Don't Piss Off Mike Rowe

Or use his likeness in an article slamming hard work. 

Not a good idea. 

Here's what Mike had to say to some knucklehead "journalist" who dared to do so.  Take my word for it, you want to read the whole thing.  

The Real Mike Rowe

To: Steve Kloosterman

From: Mike Rowe

Re: Your Headline, My Face

Hi, Steve, 

Mike Rowe here, Dirty Jobs. Thanks to the necromancers over at Google, I’ve been alerted to your most recent Question of the Day: “Are Bad Jobs Good for the Economy and the People Who Work Them?” (http://www.mlive.com/news/muskegon/index.ssf/2013/07/question_of_the_day_are_bad_jo.html) 

Immediately under your headline I noticed a photo of me, taken on the Mackinac Bridge while filming a segment on Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe. 

Given the juxtaposition of my face with your headline, a reasonable person might conclude that a “Dirty Job” and “Bad Job” are one and the same. This sentiment is not only inconsistent with my own view of hard work, it’s completely at odds with the Dirty Jobs Code of Conduct, a collection of life lessons painstakingly compiled from the men and women I’ve met on Dirty Jobs. 

Over the years, the Dirty Jobs Code of Conduct has kept me from saying stupid things in the press. Today, it’s used primarily to assist writers like you with the approved use of my name and likeness. Obviously, you have never seen or heard of the Dirty Jobs Code of Conduct, since most of your article violates every clause and restriction therein. I must therefore take a moment to assure your readers that the appearance of my face in such close proximity to your headline is in no way a personal affirmation that certain types of jobs are in fact “bad.” 

Here, then, are a few basic guidelines on the proper use of my name and likeness, pulled directly from the most current version of the DJCC. Since your Question of the Day is clearly not rhetorical, I’ll attempt to answer it here, with a level of detail that could only occur on a cross-country flight with no movie, no crossword, and a dead Kindle. 

(I have no expectation that anyone with an actual job will have the time to read much further than this.) 

Steve Kloosterman, MUSKEGON, MI – Most of us can tell a story about a job from hell somewhere in our past. There’s the first job, the one we took because our parents said, “You can’t hang around the house all summer long.” Maybe it was at a fast food place or in a retail outlet.

MR - First of all, Steve, the Dirty Jobs Code of Conduct contains a Damnation Clause that clearly and unequivocally states that my photo “can not be used in conjunction with any satanic reference, including but not limited to Lucifer, Hades, Old Scratch, Hell, Perdition, Beelzebub or Honey Boo Boo.” 

Secondly, jobs don’t come from hell. They come from people with money who are willing to pay other people to work for them. 

Thirdly, I have worked in both fast food and retail, and neither one reminded me of the Netherworld. (Although the Taco Bell drive-through at 2 a.m. does smell vaguely of brimstone and sulphur.)

SK - None of us expected these jobs to lead to a career, but we did them anyway because we wanted spending money, needed to build a work history, or just plain needed something to do.

MR - Jobs are different than careers, but when you suggest that one is subordinate to the other, you diminish the value of ordinary work. According to the Work Is Not the Enemy Clause in the DJCC, my image may not be used in conjunction with “any statement or action that disparages the value of hard work, regardless of nature of the job or the amount of compensation involved.” 

SK - There’s the desperate job, the one we had to take because the price of gas shot up, or we bought a new car and had to make payments on it, or needed to pay college tuition. Maybe it was a second job, or something informal on the side, like fixing up and selling cars.

MR- You make the option of working a second job sound like the problem, not the solution. Under the Personal Responsibility Clause of the DJCC, my image “must not be used in association with any language or expression that attempts to portray hard-working people as helpless victims.” The DJCC maintains that meeting one's financial obligations is an act of responsibility, not an act of “desperation.” 

SK- And then there’s the kind of job we wouldn’t take again under any conditions, no matter how desperate or bored we were. The conditions were unpleasant if not dangerous, and the pay didn’t make up for it.

MR - I understand that some jobs are beneath you. Specifically, those jobs that you find to be “unpleasant” and “low-paying.” Unfortunately, under the Hubris Clause of the DJCC, I am forbidden from endorsing “any third-party comments that could be interpreted as elitist, judgmental, haughty or condescending.” 

