Act One

I'm talking with the missus yesterday – the subject being parents of kids our own kids grew up with - and I mention a certain family.

"What was the story on them; did they adopt those two kids? Was that the deal?"

"What are you talking about?”

"Weren't they adopted, or from a previous marriage, or something like that?"

"No, they've been married since they were eighteen and had Mary and Johnny early on."

"Well, you told me something about it. Something unusual about them."

She looks away and laughs.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Cue the organ music. Something is not right here.

Act Two.

"Hey," I asked the other night, "where's my calculator?"

"Mmmmm, think it's in your office," she says, absent-mindedly.

"I just looked there, it's not there. Who had it last?”

I text the kids (who’d all been over the other night) and ask them; they all plead ignorance and this time, I believe them. So I go back to Janet Leigh.

"They didn't use it, and it's not in my office."

I go and look again, I even move some stuff around; no small step for a man, but no calculator.

"It's not there," I say. "Forget it."

A minute later, she's calling to me from my office.

"What's this?”

And lying on my desk, right out in the open, is my calculator.

"I just . . . . it wasn't. . . . did you. . . "

She smiles and walks back into the living room and I swear I hear Psycho music.

Act Three

Now, I don't say she's doing it maliciously, I think maybe she's just doing it for fun. Or 'cause she can.

We pass each other in the kitchen the other morning (picture two zombies), and I mumble (the 6:30 AM language of love), “We doin’ anything tonight? I just want to chill, maybe watch a movie."

"Chill? You said we could (this), and you’d take care of (that), and you said for sure you would (the other)”

"Huh?"

"Kevin! I told you two days ago. . . “

She goes on to relate a conversation I can't recall one sentence of. She speaks specifically of things we both said.

"Huh?"

"I told you," she says, slowly and deliberately, ‘Next Wednesday evening, I need you to’ (something no two humans have ever discussed in the history of recorded time).”

"Ah . . .uh. . . “

And then it dawns on me.

“Hey, today's Tuesday, Goober."

"Oh, that's right," she says with a laugh. "Sorry.”

(Good Eeeeev-nink.)

Act Four

The proof is all there, but not to the naked eye. She's covered her tracks well.

"Mgrhfisnxit nkritghtif."

"What?” I ask.

"Huh, I didn't say anything."

I just don't know. Maybe it's just me. That must be it. Just coincidences, the both of us getting busy and forgetting things. Nothing to worry bout.

* * *

(Okay, hopefully she thinks this piece is done. HELP! Shhhhh! I mean, help. I think she's trying to drive me crazy. Send the authorities. Now.)

Dear Lt.General Fred Eze. Ndu National Special Adviser to the New President Alhaji Umar Musa Yara Dua Federal Republic of Nigeria,

I am the Highness, Director and Curator of the Department of Five Acre Lots Only in Flower Mound, the Republic of Texas, Mr. Kevin to the John Phillips, esq.

I was thrilled to obtain your email offering me the foreign part payment of 5.6 Million USD through an accredited security shipping company for my unpaid contract in service of your government.

Please to excuse me the wasting of some of your precious time, my brother. But I am delighted to inform you that through our computer added softwareness, YOU have to been chosen as our Nigerian contact for the transfer of fundage used to research global warming. How ‘bout them apples?

In exchange for your assistance. In taking the transference to your bank account of twenty four million US dollars a small fee will be granted to your. Self for your assistance. 4 million US dollars. I know this is not a high amount but due to Interpol scrutiny, we have to carefully suggest funds left to pay great citizens such as your own self so we might continue our fight against warm polar ice.

The twenty four million will be coming on bank wire – that is no concern of to you. Your small fee will be looking to find in several partially eaten Nutella jars at the Nigerian airport, locker # 458. Please do not be alarmed by the tall man who meets you at by the locker. At the airport. He is there for safety sake only. He will check your indentification, or you could. Simply send.

