Everything I Need to Forget I Learned in Kindergarten

Mrs. Lefty and I saw our therapist this week, and I told one of my most embarrassing stories. It reinforces the idea that my insecurity and jealousy are issues that I have carried with me for a long time. It doesn’t, however, explain why I sometimes feel these emotions so strongly.

When I was in kindergarten, I became enamored with one of the girls in my class. I don’t recall how this little relationship began. She probably offered me a beer at snack time.

I remember very clearly sitting at one of those tiny kindergarten tables next to this young lady. The teacher asked for a volunteer to pass out papers, and her hand shot up immediately. My little brain was confused. Why would my new friend want to get up and pass out papers when she could be sitting with me?

I was hurt. I was afraid she didn’t really like me. If she really liked me, she would want to spend every moment with me, right? I am sure that I acted in a needy, clingy way that only an annoying 5-year-old can pull off with panache. Predictably, our friendship didn’t even make it to nap time.

Why did I experience those intense feelings of insecurity at such a young age? I wish I could blame my parents, but I had a great childhood. They loved me and supported me in everything I did. Maybe there was not enough fluoride in the water. Or maybe too much.

Today, I still sometimes feel insecure about myself and my talents, even in areas where I have a proven track record. I sometimes feel pangs of jealousy that cause me to be stupid and overbearing. These days, it is harder to pass off my actions as 5-year-old immaturity.

The good news is that I handle myself now better than I did ten years ago. I am better able to talk myself through the irrationality of it all. I think one reason is that I’m getting older and curmudgeonier. (I’m pretty sure that’s a word.)

One of these days I’ll be perfect. In fact, I’m pretty darn close right now.

An unrelated note: don’t you think everybody hates the Boston Red Sox right about now?

What's in a Name?

In lieu of my usual intellectually complex blog entry about global warming, economic theory and drinking more beer, I've decided to keep it light today. Also, it will give me more time to do actual work this morning.

This is from Allison at Planet Alien:

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet & current car) Sunrise Sonoma

2.YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (fav ice cream flavor, favorite cookie) Cherry Garcia Oatmeal Raisin

3. YOUR "FLY Guy/Girl" NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name) L-Sni (for "Lefty Snicket")

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal) Blue Hawk

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) David La Mesa

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first) Sni-Le

7. SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd favorite color, favorite drink put "The") The Crimson Beer

8. NASCAR NAME: (the first names of your grandfathers) Norman Edward

9. STRIPPER NAME: (the name of your favorite perfume/cologne, favorite candy) Old Spice Peppermint Patty (I'd better keep my day job with a name like that.)

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother's & father's middle names ) Belinda Riley

11. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: (Your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter) Kraft Kalamazoo

12. SPY NAME: (your favorite season/holiday, flower) Arbor Day Poppy

13. CARTOON NAME: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”) Strawberry Shoelacey

14. HIPPY NAME: (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree), Number 22 Combo Oak

15. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME: (”The” + Your favorite hobby/craft, favorite weather element + “Tour") The Drinking Sunshine Tour ("Don't miss Sunrise Sonoma in The Drinking Sunshine Tour. It's the hottest ticket since Hitler in Springtime.)

Who Even Knew I Had Brain Cells?

Neurons firing randomly in my brain...

Disney is shooting part of a film on my street today. The working title is G-Force. They are filming a chase scene. That means that my house could become famous. Maybe it will win an Oscar (“Best Single Family Dwelling in a Supporting Role”). I did have to park one street over last night, though, to be sure I could get to work in the morning.

I haven’t had a good cake donut with white frosting and rainbow sprinkles in a long time.

Poor Mrs. Lefty had to go to the emergency room Sunday night. She has severe abdominal pain occasionally, and we usually get to the ER three or four times a year because the pain gets so bad.

Did you know that I make the best buttermilk pancakes ever?

If you plan to drive on a public road, remember to pay attention to the lights. When it is green, that means “go”! And yes, I’m talking to you, driver of the black Audi who would rather talk on her damn cell phone than actually drive her car.

