19. Blogman

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 6/1/12.)

There are only two weeks left of school here in Spokane. It’s amazing how quickly my first year of retirement has passed. In many ways the Happy Fridays have helped me remain connected with the many people in the district who have responded in one form or another. And, I’d like to thank everyone for not responding, “These suck.” So thoughtful! I know how hard you work and how difficult it is to get through your backlog of emails. I appreciate those of you have taken the time and hope that you’ve enjoyed at least some of them. 

During the year, several people suggested that I put these bird walks on a blog instead. One hindering factor is that blogs seem like “new tricks” for this dog. You see, with all the social media out there – Facebook, blogs, YouTube, Wikis, podcasts, twitter, tweets, peeps, chirps, and occasionally tittering (for mature audiences) – I’m only familiar with email and PhoneCalling. 

I’m getting braver, though, and have begun looking into how to do the blog thing. So far, my biggest helper in the Bloggerama is named Lisa. She’s a young professional who works for Google, and her blog page is used as an example on their training site. She seems nice enough … swell home in San Francisco … pictures showing her having lots more fun than I ever have … she’s traveled a lot … and, she has a ton of interests. Fortunately, her top-10 list does not include quiet walks on the beach or dolphins or beached dolphins, which means we have much in common. Already I’m feeling pretty close to her and can hardly wait to share My Life Story … in installments so I don’t have to water it down. Lisa must have very good social skills judging from the 17,564 people who consider her to be in their inner-circle of friends … although a few might be credited to the fact that you automatically go to her example page when you’re learning how to blog. (I’ve thought about doing something similar if I ever started a Facebook account; I’d just post “FREE iPads,” and let the friends roll in.) Anyway, I figure I’ll stand a better chance with Lisa if I include pictures of myself when I was younger … although I have to admit that I peaked on the cuteness scale when I was four or five years old. Better yet, maybe I’ll just use pictures of a hunky 30-something guy … the kind you see in underwear and cologne ads … but less serious and more capable of  carrying on a conversation without using the word “dude” in every sentence. And, if I ever did happen to meet her, I’d just say that I had this sudden aging condition kind of like Brad Pitt had when he played Benjamin Button, only in reverse. That should tug her heart-strings and buy me some sympathy time. Don’t get me wrong, I’m just toying with her until I figure out the blog thing. Mary is still #1 in my book, and not just because I don’t heal as fast as I used to. You can count on me to keep introducing her as “my current love interest.” … OW! C’mon, that hurt. It's probably going to leave a mark, ya know….

So, I plan to start a blog shortly to replace the Happy Fridays from now on. I’ll re-run some of the better pieces and just throw in new stuff when my life careens out of control as it tends to do. Now, here’s where you come in. I need a name for the blog. So far I’ve come up with “Incidents of Incredible Importance.” I don’t know if someone has already grabbed this one up or whether it would just drive people away. But, the person who sends me the best idea for a name – whether or not I actually use it – will receive a very impressive prize: an original Spamanimal created by yours truly. If you’ve worked in the same building with me anytime during my career, you know what a treasure this is. It’s a detailed carved animal made from real Spam … ORIGINAL Spam, not an off-shoot like Spam Light, BBQ Spam, or Edible Spam. So, just email potential names for my blog, and you may be the lucky winner. (Think: Ed McMahon showing up on your doorstep, only MUCH better.)

L. Haymond

New Trickster

18. Prolog: Poor Fit

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 5/25/12.)

Some of you have asked whether Mary actually tried on the exquisite necklace I welded for her. Well, YEAH, of course she has. And, the good news is that, with a few stitches and a little bed rest, the doc at Minor Emergency says she’ll be back to her regular routine in no time. And, I plan to get her a nice spring mock turtleneck to wear during the healing process. I think she’ll like something in a vibrant pastel … coral seems to be quite popular this season. Sadly, it doesn’t appear that a household welding unit is in the cards for me anytime soon though. But, I’m always the optimist, and it’s off to do a bit of shopping at Nordie's right now before the holiday crowds hit … and catch me lurking randomly around women’s apparel.

L. Haymond

Purgatory Temp

17. Rocket Science

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 5/18/12.)

It’s been a busy week as I continue to lead a useful and productive life in retirement … which I’m beginning to think is overrated since I’m growing tired of the responsible pacing that I hadn’t really counted on.  The reason I’ve been busy is because I had the last session of my yard-art welding class and my project was due.  I didn’t know when I signed up that it was pass/fail; and to pass, you have to show up, and you’re required to actually COMPLETE a project.  Go figure.  Well, I showed up every time, but I wasn’t particularly prolific compared to the other students who were doing a bunch of smaller projects during our 10 sessions at SCC.  More than half the class was made up of women, and they generally focused on flowers … and fencing and the occasional eagle, an arbor, and something with chains and barbed wire that made me a little nervous. Horse shoes and table spoons were also popular materials, but esthetically, they didn’t work well together if you ask me.  Mostly, the guys went with insects.  They weren’t your average crawling pests, but rather each was characterized as stinging, biting, avenging, or in some other way, menacing creatures … except for the goliath ant that my pal Brad made out of three 8-pound steel balls. He quickly convinced me of its inherent fear factor by threatened to throw it at me, antennae-end first.  I’m learning to keep reviews to myself around sensitive artist types.

My plans were for an industrial era Flash Gordon-style rocket ship made of heavy-gauge steel … that I discovered was much too thick and hard to work with … but they don’t like returns at the steel store after you’ve cut it all to pieces with a torch … and, in the event of a confrontation, these guys sized-up in the Real Burly category … so I was stuck and just had to deal with it.  But, the cool thing about welding is that you start with bare metal, and using high-voltage electricity, piercing flames, and metal-grinding wheels, you spark away about half the original mass until you’re left with a shape that suits you … or doesn’t, but that’s alright since you got to watch fireworks the whole time.  It’s a win-win experience as I see it, particularly if you’re kind of a pyro at heart, and you don’t really count on the final product working out anyway.  However, I needed to complete at least one REAL project, or I’d fail.  And that just wouldn’t look good on my transcripts for the next time I apply for a job …HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, that’s a joke.  For those of you who are still working: I’m retired.

