A Sideways Smiley-face at the End of a Sentence

In a bittersweet salutation, I will not be posting on Dear Droppings anymore. So much of what I want to sell as a finished product is here in a rougher, brainstorming form, and I think may be hindering me getting published, since a quick search from an editor will turn up my article as already published on here. Editors like to have exclusive rights.

I can't say enough how much I loved knowing that people read my little blog. Even though most of you read it because you know me, and not really because of my writing, I still know that you read because you wanted to support and encourage me. You have done that. Thank you very, very much. I don't think a person can really overcome hard days without a hope of some progress or a plan, and for two years I had a plan. Now I'm on to the next one. I think I may either try to do daily devotionals, if God will so feed me. Or, maybe I'll start writing a novel. I don't know. Whichever way the wind blows.

Bless God,

Brad Clemons Read more!

"A Three Hour Tour, A Three Hour Tour"

I've always found it intriguing that when horrible accidents and emergencies happen to a person, said person had no idea anything unusual was going to happen that day. He got up and planned his day over a cup like we all do. He probably even thought about issues of time, like punctuality and the yard needing to be mowed that night, without realizing that would be irrelevant. Side note: It seems cruel to me that God would let that person do tedious chores like shaving on that day and not warn him. He at least could have led the man to eat a sugary breakfast instead of anything involving fiber. That would have been decent.

Today I went to get my tires balanced and rotated and my oil changed at Wal-Mart. It took two and a half hours. I'm not sure if the guys had to pump their own oil or if China also makes their tools and they kept breaking. China makes everything else at Wal-Mart. It should be called The Great Wall Mart. See, if God had warned me I could have gone somewhere else, or I could've brought my laptop to write at Subway. He could have led me to bring my grocery list and hair clippers, or maybe my paint swabs for the deck staining I want to do next week. I should've applied for a job there and at least gotten paid for my time.

I walked around the entire store at least five times and looked at each specific item twice, except for the ladies' underwear (which I only looked at once) and fresh vegetables. I covered all the Rap Cd's with Rock Cd's. I named the fish. I called my dad and asked him if he needed anything and talked to my grandma about trout fishing. Did you know Weed Eater is making push mowers now? For about two years according to the "Associate". His name is Bryan and it turns out he and I were at the same autograph signing of George Brett in '83. Have you ever seen Terminal with Tom Hanks? (on sale for $7) It was kind of like that.

Dana was not answering her cell at the pool. Dad is in Branson on vacation. I have twenty friends that would give me their kidney but no one to pick me up on a Thursday mid-day. I ran into a good friend about 45 minutes in and turned down a chance to go play volleyball because "they'll be calling me anytime now."

So, I was trying to figure out why God didn't warn me of this. We are supposed to be friends. But then I guess justice would cry out since He doesn't warn people with serious events upcoming. I wondered what His will was in all this. Maybe it was just to give me good fodder for this blog. Just yesterday I talked to Dana about killing Dear Droppings and giving up on all my writing; now, I suddenly feel that I could at least write sarcastic drivel for myself. Read more!

The White Jamaican

For all the angry parent conferences and late nights grading and infamous private school poverty, teaching has its benefits, namely summer. Summer is a giant weekend in in a 290-day week. June is a month of Friday nights, July = Saturdays, and August is Sundays. August is the Sunday of the term because I usually go to church on Sundays and in a similar experience I usually also pray a lot in the weeks before school that Jesus would return.

When I run into people I know during the summer, I have a mixed emotion. One one hand I feel a little guilty, but even more so I feel satisfaction. I look at the poor suckers with their shaven necks and uncomfortable shoes and I giggle inside. I'm quite proud of my irregular bathing and tanned ankles - I haven't worn socks in three weeks. And unless someone dies, I don't plan to for a while. I did hear of a wedding, but I think I can get out of it. I have a small beard and no one can stop me. Sometimes I like to visit my workplace just show off my beard to my boss WHO'S ON AN 11 MONTH SCHEDULE! Hee. Hee.

But I do feel lazy. I have trouble finding work that pays more than childcare costs. I could work in the evenings and weekends but then I would never see my wife, and what's more she would have the kids by herself all the time, just like a good part of the school year. So, I'm left with the unfortunate problem of having time but no money. I can take the kids to the McDonalds play area but we have to share one nugget. I may have exaggerated there. I was on a roll.

It's such a heterogeneous feeling. It's like sitting in a Corvette with no gas. I feel what the natives in Jamaica must feel: like I'm lazy and everyone thinks I'm lazy but I just don't care because it's too nice to change anything. Plus, no one feels sorry for Jamaicans and no one feels sorry for me. Nor should they. I don't even feel sorry for me. Everyone must be jealous because they don't have the luxury to exercise what they all know is true: Work is for suckers. Read more!

Pet Peeve #1042

There isn't anything more frustrating (not really) than having an emotion while driving and having a horn that does not communicate the same emotion. When I'm in my van and I just want to honk and say Hey to someone, the horn is more like HEY!! HOONNKK!! HEY!! It sounds so desperate like maybe I'm trapped and need help. Or that I'm a stalker. How do you wave in such a fashion to communicate "I'm really not quite that excited?" And if the person I want to Hey at is within forty feet or so, they're terrified at the small little HOOONNNKK HEY!!! There's no volume control, no tone control, just one standard strong honk for all seasons of the soul.

And then my Volvo is the other way around. Sometimes I want to say, HOOONNNKKK!! HEY!! THE LIGHT'S GREEN, NIMROD!! HOONNKK!! HOONNKK!! But really it sounds like, "Beep. Um, excuse me, sir. Beep. Yeah. Um, Beep, I need to get to work, Beep...so...yeah. Beep. If you could just... I'm a lady car"

This is unacceptable. Read more!

The Summer Mornings Of Daddy Bear and Baby Bear

Every morning of my summer starts out like this..."DADDY, DIT UP! DIT UP, DADDY!" My three year old is always the first one up and always before I wish to, since 8 is the new 6. He repeats this incessantly until I acknowledge his demand with a statement, which for a dead head like me is usually something to the tune of, "Um. I don't know. Who says I can't wear the fish belt?" But if this statement isn't what he wants, he goes back to the "DADDY, DIT UP!" I always try the "Okay-I'm-Getting-Up" line, with a little fake toward the side of the bed, but he doesn't buy it. The repetition continues, and unlike a regular alarm clock where I can hit the button, when I hit Will the trouble really starts because he thinks I want to play. He's very much like a cub bear - compact and tenacious, he grunts, eats fruit and wrestles constantly.

