I often share overly personal information about my family on Mostly Teachable, but neglect to share some of the honest to goodness details of my happy life here in the wilds of Southern Michigan. This year I plan to post my photo collection from each Week That Was. To kick off 2013, I thought I’d go back into my vault and share some of what turned out be a really nice 2012. Here are some of the pictures from the last 12 months:

Anna and I at the Magic Kingdom

Bonfire Night May 12

Indian Head Pictured Rocks

First Church of God St. Joe June 12

Anna Lake Michigan June

Olympic Cookie July

Dad and I exchanging gifts. He did the right thing and raised me a Tigers fan, despite his Cubs crush.

Hiawatha National Forest Labor Day

Lori @The Buck St. Joe

Mackinaw

Anna & Paul Bunyon Manistique

Anna Donated Hair to Locks of Love for Cancer Patients

Lake Michigan St. Ignace Side

Anna In Little Mermaid at Doug’s Kids on Stage

Family at Lake Superior

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#2013 Best Year Ever #Family #Photos #pictures 2012 postadday

   Living in a smallish town along Lake Michigan, there are few things we look forward to more than the start of Summer weather. Even though there was a hot snap in mid-March in which temperatures rose above 80°, the rest of the Spring was typically chilly and wet. The March anomaly left us in a weird place, as much of the population shambled out to the beaches only to freeze before getting back indoors. We ended up as a bunch of sandsicles. Now, with Memorial day in sight, the calendar and weather are finally on the same page and we can enjoy two and a half months of great weather before breaking out the parka and re-treading the snowmobiles. The arrival of great weather also heralds the reemergence of the local bikini moms. Aging women in beachwear  ready to show the world that time may change them, but they can’t change time.

As a man, I have nothing against the bikini, or the sight of a woman wearing one. There is a double standard when it comes to being able to wear them in public, though. I was thinking about this while in a local Dairy Queen last night with my daughter. One of the bikini moms was out with her kids (I mean the actual children, and not the chauvinistic euphemism) in her swimwear. This wasn’t one of those train wrecks like I used to see as a child. She wasn’t wearing a crotched bikini top, or just wrinkles. Still, I began to consider the double standard. I can’t wear a Speedo to DQ. There’s this whole rule about “no shoes, no shirt, no Mikhail Gorbachev in a tiny bathing suit.”  The Hunger Games has shown that we’re a culture desensitized to brutal violence, so it should come as no shock that our lives, liberty and the existence of Jersey Shore are all indicators of being an overly casual society. Since you no longer have to find a Sears catalog to see a bikini, I’ll probably just wear my coconut bra down to Tasty Freeze for a cone. Good times.

#Bikini Moms #Middle-Aged Women Wearing Bikinis in Public #Speedos

Earlier tonight I was rooting through the refrigerator for the components that might possibly make up a complete dinner. In our house there isn’t any such thing. I found some oranges, a few jars of mustard and black oil from The X-Files. I guess that my standards need to drop down a little. There happened to be an unopened Lunchable.  I was not going to let the black ooze get a Lunchable. This, I thought, might be a nice change of pace. The last time I ate one of these happy little trays of lunchmeat goodness was…a long time ago. Some years back, I snuck onto a senior citizens bus trip to some war memorial (because when you reach a certain age, you take the bus to visit various cemeteries and restaurants with free, albeit burnt, coffee). The old timers had Lunchables. Stacks of soggy Ritz Crackers, bologna wheels, pasteurized processed cheese food product (the food product you feed to cheese, apparently). Good, All-American, toothless people’s food. As a kid my dad brought this combination of food home when we were getting ready to move, so I get nervous every time I pass the Lunchable aisle in the store. The package in my refrigerator tonight looked a little more sophisticated. It supposedly contained the makings of one sandwich and also a fruit smoothie. Upon opening the package, I figured out that the product was a fancy MRE, the Meals Ready To Eat given to service people in the field. A child size sandwich roll/doorstop, a smidge of turkey, some low-fat/low-interest mayonnaise, the smoothie and two Oreos. The product, to be fair, is designed for school-age children.

Despite my stellar I.Q.., there is no government standard that classifies me as a school kid (except for maybe the No Adult with Social Anxiety Left Behind {we swear} Program).

