Jim Moorman's Blog, page 3

Cleveland’s Fairy Tale

Jim here, "Sweet Jim," has asked me to do a guest blog. I’m new to this whole blogging/writing thing and was thinking why on God’s green earth would I want to spend my precious, precious time writing and then he gets to post my words on his page? Newbie has no clue how the blog-diggity world works yet and let’s face it, fast is not the speed at which I write. Drive, yes. Write, NO. Not too proud to admit that. So Jim, um yeah, thanks for that very gracious offer. Sounds sooo appealing? He assured me that it would behoove me and I guess since he is a friend in real-life and not just on the Internet, I would believe him. (Whispering under my breath: Actually, I read up on guest blogs on my own. Jim was correct. It was unanimous and the blogosphere had spoken. No offense to Jim here, but a girl’s gotta check things out for herself, ya know?) So thank you Jim, for real, sans any and all sarcasm. I hope he like this, but then again, if he doesn’t, he won’t post it, you won’t be reading it and he and I will no longer be friends, in real-life, in Cyberspace, or anywhere. Oh man, kicking the sarcasm is hard. That lasted all of one sentence. A twelve step program might be in order. Whew. Anyone else outta breath?

All-righty then, on to business. A guest blog topic? Previous posts about family, friends, pets, shoes, in comparison to a strip-club, marijuana, baseball? Oh boy, just a tad bit incongruous. This should be easy. Oops, that sarcasm again. Let’s see, Jim and I met through mutual friends several years ago at the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo’s "Twilight at the Zoo" event. Just as a little side note, he was sporting an "Afternoon Delight" t-shirt. My mind is a wasteland of stupid useless information, albeit sometimes amusing tidbits. Anywho, our zoo is one of the many positive things Cleveland has to offer and Cleveland is something he and I both have in common. Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner. Cleveland, ah Cleveland, we love you and know you are great but it is that unfortunate city beaten down and the butt of never-ending jokes. The mistake by the lake. The city with the combustible river. And, of course, the city constantly wallowing in its own sports misery. Hard to discuss Cleveland and not have it lead in some way to sports. The most recent kung-fu kick to our city’s kahunas? "Our" former self-proclaimed "King" winning it all for Miami. Doubled-over. Ouch.

So yeah, I’m going there, I am going to write about sports. Oh, if you could only hear how hard I am laughing at myself right now. Now, it’s not going to be what you think. A sports statistician, I. Am. Not. And when I say sports, I mean basketball, and when I say basketball,  what I really mean is one former athlete in particular.

LeBron, to me, was essentially was an "employee" during his tenure here. Yeah, yeah, I know he’s a superstar, a role model and it’s much more intricate than just being an "employee," but work with me here. He did his "job" very well, excluding some pitiful performances in the post season and literally quitting the game and the team long before the final buzzer in Game 5 against Boston in 2010. He was free to leave for any reason whatsoever, as any employee of a company is free to do. It was the Cleveland Cavaliers not the Cleveland Mafia. He did not owe it to us to stay. Of course we hoped he would. Loyalties were discounted. Promises were broken. You never want to see a good "employee" go. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Our hopes were shattered. Shit happens.

But how he left? Deplorable. Standard professional protocol would have you announce your intention to resign in person to your boss. You let them know you appreciate all they and the company has done for you, but your decision is final, you’d prefer not to be made any counteroffers as you made your decision to leave very carefully. Always a difficult situation for both parties, but there’s certainly a right way to handle it. We then all move on. We celebrate your new opportunity and wish you well at a going away party with cake and drinks and merriment. Done. Clearly, it wouldn’t have been quite that simple for LeBron or for Cleveland, but did it really have to go down the way it did? I think not.

Decorum was tossed aside and we were strung along and spoon fed lies with an accompanying tasteless side-dish of a very public slap in the face. All this to a "company" and city that city adored him. For that Cleveland had every right to be upset.

So he wins in Miami and deserved to win. Can’t take that away from him. However, just because he won down there like he proclaimed he would does not mean that he couldn’t have done the same thing in Cleveland. That would have been some story. Home town kid coming from humble beginnings wins the championship for his home team. The Cleveland curse is lifted. He’s the city’s hero. A bronzed statue is erected and people come from far and wide to gaze upon this "King" and take pictures with it. That there is good stuff, the stuff fairy tales are made of… But it wasn’t so…

I don’t live my life expecting fairy tales. I work hard for what I have. I’m certainly not sitting around waiting a white picket fence to get dropped onto my front lawn. Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo. Heads up! Plop. Thank you Fairy Godmother. Or for my price charming to come riding in on his noble steed. Yet, I have kissed more frogs in my lifetime than I could shake a stick at and I’d like to beat a few of them with said stick, but we’ll leave the amphibian abuse for another blog.

Nonetheless, I like a happy ending and this really could have been a fairy tale come to life, like "Beauty and the Beast." Belle was the "Beauty" in story, whose love for a "Beast" breaks an enchanted spell and transforms him back into a prince.

Let’s rename Beauty here, we shall call her LeBelle. Yeah that’s right, for the sake of my little analogy here I am going to compare a NBA star to a Disney princess. The Beast’s plight was not LeBelle’s fault but she held the power to sooth the savage beast and to break the curse once and for all. LeBelle had a secret dalliance for a couple of years with two other guys and eventually ran off with them. She lived happily ever after in a land they call South Beach. And for the Beast? Well, hell hath no fury like a Beast scorn. I don’t care for this ending. I much prefer the original.

The Cavs are now rebuilding and committed to not give one "Beauty" the power to make or break the team again. It’s less of a "Beauty and the Beast" situation and more of a "Snow White and the Eight Dwarfs" (as seven isn’t enough). We will enjoy watching all the hard working "dwarfs" until we at long last hear "Hi Ho Hi Ho, it’s off to win the finals we go." One season, one team, one day, the story for Cleveland will eventually end with "and they all lived happily ever after." Cleveland deserves a fairy tale ending.

The End

[image error] Sherrie's blog, Sherrie,Sherrie, Quite Contrary…. offers a humorous look at life for single women and mothers after 39.

Bathroom Etiquette

It’s almost sad that I feel the need to write this but after a few days off and the delightful privacy of my own bathroom, I’ll have to return tomorrow to my downtown office building where I, like many worker bees out there, share a bathroom with not only coworkers but also other building residents.

At this point, I’ve timed my bathroom breaks pretty well and am rarely disturbed, until a new tenant took up residence in my building about a month ago. It was then I realized that there might legitimately be people in the working world who are oblivious to the unspoken, yet very understood rules of the corporate lavatory.

 

DON’T BE STALL (OR URINAL) NEIGHBORS IF YOU CAN HELP IT

This one should just be common sense or instinct for most of us, but there’s always that one dude who feels so absolutely confident with himself that he feels the need to pony up right next to you. This scenario makes me very uncomfortable. Why did he make that choice? Why is he peering over the divider at my crotch? Did he just smile at me? I’m not a homophobe, but standing there with peep in hand, I’m vulnerable. The best I can do is turn and pee on someone if threatened. Same goes for the stall. I, and all those like me, would like as much privacy as possible. Thanks in advance for keeping a one urinal or stall barrier between us.

 

IF EVERY TOILET IS TAKEN, WAIT OUTSIDE

Again, I feel a little silly mentioning the obvious, but unless you’re at a sporting event or in boot camp, there’s no need to be the dude standing there waiting inside the bathroom listening to everyone do their business. It’s creepy. Go wait outside.

 

CEASE ALL CONVERSATION WHEN YOU (OR SOMEONE ELSE) IS UP TO BAT

This is the rule I feel is most often violated and it’s the worst. I’m focused on the task at hand. It will take me literally three minutes max to complete said task. Zip your lip for those precious private few minutes. The ONLY exception to this rule is when you’re drunk at a bar with other drunks and you have something “audience-worthy” like a killer joke or boasts about the bartender with the big tits slipping you her digits. Be careful about that one, though. The dude you’re bragging to might be her boyfriend or husband. In that case, hang on to your dick and prepare for impact.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, is grosser than listening to someone try and speak to you as they are pushing out what sounds like a baby elephant from their rear-end. I have a zero tolerance policy for this kind of behavior and so should you. If someone tries to speak to you while you’re doing your thing, scream, “Silence! Refrain from speaking to me until I am finished.” If they are the ones doing the business and you are standing there at the sink, simply walk out mid-conversation. If confronted afterward, look at him like, “seriously? You’re annoyed that I didn’t finish our conversation while you were mid-crap?” He’ll hopefully get the hint.

