Some of you have wondered about the lack of blogs recently--we have had a plethora of events going on lately and I got behind--kids moving their stuff home from college, other kids moving both in and out, graduations, visits from parents, and now a vacation by the Oregon coast. Camping in a travel trailer is so deluxe compared to the old days of tent or pop-up trailer camping. As I sit and look out at the ocean, it reminds of some classic camping stories:
My earliest recollection of camping was our family of six (all four kids were under eight) camping in a tent in the Smoky Mountains. I remember it pouring rain for hours, and my mom cooking with a green Coleman stove inside the tent. She was heating up cans of Chun King chicken (whatever that is, I just remember the name) and serving it hot on bread slices. We must have had ten servings each--we were all cold and starving--and it was of one of the best meals I've ever had to this day.
We graduated to a pop-up tent trailer sometime after that--my dad loved that trailer and kept it for about 20 years. We would camp in the state parks around southeast Iowa whenever the family could all get away--we had a border collie named Largo that would go with us. He loved to hide under a side of the trailer and then come flying out barking and snarling at unsuspecting passers-by. He would hit the end of his rope so hard that he would flip over backwards, then shake it off, and do it again. The camp strollers learned quickly, and walked on the opposite side of the road on any further trips past the trailer.
One year we decided to meet and camp around Telluride, Colorado with lots of abandoned gold mines nearby. Everyone decided to go for a hike in the forests around the Million Dollar Highway, named because of all the gold that was paved over when they built the road. My dad, not in the same shape then as he is today at 82 and ranked 9th in the world in the Senior Olympics for the 100 meter dash, was concerned about the lack of leadership (mine, of course) and length of the hike. We were a group of about 10 walking through dense brush and forest at about 7000 feet with no plan other than to look for old gold mines and possibly discover a fortune. The more we walked (aimlessly is such a harsh word), the more concerned he became. I kept telling him I had a general idea where we were, but he was still stressing out as it got darker and the trail more obscure. Just as the group was about to mutiny on me and declare me an inept leader, we came upon another group of people hiking towards us. One of the ladies in the group was wearing high-heeled bedroom slippers and had a tiny dog on a leash with her--I told my dad we would survive, and live to hike another day!!
A couple of more recent stories occurred at Wallowa Lake in eastern Oregon--Deb and I had purchased a 15 year old travel trailer and brought the kids with us to meet friends there. Heather was about nine then--she was amazed to see the deer that wandered freely around the campgrounds. She exploded into the trailer and announced that there was a MOOSE just outside--we rushed outside to find a tiny deer patiently standing there--we still love her imagination! On that same trip, Christopher was about two and getting into everything. We built a blazing camp fire that had burnt down to red-hot coals just perfect for s'mores. The little dork was trying to get closer to the fire, and tripped over a camp chair and fell face-first towards the fire. Luckily I was close enough to grab him as he fell, and only his hand and arm went in the coals. We rushed him to a hospital that was only a few miles away (with a police escort from the only officer on duty in Joseph, OR), and got excellent care from the emergency room staff. They cleaned him up and wrapped up his arm with bandages, and told us that because of his age he probably wouldn't even scar. Deb and I still wondered if we should cancel the remainder of the trip and bring the family home, but decided to wait until the next morning and see how he was doing. We woke up to him using his bandaged arm like a club to beat on his sisters in the trailer the next morning--needless to say we finished the trip and he recovered nicely (other than the periodic brain damage).
I'll probably have more material after this trip--we've seen transvestites in Bend, OR; Deb got hit on by a psycho chick in a coffee shop; and I wedged a 27 foot trailer into a 20 foot spot on the ocean at Depoe Bay--but that will wait for another day....til next time....Bob
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Holidays with my mom (Sue Bee)
I wrote about my dad a few posts back, so I thought I would reflect on my mom who died of bone marrow cancer back in 2004. Her name was Shirley Sue, but everyone called her Sue--in my teenage rebellious years it was necessary to call her something other than Mom, so I called her "Sue Bee"--that was a brand of honey that they sold in Iowa grocery stores. She good naturedly allowed me to call her that--she was intensely proud of her children, and loved us all getting together for holidays whenever possible. We lived in different states however, so she always planned for us to attend the Christmas Eve service at her church when we visited at Christmas to show us off (I have to wonder about her judgement!) to her friends.
