Just Horsing Around

Author's Note: The following is a true story, though a few of the details might be incorrect. At the time these events occurred, it was roughly 1974 when I was about six, maybe even younger. It's possible that the animals in question were cows, not horses, but I elected to go with horses in this retelling because I think horses are funny. Some exaggeration is likely. I tell this story with humor in mind, but also with deep reverence for my grandpa.

As some of you know, my mom was from Mississippi and was raised on a farm out in the middle of Red Dirt Road Nowhere. After graduating, she moved to Indiana where she met my father - a Pennsylvania boy - and made her family in the Hoosier state.

When I was a kid, we would take family vacations to visit her parents on their farm. It was always an adventure for my brother and me since we were northern boys and not at all accustomed to life on southern farm.

In addition to the farm being home to multiple kinds of poisonous snakes (rattlesnakes, moccasins, copperheads, coral, etc.) it was home to  a variety of chickens, grouses, cows, pigs and horses. Oh, and lots of black widow spiders and fire ants.

Batter up.

My grandfather's farm also had several ponds and a creek running through it. When we would visit, my grandpa would sometimes take us on his big farm tractor and we'd go out fishing in one of the ponds. Some of my earliest and best fishing memories are tied to those ponds and my family there.

On one rather notable trip when I was about six, we came across a pair of horses that were...well, I  thought they were wrestling.

They weren't wrestling.

Apparently, the noise from the tractor's motor startled them, causing the male to dismount (clever verb usage there, eh?). The female - or the one losing the wrestling match insofar as I was concerned at the time - bolted. And man oh man could she ever run. She was out of sight before you could say "Jack Robinson."

Her beau, however, stood his ground. He stood there, snorting, shaking his head and looking about as angry as I had ever seen *anything* look in any of my six long years on the planet. My grandpa told us both to stay on the tractor and to just be still. Apparently, horny horses interrupted mid-coitus can be quite dangerous. He proceeded to talk to the horse in hushed tones, telling it to move along now. My dad and I were glad to oblige and sat on the tractor, not making a sound.

That is until the horse turned to the side. That's when I noticed that he was sporting the largest penis I have ever seen. The enormity of it caused my jaw to drop to my chest, grab my daddy's arm and ask, rather loudly: "daddy, do you see the big, the big black THING on that horse? How did it get that big?!?"

Now, I must tell you that my grandfather was a very kind and religious man. He also was a southern Baptist minister and gentleman who always had time for his grandchildren. However, he was not the kind of guy with whom you discussed the likes of horse penises.

My dad was mostly successful at stifling his laughter while he flashed me a furtive look that said, "not now, please, son, NOT NOW."

However, I was not to be deterred. I craned my head around my dad's shoulder so that I could make eye contact with my grandpa who was still sweet talking the pissed off horse, and said "Grandpa, how did that horse get such a big, black THING?!? Look at it!"

I think my dad darn near had a stroke and rolled off the back of the tractor at that moment. My grandpa turned about 12 shades of red before he snatched the shotgun from his lap, fired it into the air, and scared the horse off. Without a word, he put the tractor back in gear and off we went - home that is.

Apparently, once the topic of horse penises is broached on a fishing trip in Mississippi, said fishing trip comes to an immediate and explosive conclusion.

Adventures in (Mis)Dialing

A few weeks back, some friends and I were swapping stories about misadventures in wrong telephone numbers - you know, those times when you dial the wrong number and much hilarity and/or stomach upset ensue. The following is a true story that still makes my stomach churn. I have only recently been able to talk about it.

In 1988, I was a cub reporter working for The Muncie Star, and I had a wrong number experience that nearly forced me into a career in horticulture, beekeeping or anything as far from news reporting as possible. At just 20 years old and still working on my journalism degree at Ball State University,  I was one of the youngest reporters they'd ever turned loose on his own beat. Most student reporters were interns and thus classified as "general assignment reporters." I'd shown aptitude beyond my years, so they let me work the police beat, which I loved.

At any rate, another responsibility given to the lowest ranking reporter on duty any night was writing obituaries. On one particular evening after I had filed my last bit of police news, the editor in charge handed me a stack of obit forms that needed turned into obits for the next day's paper. One of the obits was almost entirely written and just needed a few facts verified. So, he shoves all of this onto my desk and says he needs all seven obit done in 45 minutes. Writing obituaries is simultaneously sad and difficult. While family members are well intentioned when they supply information about their dearly departed, they often supply information that is inaccurate, incomplete and sometimes even libelous. That means obituary writing involves a lot of fact checking, spell checking, and removal of bias that could get the paper sued. There are two key reasons why newspapers put cub reporters on obit duty:

1. Obit writing is tedious, difficult and forces young reporters to hone their fact-checking skills.
2. No one else wants to do it, so as lowest on the proverbial totem poll, it lands squarely in the cub's lap. It's a rite of passage that no young reporter escapes.

So, on this particular night in question, I knew 45 minutes was not much time to write and fact-check seven obituaries. I was young, but not stupid. I also knew that the editor in charge that night was one of the crustiest humans alive and though I was still thoroughly green in the ear area, he had zero patience for mistakes, and missed deadlines turned him into a beast from the fieriest pits of Hell.

I had been working at The Star long enough to know that news writing is often about triage - treat the most seriously wounded first and leave the minor injuries for later. That meant that I knew I needed to write the six obits that hadn't yet been started first, then circle back to the one that was nearly finished.

I whipped through those six pretty quickly. The information supplied by the funeral homes was nearly complete and I only had to make a couple of calls to verify various bits of information. When I got to the obit that was almost done, I saw that the editor had written a note on the obit form, asking that I call the funeral home or family to verify a few facts. He had also scrawled the family's phone number in the margin of the obit form. I should point out now that the editor in question had really poor handwriting - and was known around the newsroom to have the worst penmanship of anyone in the building.

At any rate, I first tried calling the funeral home since calling families who have just lost a loved one is obviously a quite uncomfortable task. Unfortunately, several calls to the funeral home went unanswered and I was just a few minutes away from my deadline. I'd already spotted my editor staring daggers through me because I had yet to file the last obituary.

I decided that my only course of action now was to call the family, so I picked up the phone and started dialing. As I was dialing, I saw that one of the numbers was illegible - looking like either a 4 four a 6. I dropped the phone back into the cradle and studied it for a bit, turning the paper every which way, but I still could not make out the number. I was sweating bullets, but I mustered the courage to get up and walk over to the editor's desk to ask him for clarification. 

Without even looking up and before I can utter a word, the editor barks at me and tells me to go away because he's on deadline. I'd tell you what he said, but my mom taught me not to use those words.

I start to protest, but he jabs his finger at me at me and tells me to go back to my desk. As many people from that era of The Muncie Star know, the editor in question was a heavy drinker and a mean drunk. He drank at work and was known to fire people for the tiniest of infractions even though he was usually blind drunk himself.