Okay, I’ll admit I wouldn’t want to fail … just because ... on principle ... or whatever.  And, I gotta tell you, it’s difficult to do welding well.  Making metal stick together -- like I do -- is easy.  Making consistently clean welds isn’t.  So, I was coming right down to the final days of putting all the pieces of the puzzle together and hoping it would work out as planned.  I did a lot of homework sanding using a power grinder in my little basement shop … and set off the smoke alarm in the next room.  Honest.  The good thing is that the system worked; the bad part is that it triggers all the alarms in the house, even if it’s 10:30 at night … and your wife is sound asleep.  I really don’t want to talk about it anymore though, because it’s been discussed quite enough already, and there’s been a big lesson learned here … a reeealy BIG lesson.  So, the next day I went over to my pal Brad’s house so I could borrow his welder … and a Corona, which wasn’t covered during the safety lecture in the first session, so I figure it was okay … you know, for artistic creativity, like Hemingway or Fitzgerald might have done … and remembering that, with authors, the pen is mightier than the sword -- and probably an arc welder – so I decided I was safe having a cold one for incidental inspiration on a hot afternoon.

Well, I finished it up just before class by gluing little glass pieces in the window holes, wiring up lights inside and a flicker flame bulb on the tail, and adding a ’63 VW Beetle turn signal that I bought on eBay.  

Sparks and flames

Then, I scribbled a few graphics on the side this morning … for authenticity.

It's the real thing

Now, although I’m kind of surprised and proud of how the Space Cruiser turned out, I have to say that my real creative passion was for making jewelry … FINE jewelry, designed especially for Mary.  You see, she just deserves it for being who she is.  Sometimes our friends call her “Poor Mary” when they see her with me, and I think that’s just not fair.  Apparently, they haven’t seen her wearing the exquisite new necklace that I made, or else they’d be calling her “Lucky Mary.” 

Artisan at Work

Detailed Craftsmanship

   
And, I’m hoping that she will allow me to get even BETTER at my craft by letting me buy my very own arc welder like ALL my friends’ wives have let them … for example: my pal Brad.  Yes, “Lucky and GENEROUS Mary” … kinda has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

So, there you have it.  If anybody happens to ask you how I’m doing, just tell them I hope to continue making refined contemporary jewelry … and keeping my mind occupied doing Rocket Science.

L. “Sparky” Haymond

Classified Extraterrestrial Division

Northrop Corp.

16. Meeting John Stockton

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 5/11/12.)

The highlight of my week was meeting NBA basketball legend, John Stockton.  I was out for a bike ride through Riverside State Park and had just finished carrying my heavy bike down a long set of new stairs. They just finished building them, and I haven’t gotten used to working on my upper body strength that you wouldn’t expect to be working on when you’re just out riding your bike and minding your own business. If I’d wanted to get that kind of exercise, I could have just stayed home and used my weights in the basement like I do when Mary occasionally makes me dust them.  It used to be a lot easier to just walk your bike down the steep, dished-out trail that leads to the suspension bridge at Bowl and Pitcher … and risk sliding on the rocks that could have resulted in a serious injury to your tail bone.  But they went ahead and built the steps anyway.  

I always stop in the middle of the bridge for a drink from my water bottle and to take in the spectacular views.  The river is very high this time of year from runoff, and you can feel the roar of the rapids just beneath your feet.  I’ve gotten to know the area pretty well and have noticed a patch of poison ivy growing near the railing at one end of the bridge.  I feel it’s my humanitarian duty to caution folks when they go near.  The park service probably doesn’t mention it because it’s just part of nature … and, if they warned about poison ivy, then visitors would expect the same for every little thing that might bother them … like chipmunks getting into your potato chips, even if they have a family history of heart disease … or that you sometimes don’t get the correct change from the Pepsi vending machine which lights up the night sky and obscures your view of the stars.  So when I see someone close to the poison ivy, I point out the three shiny leaves drooping from the top of each stem and say that, if they did touch it, all they’d have to do is wash off the affected area with liquid dish soap within two hours.  I learned this from an issue of AARP Bulletin … along with using Vick’s VapoRub to effectively treat toenail fungus, although I haven’t found a good forum to bring this to people’s attention.  Maybe I should just hang around locker rooms more and check out guys’ feet, although Mary doesn’t agree with the idea for some reason.  I’d also tell people that I feel a little guilty quoting the AARP since I’m kind of mad at them right now for several of their big lobbying efforts in Washington D.C. that I disagree with.  Don’t get me started.

Anyway, I was taking a break in the middle of the bridge and could tell someone was crossing because you can feel it in the foot boards.  I looked up as they neared and was pretty sure it was John Stockton in a baseball cap along with a couple other people.  Surprised, I just said, “Hi!” like I knew him, and he kind of looked back as if he wondered whether he should know me.  “Beautiful day,” he said as he passed, and I responded, “Yes. You’re John, right?”  He stopped and said, “Yeah.”  I told him, “I’m Lou Haymond; it’s a real pleasure to meet you!” and he shook my hand … VERY firmly.  Then he said, “Thanks,” and they walked away.  I waited until they were all the way off the bridge before I pounced on my bike and scurried home to tell Mary all about my new friend.