This particular Christmas we were all there--Candi and I from college at Iowa, Bill from the Air Force Academy(in full uniform!), and Chris traveling in from Colorado. We all sat in a pew near the front, being introduced to dozens of people, smiling and nodding, and acting very mature--almost too mature. The service was going smoothly until a woman stood up to sing a delicate solo--the problem was that she was the pastor's wife and couldn't sing a lick--why he allowed her to sing on Christmas Eve is a true Christmas wonder. Anyway, out of respect for my mom I bit my lip and prayed we would all get through it, until my younger brother Chris whispered loudly "Boooobbbbbbb". I dared not even look at him because I knew I would lose it--it didn't matter if he recited the alphabet or the Pledge of Allegiance, I would LOSE IT! I turned away and shook my head, but he hissed even louder "Boooobbbbb". "Noooo" I silently mouthed to him and turned away again, knowing I would explode in laughter at anything he said. "Boooobbbbbbb" he exclaimed one more time--"GONG HER!!!" That was it--all mature behavior ended and the entire row of Coutts's erupted in spontaneous laughter during the most tender moment--my mom was not pleased, and never seemed as anxious to take us to her church again.
I'd like to say that was her kids' only irresponsible moment, but an equal display of our immaturity had occurred at a Thanksgiving dinner at her house a few years earlier. Again, she proudly sat with all her kids at a table laden with food--her dad had travelled to Iowa for Thanksgiving, and she asked him to say the prayer before we ate. The bad news was that her dad had been the lay leader for the tiny Pine Forest Methodist Church in Pensacola, Florida practically his whole life--that old guy could pray! He started asking a blessing for the food, the ground, the animals, the sky, the hands that prepared it, the feet....the list was endless! I could see the food that had once been steaming hot was getting cold, but we waited patiently-- then my sister Candi started to giggle softly. It rose in volume as he continued praying almost inaudibly--and when she couldn't contain it any longer, she quietly slipped into the bathroom to compose herself. After all she was a pre-law college student, the oldest child, and had a reputation to uphold. After taking a few minutes to regain her composure, she confidently returned to the dining room TO FIND THE PRAYER WAS STILL GOING ON!! That's when we all lost it--again I think that Sue Bee was never quite so eager to display her kids in public after that. She was a good sport though, and continued to feed us through the years, so she couldn't have been too mad at us....I hope she's hooked up to Wi-Fi in heaven and can read my blogs....I miss her.....til next time....Bob
This particular Christmas we were all there--Candi and I from college at Iowa, Bill from the Air Force Academy(in full uniform!), and Chris traveling in from Colorado. We all sat in a pew near the front, being introduced to dozens of people, smiling and nodding, and acting very mature--almost too mature. The service was going smoothly until a woman stood up to sing a delicate solo--the problem was that she was the pastor's wife and couldn't sing a lick--why he allowed her to sing on Christmas Eve is a true Christmas wonder. Anyway, out of respect for my mom I bit my lip and prayed we would all get through it, until my younger brother Chris whispered loudly "Boooobbbbbbb". I dared not even look at him because I knew I would lose it--it didn't matter if he recited the alphabet or the Pledge of Allegiance, I would LOSE IT! I turned away and shook my head, but he hissed even louder "Boooobbbbb". "Noooo" I silently mouthed to him and turned away again, knowing I would explode in laughter at anything he said. "Boooobbbbbbb" he exclaimed one more time--"GONG HER!!!" That was it--all mature behavior ended and the entire row of Coutts's erupted in spontaneous laughter during the most tender moment--my mom was not pleased, and never seemed as anxious to take us to her church again.
