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.

Music that Fueled My 2012 

Admittedly, I have a problem when it comes to music. A real, bona fide dependency issue that, depending on who you ask, might or might not require treatment. Going back to a time when I earned $2 allowance per week and I saved every dime of it to buy the latest rock album I was lusting over to today when I have a CD rack with about 2,500 CDs on it and a digital music collection that numbers well over 30,000 tracks, my life has always been defined by music.

Music has shepherded me through the good and bad times. It has served as the soundtrack to every last bit of my life - the parts I remember fondly as well as the ones that will live in infamy.

The year 2012 has been a particularly difficult one for your wayward author - those of you who know me well know why. Thankfully, my friend and constant companion, music, has been by my side. Following is a list of some of the music that punctuated the last year for me. Some of the music is old. Some is new. Some of it has been in my collection for decades, while some of it is brand spanking new to me. The end result, however, is a playlist that has carried me through. The artists and styles are as varied as life, I think. Maybe a track or two here will do the same for you.

In no particular order: 

Album	Why It Made My Ears Happy
	Ryan Adams, Easy Tiger, 2007 Say what you will about Ryan's prolific songwriting, but when he gets the bat on the ball, he gets all of it. "Easy Tiger" hits all the right buttons, proving the pedal steel guitar is the most underrated of modern instruments. Key tracks: "Two" and "Everybody Knows."
	Foo Fighters, Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace, 2007  Seriously, can we elect Dave Grohl to some sort of public office? Beautiful, passionate fury.That's the best description I can muster for the Foos. "Long Road to Ruin" and "The Pretender" are masterpieces. Rumour has it that the Foos are done. Say it ain't so, Dave.
	Pete Yorn, musicforthemorningafter, 2001  This album has become a desert island album for me, having been in almost constant rotation for 11 years. This record speaks to me on many, many levels. Yorn's subsequent work is brilliant, but none of it touches this album's sheer perfection.
	Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here, 1975 While I would rate "Dark Side of the Moon" or "The Wall" above this record for overall brilliance, "Wish You Were Here" touched me in 2012 in a personal way after the death of my best friend. Listen to it the way all Floyd albums are meant to be enjoyed - with headphones, a dark room and a recliner. (Other accoutrements are your business.)
	The Fixx, One Thing Leads to Another: Greatest Hits, 1989 Didn't see that one coming, did you? Me neither. I've long appreciated The Fixx as being much more than a one-hit wonder, but it's only be recently that I've truly begun to appreciate their genius. Fire up "Deeper and Deeper" and see why it makes my headphones smoke with 80s new wave rock glory. Think MTV's 120 Minutes - loud, loud, loud! And "Secret Separation" - just try not to tap your foot to this infectious little tune. I suggest to you that it can't be done.
	Bob Dylan, Modern Times, 2006 - Uncle Bob proves he's still got plenty of cool left in the tank, even a 65 (when this record came out - he's 71 now). There isn't enough room here to do justice to any description of Dylan. If "Thunder on the Mountain" doesn't put some swagger in your groove thang, then well, I can't help you...
	Ryan Bingham, Mescalito, 2007 Bingham's voice has the road weary growl of a much older man. His lyrics evoke a wisdom that is beyond his age, and if you don't feel just a little "outlaw" when listening to this record, then you might just be doing it wrong. Put this record on, inch the volume up a little higher than you might normally and let his smokehouse-dried voice take you down a dirt road to salvation. Sorry - corny, but man can this kid bring it. Check out "Hard Times" and "Bread & Water."
	Band of Horses, Infinite Arms, 2010 When a friend recently asked me to describe the style of music Band of Horses make, I found that their style truly defies description. I settled on "the good kind." Fire up any of their albums and you'll hear rock with country, folk and blues undertones. Standout tracks: "Laredo" and "NW Apt."
