'Showers for guys!' It's time to even things up!

I think that the existing system in this country needs a change. We're hearing a lot about 'Change' lately...and precious little to show for it, except rhetoric. All we're going to be left with, as others have stated, is the 'change' in our pockets.

This is a different 'change' I'm talking about this time...the one I'm on a soapbox about tonight has to do with our custom of ladies having showers for women, when they are getting married. There are a couple of different types of these showers for women...personal showers, where gifts are purchased for the prospective bride by women, and only women attend the 'personal shower.' Then there is the other kind of shower, where personal gifts are not given, and the occasional male in attendance might be safe to attend. These are the can opener, blender kind of showers.

Men are excluded from the personal showers, however, and with good reason: the gifts are personal in nature, and while men love to see their brides wearing all of these 'dainty' gifts, they are, for the most part, clueless about them. I, for one, would rather eat a bucket of bugs than to be a guy in a roomful of women opening and 'ooh-ing' and 'ah-ing' and giggling and exchanging knowing looks over the many 'personal' gifts that are presented to the bride-to-be --not that I or any other guy would likely be invited to one of these showers. I believe that these events are so secretive that armed guards are likely posted at all the doors, and that electronic sweeps are made in the rooms where these showers take place, to ensure the privacy of the participants. You would think, from the exclusivity of these events, that women were going to be MODELING these 'dainty things' at the shower itself.

I don't object to women's personal showers. I just feel that there needs to be some sort of BALANCE in these matters. I think it's high time that GUYS also be on the receiving end of 'personal' showers. However, since guys don't have much in the way of 'personal clothing' (you can buy 3 pairs of skivs for about $8.00 -- whether you choose briefs or boxers. That about sums it up the 'personal wardrobe' for guys. So, just for fun, let's consider a REAL MAN'S SHOWER, and what it COULD BE. Until now there were BRIDAL SHOWERS AND BABY SHOWERS. That's about it. NOW, HOWEVER, WE WILL CONSIDER A NEW KIND OF SHOWER: THE 'GROOMAL' SHOWER....for the PROSPECTIVE GROOM, OR AS (or, as we will use it here) the 'PG'.

Imagine this: the best man calls the prospective groom's friends, his high school and college friends, all the people who ever knew his parents or siblings -- even though none of these people have been contacted by the prospective groom in many years, and he invites them to a shower for the prospective groom. Notice of the event will have been published in the church bulletin and word of the event spread over the Internet. If the PG has lived for a long time in different cities, this event will likely be duplicated several times, in different places. The prospective groom, or PG, will haul in an incredible amount of swag!

Here's my idea about the shower: The PG could be registered at Home Depot, Lowe's, Ace Hardware, Bass Pro Shop, and maybe Auto Zone. That ought to just about cover it. Then, at the shower for the PG, the guests, who would bring their gifts in a grocery sack, or, plastic produce bag--- or,eschewing wrappers of any kind, would then hand their gifts to the PG, one at a time, and all the guys would high-five each other and quaff another big gulp of their Barg's Root Beer or other appropriate beverage, down another handful of popcorn, mixed nuts or a slab of Hot-N-Ready pizza. All of this with a generous sprinkling of 'ALL RIGHT', 'COOL, DUDE', "LOOK AT THAT!" or the incredulous, 'ARE YOU KIDDING ME?'

A few of the guests -- those with great verbal skills or, by force of personality and enthusiasm, will, in all likelihood, utter phrases like: "MAN!...THAT SAW IS ONE MEAN CUTTING MACHINE! "They might shout out: "IT'S A DEWALT!!!....or, "UNBELIEVABLE! Or, you might hear: "WOW!!! ALONG WITH THE AMMO, HE GOT A YEAR'S MEMBERSHIP AT H&H GUN RANGE!" Each of the guests would look admiringly at the generosity of the other guests, and would nod, smile, or shout atta-boys at the generosity of the other guests and their understanding of the PG's interests, hobbies and personal needs.

The Prospective Groom, or PG, would, reverently and with great appreciation, slowly remove each gift from its brown grocery bag, plastic produce bag, or straight-from-the-factory box and, with agonizing slowness and superhuman deliberation, examine each cordless drill, Gerber knife, ladder, socket wrench, set of jumper cables, box of spark plugs, gun-cleaning kit and other timeless gifts.