I'd like to say that was her kids' only irresponsible moment, but an equal display of our immaturity had occurred at a Thanksgiving dinner at her house a few years earlier. Again, she proudly sat with all her kids at a table laden with food--her dad had travelled to Iowa for Thanksgiving, and she asked him to say the prayer before we ate. The bad news was that her dad had been the lay leader for the tiny Pine Forest Methodist Church in Pensacola, Florida practically his whole life--that old guy could pray! He started asking a blessing for the food, the ground, the animals, the sky, the hands that prepared it, the feet....the list was endless! I could see the food that had once been steaming hot was getting cold, but we waited patiently-- then my sister Candi started to giggle softly. It rose in volume as he continued praying almost inaudibly--and when she couldn't contain it any longer, she quietly slipped into the bathroom to compose herself. After all she was a pre-law college student, the oldest child, and had a reputation to uphold. After taking a few minutes to regain her composure, she confidently returned to the dining room TO FIND THE PRAYER WAS STILL GOING ON!! That's when we all lost it--again I think that Sue Bee was never quite so eager to display her kids in public after that. She was a good sport though, and continued to feed us through the years, so she couldn't have been too mad at us....I hope she's hooked up to Wi-Fi in heaven and can read my blogs....I miss her.....til next time....Bob
The Secret of Life (Bob's Viewpoint)
People are always asking me what the secret of life is from my unique perspective. To answer that, I must take you back to my college years when I was a sophomore at Slater Hall on the University of Iowa campus. I lived on the ninth floor in a co-ed dorm, and we called ourselves EMBOS (Debbie would not be happy if I disclosed what that stood for, but suffice to say it involved typical college male adolescent humor). We invented a game we called "EMBOWLING", which was played in the long hallway that went the length of our dorm floor. To play, you would set up cans in a triangular shape like regular bowling, and a person down the hallway would try to knock them down with a frisbee. It was great fun, but we continued to develop variations to make it more difficult---just like life, the game was always changing.
Early variations included getting points not only for knocking down cans, but throwing the frisbee past the person trying to catch it. Soon, people were just chucking the frisbee as hard as they could at the other person, and participants started wearing winter jackets, gloves, and full-face motorcycle helmets to protect themselves during play. One day, a more diabolical variation emerged--unscrew all the light bulbs down the length of the hallway and throw a glow-in-the-dark frisbee at each other. They found that even with no lights on it was still possible to see the frisbee coming at you, so they taped over all the windows in the hallway until it was pitch black. You couldn't see the frisbee until it was right on top of you, and the screams of pain and injuries were frequent--we knew we were getting close to perfection, but it wasn't quite right yet.
The final refinement to EMBOWLING is what helped me develop my "Secret of Life Theory" that I tell my wife and kids, relatives, Sunday School youth, customers, and anybody else who will listen. We discovered that the only safe place to hide in a pitch black narrow hallway when a frisbee is tracking at you is to lie prone on the floor and let it sail over your head. This worked wonderfully until some smart ass (probably a pre-law student) went out to his car and brought back a snow tire WITH STUDS. Someone would roll the tire down the hallway at precisely the same time that someone else would fling the frisbee, and as you ducked down to the floor, the tire would roll over your head. Hence my theory---just when you think you've got life figured out and things are going well, somebody changes the game and rolls a studded snow tire over your head!! Listen and learn, my friends.....til next time....Bob
Early variations included getting points not only for knocking down cans, but throwing the frisbee past the person trying to catch it. Soon, people were just chucking the frisbee as hard as they could at the other person, and participants started wearing winter jackets, gloves, and full-face motorcycle helmets to protect themselves during play. One day, a more diabolical variation emerged--unscrew all the light bulbs down the length of the hallway and throw a glow-in-the-dark frisbee at each other. They found that even with no lights on it was still possible to see the frisbee coming at you, so they taped over all the windows in the hallway until it was pitch black. You couldn't see the frisbee until it was right on top of you, and the screams of pain and injuries were frequent--we knew we were getting close to perfection, but it wasn't quite right yet.