So then he pulls on my arms, "DADDY, I WANT BREFAST. TAN YOU FIX BREFAST NOW?" Then he gets up on the bed and jumps on me and twists my arms, like I've just woken up in the midget mixed martial arts (MMMA). He regularly puts me in arm bars. Without exaggerating he has the natural instincts of a MMMA fighter: he headbutts at close range, he locks his legs around his victims for control, and he even marks on his body with a marker as a primitive form of tattoo.

In this semi-lucid state of morning I usually surrender to his repetition, offering a compromise. To get him to leave I sometimes suggest that he could fix his own breakfast, terms so foolish only a parent under duress would accept them. Or, I suggest television. Once cognizant, TV is a great no-no in our house, we even have Daddy School as a countermeasure to TV, but anytime before 9 a.m. the TV is a yes-yes.

He's a good kid. He's almost always happy, kisses and hugs me often. He just views me as a giant vehicle to whatever he wants, and he hasn't learned yet what the other two know - that 30 minutes of triumph is not worth 11 hours of payback. Read more!

Neighborhood Garage Sale

The Clemons Family had a garage sale on Friday and Saturday. In the days prior we had sifted through our boxes and drawers with purpose. We were tired of always kicking clutter to cross a room and moving piles and losing files.

Somewhere around a month ago my wife and I simultaneously had the overwhelmed feeling people get just before they act irrationally. My wife pulled her hair, I stood confused holding the mail because there was no where to sit it down - something was already in every place and not the place it should be. Some law of physics failed us that everything in our home was homeless. A sleeping bag was in the kitchen, plastic ware was on the keyboard, and singular shoes were strewn through every room in the house. The trash stunk of expired feng shui. It was there we made the Declaration of War on clutter, called Operation:Hefty. Give, Sell, and Toss were the three armed forces.

So we get to Friday morning at 7 a.m. feeling pretty good about having gutted our house. Even the annoying toys were in boxes. We had told our oldest boy that he could keep any money he made by selling his things; consequently, he cleaned out two entire rooms in less than an hour. We didn't even know he had Barbi's just like his sister's.

We got the tables out and to our surprise there was no one waiting in our driveway. Usually garage sales start at least half an hour before they start. But, I looked over across the street at our competition and there they were, Capri Pants Cathy and her mom, shopping before the universally agreed upon time of 7 a.m.

An immediate cloud of jealousy and insecurity blew through our yard - Is their junk better than our junk? What's wrong with our junk? I had not planned to sell the desk I made in shop class, but I had to do something, so I put it out by the street to let the neighbors know we came to play. Also to give the scouts something to phone their aunts about.

Business immediately picked up. Within minutes we had sold my favorite beer book and an antique desk we probably shouldn't've sold at a garage sale. But then business slowed and we became nervous. Did we just sell our best junk and now we'll get stuck with the bad junk? Will people still come if our big ticket items are gone? Kids' clothes only attract a specific demographic and a typically frugal one at that.

But you'd be surprised what people will buy. We sold CDs that were scratched, a 24-piece puzzle with only 16 pieces, expired coupons - not really but nearly. One lady almost bought a used distributor cap and plug wires for an '89 Corolla she didn't even own.

I said, "Oh, you have a Corolla?"
"No."
"You know somebody then?"
"No."
"Oh... Yeah, they're good cars."

But she backed out at the last minute. It's almost like I had talked her out of it. Like she hadn't thought about the fact that she had no car to match the parts, like maybe should would buy a Corolla later just so she could use these nice plug wires.

I really shouldn't judge since this was my junk. It's a fact that until that day I was the one with plug wires to a Corolla I didn't own. That was my KC Royals hat and my broken Happy Meal toy. I had actually kept a Career Guide for the 90s book. But let's not focus on me.

Then there's the haggling. I found myself fascinated. A lady asked me if I would take a dollar for an item marked $1.25. I was frustrated by her brazenness. I wanted to get rid of that but I have to have my boundaries. It was just too early for me to be cutting 20% off of items. That's a bad precedent. Now, as it stands, she lost out on a great flashlight over a quarter and I'm stuck with a flashlight and no dollar and a quarter (even after Saturday's 100% OFF SALE) because she was so unwilling to give over a lousy $.25. People!

That's only slightly less irritating than when people refuse to haggle. Some garage salers are so intense they can walk away from an item that's fifty cents because they think it's overpriced. What fifty cent item is worth walking away from if you want it? I saw a lady looking at a book longingly, but then scoff at my fifty cent price. I offered it to her for twenty-five but she would have nothing of it. Apparently I had offended her with my prices, like maybe she thought I was suggesting she was foolish enough to pay 200% the item's true value.

Well, the coffee shop is closing so I'll go, but after all this I don't think we've learned our lesson. We're planning another one in the Fall. Dana feels that the reason our eight boxes of children's clothing didn't sell is because most were out of season. I also plan to bring out my used beer mat collection. It'll be hard; I've been sitting on that for over ten years. Read more!

I Grow Old, I Grow Old, I Shall Wear the Bottoms of My Trowsers Rolled

Everytime I talk to my dad on the phone I know at some point he'll tell me he's too busy, that he doesn't want to do this event or that errand my mom wants him to do. He will complain about having to eat out with friends days before it's scheduled. He especially hates being out after dark. He tells me this each time as if I didn't know that about him already, even though he says it everytime.

He used to tell me to "watch out for deer" at every conversation, but he has let off that in the last few years. This may be due to him having satellite now and, through that circular window to the outside world, realized that deer are not out for world domination. It may also have something to do with the fact that at about the time he dropped the deer talk I had just hit a deer on the way to work. I think he felt justified finally and that his work was finished. Or, maybe that he thought I had now finally listened to him.

It should also be noted that my dad whistles or hums incomplete fragments of songs, repeatedly. "A-mazing-hmm-ha-hmm...have you checked your oil lately? You gotta do that. You don't wanna get stranded out somewhere.(with deer?)A-mazing-hmm-ha-hmm/"

At any rate, my dad has his own weird hang ups, just like all parents, and it made me wonder what my weird hang ups might be to my kids someday.

I hate driving in the city. Just as my dad will not babysit very often because it would required him to drive in the dark, likewise I will probably never see my grandkids if they live in a major city. Dana could drive but if she shrinks anymore she'll likely not be able to reach the pedals.