So, I skittered away, tail between my legs. Knowing that calling the wrong person to ask about the death of a beloved relative could be disastrous, I decide to do some research first. Because it was 1988, it was pre-web and Google, so I only had the phone book and the city directory to check, both of which didn't answer my question. So, I made my best guess at the number and dialed it with a sweaty hand.

A nice, older sounding lady answered. I identified myself as being a reporter with The Star and told her that I was working on her son's obituary, and needed to ask a few questions. Immediately, she begins sobbing and telling me that she had no idea her son was dead. She'd just spoken with him earlier that day and now she was bawling and asking why the hospital or the police hadn't notified her.

I'm on the other end thinking, "oh shit-oh shit-oh shit." You see, it couldn't be her son who had died since the person in question had been dead for two days. If she had spoken to her son earlier that day, he likely wasn't dead unless he had called from the afterlife. But I couldn't get a word in edgewise because she was crying and wailing. Eventually, she dropped the phone and continued to cry in the background. Those of you who know me know that I am the sensitive sort. As you might surmise, every drop of color had drained from my face, I was sweating and on the verge of tears. I was pleading with her to pick the phone back up so that I can tell her that her son is not dead and that I clearly have the wrong number.

By this time, the reporters who sat near me in the bullpen had gathered around my desk, some looking horrified and at least a couple appearing to be quite amused. I was ashen, trembling, and had very nearly soiled my pants.

Finally, another voice got on the line and told me she was the neighbor and she came over because she heard this poor lady crying up a storm (that should tell you just how loudly she was wailing). She asked me to tell her what happened. When I explained to her the honest mistake, I learned that little old ladies know a lot of swear words. A LOT. I apologized profusely and by this time, I think I might've actually shed a tear or two. She hung up on me after calling me some things that I dare not repeat here.

After I hung up, I saw a bunch of faces staring at me. Among them was the intoxicated editor. He immediately blurted, "what in the hell is wrong with you, boy? Why would you do that to someone?"

I stammered around, trying to explain that I couldn't read his writing and I even tried to ask him about it, but he wouldn't hear anything about it. So, he stood there and swore at me for awhile before tottering off to find his bottle. He didn't fire me, but I can tell you that was nearly my last day as a newspaper reporter.

The other reporters were supportive and many told me similarly horrific tales from their previous mistakes. I felt a little better, but to this day, I still feel bad. I have wondered if this story has become one that members of that family now laugh about, or if they burn my name in effigy at every available opportunity?

I think I might still have that piece of paper with the mistaken phone number on it. I kept it as a reminder to make sure that I had the facts right before I called or spoke to anyone about anything. Maybe I should call and ask if they have forgiven me yet? I mean, it's been like 26 years.

Then again, I still don't know for sure what numbered I dialed that day and I think it best not to call anyone to talk about their dead sons unless I want a repeat performance...

Thoughts on Syria

Note: I generally eschew using my blog space for anything other than humor and true stories of my superhero exploits. However, from time to time, a current event - such as our likely involvement in Syria's civil war - moves me to speaking out. This is one of those times.

I have been watching my Facebook feed with great interest these past couple of weeks, as people continually post about how we should attack Syria. Like pretty much everyone, I am appalled by the usage of chemical weapons anywhere. (Heck, I am appalled by the usage of any weapons of war anywhere, but that's a different kettle of fish altogether). I, too, am particularly appalled by the fact that children are being killed.

However, and this is a BIG HOWEVER, we need to remember that once we start bombing Syria, several terrible things are going to happen:

1. Many of the innocent kids we are trying to protect will die in the fight. How's that for irony?
2. We will be committing thousands more of our sons and daughters to die on foreign soil when we already have thousands dying in Iraq and Afghanistan.
3. We won't achieve a single thing other than satisfying our country's penchant for violence. We can placate ourselves by saying that we're just doing some bombing - you know, to protect the kids - but we all know that it will end up being more than that. The bombing won't stop the civil war in Syria. Once we're in, we're in. And it won't be long before flag-draped caskets and soldiers missing limbs and their minds start coming home from Syria.

The downside to all this rah-rah, let's kill 'em all sentimentality that I hear pretty much every day now is that kind of thinking is very shortsighted and a bit late if you ask me. Where was all of this "invade Syria" stuff when children were dying there the old fashioned way - you know, with bombs and machine guns? I get that chemical weapons are a global no-no (as they well should be) but I think it's interesting that we didn't get up in arms when the Syrian government started slaughtering women and children as a deterrent to the rebel forces - something they've been doing since 2011. Those killings are just now raising our hackles because the alleged usage of chemical weaponry brought their civil war into our homes on CNN.

I also think it's interesting that so many people are so eager to join the side of the rebels. Do some reading about the rebel forces (some that have ties to Al Qaeda) and then tell me if you really want to back either horse in this mess. Do we really want to arm the rebel forces only to have those weapons used on us at a later date? Do we really want to fight side-by-side with terrorists who hate our country?

I'm not sure that there is a good guy in this fight other than the innocent, non-combatants. If we are going to liberate those innocents - in Syria or any other part of the war-torn Middle East - then we better be prepared for a full-scale invasion that ends with the U.S. running its flag up over the whole of the Middle East (which is a ludicrous idea, I know). I just don't see any way this problem is solved with American bombs and soldiers in a temporary engagement.

What does winning in Syria look like for the U.S.? I'm not sure that we know anymore since we haven't decisively won a war since World War II. We intervene in the affairs of other countries with regularity and we kill off a bunch of our young people in the process, but what exactly is being accomplished? How much safer is the Middle East or parts of Asia that our soldiers have fought in since the 1950s?

Don't think for a second that I am a pacifist or anti-military. I am both willing to fight to protect our country and I am pro-military. I simply do not want to see more of our kids dying in wars that don't involve us. I am pro-military to the point that I don't want to see any of our soldiers dying unless it's absolutely necessary - unless the very freedom or safety of our country and its people is at stake. As a parent, I would not want to send either of my children to fight in Syria, and am thankful that they are not yet old enough to get involved in that mess.

Yes, you can say that we have a moral obligation to defend innocents everywhere, but until we can defend the innocents in our own country, I am not so sure that we ought to be out defending the innocents of another - especially when our idea of defense involves bombing their country and turning their homes into rubble. This is a war that is being fought in the urban areas of Syria, and there is no way our involvement doesn't create more carnage and more refugees.

Instead, I would like to see much of the money that we put into our various war efforts placed into programs for feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless and cleaning up the drug problems in our country before we spend billions fighting a war in Syria that isn't our fight. We have so many problems here at home that need addressed. I know there are many good people working to alleviate the social issues in our country, but we don't give them near enough money or support to actually win those battles. I believe that's largely because we're too busy trying to be the world's police force.

