GOBBLE GOBBLE HEY

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

Gabba gabba we accept you, we accept you one of us!

—"Pinhead"
by The Ramones




Every Thanksgiving I pose for a blog photo, me smiling (sort of) with a turkey pulled from the oven, a turkey that I did not cook. Afterward, while examining the pic in its unaltered digital form, I try to come up with something witty to write, or serious, the usual we-have-so-much-to-be-thankful-for message.

And we do.

But this year, while greeting my wife’s family at the front door, I did what I’ve been doing for most of November: I checked on the Praying Mantis hanging outside our living room window. I felt the brick for warmth to see why he (yeah, I assigned a gender) did not succumb to the cold weather. And, in nontraditional form, the wife snapped a picture.

I’m no longer involved with the elementary schools’ Science Olympiad insect program; therefore, I no longer order Mantid egg casings from the North Carolina biological society. Not that it matters, these mantids have been reproducing for the past four years anyway. I wonder why this little critter is still alive. It’s as if he’s making a statement about Global Warming, about our changing climate.

Al Gore may have raised awareness regarding this issue; however, my concerns are more immediate. Did I install the nine windows on my house correctly, or is there warm air seeping through the caulk, giving this little guy more life than he deserves?

SURVEYING THE DAMAGE

We haven’t been getting our mail regularly, and it isn’t until a pine tree falls on our neighbor’s house that we learn why. He’s an old southern gentleman, a retiree; he stays pretty much to himself, tending his garden. Today though, with a limb stabbing into his roof and a few neighbors milling about admiring the damage, he asks, “You keeping an eye on Mrs. D across the street?”

My wife and I look at each other, as if to acknowledge a loaded question.

“She’s been stealing everyone’s mail,” he says.

We’re quite familiar with Mrs. D’s condition, her Alzheimer’s; she gets a little confused.

He tells us how she walked into Pete’s house the other day. Luckily, Pete’s biker tenant didn’t panic; he simply informed her that her house was across the street and waited for her to process the information, to form a logical conclusion as to her whereabouts.

Mrs. D continues to wander our neighborhood. Her 92-year-old husband comes over to the downed tree, surveys the damage, and apologizes for his wife’s illness. He’s a bit rough around the edges. He says, “Just kick her in the ass and send her on her way.”

Of course we know he doesn’t mean it. Afterall, it is he who sprung her from a brief stint in the nursing home, after having heart surgery himself.

I take a deep breath and listen to the numerous conversations; the smell of pine, for whatever reason, has me thinking about how fragile we truly are.

SOME THINGS NEVER LEAVE YOU

Across the street, where the ditch was filled, my neighbor waters his seeded lawn. I look downward, into the new culvert. “Water table must be high.”

He says, “Yes,” notices the run-off, and moves his garden hose to another spot. “Summer’s finally here. You got any plans?”

“No. Not really,” I answer. He’s a civilian worker, an electrician at Selfridge Air National Guard Base. I ask, “How ‘bout you?”

“No. I’m looking forward to retirement in a few years.”

I don’t speak to my neighbors that often—opting to keep my distance with a friendly wave. Our conversation seems strained. I’ve been meaning to ask him about someone. I figure now is as good a time as any. “Do you know a guy named H?”

I have his attention. He says, “He worked for me. Good worker too.” He turns off the nozzle on the garden hose. “I never knew he was that way. We had a complaint from a female worker claiming that he was stalking her, but nothing really came of it.”

I tell him that yeah, he’s a good worker, tutored for me, helped the other inmates with their school work. “Whatever he did,” I add, “must’ve been extremely violent.”

My neighbor knows more about it than I do. “He raped his niece while on vacation up north. Never saw him again.”

Our conversation doesn’t last much longer. He goes back to watering his grass, and I return to my property. We’re minding our own business, like good neighbors do.

Rick Michael, my union rep, speaks out regarding the early release of Michigan prisoners.

BACKYARD KITCHEN

Am I to stop what I’m doing when the neighbors power wash their Little Tikes Kitchen Set with all its accessories? Should I tell them ex post facto that it’s okay to line their plastic “Made-in-China” toys along my wooden fence to dry? I guess it doesn’t really matter; I’ve been looking at their Toys-R-Us collection all winter long, so why not “temporarily” encroach on my property? I should be comfortable with it by now: The previous neighbors parked a boat and trailer on my lawn without asking for permission. After they moved I hopped the fence and did a little celebratory “hot tubbing.” Unfortunately, the new neighbors did not repair it; instead, they hauled it away.

