Danny Tyree Lassoes Stork!

This week’s column was supposed to be about wife Melissa’s misadventures with jury duty.

As fate would have it, she got out of jury duty -- because of morning sickness.

That’s right -- after 8 years of trying, we’re finally going to have our first child. (Due date is March 15.)

We were so weary of the monthly negative results on home pregnancy tests. Melissa has peed on more sticks than a disgruntled employee at a Popsicle factory.

We never gave up hope, but we did keep readjusting our expectations. The room we decorated so nicely eight years ago went from being referred to as “the nursery” to “the spare bedroom” to “the room we throw junk into when company comes.”

Of course Melissa has suffered maternal yearnings. And I felt an emptiness as well. Even total strangers could tell that something was missing. Okay, their exact words were, “You’re not all there,” but I know what they meant.

We couldn’t have made it this far without the prayers of our friends and readers. I even appreciate the non-spiritual good wishes, although you atheists and agnostics may be in trouble if the kid is less understanding and becomes a heart surgeon or traffic cop. (“So, you’re the one my daddy said didn’t want me to be born.”)

I will adore the child, no matter what. I’m not like Michael Jackson (“I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, just as long as it’s not normal”) or deposed University of Tennessee President John Shumaker (“What? The umbilical cord isn’t gold-plated? Send her back!”)

Several people have told us that the baby will change our whole lives. I’m ready to adjust. Instead of pretending to work, I’ll pretend to be sound asleep.

I asked a saleslady if one of books written for expectant fathers would help me understand what Melissa will be going through. (“Yes, if you soak it with five gallons of water and staple it inside your abdomen, you -- you man!!!!”) I think I’ll wait for the movie version.

We still have to decide about the gift registry. I’m leaning toward Home Depot instead of Baby Depot or Baby Barn. What’s the difference between crib mobiles and skill saws, anyway? Hand-eye coordination is hand-eye coordination.

I’m glad we can celebrate the unborn baby’s growth. Time enough in adulthood for those ridiculous height-weight charts. (“If you have strength enough to flip this chart, you’re too darn fat.”)

I’ve already seen the baby’s life flash before my eyes: the first step, first words (the kid will be taking high school Spanish by then because a new law will require “Dada” to be uttered bilingually), first bicycle, braces, etc. The funniest part is when the teen tells Melissa (who has spent more than enough time in the OB-Gyn’s stirrups), “You’re embarrassing me in front of my friends!”

Melissa will have to keep close watch on me as well as the baby. I’ll be just shy of my 44^th birthday when the bundle of joy comes along, and I’ll probably be in my second childhood not long after. The kid and I will delight to indulge ourselves with cookies, candy, toys. But no Popsicles. Definitely no Popsicles.

Womb With A View

For those of you who have asked about our pregnancy: so far, so good.

I took off from work Oct. 8 to accompany wife Melissa to Maury RegionalHospital so we could see ultrasounds of our baby, who was 17 weeks and 2 daysold.

The baby was so active the ultrasound technician wrongly assumed that Melissamust have consumed a lot of caffeine. The kid was squirming like the insuranceagent having to pay for all this.

The baby's heartbeat was a healthy 152 times a minute. One-hundred-fifty-twotimes a minute? Sigh. In a few years, that's the frequency with which the kidwill be leaving the refrigerator door open.

I'll admit I wouldn't have known what I was looking at if the technicianhadn't pointed out the body parts. But better men than I have needed imagesclarified for them. ("Budget surplus, budget deficit. I never can keep themstraight, Cheney. They both start with 'B'.")

A father-to-be should maintain a little decorum, but when I saw theultrasounds, I had to restrain myself from blurting out a Steve Urkel-like "DidI do that?" Alternatives included "Aaaayyyy!," "Dyn-o-mite!," and "Shucks, youdrank enough water to fill the ce-ment pond!" ( I guess it's a good thing thatfatherhood will give me less time to watch TV.)

Ultrasounds are an incredible boon to mankind, in that they give parents andphysicians an advance notice of what to expect. Of course the wealth ofinformation would have been useless a couple of generations ago. Who caredwhether the nursery wallpaper was blue or pink when kids slept eight to the bed?And many birth defects could be handled with "Paw, put a tow sack over his haidso he don't scare the plow horses."

We jotted down a Web site for value-priced disposable diapers. No, they'renot environmentally friendly; but faced with washing a mountain of clothdiapers, Melissa and I wouldn't be very people-friendly.

This visit was a vindication of sorts. Three years ago, an infertilityspecialist assured us we would never be able to conceive without the in vitro"test-tube baby" process, at $10,000 for an attempt with no guarantee. We weredespondent at the notion of taking extreme measures to scrounge up the money andsomeday telling our child, "Don't listen to your classmates. Only special kidsget to live in a cave in a state park. And only special kids get to playhide-and-seek with the park ranger. Quick! Here he comes!"

Now that we're this far along, I thought Melissa would want to taunt thespecialist with the ultrasounds; but she doesn't ever want to see the quackagain. Can't blame her. He was probably the first doctor to sew a hospitalgurney inside a patient.

Everything seems normal so far, but I'm still not so certain I can relax.I've seen how Melissa reacts when I squeeze the toothpaste the wrong way, sowhen she says, "And your baby is going to squeeze all my internal organs likethis ...," I'm sure sleeping with one eye open.

Oh, I never did mention the sex of the baby. Well, Baby Tyree is going to be... born to a father who forgot how many words his editors allow him. Did I dothat? Stay tuned.

Gentlemen, Start Your Pacifiers

Since you asked, Melissa is still doing fine as we enter the home stretch of impending parenthood. The ladies at church overwhelmed us with love and thoughtfulness at a recent baby shower. By "us" I mean "Melissa and little Gideon," because I was politely warned that I would be bored to death if I dared attend the all-female get-together. I'm sorry I missed the festivities, but perhaps by the time Gideon is grown, social customs will have undergone a transformation. Maybe someday expectant mothers will also be feted by all-male groups. Here's what one could expect if men ran baby showers: * The baby monitor is perfectly attuned to tell whether the baby is coughing, whether the baby is crying, whether McNair scored a touchdown ... * The Noah's Ark decorations feature the animals' heads mounted, two by two. * Baby booties elicit a round of "Awwwwwwwww - think how many butts he'll kick with those cute little feet!" * Mentions of extreme bladder pain by the mother-to-be are seen as a reminder to bring out another keg. * The teddy bears on the cake are carefully arranged so they won't be damaged when the stripper pops out. * Tobacco-colored bibs are a hot item. * Instead of keeping up with who gave what gift, the guest of honor's brother is keeping up with bets on the Monster Truck and Stroller Contest. * The baby blanket comes with a charming card that reads "May the angels watch over you while you nap - because angels won't wake you up with a #$@# 'honey do' list!" * When the guest of honor tells about being able to work two jobs while carrying the miracle of life, some guy inevitably proclaims, "That's nice, but I can open this here jar..." * Party games involve using baby thermometers as projectiles. ("Thanks for the bean dip, Bubba. Now pull my finger and stand back!") * When the mother-to-be mentions being "registered," someone slips her a bunch of NRA pamphlets. * Attendees debate whether high chair seat belts and electrical outlet covers will turn the kid into a sissy. * Nine out of 10 guys think the "up to 14 pounds" line on the box of diapers means they can go for several days without changing diapers. Doggone it! I've sold myself on the idea. Fellows, I'm going to host an all-male baby shower for Melissa. If you don't know where I live, just ask directions and ... Oops. I forgot the gender to whom I was talking. Never mind. I could just kick myself. Awwwwwwww .

The Tyrees Take "Crib" Notes

The arrival of our son is fast approaching, so Melissa and I have taken Breastfeeding and Labor & Delivery classes at Maury Regional Hospital.

I attended the classes with Melissa because of a natural curiosity and because it’s my husbandly duty. Remember in the wedding vows about “I promise to love, honor, cherish, and discuss the relative merits of breastfed stools and formula stools”?

But I’m not going to pat myself on the back too much. You could say that taking the classes gives the father an appreciation of what the mother goes through; but after hearing about epidurals, episiotomies, and the like, I’d say that’s like claiming that attending a pillow fight gives you an appreciation of what O.J. Simpson’s ex-wife Nicole went through.

Discussion of babymaking elicits giggles among carefree high school students; but for more mature pupils, the accelerated childbirth courses are serious business. For the husband of a pregnant woman, talk of sex is like Health, Biology, and Ancient History all rolled into one.

Participants in the classes soon learn the warning signs that it’s time to drop everything and rush to the hospital. Of course men already know that the surest sign is “the score is tied with 30 seconds left to play.”

Students learn that the timing of contractions requires a whole new way of measuring time. The way some people define “just a minute” while applying makeup or hogging the bathroom, the baby could be shaving during the course of a “five-minute contraction.”

The classes are valuable for showing expectant parents just how little they know; without the class, their total ignorance would go undiscovered until the happy day the kid became a teenager. Aren’t we lucky that newborns just cry, instead of copping a teenage attitude like “A whole new world? But there’s nothing to doooooo!” or “But all my friends have umbilical cords!”

Expectant mothers are advised to pack a “goody bag” containing items such as extra socks, camera film, and chewing gum, to cut down on last-minute pandemonium when labor begins. In many cases, the baby’s conception was a comically disorganized event, with the father forgetting to mention his name, address, or real phone number. (“I promise I’ll call you…uh…Cindy?”)

The instructors are quick to dispel old wives’ tales and other myths: the baby’s sex can be determined by fetal heart rate; a mother can induce labor with castor oil; great uncle Percival will be cast into the fiery pits of hell if the baby isn’t saddled with the name “Percival,” etc.

Just like most people never use iambic pentameter or quadratic equations after high school, participants in the childbirth classes will retain only key points. Mere months after learning ten-dollar terms such as “cephalopelvic disproportion” and “placental abruption,” their vocabulary seldom stretches beyond, “Come on – open wide. Choo choo! . Num num!”

The lectures we attended were greatly enhanced by the use of appropriate videos. I’ll never forget the heavy breathing, grunting, straining, pushing, and abandonment of all modesty in one of the videos. And that was just the part about getting the baby into a good preschool.

My favorite video was the one with the “Roots”-inspired scene that will haunt me for the next 18 years: the newborn is held high and told, “Behold the only thing greater than yourself -- the HMO rule book!”

A Letter To My Son

Note: Gideon Lewis Tyree was born to Danny and Melissa Tyree on Saturday, March 6, at 5:12 p.m. Place: Maury Regional Hospital in Columbia, Tennessee. He weighed 7 pounds, 10 ounces and was 21 inches long.

Dear Gideon:

Daddy is being more serious than usual, but I wanted to share some thoughts with my precious boy.

I know you’ll soon forget the limitations of being a newborn, but trust me -- you’re dependent on others for everything. So when you’re older, promise me you’ll always show some compassion for those less powerful or less fortunate than yourself.

Grow up to be open-minded -but open-minded because of fairness and a thirst for knowledge. Some people are “open-minded” just so they can show off. (“Look at me! See how open-minded I am!”)

I want you to understand that there’s a lot of junk you just have to put up with in life -- and a lot of junk you don’t have to put up with. I hope you will learn to tell the difference.

I hope you’ll learn to distinguish between actual rules (“Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself”) and self-serving slogans that the mysterious “They” conjure up (“All’s fair in love and war,” “Finders keepers, losers weepers,” etc.)

I hope you’ll learn the proper time to blush. Don’t be embarrassed by things you have no control over, like your name or your parents or a physical attribute. Show a little healthy shame over selfish, malicious things you may do. Then dust yourself off and get on with your life.

As you learn about emergency rooms, cemeteries, jails, and the like, understand that there are worse things in life than being bored or being teased.

Don’t go cruising through life thinking nothing will ever change in regards to work, health, or relationships. Practice preventive measures and have contingency plans. Where would we be if God hadn’t had a backup plan when sin entered the world?

I hope that most of your dreams come true. Yes, most, -- not all. All of us have some shiny yearnings that aren’t in our ultimate best interests. If I had accomplished all the grandiose schemes I envisioned when I was 18, I would probably have never met your Mommy.

Robert Browning said, “Ah, but a man’s reach should always exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” A person needs a few setbacks to develop humility, character, and patience. Patience can change your whole life.. Did you know that it took me two years to get a second date with Mommy? Or that it took us eight years of trying to get our little bundle of joy? But a truly wise person can always tell the difference between perseverance and plain contrariness.

People see me coming and identify me as a “proud papa.” But it’s not time for pride yet., Gideon. What has either of us done so great at this point? It’s just biology. I’m excited and hopeful and full of love for you, but pride will come in its own time as you develop into a fine young man.

Perhaps someday that young man will pass on his own life experiences, so I can be equally proud of my grandchildren.

Love,

Dad

You Oughtta Be In Pictures -- Pretty Please!

On May 6 Melissa and I took baby Gideon to the mall to have his eight-week portraits made.

We have enjoyed snapping impromptu pictures of him at home, but every child deserves a professional portrait. If you rely entirely on amateur photography, you wind up ensnared in a web of lies when the child gets older. (“Yes, son, you were born with a giant thumb on your face. We, uh, had it surgically removed when you were five. This same brilliant Austrian surgeon stopped you from being so fuzzy, too.”)

Of course professional studios are just as bad as parents at perpetuating gender stereotypes. In addition to seeing the traditional male blues and female pinks, you’ll hear comments such as “Smile big for me, honey. Then make me a pot of coffee.”

Gideon himself behaved in a thoroughly unprofessional manner at the studio. He squirmed, pouted, and caterwauled. He was about as cooperative as Donald Trump’s hair.

It’s easy to make older kids smile, giggle, and guffaw. All you need is patented, outrageous humorous patter like “Do you think money grows on trees?,” “Put the lid back on the milk jug,” and “What are your intentions?”

Babies are subjected to a cascade of dumbed down utterances, such as “Who’s a pretty baby?,” “Kissy, kissy” and “Smile for the birdie.” The poor kid is probably thinking, “Wading pool? I’m in more danger from my gene pool!”

Of course an uncooperative baby is an embarrassment to his parents. Even though the photography studio staff dismisses the shenanigans as “all in a day’s work,” you still imagine a photographer dragging home at the end of the day, propping his feet up, opening a cold brew, and searching 500 channels for an infomercial about Learn Vasectomies At Home.

But parents should enjoy it while they can. If they misuse the photos, they may never have grandchildren to enjoy. Showing off the bearskin rug series to Junior’s girlfriend may just send the kid packing to the monastery.

We were told we could drive back to the mall another day, but with today’s exorbitant gasoline prices, I wasn’t going to vacate the premises, even if I had to make a tent from the “plus” sizes at Sears.

After killing an hour elsewhere in the mall, we returned to the studio. Gideon was more manageable. We got a beautiful closeup and a picture of him in a basket (although by this time, his parents were the real basket cases.)

We even got a family portrait. But by that time Melissa and I were so disheveled that Glen Campbell came by and offered to let us use the makeup artist he used for his DUI mug shot.

Even without a high pressure sales pitch, you feel guilty about not purchasing the entire package of photos. (“Children are our future -- and so are MasterCard bills.”) Parents splurging for the whole deal often leave an apology in their last will and testament. (“I know you were expecting my 401(k), but all I have is 8-by-10 glossies.”)

We finally got home with our photos. We had such grandiose plans for them, but we’re so far behind schedule, we’ll probably wind up sending them with Gideon’s graduation invitations. (“Go ahead and send bibs as graduation gifts. He’s drooling over redheads now.”)

Dad To The Bone

I spent four consecutive Father’s Days in limbo.

My father passed away in February of 2000 and I had no children of my own, so I had a rather “Bah, humbug!” attitude about the holiday.

Now that baby Gideon is here, I’m playing fatherhood for all its worth.

Right now I’m doting on every cute little grunt of Gideon’s. At least now they don’t require much work on my part. In a few years I’ll have to earn the grunts, with stupid questions such as “Where are you going?,” “What time will you be home?,” and “Did Jimmy ever get that electronic tracking bracelet removed from his ankle?”

I’ve developed an insufferable habit of inserting “my son” into every conversation. (“Marcus Aurelius? Surely when that Roman emperor conquered the Marcomanni in 168 A.D., he didn’t enslave any babies as cute as MY SON.”)

Before “my son,” my big phrase was “my wife.” Before that, it was “my girlfriend.” For some reason, all of them met with a better response than the old “my inflatable doll.”

I love pushing Gideon around in his stroller and having complete strangers make a fuss over him. I never tire of answering all the standard questions, such as “How old is he?,” “What’s his name?,” “Is he on solid food yet?,” and “Has he ever considered a lucrative career in Amway?”

Certainly we keep up with the milestones in Gideon’s development: “Baby rolls over for the first time,” “Baby holds his rattle for the first time,” “Baby sleeps through the sound of the hospital bills toppling over for the first time,” etc.

I’ll admit I’m guilty of aiding and abetting Melissa in going overboard on recording Gideon’s antics for posterity. (“Say, is that the Lord of the Rings trilogy on your videotape shelf?” “No, that’s the Gideon’s Naps, May 24^th, trilogy.”)

Although Gideon takes features from both sides of the family , I still revel in it when people point out how much he resembles me. I’m especially proud of his blue eyes.. I’m glad my genes are being put to use. As I approached my 44^th birthday, I was afraid the genes were on the verge of moving to Boca Raton to play shuffleboard and hit the “early bird” dinner special.