It to me now; your choise. If you smartly choose the ladder option, you may email me a copy of your passport and picture ID, address and phone number to this email :

Dontboggart@thething.tx

You will get other emails such as this and know they are not authentic without my personal  asphyxiate on it, thus: &

Please do not fall prey to them and the organization of them. All we need is the information I listed above and the activity can begin to happen with your fee being paid crisply. We indeed have contacted lesser men/women than your excellent abilites, so you must act now in order to act now on this matter of four million US.

Congratulations.     

Best Regards,  

Highness.  

Kevin Phillips, esq 

Republic of Texas

"&"

From today’s Dallas Morning News (10-2-09): “The Obama administration said Thursday it will seek to ban text messaging by (several government-type drivers) and push states to pass their own laws.” Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood said, “Driving while distracted should just feel wrong…we’re not going to break everyone of their bad habits, but we are going to raise awareness.”

I agree that texting while driving isn’t in anyone’s best interest. Make it illegal then, I have no problem with that, but gol-lee did this guy just say something should just feel wrong and that the government is not going to break everyone’s habits (the implication being that they’d sure like to)?

Let’s fire up that crystal ball, shall we?

* * *

February 14, 2010, DMN front page: “The administration today shook its index finger at the country and said, ‘Now…we know it’s Valentine’s Day, but you have her home by 9:30, hear?”

6-28-10 AP wire: “The President’s press secretary commented in this morning’s briefing: ‘Just think…if we do this right, next year your kids will be taking a short ten minute break at this time, and then they’ll get back at that trigonometry through August. Now, if you feel like you want to be good parents, you make sure you push your kids to study hard 24/7 and let’s see if we can put that whuppin’ on those Chinese kids. If, like I said, you want to show us you’re good parents.’

11-14-10 USA Today: “Secretary of Agriculture Tom Vilsack spoke to parents in Kansas City last night: ’As we approach the Thanksgiving season, I wanted to remind you all about the importance of broccoli. Now, we can’t punish you if you don’t cook and serve it– though good (small g so it’s legal) god almighty, we’d love to – we just want to raise the awareness. OK? Don’t make me come check up on you.”

11-19-10: From an advertisement paid for by the office of the Czar of Shopping: “Do you really, really love your significant other? Well, show how much by starting your holiday shopping early this year. Get lots of stuff, which means you love them, and makes us feel like you’re interested in helping the economy out at the same time. Spend money! Heck, we can always print more.”

12-31-10: From the business section of the DMN, “The President traveled to Grady yesterday in an attempt to try and spirit the all-important squash festival away from mayor Nick Nicholson and the residents of Grady. Dr. Benjamin Stone spent about three hours with the two men and though no decision was reached, a bailout for the county’s catfish farm was announced.”

March 11, 2011 Secretary of Health and Human Services Kathleen Sebelius and Czar of Food, Rachel Ray, on Oprah: “The administration has empowered this department to send the message that all Americans start eating right. I’ll issue a recipe of the week and good Americans across the land will be strongly encouraged to cook it for supper. Our first dish is a delicious thick, pudding-like savory delight using tomatoes and herbs. It’s an Italian dish I call Moose-a-leany. Mmmm.”

“Oprah, I’ve made some and we can dig in right now; I know the Secretary and I are fascists. I mean famished.”

Random day in 2012: A G-man looks at a guy walking to lunch and says, “Hey! I’m not trying to break you of your bad habit, but stand up straight!”

The object of punishment is prevention from evil; it never can be made impulsive to good. 
_{Horace Mann 1796-1859}

I slept in a little late this fine Labor Day morning; up around 7:50. Coffee, paper, feed the dogs and then bum about the house for a bit. At some point I looked at the clock.

9:11

I wonder if I’ll always cringe? It’s imperceptible certainly, but most definitely there’s a little race to my pulse when I see those numbers on a digital clock, on a license plate or even an address.

Where were you that day? 

I had a trainee in town who’d flown in the night before. The plan was for me to pick him up around 6:30, make the three hour drive to the yet-to-open restaurant and let him see how training for a new store opening runs.

Sometime around 6:30 I picked up him and we headed north on I-35. We’d met earlier in the month and knew each other well enough to have things to talk about on our drive. That meant the radio was set to background noise level – loud enough to hear it was on, but not loud enough to make anything out.