She was envious and wished she’d gone along even though she’d just gotten home from her exercise class with the girls.  I told her how John and I really connected, probably because we had a lot in common.  She asked me what we could possibly have in common, and I was quick to admit that it wasn’t basketball. (I’d tactfully refrained for telling him about my days playing for the Monroe Elementary Mud Hens, because like most people, he probably would have listened just long enough to give his companions a good head-start scattering away from me.  I don’t know why people do that.)  I knew I couldn’t tell her we both had “boyish good looks,” because that one no longer amuses her in the slightest.  So, I decided to go with “We both enjoy state parks … being outdoors … and breathing fresh air while exercising,” although I didn’t share with her how I’d panted away going uphill on my bike, and John just sped off in his shiny black Lexus with the windows rolled up.  And I told her how his handshake was REALLY firm and I didn’t even grimace or say “ow.”  “Yeah, John and I really connected alright.”  Then Mary asked if he commented on my hulky rat-rod bike that had the “ZERO” license plate, an oxidation-and-rust theme, and a blue Jaguar hood ornament with a plastic dinosaur in its mouth.  (See pictures in Tour de Park posting.) I told her, “Mmm, well he didn’t comment specifically about them, if that’s what you mean.”  Then I started wondering if maybe he didn’t see the humor in it … and maybe I should have ridden my newer bike from REI that’s pretty snappy with bright green paint and a lot more gears.  She pressed, “Well, did he seem kind of nervous around you, Lou?”  “Uhhh, not really,” I replied, except I did remember that he drove away pretty fast for being in a camping area with rangers around. 

I told Mary that she was just jealous now that John and I were tight.  I’m looking forward to seeing him again, although I don’t know when since we forgot to exchange phone numbers.  Next time, it’ll be much better, because I know exactly what I’m going to say:  “YO, John, my MAN!  It’s Lou.  Uhhh, Lou HAYMOND.  You remember, Riverside State Park … suspension bridge … you said, ‘Beautiful day,’ ‘Yeah,” and ‘Thanks,’ … and I’d just found this really WEIRD old bike and was taking it to give to a charity for children.  Hey, John … wait up!  Say, did I tell you about poison ivy?  Hey, c’mon, slow down!  How about toenail fungus … so, do you happen to have toenail fungus?  YOO-HOO, MR. STOCKTONNN!!! 

L. Haymond

John’s Best Friend

15. Fake Tattoo

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 4/27/12.)

Before I retired, the elementary principals group had a monthly drawing at their Friday meetings.  The prize is purchased by the membership on a rotating basis.  It was my turn to buy the gift, and I wanted to find something more “creative” than the usual dinner for two at a very nice restaurant that anyone would LOVE.  That’s just SO predictable and joy-filled.  Not my kind of moment.  At the time, I was principal in a school near the E. Sprague area where there are many … mmm, “interesting” livelihoods.  I decided to look for a nice gift at a well-known tattoo shop … a place with protective bars covering the doors and windows and an inviting picture of an attack dog apparently waiting inside for after-hours visitors.  Typically, several custom Harleys were parked out front along with a faded Blazer that needed to be towed. 

I parked across the street and down a little to avoid scrutiny … and door dings.  This was AFTER my normal work hours, mind you, but before dark.  I took a deep breath and walked in … mentally prepared … casual like, as if I were a regular.  Thinking back, I probably should have lost the tie and penny loafers though.  I scanned the business looking for possible parents of kids I had in school, much like I’d do when buying beer, wine, or personal hygiene items at a neighborhood grocery. I was safe.  I found a sales associate and explained my situation: I needed a gag gift certificate for the principals’ group.  He didn’t appear to see the humor in it and just stood there glaring at me … with perhaps the same intensity he’d had while getting the snake tattoo around his neck.  Or maybe he’d simply noticed my principal’s ID badge that I’d forgotten to remove and was recalling the carefree experiences in school office areas as a youth. I told him I’d thought about getting a nice tattoo … andwouldjustmoverightalonganddoalittlebrowsingthankyou
verymuch.

They had a large selection of tattoos, and I was immediately drawn to the more traditional types … something a respectable sailor would have coveted while spending lonely months away from home on the high seas: buxom women!  There were so many to choose from.  I finally settled on one with a girl-next-door look -- if you were very, very lucky where you lived – and headed for the counter to inquire.  But, on the way, I lost the bounce in my step when I looked down at my scrawny forearms and thought, “Well, THAT’S not going to fit THERE.”  And it wouldn’t make sense to cut her in half to split across both arms … and try to show her off by locking my elbows and wrists parallel-like. It was the only time in my life when I actually envied Popeye for his arms.  And he only used the expanses for ANCHOR tattoos … what’s with THAT?  Disheartened, I returned the pattern back to the shelf and wished I had faithfully followed the Charles Atlas exercise booklet I’d sent off for as a kid … and could have stomached the regimen of bananas and wheat germ powder I’d whipped up in the blender.

Then it sparked!  I rushed back to Mr. Intense, showed him my arm, and asked, “Okay, how much for a PENCIL tattoo?”  He didn’t respond right away … possibly wondering if I was joking.  What … ME joking?  I remained earnest.  Finally, he quoted me, “$48.”  I pressed him, “Yellow, with a pink eraser?”  He responded, “Yeah.”  Still, I didn’t feel I’d really connected with him.  Glanced around, I noticed that all the other customers had tattoos which were much more sinister.  So I leaned slightly into his personal space, looked him straight in the eye, and asked, “How much to put some bite marks on the pencil … some reeeally JAGGED bite marks?”  He kind of lightened up with a little smile and told me, “I’ll just throw those in.”  Now we were talking.

I walked about the place mulling over the possibilities of having such a tattoo; you can’t just return a buyer’s remorse here. For starters, it might actually help with school discipline … Mr. Haymond’s legendary cruel tattoo.  Example: when dealing with a tough sixth grader who wasn’t about to cave that he’d made an error in judgment … I’d simply say, “Don’t make me show you … The Tattoo,” and s-l-o-w-l-y start rolling up my sleeve.  Yeah, that would get results.  But then I remembered that I was a professional and had to ask myself: an intimidation tattoo … in education?  No, Lou, THAT would be wrong. 

Hmmm, “THAT would be wrong.”  Do you know who made that statement famous? Richard Nixon, that’s who.  They found it on his secret recordings made in the Oval Office during Watergate.  After that, I recall thinking: “Richard Nixon, he’s MY kind of guy.”  In fact, Richard Nixon became my moral compass.  You see, sometimes when I’m just thinking along … kind of flat-lining, I get this blip where my mind suddenly starts telling me to do some “risky behavior.” No, no, no, not THAT kind of risky behavior … I mean the kind of risky behavior where I say or do something that makes me laugh and entertain myself … usually at someone else’s expense.  It’s the kind of risky behavior that a former district human resources director would later ask you, “What WERE you thinking???” … again.  So, from then on, just as I was about to do some risky behavior, I’d stop myself and say, “But, Lou, THAT would be wrong.”  And then I’d just go right ahead and do it anyway … just like President Nixon did. 

