The Winter Weather Blues
Where is global warming when you need it? Does the sun still rise in the east, or at all? I’m not certain there are answers to these questions, but this dreary weather has got to end.
I’ve been stuck on this watery rock called Earth for 49 years and I can’t remember a more dank, sunless, drizzly, cold, or miserable winter. I actually have penicillin going wild on my backside. Some people I know are so depressed, they’re popping Prozac like Pez.
We’ve entered an alternate reality that is cartoonish. There really are little clouds floating over our heads pouring liquid torment on us. I’ve witnessed sights and perverse behavior I never imagined.
The squirrels in my backyard are wearing wetsuits and sporting snorkels. A neighbor has begun building an ark and is advertising for mated pairs of exotic animals.
My dogs are afraid to step off my wooden deck. I guess they can’t piddle and tread water at the same time. (So much for multi-tasking Yorkies.) The dogs have been wet so long they’re green.
I now have an in-ground pool, in my basement. I’ve lived here 15 years and had a perfectly dry cellar until this, the Chinese year of the Mudpuppy. I’ve begun hosting mushroom gardening and black mold bouquet arranging contests in my formerly livable basement.
My wife has gone into hibernation. She said something to me about waking her when the sun came out but there been no such event for months. I’m keeping her alive with promises of fair weather and lazy days of sunbathing on the deck, but I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face. I’ll surely go to hell for telling the same fib so many times.
I’ve had to pour bleach on my shingles to kill the moss. The little green tufts aren’t in corners or shaded areas, but right out in the open on colored grit. Now, I know life can exist on the ocean floor in sulfur plumes, under frozen Antarctic lakes, and in rocks, but this isn’t right. I may have a new phylum flourishing on my roof.
Maybe we can bribe our local weather-persons to change the forecast. I’d be happy to start the ante as soon as my checkbook dries out enough to write in. There’s always ritual sacrifice to the gods, but I don’t believe there’s any combustible material in the entire region. The best we could do is a musty rug burn.
As I sit here hoping for a climatic miracle and watch the perch swim past my kitchen window, I daydream back to those glorious droughts we had a few years back. I immerse myself in parched memories of unbearable heat and humidity so low your eyelids stuck to you eyeballs. I yearn for cracked earth and pavement oozing waves of luscious heat that distort the horizon. I want to turn my air-conditioner up so high Davis-Besse has a meltdown.
Will we ever be able to get the smell of wet dog and muck from our nostrils? We can only hope that we are the butt of a cosmic joke and someday soon, spring will arrive and save us from our so-called temperate climate.
If this is “temperate,” I’d really hate to see extreme weather. Let’s hope no one finds a cliff and jumps off. It won’t stop there. Like demented lemmings Ohioans will surely and joyfully follow the first one over in a desperate bid to be dry, even if it’s only for the length of the fall.
Heaven and mercy, where is the sun?

Sequels: A Good Idea?
As an old horror and action movie fan that thought “The Eye That Wouldn’t Die” and “The Creature from the Black Lagoon” were classics, I’ve had the misfortune of viewing a malevolent creation called the “sequel.” There have been very few that worked and at least two that were better than the first film.
Let’s start with the stinkers that gave the idea of the sequel a bad rep. The Hall of the Gloriously Awful includes “The Substitute,” “X-Men,” “Nightmare on Elm Street,” and the “Jason” series. These were aimless drivel that left one feeling the need for a shower afterward. I confess to watching only two or three films of each before my gag reflex prevented further viewing.
The real assaults on the good-taste of everyone over 12 were the films that were great movies until they were dragged down by their sequels. This list includes “Star Wars,” “Alien,” “The Matrix,” Cruel Intentions,” “Scream,” and “Predator.”
The first “Alien” was a monster of a movie that combined cinematography, plot, and great characters in a truly frightening situation. I still jump when the locker is opened and that darned cat snarls.