Being 100% honest, however, I don't know what the solution is. Standing by and watching kids die makes my stomach churn just like yours. I wish I could say "do this, not that" but I don't have a solution for the problems in Syria, much less Afghanistan, Iraq or wherever the next nut-job will begin slaughtering his people. What I do know is this: the United States cannot continue sending its sons and daughters abroad to fight wars that we cannot win.

The very definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and yet expecting different results. And I believe getting involved in Syria's civil war would be just that - insane.

Bacon - It's Not Just for Breakfast Anymore...

Bacon in the Wild

In honor of International Bacon Day tomorrow, I give you my Top 10 bacon-inspired products the world needs to have soon. Patents are pending, so don't even think about trying to Bogart these ideas for yourself:

10. Bacon-scented pepper spray. It still packs a punch, but leaves the satisfying taste of thick cut, smoked bacon that lingers well after your eyeballs have melted from your skull.

9. Bacon mousse. Not the kind you eat; the kind I used in the 80s to control my big hair. A gentle bacon scent would be a natural attractant and the added bacon grease would give you that Jheri Curl sheen.

8. Bacon-flavored toothpaste. Dentists say many adults, particularly men, do not brush long enough to effectively ward off cavities. Think of how much more enjoyable scrubbing those pearly whites would be if you got a hit of hickory smoked pig belly for your trouble.

7. Bacon-scented catalytic converter. As you motor heads know, a catalytic converter is a vehicle emissions control device that converts toxic byproducts of combustion in the exhaust of vehicle motors to less toxic substances. So, why not add the eye-opening scent of fresh cooked bacon. Instead of smelling like armpits, our urban areas would all smell like Bob Evans.

6. Bacon bug repellent. It's a proven fact that mosquitoes and other stinging insects hate the smell of bacon (and if it's not previously proven, it is now). Hormel's 100% DEET, Maple-Cured Bacon Repellent would be a welcome addition to any Canadian fishing or hunting expedition.

5. Bacon lozenges. Have a cold? Throat feeling scratchy? Reach for Hall's Thick Cut, Pepper Bacon lozenges to take the sting out of that sore throat and leave you with the "everything's gonna be alright" feeling that only dead, fried pig fat can give you.

4. Bacon lip gloss. Let's face it ladies, sometimes it's hard to get your man to take notice of you, especially during football season. You change your hair, cook his favorite food, and even wear undergarments containing lesson cotton found on a Q-Tip. And yet, he still doesn't seem to notice you. Apply a little Emge's BaconBelly LipSmacker and lay one on your man. The smell of morning fresh bacon sizzling in a cast iron pan will bring him back again and again. Item #1 below is the perfect complement.

3. Bacon scented morning breath eliminator. Worried that your morning breath could stun a team of oxen in its tracks? Feeling randy at sun up, but don't want to subject your lover to your dragon breath? Keep a discrete canister of BaconBlast in your nightstand or under your pillow. One tiny spray and you'll vanquish that chronic halitosis. Instead of your breath smelling like the inside of of a dumpster, it will smell like Waffle House, minus the smelly drunks and cigarette smoke.

2. Bacon-scented charcoal underwear liners. Embarrassed by your odoriferous flatulence? Worried that your co-workers, in-laws, spouse or friends think you might have a problem with your bum? Wish you could release those middle-of-the-day, gut-busting emissions at work without fear of sending your co-workers for the fire exits? BaconButt peel-and-stick charcoal underwear liners filter your gas through 12 micro-thin layers of charcoal before reaching three layers of Ossian Farms bacon sent. Your co-workers won't mind you passing gas. In fact, they'll ask you chip off a few whenever you can so that they can all enjoy the eye-opening, morning fresh scent that only a pan of warm, sizzling bacon can bring.

1. Bacon flavored joy jelly. I don't want to get too graphic here, but think about how much more appealing your lover would be slathered in the smell and taste of farm fresh bacon. Breakfast will never be the same. It's great on toast, too!

Top 10 Reasons the Aliens Ignore Us

Humans have long looked the stars above them and wondered, are we alone? Is there life on other planets? Why don't the aliens visit our meager planet and bestow us with the gifts of their technologies? Like hyperspace. Teleportation. The ability to vaporize entire planets. You know, that kind of thing.

Problem is, I think the aliens are out there and they are are flying by us every day, barely giving us a second glance. Why, you ask?

Well, dear reader, the answer is simple: it's us. We're the reason that the green, 14-eyed, 2-horned aliens fly right past or tiny blue world.

You see, I've long believed that until we reach a higher level of intelligence, the aliens will eschew us for more enlightened people on the other side of the galaxy. They've given us plenty of chances, abducted a few of the more intelligent among us (I speak from experience) and concluded that as a species, humans just aren't advanced enough to handle their wicked cool technologies.

A typical alien

However, all hope is not lost. The aliens still check in from time to time to see if we have evolved enough to warrant a further look.

After much research and deep thought, I have formulated what I believe to be the top 10 reasons why the aliens continue to give us the stink-eye:

10. Justin Bieber. He has to go.
9. They find Dennis Rodman unnerving and until he's gone, they'll just keep their distance.
8. Republicans (oh, come on, it's a joke!)
7. Miley Cyrus is actually being paid to do...well...anything.
6. We haven't had Hillary Clinton put to sleep yet. (See, I can be bi-partisan.)
5. There are still people who consider rap music to be an art form. In addition to being flat awful, rap music disrupts the aliens' tractor beam technology.
4. Too many humans have IQs lower than their body temperatures.
3. 'Mericuns...
2. The collective average trouser height of humans across the globe remains too low thanks to millions of juvenile delinquents who wear their pants around their knees.
1.Milton Poon Farner of Queens, NY. Little do most people know, but Milton's anti-alien maneuvers - including covering everything he owns in tinfoil and playing polkas on his oboe at all hours of the night - have kept our alien friends at bay for decades (it's a known fact that aliens are powerless against tinfoil, especially in large quantities). Some call Milton a hero. Not me. No sir.

So there you have it. Truthfully speaking, these are just a handful of the reasons that the aliens hold us in so little regard. There are many more reasons we don't get invited to play their alien games. I  just don't want to overwhelm you (see #4) with too much. For now, let's just work on these 10 items and see where we end up. Okay?

How to go Fishing

My four-year-old son, Eric, and I have been doing a lot of fishing this summer. On one recent fishing trip, he had this to say about how fishing is done:

1. You get some red wigglers.
2. You pick out good-looking red wiggler.
3. You put it on a hook.
4. You throw it WAY out there.
5. You catch the fish.
6. You give the fish a name.
7. You throw it back. If you don't throw it back, it goes "uh-uh-uh" and dies.

