I know you think I complain a lot.  Maybe you’re right.  But this time I know I have a legitimate gripe, and I’ve just about had it.  I had to deal with another speed-talker during a phone conversation and It was all I could do to keep from throwing my phone against the wall.  And then stomping the shit out of it.  And flushing it down the toilet.  I know you’ve had an encounter with one of these people too.  They talk so fast you can’t understand but every fourth word.  It’s not like talking to one of those guys you’re stuck with because your phone call somehow got sidetracked to India.  If you’re talking to an East Indian, you can’t ask to speak to someone who speaks English.  Your call got sent all the way to India, and so the next person and the next person after that, will be no kind of an improvement for you.  They’re all Indian.  You just have to make the best of it.  I’ve seen a lot in my day, but I am still baffled by the complexity, yet paradoxical simplicity, of telephone technology.  I remember when I was little, a long distance call was something my parents had to budget for.  A phone call from where I lived in Wyoming to my grandparents in Iowa was so pricey it was done only on special occasions, like Christmas and Easter.  I know my 96 year old mother realizes phone technology now is light years ahead of what was available 50 years ago, but I think she still reflexively hangs up immediately if there is the slightest indication her call travelled all the way to India.

To get around exorbitant phone bills, one slick trick parents in the 50’s and’ 60’s taught all their kids was the old bogus collect phone call on Ma Bell.  You know it, if you’re still alive.  The phone you used looked like this:

Or this

You drove a few hundred miles to college and your parents wanted to make sure you arrived safely so they insisted you call them collect when you got to school and of course they would not accept the charges when you made that phone call but the whole thing worked as planned because that way the call was free and resulted in the cleverly intended signal that you were safely at school although you were probably really at a bar with the gang and the real test of whether you would make it to school safely or not was going to occur about 2 hours later when you got behind the steering wheel and drove the final 12 blocks to school.

But I’m talking about speed-talkers.  I had to call my cable company the other day, and that’s how I ran into my speed-talking woman.  And this is not a gender specific phenomena.  It can just as likely happen with a guy.  I want to be absolutely clear about that because I have a couple of  overly sensitive women in my family that get nose-bleeds every time they feel I am somehow denigrating their sex.   I had to make my cable company phone call because of a glitch during one of their supposedly “simple” set up procedures for my new cable boxes.  Yes, that’s right.  Plural.  My cable company is going straight digital, so recently they informed me I will very shortly need a cable box for any television set I intend on using if I currently use their service.  Believe me I have started to seriously contemplate those last 3 words.  The thought of installing a dish is suddenly becoming a more appealing one.  Frankly I’m fed up with my cable company’s attitude, which basically is I should  be perfectly  happy bending over and taking whatever new charge they come up with up my ass.  My TV reception isn’t that great anyway.  I am constantly seeing pixillated video on the two channels I absolutely deem to be a total necessity- ESPN and ESPN2.  All my other channels are great.  Those cable jokers are mind-dicking me, I know it and I am getting sick of it.  During my  HD upgrade I got some nice movie channels, but I hardly watch them.  I don’t give a shit about those.  I want a clear, defined picture on my ESPN channels.  And Fox Sports.  And Big 10 Network.  And all my basic network channels if there is any kind of major sporting event going on there.  Except I guess I don’t care so much about soccer.  My cable company can just go ahead and pixilate that.

One of our TV’s is an old 15 inch cathode tube TV.  It works just fine.  It’s not HD but I don’t care.  More specifically, my wife doesn’t seem to care.  That TV is in the den/craft/art/ironing room and she’s the one who mostly watches that TV.  But I still have to have one of those shitty cable mini boxes for it.  Jesus I’m not a total asshole.  I’m not going to deprive my wife of the small comfort of watching that piece of shit TV.  But during the set up process for that TV, I couldn’t quite complete the last step that was required on my computer screen.  My new set up was working as the computer instructions indicated, but the last step of clicking the “submit”  button did nothing.  I really didn’t care at that point.  My TV was working in its new digital format so I was perfectly happy.  But for 5 days afterward I kept getting emails from the cable company douchebags asking me to activate my mini boxes.  All my mini boxes are as active as active can be, but  because I could not complete that final step for whatever reason, I had to make my phone call and clear things up.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t go into this much detail over something so trivial.  But I thought you might want to know about it in case this happens to you.  That’s how I operate.

