Something To Laugh About: 144 Essays On Being A Guy, Parenting, Holidays & Stuff Other People Think Is Funny

By Dave Schwensen

"Something To Laugh About" is a collection of 144 stories, experiences, observations, imaginations, exaggerations, lists, truths, half-truths, true lies and basically, stuff author Dave Schwensen thought was funny enough to write about every week in his syndicated humor column that went by the same name. This weekly and family-friendly 800 word effort appeared in newspapers during the first decade of the 2000's and won an award for Best Original Column in the U.S. state of the author's origin, which happens to be on the south shore of Lake Erie near The Home of Rock 'n' Roll (we know you can figure it out based on those two hints).
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The purpose behind "Something To Laugh About" is to show a different outlook on everyday life. Humor can often be found right in front of us if we just take the time to stop, look and eavesdrop... uh, we mean listen. And if there is a common thread meant to be shared throughout these personal insights, we'll go with the most obvious: fun. It was fun writing them and hope they're just as much fun for you to read.
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If you need more incentive to dig into this massive volume of nonsense, these 144 blasts of 800 words can be devoured in short segments. You can pick it up, read one or two and drop it back down almost anywhere - to be picked up again later. And to borrow instructions from a bottle of shampoo, you then repeat the process.
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We've all heard laughter is good medicine. Dave believes it should be taken every day and when possible, passed along to anyone who might need some. "Something To Laugh About" is divided into four sections with the author sharing his insights into being a guy, being a parent, and being a guy and a parent during holidays. But he can't accept all the credit or in some cases, all the blame since he wasn't the only one laughing and contributing. Jokes, lists and stories sent in by readers were always encouraged and fill up the Audience Participation section in this book.
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In addition to being an award winning humor columnist and journalist, Dave is the former talent coordinator for the television show "A&E's An Evening at the Improv," The Improv comedy clubs in New York and Los Angeles, a nationally recognized comedy coach, corporate trainer and entertainer, and pop culture enthusiast.
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"Dave has a way of capturing the everyday travails of life and relating them in the most hilarious way. His writing is a real treat with laughs in every paragraph." - Kay Frances, Funny Motivational Speaker & author of "The Funny Thing About Stress"
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"Dave is a prospector. If smiles and chuckles are the gold nuggets of life, he has hit the motherload with these articles." - Bryan Cox, Comedian / Radio Host of "Hey Get Off My Lawn"
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"Fun-filled, lighthearted, and engaging stories that are just what the doctor ordered for relaxation and stress reduction. By the time you finish reading, these stories will be stuck in your head like a song you can't get rid of and you'll be taking notes on your own crazy life." - Cynthia Shelby-Lane, MD
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"From dealing with Debutant Deb and Chaos Kevin, to becoming village idiot with Dangerous Paul, if you can't find something to laugh about go seek professional help!" - Phil Sorentino, The Original Humor Consultant
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"This is a wonderful way to relax and enjoy a good old fashioned family laugh, with short stories in the style of Mark Twain. Delightful!" - Leslie Norris Townsend, Producer of the Yearly Comedy Bootcamp, The Clean Comedy Challenge
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Dave Schwensen is the author of "How To Be A Working Comic", "Comedy FAQs And Answers", "How To Be A Working Corporate Comedian" and (as the pop culture enthusiast) "The Beatles In Cleveland" and "The Beatles At Shea Stadium."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Schwensen
• Release date: Sep 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005103231

