Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen

My grandson, Bobby, is approaching his thirteenth birthday. His mother and father decided it’s high time he got the The Birds and the Bees talk. After a lengthy discussion and more flimsy excuses than you can count, they conclude that I should have this very important talk with my grandson. My wife, Bobby’s grandmother, laughs at this suggestion. She jokingly (I’m almost sure she was joking) states, “He never learned a damn thing in all the years we’ve been married. Any twelve-year-old could probably teach him a thing or two.” In spite of grandma’s jest I got the job.

I pictured my grandson and me having our talk in some masculine setting: along a hiking trail, at the summit of some peak, in a duck blind, or maybe on a rocky sea shore. It finally dawned on me that the setting would be easy, but how about the topic itself. My wife was just kidding when she said I didn’t know anything about sex and reproduction. Wasn’t she? I’m sure she was. Well maybe…

I’d better do some research, outline my discussion, design some visual aids, and work out a host of Q & As. I’ll prepare this talk as I would any important lecture. Let’s see, where to begin.

I’ll look into the origin of the The Birds and the Bees expression. It must have made some sense or stood for something way back when. Wrong! The birds and the bees is an idiomatic expression and euphemism referring to courtship and sexual intercourse. Okay, I can use that once I figure out what an idiomatic expression is, and how come they only refer to sexual intercourse. I have to explain it to a twelve-year-old.

Read on, there’s more: The phrase is evocative of the metaphors and euphemisms often used to avoid speaking openly and technically about the subject. Huh?

So much for The Birds and the Bees expression. How about birds? There must be some reason the authors of this archaic phrase chose birds rather than one of the more obvious barnyard animals. Let’s see…birds…hmm…

Most birds do not have the same reproductive body parts as mammals. Instead, both male and female birds have a cloaca – one opening that serves as the bodily exit for their digestive, urinary and reproductive systems. Let’s see if we got this right. There is no physical difference between boy birds and girl birds, and they both use their one body thingy for everything? Everything!

I think I got it. So how do they do it with their common doohickeys? Let’s read more: During the breeding season, the cloaca swells and protrudes slightly outside the body. Okay, protruding whatchmacallits. Now we’re getting somewhere. Are you ready for the X rated part?

The positions and postures birds assume to mate can vary somewhat, but the most common is for the male bird to balance on top of the female. Okay, I got it. He mounts her from behind and…and…

The female may hunch or bow to give the male easier balance. She will then move her tail aside to expose her cloaca to his reach, and he will arch his body so his cloaca can touch hers. The brief rubbing of cloacas may last less than a second, but the sperm is transferred quickly during this “cloacal kiss” and the mating is complete. THAT’S IT? A KISS? Less than a second of touching and it’s over. OVER, ALL OVER. Psst—don’t tell anyone but it sounds a lot like my first time.

How do I explain this to my grandson? I can tell him to avoid rubbing body parts, especially those kind of body parts with anyone. Nah, I’ll figure something out.

Maybe there’s something we can learn from how bees do it. There must be a reason they chose bees as a model for these discussions. Think about it. There are over eight million different creatures on earth and they chose bees—not dogs, cats, or chimpanzees—but bees.

Here, let’s see what it says: The virgin queen bee will fly out on a sunny, warm day to a “drone congregation area” where she will mate with 12-15 drones. If the weather holds, she may return to the drone congregation area for several days until she is fully mated. Mating occurs in flight. The young queen stores up to 6 million sperm from multiple drones in her spermatheca. She will selectively release sperm for the remaining years of her life. That’s it? Our girl bee has one big gangbang over a long weekend with a whole swarm of boy bees. The slut. When she’s satisfied or the weather turns ugly, she goes home and lays eggs for the rest of her life. One big orgy and that’s it. And, how about those references to the weather. You’ve heard of a fair-weather friend, she’s a fair-weather floozy.

I’m not sure what the message is here for our young boys. Find an willing virgin flying around on a sunny day and bang the hell out of her until it rains or she… Nah.

With my research complete and my grandson in tow we head off to the high school baseball field. I figure a dugout is as macho as you can get. We sit on the players’ bench chomp bubblegum and spit sunflower seeds just like a couple of big leaguers when my grandson says, “So what’s up, Pop-Pop?”

“Well you see…er…hmm…your mom and dad thought we should have this…mm …little talk,” I say nervously. “And…and…you see…”

He interrupts my stammering, “Okay, let’s talk.”

“Well you see…birds…birds make nests…and… and bees build hives…to ahh…”

“We gonna have the birds and the bees talk?” He says with a bashful smirk.

“And the boy bird gets on the back of the girl bird but…but…the boy bee has to fly fast to catch the girl bee…”

“Pop-Pop I already know all of that sex stuff. Have you seen what they post on the internet these days? Let’s go get our mitts and play some ball.”

Not long ago Pittsburgh was a worn-out city much like Detroit is today. The steel industry went belly up in the 50’s and took Pittsburgh with it. Historians give a large part of the credit for the spectacular recovery and revitalization of Pittsburgh to its Steelers, and the civic pride the championship Steelers instilled during that critical time in the city’s history. The lesson learned from Pittsburg is that our professional sports teams play a large role in defining our cities. The names of the teams are important, very important.

I especially like Pittsburgh’s NFL team’s name, the Steelers, because it defines the city and the people in one simple word. A word we all understand and can directly associate with Pittsburgh. It’s what I call a place name. A name appropriate to and unique to that particular place. Other great place names are: the Green Bay Packers, Edmonton Oilers, Milwaukee Brewers, New England Patriots, Detroit Pistons, New York Yankees, Dallas Cowboys, Minnesota Vikings, Toronto Maple Leafs, Ottawa Senators, Montreal Canadiens (spelled the French way no less), Philadelphia’s 76ers and Phillies, Colorado Rockies, Houston Texans, San Diego Padres, Portland Trail Blazers, San Francisco 49ers, and Washington’s Capitals and Nationals.

A couple of really bad and totally inappropriate place names are the Los Angeles Lakers and the Utah Jazz. Both of those teams moved from places where their place name actually fit, Minneapolis and New Orleans. Lakes in LA or lively, improvisational music in staid Salt Lake City? Come on! They should have renamed those teams the Smog and the Polygamists. These names would better reflect these two cites than the names that came with the teams.

The most inappropriate name in pro sports is the Los Angeles Dodgers. Way back when Brooklyn was a separate city, New Yorkers routinely called the denizens of Brooklyn “Trolley Dodgers” because of the big network of trolley tracks that ran through the borough. Brooklyn’s baseball team was originally called the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. Many think that Charles Dickens’s Artful Dodger was the eponym of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Regardless of the history, Dodgers is all wrong for an LA team. There is nothing to dodge in LA, nothing moves. The Los Angeles Traffic Jams would be a far better name. Got it? Okay, here’s my first rule:

1.0 Team owners must change the names of their teams to something appropriate when they relocate their teams to new cities. (Did you hear me, Walter O’Malley?)

Hear, hear! That makes sense. Someone was smart enough to change the name of the Washington Senators to the Rangers when they moved to Dallas in 1972 and the Montreal Expos became the Nationals when they moved to DC.

Speaking of the Montreal Expos. Montreal hosted Expo 67 in—you guessed it—1967. They were so caught up in their big international event that they named their new MLB franchise the Expos in 1969. Dumb. Their one big event was long forgotten in just a few years. Can you remember Expo 67? It was only 47 years ago. No, and neither can anyone else.