So, there I was at a cross roads with the pencil tattoo … facing The Neck, mano-a-mano … controlling the situation with a long pause and direct eye contact, I used my best Clint Eastwood voice and said, “ALRIGHT,  I’ve made a decision!  I’m just going to trot on home and check with my with.”  And then I beat it out of there!

L. Haymond

  “I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam.”  ~ District Nutrition Services

P.S. At the following principals meeting, the drawing was for a hand-made gift certificate from “Tigger Tattoo” and a romantic dinner for two at Dick’s Drive Inn. 

14. Continuing to Lead a Useful Life

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 4/13/12.)

I’d like to give you an update on how I’m doing in retirement:  quite well, according to the Government of the United States.  In fact, so well, that they’re giving me a raise.  That’s right, I recently received a 3% increase in my Social Security payments. Now, some naysayers may allude that it’s simply a cost-of-living increase.  But obviously, these folks aren’t retirees working hard at their vocation. Yes, this is definitely a raise.

Now, Mary doesn’t have an opportunity to see me honing my skills at home each day, since she’s … “at work.” Perhaps this explains why she, too, seems to be questioning the validity of my recent pay increase.  Fortunately, spring break provided us “quality time” together for nine full days.  We had a wonderful visit with friends in San Francisco.  We ventured out on trolley cars, ate at neighborhood restaurants, and rode a tandem bike along the wharf and over the Golden Gate Bridge to points north. While on our way to have lunch with friends, we heard a commotion outside the City Hall building. Always interested in a little excitement, we decided to go over and sniff around.
 

Commotion at City Hall

Just sniffing around

Then, it was back to Spokane for the remaining days of vacation … well, Mary’s vacation. Spending so much time home alone this year has made me realize how much I need someone around to practice my cynicism, irreverence, and general annoyance.  You see, I’ve been getting kind of rusty at these favorite past times and was beginning to worry that I might be losing my edge.  But, thanks to Mary, spring break was very rejuvenating for me.  She’s back at work now. And, although I miss the quality time with her, I can’t say that I miss her death threats.

I’ve just started a new session of classes from the Community Colleges’ Continuing Ed Program.  Last time, I took Step Aerobics and Tai Chi which I really enjoyed … except for the sweating and body coordination aspects. This session, I’m taking Step, Zumba, Yoga, and Yard Art Welding.  The one thing Mary insisted when I retired was that I work out more often so I would stay healthier … at least physically. 

Going to the initial class in each course is always a bit nerve-wracking … anticipating what to wear.  I lucked out with the Step class because several other guys were taking it, and we all showed up in t-shirts, shorts, and sneaks.  Zumba was another matter since I figured the dress code would be Lycra in electric colors.  Turns out, I’m the only guy taking it, so I just opted for a t-shirt, shorts, and sneaks.  I arrive early in order to claim my personal space in the back corner of the room.  I’m less conspicuous there when our instructor tells us to “shake that thing” and do a “belly-dance kind of move.”  I gotta be honest here … this stuff doesn’t come naturally to me. So, at the end of the first class, I went directly to her and said, “Carol, just so you know, I wasn’t seizuring back there … that’s just me doing the Zumba. No need to be calling 9-1-1. You see, I’m more of a classical dancer really … and it’s hard to adjust from what I learned at Juilliard.”

Mary went shopping with me to find some yoga pants at Sports Authority last week. Actually, we were already there looking at seasonal sports clothes for the grandkids; so officially, this would have to count as my Easter outfit. I was envisioning something like David Carradine wore when doing Kung Fu smack downs … while seeking inner peace.  You know the look:  loose fitting, natural fibers, earth tones … something that would go well with wool socks and Birkenstocks.  When I couldn’t find anything like that, Mary -- without checking with me – asked a sales associate where we could find a “man’s yoga outfit” … which was immediately broadcast over the loudspeakers for all the jock-types to hear … kinda like what would happen in a drug store if you quietly asked for a stool softener.  Fortunately, the message came back, “We don’t carry those” instead of “Has he tried the granola store?”  I ended up going to class wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and sneaks.  That was just fine since the classroom was only illuminated by incidental light filtered through some nice homemade curtains … and she was teaching us nonjudgmentalism using a soft, calming voice in an environment of unconditional acceptance … where you hold these yoga “poses” WAY too long making your muscles really burn … which was bothering my inner peace … but somehow I didn’t feel accepted enough to come right out and say that. I’m happy to report, though, that the class isn’t turning out to be quite as transcendental as I’d feared … as evidenced by our instructor calling me by my first name rather than “Grasshopper” or “Albino Legs.”

The lead-up to Yard Art Welding was easy since the catalog spelled out the dress code: long-sleeve cotton shirt, levies, and leather shoes that cover your ankles.  I can do the traditional logger look … although I did stash a t-shirt, short pants, and sneaks in the car, just in case. Our course assignment is to draw a plan for a piece of yard art and then build it.  Right away, I had this great idea to weld a life-size nude.  I don’t know where I get with this kind of creativity … it’s just a gift, I guess.  I figured I’d need to hire a professional model, which would be worth it to keep my mind active as I approach the second half of middle age.  Use it or lose it.  Now, my initial attraction to welding was that it makes A LOT of really neat sparks.  But then I realized that they also create a serious downside: the model would have to station herself some distance away from the artist and his work.  And, to complicate matters more, you have to wear this welding hood with a dark-glass shield to protect your eyes … and obstruct your view of the model.  Even worse, we learned that, if you get distracted from focusing on all the sparks you’re making, things could quickly deteriorate into an emergency-room situation.  So I finally accepted that I’ll have to find my niche with less-interesting industrial subjects.  But, on the bright side, I know I’m going to feel good about using my new skills to give something back to society … the one that gave me a raise for doing meaningful work in retirement. And, it’ll prove to Mary that I can be productive and useful. In fact, I’ve been thinking about fusing a few pieces of her favorite jewelry to my massive scrap-iron creation … for an endearing personalized touch. She is going to be SO surprised when she sees it … and want to spend MUCH more quality time with me!  Yeah, for sure…. 