Dave Schwensen

Dave Schwensen is an entertainment journalist, award-winning humor columnist, pop culture historian and nationally recognized comedy coach. His insider knowledge of the comedy industry was earned as talent coordinator for the television show "An Evening at the Improv", The Improv Comedy Clubs in Hollywood and New York City, and consultant for many television programs, networks and film studios. As a talent agent he has worked with comedians and humorous speakers in the corporate, college, special event and theater markets. Dave is also a corporate trainer (ice breaking skills) and entertainer.www.TheComedyBook.com and www.DaveLaughs.comAnd now for something completely different...Dave witnessed the excitement of Beatlemania when his parents took him to see The Beatles during their final tour. The memories inspired his best-selling books "The Beatles In Cleveland" and "The Beatles At Shea Stadium." His entertaining author presentations on both concerts include insider stories and rare concert films and are featured as online webinars and in-person events for schools, lifelong learners, libraries, festivals and special events. A FAB time is guaranteed for all. For more details and upcoming appearances visit the following website:www.BeatlesProgram.comDave is the author of two popular blogs that cover both topics:For insider information about the comedy business visit www.TheComedyBook.Wordpress.comFor a combination of classic rock and humor, visit I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night - song countdown at www.TheClassicRocker.comDave has been featured on PBS Television and Radio, The Hollywood Reporter, Chicago Tribune, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Back Stage: The Performing Arts Weekly, Insidebiz.com Magazine, U.S. News and Report, Ohio Magazine and others.

Book preview

IT’S A

GUY THING

Hello, I Must Be Going

Columnists, lecturers, preachers, salesmen, attorneys, politicians, comedians (wait a minute… perhaps that last term is redundant when used in conjunction with some of the others) and just about anyone else who converses with an audience need to find an opening statement for what they plan to say.

In athletic events, it’s comparable to a country’s national anthem and introduction of the sporting combatants. For many who gather over a meal, a prayer might be offered as a prelude to enjoying the day’s prosperity.

This collection of essays will be more about humor, how it is all around us and how it plays a part in having a healthy outlook toward our surroundings. Its opening (and you’re reading it) involves both combatants, prayer and a meal – hopefully setting the table for what will follow. It was offered up by a young comedian, who was told after his show it wasn’t wise to use an old joke in the competitive field of stand-up comedy, where originality separates star performers from those of us who plan our evenings around reruns of The Big Bang Theory.

Of course, it’s a completely different scenario for the accuser (yes, I’m guilty) to use the material if he happens to be in need of an opening for what he is about to say.

So, to begin our festive look into humor as a viable option in fighting off the heavy burdens of everyday life, I’d like to tell you a little story. There are no names to change in order to protect the innocent, because of the nature of the final result, that legal safeguard wouldn’t be necessary:

One day there was a hunter who was looking to shoot a bear. He carried his shotgun into the woods, walked into a dense area and tripped over a rock, falling down and dropping the shotgun out of his reach.

At that moment, out of the bushes came a huge bear. His fangs were out, his claws were sharp, and he looked very hungry. The hunter realized he was in trouble and decided he’d better pray for help.

Please God, he pleaded, please let this bear find religion – immediately!

Suddenly, the bear sat down and put his paws together. Looking up toward the heavens he said, Dear Lord, we thank you for the food we are about to receive.

I guess you could say it was a pretty stressful situation for the hunter, but a thankful moment of prosperity for the once-hunted. Whichever way you’re inclined to look at it, your reaction should be (and hopefully is) a personal variation of mine upon hearing it for the first time.

I laughed.

How about you? Even a smile, giggle or an, I can’t believe anyone would think that’s funny response will do. If nothing else, it’s a beginning, which is what we set out to do only a few paragraphs ago.

The fact you’ve read this far means the joke succeeded in getting a reaction – either a thought or an opinion – from you. For anyone continuing only because it’s not time for The Big Bang Theory, I hope you’re not expecting an in-depth dissertation on the moral values of the human race concerning what bears might actually do in the woods. Theologians, animal activists and even restaurateurs might choose to look deeper into the fable-or-menu-making-possibilities of the joke, but for our purposes that would be too much work.

Some might say it’s comparable to making a mountain out of a…

Well, I’ll assume you already know the cliché because I don’t want to offend anyone who might be nicknamed The Mole. After all, I’m out to protect my own personal innocence.

