When I was a kid, I’d ride my Schwinn Phantom to school and park it in the bike rack on the playground. Unchained. After school, I’d go to the rack, get my bike and ride home. On arriving home, I’d walk in the side door (my parents both worked) which was usually unlocked.  And I’d go about my business of being a 10 year old.  When my parents came home, we’d sometimes go out for pizza.  We’d walk out the unlocked door, get in the unlocked car, drive to Fadaro’s (an old favorite) and walk in — leaving the car unlocked.    

None of my friends locked their bikes.  Even when riding into town.  Most friends left their homes unlocked too.  And no one ever locked their cars.  I mean why?    

Of course today, we live in a much better America.  As some will tell you.  But everybody locks everything.  All the time.   And if someone goes to steal your bike from the rack – or your car – and you give him a punch or two, who gets in trouble?  Yep.  Not the scumbag.  No my friend.  You will get in hot water.  And you might get sued.

Hmmm. . . Vigilante justice?  Is that wrong?  You tell me.   Beer for my horses . . . . . (see April 16, 2015).       

Thanksgiving 2016

In my post of November 11, 2011, I mentioned an occasion when I was asked what my “favorite day” is.  And I replied “Thanksgiving.”  Why?  Well, it’s a long weekend.  Great food.  Leftovers.  Family time.  On the big day this year, it’s the Detroit Lions playing the Vikings (hmmm); Redskins versus the Cowboys (yawn); and the Steelers against the Colts (zzzzzzz).   Here we are.  Another November.  Five years later.  Christmas is around the corner.  Wow!  The days go slow and the years go fast.  Faster it seems every year.

On this day of thanks, let us put politics and disagreement aside – remembering that “we, being many, are one body in Christ, and every one members of one another” (Romans 12:5).    We are all – family.  My best wishes to you and your families for a wonderful, happy and blessed Thanksgiving weekend. 


Adam and Eve.  The first names of the first people.   These names are still – after millennia – clearly in vogue (I can attest to the latter). 

I saw an article which talked about the most popular girls’ names. The top ten are:
1 Emma
2 Olivia
3 Ava
4 Sophia
5 Mia
6 Isabella
7 Charlotte
8 Amelia
9 Harper
10 Abigail

How quickly time passes.  I remember the top ten girls’ names of my relatives:  LaVerne; Mildred; Edna; Lois; Myrna; Hilma; Lillian; Greta; Ruth; and Bernice.  All are fine names – to be sure.  But today, I haven’t seen many girls being named from this wellspring of examples.    

And then we move to the girls’ names of generations long past:  Hortence; Mona; Gertrude; Fannie; Faye; Mabel; Beulah; Maude; Beatrice; Myrtle; Ethel . . . . .  Good names as well but I don’t see Hortence or Fannie making a comeback anytime soon.  

And funny thing – I don’t see “Bambi” on anyone’s list. . . . .


I play golf during the summer and in the shoulder seasons. And my preference is to wear shorts.  In the summer, that’s an easy sell.  Looking around the golf course on a hot summer day, very few (other than the pros) will be wearing long pants.  You’d have to be incredibly shy – or have a sun issue – to play golf in long pants when it’s 80 degrees. 

However once Labor Day arrives and the temperature begins its inexorable slide down the thermometer, some chaps pull out the long pants.  Even when it’s 60 degrees.   But not me. . . . .

I can’t count the number of times someone has said – as I walk in the locker room on a chilly Saturday morning – “you’re wearing shorts!?!?”  Posed as a question, the answer would be obvious — from my knobby, scarred legs.  Yes.  I am – indeed – wearing shorts.  But when presented as a statement, it might just suggest that I meet someone’s definition of “knucklehead” (see February 13, 2014, for the proper definition of “knucklehead”).  

