Heart Attacks and Brain Cramps

So today my brother ... whom I had not seen in two years ... mentioned quite casually to me that he had a heart attack 18 months ago.

Say what?

Yes indeed. My brother ... the sole remaining member of my family of origin ... had a heart attack while I was living in Cleveland and neglected to pass that word along to me. Exactly how does something like this slip your mind? Was he engrossed in the latest episode of "Family Guy?" Obviously NOT. I mean, on his own, he's obviously only a marginal "family guy" at best!

Anyway, he's alright. Of course that doesn't matter because now I have to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. It's a matter of family honor. Dad would have wanted it this way. And as a beginning of his punishment/torture I thought I would expose the latest picture I took of him (moments after he revealed this bit of news) to the world. The head below ... the sign above ... it only seems appropriate and accurate.

One "BANG" too many

A third grader sat in the school gym transfixed by what he was seeing on television. He was young but somehow he sensed, he knew, that he was watching the world change. There was a "BANG" in reality as well as a "BANG" in history and a tower tumbled. Everything was hazy. Nobody was thinking clearly. Certainly nobody had a handle on how the events of this day would effect the future. For days nobody could tear their eyes from the tube. Commentators commented. Analysts analyzed. Wise men and women spoke words of wisdom. And yet a real "Humpty Dumpty" had fallen and we were all pretty certain that he could never be put back together again.

The following years proved those thoughts to be true. At the moment of the BANG it seemed as though every American was united. We linked arms and faced the future as one. But all to quickly that fell apart. Unity gave way to ugly. Bravery turned to bickering. It continues to this day.

I remember that third grader all to well because he ... was me. My "BANG" was a bullet. It tore from the sixth floor of a school book depository building in Dallas Texas, and penetrated my "tower," the brain of the President of the United States, and left him dead in the back seat of a bullet proof car that, ironically, had its top down leaving him open to the wind ... and to the wicked. I watched my teachers cry. I watched my parents sit in shock, mourning the murder of a man whom they had never met and yet trusted. He had recently, with steely eyed resolve, faced down the hated Soviet Union in what has become known as "The Cuban Missile Crises." We had walked to the edge of the annihilation of the human race and this man had led us back. He got us off the brink. And then he was murdered and then his brother was murdered and we learned never to trust again. Oh, and don't forget to hate. Hate those who don't think like you do because they are probably hating you and planning your demise.

There is a fading freshness in our country these days. In a few hours we will experience the anniversary of another "BANG." Other third graders sat in class rooms staring at televisions and thinking the same things that I thought. And by now the memory fades. Somebody emailed me a massive amount of 9/11 pictures today, shots of the Twin Towers as they collided with their fate. I admit that I was shocked all over again. I have not spent the past eight years staring at the helpless bodies of men and women leaping to their death from 100 stories in the air to avoid the torch of jet fuel and office supplies. Since that horrible day I have walked the side walks around that site. My feet have trod land that was, not too long ago, coated with dust and ash and metal. And body parts. Just like the back seat of a limousine on November 22, 1963.

For me it has been 45 years and 8 years, depending on the "BANG." I remember them both as though they were yesterday. And I mourn what happened to those people. And I mourn what has became the unfortunate and possibly inevitable results to our country. Many, many people will hurt tomorrow. Oddly, I want to be one of them. Because if I hurt it means that I remember. And I don't want to forget. I cannot afford to forget. On a day when we are torn apart by debates over health care, two wars where close friends of mine came oh so close to death, a mega-recession, and countless other things that divide us, I want to remember why it matters.

Why does it matter? It matters because, no matter what you might have been indoctrinated to believe, the United States has for many, many years been the world leader in .... goodness. Yes, goodness. We don't generally blow-up other peoples stuff unless they have already blown-up our stuff ... or seriously threatened to. Complain all you want about a "first strike" mentality. I wish we had blown the living tar out of Japan before they ever got close to Pearl Harbor. And if you have a brain you do too. Then my dad could have stayed home with his future bride and not traveled in uniform to Europe causing him to (in his own words) "go to bed every night remembering the eyes of the men I killed so that they wouldn't kill me." I hate that my dad had to live his life that way. But I'm grateful that he was willing to. We are the country that sends our soldiers to protect and liberate people that we don't even know. We send food, clothing, and medicine to take care of citizens of countries that can't take care of themselves. That is, to me, a strong definition of "goodness."