I’m proud of the set of lungs on Gideon. Someday he’ll benefit mankind in a profession such as preaching, opera singing, or Yelling Helpfully At You When You’re Backed Up By A Two-Mile Traffic Jam.

I don’t want to raise Gideon in a plastic bubble; but I do want to warn him about the things that could spill innocent Tyree blood, like wasps, broken glass, stove burners, “My dad can beat up your dad” T-shirts, etc.

I have to take things one day at a time with Gideon. In my father’s generation, a person had to be more of a “jack of all trades.” But I don’t really know what to teach Gideon about knot-tying, fishing, swimming, and other activities. All I can give him is love and attention. I just hope my parenting skills grow and develop as Gideon does. Otherwise, it might be embarrassing if I ever have to coach Little League. (“Uh, there’s a runner on second with two men out. Why don’t you, uh… show ‘em who’s a pretty boy!”)

Young Blue Eyes Is Back!

Forgive me for taking so long to update you on the exploits of baby Gideon Tyree.

Our pride and joy turned 6 months old on Labor Day. He’s happy, healthy, 20-plus pounds, above average in length, and the life of the party.

Gideon still has reddish hair, a testament to his Scots-Irish heritage. You should see the “Riverdance” routine he does when he gets excited. Just don’t stand too close, as he makes his own “river.”

As first-time parents, Melissa and I were unprepared for how much Gideon dominates our time and space. I thought the living room floor was crowded even before we added his swing, bouncy seat, playpen, and ExerSaucer. I’ve decided that athletes with kids have an unfair advantage in the Olympic pole vault.

Spare time? I used to think I had it rough when I dragged in from work only to be presented with a “Honey Do” list. Now it’s a “Honey Do List That Gideon Threw Up On.”

But I’m not complaining. I forget about all my problems when I hear Gideon’s squeals of delight as I hoist him into the air, kiss his ears, or give him the “raspberry.” There’s nothing like that squeal of delight -- except for the squeals from sales clerks when they see another sucker about to pay NBA prices for teeny, tiny shoes.

Gideon watches everything, but right now he’s particularly fascinated by ceiling fans. Yes, he likes to see something going around in circles and dealing with hot air all day. I hope he’s that enthusiastic for the concept when he gets his first job.

Some childhood interests will define a career while others fade away. One must decide which interests are most appropriate for the grown-up world. (“If it pleases the court, I submit that the germane precedent can be found in the case of Pooh vs. Tigger.”)

Gideon loves books. He knows they can take him to exotic places – like the emergency room, if he doesn’t quit chewing them. (“The New York Times says ‘My Pet Duck’ is riveting, provocative, and goes great with strained carrots.”)

For the sake of his eyes and attention span, we’re not letting Gideon watch TV until he’s at least two years old. We want to focus on more educational pursuits, like seeing how tadpoles turn to frogs, how caterpillars turn to butterflies, how Daddy’s brains turn to mush after hearing “She’ll Be Coming ‘Round The Mountain” for the 475^th time…

Gideon shows signs of being a collector, like his dear old Dad. I just hope he isn’t too disappointed if he ever goes on “Antiques Roadshow.” (“Uh, I’m sorry, but there’s not really a market value for big clumps of fur yanked off of Dodsey the cat.”)

Melissa and I are trying to enjoy Gideon while he’s just rolling and crawling. He’s already plotting his priority list of things to grab once he can walk: scissors, fragile glassware, butcher knives, credit card numbers, thermonuclear devices, etc.

We’re trying not to obsess over possible telltale signs of a gifted child. Although… Gideon does show a talent for throwing things in the floor, being helpless by himself, and sticking his foot in his mouth.

Yes, you guessed it. He’s already ahead of the curve on making someone a fine husband someday!

Baby Gideon's First Christmas

Baby Gideon Lewis Tyree turned nine months old on December 6. We didn’t get to dwell on that milestone because he’s already in high gear for his first Christmas.

I know it’s a cliché, but having a child around the house (after 13 years of a two-person household) helps me see Christmas in a different light. For instance, I wonder if the Wise Men started out as Wise Babies. (“How wise is baby Balthazar? Soooooo wise!!”)

As a pre-toddler, Gideon gets to coast on the “naughty or nice” stuff this year. The bar is set pretty low, sort of like for Cabinet-level positions. (“I soiled myself and don’t know what I’m talking about —but at least I didn’t hire an illegal nanny.” “Good, you’re nominated.”)

Gideon is still at the age where we can take him along shopping for his own gifts. It’s an emotional trip, filled with separation anxiety. No, not about getting lost in the department store -- about getting separated from my paycheck. (Remember the popular Christmas song “I Saw Mommy Overdrafting Santa Claus”?)

Gideon enjoys the Christmas lights and decorations, but to be completely honest, he could also spend long stretches amusing himself with my jacket zipper, the Spider-Man slippers he got for Halloween, or a postcard of paint drying. He hasn’t been particularly impressed by the “five-foot dancing Santa” at a major retailer. As the jolly old elf gyrates and thrashes about, Gideon seems to be thinking, “Someone get this patient an epidural!”

Gideon should be quite the conversationalist by the time he meets his little cousins at Christmas dinner. His vocabulary already includes “Mama,” “Dada,” “good,” “bye-bye,” “cat,” “cookie,” “button,” and “Barbara” (his babysitter’s name). Of course the rest of it is gibberish, bearing a striking resemblance to the instructions that come with “some assembly required” toys.

Sometimes babies grasp just enough of Christmas traditions to be confused. Especially breastfed babies. (“Okay, which one dispenses eggnog, and which one dispenses boiled custard?”)

We still aren’t letting Gideon watch TV, so he has yet to make the acquaintance of Rudolph, The Grinch, or Frosty. But he’s being exposed to a wide range of Christmas carols. Right now the most appropriate one for him seems to be “All I Want For Christmas Is My Tube of Teething Gel.”

We hope to add to Gideon’s book collection this Christmas. And not necessarily just with books written specifically for children. There are also adult books adapted for youngsters, such as Mitch Albom’s “The Five People You Spit Up On In Heaven.”

Some of my childless friends wonder why we’re so excited about this Christmas, why we’re going to so much trouble over an event Gideon won’t even remember. (Of course some of them have taken expensive Vegas vacations with nothing to show for it except a mysterious wedding ring and a hangover.)

Well, someday Gideon will be able to watch the videotapes of his first Christmas -- and the 8 millimeter films of his Mommy’s early Christmases. And if he visits the Smithsonian, he can see the drawings of Daddy fighting off the saber-tooth tigers to open his packages.

Maybe Gideon can even visit the Secretary of Huggies Security for a rousing rendition of “I Saw Mommy Resuscitating Dick Cheney.”

How desperate is Danny Tyree for a punchline? Sooooo desperate!

Gideon's First Birthday

Our baby isn’t a baby anymore.

Gideon Lewis Tyree celebrated his first birthday on March 6.

I’m sure there will be much eager anticipation for his second birthday, but this year the party and gifts came as a complete surprise to the guest of honor. One-year-olds are so easy to bamboozle. They could see an assemblage of relatives, playmates, balloons, clowns, and ponies and think, “Wow! What a coincidence! Someone call Ripley.” They have the wide-eyed innocence of parents who let their kids stay overnight at the Neverland Ranch. (“What? Michael Jackson is a weirdo? Well, who’d have thunk it???”)

Gideon has been recovering from a slight rash, so when he saw the camcorder come out at his party, he was probably thinking, “This must be one of those disease-of-the-week TV movies. I wonder if they’ll get Blythe Danner to play Grandma?”

One of Gideon’s birthday gifts was the Mega Blocks “Three Little Pigs” set. This is the modernized version, because before the Big Bad Wolf huffs and puffs and blows the house down, he checks for radon.

Gideon also received a baseball uniform and tee ball set. Given the activities of Major Leaguers, it’s a wonder they didn’t come with chewable steroids, Gerber broccoli-and-tobacco, and crotch-scratching Pampers.

One of Gideon’s favorite gifts is the big red metal “Engine No. 7 Fire & Rescue Truck” that my mother bought him. He loves to sit in the seat and clang the bell. But he’s a bit disappointed by the fact that it’s pedal-powered. (“Great! If Fred Flintstone’s house catches on fire, I’ve got it covered. Anybody else is up the creek without a paddle.”)

Yes, Gideon received enough toys to keep him busy for a long time; but we could’ve bought even more gifts, if not for the money invested in “baby-proofing” the house. “Baby-proofing”? Can any mere adult manage to stay one step ahead of baby logic? ( “We know that the Marquis de Sade invented toothpaste and washcloths…therefore, broken glass is…yummy!”)

Gideon tasted his first ice cream on his birthday. And on his way to church, he got to ride in a forward-facing car seat for the first time. Now he’s a big boy (2T clothes, size 6 shoes), set for all the life adventures that occur between the time everyone asks “Does he walk yet?” and the time they whisper, “Has he made out his will yet?”

Since I brought up the subject, no, he’s not walking yet. He hasn’t found the right incentive. But, boy, can he climb! His reason for climbing echoes that of George Leigh Mallory about scaling Mt. Everest. (“Why climb? Because the emergency room is there.”)

People often comment on Gideon’s sunny, outgoing disposition. Well, Gideon’s philosophy about misfortune is “When life hands you a lemon – eat dead ladybugs.” Granted, that’s his philosophy about everything.

Perhaps next year Gideon can report to you himself. He already talks up a storm. In addition to the standard infant gibberish, he also utters such clearly intelligible phrases as “Where’s Dada?,” “Night-night,” “I want some of that,” and “Mother dear, I believe it would be advantageous for you to let father continue his slumber and tend to my caterwauling yourself.”

Well, they’re clearly intelligible to me. Can I help it if I’m an overachiever? Like son, like father.

Halloween 2005: Gideon's "Sting" Operation

19-month-old Gideon Tyree’s second Halloween is coming up, and while he’s not at the stage of counting the days until big events, he’s getting in the mood nonetheless.

He throws a fit when he can’t find his “pump-jack” (jack-o-lantern) books, and he shrieks with delight when I feign fright at his shouts of “Boo!” (I just hope nothing gets lost in the translation. It would be embarrassing if he told the preacher, “Daddy gets boos and falls down.”)

Gideon will go trick-or-treating this year, but only to a select group of homes, mostly people we know from church.. I guess traditionalists will bemoan this trend and bombard us with heartwarming cards that admonish, “Extorting candy from total strangers is the reason for the season.”

Gideon will show off his bee costume, which he picked out himself. Costumes inspire kids to fantasize about interstellar adventures, magical kingdoms, and the Old West. They inspire adults to fantasize about the apparel actually being manufactured in the U.S.A.

Gideon will also show off his math skills when he goes visiting. He can count up to 288. No, really. When he stuck his finger up his nose, the babysitter exclaimed, “Gross!” Gideon stuck both fingers up his nose and replied, “Two gross!”

Despite all the ghosts, witches, and goblins on the prowl October 31, I think Gideon will take everything in stride. He did okay meeting Smokey the Bear earlier in October. I’m the one who gets freaked out at this time of year, by nightmares about all candy suddenly carrying the disclaimer “Some assembly required” or “Batteries not included.”

I think the reason the day after Halloween is called All Saints’ Day is that it would take a saint not to punch out a neighbor who sends kids bouncing off the wall with sugar.

I’m glad that Gideon is still blissfully ignorant of Halloween vandalism and the urban legends about fiends inserting sharp foreign objects into goodies. You know, the reports that get hospitals to volunteer to x-ray bags of Halloween treats. (“Sorry. This candy contains nougat. I’ll have to refer you to a specialist.”)

Gideon has an analytical mind, so he’ll probably brainstorm better uses for the x-ray. Someday he’ll be charging other kids to use a portable x-ray to determine which houses are harboring fruit, wheat germ, and other yucky non-candy snacks.

Perhaps someday I’ll tell Gideon about Daddy’s Halloweens during the Cold War. Sure, you could avail yourself of the x-ray, but the real answer to suspicious candy was to hide under your school desk. (“Incoming missiles? Hide under the desk. Marauding hippies? Hide under your desk. Arsenic in the wood the desks are made of? You’re up the creek without a paddle!”)

We’ve been allowing Gideon only small amounts of sweets. But I think his exposure to TV coverage of childhood obesity would make him behave prudently even if offered a cornucopia of “forbidden fruit.” (“Do you know how to say ‘Thank you,’ little boy?” “Do you know how to say ‘enabler,’ old woman?”)

Melissa and I are enjoying Gideon’s Halloween to the max. I’m living vicariously through him, since I don’t go to many parties myself. I do have a great costume, though. If I receive an invitation, I won’t show up at the house at all. Yes, I’ll be “going” as an independent contractor!

Gideon's Second Christmas

Christmas time’s a comin’ for the Tyree household.

Melissa and I have a lot to celebrate. Gideon (who turned 21 months old on December 6) is happy and healthy. He weighs 30 pounds, is at least 35 inches long, and still has eye-catching curls in his strawberry blonde hair.

Gideon has learned many words and phrases, such as “I’ll fly away,” “Paint it black,” and “delightful cat.”. He can count to 10, knows most of his letters, and is mastering the concept of opposites, such as up/down, in/out, off/on, easy/payments, etc.

For several months, we’ve been reading Gideon a children’s book about the Nativity. Of course it’s a cleaned up version, omitting all the scenes of tripping over scattered frankincense and myrrh during midnight feedings.

We’re still limiting the amount of television that Gideon watches, but he did get to see the holiday classic “Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town” (the one with Burgermeister Meisterburger). That show answers the question “How did Santa Claus get to be Santa Claus?” (Before the show, Gideon probably assumed that Kris Kringle got where he is by contributing to the governor’s reelection campaign.)

Gideon has yet to see Daddy’s favorite holiday movie, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” More and more each year, I realize that Frank Capra was the perfect person to direct the movie. We would have lost too much of the sentimentality with the Ivan Pavlov version. (“Teacher says, every time a bell rings, a dog salivates.”)

As far as seasonal advertising goes, Gideon is fascinated by the Coca-Cola commercial featuring the penguins and polar bears. In a brilliant move, Coke has forever intertwined its products with thoughts of home, thoughts of family, thoughts of bird flu…What will they do for an encore next year -- sponsor the Carbon Monoxide Poisoning On Ice Spectacular?

Gideon had a wary encounter with the “right jolly old elf” who gave him a lollipop at a local retail outlet. To avoid confusion from multiple mall Santas, we’ve decided to tell Gideon, “There goes a man pretending to be Santa Claus.” Sort of like when we see Sen. Bill Frist and explain, “There goes a man pretending to put his stocks in a blind trust.”

Gideon delights in playing with the ornaments when we encounter a Christmas tree. Yes, a Christmas tree – not a “holiday tree.” I fear that by the time Gideon is grown, we’ll be calling the thing a “whatchamacallit,” because the Politically Correct Police think the word “tree” will offend the poor losers who live in the desert.

As for retailers who shun “Merry Christmas,” if they’re worried about offending shoppers, they should think twice about the 21 percent interest on their charge accounts!!!

Ah, there will be time enough later for giving Gideon pompous lectures about The True Meaning Of Christmas. Right now we’re busy with The True Meaning of “Let go of the cat’s tail right this minute, and I mean it this time!”

Gideon gets into the spirit of the season, caring about the less fortunate. Of course with his limited worldview, the less fortunate consists of Scuffy The Tugboat, Charlie The Train, Winnie the Pooh when he gets stuck in Rabbit’s hole, etc.

May you experience Christmas with newfound innocence. May you renew your inner child. May you put down that B-B gun before you put an eye out…

Gideon's Second Birthday

Gideon Lewis Tyree turned two years old on March 6 and celebrated with a party at CiCi’s Pizza in Columbia, Tennessee.

Gideon appreciated the “Thomas The Tank Engine” theme; but in general he was distracted and unwilling to count to five in Spanish, chirp “Come on, baby, let’s do the twist,” or otherwise perform on command. I think he kept waiting for the restaurant TV to show his favorite commercial: the one in which orange traffic cones come to life and chase a Toyota. He could watch it 20 times in a row. It was a rather traumatic day in his young life when he discovered that “CSI” doesn’t stand for “Cone Shenanigans Investigations.”

Gideon didn’t even launch into his morning routine of telling us about seeing elephants. Those pachyderm events have convinced us that (a) Gideon is having a vivid dream life or (b) we need to start paying the exterminator a whole lot more.

With just a little help, Gideon was able to extinguish his candles. Soon enough the highlight of his birthdays will shift from “blow out the candles” to “turn your head and cough.”

Gideon certainly toddles to the beat of a different drum. Most kids would rip into their gifts with gusto. Gideon meticulously tore off one little square of wrapping paper at a time and watched it flutter into the gift bag. If Oliver North did such a painstaking job of shredding documents, he’d still be working on Iran-Contra. (“Just a few more papers, Fawn, and President Reagan will be spared going to jail. Huh??? Reagan did what??? Awww, and I didn’t even send flowers!”)

Gideon enjoyed his Sesame Street dictionary, his shopping cart, and all the other gifts. He received the regular “Bob The Builder” toys for innocent toddlers. In a few more years, he can work his way up to the more cynical version. (“Can we build it? Yes, we can – if we grease enough palms at the building codes office.”)