	Johnny Cash, American III: Solitary Man, 2007 Sadly, I did not truly discover the genius of Johnny Cash until after his death. I came across his "American" series of recordings a couple of years ago and the more I listen, the more I realize just what a national treasure he was. Key tracks: "I Won't Back Down," "One," and "Nobody."
	The Alan Parsons Project, The Essential Alan Parsons Project, 2007 If you don't know APP, your headphones don't know true love. Pure, delicious pornography for your ears. I recommend this retrospective package since you get the key tracks, though you can't go wrong with "The Turn of a Friendly Card," or "Ammonia Avenue." Parsons was a key sound engineer for Pink Floyd's classic "Dark Side of the Moon." I mean, really - who doesn't dig a little funky prog rock once in a while?
	The Black Keys, El Camino, 2011 Dirty, grungy, foot-stomping, smoke-drifting blues rock with a serious dose of something funky. Need I say more? Standout tracks: "Lonely Boy," and "Gold on the Ceiling." Oh, and it needs to be scare the cat out of the room kinda loud.
	Justin Townes Earle, Harlem River Blues, 2011 If Nashville and New York City had a love child, Justin Townes Earl would be his name. I really can't explain him or this record any more clearly. Just spin it, and prepare to feel folky groove thing that maybe scares you a little.
	Mumford & Sons, Sigh No More, 2010 Mumford & Sons clearly are the darlings of music critics everywhere - and for good reason. Folk? Maybe. Rock? A little. Alternative? What's that? Really, this band defies labels other than "groovy" and "hip." Yes, I said "hip."
	Chris Knight, Heart of Stone, 2008 Chris Knight is an artist that I stumbled on by mistake while exploring artists similar to other favorites on iTunes - and I am glad a did. Knight leans a little closer to pure country than I sometimes go, but he does so in way that evokes comparisons to other singer-songwriters (Steve Earle comes to mind). Put this disc on a rainy evening, crack a beer and reflect. "Miles to Memphis" is pure gold.
	Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, Raising Sand, 2007 In the world of musical pairings, I'm pretty sure I am not alone in being surprised that these two musicians decided to make a record. I'm even more surprised that it's an absolute masterpiece. The personalities and musical styles of both Plant and Krauss shine through while blending to create a remarkable concoction that goes surprisingly well with a good sub-woofer and a comfy chair.
	The Decemberists, The King is Dead, 2011 Haunting and foot-tappingly addictive at the same time, The Decemberists have a sound that starts off feeling a bit folkish, but then starts feeling a little country and then feels, well, just a little weird. All I can say is crank up "Don't Carry It All" or "Down By the Water" and see for yourself. This record is responsible for me discovering the rest of their catalog and I am better for it.
	The Rolling Stones, Exile on Main Street, 1972 Choosing just one Stones album to represent what Mick and his buzzy bandmates have done for me throughout my life is exceptionally difficult. This one, however, wins it by a nose. It's gritty, dirty, feels like it has street grime on it, and it's just the ticket. If not this album, check out "Some Girls," "Tattoo You," and/or "Black and Blue." Or, just buy the whole catalog. Mick and Keith will thank you.

To be continued...

My Letter to Santa...

It was a blustery night.

And in a fitful sleep, I heard in the distance - sleigh bells!

Shaking the dreams of sparkly, dancing crappie jigs from my head, I ran to the window, threw up the sash and gazed into the starry sky. The wind wiggled up my robe and tussled my cap - yes, I wear those...what of it? - and I thought I heard in the distance, the merry ho-ho-ho of good ol' Saint Nick.

I stood with my head poking from the window, scanning the sky in search of Santa and his reindeer-powered chariot for several minutes before deciding that it was probably just gas. Burritos at bedtime tend to elicit odd dreams.

Back in my warm bed, I struggled for sleep that did not come. In the quiet pauses between stomach rumblings, I pondered the last year and decided that yes, I had been a good boy (at least insofar as horseshoes and hand grenades are concerned). And perhaps this year, Santa would skid to a stop on my snow-covered rooftop, plop down my chimney and work his way around our humble abode, leaving cool toys and stopping to enjoy the beer and kielbasas with hot mustard that I leave for him every year.