Maybe they'll be embarrassed of my inability to small talk. I like to get to the heart of things with people. I despise fakeness and feel that being discreet and having conceit are usually related. Call me Irish. My sons will probably fear that within the first hour of me meeting their companions I'm likely to ask the young ladies about their sexual pasts. This is not a fair judgment. I don't have any business addressing the girls on their pasts, but I do reserve the right to discuss their sexual present - if the topic arises. Stick to politics, Self - it's not as personal.

I don't know. But I do know that the minor idiosyncracies of our 20s turn into more-than-eccentric family nightmares by our 70s. My tempered hatred of male restaurant servers will not stay hidden long. By 34, I've already spoken of it to Dana. She in turn spoke tersely to me - a habit that started so small when we were dating and is now gently observable by others that it will someday, if unchecked, grow into full on crotchediness. There is still hope for her if I die young enough, but she has started knitting, just for a reference point.

My kids will be annoyed by my vocal distain for little yappy dogs, predictable movies, overly-dramatic people, liberals, people that buy clothes for their pets, kids that won't get out of the street, and librarians - just to name a few. Read more!

American Ingenuity

The thing I love about America is our ability to take anything to its extreme. We have the fastest and biggest of everything for good or ill. Only in the US do we have 1,000 lb. people that can't leave their beds. There are gluttons elsewhere but, come on, even Buddha got outside and sat upright. But it's the US that went to the moon, engineered the atom bomb, holds records in most categories. Whatever we want to do, we do. The real question, then, is why haven't we challenged ourselves in a few more areas. Besides the obvious world hunger or curing cancer, yadda yadda, I'm really talking about the easy ones, the ones that a small child could fix.

I can't believe that by 2009 when we buy a soda from a machine, it still drops from on high down to a thunderous crash in the tray. Is that really the only way to get a carbonated drink, to let it free fall three feet? And is it necessary that a CD be so hard to open? And yet, it's impossible to open a large M&M bag without broadcasting chocolate pellets because it opens so easily. If aliens are observing our great civilization from space, we will have to answer them for this great inconsistency. We can get a palm-sized device that has music storage and a player and a clock and calculator and a typeset and a day-timer and a computer and a TV, but no non-violent soda dispenser - this is unacceptable.

If I use the telephone and accidentally dial the 1 in front of a long-distance number like I'm supposed to, all I get is this condescending, "We're sorry. It is not necessary to dial a one or zero when calling this number. Please hang up and try your call again." By 2009 the computer can't just put me through anyway? "You obviously know who I was trying to call. You've already said I don't need to dial an area code, so that means it's not needed, so just forget it, cut it off, just put me through!"

Why is it necessary that I sign the back of my credit card? If I had just stolen a credit card, I could sign the card holder's name on the back and the teller would have no way to compare my signature with the true owner's signature. This is our big plan?

These are just a few of the little, stupid things we tolerate everyday that we don't have to. In our country we are so revved up for the next new hotness we forget the little things closer to home. Read more!

Aldi's

In my mind as a dad I'm always performing in front of my kids, modeling what should be in order to create a sub-sub-culture of "this is what the Clemonses do." I want them to read a lot so I try to let them see me read, I want them to be calm so I'm calm, I want them to have good eating habits so I eat ice cream and M & Ms when they are asleep. I'm doing it for them. So, in that thinking, I took them to Aldi's today as another example of what we should do - that is be frugal.

But it's always the subtleties and minor inconsistencies that ruin kids. We began with a humble "No, we don't need two bags of chips because we shouldn't eat those." Claire was on board. She is my wife's spy. Dana has brainwashed Claire into thinking that eating healthy is fun. But fortunately for her she has no idea what foods are healthy and which ones aren't. I've been told I can't say, "If it tastes good it's bad for you." Right now, she really loves Pop Rocks and push-ups and if I were a mean father I would tell her those weren't healthy. But I won't as long as she cooperates when the time comes to keep an Aldi's secret. So, anyway, Claire was on board with putting back the bag of BBQ chips. I believe she put the BBQ back b/c I told her about MSG and how the BBQ ones have more MSG in them. Completely coincidental that I don't like them.

A few items later I came to the ethical quagmire that is cereal. I went with the Peanut Butter Balls. Now, in my defense, we really did have two boxes of healthy cereal back home, but that just proves my point even more: "It's more wise with our money, Jacob, to get cereal we'll actually eat, rather than some that will go stale in the cabinet." Jacob liked the reasoning. I think he was really starting to see the wisdom behind good stewardship. He and I are bosom buddies on such matters as food. Of course, later he did want to buy fruit roll ups and since I don't like those, I told him that roll ups are not very big for the money - once they dissolve. Plus, "Look, for the same $2.49 those cost, you can get 20 ounces of roasted peanuts. The roll ups are just eight ounces." And that "Peanuts are very healthy..., Claire. Peanuts are natural because God made them. God did not make fruit roll ups." I was pretty proud of that one.

I think Jacob gets the logic but not get the real point. "Look, Dad, UH!, we can get even more peanuts here. 40 ounces for $3.99. And it says 'Unsalted.' That way Mommy will be happy with us." Unacceptable. I may have to home school this boy. He's smart but lacks the application. My Claire says, "Did God make salt?" "Yes, yes, he did, Claire. You're very smart."

A row later we came to another teaching opportunity. The raisin bread. I thought I was so clever to show that "for another measly $.30, you can get something you really want. Because we bought the cheap raviolis for $.59 when the others were over a dollar, now when we really want something, like raisin bread, we can get it." They said they didn't even want raisin bread, but that's because they've never had it.

A couple minutes later I sent them to get paper plates, but they returned with paper plates and peanut butter with jelly pre-swirled in one jar. I objected, but as luck wouldn't have it, the difference between the regular PB and the PBJ was only $.30.

On the way home, my Jacob says from the back seat,"Hey, this is good, you know why? Because Mommy will only have to wash one knife. Hah Hah." I think he may be getting it. I was very proud. Read more!

Judgment Day: All '24' Hours of It

When we get to Heaven and are brought in for the dreaded viewing of our lives, that video playback where we have to answer for every little thing we've done and Jesus stands with the remote and the pause button under His thumb - when that happens the video will indeed pause on an event that occurred last night. I had a chance to hang around after a graduation party and go to the Senior Prom as a chaperon. But I didn't. I pilfered a Pepsi and put it in my pocket and pushed my way through people and out of the prom (Surely alliteration will make God happy, since He invented it. Like when you catch a small child with gum and when they see they're caught they offer you a piece.) Reason? Beautiful wife and '24', together. Sure this party was a once in a lifetime event, but seeing one man bring down a terrorist ring was a never in a lifetime event.