My second rule:

2.0 Never, never name a team after an event no matter how big the event was. (Or we’d have the Los Angeles Olympics, the New Orleans Marti Gras, and the Des Moines Spelling Bees)

And do you remember the heyday of NASA in the 1960’s, the Apollo program, and role that the Houston’s Manned Spacecraft Center played in putting a man on the moon? Barely. Well some idiot named the Houston MLB team the Astros after their state-of-the-art new stadium, the Astrodome. The Astros have since moved to their new Minute Maid Park and the Astrodome is now vacant, deteriorating, and a candidate for demolition. This dumb name brings me to my third rule;

3.0 Never name a team after a building or a man-made structure no matter how good the idea seems at the time. (Or we’ll have the Seattle Space Needles, the Chicago Sears Towers, and the New York Stock Exchanges)

Following place names we’ve got creature names, generic creature names. I’m lukewarm on creature names, but they should at least be creatures that we admire and respect. Who would name their team the Rats, the Roaches, or the E coli Viruses? No one. So take a look at these names and see if they conjure up an image of a creature you would enjoy having for a pet or admiring from afar through binoculars.

First, we’ve got birds. Do we have birds. We’ve got: Ducks, Cardinals, Falcons, Ravens, Orioles, Hawks, Blackhawks, (the bird is two words, the helicopter is one) Red Wings, Eagles, Penguins, Seahawks, Blue Jays and Raptors. At least we didn’t name any teams: Canaries, Hummingbirds, or Titmouses (or is it titmice).

Enough with the birds. How about some ferocious mammals. Vicious predators like: Lions, Bruins, Panthers, Bobcats, Bears, Bengals, Tigers, Jaguars, Grizzles, Timberwolves, and lowly Coyotes. And we’ve even got mild mannered herbivores like: Bulls, Rams, Broncos, Colts, and Bucks. And lastly we’ve got a few token sea creatures: Dauphins, Marlins, Sharks and Rays.

Just to round out the animal kingdom we’ve even got one team that chose a venomous snake as their name. I was in Arizona back when we were awarded our new MLB franchise, and I voted for another name. I’m almost sure the election was rigged. How else could you explain The Arizona Diamond Backs? A damn snake! How bad is that? This stupidity is worth a rule.

4.0 Never, ever let the fans vote for anything. (The students at University of California, Santa Cruz voted to have the Banana Slug as their new mascot)

In these days of political correctness the use of Indian-related team names is being questioned. Kansas City’s Chiefs and Atlanta’s Braves don’t seem too derogatory or demeaning to me. But what do I know about Indians and such? One can see the activist side of things with the Cleveland Indians’ use of that toothy caricature for their logo, and Washington’s use of a slang racial descriptor, the Redskins. Shame on you, Washington. Was Jungle Bunnies already taken? And is Boston trying to make up for their years of persecuting the Irish by naming their basketball team the Celtics. Next rule:

5.0 Racial or ethnic team names will undoubtedly piss some people off. (Of course, almost everything will piss those people off)

Next, I get to the pompous and pretentious names. These are the unimaginative names chosen by insecure owners to give them, not their teams, a false sense of power or self worth. Names like: the Dallas Stars, Kansas City Royals, Los Angeles Kings, Orlando Magic, Sacramento Kings, Los Angeles Angels, New Jersey Devils, New Orleans Saints, Tennessee Titans, and San Francisco Giants. These names are dumb and fans can’t identify with them. The Giants aren’t giants. They’re just big jocks on steroids. The Kings aren’t kings of anything. And Stars of what? So there!

6.0 Never let rich, insecure owners chose their team names. (How about the Fairies, the Good Samaritans, or the Apostles)

Now that I’ve mentioned dumb names, I’ve got a few more. Here are some teams that use their names to tell us what they’d like to be, or want they want us to think they are. What’s up with a name like the Cleveland Cavaliers? A cavalier is either a supporter of King Charles I in the English civil war, or a small spaniel of a breed with a moderately long, noncurly, silky coat. Take you pick. I kinda like the long-haired dog definition best. Some other dumb names are: the Dallas Mavericks (an unorthodox or independent-minded person), Golden State Warriors (a brave or experienced soldier or fighter), Oakland Athletics (physical sports and games of any kind) and Raiders (a person who attacks an enemy in the enemy’s territory; a marauder), Nashville Predators (a person or group that ruthlessly exploits others), San Diego Chargers (a device for charging a battery or battery-powered equipment), Seattle Mariners (a sailor), Philadelphia Flyers (a person or thing that flies), Tampa Bay Buccaneers (a pirate), and the New York and Texas Rangers (a keeper of a park, forest, or area of countryside).

7.0 Avoid goofy action names or any names that end in ers or ors. (Warriors and Predators my ass)

The really dumb team names are the names of inanimate, abstract or uninteresting things; names that make us wonder what the hell were they thinking. Poorly chosen names like: the Buffalo Bills (a proposed law), Buffalo Sabres (a misspelled sword), Calgary Flames (the gaseous part of a fire), Cincinnati Reds (wavelength of light from approximately 620–740 nm), Cleveland Browns (the color of dark wood or rich soil), Colorado Avalanche (a snowslide or snowslip), Columbus Blue Jackets (a Shawnee Chief), New York Mets (past and past participle of to meet), Denver Nuggets (a small lump of gold or other precious metal), Brooklyn Nets (an open, meshed fabric, for catching fish, birds, or other animals), Houston Rockets (cylindrical projectile that can be propelled to a great height or distance by the combustion of its contents), Indiana Pacers (a horse bred or trained to have a distinctive lateral gait), New York Islanders (a native or inhabitant of an island), New York Knicks (a shallow notch, cut, or indentation on an edge or a surface), Los Angeles Clippers (an instrument for cutting or trimming small pieces off things), Minnesota Twins (two children or animals born at the same birth), Minnesota Wild (a natural state or uncultivated or uninhabited region), San Antonio Spurs (a thing that prompts or encourages someone; an incentive), Saint Louis Blues (feelings of melancholy, sadness, or depression), Vancouver Canucks (a Canadian, esp. a French Canadian), and the New York and Winnipeg Jets (a rapid stream of liquid or gas forced out of a small opening).

And I especially hate the dumb environmental phenomena names. Names like: the Carolina Hurricanes, Miami Heat, Oklahoma City Thunder, Phoenix Suns, and the Tampa Bay Lightning. How about the Boston Red Tide, the Philadelphia Yellow Fevers or the Houston Refinery Stench.

Wait. Wait. What about those two colored stocking names, the Boston Red Sox and the Chicago White Sox? They’re cute, quaint, traditional, and maybe even the dumbest names of all. Doesn’t everyone wear white socks, including Boston? These names make about as much sense as the Birmingham Beige Jockstraps, the Trenton Wine-stained T-shirts, or the Nashville Nifty Knickers.

A neighbor, just back from a cruise to Hawaii, was telling me about all of the pampering he got on the cruise liner. Well, I’ve never been on a cruise, or have I ever been pampered a whole hell of a lot, but I’ve been on a few boats that were memorable. My absolute favorite boat ride is the LaGuardia Airport to Manhattan water shuttle. It leaves from the Delta (the old Eastern) terminal at LGA and travels along the East River with stops in midtown and downtown, near Wall Street. The trip is much faster than a land taxi and the views of Manhattan are beyond description. Oh yeah, and the beer is on ice.