With a shot, I leaped from bed and ran to my keyboard and began typing my letter to Santa. It went something like this:

Dear Santa,
 
Having been an extraordinarily good boy this year, I am submitting the following requisition from your jolly Santaship:

• First, I would like more fish. Not on my plate, but on the end of my line. For a variety of reasons, things have been slow in the ol' fish acquisitions department and I'd like for that to change, please. Seriously, I've purchased enough rods, reels, tackle, boats and attire to outfit a small village. Certainly, it can't be too much of an imposition to ask for a few more fish in my live well.
• Next, I would like to respectfully request a new spine. I realize that you probably can't leave this one under the tree for fear of frightening the kids, but if we could work out some way for me to get a few vertebrae that work properly, I think that would be right fine. UPS, FedEx, whatever you like. Heck, I'd settle for a gently used model if you have one lying around somewhere in the back. Get it, back? Ha-ha-ha-ha...er, ahem..
• A hasenpfeffer. Seriously, I've been shouting, "bring me my hasenpfeffer!" for years. I'd really like it if someone would oblige me.
• GPS coordinates for the final resting place (or places) of Jimmy Hoffa. I poke around every time I go out wade fishing and I keep thinking that I'm bound to snag him at some point, but...
• A tiny can of Binaca breath spray specially formulated for dogs. Seriously, our beagle's breath could bring down a team of oxen, who incidentally have chronic halitosis issues if their own.
• One-quarter of one ounce of the energy my little boy burns on an average Tuesday morning. I haven't had that much giddy-up in my get-up-and-go in about 30 years.
• My very own island that I can appropriately name the Isle of Misfit Good People. Anyone can come live there with me so long as they are willing to admit that they don't know what's right for everyone and that a one-size-fits-all approach to government, religion, tolerance and so on has had its day. Your religion, race, sexual preference and gender and any of the other thousand or so things that subdivide us are irrelevant. I expect that I will have relatively few neighbors.
• Please bring peace to those who are suffering right now. You know who they are and what they need.
• And last, but not least, I'd REALLY like to have another G.I. Joe with Kung-Fu Grip. The neighborhood bully stole mine about 35 years ago. He and I never got to finish our zip line rescue of Princess Leia who was being held hostage under the dining room table by Sam Cobra.

I ended my letter, slapped it into an envelope and trotted out into the cold, my nightshirt a'fluttering to place it in the mailbox at the end of our driveway.  

As I crawled into bed, warm with holiday cheer, I thought I heard the mighty ho-ho-ho of the red-suited fat guy as he sailed into the sky driving a team of highly irregular reindeer.

Gonna have to give up those midnight burritos.

  

   

25 Things You Didn't Know About Your Wayward Author

1. I am the superhero known as Adjective Man. I have a cape and everything.

2. I think life would be better if random groups of people broke out into Monty Python-like  musicals from time to time. What shopping trip wouldn't be made better if everyone in the produce section suddenly broke into a perfectly choreographed musical that spilled out into the parking lot? I mean really...

3. I think it would be great if someone followed me around narrating my every move. The narrator would announce the mundane things, such as "and with a steely grin, Rick proceeds to dig lint from his belly button," to the more serious matters, such as "and thanks to Rick's boundless courage, the free world will remain free, the forces of evil thwarted yet again."

4. I would like to be Jack Bauer. Well, except for the episode in each season in which he was tortured.

5. I was born a poor black child. I remember the days, sittin' on the porch with my family, singin' and dancin' down in Mississippi.