The bottom line is the joke enticed you into some kind of a reaction – either positive, (That was funny) or negative, (Where’s my gun?). Otherwise, why would you still be reading something that has no meaning to you?

Here’s the inside scoop that you may have missed by thinking too much. It was only a funny story meant to convey a moment of healthy humor into your life.

Nothing more, nothing less.

By the way, after all this nonsense about nonsense, what was on your mind before you started reading? Oh yeah, now you remember…

Laughter is the Best Exercise

Here’s a gem from the ‘Truth is Stranger Than Fiction and the Jell-O Dessert Your Crazy Aunt Served at Her Cat’s Birthday Party’ Department:

Did you know that one hundred laughs are equal to an hour’s worth of hard aerobic exercise?

It was news to me when I first read it, but since the information was prefaced with, Studies have shown…, there was a legitimacy that rang as true as my sister’s words, Stay away from the Jell-O.

Now, before some of you drop your gym bags and reach for The Three Stooges Anthology videos (male to female translation: Don’t be a knucklehead), maybe we should do some research.

First of all, which sounds more appealing - one hundred laughs or one hour of hard, non-stop, sweaty aerobic exercise? Let’s put our feet up in a soft recliner and give it some strenuous thought.

You may think I’m weird, but I happen to be one of those guys who’d rather laugh than feel pain. Laughing gas in a dentist’s chair was a work of genius, while the saying, No pain, no gain kept me from wanting to gain entrance into any number of health clubs.

Laughter comes in all shapes and sizes from giggles to belly laughs. Each variety works muscles somewhere in your body (wish I had paid attention in health class) which is the basis of exercising. Therefore, if a sit-up can be avoided every time Moe slaps Curly (male to female translation: A love tap between guys) then health club memberships should include tickets to Big Time Wrestling matches.

My studies have shown (couch potato to reader translation: Who needs health class?) the above statement to be true.

The realization occurred soon after I started streaming a low-budget film featuring silly, immature, fraternity boy-type humor instead of the romantic comedy my wife, Date Night Deb, thought we should watch. She knew something was up when I gave her the ‘I found it’ look and hit the couch.

The film had its moments (male to female translation: She didn’t cringe all the way through) and the aerobic laughs were adding up, though not to the point where I felt an urge to douse myself with cold water or worry about next-day soreness in knees that were weak from laughter.

Then a cinematic moment establishing a new standard for dumbness hit me with all the force of a World Wrestling Champion taking offense to my earlier remark. The result was I started laughing and couldn’t stop.

The comedic seizure knocked me off the couch and had me sucking for air under our coffee table. Date Night Deb, who found nothing funny on the television screen, began laughing at my joyful pain and for at least five minutes (male to female translation: A long time) held onto the couch in an effort not to join my comic-kazi landing on our living room floor.

When I finally regained semi-consciousness (writer to reader translation: My natural state) I hurt. Not emotionally, even though Date Night Deb told me I could have died because she was laughing too hard to call 911, but physically. My sides and stomach were sore from using muscles more accustomed to dessert lines (fat boy to reader translation: I still avoid the Jell-O) than to hard aerobic exercise.

Then it struck me. I had been exercising and it was accomplished without an aerobics instructor, shouts of Pump you up! and community showers.

This research has only fueled my passion to become more physically fit, while swimming in tears of laughter rather than beads of sweat. Studies have shown… gut-busting humor can’t hurt unless you jump into the tear-stained pool too soon after eating. It is worth the effort of searching out serious laughter.

As a result, I pledge to continue my work in this field. (Guinea pig to friend translation: Can you pick me up a pizza during your next jog? I have a number of films to stream and it’s time to work out).

Evidence Helps the Moving Process

We’re in the process of moving. It may not seem like a big deal because we’re staying within the same area and zip codes, but it’s more stressful than picking the gag gift from behind a curtain on Let’s Make A Deal.