The final refinement to EMBOWLING is what helped me develop my "Secret of Life Theory" that I tell my wife and kids, relatives, Sunday School youth, customers, and anybody else who will listen. We discovered that the only safe place to hide in a pitch black narrow hallway when a frisbee is tracking at you is to lie prone on the floor and let it sail over your head. This worked wonderfully until some smart ass (probably a pre-law student) went out to his car and brought back a snow tire WITH STUDS. Someone would roll the tire down the hallway at precisely the same time that someone else would fling the frisbee, and as you ducked down to the floor, the tire would roll over your head. Hence my theory---just when you think you've got life figured out and things are going well, somebody changes the game and rolls a studded snow tire over your head!! Listen and learn, my friends.....til next time....Bob
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
When Bobs go bad.....a discretionary tale
I am frequently asked "Hey Bob, you seem like such a morally upright dude--you attend church regularly and teach fifth grade Sunday School, you don't cheat on your taxes (much), you haven't ever been "convicted" of a felony (watch "Stripes" with Bill Murray if you don't get this line), and you are married to a pastor--was there ever a time when you strayed and did something you regretted later?" I immediately think of the time that a group of us were caught soaping the Logan Elementary School in Fairfield, Iowa on Halloween night when I was in 6th grade....here's how the painful lesson goes:
That particular Halloween was the first time that my friends and I were too old to go trick-or-treating, and we went out looking for something else to do. We emptied our house of all the soap (I worry about my parents' supervision skills because I don't give out a new peanut butter jar unless the kids show me the empty one first, but they never questioned us about all the soap bars disappearing on Halloween) and walked the short distance to Logan, a band of six kids with bad intentions. We quickly soaped all the bottom windows with clever youth sayings and pictures, and just as we were finishing an old man (he was probably about 55 like I am now but that seemed much older back then) they had assigned to school security burst out of a side door. We reacted like any other group of deliquents would--we took off running at warp speed. The guard (let's call him Barney Fife) hollered out for us to come back to him...most of us were about a block away by now with no intention of returning. Incredulously, the closest kid to him (but still a half block away) stopped, turned around, and walked back to him. The rest of us slowly followed him back, knowing that if we didn't this brown-noser kid would squeal on us and we'd be in worse shape.
Security Guard Fife pulled a notebook from his pocket and asked us for our names...the oldest kid in our group stated "Bart Starr" and even spelled it for him, winking at me while the old guy wrote. I quickly declared "Dick Butkus", and my brother blurted out "Gale Sayers" (if you don't see the pattern here, you need to brush up on your knowledge of NFL stars of the 1960's). We thought we were looking good with our charade until, incredulously again, the brown-noser said and spelled out his actual name. What a loser!! Anyway....we finally confessed and gave our correct names, parents were notified, school detention was assigned, we had to clean all the windows we wrote on (the good news was we had already applied the soap, so we just needed water and paper towels---that's truly finding the blessing as my wife always says to do), and we ended up learning many valuable lessons. They are (in no particular order): accept responsibility for your actions, follow rules, tell the truth, respect authority, blah-blah-blah....honestly, the most important lesson I learned was choose your friends carefully.....a wise man once said that the good choices he makes today are because of the many bad decisions he made in the past.....til next time....Bob
That particular Halloween was the first time that my friends and I were too old to go trick-or-treating, and we went out looking for something else to do. We emptied our house of all the soap (I worry about my parents' supervision skills because I don't give out a new peanut butter jar unless the kids show me the empty one first, but they never questioned us about all the soap bars disappearing on Halloween) and walked the short distance to Logan, a band of six kids with bad intentions. We quickly soaped all the bottom windows with clever youth sayings and pictures, and just as we were finishing an old man (he was probably about 55 like I am now but that seemed much older back then) they had assigned to school security burst out of a side door. We reacted like any other group of deliquents would--we took off running at warp speed. The guard (let's call him Barney Fife) hollered out for us to come back to him...most of us were about a block away by now with no intention of returning. Incredulously, the closest kid to him (but still a half block away) stopped, turned around, and walked back to him. The rest of us slowly followed him back, knowing that if we didn't this brown-noser kid would squeal on us and we'd be in worse shape.
Security Guard Fife pulled a notebook from his pocket and asked us for our names...the oldest kid in our group stated "Bart Starr" and even spelled it for him, winking at me while the old guy wrote. I quickly declared "Dick Butkus", and my brother blurted out "Gale Sayers" (if you don't see the pattern here, you need to brush up on your knowledge of NFL stars of the 1960's). We thought we were looking good with our charade until, incredulously again, the brown-noser said and spelled out his actual name. What a loser!! Anyway....we finally confessed and gave our correct names, parents were notified, school detention was assigned, we had to clean all the windows we wrote on (the good news was we had already applied the soap, so we just needed water and paper towels---that's truly finding the blessing as my wife always says to do), and we ended up learning many valuable lessons. They are (in no particular order): accept responsibility for your actions, follow rules, tell the truth, respect authority, blah-blah-blah....honestly, the most important lesson I learned was choose your friends carefully.....a wise man once said that the good choices he makes today are because of the many bad decisions he made in the past.....til next time....Bob
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Bob the tool guy
I think if I was ever asked to describe myself in one sentence I would state that I am a tool guy (not a tool---that's a topic for another column). I have always loved tools--shopping for them, buying them, arranging and storing them, and even using them. My first toolbox was a sturdy gray Sears hip-roof box with a lift-out tray full of many of the wrenches, pliers, and screwdrivers that I still have today. Sometime my wife and kids don't understand me when I get frustrated if they misplace or lose a tool--most of my tools have been around for more years than they have, and I've grown very attached to them. Debbie does appreciate having all of my tools available whenever she is working on a church project--she'll hand me a list of the tools and materials, and I usually have it all in stock. She also appreciates quality--I once equated the Pampered Chef utinsil she was using to be like a "Snap-on" tool for a kitchen, which is very strong praise indeed.