SK - We can all agree that jobs falling into this last category aren’t worth having.

MR- This one, I’m afraid, is in direct conflict with the Don’t Shoot Yourself in the Foot Clause of the DJCC. You see, Steve, when your air conditioner breaks, or your toilet explodes, or termites set up shop in your home, the solution to your problem will almost certainly require people who are willing to do something ... “unpleasant.” (When you find yourself in need of these people, you’d better hope they haven’t read your column.) 

SK- But let’s talk about the first two categories of jobs. 

MR: OK. Fast-food workers, retail clerks, auto mechanics, car salesman and part-timers. The “jobs from hell.” Let’s talk. 

SK - Are they good for the people who work them? 

MR - Of course they are. 

SK - Are they good for the economy?

MR - Of course they are. 

SK - Tell us what you think in the poll and comments below.

MR - I did. I voted and then I checked the results. Then I threw up in my mouth. Apparently, most of the respondents see no value in the kind of work you’ve described. That’s a seriously bleak outcome, and a blatant violation of all the aforementioned clauses, including the Glass Half-Empty Restriction of the DJCC, which forbids me from lending my name and likeness to anything “heartbreaking, dismal, grim, pessimistic, soul-deadening or just plain depressing.”

SK - The Muskegon Chronicle and MLive.com just finished the second segment in a months-long series of articles about jobs in the Muskegon area. In the most recent segment, we wrote about low-paying jobs, and the “shadow” economy of people who hack out a living by mowing lawns, scrounging odd jobs, and anything else that comes their way.

MR - I read it. Nowhere does the writer congratulate anyone for their resourcefulness or self-reliance. Instead, you wrote that “desperate times call for desperate measures,” a clear infraction of the Hyperbole Restriction. According to the DJCC, desperation means selling a kidney to ransom your wife and kids. Desperation is not a $10 an hour construction job with no benefits, as you suggest. That’s just work. 

SK - Not all, but some, employers of low-wage workers give their employees opportunity to advance, we wrote.

MR - I have never seen a job that didn’t come with the opportunity for advancement. Union, non-union, high pay, low pay, part-time, full-time, freelance or salaried. Any worker who consistently shows up an hour early and stays late will quickly become indispensable on any job site. That’s still a great truth in the wide world of work. Unfortunately, you didn't mention that. Instead, you implied that a worker's only hope of advancement lies with the employer, another screaming inconsistency with the Personal Responsibility Clause. 

SK - People working odd jobs or doing day labor for money under the table sometimes do so because it’s the only option they have, we wrote.

MR - Agreed. But nowhere do you suggest that having one option is better than having no option. Certainly, these people are struggling, but they have not given up. They have not become wards of the state. They are looking for and in many cases finding a way to get by in a brutal economy. Certainly not ideal, but the Glass-Half Empty Restriction and the Context Clause of the DJCC both prohibit my endorsement of all “one-sided comparisons that fail to illustrate how things could always be much, much worse.” 

SK - Some people might take an optimistic view of these jobs. 

MR - Of course. Some people still see hard work as something to be respected in all its forms. The point is, fewer people share that view than ever before. The majority of people in your poll voted "no" to every question. They believe that whole categories of jobs are "bad" for the worker and "bad" for society at large. That’s a clear infraction of the Work Is Not the Enemy Clause of the DJCC, and a radical departure of the attitude I encountered in my previous visits to the great state of Michigan. 

SK- Some people might say the work needs to be done and the workers are filling that need. 

MR - I would hope so. Your own paper reported that 2 trillion dollars is being generated by this “shadow economy.” That’s 8% of our GDP. I’m no economist, but I’d wager an 8% drop in the GDP would start the next Great Depression. And while the Dirty Jobs Code of Conduct doesn’t address it directly, I’d prefer that my name and likeness avoid any direct association with the any type of economic collapse.

SK - Some will say that nobody forced people to take these jobs. That these jobs enable these people to earn money and pay for things that matter to them. These jobs may mean that individuals are able to rely more on their own earnings, and less on taxpayer-funded assistance programs. 

