Sometimes it seems like I live in a world where I’m surrounded by clowns and jokers.

Or worse.

A couple of weeks ago I blogged about Moira, a seven-year-old Minnesota girl with cerebral palsy who had her wheelchair stolen from outside her house. Who could do such a thing as steal a child’s wheelchair, I wondered. Surely it wasn’t some thrill-seeking thief, I decided. It had to be someone who had a disabled child of their own. I told myself that it was without doubt someone with no money, no insurance, no means to care for their own child. Someone who was suffering such extreme distress, someone who had tried and applied and been rejected by every social services agency in the state and were left with no other choice but to steal. Subscribing to that scenario was the only way I could get my head around the idea of someone sinking so low as to steal a child’s wheelchair.

Here it is two weeks later and I’m back to pounding my head against the wall and asking the same question again: Who steals a wheelchair?

This past week an equipment trailer in Shakopee (accent on the ‘Sha’, not on the ‘ko’ for those of you who don’t speak Minnesotan) belonging to the Minnesota PowerHockey League was stolen from its winter storage lot.

The Minnesota PowerHockey League is the Minnesota division of the U.S. EWHA, the U.S. Electric Wheelchair Hockey Association. The U.S. EWHA is a hockey program for anyone, male or female, who requires the use of an electric power wheelchair in their daily life. The Minnesota PowerHockey League is a six-team league with four teams located in the Twin Cities metro area, one team in northern Minnesota and another team in southern Minnesota.

The trailer was stolen sometime in the middle of the night and the good-natured thieves dumped the contents of the trailer: sticks, nets, public address speakers, jerseys and a scoreboard – equipment valued in the thousands of dollars – in the middle of the road outside of a west suburban Minneapolis school. The items that weren’t damaged or destroyed from being hit and run over by cars was recovered by staff at the school. The trailer, valued at $3,000 is still missing.

The thieves didn’t steal wheelchairs this time, but they stole everything that allows the Blackhawks to play hockey. Their 2012 season starts on April 28th and right now their season is in jeopardy.

Anyone who sees a trailer with this image on the side –

– is asked to call Craig McClellan at 763-535-4736 or email him at:  craigm@powerhockey.com

The non-profit group is also accepting donations.

Moira’s story had a happy ending. Let’s hope this one does, too.

Once again—it’s time for the weekly blog hop!!

Well—mid January—here in the Midwest means lots of cloudy days, lots of snow days, lots of rainy days—and for the most part not a lot of sunshine. I don’t know about you, but I miss the warmer, sunnier weather.  Not a lot of inspiration to draw from that—or is there??

Drum Roll Please:
Blog Hop #32
The Blues

Whether your feeling them or singing them or both—here’s your chance to join our weekly hop and write about them.  Make it fun—if you can!!
As always—you take the topic given above an interpret it anyway you want.

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The Blues.

As music lover, when I hear those two words, my mind automatically goes to the same place I’m sure most every other music lover’s mind goes to and that’s right to music. A person could sit down and write about the blues for a long time if they wanted to. They could write about the history, they could write about the instruments, they could write about the genres, they could write about the musicians, they could write about Martin Scorcese’s documentary, or they could just write about what the blues means to them. The possibilities are endless.

I’m not going to do any of that because it’s too much like work and too much work gives me the blues which is sort of odd because traditionally, not enough work would be something that might give some Delta bluesman the blues. Me, I’d rather just think about, and listen to, the blues than actually have them.

It’s difficult to write on this prompt without thinking about Etta James who died this past week. An influential artist, Ms. James is, and will continue to be, missed by many. I’m not going to write a tribute to her because a friend of mine did that already and she did it better than I could, writing about her impact and her influence to a 15-year-old girl. You can check out what she had to say right here. Go ahead and click, I’ll wait.

You’re back? Okay, so when I read the prompt and starting thinking about music, the first song that came to mind was Statesboro Blues which is a song written back in the mid-20’s by a guy named Blind Willie McTell who, like all good bluesmen, taught himself to play the guitar. Born blind sometime around the turn of the century, McTell is an influential artist and while his Statesboro Blues is one of the more influential blues songs around, it’s not his original version of the song my mind went to first.

Would you like me to explain? I’d be happy to!

A favorite blues genre for me is blues rock and one of my favorite blues rock bands (technically a southern blues rock band if you’re keeping score) is The Allman Brothers Band and it’s the Allman Brothers Band’s cover of Statesboro Blues that ranks number one on my list, just inching out David Bromberg’s truer to the original version, and that’s the version that came to mind first.