Running a close second are my true nautical passion, ferries. Ferries are boats, aren’t they? Sure they are, you say, but no one brags about riding a ferry. Well I do, and I’ve been on a number of memorable ferries. Take the ferry that crosses the Strait of Gibraltar from Málaga, Spain to Tangier, Morocco. It’s especially memorable because it goes from somewhat-familiar Europe to mysterious North Africa, and the world of camels, casbahs, and veiled women. Another ferry that sticks with me is the one from Venice to the picturesque island of Burano and the famous glass blowing island, Murano. These Italian interisland ferries rival the obligatory gondola rides for really fun things to do in Venice. And, I remember vividly having Dover sole in the elegant dining room on the cross channel ferry from Dover in the South of England to Calais, France.

Even more ferries have stuck with me over the years, like the Long Island to Connecticut ferry. It leaves the picturesque seaport of Port Jefferson on Long Island and heads straight north across Long Island Sound to Bridgeport, Connecticut. A few other charming East Coast ferries are the Cape May, New Jersey to Lewes, Delaware ferry across the mouth of the Delaware River, and the people-watching ferry from Falmouth, Massachusetts to Martha’s Vineyard, and I’ll never forget the Boston to Provincetown Ferry across Cape Cod Bay.

The West Coast has a few ferries, but my two favorites are the Port Townsend, Washington to Orcas Island in Washington’s San Juan Islands ferry and the Newport Beach, California to Avalon on Santa Catalina Island ferry.

Do booze cruises count? If not they should. Linda and I have been on a number of booze cruises, and they are always the highlights of our trips. We’ve cruised between the islands of Maui and Lanai balancing our mai tais among a sea of frolicking humpback whales. Frolic may be the wrong word; these humpbacks travel 3,000 miles to come back to the ʻAlenuihāhā Channel to breed. They come back there to hump. Do you suppose that’s how they got their name, humpback? Makes sense to me.

We’ve been serenaded around Acapulco bay with obligatory margaritas, cruised around San Francisco Bay oohing and aahing as the city lights sparkle though properly proportioned martinis and we’ve spilled our tropical drinks as we sailed to uninhabited islands in the Bahamas and off the island of Puerto Rico. I seem to remember the Bahama Mamas and the piña coladas more vividly than the islands. I wonder why that is?

Don’t think that you have to travel to exotic places to take booze cruises; we’ve got some good ones right here at home. We’ve guzzled hurricanes on a Mississippi River paddle wheeler, tasted Oregon wines on a trip up the Willamette River, and sipped fine Washington wines on a Lake Coeur d’Alene dinner cruise.

I know I know fishing boats don’t count but I used to be a saltwater angler. I’ve chartered or signed on to fishing boats out of the ports of: Los Angles, Long Beach, San Diego, Acapulco, Nassau, Puerto Peñasco, Salem and Boston Massachusetts and Ocean City, New Jersey of all places. Let me tell you about the eight and half foot…

Okay okay…that’s a story for another day.

I’ll admit water taxis, ferries, booze cruises, and fishing boats aren’t in the same class as cruise liners. But what the hell, they’re fun and they go to interesting places.

Now if we can just get a bit more water flowing in the Rio Grande.

The wife of one of the bar’s patrons is murdered while showing an upscale home to a prospective buyer. Why was she killed? She had no enemies. No jealous lovers. The police can’t identify anyone who would want to harm her or benefits from her death. Their only clue is the unusual calling card the killer left behind. The police are baffled and the case is at a standstill when a group of the bar’s regulars form the Happy Hour Posse to help bring closure to their grieving friend. When two more similar murders are reported in nearby states the FBI Serial Killer Task Force steps in, takes charge, and makes no progress. Belly up to the bar and enjoy how this motley group of barflies outthinks and out-detects the FBI and solves these baffling murders.

Abraham Lincoln reminded us that: “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.” Do your bushes have thorns or roses? Probably some of each. Although we struggle to remain positive the blues occasionally grabs hold of our consciousness and the bad thoughts eating away at our souls overwhelm us.

We’re told the path out of the blues and negativity is “thinking good thoughts.” Okay, that’s easy enough to understand, but those good thoughts have to be really good to stand a chance against the powerful force of our demons.

I’ve found that putting together positive thoughts is hard and often takes more concentration than I have the strength for. So I blank out all thoughts and let mental images appear at random. Kinda like being stoned at a ’60s psychedelic light show only you’re sober, partially anyway, and the light show is inside your head. Trust me you’ve stored enough images to make quite a show. Try this.

I confess, my images are not totally random, I steer ’em a little. Focus on one image and the rest will usually follow as your internal projector goes through some undefined slide show.I often bring to mind Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World. I study the painting waiting for Christina to move, to crawl, to turn around, to wave, to do something. She never does, she just stares across that field at that gray house on the horizon. I try to somehow cure her polio before the next image appears on my internal screen. Click. Christina is left behind.

I’ve got a sizeable library of images to draw upon. We proudly hang some thirty plus pieces of fine art in our little home. In addition to collecting we’ve schlepped through some the major museums of the world, places like the Prado, the Metropolitan, the Vatican, Uffizi, the Tate, MoMA, the Louvre, and a lot of lesser known galleries. But if I could point to one special place it would be the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. This gallery is filled with the bizarre, personal visions of “self-taught” artists. Although the gallery doesn’t publicize it, I noticed that many of the artists are patients of mental institutions. This is the place for truly haunting images. These artists have portrayed the images that haunt the insane. Wow!

If I were to rank other galleries or exhibitions the next would be the Impressionists in Winter: Effets de Neige exhibit at The Phillips Collection in Washington DC that I remember most vividly. I can still see the truly wonderful, seldom seen, impressionist paintings of les effets de neige (the effects of snow) by Claude Monet, Alfred Sisley, and Camille Pissarro. They are wonderful!

But if you want dark and somber, nothing tops The Rothko Chapel in Houston with its fourteen huge black and color hued paintings Mark Rothko spent six years preparing for the chapel he co-designed but never saw finished. He took his own life before the chapel was completed, adding to the aura of this, his most important artistic statement. Now that’s haunting!

Some of the other random images haunting me are: the myriad of lily pads beautifully portrayed by Monet in the Monet in the 20th Century exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, seeing an elderly Norman Rockwell at his studio at Stockbridge, the spectacular Cezanne exhibit in Philadelphia, traipsing through R. C. Gorman’s gallery in Taos, chatting with Amado Peña in Scottsdale, and I almost forgot, falling in love with the works of two of the greatest American realists of the 20th century, Andrew Wyeth and Edward Hopper.

Wyeth’s Chadds Ford Gallery is especially memorable but it was the National Gallery of Art showing of 140 of his 240 “The Helga Pictures” drawings and paintings that moved him to the top of my list. One art historian and deputy director of the gallery said, “I think these paintings are among the most powerful images of the human figure in the history of 20th-century American painting.” You can’t get any better than that. Wow! And the author John Updike poetically said, “Helga’s body is what Winslow Homer’s maidens would have looked like beneath their calico.”