6. I once fought off a pack of meat fork wielding pixies using only a pellet gun.

7. I'll eat most anything, though I think grapefruit is an abomination. Really, it's a crime against humanity.

8. In my spare time, I like to pole vault.

9. I really like it when I am hailed as "O Captain, My Captain."

10. I would like it if you brought me a shrubbery.

11. When I finally got rid of my mullet, I discovered that with the improved aerodynamics, I was much much faster.

12. Really scary movies, well, scare me. I have a pretty vivid imagination. I don't really need Hollywood's help.

13. I really wish I could yodel.

14. I name each and every fish that I catch.

15. I am a broken hero on a last chance power drive.

16. If they still made Hai Karate cologne, I'd wear it...just so I could say that I'm wearing Hai Karate cologne.

17. I have a new line of Rick Kughen action figures, complete with Kung Fu grip, coming out soon.

18. I once got into a pretty serious fight as a kid because the neighbor brat stole my G.I. Joe with Kung Fu grip. During the melee, the little jerk bit my thumb. I got my G.I. Joe back though.

19. I write the songs that make the young girls cry.

20. I think it would be great if 1970s fashions came back. I'd look great in bell bottoms, platform shoes and gold neck chains.

21. I once saw Elvis in a K-Mart. He had fried peanut butter and banana sandwich smears on the front of his sequined jumpsuit.

22. Sometimes when I am trapped in a long phone conversation, I pace around the house pretending I am a swashbuckling hero while making jabbing, cutting motions in the air.

23. I wear my sunglasses at night. That's just the way I roll.

24. I know it's an inconvenience, but if you could just knock three times on the ceiling (twice on the pipe, if the answer is no) if you want me, I'd appreciate it.

25. I once had the extreme misfortune of getting the chorus from "Elvira" stuck in my head: "Elvira! Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow, Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow." I thought I was a goner. 

Mental Jewelry

Sometimes I think I'd like to not think so much.

Being a man of words, sometimes it becomes quite difficult to shut them off. I spend about 99 percent of my waking hours with thousands of thoughts boiling around between my ears. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll probably tell you that I think too much. Unfortunately, try as I might sometimes, it’s hard to shut that faucet off.

I think about the typical things - work, bills, errands, appointments, manners, food, Jimmy Hoffa’s burial place, you know, the usual - but there are dozens of other thoughts racing around in there that startle me sometimes. Occasionally, I'll share a thought or two with my wife, and occasionally, I think she must think I've lost my mind. Lifelong friends of mine are used to my “fits,” if you will, but my lovely bride and I have been together for a little less than five years, so I think she’s still getting used to being married to half a nutjob.

While I can assure her and you that my mind is still all there, I can’t really say that what is there is normal. When I look into the mirror, I don’t think, “holy cow, you’re f***ed up,” but I do sometimes snicker at the funky monologue that goes on 24x7 in my head. And of course, I don’t know for sure that the rest of you don’t house a similar kangaroo court of thoughts between your ears similar in their breadth and depth to mine. I do know, however, that when I share some of that strangeness with those around me, I often receive quizzical looks that suggest that they think I might be better served to put the peyote away for a little while.

For instance, have you ever wondered about your refrigerator light? I know that it does go off when the door is partially closed, but how do we know it doesn't come back on when the door is shut? There could be a conspiracy between the electric company and the refrigerator people to jack up the electric bills and to see more refrigerator light bulbs.

I've actually gotten on my hands and knees and stuck my eye right up to the crack of the door and tried to see if the light comes back on as the door closes. Perhaps the only way to find out is to remove all the shelves and climb in. I'll let you know what I discover. Maybe I should make sure someone else is home when I do that.

Sometimes, I also wonder about graffiti on bridges and overpasses. Who puts that there? And why? I've never met a single person who would admit to spray painting their beloved's name on a bridge. Sometimes, I think the construction crews must pre-graffiti things just so they blend in with the rest of our infrastructure.

But I assume that the people who do spray paint 'Steve and Lisa 4-ever' (inside a misshapen heart) must be terribly in love. I've done some pretty silly things in the name of romance, but I've never been so inspired as to drive to Sherwin-Williams, pick out a suitable color, locate an un-graffitied bridge, dodge passing traffic and scrawl a love letter to my sweet thang. Maybe I'm just not all that romantic after all.