The show is so addictive. One night the tornado sirens went off while we were watching, and being in the '24' mood Dana turned to me and said, "The kids are upstairs probably scared, I need you to do this for me, go now, do whatever you have to, keep me posted, and, Brad, you'll be fine, trust me!." I had to hurry up the stairs and down. Dana is a good, Godly woman. She's giving and kind and genuinely serves others, but not during '24'. I knew she wouldn't pause the DVD for me, even though that is the whole point of having it on disk. She would even go on to the next episode. It's fun to pin this on her, but honestly we are both equally addicted. Truth is, the DVDs keep us from having to wait a full week between episodes. We have nothing but pity (well, and a little scoffing) for those poor losers who have to wait "in real time". I'm not sure whether to respect their patience or abuse their lack of assertiveness. Jack Bauer would not wait a full week, PANSIES!!

Since we'll all be sitting around Heaven going through each other's files, I want to be in the room when the butt-heads who wrote '24' get their little showing. Watching it will be very surreal, as if being Heaven wouldn't be trippy enough, but it would be that Wizard of Oz sort of moment, where it will finally be obvious to millions of people that there is no Jack Bauer - Jack Bauer will never have to answer for his sins, just these three geeks sitting in an all-white room with "sheep killing dog" pouts on their faces. And then all of us who cheered and jeered right along with it, of course.

These men will be responsible for the lost hours of productivity and the ensuing damage to the economy, for the new consciousness of torture as a reasonable means of extracting wanted information, for giving America's enemies great ideas, for the evaporation of the social security fund because a new generation of workers was never born due to their proposed parents being too stressed and involved to procreate. This will be a very bad day. There will be lots of weeping and gnashing of teeth. Kiefer Sutherland will look very very hung over.

There would be no real justice unless God shows them little bits of their stories but then cuts the showing off right at a huge climax. Make them wait a week. Except with no clock because it's eternity. 2 Peter 3:8 - "But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day." Te he he. Read more!

All the Class' a Play and We Are All Merely Players

I'm watching my sophomore class take an essay final over To Kill a Mockingbird. The students are looking around in desperation, to find decoded messages from the author in a poster, to find lost notes and outlines on the backs of the students in front of them. This is the only time all year no one has been talking out loud. They are talking with their bodies, though.

The elbow on the desk with the face leaning on the hand tells me, "I've got the jest of it. If I write enough maybe he'll give me a B." I call this guy The Crapper - he puts crap on paper and walks away guilt-free.

To his left sits a close cousin, "The Spy." He is also leaning on his hand but the hand is cupped around the eyes like a blinder. The blinder is for concentration purposes, since he is over-prepared he must have total concentrative powers to get all his knowledge on paper in the allotted time. To not get out all the bits of knowledge would leave this student's talents and life valueless. The blinder also doubles as a security measure, to keep private his jewels from the eyes of thieves.

The thief is the only one actively using non-verbals. He looks up often, a little higher than is usual, as if he is thinking. He shifts his eyes back and forth so as to throw off any peculiarity in any one location, i.e. his neighbor's desk. Then on maybe the third or forth pass through the room, his head continues to sweep, but his eyes stop in the middle. He has worked for over a minute to get to this point. If he can sweep the head slowly enough, if he can stall for five seconds in the middle for just one word or idea that could springboard an entire page of crap on par with the best of the Crappers. The Crapper was not over-prepared, but he was partially prepared. The Stealer on the other hand is not only not prepared, he's not even pared.

The next is the most annoying: The Clarifier. With the others, it's all cute. If you want to trash your own GPA and any chance of gainful employment, like I did, that's your business. But the guy that keeps interrupting the thought processes of his peers, and his teacher who is trying to make fun of him on his blog, well, that's just rude. The Clarifier asks obvious questions. "Do we get out at 11:30?" "Does the back count as the second page or are both front and back one page?" "Are you grading for grammar on this one?" "Can you restate the question again?" These special self-deluded souls honestly believe they have a chance to score well. They figure if they can reaffirm the boundaries and target themselves straight enough, their opinions are so sure to run parallel with "the teacher's version of the truth" that an A is inevitable.

Time does not allow for adequate description of so many other students: The Quitter (and The Angry Quitter), The Worrier, The Entertainer, The Mumbler, The Only-Sick-On-Test-Days/Private Test Retaker, The Damsel in Distress, The Beggar, and The Stalker. Not to mention each character on paper: The Decorator, The Calligrapher, The Anti-Calligrapher (the Caveman), The Devil's Advocate, The Poet, Casual Cathy (also THe NSTNT MSNGR, sometimes also The Storyteller), The Disconnect (as in "I think I'm going to need a map for this"), Second Language Learner, The Rebel Without a Clause, and the Cowboy (who plays by no man's rules).

Having said all this, I love my students very much. Read more!

Rip Van Clemons

I look around and see GPS systems on cell phones, wireless earbuds, video chatting, face transplants. I feel like I'm living in the future. Read more!

Pleading the 5th

This morning I was trying to get out the door and couldn't find my keys. This was not good since Dana always teases me about losing my keys and each time with more moral high ground.

I looked in a few usual places and then turned on my youngest. He is a thief and also has a key fetish, well, and a toilet fetish which is even more scary since he had my keys, but let's stick to the point. I asked politely, he ignored me. Pleading the 5th is a common technique of those who know they're doomed - even in situations outside the scope of the Constitution. Jesus chose silence and he was killed for it, yet kids don't know this, so it is their initial defense of choice. I raised my voice and asked in my special daddy tone that instinctively communicates "Do this or hurt!" The voice must be reserved for only the most serious of situations, otherwise I'm yelling constantly every line for the 18 years the child is home. There are many parents put in nursing homes at an unusually young age by their children for much less.

Then, as the interrogator, it hit me that the power was not in my hands. He had the information I needed and much like a Jack Bauer in '24' situation, I had less than two minutes by estimation to extract the information from the suspect. I immediately slipped into a good cop/bad cop routine. I sternly warned him he could get a spanking (bad dad). Then I regrouped and said (as the good dad), "I don't want to spank. Don't make Daddy spank." But I needed more, so I turned to phase four and started negotiating. "Hey, let's go see Ikey. Do you want to see Ikey?" A silent nod. "Well, we need the keys to go see Ikey. So, I'm going to go to the bathroom. Why don't you get the keys and go to the van and we'll go see Ikey."