MR - Now those people sound more like the Michiganders I remember! The Soo Lock workers in Sault Ste. Marie, the log cabin builders in the U.P., the mobile butchers in Holland, the Bone Black workers in Melvindale, the many good folks on Mackinac Island (in those "hellish" retail and food service positions), the craftsmen at Novadai Furniture right there in Muskegon, and of course the maintenance workers on The Mighty Mac. Those people would never look down their noses at an honest day's work. No way.

SK - Others might take a more negative view. Advocates of living-wage policy might say that low-wage jobs are hurtful to the people working them. 

MR - The world is full of well-intended people who believe that prices, wages and rents should should have nothing to do with pesky things like supply and demand. While I applaud their intentions, I’m afraid the Common Sense Clause of the DJCC does not allow my name or likeness to be associated with any views or expressions that could be interpreted as “unrealistic or childlike.” 

SK - Some might say that people working in a “shadow economy” are part of the symptoms of an economic system breaking down. 

MR - I have no idea if the economy is breaking down or just evolving, but regardless, low-paying, part-time and off-the-grid jobs are here to stay. We can either talk about these jobs with a measure of dignity and respect, or we can adapt your labeling system of “Bad, Unpleasant, Dangerous, Not-Worth-Having, and Hellish.” Honestly, I don’t see the point of attacking honest work under any circumstances (although the Futility Clause of the DJCC prohibits me from expecting a cogent reply from those who do.)

SK - A few might even quote the United Nations’ Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which states that “Everyone has the right to work, to free choice of employment, to just and favorable conditions of work and to protection against unemployment.”

MR - That’s very sweet. Unfortunately, the Delusional Thinking Restriction of the DJCC is very clear on this: “under no circumstances will artist’s name and likeness be used to declare or proclaim anything that might suggest the endorsement of a utopian or fairy-tale state.” 

Too bad, really. If it weren't for the Delusional Thinking Restriction, I might very well petition the UN to declare and demand “protection from the ever-widening skills gap.” According to the Bureau of Labor and Statistics, 3.7 million jobs are currently available that companies can’t seem to fill ... 600,000 positions in manufacturing alone. (http://www.nationaljournal.com/next-economy/solutions-bank/why-jobs-go-unfilled-even-in-times-of-high-unemployment-20130816)

All of these jobs pay more than the “living wage.” Many provide free training and benefits. None of them are “off the grid.” They’re available right now to anyone willing to learn a new skill. Unfortunately, no one seems to want them.

SK - What do you think?

MR- Well, Steve, I’m no expert (and the Hubris Clause of the DJCC forbids me from pretending to be one), but after a lot of careful reflection, I think we might have our head up our ass. 

There’s a trillion dollars of college debt on the books, and we’re still pushing a four-year degree like it’s some sort of golden ticket. Dozens of states are facing massive shortages in the skilled trades, but we still talk about trade schools as “alternatives for the academically challenged.” And now, with record high unemployment and Detroit flat broke, you want to focus on the problem of ...“bad jobs?” Can you imagine our grandparents bemoaning the existence of “unpleasant” work? Can you imagine the greatest generation agreeing that some jobs were just “not worth having?” 

Look, I don’t want to sound like the cranky neighbor on the front porch, screaming at the kids to get off his lawn. (And yes, the Cranky Neighbor Clause of the DJCC expressly forbids this.) But come on -- 12 million people are looking for work and 3 million jobs can’t be filled? How come nobody is asking questions about that? Why is no one taking a poll on whether our expectations have replaced our common sense? Why do we talk only of “job-creation,” when we can’t even fill the jobs we have?

On Dirty Jobs, I met hundreds of men and women who found success and happiness by doing the “unpleasant" thing. I remember a guy in Washington whose first job was cleaning the grease trap in a Mexican restaurant. He moved on to washing dishes and then waiting tables. Today, he owns the restaurant, and six more just like it. I'd like to read more stories about people like that, and I bet I'm not alone.

Don't get me wrong, I care about the people you write about. For what it's worth, I run a modest foundation that's focused on scholarships for those who are willing to learn a useful skill. But let's not forget about the people who did it the hard way. People who took the jobs you dismissed as "not worth having" and then prospered. People who didn’t shy away from the “bad jobs,” and ultimately learned to love them. If you ever write a story about them, please feel free to use my image. According to the spirit of the Dirty Jobs Code of Conduct, that’s what it’s there for. 