I thought of posting a video of the Allman Brothers Band playing Statesboro Blues live here, but I decided to go with a song by Gov’t Mule instead because that twisty road that took me from the blues to Statesboro Blues to the Allman Brothers Band to Blind Wille McTell also took me to Gov’t Mule.

Huh? I bet you’re right this very second thinking, “Wait a second, pal, Gov’t Mule isn’t a blues band!”, am I right? Or maybe you’re thinking, “What the hell is a government mule?” Either way, well, not really either way; more for the first way than the second way, you’re right, but if you can follow my twisty thinking for a few more seconds it’ll make sense.

This guy named Warren Haynes plays guitar for the Allman Brothers Band, and when the Allmans weren’t touring or in the studio, Haynes had free time so he started another band, Gov’t Mule, with the bass guitar player from the Allman Brothers Band, a guy named Allen Woody, as a side project. You’re still with me? So Haynes wrote this song called Soulshine and I like that song a lot and while Soulshine isn’t technically a blues song, it’s a really good song and it does have a blues guitar introduction. Make sense? I hope so because I don’t think I can explain it any better.

So about that bluesy guitar introduction on Soulshine that I really like so much? On this live version of the song, it’s not really so much of an introduction because the guitar doesn’t actually come in until about 1:17 of the song because a guy named Chuck Leavell, a piano player who used to play for the Allman Brothers Band a long time ago, offers up a really delicious piano introduction.

Phew, that’s done.

I hope some of it made sense.

Soulshine.
It’s better than sunshine,
it’s better than moonshine,
damn sure better than rain.
Now people don’t mind,
we all feel this way sometime,
got to let your soul shine, shine ‘till the break of day.
(Lyrics copied without permission)

Do you like the blues, or one of the different blues genres? If you do, leave me a comment and let me know who some of your favorites are.

I file this tip under ‘Cost saving auto tips’.

Caution: If you notice you’re driving into things then you need stop the experiment and clean your window immediately.

= = =

I watched the State of the Union speech last night. The annual speeches themselves really don’t mean that much, but I enjoy the pageantry and pomp and it’s sort of thrilling to hear the Sergeant at Arms announce the President: “Mister Speaker. The President of the United States.” It’s interesting. Seeing all the legislators gathered in a relaxed atmosphere is fun and I like the procession down the aisle where it seems that everyone, regardless of party affiliation, wants to get near the President.

I also like thinking about what might be going through the mind of the designated survivor.

If you don’t know, the designated survivor is a member of the President’s cabinet who is appointed by the President to spend the time during the State of the Union speech (or during presidential inaugurations) at a distant and secure location in the event of a worst case scenario type of situation. The designated survivor gets presidential treatment during that time, including transportation and security. More important, accompanying the designated survivor to the secure location is someone who is carrying the nuclear football.

Kind of cool, you’d think, but I don’t know. Here you are, the secretary of some department, and the next thing you know you’re sitting in a windowless room at some undisclosed remote location next to a guy who’s holding the means for you to authorize a nuclear attack and who doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Granted, it’s only for a few hours, but I don’t think I’d want that type of responsibility. I find it much more relaxing to spend the time on the secure location of my couch holding nothing more combustible than a bowl of popcorn.

My motto: Better to think, than to do.

You might think this kind of stuff can’t happen and that there’s nothing to worry about and being the designated survivor carries no real responsibility. She wasn’t really an official designated survivor, but this is pretty much the situation Laura Roslin found herself in after the Cylon attack on the Twelve Colonies of Kobol. As the highest ranking surviving member in the presidential line of succession, Roslin, the Secretary of Education for the Twelve Colonies found herself being sworn in as president aboard Colonial One on her way to the recently decommissioned Battlestar Galactica before she could even catch her breath. So, yeah, it can happen.

So say we all.

Thanks for reading!

Time.
A blessing and a curse
Never enough. Sometimes too much.
Eternity.

Time spent waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for a mouth to open. Waiting for a word. Waiting for a kiss. Waiting for a smile. Waiting for a tear. Waiting for a decision. Waiting for a result. Waiting for a decision. Waiting for the oven timer to ring. Waiting for a line to move. Waiting for a car to move. Waiting for a part of your body to move.

    (Time)    Waiting.
                (Time)    Waiting.
                                (Time)    Waiting.

Regardless of our best intentions, have you ever noticed that we have a tendency to make the same mistakes time and time again. I wonder what that says.

Question: If you had a time machine and could go anywhere you wanted, knowing you could only go to one place, and knowing there was no such thing as any type of time travel paradoxes to worry about so you could theoretically go back in time and marry yourself if you wanted, would you go into the past to your happiest day and relive it, or would you go into the past to your worst day and change it, or would you go into the future and leave yourself a surprise or would you go and do something else? Where, what and why?