Good friends, stationed on each side of the PG, will either hand him the next gift, or, carefully deal with the brown bags and produce sacks and cardboard. With great humility and thankfulness, the PG will thank each of his buddies with vigorous handshakes and back-slapping guy-hugs, further bonding with his buddies and guests. This kind of male-bonding is similar to what occurs at ballgames (or around a t.v. set where ballgames are being watched) or on the battlefield in a foreign country.

Some of the guests -- those who don't fall into the 'top echelon' of the buddy-category of the PG (the 'A-List, if you will), but who also are present, with their 'group purchases', that they bought along with others who are also not 'upper echelon' buddies of the PG -- also laugh, back-slap, high-five each other like those in the inner group of the guests ---the close buddies of the PG...just not quite as loudly, and with not quite as much raucous enthusiasm. These friends are 2nd and
3rd tier friends, representing the the 'not so much buddies' category -- who, never having been close friends with the PG, contributed with others who also did not know the PG really well, but who have good and generous hearts and also wanted to be present at the shower and to participate in the gift-giving, to encourage the prospective groom, and so he could start his new marriage with all the stuff it takes to set up a new garage in style and be a proper husband for his bride. He would want for no hardware, fishing and hunting stuff, and yard tools in HIS new home!

I know that all of this may seem a little radical, but think about this: in this day of 'equal rights', the equality doesn't have to be lopsided anymore. Guys can now be equal to women! Guys can participate in one of the time-honored events that women have enjoyed for millenia --- 'SOAKING their friends!' ....After all, isn't this where the event acquired the name 'SHOWER?' :)

Try Giving It The Old Shoemake 'Whomp'

There are demons lurking inside things we mistakenly call 'inanimate objects.' Inanimate indeed! They ACT inanimate and they LOOK inanimate, but it's all a pretense. There is a conspiracy among objects to do us in....to exhaust our patience, drain us of our meager financial resources...cause us to lose our tempers and self-control....and, yes, even to one day deprive us of our 'Eternal Reward.' Like Glenn Beck says: 'Here's how I got there'....

Time will not permit me to regurgitate all of the thousands of times I have been waylaid by 'inanimate objects.' As you read this, you will, without a doubt, instantly be transported to the recesses of your minds, where you will also recall battles you have had with inanimate objects, hereafter referred to as IO's.

Last week, I was working in my office with Susan, my little Korean secretary. (She says that she is only a file clerk, but we call her a secretary...it sounds neater and is more impressive...makes her look better and me too, since it sort of pumps up my sense of self-importance!). She was working on the laptop, scanning documents and I was on this desktop, doing 'boss' stuff (I hate that word, so I use it here in jest). The tower was making funny sounds. I tried all the civilized ways of getting it to stop making those irritating noises. I turned the unit off and on a few times. I unplugged an external mass storage device, and a handful of other things -- memory sticks, and two printers. Nothing. The irritating sounds continued. Finally, I told Susan to not be alarmed. I leaned over and smacked the side of the tower -- pretty hard, but not hard enough to cave in the side of the tower. The sound stopped. The computer kept running (whew!).

The tower had to be shown who was in charge! It will likely be months before it's petulance shows up again and it has to be put in its place once more.

Recently, one of the copier/printers in my office started acting up. I was a little surprised, since it knows it can be replaced! There are two other identical copier/printers in the office, and a larger Xerox laser printer for bigger jobs. The little printer got a little too big for its britches. Susan has been scanning documents for a half-year, turning my office into a 'paperless' office. We were just about finished with that particular project, when, out of nowhere, her printer began making sounds like a galloping horse, of all things! I know precisely where it picked up that idea --- it got the idea from listening to my little grandson, Greyson, running up and down the hall next to my office, with his stick horse and its realistic head of a horse and an electronic device that sounds like a big horse galloping down the old dusty trail. Greyson's 'horse' then stops and rares up (that's 'country' for REARS UP...and it also sounds a little nicer), and gives a huge double-whinny!....shades of the old Lone Ranger series!