Gideon is thrilled with the racecar bed that his babysitter gave him. He probably thinks he’s the only boy in the world with such a bed. Later on, I’ll explain to him that lots of people sleep in their cars. According to the Census Bureau, they’re classified as Parents Who Charged One Too Many Toys For Their Kids.

I enjoyed the party, but my biggest regret was that Gideon’s long, curly locks had been shorn just in time for the event. As someone who lives vicariously through his son’s ability to keep his dome covered, I don’t take a lot of comfort in the well-wishers who say, “Now he looks like a little boy!” Somehow I doubt that having a few curls is going to make him the star of “Brokeback Sandbox.”

Friends, relatives, and total strangers have greeted Gideon’s milestone with dire warnings about “the terrible twos.” There are two different philosophies about “the terrible twos.” To some, the designation is a stereotype, the moral equivalent of racial profiling. To others, seeing their little angels suddenly start acting up is God’s way of saying, “Ha! Maybe next time you’ll buy the extended warranty, smart guy!”

Melissa and I put a lot of work into Gideon’s birthday, but he’ll never really know just how much we love him – until he has a two-year-old bundle of joy of his own.

Gideon Goes To The Zoo

When you’re po’ folks with no cable TV, obviously you miss out on Animal Planet and Discovery Channel. All you can offer your child is looking at the rabbit ears.

So to keep Gideon from being culturally deprived, Melissa and I took him to the Nashville Zoo at Grassmere for the first time. It was an educational experience for all of us.

I learned that one of the best ways to develop carpal tunnel syndrome is to try pointing at things a two-and-a-half-year-old should find of interest. (“Look at the giraffe! No! The giraffe! Not that cigarette butt -- the giraffe!”) It’s a little like trying to get the attention of Congress. (“Look at the health care issue over here. No, over here. No, not the gay flag burner -- the health care issue!”)

Gideon learned that he could make Daddy turn different shades of color by ignoring the Bengal tigers and stomping on the storm drains. Can you imagine what today’s biological diversity would be like if Noah’s sons had been toddlers when he constructed the ark? Noah would have been preoccupied with bringing plumbing fixtures onto the ark two by two. And he would have sent out a dove to pick up a Home Depot circular.

I learned the futility of trying to snap a picture of the animals with Gideon The Human Blur in the foreground. I could almost hear Marlin Perkins sending Jim in with the tranquilizer gun in an episode of “Mutual of Omaha’s Caffeinated Kingdom.”

Gideon learned many screeches and howls of the animals. Of course one of the most blood-curdling screeches turned out to be Daddy seeing the $3 hot dogs and $2 vending machine soft drinks. It was then that I dispensed with the standard advice (“Don’t pet the animals. You don’t know what diseases they might have”) and went with the more practical (“Buddy up with the red panda and see if you can score us some of those bamboo shoots. It’s either that, or nibble the rabbit ears when we get home.”)

Gideon did pay rapt attention when two rhino hornbill birds got into a fight. One hornbill was enjoying a salt lick when the other sneaked up and bit it on the neck. A pity we didn’t get Kofi Annan’s autograph when he showed up to scold the first bird for provoking the confrontation.

We didn’t want the trip to be too oppressively educational, so we stayed away from the binomial nomenclature (you know, Tropidoclonion lineatum and the like) and went with familiar bite-size terms such as “fishie” and “birdie.” We did share with Gideon an amusing fact about Swedish botanist/physician Carolus Linnaeus (1707-1778), inventor of the highfalutin Latin-based binomial nomenclature. Linnaeus’ mechanic swears he would always bring in his Volvo with a complaint like “The thingamabob makes a funny noise when the whatchamacallit lights up.”)

I learned to be specific when talking to Gideon. I told him that Batman lives with bats, and he though I meant the specific bats in the Unseen New World exhibit at Grassmere. I suppose its plausible in this era of eminent domain. A shopping mall would bring Gotham City a heck of a lot more tax revenue than the Batcave.

Even though it looked like things weren’t sinking in, Gideon kept babbling about his trip after we got home. He took his zoo map to bed and kept rehearsing the day’s events (seeing the cheetah, riding the kangaroo on the carousel, etc.) . I think this will make a permanent impression on him. Perhaps someday he’ll have children of us own and regale them with the events of July 29, 2006. (“This is the story of the elephant savannah. No, not the story of the cigarette butt. The elephant savannah! Pay attention!”)

False-Facing The Facts

Halloween costumes and I go way back – even before the 1967 Dr. Doom outfit that still hangs in my mother’s garage.

(Dr. Doom, for the uninitiated, is the arch-nemesis of the Fantastic Four. He’s capable of ruling the nation of Latveria with an iron fist, wreaking havoc on all super-heroes who stand in the way of his ambitions, and toilet-papering the houses of those cretins who turn off the lights and pretend not to be home on Halloween.)

Yes, I can remember when a joyous cry of “let’s look at the young boy pages” meant you were perusing the new Halloween catalog, not that a congressman was getting ready for a “closed doors session.”

Mass-produced Halloween costumes weren’t even introduced until the 1950s, but they’ve become a huge business. BuyCostumes.com boasts 10,000 different designs. I suppose so many are needed because proud parents want their children to be unique. This way each neighborhood can be visited by Ethan the Power Ranger, Ethan the Penguin, Ethan the Spongebob Squarepants…

This Halloween, across the land, millions of parents will break out their Kodaks and camcorders to record their adorable tikes extorting candy from complete strangers. How quickly the warm memories fade! Within 15 years the parents will be complaining to the kids, “Why have you always got your hand out? Get a job, you bum!”

Of course some stick-in-the-mud people would like to do away with the whole trick-or-treating phenomenon, based on the premise that October 31 should not be reserved for dressing up and pretending to be something you’re not. (“We have Sundays for that, thank you very much.”)

I know pirates are big this year, but if the manufacturers had been given more lead time, I’m sure the smash of the season would be North Korean Madman. (“You serve fruit instead of Snickers Bars? This is declaration of war!”)

My son Gideon has chosen to celebrate his third Halloween by dressing as a green skeleton. (It’s a wonder he didn’t choose to go as a “ghostie,” or as“bandage man,” as he calls The Mummy.) It’s cute that children can be so innocent and so oblivious to the morbid nature of skeletons. Soon enough they’ll be adults; then they can be oblivious to the cardiovascular system. (“Forget this quack and his diet. Roll me down the hallway for a second opinion.”)

Halloween costumes have gotten really expensive, and it’s hard to economize. You can buy used costumes at summer yard sales, but how can you gauge the number of growth spurts between then and autumn? (“Thanks for the kindergarten wardrobe, Mom, but I’ve just been drafted by the NBA.”)

Sure, some insufferable artsy-craftsy parents cut down costs by making costumes at home. This is a time-consuming process, because first they have to bake brownies, pose for Norman Rockwell, deflect Eddie Haskell’s flattery, etc.

Making your own costumes supposedly stimulates the imagination of the youngsters. I guess it does in a way. (“Okay, honey, imagine this process without the part where you spill glue on the sofa and mommy uses naughty words.”)

I fear that these “homemade costume” children may learn their lesson too well. Someday they’ll be advising, “No, you don’t need store-bought cataract surgery, Dad. Look, we’ve got construction paper and glitter and…”

Who Turned Three? Gideon Tyree!

If some spendthrifts want to fork over $2500 for 30 seconds with Michael Jackson, that’s their business. The time I spent with son Gideon at his third birthday party (watching him unwrap his “presnits”) was priceless.

Superman was the theme of the party, not surprisingly. For months, Gideon has been obsessed with super-heroes, rattling off names like Wolverine, Moon Knight, Batman, and Wonder Woman. During his shower last night Gideon revealed, “They call me a super-hero, because I hold the pipe (for the showerhead) while they’re rinsing me.” (Hey, people have become celebrities for less.)

Super-hero or not, the party was a celebration of what a remarkable young man Gideon has become in the past year. He loves books (he throws a fit when we turn off the light at bedtime and he can’t “read”), displays showmanship (waving his arms and announcing, “We’re going to have a grand adventure!”), has a vivid imagination (he has learned to “make movies” by closing his eyes, and regales us with dreams about “happy skeletons working in their workshop”), shows an understanding of adult motivations (“You tease me because you love me”), and adapts the speed of saying grace according to whether something good is on TV. (I wonder if this would work for sermons? “Hey, preacher, if you don’t want to miss Scooby Doo unmasking the culprit, you’d better cut it to Six Deadly Sins.”)

He has also shown an egalitarian view that the rules should apply to everyone equally. When the librarian told him that he had entered a restricted area, he responded with “Shhhhhhh!”

Gideon has become adept at bluffing to cover some shortfall of knowledge. I can ask him if he knows the meaning of a certain word. He answers, “Uh huh. (Pause) Tell me.” One night at bedtime he kept answering all my questions with grunts. When I asked, “Gideon, what has become of your vocabulary tonight?,” he got a deer-in-the-headlights look and whimpered, “I put it SOMEWHERE.”

I showed Gideon a photo of a 1970 Webelos Scout campout that “Daddy and Uncle Dwight” attended. He immediately chimed in with, “I was there. I helped you.” Forget astronaut or cowboy – this credit hog is cut out to work in an office someday.

Gideon recently decided to rename his big doll “Belly Button.” He then announced, “I have three sons: Belly Button, Barbie, and Ken.” Where is Sigmund Freud when you need him?

“I’m behaving NOW,” has become one of Gideon’s most-repeated phrases. I think that’s what Saddam Hussein said when dragged out of that hole in the ground.

I often find myself gazing down in awe at this sweet, innocent child. If he ever did pursue a life of crime, he would probably be the first prisoner to somehow lose a shoe while in solitary confinement.

The night before Gideon’s birthday, I remarked, “You’re growing up so fast. You’ll be in school before you know it.” He beamed, “Then I will teach you things instead of you teaching me.”

As Louis Armstrong sang, “You will learn much more/ than I will ever know/And I think to myself/What a wonderful world!”

Tricks Are For (Having) Kids?

According to Agence France Presse news service, thousands of couples from around the world are flocking to the United States to spend $19,000 a pop on a groundbreaking gender selection treatment that gives a 99 percent certainty of choosing a baby’s sex.

Most couples using pre-implantation genetic diagnosis (PGD) cite the desire for “balance” in their families. Hmph! I have one brother, no sisters. My wife has two sisters, no brothers. We both have plenty to keep us occupied without wasting time sighing over “What might have been.” Trying to outthink God never works. A couple trying to force equilibrium between macho and frills could easily find their two red-blooded boys dangled out the window by two even rougher tomboys.

Most families are already pretty well balanced as far as the children’s talents and personalities are concerned.. For instance, you’ll find one child who is eager to have another sibling of the same sex, as well as one who thinks $19,000 would buy a really kick-butt home entertainment system.

Still, some parents just don’t want to risk surprises. They want to enter the delivery room with confidence. Of course they may be surprised when big sister announces, “Oh, the baby sister I screamed for? That’s so ‘five minutes ago.’ I’m into my pony phase now…”

21^st Century technology is great, but I miss the more idealistic times of the Sixties, when “Peanuts” cartoonist Charles Schulz could say, “Happiness is a warm puppy,” not “happiness is a boy or girl preselected through DNA analysis of embryos.”

It shouldn’t matter whether a child is a boy or a girl. The important thing is that he or she be strong enough to put up a defense when classmates discover the geeky middle name the parents picked out.

Bioethicists are concerned that we’ll be starting down a slippery slope if parents are allowed to determine the sex of a child. They won’t stop there. Parents will be tempted to produce “designer children,” who have just the right hair color, just the right color of eyes, and just enough of a sense of shame not to use clichés like “slippery slope.”

Armed with PGD, some parents will feel obligated to micromanage the entire future of their offspring. (“Honey, better set some money aside. Johnny will be having a visit from the Tooth Fairy on June 12 of 2009.”)

Critics of PGD think the procedure will widen the gap between the “haves” and “have-nots” even more. Only the poor would be bald or fat. Supporters of the procedure, however, say, “These charges of creating a master race are ludicrous and libelous. You’d better heil when you say that. Uh…smile! You’d better smile when you say that.”

Nature has done a good job of carrying on the species and providing the right people for society’s roles. As Garth Brooks sang in “The Dance,” our lives are better left to chance. Can you imagine a world in which an entire generation of trendy parents suddenly favored one sex over another? For instance, what if every home was controlled by a gender that said things like, “Whoa! A perfectly acceptable TV show with just the first click of the remote”? The earth would flip on its axis!!

Trying To "Stirrup" Some Trouble

Ladies, do you really need a whole cheering section shouting “Push!”?

According to the New York Times News Service, there is a growing trend toward allowing multiple guests in the delivery room during labor. Some women even move their baby showers to the delivery room.

Rejecting privacy and modesty, proponents of this cultural shift insist that a circle of family and friends can make a birth even more wondrous than it already is. Yeah, so can hiring David Copperfield to help the baby make its escape, but ya gotta draw the line somewhere.

Contemporary mothers squeeze more and more guests into the delivery room because they can’t stand to slight anyone. Then, once they’re back on their feet, they resume playing tennis at their all-white country club.

Hospitals use the trend as a marketing tool. Visitors who get a warm, fuzzy vibe from the delivery room experience will turn to that hospital in the future, whenever they’re considering elective surgery, or just have a hankering for five dollar tongue depressors. (“Jim, I saw your kid today and it reminded me of my ‘roid troubles…”)

Be that as it may, some people just don’t belong in the delivery room. Grandmothers-to-be would have a captive audience for their nagging. (“Hmph! If you had married that nice young doctor instead of What’s His Name, I’ll bet we’d be in the hospital Express Lane now, instead of waiting 12 hours for delivery!”)

Invite your best friend to the delivery? Sure. Just don’t expect a moratorium on catty comments. (“Judy was really brave during her entire delivery. She kept a stiff upper lip. If only she had thought to wax her lip…”)

A bunch of typically rowdy male spectators can ruin the blessed event. (“Hey, you gonna let him slap you on the rear end like that, ya little wuss? Lay one upside his head, Junior!”)

Some women even invite their bosses to the birth. This can really blow the boss’s mind. (“It’s like I’m looking in a mirror! That’s the same expression I make when I grant a five-cent raise!”)

Why stop with the boss? Why not go for broke and invite the president? (“How was I supposed to know the pregnant woman’s water would break? Besides, this is a local issue, not a federal one!”)

There are just too many variables in childbirth for a woman to invite all her friends and acquaintances. What if there’s a breech birth? The baby would get off to a bad start in life if his first official act was “mooning” the preacher.

Do we really want childbirth to be a community event on the order of funerals? What puffy-faced, stringy-haired, groaning woman wants well-wishers commenting, “My, doesn’t she look natural?”

Those glamour photos for Christmas cards become sort of pointless after everyone on your list has seen you in labor, don’t they? It’s like installing a home security system and then leaving a neon sign that announces, “Here’s the pass code, and a can of ether for the guard dog.”

You’re entitled to your own opinion, but I’ll point out the simplicity of the most famous childbirth in history. The “Wise Men” were wise enough to show up long after the action. It might have been ugly otherwise. (“Frankincense? Myrrh? I want Demerol! Surely there’s room at the inn for Demerol!”)

Get Off My Lower Case!

It doesn’t seem possible, but the starting of the 2006-2007 school year marks 40 years since I entered first grade.

First grade was more of a milestone back then. Many of us had not attended kindergarten, and the idea of preschool and pre-preschool was alien to us. The obsession with ever earlier education/socialization was in its infancy. I wonder just how far the trend can go. (“I don’t care whether you let me play with your jump rope or not, Suzie Jane. I’ll just use my umbilical cord. Nyahh nyahh!”)

I did not give in easily to the academic experience. I worried that the regimentation would cramp my style. I still have my old notebook from the summer of 1966, in which I envisioned using a flying saucer loaded with anti-matter to annihilate the Hardison School building. Yes, it was my way of sticking it to The Man, as well as, um, igniting the atmosphere, and ending life as we know it.

Although I didn’t like having to learn the lower case alphabet (all my comic books and comic strips used all capitals!), and resisted having Mrs. Cummings look at my work over my shoulder (intellectual property rights, and all that), I adapted to school.

Somehow we survived without camera phones, calculators, PlayStations, iPods, and shoes that light up. We had one thing today’s kids don’t: determination, imagination, and respect. (Okay, and the “New Math.”)

We started school in a time when “Show And Tell” meant bringing your father’s Korean War canteen from home. Now it means the teacher invites, “Show me your prescription and I’ll tell you how many meds you get today.”

We started to school when a note asking, “Do you love me? Check yes or no” came on a sheet of Blue Horse tablet paper, not on official faculty stationery.

We were preoccupied enough with paddlings and dunce caps that we didn’t have time to worry that saying “Thank you God for our food” and “one nation under God” put us in violation of the Geneva Convention.

We weren’t health nuts by any means, but at least we were trim enough to play on the teeter-totter and not the slowly-sinks-into-the-ground-under-our-weight.

At least we could enjoy nap time without the pressures of today’s hectic world. The feds weren’t shaming us by enumerating how many algorithms a Japanese first grader was solving while we snoozed. You know, the oft-cited Japanese student who attends class 400 days a year and twice on the day of Grandma’s funeral.