We spend a lot of time in the pursuit of time but it’s really not the amount of time that matters, it’s what we do with the time we have that matters.

Time for a man in love:

Time for a man falling out of love:

Time for dancers:

Time for peace, love and psychodelicized time (with one hell of a rocking cowbell):

Time for a man who has mastered time:

Until next time…

The forecast called for about an inch of snow through the day today but I didn’t hear anything about freezing rain. Five minutes out of the garage, just as I got on the highway, and my windows are iced over. A few more miles and I’m in snow, back to sleet, over to a light drizzle of rain and then finally back to snow. I leave very early in the morning so there’s not a lot of traffic on the road so it wasn’t a white-knuckle drive, but it was a wild ride by my definition. Too bad I don’t practice meditation like I always say I’m going to do because right now would be a good time to just sit back and get centered.

Here’s what gets me about driving in weather like this: the drivers who pay no attention to the weather or road conditions. I’m a cautious (feel free to insert your own adjective here depending on your own bad weather driving style) driver. I’m driving a highway with a speed limit of 55 and it’s dark and it’s sleety, drizzly and snowy and I’m going 50 miles per hour. I don’t think that’s so bad considering the top half of my front window is iced up despite the defroster going full blast, but drivers are tailgating me and passing me and they’re all going a lot faster than the posted speed limit. Am I the only one who has ice on his window, or the only one who thinks that maybe there could be some ice on the road, or the only one who doesn’t care if he gets to work two minutes later than normal this morning?

I don’t get it.

The prompt is pet peeves. Could there have been a better prompt selection for me to write on than pet peeves? Considering my critical, cynical, fussy and sometimes moderately pessimistic nature, probably not. No, pet peeves grow on me like mold on dead wet leaves in the summer, so the problem isn’t picking a pet peeve, it’s where to start. Actually, the biggest question might be how I should rank my pet peeves. For example, should I go with pet peeves that happen all the time, or pet peeves that happen infrequently, but, when they happen, are really peeveworthy? I can’t decide.

Insight of the day: not being able to decide on stuff might be one of my biggest pet peeves about myself.

All right, I’ve got one and at the risk of offending a lot of people, I’m going to take a deep breath and dive head first into the murky waters of peevedom.

I’m sorry parents, please don’t hate me, but your children are pains in the backside. Yes, I know they’re the smartest, cutest, most adorable and charming children on the planet, but from where I sit they’re nothing but an annoyance wrapped up in wispy hair and diapers. They play too loudly, they talk too loudly, they whine too loudly and they cry too loudly. And since I’ve rarely ever see a kid without his finger in his nose, or one that isn’t coughing, they spread way too many germs.

I know it sounds harsh but don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate children, I really like children a lot. They’re really cute in commercials, as well as in some movies and television shows, and I used to love when Art Linkletter would interview children on his television show and I’m a big fan of young adult fiction, so I really do like children. I just like children from a distance. A nice, safe, moderate distance. And with their mouths closed.

So, after that very lengthy justification, one of my biggest pet peeves is germy children acting out of control and making loud noises in public places.

Yes, energy bars and yogurt. Yes, the trend disgusts me, too.

What is wrong with us? I’m proud to be an American, and I’m all for low-fat food and healthy fast food, and I even support the idea of restaurants having to list the fat and nutritional content of their offerings in their menus and on their menu boards, but yogurt and energy bars instead of chocolate cupcakes and Ding Dongs? Come on, people. This is Hostess treats we’re talking about. We have a relationship with Hostess treats. We go way back.

Hostess treats are the snacks we all grew up on and we all pretty much turned out okay, right? Faced with an apple or a Hostess cupcake in our Dudley Do-right lunch boxes our moms knew we’d toss the apple, so we got the cupcake. At least I did (I would have preferred a Sno Ball, but she kept those for herself) and I’m still here to thank my mom for that! So what’s the sudden deal with yogurt and energy bars?

The Snack War

There is another factor to consider here beyond healthy choices and that’s the snack war. Yes, Hostess gives us great snack products, but who can forget Little Debbie? Not me, that’s for sure. Yes, you can argue that Little Debbie is a Hostess knock-off and not the same quality, but at less than half the cost, I guess I’m willing to trade in my Hostess Ho Hos for the Little Debbie Swiss Rolls. I’ll dump my Suzy Q’s for the Devil Cremes and my Donettes for Mini Frosted Donuts. Plus, Little Debbie has a lot of snack treats that Hostess doesn’t, like Marshmallow Pies and Peanut Butter Crunch Bars, Caramel Cookie Bars and Cosmic Brownies. Looking at the Little Debbie product line and price point, and suddenly I have to stop and think about the quality over quantity equation a little closer.