“Predator,” which was Arnold Schwarzenegger’s first action film role was revolutionary in its use of lethal and brawny good guys hunted by a scorpion-man from another galaxy. This was the first movie I ever watched more than ten times.
Then there is the world’s longest running, should-have-not-have-made-most-of-them, all time favorite of voyeurs, Ian Fleming’s “Bond” series. Two names, Sean Connery and Pierce Brosnan, give the promise of entertainment and class. The others should be burned before they can infect another generation.
The two series that “did no harm” were the “Diehard” and “Indiana Jones” films. They were worthy of seeing once. You were happier when the credits finally ran, as much for the films’ upbeat endings as you were there weren’t more cels to endure.
Worthy of mention is the Hannibal Lector series. Save for the presence of Anthony Hopkins, no one would have ever seen, or admitted seeing these gratuitous homages to bad filmmaking. However, what a fabulous moment for us horror fans in “Hannibal” when Lector took a little slice of Ray Liotta’s brain. My wife will not watch anything with Mr. Liotta in it because she can’t help recalling that stomach-churning scene. Well, at least I don’t have to set through “Turbulence” or “No Escape” again.
Of all the rarities in the known universe there is the sequel that is not only better than the premiere, but completely atones for the modest failure of the original and sets a new standard.
In the action/adventure genre “Bad Boys II” is one such film. The chase scene through Los Angeles with cart wheeling Buicks (I knew these cars might serve a useful purpose) was nothing short of exhilarating. The shootouts and violence are mitigated by the comedic repartee between Martin Lawrence and Will Smith. You have to see this movie.
While your getting “Bad Boys II” you should get the other better-than-the-first horror/drama “Final Destination 2.” The first “Destination” was a bit formulaic, but offered a new boogey man using death as a conscious entity. The antagonist is an unseen, unpredictable, force that mercilessly stalks and slaughters its victims. Now that’s entertainment. “Final Destination 2” takes this premise and explodes with a terrifying multi-vehicle and multi-fatality accident that you can actually feel viscerally. David R. Ellis puts you right in the middle of the mayhem. Yummy.
As bad as some of the films I’ve mentioned are, there does seem to be a glimmer of sanity in Hollywood. No one has as yet broached the notion of making a sequel to “Punch Drunk Love.” Amen.

Yorkshire Terriers or Terrors?
I’ve just read a column by D. L. Stewart relating his experience with his new Yorkshire Terrier puppy. He lamented the travails of housebreaking and he was right on. Like all breeds, Yorkies have peculiarities that generally run through all their genes and make them both alluring and trying.
My wife and I are founding members of a national no-profit Yorkshire Terrier rescue network, so we’re familiar with these wee beasts and their eccentricities. We have two of our own, Toto and Dottie, and have fostered several for our organization. We’ve learned a great deal through much trial and plenty of error.
Yorkies are tough to housebreak. Your home is one giant bathroom and they are very adept at finding new places to leave their business. Corners, behind chairs, in front of doors, and hallways are all favorite, though not exclusive spots. When our Dottie is angry with us, usually for a bath, she will on occasion trot gracefully to the center of the family room carpet and leave a piddle.
Yorkies are also uncomfortable with inclement weather and prefer the warmth of your rugs as potties of opportunity rather than freezing off the tails most of them don’t have anyway. Toto is guilty of this whenever it’s cold or there is thunder. He absolutely will not go outside. I can carry him to the furthest reaches of the yard and he’ll beeline right back to the house.
This Yorkie feature has led to some modification of our behavior. We do not walk around our home in socks. Socks will absorb a yellow puddle, but it’s really annoying when you haven’t washed whites recently and you’re running low on socks.
We also turn on lights before entering a room. Their small stature makes Yorkie poop faint in odor though no less messy when stuck to the bottom of your shoe.
