THERE'S ALWAYS A WAY OUT

There's also a weigh out. Which can be way out. Too much Summer 2010 packed on ungainly (I wish) pounds on my frame. You'd think a guy could eat a scoop, usually two of gelatto every Italian day. Then after a big meal lasting a minimum of one and a half hours, top it off with a little creme broulle. Saying there's a little creme broulle is like saying our current Prez blames his predecessor once in awhile. In fact one I knows calls him Mr. Oblamer. But back to my weight. Well, I wish I were back to my weight.

But as the title says, "There's always a way out."

Way out, man, used to be a Sixties expression for something or someone who was beyond the scope of current vogue. During those times, if one were "Way Out", then he/she was definitely different. S. R. Clark was one of those guys. He just hung out at MTVCC which shared a campus with MTVHS. If S.R. ever attended class or was even enrolled is conjecture. His uniqueness. His raincoat. He was never without it. Never. Epaulets on each shoulder, it ran mid-calf and made him look like a stereotypical spy. Some people taunted him (imagine that), some scorned him (imagine that), some talked to him (I probably engaged him in three conversations total), but most feared him. Trench Coat Clark some called him. Was he a freak? In every sense of the word.

A friend of mine told me how he (my friend--not S.R.) had come to the Lord. "I got myself into a situation that I couldn't buy my way out of. I couldn't lie my way out of. I had to have help and I turned to God." As long as I've known him, and as much of our lives we have shared, I don't know any more specifics than that. I wouldn't tell you if I knew. I have never prodded him. I don't need to know. The important thing is, he knew whom to turn to and receive forgiveness and begin a life of following his Lord and Savior. That's not only good enough for me, that's blessed.

Hopefully, you're not like my weigh out. Nor S.R.'s way out. But feel free to follow my friend. Now there's the best way out.

A TELLING PICTURE

A friend of mine has this picture in his office hanging directly above his desk. He gets lots of comments on it. It's George Washington kneeling in prayer at Valley Forge. I know many of my sophisticated readers knew that and if you didn't, well it reminds me of a story.

In Cub Scouts at age 7 or 8, our son was going through the throes of believing or not believing in Santa Claus. At a den meeting, one of the pack leaders was laughing with the scouts about someone still believing in Santa Claus. She said, "None of you still believe in him, do you?"

Our son thankfully didn't raise his hand to respond, but thought to himself, "Yeah, I kinda do or kinda did till now." So maybe you're like that. You didn't know this picture, but by your silence, no one else knows.

The responses my friend get range from "That's a beautiful horse," to "That's a great picture of George Washington praying." Polar opposites to me.

I love horses. I love animals. But (here comes another story) I think we go overboard in this country over animals. Prairie dogs are rounded up and relocated for protection. What's next--roof rats? (Additional story as an addendum) Our neighborhood has 253 homes inside the gated community. We have HOA's, of course. When street re-surfacing projects or other important information needs to be disseminated, all get a phone call with a recorded message. This week we received a call that a dog was missing with the info for contact if seen. (I started to say "if spotted" but then you couldn't tell if the dog was spotted or espied.) Anyhow, to me that's not necessary to notify 252 other households. We have plenty of places to put up posters. The owner(s) could have called a few others to put out the word. Plus, we have coyotes on occasion. 'Nuff said. Except that I'm not unsympathetic at all. I hope they get the dog back; I really do.

The picture that can evoke such a different response--animal, prayer, leadership--is probably a pretty good picture.

While I appreciate a good animal, a good horse, I appreciate a President to goes to the Lord to seek direction and discernment.

JACK BUCK USED TO SAY IT

His and my favorite color--Cardinal red.

I wonder what it all means? One's favorite color.

How did that appeal begin? For me, was it the baseball team? A little red wagon from Western Auto? A favorite shirt?

I really don't know. Nor do I know why I thought of this. I mean a color is a color is a color. Right?

But there must be something innate or something learned (duh) that directs us to prefer one color over the others. No discernment here.

So, I'll change course and see if I can find my least favorite color. I'm thinking. Cub blue? Not really. Laker yellow and purple? That's not fair; that's two colors. How about Patriots red and blue? Again, a non-issue.

I guess I don't have a least favorite color. So, I'm back to square one. Almost.

I just remembered. There are lots of new car colors that I detest. Some remind me of a coffin, some are just shy of psychedelic. They must have some crazy names, too. My car, red, of course, is called Monterrey red. It's candy apple colored, but somehow Monterrey is supposed to sound better. So coffin orange metallic, ghastly green, and iridescent purple--those are my three least faves.

Or I could just go to a big box of crayons and get specific about colors, but when Crayolas removed flesh as a color because not everyone's flesh was the same color, I thought pc had gone overboard.

Once in seventh grade, our son started a short story with "Flesh, the neighborhood dog continued to bark." I always liked that story. Maybe that is my favorite color--flesh.

Nope. Can't top Cardinal red.

YOU SAY YES

Stoplights, commercials, and clothes hangers. They're all ruining my life.