Pretty much sums it up, don't you think? Of course, those of you who know me well, know that I name each and every fish I catch. Eric's fish-naming proclivity is proof that the proverbial apple does not fall far from the equally proverbial tree.

You Can't Beat His Meat...

After reading this article, I felt that someone needed to tell the rest of the story...

ALIQUIPPA, Pa. - "She can't beat my meat!" shouted William Neugebauer as he was led out of a packed western Pennsylvania courthouse.

The 51-year-old Neugebauer was convicted Friday of a class B felony count of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and a class D felony recklessness endangerment charge. A public drunkenness charge was dismissed.

Neugebauer was arrested August 9, 2013, several hours after police say he bludgeoned his 50-year-old wife, Wendy Neugebauer, with his frigid meat.

Police say Wendy Neugebauer was struck repeatedly about the rib cage area by an enraged William Neugebauer who was wielding his frozen meat like a cudgel.

William told the court that struck his wife because she insisted on trying to beat his meat, despite repeated requests that she keep her hands to herself.

Said Wendy Neugebauer, "When we were first hitched, Billy used to unwrap his meat whenever we were together, and I would beat it silly. We were so in love."

Wendy said William had gotten extremely protective of his meat in recent years.

Wendy says his over protective nature when it comes to his meat stems from an unfortunate 2007 incident in which Wendy ground William's meat a little too coarsely.

"Since then," said a tearful Wendy Neugebauer, "his meat has been a frigid as a well-digger's ass in November."

Police said on the day she was assaulted, a horny Wendy Neugebauer allegedly tried to unwrap William's meat while he was sleeping.

When William awake, he allegedly pummeled his wife of 28 years while repeatedly yelling, "You can't beat my meat!"

Said one shocked juror who asked not to be identified, "This was one of the most horrific cases of meat beating I've ever heard of."

William Neugebauer faces 8-20 years on the felony assault charge, and up to four years on the reckless endangerment charge.

Superior Court 3 Judge Richard C. Poon set sentencing for 11 a.m. October 5.

In the time since the flogging incident, Wendy Neugebauer has recovered from her injuries, save for a wicked case of freezer burn.

"It just hurts, you know," said Wendy Neugebauer as a single tear trailed down her cheek. "On cold mornings, I can still feel my sides burning from the cold. I may never eat - or beat -meat again."

A Sudden Loss of Hearing or Vision

A somewhat accurate depiction...

So, as many of you know, I watch a lot of televised baseball and football. That means I see a lot of commercials targeted at predominantly male audiences, including a fair number of commercials for erectile dysfunction medications.
I've noted that the narrator always says to contact your doctor if you "experience a sudden loss of hearing or vision." 

Dreaded dinosaur affliction...

That would seem like good advice regardless of whether you're taking Cialis or any other medication (for ED or anything else).
However, I have to wonder if one would know if that sudden loss of hearing or vision was due to the medication or just a consequence of what *always* happens to men when they have an...uh...well, you get the picture. Men aren't known for their exceptional hearing or vision when the lieutenant is steering the ship, if you know what I mean. 
So, a sudden loss of faculties might just seem like par for the course to some men.
Of course, this line of thinking has reminded me of one of my all-time favorite Facebook posts about how the little ones in our midst don't always hear things exactly as we think they do. I can't decide what would be more difficult as a parent: explaining ED to one of my kids or hiding my amusement if one of my kids thought that the advertisement was for a medication targeted at dinosaurs. I am quite in touch with my sense of humor, so it's quite possible I'd find myself rolling around on the ground laughing.

Newfound Newtonian Wisdom

Try dropping one of these at the dinner table...

Recently, my daughter asked me to help her study for her final 5th grade science test. She was having a little trouble with Newton's Laws of Motion - in particular, Law III, which states in part, "To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction..."
She asked me for some examples.
So, I was doing my best to come up with some, but the best one I came up with I really couldn't share.
You see, I learned first hand the power of Law III when I was 9-years-old and I dropped the F-bomb at the dinner table in front of both parents.
Talk about your equal (if not superior) and opposite reactions!
Strangely, I don't think she really understood why I was so amused with this particular homework assignment.

Kick Her Where?!?

Yesterday, my wife, Charlotte, had a baking emergency and asked me to go to the grocery store for a can of coconut milk. So, off to the store I went.
After acquiring said coconut milk and getting back into my car, I noticed the pickup truck on the end of the row had an interesting collection of bumper stickers - on the bumper, the tailgate and the rear window. Because I never like to miss a dose of redneck wisdom from the yahoos in Kokomo, I drove past the truck slowly so that I could take in the depth and breadth of this particular hill-jack's wisdom.  
The two stickers pictured here are the ones that caught my attention:

1. The equality sticker. Usually, you don't see this kind of open-minded sentimentality anywhere near your garden variety redneck.
2. The kick her in the, well, a sensitive place sticker. At first, I was entirely perplexed by this, for several reasons:

• Reason A: Kick her in the...? Really? Who would do that? And why? Didn't his father teach him any better? And forget about dad, if his mom was anything like mine, he wouldn't be able to sit for a month if he ever uttered such a thing. Further, I have to assume this fella doesn't date much.

Kick her where? In the what?

• Reason B: Of all the possible bumper stickers in the world, why would you pick this one? What's the purpose? Is this really the message you want to share with the world?
• Reason C: Are these two stickers a combined statement? Is Mr. Redneck Genius saying that he's an equal opportunity giblet kicker?
• Reason D: If reason C is accurate, who hangs out with this guy? And do those people guard their giblets when in his presence? 

Really, if my wife hadn't been suffering from the aforementioned coconut milk emergency, I would've waited until he emerged from the grocery store so I could ask him. As it is, I am left trying to picture the owner of that truck. I *think* I have him all sussed out, but the possible combined messaging found here is simply perplexing, and not often seen amongst people of this intellectual and social status.

Note: I originally shared this missive as a private Facebook post with some friends. A couple of my friends pointed out to me that this sticker is the slogan for The Naptown Roller Girls, an Indianapolis-based roller derby team. Another friend suggested that this truck might be drive by a woman and not a man as I had suspected.

In any event, this is the kind of bumper sticker that will do several things for (or to) you:

1. If this sticker appears on a vehicle driven by a man, I can assure you that he doesn't get much attention from the ladies...and the attention he does get isn't the kind most of us want. Put it this way, women who would find this slogan endearing enough for public display probably aren't the kind of women you bring home to mom.
2. If this sticker appears on a vehicle driven by a woman, most men are going to steer far, far away from her. If she willing to kick her girlfriend's hoodilly, you can bet she's willing to give you a kick between the uprights.
3. If you get pulled over by a police officer with this sticker on your vehicle, you almost certainly are getting a ticket. That's not to say that some officers wouldn't find it amusing, but I am pretty sure that this kind of thing only helps further cement the officer's suspicions that you are richly deserving of some unwanted attention from The Man.
4. If you are a male sporting this sticker on your vehicle and you pull into the driveway of a protective father expecting to pick up his daughter for a date, he is going to remove your giblets for you.
5. If you are spotted exiting a vehicle displaying this sticker on your way to a job interview, the interview better be for a construction job, a bartender job or for some other profession that isn't white collar and doesn't pay much above minimum wage. Sorry, much like tattoos on the neck, this sticker is fairly career limiting.