I have a meeting tonight, so I can’t play basketball. Sometimes this damn job of mine really messes up my life.

I have begun to address the question of offense vs. pitching/defense again. Rather than simply spouting off my own beliefs without solid evidence, I have started compiling some statistical data. That’s one more reason to love baseball--statistics. Mmm. Delicious.

That being said, I hate baseball today even more than I did yesterday.

Eight Things Out

Somebody who, if there was such a thing as too much fabulous, would be way too fabulous, but instead, since there isn’t such a thing, has just the right amount of fabulousity, tagged me for a meme I’ll call “Eight Things.”

Here are the rules:

1. Post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of the blog post, choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.

I’m sorry, Bre, but I’ll be ignoring the tagging. If any of you want to play a long, leave a comment to that effect.

1. I have never tasted even a single drop of light beer. Nor even lite beer.
2. There is a beautiful old olive tree, about 75 years old, right outside my office window.
3. I much prefer a watch with a dial and regular numbers to a digital watch or one with Roman numerals.
4. I had toast today and did not drop either piece on the floor. I almost dropped the butter, though.
5. When I was about 4 years old, I used to stare directly into the sun without blinking. I thought it was a cool thing to do. I still have nearly perfect vision.
6. One of my favorite Xbox games is Burnout 3.
7. Books are among my most treasured possessions.
8. I think that if I tag people for a meme, they will be annoyed with me, even though I am usually rather flattered.

I think that covers it, don’t you?

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, an Invalid's Life for Me

It is time for me to admit it. I'm getting old.

First I noticed a stray gray hair or two around my temples. Then, there was the slight leaning forward when I looked across the room to read something. And the others simply assuming I'd be on the "old guys" team when we played a basketball game of old guys vs. young guys.

For a few years I've had what I call this minor back thing. It's MINOR, I tell you. Just a tad bit of soreness now and again. Okay, sure, so the minor soreness occasionally made it nearly impossible to get out of bed. But it's nothing, really.

Now I'm ready to give. "Uncle," I cry.

I have to work today, and since I played basketball Thursday night and hauled a garage-full load of beer bottles to the recycling place yesterday, I have some minor back soreness. I've been walking around the place doing my very best to pretend my body is acting normally. I'm walking as upright as possible, just hoping no one will notice I'm bent forward because I can't straighten my back all the way. I mask the grimace on my face due to a sudden jolt of pain by pretending it's a broad smile. I turn the groan of pain into an impromptu sea shanty: "Aaaargh ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me."

But it's time to give up. Life, you win. I'm getting old.

I'm also going to the drug store at the first opportunity to get some medicine for back pain.

Living the Real Life

The first thing, boys and girls, is that I’m leaving tomorrow for a business meeting through the weekend. I may surprise you and check in while I’m away, so behave.

I was thinking today about my ideal life. If I could do anything--live anywhere, have any job--what would I do?

Here’s my answer: I’d move into a small place in my hometown, and then I’d make a living writing fiction while coaching my high school’s JV baseball team and freshman basketball team on the side.

I have always wanted to write. And I have always had it in my head that I would. Reading a novel or well-written nonfiction is a sacred act. I want to do what others have done for me.

Coaching is teaching, especially when it involves younger players. It is also a way of building something. In this case, coaching the first- and second-year kids is about building an individual team, but also a program. I want to be a part of that, to carry on the tradition, the respect for doing things the right way, for playing the game the right way, that our freshman basketball coach passed on to us.

When Mrs. Lefty and I take walks, we sometimes pass by a field where older kids are playing baseball. The other day, I was staring out across the grass, watching them field grounders and work on their bunting, and my wife said to me, “You miss it, don’t you?”

She’s right. Whenever we walk by, my feet get all jittery and I just want to hop the fence and race out to chase down fly balls, and whack an outside pitch the other way, and smell that wonderful combination of dirt and leather and grass.

I want to be out there talking to some kid about moving his feet to get in front of a ball, or reminding a catcher he’s got to anticipate that curve ball will be in the dirt. I want to throw soft toss to that one guy who always stays after practice for extra work, just feeding him ball after ball until his arms fall off.