 

ALWAYS FLUSH. NO EXCUSES

It seems so simple, right? We do it at home. Our mom’s and dad’s yelled at us for not flushing. I scold my daughter when she doesn’t flush and she’s 4. Why, then, do so many adult human beings refuse to flush? Does the noise scare them? Are they phobic of bathroom activity and feel the need to enter and exit like a ninja – silently? Who are these people and why don’t they flush? The only logic I’ve been able to amass regarding this phenomenon is that they are angry, dastardly people who leave their business unflushed willfully for the next poor sap behind them. I pray karma will bombard them with a Back to the Future part 2- like burial in fertilizer. Eye for an eye. Also, the stench an unflushed toilet emits is foul and we, the conscientious folk, are undeserving of that sin perpetrated upon us.

 

WASH YOUR HANDS

You’d be surprised how many people are allergic to soap and water. They must be descendants of the Wicked Witch of the West. I saw your face, pal. You’re not invisible. So help me if you sit next to me at the bar and reach for the pretzels, I’ll very openly tell my friends not to partake because the douche that just grabbed a handful didn’t wash his hands. It’s like picking your nose in your car. The glass is not a cloak of invisibility. We see you. So next time, save yourself some embarrassment and wash your hands you dirty son of a bitch. And people wonder why we get sick.

 

CLEAN UP AFTER YOURSELF

If you pee on the seat, wipe it up. If you build a nest, flush it down. If you look like you’ve just bathed after washing your hands (thanks for washing them, though,) wipe up the mess. Get the towels in the trash and leave the place like you found it.

 

That’s it. These are all very simple rules of etiquette that are mostly understood by the general population, but there are those among us who could use a gentle (or not so gentle) reminder. This post is for them. All I can say to those dirty people is, you’re better than that. Now go do your business but do it silently, away from others when possible, flush, wash, and clean up your mess.

 

 

 

 

 

A Rush of Urine

It was March 23rd, 1994. Wayne Gretzky scored his 802nd goal, breaking Gordie Howe’s National Hockey League record for most goals scored in a career. Howard Stern formally announced his Libertarian run for NY governor. Amy Fisher's lover Joey Buttafuoco was released from jail. Richard Jacobs bought naming rights to the Indians new ball park at Gateway for $13.8 million (renamed Jacobs Field,) and Rush was playing at Richfield Coliseum.

I counted myself one of the lucky ticket holders for that evening’s show and marked the event a personal holiday. It was unseasonably warm that day so I spent it with my friend, Monika. We washed our cars and listened to copious amounts of Rush, breaking frequently to snack and drink beer. I was living at my mom’s house at the time and hadn’t yet reached my 21st birthday. Our fridge was filled, however, with a case (or more) of Genesee beer. It was cheap, had that tinny aftertaste all cheap beers have, and left my stomach in knots, but it did its job and got me drunk.

Showtime was nearing and my buddy, Vince, would soon be arriving to get me, so I bid Monika farewell and got ready. A cold Genny accompanied me to the shower, and another found its way down my gullet as I dried off. Good spirits made the beer go down smooth and quick. By my count, when Vince had arrived to pick me up, I’d already consumed a solid twelve pack.

We loaded up the van with the remaining beer and headed to our friend, Dean’s. The ride from my house to Dean’s was about ten minutes if that. During that brief journey, my bladder had filled to capacity. My leg was shaking and my teeth were clenched. As soon as Vince came to a complete stop, I bolted from the van and burst past my then girlfriend without so much as a howdy-do. The bathroom welcomed me and I drained my about to burst bladder, shivering as the relief washed over me.

Relaxed, I rejoined the group and was duly chastised by then girlfriend for already being very drunk. I obviously didn’t care. We regrouped and headed to the next stop, Dave’s. There were another half-dozen friends and die-hard Rush fans waiting there to complete the caravan. The ride duration, about ten minutes. As my bladder filled again, I was astonished to feel the need to pee consume me so quickly after the three-minute urination at Dean’s.

Once stopped, I found the side of Dave’s house the more acceptable place to relieve myself. I was timed at two minutes and felt completely confident that any and all beer in my body had been completely expelled, so after a few minutes of scuttlebutt, we split into two vehicles and started toward Richfield, which was a good forty-five minute drive.

I was in rare form and the first twenty minutes of the drive were filled with my jokes, singing, and pleas from then girlfriend to Vince to let her switch cars. Vince declined, hot on the tail of Dean who led the way. There weren’t any GPS units or cell phones in 1994, so Vince was especially focused on not losing his lead man.

It was minute twenty-six when I felt the familiar filling of the bladder. I was more angry than uncomfortable. I’d just peed twice, over two minutes each. How was this even possible? I could hold it, I told myself. My lively demeanor quieted and I stared out the window, watching the trees pass, trying desperately to keep my mind on something other than the pain that was now taking hold. The then girlfriend expressed some concern and when I told her why I had quieted, she just shook her head, completely disgusted to be associated with me that evening.

The pain was building with each passing minute and my abdominal discomfort was piquing. The highway signs said that we were getting close, but having been to many concerts at Richfield, I knew we had a good ten to fifteen minutes additionally off the highway depending on traffic. The pressure was working it’s way up my chest, forcing my jaw to clench involuntarily.

“Vince, I need you to pull over. I have to pee.”

“No way,” he replied. “I can’t lose Dean.”

“Vince. I’m begging you. I’m not gonna make it.”

At overhearing my plea, my sober friends laughed. Not only were they unsympathetic, but they were also equally as entertained. They even started taking bats as to how long I would last and in what or on who would I burst. I reached into my back pocket and retrieved my wallet. I counted out a couple hundred dollars and offered Vince ten dollars to pull over.

“No,” he replied

“I’ll give you twenty.”

Again, he declined.

“Vince. I will give you one hundred dollars to pull over right this goddamn minute!”

The asshole said no. He said no to a hundred bucks. There was nothing left for me to do but clench my teeth and pray. I looked through the van for anything that might offer my urine a home but there was nothing. Buckled over in what I still describe as one of the most painful moments of my life, we pulled into the lot. Vince rolled the window down and the attendant asked for twelve bucks. Vince turned and asked for two dollars from each of us. I couldn’t believe it.I literally threw my wallet at him and told him to take the money.

“Are you sure, Jimmy?”

“I just offered you one hundred dollars to pull over. YES. I’M SURE!”

We finally made it to a spot in the middle of the lot. I tried to stand and walk but couldn’t. I instructed then girlfriend and crew to go ahead and that I would catch up. I stood there in the middle of the Richfield Coliseum parking lot and unzipped what I’m sure were acid-washed jeans and peed. I peed and peed and peed. The river of urine flowed for miles (at least in my mind.) I smiled at several passers and even inspired a fellow Rush lover to stop and pee as well. When I finally finished, I had to stop and take several deep breaths. My friends were all inside and probably already seated. It took several steps for the pain to subside, but like a miracle, subside it did. I ran to the door, passed the usher my ticket, and settled in for what would end up being an amazing show.

Yes, I had a few beers at the concert and made a few trips to the bathroom. The ride home was smooth and to this day, whenever I hear Tom Sawyer, I have to pee.

 

 

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Violet – A Short Story (Horror)

Violet, Violet, Violet – I think of her still and my heart pounds, blood surges through my veins, and I restrain myself for fear of sexual release. Ahh, she was the definition of beauty, mystery, strength, elegance, and danger. Her energy flows through me still, thoughts of her trumping all others.

Oh Violet, to hold you again, to feel you wrap yourself around me, and squeeze me ever so gently. This is the thought that possesses me; consumes me. But what about Michael? Oh sweet, innocent Michael, a babe born unto this world through no wish of his own, but sent to me through the impulsive passion of an evening spent with a stranger.  I remember the first time I held him. His blue eyes and infant coo cut through me like a razor, melting the rigid ice that had encased my heart for so many years. The emotional scars I’d carried healed. The apathy I’d felt toward love vanished. I fed him, rocked him, and sang him the sweetest lullabies.