We’d driven a little over two hours before our first pit stop. We’d had no cell phone reception for a good part of the way. I pumped the gas while Ben went inside. He came out and said, “A plane crashed into the World Trade Center in New York.”

Huh?

I don’t remember much about our conversation the rest of the drive, but I know the radio took center stage. Don’t know when we learned of the second plane, the Tower’s collapse and the rest. A little over an hour later we arrived at the training store in, of all places, Oklahoma City.

The fellow in charge of the whole thing pulled us all into a meeting and shared a prudent thought.

“It was only a little over six years ago these folks dealt with their own day like today, so I’d ask you to keep that in mind as you go about your training this morning and this whole week.”

I wish I had a large catalog of details to rummage through but I don’t. I know we listened to employees share their thoughts of their own experiences regarding the Murrah Building bombing and of how they felt on this September Tuesday morning. We watched the news, saw the price of gas jump to over $6 a gallon at some stations around town, learned of people sitting in living rooms with shades drawn, guns cocked and of other folks walking the streets with guns cocked.

I wish I had individual stories from all the folks I talked to that day, or some memories of my own reactions to the news as it unfolded. But for some reason, I don’t.

Some day, God willing, I'll be the old guy who was alive when this thing happened. Unfortunately I won't be able to share much. Strange how some historic days gift you with fine and plentiful details while others waft through the years, sort of muddled and murky. Strange how I can’t seem to remember much about a day I won’t ever forget.

A set of three circumstances twirled together – a 30% coupon from the folks at The Store, a need, and the missus busy with something else – giving me enough rope to do something I’ve never done before. Buy new underwear.

Certainly I’ve been the recipient of everything from new big boy pants to new old man drawers, but it’s been either a mom or a missus doing the buying. What I’m saying is…much like (shhhh) signing the back of my paycheck since I’ve been married, using the word “splendiferous,” or spitting (among other things) into the wind...I’ve never walked into the men’s section of a store, picked up a three pack of 100% cotton briefs or boxers and made my way to the check out. Never ever, but with time on my hands these days, I thought, “Why not?”

I learned why not. It is a frightening place, that there aisle.

First off, consider the pictures on the packages. Like plastic army men, there’s a series of the same basic poses the underwear model strikes, no matter the brand.

(There’s a job to put on a resume, “I strip down to my freakin’ skin tight, painted on, cotton/spandex briefs and let other folks take photos which then appear in stores around the world.”)

Pose number one is the running pose. It’s a neck to knee picture, and the fellow leans forward, obviously running or fixin’ to run. Looks like what they do is send the guy outside to get the newspaper and tell him,” Don’t worry it’s in a private mailbox,” when actually it’s on a four lane highway.

Pose number two is a guy who rolls with one or two hands on his hip and if the picture had one of those ‘press here’ things like tickle me Elmo does, we’d hear the guy growl, “We know who the man is around HERE, don’t we?”. Let’s call this the Robert Plant, Song Remains the Same, pose and if you’re pushing beyond 50, I figure you know what I’m talking about.

Finally, a standard commercial pose for products of all varieties; the “that was hilarious; and even funnier, look at the boog hanging from his nose!” laughing photo. I think they’re all French underwear models, slumming it for American companies and as the camera shutter clicks, they say, “Oui, I am een my….how you say…tidy whities…and I do not cair who sees me. I am getting…mmmm…good money for zis.”

All this and more closes in on me as I try to casually grab a package…um, let me rephrase…as I try to make a selection but the Underwear Brigade of running, laughing, and thrusting boxers, briefs, boxer-briefs, low rise soldiers flanks me and I surrender with a dive for the pots and pans section.

With a deep sigh, I run a shaking hand through my hair, trying to figure a next step. My phone rings and I see it’s the missus.

“Where are you?”

“At The Store; I need some undies so I came to buy ‘em.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

“What? Just find some….”