I get to the van and he's already buckled and drinking from his sippy cup, looking in that both innocent and guilty way only small children can. But he had no keys. Now spanking was not an efficient option since he was buckled just out of reach. I threatened the other kids to expunge some info, but they denied it and then also chose the 5th. I repeated myself with the proper escalation each time in true Jack Bauer style. I asked the other kids if they saw Will take the keys. They both said yes. They had turned on him. Still he sipped and looked out of the corners of his eyes. I was running out of time. I sat my laptop bag down and diaper bag down and opened the front door to hit the garage opener. And there the keys were, shining like fool's gold. I paused. All three kids were silent.

As we all rode to the babysitter and school in awkward silence I kept thinking: Did Dana find them and place them where she knew I would need them? If so, I've been busted again and will endure sarcasm tonight from Dana. Did Will place them there in obedience or fear, as if those two are ever separate? In which case, I owe my son an apology, humiliating for a parent and totally undermines all authority. Did the other kids cover for their brother or did they know about the theft and were afear of being accomplices? In which case, there must be justice. I repeat myself with fervency. They deny any knowledge of the situation. If I can't get them to confess by 5 when Dana is home, it will be too late. I said, "Maybe mommy put the keys here." Silence. I said, "That's so silly. I think I'll ask her tonight if she put the keys here." Silence.

They know I won't ask. When Dana comes home and if she doesn't say anything, I'll know it was Will, but I won't be able to address it without acknowledging I had, albeit temporarily, lost the keys. If she gives me a hard time, that would imply that she had, indeed, placed the keys and, therefore, known I had lost the keys. Quite the quandary.

All good government has a constitutional document, but it also needs checks and balances. We have that, for now. But the reason I'm irritated is because I know my own kids will turn on me. At about, oh, I don't know, 5:04 p.m. The older two already proved they would turn on Will, one of their own. If Dana asks me if I lost my keys, I'll be forced to plead the 5th. Then when the interrogator turns to my wards, they'll cough up the goods. I've heard that there is honor among thieves, but I would like to say that there is no honor among thieves and the bondsman. Read more!

It's all downhill from here

In less than three hours of TV, I've gone from The Backyardigans to The Great Gatsby to Bully Beatdown, and now I'm watching a documentary on Steve-O's drug addiction. I must go to bed before this gets any worse. Read more!

Script of Tonight's Comedy Routine for Coyote Hill

This is exciting. I’m so happy to be a part of this ministry. I’ve heard nothing but good from the people that want us to donate money. (pause). So, as I was preparing for this and wanted to do a good job, I was looking for inspiration. I was listening to a Michael W. Smith song backwards to see if there was a message from God.(count with fingers). Awesome, two seconds. That was a hard joke but you all got it in two seconds.

I do this because it’s scary. I need this. Being an English teacher is not the most manly of jobs. The fear keeps me alive. Men need challenge, competition, conquest. Yet none of these are qualities associated with traditional English teaching. I have made some attempts to “Coach” some writing “Contests”, but they don’t suffice because I was told I’m no longer allowed to say, “Drop and give me 200 words!!!”. I told the administration, “If you want a winning team, this is what it takes. If you don’t plan to win, I’m not the teacher for you. Maybe the kids can do team hugging. Oh, wait! Sorry, hugging is an action verb. ” They don’t trust me. They’re still mad because one year they asked me to sponsor a “care team” for students with low self-esteem - and I Cut people, from the team. Again, Do you want to win or not? I don’t even know how you can win at Caring, but they called it a Team. I tried to make it fair - I had the kids vote on who to kick out.

We coddle students too much. And I blame most of it on parents. We have parent/teacher conferences, which are a great opportunity for the teacher to look across and see…why the kids are the way they are. I would like to have a thin little mirror on my desk for when the parent says, “Why is my kid acting this way.” And I would just raise it up (condescending face). Some parents like to preface the first quarter with: my kid has A.D.D., so…” And I like to preface the second quarter with: “Your kid has S.D.D… Spanking Deficit Disorder, so…”

The problem is parents just love their kids too much. We all think our kids are geniuses. And the real reason why is that most people have pets first before kids. So, if the kids will just like sit still and not soil the carpet we’ll think he’s a genius. Every new parent does this: “Honey, come quick. He’s a genius. I just told him to sit and he’s sitting.”
“Sweetie, it’s because he can’t walk.”
“Well, not yet, but at this pace….”

All this weakness is starting to get to my subconscious. The other night I had a dream that I was in the UFC, mixed martial arts, that’s cool, but my fight name was The Edi-tor. I was really bad at trash talking. “So, you’re Bone Crusher. Bet you didn’t know that you accidentally spelled Krusher with a K and it’s really spelled with a C. You’ve Just Been Edited!! Oh, Oh, All night long, My Cracker! Some would say, Cracka, but I refuse, ‘cause I’M THE EDI-TOR!”

No one calls me at 3 a.m. to come quickly. I have nothing to do with toilets or cars or taxes or confessions or bail bondsmen. No reason to call the English teacher. Email maybe. But it’s never just to say hi. There always seems to be files attached.

There are no English teaching emergencies. There is never a time when someone runs into my room, saying, "Mr. Clemons, come quick. Jill has a paper due tomorrow and she, she, she can't remember the restrictive/non-restrictive comma rules."

And even if a person did come I don’t know what I would say.
"Alright, stay calm. How much time do we have?”
“ It's due at 8 a.m.”
“ Okay...Leo, Gimmee a comma!”
“Comma, check!”
“Gimmee another comma!”
“Comma, check!”
“Venti White Chocolate Mocha”
“Not check!”
“Good. Now, Jill, I'm gonna put a comma here and here and I want you to tell me if this sentence still makes sense? [pause]. It does? Good. [pause]. Then what we have here is a non-restrictive clause. [Affirmative TV journalist nod]. You're going to be fine. [I put my lap top which I never used back in its bag]. Next time call me sooner. Most people wait too long to call and then there isn't anything I can do."

I want to stay relevant in the kids’ lives. They always have good life questions and someone needs to be there to answer them. For example, they want to know:

“Is God really male?”

“Well, we know He’s not a woman. I’ve seen childbirth and He could never do that to His own kind."

“Does God care about the environment?”