Okay, so that's how I feel on this night before 9/11/09. About a week after 9/11 I asked my family to please write down their memories of that day. I wanted to be able to read it myself and give it back to them years down the road. We tend to forget how we felt ... really truly felt ... after the passing of time. One of them actually took the time and wrote the mini-essay. I came across it after we moved. It shocked me. I realized there was pure fear in those comments. And I wonder if that fear is still there. Or has it simply been relegated into the hearts of those who visit National Cemeteries and stand over the graves of their families soldiers who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and wound up giving everything to keep us from another 9/11. I can't answer that question.

I can only hope we can find a way to stop the bickering and fighting and return to simply being good. Because honestly, I feel it slipping. And that scares me more than 11/22/63 or 9/11/01.

Bill ... The Man ... The Myth ... The Legend. Sideways.

Okay, I know he's side ways. But I'm not spending the $39 for the software to turn him around. Get over it! Bill York is THE MAN at any angle!

Paisley Rae

I watched my new granddaughter sleep today. She sleeps the sleep of the blessed. No twitching, squirming, dreaming, no kicking, twisting, or any of those other oddities that seem to disrupt the sleep of the more "mature." She simply ... slept. She was all nestled in safely to her little seat. She could not fall out, be stepped on, accidentally smacked or other less than delightful occurrence. Her mom and dad take great care to make certain that she is safe and protected from a rough and rowdy world. (And a rough and rowdy family!)

I've been Paisley's grandpa now for a few weeks. I have not written on this space about her at all, though she graces the pages of my private journal at length. It's not that I don't love Paisley. It's not that I don't care about her. It's just that she's an unknown quantity wrapped in flesh. This is a good thing! I find myself staring at her and wondering what her voice will sound like. What her eye color will wind up being. Will her hair be curly? What color will it be when it is fully grown? And her smile. Will it be all toothy and child like or will she fast forward to a more adult smile before her time? Hey, it happens. And we just don't know.

One day this week our family had gathered for lunch at a restaurant near her home. As we came out Paisley was strapped into her car seat which was then buckled tightly into her car. Everybody was standing a bit away from the open door. She was completely safe. I wandered over in that direction and stuck my head in and looked at her. Her eyes were closed. Her eyes at this age are most always closed. Suddenly, without warning or provocation, she began to cry. It was one of those real cries that start in the gut, explodes through the throat and then begins to quiver as her lungs run out of air. I leaned in closer to her. I brushed her forehead with my cheek and gently whispered, "Shhhhhhh. It's alright. Shhhhhh. Grandpa doesn't know what's wrong but he loves you and he is here. Shhhhh." And. Well. She stopped crying. I stopped whispering but I continued to brush my cheek against her forehead. When I finally stopped she began crying again. We went back and forth that way three times. Her lovely mama came over and I stepped back. I'm sure she addressed the real issue and Paisley once again slipped into her deep sleep.

I've thought a lot about those three moments today. I saw her again over lunch. We didn't speak. You guessed it, she was sound asleep. Babies need a lot of sleep. She will certainly be a strong young lady if getting her fill of snoozing is any indication. But as I ate my lunch and looked at my granddaughter I found myself dreaming about afternoons pushing her on a swing. Morning's at McDonalds eating that kids breakfast Happy Meal. Evenings singing to her, "You are my (nickname to yet be decided) my only (nickname yet to be decided.) You make me happy, when skies are gray. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my (nickname to be decided) away!" I sang that song to all three of my kids when they were small. And I'll sing it to all of my grandchildren. Why? Just because I can. Not because I sing well. I don't. Not because the song is creative. It isn't. But simply because it says what I want Paisley to know. I want her to know "I love you." If that requires this croaking old voice to sing, then sing it shall.

Paisley. I love you. Thanks for making me smile today. I can't wait to REALLY meet you. Until then, well, if you need somebody to run their cheek over your forehead and whisper, "Shhhhh" you just let me know, I'm here for you, baby girl.

SLAP '09

So it seems that this guy was walking through a Wal-Mart in Stone Mountain, Georgia when he happened across a 2 year old who was making noise. That's what 2 year olds do. They make noise. They also make snot, poop, and a general mess out of everything they touch. But noise is way high on the "things to make" list for 2 year old kids. Our friend didn't like the noise and so he warned the mom to shut the kid up or he would shut the kid up for her. Mom didn't get the job done. So the man slapped the kid 4 times. Then the kid really started screaming. Ya see, that's the other thing that is wrong with 2 year olds. There ISN'T a volume button. Still, this guy is deep in the aforementioned poop. I'm thinking he's seen his last Wal-Mart for a while. That's not an entirely bad thing for him.