THAT'S where the sound in the copier/printer came from! Copier/printers have no imagination. They are, after all, produced by a nation of people who can 'copy' things but are incapable of inventing anything new. So---- the copier/printer just listened and then began mimicking the horse-galloping sound, to our extreme displeasure! What a smart-alec IO!

Finally, having had enough of the 'attitude' of the copier/printer, I strode across the room and slapped the fire out of it. The irritating sound stopped immediately.
Susan didn't look at me with fear and trepidation...she's used to it by now.

The LAST of the recent electronic provocations was put into play by my AT&T cell phone. It is called 'The Ultimate'....a name that has given rise to many, many other names....The Ultimate Irritation!...The Ultimate Demon!...The...oh, well, you get the idea. It's the 'ULTIMATE', all right! It began giving me fits, dropping one call after another about two weeks ago. I called AT&T. They pleaded ignorant to any system problem, so, after hanging up, I turned my wrath on the phone. It dropped on more call...maybe the tenth call in thirty minutes. I held it up high and slammed it down on my desk...hard enough to get its attention, but not hard enough to break it. It worked! The dropped calls stopped! Like my Dad and John Wayne (one and the same person, in my view) used to say: 'Sometimes you have to talk to people in a language they understand!' I LIKED THAT SAYING! STILL DO! It also applies to IO's. Sometimes you have to 'talk to an IO in a language IT understands!' (WHOMP!!).

I share these stories with you, not to demonstrate the unlimited nature of my insanity and wrath, but to show you that you can get the upper hand with YOUR own
so-called IO's. I invite you to start your own list: Start with the easy ones: 'buttered bread that always falls buttered side down, right on your carpet', or, 'three squares of toilet tissue makes your toilet overflow', to 'locking your keys in your car'....or, my personal favorite: 'the cell phone that goes off during a prayer or at a funeral.' These are the common ones: these particular inanimate objects are like realtors and union bosses. They are ORGANIZED -- and they'll get you every time! They've got their business down to a science...and everything is controlled...and you are at their mercy. If you are like I am, and I suspect that you are, you can think of thousands of these instances, when seemingly 'inanimate objects' did you in, and made your life, for a little while, absolutely miserable!

I want you to try taking hold of your destinies! Fight back! Don't be tempted any longer to defuse your anger and frustration, and chide yourself for being put out by what's happened. Get even! You will see that objects that surround you become much more orderly, less irritating, and less hostile! You can show them who is boss! You will find that YOU, TOO CAN BE THE MASTER OF YOUR HOME AND OFFICE. YOU CAN BE RESPECTED BY THE THINGS THAT LIVE IN YOUR ENVIRONMENT. Give it a try--- when the IO's get out of line, whip them into shape....GIVE THEM THE OLD 'SHOEMAKE WHOMP!'

We were in a pickle!

The year was about 1976.  Paula and I had been married for about four years, and had been living in a new home we had built for only about a year.  I had been out of town on business, and, driving down our street, I noticed a green liquid running in the street next to the curb.  I drove into our driveway and saw that the green liquid was coming from under our garage door!  Getting out of my car, I further saw that the green liquid looked like a green slush, and that it smelled...like dill pickles!  I opened the garage door and followed the trail into the hot-water heater closet in the garage.  Erupting from the drain next to the hot water heater was a fountain of green slush!  It was running out of our garage, down the driveway and down the street.  What in the world could be going on in our house???

I opened the door from the garage to the laundry room and walked into the kitchen, where I saw Paula, standing there, singing and plopping 'reject' pickles into the garbage disposal, one at a time, with the water running.  There were empty pickle jars all over the kitchen.  She was just about finished with the pickle demolition, and she shut the water off.  The house reeked of dill pickles! I asked her, as calmly as I could, what she was doing, and she happily told me that the batch of pickles had not turned out as she had hoped, and she was putting them down the drain. 

The pickles, although ground into a mush by the garbage disposal, overloaded the disposal and clogged the drain.  It seems that the drains in the average home are not adequate for the flushing of 45 to 50 quarts of dill pickles -- even if they are now mush!