Our primers were insipid (and lily-white), but at least they weren’t as preachy as today’s books. (“See Dick run. Run, Dick, run. See Dick test positive for steroids and lose his medal.”)

I can’t imagine my generation’s heroes making anti-Semitic statements at a traffic stop. Well, maybe Batman. (“Atomic batteries to power, turbines to speed, Jews to the back of the bus.”)

I extend my best wishes to the Class of 2018. Looking over my own first grade group photo, I see those innocent, eager youngsters totally unaware of all the frustrations, failures, rivalries, and betrayals awaiting them.

If I could have forecast and prepared for even 10 percent of the crises ahead of us, well, I guess Donald Rumsfeld would have labeled me a show off . (“Thanks for the anti-matter idea, though. Hey, CNN building, get a load of this!”)

Spare The Rod, Spoil The Campaign Issue

Children are our greatest natural resource. And apparently California legislators are our greatest unnatural resource.

By now you’ve probably heard of the crusade of California assemblywoman Sally Lieber, who has drafted legislation to criminalize the spanking of children under four years of age. Although first-time offenders might get away with a simple brainwashing session, they theoretically face a $1,000 fine and one year in jail.

Among the words people have used to describe Lieber’s idea: “absurd,” “intrusive,” unenforceable,” “a blatant violation of parental rights.” To those of us some distance from the “Left Coast,” California’s innovations seem to be a mixture of good intentions and good weed.

Yes, there are alternatives to spanking. Sometimes you can reason with a child. But don’t get your hopes up about negotiations. Remember, this is the kid who can’t reliably articulate when he needs to use the potty. You ain’t gettin’ the dadblamed Treaty of Versailles out of him.

And, yes, you can always withhold privileges instead of giving the little darling a whack on the seat. That works really well with the brat who is about to run out into traffic. (“Okay, James, there goes your open casket ceremony!”)

Lieber and her ilk regard corporal punishment as barbaric. Sure, I remember my history lessons: when the unwashed hordes invaded the civilized countries, they raped and pillaged as a last resort, if they couldn’t find any little tushies to smack.

Lieber considers spanking to be morally indistinguishable from wife beating. Hey, I’m no male chauvinist pig, but if your wife has made a habit of willfully throwing the silverware in the toilet or running the cat’s tail through the sewing machine, maybe she needs a little more than a “time out.”

Lieber (who has no children of her own – only cats) accepts as incontrovertible fact the premise that spanking teaches kids to use violence – or at least to hack up a hairball on the new carpet. Yup, even the mildest and most infrequent applications of spanking supposedly teach children that it’s okay to bully and dominate weaker people. Especially weaker people who are trying to jam a fork into the electrical outlet.

Ten European countries have banned spanking, and of course Lieber wants California to emulate them. (“But, Ma, all the cool countries are staying up until 4 a.m. on school nights and hanging out with 30-year-old escaped convicts.”).

Good liberal that she is, I’m sure Lieber will write some common sense exemptions into the law. Although there will be a ban on corporal punishment for something trivial like decorating a motel room with permanent markers, parents will probably be allowed to tackle the child and give him a full Nelson if he’s doing something self-destructive like eating red meat or reciting “Now I lay me down to sleep…”

The law supposedly targets parents and other caregivers applying physical discipline, but once the camel’s nose is under the tent, you can look for siblings to be under scrutiny for causing emotional scars. NBC may soon be airing “Law And Order: ‘Suzie Looked At Me!’ Unit.”

* Sigh* Don’t bother trying to reason with Lieber about different personalities and different situations. Just get in line for a campaign T-shirt. (“C’mon, quit clowning around and pretending to trip on the shirt hem. You know one size fits all!”)

The County That Weighs Together...

“I’m from the government, and I’m here to aerobicize you.”

That may be the new catch phrase as some Rutherford County (Tennessee) employees prepare for the second series of their own weight loss/fitness program inspired by NBC’s “The Biggest Loser.”

Rutherford County is going all out to make the program a success, tapping the expertise of nutritionists, physicians, and motivational speakers. The county seems to be doing better than one mercifully unnamed town, which made the mistake of going with the low bidder to run a similar program. (“Okay, judge, you’ll need to ditch the black robes and go with these vertical stripes…”)

“The Biggest Loser” seems to be a winning formula. Rutherford County is lucky to have missed out on earlier reality show-based competitions, such as “Tap Dancing With The Budget Figures,” “Supervisory Nanny,” and “Garbage Route Swap.”

The county benefits from the program because physical fitness makes the employees more productive, but productivity has its downside. Perhaps only certain departments should be allowed to participate. I don’t think anyone wants to hear, “I’m from the Codes Department, I’ve been living on carrot sticks for three days, and you look like red meat to me!”

Furthermore, healthier employees will stimulate the economy via job growth. Insurance companies will have to hire extra personnel to concoct new reasons to keep premiums up. (“Let’s see, if the moon is in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligns with Mars…”)

If the anti-obesity campaign enjoys continued success, the county may expand to help its employees by discouraging other potentially harmful behavior, such as smoking, drug abuse, skydiving, whistle blowing, etc.

It takes a lot of guts for the participants to post their “before” photographs on the Internet for the world to see. Not many people can bear to display their physical shortcomings on the Web, unlike the tens of millions who have no qualms about displaying their mental shortcomings. (“There was no Holocaust. The Trilateral Commission and the Knights Templar staged it out in the desert somewhere.”)

Be prepared for stress from the diet regimen may take its toll on the dignity of even the strongest public servants. (“We intend to uphold government of the people, by the people, and for the luvva Mike will you get those carbs out of here!?!”)

Taxpayers face a stressful situation as well. This is a real paradigm shift for them to get used to. After years of wrangling over “separation of church and state,” it’s now “separation of employee and doughnuts.” Cornered government figures will now wag their fingers and insist, “I did not have chocolate éclairs with that woman.”

Citizens will have to get used to the sheriff climbing out of his patrol car at a traffic stop and drawling, “You in a heap of triglycerides, boy!” Instead of scheduling government debate, the calendar committee will focus on employee pin-ups. ( Actually, it’s nice to have government employees all buff and glowing. They’ll look better in photos for the ribbon-cutting of the latest Lardburger franchise.)

In spite of the culture shock, voters should show their support for the government employees’ weight reduction. Maybe someday we’ll see politicians competing for prizes in other reductions. (“It’s only January, and I’ve already taken down 22 percent of my November campaign posters, on the way to my goal of 60 percent. I approve removing part of my message.”)

Do I Feel A Draft?

It was sometime between 1970 and 1972. In one of my rare brushes with the occult, I nervously approached the Magic 8-Ball with the question that hung over my young head: “Will this Vietnam War end before I’m old enough to be drafted?”

The answer was unclear. (The 8-Ball also waffled on urgent questions about cooties .) Now a new generation may have to sweat the answers, as Rep. Charles Rangel, D-N.Y., prepares to reintroduce legislation to revive draft registration.

A lot of the people who are unhappy with our current all-volunteer military are nostalgic for the shared sacrifices of “the last good war.” They’d love to see us return to war taxes, rationing books, curfews, air raid drills, and the like. They’d probably be ecstatic if they could dig up Clark Gable and sort of prop him up against the wall to sell war bonds. (“Frankly, my dear…my left femur fell off.”)

Yeah, we whipped Hitler with draftees, but those recruits had been toughened up by rural life and/or the Great Depression. Nowadays a drill sergeant’s call for a 10-mile hike would be met with whines of “If the jostling hurts my PlayStation 3, what is the procedure for filing a class action suit?”

I can understand the concerns about poor and minority recruits being disproportionately represented in a dangerous occupation like the service. But I wonder how the draft proponents would react if a mugger was whuppin’ up on them with a tire iron and someone who had chosen a career as a police officer came to the rescue. (“No, thanks. I’m waiting for the draftee police program to start.”)

I don’t think I would sleep a bit safer knowing that rich politicians’ sons were forced to defend me. . Cries of “Hey, cap’n, I need another tank – the ashtrays in this one are full” just don’t inspire me. And when the privileged lads get into hand-to-hand combat, I don’t think, “Have your people call my people” will cut it.

I’m concerned that forcing celebrity kids into the military would create an expensive new bureaucracy: the Department of Hey, Dad, Get Me A Deferment Or I Swear I’ll Show Up At Your Campaign Rally Stoned.

Just watch some shrewd politician exploit the draft and appeal to the hawk vote. (“My opponent is a card-carrying member of the Hug Your Kids And Tuck Them In At Night Club. A good deadbeat dad is what this country needs in Congress. Vote for me and I’ll get the job done.”)

Of course Rangel and his supporters don’t really want a draftee military going to war. They want the draftee force to make Congress “think twice” about launching a war. Instead of viewing the war in an abstract sense, congressmen would theoretically be more cautious and diplomatic if they thought they were putting youths from their own district in harm’s way. I guess that depends on what sort of relationship they have with the folks back home. (“Let’s declare war on Luxembourg! That’ll teach that snot-nosed kid not to throw my newspaper in the bushes.”)

The Associated Press gives Rangel’s legislation little hope of passage, but the soreheads out there will never ever let go of their class warfare schemes. (“I think Bush’s daughters ought to be out there on the front line. C’mon, honey, throw your walker at ‘em!”)

The NFL Crossroads: Pigskin's Progress?

Maybe you thought NFL stood for National Football League, but it may soon stand for Negligently Forgetting Loyalists.

According to a flurry of recent press releases, the greedy league risks watering down its core appeal by (a) seeking to establish a foreign franchise within the next decade, (b) making its entire game slate available internationally via the Internet, and (c) marketing the product more toward women.

An initial foreign franchise (if it materializes) would most likely be in either Mexico City or Toronto. I have nothing against the Great White North, but can Canadians really handle anything other than Canadian football? Players are supposed to be role models for youth, and I think we should stick with good old U.S. player values like assault, robbery, and DUI – not Contributing To The Delinquency of A Caribou.

And all six people left in Mexico by 2017 would naturally love watching their own team, but is that goal worth having the NFL become entangled with the corrupt Mexican government? Quarterbacks and halfbacks would be replaced with kickbacks. Disputes would be settled with “totally unaltered instant replays” showing Howard Cosell fumbling a pass from Jim Thorpe.

What exactly have foreigners done to deserve receiving American football via the Yahoo! Web portal? Shut down the time-honored domestic foam finger industry with cheap imports and sent good Americans scrounging for third-shift jobs at the beer hat factory, that’s what! Okay, I guess the overseas guys have shown their football spirit by keeping up with statistics -- like Official Who Intercepted The Most U.S. Foreign Aid Funds. They deserve the baggage that comes with the Internet: listening to Al Gore lecture about how he invented pigskin.

The NFL should certainly cherish the large contingent of female fans it already has. Their backgrounds, temperaments, and lifestyles fit in with the world of professional football. But I question the value of desperate attempts to brainwash those who are only casually interested.

What sort of harebrained schemes will be utilized to make the sport more female-friendly? Do we really want team owners trying to solve their salary cap dilemmas with cents-off coupons? Will youngsters really develop a love for football by participating in the NFL’s Punt, Pass, and Accessorize program? Will the players union feel any safer if team doctors begin treating multiple fractures by prescribing a gift certificate from Bath & Body Works?

Supporters of change bemoan the fact that Super Bowl commercials are slanted toward testosterone-charged products like beer, automobiles, and electronics. I don’t think the husbands and boyfriends of America will take kindly to new hybrid ads that encourage them to drink responsibly before getting into their new sports car and going from zero to 180 on a mission to pick up feminine hygiene products.

You may think it possible to double the NFL audience with a little tinkering, but most likely you’ll see a male revolt when the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders have to synchronize their choreography with the Dallas Cowboys Chippendales.

I can see why the lure of the Almighty Dollar makes the league want to seek out more rabid fans. But if they persist on tampering with success, on “any given Sunday,” they may find themselves getting bitten in the rear.

The Gospel According To Elton

Speaking in a special “gay edition” of the “London Observer” newspaper’s monthly music magazine, pop legend Elton John recently pontificated that organized religion should be outlawed because it lacks compassion and promotes hatred of homosexuals.

I think the singer paints too sinister and conspiratorial a picture of clergy and congregants. Maybe he has read “The DaVinci Code” one too many times, but it’s as if he has unlocked the existence of The Patron Saint of Stealing Handicapped Parking Spaces or the “We’ve secretly replaced the baptismal water for gays with Folgers flavor crystals” scam.

I know, you’re wondering how a music superstar gets to be such an expert on deep theological issues. Surely you remember “Menorah In The Wind,” “Don’t Go Breaking My Commandments,” “Goodbye, Yellow-Brick Damascus Road,” and “On This Crocodile Rock I Will Build My Church.”

Forty years ago, Sir Elton’s tirade would have led to public album burnings, barricading of radio stations, and – if all else failed – preachers nationwide condemning him to an eternity of “ring around the collar, ring around the collar.”

As it is, we’ve become so desensitized to assaults on worship, that the typical response will be “As soon as I finish my Tae-Bo class, I’m sending God a fiery text message about this assault on … Hey! ‘Deal Or No Deal’ is on tonight!”

Admittedly, Sir Elton’s message lacks urgency because he doesn’t really envision putting it into action. It’s more of a “if I had my druthers” or a whimsical magic wish list. (“I want a unicorn, and the First Amendment beaten to a bloody pulp, and a big mountain of chocolate ice cream…”)

Sir Elton told the interviewer that organized religion “turns people into really hateful lemmings and it’s not really compassionate.” Or maybe he just sets unreasonably high standards for charity. (“Here’s a nice hot meal, and we’ve paid your rent for a month, and here are some tracts about saving your soul. Uh, if that’s not enough, I have this nephew you’d really love to sodomize…”)

Sir Elton plays on the emotions of those who can’t stand church hierarchy, assembling with the saints, “Sunday go to meeting clothes,” and the like. He appeals to people who prefer hobnobbing with Mother Nature or communing directly with God. That system worked so well in ancient times, with zany incidents such as Adam and Eve pilfering fruit, Cain whacking his brother, etc.

Yes, Sir Elton exploits the knuckle-draggers who look for any excuse to get out of the church building. These mellow, laid-back religious freelancers (Favorite song: “I’ll Fly Away By The Seat Of My Pants”) like to brag about the revelations they get straight from the Creator, without interference from elders, deacons, sobriety, etc. (“And Jehovah told me, “I thought it was a double bogey, too!”)

To his credit, Sir Elton did wax nostalgic for the simpler times of his childhood Sunday school classes. It’s just that he doesn’t like rules and regulations to grow up. In the World According To Elton, highway patrolmen would probably tell motorists, “You were driving 180 miles per hour on the wrong side of the road. I’m throwing the book at you – a sticker fun book. Enjoy—and don’t let me catch you running with the rounded scissors!”

Up next, the classic, “I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Hissy-Fits”…

Don't Run, Forrest, Don't Run

Is the glass half empty or is the glass dragging you behind a speeding pickup truck?

Perceptions are at the heart of an ongoing controversy in Murfreesboro. The student government at Middle Tennessee State University has urged the administration to remove the name Forrest (for Confederate Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest) from the ROTC building.

One side perceives the building name as a tribute to a military genius who saved the city from an invading army. The other side chooses to perceive the name as (at best) a slap in the face, or even a trigger for a post-hypnotic suggestion to resume lynching.

I’ve heard the arguments underlying the latter view. “Forrest was a traitor.” “Forrest was on the losing side.” “Forrest was a slave trader.” “Forrest was linked to the original Ku Klux Klan.” “It’s time to put the Civil War behind us and heal.”

The issues of “state sovereignty” and “right to secession” were still up for grabs at the time Forrest chose to side with the Confederacy, so it’s a stretch to question his loyalties.

And so what if the South lost? After winning World War II, the U.S. magnanimously let Japan keep its emperor as a figurehead, with no dire consequences. When a high school football team has a losing season, the principal doesn’t ban the players from the yearbook (not even the ones who bullied smaller kids, made poor grades, or became deadbeat dads). While we’re dissing losers, do the students want to take a wrecking ball to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial???

The slavery era is a tragic part of American history, but the fact remains that the slave trade began with Africans selling fellow Africans. So it’s strange to denounce the name “Forrest” while giving babies phony African names or celebrating faux African holidays like Kwanzaa.

And, as many writers have pointed out, it’s intellectually dishonest to hold historical figures to modern standards. If you really want to nail Forrest on multiple counts, he probably didn’t rewind his videotapes, recycle his plastics, or support Hillary for president, either.

What will the student government do next – picket a school exhibit of Neanderthal artifacts because the cave men weren’t paid the federal minimum wage for making the tools?

It seems petty to demonize Forrest (who ordered the original Klan disbanded) because of what the Ku Klux Klan devolved into. I’ve never heard a single person hold Jesus Christ (founder of Christianity) personally responsible for the excesses of the Crusades or the chicanery of televangelists.

Being “divisive” is the new liberal bogeyman, but just how harmonious is it if one side always says, “I know you’re a lying racist scumbag when you say ‘Heritage, not hate’”?

One has to admire the wide-eyed idealism of the student leaders. They’ll probably hammer at this issue until they’re distracted by something more urgent, like, I don’t know, the right of endangered mussels to visit their life partners in the hospital or something.