So why isn’t that what I’m doing now?

Good question. An important part of the answer has to do with stability. I have a good job with excellent benefits. My kids are practically all teenagers. Mrs. Lefty would go crazy if she had to live that close to her in-laws.

One reason I do what I do now instead of that dream is that I have made other choices. Once you’ve got kids, you can’t just run off and do something else for a while, especially if it may not pay the bills. Once you’re married, you’ve got someone else’s needs to worry about.

And my job includes a lot of those elements I want in my life. I do a lot of writing--some is fairly creative, and some is more technical. I am required to do some teaching. I am particularly effective in that role, and it is one element of my job I enjoy. I have an important part in building this company.

So even if I am not living in that little house in my hometown and coaching and writing for a living, I’m doing all right. I’m a happy man. I’m doing things I believe are important.

Except this meeting I’m going to the rest of this week. That just plain sucks. And it isn’t held in some cushy resort town, but in a place that will be hot and miserable.

Drink a few extra beers for me, okay?

The Sanity is IN

Reasons I know I am not crazy:

• Whenever I question Mrs. Lefty about the state of my mental health, she always says, "Sure, you’re normal, all right." Then, to emphasize her point, she laughs uncontrollably.
• My mother always told me my teachers and the school psychologist were wrong about me.
• The neighbor’s cat no longer sends me telepathic messages saying it wants me dead.
• My regional supervisor said to me the other day, "We’re watching you very carefully." Obviously, the company thinks I’m going places.
• The gremlin that lives inside my microwave told me I’m perfectly sane.

The "Don’t You Hate That" Department: After the latest fiasco with my white dress shirt, Mrs. Lefty went out and bought me a new one. It fit. Don’t you hate when she’s right AGAIN?

Finally, if you love Elmo and profanity (and who doesn't), you must not miss Rude Cactus' June 5th blog entry.

The Truly Random World of Lefty

Mel gave me some work to do. I am to report 7 random facts about myself. In order to accomplish this, I have created a Random Facts Wheel. I have divided my life into 8 distinct time periods as follows:

The Infancy Narrative
The Challenges of Toddlerhood
Tales of an Elementary School Pariah
I Was a Teenage Werewolf
Remembering College, Forgetting to Study
The Mail Order Groom
I’m Too Handsome to Be a Father!
The Present Troubles

Each period also has a subwheel that is divided into months. Every single month of my life is represented on the 8 subwheels, including the partial months of my birth and May 2007. Each month, of course, also has its own subwheel. On the monthly wheels are listed every single event of my life and every single fact about Lefty.

I chose the facts by spinning the wheels until I had gathered 7 bits of information. These are truly random facts, my dear readers. They are presented in chronological order.

1. When my parents brought me home from the hospital, they did not put me into a car seat. In fact, no one in the car was even wearing a seat belt. Instead, while dad drove, my mother held me out the window while I peed so that I wouldn’t soil the cloth diaper.
2. While I was in “daycare” (code for a lady without a proper license but who watched several young kids in her home while their mothers worked), one of the younger kids came up to me, lifted up my shirt and bit me on the belly.
3. One summer, during a full moon, Mrs. Welco went missing. The authorities never found her. In truth, I clamped my jaws down on her throat while she was watching Happy Days before I dragged her into a field and devoured her entrails.
4. The first time I ever got drunk--really smashed--was in college. I became so sick that I didn’t touch alcohol again for years.
5. My future first wife picked my face out of a catalog and sent me a letter promising me a plane ticket to the United States and the fast track to citizenship if I would marry her.
6. Since I have been married, my wedding ring has been off my finger for a grand total of about 90 seconds. (Sometimes to clean it or because my daughter occasionally asks to look at it.)
7. I don't usually bother to heat up leftovers from the refrigerator.

I am supposed to follow the rules by tagging 7 others. Instead, in true curmudgeonly fashion, I refuse.