I loved my son as much as I loved Violet. I say loved because he is no longer with us. Violet took him. She knew I loved him and she wouldn’t compete for my love, so she took him. It happened while I was asleep. Michael was in a deep in slumber in his nursery. Violet was downstairs, but somehow crept in silence during the night and took him without a sound. I wonder what I was dreaming about when it happened? Was I in a far away land somewhere with Violet? Was I reading or singing to Michael? Or was I dreaming about this day – the day I’d be writing to you from a prison cell? This day before I would take my own life and be reunited with my son. They say it was my fault; my carelessness, and perhaps it was, but I know Violet could have stopped herself if she wanted. I know she could have simply fallen back to sleep and not slinked upstairs in the darkness. I don’t believe she hated Michael. She just wanted all my love for herself. I forgive you Violet. I still love you.

They call me a monster. They say I have no remorse. I say I have love. I have love for Michael and I have love for Violet. How could they ever expect me to turn on her? I needed to protect her, so that’s exactly what I did.

The morning Nancy came to collect our son was like any other. It was sunny, coffee brewed, birds sang, but Michael didn’t cry. I peered through the crack of the nursery door and expected to see him deep in his infant slumber. He was gone. Time stopped for me in that moment. I was a slave to panic. Sweat poured, my body shivered, and my heart thumped so loud and so fast I thought it might leap through my torso or explode inside of it. The empty crib held my gaze for an eternity. It was all just a bad dream, wasn’t it?

I searched everywhere. He was only six months old. He couldn’t have gotten out on his own. I raced downstairs and checked the doors. They were still securely locked. I spun around, searching for any sign of him. I yelled. I screamed. I begged God to let me find him. Had I been Lindbergh reincarnated? I took a deep breath and held it. Cracking my eyelid, it smacked me like brick across the face. Violet lay sleeping. She hadn’t even been roused in my panic. She was in the same spot I’d left her the night before. I found myself staring at her like I did every morning, enchanted by her beauty. Her energy surged through me as it often did. Her graceful calm provided some comfort in my time of angst. Then I saw it. I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I blinked several times as I worked my gaze slowly down the length of her body inch by inch. She was so beautiful, with her golden head surrounded by the loveliest shades of lavender, a perfectly patterned tail, speckled with dark purple spots. The scientists call it python reticulatus, but to me she was more than just a genus, name, or species. She was the most heavenly reticulated python on the planet.

I peered over the top of the tank and discovered what I dreaded, eight inches of screen folded back from the corner where it had been secure the night before. I gently roused my girl and lifted her gingerly from her coiled comfort, caressing her smooth, soft scales.

 Laying her down on the floor next to me, I uncoiled every inch of her eighteen feet. She’d eaten a decent sized pig only three days earlier, so she couldn’t have been hungry, yet there it was, right at foot seven, the telltale bulge of a very recently ingested meal. The lump this morning was too large to be the pig. I was certain it was Michael.

Oh sweetheart. What have you done?

The pace of my heart quickened once more, forcing me to act hastily. I plotted an ingenious scheme and worked feverishly to see that I’d covered all of my bases. I placed Violet back in her tank and performed a quick screen repair. Then, I used a crowbar and pipe wrench to break the locked front door. I thought better than to disturb any item that might indicate it was a robbery. A kidnapping is how I’d position it to the police.

My frantic phone call to 911 was followed by one to Nancy. Pretending Michael had been kidnapped made it easier to play the part. I was distraught. My boy was gone. Those blue eyes would never gaze upon me again. It wasn’t hard to cry.

The officers moved quickly and asked questions I hadn’t considered like: Was there a ransom note? Who were my enemies? Who would have something to gain by taking our baby? Why wasn’t I awoken by the intrusion? I manufactured answers to all of their questions. It seemed to satisfy them, momentarily at least. Nancy wasn’t so kind.

“How could you let this happen?’ she screamed. “How could you let our baby be stolen while you slept in the next room?”

I didn’t respond. I simply sat and wept. It was a very believable cover, and throughout the entire ordeal, not once had they even asked about Violet. She slithered into her hide and curled up, almost knowing she needed to remain out of sight. It was tragic, but I couldn’t risk losing them both. I needed Violet. She was my anchor – my joy. She loved me. I could feel it emanating from her, sometimes more than I’d ever felt from any person I’d ever known.

Nancy came by unannounced the next day. She hadn’t slept, she hadn’t eaten, and I could tell she wasn’t in her right mind. She buried her head in my shoulder and as I rubbed her hair, I was reminded of the way it used to be. We hadn’t always hated each other. There was a time, before Violet, that Nancy held my heart. She, like everyone else I’d ever known, eventually grew weary of my moods and my critical ways and walked out. I held her like I’d done a hundred times during her pregnancy but hadn’t in long time. Michael was bringing us back together. The scent of her hair and her breath reminded me of the way we’d made love, our bodies so utterly intertwined. The intensity was almost too much and carried with it an eerie foreboding. I was becoming aroused and Violet sensed it. She emerged from her hide and began rubbing her head against the screen, making a terrible racket.

“My God, What does she eat?” Nancy asked.

“Rabbits and small pigs”

My adrenalin pumped. I motioned to Violet to go back into her hide. I needed her to know that things with Nancy weren’t as they appeared.

“Where’s our baby, Dan?”  She wept and trembled in my arms.

Violet pushed hard against the screen I’d taped before the police arrived. I saw it start to give way. Pushing Nancy aside, I rushed to the tank and placed my hand over it. Violet struck at me. Nancy jumped.

“I’m okay.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Maybe it’s time to sell her?”

“Sell her?” She couldn’t be serious. “Never!”

I screamed without realizing and could sense Nancy’s fear.

Violet thrashed and hissed, tightening eighteen feet of angry muscle.

“What is she doing, Dan?’

I watched in disbelief as Violet wriggled and gagged. I saw the lump at foot seven ascend to foot five, then three, then two. Nancy shrieked and threw up when Violet expelled her partially digested meal.

Now I sit in my cell and wait to die. Tomorrow will be the day I’ve been waiting for. I’ll steal a rope from the laundry and hang myself from the rusty pipe in the boiler room. In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll go home to Michael and Violet. I wonder what I’ll dream about tonight? Will I be in a field somewhere with Violet, or will I be holding and singing to Michael? I forgive you, Violet, for your jealousy. I forgive you for not wanting to share my love. Tomorrow we shall all reunite.

 

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Lesson From St. Robinson

I am one of a million Saint Robinson's. My name isn’t Arthur, it’s Jim, and for the last six years I’ve been having an affair with a girl named Ambition.

Ambition’s a wicked little mistress. Those of us who court her suffer a thousand heartaches yet we crawl back on bloodied hands and knees begging for more. Masochistic? You betcha.

I sleep with this greedy mistress every night, trying to convince myself that it was she who courted me. I don’t know when or how it happened, but for as long as I can remember, I’ve held the belief that I was meant to do more in this world than simply go to school, work, and retire. I’m one of those idealistic fools who tell themselves that they’re here on this Earth to make some kind of difference. What difference can I make? It’s the single question I’ve asked since age ten, the year I began talking to myself.

I love music, so why not start a band? I’ll inspire the world with thoughtful lyrics and addictive melodies. Oh if only I could play an instrument or read the notes. What about an actor? Perhaps I could inspire and entertain people by portraying a character from a piece of great literature? Nope. I laugh at everything. I’d never be able to keep it together on stage. Ah- ha! A psychologist. I’m a good listener. I could really do some great things for my fellow humans and maybe even inspire them to reach new heights and better themselves for the good of the world. What? I’ll be in school until I’m thirty? No thanks. So what, then, did I end up choosing as my vocation? What is it that I finally settled with as my way to change the world? I chose what every great dreamer chooses, a job in sales.

My vocation has served me well and has kept most of the bills paid. My military experience combined with my sales and marketing skills are what I’ve told myself will be the necessary foundational skills on which I can build what it is I’m really supposed to be doing – writing. Yep, after all the soul searching and the endless inner monologue, this is what I’ve decided will be my avenue for inspiration, but like all the other Saint Robinson’s of the world, I made the decision and lost sight of everything else. Like I said, Ambition, she’s a bitch.