Retrieving the Retriever

He hit the topwater buzzbait with gusto. The water exploded around him in a wild spray and for a second, my heart literally stopped.

He was a monster by any description and I immediately knew that we (my light/medium-action spinning rod and reel and me) were woefully outmatched.  My rod was strung with six-pound text monofilament line, but the beast that had struck my lure easily tipped the scales at 90 pounds.

A garden variety buzzbait

In an instant, he went on a searing run upstream and began peeling line off my reel, but I didn't dare set the hook. In fact, I did just the opposite - I flipped open the bail on the  reel and gave him all the line he wanted.

And he wanted a lot.

That is, until I screamed, "come here, boy, c'mon!"

That's when the golden retriever on the other end of my line did an about face and began swimming right back toward me with my buzzbait - complete with a trailer hook - in his mouth.

Now, the animal rights activists among you might be wondering just why in the heck I was fishing for golden retrievers. Please allow me to assure you that I was not intentionally fishing for retrievers, or dogs of any sort, really. It just happened. Just like the stories we hear every year about the kid fishing for bluegill and landing a record bass, I was fishing for bass and hooked a golden retriever. Go figure.

The year was 1992, and I was a still-green-behind-the-ears newspaper reporter, just two years removed from college and a recent Kokomo transplant. I didn't know many people in town, so I started fishing by myself in the evenings.

On this particular day, I had been catching a variety of decent-sized smallmouth bass on an orange buzzbait, which for you non-anglers is one of those lures that looks more like a fish frightener than a fish catcher. It has a long wire arm, a metal or plastic blade, a large hook and a grassy skirt. Fishing a buzzbait is easy:

1. Rocket cast it to where you want to fish (they're easy to cast long distances because some of them are as heavy as a key chain full of keys).
2. As soon as the lure hits the water, start your retrieve.
3. Reel in quickly until the buzzer comes to the surface and then gurgles along, making all kinds of fish-attracting racket.
4. Don't stop reeling or the lure will sink and very likely get hung up in weeds, rocks or on a tree limb (tree limbs are always found where you least want them).

While I was walking along the bank and fishing, a large, wet golden retriever came bounding across the park in my general direction. My mother had a golden retriever named Alex and I knew he was harmless (we always joked that if an intruder broke in, Alex would hold the flashlight for them) but I was wary of this dog because he was a stranger and for all I knew, I might look like a giant chew toy to him.

My initial caution quickly turned to panic when the big dog leapt onto me and drove me to the ground. I am sure I screamed like a little girl, until I realized that the dog was playing with me and not trying to eat me. So, we spent some time in the grass - mostly with me trying to get to my feet and the large wet golden retriever standing on me and licking my face.

A garden variety golden retriever

After I managed to get to my feet, Mr. Retriever decided that he was adopting me. Because I name everything, I decided to call him "Tim." Tim dutifully followed me back to a picnic table where I had left a cooler bag with my dinner. We shared my ham sandwich and chips. After the food was gone - much of it right into his belly - I decided it was time to get back to fishing.

I walked back down to the water's edge, drew my rod arm back and fired the buzzbait toward the other side of the creek near some logs that had already given up a couple of decent bass earlier that evening. The moment my buzzbait took flight, so did Tim. By the time the buzzbait hit the water, Tim was already one-third of the way across the creek and paddling madly toward the spot my buzzbait had landed.

Now, you might be thinking that the wisest course of action on my part would've been to just let my bait sink to the bottom where Tim couldn't find it. You'd be right about that except that I knew the area into which I was casting was full of logs, limbs and all matter of other underwater lure stealers. And it was the only buzzbait I had at the time and it was the only lure I had that was catching fish that day.

So, I decided that I could retrieve the lure faster than Tim (the retriever) could swim. Bad idea.

I managed to cover about 20 feet of water, maybe a little more, before Tim snatched the lure right off the surface and began swimming away from me.

Now, you might be able to imagine the feeling of panic that came across me. As a dog lover, I was envisioning the two giant 1/0 hooks (pronounced, "one-ought," these hooks are about one inch in length) shoved through his lips, tongue or snout.

So, there I was, rod in hand, a look of horror on my face, and Tim swimming away with my lure. I opened the bail and let him have all the line he wanted while I trotted along the edge of the creek, trying not to wet myself while I considered our predicament.

After I had run for at least 100 or so yards along the edge of the creek, I had the bright idea to call out to him. Even though I had named him "Tim," I figured he didn't know his name was "Tim," so I said, "c'mere, boy...c'mon!"

Tim immediately stopped - and I mean with military exactness - did an about face, and began swimming back to me. Unfortunately for me, I didn't think to start reeling in the slack line as he swam back toward me (this becomes important later). As he neared me, I could see that he was cradling my buzzbait horizontally in his mouth, with the buzzer blade hanging out one side of his mouth and the two hooks hanging out the other side of his mouth. The only part of the lure actually in his mouth was the lure body, head and skirt. Unbelievably, he did not appear to be actually hooked.

The overwhelming sense of relief I enjoyed as he bounded up onto the bank was short-lived as he immediately started shaking as wet dogs do, flinging water everywhere. I was certain he was going to hook himself then, but I didn't hear any yelping, and once he was done shaking, he just stood there looking at me expectantly.

I approached him, hand out, hoping that I could snatch the lure out of his mouth without either of us getting hooked. That's when he took off running along the creek bank. Remember all of that slack line I mentioned? Well, that meant he had all kinds of spare line available to run and I didn't dare flip the bail closed for fear that he would be immediately hooked.

So, there I am running behind this wet golden retriever as he zigzagged through trees, bushes, and several picnic tables. Then, I realized that nearly all of the line had been taken off my reel and I knew when the last coil of line came off and he pulled against the knot holding the line to the reel, he was very likely to be hooked.

So I did the only thing I could think of and yelled, "SIT!"

Tim immediately, and I mean immediately, sat down. Because he had wound the fishing line around so many trees and so forth, I literally had to step over and duck under fishing line that was strung all over creation. When I got to him, I held out my hand, placed it under his chin and commanded, "drop it!"

Without a delay, Tim immediately dropped the spit-covered lure into my hand and waited obediently for another command. As I petted his head, I was busy examining his lips for any sign of damage and I couldn't see that he'd suffered a scratch.