Like all dogs, Yorkies are both territorial and form packs. This means there is always an alpha. In our home it is Dottie. She is smaller and younger than Toto and most of the foster dogs we get, but she is still the boss. Everything in our house is hers. All the toys, treats, doggie beds, and people belong to her though she will share.
Dottie takes her leadership role to its limit. On walks she always leads regardless of the pace. She asserts her ownership by checking inside the garage and around the backyard every time, and I do mean every time, my wife or I enter the house. If I’m gone for any length of time, Dottie waits by the front door for my to return so she can make sure all her people are accounted for.
Toto suffers from separation anxiety. Anyone can enter my home, but I have to restrain him when they leave. If he were human, he’d be a stalker.
Yorkies are people dogs. They need to see someone, anyone at all times. This makes them good lap dogs and pains in the posterior. All human activity has an audience including intimacy. Yorkies are not for the faint of heart.
Despite their tiny frames Yorkies are dogs just like a Labrador or a Mastiff. You can handle them, but there is a limit to their patience. If you forget they’re adult dogs, Yorkies will remind you. Mostly it’s a snarl or a snap of the teeth. With rare exception, they are among the most gentle of dogs, but they demand respect.
The best Yorkie trait is their capacity for love and forgiveness. They have a sixth sense that tells them when you need a little extra attention or a “kiss.” They’re always glad to see their people and no one that owns Yorkies ever arrives home unannounced. This is bad news for husbands trying to sneak in late.
As I write this, there are two Yorkies guarding me. Dottie and our 6-pound foster, Sadie. Both are sleeping on their right side deep in slumber, until I stand up, of course. Then it’s “Fatal Attraction” in stereo without the rabbit.
It’s also about time the thunderstorms stopped this season. Toto is paying an inordinate amount of attention to the front door mat.

Being a Good Parent
I’ve been in a reflective mood of late. My mind wandered into the universally gray area of childrearing. As a father figure, probably square, I have contributed something to the lives of my son and two stepsons. I take full credit for passing the following knowledge on to them.
All three can roller-skate. Roller blades weren’t invented yet, so that’s what we did. I used the “drag the kid around until his hand slips from yours and he falls” method. They were young so they bounced rather than getting hurt.
Two of them can swim. I hauled them around the Amherst community pool while they got over their fear. My father gave me an inner tube, a strong Lake Erie current, and a push away from shore. My eldest stepson had ear infections, so he had to be careful, but the other two are like fish.
My younger stepson can bounce a softball off his forehead. This wasn’t the original intent, but he got good distance and a respectable arc before the headache set in.
I taught my eldest stepson how to stop a bicycle by running into an immovable object. Again, this was not the way I had designed his instruction. No matter what direction I pointed him or how far he was from any tree, stop sign, garage door, or bush, he would head straight for it. This may have been a good thing since he never got on the motorcycle I bought for him when he was in high school.
All three understand that their wife, girlfriend, and/or mother’s opinion is also their opinion. Ask them anything and they’ll say, “Wait, I’ll ask my mom.” This may seem counter-intuitive to raising independent males, but let’s be realistic. Is there a guy out there that can color coordinate, dress himself, or not buy toys he can’t afford?
I take full responsibility for outdoor camping. Cub Scouts was an adventure for all of us. All three sons and I did an over-night with the Cub Scouts in Black River Reservation. The defining incident of the evening was the “spider in the tent” episode.
The few dazed adult males present had finally chased the numerous budding Daniel Boones into their tents for the night. We had just begun our war stories, (these are lies men tell one another so no one thinks we are wimps), when all three of my charges ran from our tent. Slightly embarrassed, I inquired what prompted their retreat, only to be informed they had been frightened by a spider. A spider. Chest puffed out, I derided them and ventured forth into the tent to slay the offending beast.
Mother of God, that was a huge spider. I ran, too. This thing could have lifted a Buick. (You know how I feel about Buicks.)
