freezer forever and say “Man, that beef would have been really good if I’d have cooked it while I still had teeth” or you can enjoy the steak. I don’t want to be on my deathbed and think that I should have worn those boots more. I don’t want my nephew to sell my good knife for a Pokémon card.
Let’s all change our view of the ant and the grasshopper, or cicada, or whichever noisy insect we choose. I say don’t be a greedy ant, enjoy your stuff today. Don’t wait for rain that may never come. Be a cicada today and let the estate sale companies get their own stuff.

Put it another way. Don’t let your boots rot or your knife rust.
Fini.

MY GRANDSON IS BROKEN

Those of you that read my musings and incoherent rants know that I’m grooming a grandson to replace me as pie-consuming Geezer. That’s not as easy as it sounds. I have to proceed carefully or he may become obese or a diabetic. Knowing when to pie and when not to pie is critical and shouldn’t be undertaken by the layman. You’re better off to just bring me your pies, and we’ll take care of it.

I digress. There’s a lesson to be learned.

Mini-Me had a buddy stay over. While it’s a little frightening having two teens in the same zip code, these are partially domesticated and I figured they could mow and weed for their entertainment. Before we got to the fun stuff, they played some of what the hep-cats call “basketball.” They got the bicycles out of the barn and prepared to race. As I told Grandma afterward, I distinctly remember saying, “Charlie, no racing, because you may get hurt.” Really, I did. I warned him right before I said, “ready, set, go.” That should count for something. I’ve also told him a hundred times, “Don’t get hurt, or Grandma won’t let us play ever again.”

On “go,” the boys went. The buddy was in the lead so Charlie pushed hard on the pedals, and then off of the pedals. His foot hit the pavement and caused the bike to go into a quantum trans-warp yaw. He did a face plant on the blacktop. He had sufficient momentum to skid real good. Being a kind and caring guardian, I told him to hurry up and get up before the Grand-enforcer saw him. He didn’t, so I just figured he was being a girlieman. I helped him up by insulting his masculinity and he got up.

When on his uncoordinated feet, his torso looked a little twisted or out of focus. After warning him about what to tell G-ma I let him go in the house to be triaged. Grand-accuser determined he was broken. Since he’s out of warranty we took him to the ER to get him fixed. It appears that in going against my guidance, he broke his clavicle. I know that’s what the collar bone is called, because I learned it by watching the Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner hour far away and long ago. He has to see an Orthopedist or Orthodontist, or whatever the bone doctor is called. His repair and convalescence may take months.

A broken grandson is problematic. Even though kids’ duties aren’t as extensive since they don’t have to change channels, they’re still useful. For example, the kid is hurt, so I had to mow. Mowing sucks. It’s not only noisy and painfully boring with the back and forth, back and forth. It’s hot out there cutting grass. Whoever thought up mowing in the summer is an idiot. It would be better to do it in the winter when it’s cold, and the heat from the mower would be welcome. Mower heat coupled with summer heat and humidity is just wrong. Add in geezer andropause, and mowing is the worst. Thanks, Grandson. Thanks a lot.

Now I also have to take out the trash. Once again, I’m not a fan. The can is smelly and needs taken out every five minutes or so. I can’t tell you how many times, as soon as I dose off in my chair, the wife yells, “You need to take the trash out.” I say “I did.” I think I did, but maybe I forgot. It’s a pain anyway.

For the foreseeable future, I can’t tell him to hop on his bike and go to Wonder Mart to get me a quart of meringue or box of heavy whipped coronary artery disease. I may have to shell out big bucks to get pie delivery since we have an errant errand-boy. While he may be able to get out of the truck to check mail, the whining “Ouch, my shoulder hurts” makes it not worth the effort.

I may not even get to sit in my recliner for any significant time. How does the laundry get back upstairs from the dryer? Who feeds the cat? What about if someone rings the doorbell? What about loading the dishwasher? That’s all me now. All this work, and I don’t even get an allowance. I had a thought. I bet by throwing in a few bucks,

I can trade him for a college cheerleading massage therapy coed. I guess that’s not allowed for some weird reason titled ‘not in Grandma’s house.’ I really thought it was a good idea. She could take on the kid’s duties and I’d get to relax while waiting for my massage. She could even mow while practicing her high kicks. That’d be incentive to take the trash out.

The lesson we learned? Don’t screw up. If you do, work a cheerleader into the fix. Also, pie helps everything.

Thank you, Grandson.

Fini.