But it all got me thinking. There are people I would like to slap the snot out of. If perchance I run across them strapped into a shopping cart at my local Wal-Mart I just might take a shot. It would be selfish of me to keep their identities to myself. And so, ladies and gentlemen, I present you with my "Most Slappable People" list as of 09-13-09. Pray you are not on it.

In no particular order ...

-Whitney Houston. She should have either quit singing after filming "The Body Guard" or she should have hung out with a higher class of husband.


-Shaq. He's 0 for 3 in "Shaq VS" having lost to everybody he's taken on. I think next week he has a "nursing contest" against the ob/gyn ward at Barnes Hospital.


-Ben & Jerry. They changed the name of their amazing "Chubby Hubby" to "Hubby Hubby" to celebrate the state of Vermont granting same sex marriage licenses. No more "Chunky Monkey" for me. I'm not boycotting. I'm just afraid they'll allow people to start marrying monkeys and I can't stand the thought of losing that banana goodness in the name of all that is politically correct.


-Miyuki Hatoyama. She's married to Japanese Prime Minister Elect, Yukio Hatoyama. She also says she was abducted by aliens, traveled to Venus on a UFO while asleep, and Knew Tom Cruise in a former life. Well, at least 2 out of 3 were potentially fun.


-Katie Voitek. She's my niece and she ISN'T coming to visit me this weekend with her parents. Excuses, excuses, Katie! NO VANILLA FOR YOU!


-Doctor ButtFeel. No explanation needed. Just follow the
link -----> Link

-The entire 2009 Chicago Cubs. For rolling over, dying, and ruining the perfect fall I had planned.


Consider yourselves all slapped.

There. I feel better already.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #40

Chocolate Covered Bacon. It's about time.

My brother-in-law's blog

My brother-in-law Jim has created the ultimate blog post. I can't beat it. So I'm simply posting it here for my little part of the world to enjoy. (Jim video blogs on Sunday's. His bride, Alisha, has been in the hospital for over a week, though she is home now. So that's enough explanation. Enjoy!)

Stupid Picture Chronicles #39

There are just so many things wrong with this statement that I don't even know where to begin.

I love my sister-in-law's guts

I love my sister-in-law's guts. And here they are. Just a little snap shot the doctor took this week as she's been spending all day and all night in the hospital. Cool, huh?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #38

For the reading impaired?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #37

I can't really think of anything to add to this. Stupid speaks for stupid.

What happens at St. Johns STAYS at St. Johns (or on "You Tube")

Doctor Buttfeel

I had every possible reason not to go to the doctor today. Yes, my knees have been torturing me since my glowing victory on the softball field a few weeks ago. They are all swollen and yell at me when I bend. And I had to have a check-up before he would refill my addictions ... er ... medications. So off I went to see Dr. Butterfield. This is my least favorite day of the year. (And I REALLY hate October 14th.)

I could have stayed home. I could have turned back. There was plenty of opportunities. Like ...

A street sweeper or a sign from God? You decide.

EVERY light was red! An omen of things to come!

Every truck had been called into action. An almost-successful blockade was put in place. I trudged on.

Obstacles were placed along the way ...

Dire warnings of men without knees and elbows waving and holding boxed lunches out to drivers made me want to slow down and accept one ... but I was told to report to the doctor while fasting. He is a very religious man.

I was woozy and not seeing clearly due to my hunger. It was so bad that I began to hallucinate that an orange man next to a stooped over orange gorilla was creeping toward my moving car.

I sped up to get away from them.

Then Tiger Woods showed up to cheer me on so I kept going even faster! That really helped! Thanks, Tiger!

The flora and fauna caught my attention and I was tempted to stop. Fortunately, a sign was posted nearby reminding me of my important mission. Dr. Butterfield was waiting!

The city of Alton sent dancing deer to welcome me! So kind!