Finally, I admit I fed their predilection for video games. This was not a major contribution. They already spent more hours staring at a television screen slaying weird critters than I did at work. I did however make the situation worse by taking them to “Aladdin’s Castle” at Midway Mall. I admit it was a way to get a few minutes peace and to check out the female shoppers. My bad.
Overall, I was a passable parent. None of them ended up in prison, though not from a lack of trying. I’m proud of all of them and as long as they don’t make me a grandfather too many times, I’m cool.

The Burning Car
Why would a thinking biped willingly walk into a factory and take a job on an assembly line? Granted the pay at Ford has always been good by most standards, but working at a mindless task for 10 hours a day, six days a week is just weird.
The long hours aren’t the worst part of working in the middle of a couple thousand people; all of us lost in our own world and surrounded by hundreds of moving parts, assembly lines, tow-motors, forklifts, and finished automobiles. Basically, it a good place to get maimed.
My first experience with unbridled pain came unloading a boxcar with a guy who said he could drive a forklift. He lied. On one of his excursions into the boxcar the forklift became stuck and from his position I could see he couldn’t tell exactly what was holding him up. I stepped next to the machine, (I zigged,) as he tried to get unstuck, (I should have zagged.)
Having your leg crushed between 4 tons of metal and a stock rack really smarts. This is when I found out, while trying not to pass out, that he wasn’t licensed to drive in the plant. I had the pleasure of limping a half mile to the Medical Station and to think up how not to get him fired. Fortunately, they didn’t ask.
With nothing broken, though my leg looked like it had been injected to the bursting point with grape jelly, I healed up pretty well.
Then came the oil embargo and a recession. I ended up in the worst and best place in the plant, the KD line. KD stood for “knock down” because of the way the car side panels lie in the fixtures. It also described what happened when one of the welding guns hit you in the head. This was not the bad part. The bad part was the sparks, which consisted of droplets of molten steel and their propensity to burn the crap out of you.
It was a lesson in thermodynamics as those pesky red-hot blobs found their way into eyes, mouths, ears, noses, other sensitive orifices, and shoes. Now, we all wore boots, so the only logical explanation for a burn on sole of one’s foot was quantum physics. The theory that matter at the sub-atomic level can appear instantaneously anywhere in space had to be the reason.
The KD line had its good points. The guys I worked with were the best and we had fun watching each other catch on fire. Really.
Then there were the tetanus shots. All that bare metal made going to a private doctor for a booster unnecessary, since we all made regular trips to the Medical Station. Our bodies took on a Frankenstein-like appearance from all the sharp edges and resultant stitches. It gave us that macho image that women find so irresistible. At least, that’s what we told ourselves.
The closest I ever came to meeting my maker, Henry Ford himself, was when I worked at the very end of the chassis production line. I drove the cars off the end of the line with two or three other fellows. We were the first human beings to sit in these cars, so it was an enjoyable job.
One of the things I heard about was the possibility of cars catching on fire due to a missed connection or leak. I’d never seen or heard of it happening in the twenty-odd years I worked there at that time.
One bright and sunny day, (I’m guessing since you couldn’t actually see outside.) I tried to start up a Cougar. The fact that it didn’t start wasn’t unusual since the gasoline had to get into the injectors before it could fire. The procedure was to keep turning the engine over until it finally roared to life.
At this point, I noticed that the people that worked with and around me, were moving away from me. I wasn’t alarmed until two of them ran back toward me with fire extinguishers. I guess no one had thought to tell the guy in the burning vehicle to stop feeding the fire with the ignition on and the fuel pump humming. It didn’t even occur to anyone to tell me the car I was in might be about to explode and that maybe I’d like to get out of it before it did.
I finally caught on when the flames began to shoot up past the windows. I jumped out and the first thing I heard was, “Did you turn off the ignition?” My pals.
Close calls are a feature of modern production, especially on the scale of automobile manufacturing. There just needs to be a general rule that we KD line rats followed: “Whenever someone is on fire, tell them.” Marshmallows for toasting are optional.