The Edward Hopper exhibit at the National Gallery of Art and his permanent collection at MoMA are equally as powerful as Wyeth’s and are etched deep into my soul. I’m embarrassed to say that I not seen the original Nighthawks, his most famous painting, It hangs in Art Institute of Chicago, of all places. Oohing and aahing at Hopper’s 1942 masterpiece is near the top of my bucket list.

I can’t imagine anything more memorable than my first visit to The Phillips Collection and seeing Renoir’s masterpiece, Luncheon of the Boating Party literally jump off the wall, I was captivated. I stared at this masterpiece for the longest time trying to absorb how Renoir so beautifully used light and how wonderfully he portrayed his numerous subjects. And how did he get the rosy-ness in their cheeks just right? Actor Edward G. Robinson was quoted as saying: “For over thirty years I made periodic visits to Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party in a Washington museum, and stood before that magnificent masterpiece hour after hour, day after day, plotting ways to steal it.” Here’s to you, Edward G.

I also have images of the Southwest bouncing around in my tequila soaked cerebral cortex. I’m a fan or Georgia O’Keeffe. Who isn’t? Although I love her, I’ve grown far fonder of her as a persona and an independent trend setter than as an artist. But how about the Navajo artist once called the Picasso of the Southwest, R. C. Gorman? His lithographs filled our home in Oregon. We wanted to experience the glorious colors of the Southwest in the green but often dreary Pacific Northwest. We cherish our Carol Grigg and Amado Peña originals but Downe Burns is our absolute favorite Southwestern artist. He calls himself a colorist but he is an extraordinary landscape painter that uses wonderful and wild colors to convey the essence of New Mexico and the Southwest.

But it’s the abstracts that provide the most haunting images. I can stare at an abstract for hours admiring how the artist used lines and colors to create such fascinating visual illusions. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the Jackson Pollock exhibit at MoMA. Go there and get lost in the eerie world of Pollock’s genus. Now he’s haunting. Creative but haunting.

I’m unqualified to write about fine art. I only have my uneducated impressions. Impressions formed while being overwhelmed with the beauty and the emotion pouring out from the works of masters. And as you know, our memories are very selective. We remember what we want and often only those things that are pleasant to remember. These are the images my subconscious has carefully chosen to remember. This is the light show going on in this old man’s head. My haunting images.

I try to send out an email each month informing my pals of what new wonders I’ve posted on my website, Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen. I encourage, okay I beg, you folks go to my website and read my latest stuff. I know you already know that. Isn’t that why you’re reading this now. Anyway, some of my come-ons or teasers are kinda cute. Here are some of my emails that you’ve deleted over the last five years. Doesn’t that make you feel bad? No?

Up For a Mystery
The days are getting shorter and the air is a bit nippy in the mornings. I’ll bet you could use something to warm the cockles of your heart? What the hell are cockles, anyway, you ask? I just looked it up and cockles of the heart means the core of one’s being. Aren’t you glad we cleared that up? Anyway, take a look at my latest story, Way over My Head at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen and see what it does to your cockles.

Damn It’s Dark
Damn it’s dark in here. Blacker than black. I can’t see a thing. Maybe if I inch along this wall, or what feels like a wall, I’ll find a switch or something. Ouch! That must be a table. What ever it is, it has sharp, sharp corners, I mumble to myself as I rub the new bruise on my right thigh. It seems as if its getting darker, if that’s even possible. Wait! Wait, what is that? It looks like a faint line of light coming from under what must be a door. I creep along faster now. It is a door. The light is more like the glow of a candle than the brilliance of a lamp. I fumble for the knob. It turns. I slowly open the door afraid of what might be waiting for me on the other side. It takes a second or two for my eyes to adjust and then I see it…er…her, a beautiful young woman silhouetted in very faint light. The light is coming from what must be a computer on her lap. Not wanting to startle this ghost-like beauty I blurt out, “Hey.”

“Shush,” she whispers in an eerie voice. “I’m reading Bob’s new posting at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen.”

It’s about Time
In a modest home in a +55 retirement community in Southern New Mexico. The wind howls in the background
SHE: Why did you take so long to write your story?
BOB: I don’t know. Maybe I was waiting for the statute of limitations for stupidity to run out.
SHE: There is no statute of limitations for stupidity. Stupidity is forever.
BOB: I know I know. I’ve been to the George W. Bush Presidential Library.
SHE: Seriously Bob, what took you so long?
BOB: Why don’t you quit nagging and read my story. It’s all true, I swear.
SHE: You swear a lot. Where in the hell is it?
BOB: It’s attached it to this email. Now get hot. Let me know what you think.
She clicks on When Lunacy Ruled (or thought they did) while Bob opens his seventh beer. Sam Cooke croons Just Another Day softly in the background

Got Anything Better To Do?
I hold her passionately in my arms; slowly ripping the cloth from her bosom and as my moist lips touch her ear, I whisper suggestively, “Have you read Bob’s new postings at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen?”

She struggles to catch her breath and murmurs between gasps, “I especially liked the story Bob wrote for his friend Joe, and his new book looks like a wonderful read. What are we doing here? Let’s go read Bob’s blog together.”

Priorities Are Priorities
Just as the earth was starting to move, she murmured in my ear in a wantonly, breathless gasp, “Have you checked out Bob’s new postings at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen.” The romantic mood was shattered. I jumped out of bed and raced to my computer. She begged me to come back to her, but I had to read Bob’s new stories. Priorities are priorities.

LISTEN UP
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING, PRIVATE?”
“Sir, I…ah…ah…”
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”
“Sir, I was…was looking at my iPad. Sir.”
“PRIVATE, WE DON’T USE THOSE THINGS IN MY MARINE CORPS. WHAT WERE YOU LOOKING AT, GIRLY PICTURES? PORN?”
“Sir. No sir, I was just reading Bob’s latest postings at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen. Sir.”
“Oh, that’s different. What did Bob have to say this month?”

A Night at My House
It was an atramentous (dark) and tempestuous (stormy) night. The wind was howling and the shutters were banging against the house in loud explosions. We had lost power and were almost out of candles, when she put down her brandy, caressed my hand, and whispered in my ear, “Let’s go to bed, Honey. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
I fumbled along the dark hall, confused, and then I saw a dim light under the door to the study. I threw open the door and there she was, sitting at the computer.
She turned in her chair and with a giggle gasped, “You must read Bob’s latest postings at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen.”

10,000 Is a Big Number
My humble little web site Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen had its ten thousandth pageview last month. 10,166 to be exact. I know pageviews are a goofy unit of measure but that’s what the folks that power my blog keep. If you go to my website and read two stories that counts as two pageviews even though each story may be ten pages long. So storyviews or postviews would be more accurate terms, but what do I know. Anyway, I want to thank all of you that read my stuff. That’s everyone except that damn Russian that keeps sending me ads for his porn site in Russian. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against Russian porn per se, it’s just that I don’t trust anyone that says things like: большие красивые груди. Do you think it’s a hang-up left over from the Cold War.

Psst – don’t tell anyone that I told you—but that above Russian phrase translates to big beautiful breasts. Not so bad, huh?

A Slight Tingle up Your Spine
Have I got a story for you? I was playing games on my computer when this thing speaks to me from cyber-space or some such hi-tech place. I still haven’t figured out who she was or why this bitch is on my case. I am anxious to hear what you think after you read Carla at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen. Let me know.

