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“I went downtown to a gay bar. Where was you?”

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         We survived the Dominican Republic. Statistically, it’s no big deal. There is probably a greater chance of dying on a trip to Chicago.           We had been looking forward to this vacation for a while. We were facing eight glorious days with the family on our first foray together outside of the country. I have been outside the U.S. myself, but not my family. Other than Trey’s shitty Passport photo, this trip was perfectly planned by my wife. I just paid for it. She did all of the leg work and planning. It was perfectly laid out (except for that passport photo).         Truth be told, the Dominican Republic was not the closest that any of us came to meeting our demise on this trip. The night before our cruise left port, Gracie and I ventured out to get pizza and wings for the family while we were staying in Cocoa Beach, Florida. The producers of “Live PD” should really consider this town for future broadcasts.          Dinner on this night was the only detail my wife
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The Flattened Frog didn’t meet Rocky as I sweat the small stuff.

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         A grocery store cigar sits on a brick window ledge near three potted plants. One of the plants is a Rosemary Bush. I don’t know what the other two plants are. “Radar Love” by Golden Earring plays on the speaker. It’s a $6 Rocky Patel. Not my first choice, but it will do. What’s on my mind? I whisper to myself “If earring is one word and not two, why the need for two ‘Rs’?” That is how clear my mind is right now? Completely worry free.           In a few days we will be in the Caribbean. One “R”, but two “Bs”. I want to be inside helping Steph pack for the trip, but I can’t bring myself to stub out Rocky and go inside and be productive. It’s OK, she’s got this. You see, we’ve a got thing called “Radar Love”. The crack of my Miller Lite, as I open it, is in time with the beat of the song. I am on vacation. The beer won’t taste any better in Turks and Caicos. The view will be nicer and the cigars will certainly be better.           The kids are growing older. It may our last
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Charlie’s Dead

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         Charlie is dead. I am reminded of this every morning when I get my keys off the hook to go to work. His ashes sit on a shelf that is to the right of the key hook. Charlie died after we moved into the new house. He sits in his little dark-stained box. Milli Vanilli plays as I type this. “Girl You Know It’s True”. I guess that since it’s politically correct these days to identify as another gender, maybe Charlie is speaking to me from that box.          A lot has changed since we left the apartment. We only lived there a short while, but it seemed like an eternity. We bitched and complained the whole time. The “Pee Pad Porch”, the “After Melrose Pool”, the “Combination Rooms”, the shitty refrigerator (sorry for the expletive, there’s no better way to describe it), the cramped space, etc. The dogs literally shit and pissed on everything. If I could write an advertisement for that place, it would have read “Three Bedrooms, thin walls, and total Hell”. It was a nightmare... So
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Don't Shove Those Ray-O-Vacs Out The Way

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     I don’t know if they are any good. I shove them aside. Maybe they have potential. Maybe they have lost their worth. Maybe they have a little power left in them. Maybe they are dead. I probably won’t find out. I won’t give them a chance. I’ll just shove them out of the way until I find what I am looking for.      I am searching for the cell phone charger. I am shoving batteries out of the way. Irony. Moving dead batteries to find a way to charge another battery. My phone battery is dying. I’ve got to find that cell phone charger. Can’t stop the constant flow of information. We find our freedom in the internet. We have the opportunity to share our thoughts and ideals with as many people as we can. Maybe we will go viral and become famous. Maybe my crying Jordan meme is the next virtual Mona Lisa. Don’t you just love social media? The freedom. The power. Freedom.      The damn Ray-O-Vac batteries are in the way. I should throw them away. They are only hastening my search for the ch
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Roaches leaping from the second floor balcony

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     In 1879 Thomas Edison used electricity to power a light bulb. He will be remembered for this accomplishment forever. In 2018 our dog Lucy has diarrhea and crapped, among other places, on the wall near the electric outlet. She will be remembered for this feat for at least a month.  La La Land has poorly operating outlets. They work in the sense that electricity flows through them. However, the plugs of whatever items you hope to power just fall out of those three outlet holes. Edison would be disappointed at the outlets in this apartment. The don't hold anything long. (Unlike the scent that Lucy creates. It holds for a while).      Adolph Coors made a good beer. I am talking about the original Coors, not the watered-down Coors Light. Coors Banquet is a solid golden style beer. Not too heavy, yet light enough to be enjoyed. In fact, it's light enough to not give you diarrhea like a dog that ate whole bag of Bud's Best Cookies.      Bud's Best makes a series of stal
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Being Asked to Dance