In the meantime, give my regards to the maintenance men next time you drive over The Mighty Mac. And if the bridge is still standing, tell them I said thanks! 

Best,

Mike Rowe

Profoundly Disconnected

http://profoundlydisconnected.com/

Seafood and Me

Born and raised in landlocked Indiana, we grew up on on chicken, beef and pork. 

At one time or another we had raised each of them on our vast five acre "farm". 

What we didn't have was any type of seafood. Occasionally someone would catch some freshwater fish and that was a huge treat.  Nothing like fresh trout or crappie fried up in a cast iron skillet. Yumm. 

One day a friend of my dad's brought back fresh shrimp back from Florida. These weren't baby sized shrimp, they were probably 5 inches by 2 1/2 inches after they were butterflied and fried.   I can't even find shrimp that size in Florida. 

There's no way my carnivore brothers would have touched the stuff and my sister was probably out doing whatever irritating grouchy older sisters do.  It was some random afternoon and I remember sitting in the kitchen when mom just put a huge fried shrimp in front of me. 

Actually since I seemed to not like anything back in those days, I'm surprised I even tried it. 

One bite and I was hooked. 

I didn't taste lobster until I was in my twenties and my then mother in law, originally from Maine ordered the live Maine lobster at Red Lobster. 

Oh Indiana how I hate your lack of even a foot of oceanfront. 

The first scallop and the first calamari was also a Red Lobster experience.  It's hard to screw up fresh lobster, it's not so hard to screw up scallops and calamari.  Just ask Red Lobster. 

Both were like eating rubber bands. 

Then one day I was in Pittsburgh for work with about 10 co-workers.  We went to an expensive Italian restaurant.  That was back when corporations didn't pay much attention to expensive reports.  Now only non-profits or government employees get away with that kind of extravagance. 

The most senior guy of the group ordered several appetizers for the table.  

I would have skipped the scallops and calamari, but hey, it's free to me and they all looked pretty appetizing.  

That's when I learned that the image of a rubber band or chewing on a popped balloon should not be going through your head when you are eating these wonderful sea creatures.  

Cooked properly, neither should be tough or chewy.  

It took me abut 35 years to find that out. 

Now if you ask my 7 year old granddaughter her favorite foods, she'll tell you filet and calamari.  

She's going to be an expensive date.  Her mother prefers chicken over all other meats. 

What kind of 7 year old even knows what calamari is?  

Try Try Try To Understand

He never gave gifts.  

And maybe it really wasn't a gift, but something someone had given him and since it was an album and it was the late 70's and I was the only kid left in the house, maybe it was just a spur of the moment thing. All I know is I was absolutely shocked when he came home one evening and gave me the only thing I ever remember him giving me. 

I'm not complaining. None of us felt deprived.  It just seemed that mom had always taken care of Christmas and birthdays, signing Dad's name to the cards.  She made sure Christmases were magical for us, some of our best memories were opening our presents on Christmas Eve and celebrating Dad's Christmas birthday the next day. 

So when he came through the door that nothing-special night he yelled at me to come to the kitchen. Then he handed me Dreamboat Annie, Heart's debut album. 

Of course dad would have had no concept who Heart was or whether the album was anything a 17 year old girl would listen to, so it's likely he had gotten the album from someone and they told him one of his kids would probably like it. 

It may have been the only thing I can remember my father ever giving me, but every time I hear the songs Crazy on You or Magic Man, I think back about Dad coming home that night and handing me that album.  I still like to think he actually did pick it out for me, even if all logic tells me differently.  

I did spend months trying to figure out what could have possibly have motivated him to buy me a gift. I like remembering it that way. 

How Could You Resist?

I have no idea why anyone would pay good money to enter the museum, but I do know the previous time we were in Volterra, Italy I regretted not going in. 

Although it sounds really sick, I put the museum on the "must-do" list when we returned this time with extra reinforcements. Instead of three of us, me, my sister and her son, this time we had five. My brother CnC and my sister's daughter.  

It was a great traveling group. We are not a drama filled family and the five of us were determined to let nothing ruin our trip. Although it was unseasonably cool and rainy nearly everyday we were there, we all just made whatever adjustment was necessary and plowed on. 