PS: If you know how to get rid of her, tell me, please!

Some Bubbly down Her . . .
I closed the door with my foot, balancing a tray holding two glasses of champagne. “I brought you something,” I whispered to my sleeping beauty. Opening her eyes, she pushed down the cream-colored satin sheet enough to lift her hand. She took the crystal flute, smiled wickedly, and then pushed the sheet past her naked breasts, down to her abdomen. Slowly, she poured the champagne between her breasts and murmured, “I must read Bob’s new postings at: Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen first.”

Sounds Like
In the crowded living room of a modest but tastefully decorated retirement home. Partially filled wineglasses are scattered around the room. A coyote howls in the distance
Bob: Stands in front of the seated group waving his right fist with his index finger fully extended
Group: One word!
Bob: Makes a stretching motion with his arms
Group: Big word.
Bob: Nods agreement as he repeatedly traces a rectangle in the air in front of him with his forefinger
Group: TV
Bob: Shakes his head no as he begins typing on an imaginary keyboard in front of his rectangle
Group: Typewriter, keyboard, computer…
Bob: Interrupts by repeatedly pointing to the person shouting computer
Group: Computer!
Bob: Nods concurrence as he picks this imaginary substance from his shoulder, neck and hair
Group: Lint, fuzz…ah…I know, spider web.
Bob: Points excitedly as he makes a coming together motion with his thumb and forefinger
Group: Spider…web.
Bob: Nods as he pushes his open hands together again and again
Group: (silent for a moment) Together…computer web…computer web…
Bob: Eagerly nods as he makes the stretching motion again
Group Computer web…er…site, computer web site. (Everyone cheers)
Bob: Excitedly makes a come-on sign over and over
Group: Google.com…
Bob: Waves his arms in encouragement
Group: (the group is very excited now and everyone is yelling) Google.com, Amazon.com…ebay.com…yahoo.com. (suddenly the room is silent) I know I know…toomuchtequila.typepad.com
Bob: (the crowd cheers as Bob speaks for the first time) You got it, you got it, Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen
The scene closes with raucous sounds of laughter over the subtle clinking of fine crystal wineglasses. The coyote howls again

Is It e After i Or The Other Way Around?
Does our language sometimes get under your skin? Do you wonder how to pronounce tear? Is it a rip or a drop of moisture? Who the hell knows? And do you get confused over whether to use whether or weather. Well, I deal with all of this and a lot more in this month’s posting titled: Who Shall We Blame, the English? And, who dreamt up these goofy quantities like a bed of clams or a den of thieves or how about an ounce of prevention. Does a bed a den or an ounce mean anything to you? If you’ve ever wondered about this I’ve got a story for you I titled: How Many Was That? You can read both of these thought provoking pieces at: Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen.

Hurry and read this stuff. There will be a quiz on Wednesday.

Ready for Some Fun
Ready for some fun? While you curl up in front to your kiva on these cold winter nights you could be reading my new book, Alone in the Dark. It’s a collection of the all of the humorous stuff I’ve been dishing out for the past five years. It will warm your heart and maybe even put a grin on your face. You can’t say that about too many things now days can you? Okay, enough crass commercialism, I’ve also posted a piece that had the Deming Writing Group rolling on the floor with laughter. I hope it was laughter because they looked awfully funny rolling around on the floor. Anyway, I titled it: I Was Just Wondering. In this in-depth piece I explore all of the questions and heavy issues that have been keeping me up at night. I don’t answer any, mind you; I just explore ’em. Got it? Go to Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen read my story, chuckle a bit then buy my book. No excuses—like you’re too busy or some such nonsense.

Bah Humbug
Have you had it with Christmas shopping and all of this, so called, holiday cheer? If you’d rather break out the eggnog than look for that special gift for Aunt Martha, I know how you feel. I’m there. Throw down that catalog―it’s too late to order anything, anyway. Put away those Christmas cards you haven’t got out yet and read my latest postings at: Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen.

I’ve written a rant that will strike home with you. I titled it: Who Do We Think We Are? And I (I know it’s hard to believe) had a bit too much sake the other night and thought I was a poet. Okay, you’ve been there too. I feel better now knowing that I’m not the only one. Anyway, you can judge my poetic skills, or complete lack thereof, by reading: Haiku after too much Sake.

ah … Bah Humbug … er … Happy Holidays

Hot Enough for You?
Have the dog days of summer got you down? Now that I ask, did you ever wonder why we blame these uncomfortably hot days on poor old Fido? Well you see the ancient Romans actually thought that since the Dog Star, Sirius was so bright this time of year that it must be responsible the little extra heat. Kinda like a little second sun. Okay, you probably already knew this and people get pissed when you lecture them on things they already know. How about we call this time of year the habañero chili days, the way-to-hot-to-do-anything-days.

The real reason I’m sending you this note has nothing to do with the dog or habañero chili days of summer, it is to plug my website so that I might entice you to read a couple of my new pieces, Storytelling a humorous little anecdote and rant I call Knock off this Name Calling. Now get to Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen before it gets too hot.

Her Lamp Is Still On
Her lamp is still on. Maybe, just maybe if I sneak over to her bed we could make a little whoopee. How’d I ever let her talk me into these damn twin beds? That was dumb. Dumb! Dumb! He eases back the covers and crawls out on the opposite side of his bed. He drops his pajama bottoms to the floor and quietly tiptoes to her bedside. She hasn’t noticed him. She’s totally engrossed in something she’s reading on her laptop. He stoops and gently reaches for her under her covers. He is even more excited when he feels her bare skin.

His touch startles her. She pushes his hand away and screams, “NOT NOW, I’m reading Bob’s new stories at Too Much Tequila, Too Little Sunscreen.

.

Jim Stark’s (James Dean) family has just moved to a Los Angles suburb and Jim is starting his first day at his new high school. He meets Plato (Sal Mineo), a gay wimp on a motor scooter and Judy (Natalie Wood), a really hot teenage babe. Not bad for the first day. But, he spends the rest of Rebel Without a Cause being challenged and hassled by the school’s tough guys, his parents, and finally the police. He was just trying to fit in with this new crowd.

I wanted to be just like James Dean or was it Jim Stark. I’m not sure which, but I wore a red wind-breaker, a white tee shirt and low-slung Levis while I desperately tried to look as cool as Jim Stark.

But it was Natalie Wood as Judy that made a lasting impression on me. Natalie was the girl I fantasized about during that rough stretch of adolescence we call puberty.

I fell in love with Judy/Natalie, maybe it was it Natalie/Judy. Natalie was an alluring older woman of seventeen when I was a mere thirteen. Thirteen with a cowlick, raging hormones, zits, and a serious (and I mean serious) crush on Natalie Wood. I’ve loved her ever since.

Time was not good to my teenage idols. Here are three dates in history and my view of what might have happened on each of these tragic days.

September 30, 1955

“Want a refill?”

“Yeah, I’ll take one more…thanks.”

The waitress fills the cups of the four young men. She thinks she recognizes the cute one. But she doesn’t know why.

“Okay guys, let’s wrap this up. I want to get on the road.” James says a he takes the last bite of his donut and picks at the crumbs on the table. “Do we all know what we’re doing?”

“You and Rolf will take the Spyder. Sanford and I will follow you in the station wagon with the trailer,” mumbles Bill through a swig of coffee. “That okay with you, James?”

