Just Got back from Illinois...Oh Boy!

I blame my parents.
They moved us around when my brother and I were kids.
It was always accomplished within the confines of the Midwest, but we moved.
These days I live in Southern California. It is not where I thought I would wind up, but did. San Diego is a beautiful city and the climate is salubrious. What's not to like?
Well, for starters, it's not home! Even after more than twenty years in this remarkable corner of the country, it still doesn't feel like a place where I belong. To be fair...NO place does.
After spending the past week in Springfield, Illinois where I was born, I have to say that it feels about as homey to me as a Holiday Inn. My mother is there. My brother and his family are in central Illinois too, but for some reason I feel only a cosmic disconnect. Sure, the people are nice and the corn is green but I feel no special affection or attachment to the place. I was born there, but left when I was five years old.
My grade school years were spent in Michigan and I went to high school in Iowa. After returning to Northwest Iowa for a couple of high school reunions I can safely say that my desperate desire to escape the place was justified. A trip to Michigan seems in order if I'm destined to find the lodestone of my being. Perhaps all the tumblers will fall into place when once again I gaze on Leslie, Michigan. Probably not.

Am I making too much of this??? I don't think so.
I find myself comfortable in my wife's home state of South Dakota, especially in the Black Hills. Why is that?

I love New England and, after a week or two, get used to that goofy way those people pahk theah cahs and go to Fenway to see the BOSAWX. It's a wonderful place, but too damn cold.


I LOVE New York, and though I don't own enough black clothing to ever pass for a native, could easily live there...for awhile.





Why do I care about this sense of home anyway? Good question.
Maybe I'll call my daughters and see how they feel. Linda and I moved them from Georgia, Kansas, Florida, Washington, Nevada and California all before they were out of high school. They could really be screwed up!
Oh, that's right...they are. But both of them are damned interesting.

This is just some of the chaff that blows through the windmills of my mind on long plane trips.
Perhaps it's the cabin pressure.

Whatever happened to free cocktails on plane rides?

In the meantime, if you need me, I'll be gutting it out here in paradise.Certainly somebody needs to make sure that the sun goes down each evening. And...God knows your weird Uncle Weezer needs supervision.
Yeah, he's here.
We all are.

Trouble in River City? Not for long...

There's trouble in River City and it ain't pool.
No, this time Iowa has WAY more water than it needs.

Iowa, where the tall corn grows and farmers are always griping about the weather. It seems they either never have enough or, like right now, "comin' down harder than a cow pissin' on a flat rock."

I spent my high school years in Iowa and know something of the people who still call it home. You might say that "some of my best friends are Iowans".

Here's what you can take to the bank:

A year from now most all of the communities currently in crisis mode will be back and better than ever. These are strong people. They're hardy stock. Mostly they are of German, Irish, and Swedish extraction. The kind of folks who are embarrassed by any attempt to show off. Farmers ,who spend a lifetime talking poor, sell the farm and move to town as millionaires when it's time to retire. That's how it's done in a part of America where the highest compliment you can pay someone is to refer to them as a hard worker.

The TV crews will be gone next year, but Iowa will be better than before. No whining; no "who is the government going to send to help us?"

That's how it is in Iowa.
Ya got trouble?
Shut up and get to work!

Next June...look at Iowa.
It'll be better than ever.
(But, please...NO bragging.)

Abide With Me...

Well, here it is.
It's a chance to make Dad proud of you for once!
I've made the commitment and already I feel like a much better person.

Just in time for Father's Day, you too can become and ordained minister in the Church of the Latter Day Dude.
I signed-up yesterday and am ready, willing and able to officiate at weddings, brises, funerals and supermarket grand openings. And...it was all FREE.

You see, there is a new website dedicated to all things "Dude".

The Dude! You know...Jeffery "The Dude" Lebowski from the Big Lebowski, the crack-brained comedy from the equally crack-brained Coen brothers. (Only one of the best movies of 1998!)

"They figured he was a lazy time wasting slacker. They were right," growls the movie trailer. It was a clarion call to slackers everywhere.

"What do you do, Dude?"
"Oh, the usual. I bowl. Drive around. The occasional acid flashback."

Great movie; even better religion. Get yourself ordained today. It's FREE!
Here's the web address: www.dudeism.com

In the meantime, the Dude abides.




Your Dad probably doesn't.

Hearing voices...

"John Moores can kiss my ass if he thinks I'm paying $9.50 for a beer!"
"And don't get my Evinrude crankin' about the price of tickets!" "It's the freakin' Friars!"

I'm hearing this vitriol as I scan my backyard from the patio on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Where it's coming from, I can't tell.
Can it be my neighbor Jai? He's from Bombay and probably would have trouble locating first base with the help of Garmin and Tom Tom. The neighbor on the other side is never home and has an astroturf lawn; no way he's a baseball fan.

"Who said that?", I query.

"Down here, numbnuts."

It's Al! He's back and he's cranky!

Al is the alligator lizard who inhabits the northeast corner of my backyard patio. It has been a cool Spring and he is a little late in establishing his command of the patio domain. He's looking good. Ready, rested and just like Nixon, back from the other side of the sod.

"The Padres suck," he ejaculates. "Why don't they package up Koozy with Giles and trade 'em for some prospects? Then they can bring up Headly from triple A and start givin' the fans the old re-building year jive?" "Hell, I could handle the hot corner...I've been handling the hot corner of your stupid patio all these years ya know", he continues.
I consider that he's probably right but offer, "Well, they have won a couple here lately."

"BFD"....says Al.

I have to admit that he has a point.

Right then a fat grasshopper saunters into Al range. With blinding speed the hapless hopper is on his way to Al's digestive tract...Only the legs remain to dangle from Al's maw.
I believe the Padres could use him.

Tinker to Evers to Al, has a nice ring to it.
Get John Moores on the line!

I wonder if he can hit a breaking ball?

Leading a quiet life...

"I lead a quiet life."
"Little Walt isn't afraid of me like your girls were." (Walt is my brother's two year-old.)
"The days are getting shorter."
These are a few of the rote phrases that lately comprise my mother's conversation.
She'll soon be 87 and lives alone in the condo my father and she retired to around twenty years ago. My brother and I worry about her living all by herself, (Dad died in '95) ,and have been trying to sell her on a move to an assisted living facility for at least the past five years.

"No, those places are for old people", she responds. She is also adamant about not moving to California so that my wife and I could keep an eye on her.
"I'm from Illinois, and I belong here", is the reaction to that suggestion.

This dilemma, I realize, is one shared by many of my generation. The constant worry that her dementia will result in an accident with the oven, the stairs, or even the mailbox is tough to shake. My guess is that it all ends badly.

Steve, my brother, and I talk frequently on the phone about how to resolve the situation. He lives forty miles from mom and he and his wife make sure that she has groceries and anything else she needs, but an emergency would involve the better part of an hour to respond. Not good.

There is no good answer.

She's lonely and wonders why she doesn't hear from old friends. (Most are dead.) And, I think, given time would react favorably to friendships available in assisted living. But, would a move from familiar surroundings only hasten her demise? There is something to be said for knowing where the bathroom is in the middle of the night.

Like I said...there is no good answer.

It's Sunday and nearly time to call and check on her. Lately she doesn't hear the phone and we leave a message, though I don't think she knows how to play them.

It's hard to get old in America, but it beats the alternative.

Or, does it?