The Valley of the Sun has an inordinate numbers of stoplights. I apparently hit them all, all the time. For the almost decade we've been here. I've spent a huge chunk of it waiting for the red light to turn. It seems to have no such problem turning that hated shade when my red car approaches, so you'd think it could unblush and show beautiful, vivid green just as quickly. But as Steve Martin says, "Nooooo."

I express a similar outrage at the inordinate, inane commercials that clutter the tv. I can't channel surf anymore. I thought that a right. But they got together and air them at the same time. So unless I want to see a feminine product ad instead of an AARP ad, then there's really no reason to flip channels. In fact, I need no more remote. I'll watch a show, get up from my comfy chair and change the channel the way we did before remote controls. Yes, there was that time. I won't tell you that I remember when there were no color tv shows, no HD, no surround sound with woofers. But I do.

Ok, so you, too, may share in my antipathy for red lights and commercials, but what's my gripe against hangers? They're not uniform (pun. if you like). By there being so many different types, they get caught, they turn around (at least some have a swivel action so they can all be turned the same way), then snag, then disappear. Then there are the ones with the clips like on potato chip bags that somehow you're supposed to hang your slacks on. (I should have said trousers--ooh there's a word I dislike. Or I could have said garment, but that's another that denotes oldness to me.) Then the little ones for well, the little ones. Those can also disappear, getting lost in the masses. I haven't even addressed the slickness of them that seem greased when you hang a pair of pants on them and they just slide off.

They're all three ruining our country. They are part of a plot to drive us insane or at least to elevate our collective blood pressures to cause us to do stupid things. To wit: yell out loud, show our anger and frustration, and in general shorten our time on the planet. Alleviate one and you've made my day. Two and you've altered my life.

It's too much to hope for three. Besides, then I'd just find something else that bothers me. Like there being few house numbers/business numbers visible from the street. It's maddening to try to find an address anymore

MILITARY MAN


They won't let me play there. Just because I didn't give 20 years of service to my country. Hey, but I did. Try teaching high school and a little bit of college for 30 years and tell me I didn't give service to my country. But they don't understand.

They is Falcon Dunes Golf Course at Luke Air Force Base. Where I played two rounds of golf last week. Only eligible because I played with a 20-year veteran friend in town visiting. Excellent course conditions, excellent price, but now I'm denied until his return. All because they don't count teaching as hazardous or sacrificial as military duty.

I have a lot of friends who served in Viet Nam and other theatres. Not many were wounded. Thankfully. But I was shot at school. In the back. While we were on strike in 1986. A high powered Chinese air rifle was the weapon. The culprit was caught and along with another weapons charge spent some time in prison.

As for me, the wound was a flesh wound, but like in the Westerns, he only grazed me. It didn't feel much worse than a bee sting, but one of the officers told me that under the right conditions and in the right spot, it could have killed me.

So I think I should be able to pay and play at Falcon Dunes. But rules is rules. And I expended so much effort not to be a military man, maybe I deserve my banishment.

Happy Columbus Day to all. I guess he wasn't a veteran either. Oh well. He served his country anyhow. Just like teachers. Well, maybe not just like.

FLASH AND FLASHBACK

It was Homecoming week at my old high school. Pictures of the candidates splashed the front page. Now they have Homecoming Kings. Which I, old-fashioned as I am, will never get used to. Even though our son was crowned Morp King when he was in school. Morp or Prom backwards was a take off on Prom only it was more of a laid back dance, kinda like a sock hop and there was no Morp Queen.

But besides our kids' Homecoming experiences, and by the way, Homecoming is always an experience from whom will I go with to the post Homecoming activities. As I started to say, I'm going back to my Homecoming days when cameras like that on the left were probably in vogue. No puff of smoke and photographer under an umbrella or miniature curtain though. C'mon.

Not long ago I penned about being a naive first grader. Also a naive first year in high schooler, too. Even though I ran around with a lot of seniors when I first started high school, I really didn't know what Homecoming was. I honestly thought it was when the football team came home from playing a few road games. I don't think I even knew about a dance or a queen. I'm serious, unfortunately.

Not that I would have asked a girl to the dance. I had taken one to a dance in seventh grade and it didn't work out too well. Besides, the only girl I liked at the start of my frosh year, Pat Seltzer, just dated older guys.

And I got no help from my freshmen friends who must not have wanted to go either because I didn't hear them talk about it. Nor any of my neighbors who were juniors and sophomores. Same with my senior buds.

By the time our kids were in high school, everyone talked about whom they were going to ask, where they were going to eat, who was taking their pictures. And this happened just after school started. Lots of times by dance time, new relationships had formed, old ones had soured, couples that were doubling had scuffled. I'm telling you, Homecoming was a mess.

I think I was better off not knowing. But, you know, I might have liked it better if they had had a King back then. I just might have looked pretty spiffy in a crown.

By the way, Happy Perfect Day--10/10/10. That doesn't happen often. Just like this month which has 5 Fridays, 5 Saturdays, and 5 Sundays. I think you have to wait nearly 300 years for that to happen again.