And then I got to the doctors office at St. Anthony's Hospital in Alton. And I made a mistake. I called Dr. Butterfield ... Dr. Buttfeel. Oh yes I did. Seriously. The nurses laughed at him. They wiped their eyes. I felt badly. But not badly enough, I guess. Because the doctor hurt me. He stuck needles in me. I watched my life's blood being drained from my body. He told me to tighten the muscle in my upper arm and then he stabbed it with another needle. Yes. He did that. Then he told me it was going to swell up and hurt but that I should be a man and not whimper or cry. He said that if I hurt myself and bleed anytime in the next ten years it won't hurt me for long because he put stuff inside of me to keep my jaw from locking up and other horrible stuff from happening. He gave the nurses dirty looks as if to say, "Don't you dare tell him the truth." I don't really know what was in that needle. My arm hurts. This may be my last blog. Ever.


One nice nurse felt badly for me and she bandaged up one of the holes in my body. This one only hurts a little bit. But I lost a lot of blood through it. It was really hard to text and drive on the way home. I was woozy.

I rewarded myself with liquid heaven. Hit-N-Run Vanilla Coke. I thought about drinking two but thought I felt my throat swelling up and closing off from the fake shot.

That's when I noticed that I had hurt myself. Somehow I had poked a hole in my thumb. Maybe ... maybe the doctor was right. Maybe the shot will make me not lock-up and die. Maybe.

Probably not though. I don't trust Dr. Buttfeel.

Stupid Picture Chronicles #36

I dunno. There's just something wrong with the location of your local hospitals "crash cart" being pointed out by a bulletin board designed by Mrs. Sweeneys 3rd grade class. Is that today's lunch menu down in the bottom corner?

Stupid Picture Chronicles #35

Oddly enough the town of the next name is "Beulah."

Stupid Picture Chronicles #34

I don't want to live in a place where you actually have to point out the inappropriateness of this act.

Temporarily Final

For the past couple of days Scott and I have been hiding. You know. From life. All of it. Every now and then it's just the only appropriate response to reality. HIDE. And so he took the train down from Chicago, we hopped into Emma the Mustang, pointed ourselves west on I-44 and eventually drifted into Mtn. Home, Arkansas.

Mtn. Home is the town where my parents retired in 1982. My father passed away and was buried there in June of 2000. Mom passed away here in Illinois and we took her back there for her burial in September of 2004. I had not been to their graves since that day.

It was surreal.

I was really grateful that Scott was with me. It would have been equally gratifying to have had Kelli, Christopher, or Debbie there but they all had jobs and commitments that wouldn't allow them to get away. And, like I said, Scott and I needed to hide for a couple of days.

It's an odd thing to stand over your parents graves for the first time. To look upon their grave stones. To read the names etched into bronze that use to be printed neatly on a Christmas present or perhaps a check helping you find your way through college. The only way I have been able to describe it to myself is that it is "temporarily final." I know that makes no sense. They are dead to the ways and means of this world. They are dead to my eyes, ears, and conversation. And yet they live on with their creator and, as King David said in referring to his son who had passed away, "He (they) will not come to me but I will go to him (them.)" Dad loved McDonalds coffee. Mom loved Sprite. Before I went to their grave site I stopped and purchased a cup of each. I held them up in silent toast. And I poured the contents into the earth that covers their mortal remains. It was cheaper than plastic flowers and far more meaningful.



It occurs to me that I'm on the next rung of the ladder. When you are born the ladder is high. Your grandparents, or if you are lucky, your great grandparents are on that top rung. They will be the next to step off of the ladder and into the presence of God. Then your parents. Aunts and Uncles. Relatives that you have never met. You watch them all "go over the top." And one day you realize that they are pretty much all gone. You may be relatively young but any family members older than you are, are cousins. They are on a lateral rung on the ladder next to you.

You are next. (If the proper scheduling holds up. And I certainly pray that it does.)

And so you drive away and you shrug it off. "Home" sounds better and better every day. Not the one you hang your hat in. The one you deeply believe awaits you after your final gasp of earthly air. It doesn't sound scary, menacing, or foreboding. It sounds precious, welcoming, restful. You look in the mirror and you don't mind the gray hair. Your knees scowl at you when you climb stairs or squat to help a little one. Your insurance premium goes through the roof. People that you use to teach, people that looked up to you, seem a bit impatient these days. They are looking up the ladder. But they are so close to the bottom of it that they have no idea how heady the view is from higher up. And they don't at all understand that you just don't care as much about some of the things that use to seem so captivating. They think you are just ... silly. Or forgetful. Or slipping. In truth your perception of reality has shifted. You have lost enough battles to not take life so seriously any more. You have given up on the idea of single handedly changing the world. You realize that the morning will probably dawn and it will look much like yesterdays morning. They seldom change in any drastic way. You become impatient with their impatience. You become frustrated by their frustration. But you don't argue with them because you clearly remember being on their rung of the ladder and you know arguing or explaining won't make any difference. It didn't when others argued with you. And it wont' if you argue now.