L. Haymond

Artist in the Rough

13. Stylin'

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 3/30/12.)

I’d like to make a correction to an earlier Happy Friday where I mentioned something about finding a “perfect blouse” for Mary, my wife.  An anonymous reader responded to this with: “Who uses the term ‘blouse’ anymore??!! I believe the current term is ‘top.’  Idiot.”  Actually, “idiot” was just implied. First of all, I appreciate your constructive criticism, Ms. Mindy J. Hopkins at 12319 W. 24^th, Spokane, WA 97218, especially as it relates to enhancing my communication skills with non-guys.  You see, I thought I’d made real progress years ago when I transitioned from using the term “girl’s shirt” to “blouse.”  It was about the same time I actually used the term “top,” apparently before it became official.  The response was less than optimal though when I said, “Hey, nice top!” and was nearly slapped.  Fortunately, I’d become conditioned to maintaining at least an arm’s-length from any woman with whom I was attempting casual conversation. I may have complicated the communication, however, by including the term “hubba hubba” or “oolala” -- as a compliment -- during this at-risk-male period of my life.  Somehow, I survived unscathed … except for the well-adjusted part. So, what I’m saying here is: I’ve checked it out, guys, and it’s probably okay now to go ahead and use the term “top” without wincing like a fast ball was headed straight for your face.  

Keep in mind that I may not be the best person for advice about style, but I’m always prepared with a defensive response if the topic arises. For example, when a wardrobe-conscious person says something to me like, “So, do you like that frumpy cardigan with elbow patches better than what’s in style?” I simply reply, “Yes, I call it ‘traditional.’”  Or, maybe I’ll say, “Yes, it’s a classic look … you know, ‘retro.’  They’re all the rage in Europe … well, RURAL Europe … and parts of Minnesota.  Don’t you read Q.G.? … uh, I mean “D.Q.” … yeah, don’t you read D.Q.?”  “Mmmm, I thought not.”

I can tell you there have been A LOT of changes in style since my day.  For example, basketball outfits.  Players used to wear really short shorts … the kind that looked pretty much like Jockey briefs from a distance … or Fruit of the Looms to some of you.  Plus, they’d wear these airy sleeveless jerseys … the kind that would come in handy in future years when you start filling them out with a gut while sitting in front of the TV, watching sports, and thinking of your glory days.  They could also double as napkins, which was important so you wouldn’t have to get up quite as often … since no one stuck around the house to wait on you with that fetching new look you’d … “evolved.” 

And, what’s with the uniforms basketball players are wearing nowadays?  They’re like these long silky “shorts” that really aren’t.  I mean, if they went to Catholic school when I was growing up, these baggy numbers would have passed the skirt-length test if the nuns made you kneel on the floor. In fact, they kind of look like the old culottes that young women used to wear that looked like a skirt but were actually pants that hung like a skirt … sorta like that.  And underneath, these big players appear to be wearing what looks like Spanx … although I, for one, have trouble discerning the slimming effect.  Maybe it just gives them something to talk about during half-time. Seems odd in this day and age that young guys have become so much more modest than their AARP counterparts were in their day.  Still, it’s probably a good idea not to yell “Bunch of SISSIES!” when attending games … unless you can quickly blame it on someone who isn’t paying attention because they’re reliving their glory days in their heads. 

Let’s bird walk into international style and I’ll give you a few more tips. We traveled to France a couple of years ago and ended the trip in Nice on the French Riviera.  I’ve been looking forward to this all my life because of the … well, topless beaches.  You know, from an historical point of view, of course … different cultuuures … and all very natural and healthy.  But let me warn the guys in the audience: don’t waste good money on a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses since toplessness is “passe’” now.  Apparently has been for quite some time, but nobody bothered to mention it to me, thankyouverymuch.  And I found that the few women who did go topless were generally about my age or older … perhaps for a “traditional” or “classic/retro” look. Yeah. But the really disappointing part was: Guys-Wearing-Speedos.  VERY popular on the Riviera these days, regardless of age.  Ugh…. So, if you’re going to Nice and searching for something exciting to look at, you might want to consider one of their fine Renaissance museums with marble statues.

 

And finally, I’m going to go out on a limb here and offer you guys a final tidbit of advice.  If you happen to receive an email from Ms. Mindy J. Hopkins saying, “Who uses the term “skirt” or “pants” anymore??!!  I believe the current term is ‘bottom.’” Don’t fall for it!  Next thing you know, you’ll be telling somebody at work, “Hey, nice bottom!”  Call me old fashioned, but I just have a BAAAD feeling about this one.

Happy to help, guys.

L. Vuitton Haymond

12. Slam Funk

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 3/16/12.)

It’s March Madness time and an opportunity for me to share the last installment in my series as a Notable Team-Sports Deficit when I was growing up. Fortunately, there’s a finite number of team sports at which you can fail miserably when you’re young, although it doesn’t seem that way at the time. If you recall, I did quite well in sports as long as it didn’t involve: throwing a ball, catching a ball, hitting a ball, or kicking a ball.  And, let me add: bouncing a ball … or, as some call it, “dribbling.”

As an adult, I’ve only had one experience playing basketball. More than a dozen years ago, a teacher friend of mine invited me to play on his Hoopfest team.  I’d always enjoyed his annual team practice the evening before the first game of the big local 3-on-3 event when I was invited as a non-playing guest.  The other players would arrive in Spokane from out of town, and we’d sit on his back patio laughing, joking, and carbo-loading with beer. He’d barbecue large quantities of red meat for protein, and they’d talk through their game strategies between trips to the restroom or to replenish our sports drinks. I could never understand their verbal playbook which mostly entailed what hadn’t worked the previous year … or ever, for that matter. 