I take my tools very seriously---I HATE to not have the correct tool needed for the job. It drives me nuts to see some doofus using a pair of pliers to turn a nut, or even using an adjustable wrench instead of the correct socket or combination wrench. It annoys me even more if someone asks me for a tool and I don't have it to lend to them. A friend once needed a 19 mm hex socket to install crash bars on his Harley, and I told him I thought I had one. I discovered that the largest one I had was a 17 mm, so after shamefully telling him I was mistaken, I went back in the house and ordered a complete set of large size hex sockets from Ebay. It's the principle of the thing--you are either a tool guy or you are not!!
Even better than having a gnarly collection of tools is knowing a more accomplished tool guy than yourself. In my case, that would be my buddy Mike. He not only owns all the heavy-duty tools that I don't have (like a welder, torch, panel saw, hammer drill, paint sprayer etc.), but he knows how to use them. He has helped me build a Rainbow playset in my backyard, wire a hot tub, put in a fence, finish a garage room, and various other projects that would paralyze your average idiot. The best thing about him is that he cares more about my project than I do (especially after I worked for hours on it in the heat or cold), so the quality is topnotch and always to his standards.
Once Deb's dad broke a light bulb off in the socket while changing it, and was afraid of electrocuting himself if he went any further. When he told Deb about his problem, she informed him of the classic "Martha Stewart" tip of cutting a potato in half and using it to screw the bulb out. As I listened to her suggest that to him I said "You are right about having Steve cut a potato in half, but then tell him to fry it up in a pan, and make some scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Then, invite Mike and me for breakfast and we'll turn off the power and use some vise-grips to get the broken part out the right way". Here's my best advice for a happy and low-stress life---everyone should make it their goal to assemble a quality set of tools, and learn how to use them safely and correctly. More importantly---find a neighbor, relative, or friend like Mike that is a handy guy, and buy him lunch regularly.....til next time....Bob
I take my tools very seriously---I HATE to not have the correct tool needed for the job. It drives me nuts to see some doofus using a pair of pliers to turn a nut, or even using an adjustable wrench instead of the correct socket or combination wrench. It annoys me even more if someone asks me for a tool and I don't have it to lend to them. A friend once needed a 19 mm hex socket to install crash bars on his Harley, and I told him I thought I had one. I discovered that the largest one I had was a 17 mm, so after shamefully telling him I was mistaken, I went back in the house and ordered a complete set of large size hex sockets from Ebay. It's the principle of the thing--you are either a tool guy or you are not!!
Even better than having a gnarly collection of tools is knowing a more accomplished tool guy than yourself. In my case, that would be my buddy Mike. He not only owns all the heavy-duty tools that I don't have (like a welder, torch, panel saw, hammer drill, paint sprayer etc.), but he knows how to use them. He has helped me build a Rainbow playset in my backyard, wire a hot tub, put in a fence, finish a garage room, and various other projects that would paralyze your average idiot. The best thing about him is that he cares more about my project than I do (especially after I worked for hours on it in the heat or cold), so the quality is topnotch and always to his standards.