When we reached Volterra, we saw the museum exactly where I remembered it. My sister, Helen was exhausted walking the steep hills and the unending steps in the ancient city.  She also had no desire to enter the museum. 

So the four of us shelled out a few euro and entered the small museum that had this lovely chair outside. 

The ancient town of Volterra has been estimated to be built somewhere between 2000 bc to 400 bc.  Whichever is coreect, those estimates alone are hard to even conceive.  

The Estruscans were some mean dudes that preceded Ancient Roman. 

Each of the torture devices was accompanied by detailed explanations as to how it was used. 

All I can say is those Estrucan's certainly didn't mess around with silly stuff like waterboarding. 

As we progressed along the small building, I found myself involuntarily covering my mouth with both hands as of to stifle a scream. From turning someone upside down and sawing them in half from the crotch and onward to inserting metal instruments inside various bodies cavities and them spreading them out until the insides bursts to splitting open someone's stomach just enough to let the released starving rats have a fresh meal. 

No, we didn't make my sister wait in the chair outside. 

I Know What You're Thinking.

Will she make it five days in a row?

Now you have the answer. 

Here's a picture to look at in case you're getting bored. 

The Tuscano hillside looked like a brilliant green Grand Canyon. 

Jaw dropping. Literally. 

Pass the Butter Please

Mrs. Sheets used to spend the time after recess reading to us different books. Maybe that was her way to calm us third graders down after spending 20 minutes or so releasing our wild energy only children can feel. 

Charlotte's Web and some really fascinating story of a young witch who would mix colorful potions for reasons I don't remember. Maybe she wasn't a witch, cause that seems weird, I need to google what that kid's story might have been. 

But what I remember most was one afternoon was not the class reading after recess, but the recess itself. 

Penny was my best friend in first grade. We were the teacher's pets sitting in the front of the class. 

Yes, I was THAT girl. Not Marlo Thomas That Girl, but the one that never wanted to get in trouble and most teachers liked, at least until junior high. Any wonder why I was bullied a lot?

Anyway, The school decided that Penny and I shouldn't be in the same class in second grade because we were too close of friends.  I have no idea whether that was a good or bad thing.  I just don't remember specifically any kid who was in my second grade class. 

But I guess it was okay for Penny and I to be in the same class again in third grade. 

Penny lived on a small dairy farm about a mile from our house. We would often spend the night at one house or the other. I can still remember her dad milking the cows and suddenly aiming a teat right at me and giving that sucker a squeeze. He even showed me how to milk a cow. It's a little harder than you think. You just can't pull the thing down, there's a bit of a method to squeezing the milk out. 

One day Mrs. Sheets thought it might be an interesting lesson to show the class that cows milk could be turned to butter.  Back in the mid sixties, most households stocked only margarine. 

Since Penny had easy access to fresh cow's milk, she brought a jar of the milk in that morning. She also got to pick three other children to stay in during recess to shake the milk jar until it turned to butter. 

She picked two of the best looking boys in the class and, of course me.  

It takes quite a bit of shaking to turn the fresh milk to butter and I still remember passing the jar around between the four of us and seeing the beginnings of a clump of the milk starting to bind together. 

By the time the other kids came in from recess, the butter was almost ready. We took the white clump out of the remaining cream and let the excess liquid drain just a bit.  All the kids were surprised like I was that the butter was white, not bright yellow like Blue Bonnet. 

Mrs Sheets had brought in crackers and each of us then tasted real fresh white butter, churned right before our eyes. 

I remember thinking it was rather bland, so I would stick with the margarine at home. 

Now I know it was because there was no salt added to it. 

Especially this time of year I buy unsalted butter for the sweet corn. Of course I add salt to the ear before I chomp down.  

I happened upon this brand a few years back. It's the best tasting stuff for homemade bread and sweet corn. 

It's expensive, but well worth it. 

It's Summer

And here's what's going on. 

The local farmers market had Ambrosia sweet corn this morning. 

Oh how I've missed you Ambrosia. 

The beans and taters are pert nigh done. 

Gonna slice some Indiana maters.  

The new potatoes to the left have been boiled, now I'll peel them and fry those little round suckers in some lard until the outsides get slightly crispy and brown and the insides will invariable burn the roof of your mouth. 

