AUTOGRAPHS AND SIGNATURES

I don't know why people put such an emphasis on autographs of celebrities. Besides the value. But just what is it that drives the autograph market anyhow? And what does all this have to do with the picture on the left?

I'll answer the second question first. Both of our young adult children (there seems to be an oxymoron and a paradox in those three words) have good penmanship. When they want to. You'd never know it by their doctors-like signatures.

I've kidded them about it, mildly scolded them ("if you're going to sign something, why not let people be able to read what you've written?") But like lots of other fatherly advice, it has fallen on deafened ears. So their signature look like the photo on the left. Actually worse than Willie May's autograph which reads "June Mop" to the unknowing reader.

Strung over three houses, we have quite a few autographs of famous people, mostly baseball players though I did get one of George Bush when I met him in MTV when he was Veep. Lots of Hall of Famers. I've never sold one though Cardinal Coach Jose Oquendo thought our six-year old daughter was collecting and giving them to me to hawk. He was right about the first two, but I've never even traded them to others.

What do we do with them? Nothing. I don't even know where some are though I could put my hands on a big book containing several. So why did we collect? What was the point?

Well, what's the point of any collection? It gave us something to do. It gave us good times together. It gave us common interests to share. When we look at them, it gives us memories. And, I suppose, that's why it was all worth it.

I still wish my kids, who aren't kids anymore, would take just a little more time to express some pride in their signatures. After all, we would have been disappointed to get any more "June Mops" when we were collecting.

YOU KNOW, THAT'S HARD TO DO

About a week ago we were under a tornado warning. In AZ. Reports had one on the ground just a few miles from where we live. In AZ. (In Az twice for emphasis.) About that time, I was channel surfing after watching a pretty good movie on On Demand when I saw the warning scoot across the tv.

"Wait a minute. Did that say Tornado Warning?" My wife was silent. Not out of fear or sleepiness (I mean it was nearing 9:00, which actually means I should have been dozing. I don't know why, but 80% of the time when I'm at home, I conk out for 2-10 minutes between 8:30 and 9:00), but out of having to listen to me all day.

There were blizzard warnings for northern AZ, flash flood warnings for mid AZ and yep, a tornado warning for us. As I read the words on the tv screen a flash of lightning looked as if it shot between us and the tv. My wife, then in an answering mode thought it was a reflection from a skylight or somehow from closed plantation shutters. She was probably correct since there was no strike, just a flash. No more lightning than we have, I probably just forgot what flashes look like and thought it the real thing.

Was I fearful? Are you kidding me? Our house is not constructed the best in the world. Most aren't in AZ. Sitting on a slab and stuccoed, our house is vulernable. I 'd think a hungry tornado could level them with the ease of a '50's kid knocking down Lincoln Logs. (I saw them on sale this year along with an electric football game. The game cost $100. Unbelievable.) We didn't even know where to go in our house. A tv weatherman said "go to a basement". Yeah, right. There are so many in AZ. I'd estimate 1 in 10,000 homes.

We have a sunken living room. About a one foot drop off that friends and our youngest grandchild have experienced. But usually only once. After a turned ankle or in VJ's case, a bloody lip, well most remember. But we didn't think that would help much.

We have a sunken bathtub with a little more drop to it, but fitting two in there might be a chore. So we stayed in front of the tv while Alaskan type Winter winds swirled and cried to be allowed inside.

They passed. The storm raged through. I thought of Jesus going to sleep in the storm in the boat on Galilee while some of his disciples were frightened. He calmed the storm and provided the lesson that all we have to fear is God. And I believe it because scripture says it more than once. (I'd believe it if scripture only said it once.)

But I think maybe we can be a little scared. I wonder what time it was on the Sea or Lake. I'd guess about 8:45.

THE NATION'S MOST FAMOUS SHERIFF

That's what we have in Sheriff Joe Arapaio. Love him or hate him, he's ours.

Those that protest against him, detest him, and wish he'd retire or move or pass away feel that way because of illegal immigration. They seem to ignore the operative word illegal. Instead they focus on racial stereotyping or racial profiling. But, please tell me who are trying to enter our country illegally? Aren't they Hispanic? Mostly Mexicans?

Then when he arrests them, they object; they claim he is picking on them, when all they're trying to do is improve their lives. Many send the money back home that they make by working hard in America. The last half is correct. But we can't overlook the fact that they are entering and staying in our country illegally.

As soon as the laws change, rest assured that Sheriff Joe will not try to round up any Mexicans in drop houses in the valley. There will be no need. But the protests should center around lawmakers and not law upholders.

But he makes the men prisoners wear pink underwear. That is the color of choice made by him and those in charge. Everyone knows it. If you don't like it--then don't break the law. Or elect to go to another AZ city where the incarcerated ones get white underwear. At least they are provided the necessities, but c'mon, they're supposed to have a choice of color?