I spent the next 20 minutes using a knife to cut and gather up all of the line so that I could dispose of it properly. The whole time, Tim sat and watched, wagging his tail wildly.

I had another rod and reel with me and I really wanted to fish, but as soon as I picked it up, Tim immediately rushed to the water's edge, ready to spring. Unless I wanted a repeat performance, I figured I'd be better off calling it a day. As I was packing things back into my car, Tim suddenly perked up, obviously listening to something, and then bolted off in the direction from whence he originally came. I had to assume that his owner was calling to him and my ears just weren't good enough to hear.

As I was leaving, another angler pulled in and asked me how I'd done. I told him that I just landed "a big'un." He asked if I kept it, and I for a moment, I thought about telling my story. Then I decided that I just wanted to go home and drink.

So, instead, I said, "nah, I practice catch and release."

The Spider and the (Open) Fly

I like to think of myself as being sufficiently manly.

Me fishing the Wildcat Creek in central Indiana

I say "sufficiently" because I tend to eschew the trappings of machismo that come with the whole "manly-man" thing. I figure that while I do indeed have the requisite equipment, I needn't wag it in anyone's face, you know? And while I am no daredevil, I am no shrinking violet either. I enjoy pushing myself physically and mentally, and am purely frightened by relatively few things.

I draw the line, however, at spiders. 
In fact, when I asked for Charlotte's hand in marriage, I told her that I would defend her from any foe - foreign or domestic - save for spiders. Insofar as spiders are concerned, it's everyone for him/herself at our house. Case in point: I once considered burning down my house and moving when I failed to kill a rather nasty-looking spider that I found squatting in my bathroom.
 

About 10 years ago,  while wading a remote stretch of the Wildcat Creek near the bustling metropolis of Sedalia, IN, I had an epic encounter with a man-eating spider. Anyone who's ever waded an Indiana creek or river knows that it's not for the faint of heart. Just getting down to the water can be a challenge - and downright dangerous (I have a hip surgery to prove that).

The water can range from just a few inches deep to well over your head and goes from swift to slack, rocky to muddy and everything in between. It's tiring and you are subject to interacting with all sorts of wildlife, including dogs, coyotes, snakes, rabid farmers and all matter of insects. You're also alone in the middle of nowhere and if you get hurt, well, you're going to be there alone in the middle of nowhere for a long time.

None of those things bother me in the slightest. In fact, I dare say the adventure of it all is a huge draw. There's something strangely alluring about being out in the wild away from *any* sign of modern day man (save for yourself). When on these long trips, my fishing vest is loaded with the necessary tackle, along with a variety of survival related gear (flashlight, matches, first aid kit, knife and a variety of other things).

I also learned one day when I ran into a very angry Rottweiler that carrying a sidearm wasn't a half-bad idea. Because I was able to talk fast, the pooch and I both lived to tell the tale, but from that day forward, I started carrying a small, Walther PPK .380-caliber handgun tucked away in my vest where I could get to it easily.

In addition to the aforementioned equipment, my wading vest also has a camelback water bladder in it so that I can carry a couple liters of water with me on longer trips. While keeping you hydrated on hot summer days, it also means you have to answer the call of nature from time to time.

On this particular day when nature rang my bell, I was in a stretch of creek where the banks are both steep and very muddy - and I was about a mile from where I had parked at an old, one-lane bridge. The only way you can even get to where I was at that moment was to have climbed into the creek at a bridge. Otherwise, the bank is so steep, muddy and thick with vegetation, you'd have little or no chance of climbing down it without ending up in a free-fall. The overhang of the trees pretty much blocks out most of the sun and creates a tunnel-like effect that is both cool and just ever-so-slightly creepy.

So, when you're in a spot like this and nature calls, getting into a position in which you can answer that call is tricky. It usually involves wading as close to the creek's edge as you can - though with low, overhanging branches, it's often not as close as you'd like. Hopefully, once you are as close to the water's edge as possible, the necessary parts of your anatomy are no longer below the waterline.

Once you've achieved this precarious position, you then have to hold your fishing rod in your teeth, wriggle out of your fishing vest and hang onto it - remember, there's nowhere to put anything down - get the shoulder straps from your waders down off your shoulders and then push the chest section of your waders down below, well, you know, without letting them fall into the water either.

Now, you're almost home. You just have to unbutton and unzip your pants, and free the beast (sorry, had to).

Once nature has been properly satiated, you reverse the process and hope that you're able to restore everything to it's squared away position.

Well, on this particular day, I had managed to extricate, well, you know, and was in the middle of relieving myself when I felt something crawling down the back of my neck. And I don't mean something small, like a house fly. I mean, large, like a squirrel.

Instinctively, I swatted at the back of my head with my "free" hand, though my "free" hand was holding my vest, which weighs a great deal, the waistband of my pants and the top of my waders. I was also holding my fishing rod between my teeth. As you might imagine, a number of things happened at that very moment:

1. When I swung my left hand at my head, I clocked myself upside my head with my heavy fishing vest. Of course, the part of the vest that made contact with my head was the inner left breast pocket where I had my handgun. I can tell you first hand that being pistol whipped hurts every bit as much as it appears to in the movies.
2. After striking my head with my vest and seeing stars, I dropped said vest into the creek, soaking everything in it that wasn't in a zipper bag.
3. Remember, I was holding the waistband of my jeans, underwear and waders - all of which were just pushed down to mid-thigh. So, when one makes a sudden sweeping move like I did, it sweeps a guy right off his feet. Somehow, I landed on my knees instead of my back or side. Regardless of how I landed, it was still deep enough to allow a lot of water to flow immediately into my waders.
4. When I swung at my head with my left hand, which was holding my vest, my pants and my waders, I first connected with my fishing rod that I was holding precariously in my teeth against the advice of my dentist. That made the fishing rod boomerang out of my mouth and nearly do a 360-degree arc around my head before landing in the water several feet away.
5. Because I was mid-stream, if you know what I mean, when I fell to my knees,  I also ended up with some "nature" flowing into the inside of my waders.
6. I succeeded in violently ejecting the intruder on my head - right down the front of my button-up fishing shirt.

I find it funny that human nature - at least this human - is to place more importance upon the critter that has fallen down his shirt than he places on the throbbing head wound he's just suffered, the complete soaking of his fishing gear and sidearm, the possible loss of his fishing rod and reel, and the very real likelihood that he just finished relieving himself inside his waders.

But, that's exactly what I did.

Frantically, I began tearing at my shirt, trying to free whatever it was that was crawling down my chest. I swear it was large enough that I could hear it crawling it on me. When I eventually located it, I discovered that it was the largest, hairiest spider I had ever seen in the wild. And it was pissed. (At least I ascribed that emotion to it after it bit me with some gusto near my left nipple.)