So I’m jabbing my Ryobi weed whacker (“Made-in-Canada”) along the fence-line and I guess I’m throwing a little grass and dirt here and there—it’s bound to happen no matter how careful I am—and the neighbor lady’s screaming for her husband to move their precious junk off my lawn. He, in turn, scrambles to please her. Am I sorry? Yeah, sure … for him.

With Memorial weekend fast approaching and warm weather forecasted, I’ll do some swimming in my pool, cook a few burgers and perhaps converse with this young couple across the chain link fence. It’s the neighborly thing to do. Anything is better than dealing with mentally disturbed prisoners; I just hope my neighbors can deal with me.

BRICK, HOME

This might sound crazy, or you might think I’m crazy, but I’ve been staying away from myself. What I mean is: I’m distancing those mental images of who I am from my thoughts—my identity, how I see myself—those etched in stone markings dictated by what I’ve observed around me.

We’re like bricklayers, building our walls and I, like so many others, have surrounded myself. I’m too tired, too comfortable to tear down those walls. I’ll not step away from any rubble any time soon.

This week we had an immobilization. The siren whirred at the end of our shift. We were placed on lockdown. We followed protocol. I went to the school office. I read my email. The first email offered me a Costco membership at a discounted group rate. The second email informed me of a particular student’s STG status. (For those of you who don’t know: STG stands for “Security Threat Group.”) The email informed me that he’s a Vice-Lord and that with the Deputy Director’s approval, he can attend school; however, his out-of-cell movement will be limited to one hour per day. Currently he’s waiting for a verdict on a non-bondable ticket for stabbing another inmate. Rumor has it he stuck his friend, a fellow Vice-Lord who "supposedly" had a shank tucked in his waistband. As the story goes, they were horsing around when his friend “accidentally” stuck himself, or so he says “Cuz you don’t rat on nobody in here.”

Outside our prison, two men in a stolen car made a break for it. With the police hot on their tail, they turned off I-94 and into a golf course where they ditched the car and ran on foot. Little did they know they were running toward our ERT (Emergency Response Team). Our corrections officers were armed and ready. How’s that for irony? Two men trying to get away from the police, not wanting to be arrested, yet approaching what they did not desire.

Our immobilization didn’t last long. The men were apprehended. We were free to go. As for that Costco Membership, it wouldn’t do me any good. I don’t travel their way.

BUYING FEMININE DOUCHE

When there’s a family emergency the night before my midterm and I’m instructed to buy feminine douche—males are perfectly capable of using the self-checkout I’m told—I immediately cringe. “What if someone I know sees me?” There’s no time for argument. I’m off the hook … kind of … with a compromise. “Let’s go together,” I suggest.

My wife steps out of the half-bath, slides the pocket-door closed. “Hang in there baby,” she says. “We’ll be right back.”

We purchase two packets, Country Flower and Vinegar and Water, eight douche bags total. And even though we do use the self-checkout, a female Kroger employee—who happened to see us entering through the exit door—gives us one of those Why-is-this-couple-buying-feminine-douche (AND ONLY FEMININE DOUCHE) at-11:30 PM-on-a-Friday-night look. Why can’t it wait?

I avoid her stare. My wife, on the other hand, feels the need to explain. “Our dog got sprayed by a skunk and our veterinarian said this was the best way to get rid of the smell.”

I’m happy to report that I did okay on my midterm, that our dog is as fresh as a the premature spring breeze, and that our house reeks something awful.

VOLE (FOR LACK OF A BETTER TITLE)

I was going to tell you about the traps I baited with peanut butter; how a vole got its neck snapped in my garage, but I never got around to it.

Then I decided I’d share the story about my student who threatened to kill himself last week; how he held a razorblade to his throat in contempt of a transfer notice. He was in the process of GED Testing and didn’t want to leave our facility. I’m not sure why I passed this up, why I failed to tell you.

I made myself a deadline—Saturday, February 21, 2009—I would do a two-for-one, I’d write about the vole and the student, my way of making up for lost time. I’d dispense this information like so many other bloggers—one detail after another.