One reason behind this upheaval is to take advantage of being near Lake Erie. According to my calculations, we’re relocating a couple of miles east, but it’s at least three feet closer to the lake. If this upward mobility continues, we’ll have lakefront property by the time I’m too old to swim.

The confusion surrounding the move from one family home (as real estate agents call it) to another has me reminiscing about my bachelor days as an apartment dweller. There was no lawn to mow or driveway to shovel, and when something broke, the super would fix it. If the complex had a pool and another tenant was throwing a party, I could donate a tray of ice and dive in.

In those days, the only decisions were mine. But when you’re dealing with a family home, there’s always another tenant who has an opinion.

Moving is the cardboard box industry’s way to prolong the war between the sexes. My wife, Destination Deb, coerced grocery stores into donating empty boxes to our relocation cause. The penalty if they didn’t would mean that all our future shopping would be done by our two sons, which would cost stores a fortune in broken eggs and melted ice cream. It's no wonder they caved in under the pressure.

Her next attack was on the home front, when she handed each of us a number of boxes to pack only what was needed and actually used. Anything left could be sold or given away, which explains the basic female mentality behind moving. Women intentionally use fewer boxes as an excuse to clean out their closets with the idea of replacing everything with something new.

For a man, it’s not that easy. A move for us is similar to an archeological dig.

I discovered that each layer of my possessions represented a year in my personal history. So far, I’ve dug through the last two decades. But like an explorer, I have to be careful not to damage these artifacts as I go back in time. As men know, we save things for a reason. We may not remember why when we find it, but we’ll hang onto it just in case we need it someday.

Destination Deb has given me an ample supply of garbage bags that she expects to be filled. Outside of a few token disposals to keep her from putting price tags on my entire personal history, I’ve spent most of my efforts taking things from old piles and placing them onto new ones. The goal is to find my old apartment keys, but it’s comforting to know my eight track tapes and college notebooks are secure.

As a form of resistance, I’ve reworked the old incriminating evidence trick that women have always used to their unfair advantage. Their tactic is to claim they have physical proof the man has done something wrong – even if he hasn’t. If he confesses his guilt, the consequences won’t be as harsh.

Since these assumed crimes include everything a man does without a woman’s knowledge or permission we fall into their trap. The male mind goes into a defensive scheme we’re not capable of handling, we start thinking too much. Soon we’re admitting to things an archeologist couldn’t dig up as proof and swearing never to think again without a woman’s permission.

In my case, I was desperate. My allotted number of boxes couldn’t hold more than a few layers of personal history, and I hadn’t even uncovered the good stuff yet. With Destination Deb on guard duty in the next room, I crossed into the danger zone with a thought of my own.

Wow, I exclaimed, kicking a half full garbage bag the kids had offered as a peace gesture. That’s incriminating evidence!

What was? she asked, moving into an attack mode.

Oh, nothing… I said, looking sadly at the garbage bag. I’m sure it’s nothing you’d be interested in."

As Destination Deb moved in to search for physical proof of my assumed wrongdoing, I quietly took a layer of my possessions and hid them in the trunk of my car. She may be my wife, but that doesn’t mean she’ll ever get the keys to my Personal Archival Museum.

The moving process is taking a bit longer than expected, but my comfort zone is almost secure in the basement of our new house. Maybe after adding a few more layers, I can someday sit at our lakefront property and have time to look through it all while everyone else is swimming.

King and Queen of the Roller Derby

I have a confession to make that’s embarrassing for someone who considers himself a participant in American Pop Culture. With all the opportunities we have to take advantage of nonessential activities, it’s difficult to admit having missed a piece of Americana while growing up.

My pop culture credits are still impressive, ranging from drive-in movies to wearing platform shoes. Of course, there are many others, but since our teenager is a reader, I’ll drop listing them like a hot Pet Rock. It’s already hard enough to wear my leisure suit and watch Saturday Night Fever without explaining any more past embarrassments.