I’d suddenly been able to see so clearly in my mind where it was I wanted to be, so it was on. It was me versus the universe and I was too bullheaded to fail (still am.) A divorce, several failed relationships, time missed with my daughter, and evenings spent pent up at the computer hunting and pecking away were what she’d demanded of me. I willingly obliged.

Then, about two years into my endeavor, I stumbled upon an interview Adam Duritz of the Counting Crows (one of my favorite bands) had given. He talked about one of my favorite songs and, until that moment, I hadn’t realized why. He said that St. Robinson In His Cadillac Dream was all about wanting to get where you needed to be so badly that you lose sight of what’s right in front of you along the way. I’d stopped hunting and pecking and let it settle in. Then I listened to the song again.

I listen to it almost daily as a reminder to pull back the reins, smell the flowers, and enjoy today as much as the idea of tomorrow. Take this as a lesson, fellow dreamers, ballerinas, salesmen, and writers. Don’t let that cunning she-devil, Ambition, get too tight a grip around you, or she my very well snuff out the life that’s right in front of you. You’ll get what you want. I promise you that. But if you get it and realize you’ve missed a ton along the way, don’t say that St. Robinson and I didn’t warn you.

 

Jim

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fishing Tanked

My buddy Tim and his wife's Uncle (Brian) are both avid fishermen, jokesters, and drinkers.

Back in the day, Tim and Uncle Brian were in Tim's basement throwing a few back and telling fish stories when Tim brought out a new lure he'd purchased that was guaranteed to catch fish. You may remember it, the Banjo Minnow? Uncle Brian was unimpressed. He was so unimpressed that he placed twenty dollars on the table and wagered that the Banjo Minnow would prove to be nothing more than a clever marketing scheme and have little in the way of "science" to attract fish. Tim, drunk at this point, accepted the bet and asked Brian to which lake they'd be heading to prove the theory?

"Lake? Fuck that. I'm too hammered to drive. Rig it up and toss it in the fish tank!"

Tim housed several South American Cichlids in a fifty-five gallon tank in his basement. As if the idea was a perfectly reasonable one, the inebriated angler rigged up the Banjo Minnow, took a swig of beer and cast his line into the fish tank across the room. Then, as advertised, one of his big Jack Dempsy's took the lure. Tim had been proven the winner and Uncle Brian lost his twenty, but Jack the fish wasn't as agreeable. 

According to Tim, "he tore through the tank like a fish possessed, ripping up plants, overturning ornaments, and freaking the fuck out."    

Experienced in the way of the fish, Tim gave his line a tug which sent jack flying across the room and directly on to the lap of Uncle Brian. He flailed and flopped. Brian choked on his beer and vaulted himself from the couch. Tim, drunk and clumsy, tried to dislodge the hook from the captive pet's mouth but was interrupted by the screams of his wife who'd walked down to see what all the ruckus had been about.

"What are you two morons doing?" she exclaimed. "Why is there water all over the place?" Then she saw it – poor Jack, their son's favorite fish, hooked to the Banjo Minnow. She turned five shades of angry red, turned, and walked back up the stairs. Her Husband and Uncle's stupidity had rendered her speechless.

After a minor struggle, Tim freed old Jack from the hold of the lure and released his pet back into the environment from whence he came.

I was saddened to learn that the shock had been too much for Jack. He died two days later. Tim had to use his winnings to replace the lost fish and, to this day, I don't believe the Banjo Minnow has yielded any prize fish for the family freezer.

Take a lesson from my friend, Tim, readers. Even though you may find yourself inebriated and jonesing for some late night fishing, it's probably a bad idea to cast a line in the living room aquarium.

 

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A Beating for His Pleasure

It was one of those nights where the stars lined up just so. I won’t say they lined up just right because it was a fucked up evening.  It happened sometime in the mid- 1990's but in my mind, it could have been yesterday.

My buddy, I’ll call him Cory in honor of former right-fielding Cleveland Indian, Cory Snyder (I do, after all, have an obligation to protect the names of the innocent, right?) calls me up and tells me he was able to score a couple last minute Cavs Tickets.  I was quick to accept the invite, not because the Cavs were great that year, but because back in those days a night spent sober felt like a waste of good youth.  The plan was to meet up at Cory’s office, grab some food and beer at Great Lakes Brewery (One of the greatest things to ever come out of Cleveland,) and then head to the game. After that, who knew?

We met as planned at his office on West 25th, which isn’t the hardcore hood but it isn’t exactly suburbia either. Having spent a good portion of my childhood roaming the mean streets of downtown Cleveland (unsupervised), I felt absurdly comfortable in places that would have had the majority of my sheltered suburban friends stroking out. As we made our way toward Great Lakes, we passed several very seedy “adult establishments” and we both cracked jokes about heading to one after the game. The one we fancied in particular was a little gem called Bugsy’s Speakeasy. We liked it based solely on the name. Our other choices were Sam’s Show Bar or The Peek-A-Boo. In all reality, though, we never had any intention of ever passing over the threshold of any of them.

Dinner was awesome as were the beers so we were toasty before the game even started. The Cavs sucked that season. I believe Cory and I were treated to an evening spent with fat Shawn Kemp, a rookie Zydrunas Ilgauskas (which was nice,) a ball-hogging Bobby Sura, and my favorite player at the time, Danny Ferry. The arena was as you might expect, half empty.  Still, we drank many overpriced beers and the Cavs even managed to eek out a win. I remember this odd fact because Cory and I used it as an excuse to keep the night rolling and the beers flowing. We’d cracked a dozen jokes during the game about hitting up Bugsy’s afterward, and while the curiosity was almost painful, we knew that if we were to walk in that bar, we’d likely be the cleanest, best dressed (we wore jeans and long sleeve tee shirts,) best smelling, and probably wealthiest guys in there. I think we had $100 between the both of us. So naturally after a lot of bantering it back and forth, I managed to peer pressure Cory into checking it out for one beer so that we could at least say we’d been there and done that, even if it meant getting mugged, beaten, and probably raped – by the strippers, of course.

 His arm was easily twisted and before either of our drunk asses knew it, we were opening the door and walking into what I still say was one of the scariest, seediest, most unnerving strip clubs I’ve ever patronized. Yes, friends, I loved it and felt that completely unnatural sense of well being when I should have felt paranoid, uneasy, and just plain scared. Cory was uncomfortable. He tried to play the part, but as we’d guessed at the game, we were indeed, the cleanest, best smelling, most well dressed guys in the place. The gentleman who lined the bar could have been homeless people for all we knew. Most were older white men who looked black due to excessive amounts of facial soot. The majority wore trucker caps and long johns as shirts. Most couldn’t spell soap let alone use it, and those that weren’t filthy looked like straight up creepers.

The interior of the establishment was rectangular in dimension and the main bar ran across two-thirds of its length. The space nearest to the door held a couple tables and the far end showcased the stage and the requisite pole. The length of the wall opposite the main bar had been fashioned with a six-inch wide shelf. A small area with a few tables opened up in front of the stage and a row of booths were set against the opposite wall. A jukebox occupied the space behind the main entry and the restrooms lived at the far end of the bar behind the stage and a three-foot wall that hid them from view.

There were a few seats available at the main bar but Cory and I thought it best to sit as close to the door as possible. We grabbed a couple bar stools and settled in against the shelf at the back wall. I ordered a couple of beers and we prepared to feast our eyes upon what we were sure would be a lackluster collection of strippers. We’d consumed our first beer with nary a glance from a single one of the seven dancers who’d been advertised on the chalkboard behind the bar as working that evening. We were growing disenchanted but decided a second beer was in order. We’d come this far, had cash in our pockets, and were obstinately determined to have a good time.

Jasmine, who we’d later learn was a thirty-five-year-old mother of four, sauntered by and dropped her fifty cents in the juke and selected her song. Then, with the grace of a tortoise, she ambled up to the stage and started her routine. As I slugged down another gulp of my Miller High Life, I couldn’t help but wonder if a little cocoa butter wouldn’t help reduce her plethora of very visible stretch marks? We were just about to call it a night when Joey pulled up a seat.