“No, no; there will be no “finding” happening today; I’m outta here; the running, laughing, thrusting…I’m surprised I didn’t lose an eye. No ma’am; I don’t know what in the world I was thinking about, but what we’ll do is this: I’ll say hey babe, I need some new drawers can you pick some up for me? And you’ll say…”

She laughs, “Thrusting, eh?”

"O running stream of sparkling joy to be a soaring human boy!” _{Bleak House, Charles Dickens, 1853}

Did you ever notice what a terrific sound a little boy's voice makes? Wouldn’t it be grand to catch it in a bottle and then open as needed?

Tough day? Give the bottom a tap and out shoots that little screech from a poke in the anywhere. They're ticklish all over.

Can’t sleep? Pour a bit out and listen to uncontrollable laughter of two buddies spending the night together, unable to do anything but laugh harder when you holler for them to quiet down and go to sleep. (Eventually you go in the room to quiet them down. Five minutes later, your laughter joins with theirs!)

We could make a million with a bottle of this stuff.

Everything a boy does comes with some sound effect. For no reason at all, he’ll start to make a combination karate chop and whip cracking sound with every step – think of corduroy pants. When his Mom tells him to stop, he'll change the subject and a few minutes later, a new sound effect. She'll laugh at that one as he tells her what it is. 

When you hear him say something sarcastic . . . you're mistaken. Little boys don't do sarcasm. One needs cynicism to do sarcasm, and I can't recall meeting a little boy that knew cynicism. It doesn't come until much later and when it does, you're told to relax, take life slower. Like when you were a boy.

Listen to the words a little boy uses. He doesn't talk; he tries words on for size. Understand he enjoys the pleasure of language; he savors the letters and sounds rolling off his tongue and around his lips. If you overhear him in the bathroom and peek, you'll see him talking in front of the mirror. Just to see what the sounds look like.

A little boy’s voice is a breathy sound, and it warms you up and makes your tummy feel full. It scratches your back and makes you smile and look for something fun to do. It may be raspy, or high pitched, or quiet, but it always wants the world to know who its owner is.

It's usually preceded by a smile; a sincere, unselfishly given smile, and followed by a funny face or a "Hey I got a question," face. It sings constantly, not necessarily recognizable songs, but sort of hums and la-la-la-la's.

It's serious, yet can break into a laugh at any time and usually wants to, because what else is worthwhile, he will wonder, besides fun?

Maybe instead of a bottle, we’ll use a barrel. 

A week ago I said, in part:

"…are you really, really convinced on young mister Derek Holland? I guarantee Nolan Ryan knows more about pitching than I do, and I like Holland’s moxie (to use a baseball cliché) but I see a fastball with little movement, a predictable slider and a tentative curveball. Might have been better to let him get 30 AAA starts this year."

There's been some confusion as to what I meant. (Last night Holland threw shut out ball for 8 2/3's, gave up two hits, walked only one and struck out 10.)

What I meant was I guarantee Nolan Ryan knows more about PITCHING AND PITCHERS than I do.

Any other questions?

Thank you.

Hey…how in the world do some guys drink beer and play sports? I like a cold brewski now and then but chug-a-lugging and running around? No huh.

One does get thirsty while playing sports, that’s a fact, but here’s another. Comes from a comedian (wish I could tell you his name, sorry) who said this:

“Played baseball as a kid, started drinking beer as a young man, got old, started playing softball, and then started drinking beer after playing softball. I loved playing softball because it was slowed down enough where I could feel like I was playing like a 17 year old. Crushing the ball, making great stops, diving for balls…it was great. Now, as an old guy, unless a ball is hit right at me it’s a base hit. Ain’t none of that diving anymore. Might spill my beer.”

To me, playing sports and drinking beer won’t ever be mistaken as old friends. I know I probably sit in the minority but I am convinced thanks to a lesson learned on the golf course.

Many years ago I was at the very first company conference I’d ever attended. It was a big event, held in a suburb of Palm Springs, CA.We got to play golf at this shindig and that too was another first – I’d caddied as a kid but never actually played the game.

