A PTERODACTYL IN MY YARD

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. He—the male aggressor, the hunter, the gatherer of food—circles my house before landing on the rooftop, before landing on the chimney, before landing on the shed, before landing on the telephone pole. He watches. He waits.


I shoo him away. “Git,” I yell. “Go on, git!” I flap my arms to get his attention.

He glides above the treetops and disappears. I survey the damage, the carnage. It’s minimal. For now. His shadow darkens my spirit. He’s big, he’s huge, he’s stubborn, he’s predatory. He’s on the endangered species list, and if not, I’ll put him there. I’ll pay the hefty fine. I’ll justify my actions. I’ll call it self-defense.

My wife says, “Let’s buy some netting.” I’m not so sure this is the solution—covering beauty with ugly black nylon.

I’ll get my gun.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. I need to protect myself, my property, my toads, my frogs, my fish. My neighbor’s pond is decimated. “I’ll kill him first,” he yells.

“I’ll turn my labradoodle on him,” I compete. A pterodactyl’s lift-off is slow, cumbersome. My dog will pull him down, tear his limbs to smithereens. I’ll finish him off. I’ll ring his neck. I’ll get a heavy duty garbage bag and conceal the remains.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard.

WOMEN DRIVERS

Now that I’ve gotten your attention with the title of my post, raised your dander so to speak, it’s only appropriate that I mention two crashes by two women at the Indy 500. But before I go into it, let me tell you about my experiences at Indy. As a young boy in the mid 70’s, I witnessed all kinds of inappropriate behavior leading up to race day. My family would make a long weekend out of it, camping in a field that funneled into the inner track where the real race began, where everyone jockeyed for position to get the best view. The third turn was preferable, statistically speaking, because that’s where most of the racing cars kissed the wall.

While we camped out, I witnessed enough drunken debauchery to last a life time. Men pooled their money together for women to pop their tops, and hey, since there was money to be made, there were mammary glands to be seen. Call it the mardi gras of racing. Another pre-race activity that wasn’t such a good idea were grown-ups playing a serious game of football, only one problem—there wasn’t enough ground—which meant passing, running, and tackling took place on the hood of cars. Of course injuries occurred, but I seriously doubt anyone felt any pain until days afterward; at least not like the drunkard who walked through someone’s campfire and was busy picking embers from the bottom of his feet. I observed him on race day drinking whiskey from a bottle, hobbling to the bathroom, sun burnt and dehydrated, his guttural moan less audible.

When the gates opened to the race track infield, the real competition began. Engines started. Fists waved. People swore. Horns blared. My uncle, who traveled by himself and camped out longer than most, warned a man in a corvette not to take cuts or he’d hit him. The man didn’t believe him and a fender bender ensued. Once inside, platforms were built on top of vehicles—our own private grandstands. Here’s a picture of yours truly in his early teens, shirtless, waiting for the race, and since my binoculars couldn’t possibly keep up with the blur of cars, I focused in on the spectator shenanigans instead.


















As for those women racers this year: Sarah Fisher finished 30th due to Tony Kanaan hitting the third turn wall and spinning out in front of her, and Danica Patrick finished 22nd because of a pit area collision with Ryan Briscoe. Danica wanted to teach him proper racing etiquette; fortunately, for his sake, security wouldn’t let her near him

This year, Milka Duno had the top women’s spot, finishing 19th overall. Not a very good Indy 500 for the women. Perhaps they should form their own racing team. Maybe then, the world of racing would change for the better. What do you think?

TRAPEZOIDAL, HEMEROIDAL

My moment of tranquility—if there is such an event (we’re told to never let our guard down, never)—had been inevitably interrupted. I had convinced an officer to unlock the door to the school principal’s office, a sacred place away from convicts; somewhere I could put my feet up and contemplate my significance in the greater scheme of the Michigan Department of Corrections. Peacefully seated in the Big Kaahoonah’s chair, the muffled sounds of Mutha-this and Mutha-that a distant memory, and the phone, that damned phone, ringing before the air left the cushion.

What? Did they see me on surveillance camera? Were they questioning my separation from the troops? Reluctantly, I picked up the receiver. “School Office. JR speaking.”

“You haven’t been punching in!” It was the Assistant Deputy Warden, his accusation flowing like tap water. I could imagine him with his rubberized thimble perusing the time-clock printouts. “Last Wednesday and Thursday you didn’t punch in.”

“I was sick,” I said.

“Well what about the previous week? You didn’t punch in at all.”

I wanted to slam the receiver back onto its cradle. I knew better. “I was in Traverse City for an Adult Education Conference.”

“Did you have prior approval?” He asked.

“What do you think?” I challenged. He decided he wanted to speak to my boss. “She’s not here,” I added.

Here we go again. Rule Number One: assume your employees are no better than the prisoners. Convoluted Interpretation: Dishonesty runs rampant in this department because the employees learn deviant behavior from the inmates.

He never questioned why I cancelled classes for the day. I guess it doesn’t matter, as long as I punch in ... and ... out.

DOGFISH

Once upon a time—Isn’t that how we begin things? We start out full of hope, full of potential, only to realize most of us are full of shit—once upon a time (repetition may help ease the pain) . . . once upon a time I was a rising star in the Michigan Department of Corrections. Call it the inside scoop to career advancement. Instead of seizing the opportunity, instead of saying, “Yeah, I’m your next school principal,” I transferred. A lateral move. For less money. So here I am—a veteran teacher, stuck in a classroom, my roster of rapists, murderers, drug dealers, thieves … you name it. And I’m perfectly comfortable in that environment.

Last week I represented my facility at the Michigan Adult Education & Training Conference at the Grand Traverse Resort & Spa in Traverse City. While sitting in the lobby, surrounded by cold marble with a fake fire crackling nearby, an acquaintance, a MDOC school principal, asked, “So … do you have a view of the bay or the golf course?” She must’ve been staying on site with all the other administrators.

I replied, “I have a wonderful view from my room.”

She waited for more details, her entourage of DLEG people, Department of Labor & Economic Growth, aka Michigan Works, whom I’d already informed that Michigan ain’t working, ignoring me.

“My room,” I continued, “has a lovely view of Sam’s Club and Cracker Barrel.” I told her I was twelve miles inland. I told her about the construction workers in front of the hotel drinking their six packs of beer before checking in for the night.

She questioned my choice of lodging. I explained that the state’s travel agency recommended I stay there. She shook her head, as if to say, You know better than to follow the state’s guidelines, there are ways around the sixty-five dollar per diem.

I knew I didn’t fit in with this crowd. I didn’t rub elbows with anyone; I didn’t hob-knob with all the right people. Instead, I took a back seat to their ambitions, their presentations. They said we, as educators, are changing Michigan’s landscape, that we can help others during this time of economic turbulence.

I wasn’t buying it. If this were a bass-fishing tournament, I’m sure they’d thumb their nose at the six-pound dogfish I had to offer. I kept my mouth shut.