She was young. I'd be surprised if she was even twenty-one. Her brown hair fell freely past her shoulders and her bright green eyes, long legs, and fruit-scented body spray were a welcome relief from the likes of Jasmine. Unlike the others, she looked natural, cute with the typical girl next-door quality. Her bubbly personality and her natural D-cups kept Cory and I interested enough to stay for at least one more beer. She chatted us up and explained that none of the girls were eager to talk to us because “guys like us” were usually assholes. Who would have thought? We drank and listened for five full minutes before she asked us to excuse her for a moment. We nodded and watched her hop off the bar stool, walk up to the derelict who’d just entered and slap him hard across the face, yelling at him for not having come sooner. Cory and I simultaneously choked on our beer.

Little five-foot-two Joey perched herself back on the stool and apologized for the distraction as if nothing out of the ordinary had just taken place. “What the fuck was that all about?” I asked. “Oh, it’s no big deal. He likes that kind of stuff and pays me extra to be especially abusive.”

We were astounded. We’d heard about the bizarre fetish-types but we’d never actually known or thought we’d be participating in any such act. We eagerly prodded little Joey to fill us in. Our night was rapidly improving. She told us how he’d place his hands on the stage and ask her to grind into them with her platforms. She even told us that she’d walked him around the neighborhood on a leash. He wore a dog collar. She then told us that he had something special in mind for that evening. Cory and I demanded to be allowed to watch. She bopped over to talk to him while another one of the girls, Ambee, joined our little party.

Joey returned from the table opposite the stage where her submissive had been sitting. She said that he’d purchased a pair of pointy-toed cowboy boots for her and it was his wish that she adorn her new footwear and then kick the crap out of him. We choked on our beer again. I asked if we could watch.

“He wants us to make out while I kick him,” she said.

I replied, “awesome. Now it’s a party.”

Cory, Ambee, Joey, and I all headed over to the table. Joey tried on the boots and the red Roy Rogers specials fit perfectly. She sat across from him, flipped some sort of mental switch, and went into bitch mode. She verbally humiliated and abused this poor bastard as if she’d been professionally trained to do it. As we watched, we were powerless to withhold our laughter. It was half shock and half absurdity. Then, like a spastic reflex, she drove the tip of her new boot into the guy’s shin. He winced in pain but didn’t move. He shuddered and trembled a little in between kicks. We weren’t sure if it was pain or pleasure for him? It was officially a car wreck. We couldn’t look away. In between kicks and her verbal assault, she delivered swift, powerful backhands to his cheek. The dude was in fetish heaven. Ambee, Cory, and I were in hysterics. Joey could have won an Oscar. She was in the zone.

Then, as promised, we all shuffled over to the corner of the stage. The vagrant-looking customer curled himself into the fetal position in the corner of the wall that separated the bathrooms from the stage. The logistics of his request for Joey and I to make out while she worked on him weren’t able to be accommodated, so the three of us formed a human wall as our new little stripper friend unleashed an offensive that made the Rodney King beating look like a schoolyard scrap. He wailed in agony but begged her to continue. She’d actually started breaking a sweat and we were on the floor. This was really happening. After a full three minutes, the manager working behind the bar yelled at us to knock it off. She thought the dude was getting felated. Little did she know that she couldn’t have been further from the truth.

The night went on a few hours longer. We watched Ambee grind her platforms into his hands at his request and slap him hard. Joey wore her trophy boots for the remainder of the evening and dazzled us with stories, continued random acts of violence, and even managed to squeeze in a dance or two. At the end of the evening, the sorrowful-looking regular handed Joey a wad of bills and picked up our tab. He thanked us for an amazing evening and said that he hoped we could all do it again sometime, but perhaps at a different, more public venue? Cory and I were too drunk to refuse but after that evening at Bugsy’s, we never saw him again.

I like to think he’s out there somewhere being whipped or beaten as I type. It’s not for my wish to see him humiliated rather his wish to indulge in whatever freaky shit makes him happy. As long as he’s not hurting anyone, I say have at, old creeper.

I think it goes without saying that sometimes the most random unplanned evenings end up becoming our most memorable. Our night at Bugsy’s Speakeasy ranks high for me in that department.

 

 

The Bonds of Baseball

My old man was a sports nut. He and other sports nuts like him have long suffered and struggled with a disease known as nostalgia. Perhaps his intoxication with the scoreboard stemmed from the fact that he’d never been much of an athlete? Had he imagined that, by immersing himself in the holy waters of baseball, he’d somehow become part of the game? Maybe the crack of the bat or the struggle of the second baseman to free his wedgie sent the old bean back to his sunny childhood where he’d spent his summer afternoons shagging fly balls at the park with his cronies? Someone who didn’t know him well might very reasonably accept one of these scenarios.  But they’d be wrong.

I was nineteen when he shared his favorite baseball memory with me. The story itself wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, almost cliché, really. After beer number too-many-to-count, my dad gushed about the baseball game his father, my Grandpa, had taken him to see when he was a just a boy. There wasn’t anything spectacular about the game. There weren’t any foul balls that came his way or grand slams hit that night, yet he spoke of it with a fondness I’d never see from him again.

My Grandpa Moorman was a sweet little man. He stood an inch below five feet and, at least in my mind, had been born with grey hair. He always had grease under his nails, smoked Pall-Malls, and drank heavily for most of my childhood. He was a plumber by trade but knew HVAC and could fix anything with an engine. He was soft-spoken and, like many Irish families, fathered a slew of kids, eleven in fact. My dad was the oldest.

As you might imagine, Gramps wasn’t around much. He worked – a LOT. When he wasn’t working his regular job, he was doing side jobs. Then, as the kids grew, side jobs would include fixing their cars and then houses. He was so busy working to support the family that he didn’t have any time to spend with them. Unlike me, however, my pops was a sap. He mourned those lost years and lamented the games he and his dad never got to see together. The other kids in his neighborhood went to a lot of games with their fathers. My dad went to one. That’s right, one game – ever. The story, the look in his eye, the shaky voice and tears he fought back gave me all the explanation I’d ever need. The massive collection of baseball cards, the million games he’d dragged us to see at Municipal Stadium, and the glee he exuded when he was awarded his first set of season tickets at the newly built Jacob’s Field all made perfect sense to me in that moment. It gave me a renewed appreciation for the effort he’d made to ensure that my sister, brother, and I would never lament games we didn’t see with him.

From the time I could walk, I’ve been attending Indians games. I was there for the World Series in 1995 and again in 1997. I was in the stands for game three of the 1996 divisional series against the Orioles. Albert Belle hit a grand slam in the bottom of the 7th to put the Tribe ahead and the stadium shook. While the Orioles went on to win that series, I’ll always remember that grand slam as the loudest, craziest, most energetic surreal five minutes of the game I’ll ever witness. As a baseball fan, I’ve been blessed. No, I’ve never seen the Indians win a World Series, but I’ve seen them come close and have enjoyed the hell out of the ride. As amazing as the World Series, ALCS, and Divisional games were to attend, none of them will be the game I’ll share fondly with my daughter as my most memorable. In fact, only one game and one night will ever be etched as permanently in my mind as my dad’s game with my Grandpa was etched for him. That’s right – only one.

It was 1985 and I’d just turned eleven. School was out and I was jamming to “Never Surrender” by Corey Heart and couldn’t wait to see that year’s summer blockbuster, Back to the Future. I was at the doorstep of puberty but still had enough kid left in me to enjoy mornings at the pool with my buddies followed by afternoon wiffle ball games that lasted until dark. Evenings were spent watching Indians games on TV or catching up on the latest MTV videos. Life was pretty grand back then. They truly were my endless days of summer.

 My parents had divorced when I was five, so my sister and I were accustomed to the every-other-weekend schedule and were typically pretty cooperative about heading to our dad’s. Back in those days, he lived downtown in a high-rise apartment called the Park. It’s still there, but today it’s known as Reserve Square. The place was amazing, an adventure around every corner, especially for two very liberally supervised kids. The Park had its own grocery store, gym, pool, and tennis courts – the works. On the lower level, it even had a barbershop and a bar called the Park Pub. That was our favorite. Now I know what you’re thinking, “What the hell are two kids doing hanging out in a bar?” I know that’s what you’re thinking because that’s what my mom used to ask my dad every Sunday when he’d drop us off. We defended him fiercely, of course. We couldn’t let her ruin our fun. You see, our dad had picked up a job as a bartender at the Park Pub. He told us that he needed the money to pay alimony. Mom told us he needed it to pay his bookie. We didn’t care as long as we got to keep going.