Of course, you know what comes next, right? Yes, I started smacking the daylights out of my chest and midsection with my right hand, trying to squash the hairy intruder. I even thought about trying to fish my pistol out of my waders so as to have an upper hand, but I figured the chances of it firing after being submerged in the creek were slim.

After landing multiple blows and getting bitten twice more, I succeeded in squishing my arachnid foe just before he managed to get south of the border where this story really could've gotten ugly.

Upon confirming that the spider was indeed dead, I immediately looked around wildly to make sure that no one had just witnessed all of this. I find it funny that after all of that, my first concern was to determine if anyone had caught this on camera. Thankfully, it appears that I was blessedly alone.

I managed to find my beloved fishing rod and reel, undamaged save for a few nicks. I managed to secure my trousers, climb up high enough onto the steep bank where I could get my waders off and empty them (and yes, I rinsed them well).

I used a small towel that I keep in a zipper bag to dry off the things that were most likely to be damaged, disassembled and dried my gun, smoked a dozen or so cigarettes (this was back before I gave them up - and they were in a zipper bag along with my lighter) and then did what any self-respecting angler would do - went right back to fishing.

And as not concerned as I typically am with my masculinity, I have to tell you that this is the first time I've shared this entire story. Thankfully, when it happened, I was still a single man so no one else but me saw the welts from the spider bites, the knot on the side of my head or my wounded pride.

And while you might think I went to bed with my head hung low, I actually went to bed with the barbaric yawp of victory echoing in my head after having vanquished my most feared foe.

My waders smelled a little funky for awhile, but that's an entirely different story...

Borderline, Feels Like I'm Going to Lose My Mind

It all started with a simple, yet entirely critical misunderstanding.

The shiny-domed, twitchy farmer with helter-skelter eyes asked me if I had any guns.

Unfortunately, because he's one of those close-talkers who utters every statement as though it's a state secret, I thought he asked if I had kids. I gleefully answered, "Yep, got two of 'em."

Me, ready for duty...

And just like that, I was drafted into a Libertarian Militia.

But, I am getting ahead of myself. In order for any of this to make any sense - and being "sensical" is a tenuous struggle when telling this story - I need to start at the beginning.

When my wife and I bought our current house, one of the things we loved was that it bordered a farmer's field, meaning that we were very unlikely to ever have neighbors in our back pockets. The only downside, however, is that this farmer doesn't maintain the fence row that separates our properties. That means by the time July rolls around, the weeds have grown at least seven feet tall (no kidding) and from our living room window, it looks as though we don't maintain our yard because the field is obscured from view. There's also more poison ivy in there than I've ever seen in one spot (and given that I am an outdoorsy type, that's saying something).

Enter the crazy landscaper dude - crazy and about as smart as a sack of hammers. And lest you think I am being too hard on Mr. Potting Soil, I should tell you that this is the same guy who greeted my very pregnant bride one afternoon with, "Boy, Charlotte, you've put on *a lot* of weight."

Yes, I think we can safely refer to him as a mental midget and move on.

One summer the aforementioned mentally unhinged landscaper was doing some work for us when we asked him if he was comfortable cleaning out the fence row for us. He said he wasn't without permission from the landowner, so I said that I would talk to the farmer about it.

A couple of days later, said landscaping nutjob shows up at our house and says, "Boy, that farmer didn't like me too much."

Turns out, Mr. Mulch stopped at the farmer's house, marched up to the door, rang the doorbell and told the farmer that his property was "an eyesore" and that he wanted permission to clean it up.

Now, you might imagine that this message wouldn't be well received by a completely well-adjusted individual. Given that crazy landscaper guy was talking to even crazier Libertarian Militia guy, things got nuclear pretty quickly.

While I wasn't there to witness it, I think it's safe to use your imagination when picturing the exchange between these two. I envision the usage of exceptionally poor grammar, lots of pants-hitching and wild (obscene) hand gestures.

Immediately after hearing tale of the encounter, I called the farmer (who at this time, I did not realize was plumb crazy) and apologized profusely for the actions of Mr. Green Jeans. If you've ever had a conversation with a crackpot, then you know that I quickly realized that I had stumbled into an intellectual quagmire from which there was no escape. After listening to him rant for a solid 10 minutes, I nicely told him that I would make sure that my landscaper stayed far, far away from his property and ended the conversation.

Later that evening, I heard the sounds of a chainsaw running behind my house. When I looked outside, I saw the good farmer sawing through brush and horse weed that easily topped eight feet tall. Against my better judgment, I ventured outside and introduced myself.

Now is when the story gets interesting.

After stopping the chainsaw and sizing me up (I was pretty sure he was trying to decide if my carcass would fit into his freezer) we formally met with a brief, economical handshake. Immediately - and I mean within the first 30 seconds of conversation - he tells me that he is a Libertarian and that Libertarians believe "good fences make good neighbors." He went on to say that there was a revolution coming and that I wanted to be on the right side of it.

That's when the whole guns vs. kids gaffe tripped me up, changing my life forever.

Once the general thought I was a packing heat, I was immediately drafted. I am not making this up either. He told me that there was a revolution coming and that he - and several of my "like-minded patriot neighbors" - had formed a band of merry freedom fighters to defend the neighborhood when the government falls and society goes to Hell in a handcart.

And just like that, I learned what it means to be a patriot. He said, "because you've got guns, you can be a border guard." Apparently, he missed the entirely quizzical look on my face - the same look my dog gives me when I talk to him about anything other than food - and went on to tell me that he had a clean well and that he would supply water, but no food. It was up to the rest of us to supply food if we wanted any of his water. I made a mental note to stock up on Slim Jims, Mt. Dew and corn nuts. I know Mt. Dew isn't a food, but this warrior doesn't roll without it.

There was no swearing in, no pledge to carry out my clandestine duties and no secret handshake. I awoke that morning a middle-aged book editor and went to bed a member of a coalition whose very mission is to protect, well, I am not sure what, but I am certain it is important.  After my sudden and apparently mandatory enlistment, the general departed, the fading sunlight twinkling off his shiny pate.

Shortly thereafter, Charlotte returned home from running some errands and I told her that she shouldn't be alarmed, but I was pretty sure that I had just been drafted into some sort of super-secret Libertarian militia. She asked what my orders were, but having been duly sworn to secrecy, I told her that a soldier's orders were best kept secret. I wouldn't want any of our Democrat or Republican friends to try to coerce information out of her with threats of death by drone or the tyrannical overthrow of the American way.

So, in the time since, I have been promoted from a lowly private to corporal - promotions don't come soon or easily in this militia. While I am not entirely sure what border I am guarding, I have chosen to guard the fence row since it's the only immediately visible border. Each night, I sit high in the tree near the edge of my property, wearing my baseball catcher's gear and armed with various Nerf weaponry, keeping a silent vigil over the border.

