• The Dunedin Grand Prix

    Nothing brings the neighborhood together like a police chase. First, we heard the roar of engines as cars blew past our house (at the stop sign) at high speed. Next, we heard the doppler shift of sirens careening past. This repeated two more times, making us wonder if our house had suddenly been magically transported to Hell’s Kitchen. The gawker gang was out in full force, sharing descriptions of the chase vehicle and the number of police vehicles sighted.

    Of course, within about five minutes it begins to feel like a breaking news broadcast on CNN…

    “For those of you just joining us, a man on a motorcycle has just raced down this residential street at high speed. Local police have been giving chase. let’s go now to our next door neighbors for the latest…”

    “Yes John, we can confirm that it was a motorcycle and the police were giving chase. We can also confirm that it passed through the stop sign three times before disappearing for the last time.”

    “Does anyone know who it was?”

    “No.”

    “Does anyone know why the police were giving chase?”

    “No.”

    “Does anyone know anything more at this time.”

    “No.”

    “Does anyone know what the Saturday premiere on HBO is tonight?”

  • Middle-class epic

    This is a story of a man whose adventures will one day be remembered in song. This is the story of John, of the suburban warrior clan Kauffman.

    “Yeah, though he walks through the shadows of the valley of Beth, he shall fear no tantrum.”

    “Neither early hour, lack of sleep, looming holiday, nor foul taste of breath, shall keep him from his appointed rounds.”

    “Sick to his stomach and he’s still riding that damn bike to work?”

    “Doesn’t have much sense as to what is lyrical, does he?”

    —

    It is that rarest of workplace occasions, the Friday before a holiday. They only come two or three to a year – tops. When they do, there’s a dearth of warm bodies in the office. Me? I’m usually right here in my office, toiling away the minutes with remarkable dedication. Although, I am taking a time out to write… maybe I’m not so dedicated after all.

    Maestro, cue up the band. It’s time to pick things up a notch. (Or just turn on the radio, which ever is more convenient.)

  • Finding trouble

    It started in the most unlikely of places; a peanut butter on wheat bread sandwich. All right, I’ll admit that wheat bread is a little suspect on it’s own (I’ll take my flour bleached and enriched, thank you very much!), but desperate times lead to hasty choices on the bread isle. In short (and with no further explanation), all I had was wheat bread to satisfy my hankering for a PB sandwich. And no, I didn’t forget the jelly.

    Two sandwiches and a can of Cherry Coke later – and I was curled up in a fetal position on the bed wondering where it all went wrong. Being a stomach means never having to explain why you are pissed off. Mine was good and pissed, but it wasn’t doing any talking. A trip to the can seemed to smooth things over for a while, so I tried to quell the other brewing storm – my wife’s impatience. The view from the gestation throne apparently was not very good, so it was time for some serious choring up.

    I was right in the middle of taking out the trash when I completely ignored the twelfth law of child rearing: never take something from your child’s bathroom waste can for granted. You never know what you might find there – so don’t go looking. What possessed me to tempt the fates will never be known, but what followed will go right in the log book under “this is what happens when you do something stupid.” In short order I found myself kneeling before the throne, offering my sacrifices to the god of well-being.

    Thanks for tuning in.