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      Everyday I have conversations with people. I talk with people with different backgrounds. I talk with people that have different political opinions. I talk with people that have different lifestyles. I talk with people that have differing education levels. I have conversations with people that have different challenges. Our differences make us unique.      Diversity. By itself, Diversity is good. By itself, Diversity is not great. Inclusion is great. To steal a line from a Diversity and Inclusion class that I attended at work "Diversity is being invited to a party. Inclusion is being asked to dance".      Children are gift from God to remind us that love knows no boundaries. Listen to the message that our children teach us. Oh, to have the heart of a child again. I should be so lucky. We should all be so lucky. There is no judgment in the heart of a child.      I watched "The Breakfast Club" two nights ago with my daughter. I enjoyed the movie, but I enjoye
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The Curse

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     He sat spinning a box of matches in the kitchen of his mobile home in southern Mississippi in the early 1970's. I don't remember the exact year. It doesn't really matter. He spun his box of matches and cast his voodoo spell on me. It was a spell that has brought me so much pain. It literally cursed my childhood. This curse lasted from the early 1970's until 2009. The most unbearable part of the curse lasted until 1987. I was seventeen years old when this era of the curse ended.      I will not have to drink anymore Dixie Beer after I suffer through the last four bottles left in the six pack that I bought last week. I can only describe it in one way. It taste like what I imagine the 3AM puddles on Bourbon Street would taste like. Those that know me well, know that I am all things New Orleans. The food, the music, the people, the culture... The list goes on and on. I love New Orleans. It has always been my favorite city.      My wife and I lived there. We loved it.
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Ketchup on a Hot Dog is the Nickelback of Comfort Food

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     I am not a food snob. Hell, I'll eat just about anything. My wife won't eat anything with a bone it. I am an adventurous eater. From baby octopus to raw oysters, I love it. Neither of those have bones. However, my wife doesn't eat them either. My son, Jackson is an adventurous foodie like me. We'll try anything. I haven't eaten many things that I don't like. In fact there is only one dish that I can think of that I won't eat again. Kimchi.      I haven't eaten Kimchi in about 30 years. It's a rancid dish from hell. I would rather eat the gelatinous globs that form on the edge of Bourbon Street puddles at 3AM on Fat Tuesday. I can't imagine a more horrible taste.      Tonight I ate a steak that was delivered to La La Land (our apartment for those that missed my earlier blog post). The steak came in a bag and was delivered by a guy that looks like he hit a hookah with his buddies while cruising backroads in central Alabama in a 1982 Chevy Ci
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La La Land made me do it.

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     I have been asked why I named this blog "Over Yonder". Over Yonder is southern slang for "over there". To me it means "just a little out of reach". With our current situation, our normal routines and desirable living situation seem to be just a little out of reach.      Along with this blog, I have named the house that we are building "Over Yonder". It's there. We know that it is a reality, but at times it seems like an unreachable dream. A dream that is slightly out of reach at the moment. I have named this apartment (the one with the pee pad porch and combination rooms) "La La Land".  We aren't merely residents of La La Land. We are captives. Prisoners within the walls of our second floor dwelling.      I was in Wal Mart last night. I got off work at a decent time and planned on smoking a cigar and having a beer when I got back to La La Land. My wife sent me a text while I was on my way home. She asked me if I would sto
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The Soothing Sound of Torture

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     "Verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" is a sound that greets me on occasion. It doesn't bother me, but apparently it strikes fear in my teenage daughter. It's not just the sound that affects her. It's everything that comes along with it that gets to her. "Verrrrrrrrrrrrr". I don't mind the sound. In fact, I find it kind of soothing. It allows me to truly express myself. I have read to that sound. I have enjoyed deep thought while hearing that sound. But mostly, I have relaxed to that sound.          Making the best of a situation can take on many forms. When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade, right? As I mentioned in a previous blog post, I am currently living in a world of combination rooms. This has been a struggle. It really has. The cramped spaces and the loss of privacy can be annoying, stressful, and uncomfortable as Hell. These are "lemons". I have a teenage daughter that is building a middle-school social life...Let's make "lem
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The Puddle of Middle Age

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     There was a time when I wouldn't fruit my beer. It wasn't a manly thing to do. There was  also a time when I would only drink full-bodied beer. Sitting on an apartment porch that is covered in dog urine could be considered manly, maybe. It could. OK. OK, it's not. Yet, here I sit. A Corona Premier with a lime in one hand and a spray bottle of bleach-water in the other hand. Corona Premier is too wimpy to even be called a "light" beer. The yellow spots on the pee pads have a haunting presence.      I light a dark wrapper cigar to regain a portion of my manhood. I don't have a hairy chest, but I do have a few hairs around my nipples.  Van  Halen plays on my playlist. So, there's that. Some semblance of testosterone is fighting its way through.  I guess. That's where I am at right now. A cigar and hairy nipples. I will enjoy the moment. I will embrace it. The cigar will eventually be gone and I may pluck my nipple hairs. Not to mention the fact that
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Shoving stuff in my Olive Hole