The dinner rolls are raising. 

Wood chips are soaking to give the BBQ chicken that wonderful smoky flavor. 

I would show you the chicken but nobody likes to see raw chicken. 

Having our good friends over for dinner. Yes, this is too much food but this stuff only lasts a few short weeks each year. 

And even better yet?

This is my third post in three straight days.   ;-) 

A Record for Me.

I have a couple posts in mind but of course I haven't written them yet.

So what I REALLY want to say is.....

When I grow up I want to be like Joe. But alas. I am a pathetic blogger as he so eloquently details here.

Picture me like this. 

Not Enjoying the Screw

Just got our paperwork and information for our fantastic medical plan that Bob's former employer offers after our COBRA runs out October 1st.

Not only are we wading through all the Medicare options that Bob will then be on, we get my new packet for the Pre-65 plan. 

The brochure is lovely I might add. All these pretty pictures and great narrative.  Unlike Medicare which obviously has the separate prescription plan, the prescription plan is attached to the medical. 

So convenient, right?  

Below is the exact wording for the prescription benefit. 

I love the What's Special section. "You pay a coinsurance or copay. Subject to a maximum for each prescription wth no deductible required".   Especially since the very next page shows what the prescription benefit ACTUALLY is. 

Wait. I have to be reading that wrong.  All the plans say AFTER the deductible.  

So I set about calling about 7 different numbers. After over an hour an a half on the phone, the final conclusion was the prescription plan starts AFTER the medical deductible. Obviously they have a VERY lazy marketing manager that didn't bother to make sure the brochure and website are in agreement with the actual plan. 

The minimum deductible on the plan which rates that increase my current premium 27% starts at $7,500!

And THEN the prescription plan kicks in with my co-pays of either $20, $40 or even $120!   

So in effect there is no prescription benefit to the plan.  

I'm estimating my (not including Bob's) out of pocket expenses will go up close to $5,000 a year. 

And that's assuming the 2014 rates would remain the same. 

Of course they will, right?  

Our fine President said so. 

Welcome to the effects of Obamacare. Not only premium increase but benefit reductions to boot. 

The assholes who passed this monstrosity should be beaten with the huge gavel the scum carried through the streets after screwing the country over. 

How the average middle class family can afford this disaster so beyond me. 

Except these clueless Westboro-like drones. 

The dumbasses have no clue their free mammogram just cost them $5k more a year. 

Wow, who could have seen that coming?

There are thousands of these from fours years ago.

Apparently a LOT of people. 

Wormy - Another He Said, She Said

The two of them came through the back slider that led into our kitchen late one evening. 

My mom and I were still up but we weren't expecting them since they normally were either crashed out in the trailer in our back yard by then or they were out gallivanting around up to no good. 

Since the first one through the door was stifling a laugh behind his hand, neither of us was concerned. Following closely behind however, was his good friend holding some type of rag to his forehead that was obviously drenched with the blood pouring from his scalp and not stopping anytime soon. 

Time seemed to speed up when it was obvious one of these two young and dumb 20 something boys had just encountered a blow to his head that seemed fairly serious. 

It took about five minutes for my laughing brother to explain exactly how one of his best buddies ended up with his head bashed in when they had been doing nothing more than watching TV in my brother's trailer that he lived in during his early adult years. 

Wormy had been a fixture at our house for years. I don't remember when he first showed up, but both of my brothers always seemed to attract several friends who either didn't have any parents in their lives or whose parents just didn't seem to care. 

We never knew who we might find sleeping on our great room floor come Saturday morning. Whoever it might be I think every one of of them today will tell you they considered my mom and dad their parents. When dad was dying 22 years ago, several of them showed up one afternoon and gathered around the bed with dad reminiscing about old times until one by one I could see them leaving the room and finding some private spot to shed their tears. 

Wormy's real name was Ramey. But all his buddies and my family called him Wormy. My dad refused to use his nickname telling my mom that Ramey didn't like being called Wormy. 

Sometimes I wonder why some kids are never cut a break. Ramey's mother was absent, he spent most of his childhood being raised by his grandmother. I really never knew the whole story. I do remember that when his grandmother passed away she left Ramey and his brother $1,000 a piece. Even back in the 70's that wasn't a lot of money, but Ramey's mother was such a bitch (sorry but there isn't a better word for her) that she sued him for it. 