Once Deb's dad broke a light bulb off in the socket while changing it, and was afraid of electrocuting himself if he went any further. When he told Deb about his problem, she informed him of the classic "Martha Stewart" tip of cutting a potato in half and using it to screw the bulb out. As I listened to her suggest that to him I said "You are right about having Steve cut a potato in half, but then tell him to fry it up in a pan, and make some scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Then, invite Mike and me for breakfast and we'll turn off the power and use some vise-grips to get the broken part out the right way". Here's my best advice for a happy and low-stress life---everyone should make it their goal to assemble a quality set of tools, and learn how to use them safely and correctly. More importantly---find a neighbor, relative, or friend like Mike that is a handy guy, and buy him lunch regularly.....til next time....Bob
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Racing with school bus #180
Each school day (except when I'm traveling a couple days a month) I get to drive Christopher 5 miles to school---there is a country song that says you "don't have" to do something for your kids, you "get" to do it... (obviously they have never met my kids!). Anyway, we always are trying to beat bus #180 at the same time every morning where the two lane highway merges into one lane---the bad news is that I'm in Debbie's mighty 4 cylinder Civic....you press the pedal and the motor pitch changes from a low hum to a high whrrrr (kind of like stepping on a cat), but the car only goes 2 mph faster. The other day I yelled out "I'm geeving her all I've gawt, Captain" in my best Scottie on the USS Enterprise voice, but Poot wasn't impressed as the bus slid in front of us. All this reminded me of my dad, Robert LaRoy Coutts Sr., (Christopher could have been named Robert LaRoy III, but Deb said "why pass on a bad name three times in a row?"---so we named him after his uncles Chris and Bill, which is questionable in it's own right).
Anyway, my dad had a 1965 bright red Mustang fastback with a high-performance 289 and a 4 speed when other dads drove big Buicks or tiny VWs. Since it was a family car too, he installed a trailer hitch on it to haul the pop-up camper trailer with. One time when the car was loaded with us kids and the trailer, we were challenged at a stop light by a loud-mouthed youth in a musclecar. All the kids yelled "get him, Dad!!!" as the light changed, and my dad smoked the tires off the line with the trailer weaving behind him....sometimes I miss those old V-8's where power was more important than gas mileage.
Another classic Robert Sr. moment occurred after we bought an old go-cart from a friend of my dad's. It was in pretty rough shape, but after we put lots of time and dollars into it, the thing ran as fast down the street as any car. In fact, we used to race our neighbor's 383 Road Runner whenever we saw him coming down the street, and could stay with him until he opened up his headers. As you can imagine, the peeps on the block grew tired of us hooligans barreling back and forth at all hours with an engine that sounded like a chain saw. One day my dad overheard two neighbors complaining about that go-cart: "the other night those Coutts boys were driving that damn go-cart in the dark, and I was ready to yell at them, but I looked again and it was Dr. Coutts driving it!!!" I know now where I get my mavericky attitude from--my dad was the biggest deliquent I knew for much of my childhood--supplying us with fireworks, motorized airplanes and race cars, bb guns and shotguns, go-carts and minibikes....it's a wonder we survived!! It does inspire me to make sure my kids know about all the dangers of the world (by showing them what not to do while having fun doing it)---I know my dad would be trying to beat that bus each day too!....til next time....Bob
Anyway, my dad had a 1965 bright red Mustang fastback with a high-performance 289 and a 4 speed when other dads drove big Buicks or tiny VWs. Since it was a family car too, he installed a trailer hitch on it to haul the pop-up camper trailer with. One time when the car was loaded with us kids and the trailer, we were challenged at a stop light by a loud-mouthed youth in a musclecar. All the kids yelled "get him, Dad!!!" as the light changed, and my dad smoked the tires off the line with the trailer weaving behind him....sometimes I miss those old V-8's where power was more important than gas mileage.
Another classic Robert Sr. moment occurred after we bought an old go-cart from a friend of my dad's. It was in pretty rough shape, but after we put lots of time and dollars into it, the thing ran as fast down the street as any car. In fact, we used to race our neighbor's 383 Road Runner whenever we saw him coming down the street, and could stay with him until he opened up his headers. As you can imagine, the peeps on the block grew tired of us hooligans barreling back and forth at all hours with an engine that sounded like a chain saw. One day my dad overheard two neighbors complaining about that go-cart: "the other night those Coutts boys were driving that damn go-cart in the dark, and I was ready to yell at them, but I looked again and it was Dr. Coutts driving it!!!" I know now where I get my mavericky attitude from--my dad was the biggest deliquent I knew for much of my childhood--supplying us with fireworks, motorized airplanes and race cars, bb guns and shotguns, go-carts and minibikes....it's a wonder we survived!! It does inspire me to make sure my kids know about all the dangers of the world (by showing them what not to do while having fun doing it)---I know my dad would be trying to beat that bus each day too!....til next time....Bob
Monday, April 18, 2011
They walk among us......