Unfortunately the weekend has passed. So much for deadlines. Call it procrastination. I have my reasons. How about this one: Saturday night my 84-year-old mother-in-law tripped over a piece of duct tape on a dance floor, fell, and broke her arm and hip. My wife coordinated a 3-hour ambulance ride from a hospital in Clare, Michigan, to Detroit where my mother-in-law could have surgery closer to home. I cleaned out her refrigerator, stuffed five bags of mini-carrots, two rotten apples, some apricots, moldy pita bread, and cottage cheese down her garbage disposal. She’s not coming home any time soon. Rehabilitation will follow. “Don’t you put me in a nursing home,” she warned. I stayed out of it. My wife will handle the arrangements. It’ll probably be a 3 to 4 month ordeal.

Today I’ll retrieve her vehicle. I’m sure her senior citizen friends will miss their designated driver.

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.

BRIDGES

A homeless man—not that I actually have the scoop on his situation (it’s much nicer than calling him a bum)—asks me, “Would you like to buy my Ugly Stick? I’ll sell it to you real cheap.”

“No thanks,” I reply. “I don’t have my wallet on me.”

I’ve heard about break-ins at the nearby marinas. As I continue along my journey, I imagine tackle-boxes and other expensive fishing equipment stolen by homeless bums leaving their shrink-wrapped lodging for shelter under the freeway. They do this while Michigan’s boaters revel in the morning sun, peeling off plastic, filling their tanks, and leaving the canals for a day of Coppertone, beer, and windburn.

But I get ahead of myself. As I walk my dog past the undercover cop reading the newspaper from a parked vehicle on our street, I remind myself that no matter how safe we try to be, we are all potential victims of crime. My wife refuses to take my favorite route under the bridges, so today, like most days, I walk alone. In no time at all I see the latest graffiti, the prophylactics, a few articles of clothing, the empty bottles of Robitussin, and one overturned plastic worm container.

This place has tremendous appeal. For the homeless searching for a place to rest. For teens experimenting with sex and drugs. For anglers dreaming of that record fish. I take this route as often as I can. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because it’s filled with hope and despair. I sit down. I let the man snap my picture. He smiles more than I. His teeth need work. So do mine. He hands my camera back.

IF I ONLY KNEW THE MAKE & MODEL

There will come a time when I run out of childhood pictures, those grainy snapshots that have more meaning than any current digital photographs will ever have. I say to myself, “What will I do? How will I be able to recall past events without these visual clues?” Let me be honest here: my memory isn’t as keen as it once was. I need something to kick-start the ol’ noggin.

I’ve tried to peel those black and white pictures from the discolored pages of photo albums, some with success, others to no avail, their backs fused onto the sticky page. I’ve found more depth and more substance in those old black and whites where my brother and I pose in front of an old car or motorcycle, evidence of the time period we had once lived in, knowing mom or dad captured that specific moment with the best of intentions, with dreams of improving our family status.

In this shot, my brother and I are standing in our driveway off of 23 Mile, a two-lane road. Immediately behind us is dad’s Ford Falcon (or is it a Fairlane?). I have difficulty identifying the make, especially since I’m ninety-nine percent certain that the automobile in my last post, the one on the beach, was a Falcon, and this car, although similar, is not the same. Back then, our dad purchased a new American made automobile every two or three years. With less choices in styles and models, you would think that I’d be able to recall the specifics. I do know this: the picture was taken in 1968.

Or was it 1969?

PROCESS OF ELIMINATION

In my endless pursuit of that one scary childhood Halloween costume, I found the above silly photograph. I immediately felt sorry for the “Teddy Bear” Masked Man with his humongous, orange plastic, pumpkin pail. And why shouldn’t I? “Gritty” must have traveled down my mom’s ear canals as “glitzy” before the brain processed it into the word “grizzly” thus resulting in my being dressed out as a cute and cuddly Downy-type bear. (Snuggles? I’m guessing.) But this can’t be the case. It isn’t me. Who it is I don’t know.

My brother and I, although one year apart in age, were often mistaken for twins due to wearing matching clothes. If he wore plaid pants and a striped shirt, I wore plaid plants and a striped shirt. Our parents theorized that being fair meant giving us the same things. However, at Halloween we were able to pick and choose our costumes within reason.

If my brother said, “I want to be an Indian,” then I’d think of something within the same theme and say, “I want to be a cowboy.” But as we grew older, both of us took a more convenient route and became standard hobos, mixing and matching whatever we saw fit.

