2013 Layne Family Christmas Letter

The leaves are gone, the skies are cold and gray, and the Sunday paper is eighteen inches thick.  Must mean it’s time for the pagan celebration of Sol Invictus once again.  Oh – and Christmas.

Except for Hawks winning the Cup, the Bears hiring a new head coach then firing their defense, and the Illini proving themselves worthy of a berth in the high school badminton playoffs, 2013 will go down as the most uninspiring and uninteresting year in recent history.

This will be our first Christmas without Don.  Not one to fall prey to maudlin sentimentality, Don was never a willing participant in the holidays, but more a victim of the season’s unreasonable expectations of joy, peace on earth, and goodwill toward men.  In an ironic Dickensian twist, the La-Z-Boy in front of the fireplace will be without its usual occupant this year – his one eye trained on a football game, the other feigning interest in the children opening gifts, and the other asleep – as a roaring fire fills the house with smoke.  Never again will he regale us with his very special version of Here Comes Fatty with His Sack of [Excrement], nor remind us that the true meaning of Christmas is humbug.  And who to tell and retell the same off-color jokes, over-mix the drinks, or snore through dessert?  In spite of himself, he will be missed. (For more on Don, visit thelaynebrain.blogspot.com.)

In an example of life imitating 1970’s network television, Amanda and Allyson have evolved into the Odd Couple.  Amanda (aka Felix) is convinced she contracted the flu, typhoid fever, and polio, along with one as yet undiscovered disease this year, the symptoms of which include itchy scalp, a foul temper, and pronounced narcissism.  Conversely, Allyson (aka Oscar) is altogether unconcerned with both domestic and personal hygiene, leaving in her wake a trail of grime and chocolate that keeps Karen following close behind with a sponge and 55 gallon drum of Pine-Sol. 

 

Now a fully armed and operational teenager, Amanda continues to both impress and irritate in equal measure.  What she lacks in good sense she makes up for in volume and hysteria, preferring to communicate only via text and shouting.  She has been working hard at her three dance classes – which she practices nonstop while doing homework, during meals, and while sleeping – but also at spending all of her parents money on boots she refuses to wear, opting to walk barefoot between indoor venues lest they become soiled.  Her straight A’s almost make up for the fact she’s late for everything, and we are all looking forward to high school next year where she’ll have new people to yell at.

 

According to her coaches, Ally is to fastpitch what “chopped” is to “liver.”  Having now transitioned to travel ball, Allyson intends to be the first pitcher ever to play Division I softball without first attending middle school.  Likewise, nephew Jayson is again the talk of his Pee Wee football team, no doubt because he is larger than all of the varsity players on the local Hoover HS team and many of the Auburn University offensive linemen. 

 

The clan crammed into the car and traveled south this summer visiting the Carolinas and Savannah, GA.  Moved by lessons of the Civil War, Amanda and Allyson spent most of the trip fighting over issues on which they both agree.  Inspired by their visit to the Biltmore Estate, the girls formed new opinions of how a modern middle class suburban family should live, leaving Karen to contemplate which of the seven rooms in her home she might convert into a library, solarium, and stables.

 

The family devoted one full day in Charleston to touring the USS Yorktown.  Initially disappointed to discover Yorktown wasn’t a shopping mall, Amanda and Ally wound up enjoying themselves, marking the first time they willingly spent an entire day inside a place of any historical significance that didn’t feature a shoe store or food court.  And yes, Paula Deen does fry everything she serves at her restaurant in butter, including muffins, pizza, and coleslaw.

 

Upon turning 50, Karen intensified clearing the clutter from her life to the point the family is convinced she’s accepting bribes from the local waste hauler.  It’s degenerated to where if you can’t find something important, look in the trash.  Thank goodness for the Apple Find My Phone app.  No one has seen Mark in weeks.

 

Taffy continues to challenge the neighborhood skunk population to regular duels.  Skunks 4; Taffy 0.