The one glaring omission to my credits is never having been to an indoor roller skating rink. You might find that difficult to believe from someone who’s inclined to coast through his daily nonessential activities, but it’s a true confession.

There’s really no excuse, except maybe I was absent that day when other pop culturists took the field trip. Besides, I’d watched roller derby on television and had no desire for high speed combat with my front teeth as the prize.

My wife, Daring Deb, and our six year old Dangerous Paul, decided it was time for me to right this past wrong. It seems I had been absent the day she had taken him to a place called Skate World and my lack of pop culture was hindering their new family activity.

In all fairness and to lessen my absentee record, I can be classified as an amateur novice when it comes to in-line skating. This means I’m still accident prone, but more of a danger to myself than to others.

My experience came while I was living in Los Angeles and the city erupted into full-scale riots. With army tanks outside and smoke from burning buildings in the air, the options for nonessential activities were extremely limited. To avoid combat and keep my front teeth a little longer, I skipped the lesson in American History and drove to San Diego where I learned how to roller blade – outside. Eventually I bought a pair and practiced whenever the coast was clear.

There was a sense of relief when we arrived at Skate World and I noticed there weren’t many cars in the parking lot. At least, I thought, it wouldn’t be too crowded when I made my debut in The Great Indoors.

It didn’t dawn on me until after we’d entered the rink that it was Saturday night. This may not mean much to you, unless you have kids under the legal driving age and want them out of the house for a few hours. I’m not sure of the exact count but guess there were close to a million kids ranging in age from preschoolers to I get my driver’s license next month who had been dropped off by their parents. The genius of this idea hit me while watching them skate at speeds faster than our van will travel, but since we had already paid our admission, there was no drop-off refund.

My first encounter was with a manager at the entrance. After checking my skates, he said they couldn’t be used because the exposed bolts could damage the wooden floor if I fell. Obviously, he had seen me skate before.

Following a visit to the rental booth, we coasted into the moving throng that gyrated and banged their skates against the floor to the loud beat of songs I couldn’t even pretend to recognize. Immediately Dangerous Paul sped off – with mom and dad in full pursuit hoping to offer some type of protection.

The first kid to run into me appeared as nothing more than a blur in a black shirt. This was followed by collisions with shirts of many different colors and a few maneuvers past hand holding teens. Elbows were flying, lights were flashing, and Dangerous Paul was taking each turn with reckless abandon. The only reason my front teeth are still intact is that I’m taller than the average grade school kid.

After a few hours of high-speed combat spaced around necessary healing breaks at the snack bar, Skate World finally closed for the night. The line of parents outside to pick up their kids gave Dangerous Paul ample time to fall asleep in the back seat before we made it out of the parking lot.

Bruised, but happy to add another credit to my pop culture list, I admitted to Daring Deb that it had been a fun night.

Yeah, she smiled. Did you see those junior high boys wink at me?

No, I hadn’t. But with my front teeth and her looks, I’m sure we could be elected King and Queen of the Roller Derby – if they ever have a senior division.

Flying the Friendly Skies with

Mr. Politically Incorrect

I don’t like Ferris wheels or going to the top of tall buildings. I don’t need to stand at the edge of a high cliff to admire the view. You couldn’t get me to ride in a hot air balloon and, if I had the choice of swimming across a river instead of driving over a skyscraping suspension bridge, I’d consider the waterlogged option.

To put it simply, I don’t like heights. If it took a ladder to change a ceiling light, I’d live in the dark. If I were seven feet tall, I’d spend a lot of time sitting down. If I was playing word association and someone said, Airplane, I’d answer, You’ve got to be kidding me.

You’d think that anyone who knew this would understand I have a fear of flying. But since my wife, Jet Set Deb, word-associated our plans last weekend with the word airplane, my answer never got off the ground.