So I practiced before the trip, went to the driving range early the morning of our game, and in general felt pretty good about things. As luck would have it, I ended up in the Vice President foursome.

When something like that happens, it can define a career. I was with my guardian angel VP who knew and loved me, the VP of marketing, and - raising the status of our foursome - the President of our company. I’ve always been pretty good at working the etiquette of those situations, so I wasn’t worried. Looked forward to, it actually.

Part of the reason came a week before the deal. My VP buddy confided, “Kevin, I have never played the game; I’m not a sports guy at all, so you help me out, okay?”

“Sure.”

Well, people, he was not lying about his abilities. By the fourth hole – and considering the value of that PGA golf course we played – he’d moved more real estate than Century 21 the previous year. Maybe the entire 1990’s. I was doing okay.

Around the 8^th hole or so, President guy says, “It’s about time we get some beers, ain’t it?”

What? It’s 9 AM! But I more than understood I better grab a beer when they do, even if I only sip and spill the thing for the next ten holes.

President guy drinks beer like it’s his job, marketing VP tries to keep up, and my buddy is grateful for something to end his misery. He says, “Put me down for 145 right now, I’ll drive the cart and drink beer.”

Now there’s more of a spotlight on me and I inadvertently chug-a-lug that first beer. I guess it’s the “dry heat” they always talk about out there, but those twelve ounces of fermented grain get me supercharged and I get the giggles.

Prudence dictates that I speak when spoken to with this group, and then only in golf clichés, meaning outright laughter is a no-no. I keep up on that, but the giggles begin to take on a life of their own. Are you with me? Good! Now I have to back up half a step. Don’t lose your spot here; meet you back on the 9^th tee.

In golf, professionals pretty much hit the ball where ever they want while decent amateurs know they have issues with their swing and adjust for it. The rest of us furrow our brows, swing furiously and, “let the big dog hunt,” hoping someone saw where it went. President guy fell somewhere between the first and second group. He owned a slice that made you swallow your tongue the first time you saw him hit. What’s a slice? (From ‘About.com)

Definition: "Hook" describes a trajectory or ball flight in which the golf ball starts out to the right (for a right-handed golfer) before curving severely back to the left and missing its target to the left. (Reverse those directions for left-handed golfers.) A hook is the opposite of the slice. Hooks are often the bane of amateur golfers and, for amateurs, can be tough to straighten out. A popular golf saying is, "You can talk to a slice but a hook won't listen."

To explain further: please picture a regular player standing on a line parallel to the direction he wants to hit it, with the ball at his feet. When he actually hits it, the ball might go a little this way or that, sometimes he even tops it and watches it dribble twenty feet from his shoes, but it heads down that-a-way towards the hole.

Back on the first tee, President boy- let’s call him Mike - stood at a forty-five degree angle to the ball and the direction we all looked for it to take. I watched as he waggles at the ball and wondered what in the world he’s doing but kept my mouth shut.

He rared back, swung viciously, and the ball took off for Mexico. Due south, baby. There we stood facing west towards the Pacific and he cranked a howitzer blast for the Baja.

As we watched, the ball magically curved back toward the United States, stopped and showed its passport, waved at the people in customs, headed back to the golf course and landed softly in the middle of the fairway. His ball traveled seven hundred miles as the crow flies, only 225 down the fairway, but it ended up a great shot.

“And that’s how you do that,” he muttered with great smugness. 

We all stumbled over ourselves to give him affirmation and headed down towards our next shot.

Got all that? Okay, back to the 9^th hole…

Don’t look now, but…

…this kid playing shortstop for the Rangers is the real deal. He’ll hit .255, maybe .260 this year, steal 30-40 bases, hit ten triples but the best thing is just what they’d told us it would be – he is a natural at short.

In my life, I’ve seen two guys in two sports that appeared similarly gifted as rookies; Alan Trammel and Steve Yzerman. On the other hand – we all remember Ruben Mateos, don’t we?

Still, next chance you get to see a game in person, watch Elvis as much as you can, keep a scorecard, take some pictures. I think you’ll be telling your grandkids about it some day.