So, it surprised me when I was asked to play on the team.  Apparently, one of them wasn’t feeling well for the first game, and I could take his place as the fourth member.  This really wasn’t something I wanted to do.  Basketball had been a bad experience for me starting in grade school, and I created a mental block with staying power.  I finally gave in, just to “help out” in this one game.  I stressed my one non-negotiable sports mantra: “Never be responsible for the ball.”  So, my job would be “the pick,” – or maybe “the picker,” I don’t remember for sure -- which I had never heard of.  For those of you in the real world, “picking” means you just stand there so that – get this -- a player on the other team plows into you.  That’s right.  And then you’re supposed to act surprised like you didn’t see it coming.  Go figure. Sounded easy enough, but it brought up another issue I have with the game: personal space.  I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but people get really close to you when you’re play basketball … like skin-to-skin contact, and not in a good way. Plus sweaty.  I wasn’t looking forward to this.

We met at our court the next morning, and I picked up a basketball for the first time in public since I played for the Monroe Mud Hens in sixth grade.  We warmed up with a few tosses at the basket … which I abruptly stopped when I realized I was giving away my status as a team filler.  I mostly concentrated on bouncing the ball around without hitting either of my feet.  When the game started there was a lot of tussling with everyone sizing up members on the other team.  Now and then the ball would come at me, and I’d open-palm ricochet it away so as to avoid any responsibility. There were times when guys got WAY too close in my personal space -- aggressive-like -- apparently not knowing who they were dealing with: someone who had taught personal safety in public schools for years.  So the next time it happened, I told him firmly, “Excuse me. Elbowing makes me uncomfortable. Please stop,” which is the right thing to do. But he just ignored me and didn’t even say “sorry.”  And, apparently, the ref missed the whole thing and didn’t bother to scold him. It became perfectly clear that, if I was going to avoid any further personal-safety situations, I would need to take my fancy picking a few feet away from the fray of things.  I’d just randomly stop here and there, stand up stiffly for a moment, and then move on … kind of like a fast-paced game of red-light/green-light. Pretty soon, the other team was treating me like I was invisible and didn’t have feelings.  It had become a 2-on-3 game.

During breaks, the guys on our side would be encouraging and give me a few tips that I promptly forgot.  We ended up losing, BIG time.  I felt bad that I’d let my teammates down, although I had repeatedly warned them.  But they were fine with it.  Just fine.  As it turned out, they really hadn’t wanted to win the game.  Losing put them on another track that apparently makes it easier to work your way back up the ladder toward the Final 300. I’d actually helped our team.  Imagine!

Yes, I felt better having assisted in way I could never really comprehend.  But things had been different 40 years earlier when I played on our sixth grade team. I liked to call us the “Monroe Mud Hens.”  That wasn’t actually the school mascot, but it had a nice ring to it … so I impulsively wrote it on my school shirt with a permanent pen … and, as a result, could never wear it to school again. We had a pretty decent basketball team that year.  I just remember one game when we played Hill Crest Elementary, an upper income school next to a country club bearing the same name.  We felt like bad boys against them because we were from the “Bench” area of newer subdivisions that were really pretty nice … but still didn’t compare with the uppity Hill CREST neighborhood where most families had two-car garages.  We took an early lead in the game and never looked back. In fact, we were so far ahead, our coach did something no one unexpected: he put me in.  Back in those days, it didn’t seem like there was a lot of planning or playing positions or assigned areas or other sports stuff … at least not from what I can remember.  So, mostly I just ran around wherever the herd was.  I’d hang back when our team had the ball so no one would pass to me (on accident), and then I’d try to grab the ball whenever the other team had it … which actually happened … suddenly and unexpectedly.  In the flurry, I just clutched the ball to my chest and flailed my elbows around in the unfamiliar territory of being responsible for the Real Game Ball. We were right under the basket, and someone yelled, “Shoot!”  Rather than chance dribbling on my foot, I shot straight up. It hit the bottom of the rim and rocketed straight back down to me. I tussled with less resistance around me this time, stepped back, and shot again … right over the basket and back down … and I managed to catch it AGAIN.  Amazing, considering my instinctive eye fluttering. Third time would be a charm, and as I cocked my arms for the certain swish, the whistle blew.  Our coach had called for a time out.  I looked around and found myself all alone.  Everyone else was down court … at OUR basket.  Needless to say, this was a career-ending play … just as I was warming up to the game.  True story. 

Time can be a pretty good healer from early experiences like this.  These events help us build character and develop empathy for others, particularly kids.  So often, they struggle with more than we’ll ever know even when we’re with them daily in school. 

And, if you’re really on your toes, you can turn these past tragedies into solid assets as an adult. For example, they really come in handy when, invariably, group discussions turn to commiserating about how tough each person had it when they were growing up.  I’d try edging in with my stories of being disrespected and put-down … but typically in the course of fulfilling my dream role as a General Annoyance … which results in little – if any – sympathy. But then everything changed when I started giving my recounts of being a Team-Sport Deficit. Yeah, now THAT’S pathetic! Sniff, sniff. Uh huh, I finally became a contender!

Sometimes I think about what might have happened if it weren’t for my one fatal play. All things considered, the NBA is better off without me. I would have had to get a tattoo … probably a little green tree frog … that would have made all the other guys jealous.  I don’t think the league needs that kind of pettiness. And, me?  Well, I’ve never had to have joint surgery … or to worry about what to do with all my money.  Life just has a way of working out.

Knuckle bump (ouch … dang!),

L. “Shortman” Haymond

11. A Hint of Bacon

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 2/24/12.)

With birthdays whizzing past like a long, dizzying picket fence, I’ve been reading about how to keep mentally alert as I mature into an ager.  Most articles suggest trying new things; ALL include doing crossword puzzles.  That’s just annoying because I’ve never enjoyed crosswords; not even in my prime … which, I think was about three years ago when I finally peaked.  I don’t remember for sure though.  I prefer playing solitaire instead, but not the oldster kind that uses real cards.  They tend to get tattered and worn out, particularly when you dog-ear the corners while playing games with your grand kids.  I’m all about the modern electronic solitaire on computers.  They allow you to choose the level of challenge, and I typically set mine at “Youthy.”  Interestingly, this level plays quite similar to the “Dementia” setting.

