Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

In 1965, the fourth year of the war police action in Viet Nam, 1,926 Americans were killed, which you can add to the 392 killed in the first three years.

With the five who were killed last night, 600 American soldiers have died serving Mr. Bush's interests this first year in Iraq.

Back in '65, I was pretty young, but the war in Viet Nam was a fact of every day life. The war slowly got worse with each passing day that year, just as it is in Iraq today. And back in '65, there was no end in sight, just like today.

And after one year, the war in Iraq is a fact of every day life for our children.

This isn't the way it was supposed to be.

I was surprised to learn that there are only 354 steps to the crown of Lady Liberty. The day I wound my way up for the glimpse out of her head, there were a lot more steps. I was in Manhattan to take the testimony of a doctor at Rockefeller University, which is located pretty close to the heli-pad on Riverside Drive that was Harrison Ford's goal in Sabrina. After we finished, I decided to be a tourist and head on out to Liberty Island.

I recall that I had a cab driver who spoke English for the ride down to the ferry. I don't remember much about the trip on the ferry, but I did wander around the island, snapping a few pictures. Then the handle on my briefcase broke; so, I was reduced to carrying the burgundy case under my arm.

It was 90 degrees F. and humid, which, I understand, is not unusual for the Big Apple in August. Back in the day, I was more deferential to others; and I wore a damn suit. I went into the building that is the base of the monument and toured that, taking the elevator to the top of that structure, going outside, looking up into the sky at the 22 story spikey-crowned woman.

I talked with one of the uniformed police for a while, who convinced me that I should make the trek to the top. After all, he said, you may never get the opportunity again. So, the gate to opportunity was in front of me. I got in line with all the other morons people in the sweltering August heat.

The line moved rather quickly; and I was finally gazing up a long winding stainless steel staircase, getting hotter, inside the girdered, plexiglassed interior of the Statue of Liberty herself. It is ironic I remember thinking at that time about the Hitchcock movie The Saboteur, briefcase under my arm, nobody giving me a second look.

The winding stairway seemed to go straight up with about a two-foot radius. Each step was occupied by man, woman, or child. About five steps ahead of me, a women started to panic, screaming that she wanted to get down, which was nearly impossible unless we passed her back down. I don't know how we all managed, but she made it down, squeezing by us, thanking us, her face a ghastly whitish-gray color.

Sweating like Magic Johnson on a hot night in Boston Garden, wringing wet, dripping, I checked with the blond, 20-ish woman being pelted with my perspiration. She politely said she wasn't upset at all and thanked me for my concern. She said it was "fuckin' hot," which made me somewhat more comfortable with our common suffering.

This is a female secret I didn't want thrust upon me. It was quite enough for one lifetime to have learned about douche from TV commercials.

And did you know there is a drug on the market called Zelnorm, something that is prescribed only for women? Apparently, if a woman has a peculiar disease which causes printing to appear on her abdomen, this drug, Zelnorm, cures it. Yes, I know I could look it up on the Internet and learn all about what Zelnorm cures, but that happens to be one of those things that a man should not be required to know. At least, it has never been an answer on any multiple-choice test I have ever taken.

But I'm not in the mood because then you'd think that I left my fly open and I would look like a real lamebrain.

Not that I'm in the right frame of mind to see this particular movie, but while I checked the movie listings for one of the local mega-multiplexes, I saw this:

The Passion of the Christ (R, 126 min.) 3:00am | 4:00am | 6:30am | 6:55am | 7:30am | 9:40am | 10:15am | 10:30am | 11:30am | 12:00pm | 12:30pm | 3:00pm

Educators are teaching doom. I charge academia, religion, media and government with a criminal act of collusion and conspiracy against children. USA on a path to cannibalism.

Yes, cannabalism. People, people, calm down, calm down ... don't worry ... The Time Cube guy has a plan:

I plan to sue academic institutions for multi-millions of dollars for their endangering the lives of children through brainwashing and indoctrination stupidity. I am seeking sharp attorney interested in a case that transcends the excitement of the Scopes Monkey Trial.

I was thinking that Monaco would be a good target. Monaco is a principality. There is something evil about a principality. And there is gambling in Monaco. More evil, to be sure. Yes, Monaco would be a good target, an easy target.

Then I did some checking. Invading Monaco would be harder than I thought because defending Monaco is the responsibility of France. Many Americans maligned France about the whole Iraq thing, but it turns out that France was kind of right about Saddam Hussein and weapons of mass destruction ... well, France was in bed with Saddam Hussein, kicking back cash on contracts, but France was kind of right. But still, it would be a tough fight, taking over Monaco. France has planes and Exocet missiles and guns and ammo.

