BOB CHAKALES

I bought three old Benedictine High School annuals at a yard sale last week. While reading the baseball stats, I noticed a blurb about Bob Chakales. He was a pitcher, and during the 1945 season Bob threw a no-hitter against Thomas Jefferson High, striking out twenty-one men, handing his team an eight to nothing victory.

He signed with the Philadelphia Phillies, was tagged with the moniker, 'the golden Greek', and played for several teams over the course of his career. He won 15 games and lost 25. Chakales had a lifetime 4.54 ERA.

And that's the way life goes. Sometimes we start off golden but end up like tarnished bronze.

MALFUNCTIONS

I bought a new computer three weeks ago. A Compaq Presario. Everything was lovely for the first two days. On day three, the Gremlins struck. My trash can icon threw itself away, Windows Defender surrendered, and my firewall burned down.

Three weeks is a long time to spend with a phone in your right hand and the left outstretched, pointing a specific finger toward the information highway. I got a bad cramp on day six.

And then last night I spent another six hours on the phone talking to a tech rep I could not understand. He had me run a system recovery, and that's when things got real hinky. Computer froze like a Pointer on the last covey of the season.

Took another hour, but we managed to thaw the mother. He assured me that all was well; or maybe he said go to hell, what with the heavy Indian dialect and all, I can't be sure.

I was ready to hang-ten on the web but my computer couldn't locate the modem. I kept shouting, "It's right beside the monitor you idiot," but the contrary cuss wouldn't listen, so I called my internet service provider.

This guy I could understand. He spoke redneck. He walked me through installing the software. When the USB driver failed to load he told me to try connecting an Ethernet cord from the modem to the computer. I told him to hang on while I crawled under the desk. I set my glasses on the floor, worked my way through a nest of cables, and found the port. I'd like to think what I did next was the result of fatigue, but I think Spike (my brain tumor's alias) played a small part in the drama which unfolded.

I tried to insert the Ethernet plug. It wouldn't fit. I jammed it in harder, but no dice. It finally dawned on me that the plug I was attempting to insert was, in fact, not an Ethernet plug at all, but rather my telephone receiver. With that, I grabbed my folded glasses, held them to my ear, and told the tech rep,"Give me a minute, I'm having trouble with the plug."

HEARING IS A BIOLOGICAL FUNCTION: LISTENING IS A CEREBRAL ACT.

DON IMUS: RACIST OR JERK?

Sure, the comments Don Imus made about the players for the Rutgers women's basketball team were cruel. But were they racist?
When the story broke, I thought the outrage would be over his use of the word, 'ho', but people seem to be up in arms over the adjective nappy? What is wrong with a term that describes hair as being closely twisted or curled?
If the Reverend Al Sharpton, the loudest voice shouting from the crowd, were to describe a group of Scandinavian basketball players as silky haired ho's, would we shout racist?

Edy, a news commentator with Fox News actually reported that Don Imus has made racial slurs in the past, and she quoted Imus as saying: Colin Powell is a weasel, and that Bill Richardson- a Hispanic presidential candidate- is a sissy.
Am I missing something? I don't consider either word a racial slur.

Maybe it's because Imus made a comment about a group who happen to be of a different color? And if you do that, any word uttered can be construed as racism.
Calling these girls ho's was just plain wrong. But if using the word nappy makes him a racist then we need to whittle thousands of words from Webster’s dictionary.

I SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN COPACETIC CITY

I got pulled by the man this morning. Expired plates. My back was out, and I stumbled getting out of the truck when Smokie asked me to get in his car. The trooper wanted to know how much I'd had to drink. It was a few minutes shy of 10:00. I told him I was sober.

"How much did you drink last night?"

For some reason I said 'two beers.' He gave me a stern look, one I'm sure he practices in front of the mirror, and I gave it up.

"Three beers."

"You had something stronger than beer," he says. "Your eyes are bloodshot."

Of course they are. I'm fifty. My eyes are red, my skin is crinkled, my hair's jumping ship, and you could plan a road trip with my face.

He gave me the ticket. A $25.00 fine and $110.00 court costs.

My dad and I booked on down to the DMV. A few years ago, before they modernized the joint, it usually took thirty minutes to get a new registration. They now have a forty-foot long counter, and when you go in you take a number and wait to be called. I was number 82. A few minutes after we sat down they called number 40. Forty feet of counter and three clerks working. Two hours, and a numb butt later, I hear, "82."

I gave the clerk the old registration and told her I didn't get a renewal in the mail. She checked her computer and told me one wasn't sent because I didn't pay my property taxes. Now, getting bad news is one thing, but getting bad news after a two hour wait, well, that's two things.

We traveled across town to the tax office and I paid the tax. I told the clerk that I didn't get a tax bill in the mail. She checked her computer.

"We sent you three notices," she said, with the expressionless nuance perfected by the civil servant. And I don't doubt they did. I've received a lot of mail addressed to other people. I wonder how many of them ended up fined and tagged as a tax delinquent.

I'm back in Copacetic City now, sipping a beer and wondering how long I can stay here.