Home Again, Home Again

My wife and daughters are safely back at home, which is, of course, a mixed blessing. After two weeks of drinking beer, eating meals on the couch in front of the television, wearing the same pair of underwear, and singing “Magical Mystery Tour” at the top of my lungs (“we’re waiting to take you a-WAAAAAAY!”) at all hours of the day and night, I now must consider the sensibilities of others before I act. Damn sensibilities of others!

I did, however, learn a few important lessons. First, never watch Cast Away the night before your loved ones are due to get on an airplane to fly home. Second, a single bottle of beer provides a complete and nutritious meal for lunch. Third, too much time alone is not good for me.

Normally, my brain is distracted by the comforting sounds of domestic bliss, such as the screeching “you’ve been on/in the phone/computer/bathroom all day,” the soulful tunes of 50 Cent (“I'll take you to the candy shop, I'll let you lick the lollipop”), or the blaring, ear-shattering din that comes from the family room where one child is trying to watch television, talk on the phone, and listen to music on the computer all at once. When I was the sole occupant of the house, though, I had no such distractions.

Instead, I did something dangerous. I thought. Yes, that’s right. I rummaged through my brain, and what I found in there was not pretty. I discovered quite a bit of guilt--a ruined marriage, breaking up my son’s carefree life with two parents, my own failures at work, my own failures as a husband to my current wife. That guilt led to some moping and sulking and depression. Which meant, of course, that despite my freedom, I had a rather miserable time of it.

You’d think that I could get past some of my feelings, that I could learn to appreciate the simple joy of an empty house and no responsibility. Next time, I vow to do a better job of taking advantage of such a gift. Now, if only my mother-in-law could have another stroke so I can test it out.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Jesus

As you all know, I’m clean cut and look like Jesus (but without the beard and with a large sombrero). What you do not know, is that I act a lot like Jesus, too. While I have never walked on water or played outfield in the National League (oops, I was thinking of one of the Alou brothers), I have accomplished a lot of other eerily Messiah-like feats:

• While I was a single father between marriages, I once fed my son and myself for six weeks on only two pieces of boloney and 16 cases of beer.
• I was apparently born in a barn, since my father said something to that effect every time I came in the house and left the front door wide open.
• Jesus may have entered Jerusalem on a road covered by the cloaks of his adoring fans, but I walk down my hallway every day atop the clothes my children have thrown from their bedroom doors.
• I am a great teacher of wisdom, as evidenced by my daily instruction to my girls, “Blessed are the peacemakers, because if you two keep arguing about whose turn it is to use the phone, you’ll drive your father to an early grave.”
• My other gem of wisdom is, “Consider the lilies of the field. They never ask for new clothes.”
• I also tell lots of great stories, such as the one about the father who had a younger son whose terrible behavior drove him to an early grave, or the one about the ten bridesmaids/daughters who were waiting for the bridegroom to arrive, but who turned on every lamp/light in the house and ran out of oil/electricity, and so drove their father to an early grave.
• And, of course, Jesus was driven to an early grave, while I’m well on my way.

Day Three and Still a Slob

So I’ve had three nights without a spouse, and the kids have been relatively mild. I have taken a mini vacation at home, doing nothing except eating, drinking beer, watching TV and goofing off. And you know what? I’m bored out of my skull.

Last night as I went to bed, my mind was racing. All the things that I’ve been neglecting, stuff at work, all of it darted to the front of my mind and ambushed my consciousness. So, for the next few days at least, I’m putting the brakes on my slobbish, bachelor life and will be cleaning, doing yard work and getting the laundry caught up.

And, since tomorrow is payday, I’ll be paying bills. There will be no fight this time since there is no one with whom to fight!

Thank God I'm a Middle Class Suburbanite

I was clearing my inbox of unwanted e-mail, and I discovered some buried treasure. I wrote this piece a couple of years ago. Here it is, a window into my soul:

I popped a Creedence CD into the player in the blue Chevy Cavalier, my bruised and banged up half-a-car, rusted out on the bottom like any other self-respecting redneck jalopy. Because it was cool and foggy out, I was wearing my rough flannel shirt with half the buttons missing. The shirt, the music and the car allowed me to revel in my hick soul, even though I was returning from a meeting with very respectable people in a neighborhood full of $750K homes.