For a short time I enjoyed my tot-sized sandwich and smoothie shot. Not for long of course. In the end, there was some quality pizza growing in the back of the fridge. That not only killed my appetite, but several viruses growing in my stomach. Yummy, sprouted food for the modern man on the go.

Lunchable Smoothies Lunchables Meals Ready To Eat MRE's Oscar Mayer Retirement Bus Trips Smaller Portions

One of the nice things about the era you grew up in is that it’s all yours. I went through the over-glorified attic of my memories and came up with 10 dusty memories of childhood in the polyester wasteland:

1.  Wacky Packages. The lazy child’s form of graffiti. When they took our pens and paint away, we covered every available source of material with these creepy stickers.

   

   Wacky Packs: Un-yielding, paint eating stickers of the 70’s

2.  The Muppet Show. The Muppet Show was better than any so-called variety show. You  got to see borscht belt comedians, top music acts and puppets
   telling corny jokes all on TV that was beamed into your house for free.
3.  Burger Chef. 
   
4. Christmas Wish Books Which we started tagging up each mid-August

   

   Like most 70’s kids, this boy was waiting for the catalog with Cheryl Tiegs on the cover.

   

   Wards Wishbook 78

5. The Six Million Dollar Man (Now worth $17.00 if you can find his parts at Radio Shack)

   

   Steve Austin. A man barely alive…

6.  Coleco Football
7. Emergency!
   Nothing like afternoon reruns of a show featuring planes crashing into apartments to make men out of pre-schoolers.

   

   KMG365-Out!

   

   Wasted Days and Wasted Nights with this thing. At least it wasn’t Simon with all of the stupid, flashing lights.

8.  Mr. Pibb. Shown to cause only minor genetic mutation
9.  Wonderful World of Disney. It was a movie, a product placement, a chance to feature hot girls in bland, unrealistic situations.
10. The Best Part of being born in the 70’s? The 80’s.
    

    

    And then came the 80’s. No more Saccarine filled colas, no more 70’s cop dramas or Burger Chef Drive-Thru meals. Just girls with big shoulder inserts and faux indifference.

    

    Battery Acid goes down just as well, but my parents wisely opted to keep buying Mr. Pibb. He later became Sir Pibb.

    

    Everything on this blog came from somewhere in the tracks of this album.

#70's Memories #70's Toys #70's TV Shows #Born in the 70's

Mostly Teachable takes things all the way to the end of history and says “Farewell. Sorta” to life on earth as we know it. Thanks for listening to the poddy, we’ll be back Friday afternoon for the M.T. Christmas Special ( if weather and cataclysmic destruction don’t get in the way). Subscribe for free to the every back episode of the podcast on iTunes, and receive the satisfaction of being able to use one more app on your phone or p.c.

#12/21/2012 #End of the World 2012 #End of Time #End Times #Mark 13:32-33 #Mayan Calendar #Mayan Predictions 2012

The first paragraph of this bit of material has been sitting in the draft bin since 4/9/13. In response to a Cheri Lucas challenge at dailypost.wordpress.com, I decided to finish the thought and send this piece of lingering sarcasm on its way. Also, I finally get to admit my lifelong crush on Jane Goodall. No wonder this post has been in the bin so long.

photo courtesy of nwhm.org

This post is called is titled “Doing.” Now, if you’d rather, go ahead and think of it as doing! and crack yourself up by making that sound. Onomatopoeia in action. The great, arch-enemy in my life, the nameless nemesis of my existence, has always been things that do other things. Slippers are a good example of this. There isn’t any earthly need for slippers, but they serve a purpose beyond necessity. They are simple foot covering that keeps out the chill and allows dumbbells like me to maintain slightly dry feet while travelling to and from the mailbox. Tonight I saw an ad for children’s slippers that do things not called for by ordinary slippers. The new slippers talk, wink, flap, burp, sing lullabies. Sleep with them, cuddle them, light up the evil darkness with their delightful slippery-ness. What a pleasant idea! Do they function as slippers? It doesn’t matter, because the products are busy with so many other functions. Flap away, oh slippers of joy, because keeping out the cold is so old-fashioned and secondary on the hierarchy of footwear needs.