Weekends at the Pub meant a never-ending supply of 7-Up with Grenadine, all the junk food a kid could eat, and the ultimate prize – a share of dad’s tip money, paid out in quarters. The bar had a game room and Dick, the owner, kept it stocked with all the hottest arcade games and pinball machines. Donkey Kong, Ms.Pac-Man, Q*bert, Dig Dug, Pole Position, and Galaga were all there waiting to be won, but my personal favorite was Spy Hunter. I was really into James Bond and Spy Hunter put me behind the wheel of my own Bond-like chase. I was in heaven. The old man worked most Saturday nights, so it wasn’t uncommon for us to get ready for bed, put our pajamas on, ride down the elevator and hang out at the bar in our PJs until his first break. Then it was up to bed and he’d come up on the hour to check on us. It was our little dysfunctional routine and we wouldn’t have had it any other way. Once in a while, if it was a busy night and he wasn’t able to make it up, he’d send one of the waitresses. We knew and loved them all. Then, on Sunday mornings, we’d truck back down and clean up the mess. We made $2.00/hr to sweep floors, wipe down tables, and clean out ashtrays.  To a nine- and eleven-year-old, it was a fortune. Our incentive plan was that we could keep any money we found on the floor or in the bar seat cushions. We kept the place clean and filled our little pockets. Of course, we’d blow our earnings on candy at the Park grocery store, but it was ours to spend.

Working Saturday nights meant that our quality time took place Friday evenings and Saturdays during the day. During the summer, if the Tribe was home on a Friday and we were with our dad, there was a 99% chance we’d be in attendance. Sometimes he’d surprise us with amazing seats right behind the first base dugout. Other times, we sat in the upper deck. It was always fun, though, and we loved it because he loved it. Being the nostalgic guy he was, he made sure we had our programs. He tried each game to teach us how to score the contest in our programs. We didn’t get it. There was a scoreboard as big as life staring right at us. Why he felt the need to score in a program was beyond our limited baseball comprehension. He’d rebut, stating that the program was also good for collecting player autographs. That idea was something that registered in our pre-pubescent brains. We knew all the players and had our favorites. The 1985 Indians boasted some pretty sweet talent although, as a team, they weren’t by any means considered a contender. Mike Hargrove was still playing, a young Joe Carter manned first base, Brett Butler hustled out in center field, Julio Franco was our shortstop, and my favorite player, Brook Jacoby, worked the hot corner. Andre Thornton batted DH and our ace that season was none other than the great Bert Blyleven. The Indians finished the 1985 season with 60 wins and 102 losses but it was one of those 60 wins that would forever enshrine itself as my greatest baseball memory.

It was Friday, June 14th and I was four days into my eleventh year. The Indians were playing the A’s and Blylevin was on the mound. My man, Brook Jacoby, went two for four with three RBIs and Blyleven pitched a complete game, allowing only one run and striking out seven. We weren’t lucky enough to score the choice seats behind first base, so we sat in the upper deck. The Tribe won 6-1 and a great time was had by all. The only downer of the evening, according to my sister, was that we didn’t get the chance to fill our programs by scavenging for autographs at the fence in between innings.

My old man took her disappointment to heart. It was a crime against nature as far as he was concerned. A human girl child wanting a baseball player’s autograph meant parting the red sea if need be, especially when that girl child belonged to him, the one who scores in the program. So down the ramps we walked until we finally found our way to the player’s exit. My sister and I waited anxiously to catch a glimpse of one of our heroes and hopefully score a coveted autograph. It seemed like an eternity before the first batch of players exited. Most got in their cars and drove off. Those that signed only signed a few and we weren’t one of the lucky ones. Our hopes were fading when, in some bizarre twist of fate, out walked Bobby Bonds. He was our first base coach that season. At the age of eleven, I hadn’t followed baseball long enough to know that man who was making his way toward us had only been four years separated from the game as a player. I had no clue that he’d been only the second player to ever hit 300 career home runs and steal 300 bases (Willie Mays being the only player ahead of him). Yet there he was, as big as life and heading right toward my dad, my sister, and me.

“Hey, Phil. What are you doing here?” he said. I looked around to see if there was another Phil in the crowd of fifteen. My old man crushed his cigarette and extended his hand. Bobby shook it and started bullshitting with him as if he were an old friend. My sister and I were dumbfounded to say the least. Seriously? Was this actually happening? My dad actually knew a bona fide member of the Indians and failed to mention it to us? He told Bobby Bonds that he was with us and that we were waiting and hoping to get a couple autographs. We shook his hand and introduced ourselves. When we said, “nice to meet you, Mr.Bonds,” he said, “Call me Bobby.” Then he looked at my dad and wrinkled his forehead in a way that said you should have told me you were going to be here. He instructed us to stay put then headed back into the clubhouse. We did as instructed and chastised our father while we waited. Bobby returned and handed my sister and I each a ball autographed by the entire team. The signatures were in ink, not the Xerox copy souvenir ball, but the genuine article and we were beyond thrilled. I would have been happy to snag a Chris Bando signature for the program, but no. Instead, I was holding a ball with all of my favorite players’ signatures on it, including Brook Jacoby and that night’s winning pitcher, Mr. Bert Blyleven. What happened then was unimaginable. Bobby asked what our plans for the evening were and if we’d like to join him down at the Park Pub for a drink? My sister and I were dragging him by the sleeve before my dad could answer.

As it turned out, the tiny, dark, almost hidden little gem of a bar that resided in the basement of a high rise apartment complex in downtown Cleveland was a favorite among the local athletes and my dad had been one of their favorite bartenders. The wealth of sports knowledge he’d amassed throughout his lifetime earned him the respect and friendship of a dozen Cleveland Indians and Browns, not to mention some generous tips. He had his favorites and at the top of his list was Bobby Bonds.

I’m certainly not the first guy to attribute a momentous life occasion to having taken place in a smoky bar, surrounded by drunken idiots, but I may be the only one to have had it happen in that environment at age eleven. My nostalgic father knew it was a big moment for me, so he just watched and smiled as I peppered Bobby Bonds with questions only an eleven-year-old boy could think to ask. Was Brook Jacoby his favorite player on the Indians, too? What did it feel like to stand at the plate and stare down a big-league fastball?  Was Julio Franco a nice guy? He laughed and answered all of my questions. Then, after a few drinks (7-Up and Grenadine for me and adult beverages for him,) he began dispensing pearls of wisdom, life advice, and stuff that had nothing to do with baseball. He complimented me on my manners and told me to never lose sight of their importance. He told me to work hard at everything I did and shared his fondness for my dad. He sung the old man’s praises and I asked him if we were talking about the same guy? He laughed. I asked him if he had kids and he lifted his chin and beamed as he told me about them. I remember him talking about Barry. He told me that he was coming up in the Majors and to watch for him as I got older. He said, “I think he’s going to be real good.” My response was that he had to say that because it was his son. He shook his head and told me that Barry was the real deal. Then he promised to get me an autographed Brook Jacoby bat and told my sister he’d get her an autographed Julio Franco batting helmet. My dad called it a night and ushered us up to bed. We gave our new favorite Indian a hug and rode the elevator up to the old man’s apartment.

We never saw him again after that night. I never did get my autographed Brook Jacoby bat, but I did follow Barry throughout his career as instructed. Each Sports Center highlight and every mention in the news offered me the opportunity to brag about my evening with Bobby Bonds. I acted like I was somehow cooler for having been given the inside info on the man who would eventually become the single season home run record holder and one of the greatest players of the modern era. Bobby and Barry Bonds are among the most successful father-son duos in the history of the game.

 In 2001, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. In between chemo, radiation, weight loss, and lost energy, we’d still watch baseball games together. He was probably half of his normal weight the day his limited edition, signed and numbered commemorative Barry Bonds bat arrived in the mail. He opened the box and showed it off, a new prized piece of nostalgia, maybe his most prized. He died the next year – August 30th, 2002 at age 54. The following year, August 23rd, 2003, Barry Bonds and his siblings would say goodbye to their dad, Bobby, who had also lost his battle with lung cancer at the age of 57.