We spent the evening cleaning pickle mush out of the heater closet and garage and then hosed down the driveway and tried our best to flush the pickle mush in the street WAY DOWN the street.  We sort of accomplished our goal, but, needless to say, the pickle mush gave our street a certain distinctive smell for a few days.We called the plumber and when he saw what had happened, told us in no uncertain words that he had never seen anything like this in all his years as a plumber.  He worked for a long time, cleaning out our drains. I 'relished' the thought of the cost of the plumbing work.

We got over the pickling of our home and neighborhood, and eventually, our neighbors forgave us.  The jokes, at Paula's expense, however, lingered for years. Even now, she's occasionally referred to as a DILL-lightfully nice lady!  Paula is a good cook, and knows her way around a kitchen really well. She has not ever attempted to whip up a batch of pickles again. Nevertheless she is good with 'pickles'...of the situational variety. In the years since the dill pickle fiasco, I must confess that my lovely wife has gotten ME out of a few 'pickles.' She's a great wife!...my little 'baby dill.'

'Nuff said!

Crotch-Sniffin' Dogs! ---LOOKOUT!

Okay, I'm getting even now! For years, as I have been welcomed into the homes of people who were inquiring about getting a new roof, I have been also welcomed by their 150 lb. dogs, who also welcomed me, as I tried to squeeze past Henrietta Homemaker and 'Bruiser'. Henrietta (my generic name for all the sweet little homemakers out there in the wide, wide world, who are left with the decision-making regarding roofing matters) holds the door open for me as I wipe my feet on her doormat and then try to step across the threshold to enter her home. As I'm trying to pass by Henrietta, her Doberman, Collie, St. Bernard, or other half-horse dog, is always trying to bury his/her 10" long snout into the crotch of my jeans, from the front, or, even more unnervingly, from the rear... often unexpectedly!

It's an awkward moment, as I'm greeting Henrietta, while trying to get past her without brushing up against her clothing or her assets, while simultaneously avoiding her proctologist/genitalia-ologist canine pervert posing as a harmless cute little dog.

Homeowners rarely stop this kind of behavior, and, I suspect, they find it amusing, since their dog/s long ago became bored with the sniffing of THEIR britches!

In the past, when I've gotten a heads-up about the dogs in one of the 'Henrietta' households I've planned on entering, I have gone to great lengths to short-circuit the dog's unwanted attention by spraying hair spray on the seat of my jeans and sprinkling cayenne pepper on the wet hair spray, thinking that even if a little of the pepper remained long enough for me to get inside Henrietta's home, the devil-dogs would leave me alone. The results were mixed. I won't elaborate on this part of the story. Nor will I elaborate on the results from my having tried --- years ago, to thwart Fido's crotch fascination with a dash of liquid cinnamon oil. As you might suspect, the cinnamon oil penetrated my clothing and lit me up like a Christmas tree when the oil reached my....'delicate parts.' I ended up doing the 'Cinnamon Shuffle', while driving home, hair on fire, as they say (and pants on fire as well), ripping my clothes off and showering with lots and lots of soap, for a very, very long time, trying to get the cinnamon oil off of my skin.

Last week, Jeff and I were in the Mulholland Addition in N. Edmond, meeting an out-of-state insurance adjuster, on behalf of some nice homeowners, who wanted us to meet with the adjuster in the hope that they could achieve equity on their storm damage claim. As we followed the adjuster toward the gate, leading into the backyard of this huge home, the adjuster, seeing two large dogs on the other side of the fence, opened the gate and just walked into the backyard. Jeff and I did NOT follow immediately. We both waited to see if the dogs would devour the adjuster, who paid them no mind. The dogs did not attack him. I was puzzled. Unless this adjuster was the 'Dog Whisperer' -- in person-- I could not imagine why he would have entered the backyard without so much as an attempt to size up the dogs, to try to test their demeanor before striding into the backyard like Daniel, strolling into the lion's den! I then followed the adjuster through the gate, followed by Jeff. I asked the adjuster: "How did you know the dogs wouldn't attack you?" He said, in an off-hand way: "Oh, I had my hand on my 'Dazer', and if they have started toward me, I would have just touched it lightly with one finger of my left hand."

