Part of almost every guy’s wiring leads to the bone in his head that generates perpetual kidhood. A few somehow received only bone fragments and are old men by thirty, but I’m not interested in exceptions, only the rule. Most women’s wiring is more complex than ours and frequently shorts out at this level of operation, so I’ll leave them off the circuit board for a while, too … do not pass ‘go’, do not collect $200.  What I’m referring to are basic guy things like a fascination with flashing lights, digital readouts, switches that go click and cars that go fast!

Some guys can sit for hours, staring at row of colored lights with the same fascination a child has for the shiny new quarter his Read the rest of this entry

I have a birthday coming up in a week or so and I’ve been reflecting upon my life, as we all do from time-to-time. It’s just that after a certain age those times occur more frequently … especially as you near the annual celebration of your parents’ fecundity.

It occurs to me that I’ve had three great women in my life: One who taught me what was possible, one who showed me what I didn’t want, and one that helped me find what I really needed. Most guys are lucky to experience even one great woman, so I guess I’ve been blessed with more than my share! They were all significant influences in making me the man I am today so if you have any complaints, in a few paragraphs, you’ll know who to blame. Read the rest of this entry

As you tread the long road between first tooth and last, you stumble into some things that most of us are never really ready to do … you just do them and work out the consequences along the way. Getting married, having kids or buying a house are a few of the ‘just do it’ things that leap to mind. If you examine them too closely or too logically, you’ll end up lonely, childless and renting a one room flat where the bed folds out of the wall, because you won’t do any of them. I believe retirement ranks high on that list.

My concept of retirement was to be able to do all the things I’ve always wanted, without worrying about being successful at them or having to impress anyone. That included working at my own pace, not someone else’s. Read the rest of this entry

I remember when I thought communication was two Campbell’s soup cans with a string in-between. That home made ‘walkie-talkie’ was not only a blast but it taught a couple of young kids something-or-other about sound conductivity. Besides, it really didn’t cost much and I could see my friend Ralphie over at the other end. There were [only] two things wrong with this device: Sometimes the string would break if you pulled it too tight, and you had to eat the soup before you could use the cans.

About ten years later, I discovered a more stimulating method of communication. It had nothing to do with walkie-talkies, string or my friend Ralphie. We called it ‘legalized.’ Nobody ever talked much about just what it was that was legalized but instead of soup cans, it involved dancing really close with a girl. There were no formal steps and it didn’t matter what music was playing … or if there was music playing at all! One of the many added benefits was, you didn’t have to eat any soup.

Enter 21st Century technology: Electronic games, e-mails, chat rooms, cell phones and now the wonderful world of text messaging. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a technology junkie. Like most guys I love dials, buttons and flashing lights, whether or not they serve a purpose. Some guys can be entertained for hours by almost any shiny metal object, but that’s pretty extreme … still I don’t guess I’ll ever get a grip on the whole idea behind texting.

I mean, if someone hands me a telephone my first impulse is to speak into it, not to write on it. Call me crazy, but I like the warmth of a human voice at the other end plus there’s less margin for error when you can hear the other person’s vocal inflection. For instance, if your wife texts you the message, “I’m mad” that’s informative but sort of vague; on the phone, you can actually hear just how much trouble you’re in. The only higher level of communication would be to see the corners of her eyes scrunch up and that little vein pop out on her forehead. However fear not, that questionable ability is already edging its way into cell phone circles with picture phones! And you wanna’ text?

If I stick with traditional phone functions, I don’t have to pick at a bunch of tiny rice-size buttons with my not-so-tiny ham-size fingers or worry about my speling … yet my response from the person at other end is every bit as fast as I used to get from Ralphie with the soup cans. Hm-m-m. Of course, the act of texting employs so many abbreviations [CU@4] that most grammar rules are tossed to the wind and no one really cares whether cat is spelled with a ‘C’ or a ‘K’.

When I was a kid we were never inside, except for rainy afternoons when we drove our parents crazy. These days ‘Computer Potatoes’ are getting so bad, the government is trying to mandate that kids be pushed outside to play for at least an hour per day. Inhaling a molecule or two of fresh air is fine but working on a few social skills may be even more important somewhere down the road. Getting along comfortably with others isn’t part of everyone’s DNA; it takes effort and is something that’s tough to work on alone … or with one’s face leaving nose prints on the screen of a computer or cell phone.

I think I may have witnessed the ultimate in un-communication the other day when I saw two kids sitting together on a pair of swings, not saying a word but sending TEXT messages to each other! How ironic that the very electronic marvels we’ve invented to expand our universe have, instead, begun to isolate so many of us in our own, private little caves.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

Back when I was still trying to figure out which end of my body my head was on, if anyone had suggested that someday I’d be sleeping with a grandmother I would have told them they were as mad as a hatter. The world certainly rotates in a different direction at twenty then it does at sixty-something. Here I am in the ‘something’ category, merging wrinkles under the covers with a lady of  grandmotherly persuasion and loving every minute of it. Somehow, she just doesn’t fit my lifelong image of a cotton-haired little old lady shuffling around the kitchen with a bowl of Farina in one hand and a rubber spatula in the other.