I called my cable company, and after 15 minutes on hold I explained what happened, making the points in the above paragraph, and told the cable person all I really wanted was to let their company know things were working fine and to please have them discontinue the emails.  That’s when the speed talking began.

ST (speed talker):– Soyouculled  andeverblingwhatwasok?  ME– What?  Sorry I didn’t understand you.  ST- Isbluckok?  Whatyoumeedto completegoringtofliz your computer?  ME– I’m sorry again.  I’m kind of hard of hearing.  Not real bad, but I need you to slow down and enunciate.  ST-  shotthesmorgasboardandflixfirst screen on firthcomputer.  Didyouseezthat?  Me– I hope I’m not interrupting you in mid-sentence, but goddamn it I can hardly understand a word you’re saying.  ST (slightly irritated now)–  Blathtofungomunch on computer.  Justlet menow if snizzelworks aftagrontmibuckle.   ME (really irritated)– Look.  I don’t want to waste your time, and I certainly don’t want to waste mine.  I am really sorry’ but not only can I not understand you, it seems you have shit for brains because you insist on sneezdorkylizingmuchglimppernog.  How does that feel?  ST-  What?   ME– Hopefully now you get my point.  JUST   TELL   YOUR  BOSS   TO   STOP   SENDING   THESE   FUCKING    E-MAILS!     GOODBYE!

At first glance the little song bird I found dead in my front yard appeared to be another victim of cat-stalking in our neighborhood.  But upon transporting the tiny corpse to my garbage can, some of the maggots fell off, and I noticed an odd-looking projectile protruding outside of its beak.  It glistened in the sunlight and when I examined it closely, I saw it was a shard of clear plastic.

Airial view of some nice-looking maggots

Flash back to six days previous.  We had a little party at our house this evening, a retirement celebration for one of my wife’s close teacher friends.  It was a good party, maybe you would  classify it as a very successful one if you’re into scoring that type of thing.  In attendance were two of my good friends.  The three of us are spouses of teachers who regularly participate in  these social gatherings of educators, and we tend to tag along with our wives as long as we understand food and alcohol will be readily available.  We don’t get together often, so it’s normally a refreshing reunion.  We catch up on family stuff and activities, and since we all consider ourselves former jocks of one sort or another, we attempt to relive our jockdom by competing in various yard games.

A Hand holding a blue bocce ball

Bocce ball seems to be one of our favorites, and was our choice for this particular evening’s competition.

I have never figured out why, but these two douchnozzles are always accusing me of cheating.  Maybe it’s all the beer they drink, I don’t know.  But fuck, it gets annoying.  I have a printed set of rules right in my bocce ball storage bag, and I keep telling them to read the damn rules if they don’t believe me, but no, of course that’s not going to happen because that would mean some thoughtless interfering with their complaining.  It always reminds me of the first time I ever played this game.  That was over  20 years ago during an annual neighborhood Labor Day block party.  I came to hate those parties.  Most of the activity took place a whole block away at the far end of our street.  But when it came to the egg-toss, that event for some reason moved right in front of our house.  Sticky egg residue remained cemented in place for at least a week, attracting flies and stray, mangy cats and flee-bitten dogs, all lapping away at the shit and contributing to an overpowering stink-up in our front yard.

Anyway the one good thing about my first experience with bocce ball is all the complaining from my two friends pales in comparison to the complete pandemonium that ensued during my inaugural competition, and therefore I always take their complaints with a grain of salt.  I don’t recall all the particulars of the block party match.  It basically got out of hand when more and more people decided they wanted to play, and pretty soon the competitive nature of a few and the alcohol consumption of many led to a bocce ball crashing through a basement window and then that resulted in the owner of the basement window throwing a bocce ball at the contestant that broke the window, and then all of a sudden the game of bocce ball got scrapped  and in its place a way serious game of dodge ball broke out.  If you are unfamiliar with bocce ball, the actual balls used are made of dense hardwood,  stone, or even metal.  There are some plastic ones out there, but they are considered unprofessional and useless.  Kids might use them but that’s about it.  Adults only that day.  So you get the picture.  Several people departed from the revelry that evening with a variety of contusions, bumps and bruises, and one contestant quite possibly suffered a concussion.  I can’t say for sure.  He says he never bothered to get checked out.  But most of the neighbors think he started exhibiting some peculiar behavior shortly afterwards.  For instance, two bocce balls balls went missing that evening, and to this day he still wanders up and down the street asking if any of us have seen those bocce balls.  The next year a ban was placed on our block party bocce ball and as far as I know it has never been lifted.