Another thing I do to keep mentally alert is to hang out with younger people.  This last holiday weekend, I went skiing in Canada with my son-in-law, Don, and some of his friends.  They’re all exceptional skiers.  Unlike them, I dislike skiing in deep powder, especially when it’s combined with double black-diamond runs.  I inevitably lose my ski tips under the snow, and when I find them, they aren’t where I was hoping they’d be.  Fortunately, this sense of anguish doesn’t last long since I’m quickly distracted by an intense tumbling sensation.

The other guys had arrived late at our filled resort the evening before and were offered a much nicer condo down the street.  After a day on the slopes and wind-down in the lodge bar, we agreed to meet at 6:00 for dinner at the restaurant next to their condo.  I arrived at The Gypsy on time and told the hostess we didn’t have reservations … which is a lost opportunity as I see it, because I like to call ahead to save a table under the name “Donner.”  I can usually get a delayed chuckle when the hostess calls for the “DONNER PARTY” … loudly, on the third attempt.  I like to follow up with, “Boy, am I-I-I hungry; I wonder what’s on the menu?”  

Anyway, I had her set up a table for five.  After waiting for 20 minutes, I asked if there were any other restaurants in the area where my friends might have gone, and she assured me there weren’t.  I couldn’t get a response on Don’s cell, so I ordered a glass of wine and waited some more.  This was beginning to feel a lot like my college dating days.  At 6:30, I decided to order.  The salads looked pretty good, and I went with the “Romaine heart salad with crisp bacon, shaved parmesan, slivered almonds and buttermilk wasabi dressing.”  The hostess must have sensed my dilemma and asked if I’d like to look over their reading material … perhaps to make this a more meaningful dining experience.  She walked to a small bookshelf at the side of the room and motioned using a deft Vanna White arm gesture.  I selected a recent National Geographic issue and sat back down in an atmosphere of casual conversation and laughter with other diners enjoying the company of fellow human beings.  I found a heart-warming story about Rajan, a retired 60-year-old Indian elephant born in captivity, and his trainer, Nasru.  There was a picture of them enjoying each other while swimming in deep, azure waters of the sea.  I immediately identified with this great beast half a world away because we shared striking similarities.  You see, I too had been born in captivity and was now retired … as a mammal … that likes the company of others.  

Quick service interrupted my reading as my salad arrived.  Surveying the moderately tasteful presentation, my attention was drawn to the bacon bits scattered sparingly at the four corners of the plate.  To me, this was just wrong.  C’mon, bacon matters!  I like to use the borrowed expression: “I’m a vegetarian … except for bacon.”  There should be a law requiring that menus list ingredients according to the amount actually contained in the dish, much like our food-packaging mandates.  I could understand the U.S. allowing such an oversight, but I’d expected better of Canada.  This menu should have read: ROMAIN HEART salad with shaved parmesan, slivered almonds, buttermilk wasabi dressing, and a few measly bacon bits.  My pondering of a menu can best be explained by The Far Side cartoon that illustrates what dogs actually hear their masters saying, “Blah, blah, REX, blah, blah, blah….”  I just substitute “BACON” for “REX” as I read through.  To my way of thinking, the food industry could easily streamline the selection process by simply tweaking the headings on a typical menu to include:  Appetizers, Soups & Salads, Crisp Bacon Items, Entrees, and Desserts.  I’m going to call Martha Stewart about this one.

I left The Gypsy around 7:00 and headed back to my inn to ask where the other guys were staying.  I quickly found their condo and was greeted with jeers, saying I had stood THEM up after they had waited a long time for me.  Turns out, they had gone to Gabriella's, just around the corner.  I’d remembered earlier that the name started with “G.,” but then found The Gypsy which was in plain sight.  The guys seemed to understand my reasoning, but then started making disparaging remarks about age.  I quickly countered that I hadn’t been stopped at the border and searched as THEY had.  Oh, and by the way, I was retired and could go skiing w-h-e-n-e-v-e-r I wanted … what were THEY doing on weekdays anyway?  Then, heartlessly, I gave them the sure-fire comeback: “I’m pre-elderly, AND I VOTE!”  That always strikes fear and gives you the edge.  (I’ve also found: I’m a principal, AND I VOTE … I’m a house-husband, AND I VOTE … and,  I’m a perv, AND I VOTE to be very effective in commanding respect from others.)  That seemed to subdue the room.  Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, our dining experience might have turned out different if I’d just done a few of those doggone crossword puzzles.  Mmmm … NAHHH!

I really did have a great time with these guys, even though none of them seemed remotely interested in hearing about middle-aged Rajan and his pal, Nasru.  So I told them anyway.

L _ _ Haymond

     1. Across:  Three letters.  Begins with L.  Proper noun that means “Greek god-like.”

10. Skiing Mt. Kansas

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 1/27/12.)

I think I’ll go skiing today.  I try to go on Wednesdays because that’s when doctors are supposed to be there … at least that’s what I heard when I was in high school.  It’s comforting to know they might be around, just in case … although it’s probably a long shot that I’d find one who could fix a broken hip on the spot.  In fact, I’m not sure I could spot any doctor because they sometimes look a lot like normal people. I’d guess the best way to track one down would be to scan the crowd for someone who looks smart, reserved, and quite earnest … the kind of person who could look you straight in the eye and tell you to “drop your pants, turn your head, and cough” … and still keep a straight face.  Right there, I know I could never be a doctor. 