Do you ever wonder why the people who put graffiti on bridges have common names, like Bob and Mike, Lisa and Mary? I think I’ve figured that one out. It's because people with names such as Montgomery and Willowdeen would never risk permanently scribbling their names anywhere. I mean, there’s about a billion Bobs and Lisas out there, so who’s going to know that graffiti on the overpass is yours? If your name is Willowdeen (I actually knew a Willowdeen, believe it or not) then your graffiti will forever immortalize the fact that you once had the hots for some schlep named Montgomery.

I also wonder who "they" are. I can't tell you how many times I've heard people say "I wish 'they' would find a cure for cancer," Or "'they' are making it impossible for a kid to get good education these days." When I've asked who 'they' are, people say, "you know, 'them.'" Aaargg!

This is a obsession that goes clear back to my college days when I was a columnist for The Ball State Daily News. In those days, I wrote a weekly column, titled appropriately enough Straightjacket Required. In 1987, I first publicized my concerns about this nefarious organization of theys and thems. I’ll spare you the entire diatribe (though I reserve the right to post the entire thing here later) but the general gist of that meandering column was that I want to know just who in the hell “they” are and where they’re holed up. I don’t necessarily mean any harm to the good folks at Them, Inc., but I would just like to see their compound and find out what they’re going to invent or do next.

You ever wonder about the fact that they (damn those faceless, sinister bastards) often include Braille on ATM machines? You know, I’m all for making things in our society accessible to those with physical limitations, but this is one thing that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. Sure, a blind person could walk up to an ATM machine and use the Braille to identify the buttons, but they can’t READ the on-screen prompts so that they know what buttons to push and when. And don’t get me started on why drive-up ATMs include Braille. Seriously, do I need to go into why this is a tremendously bad idea?

Have you ever wondered why we call them fortune cookies? The fortune cookies I usually get would be more appropriately titled “statement cookies.” They usually read something like, “You are strong of character.” That’s not a fortune. That’s a statement. I know. I went to journalism school. A real fortune would be something like “you are about to be found out and clubbed to death by those closest to you.” Now that’s a fortune. I could make a mint at the ol’ fortune cookie factory of they’d just hire me. Were I to be filling those fortune cookies with my thoughts, I'd make you take a deep breath before you blindly open your next fortune cookie after downing a plate of egg foo yung...

I also wonder just how there are still job opportunities for clowns? Is there ANYONE out there who doesn’t find clowns to be at least a little creepy? C’mon – grown, pudgy men wearing wildly colored clothes, freaky pancake makeup, gloves and shoes several sizes too big. The last time I went to a circus (and it’s been a long time because I find clowns to be friggin’ creepy) I nearly chin-skipped one clown who got too close me and invaded my personal space. Read Stephen King’s book It and if after you’re finished, you don’t want to bum rush the next clown you see, then I’ll shut up.

Speaking of people who dress funny, do you ever wonder just what in the hell is up with those Shriner dudes who drive those little souped up go-karts in parades? I mean, really. Most of those old coots shouldn’t be driving automobiles on clearly marked highways in the daylight, much less doing figure eights and crisscrossing in front of each other at light speed in the middle of a crowd of people, many of whom are children. I mean if just one of those guys has a painful gas bubble at the wrong time, it’s going to look like an air show disaster as one after another crashes into the Shriner ahead of him. Just because they’re Shriners, however, I think we give them a pass. You know, they’re cute on their little toys with their fezzes a’flyin’. C’mon folks, they’re a public health hazard. If they want to ride their tiny cars around together, that’s their prerogative, but they should do it somewhere well away from the general public.