Hey – I’m comfy in shorts.  But I also figure if a 98 pound cocktail waitress can wear a miniskirt when it’s 10 below zero, I can wear shorts to golf on a day when Andy Avalos says “it’s going to be 59 degrees and sunny.”  Such weather is in my opinion shortsworthy.       

So these two guys. . . .

Two hunters from Minnesota get a pilot to fly them to Canada to hunt moose. They bag six big ones.

As they start loading the plane for the return trip, the pilot tells them the plane can take only four of the moose. The two lads object strongly. “Last year we shot six, and the pilot let us put them all on board.  He had the same plane as yours.

Reluctantly, the pilot gives in and lets them load all six. However, even with full power, the little plane can’t handle the load and goes down a few moments after takeoff.  Climbing out of the wreckage, one Minnesotan asks the other, “Any idea where we are?” The second replies, “Yah, I tink we’s pretty close to where we crashed last year.”

The Election

How did this happen?   Was it a vote for Trump? A vote against Hillary? A vote against the sad legacy of Obama? Take your choice. It’s probably a combination of all three.

It’s ironic — Democrats have constantly derided Republicans for being “fat cats” and “those at the top.”  Yet suddenly in midstream the fat cats were joined by “a basket of deplorables” — hard-working men and women who in the words of Obama “cling to their religion and guns.”

I don’t know how this will play out but let’s keep our fingers crossed for all of the good things we had hoped would happen.  Eight years ago. . . . .   

He Could Have Done So Much

When he was sworn into office, there was a groundswell of optimism – about what might be accomplished during his Presidency:  economic recovery, stability and prosperity; peace at home and abroad; improved racial relations; improved educational performance and opportunity; cooperation in government; sensible spending and taxation; and on.  And on.  I was one who had hoped.   

After nearly eight years, where are we?  Stagnant economy.  A near doubling of national debt.  More taxes.  Regulations out of control.  Racial tensions.  Open contempt for police.  Anger.  Hatred and disrespect on all “sides.”  Increased danger across the globe.  Terrorism.  A perilous Iranian nuke deal.  Cuba is now our pal and we’ve pulled the plug on Israel.  Trusted allies turning their backs on America.  Many countries and world leaders – giving America the proverbial finger.  A new Cold War.  China/Russia rapprochement.  A dismantled military. Executive orders to openly disobey laws which are on the books (illegal immigration; sanctuary cities; legalizing marijuana and in some cases other drugs).  Pardons for 944 dealers of hard drugs (more pardons than the last 11 Presidents combined).  Trampling on free speech.  Political correctness gone berserk.  Trivializing of religion.  Obamacare in total meltdown.  Corruption.    Poverty on the rise.  Education sinking further into the abyss.  Groveling apologies for America’s greatness.  And on.  And on.

I am deeply concerned about the next four years. If you aren’t concerned, you must be an ostrich.  Or one who cares more about ideology – than America.  

No need to thank me. . . . .

Remarkable!  Amazing!  Astonishing!  Miraculous!   Phenomenal!  Incredible!  About time!  Noooo, I’m not talking about my new haircut.  I am talking about the CHICAGO CUBS victory in Game 7 of the World Series.    

The curse laid down in 1945 by Billy Goat Tavern owner William Sianis (he was asked to leave Wrigley Field because his pet goat Murphy – who he’d brought to the Field – smelled worse than most goats) is now over.  Done.  Kaput.

I like to think that I deserve some small margin of credit for the Cubs success.  Why?  You ask.  Okay.  What is the current year?  2016.  Two – Sixteen.  My birthday.  And how many games did it take for the Cubs to clobber the Indians?  Four of Seven.  ’47 – my birth year.  And they did it in extra innings (which is where I would like life to take me).  Soooo, it was bound to happen.  Two sixteen four seven.  In extra innings.  Yep.  So last March I put down $250 in Las Vegas on the Cubs winning the World Series in 7 games.  At 883 to 1.  Oh wait a minute. . . . I forgot that part.  Darn. 

Wait’ll next year. . . . .