Of course our bocce ball game last week was totally nonviolent, and the party, as I mentioned, seemed to go swimmingly.  All things considered, it was typical of our type of teacher gathering.  Or so I thought.  The next morning my wife and I found empty beer bottles in every kitchen cupboard and behind practically every kind of door in our house, an obvious attempt by my two friends at a sophomoric prank, the practice of which is dismissed by most before they exit college.  I am still finding beer bottle surprises yet today.  For me the supreme surprise was the one they stuck behind our mail-box door.  Our mail is conveniently delivered right into our house through a mail slot chute, and it is closed off by a small door inside the entry way.   When my wife opened that door, out fell a glass beer bottle that chipped the edge of a floor tile and shattered.  What a hoot!  Not so funny was my emergency room visit.  Somehow during the sweep-up process I missed a glass fragment that was embedded in the entry way rug,  and when I went to retrieve the mail  later I managed to step on it.  It was a pointed shard that drove itself home deep inside the ball of my foot, and after both my wife and I poked and prodded in extraction futility and used up all the gauze pads and paper towels we had in the house to staunch the bleeding, we gave up and went to an emergicare facility.  Turns out those assholes don’t take Medicare so I had to charge $185.00 to my credit card.  I left the facility with a clear understanding that friends can sometimes be dicks.  All in all it was a very painful experience.

Not nearly as painful as the death that poor little bird endured.  Flashback two weeks previous.  That’s two weeks previous to the first flashback I expressly requested you take.  Don’t fuck this up.  Since that so indicated time that I hope you grasp, a little song bird became a regular visitor in our back yard.  He must have sensed that I am a nature lover and an all around nice guy, and before long a fond bond of friendship was forged between us.  He followed me around everywhere, and would many times spend an hour or more a day  entertaining me with his beautiful, melodic caroling.  One of his favorite places to perch and  serenade me was atop our patio fan.  At left is a picture my wife  took of me giving him a gentle hug.

Fast forward two weeks.  If you did this correctly you are right back where we started.  I guess that’s not quite right.  You should  actually be back to where we started at the first flash back.  You might have gone too far forward, and then I will have to explain what happened that day.  There were a couple of really shitty moments that went on then, and I really don’t want to talk about it.  So you might have to back up a smidgen.  Just do the best you can.

As a topper, my two buddies “forked” my front yard.  In case you don’t know what that is, it’s what happens to your lawn when a couple of morons decide to plant plastic forks all over it.

Lawn Forking

I missed one during my removal routine, but did not miss it with the lawn mower the following day.  I assumed any pertinent parts were blown into my grass collector, but apparently that was not the case.  That seems to be a fact because of the spear-shaped piece that my beautiful, innocent song bird impaled his throat with after he mistook it for a shiny insect. My special little song bird sings no more.   I hope you guys are proud of yourselves!

How old am I, you ask?  Old enough to attend my 50 year high school reunion, since you seem interested.  In fact, it was exactly 50 years to this very day that I a donned my cap and gown and happily snatched my high school diploma out of the hands of my beloved principal, Fr. Francis Wehri OSB.  And I got lucky with the cap and gown.  Ordinarily, extra layers of clothing cause me to overheat.  But on this particular day in May there was an inch or two of snow on the ground, so I was generally quite comfortable.   Sometimes stuff just naturally works out for me.   Like graduating from high school.  I managed to accomplish that without a setback of any kind.  Then again, I wasn’t one of those univac guys that graduated early and entered college as a sophomore either.  Not that I don’t have a lot of great ideas bouncing around inside my skull.  I just about have my amphibious bicycle idea ready to present to the patent office.  I suppose if I had applied myself better I could have been valedictorian.  But at some point I decided to step aside and let Bob Dostal, Dick Gross, Dick Schlosser, and others battle it out for honors.  I’m nothing if not a nice guy.  In the end I was very content with my life’s progress at that point.  I was 17 and right on target- class of 65, and I was completely confident I was prepared for my college experience.  I went to high school at Assumption Abbey, a  Catholic  preparatory school for boys located in Richardton, ND.  Here is a picture of it back then (picture #1.)