Jet Set Deb has a history in the airline business. This is a past that wasn’t hidden from me while we were dating, but since I’m a guy, I didn’t pay much attention until it was too late. She had a pilot’s license and worked as an air traffic controller, travel agent and flight attendant (which I’ve learned not to word associate with stewardess). If the consequences of all this experience had sunk in before our wedding, I might have answered the minister’s question with, You’ve got to be kidding me.

As a member of this high flying industry Jet Set Deb has shown a lot of patience while I’ve steered our travel plans over miles of highway and inside crowded Amtrak trains. But her past finally caught up with me thanks to her business sense of clipping coupons, looking for travel discounts and collecting air mileage through overused credit cards. Launching my mind to dizzying new heights she scheduled us for a weekend excursion that cost approximately one dollar and forty seven cents each in round trip airline tickets.

A frequent flyer would be proud of her economy class efforts. For a height challenged guy who was finally paying attention, this was not a subject to kid about.

My main concern was the amount of time we’d spend in the air – especially since I intended to personally fly the plane through my use of sheer will from a seat in the coach section. If my panicked look from the window failed to influence the ground crew from allowing our plane to take off, my white knuckles gripping the armrests would need to hold us aloft until we reached our destination.

A frequent flyer who knew this could have distracted me with warnings of a different concern. But since Jet Set Deb was busy making up her own flight plan, I never thought about airport security until it was breathing down our necks.

Heading toward the departure gate, we showed our airline tickets and I.D. photos to security guards before passing through metal detectors. I noticed the equipment was more sophisticated than the x-ray glasses readers could purchase from advertisements in the back of comic books, but Jet Set Deb told me to be quiet and not joke about anything that would draw attention to us. She said not to make eye contact with the guards. If they saw us talking and then looking at them…

That’s all I remember hearing before she won The Security Lotto. If her Mr. T. Designer Jewelry Collection didn’t trigger the warning alarms before we even entered the airport, her association with a pale and nervous traveling companion (me) was enough to arouse suspicion.

Jet Set Deb was escorted off to the side and asked to remove her shoes and Mr. T accessories for an individual security check. Watching as she stood with outstretched arms while a female guard waved a handheld metal detector around her, I started worrying about my wife being taken away for a long stretch of time. I knew I’d miss her, but it would also be a good excuse not to fly. Suddenly, I felt relaxed enough to crack another joke.

At least you have to be the cutest terrorist, I said.

Time seemed to stop. My wife and the guard looked at me like I had just won The Politically Incorrect Lotto. Suddenly, I didn’t feel too relaxed.

Knowing their immediate reaction was not enough punishment for my lame attempt at humor, the guard allowed us to continue on our trip. It was obvious to her that I was about to get a bad review for my comedy routine from Jet Set Deb.

I did apologize. But being the reigning Mr. Politically Incorrect, the dirty looks from my traveling companion took my mind off having to fly that plane from a seat in the coach section. At least until the buckle our seatbelts light came on – and then it was time to get to work.

Mother Nature’s Son Gets Stung

We’re into that time of year when panic begins to rear its ugly head along America’s North Coast. The weather’s hot and The Great Outdoors is our backyard playground, but we know the calendar is moving at a rapid pace toward Fall. Our summer days are numbered.

I don’t mean to be the bearer of chilling news, but we happen to reside in a seasonal climate. Quite a few of us are happy with the variety of activities this offers and have as much fun complaining about the heat as we do the cold. But a good idea is to take advantage of whatever one we’re complaining about at the moment.

This is the basis behind our seasonal panic. Human nature wants us to make one last snowball before the spring thaw and take a final swim before the lake freezes over.

Today we’re not interested in winter. It’s still summer and we should make full use of it before winter forces us inside to gather around television sets for warmth.

I decided this week to take an outdoor adventure. Granted, I get out in both warm and cold weather, but the calendar has me in a panic and I wanted to enjoy whatever summer we have left. I only wish there had been a way to do it inside.