Monaco invasion -- bad idea.

Luxembourg. Some duke runs that country. Protected by the Grand Ducal Police. What a laugh! Some police force against the whole U.S. military. No contest.

Nature, which we know can be very cruel with its practical jokes, has chosen to leave this particular guy with the regular balding pattern, the ring of hair around his head above his ears, and then, cruelly, as it seems, hair on the very front part of his scalp. I suppose that looking at him straight on, it could appear that he has a full head of hair, when properly coiffed.

That's the problem, though. Looking at him straight on was well nigh impossible because the guy was, by my best estimation, an inch or so over 4’ 11” on a good day.

I am not making fun of him, but -- what's the line in the Clint Eastwood movie -- "A man's got to know his limitations." What might look pretty good staring full face on at the mirror might not look too good from a slightly higher angle, an angle that most of the adult population has.

About the only thing I can say is that I stayed slightly longer at this concert than I did for the 1973 Badfinger concert at the college I attended. Perhaps if the sound mix had been better I would have stayed a little longer.

I had never heard of the group before J-Dogg mentioned he was going, then Sue called to see if we could use the extra ticket. J-Dogg suggested that we go together; and if you have a teenager and he suggests that you do something with him, you jump at the chance because those chances are dwindling to a precious few. I told her I would use the ticket.

I had fun on the drive down, talking about music and bands we liked and concerts I had attended. J-Dogg prepped me for Dream Theater, but I think that he heard the band in its better days.

I wrote down the words I understood in the four or five tunes the band played. In the third song, I distinctly heard, "Through the night." Those words are common to many songs done by many artists -- it's tough when nobody around knows the words and is singing along. In that same song, though, I thought that I got the gist of the song with the lyric, "Gonna fuck some bimbos."

But the more I thought about it, the crowd should have been screaming and cheering with a line like that; but it wasn't. Well, it should have been a line in the song -- would have been much better and could have set the tone. Oh, well.

In the next song, I thought the singer, who looked pretty used up -- the band formed in the '80's -- especially when he flicked the switch that turned on the orange light to illuminate his face, making him even uglier than he was. The orange light on his long grayish-brown hair was pretty scary, too. Come to think of it, the few words of the song that I thought I heard, "Love the space man," fit in, I guess.

Then there was the guy on the keyboard that spun around. He stood there playing, then spun it around on the stand, catching it, then continuing to play. He often turned his back to the audience while playing, then spun back, like wanted to surprise the crowd -- hey, don't ask me. It must have been some prog-heavy-metal thing. The drummer was surrounded by 87 drums and cymbals, including five bass drums -- I saw him beat on three cymbals and a couple of the drums during the part of the show we saw. He was probably going to get cranked up and play the rest of them later in the evening.

This group had three projected screens to the rear, not only showing them playing on stage, but also showing psychedelic swirling colors, and some kind of videos that were probably supposed to tell a story during the song; but without words, the videos had no relation to the music.

During one song, the number "1928" kept flashing on one of the screens. There were newspapers flashed too quickly to read anything; so, I could only conclude that "1928," having no significance like "666," denoted the year 1928. And what happened in 1928 that would inspire someone to write a song? I couldn't really figure out anything except that Herbert Hoover was elected president of the USA.

Sue and Dave agreed at that point that we should leave. Any band that does a song about Herbert Hoover -- a little too progressive and much too esoteric for my taste.

What is happening over in Iraq? Things seem to be getting worse with each passing day. Yet, the grossly absurd imposition of western culture upon this country must and will go on, announced the general in charge over there, human lives be damned.

Has anyone heard of AECOM Technology? I went to the website for this company. You can just count me among the stupid because I can't for the life of me figure out what this company does.

Serving all levels of government, we provide support for facilities ranging from military bases to local schools. Our single-source, integrated project delivery makes us a provider of choice for technical and industrial facilities. Developers of office buildings, hotels, theme parks and other commercial facilities value our integrated design and construction management services together with interior design expertise.

Oh, I understand ... government contracts ... that explains the doublespeak and obfuscation.

AECOM Technology received what was the first of, I'm sure, its many contracts to help re-build Iraq. The contract is for a paltry sum ... you know, start small ... of $21.6 million, which is a contract and amount that is easily overlooked as the Halliburton controversy rages.