But their view that certain groups have ownership of historical events and personalities is regressive, not progressive. If one side is allowed to trot out history when it suits its purpose and otherwise pretend the history didn’t exist, future generations will be denied the opportunity to study and debate issues.

“Putting the Civil War behind us” makes us forever prisoners of that war.

Note: Shortly after this column was written, the anti-Forrest resolution was withdrawn.

"More Power!" To The People

Now that Marshall Farmers Co-op has opened its ACE Hardware dealership, I look forward to eager throngs of do-it-yourselfers; but, let’s face it, not everyone is cut out to be a handyman.

For instance, the lady who wanted fence wire for constructing a dog pen. When I asked how much she needed, she replied that it was being built along the property line. She then asked in all innocence, “How long is a property line, anyway?” I was tempted to answer, “That depends on whether it’s winter or the seashore.” but I didn’t want to add to the confusion.

Then there are the types who ask legitimate questions but don’t place much urgency in the answer. They’ll ask, “This lacquer I just bought – if I store it in a hot shed, is there a danger of it spontaneously combusting and burning down the entire neighborhood?” When I offer to run and get more expert advice, they drawl, “Naaahh… I’ll just wait and ask next month when I come back.” I hope they’re more decisive when the fireman orders them to jump into the net.

I’ll never forget the couple that drove away with a 25-foot utility pole strapped underneath a passenger vehicle. I’m sure they had calculated wind resistance, calculated traffic patterns, and, most importantly, calculated how much Jack Daniel remained in their thermos.

We have employees who really know their stuff about hardware, but I’m afraid it would be the blind leading the blind if anyone expected any technical knowledge from me. Some people are dangerous with power tools; my insurance policy has this rider about paper clips. In my spare time I’m writing the Great American Novel: “Our Friend The Tetanus Shot.” I count my blessings – right after I count my fingers. Yes, “ACE is the place” – but the emergency room is a close second.

Still, that ineptness fits right in with my complacency about home repair. Some slackers merely keep the same wallpaper or learn to tolerate cement cracks. I think I could live with the boards still containing acorns and woodpeckers.

Okay, I do have fond memories of painting Gideon’s nursery (several years before his birth), but the project with the insulation blower from Home Depot still gives me nightmares. It wasn’t until we started dragging the contraption in and out of the van and up the steps that we realized we had been honored with the Celebrity Model, which apparently had Anna Nicole Smith and Kirstie Alley stowing away inside.

So there I was in the bedroom feeding bag after bag of insulation into the machine while poor Melissa was in the attic with the hose, deftly putting equal amounts of insulation into the floor and into her lungs. At least this helps with parties. I just tell a joke that gets Melissa started coughing, and we have instant confetti.

I guess I would think more highly of the insulation experience if we weren’t in a losing battle against our drafty old house. After hiring someone to put on vinyl siding, after hiring someone else to floor the attic, after doing our own caulking, we still see minimal results.

I get the idea that if I bought a do-it-yourself rocket kit from ACE and plunged the house into the fiery heart of the sun, the propane truck driver would come around the next month and announce, “Wow! You used three percent less propane this month!”

Next week, I’ll be writing about…Naaahhh. I’ll worry about next week’s deadline in June.

Congratulating The Bride And Vrooom!

According to “USA Today,” Harlequin Romance and NASCAR, Inc. have joined to produce a series of novels set in the exciting world of motorsports.

Certainly NASCAR’s involvement with the genteel world of romance novels is part of its ongoing campaign to distance itself from its rough and tumble moonshining past. We’ve already seen the Winston Cup become the Nextel Cup. We’ve already seen drivers penalized for televised profanity. I understand that future changes include: pit crews showing up “fashionably late”; cars emitting potpourri-tinged exhaust fumes; valets not only parking your truck but enjoying your tailgate party for you; and track officials declaring, “We’re giving everybody the pole position – and a gold star!”

And let’s not forget the shift of races away from traditional Southern sites. When explorers recently discovered a remote Indonesian “lost world,” totally untouched by civilization, biologists’ first thought was “What amazing biodiversity!” NASCAR officials’ first thought was “So long, Daytona!”

Of course the NASCAR alliance is part of Harlequin’s scheme for complete domination of the written word. Harlequin devotees bought 130 million books last year, and romance novels in general account for nearly 55 percent of all paperback fiction sales. I wouldn’t be surprised if the warning label on cigarettes becomes integrated into the romance genre. (“The Surgeon General has determined that heaving breasts may be the result of either unbound passion or deadly carcinogens. Hard to say.”)

Many NASCAR fans are already voracious readers of romance novels; but the new deal could even reach folks who think that “restrictor plates” are something you pick out when selecting your silverware and linens, or who think that the “backstretch” is something the heroine does to show off her glistening hair and dewy eyes.

Media analysts cite Harlequin and NASCAR as a good match because the readers daydream about “happily ever after” with heroes, and the race car drivers are idolized as heroes by many. Personally, I think the drivers are hard-working nice guys, but I don’t know if I would use the word “heroes.” My heroes “rob from the rich and give to the poor.” Somehow “generate revenue from diverse demographic niches and return it to the macroeconomy via the multiplier effect” just doesn’t have the same ring. My heroes would never stop short with a statement such as “I’m going to scale the barbed wire, dodge the machine-gun fire, and lob a grenade into the – aw, the caution flag is up! Man!”

Still, I can understand why romance readers are attracted to the drivers. The readers’ humdrum lives create a void that can only be filled by someone who sneers at danger, someone who knows how to handle himself in a crowd, someone who could get them to the Payless Shoes sale at 250 miles per hour.

Sure, some NASCAR fans may object to the far-fetched plots in romance novels, but I think this project will really catch on. Is amnesia really that inconceivable? . Millions of romance novel readers seem to have forgotten reading the same %$# storyline 473 times before.

NASCAR romance novels are here to stay, so get ready for some steamy love scenes. Just imagine the hero finally seeing the heroine naked for the first time. (“Sorry I’m staring, my beloved. I’m just imagining what you’d look like with Tide and Valvoline decals plastered all over you. Mmmmmm…”)

Bless His Heart! Tyree To The Rescue

“I ain’t from the South, but I got here as fast as I could” is a popular bumper sticker; but, according to a survey by the Associated Press, only 77 percent of the people born and still living in the South consider themselves to be Southerners.

Have national chain restaurants, industrialization, and political baggage really made Southern heritage so insignificant to some of y’all? Our ancestors would be turning over in their graves, if they hadn’t already been exhumed for construction of a Sushi R Us franchise.

I place much of the blame on the media elite, especially TV news anchors, with their subtle Midwestern bias. (“Will the knuckle-dragging segregationist Southerners be able to operate the voting machines? Only time will tell.”)

The inferiority complex of the South is even watering down our religion. Here in the Bible Belt, we used to worship someone who walked on water. Now we’re heaping all our adoration on Guys Who Can Drive In Snow And Ice.

Then again, maybe Southerners aren’t really rejecting their culture. Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding caused by our drug-dispensing public schools. (“Duh, I’m from south of the Mason-Dixon Line, so that makes me a …quadratic equation!”)

Whatever, the South is fast losing its identity and becoming a bland component of a homogenous society. Watch for these Warning Signs That The Yankees Have Won Again:

* The Lions Club sponsors an annual Monster Yugo and Civic Pull.

* “Hog killing time” involves cement blocks and a river.

* Motorists pull over for funeral processions, not out of respect, but to avoid being run over by the paparazzi. (“Ya never know. That hundred year old dirt farmer could have slept with Jennifer Aniston. Better take more pictures!”)

* Surplus middle names are donated to the Bob-less and Earl-deprived regions of Africa.

* Filling station attendants give directions like, “The bank? Just go down yonder a ways and turn where the feed store used to be. You’ll find a guy who can Google the bank for you.”

* Hospital emergency rooms are equipped to offer you a transfusion of Type A, Type B, Type AB, Type O, or unsweetened tea.

* School speech teachers are all replaced with auctioneers.

* At church socials, someone is inevitably accused of being the Nanner Puddin’ Nazi.

* Folks say, “Have your people call my people about ‘How’s your momma ‘n’ them?’”

* Two words: aerosol cornbread.

* Signs bear the message “See Rock City. Hey, What Are YOU Lookin’ At???”

* Instead of registering with the state, deer hunters register with Saks.

* No more marrying cousins – unless they’re the same sex.

I keep holding out hope that someday the 23 percent of respondents who claim they disavow the South will admit they were just yanking the chain of the nosey pollsters. Wouldn’t be the first time.

(“The Euro dollar? Yes, I reckon it will crash because of mounting deficits in the Third World – but mostly because of the influence of Elvis in a U.F.O.” “Wow! I’ve gotta rush this survey into print! This could be the biggest trend since Jennifer Aniston’s John Deere fetish!”)

Lennon Fans: We All Shine On

Monday, December 8, 1980 started out as a good day for me.

I was doing well in my college classes, I was writing for the student newspaper, I had my first girlfriend, and the radio featured catchy songs such as John Lennon’s “(Just Like) Starting Over.”

I returned to my dorm that evening and learned from the resident assistant’s roommate that Lennon had been gunned down outside his New York apartment building.

I felt blindsided. Rock stars overdose or die in plane crashes or fade away on oldies tours. This was too surrealistic. Not only would there be no new Lennon masterpieces, but it was as if my childhood was being erased behind me. (For one thing, the “Fab Four” helped inspire me to go from a flattop to bangs. Of course now when I look in the mirror I just feel like singing the Beatles classic “Help!”)

I find solace in different ways. At least widow Yoko Ono got to see how much Lennon meant to the world, when 10 minutes of silence were observed the following Sunday. Poor Yoko is still vilified for supposedly being the reason the Beatles broke up. If you’ve heard her sing, you realize she could probably also be accused of making the continents break up.

At least John went out in his prime (he was only 40), not reaching the point where he obtained “Instant Karma” only with Metamucil. Nor did he have to sell out to Madison Avenue by turning “Whatever Gets You Through The Night” into a companion jingle for “I Get By With A Little Help From Depends.”

I’m glad Lennon’s legacy survived the controversy that erupted in 1966. Churchgoers were burning Beatles records after Lennon told an interviewer that – for good or ill -- rock stars (not the Beatles in particular, as is commonly reported) were more popular than Jesus. The audacity of that statement is comparable to Pres. Bush claiming today, “I am more popular than root canals.”

I’m glad Lennon didn’t have to update his songs to fit the world of the 21^st Century. We didn’t really need to hear “I Saw Her Standing There (So I Notified Homeland Security),” “Strawberry Fields Forever – Or Until I Get A Subdivision Deal,” “Give 19 Confusing Medicare D Plans A Chance,” and “I Want To Hold Your Choirboy.”

Lennon fought personal demons, but I’m glad he had good points for us to emulate. Have you paid tribute to Lennon in the way you’ve lived the past 25 years? Do you experiment and innovate with your career/hobby, instead of stagnating? Do you strive to balance work and family? (Lennon was the world’s most famous stay-at-home dad.) Do you go through the motions of griping, or do you seek attention-catching ways to take a stand? (Remember John and Yoko protesting the Vietnam War from their bed?) Have you tried to leave something that lives on after you, whether it’s a well-adjusted child, a tree, or a donated book? Do you use your mind to imagine the best instead of the worst?

Let’s be happy that Lennon inspires us and will inspire generations to come.

And let’s rejoice that he didn’t have to compose an anthem about the looming Social Security crisis. (“Imagine there’s no trust fund/ It’s easy if you try/ Congress blows our money/Retirees only sigh…”)

Rock 'n' Roll Over! Good Boy!

According to the “New York Times,” one of the cleverest sites on the Internet is DogCatRadio – a radio station dedicated to keeping pets from becoming bored or lonesome while their masters are away at work.

The need is obvious. You can’t turn on the TV without seeing commercials for the “When Animals Shoot Paper Wads II” videotape. And who wants a beloved feline suffering the emotional scars of being left alone with thoughts such as “I wonder if I can stay awake until What’s His Name gets back from…ZZZZZZ”?

History backs me up on this. Animal boredom was one of the leading reasons for the fall of the Roman Empire. (“I am so tired of devouring Christians. Say, Simba, I bet them pagans is good eatin’!”)

DogCatRadio gallops to the rescue with intellectual stimulation for cooped up pets. Leaving our four-legged friends home alone with the company of the Internet makes them ponder deep philosophical questions, such as “How am I supposed to switch this to a porn site?”

DogCat Radio plays a lot of soft rock favorites, mixed with cutesy requests such as “Who Let The Dogs Out?” and “Hound Dog.” I suppose the anti-neutering crowd would go for M.C. Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This.”

If DogCatRadio continues growing, enterprising songwriters will inevitably come up with customized music for the station. Songs might include “Leaving On A Jet Plane Baggage Compartment,” “The Sounds of Silent Dog Whistles,” “I Fought The Leash Law,” “Flea Drops Keep Fallin’ On My Head,” “This Old Heartworm of Mine,” “Gainesburger In Paradise,” “Jive Barkin’,” “Fetch Like An Egyptian,” “That’s What Litterboxes Are For,” and “She Works Hard For The Hairball.”

Branching out to attract pets who prefer country music, the station would find plenty of room for songs such as “Coal Miner’s Canary,” “Live Like You Were Being Euthanized,” “He Stopped Vaccinating Her Today,” “I Remember The Dog Year That Clayton Delaney Died,” “You Were Always On My Leg,” “There’s A Stranger In My House. Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof! No, Wait, Never Mind. It Was Just The Cuckoo Clock.”

If the station wanted the demographic of puppies and kittens, they could play songs such as “The Wheels On The Bus Go Round and Round. Bite ‘Em!”

The station already reaches out to animals other than canines and felines. There could even be programming for ferrets. Partnering with C-SPAN, DogCatRadio could broadcast the antics of those lovable weasels in Congress.

DogCatRadio does not currently carry advertising, but the potential is there. We would probably hear pitches for things like the new books “Heloise’s Hints On How To Get Stains Into The Carpet” and “Secrets of The Throwing The Stick Scam.”

Prize contests (“Pick up the phone and be the fifth caller”) might be a tough sell, except in households with monkeys. The inequity would be addressed by radio evangelists. (“The opposable thumb: the mark of the Beast?”)

I’m not sure how well traffic reports would work on DogCatRadio. (“Observers are reporting a collision in the park. A Chihuahua has rear-ended a poodle. No, wait –that was no accident….”)

The next time you’re worried about leaving your pets unattended, give DogCatRadio a shot. They might even be playing that country classic “Rollin’ In My Sweet Baby’s Possum Carcass.”

Trying To "Stirrup" Some Trouble

Ladies, do you really need a whole cheering section shouting “Push!”?

According to the New York Times News Service, there is a growing trend toward allowing multiple guests in the delivery room during labor. Some women even move their baby showers to the delivery room.

Rejecting privacy and modesty, proponents of this cultural shift insist that a circle of family and friends can make a birth even more wondrous than it already is. Yeah, so can hiring David Copperfield to help the baby make its escape, but ya gotta draw the line somewhere.

Contemporary mothers squeeze more and more guests into the delivery room because they can’t stand to slight anyone. Then, once they’re back on their feet, they resume playing tennis at their all-white country club.

Hospitals use the trend as a marketing tool. Visitors who get a warm, fuzzy vibe from the delivery room experience will turn to that hospital in the future, whenever they’re considering elective surgery, or just have a hankering for five dollar tongue depressors. (“Jim, I saw your kid today and it reminded me of my ‘roid troubles…”)

Be that as it may, some people just don’t belong in the delivery room. Grandmothers-to-be would have a captive audience for their nagging. (“Hmph! If you had married that nice young doctor instead of What’s His Name, I’ll bet we’d be in the hospital Express Lane now, instead of waiting 12 hours for delivery!”)

Invite your best friend to the delivery? Sure. Just don’t expect a moratorium on catty comments. (“Judy was really brave during her entire delivery. She kept a stiff upper lip. If only she had thought to wax her lip…”)

A bunch of typically rowdy male spectators can ruin the blessed event. (“Hey, you gonna let him slap you on the rear end like that, ya little wuss? Lay one upside his head, Junior!”)

Some women even invite their bosses to the birth. This can really blow the boss’s mind. (“It’s like I’m looking in a mirror! That’s the same expression I make when I grant a five-cent raise!”)

Why stop with the boss? Why not go for broke and invite the president? (“How was I supposed to know the pregnant woman’s water would break? Besides, this is a local issue, not a federal one!”)

There are just too many variables in childbirth for a woman to invite all her friends and acquaintances. What if there’s a breech birth? The baby would get off to a bad start in life if his first official act was “mooning” the preacher.

Do we really want childbirth to be a community event on the order of funerals? What puffy-faced, stringy-haired, groaning woman wants well-wishers commenting, “My, doesn’t she look natural?”

Those glamour photos for Christmas cards become sort of pointless after everyone on your list has seen you in labor, don’t they? It’s like installing a home security system and then leaving a neon sign that announces, “Here’s the pass code, and a can of ether for the guard dog.”

You’re entitled to your own opinion, but I’ll point out the simplicity of the most famous childbirth in history. The “Wise Men” were wise enough to show up long after the action. It might have been ugly otherwise. (“Frankincense? Myrrh? I want Demerol! Surely there’s room at the inn for Demerol!”)