No one will ever dedicate the Beatles song Mother Nature’s Son to me. My idea of hiking is not to leave the trail (preferably blacktop), and if I were to go camping, I’d make sure to have reservations at the nearest motel for a comfortable place to sleep – after the marshmallows were all gone, of course. I enjoy fresh air, the lake and outside activity, but sometimes Mother Nature has a way of letting us know exactly where we belong and where we don’t.

In my case, I don’t belong in our backyard. I can visit once in a while, but I plan to leave that section of The Great Outdoors to its natural residents for the rest of the summer.

My adventure started on a hot, muggy evening. My wife, Dinin’ Deb, decided to give our pizza delivery guy the night off and heated up the backyard grill for a barbecue feast. Unaccustomed to food without cheese and pepperoni, I ended up eating too much and decided physical activity might be the only way both my summer and winter clothes would ever fit again.

Glancing out over our lawn, I decided to relive my younger days by mowing the grass. As the parent of a resident teenager, this is a duty I’ve gladly handed down to him not only to build a sense of responsibility, but also to free up the computer for an hour each week so Dinin’ Deb and I could check our emails. And with an eight year old waiting in the wings, I had no plans of ever touching a lawnmower again for another decade.

I should have stuck to the family plan.

I could feel the calories melt away as I pushed the mower up and down the yard. The feeling of accomplishing something in the fresh air of The Great Outdoors brought a healthy desire to finish the task and celebrate with an extra dessert. Then out of nowhere came the true residents of our section of nature.

At first it was only a flash before my eyes. Then another. Then they came from both sides, buzzing around from my head to my feet. I flicked them off as if they were annoying flies, until it became clear they were in full attack mode. That’s when I realized I had mowed over a bee’s nest.

There’s a certain feeling of panic that fills the air when a grown man screams. In fact, most males are unable to hit those high notes once they’re into their teenage years, but you’d be surprised what a bee sting can do for a set of vocal cords. And when a guy takes off in a full sprint while screaming and frantically waving his arms through the air, traffic miles away will instinctively pull off to the side of the road.

I raced around to the front of our house and inside for protection. Dinin’ Deb could sense my panic and briefly interrupted her phone conversation to say I still had bees clinging to my shorts. I stripped to my underwear, threw the clothes outside and locked the door for the rest of the summer.

Strategically placed ice eased the pain while the extra physical activity made enough room for dessert. The backyard has been surrendered to its natural residents and a teenager who is already experienced in where – and where not – he should mow. As for me, I’m already in a position to spend the winter in my underwear near the warmth of the television.

Whooping It Up on A $2 Limit

My wife (who wishes to remain anonymous for this adventure) and I recently celebrated a wedding anniversary. Our tradition has been to observe this annual date by doing something out of the ordinary – we ditch the kids.

This gives us freedom to go somewhere without concerns over children’s menus, employees dressed as fuzzy animal characters or being near a video arcade. Another benefit is that the odds are in our favor we’ll be allowed to return to this destination sometime again in the future.

After eliminating these concerns, Anonymous Deb and I planned for a very different anniversary, but by the end we were still subjected to fuzzy animals and a video arcade. By the bitter end, we would have welcomed the financial benefits of a children’s menu.

Our adventure took us to an anonymous racetrack where responsible adults could place wagers on the horses. Formally known as trotters, these conditioned fuzzy animals, race around a track pulling mini-chariots with jockeys dressed in colors more flamboyant than Mick Jagger wore during his gender-bender days. Betters choose which steed might win based on scientific methods such as the horse’s name, the color of the jockey’s shirt, or odds someone with horse sense makes up. This is considered a legal activity, whereas just piling money on our front lawn and burning it would be a federal offense.

Let me say right here that I’m not a gambler and have a valid reason for this admission. I’m married. But back in the days when the only anniversary I might acknowledge would be someone else’s, I lived in New York City and had a close circle of friends. They were typical pals any single guy would have – which means no wife would ever want you hanging out with them. We did our best not to act like responsible adults, and I’m proud to say we succeeded.