 

To say Mark has enjoyed his new career choice would be an insult to joy.  Of course the insurance has proved beneficial to pay for his broken finger, rebuilt shoulder, and breast implants.

 

If nothing else, Christmas provides a much anticipated interruption in the humdrum drudgery of daily existence.  As Johann Wolfgang von Goethe noted, “A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days.”

 

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, and Taffy

 

 

Ode to My Dad

Donald J. Layne, 1929-2013
 

I lost my father recently.  He was a hard man to lose.  Not merely because of his size (he struggled with weight for most of his adult life), but more so because of who he was to the world.

My dad was a man of the people, for the people, from the people.  He knew everyone.  I guess that happens when you hang around for almost 84 years.  

In his classic film, It’s a Wonderful Life, Frank Capra showed us how one life can impact many. 

My dad didn’t build houses or kiss babies or cross swords with an evil slumlord, but he did teach kids.  Lots of them.  Nearly three generations during his forty-odd year career as a classroom teacher, coach, and principal.  And then for twenty more years post-retirement as a member of the school board and the dozens of community organizations, councils, and commissions for which he volunteered.

It also explains why his memorial service was moved from the local funeral home to city hall.  Even then the visitation line wound Disney-esque fashion through the rotunda, out the door, and around the building.  All that was missing was a theme-based gift shop at the end.  And a bowl of soup.

I’m certain my dad was watching, irritated nobody had thought to charge admission.

One stooped, gray-haired, gentleman towing a wheeled oxygen bottle claimed he was only twenty three when he got in line.  My dad would have liked him; probably asked him out for a drink after. 

My mother, sister, and I met them all.  Hundreds upon hundreds.  For four hours we stood shaking hands and listening to their stories.  Most everyone had a story.  Many involved careers my dad helped launch, rescue, or both. 

There was one about a kid whose front teeth Dad knocked out during football practice while demonstrating a defensive technique designed to knock out the teeth of opposing players.  The mishap resulted in a Watergate-like cover-up wherein the complicit victim kept mum until his graduation.  From college.  (That kid went on to become athletic director of a major state university; he and my father remained great friends until the end.)  Or the time a police liaison officer’s blank-loaded firearm was discharged in my dad’s office in an effective yet misguided scared-straight tactic. 

Many of the tales recalled my father’s highly evolved sense of mischief, such as when he convinced the school maintenance man to slump over the wheel of his tractor near a girl’s archery class, a fake arrow protruding from both sides of his head.  Or certain questionable Letterman’s Club initiation rites involving bricks and strings and male body parts.  

My dad also taught Driver’s education.  I think it was mostly to take advantage of the free, taxpayer provided transportation.  During those years he was never without a new car.  He would select a different one from the motor pool each night, and drive it to work the next day, sometimes on family vacations.  The neighbors were impressed.

It seems my dad taught at least half the folks who showed up that day to drive.  Most are no longer incarcerated.  Some still have licenses.  All could find their way to every donut and coffee shop in town blindfolded.  One told us how my dad had him drive to the local Tastee-Freeze where my dad purchased a root beer float which he placed on the dashboard, telling the student if it spilled, he failed.  Or the time a nervous young lady’s premature left turn left the driver’s education car suspended on railroad tracks.  Fortunately, the morning express had already passed.

It was also no surprise the mourners included a number of bartenders and waitresses whose children no doubt owed their college educations to my father’s generosity (and unquenchable thirst for vodka).  Even a few folks who harbored age-old resentments came to pay their respects, including several former faculty my dad tried to run down while crossing the picket line during a teacher’s strike.  In spite of their differences, they considered my dad a great man.

My dad loved being an educator.  He loved kids.  Because my dad belonged to the world, his own kids (and wife) were mere bystanders to his greatness. 

The only thing my dad loved more than teaching kids was coaching them.  The home I grew up in was selected because it backed to the high school football fields.  My dad said it was so he could walk to work.  Of course he never did what with the free car and all.      