Be True To Your Skoal

It’s the sort of thing that makes you mad enough to spit!

I speak of Tennessee’s attorney general (Paul Summers) bullying country singer Gretchen “Redneck Woman” Wilson into toeing the politically correct line. Wilson had been waving a can of Skoal smokeless tobacco during performances of her new song “Skoal Ring,” but pressure from Summers caused her to snuff out the routine.

I’m not a user myself, but I still think smokeless tobacco gets a bum rap. Here are 11 good things about smokeless tobacco:

1. No more having to haul fabric samples to the store when shopping for paint. Just flash your “pearly yellows” at the clerk.

2. Smokeless tobacco has spawned some other great country songs: “Stand By Your Spittoon,” “He Stopped Brushing Them Today,” “I’m Mopping The Floor Over You,” “I Go Out Expectorating After Midnight,” “I Was Pre-cancerous When Pre-Cancerous Wasn’t Cool,” and “You Were Always On My Gums.”

3. By giving the term “smokeless” a warm, fuzzy meaning, smokeless tobacco opens the way for other benign products, such as smokeless rear-end collisions, smokeless alimony payments, and the whimsical smokeless kick in the groin.

4. It gives the Average Joe a chance to keep up with the bragging at class reunions. (“I’m trying to see how fast I can run the marathon.” “I’m trying to see how fast I can make microchips process vital defense data.” “I’m trying to see how fast I can get nicotine into my bloodstream.”)

5. It’s always neat to have products whose chief selling point is “This is a perfectly legal product, darn it!”

6. Smokeless tobacco holds out hope for men who might otherwise have trouble finding women. If Gretchen Wilson is turned on by a man who still needs an oral pacifier, she’d probably go wild over a guy who throws temper tantrums and uses adult diapers.

7. . It gives recognition to the real he-men who don’t take any bull from anyone, except, of course, from tobacco industry executives.

8. Smokeless tobacco teaches humility. You become better at eating your own words, because, hey, they taste pretty much like everything else.

9. When they find crossword clues for “oropharyngeal tumor” and “gingival recession,” can-a-day Copenhagen users can crow, “Ha! I knew those without blowing five bucks on a crossword dictionary!”

10. If smokeless tobacco can hold on to respectability, nostalgia buffs may yet see a resurgence of the fine art of emptying the chamber pot in the street.

11. Smokeless tobacco lures all 34 carcinogens to your stomach lining so you can fight them there, on your own terms, instead of on American soil. (Thanks for that one, Dubya.)

And thank you for letting me vent. As a reward, we’ll close with a musical number. . For your listening pleasure, it’s Willie and Julio. “To all the girls I’ve grossed out before/By spewing my saliva on the floor…”

The Long Tassle of The Law

By now you’ve probably heard about Anette Pharris, the Nashville mother indicted for hiring a stripper to perform at her 16-year-old son’s birthday party.

Yes, every newspaper brims with ads for gifts designed to make any birthday special , but Pharris would have none of that. To ensure that her little darling had a memorable occasion, she allegedly searched far and wide until she found a stripper willing to disrobe at a party with a guest list that included 10 minors.

The stripper and three other adults were also charged by the police, thus validating the best-selling book “It Takes A Village (To Contribute To The Delinquency Of A Minor).”

Obviously, Pharris desperately wants to be one of those “cool” moms. It would not surprise me if she went around announcing things like, “Look! If you squint really hard, my stretch marks sort of kind of look like rapper 50 Cent!”

Prostitution and drug dealing are common in the Pharris neighborhood, so the mother defended her actions on the grounds that her son could see a lot worse happening on the street in front of their house. It’s a wonder she didn’t use the same logic to hire a motorist to run over a dog in the kitchen during the birthday party.

Pharris argues that age is just a number (so is “7 to 10 years without parole”), and that her son Landon is “very mature” for his age. I’m wondering how he demonstrated his maturity. Instead of dollar bills, did he stuff a diversified investment portfolio down the stripper’s G-string?

Of course the mother was giving her completely unbiased opinion when she lauded the boy’s maturity. She probably thought, “It takes a lot of maturity for a boy to keep a level head when he’s Beethoven, Einstein, Tom Cruise, and Mark McGwire all rolled into one.”

Parent-child relationships have certainly changed since I was a boy. Remember when you were told, “If you get a whipping at school, you’ll automatically get another one at home”? Now it’s “If you get aroused at school, I’ll see to it that you get aroused again when you get home, mister!”

I’ve heard of parents giving a child a car on his 16th birthday, but apparently now it’s enough just to give him the back seat!

The idea of discipline and restraint has really evolved. Evidently, it now means, “Darn – I should’ve told the stripper to bring handcuffs and a whip.”

What does the future hold for the Pharris family? In order to give her son an unforgettable birthday, the mother wound up going to jail. How will she top that when it’s time for senior prom?

(“Son, when the lights dim at midnight, just remember -- that’s your Mom getting fried by Old Sparky!”)

In case you’re wondering, young Landon Pharris seemed quite pleased with the party. Someday he’ll probably deliver the following ode to his mother: “M is for the melons she hired for me; O means ogling strippers’ rears; T is for the tassels that inspired me; H is for hormones coming out my ears; E is for her eyes, glued to Jerry Springer; R means rash, and rash she’ll always be; Put them all together they spell ‘MOTHER,’ a word that means endless counseling sessions for me!”

A Site For Eyesores

“A man’s home is the government’s castle.”

That seems to be the sentiment in too many cities. For example, Franklin, Tennessee, where several aldermen are trying to strike a blow for aesthetics by banning construction of garages that (*gasp!*) face the street.

There’s enough of the old “pursuit of happiness” ethos in me to get riled up when Frasier Crane wannabes have hissy-fits over flag poles, basketball goals, pink flamingoes, life-sized Graceland sculptures made of ear wax, etc.

Granted, the snobbery of these glorified hall monitors has its positive side. They’ve obviously found a superior way to humiliate the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay. Forget about stripping them or ridiculing their religion ; you’ll have Amnesty International going ballistic if you just force detainees to wear T-shirts that announce, “Thank Allah, I own a front-loading garage.”

And I suppose the aldermen envision themselves as gallant heroes, bravely saving the unwashed masses from one faux pas after another. If Joe Blow insists on the vulgar path of building a front-loading garage, he’ll soon be using it for a big garage sale, because his kids will be rejected by all the Good Schools and wind up living in a van down by the river!!

Aldermen dismiss complaints that the new rule would require bigger, less affordable lots. They have faith that developers will be able to solve the problem, presumably while they’re also curing the common cold, working the kinks out of perpetual motion, and finalizing a safe response to the question “Does this dress make me look fat?” Hey, it could happen, especially if the developers get a noise variance for use of an Evel Knievel ramp, so the homeowners can jump over the house and land in the back yard.

The control freak who introduced the measure asserts that houses should emphasize the people living in them, not the cars those people drive. I suppose that means he’ll next sponsor a law requiring all new homes to have see-through walls. At least then you could ticket the scofflaws who are secretly wearing white after Labor Day.

It seems that communities funnel too much research and development money to The Committee For Finding Even More Things We Can Arbitrarily Call Tacky. Aw, it could be worse. The committee would be denouncing even more things if members didn’t get into slap-fights over whether the committee plaque matches the wood grain of the door.

No wonder the elitists are hung up on rear-facing garages. Their heads are stuck so far up their rears!

Don’t get me wrong. Building codes and neighborhood covenants have legitimate uses. I’ve been around long enough to know that extremes of eccentricity and slovenliness cannot go unchallenged. When I was 15 years old, I was hired to mow the lawn at an apartment house. Even though I loaded down a pickup truck with toys, bottles, cans, and other debris before mowing the first blade, I still managed to run the mower onto an automobile engine block that was concealed in the grass!

I hate that the aldermen dredged up such memories. Legend has it that somewhere in the yard, the skeletal remains of Henry Ford were up on concrete blocks. (“Hey, ya never know when you might need a spare part. . I intend to do something about Henry whenever I get around to it.”)

Bewitched, Bothersome, and Bewildered

Are you looking forward to the new “Bewitched” movie starring Nicole Kidman and Will Ferrell?

“Bewitched,” of course, was a long-running ABC TV series about the comic misadventures of the Stephens family: a pretty young witch (Samantha) married to a mortal (Darrin).

“Bewitched” was an instant hit in the Nielsen ratings. It premiered in September 1964 opposite “Password” and “Dr. Kildare” and finished the season second only to “Bonanza.” I have been unable to corroborate a report that Samantha sought revenge on the Ponderosa bunch by unleashing nosey neighbor Gladys Kravitz on them. (“Abner, I swear there’s something strange about that Hop Sing Cartwright. With that ponytail, I think he’s a hippie or something.”)

When Tabitha was born (January 13, 1966), it was a national sensation. Doting parents Samantha and Darrin were just glad that she had 10 fingers and 10 toes and owed her allegiance to the Prince of Darkness.

“Bewitched” might have soared even higher if not for resistance from fundamentalists. Remember the pesky Old Testament admonition “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live”? I think the general public was satisfied to water down the Law of Moses to “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to eat Jimmy Dean Pure Pork Sausage.”

“Bewitched” also faced opposition from draft-age men, who were sarcastically grateful that Samantha always managed to help Darrin be in two places at the same time but never remembered to end the Vietnam War. (“What??? I didn’t? Oh, my stars! Esmeralda, have you been messing with the refrigerator magnets again?”)

One of the most infamous aspects of “Bewitched” was the change in Darrins. Purists insist that the show started downhill when the role went from the pop-eyed Dick York to the duller, smugger Dick Sargent. The event persists in the international consciousness 36 years later. World leaders at a recent G-8 summit were overheard commenting, “Ah, yes – Dubya, the ‘second Darrin’ of the Bush family!”

Darrin faced enough trouble even without an actor switch. Remember Endora, Samantha’s spiteful, meddling mother? You could probably visit her exhibit in the Mother-In-Law Hall of Fame – unless, of course, your own mother-in-law is visiting. (“Go ahead and enjoy your museum * cough * cough*. I’ll probably be able to call 911 if something happens.”)

For younger folks who don’t “get” the reruns of “Bewitched” on TV Land, I guess it was just a product of simpler times, when we could be entertained by talking horses, Martian uncles, monster families, flying nuns, and midriff-baring genies. I would hate to see it just starting out in today’s world.
Dr. Bombay would no longer “come right away”; you would get a generic witch doctor, and he would come by mail order. High-paid consultants would have to study whether boiling eye of newt affects the wellbeing of newts. With cutbacks in aviation, the animated opening sequence would show Samantha riding a lint roller instead of a broom.

It gets worse. Samantha’s practical-joker Uncle Arthur would probably booby-trap chairs with “Whoopee Korans” and make Howard Dean the chairman of the Democratic Party. What? Oops. Never mind.

Will the movie resonate with today’s audience? As momentum builds for the story of a woman who conjures by stirring a cauldron or twitching her nose, kids may be asking “What’s a cauldron?”

And Michael Jackson will be asking “What’s a nose?”

Parents Translate The Darnedest Things

Go get a goo goo – it’s intelligible.

That jingle may soon be stuck in your head. That’s because the AFP news service reports that Japanese researchers have developed a translator for baby talk!

(You may recall that three years ago the Japanese marketed Bowlingual, a machine for interpreting dog barks. One of the test dogs allegedly remarked, “I am most pleased to eat the honorable roadkill, but raw fish???? Am I on ‘Candid Camera’ or something????”)

By analyzing an infant’s cries, facial expressions, and body temperature changes, the gadget purportedly deciphers the child’s wants and fears.

I’ll tell you what I fear – the sort of jolting verbiage that might erupt from the supposedly innocent infant mind. You might think the little darling is cooing “I love Grandma,” but his babblings might actually be “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? I’m a good boy! Now hurry up and make out your doggone will!” and “What’s this obsession with the whereabouts of Thumbkin? Are you a stalker or something?”

Things could get even uglier. What if the infant has copped a teenage attitude and just needs the device to unleash his frustrations? Parents would be bombarded with petulant whines of “You guys remember to walk 20 feet behind the stroller” and “Mom, if anybody sees you breastfeeding me, pretend we don’t know each other.”

I’m not even sure I trust the gadget to deliver an accurate representation of the baby’s intentions. It’s too tempting to rig the device to deliver commercial messages. You find your baby pulling the cat’s tail and the cat clawing the baby. You could pretty well surmise the baby’s feeling via low-tech means, but no – you turn it over to the translator. Surprise, surprise -- the little darling is actually remarking, “Homeowners, did you know that electric water heaters are 30 percent more efficient than gas water heaters?”

What’s cute about baby talk with no mystery? I share the sentiments of the song “Let Them Be Little .” When my 14-month old Gideon cuts loose with a stream of nonsense words and wild gestures, I like to imagine that he’s a campfire sing-along director, a senator filibustering a judicial nomination, or a preacher delivering a “poop and brimstone” sermon. (Although, I wish he wouldn’t use unleavened ladybugs for communion wafers.)

It would be hypocritical of me not to treasure Gideon’s ramblings, since I am told that many of them make more sense than these columns.

I appreciate the humanitarian motives of those who would like a tool for pinpointing the causes of a baby’s pain or discomfort. But I don’t think the device is a cure-all. The machine might translate the baby’s mournful cries accurately, but once the parents consulted their insurance handbook and encountered words such as “out-of-network,” “co-pay,” and “elective,” it would be the parents doing the wailing.

I think the more urgent need is to develop a translator for lawyer-speak, or even doctors. “Eat less and exercise regularly.” Who can make heads or tails of mumbo jumbo like that???

Ultimately, I just don’t think it’s in the divine plan for adults to understand children so early. If God had meant for babies to be understood, our first recorded utterance from Moses would have been, “Watch me part the waters as I wee wee in your face!”

Star Wars And Rumors of Star Wars

It’s difficult to write about “Revenge of the Sith,” the final “Star Wars” movie.

That’s because of the way George Lucas chose to tell his 9-part epic. The first three movies were actually chapters 4-6. In recent years Lucas has filmed chapters 1-3. And he won’t be doing chapters 7-9 at all. Hmmpphh! When your Great-Aunt Mabel tells stories that way, they don’t give her directing awards; the family puts her in a home.

I didn’t know how confusing things would eventually become back in 1977, when the first “Star Wars” (chapter 4, “A New Hope”) blew me away. I didn’t have my driver’s license yet, so my late father drove me to the Hi-Way 50 Drive-In and sat through the movie with me. It was a great bonding experience, but I could have sworn I heard a James Earl Jones-ish voice whispering, “Dan …I am your father, Dan. Get a girlfriend for pity’s sake!”

“Star Wars” fans are breathlessly waiting for “Revenge of the Sith” to answer questions about the origin of villainous Darth Vader. Did Anakin Skywalker choose the Dark Side? Did the Dark Side choose him? Or did Paula Abdul have the deciding vote?

An unprecedented number of companies have signed up to use “Star Wars” characters in their ads this time around. With all the fast food being peddled, the phrase shouldn’t be “May the Force be with you,” but “May the coronary care unit be with you.”

Some fans may go into withdrawal pains now that the film series is wrapping up, but at least “Star Wars” won’t wear out its welcome to the extent of the “Rocky” or “Nightmare On Elm Street” franchises. If Lucas kept going, Luke Skywalker would become Luke Needs-A-Walker, and we would witness Chewbacca using a full-body comb-over to hide the ravages of Wookiee Pattern Baldness. The nation’s theaters would be showing “Star Wars XXVII: The Return of the Toaster Oven Without A Valid Receipt.”

The outlook for diehard “Star Wars” addicts isn’t totally bleak. Lucas has revealed big plans for developing two television series, one animated and the other live-action. Of course smaller TV budgets will mean cost-cutting measures, such as replacing Imperial Stormtroopers with even more menacing plagues – guys in business suits playing legislative lobbyists. I’m sure we’ll soon be seeing a blooper special with Obi-Wan Kenobi suffocating under gnats and moths during a Jedi Knight“light saber” battle. Can commercials with Han Solo’s Millennium Falcon ruggedly climbing muddy hills be far behind?


Whether or not the TV projects come to fruition, Star Wars has had a profound effect on American culture. Pres. Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative was dubbed “Star Wars” by the press. And Pres. Bush thinks FDR’s promise to Social Security recipients was made “long ago, in a galaxy far, far away.”

I truly feel the Star Wars mythos has legendary qualities, and the characters will still be known a thousand years from now. Unfortunately, as with Robin Hood and King Arthur, myth and fact will become hopelessly intertwined.

For instance, history books will have a rather strange take on Rosa Parks’ struggle for civil rights.

“Why did I sit in the front of the bus? Go ahead! You try sitting in the back of the bus with the fumes from Princess Leia’s hairdo!”

Show And Tell, 2005 Style

“Teacher, teacher, I declare – I sent Suzie to the electric chair!”

That schoolyard chant is not so farfetched. According to the Associated Press, approximately 2000 schools and colleges have adopted Student Crime Stoppers programs in which students are given rewards for being tattletales. The program is so pervasive that NBC is considering a series called “Law and Order: WVU” (Wedgie Victims Unit).