…the Rangers have 69 games left. If they go 38 and 31 – basically the same .550 pace they’re at now – they’ll win 90 games. How about that?

…let’s HOPE there are no trades in the time between now and the trading deadline in July 31st. If it’s a “something for nothing,” then sure, but we are extremely fortunate to be seeing this now – it wasn’t supposed to begin to happen until next year. The team is very capable of winning 40 more games. Let’s see what happens with that.

…are you really, really convinced on young mister Derek Holland? I guarantee Nolan Ryan knows more about pitching than I do, and I like Holland’s moxie (to use a baseball cliché) but I see a fastball with little movement, a predictable slider and a tentative curveball. Might have been better to let him get 30 AAA starts this year.

…if it’s me, I go to Kinko, print line up cards for the next ten years with David Murphy in LF; one half of the stack with him batting seventh, the other half with him batting sixth. He’s my leftfielder until he retires. He plays the game, as they say, the way it’s supposed to be played.

…93 games left, five days between starts means somewhere between 15 to 18 starts for Millwood, Feldman, and the rest. I’ll take 15 wins from Feldman, thank you, and send Mike Maddux a fruit basket for whatever him and Nolan have done with these guys. Remember, we don’t have Jack Benoit or Eric Hurley out there the whole year. Spring training next year will be very, very interesting around the mound.

…there goes Michael Young; tenth in batting in the AL. We’ll be telling our grandkids about him, too.

Thing I miss most about corporate life are the funny stories. I don’t know about your industry, but because mine was/is restaurants, I can’t share a lot of stuff for a number of reasons, but some I can.

* * *

I was running the meeting and had a group of about twenty folks who were together for the first time. Those things tend to be a bit tense at first, so one thing that breaks the ice nicely was: “Let’s go once around the room and tell us what CD you’re playing the heck out of in your car.” (This was before IPods and MP3’s.)

One guy piped right up and said his was the GO-Go’s and he was real proud when he said it. The comedian of my gathering, with perfect timing, said, “What…is it stuck?”

A woman said her number one CD was the Greatest Hits of REO Speed Wagon

My guy says, “Greatest hits? Both of ‘em?”

* * *

An unforgettable meeting saw ten of us spread around a gorgeous, dark wood conference table, sitting on very plush, puffy, and comfortable office chairs that rocked, rolled, and spun in three-hundred-sixty degree circles.

Person leading the meeting was passionate yet boring and as she turned to write some stuff on the white board, I discovered my chair was strategically placed so as to enable me a complete circle without banging my knees, legs, and or feet on the table. Game on!

I nod to my meeting buddy and she discovers hers is also perfectly placed; she spins and comes back around facing me with a big smile. She nods to her tablemate and so on.

With my encouragement, nine adventurers set out on a quest of National Geographic proportions and when our leader turned around (maybe it was the wind blowing her skirt up that caused her to stop scribbling?) she saw nine of her best and brightest, spinning around like second graders. One of us wasn’t spinning, but…er…she knew me and I got the lecture anyway.

***

Pre conference call chatter is always interesting, because someone usually says something they get busted for, right? Many years ago, there was this:

“…yeah, that was kinda ironic,” one guy says.

“What’s ironic mean?” someone asked honesty.

First guy to pipe up was the guy I knew it would be. He ran the Houston market, and that’s all I need to say about that. Houston people are…different. This is kinda gross but funny so read with caution, but I swear it’s true and an exact quote because I’ll never forget it. Not sure if it was original but it was the first time I’d heard it.

“Well,” the Houstonian begins, “it’s like when you’re driving along in your car and you’re kinda rooting around in your nose and you pull the mother load out. It’s so big it that when it comes out, it makes a suction noise and your eyes water. There’s a datgum hair in the middle of it. And then you look out your driver’s side window and see an extremely hot blonde staring at you with her mouth wide open. That’s ironic.”

Right on cue, the silent-up-until-that-point Vice President says, “Yeah, and my wife was exceedingly grossed out, too, Clay, but thanks for starting this call off with a bang.”

*Sniff* Ah...those were the days.