And let’s not forget Entenmann’s. Higher up the quality scale, Entenmann’s is also a little more expensive, but the product offerings are a lot better. Treats like the Chocolate Chip Iced Cake, the different varieties of donuts, all those different loaf cakes, and the not-to-be-missed Chocolate Fudge Cake. Entenmann’s is good stuff.

The Bottom Line

So let’s try and put this health craze into perspective, shall we? Let’s quit smoking and cut back on alcohol. Let’s all get regular exercise and let’s eat fresh vegetables (despite how difficult it can be picking out the good veggies in the grocery store bins) and fruits and let’s cut back on soft drinks, but let’s not go to extremes. Remember, next to the carrots and the broccoli, the apples and the bananas, there’s always room for a Twinkie.

Always.

It would be the American thing to do. Scratch that because this is bigger than just the United States, it would be the North (and South) American thing to do.

Feel free to comment and tell me your favorite snack treat.

Seriously, who steals a wheelchair?

The chair is valued at $3,000 which makes it difficult for Moira’s parents to replace, so they’ve posted a sign on their garage door asking whoever took the chair to please bring it back.

To maintain my sanity, I can only hope that the person who stole Moira’s chair has a child who needs it more than Moira does. Anything less than that and I start to short circuit thinking about the direction of the world and a person who would steal a child’s wheelchair.

Moira had been using a temporary wheelchair from the Courage Center and while you’d think that’s a happy ending to a sad and disturbing story, it isn’t. Enter a Good Samaritan. Yesterday, Moira traveled to Residential Mortgage Group where she met a man named Steve Sherwood who is paying $5,000 for a new chair for Moira. Says Sherwood: “It’s the right thing to do.”

Says me: “Wow.”

And it doesn’t end there. A spokesperson for the Science Museum of Minnesota said they were so touched by Moira’s story, and wanting to be a part of the community of support around her, they are giving Moira and her family a complimentary membership to the museum.

“It’s the right thing to do.” – Steve Sherwood, Residential Mortgage Group

My back hurts today and I have a headache and it’s suddenly windy and cold outside and you know what, I don’t care. I don’t even really care about the people who stole Moira’s wheelchair anymore because I’m a sucker for happy endings. But it’s not just the happy ending that makes me feel good today, what makes me feel good is that the world has people like Steve Sherwood and non-profit groups like the Science Museum of Minnesota who see a issue and step up and resolve it. In the process, they’ve not only made a little seven-year-old girl and her family happy, but they’ve made me happy as well. I hope some of it rubs off on you, too.

####

Dear Michael,

Hello and how’s it going? It’s me, well, really you, writing to you from the future! Pretty cool, huh?

Hey, guess what? Despite what you think, you’re going to make it past 50 and you know what else? You’re not going to like writing letters any more then than you do now. Some things never change, huh?

So what’s new with me in the year 2012? I can’t really answer that question without giving away pretty much everything and since you’re going to grow up to be a man who doesn’t like book, television or movie spoilers, I’m going to respect that and not tell you anything about your life in the upcoming years. Relax, despite what you think, not knowing everything won’t kill you. Obviously. And if I did tell you everything you wouldn’t believe me anyway because (don’t roll your eyes and shake your head at me) you’re doubtful by nature.

Now what can I tell you then without giving away too much? I quit smoking just about fifteen years ago and yes, it was difficult. Really difficult. Not to lecture, but you can really do yourself a favor by deciding to quit a little earlier in life which might make that whole future ordeal a little simpler for yourself. Either way, you’re going to quit and start again more times that you’ll be able to remember so don’t even try. Don’t try remembering, that is.

Let’s see here. High School graduation was uneventful and if you can hang on to the camera you check out of the school’s photo lab you won’t have to come up with $15.00 the day after graduation to get your diploma. I’d tell you to stay in college if for no other reason then you won’t have to take that lousy job working on that assembly line packing stereo equipment, but then if you don’t leave school and take that lousy assembly line job you won’t realize how much you don’t like that kind of work until it’s too late and then you won’t go back to college. Hmm, if you do you might not and if you don’t you might. Is this a time travel paradox? I don’t know, but yes, you still tend to think along “goofy” lines in 2012 so don’t worry about it so much at 16 because it’s just a part of who you are.