Chimpanzees have the worst of the lot as far as doing non-essential functions is concerned. The chimps lived their lives with chimp families and chimp jobs for eons, before the industrious upright dorks tried to mold their species into smaller upright dorks. Daddy would go out each day and work at the anthill. He’d collect tasty bugs on a stick. Good ‘Ol Jane Goodall taught us this, because she was content to live among the chimpanzees and remain observant. This of course is not so satisfying to the ever-industrious upright dorks. Our species, full of commercially opportune wisdom, thought chimps might look better with hats. Hence, a greeting card sub-industry all its own was born. Monkeys that do things, it seems, are far more interesting than wild, happy, ants-on-a-log gathering monkeys. I’m guilty of patronizing the dressed up chimpanzee culture. My avatar on numerous sites was a chimp seated at a typewriter. Never once did I consider that behind the chimp’s eyes was the spark of sentient feeling directing him in the primal desire to bring a stick full of ants home to the family. He doesn’t like wearing a tie any more than I do. Now that I think about it, I may drop off of the grid and leave upright dork culture behind. I can dig the idea of not doing anything but what natural instinct tells me. I may let my fur grow and eat Eskimo Pies. The ants are a little too much wild freedom for me.

#Chimpanzees #Eskimo Pies #Jane Goodall #Stompeez

 After all of last weekend’s running into walls and doors, I decided it was time to see an eye doctor. A professional one, at that. At this point in life, it feels right to go to actual physicians and care providers. No longer do I have to patronize the guy behind the dollar store who claims to be an eye-doctor. Sure, the inside of his van is nice, but his service is too hands on. Going to the optometrist is also one more stop on my headache tour. In the of name of getting rid of headaches, I’ve seen too many doctors, taken too many prescriptions. Sure, there may have been a few dollar store doctors along the way.  When you’ve had a migraine since 1978, this starts to sound reasonable.

The optometrist explained all of the ways in which my eyes are over-working and  the need at my age for reading glasses. At almost 40 years of age, he explained, I’m fortunate to have the remaining vision left in me. The almost 40 speech is one of my favorites. Doctors started reminding me I was almost 40 in 1994. The optometrist prescribed me reading glasses, with the idea in mind that I’d actually read something. Great. There are tons of you’re almost 40 and incontinent pamphlets I’ve been dying to check out. Later I was escorted to the wall of frames. This was the best part. I picked out some super stylish Sally Jessie Raphael frames. The key with reading glasses is to look as startled as possible all the time, as if wearing removable Botox.  I purchased the optional chain to hang the readers on. Now I just walk around greeting people like Abe Vigoda on Red Bull (7 to 8 words per minute) and trying to be cool with my new “serious” specs. It’s going to take more than glasses and advanced age to make me be serious. The glasses are a start, though.

#Abe Vigoda #Charles Nelson Reilly #Migraines #Reading Glasses #Sally Jessie Raphael

I took two weeks off from writing this blog. In fact, I didn’t go near the WordPress world for a while. Sometimes, you have to do that to gain a little perspective. Did I learn anything new, or gain some insight that can only be found outside of writing Mostly Teachable? Not really. I prayed, read and wrote for other projects. Most days I ran, only pausing long enough to stare boggle-eyed at the new issue of Runner’s World, and then…ran some more. When the sun (finally) comes out in Michigan, we don’t take its presence for granted, after all.