Somewhere out there "temporary finality" awaits you. You are young enough that it is probably decades away. Or the front of a bus could have your name on it tomorrow morning. You can't know. So you don't worry.

You enjoy the view.

I Promise...

Well, this should be the week of the birth of Paisley Rae, my 2nd granddaughter. I cannot wait! Debbie and I will be babysitting The Amazing Elle tomorrow night and Friday it's "baby by appointment" time! But our job is Elle. And as such I realize that my daughter might be a bit nervous. I mean, she needs to concentrate on squeezing a new urchin from her loins. She shouldn't have to worry about Elle. Therefore, in order to relieve her potential stress ...

I PROMISE ...

-to remember that, with Elle, one of us is expected to be the responsible adult. I am that one.
-to not teach her phrases or songs that I learned while working my way through college in factories. ("I love to go swimmin with bow legged women" was a poor choice and I am very sorry.)
-to not write "Hi Mom!" on her butt with a sharpie after changing her diaper just before returning her to her parents. (Besides, this has already been done. I forget who did it though.)
-"PG-13" MEANS "PG-13!" This is not subject to interpretation.
-Reciprocating saws are only to be used by responsible adults. I am the responsible adult.
-Ding-Dongs are not for breakfast and are NEVER to be allowed in bed.
-Just because a child fits in a drawer does not mean she should be allowed in a drawer. Even if she asks nicely. I am the responsible adult


-Bed time stories are not to include the words, "intestinal," "mucus," "doo doo," "magic toaster," or any word found on "urbandictionary.com." There are no exceptions.
-"Woodstock Revisited" is not appropriate children's programming. Especially in Blue Ray.
-Under no circumstances is she allowed more than 3 Milky Bones per day. Oh, wait. That's Adam Page's dog. I'm babysitting him too. Never mind.
-Grapes are not acceptable replacements for a foosball.
-One of us is expected to be the responsible adult. I am that one.

I wonder if Elle can moon-walk yet ...

Pujols ... eat your heart out

"What doesn't hurt doesn't work." I suspect that will be my mantra in the morning.

Tonight, out of the kindness of my heart, I came to the rescue of the Towerview Baptist Church softball team. Summer vacations have hit them hard and tonight they needed players. They stooped low to find them. Really low. Like ... down to the stratus of subterranean softball that I dwell in.

Before tonight it had been 27 years since my last softball game. It use to be my passion. I played it for fun. One year, while playing for FBC Clarendon Hills, we went to the championship game for Southern Baptist Churches in Chicago. Sure, we lost but we played. We only had one pitcher and he only had one thumb. Unfortunately, it was not on his pitching hand. We were winning by 3 or 4 runs until the bottom of the 7th when he sealed our fate for all of history by walking the bases loaded and then walking in the winning runs. He turned up missing shortly afterward. They take their softball seriously in Chicago.

I ditched the spikes shortly after that. But tonight I borrowed a glove, threw on some clothes that looked remotely appropriate for the game, a Cubs cap, and took to the field. "Da Coach" decided that I would be a worthy catcher. Some might find that degrading. But I figure it makes me a part of EVERY defensive play when we are on the field. So I choose to believe that the team viewed me as indispensable.

Shaddup.

I made this deal with "Da Coach." I play softball, placing undue stress on this aging body, and he, in turn, has to preach if I bat .500 or greater. Da Coach seemed comfortable with that arrangement. I think he felt pretty secure after my first at bat. For some reason I have always batted left handed. It's the only thing in my life that works that way. I usually can't even wave hello with my left hand. But since I was a kid batting left handed has just felt right. Natural. So the first time up I hit the ball fairly well and like a good base runner I didn't watch where the ball went. Hey, it was in the air. If they catch it, they catch it. If they don't I'd rather watch it fall from first base.

It wasn't to be. They did catch the ball. And IT watched ME fall. Yeah. That's right. The first time I hit a ball in a game situation in 27 years and I fall on my face on the way to first base. As if that wasn't bad enough, as I struggle to get up I did it again. I bit the dust not once, but twice. On the same trip down the baseline.

Ugh.