“I thought we were gonna trailer the Porsche.”

“We were, but I think it would be better if you drive. The new engine could use the miles before the race and you need more time behind the wheel.” Rolf says with his authoritarian German accent. “Salinas is just over 300 miles and we should make it in four, four and a half hours. I’ll ride with you.”

“Ja bol Herr Mechanic.” James says as he pantomimes a Nazi salute.

“I can’t believe that asshole trooper gave us a ticket for towing an empty trailer too fast,” Bill bemoans. He’s a Hollywood stunt man and not used to all of these “off-lot” rules.

Sanford, his magazine-photographer passenger responds, “He made it clear that the speed limit for vehicles towing a trailer is 45 whether the trailer is empty or not.”

“Yeah but how the hell am I supposed to keep up with a racecar going 45?”

“I hope James remembers to take the cutoff at route 466. I don’t wanta get stuck in Bakersfield traffic.”

James makes the turn and soon the two cars stop for a quick snack. They are back on the road in a few minutes.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Bill shouts as the Porsche races ahead leaving the station wagon well behind. Bill speeds up but the Porsche is nowhere to be seen.

Bill and Sanford frantically scan the road ahead, searching for the Porsche’s distinctive silhouette. They race down a steep grade and see no sign of the race car. Just as they enter a long straightaway they are startled to see a badly banged up Ford sedan is stalled sideways in their lane a hundred feet or so ahead. Wait, there’s debris all over the road. And smoke.

“There they are, it looks like…like,” Bill screams as he stomps on the brakes. “…like they rolled over.”

Sanford turns and sees the seriously damaged Porsche Spyder upright and smoking in the small gully below. They both dash to the mangled Porsche.

Bill pulls James from the wreck and cradles him in his arms. He’s still alive, thank God. But a few seconds later James’ head falls to one side and Bill hears air leaving his lungs for the very last time.

James Dean is dead at 24.

February 12, 1976

It looks like my career is finally back on track. Finally! I was nominated for two—count ’em—two—academy awards, for Christ’s sake. But roles like Plato and Dov don’t come along that often. Thank God I finally landed a decent part. I’m thrilled to be playing Vito in the West Coast production of P.S. Your Cat Is Dead. I knew I would be back, but I didn’t think it would be playing a gay cat burglar in some Off-Broadway stage production. Sal chuckles to himself at the irony of making his comeback by playing someone gay. We were a big hit in San Francisco. Here’s hoping they love us as much in L.A. He makes a mock toast with his hand as he stares into the dense West Hollywood traffic.

“Where do I turn? Its somewhere along here,” Sal says to himself as he drives west on Santa Monica Boulevard. “I’ve got to learn this city better. Maybe after I get a house and settle down.” Sal is looking for La Cienega Boulevard. His recently rented apartment is on Holloway just off La Cienega.

Damn these rehearsals are tiring. Especially after I played the same part in the San Francisco production. Oh well, I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m working. There it is—La Cienega. And while I’m fantasizing about a new house, how about a decent car. This Chevelle is not in keeping with the image of a movie star at all. Ah well.

He pulls into his assigned carport just below his apartment, shuts off the car, grabs his script, and climbs out into the dark. Just as he’s locking the car door he hears shuffling behind him. He turns and squints into the dark just as this figure lunges forward and shoves a knife deep into his chest, into his heart.

Sal Mineo is dead at 37.

November 29, 1981

“Are we off this weekend?” Natalie asks, Douglas Trumbull, the director of her new movie.

“Yeah but I want you back here bright and early on Monday morning.”

“I’m sooo glad to be home again. We saw more of North Carolina than I ever want to see again. I was…”

Christopher Walken, her co-star, interrupts, “Is she still bitching about the black flies and the humidity on the East Coast.”

“Chris, you got anything going this weekend? Bob and I are going to spend the weekend on our boat. Why don’t you come along? We’ll wander over towards Catalina, have a few laughs, kick back, and get some rest. We’ll be as far away from this slave driver as we can get.” Natalie says nodding towards Douglas.

“I’d like that. We can rehearse that fight scene we’ve got coming up next week.”

“Bullshit, you’re not invited if you bring anything that even looks like a script. Besides, I don’t need any rehearsal to kick your butt,” Natalie says with a giggle. “I call you tonight after I talk to Bob.”

“Okay.”

“I’m outta here. I’ve had all of the Brainstorm-ing I can take for a week. See you all on Monday.” Natalie turns and waves to the crew as she heads for the door. “We’re back here on Monday aren’t we Doug?”

“Yeah, have a good weekend. And don’t sunburn that pretty face.”

“That was one helluva dinner, Bob. Natalie never told me you could cook. Can I help with the dishes?” Christopher asks.

“Nah, Dennis will get them.” Robert says indicating Dennis Davern the captain and only crew member of The Splendour. They named their boat after Natalie’s movie: Splendor in the Grass.

“How ’bout anuffer round, hic, Denny-boy, now that you’re, hic, up,” Natalie says badly slurring her words.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough.” Robert says sternly.

“I decide when I haf enufff. Don’t go, hic, gettin’ on my case, yuf asshole.”

“Okay, that’s definitely enough!” Robert says rising from the table and reaching for Natalie.

Natalie struggles to stand, grabs hold of the table, straightens and takes a swing at Robert. She misses and falls back into her chair. Christopher jumps up and helps Natalie get seated. She shoves Christopher away, leans across the table and hits Robert on the side of the face with her closed fist. “You son nah bitch,” she screams as she starts pounding on Robert with both fists.

Robert and Christopher get Natalie back into her chair. Robert holds her shoulders for a few minutes to make sure she stays. “Pretty soon she’ll be swearing in Russian,” Robert says like he’s seen this all before.

Christopher is embarrassed and cannot think of anything to say.

“How about we turn in and leave Natalie here to sober up? Dennis, get Natalie some coffee. Not too hot, I don’t want her to get burned.” He reaches down and kisses her on the forehead. “Good night, Dear.”

“Fuff you, I want anuffer trink.”

Natalie is found floating in the water early the next morning about one mile away from The Splendour. A small inflatable dinghy has washed up nearby on beach.

Natalie Wood is dead at 43.

Rest in peace, Rebels.

“That card was not approved, Ma’am.”

“But…but…there’s money in my account. I don’t understand. Ah…ah…try this one.” Linda says as she reaches for her bank card and hands her Visa card to the grocery store clerk.

“I’m sorry Ma’am, that card was not approved either.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I guess you’ll have to put everything back. I don’t know what else to do. I’ll…I’ll check with the bank. I’m sorry for holding everyone up,” she says as she puts her credit card back in her purse and hurries from the store too embarrassed to make eye contact with anyone. She hopes nobody she knows sees her.

“Bob, I was so embarrassed! They rejected my debit card and my Visa card. I thought you said we had money in the bank.”

“I checked the balance yesterday and we had over four hundred dollars in our account.” Bob says defensively. He’s knows that it’s her fault, what ever it is. It has to be her fault. “Have you bought anything in the last two days? Anything on the internet?”

“No, how could I. You’ve been at the computer.”

“I don’t think we had any automatic payments come due, but I’ll look,” Bob says as he scurries to his computer.

Bob bangs on his keyboard frantically as he works through the bank’s security. He rapidly jumps from screen to screen. “Fuck!”