And don't think it's not dangerous out there. Why, just last week, I warded off an imperialist opossum that was clearly up to no good. For months now, I've also had my eye on a "scarecrow" on the other side of the field that I am certain is no scarecrow. I suspect it's a cleverly disguised enemy combatant who has been assigned to watch my movements. It's a cold war of sorts - one that I intend to win.

'Tis a lonely life, but a rewarding one. Each morning when my shift is over, I go inside knowing that I've kept my neighborhood safe from the socialist dogs who are hiding around every corner and who aspire to rob us of our liberty.

Sleep well, citizens. Sleep well.

Note: This is a satirical column and is not intended to be any kind of real political statement. I know almost nothing about the Libertarian party. It's just an amusing and true (mostly anyway) story.

Rescuing Me from Me in 2013

Rescuing Me from Me in 2013 

In my last post about music, I talked about the music that fueled a difficult 2012 for me. If you are prone to minor seasonal depression, like yours truly, you know just how hard the post-holidays winter months can be. For me, it's a time when both football and baseball seasons are over, the weather is bitterly cold, the fishing is relatively sparse, and the days are gloomy, and far too short. 

These conditions conspire to make life less pleasant and I always turn to music to help buoy me through the winter blues. If left to my devices without hobbies, insanely-detailed projects and music, I am quite certain that I'd be weaving baskets by April.

The following albums are just a few of the records that are in heavy rotation right now in the Kughen house, bringing a little sunshine to the cold, gray days of central Indiana. 
 

Album	Why It Made My Ears Happy
	Gaslight Anthem, Handwritten, 2012 Proving that punk and country go together like peas and carrots, The Gaslight Anthem has churned out four pure gold records over the past few years that aside from being the darlings of music critics, they have gotten zero love from the general public. Let's band together and change that. Check out "45," "Mae,"and their rendition of Tom Petty's "You Got Lucky." GA's previous albums, "American Slang," and "The '59 Sound," are must haves as well. This is pure rock goodness sprinkled with a little country/folk funk.
	Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Howl, 2005 This record isn't at all what you might think it is given the band's name (or for that matter, the name of the record itself). While BRMC is known for gritty, gravely (and slightly spacey) rock that's best enjoyed at dangerously high volumes, "Howl" is soulful, bluesy, folk-tinged and purely amazing. The lyrics are insightful and seem to hint at the band's spiritual beliefs. Check out "Shuffle Your Feet," "Ain't No Easy Way," and "Promise. Or, just buy it, strap on your headphones, kill the lights and relax. The band released "The Howl Sessions Vol. 2" EP in 2006. The track, "Mercy," is a gem. "Baby 81," "Beat the Devil's Tatoo," and "BRMC" are all worth adding to your collection, too. These albums rock much harder than "Howl," but they're tailor made for sunny, cold day and a long car ride.
	Kings of Leon, Come Around Sundown, 2010 The Kings of Leon aren't exactly new news to rock fans, but they aren't yet a household name. The Kings had a commercial breakout with their 2008 record, "Only By the Night," which spawned several hit singles. Their follow-up, "Come Around Sundown," is a swaggering, gritty stomp through 13 southern rock-inspired tracks. If you don't feel the mud, grime and heart from which these tracks come, you might want to see a doctor. Standouts are "The End," "Back Down South," and "Radioactive."
	Eric Clapton & Steve Winwood, Live from Madison Square Garden, 2008 If you like Clapton - particularly Clapton-is-god era, screaming blues guitar Clapton - then this disc is for you. Winwood is spectacular in his own right - at the mic, on the guitar and on keyboards. They play a good selection of Clapton's solo work, as well as stuff from Derek & The Dominos, Blind Faith and Traffic. They also hit a few requisite blues numbers from other artists, including "Voodoo Chile," "Stormy Monday," and "Little Wing." Their rendition of "Cocaine" is worth the price of the disc alone. Groovy, dudes...
	The Black Crowes, By Your Side, 1999 I realize this album is yesterday's news, so speak, but it deserves some serious love. The Crowes' bluesy, Mary-Jane-influenced brand of rock-n-roll is in full swing on this record, and despite obvious pop rock hooks, this album didn't not spawn any significant radio hits. Key tracks include "Only a Fool," "By Your Side," and "Kickin' My Heart Around."
	Coldplay, Mylo Xyloto, 2011 I have to admit that I didn't like this record on the first listen. While Coldplay's first few records, "Parachutes," in particular, are on my desert island list, the first spin through this record got a resounding "ho-hum" from yours truly. That changed one night when I was feeling especially reflective and decided to flop on the couch with my headphones while listening to this record. In this more fragile moment, the lush soundscapes, insightful lyrics and polished tracks spoke to me in a way that I hope all records will (and so few do). Standouts include, "Hurts Like Heaven," Paradise," and "Every Teardrop is a Waterfall."
	Counting Crows, New Amsterdam - Live At Heineken Music Hall, 2006 Say what you will about Adam Duritz's struggles with fame, fortune and his own mental health, the Counting Crows have consistently delivered thought-provoking, hook-laden, thinking man's rock music. There's not a dud in the Crows' catalog. This performance is striking in that it was recorded at the tail-end of the band's arduous 2003 tour. Duritz was coming apart emotionally, which is evident in the gut-wrenching performance he delivers here. "Rain King" reaches new heights on this record that the studio performance on "August and Everything After" could never reach. Soon after this performance, Duritz exiled himself from the music business and sought treatment for mounting mental problems, emerging in 2008 healthy with "Saturday Nights, Sunday Mornings."
	Albert King with Stevie Ray Vaughan, In Session, 1999 In 1983, blues god Albert King (known as "The Velvet Bulldozer for his towering height and penchant for wearing velvet suits on stage) agreed to do a live for television studio session with then little-known guitar virtuoso Stevie Ray Vaughan. Thank goodness there were sound engineers on hand to capture this epic performance. These two guitar giants rip through a variety of material including some King originals as well as Vaughan's "Pride and Joy." Given that both King and Vaughan have since died, this session remains a lasting tribute to two of the greatest blues musicians to ever play.
	Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers, Damn the Torpedoes, 1979 I remember buying this record - and I mean record, real vinyl and stuff - when I was in fourth grade. I had to do a serious sell job on my mother to let me bring home an album with a curse word in the title, but I persevered. Once my mother heard the music, I think she was relieved to find out that it was far less subversive than she might have initially suspected. DTT remains one of Petty's most enduring records all these years later, spawning three top 40 singles, "Refugee," "Even the Losers," "Don't Do Me Like That," and "Here Comes My Girl." In 2010, Petty released a deluxe, remastered edition with an entire disc of extra tracks, and I immediately snapped it up. This album takes me back to a happy, simpler time, while still remaining lyrically and sonically relevant. While it's 33 years old, to me, it remains as fresh as when it was released during the Jimmy Carter era.