Rewards may include cash, pizza, premium parking spaces, and other incentives. Amounts vary depending on the nature of the offense. Schools might pay $100 for information about an act of vandalism, $500 for information about a crime involving a gun, $1,000 for catching some thug humming “Jesus Loves Me”…

Vandalism, bullying, and cheating have always been a part of the academic experience, but the recent spate of school shootings has given a sense of urgency to stopping problems before they happen. One administrator explains the need to subordinate privacy to security. “Guns can cut short a student’s potential for a lucrative career in running laps or knowing the 1985 per capita income of Luxembourg. Guns can snuff out young lives in an instant. We would prefer to snuff out young lives the slow way, with all the junk food in school vending machines.”

In these security-conscious times, the whole atmosphere at school is different than most of us remember. Old-fashioned hall monitors can’t compare to the anonymous spies of today. Instead of wrist corsages, guys give their prom date a tracking anklet. Teachers can be heard saying, “All right, children – line up for your x-rays…er, class picture.” Cheers include “Two, four, six, eight – give up your right to litigate!” The old “Dick and Jane” primers now include stories such as “See Spot sniff drugs. Sniff drugs, Spot, sniff drugs.”

Of course the programs are geared to maintain the self-esteem of even the most heinous young criminals. Snitch reports must be carefully worded, such as “I saw Bruce smoking in the boys’ room, but the puffs of smoke were reminiscent of the work of a young Picasso.”

Some psychologists worry that the Crime Stoppers programs could destroy the sense of community among students. Yes, there is such an abundance of camaraderie and trust in schools. (“Trust me…you smile at my ex-boyfriend one more time and I’ll snatch you baldheaded, you marching band geek!”)

Civil libertarians worry that because of greed or vendettas, students will abuse the system and try to frame innocent classmates. (“Okay, maybe Brad didn’t start that there French Revolution, but I know he thought about it.”)

It’s a noble sentiment to nip violence in the bud, but the Crime Stoppers program may backfire. In the era of The Sopranos, students who are even suspected of being informants may find that nap time has become “sleeping with the fishes time.” (“Mrs. Othelmeyer, there’s a finger in my finger paint!”)

Much to the consternation of school officials, many students opt not to play whistleblower. For some it’s a matter of friendship. For some it’s a matter of staving off an Orwellian future. For most, they know they can’t claim their prize without enduring another lecture about the miracle of compound interest.

For good or bad, the Crime Stoppers program is here to stay. Unless the snitches decide to branch out.

“My biology experiment today is about what I learned in the teachers’ lounge…”

“Class dismissed!”

All That Disneyland Jazz

On May 5 Disneyland begins the official celebration of its 50th anniversary.

A mere half-century ago, skeptics were laughing at Walt Disney’s crazy dream. Okay, they were laughing at the crazy dream about Walt skipping school all year but still delivering the valedictory speech, wearing only mouse ears, not the crazy dream about turning his movie empire into a theme park empire, but that’s beside the point.

The original section of the world-famous theme park cost $17 million and was built on 160 acres of orange grove near Anaheim, California. In other words, the region went from squeezing citrus fruit to squeezing tourists.

Come on, let’s cut the company some slack. The song “It’s A Small World After All” has resonated at the park since 1966. Indeed, Disneyland has done much to further the brotherhood of man. After you lay out the money for a 3-day visit, you know just how a Third World peasant feels.

You’ve gotta admit they have a great setup for a business. If you find mouse droppings in the food, you don’t get to sue; they charge you for souvenirs.

Disney executives feel justified in charging what the market will allow, after their failure with a scaled-back “value menu” of attractions. People just didn’t go for Pinocchio (the wooden boy whose nose grows when he tells a lie) becoming Pinocchio the wooden boy with the deviated septum. Likewise, they avoided Sleeping Beauty’s Castle when wicked Queen Maleficent was replaced with that cranky old lady from the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Other failed attractions:

* Jaywalkers of the Caribbean

* Snow White and the 7 Laid-Off Keebler Elves

* Roadkill Country Bear Jamboree

Disneyland has maintained its reputation as “the happiest place on earth,” even though there has been competition in the geopolitical realm (“North Korea: the happiest place on earth – or else!!”) and even though nowadays when you wish upon a star, some poor sucker has already paid $39.95 to have it named after him.

Disneyland has stirred our imaginations and warmed our hearts even while fighting distractions such as the persistent urban legend about Walt Disney being frozen after his 1966 death. The rumor was given new life when a visitor overheard a security alert at the supposedly “animatronic” exhibit “Great Moments With Mr. Lincoln.” (“Code blue! Abe is demanding more money! Someone thaw out John Wilkes Booth!”)

The California park carries on, even though it has lost its uniqueness because of Disney’s expansion into Florida, Japan, and France. I think next up is Disneyland Tennessee. (“Officer, there’s a perfectly good reason my pickup truck rear-ended the Monorail car.”)

Disneyland has managed to stay up to date. In Frontierland, visitors used to find out more about their forefathers. Now youngsters employ modern DNA testing to sort out their four fathers. Main Street U.S.A. is now This Building For Rent, U.S.A. Religious fundamentalists have Are-You-Sure-There’s-A-Tomorrow? Land. For those interested in global warming, there’s the Matterhorn Water Skiing ride. The Haunted Mansion is now known as “Scott Peterson: The Adventure Continues.”

I feel confident that Disneyland will still be going strong in another 50 years. But maybe the ad campaign will go a step beyond the one that launched in 1987. (“Joe Blow, you just took your family to Disneyland. What are you going to do next?” “I’m going to the poor house!”)

45 And Still Alive

I turned 45 on April 18, and, as is my birthday custom, I’m taking stock of my life.

I’m now nearer to retirement than to the beginning of my work career, unless the Social Security Administration does some more “tweaking.” (“Dear Abby: My government insists it’s committed to my retiring someday, but keeps changing the date --supposedly for the sake of the kids. Should I pack up and leave?”)

As far as forced retirement, why are age policies so different between the secular world and the Catholic Church? A guy in a regular job is handed a gold watch and hits the door. Hand one of the cardinals a watch and he gushes, “Oh, yeah – I remember when they invented watches!”

The older I get, the more responsibilities and stress I feel from juggling family, work, and church. Some days I feel as if the weight of the world is on my shoulders. No, wait – that’s just my falling hair.

Father Time’s relentless march only makes me appreciate oldies radio stations more. But some songs get more depressing every day. When I hear the Beach Boys sing “Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older…,” I want to give somebody some “good vibrations” upside the head.

Even Jim Croce’s beautiful “Time In A Bottle” hasn’t aged well. I tend to modernize it as “If I could save time in a bottle, somebody would put a @#$% child-proof safety cap on it!”

Life is rushing by so fast, I’m trying to be more observant. While driving, I pay more attention to the roadside. I’ve seen things I’ve never noticed before: a gazebo in a back yard, a misspelled word on a “No Trespassing” sign, blue lights in the rearview mirror…

I haven’t really had that many milestones in the past year. I did overcome my cotton allergy. (“Cotton: the look, the feel, the fabric of your sleep disorders.”) And we boldly leapt into the 1950s by purchasing a dishwasher, to keep Crocodile Hunter from capturing my dishpan hands for his trophy room.

Okay, I did start a blog (a web log, for those not Internet-savvy), mostly for archiving favorite columns and posting family pictures. Like many a project, I’ve shamefully neglected it. It’s an old Tyree motto: “Don’t do anything halfway, when you can get away with doing it quarter-way.” (View the blog at http://dannytyree.blogspot.com.)

My birthday wasn’t all bad. Melissa and I celebrated by attending the two-person play “Love Letters.” I enjoyed it immensely, although I was holding out for “Large Print Love Letters.”

Melissa gave me a set of “Red Skelton Show” DVDs. They provide wholesome entertainment, although they also magnify the irony of aging. How is it I can remember Clem Kadiddlehopper or seagulls Gertrude and Heathcliff from 40 years ago but can’t remember why I just entered a room? And don’t try to bluff your way out of a memory lapse. Guessing wrong about why you entered the bathroom can be disastrous.

Check with me next year to see if I’m any less obsessed with the calendar. Maybe those sunshine boys at the College of Cardinals will take on a more youthful attitude as well. . (“Kiss my ring? I’ll tell you what you can kiss if you don’t turn down that music, you little punk!”)

More Motivated Than Thou

My boss is not sending me to the big “Get Motivated” seminar at Gaylord Entertainment Center on April 25.

So you might dismiss this essay as sour grapes. I just like to think of it as random skeptical thoughts about the world of inspirational speakers.

Let’s face it: some speakers tend to milk a catch phrase for all it’s worth. (“There is no ‘I’ in team. There is no ‘f” in phantasm. There is no ‘u’ in color – unless you’re from England and…”)

Granted, businessmen sometimes find themselves unable to see the forest for the trees and need help increasing productivity. Professional motivational speakers bring a fresh perspective, unique insights, a bowl of fortune cookies with sage inspirational sayings…

Apparently these glorified pep rallies bring results. One salesman issued a testimonial that his sales tripled directly as a result of last year’s seminar. Tripled? How could he be missing his potential by that wide a margin? I guess the seminar had to teach him, “Do not open a sales call by asking, ‘Do you have Prince Albert in a can?’”

I don’t know about the Gaylord seminar in particular, but motivational speakers tend to oversimplify and gloss over a few steps. They dish out dynamic tips, such as “Taking the lessons you learned from losing your first million…” and “Develop the right attitude, and you can be anything you want – even the boss’s idiot brother.”

Sports figures will offer practical advice for the masses, such as “While you’re getting the cop to tear up your speeding ticket, sell him a house that matches the color of his eyes.”

I understand that comedian Jerry Lewis (one of the Gaylord speakers) will probably get in tune with the common man by advising, “Okay, first you get the French to love you. Then…”

Do you get the impression that some of the speakers are slumming? Former New York City Mayor Rudolph Giuliani kept essential services (fire, police, hospitals) functioning in the aftermath of September 11. Now he’ll teach you to sell people junk they don’t really need, in the aftermath of the prime rate going up a quarter of a point.

General Tommy Franks will be trying to shoehorn his wisdom into the civilian world. I can just imagine “When life hands you chipped beef on toast, make lemonade,” “If a prospect hangs up on you, court-martial the bum,” and other pearls dreamed up while sitting on an $800 Pentagon toilet seat.

I like level playing fields as much as the next guy, but isn’t there something surrealistic about the way the seminar is giving the same secrets to all comers, including companies that are in direct competition with each other? And what happens when you’re trying to sell to a customer who already knows all your tricks? (“Okay, this is a standoff. Let’s lay our order pads on the floor and back away slowly so no one gets hurt.”)

Admission at the door is $225, but an entire office can attend for the unbelievably low price of $49. I hear that the promoters fear some cut-rate speakers bureau will produce a competing seminar, at which local retail clerks tell audience members to “Have a good’un.”

Ultimately, I guess motivational speakers are okay, up there in their ivory towers. But I wonder how they would perform down in the trenches facing the demoralizing daily grind with the individuals they preach to?

Offices would be buzzing with “Wassamatter? Never saw a photocopy of Zig Ziglar’s buttocks?” and “Forget a Super Bowl ring. I’ve got free office supplies!”

Fishing For Compliments

Do you enjoy being pierced through the skin with giant fish hooks and suspended from the ceiling by a system of ropes and pulleys?

If not, you must not be part of the “body suspension” movement that involves thousands of Americans.

The movement is so well organized that it even has conventions. At a recent convention in Rhode Island, people paid $100 each to hang and $15 each just to watch. But the organizers shouldn’t get cocky. Next winter some canny entrepreneur will set up a booth outdoors and undercut them by letting thrill-seekers stick their tongue on an icy flag pole for a buck.


One of my co-workers denounced the body suspenders as “morons,” but I prefer to be charitable and live by maxims such as “Live and let scab over” and “Whatever floats your boat…er, whatever narrowly misses mutilating your connective tissue.”

Practitioners have various explanations for their unconventional hobby: rite of passage, exploring the unknown, learning to trust themselves and the universe, overcoming fear, etc. Some say they feel “empowered.” Maybe it’s just me, but when someone is empowered, I want him using his power to rescue kittens from trees or throw Lex Luthor in jail -- not doing impressions of the Captain D’s “catch of the day.”

Some body suspension fans claim to derive a “spiritual experience” from the hobby.. Clergymen all over the country are probably smacking their foreheads and moaning, “We wasted all that effort on sermons and choirs! What we needed was pews with splinters and protruding nails!”

Some practitioners experience feelings of euphoria. But they aren’t as euphoric as stockholders of BASS Pro Shops, who have found a whole new market segment with waaaay too much time on its hands.

Many people get into body suspension because you can get only so many tattoos and piercings. But what happens when body suspension itself gets old? How will fans up the ante? (“Dude, this is my buddy Charlie. We had him cleaned and mounted. Sorry, Charlie.”)

Practitioners are quick to point out that many cultures over the years have practiced some form of body suspension for worship, meditation, or killing time until there’s another volcano to pitch a virgin into. . Of course most of these cultures are long gone, showing the value of trusting yourself and the universe!

Ha! People said Galileo was crazy, too -- when he insisted that the earth isn’t the center of the universe. Of course he didn’t have the whole picture -- that the center of the universe is really attention-craving adrenaline junkies.

One website advises body suspenders on how to handle the media. They’re warned not to let local reporters make them look weird or goofy. That’s like telling an NBA team, “Don’t let the anchorman give the impression that at least a few of you read ‘Ebony.’”

A tutorial on body suspension recommended various sanitary tips, including massaging the wounds to “burp” the air out. Great -- even with a bunch of 25-year-old hyperactive males, you get dragged into a Tupperware party!

If you’re still squeamish about body suspension, its proponents will good-naturedly tell you “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” Of course the proponents risk being hoist on their own petard when a critic supplies the rejoinder “Growing the @#$% up: don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

Chastity Begins At Home

Apparently a coalition of advocacy groups (including Planned Parenthood and the American Civil Liberties Union) has exerted enough pressure to shut down a brand new Health and Human Services Dept. website.

The website (www.4parents.gov) was billed as a resource for parents who feel uncomfortable talking to their teens about sex. (This is not to be confused with the Homeland Security Department website for parents who do not feel uncomfortable talking to their teens about sex: -- We Know Where You Live, Pervert.gov. )

4parents.gov questioned the effectiveness of condoms at preventing pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases, and emphasized the importance of abstinence before marriage. (“We’re from the government and we’re here to turn the hose on you.”) At least the government practices what it preaches. (“Remember…don’t climb into bed with defense contractors until you’re officially sworn in.”)

The opponents of the site give a nod to chastity as a Utopian dream but call for facing reality and making contraceptives readily available. Of course many of these realists are the same people who say, “If we can just convince every single American to spontaneously give up his automobile, then we wouldn’t have to drill for oil in Alaska, and we could convert all the oil derricks to pump lemonade and gumdrops.”

The opponents castigate 4parents for having an “agenda” and offering only very narrow, right-wing information. The opponents are much too busy for biases, what with developing their new pro-choice cartoon character, “Blob O’Tissue.”

Luckily, groups such as Planned Parenthood and the ACLU want teens to know all their options. (“Did you realize that you can burn the American flag and recite George Carlin’s 7 Words You Can’t Say On The Radio, while you’re enjoying sex?”)

The opponents accuse the 4parents message of being fear-based. Still, it’s the opponents who say things like “Unless you come to the rescue by taking a transvestite to the prom, the Republicans will cut off your granny’s Social Security!”

Granted, the opponents can have their mellow moments, as with the pamphlet “Your Friend The Condom.” (“Sure, sometimes he’s like a human friend and lets you down, but don’t you just feel you could kick the whole world’s butt when you’re together?”)


The opponents accuse 4parents of being dishonest, incompetent, ignorant, discriminatory, and mean-spirited. And, oh yeah -- “judgmental”!!!!

4parent.gov’s detractors are appealing to the Cool Parents, the ones who say, “Well, as long as everyone else is jumping off the bridge -- but be sure to wear these clean underwear for the ambulance, young man.” They’re trying to hedge their bets and would probably revise The Ten Commandments with prohibitions like “Thou shalt not steal -- but if you do, I’ve got this buddy who runs a pawn shop…”

Perhaps a compromise is possible. Instead of handing out guilt trips or condoms, school nurses could end teenage sex by handing out three jobs and a mortgage. Need a second opinion? (“Okay, here’s face cream and one of those nightgowns that old married women wear!”)

With or without resources from Health and Human Services, I’m confident that I’ll be ready with all the facts when baby Gideon needs his “birds and bees” talk, especially if we’re looking at photos of his mother in the maternity ward. (“That darned stork showed up at the hospital just as Mom was having minor elective surgery! Can you believe it???”)

Swimmin' Pools, Movie Stars, Memorial Services

Well, doggies -- I wonder if sowbelly and dandelion greens were among the vittles mourners brought to the funeral home?

What am I talking about? Simple. Paul Henning, who created “The Beverly Hillbillies” and “Petticoat Junction” (and served as executive producer of “Green Acres”) recently passed away, at age 93.

Henning said the Clampett clan was inspired by childhood camping trips to the Ozarks. This contrasts with FOX programmers, whose shows are inspired by childhood experiences of plagiarizing term papers.