“Fuck what?” Linda yells back.

“Our account balance is zero. That’s what!”

“How can that be? You must have charged something that you’re not telling me about. Did you buy any books?”

“No, no…there was an ATM cash withdrawal for four hundred and sixty dollars, a three dollar ATM fee, and another charge for six dollars and twelve cents,” Bob yells over his shoulder as he slams his mouse against his desk. “That was the exact amount we had in the bank, four hundred and sixty-nine dollars and twelve cents. How’d you manage to spend that exact amount?”

“Manage what? I never spent a cent. Those charges must be yours or…or some bill came due that you forgot about, like last month.”

“It was an ATM cash withdrawal, not some payment for Christ’s sake,” Bob screams. “You must have done it. I didn’t.” He’s now convinced she withdrew the money and forgot to tell him.

“Call the bank.”

After minutes on the phone Bob returns to the kitchen with a sheepish look on his face. “That money was taken out of an ATM in Akron, Ohio. What the hell were you doing in Akron at 5:26 this morning?” Bob asks with an even more sheepish grin. “Somebody hit our account.”

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know. The bank put a hold on all debits and will stop all ATM activity on our account until we switch everything over to a new account.”

“Switch what over?”

“All of our income is automatically deposited in our existing account and all of the bills we pay electronically debit that account,” Bob yells as if it’s somehow her fault.

“Where’s that leave us? Linda asks”

“We’ve lost four hundred sixty-nine dollars and twelve cents but we can still write checks after our next check is deposited.”

“What are we gonna eat in the meantime? And how about our credit cards?”

“I didn’t check out credit card balances. I’ll do that now,” Bob say as he heads back to his computer.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck what again?”

“Both of our cards are maxed out.”

“Shit, what did that cost us?”

“I think credit cards protect us from this sort of stuff. I’ll call them and see, but I need a beer first. Fuck!”

Bob has a long chat with Capital One before going to the fridge and getting another beer.

“So what did you learn?” Linda asks impatiently. She still hasn’t adjusted to living on their retirement income and then this has to happen.

“They seem to be used to this sort of thing. He gave me the impression that this happens all the time. I went on…”

Linda interrupts Bob’s dissertation on credit card fraud. “What about us, for Christ’s sake?”

“They cancelled both of our cards, credited us for the bogus charges, and will send us a bill for our outstanding balances.”

“So we have no bank card and no credit cards.”

“Yeah, that’s about it.” Bob opens another beer.

“And we have no money in the bank and our total credit card balances are due, due now.” Linda shouts hysterically. “And there’s no food in the pantry.”

“And…and you forgot…we’re almost out of beer.”

Life meanders along for Linda and Bob. Their retirement checks are automatically deposited and they write checks for all of their bills and other purchases. It’s like life in the 1960s. Life without debit or credit cards. Bob is especially frustrated that PayPal can’t get access to his account and that he can’t shop on the internet any more.

“When do you think our life will be back to normal?” Linda asks.

“I’ve opened a new bank account and requested that our retirement and our social security checks go into the new account. Who knows how long it takes the government to do anything. But as soon as they start depositing into the new account I’ll go back through all of our monthly bills and switch them over.”

“That seems like a big pain in the ass.”

“You got that right.”

“Have you checked email today?” Bob says as he heads to his computer nook. “I’ve been too busy with all of this checkbook bullshit. I haven’t written so many checks in years.”

“No I haven’t, but let me know if I get anything. I’m expecting a note from Bonnie.”

Bob sits quietly at his computer reading, answering, and filing email messages. Suddenly he shouts, “LINDA, LINDA, LOOK AT THIS.”

She comes up behind him and reads over his shoulder:

From: E8rh%gt Thu, Oct 03, 2013 09:56 AM
Subject: TAKE IT BACK!!!
To: Tumbleweeds

Rockwells
I am returning your Identity as soon as I figure out how. I can deal with your almost zero bank balances and the low limits on your credit cards but I can’t stand all of these damn bill collectors. As soon as I assumed your identity they started calling. They call constantly! How do you live with them? And how in the hell did you spend $27,000 on a helicopter?
Please take your identity back, please!!!!

It’s hot, my night shirt is wringing wet, my left arm throbs, my pajama bottoms are wadded up in my crotch, my mouth is painfully dry, and I have to take a leak. The clock glows an eerie green 3:46 AM. Damn it all, I’d better get to the bathroom. Is this what getting old is all about—tossing, turning, aching, and peeing? I get up and stagger to the bathroom and stand over the toilet. Nothing happens. Come on. Come on. A slow trickle finally emerges. Ahh.

I drop back into bed with my bladder still leaking. Shit. I close my eyes and try to focus on something pleasant, anything. Nothing comes. Nothing.

Finally sleep overtakes my discomfort and anxiety. But sleep brings this old old dream. Something’s wrong. It’s all mixed up with…with…

The U.S. rifle caliber .30, Ml is an air-cooled, gas-operated, clip-fed, and semiautomatic shoulder weapon. Prostate cancer is a form of cancer that develops in the prostate, a gland in the male reproductive system. Most prostate cancers are slow growing; however, there are cases of aggressive prostate cancers. This means that the air cools the barrel; that the power to cock the rifle and chamber the succeeding round comes from the expanding gas of the round fired previously; that it is loaded by inserting a metal clip (containing a maximum of eight rounds) into the receiver; and that the rifle fires one round each time the trigger is pulled. The cancer cells may metastasize (spread) from the prostate to other parts of the body, particularly the bones and lymph nodes. Prostate cancer may cause pain, difficulty in urinating, problems during sexual intercourse, or erectile dysfunction. Other symptoms can potentially develop during later stages of the disease.

The three main groups are the trigger housing group, the barrel and receiver group, and the stock group. To disassemble the rifle into the three main groups, first insure that the weapon is clear and then allow the bolt to go forward by depressing the follower with the right thumb and allowing the bolt to ride forward over the follower assembly. Rates of detection of prostate cancers vary widely across the world, with South and East Asia detecting less frequently than in Europe, and especially the United States. Prostate cancer tends to develop in men over the age of fifty.

Place the rifle butt against the left thigh, sights to the left. Globally it is the sixth leading cause of cancer-related death in men (it is now the first in the UK and second in the United States). With the thumb and forefinger of the right hand, pull downward and outward on the rear of the trigger guard. Swing the trigger guard out as far as it will go and lift out the trigger housing group. Prostate cancer is most common in the developed world with increasing rates in the developing world.

To separate the barrel and receiver from the stock lay the weapon on a flat surface with the sights up, muzzle to the left. However, many men with prostate cancer never have symptoms, undergo no therapy, and eventually die of other unrelated causes. With the left hand, grasp the rear of the receiver and raise the rifle. With the right hand, give a downward blow, grasping the small of the stock. Many factors, including genetics and diet, have been implicated in the development of prostate cancer.This will separate the stock group from the barrel and receiver group.

Yeow!

Ernest Hemingway said, “As you get older it is harder to have heroes but it is sort of necessary.” Do you think having heroes is just “sort of necessary” like Papa, and is having heroes something we outgrow like hopscotch and playing marbles. I don’t know. But while you ponder that, I want to remind you that Forest Gump said, “Sometimes, I guess there just aren’t enough rocks.”