So which kid am I? Both hobo-like characters have matching Little Caesers Trick-or-Treat bags. It wouldn’t be fair if one of us had a larger sized bag that held more candy. Am I the tall, lanky, down-and-out red-nosed pharmacists advertising Hall’s cough drops, or the big-eared, big-nosed, white-collared pilgrim hobo? It didn’t take long for me to realize that I had once participated in Disco Elementary’s “Thanksgiving Day” extravaganza. My mom had stitched together the black robe with white collar just for me. It must've been a positive experience, why else would I wear it again? I’m grateful that I didn’t have to wear a hunter’s orange reflecting vest that night, or if I did, that my dad never snapped the picture.

ONCE AGAIN, TRAUMA BEFORE HALLOWEEN

Why is it, after sifting through endless family photos in search of yours truly sporting at least one bad ass Halloween costume, I end up reliving the trauma of my youth? The amateur photographer—and I do mean “amateur” because of the wayward digit in front of the camera lense, which, by the way, would’ve been more convenient on the left hand side—did not have a clue as to commanding the shot. Hypothetically speaking, if the photographer calls for a gritty cowboy, and the inattentive wardrobe assistant mistakenly hears “glitzy,” he should correct her regarding anything resembling Gene Autry. If the photographer requests a great warrior chief, and the wardrobe assistant, in her infinite wisdom, thinks a squaw would be a much better choice, then the photographer needs to redirect and communicate his vision. This photo should be no different.

After taking a much closer look, I wonder if this is some type of cruel hoax, the literary equivalent of the poem “Leonainie.” Had someone suggested replacing Raggedy Andy with Raggedy Ann would make the photo more identifiable? A piece of Americana? And at whose expense? I’m almost certain that this isn’t my toy. As you can clearly see, my brother is standing there, wringing his hands as if he were an accomplice to this crime (and at such an early age). If we had just banded together, then maybe Raggedy Andy would’ve joined his sister in the Toy Museum Hall of Fame.

Unfortunately, when the wardrobe assistant does the cooking, house cleaning, and laundry, the photographer contentedly snaps the damn picture without thinking of its damaging effect.

LABOR DAY

Never mind the dapper young fellow with the most baseball patches on his jacket. Never mind his older brother with five, count them, five such patches--Do the math if you feel the need, I won't stop you. Never mind the detachable, unique, uno-level, luxury-model, camper with master bedroom and a panoramic view. Never mind that the view included a stopover in Missouri. Never mind the mangy, homeless mutt that got between the two boys. None of these things matter. It's just an old family photo of two youngsters enjoying a camping trip with their parents. I'm sure, as this Labor Day weekend comes to a close, there will be new family photos of camping trips all across the United States (and Canada too).

Fast-forwarded approximately thirty-five years, and that toe-headed youngster with the photo-scratched eye will tell you that he no longer goes camping. "I mistakenly took my wife camping once. I pitched a tent over some pine needles and her allergies kicked in. Her misery became my misery," he says. And so the story goes.

Here's the latest:

I didn't do much of anything this weekend. I stayed home and walked my dog around the subdivision each evening. On Saturday, with my dog on leash, I encountered a fawn. It followed us for two and half blocks. I ignored it, yet it kept pace and kept bleating.

"Hey Dad," I heard a kid yell, "there's a deer following that guy walking his dog."

His dad looked up and yelled, "There's a deer behind you."

I ignored the dad, the son, and the fawn. I concentrated on walking my dog. A few minutes later, the fawn trotted in the direction of a house where I smelled hamburgers on a grill. I had finally lost it.

What else did I do this holiday weekend? Ivan's going to love this; call it the tie-in no matter how contrived it seems. I read a negative comment regarding my YouTube video about a deer on my front lawn. The title of the piece, which I posted here on June 23, 2007, is "Ted Nugent Visits My House." Here's the comment:

Now go and eat your hamburgers PETA. PETA is an extremist organization. Dogs hate PETA; they do because they know PETA members refuse to feed dogs meat. And anyone knows every dog will tell you they need at least one can of horsemeat per week. PETA treats dogs the same way Hitler treated the Jews. They round'em up against their will and exterminate them. PETA kills more dogs then most hunters will ever kill deer in their lifetimes. Join NRA- hunters.

Other than that, I didn't do too much this holiday weekend.