And naturally about 30 or 40 people from Towerview showed up to cheer on their team. (One of the opposing players told me ... I talked to all of them ... did I mention that I was the catcher? ... that the crowd cheering for us made them sound like the visiting team which they were not. Tough noogies, baby!) And naturally one of them had a camera.

Ugh.

And then it was as though God remembered my prayer. Oh yes, I had most certainly prayed about this moment today. I didn't pray to win. I didn't pray to hit a home run. I should have prayed not to fall down but it didn't occur to me. I prayed ... to bat .500. We lost so badly that in a 7 inning game I only had to ... I mean got to ... bat twice. But this second at bat was a solid base hit to right center field. Yes, sports fans, it fell cleanly between the infielders and the outfielders. And I didn't fall down. I, a 54 year old FORMER softball player, ran safely to first base. And I pulled "A Zambrano." I pointed up, putting the credit where it belongs. And then I looked across the infield into the dugout at Da Coach. The poor, in shock coach. I suppose he's sitting at home tonight, behind a keyboard, writing his first sermon. How sweet it is. I did what Pujols has never done. I batted .500 for the season.

Oh yeah, and after the first game of this double header I had to leave. It seems that there was a death in the church family and I needed to go and visit the grieving family. It's what I do. I'm a pastor. A pastor ... with a free Sunday coming ...

God's Laughter and The Man Cave

*This blog is dedicated to a certain couple that mentioned tonight that I have been neglecting writing. You know who you are. ;)

God doesn't hate me. Actually, He loves me tremendously. He just likes to laugh at me. And I actually think He gains great pleasure in laughter. Even at my expense. Perhaps ESPECIALLY at my expense. Hmmmm.

It seems that I've been working on my new office in my basement lately. She's turning into quite a beauty. A true work of art. It started off as a little girls bedroom under the decorating skills of the previous owners of our "love hovel." It previously had three white walls, one blue (or green depending on who is making the call) wall, honey pine wooden floors and white trimmed baseboards. It also had a lovely light fixture descending from the ceiling that was created from pink beads hung on wires reaching about a foot from their point of origin. It was really nice if you are 6 years old and into fuzzy things.

Now? Now it has beautiful white wainscot topped by dark slate blue walls. I've purchased a dark mahogany table/desk with hand pounded marks on it's surface placed their by an Indian tribe in the far reaches of the Amazon. (Would I kid about something this serious? I think not.)

I'm pretty much aware of what my "skill sets" are. Carpentry isn't among 'em. I can speak. I can write. I can hold my own in a rousing game of Uno, Apples to Apples, or Trivial Pursuit. I can pound a nail but seldom do my thumbs come away unscathed. And the floor on my new "Man Cave" isn't perfect. I mean, the concrete of the basement floor isn't quite flat. There's a slight roll to it. That threw the wainscot off a bit. Which threw the chair rail off a bit. Which threw me off a bit. It's not all finished but it's getting there. When it's done it will be a first class hide-away! It's got a closet. It has no windows. It's going to have cool lighting which I haven't selected yet. And we all know that lighting is EVERYTHING.

Did I mention that I never ever try to do mitre corners? I did once and it cost me a fortune in ruined wood.

So tonight Debbie and I found ourselves at dinner with a really wonderful young couple that has been visiting our church. We had a great evening just talking about life, church, God, families, and ... unfortunately ... my Man Cave. That's when it came out that the young man, the husband (who shall remain unnamed lest he hunt me down) ... is a cabinet maker. A professional cabinet maker.

That means he works with wood.

That means he works with wood very successfully.

That means Debbie made SURE to tell him about my most recent creative exploits in trying to build a perfect room in a less than square environment.

Let's see. How can I best say this. Oh, here's the word. "GEEZ!"

Did I mention that I moved the electrical outlets without shutting off the electricity? I didn't blow anything up or burn anything down. (Notice how I didn't do anything UP or DOWN? I was on an even keel the entire time.) It probably was not my best decision. I never even thought about turning the power off until I was on the fourth and final outlet. Once the smoke cleared it all looked really good.

Okay, laugh if you must. But when you see my Man Cave in all of its completed glory (did I mention that it's all about lighting?) you will probably ask me to come and redo a room for you at your house. And I will smugly reply, "no." Each man must decorate his own Man Cave. It's a personal thing. And besides, now that I know a professional I have decided to retire. I don't want to cut in to his work load.

You can thank me later. (Again ... you know who you are!)