I could go on and on about the things that vex me – and I will in future posts – but for now, I’ll leave you with two more random thoughts:

1. How do huge flocks of birds fly together and all move in the same seemingly random way? Is there one leader bird that all of the other birds follow blindly, or more frightening, is there a collective consciousness within flocks of birds and are we doomed if they ever decide to all take a dump at once?

2. Did you know that you can take a Hostess cake donut, place it on a plate and leave it in a closet for two years and when you come back, it will still look like a cake donut? I know because I did that once when I was a kid because I wanted to see what happened. It didn’t mold or crumble. It got really hard, like a hockey puck, but other than that, it looked like a donut that I could go buy at the store. Just what in tarnation could they be putting in a garden variety donut that could make it survive the trials and tribulations of two years deep in the bowels of a 9-year-old boy’s closet and come out the other side intact? And we wonder why our digestive tracks hate us.

I'm sure that They have answers to all of these questions.

What's Good for the Goose...

This morning while driving to work, I received a speeding ticket. I admit that I was driving over the posted speed (not by a lot, but enough) and I do not dispute the charge. Subsequently, I will pay the fine and outrageous court costs without complaint.

I do, however, find it objectionable when I frequently see police officers speeding themselves. I'm not talking about officers on their way to an emergency call (meaning that they are using lights and sirens). I am talking about officers with what appear to be spouses in the car, who are in plain clothes, or who are from agencies that don't have jurisdictions in that area (county police from 75 miles away or more, for instance). These officers are driving in excess of the posted speed, without lights or sirens and very clearly not on their way to an emergency call of any kind. In short, it appears that they are on their way to or from work, or to some other engagement, just like I was this morning when I was stopped.

What makes police officers exempt from the same traffic laws that govern me?

I see this often enough, that I feel that I must speak out, especially when citizens, such as myself are ticketed for the same offense. In fact, the last time I received a ticket, I was absolutely amazed to see an officer in plain clothes - but driving a marked vehicle - go past the same speed trap I was caught in while driving faster than I was traveling. The police officer who stopped me just seconds later actually waved at the first officer before pulling me over and handing me an outrageously expensive ticket. Again, I was wrong here, but so, too, was the off-duty officer ahead of me. At least if our law enforcement officers are going to apply the laws so selectively, they could try to be a little more clandestine about it. There were a good 10-15 cars in the immediate vicinity and every one of those motorists saw the laws unevenly applied. In fact, the officer who drove away unscathed had been tailgating me because he wanted me to lane over so that he could go on his merry way, at a speed a full 20 mph over the posted limit.

I realize that there are times when an officer might exceed the speed limit without lights and sirens for some official purpose unknown to the general public, but I do not believe that each and every time I see an officer speeding in a marked car - often times wearing plain clothes or from a jurisdiction far outside the area I’m in - that the speeding is warranted or legal. Because I take the same home route every day from work, I regularly see the same officer who must get off work at the same time I do. He is a city officer who obviously lives 15 or so miles outside the city in which he has jurisdiction. He consistently speeds, rides the bumpers of the cars in front of him, and in general is an ass on the road. And he’s obviously just driving home. Where’s his ticket?

I have an immense respect for police officers and for the work they do ensuring the public's safety. I realize that their job is dangerous and mostly thankless. That said, I get a pretty bitter taste in mouth on days like today when I receive a ticket for the same offense I see police officers committing regularly. That’s pretty hard to accept or respect.

Frankly, I think those officers out there who do drive in excess of the speed limit because they know they can do so with immunity ought to be ashamed – especially if those same officers write speeding tickets for civilians who are caught speeding. The inequity is just flat stunning.

In the end, I will pay my fine because I was wrong. I just wish the officers I see speeding illegally had their wallets tapped, too.

Communication Breakdown

I made a pretty, ochre-colored splotch on the carpet in my office when I melted down today.

I was in mid-groove this afternoon as I slid out of my shirt and tie and eased into a battle-scarred pair of jeans and big, floppy sweatshirt, and then saddled up to my computer desk.