A 'Dazer', we wondered? What is a 'Dazer?' I asked the adjuster what he was talking about. He showed us a device, on his left side, on his belt. It looked like a long, thin garage door opener. He said: "Watch this." He touched the button lightly -- just once. At once, the dogs lowered their ears and their tails, and took off for the far side of the yard. They didn't approached us again during the time we walked all over the backyard.

Needless to say, I immediately bought three of the Dazers. After a wait of about a week, they arrived the other day. I gave one to Jeff, and one to Paula. I kept one for myself. Jeff and I will use them to prevent our becoming 'Kibbles & Bits', or 'Bacon, Bacon, BACON!' for the next Cujo we encounter. I have decided to buy one for each of my salesmen, so that they, too, can walk without fear, through the backyards of Edmond and OKC. We'll be fearless, and homeowners all across the land will admire our courage! (You reckon?).

In the future, when my neighbors allow their 'Yipper' to sit on the other side of our back fence for hours, angrily yipping at us, destroying any quiet time we had hoped to enjoy in our own back yard, planting flowers, we will employ our 'Dazer' and send him/her packing. The device has a range of about 50 feet, and is very effective. When employed, dogs not only run away, but they shut their traps as well!

(Yes, Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus!).

I will wear this discreet little device on MY left hip, and will feel empowered, almost like I am carrying a concealed weapon. I may go out of my way to seek out encounters with fearsome beasts of prey. The device won't hurt animals, but it WILL deter bad manners. I will henceforth feel like a 'Backyard John Wayne'...fearless, brave, rugged, determined! Yes, with the Dazer, my life will change!

As for homeowners who allow such behavior when guests enter their homes, I have daydreamed about another daydream possibility: Carrying a tiny syringe of diluted bacon drippings with me, and as I follow 'Henrietta' to her dining room table, I covertly spray a tiny amount of the diluted bacon drippings on the back of HER jeans, and then, as I'm sitting at the dining room table, talking about roofing matters, I watch her twist and squirm as her dog tries to give HER a procto-exam!

I wonder how funny that would be to her? If my ownership of the Dazer keeps shoring up my courage, I may do it! At any rate, in the future, whenever I need to visit, unmolested, with a homeowner, it's nice to know that all it will take, to get some quiet time with the homeowner, is a subtle touch of the old Dazer. The dogs will disappear, as if shot out of a cannon, and I'll be able to get down to business!

Captain Kirk has his Phaser...the police have their Tasers....and now the Shoemake's have their Dazers! Life is sweet! Bring on your bulldogs -- I'm ready!

Fast-Food Restrooms & Buckets of 'Bugs'

Yesterday I was desperate. No time to eat lunch, and no choice of restaurants, but really hungry. I walked into a local fast-food place on the north side of Edmond (you would know it --they have locations everywhere in the known world). ("100 Billion Served?" How about 100 Billion potentially infected?). Not wanting to be sued, I will not mention their name. It makes no difference. MOST fast-food places are just like it. I would rather eat a bucket of bugs than go into one. Here's how I got there! I wanted to wash my hands before eating, so I did just that. Then I noticed, while standing there with water dripping from my hands, that they only had wall-mounted electric hand-drying devices. I did the best I could with the 'electric paper towels' and then walked toward the door. The idiots who designed the bathroom doors in this public restroom designed it so one has to grab a door-handle to pull the door open....with no paper towels. This includes the employees who make up your food order. They, too --- being in a hurry, and with no one watching, did 'their business' and walked out of the restroom, having just opened the door by grabbing the filthy, WET door handle, and went right back to making up your food order. The only stop on the way, is likely their fast use of a broom and dust pan or mop to clean up the floor of the restaurant -- before heading behind the counter to bag up your order...likely without bothering to wash their hands! Now, back to the rest room...better known as the 'germ dispenser'.