HOOKING UP

In my bachelor days fine dining meant ordering by number, and if I had had more influence, our wedding would've been planned in very much the same manner--out of one of those Little Wedding Chapels that sold various packaged deals at reasonable prices. However, due to free loading off the future in-laws for longer than I'd like to admit (living in their damp moldy basement rent free had been a logical choice for stockpiling my money) I decided to go the traditional route. We had purchased a house jointly, and after making a deposit on a hall for a specific day, we decided to get married at the Catholic Church in our new neighborhood.

Enter Father Pasquali. We told him of our new home and that we'd like to get married on August 21st. Rather taken aback, he commented, "I hope you didn't reserve a hall."

My future-wife and I looked at each other and decided to let him continue.

"I'll have to check with Anna, our secretary, to see if that date is available."

When Father Pasquali left his office, there was no finger pointing, neither of us said, "I told you so." We simply waited. Let fate decide.

He returned with Anna in tow, and she informed us that all of August had been booked except for the 21st. I believe I made the initial comment, "We'll take it," but if you were to ask my wife, she insists that it was she who spoke first. One thing is for certain, both of us had to provide the necessary documentation in regards to our Catholic faith and pony up the money for marriage classes. Dripping with sarcasm, on the short ride back to our money-pit-of-a-home, I said, "I am so looking forward to learning all about marriage, how about you?" I needn't tell you her answer, afterall, we had already made a major purchase under different last names. What better way to demonstrate our faith and commitment.

CLOCK WATCHERS

I’ve had inmates, the type who’ve made an art form out of procrastination, tell me they can do the rest of their time standing on their head, and that’s all fine and dandy—if you’re easily mesmerized by grains of sand sifting through an hourglass. I have a name for people like them: Clock Watchers.

Regardless of the environment, I’d rather build a sand castle, even if I have to do it one grain at a time, even if others claim I’m in my own personal prison called “marriage.” I’ve tried to explain the difference between imprisonment and personal commitment to no avail. “At least commit to something,” I advise.

If they listened—truly, truly listened—they’d work in tandem, emptying pockets full of sand onto the prison yard, physically escaping the loneliness of the Clock Watchers, working toward a common goal, instead of traveling through the same tunnel vision of others. But then again, that would involve risk.

Fourteen years later, my marriage, and my sand castle continue to change, and I am the better for it.

A FEW RANDOM THOUGHTS

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be teaching convicted felons for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Even when as an impressionable young boy listening to my grandfather’s stories about working with trustees at the Jackson Penitentiary Farm System, my thoughts were on becoming a dentist. For whatever reason, pulling and drilling teeth had a certain allure more so than taming the savage beast of man. And why would anyone say, “When I grow up, I want to teach the Charlie Mansons of the world.”

One time, my grandfather had an ex-felon show up on his front door step. I don’t know exactly what he had said to his unexpected visitor, but I’m sure part of it was, “Get the hell off my property before I shoot your ass.” It wasn’t until years later, after he retired and moved, that two trustees escaped and brutally murdered a family in the local farming community.

My grandfather has long since passed, and my grandmother’s health isn't what it used to be—a steady diet of radioactive iodine isn't helping. She returned a handwritten letter I had sent to my grandfather some sixteen years ago during my four-week DeMarse Academy training in Lansing, Michigan. He never wrote back, but he did enjoy knowing that I went through the same self-defense and anatomy of a setup courses.

Yesterday, I had a special treat for everyone—some 20 year-old video footage of myself as a promising public school teacher. Those were the days when I looked forward to having a positive influence on my students. Now, it doesn’t really seem to matter as much, although the graduation ceremony you witnessed (I was behind the camcorder) seems to say otherwise.

In order not to bore you, I wiped out my voice (who wants to hear a history lecture on South Carolina’s Ordinance of Nullification anyway?) and dubbed in The Wolfgang Press. Thanks for your loyalty and if you haven’t seen the video yet, now may be as good a time as any.

One last thing: Welcome home Bro.

THE CURE

The Cure's Prayer Tour 1989 (Lovesong)

However far away / I will always love you
However long I stay / I will always love you
Whatever words I say / I will always love you


When Bill Davidson broke ground on The Palace of Auburn Hills, my boss DW, of DW Properties, brokered a deal among several business owners to lease a suite. The way it worked: DW Properties would manage and distribute the tickets for basketball games, concerts, and miscellaneous events in exchange for one share at a considerably reduced cost. Talk about the art of the deal.