“Sure, and I do too. I really hate for example the way the Chinese treat their chickens. I like mine with much more barbecue sauce, or maybe in a fajita like the Mexicans. I think we can all learn a lot from the Mexicans on how to care for animals.”

“Did God create Man or did Man create God, to explain things?”

“Well, that’s easy. We know for a fact that man did not invent God or the bible. For two reasons: number one, monogamy – no man came up with that. And number two, circumcision. Let’s listen in on that conversation, shall we.

“Alright, guys. We really need something to establish our God as different from other gods, I mean, if we hope to deceive millions of people for thousands of years. Any ideas?” “Um, Um, we could…chop off part of our wienies.” (pause) “Um, okay, all in favor?”
All the men (hands briskly at sides). One lady in the back (hand up). And that, students, is how women lost the right to vote.”

Thank you, you were awesome. Read more!

Coffee the Hallucinogenic

You know when you daydream and have these miniature visions where some highly improbable thing happens, like when staring off in a crowd and you go into the little creepy trace and suddenly the people you look at blankly start to play out a scene, some shadow of themselves anyway, that is always random and only makes sense for about 20 seconds. Then you quickly catch yourself because you realize it's silly and somehow you're embarrassed of this preposterous idea even though no one could ever know it except you? I just had this funny little one where my headphone jack came out and suddenly everyone could hear what I was listening to. They all simultaneously admired my music, even coveted it, and even though their pride would not let them ever say it,some didn't even turn around, their slow looks and no looks of denial and stubborn but futile resistance told me what I already knew: that my music is awesome.

We all have movies that play on the insides of our eyelids, as if the eyelids are some IMAX, in the round, video display. Some people have dirty movies that show, some have action movies with lots of violence, still others have music videos. My eyelid screen plays conversations with strangers. There are some comedies, some tragedies, some histories, some publicly televised debates. The music soundtrack is awesome, as previously stated, though it has little to do with the plot and tone of the fake conversation. When I've had lots of coffee, people are always so much more interesting and they have great questions of which only I can accurately answer. Everyone is so interested in my opinions. Occasionally someone will disagree with me but they will lose the argument because I'm feeding them their lines. On bad days, when maybe I've had lots of soda and feel bloated and full of toxins, on these days I usually lose the arguments and everyone is so negative and the visions are so heavy and I want to escape but maybe I'm drifting off to sleep and I don't have the energy to change the channel. But as I drift off I have one moment of strength and bravery and I think to myself, "If I had coffee you would not be handling me like this." Then every morning I find myself craving coffee, kinda like the way Superman must quickly grab his supersuit as soon as he's out of the shower. Read more!

On May 14th

I've been asked to do stand-up on May 14th at a fundraiser for a children's ministry Coyote Hills. I was excited to say yes. Then as usual I realized what I had done, and as usual I had forgotten to ask certain questions. In the past I've forgotten to ask certain questions and really paid for it. There's the "Do I have a microphone" question I should've asked for across-the-court-from-the-audience gymnasium gig . Which reminds me of the "How far away is my spot from the audience" question I should've asked before the living room performance with about 70 other people in my personal bubble. Then there's the "What are the crowd demographics" question I should've asked before the golf club gig where the complete six member, wheel-chaired, oxygen-masked crowd stared blankly at me from the side sun-room. Since it was a GOLF club, I had falsely assumed the patrons would be physically able to smile or at least blink.

It sounds to you now like I am ungrateful, but I assure you I am grateful. I'm so grateful it bothers me when I don't do a good job, mostly out of the shame I've caused the person that fought to get me there and promoted me.

And truth is, most of my failings are of my own doing. One time I lost my routine mid-set and reached into my filthy mind for an impromptu and only found a stripper joke...at a women's ministry luncheon. One time I got on a roll with a joke about National Geographic and did an adlib African Lady's dance, complete with my shirt up around my neck, pooching my belly out, slapping it, and waddling in a circle. So, a real goal two weeks from now may be to stick to the script.

But that requires I write one. So, now that I've asked my questions for this gig: I understand the venue, the time slotted, and the demographics, it's time to script. I know the crowd is going to be largely wealthy, so I may go with witty instead of silly. I know they're going to be middle-aged to older, so I won't use pop-culture references or especially modern styles (like a stalking pace of Dane Cook or Type B male shtick which is so prevalent). This crowd formed their early twenties' preferences (which we never change the rest of our lives) in the 1960s and 70s, which leaned more heavily on one-liners, which works well anyway since short time slots (5-7 minutes)are not conducive to storytelling.

I think all this, and then I step back and say "Wait a minute. But what is my style? What's my shtick?" I'm 33, so I can't get away with the smart-aleck college guy routine anymore. I'm not old enough to make fun of young people either. I'm out of shape, but I'm tired of fat and exercise jokes, plus they're overdone and cliche. I don't want to be off-color, of course, which usually only leaves silly or observational humor. But there I go again. So, what's my style? What do people enjoy from me? People seem to like my sarcastic tone in a conversation, but that tone doesn't come off well in public address because it's clever humor, where people smirk a laugh, but don't roll. They seem to like it when I imitate people, not a real imitation, just exaggerating someone or some way of thinking. Me, I like to point out irony. Maybe I'll just stick to what I like.

And in the end I'll likely do what I always do and procrastinate, due to overthinking and A.D.D., and I'll end up with diarrhea and praying like George Carlin the day he met Jesus. Read more!

The Play's the Thing

I'm thinking of writing a play. Not really. But I'm thinking about thinking about writing a play. Actually, I just have a couple ideas that I think would be cool to write if I ever had time and energy together.

1. Taming of the Dude.
Shakespeare's "Taming of the Shrew" involves a circle of men in love with Bianca, the luscious and submissive perfect. Problem is, the father of Bianca and her wicked older sister Katherine realizes he's very close to getting stuck with the older shrew. To fix this, he says that the younger can't marry until the older has. So, the swarm of men find a cocky jerk to 'tame' Kate, so they are free to marry Bianca. My version would flip that. One brother couldn't marry until the older, very difficult one is married. He would be 'tamed' by one dominating woman.

2. The Phantom of the Oprah.
I have no real plan here other than I think the title is clever. Keeping with the original, I would have Oprah's studio haunted by a spirit. The spooky man that seems to curse the place would turn out to be Dr. Phil. This is all garbage. I'm just having fun. Needs much work. This does not warrant six months of hard labor alone in a computer room.

I'm still trying to pick a project that excites me. Any ideas? Read more!