I wish they were still here. I wish they’d both be able to pass their wisdom to their grandkids and stress the importance of good manners all while sitting in a smoky bar after a Friday night at the ballpark. They aren’t, though. They’re home and hopefully hanging out together talking baseball and playing pinball and Spy Hunter. Now it’s my turn. Seven years from now, I fully intend on perpetrating the same poor parenting decisions for which my old man was renowned.  I’m going to drag my daughter to a Friday night Indians game. Then, we’ll head down to some bar that an eleven-year-old girl and her father have no business being. I’ll order her a 7-Up with Grenadine and I’ll order myself an adult beverage. Then I’ll tell her the story of my favorite baseball memory and give her the autographed ball that the great Bobby Bonds had given me.

I guess maybe I inherited a bit of nostalgia after all.

Jesus VS Peter Cottontail

Tomorrow will mark my 37th Easter. My daughter will hunt for her basket and my mom will undoubtedly bust my chops about not going to church. My sister will tell me I’m headed to hell while we all enjoy our Reese’s peanut butter eggs. It’s an odd mix for sure – the religious implication and the secular bunny and painted eggs. I never really gave it much thought until an exchange student I’d met a couple years ago asked me about it. I felt like an idiot the same way I do when people ask me how great it is to live in Cleveland and have unfettered access to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I tell them I’ve been there once. The question resonated with me and highlighted just how little I know about every day things like the Easter Bunny.

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It turns out that there’s been a lot written on the subject of the secular Easter holiday. While the facts differ slightly from source to source, Easter has been celebrated by ancient cultures around the world for centuries. The holiday has been largely focused around the coming of spring, a rebirth, and a transformation from death or slumber in winter to life and rebirth in spring. The origin of the Easter bunny and the painted eggs looks to have originated in Germany. The name Easter originates from Ostera or Eostre, the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring. In the United States, early Americans didn’t observe the secular holiday of Easter. It was viewed as a pagan holiday (as was Christmas.) If it wasn’t in the Bible, the puritans didn’t acknowledge it. German immigrants to the U.S. were purported to have observed the spring celebration, and had pictures of the Goddess Ostera carrying a basket with hares and colorful eggs. The hare has long been regarded as a prolific reproducer in nature. It’s generally believed that the hare represents fertility and the eggs new life. After the Civil War, Easter as a secular holiday took off in the U.S. Some argue that the Government embraced it to offer a reason to celebrate family and youth after having lost so many loved ones in the war. The bunny and the eggs stuck around and the pagan goddess Ostera didn’t. The Federal government didn’t declare Easter a national holiday as it falls on Sunday, which is a non-working day. A dozen states observe Good Friday as a state holiday.

Easter as a religious holiday marks one of the most important days in the Christian faith. Ash Wednesday marks the start of Lent, a six-week period of repentance and penance. Most give up a luxury during this time as a form of penitence. The week prior to Easter Sunday is a holy week. Good Friday commemorates the day Jesus was crucified and Easter Sunday celebrates his resurrection. For a believer, it represents his sacrifice so that we might all have eternal life.

I’m like most Irish Catholic boys. I grew up with Easter primarily revolving around the religious aspect and the bunny, basket, and candy was a nice little bonus. I didn’t much care why a giant rabbit wanted to sneak around giving kids baskets of goodies as long as I got mine. I’d been exposed to both the secular and religious sides of Easter, so I’d like to think that my opinion is informed. I don’t believe that embracing the secular is tantamount to worshiping a pagan God as early Christians (and I’m sure many still today) view the Easter Bunny. I also respect the day for what it represents in a religious sense. I’ll raise my daughter the same way and continue to respect those of varied religious beliefs. In my opinion, Easter is a joyful day worth celebrating regardless of faith or secularity. It represents new life, resurrection, the rebirth of what had been dead (in nature and in religion,) and the coming of longer days filled with sunshine, and abundance. It gives me yet another reason to look at what I have, offer gratitude, and look toward a more enriching tomorrow.

I wish you all a very Happy Easter and whether you’re religious or will be eating your eggs, enjoy the company you’ll be keeping, kick up your heels, and celebrate life.

 

Thanks

Jim

 

PS – I HATE eggs.

 

 

Sharks, Snakes, and Airplanes

As you may or may not know, I’m a fan, supporter, and lover of most animals but I have a particular fondness for the reptile. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember and while they’ll never replace the family dog or cat, I still promote many of them as fantastic pets. As the owner of two snakes, I’m regularly faced with the phobia and fascination people present when they learn of my affinity for what most still associate with the devil. Thanks a lot, Bible. It got me thinking, though, about the irrational fear many people have with regard to snakes and why? Then, as my thoughts often do, they multiplied. Two other popular villains emerged in my mind as inspirer’s of equal or greater irrational fear – the shark and plane crashes. While there are literally hundreds of legitimate phobias I could have chosen to explore, I picked these three based largely on the fact that the number of people who suffer from these fears are so completely disproportionate with the odds of having an actual negative experience. There are hundreds of thousands of individuals who have phobias about snakes, sharks, and flying that it should be easy for you, my reader, to hopefully identify with one of them. Fear, as we all know, is a powerful emotion that can cause us to act irrationally in order to preserve our lives. Fear can be a good thing in this regard. It acts as a catalyst to trigger our fight or flight response and hopefully help keep us safe. The irrational fear, however, of something that has little chance of ever happening is still quite puzzling to me.

First up, Sharks.

There have been less than 200 fatal shark attacks since 1900. That’s a little over 1.5 fatal attacks per year worldwide. Now let’s put this into perspective, shall we? There are currently 7 Billion people on the planet. The ocean covers 71% of the Earth’s surface and comprises 97% of the planet’s water. If we took a half of a percent of seven billion, we’d get 35,000,000. Even if sharks killed .5% of the world’s population each year, statistically speaking, your odds of being on that list would still be pretty low. The reality is far lower than a half percent of the population. There are a little over 1.5 fatalities per year and yet people are still afraid to get in the ocean.

I’ll admit, I love them and find myself equally as awe-struck as the rest of the world, but I can’t for the life of me discern the reason for it. What is it in our brain that draws us to these prehistoric beasts? Why do we devote a week of cable programming to these toothy bastards every summer? (http://dsc.discovery.com/tv/shark-week/) Is it the primitive fear of being eaten by an animal? Why no Bear week or Lion week? For some bizarre reason, people love being afraid of sharks. Whether or not Peter Benchley had ever written Jaws, I’m certain the fascination would still exist. We see paintings and read stories about ancient mariners facing off with this terror of the ocean and we’ve even heard tales of sharks attacking entire boats. Perhaps it’s the fact that when we’re out on the water, we suddenly drop to the bottom of the food chain? We’re out of our element and if faced with an unfortunate encounter with this top predator, we’re pretty much done for. The reality is that, depending on your definition and view; Mosquitoes are responsible for 781,000 deaths each year worldwide. Yes, the bacterium a mosquito injects is the actual killer, but were it not for the mosquito as the delivery mechanism, the bacteria would be far less likely to enter the bloodstream. Additionally, bees, hippos, and the most dangerous animal of all – human beings, account for more deaths than the shark could ever claim in a thousand years.

I love that these majestic animals are now receiving a good amount of positive attention and that global conservation efforts are helping to preserve one of our ocean’s top predators. Still, even in spite of the increased awareness, the fear-fascination persists. Whether it’s the curious bite of a boogie board or the mistaken identity of a human leg dangling over a surfboard, one graze of the tooth or underwater fly-by still makes headlines around the world. The craziest part of all is that you will read this post, gain a new logical perspective based on math and statistical reality, and still warily dip a toe in the ocean. We simply can’t help it. The odds are long yet somehow; every day we swim in the ocean and avoid an attack will still feel like a victorious game of Russian roulette. Swim, my friends. Dive, ski, surf, fish, and cavort in the waves, but don’t forget to watch where you step and keep an eye out for that fin slicing toward you.

Next up, Airplanes.