Yesterday afternoon, I was having the traditional Sunday dinner with my wife’s family. Well, traditional as far as her deep roots are concerned. Sunday dinner in my house growing had a lot to do with how willing one of us was to open a can of tuna. As we were finishing dinner, my 10-year-old daughter Anna began to expound on her career and life plans. This, apparently is what young girls do to prepare for the future. They lay out, in detail, the hopes and aspirations of their lives for everyone to hear. Not once did she mention growing up to start a family and open cans of tuna. Sitting next to Anna, and with unusual patience, was her 3-year-old cousin. As Anna dreamed out loud of becoming a movie star, the pre-schooler very matter of fact-ly announced that he was going to be Captain America. There was no excitement, no carrying-on about the idea. I affirmed the plan with “You go, man! Captain America sounds like a good job.” My nephew just nodded with his serious expression. “Yeah.” He later went on to tell us something about Captain America being one of the “Vengers” as he ran off. I like the black and white, no-nonsense world of pre-school thinking. The captain is good, the monsters in the closet are bad. Therefore, a good career would be that of a comic book super hero. By the time kids reach my daughter’s age, doubt has crept in. Even if someone older sets his or her sites on being one of the Avengers, there are myriad worries that keep them from making it happen. How does one break into the super-hero business? What’s the competition like? Is the post-college job market flooded with Marvel super heroes? In a post-recession economy, how soft is the job market for comic book characters. Do bad guys have better retirement plans? As a good-at-heart hero, how hard is it to roll over your DC Comics 401K into a Marvel Universe IRA? Did Captain America fare better in the job market as an armed forces combat veteran? What kind of disability rating did the defense department give him since they nuclear radiated his khakis off in order to bulk him up? Oh, the considerations. My nephew just knows the basics. Captain America is good. That, and when the dog eats his action figures we can go to the dollar store and get more.

I had an interview of sorts this past week for an additional on-call job to be added to my current work. The interview was the best one I’d ever experienced for something that I didn’t have any shot at getting. The interviewer and I had a long talk about crossing the line into vocational ministry and the seriousness of taking steps to do so. The advice was sound. So, rather than worry and fuss over what might have been, or what might never be, I simply leave the process in God’s hands. He may not make me Captain America, but if I check worry at the door and carry the shield of faith, the result will be unique and surprising. Sometimes you just have to put the shield to your chest and step into life.

#Captain America #Career #Faith #Kids #Runner's World #Running

When someone reaches out to you today, stifle your shy, introverted side and reach back at them. Smile, flirt, and try to be open about how you feel. Even if you are caught off guard by all the friendliness, just try to relax and go with it. It’s fun! People find you very approachable, and you should get used to the unexpected. Start making small efforts to react more warmly and receptively … these tiny moves will be recognized and appreciated.

I don’t put much stock in my horoscope. Using the alignment of the stars and planets to predict my future is pretty hit-or-miss. I may as well just base my future on good luck brought about by the Kim Kardashian/Kanye West pregnancy (he’s pregnant, according to the announcement. She’s just bootylicious and confused).  I also am betting that I’ll have a great day if no more than one of the kids on Buck Wild ends up with alcohol poisoning or head trauma on tonight’s episode. My horoscope for Leo read as follows this morning:

I am doomed if this horoscope is a representation of my day. First of all, if it weren’t for my shy and introverted side I wouldn’t be anything more than a cloud of noxious gas. As an introverted, stifled gas cloud, it’s hard for me to smile and flirt with people. I just look pained. Then there is the idea of relaxing and not being so caught off guard by friendliness.  Many times I misunderstand friendliness and end up drooling on people. There are ways to compensate for the drooling such as wearing absorbent clothing. Needless to say, I don’t get a lot of second invitations to people’s houses even with my squeegee clothing. I do try to live out some of the horoscopes recommendations already. For instance, I make tiny moves to act warm and receptive to friendliness. Tiny, cat-like moves. I like to spring out from behind chairs at parties in an effort to be flirty. This is done, warmly, of course. I pay for a lot of dry cleaning and carpet shampooing, but my tiny, catty moves are always recognized. Oh, well. Horoscopes are fickle and inaccurate. Tomorrow’s will probably tell me to take on all the personality traits that would make a Kanye/Kardashian baby likable.

#Buck Wild #Horoscopes #Inadvertent Drooling #Kanye West #Kardashian/West Baby #Kim Kardashian #Social Anxiety #Social Awkwardness #Yahoo Horoscopes

 There was a time when my expectations far exceed my reality. As a child of the 70’s, I was raised with the expectation that the future would be far out and futuristic. Somewhere along the line of time future became present. I grew up and stopped expecting to be entertained by the world. Life without expectations is surprisingly easy, it turns out. I am now content to sit quietly and watch TV shows in which skeevy singers perform nearly discernible music while Jennifer Lopez weeps and Steven Tyler removes his pants. He’s Steven Tyler. There doesn’t have to be a reason. Life without massive expectations of external fulfillment means that I can wear my pajamas everywhere. Thank you, brave new world, for that.