Procrastination

I have a term paper due tomorrow in my 10th grade class. What that means is that, as we read, there are at least 16 people simultaneously cussing me in their heads. Of course, the students would use their Christian curse word replacements. Read more!

The Fit and the Fat

I've had this strange sensation lately, like my heart and legs are wanting to exercise together. This mutiny is personal to me since it was these same heart and legs that begged me to stop last time. I've thought about the gym but I don't like to exercise in front of people that have eyes. The last time I went to a gym I got lapped by an eighty-year-old man on the track. And I know I saw him smirk. I'm always worried to exercise outside. I don't want people stopping and asking me if everything is alright. There's something so unnatural about an overweight man lumbering down the street, with a sweat ring down past his belly button, that good-hearted people have to assume something spectacular has happened, for good or ill. I have visions of buzzards circling above, waiting.


I think the best thing for me would be to have an exercise buddy, but everyone I know that might be able or willing is either lazier than me or so in shape that working out at my pace would cause them to gain weight. It's pathetic to even ask. Fit people look at fat people the way we all look at other people's overweight house dog. Everyone says the dog should exercise more but no one wants to watch that happen. It seems so arbitrary and cruel to make the cuddly, ride-along, symbol-of-comfort forced to run for no reason. There would be chaffing, and wheezing. And, truth is, we all kinda like the fat doggy - "roll hims over and pat hims belly." (That patting bit is not part of the analogy for me) Likewise, with me I want to exercise; I just don't want to be there to see it, and I certainly don't want to ask anyone else to watch it either.

But somehow this has to work. God wants me to be a good steward of the body He's given me. I want to be a good gift to my wife - that she would be proud to be with me in public. I want to live long enough steer my kids until they can navigate themselves. And as I'm in an honest mood, I'll also admit that the thought of me dying and Dana remarrying some other idiot is enough to make me get up right n- Read more!

The Conservation of Energy

I have this theory that all dogs are given the same amount of energy, no matter the size. This explains why large dogs are more laid back, in general, than small dogs. The small dogs need less yet have the same so they are bouncing off the walls; large dogs need more yet have the same so they are sprawled out on rugs as if they've collapsed after a marathon.

Small dogs hop in trucks just for the transport, out of impatience; large dogs hop into trucks for the free ride. That's why large dogs chase cars and trucks more: it's like a cab to them but they have no thumbs to hail with. Small dogs bark because they can't not bark, they can't hold it in; large dogs bark because they don't want to get up and walk over to bite. Small dogs have so much energy they pee when excited, and they shake, like there is so much energy the muscles are in shock and the nerves are electrical lines with too much juice. Large dogs have so little energy they lay belly-out, legs spread to charge in the sun.

"What about large dogs when they're puppies?" you ask."Aren't those energetic?"

Yes, but that's when they are young and stupid. They don't yet understand they've been given a certain amount of energy and that amount has a limit. Similar to how a new runner sprints out in a race, then wanes at the end, not understanding the concept of pace. Old dogs feel their age. They sense the end of a thing - what Indians and mullet-wearers should have felt.

But people are the same. Kids have so much energy it speeds up time. This is why they can hear the same song or noise over and over: to them they haven't heard that in ages. This is also why they ask the same questions over and over. To them they are really only asking once a week.

The joke is on the kids, though. What they don't realize is that they are burning through fuel like Al Gore on route to a global warming summit. Someday down the line, the kids will wake up and realize they still have half their life to live and only 1/4 the energy left to do it. Then as older adults, like older large dogs, they sense the end of something - what Stompers and Godfather's Pizza shouldn't never had to feel.

The older adults then start to pick appropriate activities to make it to the end, like bingo and gambling. These are the wise ones - ones that don't end up as action verb victims in the obituaries. We don't see a lot of ninety-year-old cross country runners, and if we do it's national news; but we do see a lot of ninety-year-olds that watch Wheel of Fortune.

If only we could find activities for kids that would help them to conserve their energy. (This might be a way I can justify getting my kids a PlayStation3. What do you think?) Read more!

A One-Third-Life Crisis

Several years ago I thought I was going through a quarter-life crisis. I'm not sure I'm any more grounded but I can't use that title anymore because it would imply that I'm going to live to be 132 years old, one goal I'm actively sabotaging. Read more!

Bathroom Metaphors

It's such a delicate balance in life in regards to openness. I get in trouble for saying too much about myself. I certainly say more than people want to hear. It's like I need to be emotionally potty trained. Just like a small incontinent child learning to hold until at the toilet, likewise I need to learn to hold stuff till in the proper place. The proper place is in both cases, of course, somewhere private, preferably behind closed doors, where the unwanted content is flushed away forever from the presence of others. Then in both situations the secret keeper and the unwitting audience pretends the event never occurred. If the secret keeper at this point feels some may suspect he has jump dumped content, he may turn on the fan, or emotionally speaking, lie. "Are you okay?" "Of course! Why do you ask?"

Every parent will attest to the horror-ific anticipation of seeing their toddling child run through the house without a diaper. I'm sure my loved ones feel like that with me every time I'm in public -knowing that at any moment....

And while I would argue that some are emotionally constipated (a tragic state only ended by extreme trauma or a great movie), I seem victim to sudden urges, at inconvenient times, usually with no helpful "But-In-Context!"'s. This is frightening to would-be friends. Just as only mothers and aunts want to hold a diaper-less infant that might "share" something, so only mothers and aunts want to engage a needy adult prone to "sharing" something. All others prefer to just visit in small increments and with an exit strategy.

The real misfortunates in this deal, though, are the ones that wear a diaper/filter but hold the content in and don't dispose of it. These poor fools are usually found cranky and with a repugnant aura that drives others away.

So, in conclusion, I just need to emotionally potty train myself. I need to find a way to keep from expunging in public, but instead contain it until home and in a proper outlet. "So, why a blog, then?" you ask. Well, a blog is like an outhouse or port-a-potty where others may still see some personal garbage, but somehow, like the disgusting cache of everyone's in the outhouse bottom, this emotional drivel is somehow magically private while still public when mixed in with the rest of all the Internet. This is somehow acceptable. Read more!

Battle of the Gods

I strongly believe that exercise is a fad. No where else in time has it been common to make your body do unnatural labor just for the sake of the exercise itself. People have worked for a purpose, played for a purpose, trained for a purpose, but never worked just to work. Nothing is created, there is no exchange of services. No one is edified. Only in the laziest county in the history of the world do we find people so comfortable they have to create work for themselves, just out of curiosity or because the experience is so foreign it exhilarates.