AECOM Technology is heir apparent to Halliburton. George the Lesser requires a patsy, a patsy to take the American public's mind off the 570 dead U.S. soldiers in Iraq and countless more in the bleak future ahead, and what better patsy than Dick Cheney's criminal enterprise, Halliburton.

And who is AECOM? Back in January, AECOM hired former U.S. Department of Transportation Deputy Secretary Michael P. Jackson, who ran the DOT in 2002 when the actual Secretary, Norman Mineta, had back problems. Jackson became a fave of George the Lesser when Jackson was instrumental in setting up the Transportation Security Administration and the largest bureaucracy in the history of man, the Depatment of Homeland Security. It's my guess that Jackson passed on being in charge of Homeland Security so that he could make more money in the private sector.

And $21.6 million is the tip of the iceberg.

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I'm sure he will have a good excuse for not actively looking for a job. One excuse I've commonly heard is that jobs don't pay enough -- that the 6-buck-an-hour job with health insurance doesn't pay enough. I suppose that makes some sense to someone out there, not me. Unless, of course, the job was at Domino's Pizza. Then I understand.

Dear Ms. Richwine:

I read your article about poultry antibiotics with much interest. Thank you for bringing to light a scientific fact that remains hidden in the dark recesses of the scientific broom closet.

It is not often that a reporter correspondent has the courage to reveal such information and make it available to those of us who are trying to convince skeptical scientists. For more years than I can count, I have been trying to convince not only physicians, but also veterinarians, and their colleagues in the medical and scientific community that my theory is sound and not absurd. I have attempted on many occasions to test my hypothesis, but I do not have access to the financial means nor do I have the scientific backing to do so.

Now, because of you, I will not be required to do so, except that I see much room for research into the quantitative aspect of the problem. I have been turned down for grant money time and time again by the Centers for Disease Control, National Science Foundation, and other non-profit research-oriented donors.

Although the Department of Defense was initially very interested in my hypothesis and did fund some preliminary research while George H. W. Bush was President, that funding was dramatically terminated when Clinton took office. You may have read about it. Since you have unquestionably verified the qualitative aspect of the problem, I believe that I will now be able to get funding from George Bush the Lesser to quantify something at which the skeptical scientific community has heartily laughed.

It will be a difficult task to figure out a workable test to determine the level of intelligence of the Campylobacter bacteria, but now that you have confirmed that "bacteria learn" and "outsmart" those pesky scientists using antibiotics on chickens, I am sure that I will be able to quantify the intelligence of these magnificent organisms.

Thank you again.

Remaining germ-free,

I'm done talking to the prosecutor and I like have to go talk to my client about the case and see what we're gonna do -- well, what she's gonna do. And she's not there. You know, it's like all I can do to keep calm when shit like this happens. I sent her out a letter to like remind her of the hearing, and she calls me like to say that she'll like be there, and then she doesn't show. I know it's snowing and all, and that she might like be spendin' a little time in the can if she pleads guilty, but there's a good chance that like going to an anger management course will keep her outta jail. After all, she did what all ex-wives wanna do to their ex-husbands ... well, not the cutting-off-the-dick part, just the like choke-the-living-shit-out-of-him part ... and I figured she had a good reason that the judge might like enjoy, if not be totally on her side about it.

But she didn't show. And the prosecutor, he like wants a warrant, and she doesn't have a phone ... it got turned off and that was like part of the defense ... so, the judge said he was revoking the bond and signing a warrant, which is a bad thing, legally, because the judge is like mad at the client for like thumbing her nose at the judge and not showing, which puts a crimp in my tryin' to get the judge to like see it my way ... or her way, ya know. I don't know if ya really like know, but it's kinda like a bad thing not to show; and I hadda tell the judge that yessir, I did hear from her after I sent her a letter and I didn't really know where she was cuz she said she would for sure like be present cuz she was like innocent, ya know, sir, and like maybe you don't need to issue that warrant and we could just like postpone this so as I could like send her a letter cuz she doesn't have a phone, seeing as how her ex-husband isn't paying support. But he wasn't buyin' in to my whining. He hardly ever does.

That's that. I leave. I go back to my office at home and start doing a letter to her saying that she like totally missed the fuckin' hearing and the judge signed a warrant and to like call me to set up a time to like turn herself in and bring like 500 bucks for bail and stuff like that and I'm making a copy of the letter I sent her before to put with this letter just to like cover my own ass, ya know, cuz if she gets arrested, she's like gonna totally blame me, ya know. That's how it is -- always the goddamn lawyer's fault. Like nobody can take responsibility for their own fuck-ups, ya know. Like Bush and Iraq. And Rumsfeld and the piece of the plane that crashed into the World Trade Center that sits on his desk as a souvenir, ya know. Things like that.