Henning entertained up to 60 million viewers a week with cement ponds, “billyard tables,” Dash Riprock, Mr. Drysdale, Jane Hathaway, Hooterville, Bugtussle, and other characters and concepts. But critics hated “The Beverly Hillbillies,” and it never won a single Emmy Award. Emmy voters, understandably, were more interested in lauding “The Dick Van Dyke Show,” which shook off moribund Eisenhower-era morality and asked sophisticated philosophical questions such as “Will he trip over the ottoman this week?”

“The Beverly Hillbillies” was very much a product of its more innocent times. I shudder to think what it would be like if created today.

* The theme song reference to how Jed Clampett “barely kept his family fed” would now be “removed his family’s feeding tube.”

* Elly May tries giving CPR to one of her critters, only to discover that it’s Donald Trump’s hair.

* “So they loaded up 75 undocumented workers and moved to Beverly…Hills, that is…”

* Instead of mistaking a kangaroo for a giant jackrabbit, Granny mistakes it for a Weapon of Mass Destruction. Guest star Pres. Bush sends troops into the midst of the Iraqis “to have a heapin’ helpin’ of their hospitality.”

* Instead of singing “Throw Out The Life Line,” Granny sings “Throw Out The Liberal Activist Judges Who Are Perverting The Constitution.”

* Jethro Bodine purchases a Sony PlayStation and watches his vaunted sixth-grade education evaporate.

* “Set a spell. Take your overpriced shoes endorsed by Michael Jordan off…”

* Sponsor Kellogg’s (of Battle Creek, Michigan) becomes Kellogg’s of Give Negotiations A Chance Creek, Michigan.

* Jed whittles shivs for Martha Stewart to use in prison, and goes hunting with his ferret, Ol’ Duke.

* Hoedown, lap dance … it’s all the same when you’re full of Granny’s white lightnin’.


One of the most traumatic events of my life happened in 1971. I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, reading an article about “Granny” actress Irene Ryan. She was mad as a wet hen that those goomers at CBS had just canceled the Hillbillies, as part of a purge that also eliminated such rural programs as “Hee-Haw” and “Mayberry, RFD.” The bottom line was that the city slickers at the network commenced to cipherin’ and figgered out that fans of rural shows were jist too dadgummed ignorant to do their duty and fall for the sponsors’advertisments, hook, line, and sinker.

Still, after 34 years, I’m proud to be a Hillbillies fan. I treasure the Hillbillies lunchbox purchased at a yard sale. The phrase “dumb old girl cousin” still slips out every now and then. When my in-laws come onto their deck to wave goodbye, I tell Melissa, “It’s time to say goodbye to Jed and all his kin.”

And now, alas, it’s time to say goodbye to Jed and his creator. Their kind will never come back now, ya hear?

Every Dogwood Has Its Day(s)

Mark your calendar for April 15 through 17. That’s when Winchester, Tennessee, plays host to the inaugural International Dogwood Festival. (E-mail me at tyrades@localnet.com for details about these “three days of entertainment for the entire family.”)

I’m sorry I have taken the dogwood for granted. Not only is the flowering dogwood ornamental, but it also supplies food for birds and wildlife, and produces a wood useful for golf clubs and jewelers’ benches. How ironic that a mere tree is so versatile, while I know several people whose main claim to usefulness is that you could stand them in the corner and bust kindling over their heads.

I’ve learned quite a bit while researching dogwoods. For instance, trees are grown in “nurseries” because of all the bawling by mall developers when they see a forest. (“So many trees, so few bulldozers!”)

Whence cometh the name “dogwood”? In Europe the bark of one species was boiled in water and used for washing dogs afflicted with mange. Building on that work, scientists are currently racing against the clock to find a part of the dogwood that cures canines from (a) rolling in putrid stuff and (b) embarrassing the heck out of their owners by being overly amorous with visitors.

George Washington and Thomas Jefferson made prominent use of dogwoods at Mount Vernon and Monticello, although the slogan “Four out of five men who wear powdered wigs recommend dogwood trees” never really caught on. The Father of Our Country (“First in war, first in peace, first in line to get his poodle dipped for mange”) achieved excellent results with proper pruning, expert fertilization, and the humming of a fife-and-drum ditty called “Remember What Happened To The Cherry Tree.”

An Internet search for “dogwood” yields numerous links to “The Legend of the Dogwood.” According to the legend, the dogwood once grew as a tall, straight tree and was used for timber. But when the wood was used to make the cross for Christ’s crucifixion, Jesus was so touched that he promised the tree would never again grow large enough to be employed for such a purpose (although the fine print of the promise allowed for use of the tree in making frames for a gazillion prints of “Footprints In The Sand.”)

Enjoy the legend while you can. My well-placed spies in the education system indicate that the new politically correct version of the legend is “Dogwood trees evolved from apes.”

Dogwoods have enjoyed worldwide popularity even without the sort of historic icon that apple trees enjoy. True, there was an attempt with rapping character Snoop Doggy Dogwood, but Johnny Appleseed’s estate lawyers were out for sap and sued Snoop right out of business.

I am envious of people who have a knack for landscaping. I don’t have a green thumb. It’s more like a bad martial arts movie: “10 Fingers of Death.” Any plant I was in charge of would never appear in “Better Homes and Gardens” magazine; more likely, it would grace the cover of “Better Put It Out Of Its Misery.”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this look at things arboreal. Next week we analyze how we can use the United Nations to solve the world energy crisis. (“Stand ‘em in the corner and bust kindling over their haids.”)

The Hitler You Never Knew

A German historian has claimed that Nazi scientists successfully tested a nuclear weapon in the last months of World War II.

Although this was a “crude” nuclear bomb (as opposed to the elegant, debonair ones used by the Americans to delight the masses in Hiroshima and Nagasaki), it gives me the willies to think about how close Hitler came to winning World War II.

Believe it or not, the nuclear bomb was not the only close call. The Nazis actually had a head start on many scientific and cultural innovations of the past 60 years. Examples:

* The current apology “My bad” was used extensively at the Nazi War Crimes Trials, and when two Nazis met outside the public eye, that famous salute was paired not with “Heil,” but “Wassup?”

* Advertising campaigns have been influenced by German proclamations such as “I’d like to teach the world to goose step,” “This blitz is for you,” “When Adolf Hitler froths, people listen,” “I can’t believe they beat the whole Master Race” and “The Third Reich has fallen, and it can’t get up.”

* Rudimentary Post-It Notes were used to boost the efficiency of the German war machine. (“Pick up dry cleaning, drop off dog for grooming, conduct abominable experiments on twin Gypsies.”)

* Wedgies, that high school scourge, were pioneered in Nazi Germany. (“Ve haff vays of making you give us your lunch money.”)

* An early form of cable TV’s “Pimp My Ride” was developed at a studio in Berlin. (“Erwin Rommel may be famous as The Desert Fox, but he’ll really get the foxes when we add a Jacuzzi and sound system to his Panzer tank.”) It was often paired with the German predecessor of the “Punk’d” hidden-camera show. (“Mussolini thinks he’ll be tying tin cans behind a friend’s honeymoon car, but it’s really Mussolini’s fat behind that’ll be dragged through the streets!”)

* Popular products advertised on American TV had predecessors in Hitler’s Germany. (“Gas on…gas off…The Clapper!”)

* Hitler had developed his own Motown Sound long before Berry Gordy Jr. and Phil Spector, producing songs such as “Standing In The Shadows of Firebombed Dresden” “R-E-S-P-E-C-T? How About T-O-T-A-L S-U-R-R-E-N-D-E-R?,”“Gestapo In The Name of Love,” “Papa’s Got A Brand New Double,” “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch (Poland Can’t Help Itself),” “Save The Last Cyanide Capsule For Me,” and “Ain’t Too Proud To Wear A Goofy Mustache.”

* Condo time-share pitches were honed in Nazi Germany. (“Own a bunker for one weekend a year and be ready when friends – or bombs – drop in.”)

* Current bank interest rates were foreshadowed by Nazi policies, officially known as “Take helpless people’s assets and don’t give anything in return.”

Given the sad state of history literacy, many schoolchildren will probably wonder why Hitler didn’t at least use the nuclear bomb on Napoleon to win the battle of Gettysburg. But Hitler’s legacy should be of great interest to youngsters.

Yes, the Nazis even beat Americans Richard and Betty James to the punch with a version of the Slinky. Sing along now. (“What marches down stairs, alone or in pairs and makes a jackbooted sound?/A stomp, a stomp, a wundebar romp, Everyone knows it’s Shlinky./It’s Shlinky, it’s Shlinky, for interrogation a wonderful toy/It’s Shlinky, it’s Shlinky, inform on a girl and a boy!”)

Gideon's First Birthday

Our baby isn’t a baby anymore.

Gideon Lewis Tyree celebrated his first birthday on March 6.

I’m sure there will be much eager anticipation for his second birthday, but this year the party and gifts came as a complete surprise to the guest of honor. One-year-olds are so easy to bamboozle. They could see an assemblage of relatives, playmates, balloons, clowns, and ponies and think, “Wow! What a coincidence! Someone call Ripley.” They have the wide-eyed innocence of parents who let their kids stay overnight at the Neverland Ranch. (“What? Michael Jackson is a weirdo? Well, who’d have thunk it???”)

Gideon has been recovering from a slight rash, so when he saw the camcorder come out at his party, he was probably thinking, “This must be one of those disease-of-the-week TV movies. I wonder if they’ll get Blythe Danner to play Grandma?”

One of Gideon’s birthday gifts was the Mega Blocks “Three Little Pigs” set. This is the modernized version, because before the Big Bad Wolf huffs and puffs and blows the house down, he checks for radon.

Gideon also received a baseball uniform and tee ball set. Given the activities of Major Leaguers, it’s a wonder they didn’t come with chewable steroids, Gerber broccoli-and-tobacco, and crotch-scratching Pampers.

One of Gideon’s favorite gifts is the big red metal “Engine No. 7 Fire & Rescue Truck” that my mother bought him. He loves to sit in the seat and clang the bell. But he’s a bit disappointed by the fact that it’s pedal-powered. (“Great! If Fred Flintstone’s house catches on fire, I’ve got it covered. Anybody else is up the creek without a paddle.”)

Yes, Gideon received enough toys to keep him busy for a long time; but we could’ve bought even more gifts, if not for the money invested in “baby-proofing” the house. “Baby-proofing”? Can any mere adult manage to stay one step ahead of baby logic? ( “We know that the Marquis de Sade invented toothpaste and washcloths…therefore, broken glass is…yummy!”)

Gideon tasted his first ice cream on his birthday. And on his way to church, he got to ride in a forward-facing car seat for the first time. Now he’s a big boy (2T clothes, size 6 shoes), set for all the life adventures that occur between the time everyone asks “Does he walk yet?” and the time they whisper, “Has he made out his will yet?”

Since I brought up the subject, no, he’s not walking yet. He hasn’t found the right incentive. But, boy, can he climb! His reason for climbing echoes that of George Leigh Mallory about scaling Mt. Everest. (“Why climb? Because the emergency room is there.”)

People often comment on Gideon’s sunny, outgoing disposition. Well, Gideon’s philosophy about misfortune is “When life hands you a lemon – eat dead ladybugs.” Granted, that’s his philosophy about everything.

Perhaps next year Gideon can report to you himself. He already talks up a storm. In addition to the standard infant gibberish, he also utters such clearly intelligible phrases as “Where’s Dada?,” “Night-night,” “I want some of that,” and “Mother dear, I believe it would be advantageous for you to let father continue his slumber and tend to my caterwauling yourself.”

Well, they’re clearly intelligible to me. Can I help it if I’m an overachiever? Like son, like father.

Trek Trauma: He's Canceled, Jim

It’s a real-life cliffhanger. Unless fans can come to the rescue, the UPN network will discontinue the “Star Trek: Enterprise” series after the May 13 broadcast.

Yes, if things go as planned, for the first time in 18 years, television will be without a spinoff of Gene Roddenberry’s classic 1960s science fiction adventure.

Groups such as TrekUnited.com are trying to raise the $32 million it would cost to produce a fifth season of the show, in hopes that Paramount and UPN will give the program a reprieve.

You may or may not care about the campaign. “Star Trek” has always been too far-fetched for some segments of the audience. Of course these are usually the people who get their news about “Trekker” weirdos from “National Enquirer” articles such as “Elvis Rescues Bigfoot From Crazed Trek Fan.”

(Faster-than-light “warp speed” is already in use -- when gasoline prices go up as soon as there’s a rumor about a rampaging butterfly smashing into an oil pipeline somewhere.)

Grandpa Tyree thought Western Civilization had reached its lowest ebb when “Star Trek” introduced Mr. Spock, a character with pointy ears. Maybe that explains why Grandpa always urged the grandkids to leave border patrol agents instead of milk and cookies for Santa’s elves.

Even some avid Trekkers think the franchise has been overexposed (via four spinoffs) and needs a rest. I guess the series has indeed shown signs of aging. (“That was supposed to be a Vulcan nerve pinch – not a Vulcan hip displacement! Oy!”)

With “Enterprise” mired in 150th place in the all-important Nielsen ratings, we may never get to see proposed “Trek” series such as “Tom Brokaw’s Star Trek: The Greatest Generation” (oldtimers reminisce about how evil warlords used to say “Sir” and “Ma’am” before they released a mutagenic virus on you) and “Star Trek: The Musical” (“All singing, all dancing – to boldly go where no heterosexual man has gone before.”)

As a longtime “Star Trek” viewer, I wish the fundraisers luck, but they may learn the adage “Be careful what you wish for.” If a fifth season is approved, the show’s producers will undoubtedly be pressured to add elements of more popular shows. We would hear things such as:

* “He’s dead, Jim – and I’m glad. We haven’t had a good autopsy since the last commercial break.”

* “Change your phaser gun setting from stun to …‘Remodel.’”

* “There are only two ways to settle this war between the Romulans and Andorians -- Dr. Phil or a nanny!”

* “Watch closely as dad the showoff accidentally shoots himself in the crotch with a photon torpedo.”

Still, the world will truly be poorer for the loss of the “Trek” universe. “Trek” has inspired viewers to study astrophysics, inspired viewers to pursue careers in aeronautics, inspired viewers to throw caution to the wind and buy that darned second Klingon inflatable woman for Saturday night.

The optimistic viewpoint of “Star Trek” will be greatly missed. From the turbulent Sixties through the Carter administration malaise to the divisive post-9-11 environment, “Trek” has held out hope for mankind.

Now we’ll have to depend on the optimism of Pres. Bush. (“I don’t think national parks as we know them can survive. I’m proposing that every American will have the option of owning his own individual tree…or caribou… or geyser or something…I’m open to suggestions…”)

Extreme Makeover: Planetary Edition

We haven’t been able to find the Fisher-Price “Noah’s Ark” toy for Gideon’s upcoming birthday, so I’m resorting to putting Noah’s life into contemporary terms for him.

Noah, of course, was a righteous man in a thoroughly wicked world. God selected him not only because he was righteous, but because of his fearlessness with exotic animals. (“Kangaroos? Shoot, back when I was growing up in the ‘hood, we slept with rats bigger than that.”)

People were raping, pillaging, failing to rewind their rental videotapes, etc. No one listened to Noah’s call for repentance, although, the first few times he hinted at inclement weather, people mobbed the stores for milk, eggs, and toilet paper.

I don’t want to excuse the debauchery of the corrupt population, but Noah was something like 500 years old when he started building the ark. What kind of advice does the average heathen seek from a 500-year-old man? (“D’ya think Depends and Speedo will ever merge?”)

Noah is to be commended for ignoring the scoffers and building the ark exactly as God commanded He must surely have been tempted just to stuff all those animals into his SUV and hit the road.

As far as we know, it had never rained before The Flood. Just imagine the reaction of the sinners after the ark door closed, the “40 days and 40 nights” began, and the waters started rising. No doubt there were pitiable screams of, “There’s still hope for the National Hockey League season!”

Except for Noah’s family, the entire population of the earth was wiped out. Noah, his wife, his three sons, and their wives spent a whole year in the ark. Folks always wonder about the overpowering stench. Well, the year’s supply of Old Spice and Hai Karate was part of Noah’s signing bonus; the animals just had to get used to it.

Noah was 600 years old when the Deluge began. He was still spry, but his age showed in the fact that he insisted on feeding the animals supper at 4:30, and the top of his head barely showed through the boat’s window.

There were plenty of chores for the eight people aboard the ark. Some of the jobs were relatively easy (like feeding the elephants and washing the hippos). Others were incredibly stressful, such as trying to keep the possums from getting run over.

It took months for the waters to subside. The job could’ve been accomplished faster, but all the government wetlands protection paperwork was a real booger.

Just imagine the once-in-a-lifetime experience of emerging from the ark into a fresh new world -- one that had only 83 Starbucks locations, maximum.

After the Flood, Noah’s family and the animals had the huge responsibility of repopulating the earth. (“Don’t think of it as being dragged to a family reunion. Think of it as free tickets to ‘Love Connection.’”)

It’s not well known, but God had to give some of the species an attitude adjustment. For instance, the rabbit. (“Mating? Naaahh, I think I’ll concentrate on my career first.”)

God placed the rainbow in the sky as a reminder that he would never destroy the world with water again. Nope – he’ll use fire next time. (“Gotta get to the store. I need milk, eggs, toilet paper, and asbestos Speedos.”)