Sometimes I wonder if I really am a hick at heart, or if I just like the idea of it. Just because I pull on my boots to slog around in the garden a few times a year doesn’t make me a country boy, even if, in my childhood, I did clear the chickens’ water of ice during the winter and walk up the creek in my shoes in the summers. Now I sit all day in an office surrounded by books with a secretary who sometimes brings me coffee.

As I drove home, Fogerty began “Lodi,” and by the time he got to the words “things got bad, and things got worse” I realized I had heard someone else cover the song recently. Where was that? And who? Ah yes, the fog of memory began to lift...

My brother sat at the table, guitar in his lap, longnecks lined up, some strewn on the floor, soaking the rug with alcohol--a smell that would linger even longer than the stench of roadkill. Moon pie chocolate stained the corners of his mouth as he sang: “things got bad, and things got worse...oh Lord, stuck in Green Creek again.” Between verses he would wipe his greasy hands on his tee shirt, which was too short to cover his belly, or on his blue jeans, torn at the knees. His wife, my sister-in-law, held a child (or “chillin,” as she calls them) in each arm as she swayed in a drunken stupor to the music. Pa, an old man of 76, whistled through the gap in his front teeth, and Ma, celebrating her 50th birthday (her eldest son is 36: you do the math), picked her teeth up off the table so she could sing along, too.

Though the music belongs to CCR, the lyrics are my brother’s rural Homeric attempt to describe the saga of the Wilson clan’s (his in-laws) trips to the campground at Green Creek for family reunions. Most families would choose a plush beachfront resort or an oak-shaded glen in the Midwest for this annual event, but this group caravans their 4x4s and Frankenstein’s monster domestic sedans to a muddy and mosquito-infested stretch of backcountry to drink beer, eat franks and beans, and reminisce about the time Pa Wilson’s shotgun accidentally went off at my brother’s wedding.

When the Wilsons gather their nine children (along with spouses and chillins) to meet up with the other family members, strange things happen. Bodies fall into creeks; bears carry off a week’s supply of Ho-Hos; fishing rods get stuck up in places that ought not be mentioned in polite company, and the like. My brother’s mutilation of “Lodi” describes each year’s journey to Green Creek and forever immortalizes the deeds of the Wilsons and their kin. It was this song he sung as we sat around the table in a swampside shack late into the evening.

Nothing much out of the way happened that night. It was a typical Lefty family gathering, including Ma snorting Jack Daniels out her nose when she got the giggles. Thinking about that night, I realize I am not really a hick, but merely a part of a regular, middle class family. I am only a redneck wannabe. Oh well, maybe in my next life.

“Things got bad, and things got worse, but I guess you know the tune. Oh Lord, stuck in Lodi again.”

The World Is My Laundry Hamper

I have actual bad news (rather than the usual idiocy you get from me): my wife's mother had a serious medical emergency. Fortunately, after a successful surgery, the doctors are saying there is a good chance for full recovery. My wife, though, left this morning to be with her mother in the hometown of one of the Final Four participants. She will be gone two weeks. Both girls will fly out next week during their Spring Break.

On the less serious side, that means that I will be a bachelor for a couple of weeks, which means lots of beer, sports on television, going to play basketball with the guys, and other activities not sanctioned by the Spousal Governing Board. I will miss my wife, of course, but I can go from zero to Al Bundy in 6.4 seconds flat.

Books Aren't Just for Throwing Anymore

Reading is sacred to me. I do it as much and as often as I can. The following books and authors have been particularly nourishing to me over the years.

• For Whom the Bell Tolls, Ernest Hemingway--this is perhaps my most favorite book.
• Trumpet of the Swan, E. B. White--I read this as a boy and fell in love with it.
• Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey-Maturin novels--these inspired the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World. He may be the best novelist of the modern era.
• Roger Angell’s baseball books--if you love baseball, you’ll love these nonfiction books. He is E. B. White’s stepson.
• Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy may not be great literature, but the books are damn funny. The movie didn't do it justice.
• The Iliad/The Odyssey, Homer--I thought I’d be bored stiff, but figured I should read them anyway. Instead, I was engrossed from start to finish.
• Jennifer Roberson has written a number of historical novels and fantasy series. She should be much more well known.