And I'm lookin' at the copy of the letter bein' spit outta the copier, and it says like, the hearing is set for April 2 at 9:30. And like I do this double take and say to myself that, whoa, I fucked up, man, and told her to be there on the wrong fuckin' date. And now the police are out there lookin' to arrest her like that guy in Columbus shootin' at people. Whoa, that could be like real bad for me if they like arrest her.

So I call the clerk. I know her pretty well. She knows I'm like crazy. And she still likes me, I think.

"This is Bill."

"What do you want?" she asked, like she was pissed at me.

"I did something very bad. Legally speaking, I fucked up," I said, then explaining how I notified the client to be there April 2 instead of today.

She said, "I'll take care of it. April 2nd at 9:30."

"Okay."

There is an Irish place we could have tried. The name of it is Slainte, which I don't know how to pronounce or what it means. How does one suggest a place to eat if the name of the restaurant is something one can't pronounce? And who knows? It may mean something very nasty in English. After all, there is that Irish Catholic/English thing that has been going on for centuries. So, I didn't say, "Let's go to "Slayn-tee" or "Sluh-inn-tee" or "Slaynt" or "Sline-tuh" or whatever you call it."

And I didn't have the courage to try another place that has been open for several years. That, I admit, is my problem. There is a sign in the window that announces that the place has fresh sushi and wraps. Thank you for NOT serving moldy sushi and wraps. Again, it's the name thing that gets me. The place is called Mammy Hand. WTF? Who thought of that name? It turns out that it is derived from "My Mother's Hand," and the Fiery Chicken Wrap was superb, freshly made to order from fresh ingredients, better than anything my mother made. Mammy Hand is on my short list of the best fast food restaurants in the area.

I read about the three deaths on SkyNews at sky.com yesterday morning.

Or could this be an example of the Bush Administration squelching bad news from the front, concentrating instead on Bush laying a wreath for those killed in Spain, thereby diverting attention from the painful idea that the U.S. is mired down in Iraq fighting a guerilla war that will never end? Electioneering, so to speak? He has stepped up the search for Osama bin Laden recently, obviously hoping to pull the rabbit out of the hat on the eve of the election. Or maybe Osama is in a luxury cell down at Guantanamo already, getting a makeover, preparing for the big "reveal."

Is there an end in sight to our husbands and wives, sons and daughters, friends and neighbors dying in Iraq? Perhaps I missed that story on CNN.com, too. Perhaps I missed it in Bush's speech the other day to Cleveland women in business, to whom he painted a rosy picture of the economy while thousands drop off the unemployment rolls each week, no jobs in sight in the midwest.

Yes, George Bush was in Cleveland -- I thought that maybe he was going to audition for the lead in a local production of Tommy, being perfect for the lead. After all, in the play, the "deaf, dumb, and blind boy lives in a quiet vibration land."

I was sure that "The Who" sticker would arouse some suspicion, but I made the 50-minute drive without incident. I did notice some things as I drove, though. I took notes. As I got on the entrance ramp to I-90, having elected not to stop at Starbuck's, there was a guy in a red Chevy Camaro ahead of me, quickly pulling away. How did I know it was a guy? Because the license plate read "BOBZ28." I merged from the ramp onto the highway as a Mercedes, "DOPLR" was on the plate, stretched the distance between us, which was being chased by an M5 BMW, black in color, with "SALTI" on the plate, which was familiar because a family with that name lived in a large house on Lake Road overlooking the oceanic expanse of water known as Lake Erie, the smallest of the five Great Lakes, blue on a cloudless day, grayish on cloudy days, and greenish gray on others. The house was sold when that particular Mr. Salti fled to Lebanon instead of facing the music here for food stamp fraud and was subsequently torn down, in its place, a huge brick mansion being built over the period of two years.

As I made my way through the suburban neighborhoods shielded from the interstate by high stone-looking, plastic-composite barriers, I was to the left of and slightly behind "DR14," my first thought being that she was a doctor, but then I recalled that Pete Rose, the not-so-Hall-of-Famer, ordered that the state of Ohio endorse his license plate with "PR14" for luck; so, maybe her initials were "D. R."