He was a bit of a squirrelly looking character. Short. Skinny. A bit of a Barney Fife but without a sense of arrogance and sadly without much of an innate sense of what was the right path and what was the wrong path. 

Of course hanging around with my brother back in the 70's wasn't going to lead him down the right path back then either. 

The night my brother and Wormy came through our slider, we were used to some crazy stuff from those boys, but knowing they were both safely at home in our backyard we could not have imagined how Ramey ended up with a couple of huge visible dents in his forehead which were bleeding all over my parent's kitchen. 

Finally my brother stopped laughing long enough to explain that he and his buddy were laying down on opposite couches in the trailer quietly watching TV.  From the corner of his eye, Mark saw a mouse begin to run across the room. From his (I'm assuming here) not quite sober state, my Einstein brother picked up a small dumbbell laying next to his couch and heaved it at the mouse as hard as he could. 

The Redneck D-Con didn't hit its intended target, but instead landed a direct hit on Ramey's head. 

This was back in the days of my brother's wildest years. So I will not even attempt to persuade you that there were not numerous fights that broke out in the trailer between the friends. But that night what my brother found so funny was that it was a quiet night and so poor Ramey was completely blindsided as to why his best buddy would hurl a heavy dumbbell at his head attempting to seemingly kill him. 

When my mom and I looked underneath the bloody rag on Wormy's head we saw a couple of severely dented places with blood pouring out of them. 

While my dad slept through the whole event, the four of us loaded up in the car and made our way to the closest ER at the local hospital that was only slightly better than a vet's office. I take that back, no need to insult a vet clinic. 

The waiting room wasn't crowded as we approached the ER desk. I stood with Wormy as he answered the lady's questions. Even I had to stifle a giggle when Ramey explained how he lost his balance and fell against the edge of a kitchen cabinet door.   I have no idea when he concocted that story and I doubt the woman believed it, but she continued with question after question while ignoring the fact the he was losing blood and was becoming dizzy. 

I finally had enough and told her he needed to sit down.  Only then did they bother to actually get him a wheelchair to sit in while he continued to hold the blood soaked towel against his head. 

Although the amateur ER managed to not kill him, I am still angry that they were not crowded yet practically ignored someone with some what could have been a serious head trauma. 

There where other stories too. Crazy ones. Like the night when my parents were out of town and Mark and Wormy came into the house looking for trouble. I was there with my then boyfriend (lets refer to him as X) soon to be ex-husband when they entered and it began to be apparent at least more than one of these boys was looking for a fight. 

I remember being angry. Becoming very angry. It was a battle of the egos and I won't defend one of these boys over the other. Mainly because I could then and now see that nothing good was going to become of the situation and all three of them had some serious issues that I would not and could not ever fix. 

For the four or five of my regular readers might have figured out by now, my brother and I are extremely close.   That wasn't always the case.  It took me 13 years to figure out why Mark hated me. It took him a little longer. And the reason had nothing to do with either one of us. 

So that night I tried to get either Mark and Wormy to leave or get the idiot X to leave in the car with me. 

I was not successful in either case.  So I left the three idiots there and took a drive.  When I returned, my brother and Ramey were gone and X, who was no small guy, had obviously taken a couple of blows to the face. 

Later Mark told me that Ramey and X were arguing and Ramey was standing over him. Now imagine Barney, drunk of course standing over a guy that outweighed him by 50 pounds and stood a good half foot taller.  When Wormy was drinking which was quite often, he was 6'3" and bullet proof, or so he thought. 

When X wouldn't take the bait, that didn't stop Wormy from throwing a couple of punches to X's face.  Mark was wise enough (cough, cough) to step in between the sitting X and Wormy before X stood up. In reality X was actually probably too much of a wimp to do anything anyway,but that's another story we don't need to tell. 

A few days later the subject came up in front of my parents and I remember letting my brother have it. I screamed. I yelled. I told him he had no business coming in the house starting trouble. 

But what I remember the most was finally saying what I had believed for 20 years. That he hated me.  I had believed that one of my brothers actually despised me. 