One evening we decided to visit a racetrack called The Meadowdowns, which was across the river in New Jersey. It was my first and only visit but felt confident enough to bring an amount of cash that I could still be using to buy my wife anniversary gifts. The ringleader of this trip was named Cowboy Don who, based on his name alone, had us believe he knew something about the ponies.

After a long night of losing, we ditched Cowboy Don and started listening to another pal named Frankie. He had a hunch about a boxing match that would be shown on a large video screen following the races. So, based on his name alone we took Frankie’s advice and wagered our remaining funds against a young boxer named Mike Tyson. Thirty seconds into the fight, Tyson was World Champion, we were World Chumps, and we were scraping together change for bus fare home.

So, to be completely honest, my gambling days were over before I ever said, I do. But to keep the odds in favor of our checkbook and guarantee my attitude change was a sure thing, Anonymous Deb put a two dollar limit on whatever flamboyant shirt I decided to bet on.

Seated in a restaurant overlooking the track, I ordered an adult priced kid’s meal and turned my attention to a video screen at our table to watch an odds maker named Dave explain who would win each race and why. Based on his good luck name alone (see this column’s byline if needed), I followed his advice and started wagering my two dollar limits.

After a long night of losing, I ditched Dave and went with my own scientific method. I bet on a jockey in a shirt similar to one Mick Jagger had worn in the 1970s and hit the jackpot.

With the confidence of a young Tyson, I told Anonymous Deb the two dollar limit was restricting my new retirement plan and that I’d wager all my winnings on the final race. The shade of white that came over her face couldn’t pale the flamboyant color worn by my chosen winner, who happened to be a jockey named Don riding a horse called Meadow Down.

The excitement built throughout the race as my jockey steered his horse from the rear of the pack to within striking distance of the leader. Just as he was about to take the lead, the wild streak that Odds Dave mentioned as a possibility reared its head and my retirement fund suddenly galloped off in the wrong direction.

With my face matching Anonymous Deb’s whiter shade of pale, we left the racetrack looking like two people from a sun block commercial. Next year I’ll call Cowboy Don for a loan and plan our anniversary as a family event – unless the kids decide to ditch us.

Water Levels Bring on The River Dance

When it comes to investigative reporting, there’s always a chance you might ask the wrong questions. Sometimes you have to take the risk, but it’s good to follow a simple rule:

When you’re right, you’re right. And when you’re wrong – change the subject immediately.

I was talking to a friend of a friend the other day. Actually, it was my sister, but I like to deal with her in a round-about way. We were discussing current affairs, meaning we were naming people who might be sneaking out to see someone they shouldn’t, when she asked if I had noticed workers dredging out the local river. I tried to change the subject immediately since it’s never smart to gossip about someone strong enough to operate heavy machinery, but she was already on a new topic.

She said water levels were extremely low for Lake Erie and if sediment wasn’t dug up from the bottom of the river, the local boat docks would resemble a trailer park by mid-June. Realizing the magnet that would be for tornadoes and alien landings, I reverted to a rule from my bachelor days and started listening to a conversation.

Making a point as valid as the first time she’d ever had me in a chokehold, my sister explained how this might affect the economy of our nearest Great Lake and…

Well, there was some other stuff, but I have a hard time with rules and stopped listening.

Soon after, I made a point of getting stuck behind a stalled car in heavy traffic. As a further demonstration of my planning skills, this gridlock placed me in the middle of a narrow bridge over the river. Instead of practicing my road rage skills, I used the opportunity to watch workers on two large flat-bottomed vessels anchored in the water below. For reference sake, I’ll call them barges. If I had spotted anyone holding a drink with an umbrella in it, I might have called them pleasure boats.

Without getting confused about nautical terms or heavy machinery,