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     Garlic stuffed olives are both delicious and disgusting. I love them and I hate them. I am indifferent about lettuce. Sorry lettuce, like rice, you are merely a filler. Garlic stuffed olives, however, rile my senses. I love olives. I love garlic. Mix them together and I hate them. And I love them. They are putridly delicious. I am popping one in my mouth right now.      Holes. Why do we have to put stuff into holes? We can't control ourselves. Got to fill the hole with something. We fill pot holes with asphalt. We fill holes in our teeth with fillings. We fill swimming holes with water. Metaphorically speaking, we sometimes fill holes in our lives with alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, anger, etc. Unless we have our lives right, then we fill those holes with family and God. The fine folks at the Mezzetta company filled the holes in these olives with garlic cloves. I wonder how many things these folks have shoved into their olive holes. I wonder if they have ever stuffed bacon into
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"After Melrose Place"

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     Ever wonder what happened to all of those people that lived in "Melrose Place"? You remember the show in the 1990's, right? The young people. The happiness. The sexiness. The drama. What happened to them? Where did they go? Why did the show end?      I am eating a "Joey bag of Donuts" and washing it down with a Coke Zero. There is a Moe's Southwest Grill right across the street from our current residence. Our current residence is a place that I call "After Melrose Place".      They put a lot of rice in this burrito known as the "Joey Bag of Donuts". I like rice. However, too much rice in a burrito can make you feel like you are being cheated. Let's face it. Rice is basically a filler. It's pretty much tasteless. A bland vehicle to carry brown gravy to your soul. Well in this case, it is a burrito filler that makes the "Joey Bag of Donuts" seem like a large bargain.     Stephanie and I just got back from the pool
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Sisu and the Greatest Finn That I know

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     Sisu. It's a word that doesn't have an actual equivalent in English. It stands alone. Gracie and I text this word back and forth from time to time. Of my three children, she embraces her Finnish heritage the most.      Sisu. It has a lot of meanings. Grit, endurance, tenacity, determination, resilience, and bravery are just a few words that embody the concept that is Sisu. There is a saying in Finland that says it best "It doesn't take sisu to go to the North Pole; it takes sisu to stand at the door when the bear is on the other side."      The Kristoff Maduro is not from Finland. It is from The Domincan Republic. It is dark and robust. The Miller Brewing Company is in Wisconsin. It is a fine pilsner. The Wheaton Terriers that are on the porch with me right now are from Missouri. The pee pads are from Wal Mart. The dog turds are from the Wheatons. It doesn't take sisu to enjoy the cigar and the Miller on the pee pad covered porch amongst the dog droppin
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I will try and sing like Secada while shrieking like a cicada.

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     While living in Baltimore several years back, I was introduced to Magicicada Septendecim. Like my children, the  Magicicada Septendecim will sleep for years before awakening to make a lot of noise. A LOT of noise. My children are better known as Trey, Jackson and Gracie. The  Magicicada Septendecim are better known as the 17 year Cicada. They all make a lot of noise. A LOT of noise.      I could go all scientific here, but I won’t. The North Eastern U.S. is overtaken by these tree bugs every 17 years. They come out of the ground or wherever and shriek incessantly for weeks. My kids do basically the same thing. They lie dormant in their dark cavernous bedrooms for what seems like years only to emerge and shriek incessantly for food or money.         John Secada is another creature. Not to be confused with the shrieking of the Cicada or my teenage children, Secada had a hit single in 1992 with “Just Another Day”. It was a catchy tune. I was extremely disappointed in 2009 when h
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Anticipation

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     Carly Simon released her album "Anticipation" in 1971. The title song from that album was actually written about what was going through Carly's mind while she was waiting to go on a date with Cat Stevens. I know what you are thinking. No...No, that song was not about ketchup. It was about anticipating something that you really want.      "Anticipation". Like watching Heinz ketchup slowly make it's way down the inside of the neck of a glass condiment bottle, we anticipate the things that we think will make our lives better. Carly sang "We can never know about the things to come". People that are close to me know that I want to stay in the shallow end of everything Pop Culture. However, I will get in the deep end with Carly here. Our current situation pushes me into the deep end with her. We are in a state of "Anticipation" right now.       I drove out to the sticks that protrude from a mud hill today. I walked around and tried to im
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"Fiddle Sticks"