It’s amazing how ageless age can be … and therein lies the rub! When it comes to femmes fatale, with soft curves and jiggly things, let’s establish right up front that guys never stop looking. As long as they are still drawing breath, their last drop of testosterone is routed to their eye sockets even before their hearts and lungs. I know women look too, but I won’t pretend to know very much about it. If I had any real understanding in that area, my premarital youth might have been squandered more effectively … and I would most certainly be a headliner in Guinness’ Book of Records.

Now don’t confuse looking with shopping, those are two different things. Looking is just what it says, although the criteria can vary widely as you’ll soon see. Shopping means that you probably intend to take something home, and unless you shop carefully, you might end up paying a considerable price! It wasn’t until I was around forty when I realized why they call the years from that particular mile post to infinity ‘middle age.’ Only a portion of the term involves longevity. The rest has to do with who and what a guy is comfortable ogling.  Not only is the suitability of the oglee age-related but as the mileage on the ogler’s odometer changes, so does his view of the road.

Men-in-waiting, such as high school and college boys, most often limit their lusts to young ladies near their own age. An ‘older’ woman of twenty-five or thirty nudges them toward ‘Mrs. Robinson’ territory (Coo coo ca-choo), and whether or not they know it they are beginning to shop, squeezing fruit to see what the stand has to offer.

As manhood overtakes him a guy becomes more careful about the shopping experience; he is beginning to realize he might want to buy something. While locking the keys outside the car may be an endearing quality during dating, he may not want to explain the purpose of a door handle to his wife for the rest of his natural life. He is now looking at the whole package … seeking the perfect blend of brains, beauty and body parts!

Once firmly anchored by the bonds of matrimony and with a few temporal miles on their tires, something strange happens. Guys may begin to observe the female form in a way that now disassembles the ‘package’. They have arrived at a point in life where they can appreciate parts … some like casabas while others prefer different diversions like ‘wheels’ and buns. I’m a leg man myself, although I’m a sucker for a slight overbite or a certain glide in a lady’s stride that we of the male chromosome just aren’t hinged to perform. The age range for the recipient of this ocular attention broadens as well.

When I crossed over that proverbial middle age marker, I discovered a world of wonder that ranged from nubile twenty-somethings to feminine preserves of sixty. If you’re not going to buy anything, the world is a Wal-Mart! As my own years continue their forward march so does my age range of suitable subjects, although quality parts are getting harder to find and entire packages are fewer and farther between.

Looking has nothing to do with connubial bliss or with loving one’s spouse. It’s just what guys do. These days, I find myself enjoying a fuller appreciation of womanhood than ever before, all the while maintaining the creative detachment of a sculptor chiseling a statue or a painter capturing the beauty of nature … especially if he jiggles his canvas a little!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

There I was, perched atop a kitchen stool in front of the ‘island’ I so carefully placed when I designed the kitchen … sipping my morning java and watching Vigi prepare to leave for work. My job was to fresh brew and package her coffee. Hers was to build a sandwich, gather together her daily survival gear and find her car keys. She has more getting ready to do than I because she’s the one who is working. As you know by now, I’m retired. I didn’t mean to be, I just am.

As many times as I’ve watched this process, I never noticed the inventive technique to which I was treated this morning. When I make a sandwich, I smear the mustard and horseradish sauce [or whatever] onto a slice of bread, pile on the meat and put a lid on it. Then I cut the stack roughly in half and it’s ready to eat. Case closed.

Not Veege. I watched in wonder as she placed the designated top and bottom slices of bread side by side in butterfly fashion. After careful condiment application to each piece, she proceeded to place one slice of cold-cut onto each slice of bread … then another and another until she had two perfectly symmetrical sandwich halves, topped with a slice of cheese equally divided between the two halves. I asked, “Are you going to close that thing or do you eat it open faced?” “Oh, I’m going to close it,” she replied as she deftly balanced the two halves together, tongue between teeth for added concentration.

Now my curiosity was aroused and I pressed, “Why do you make two halves separately if you’re going to put them together and make a single sandwich anyway?” The answer arrived on an illuminating light ray at 286,000 miles-per-second from the planet Neptune, “I like the cheese to be exactly in the center.” “Aren’t you afraid of spilling something when you have it all vertical like that?” I foolishly asked. By now I was fighting a grin and resisting the urge to delve into this at a deeper, more psychological level but years of experience have taught me when to thrust and when to parry … this was parry time. I’m a pretty good learner.  “Nothing has fallen out yet and I do this all the time” she smiled with girlish confidence, wrapping the sandwich to go. She didn’t even cut it in half! Virgos!