Assumption Abbey Then- Picture #1

Assumption Abbey Now- Picture #2

I’m not sure my source is entirely credible, but from what I hear Picture #2 is what the Abbey looks like now.  I can’t quite figure what happened between then and now, but I can tell you some mighty fierce winds blew through the area in my day.  I plan on taking a good look around when I’m there in August for the reunion.  I’ll get the story from the Benedictine’s who run the place.  I am hoping there are a few of them that are still alive who would remember me.  I have to tell you I have unfavorable expectations of that happening though.  As a group my class really wore them down.  The calories consumed to calories expended ratio had to be completely out of whack for the men in black if you consider the effort it took for them to beat the unholy shit out of us.  We were relentless, and our creativity boundless, when it came to giving them a good work out.  I would venture to say many of them had to eat an extra meal and take a two hour nap daily just to keep from passing out from exhaustion.  All that wear and tear had to take a toll.

But let’s face it.  A reunion is mostly about reconnecting with old friends and acquaintances, at least the ones that are still alive.  I can’t wait to see them and find out what my old buddies look like now.  Some of us will probably get together and make fun of this guy or that guy, just like we did in  high school.  What a hoot!  As a reminder, if any of you guys make fun of me, Wayne LaPierre’s son is my next door neighbor.  He and I have become pretty good friends over the years.  He’s an even bigger psycho than his dad and believe me he’d be absolutely thrilled to take on the challenge of hunting you down.  Just a friendly head’s up.

I’m really excited to hear all the life’s stories that went on after we graduated.  I bet there are some doozies.  There will be guys telling me about their careers, their family, and they will probably tell me about interesting vacations they took.  Before I forget, here is a picture that my wife took of me playing Santa Clause during a little vacation we took this past Christmas.  This was on the beach at Bali.

Of course the best stories will involve our pranks and exploits during those high school days gone by.  I still reminisce about playing football at the Abbey.  Lots of times I page through my favorite photo album, and I especially like to show my grandchildren all the pictures I have of me competing in various sporting events.  I have included a few here.  Most of my classmates will recognize them.  Who can ever forget the picture of me making this diving  catch that sealed the victory against Watford City.   I think Ron Kilber took it, but it could have been Edgar Smith too.  He was always dicking around with one kind of camera or another.  Mike Cummings will try and tell you he actually scored that decisive touchdown, but come on Mike- show me the picture.  I didn’t think so.  One of the favorites of my grandchildren is this picture of me right before I launched the shot put 78ft 4in. for a new state record.  They think that facial expression is hilarious.   I believe Dick Gross took that one.  I am sure he would remember it.  Of course I have a whole bunch of other pictures.  I’ll just show you a couple more.  The one directly below is not of me. You knew that.  This is of the kid from Bismarck I wrestled for the state championship my senior year.  He  always tried to look like a big tough guy, but when I pinned him in 22 seconds of the first period, he didn’t act so tough.  Of the four state wrestling champion trophies I won, I think that one is the one I remember the most.  I wish I could remember where I put all those darn trophies.  Then there is this one of me slam-dunking on a break-away lay-up that time against St.  Mary’s.  In your face, bitches!   I have lots more pictures in my special album I could show you, but you know me.  I hate bragging on myself.  I just save that for the grandkids.  The oldest (he’s eight) thinks some of the pictures don’t look like me. He’s a very precocious kid, but now that I am older and have a beard and such, I know it has to confuse him.  Kids!  They think they know everything.  Everybody likes ass, but nobody likes a smart ass.  That’s what I keep telling him.

Well, ok then.  Like I mentioned, this reunion of mine is in August.  It will be here before you know it.  I’ll take some notes and let you know how it goes.  I will probably drive to Richardton.  It’s about a 10 hour trip I think.  I was considering flying, but I’m not sure I will be able to find my brand of scotch in North Dakota.  That’s why I’m driving.  That way I can just keep it simple and take a case along with me in the car.  I hope that’s enough to see me through.