I was making good time and backed my speed down because the community through which I was traveling at that point is notorious for speed traps. Passing me a few moments later was a moustachioed man in a big Buick identified by the interesting "PHD GED." As I-71 traffic from the south merged in, a red Chevy Malibu bore the plate "69 CHIMP." Monkey breeder? "JUNE 34" was on her way into town. She looked all of 34 and then some, but "MARTY7" was older than she was.

Driving a Toyota on the berm, trying to get into traffic was a woman, "DINAMO 1." Now, if I thought that she was a Frank Zappa fan, I might have let her in; but she was a little too young. On the long bridge crossing the river, a white Lexus with the plate "XVX XVII," which was indecipherable to me, barreled by. I noticed "SUMMER 2" taking the ramp to Ontario Street, not driving a convertible.

Near Dead Man's Curve, a big GMC 1500 pick-up truck, "SHIFTN," was probably doing just that, slowing down for the 90 degree jaunt in the road. A Cadillac with "TGW SMW" on the plate was up ahead. I wonder about these license plates. Are those the initials of the husband and wife? Approaching from the rear, I saw two heads. Is TGW driving, with Mrs. TGW in the passenger seat, or is it the opposite, since the plate on the front of the car has TGW on the passenger side. Just wondering.

I passed up another guy who didn't know his Roman numerology. "X CDC X." And getting on to the highway was a huge Toyota Sequoia SUV, obviously a gift "2 CAROL T." Carol needs a lesson in turn signals and merging. Of course, driving against something that big, there are few vehicles that will not yield.

Approaching the first of the eastern suburbs along the lake shore, I was cut off by a Chevy Blazer headed for the exit ramp. In my less serene days a few months back, I would have followed "TODALEW," but there was no need to allow an innocent ... mistake ... to ... ruin ... my ... day. I passed a 7-series BMW (what is that, 735i or 753, I can't recall), silver in color, "JAZZ"-plated.

The gas gauge thingy dinged to let me know that I was running low. I pulled off the highway and into a gas station, where a huge, black Cadillac Escalade EXT, the kind that is not an SUV, but an SUT, was parked at one of the pumps. It was one of the new models that pumps gas itself because the engine was running and there wasn't any person in or around the damn thing and the hose was in the tank hole and the pump was pumping. The license plate read "DTAIL 4 U."

We ended up picking up Stacey and heading over to TGI Friday's for salads for dinner. And the server was very nice and bubbly, smiling the entire time. She brought the check -- like 25 bucks. I put down two 20's.

She asked, "Want change?"

Did she really think I was going to leave her a $15 tip? Would she have asked me that question if I would have given her something like a million dollar bill?

I've got a call into my friend, DT, who showed me how to shoot a gun for the first time a while back. I admit that I haven't gone out and gotten one so that I could carry it around with me since Ohio passed that concealed-carry law. And I haven't been hunting or target-shooting, either. Or fondling one, either.

DT and his son, Rusty (what other name could you think of for a country boy), were amazed at how good a shot I was when I was out with them ... I figure (that's country-talk, ain't it?) that DT and I could saddle up and take a Virgin Atlantic flight, one on which the pilot isn't sloshed, over to Europe and do us some Nazi-hunting.

Hermann Goering let a couple raccoons loose over there in Nazi Germany. Now, there are so many raccoons around, the Germans want to enlist someone to hunt them down.

Anyway, there was a sale of ... stuff. We thought we could pick up some mementoes, like an oak library card catalog. No such luck, though. It was as if we were walking through a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.

We walked down the hall toward room 325, which back in the day, was ... you know ... like a room for study hall. The memories washed over me, as if James Earl Jones was standing there, swatting them away like flies.

Yes, Tag, that's what we called him. He had a long Italian name. He and his goomba, Steffano, both wore black leathers, Ban-Lon nylon socks, white, silk-like shirts open at the neck, Italian horn hanging around from a chain around their necks, they were in study hall with first-year teacher, Mr. E. It was a sunny, Spring day, windows open, Mr. E having a harder-than-usual time controlling the raucousness ... I think he came from back east ... prep school ... not really equipped to handle ... er ... midwesterners.

Anyway, Mr. E started screaming at the rowdy study hall students to shut up ... at least one eraser hit him in the chest, leaving a white-powder residue that would mean something else in the future, and several others, from longer range missing, bouncing off the wall behind him. Kids with cracking voices were yelling ... nasty things ... when Tag lifted the integrated school desk/chair overhead, which, of course, drew Mr. E's attention, Mr. E screaming to put the "god-damned, fucking chair down, you little sonofabitch da-go cocksucker ..." Tag heaved the desk/chair out the third floor window, and all Hell broke loose, everyone bolting for the doors, knowing that Mr. Widder would leave no witnesses without red asses. Mr. E had cracked, throwing a few desk/chairs into the hallway, then barricading himself in the room, pushing the teacher's oaken desk in front of the door at the front of the room and stacking stuff in front of the rear door, screaming profanities all the while.