     There was a time when I’d see people in the supermarket or the movies in pajamas and I’d want to rattle their brain pans and shout “Don’t you even care about your appearance?” These days I don’t get so uptight. I now go out in p.j.’s. Retailers don’t even call the apparel pajamas any more. Now the clothes are referred to as lounge wear. Saying lounge wear evokes the image of a fun place to be with a clubby, convivial atmosphere. The lights are low, the music is tolerable. We’ve eaten entire tins of Altoids because lounge wear clad party goers have told us about the buzz that comes from breath mints. Lounge wear fits right into this ethic. We work hard and then lounge harder. If we call lounge wear, the uniform of lost expectations, pajamas then we’ve given in to the reality that we can’t be bothered to put on real clothes. I do harbor one expectation for the future that won’t go away, though. When the world ends I’d like to be wearing clean pajamas at least. It’s just good manners

.

#American Idol #Jennifer Lopez #Pajamas as Daywear #Steven Tyler

2 Dreams

I’ve never been a drug user. The strongest thing I imbibed regularly was Pepsi. Last year my neurologist (what a weird thing to be able to refer to a neurologist as one’s own. “Oh, yeah. That’s my brain guy. We’re tight”) prescribed a migraine preventative drug that took me on a wicked trip. The medication really didn’t impact the frequency or severity of headaches I experienced, but I was too tripped out to notice. I started to have dreams. The dreams started out in a good place.  Walmart, actually. For two months I spent each night in a series of dreams I named “Celebrity Walmart Trip.” Each night, I’d stroll the isles of our local super-store with a famous person. Night one was Walmart with Kenny Rogers (the former Tiger’s pitcher, not The Gambler).  I asked about what was on his hand during the ’06 World Series. The next night featured quality shopping with William Shatner. He didn’t appreciate being called “Shat” or the fact that I giggled every time I said the word “Shat.” After a month or so, the dreams became markedly weirder. The former Captain Kirk’s head burst into flames on a subsequent somnambulist Walmart visit and the fire consumed me. Fire became a recurring theme in these medication side effect night terrors. I’d be lulled into a conversation with some woman in a bar that could only exist in my dreams (because I like Pepsi) only to be consumed by her hell fire. At least I wouldn’t have to call those women back. Dragons, murderous chickens and devil women gave way after a few months to a sort of garbled terror montage. I stopped the medication eventually and went back to the safety of just living with headaches until another doctor prescribed me some well-behaved, sleep-flame retardant drugs.

A year later, I am having calm dreams of great beauty. I’ve tried to look up their meaning on popular internet dream databases only to find that every dream somehow means that I have a fear of sexual relationships with clowns. The thing that I like about my calm, reassuring dreams is that everyone I’ve ever known comes by for a visit at some point. A nightly talk show of the mind. Sometimes pianos mysteriously fall on friends, but I’d hate to look up the meaning of that on the internet for fear that it goes back to clowns. My dreams have evolved since I was a teenager when all they ever contained was Phoebe Cates or a Camaro. If those dreams ever return, I’ll invite her to the nightly talk show and keep an eye on the sky for pianos.

1 Testosterone

The arrival of Fall makes me weepy and emotionally irresponsible. I muddle through the Michigan weather and wait out the Seasonal Affective Disorder, all the while coming up with creative solutions. On days when the clouds are heavy and the world seems to recede into darkness that won’t fade until the January thaw, I go and stare at the gas station hot dog machine. The glowing light seems to afford my soul peace and tranquility. This doesn’t help with the seasonal weight gain, though. Part of the S.A.D. dilemma is that it causes increased appetite, sleepiness and the need to be on a constant sugar bender. We-ird. I eat and tear up like Sissy the Blogger. Every time someone mentions that the World Series starts tonight and that my beloved Tigers (sniff) are sending Justin Verlander to the mound against Barry Zito, the waterworks start (“Ahhh…get me some marshmallows! This is too much pressure!”).*

Lately I’ve started to take notice of advertisements for supplemental testosterone. For the most part, these seem to be just commercials sponsored by the inadequacy industry. I don’t need no stoopid testosterone! Give me some Turtle Wax and I’ll be fine. I’m a man, and that puts me in a fraternity of men. The fraternity of understanding the onside kick, the infield fly rule and Top Gear. The brotherhood of “If it ain’t broke, let’s break it on purpose.” The boost of testosterone might help with the obnoxious, seasonal emotional jags, though. Not that I can afford it. It’s more than likely that my insurance doesn’t cover hormones, even if my doctor’s chart states “necessitated because dumbbell can’t keep his big boy pants up.” What to do? I guess that I’ll turn to other, more homeopathic maleness supplements. Since we haven’t been to the grocery store in a while, the only items in the house that might do the trick are Vitamin D pills and Ramen noodles. Get my mortar and pestle. It’s time to mix up some mojo.