What are your favorites?

Don't Tell Me YOU Haven't Ever Done Anything Impulsive

Person Who Is Not Me, looking at me as if I am totally nuts: “How many days did you spend in one another’s presence before you got married?”

Person Who IS Me, trying to avoid eye contact: “About ten days.”

PWINM: “And you, of all people, should know better.”

Me: “Yes, I know.”

PWINM: “What was the rush?”

That’s a damn good question, and I can’t give a perfectly satisfactory answer.

You see, my wife and I met online. We used to play cards together. After about nine months, we finally met face-to-face. I spent a week with her. About a week after I came back home from that trip, we decided to get married. To repeat: we met for the first time in January and got married in March. Our 6th anniversary is about a week away.

I think the best answer to the question about the rush to get married is this (and there’s no need to tell me that’s not a good enough answer!): it was getting expensive to carry on a relationship when we were thousands of miles apart.

It is true that things have been more difficult for us because we rushed, but I love my wife, and I’m glad I’m married to her. And we’re working on things. We have made a lot of progress in six years, and we’re still climbing.

Reasons Why I Feel Inadequate

Everywhere I go, I compare myself to people around me. And usually, unless I am visiting my brother at Happy Day House for Paranoid Schizophrenics Whose Brains Are Destroyed from Years of Heavy Drug Use, I compare poorly. The same is true when I read your blogs.

Here are some reasons for my feelings of inadequacy, in no particular order...

1. Mel still holds to that beautifully naive belief that children are gifts from God and should not be wiped from the face of the earth (or at least my house).
   
2. Everybody loves Neil. That's why it is so galling that my penis has never said so much as a single word in its nearly 40 years of existence.
3. Not only does Sizzle seem like a genuinely kind and caring person, she has actual c-a-t-s (take that Blogger ads) in her actual apartment. Oh how my soul would rejoice if I could have some in my house.
4. Jason has the greatest blog title in the world. Space Monkey Pants is to Long Relief what filet mignon is to baloney. How cool is that? Space. Monkey. Pants.
5. LVGurl lives in Vegas. Need I say more? She probably dines with Elvis impersonators every day. And she has Tapatio brand salsa picante in her house!
6. Eileen Dover has a wonderfully exotic accent. That's what happens when you're an Aussie. I'd really love to visit Austin, Texas some day. Any tips for this tourist, Dover?
7. Have you ever noticed my masthead? I thought not. Dooce is the Queen of All Mastheads. I am so jealous.
8. And then there's SWF41. She killed her brother with an axe! Okay, she didn't kill him, and it was a hatchet, but still, that woman has got balls.
9. Bre lives in the land of perpetual ice, snow and minus eight degree temperatures. That is just not fair to those of us who live in harsh places where the sun shines 360 days a year, and the mercury never drops below 62. Have you no shame, Bre?
10. The Love Monkey (no relation to Space Monkey Pants) is just straight up funny. I aspire to be just like her when I reach her venerable age--83 I think.

And there's more, of course. So much more.

(To be continued.)

Separated at Birth?

There is a Korean woman who works in the same building I do. She is probably in her 50s. The other day, we passed one another and she said, “You’re so clean cut. You look like Jesus.”

That is definitely not the look I was going for.

The Day Neil Kramer Saved My Life

I know. I’m a big dope. I told communicatrix I’d participate in the Carnival of Neilochka, and I missed every single deadline. I do want to add something to the festivities because Citizen of the Month is a damn funny site. Plus, this is a story that must be told.

I have chosen to write about the day Neil Kramer saved my life!

The date was June 6, 1944. Sergeant Kramer stood in line ahead of me as our Higgins boat pitched and rolled toward the sands of Omaha Beach. Artillery shells splashed into the water all around us, but waiting silently in the bunkers ahead were countless Norwegian soldiers ready to cut us down...wait a minute...let me check Wikipedia...