If you are reading this, you have either received or figured out the correct link to Bob's Blog despite being sent the wrong link originally. When I said I wasn't that technologically savvy, I meant it!!! Anyway, on to today's observation: dumb asses who live in the same world as us (I'm assuming if you are reading this blog you are one of the sharper peeps and therefore included in "us").
Christopher told me that he recently was in junior high choir class, and they were discussing which songs to sing at the spring concert. One girl suggested a John Lennon song, and another boy asked "who is John Lennon?" No big deal, except the boy was wearing a Beatles T-shirt!! I'm wondering what kind of music he thought was worth learning about....scary! I was in Walmart last week and saw a guy walking towards me wearing a Yankees baseball cap on the first night of the Yankees-Red Sox series, and asked him if he knew what the score was that night. He looked at me blankly and said he just wore the hat, but didn't follow baseball. I thought "what a maroon!!--the biggest rivalry in sports history and he's wearing the hat for decoration!"
The worst instance of irresponsible apparel wearing happened when we traveled to Reno last year to see the Boise State-Reno game for the conference title, and a chance for BSU to go to a BCS bowl. As many of you know, Boise State lost in a very flukey manner (missed field goals, mystery official's calls, sucky weather, Sports Illustrated curse, etc.). The next morning Debbie, Christopher, and I put on all our orange and blue and went to breakfast. The hotel in Reno (and the entire town) had been filled with Bronco fans and colors the day before, but now we stood out like a spotlight. The manager of the hotel told us that we were the only Bronco fans he had seen in colors all morning, and wanted to commend us (but still didn't buy us breakfast--cheap blanking Reno fans!!). I can't stand the "bandwagoners" that cheer for a team as long as they win, and then disappear when they start losing. Think of the Cub fans, Detroit Lions fans, and those poor losers (like me) that still cheer for the Phoenix Suns to win their first NBA title...they take their teams, their history, and their apparel seriously.
The next time you witness some dope having no clue to what he is wearing, or what he is representing---BUST HIM! Tell him to take the time to learn about the history, traditions, rivalries, and meaning before he joins the "latest, greatest thing", and to do the homework and pay the dues. If you want see a good example of this, go rent or buy "Fever Pitch" and see how fans acted and cheered "old school", and were finally rewarded. It doesn't get any better than that...til next time....Bob
Christopher told me that he recently was in junior high choir class, and they were discussing which songs to sing at the spring concert. One girl suggested a John Lennon song, and another boy asked "who is John Lennon?" No big deal, except the boy was wearing a Beatles T-shirt!! I'm wondering what kind of music he thought was worth learning about....scary! I was in Walmart last week and saw a guy walking towards me wearing a Yankees baseball cap on the first night of the Yankees-Red Sox series, and asked him if he knew what the score was that night. He looked at me blankly and said he just wore the hat, but didn't follow baseball. I thought "what a maroon!!--the biggest rivalry in sports history and he's wearing the hat for decoration!"
The worst instance of irresponsible apparel wearing happened when we traveled to Reno last year to see the Boise State-Reno game for the conference title, and a chance for BSU to go to a BCS bowl. As many of you know, Boise State lost in a very flukey manner (missed field goals, mystery official's calls, sucky weather, Sports Illustrated curse, etc.). The next morning Debbie, Christopher, and I put on all our orange and blue and went to breakfast. The hotel in Reno (and the entire town) had been filled with Bronco fans and colors the day before, but now we stood out like a spotlight. The manager of the hotel told us that we were the only Bronco fans he had seen in colors all morning, and wanted to commend us (but still didn't buy us breakfast--cheap blanking Reno fans!!). I can't stand the "bandwagoners" that cheer for a team as long as they win, and then disappear when they start losing. Think of the Cub fans, Detroit Lions fans, and those poor losers (like me) that still cheer for the Phoenix Suns to win their first NBA title...they take their teams, their history, and their apparel seriously.
The next time you witness some dope having no clue to what he is wearing, or what he is representing---BUST HIM! Tell him to take the time to learn about the history, traditions, rivalries, and meaning before he joins the "latest, greatest thing", and to do the homework and pay the dues. If you want see a good example of this, go rent or buy "Fever Pitch" and see how fans acted and cheered "old school", and were finally rewarded. It doesn't get any better than that...til next time....Bob
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