I know I'm bias. Sometimes I think I'm the opposite of anorexic. I look in the mirror and think, "Yeah, I can totally eat another buffet and get away with it." I forget that I'm out of shape. But then what is "in shape"? Everyone is in a shape. Why is it that there are no absolutes anymore except in the area of body shape? A Hindu can believe he was a snail a couple generations ago and it's okay. An atheist can believe his grandpa was a little more monkey than he a couple generations ago and that's not only tolerated but mandated. But if I think it's silly to run with no one chasing me I'm a leper by consensus. According to our secular progressiveness there can be no moral standard but yet we have 'target weights' and BMI's. I think we should have HRYA's (How Right You Are's) and each person would have to come in once a year and answer questions written by me and tell people,"Well, sir, I'm afraid you're just a little bit more stupid than you were a year ago. Have you been getting your news from Keith Obermann and Michael Moore?"

Throughout history the measuring scale for sin has fluxed. For example, in pre-historic times, sexual assault was not punished nearly as much as, say, trespassing (picture cavemen fighting with bones over territories and women. "Umph, your woman, my woman"). In Greek times homosexuality was ignored but woe to the infertile woman. Today we care more about plagarism than blasphemy. And finally to my point: why is it okay to rip on the Glutton but celebrate the Vain? Just food for thought. (Ha! I said food!). Could it be that our bodies are temples to a god that can only be seen in a mirror?

I have no idea if any of this is true, it was just an argument there for the taking and I took it, like a donut, except that I shared this. Read more!

Okay to Laugh

I have a small news addiction. Before the election I was checking multiple sources several times a day. Now I check the same sources but only two to three times a day. Somehow the world being on the edge of economic collapse is slightly less interesting than the rise of the next infamous man. But, through the addiction I'm learning how to function in multiple worlds - to go from wishing there were a revolution to join, in my head, to being Jungle Jim for my kids, from puking my paranoiac worries on this blog to playing "Friday I'm in Love" on a Tuesday.

But what would you do if you really believed things were going down? Wouldn't you be nuts to do nothing. I can't believe that others and myself are watching the world swirl the drain, while we optimistically turn ourselves and believe, "But, hey, we have good music!"

A person must learn to compartmentalize or they'll go insane. And is that such a bad thing? Maybe it's from God that humor and levity are cathartic. Maybe to avoid the darkness and turn a blind eye to serious things is, not only okay, but recommended.

Even God compartmentalizes. At the same time he blesses a 5-year-old at her birthday party one-hundred 5-year-old girls are abducted around the globe, yet God can separate and hate one thing and smile at another simultaneously. If God can do it, surely we can. Just thoughts. Read more!

Spring Break (only time for one joke)

Today Dana and I took the kids to the St. Louis Zoo. But they made us take them home. Ha! Read more!

Vernal Equinox

Had a little writer's block. This is the fifth entry I've written since the one just below. The other four were crap. Since I'm writing this as I go, there's no guarantee this won't also be crap. But if you're reading it, I must have thought it less crappy than the first four.

I don't know what it was about the week that stole my words. Just hazy, melancholy days smeared sideways on my windshield. I came to feel the momentum of the world. And then I felt the futility of my words, so much akin to giving up shooting bullets at the moon. I have no magic words to recapture hurtful and stupid comments, or make people politically discerning, or print money, or preach myself into obedience. (I try not to preach to myself because I don't want to be negative and lose the report I have with myself over little, naggy things. I want to be a positive influence on myself so that when I'm ready to listen, when I'm really in need of a friend, I'll be there and welcomed by myself as a counselor. I have to choose my battles.*) * - denotes sarcasm

Today I was trying to get an IPod to work that my dad gave me. I want to get it going for Dana to use when she runs. Dad said he thought that the IPod didn't work but that it might work because the guy that gave it to him got it from a guy that buys lots of stuff that he breaks and never tries very hard to fix. So to review: I got an IPod from someone that got it from someone who got it from someone who was likely too dumb and frivilous to fix an IPod, but that neither he nor Guy Two nor Guy Three could fix it, so they give it to me, the English teacher. Yet somehow I was still very excited. After about three hours of online support and rebuking and eating apples very angrily (IPods are Apple products = pun), I settled down and became suddenly jealous of the broken IPod. It has an option to system restore, or start over from scratch. The closest thing to a system restore I have is good prayer and Frank Sinatra. I'm sure the IPod can be fixed, I'll pass it on to Dana and see if she can make it work.

It's so difficult to describe this state. I want to eat, out of boredom, but my stomach is already soured. There's joy in movies but I've seen all the ones I want to. I want to go out, but I would feel guilty spending money. Same with alcohol and traveling. I read so much for work and look at a screen so much I feel like if I lie down and read small print my eyes may burst into flames. This is really my last joy that obeys me (it turns out the people that give me the most joy, wife and kids, were not put here just to serve me). So, when the writing didn't obey me either this week, it was quite a loss. I usually self-medicate with writing. This week I was in a funk because I couldn't write and couldn't write because I was in a funk. It's like I had drifted into the Bermuda Triangle and lost my magnetic North and then my celestial bearings.

But, speaking of celestial bearings, this week also marked the Vernal Equinox, the perfect center between the most extreme points in Earth's orbit. The perfect balance of the gravity and angle of tilt met this week and messed up geese everywhere, and me. Although, maybe that's where we are in our lives right now, my good friend, moving on to summer. Let's hope so. Read more!

The 6th Sense

I walked outside tonight and heard crickets chirping. They are a bit premature I think since the lows on Thursday/Friday are supposed to be in the 20s. So, I was forced to deal with the commonly stated 6th sense that wildlife are to have. I want very much to believe it. I like the idea that insects are smarter than smug scientists. But unfortunately, the crickets and tree frogs are wrong nearly every year, and trees bud out every time the temperature gets above 60 degrees for more than a day even in January. It's not looking good for the home team.

I left the house and hadn't gotten very far when I reached the spot where I killed a Pit Bull with my Volvo last Spring. And that's when it hit me: the animals haven't even learned to use the first five senses. As I remember the dog's stupid grin as it was crossing the road, there were no signals going off between his ears, no other sense saying,"I don't know what it is, but I don't think I should be doing this." Wouldn't hearing be, like, the 3rd sense? What about timing, distance, consequences, observation - aren't any of these included in the first five senses? Read more!