You have to touch the handle with your bare hands. In doing so, you might as well be sticking your hands into the pants of the last 10,000 people who visited that bathroom! It's worth noting that the majority of people who use public bathrooms NEVER wash their hands after handling various parts of their anatomy while attending to their private bathroom needs...unless you are standing at a urinal (if you're a guy) and they know you're watching. So, when you walk up to the food counter to order your food, and some person asks you "you want fries with that?", they are, of course, asking you if you'd like fries with the filth you picked up on the wet door handle in the john! 10,000,000,000,000 (Obama bail-out numbers!!) filthy germs you just picked up in their germ-infested bathroom with the antibiotic-resistant germs running amuck all over the door handle that you have to grab to get out of the death trap they call a 'rest room'. 'Rest Room', indeed! A better name for this sort of public 'facilities' would be: 'LAST STOP ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL'....! (Can you spell 'E-COLI'?...or 'antibiotic-resistant staph?'...or MERSA?).

I can't undo the design of brain-dead architects, fast-food franchise owners, and other establishments with uneducated, archaic, insensitive ways of looking at public health. But I CAN deal with it in MY WAY. My way is to first -- before walking into the fast-food restroom, go to the napkin dispensers and walk away with a big wad of paper napkins. I tuck them into my shirt pocket and then, after washing my hands and drying them with paper, I then walk over to the door handle, and with dry paper napkins, open the door safely! If there is a trash can near the door, I toss the paper napkins into the receptacle.

IF THERE IS NO TRASHCAN NEAR THE DOOR, I TOSS THE PAPER NAPKINS ON THE FLOOR, RIGHT NEXT TO THE DOOR. OTHERS MUST BE THINKING THE SAME THING, BECAUSE I OFTEN SEE PILES OF PAPER ON THE FLOOR NEXT TO THE DOOR OF THE BATHROOM. When the establishment begins paying for enormous quantities of paper napkins, they may decide to fix the door, so that one can open the door with one's elbow or the push of a foot near the bottom of the door.

By now you think I'm a nut case. That's okay. I understand. But wait--here's another one for you to think about. I was in another popular 'restaurant' the other day, near Bryant and Memorial Rd. It was late in the evening and the restaurant was not crowded. A man -- probably in his 50's with black hair was mopping the floor. His hair was as black as coal, but...only his hairdresser knows for sure about the hair color. He was mopping the floor, with no apparent enthusiasm. Every now and then he would stop and walk behind the counter. After all, three or four swats across a little piece of the floor with that fetid mop would wear ANYONE out. With no washing of his hands, he picked up a tiny spoon from a containe of micro-spoons used for people to 'taste' different flavors of ice cream before making their selection. He then reached down into one of the containers of ice cream and scooped out some ice cream and deposited the wad of ice cream into his mouth. He then went back to mopping. He did this three times while I was eating my meal. "That's great, I thought -- just great!" No one paid him any mind. It didn't matter that the workers preparing the food at the grill wore plastic gloves, as though they were doing a surgical procedure. THIS GUY DIDN'T -- and his filthy hands -- from mopping up the restaurant (handling the bucket, the mop, the litter on the floor, etc.), kept reaching right down into the ice cream buckets--a different one each time...wielding tiny plastic spoons. Each selection of ice cream was done with great deliberation and no apparent haste. I'm SURE his hands NEVER TOUCHED the ice cream...aren't you? I'm just almost --nearly-- certainly positive!..........maybe. Yeah---RIGHT! (Try mentally going into a big container of hard ice cream with a tiny, flexible plastic spoon that might be an inch and a half long and try to scoop ice cream with your plastic spoon without dragging your knuckles all over the ice cream in the bucket -- it's impossible!). It also did not go unnoticed that the large lady behind the counter kept hacking rattling, phlegmy coughs into her left hand, over and over, while she prepared some wonderful milk shakes and a 'mix' for some lucky, unsuspecting patron at the drive-up window, who drove away, blissfully ignorant of what had just happened. (I wonder who was her beneficiary on her life insurance policy?) "YUMMY! Where do I sign up for some of that?", I thought, as I did a quick but thorough optical scan of the remainder of my hamburger. At this point, I'm super-vigilant, and looking over my nub of a hamburger with x-ray vision, imagining all sort of possible scenarios involving the preparation of MY hamburger. I almost didn't eat the last bite.