I also heard from high school pals that attractive young snow bunnies flock to ski areas on Wednesdays, also because doctors are there. I’ve been looking forward to retirement to find out for sure since I was always too chicken to skip school or my day job.  After several disappointing trips to the mountains though, I’m beginning to think that I may need to add this theory to my growing list of Retirement Misconceptions.  Still, I might find one in a singles line waiting to be paired up for a chair ride up the slope.  Adding to my hope, I’ve discovered that it really isn’t that hard to make myself appear younger by merely donning a helmet, large goggles, a turtle-neck, and perhaps a face mask on really cold days.  And, to put the bunnies at ease from stranger danger, I always bring along gum to offer as an ice breaker.  I’ve been practicing ways to make myself interesting, such as telling “My Life as a Ski Champ” that’s timed to match the duration of a typical chair-lift ride … thus leaving a dreamy impression when I heartlessly part ways with them at the top.  They’ll probably go home, dry out the gum, and with a heavy sigh, put it in a keepsake box from Hallmark.

I’ll talk about my days as an Olympic downhill racer in Lake Placid, New York … the year they didn’t have enough snow, and the downhill event was moved to nearby Topeka, Kansas where they had lots of snow.  Yes, lots of snow on the Corn Maze downhill course set in the breathtaking Prairie Bowl.  Sure, there weren’t any speed records set that year, but there also weren’t many injuries either … other than a few strained shoulders as a result of the technical pole work required.  Long forgotten by many, this Olympic site change was recently returned to the spotlight by an independent, unbiased, and non-partisan super PAC, Neoconservatives Embolden With Tonsofmoney. In a sugar-coated, party-unifying message directed at former Olympic Chairman, Mitt Romney, the group respectfully announced, “Only an IMBICILE who was raised in the Australian Outback by DINGOS would make such a PATHETIC decision that has brought GRAVE harm to this great nation.  That’s an historical FACT!”  

In an unrelated story leaked to the press, confidential sources close to the Romney campaign reportedly overheard a conversation among Gingrich insiders discussing his plan to withdraw from the race to pursue an unexpected and more attractive opportunity.  It is anticipated that the recovering family-values candidate will soon ask current love interest, Callista Gingrich, for a trial separation so he can accept a lucrative offer to become a 24/7 historian for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader squad.

Anyway, back to me … Yes, it was very discouraging that, after all my Olympic training and skillful poling on the grueling downhill course, I only managed to take fourth place.  FOURTH!  Sure, millions will remember those who won Gold, Silver, and Bronze … but FOURTH placers? We roundly go unnoticed and are quickly dismissed even though we were only .000017 of a second behind.  But, I’m proud to say that we can handle it because we have broad shoulders … broad shoulders and years of aroma therapy, huggy support groups, and off-beat man-drumming.  We can even joke about it now.  We call ourselves Lead Medal Winners… huh, huh, kind of an inside joke.  You wouldn’t want to say it to our faces though … we’re still sorta edgy. 

And, DON’T GET ME STARTED about my Nobel Peace Prize “runner-up” experience.  It’s like, you don’t get ANY recognition unless you WIN.  Nothing.  Nada.  They don’t even tell you “good try” or “better luck next time.”  How hard would THAT be?  I’d have to say it’s more devastating and a greater heartfelt loss than winning Lead at the Olympics, because it’s The Nobel … it’s about HUMANITY … SELFLESS HUMANITY, for crying out loud … and a sizeable cash prize that would have gone a long ways toward buying some really cool stuff.  

Well, there you have it.  In this election-year climate of grand self-adulation, where attacks using truth-challenged and truth-free “facts” are readily believed by unquestioning masses, I can hold my head high on the slopes and proudly exclaim my worthy accomplishments and deepest personal pain with best of them.  It’s the American Way.

Gotta go now.  I have to stop by the store and pick up some gum on my way to the mountain.

Catch air, DUDES!

L. “Bode’” Haymond

9. Bold Leadership

(Previously sent to friends as a “Happy Friday” email on 12/2/11.)

I went to the school board meeting Wednesday night, but not for the obvious reason of listening to the Approval of the Minutes.  No, I was there for the swearing in of our newest board member who I’m so pleased to have joining the group.  Surprisingly, the swearing-in itself didn’t actually involve any swearing.  That’s a good thing since I probably would have started laughing and then been asked to leave … kind of like what happened at church one Sunday when I was growing up.  My friend, Geoff, and I had finished sipping the sacrament when, without warning, he just leaned his head back and gargled it.  I’m not sure if I sprayed anybody, but clearly the adults didn’t share the lighthearted nature of the moment and escorted us out … with brusqueness.

Anyway, the swearing-in that didn’t include any swearing was informative.  Among other things, school board members, it seems, have to agree to abide by the Constitution of the United States …  as well as follow the laws of the United States … AND the laws of Washington State.  Tall order.  Call me naive, but this sounds like a good idea for all citizens.  This would mean, in my judgment, that breaking a speeding law would result in an impersonal pink slip stating: “Take a hike, PAL! … or SISTER….” 
 

So, in reality, the standards for the job are quite demanding.  I should know because, truth be told, I was an unofficial school board member some years ago, back when the district was much more fun.  It was during a transition between board members, and I discovered a vacant space on the wall outside the board room where the outgoing member’s framed picture had been. Not wanting the appearances of a power vacuum at the top of the food chain, I brought in a picture of myself as a kid and taped it to the wall when no one was around. It took nearly two weeks before someone apparently noticed this wasn’t the new board member in his youth and removed it. I remember feeling quite proud of myself having used my power for good when the district needed BOLD leadership.

Board Temp

As a pragmatist with experience in the role, I’m wondering if the bar hasn’t been set a bit too high though.  I mean, I can see a situation where I might be late for a board meeting and get a speeding ticket along the way … then quickly parking across the street with two wheels on the curb … aaand jay-walking mid-block just as a squad car is cruising by.  Next thing you know, I’m looking at Three-Strikes-You’re-Out and trading my place at the big house on Bernard St. (district administrative office) for the REAL big house on W. Mallon (Spokane County Jail) … which pretty much looks the same except their windows run vertically, plus they might have some esthetic differences inside.  But, on the bright side, they give you three squares a day, AND, I don’t think they make you sit all the way through board meetings acting like you’re paying attention.

L. Haymond

Person of Interest