Everything was fine here at the Kughen Home for the Mentally Deranged and Criminally Insane...that is until I logged in and pulled down my email. Now, it is not unusual for me to receive in excess of 100 email messages a day during the week. I accept this as part of the obligatory ball and chain that goes with being a modern Internet user at home and at work.

But today, as I watched the happy little parade of email roll into my equally happy PC, I began to shudder. With hands trembling and my butt sinking deeply into my high-back chair, I rested my face on the keyboard and wondered just what had happened to my once serene, non-technical existence. As I drifted into a fitful sleep, face-down at my computer, I dreamt of those carefree days when I actually talked to folks on the telephone, occasionally visited in person and almost never got more than a few emails a week. Those were happy days.

With a snort, I flopped over into a bale of computer cables beside my desk and ebbed farther away into a deep sleep. Then, I dreamt of running through a flowery field in the sunshine, the birds singing and chirping in the distance as a fair maiden's lithe voice drifted o'er my head. But as I ran through that utopic field, chasing maidens (all of whom, incidentally, were my wife) and butterflies, I began to notice the world around me begin to change. The change was subtle at first, but it grew more overt with each passing second.

The sun slipped behind menacing clouds, and flowers wilted and dropped their pedals into the yellowing grass. The skies opened and a black rain began to hose this once beautiful field. And as I lay there, cowering in the crab grass, I heard the rodent-like scurries of an army of little feet tramping my way.

That's when I saw them.

There were thousands of sickly grimacing little email notes that had sprouted knobby legs and were wielding pitch forks and hot pokers. They scampered my way, whining and chortling, and in general seeming as though they were up to no good.

I know trouble when I see it, so I stumbled to my feet and ran like the wind, the rain biting my face and the sick, dead grass squishing between my toes. I ran and ran and ran.

They ran faster.

And then I heard their battle cries. They screamed like berserkers as they bailed from miniature airplanes that darted overhead. The sky grew dark as millions of miniature emails blotted out the sun and drifted into the dead grass around me.

Panting like a dog, I stumbled once, twice, then careened into the grass landing on my schnoz with a dull thwack. I lay there for a few seconds with blades of grass stuck to my tongue - eyes hazy and wild - too tired to give additional flight.

They then surrounded me, shouting something about Custer and Little Big Horn, but by then I was curled into a ball, shielding my ashen face from their tiny little hot pokers. I saw one of them wing by my head with what appeared to be a rather large meat fork.

I opened my mouth to scream, but was silenced as they rushed to me, their tiny feet digging into my soft, lily white beer belly and as I tried to bellow again, my mouth was filled with thousands of them and...

With a clatter, I careened away from my desk, knocking over a pile of blank CDs and launching my wireless mouse across the room. Spitting mouthfuls of paper out, I realized that I had swallowed a sizeable portion of a notebook on my desk.

Shaking the sick mass of paper that had formed a spitball the size of a small dog on my tongue, I glanced at my computer screen to see that my in inbox of unsorted mail had grown to more than 1,600 individual pieces of mail in just the past month.

Kicking aside the CDs that had been dashed to the floor, I settled back into my chair and saw that some 100 or so email messages had invaded my machine just today and were now marauding about my inbox. I thought I heard one or two of them snicker, but I wasn't sure.

So after my meltdown, I settled back into a posture that all to familiar these days: me hunched over the keyboard, illuminated by the flicker of a computer monitor, hunting and pecking at breakneck speed, answering the daily typhoon of email.

Sometimes I wonder just why it is necessary for any human to communicate that much. I try to remember a simpler time when folks had to use a crude device known as a telephone to talk to folks who weren't standing in front of them.

I vaguely remember telephones. I believe they're those funky looking things with buttons antennas. If you're not sure, walk over to it, shake the dust bunnies away and lift it off the charger and place it to your ear. You should hear an irritating hum. That's a telephone.

Now if we could just remember how to use the damn things.