I don't know what happened to Mr. E. He never came back after he was taken away by the ambulance.

I remembered that -- because up ahead, not more than four feet away, a huge pigeon (it seemed like it was up to my knees, but probably not) waddled ahead. I jumped behind Stacey for protection, but it ignored us, taking a right into 325. I slammed the door after it.

That was Saturday morning. I haven't slept since. Tossing and turning last night, I did get to sleep; but I dreamed about the pigeon trying to open the door with its beak. It was having a hard time of it, the brass door knob resisting the bird's efforts. The pigeon might still be in 325 ... hungry ... weak. In fact, after that dream, I'm sure of it. That Mr. E incident has been bothering me. I'm afraid for the pigeon locked in that room all alone, losing its grip on reality ... I'm thinking that I should call the school board office ... someone should let the pigeon out ...

If I haven't starved it to death.

I'm wondering how long pigeons can survive without the little things they pick up off the street? You start wondering about shit like that after you haven't slept for a couple days worrying that ... there's pigeon blood on my hands. What the fuck are those pigeons eating off the street anyway? There must be something in 325 that a pigeon can munch on ... you know, like ... stuff. Maybe I should like call the police ... don't you call the police if cats are like stuck up trees ... or that's the fire department. I could do that.

And report that there is a pigeon stuck in Room 325 of the old junior high school. I called the school board office.

What did you say?
There's a pigeon in room 325 of the old junior high.
What?
A pigeon is in room 325 of the old junior high, the one that's closed and is going to be demolished.
Is this some kind of joke? You want me to call the police, sir? I have you on caller I.D.
Would the police free a trapped pigeon? Or would that be the fire department? I'm serious, ma'm ... We were there on Saturday morning and a pigeon was trapped in room 325.
How do you know it's trapped?
Well, it was a big pigeon, but I still don't think it could reach the door knob. Well, I suppose it could fly up that high ... hadn't thought of that. But it would be really, really hard to open the door knob with a beak, don't you think?
Sir, I am calling the police.
Do you think it'd be possible to turn the knob with its little feet while it's flapping its wings? That'd be pretty tough, even if the pigeon thought of something like that.
Sir, I'm hanging up.

It's the "monkey" part that gives me pause ... I'll get the J-dogg up and have him try it first.

Speaking of the J-dogg and segues, the Blog Madness 2003 competition is drawing closer to a conclusion and his entry is in the "Elite Eight."

Please stop by that site, and if you believe that his entry warrants -- hey, that's like a legal term -- your vote, please vote for his entry. It will do so much for his ego -- you know -- that whole psychological rejection thing sometimes causes people to freak out and like ... you've heard about those things ... and it would actually be your fault ... because I've warned you. I have ... you'll see ...

One of them duct-taped a kid to a chair and then taped his mouth shut, but I'm inclined not to vote for her because she enlisted the aid of two other students to hold down the 14-year-old boy. She resigned her teaching position, but will most likely be hired by the Office of Homeland Security.

So, I give you the peanut butter cookie recipe I used tonight. It's not in the Betty Crocker Cook Book. I changed some stuff. I use a wooden spoon to mix everything. I suppose some kind of mixer would work if that's what you normally use.

Preheat oven to 375 F.

Mix till smooth:
1 cup peanut butter
1 cup softened butter
2 cups packed brown sugar
2 eggs already beaten
2 tsp. vanilla extract

Blend in:
2 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder

Roll the dough into one inch balls and put on the cookie sheet (I use a Silpat mat on the sheet) a couple inches apart. Flatten with a fork dipped in granulated sugar in a criss-cross pattern.

He died, holding his wife's hand, having said his final words to each of his children and having made his peace with his God. My uncle thought he could beat this adversary; and in the end, he did, leaving on his terms.

At the funeral home, an older man, late 70's, white-haired, over-weight, waddled up to the coffin to pay his last respects this morning, stood at attention and saluted crisply with enthusiasm reserved for youth.

He will be missed, but he leaves his special legacy of love, courage, and pursuit of excellence in his children and his grandchildren.

It was a difficult weekend. I don't do funerals and funeral homes very well.