Got this hero thing figured out? Me neither. I did find someone that said, “If most of us, as Thoreau said, live lives of quiet desperation, it is because our horizons of possibility are too cramped. Heroes can help us lift our eyes a little higher.” I’ve always known that my horizons of possibilities (whatever they are) were way too cramped (cramped seems like a funny word, but what do I know).

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about my lack of heroes and my seriously cramped (I’m beginning to like this word) horizons. Sure, we all admire the crew of the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster, the heroic passengers on Untied Airlines Flight 93, the 58,286 heroes on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall, the poor souls that went down with the World Trade Center, Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela, Oskar Schindler, Christa McAuliffe, Pat Tillman, etc, etc. But somehow these aren’t personal heroes, they’re everybody’s heroes. We all need our own personal heroes to “help us lift our eyes a little higher.”

It’s been a long time since I had a real hero or anyone that you’d think of as a hero, but I have written tributes to and profiles of a few exceptional people. How did I pick these few out of the six or seven billon that I had to choose from is a mystery to me. Let’s take a look at my list and see if it tells us anything about what it takes to lift my eyes a little higher.

Back in 2009 I wrote a small rant where I painted Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker as the poster people for everything I loathe about religion in the U.S. today. Although I went on and on about these pseudo religious swindlers, I don’t suppose you’d call them my heroes. Okay I buy that, but in the same piece I went in search of the biggest divas and general pains-in-the-asses that our celebrity-crazed society has created. I put together an impressive list of really difficult people including ladies like Jennifer Lopez, Cher, Demi (Gimme) Moore, and Diana Ross but everyone was unanimous in their pick of Sharon Stone as diva numero uno. Do you think these folks qualify as heroes? Maybe antiheroes? I think I’m beginning to see the problem.

Do fictional heroes count? How about all of those enormously popular superheroes like Iron Man, Hulk, Wolverine and Wonder Woman. These characters are fiction for sure and they’re heroes to a lot of folks. Anyway, with that settled, I wrote a piece about some of my fictional heroes. My heroes are mostly on paper but sometimes they show up on screens. Folks like: Spenser, Stephanie Plum, Archy McNally, Jim Chee, Kinsey Millhone, Jesse Stone, Alex Cross, Lucas Davenport, Easy Rawlins, and Harry Bosch. These are the imaginary people I spend my late evenings and early mornings with. Do you think that these fictional cops, PIs, and a bounty hunter qualify as honest-to-god heroes? No. Fantasy heroes? No.

I later wrote a piece where I asked a bunch of questions about a lot of people you know. See if we learn anything from: Where is O.J. now and has he confessed to killing Nicole and Ron yet? Who is Monica Lewinski blowing now and do you think he’s denying it like Bill did? How come we haven’t seen Donald Trump’s birth certificate yet? How do you think infidelity or his lack thereof has affected Tiger Woods’ golf game? Does Newt Gingrich really believe that we will elect him to anything, let alone the presidency? Do you wonder if Arnold Schwarzenegger was bonking the maid while Maria was asleep in the other room? I’ve been wondering, what ever happened to the American Idol winners Fantasia and Ruben Studdard. How soon will Oprah reach 200 pounds now that she’s off the air? How does that red-haired prick on CSI Miami stay on the air? Does anyone really care that Playboy gave Lindsay Lohan the Marilyn Monroe treatment in their recent pictorial spread. And finally, does Bill Cosby actually like jello? What’s this tell you? Not much, but we now know where O.J. is hangin’ out, and thank God, CBS finally cancelled CSI Miami taking that red-haired prick out of our lives. Are you sure there isn’t a hero in there somewhere?

I was searching for unusual people when I came across Winona Ryder, the daughter of some serious hippies. She grew up in a commune with Timothy Leary for a godfather and Allen Ginsberg as her babysitter. But the thing that impressed me most about Winona is that she has a Hollywood memorabilia collection that includes Sandra Dee‘s bikini from the “Tammy movies.” Wow! How cool is that. I think that makes her a genuine hero. What do you think? No, not even close, you say. Shit!

Then how about Mae West? She’s a superhero for sure. She created those memorable double entendres like, “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?” to get around the movie censors way back in the thirties. How groundbreaking was that? I know I know I’d love any women that would say, “A hard man is good to find,” but does that make her a hero? No again.

Okay okay, before you give up on me; consider the touching tribute I wrote to Oscar Wilde. I tried to make the point that although humor seldom survives the passing of time Oscar’s has. Think about that. Here’s a guy that died in 113 years ago and his witty epigrams still make us giggle and scratch our heads in awe. How can you not love someone that could pen, “Bigamy is having one wife too many. Monogamy is the same.” Love, admire, respect surely, but is he truly hero material, you say reminding me of Oscar’s notorious trials and imprisonment.

Enough of your homophobic babble. How about Mike Mansfield. Mike is a real hero. A hero to us Marines for sure. Mike didn’t boast about being America’s ambassador to Japan, a US Representative, a US Senator, our longest serving senate majority leader, or the recipient of the Presidential Medal of Freedom. The senator wanted only to be remembered as a Marine. His headstone at Arlington National Cemetery reads: Michael Joseph Mansfield, Pvt, US Marine Corps. We’re getting closer.

Don’t get me started on Marine heroes; they’ve got books full of ’em. I can go on and on about Chesty Puller, Smedley Butler (he won two, count ’em, two Medals of Honor), Lou Diamond, Dan Daly (he won two too), John Basilone…

Enough, enough, you cry. There are far too many Marine heroes to list here. Can’t you just lump them all altogether in one bucket? Okay, but only if you include Pappy Boyington.

I wrote a brief tribute to my Hollywood sweetheart, Natalie Wood. Natalie was the girl I fantasized about during that rough stretch of adolescence we call puberty. I fell in love with her when she played Judy in Rebel Without a Cause. Natalie was an older woman of sixteen when I was a mere thirteen. Thirteen with cowlicks, raging hormones, and zits. I’ve loved her ever since. Can she be my hero? No. Won’t you let me chalk her up as one. No again. So far I’ve got a gay humorist and a bunch of dead marines. That’s it.

How about William Claude Dukenfield? Who’s that, you ask. W. C. Fields and he has to be considered a hero. He had a juggling act on the famous pier in Atlantic City when he was only thirteen. And at nineteen he had a stand-up comedy routine with the Ziegfeld Follies. Is that not impressive or what? Again you are confusing respect and admiration for heroism, you say. Yeah but I like him. No! No! No! Why not, I mumble to myself. This listing heroes stuff is really hard.

If you don’t buy W. C. Fields you’re not going to even consider my next candidate, Yogi Berra. Before you say no, listen. Yogi was not only one of the greatest catchers of all time he created a whole new way of saying things. We call them Yogiisms. He said and probably still says things like, “Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.” Someone with something named after them like Yogi has to be an ideal candidate for hero status. If you include Yogi, then how about the James Parkinson, Daniel Elmer Salmon, or Burrill Bernard Crohn, you ask. Who the hell are those guys? They all had diseases named after them and they aren’t on your list, you say in desperation.

I give up. This hero stuff is way too hard. Maeve Binchy, an Irish novelist, said, “Everybody is a hero in their own story if you just look.” I been looking and looking and all I can come up with are an old, gay poet and a bunch of dead marines.

Hemingway was right.