Want to live to a ripe old age? Want your kids to stay a little healthier, and have an even chance of growing up? Then be careful where you eat. Check out the bathroom first. If you have to grab the handle to get out of the bathroom, don't eat there! You may end up paying with more than money for the privilege of dining there. You may even pay with more than 'intestinal distress'....you may pick up something along the way that will change your life in ways you don't want. These days, it may take more than Pepto Bismol to ease your intestinal discomfort if you fall victim to the Fast Food Germ Slingers --- the Dirty Harry's of Dining.

O.K.--- now you've branded me as a lunatic. That's okay. I don't mind. I feel that it is important to highlight a public danger. We live in a world where people are dying every day from 'community acquired diseases.' Antibiotics are losing the war against some of the formerly fairly benign 'bugs' that are found on every surface in the world. Peoples' incomes and lives are affected by sickness. Medical costs are skyrocketing. And, with alll of this going on in our world, idiots are still building public facilities with bathroom doors that have to be opened by hand by people who, in large part, do not wash their hands. They do things with their hands that have consequences for other people.

I'm happy, knowing that I will not be as likely to pick up a case of the 'Tennessee Quick-Step' or end up in the hospital, with a case of antibiotic-resistant staph. This resistant little bug killed my sister in Dallas a few years ago when she went into the hospital for a pretty minor surgery, as surgeries go. She got the staph infection at the site of her surgery. Her name was Nancy Kocher. She never left the hospital alive.

We can't kill all the germs in the world, but doesn't it make sense to protect people in public places with just a little common sense? Especially in public restaurants, where there is such a huge risk to the public. Do your family a favor...look at bathrooms in public eating establishments and how they are constructed and serviced. Also, watch to see if the food handlers are also wielding mops and cleaning tables and handling money and then go right back to food preparation without washing their hands with soap and water.

For my part, I would rather eat a bucket of bugs than eat at a fast-food restaurant!

Medical Alert! The dreaded TG

Years ago, while enjoying a lunch at Hack's Cafeteria in Bryant Square in Edmond, with my best friend (then and now)-- Phil Johnson, we discussed, as we often did when we enjoyed our frequent lunches together, subjects of profound importance. We have been best friends since about 1969, when we met at OCC. Phil and I know everything about each other, and this kind of close friendship allows people to say pretty much anything that is on ones' mind, without fear of condemnation or a feeling of vulnerability. We knew so much about each other, that we joked about being 'friends of necessity'. We each knew enough to hang the other if the friendship turned sour! Sort of like the U.S.A and Russia and the doctrine of 'mutually assured destruction'....you get the picture. Anyway, the freedom of discussion allowed for some really fun conversations. One day at Hack's Cafeteria, I confided in Phil. I told him of my research into what I called 'Audience Phenomena.'

I told Phil about something that I had observed in people during boring lectures during college and, while growing up, in small towns in Texas, where the preachers were not gifted like Mark Taylor, Kent Allen and Ronnie White and others with similar exceptional speaking skills. I had observed and made copious notes when observing people who were listening to boring, monotonous speakers. The speakers on the OCC campus were usually the worst, since they were often men or women who had achieved some success (usually associated with making money -- I thought that's why they were invited to speak on campus). Often they had poor communication skills, and it was the danger posed by the lack of speaking skills, combined with verbosity, that made me decide to publish my findings, in the hope that lives might be saved.

I observed and then categorized, by degrees or 'benchmarks' -- characteristics I often observed in audiences, that, when allowed to progress without interruption, posed grave consequences for innocent people in audiences everywhere. Here are my findings:

1. When the speakers began their prepared or sometimes unprepared comments, the audiences were usually a lively bunch. This is the 'normal human condition'...our baseline, or standard, if you will.

2. When the introductory remarks were concluded, and the speaker got down to 'brass tacks', and when the audiences saw that the speaker was not going to be a humorous speaker, the glances from left to right and over peoples' shoulders commenced immediately, followed by yawns and glances at wristwatches or the clocks on the walls.

3. Before long, when it became apparent that the speaker was going to give a real stemwinder of a talk, speech or lecture, and that escape from the auditorium was impossible, squirming would start, sometimes accompanied by head-scratching, sighs or looks of resignation. The phenomenon of 'foot jiggling' often was evident. Not the slow movement of feet one sees when people cross their legs and move their feet slowly, but the nervous, spastic movements ---the rapid, jerking of the feet that usually signals a near-frantic state of mind.