Which I have always believed was the exact moment my relationship with my brother changed. Maybe he didn't know that I had believed that or maybe because I had finally spoken something that struck him in the heart enough to penetrate that fake rough exterior.  

In either case I do not recall any minute in the last 30 some years after that time where we didn't have each other's back.   As odd as it may sound, I credit that last fight and my harsh words to have slapped him into realizing he didn't actually hate me at all and he shouldn't be acting like he did. 

But I digress(ed). A lot. 

Maybe that's why while writing this I am having such a hard time accepting the news I found out a few Sunday's ago

As is the case in a lot of childhood friendships, Mark and Wormy hadn't seen each other in a couple years. The week prior Mark stopped by Ramey's house to catch up but didn't find him home. 

Some of the old buddies finally tracked Mark down since he is living with our other brother. 

They told him that Ramey had been in the hospital for a few weeks. He had an extremely rare condition called Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease.  It's comparable to Mad Cows disease and is fatal within just a few months. 

Mark went to the hospital on that Sunday with a few of the old buddies who somehow managed to either not end their crazy younger years in jail or dead.  Only the Good Lord knows how. 

Apparently Ramey had not been responsive for several days, but upon hearing Mark say, "Hey Wormy, it's Mad Dog" Ramey responded. The hard ass young guys now balding and aging all began to reminisce about their crazy youthful days, even singing old songs they loved, Ramey included.  

Ramey's awareness lasted long enough for the old guys to spend some precious moments together. 

When my brother posted on Facebook some prayer requests for Wormy on Sunday I was stunned. I called him and we made arrangement to go the hospital on Monday. 

I guess I was hoping we could get a few minutes of lucidness from this boy who spent so many days at my parents house and who loved my mom and dad because they both loved  him more than his own neglectful parents. 

What I found instead was a withered old man, eyes filled with gel because the disease has blinded him and he does not close his eyes even while sleeping. 

I suppose it's a blessing that the disease progresses extremely fast. 

I only wish that I could as quickly find a legitimate reason why some people seem to be destined to never get a break in life. 

I wish I could know that Wormy had some years or some months or even some weeks of happiness in his life. 

Sadly I don't think he ever did. Hopefully he has found some peace in the next life. I pray that's true. 

Ramey passed away early Monday morning just a couple weeks after my brother's visit.  Since I was of town, I was unable to attend the service. It's been fairly tough for my brother, just a few months after helping our cousin during his last days and now his best buddy. 

Prayers are always appreciated. 

I knowd it

"He walk bad too"

When we passed the old lady and her granddaughter I was assuming a few things. 

We were coming out of a restaurant last night after a huge thunderstorm. I was too busy dodging water puddles to pay much attention to the two ladies coming toward us. 

Bob thought the youngest one was mocking his walk. I hadn't looked until the old black lady wearing what we used to call moo moos started talking. 

He didn't hear the old lady's words. So we pieced together what must have happened 

The old lady was hobbling through the parking lot, when (we assumed) her granddaughter was attempting to showing the old woman the old guy in the parking lot was hobbling through on his one good leg. 

A couple of ladies in Italy. 

Bob's limp, leftover from the tumor in his spine has been extremely noticable for a few years now. Yes, we probably should have been insisting the neurologist delve deeper four years ago, but we weren't told of the tumor back then, so we didn't know to ask. 

Here's a lesson I should have known, but didn't apply. 

Every test. 

EVERY TEST. 

Any doc orders, get and read a copy for yourself. The last MRI he had said, "no significant change in the spinal tumor". 

Given that we didn't know he had a tumor in the first place was kind of startling. 

Maybe if we had gotten a copy of the first MRI when his calf muscle was obviously dying we would have sought a second opinion. But we didn't know. 

So he works on getting his coordination back, realistically he never will. It's an uphill battle maintaining the little muscle control on his right leg that he has now. 

So I wasn't surprised when the old black lady hobbling in her moo moo said to her granddaughter

"I knowd it. He walk bad too". 

It was an odd kinship. But it was honest. 

Yeah. He looks good in a suit. Or in a ball cap. ;-). 

A guy that looks better in a ball cap.

Just because

This guy just oozes....um.....stuff. In a ball cap. 

Some men look really good in a suit. But MR just doesn't cut it in a suit.

Am I right?