But he makes them stay in Tent City, outside in the sweltering heat of AZ. Again; that's correct, because of the overflow of criminals. As the old cliche goes, don't do the crime if you can't do the time. He provides shade, a bed or cot, and plenty of water. His guards are there, too, in that heat and with more clothes on than most of the inmates.

By now you see I'm in Joe's corner. I'm appreciative of law enforcement and to me Joe is one of the best. He'd never go for the poster in the picture no matter what his critics think.

"PULL THESE LITTLE STRINGS"

"I just let him think he's the one in control."

"As long as he thinks, or I get him to think, it was his idea, I have him eating out of the palm of my hand."

"If he doesn't go along with my wishes, he doesn't get his reward--ME."

I've heard all these from other women going back to my high school days. By the way, none were said about me. But my wife has a good one that she says about me. I think I'll save that one, but if memory serves, I have already shared it in an earlier blog.

So why do we, then allow them--the weaker sex, to have control of our lives?

For me, it's relatively easy. Readers looking for the big answer maybe need to go to another blog. But if you're looking for something that works, then read on.

A decision I don't care about, I defer to my wife. What do you want for supper? is a good example. I'm blessed to have a wife who cooks like Paula and Julia but looks a whole lot better. She varies the offerings, puts her personal touch to each meal, watches my portions pretty carefully and prepares delicious (epiphany--the world deli comes from delicatessen which comes from delicious) food. I like, among other foods, beef, pork, chicken, fish, lamb--you name it. In fact there is very, very little on or off the food pyramid chart that I don't like. So why should I decide what I want for any meal? She can pick whatever she wants, and it's fine with me. If she wants me to cook out in the hot sun, rain, or dark, then hey, I'm just like the mailman; I'll deliver.

Now, when it comes to a big decision, I fly into action. I will control the tv remote. When we got our last tv, it was a fortnight before she learned how to turn it on. Seriously. Not that she's not higher tech than I, but come on--we're talking about the tv here.

Maybe that's why she has jokingly (I hope ) told friends, "we have one brain, and I have it."

LEMONS, LEMONS, LEMONS

How does a picky, picky nine-year-old eater feast on lemons? Our grandson will not take one bite of something he hasn't tried before. Even when his old grandpappy guarantees he'll like it.

But give him a half dozen lemon slices, and he'll down them. And he doesn't do it for show. He sincerely likes them. What's more, I've never seen him pucker when he eats them.

On an un-similar note, Daniel, seven-year old of friends of ours, recently told his mother that he didn't feel well. He claimed to have a science headache.

"A science headache? his mom questioned.

""Yeh, where you have those holes in your head," he answered.

Aren't kids cool?

WELL, AT LEAST HE MADE THE RIGHT CALL

He's in position, he has his eyes open, he doesn't anticipate the call, and he makes it right. The base runner slides home safely. So what's so hard about it anyhow? (Actually, he should have taken off his mask for a better view.)

Last night I was watching the Suns play offense. Since they play relatively no defense, there's no use in saying I watched them play basketball, because defense is still half the game. But that's an anomaly to them.

I usually watch about 5 minutes, get disgusted at the matador defense and switch channels. Last evening, I didn't make it through 3 minutes. In the most flagrant walk that I've seen since our 4th grade daughter swiped the ball at half court from a much older and bigger sixth grader and proceeded to run rather than dribble with the basketball, this player was not penalized by the 3 officials. That's right, the NBA uses 3, and they still can't get it right.

What angered me even more is that the tv station replayed the obvious travel that wasn't called, and even the Phoenix announcers didn't complain. No mention.

Click.

While most of the time I can accept a less than stellar performance by players, I really have trouble with most officials. I know they're going to be screened on some plays. I know they play at such a fast pace. I know many instant replays show they, indeed made the correct call. But they still make way too many mistakes.

And nearly all the calls hurt my teams. At least it seems that way. And when they benefit my teams (the no-call on the Rodgers' facemask in the Cardinals overtime win, for instance) I have a short memory.

MAN, I LOVE THE PIPES



Bagpipes. They are something else.



The last time I saw a guy playing them was at Peggy's Cove in Maine. He was standing outside a lighthouse there. I wanted to stay for an hour, but was pulled and tugged away to go to some tourist trap and look at old bottles.

The first I remember hearing were played by an MTV attorney in our school's operetta Brigadoon. I thought that was pretty cool. Then I moved close enough to him that I could hear him practicing. Somewhat disappointing, but also somehow appealing to me. He also wore the kilts and complete outfit. Not appealing when one has his build. But still, it was cool for SoIL.


The most touching I ever saw and it has an indelible place in my memory bank was the soloist at golfer Payne Stewart's funeral. In the fog, he played of course in full Scottish attire, and walked into the woods. It was poignant.

Unfortunately, my wife doesn't share the love for the pipes. But, she's Irish only by name.