I flew to Las Vegas last week for a trade show. Before you even ask, the answer is yes; I lost all the money I brought to gamble. Anyway, I’m a seasoned vet when it comes to air travel and have experienced my fair share of crummy flights. Turbulence, bad weather, and the ever-popular threat of a terrorist attack are unfortunate realities in today’s air travel climate. The global weather patterns are changing. We’re experiencing more severe weather now than it seems we have (at least in my lifetime.) Life post 911 has given rise to a new fear in the air and with good reason. Security is tighter than ever and Air Marshall services keep me more at ease at 37,000 feet than I would be without them, but the fact remains that the smallest outside chance or even slightest possibility mean increased anxiety for passengers. Let’s not forget that today’s airline industry is in a pretty shitty state. I used to enjoy flying. Now, I just endure it like everyone else. I suffer through the long security lines, I show up my requisite hour and a half before takeoff, and I make damn sure I don’t have any liquid over six ounces in my carry-on. I lost a bottle of hair gel last year because of this. Now, some jackass working the check-in has some well coiffed hair thanks to my donation.

Anyway, back to my flight last week. I honestly can’t remember that last time I had a nice, smooth flight from takeoff to landing. It’s literally been a dozen shitty flights in a row now, so I was pleasantly surprised when we ascended smoothly out of Cleveland, cruised for 90% of the flight bump-free, and looked like we were going to have a smooth landing. The string of bad flights was about to be broken and I was feeling all sorts of all right. Then, as you might expect, the pilot gets on the overhead and tells us to buckle in for what will be a “very bumpy landing.” Unbeknownst to me, Vegas is windy as shit in the spring. The pilot advised that we would be descending in 40mph winds with gusts reaching 50. As you might imagine, I was pissed, not because I had to hang on for dear life and get thrashed around like the red headed stepchild of the airline, but because my streak of bad flights wasn’t going to be broken. I took it as a sign that my luck was already bad before even stepping foot into a casino. The landing sucked but I wouldn’t even rate it as one of my top three worst. As I bounced and dropped all the way down, I wasn’t worrying about crashing. I was more concerned that I’d be sick. I wasn’t. I don’t believe anyone threw up, which was nice. The pilots did their job and got us safely on the ground. It was then I chuckled, watching people hug each other and breathe a collective sigh of relief. A guy three rows ahead of me was sweating more profusely than a woman in her final stage of labor. He looked like what I pictured Sonny Flowers to look like in my book during his crummy flight. The wave of relief and the joyful expression by many of my fellow passengers only further reinforced the irrational fear. Sure, you could argue that a bumpy landing lends greater justification for increased anxiety, but the facts are the facts and the stats are the stats.

Airline             Number of flights            Number of fatal accidents

Southwest        15,000,000                                                 0 

American          25,000,000                                                 13

United               22,000,000                                                 11

US Airways       18,000,000                                                 9

For additional information and statistics, visit: http://www.nationalaviationlaw.com/aviation-info-and-stats/

Right now as I type, Southwest has 309 planes in the air, American has 255, United/Continental has 347, and US Airways has 163. That’s every day all day. That’s 1,074 planes in the air right now. Let’s say there are 100 people on each flight. That’s 107,400 people in the air right now. There is still no denying that flying is by far the safest way to travel.

The bizarre thing to me is that we know it’s safe, but anxiety still persists for so many. It could be because people aren’t naturally meant to fly. Falling from 30,000 feet is a scary proposition, and we aren’t the ones behind the wheel. We have no control. We’re packed like sardines in a big, heavy, tin can that looks like it has no business defying the laws of gravity yet it somehow does exactly this.

Oddly enough, the place where we have total control, where we’re very grounded, and where we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be is the single most dangerous place for we humans to place ourselves – our cars. The wheels are planted firmly on the ground and we control where we go and how fast we get there. We have laws to protect us from point A to point B, yet accidents still happen and people still die. 1.2 million people died worldwide in 2007 via motor vehicle related accidents. Between 30-50,000 people die each year in the United States in car accidents. Just to offer a frame of reference, 50,000 people died in the whole Vietnam War. We feel safe and comfortable in our cars and sweat bullets in an airplane. It defies logic, but then again, when have we humans ever been logical? Fly, my friends. Eat your peanuts and enjoy your beverages. Thank your flight crew and shake your Captain’s hand. Rest easy knowing that you will arrive safe at your destination but just in case, you’d better stay awake and pay attention to those safety instructions!

Finally, Snakes.

The serpent holds a very special place in the minds and hearts of people around the world. Americans, who are largely Christian/Catholic, have heard the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Other religions like Hindu, revere and respect snakes as a symbol of power. They are, indeed, animals to be admired and respected, but rarely are they to be truly feared. The idea of coming face to face with a giant squeezer or a venomous viper lives in the nightmares of many. The odds of it actually happening, though, are pretty slim. Like our friend the shark, snakes are easy to vilify. They are slimy, they don’t have eyelids, they slither, they stalk, they flick that wicked little tongue, and they have teeth. Well, while some of those things are factually true, their physiology probably contributes less to the collective fear than you might think. Snakes are not slimy, by the way. Let’s see what the numbers say?

In the United States from 1999 – 2005, there were 44 venomous snake related fatalities. Of those 44, 38 were bites in the wild, and 6 were bites that came from captive venomous snakes (data collected from www.rexano.org)

From 1990- 2008, there were 8 fatalities by a captive constrictor snake in the U.S (constrictors are non-venimous) None of the deaths were the result of the snake being unsupervised off the owners property. (data from www.rexano.org)

Now, let’s look at people’s favorite domestic companions as a comparison. 

Over the last 7 years, there has been an average of 30.4 dog-related deaths per year. So over the same timeframe as the venomous snakes where 6 captive deaths occurred and 38 wild deaths occurred, there were 213 people who died from dog related injuries (source: http://www.dogsbite.org/dog-bite-statistics-fatalities.php)

Additionally, the same site reported that each day, about 1,000 U.S. citizens require emergency care treatment for dog bite injury.

I’m not against dogs or dog ownership. I’m a dog lover. I’ve owned, raised, rescued, and trained many breeds. I’m simply trying to keep things in perspective because all too often, politicians and government try and gain sympathy through public outcry when a rare injury from a snake or other exotic animal is reported.

The sad reality for snake and reptile hobbyists like myself is that the industry is becoming very tightly regulated and restricted by our government – go figure. In 2012, four constrictor snakes were banned under the Lacey Act by the Federal Government (www.fws.gov/…/Final_Economic_Analysis_for_4%20species.pdf) Their rationale was that Burmese Pythons were becoming established in the Evergaldes as an invasive species. While this may be true, More than 50 species of exotic mammals have been recorded in South Florida, at least 19 of which are self-sustaining including dogs, pigs, cats,and rats. Wild animals native to other parts of the U.S. have also been established including nine-banded armadillos. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_invasive_species_in_the_Everglades

There are invasive birds, mammals, reptiles other than snakes, clams, fish, and a bunch of plants, yet the snakes get the press and get the federal ban. Even before the Lacey Act, Florida required permits and microchipping of all large constrictors. The media paints a picture of private owners releasing pets into the everglades, but the research shown so far indicates that he more likely introduction happened after hurricanes destroyed captive breeding facilities, allowing the animals to escape. I don’t harbor ill will toward Florida for trying to get the issue under control, but why punish the whole country? Florida’s issue is isolated. A Burmese Python would not thrive in an environment outside the everglades here in the US. They would be prey for other animals or suffer the effects of winter. Here in Ohio, we’re facing the same issue at the state level with Senate Bill 310. http://www.bizjournals.com/prnewswire/press_releases/2012/03/29/DC78703  The state is trying to pass aggressive legislation to limit exotic animal ownership. This was largely due to an incident last fall where an unstable guy let a lot of wild animals loose on his property and then killed himself. The story is here: http://www.dispatch.com/content/stories/local/2011/10/18/Wild-animals-loose-in-Muskingum-County.html

There weren’t any reports of reptiles in the incident, but they somehow got lumped into the legislation even though they pose little danger to the public. As always, when the government steps in and tries to take control, they usually make problems worse. It’s politics as usual.

So I say tiptoe through the tulips, my friends. You’ll be hard-pressed to step on a slithery serpent, but if you happen to meet one, leave him on his merry way. If you cross him and feel the sting of his bite, pray it’s a squeezer and not a rattler.

Hopefully this was an enjoyable read and gave you some relief, perspective, and comfort knowing that it’s not the shark, snake, or plane crash that will probably get you. If you need to be afraid of something, fear your morning commute to the office.

 

Thanks for reading

Jim