Yes, just as I thought, numerous German soldiers were waiting patiently in their bunkers.

When the door crashed down, we rushed the beach. Almost immediately an explosion sent me flying face first into the sand. After gathering my wits, I searched for my muzzleloader and...hold on...Wikipedia again...

I picked up my Garand rifle and looked up for the only thing that could relieve the panic that was turning my insides to mush. And there he was, our grizzled veteran, that tower of strength for every scared kid like me on that beach, Sergeant Kramer.

“Old Rocky Bottom,” as we lovingly called him, stood erect, waving his giant sword...just a moment...held his Thompson submachine gun aloft and urged us forward. Bullets ricocheted all around him. A grenade landed at his feet, but he kicked it away and laughed--he laughed! He even caught one bullet in his teeth and spit it back toward the enemy.

“Move, men!” he bellowed above the din. He was our leader, and we obeyed.

I moved up and had almost reached cover behind a tank trap when everything went black. A blast had knocked my body around like a rag doll and knocked me momentarily unconscious. It had also thrown me forward, right in the enemy’s line of fire.

As I came to, Sergeant Kramer had me by the collar. Using his superhuman strength, he flung me to safety, completely ignoring the shrapnel that just sliced into his hip. Once I was back behind cover, Sarge called for the medic, but alas, he had been killed as soon as we left the boats.

I was horrified to see that my head had been blown clean off...no...my legs...both my legs had been blown off, which, of course, is why everyone calls me Lefty now. I was losing blood fast, and there was no time to spare. Sergeant Kramer plugged one artery with his right index finger, plugged the other with his left, and with his teeth, he tore bandages from a dead soldier’s uniform. He had taken his boots and socks off, and was preparing a morphine shot with his toes.

All the while, his Talking Penis tried to comfort me. “Hang in there, soldier. You can’t die on me, kid, and that’s an order!” his Talking Penis shouted.

Once I was patched up and out of immediate danger, the Sergeant faced a dilemma. Since he couldn’t leave the men, and since he couldn’t leave me behind, the Sarge strapped me to his back using the intestines of a fallen buddy. He charged into the fray, and everyone followed.

Sergeant Kramer single-handedly cleared ten thousand...er...eight...bunkers that day and won the battle at Omaha Beach. And with it, Neil Kramer saved a nation.

Sergeant Kramer, Hero Kramer, would later die in a tragic accident involving tequila and the giraffe from an African safari, a sad broken man who could never come to terms with the terrible things he saw “over there”.

Though the nation has forgotten him, Neil Kramer will always hold a special place in my heart. He will always be the man who saved my life.

The Seven Biggest Disappointments of My Life to Date

1. Pro wrestling is fake.


2. I have never had a date with Margaret Thatcher.


3. Two words: Beatles Reunion Tour.


4. My goal was to read through the entire dictionary by age 30. I am now nearing 40, and I am only on the word “abaft”. The dictionary is a lot less interesting than you would think.


5. Baseball Hall of Fame voters have bypassed Steve Yeager every year he has been eligible.


6. I have no superpowers.


7. Flying cars and jetpacks are not everyday accessories.

Actually, There's Nothing Weird about Me

Sizzle gave me some work to do: list six strange, wacky or weird things about myself.

1. When I park my truck, I always set the radio station to the same station, turn it to the same volume setting and then turn the radio off before I turn off the engine.
   
2. I eat only one item on my dinner plate at a time. When that one item is finished, then I move on to the next. I usually start with the vegetables and end with the main dish.
   
3. In the morning, after I shave and brush my teeth, if there is extra time, I will occasionally go back to bed and finish getting ready for work later.
   
4. When I leave the office on the last day of the month, I change all the calendars to the next month so that the correct month will be showing at midnight on the 1st.
   
5. I look exactly like the guy on the bottle of Tapatio hot sauce--except for the moustache and the hat.
   
6. There is always a two-foot stack (sometimes two or three stacks) of books by my bed because I’m always reading something.

Technically, I’m supposed to tag six more, but the buck stops here.