I was capping her coffee and inserting a straw, so she could more easily keep one eye on the road while the other searched for the next sip, when I noticed her application of the ‘church-key’ to the large V-8 can. Me? I punch two holes in the top like everyone else. You have to so the air can push the liquid out smoothly, right? However, I punch one large hole for the juice and only a small vent hole, so if I become overly enthusiastic about my pouring nothing dribbles out of the vent.

Not Veege. She carefully created two holes of equal size and made doubly sure that each was fully open. At that moment, I was more proud of myself than I’ve been in a very long time. I asked nothing. I said nothing … except for, “Can I have some?” as I quietly held out my glass. The crimson blend of nine or ten thousand liquified vegetables ‘plopped’ when she poured it.

Now, this is in the same league as whether the toilet paper should come off the top or bottom of the roll, how someone squeezes the toothpaste tube or who leaves that small starfield on the bathroom mirror when they brush their teeth. It’s stupid stuff … but these are the kinds of discoveries usually reserved only for newlyweds. When each of you can each still learn little things about the other after 33 years, another layer of the proverbial onion peels away and that’s what keeps the music playing. As long as there’s a smattering of mystery swirling just below the surface, like the song says, “The music never ends!”

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

I stood there motionless with the 8-ball clutched tightly in my hand, its unblinking eye staring defiantly up at me. It was the winter of my eighteenth year and I was playing a game that could change my entire future … even determine if I was going to have one! There was no felt covered table, no long, tapered cue. There was only that 8-ball locking its mocking gaze with mine, as the small black triangle floated slowly into view and the words (Ask again later) became legible through its murky fluid.

“What’d it say?” Bob asked anxiously, as he edged closer to look over my shoulder. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw those silvery syllables in the window. That was the fourth straight time the magic orb had refused to give us a straight answer. With twenty different possibilities, you’d think the thing would come up with something different after four tries, but on the fifth query the 8-ball put us off again. It really got spooky when we finally changed our question and it changed it’s answer!

Bob was my best friend, we were like brothers … whatever happened to him usually happened to me and vice versa. Therefore, it was only natural that when we bought the little fortune-telling device, we would share its mystical powers and question it together. Somehow, the words toy and novelty on the package managed to elude both of us. It’s amazing what a couple of kids can believe when manhood is nibbling at their toes and the future is squeezing their shoes.

In those days I was commuting to a nearby college and my buddy, who lived away at school, drove the three or so hours home for the weekend. It had become our custom to spend most Friday nights quietly sipping wine, chomping on French bread and playing chess. But this Friday we had a different diversion … actually two diversions: the 8-ball and our runaway imaginations.

We started out asking it innocent questions like, “Will we have dates tomorrow night?” (Signs Point to Yes) or, “Am I going to pass my exam Tuesday?” (It is decidedly so). Then we climbed to the next plateau with tidbits like, “Will Bob marry what’s-her-name?” (Very Doubtful) and so it went for the better part of an hour, gradually increasing the importance of each question … each response from the ball seemingly more accurate, more believable than the last. Finally we moved in on the big kahuna, life itself. It was probably the answer sequence that got our attention more than anything else and short circuited the bone in our heads that regulates rational thought.

“Am I going to live to 60?” (Don’t count on it).  “What about Bob?” (My sources say no). “Either of us to 50?” (Cannot predict now). We stopped thinking it was entertaining as 40 and 30 shot by until we finally got a (Yes – Definitely) at 20. 20? That’s not very reassuring when you’re 18 and 19! Now there was no turning back. We strode ever deeper into a mind numbing fog that defied all logic. The ball took on a life of its own!  “What are we gonna’ do, die together?” (Outlook good). The questioning process to determine exactly how would glaze your eyes over … and that’s when the softball-size globe nearly found itself in a one way game of catch with the wall! But we couldn’t do that! We had to know!

Responses like (Ask again later), (Better not tell you now) and (Reply hazy, try again) lost all their magic until, at last, we got the affirming answer (It is certain). Unfortunately, by that time we had already done a half-gainer into the deep end of the mental absurdity pool. What the little round fortune teller had now confirmed was that we would be killed together in a fiery car crash by the time we were 21! We just looked at each other for a brief eternity then, in unbalanced stereo chorused, “Who’s driving?” We were laughing … laughing but shaken, as we put the plastic sphere away in the back of a closet forever and played some chess. I lost every game.

Last year, nearly half a century later, I was browsing in my pharmacy’s toy section when what to my wandering eyes should appear to the rear of a shelf but two boxes marked, “Magic 8-Ball.” I picked one up, focused on its unblinking eye and asked, “Should I send one to Bob for Christmas?” The small black triangle floated slowly into view and the words (Ask again later) became legible through its murky fluid. I bought both balls anyway, without further testing their powers, and sent one wrapped with a black bow to my old friend. The other, of course, I kept for myself.

Bob called Christmas morning. He remembered! We had a good laugh but agreed these weighty little sayers of sooth were best relegated to special moments from yesteryear … and the only question to ever be associated with either of them would be which stack of papers they’d keep from blowing off the desk.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.