As soon as The Palace opened its doors, DW—with his old school charm and history of hiring young, inexperienced secretaries for a little extracurricular activity (he made Warren Beatty look like an amateur)—convinced the concierge to come work for him. If this were any indication of past hiring practices, the suite holders would be storming the fort demanding changes.

Here is a perfect example of my experience with a DW Properties’ secretary: “Excuse me, sir,” a Barbie-doll-like secretary said, directing me toward the Fax machine, “It must be broke or something.” I checked it out. Everything appeared to be in working order. “But the document’s still here,” she stated, somewhat puzzled.

When the concierge left her Palace job and set-up camp in the offices of DW Properties, I gave her my standard nobody’s special around here greeting, “Who the hell are you?”

Instead of eliciting a warm bubbly smile, this one lashed back. “And just who the hell are YOU?”

Even though we were the same age, we definitely did not hit it off. Not that it mattered. I soon discovered that this secretary was different from the others. She actually had a head on her shoulders. She kept The Palace suite holders happy—distributing tickets, handling complaints, and billing each in a timely fashion. As for our working relationship, I would plunk box after box of old invoices on her desk week after week, and she would input the information into her computer and shred the documents. After saving that last box of invoices to her computer, I complemented her on a job well done. Then I made an unusual request, “I want you to delete all the invoice files on your computer.” She looked at me incredulously. “If you won’t, I will.”

She soon learned that DW had enemies everywhere, even in his own camp. Not long after that, I asked her if she would be interested in having lunch with me.

Six months later, DW noticed his secretary wearing a concert t-shirt. “You should’ve told me you were interested in the Cure, I could’ve gotten you in for free,” he said.

Little did he know, not only did he pay for her concert ticket and t-shirt, he paid for mine as well, plus food and drinks. We started going to all sorts of events, compliments of DW Properties.

Next week that secretary and I will be celebrating our 14th Wedding Anniversary.

TO BE A SUCCESS

Michael "Flash" Haggerty is so popular he no longer visits my house. Not that I want him over. I would much prefer seeing him at my old high school friend’s place in Capac, Michigan, where we can socialize over barbecued chicken and cold beers. I have put my foot down more times than I can count. Dug my heels in deep.

"That’s it," my wife threatens, "I’m calling Flash."

Her words sting. No man likes to be told they’re inadequate. Especially me.

Flash is known for his rock and roll roots in a band called Adrenalin, which later morphed into DC Drive. Flash started the band. Last time I spoke with him—the usual testosterone-filled, male-to-male greeting, "so how’s it going?"—he brought me up to speed on a few reunion concerts he participated in at the Emerald Theatre in Mount Clemens and the Freedom Hill in Sterling Heights.

During their glory days, the band warmed up for Bob Seger and Aerosmith at the DTE Music Theatre (or should I say "Pine Knob?") Their music appeared in the sound track of a Hollywood movie starring Louis Gossett Jr. However, Flash isn’t Flashy like his name suggests, even though he has a successful plumbing business in Eastpointe (or should I say "East Detroit?") and no longer makes every house call. Instead, he has employees do that for him.

"Go ahead," I tell my wife, dropping my pipe wrench. "Call Flash."

Flash is wearing the white jacket.

THE DIRT MAN

I didn’t know what to think the day I came home from work and the neighbor woman across the street told me that a man was lurking in my wife’s flowerbeds.

Not sure what I was hearing, I asked, “A man in the flowerbeds?”

“Yes,” she replied, and added for emphasis, “A man with a flashlight.” She explained that as soon as she went to get her cordless phone to call the police, the man had mysteriously disappeared. “It was real early in the morning,” she said, as if to justify why she hadn’t at least called us.

At that moment, it dawned on me who she saw.

The next day, when a coworker got into my van, I asked him, “What were you doing in my wife’s flowerbeds?”

He had been riding his ten-speed to my house every weekday morning. He seemed somewhat embarrassed.

“I wasn’t in the flowerbeds, I was looking at the different plants with my bike light.”

“Sure you were,” I responded. His answer seemed reasonable, considering he teaches Horticulture Classes at the prison … oh, and catches a few small fish once in a blue moon.

TED NUGENT VISITS MY HOUSE