You’re going to meet someone named Lisa in a few years. You’re going to feel weird about it, lots of funny feelings, but talk to her, don’t be bashful. Ask her out. Marry her. You’re going to meet someone named Margaret a few years after that and all I’ll say is stay away. Remain bashful and don’t ask her out.

When you’re 24 you’re going to have the chance to drop everything and go out east and see the Grateful Dead at Madison Square Garden. Don’t think about it, just go. And keep playing the trumpet, you’ll find out in time how cool it really is.

I guess the only other thing I can say is that life isn’t so bad and try not to worry so much or you’ll lose your hair.

Oh yeah, keep eating pizza and don’t ever stop watching baseball.

Gotta go now.

Love,
Michael

I start the tape and John, backed by Elephant’s Memory, starts rocking to New York City, but something’s wrong here. There are odd little audio drops in the song, barely noticeable, and rewinding back I realize that the line, “Have a marijuana if you can” has been changed to, “Have a ____ if you can”, and that’s not all. The next line, “The Pope smokes dope every day” has been changed to “The Pope ____ every day.”

Censorship? That seems odd.

Three songs in and John begins Woman is the Nigger of the World, a song about the oppression of woman, only there’s another strange audio drop and instead of the full lyric, John is singing, “Woman is the ____ of the world”.

What the fuck? What are you doing here VH1 Classic?

I’m not going to defend the word “nigger”. I can’t do that because I don’t like the word and I don’t like the meaning. The word is hurtful, but in the context of Lennon’s song, where I don’t think he’s using it as a racial slur, I question why it had to be censored. Are we not smart enough to take the lyrics in context? Are we so blind that we’re going to infer meaning where none exists? Are we so naïve and simple-minded and incapable of rational thought that we need to have decisions as to what we can and cannot hear made for us now? I guess according to the VH1 Classic channel, when it comes to a nearly 40 year old piece of musical history, the answers to those questions are ‘yes’. Someone please tell me that isn’t so.

I said that particular word, what we now, in political correctness, call the “N” word, which is not so very different than just saying the actual word, is hurtful and I stand by that, but I wonder why the word – why any word – is hurtful. It’s just a word, sticks and stones, you know, right? But is it hurtful enough to be considered taboo? Hurtful to the point where publishers should alter classic works of fiction like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn – stories written nearly 140 years ago – because they contain racially insensitive language? And is the word hurtful because the word is really bad, or because we allow the word to be hurtful and bad. And so there’s no misunderstanding, I’m not arguing that it’s not a hurtful word, and I’m not getting ready to lobby that the word enter into the vernacular. I’m told by people closer to the issue than me that the word is hurtful and I accept that. This is just stuff I think about when I think about censorship and certain stuff in the world that keeps people separate and apart and distant and fearful of each other.

Lenny Bruce, you might have heard his name or seen the Dustin Hoffman movie, was a comedian and social critic. Despite going to jail on obscenity charges Bruce refused to censor himself and I admire that. That being his commitment to his beliefs not always what he said. He probably influenced every comic who came after him which is saying a lot. Here’s a bit of Lenny Bruce talking about that word and the power of words in general. Again, I’m not defending the word or condoning its use, I just think Bruce’s commentary on the power of words is interesting.

“What did he say? “Are there any niggers here tonight?” Jesus Christ, do you have to get that low for laughs? Have I ever told you about the schwartzer? Or spoke about the moulin john’s? Are there any niggers? I know that one nigger that works here I see him back there. Oh there’s two niggers, customers. Ah but between those two niggers there’s one kike. Thank god for the kike. And two kikes. That’s two kikes and three niggers and one spic. One spic, three spics and one mick. One mick one spic one hick, thick, funky, spunky boogie. And there’s another kike. Three kikes, three kikes one guinea, one greaseball three greaseballs, two guineas. One hunky funky lace-curtain Irish mick. Five more niggers. I pass with seven niggers, six spics, five micks, four kikes, three guineas, and one wop. Well, I was just trying to make a point and that is that it’s the suppression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness. Dig. If President Kennedy would just go on television, and say, “I would like to introduce you to all the niggers in my cabinet,” and if he’d just say “nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger” to every nigger he saw, “boogie boogie boogie boogie boogie,” “nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger” ’til nigger didn’t mean anything any more, then you could never make some 6 year old black kid cry because somebody called him a nigger at school.”

Offensive? What do you think? Can emotion ever be totally removed from certain words? Is Bruce’s commentary valid and relevant or nothing more than a pipe dream? Does the suppression of a word give the word power or are certain words, by nature, bad?

Here’s the John Lennon song if you’re interested. And I’m always interested in your thoughts and comments.