4. As the speaking continued and the perceived room temperature increased, one would often see the early stages of 'stupor' setting in among the 'audience captives'. Eyelids would begin to sag, sometimes followed by an involuntary forward nodding of the head or the equally involuntary backwards tilting of the victim's head. The forward slump of the head was usually stopped by the victim's chest, while the backwards tilting of the head was almost always stopped by the back of the seat. A high percentage of victims would slide down further into the seat, in a relaxed sprawl. Often, one would also see the lips part, as the progression of the stupor increased. This marks the condition identified medically known as 'THE GLAZE' (after our observations were published and verified by countless other redundant studies that followed my initial research).

5. The Glaze, once it has gained control of the victim, rapidly progresses to what is now known as the 'PTG'....the PRE-TERMINAL GLAZE. In this phase of the condition, the victim's mouth begins to gape open widely, and is often accompanied by drooling. The victim's eyes are now clouded over markedly, and it is not uncommon for the victim to jerk suddenly --- hands, legs and feet making random quick motions without apparent direction. In advanced stages of PTG, the victim may utter monosyllabic sounds, or make loud smacking noises. The marked relaxation of the victim, now semi-comatose, is often characterized by loud intestinal groans and gurglings, and these sometimes prompt more involuntary movement of arms, hands and legs as the unconscious victim seeks a more comfortable bodily posture. In this phase of the condition, the victim is almost beyond resuscitation, and, if the speech continues much longer, the audience members will often glance at the victim with understanding mixed with sorrow, for the vital, formerly exuberant person they once knew has slipped toward the brink of eternity-- the cusp of the great abyss -- by the monotonous, unrelenting auditory barrage of the clueless speaker.

5. Finally, we reach the stage of the condition we mention with great sadness, and more than a little fear ---the dreaded TG....known to doctors and scientists as the TERMINAL GLAZE. In the finality of this condition, all breathing stops, along with the drooling and the occasional fluttering movement of the eyelids. All vital signs have now ceased, and there appears a cyanotic bluish tinting of the lips and fingertips. The eyelids are now either closed, or, as in cases of extreme suffering during the PTG's, the eyelids are locked open---a hideous rictus smile denoting an end-point to the suffering of the victim.

It is my hope that with the publicizing of the symptoms of this devastating condition, that public speakers may eventually give more thought to their comments, use of humor, inflection, gestures, modulation of voice --- and other devices known to great speakers like Mark Taylor, Kent Allen and Ronnie White -- and spare untold numbers of captive audience members unnecessary suffering and a needless premature end to their existence here on earth.

Conflicted!

I'm so sorry for the losses of so many people whose homes and businesses have been damaged by the storm Tuesday night. I really am.....

Why then do I feel like an undertaker at a high-dollar funeral?...sorry for the death of the nice person being honored, yet, happy that I was the 'funeral home of choice' for the family of the deceased?

That's the 'conflict' we feel as roofers after a combo tornado/hail storm. I guess a lot of other people are conflicted as well....doctors, lawyers, preachers, auto body shops and others.

Nevertheless, I'm going to try to be a little bit more somber when I am asked to re-roof a home or business...I will try to wear my best "behave yourself--wipe that grin off of your face -- you don't go to a funeral to have a good time!" facade. Those were words that my Mom and Dad used to say to my brother and to me when we were kids. The problem was this: after being told not to grin, for a long time after these stern admonitions, whenever we would be told not to grin -- for the life of me I couldn't keep from grinning ---and neither could George. If we so much as glanced at each other, we would both get tickled, and either snicker or snort. You KNOW what happened next! We would get marched out of the auditorium or funeral chapel and be on the receiving end of some well-aimed swats. Gradually we lost our compulsion for grinning when told NOT to grin! We would have little 'talks with ourselves' on the way to the funeral services...the people who had died were not friends of ours -- they were often people we did not even know. How can one expect a little kid to be somber and sad at the passing of a stranger -- especially when one who is young does not really even comprehend death? I think it's asking a lot out of a kid.

Maybe that's where that phrase came from -- "fake it till you make it!"