*After writing this, Justin gave me reason to tear up. I’m going to need a bigger bag of marshmallows.

4 Ichiro

Ichiro Suzuki was traded from the Seattle Mariners to the Yankees this afternoon. To you, this may seem the routine business of modern professional baseball. There has never been anything routine about the very routine-ness that is Ichiro. He’s been a career .322 hitter with the Mariners since 2001, a workhorse of steadfast on base percentage. The very businesslike way he’s fielded his position and gotten on base doesn’t make the Sports Center highlights any more, because we’re used to his excellence. The fact that he finally played a major league season in 2011 not hitting .300 was only worrisome, because he’s Ichiro. I may be a Detroit Tiger homer for life, but Ichiro has been my one baseball infidelity over the years. When the Mariners and Tigers have squared off over the years, I’ve been in the habit of calling my daughter in to watch the TV. “C’mere, because you’re not going to see anyone like this again.”

I bleed Tigers blue and orange. A  Summer’s Eve swilling mo-ron told me last season that I must have just jumped on the band wagon. Sure, except the bandwagon arrived around the time I was a toddler and could just pronounce Wockenfuss. My dad used to prop me next to the old Realistic stereo speakers and I’d sit and listen to Ernie. “Swiiing and a miss” is still rattles around my brain pan. All this having been said, I was an Ichiro fan. Even if he’d played for the White Sox, this would have been so. Tonight he’s batting eighth for the Yankees, which tests even my respect for the great, working man’s all-star. He played for some woefully crummy Seattle teams over the years and I don’t blame Ichiro for wanting to finish with a contender. In all the years Ichiro’s played for bad teams, this is the first I remember him publicly complaining. Hopefully, he finishes on a high note. Ichiro inspires what should be the best qualities in all of us:  hard work, consistency, and presence at the plate.

2 Wrigley

“We turned our back on Cookie for one second…”

A few weeks before the end of the school year I woke my daughter up one morning and told her we were going to see the Detroit Tigers. Who knew that this was such an effective way to get kids up for school? Sitting bolt upright, she asked without a trace of sleepiness

“In Detroit?”

“No,” I answered “At Wrigley.’

“What’s a Wrigley?”

Taking my nine-year old to a ball game was part of my bucket list fatherhood plan. I figured that we’d do fun stuff that every kid should experience before adulthood. Never mind the logistics of taking a little girl into Chicago without the guiding hand of mom.  We checked off quite a few bucket items on this trip. The first thing was learning to ride with drunks on the South Shore line for two hours. We had plenty of conversations the rest of the day about why people shouldn’t drink at 9:00 in the morning (let alone 3 beers before the train departs). Riding the Red Line from State Street to Addison was another lesson. Learn to embrace other people. More importantly, embrace being squashed into some stranger’s boobs (not me. I’m too tall and obvious). A lady asked me on the way down to the subway if I had a back up plan. “Yeah. I’m not going to let go of the child. Same as the original plan.” Learn to enjoy exotic restrooms. Wrigley’s best kept secret is the section 126 First Aid station and it’s locking bathroom.

The experience of going to good old Wrigley Field is lost on my daughter. As it should be. She’ll get the particulars later. I know that she’s was as awed as me by the sight of the field beyond home plate when you first walk through the gate. I don’t believe in baseball cathedrals, but Wrigley’s pretty close. Someday, the Cubs will have won numerous championships under the stellar management of Darwin Barney and the billionaire owners (the Olsen twins) will have the place leveled. She’ll look back and tell the kids how dad dragged her up to see Justin Verlander throw a five hit, two earned run game back in the good old days. A bucket list check-off for any kid, even at my age.