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      "Fiddle Sticks". Ellie Knippers, my grandmother, used to say that. It was her "go to" when she was frustrated or angry. Lately, I have used a lot of words that probably should have been substituted with "Fiddle Sticks". My wife used to tell me to watch my mouth. However, she has lost her filter lately. In fact, just a few minutes ago she told me that our contractor could shove the house up his... up his...Let your imagination wander. Just know this...She didn't say "Fiddle Sticks".      There is something about my wife saying a bad word that I find sexy. And lately, she has been very sexy. She has used them all. All the bad words. I love my wife and I hate seeing her stress, but it can be sexy. Sexy, but scary.      I consider this blog to be PG, maybe PG-13 at times. Therefore, I will tell you what the last few weeks have been like using Ellie Knipper's "go to" expression.      "We put our house on the market and
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I am the Penguin

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     Lucy is shoving her snout into the woven straw basket next to one of the bland taupe colored walls that border our living room. She is digging out all of her toys. She is picking her next victim. The gnarled up fox, the flattened penguin, and the soggy reindeer all lay limp in the bottom of the woven straw basket of despair hoping that they are not chosen. Sorry, penguin. Today is not your day. The cold wet nose of destruction has decided your fate. Lucy plops onto the floor and chews on his face. The once functioning squeaker just lets out a defeated "poof".      Life can deal you a bad hand at anytime. The cards you hold are the cards you hold. They are your cards. I have figured out that you just need to focus on the ante and when to cash in. Unfortunately for me, I have shoved a lot of chips into the middle of the table. I guess you could say that I am "all in" at the moment. "All in" on the new house. "All in" on selling the old house.
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Thank you, Robert Conrad and Kerri

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     Robert Conrad. As a kid I didn't really know who he was, but in 1978, I knew he was a badass. That Eveready Battery commercial taught me something. Pride. That dude was proud of that battery on his shoulder and he dared anyone brave enough to knock it off.  Pride. We all have it. We should have it. But, it should be placed in the right places.      My wife and daughter went to Nashville this week for a much needed escape. Trey is in New York  between jaunts to Nantucket. Jackson is our most independent child and he bounces between work and visiting friends. Me? I work. For the past 30 years, I have been a workaholic. 60 hour work weeks ( sometimes 70) have been a staple for me. Work. Get ahead. Work. Earn. Work. Provide. People have often told me "You've got to be there for your family." My response "I am at work so that I can be there for them." Pride. My father worked all of the time. If he wasn't at the shipyard working, he was working elsewhere
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Boss Hogg and The Goat Sucker

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     Asia's "Only Time Will Tell" was the selection from my playlist that was pumping through the speakers as I pulled into the parking space. I stepped out into the blistering Alabama heat. "Honk" my alarm sounded as I walked towards the entrance. There were two couples sitting at a black wrought iron patio table to the left of the door. There is a distinct redness to an IPA that has extra hops with rye malt mixed in. The liquid in their beer glasses had that color. These were my people. The dark wrapper on the cigar held by the largest of the men told me that he was the boss. His stubby fingers were wrapped around what appeared to be an Esteban Carreras Chupacabra Robusto Grande. "Nicaraguan?" I asked. He gave me an odd stare. A light breeze kicked up and his comb-over drifted across his bald spot. I pointed to his cigar. "Ha ha, yes! Chupcabra". I looked back for a white Cadillac Convertible with steer horns mounted to the hood. Boss Hogg
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Lists

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     I jumped out of a plane once. That first step out was the best. I'll never experience that feeling again. The adrenaline. The rush. My heart beating out of my chest. The sound of the wind as I was freefalling. Just thinking about it can make me feel that tingling sensation in my fingertips all over again. The carefree feeling was awesome. The problems of the world escaped me briefly. Floating. Dreaming. Not a single care in the world. Well, except for that whole slamming into the ground at 130 miles per hour with your head bursting open like a cantaloupe in front of your adoring little family. The family that came to watch you scratch this off your bucket list. Scratch the skydiving off the bucket list, not having your head burst open like...You know what I mean.      I need to revisit my bucket list. Jump out of plane - check Sing in a band - check Drive a racecar - check Travel to Europe - check Eat a whole box of moonpies in one sitting - Not on my bucket list, but c
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Timing

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         I don't always know where I am supposed to be. I'm not organized. I have my wife for that. She is organized. She is super Woman. Calendars are my Kryptonite. Super Woman  keeps me on track. She keeps me in the right place at the right time. Phone inquiries like "You do remember that you are working the concession stand at Jackson's game tonight, right?" After a few panicked short breathes, I'll respond "Absolutely. Wouldn't miss. Can't wait." All the while, I am frantically trying to rearrange my work calendar to make it happen. Flawless execution by Super Woman and her fledgling clueless husband. But, even she can make a mistake. Take this evening for example, she sent me to the wrong Wal Mart to pick up her online grocery order. Even Super Woman makes mistakes. Wrong place. Is there ever a right time for Wal Mart? Wal Mart is always out of something. Tonight, they were out of Peace Tea, Gracie's favorite. Bad timing. Gracie nee
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