Of all the sports Dad coached, football was his passion.  On the second Monday of August, he would leave the house at six AM for the start of double sessions and return well after 7:30 PM in mid-November.  During those months, he prodded, threatened, teased, and abused his players, imparting unto them his high ideals of discipline, respect, sacrifice, and what it meant to be a member of a team. 

By the conclusion of each season, he had managed to transform a gang of awkward, undisciplined, pimply-faced boys into a team of proud, confident, pimply-faced young men.  A lot of those young men, now gray around the temples, came to pay their respects to the man many considered the single greatest influence in their lives. 

I was truly astounded by the sheer number of people my dad touched during his life.  I was not, however, surprised by the impact he had.  My dad was expert at getting the best out of people – students and teachers alike.  He had an uncanny ability of making them realize what they were capable of… that their only limitations were self-imposed.  Fear has a way of doing that.

Without question, my dad was a dinosaur.  He hailed from a time before lawyers ruled the world – before this hypersensitive age in which people have lost the courage to voice their opinions.  My dad was never afraid to speak his mind.  He always had a reasoned point which he made without regard for tact or political correctitude.  I’m told there were occasions when he raised his hand during a meeting without making people cringe.  I suspect those occasions were rare. 

Make no mistake – my father wasn’t perfect.  He drank too much, exercised too little, and ate like a teenage boy with a tapeworm.  A self-proclaimed bigot, racist, and chauvinist who proudly espoused his oft inappropriate world view to anyone within earshot, he was prone to leave considerable wreckage in his wake. 

I guess greatness is a relative thing.

Not one for introspection, my dad never had much interest in evolving as a parent, husband, or grandfather.  My sister’s marriage to a black man put us all through some changes.  We took turns shoving socks into Dad’s pie hole.  True to form, my dad held his ground.  It was what he knew.  It worked for him.  He was what he was without apology.

My unfortunate mother bore the brunt of my father’s caustic wit and antiquated ideals.  It was all he could do to keep her in what he considered a woman’s proper place.  It didn’t work.  My mom is too clever for that.  Even so, on each of their wedding anniversaries past fifty, he would proudly announce they were celebrating 25 years of marital bliss.  It always made me laugh.  Once at a school event, I had an allergic reaction to some pineapple which rendered me temporarily unable to speak.  He immediately offered the fruit tray to my mother.

In his later years, Dad and I shared office space.  It afforded me the opportunity to see him almost daily.  At least once a week, I would pry him from the important business of playing solitaire on his ancient computer, and we’d go out to lunch.  It was nice.  My dad liked lunch.  It helped absorb the alcohol. 

Toward the end, as our conversations became tired, I sensed he had begun to realize he was a man out of his time.  He had gotten off the train at a familiar stop and remained in the station, watching as the world passed him by. 

At the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, George’s guardian angel, Clarence, bequeaths to George his copy of Tom Sawyer.  Inside the front cover was inscribed a note which read: "Dear George: Remember no man is a failure who has friends.”

By any measure, my dad was no failure.  Just ask his friends.  Just ask anyone. 

 

Nightime Nomad

It wasn’t until my mid-forties that I began sleeping around.
 
My wife and I were having difficulties in the bedroom.  I was restless; tired of our routine.
 
It all began innocently enough with a couple one night stands.  They were awkward and uncomfortable at first.  Before long, the unfamiliar became familiar, and I had adopted it as a way of life, waking two or three times per week in a strange bed.

Ironically, my liaisons rarely took me outside the comfort of my own home.  Each different location that I explored held its own special allure and charm.

My first experiences were in our finished basement.  The couch there converted into a queen size hide-a-bed which provided plenty of room to spread out.  Unfortunately, the thin mattress provided insufficient protection against the metal framework digging into my back and ribcage.  Plus the work of removing the cushions, pulling out the bed, and adding sheets and a blanket destroyed any hope for spontaneity.  Still it was dark, and private, and quiet.

Eventually I became bolder and moved upstairs.  The living room couch was extra wide with sturdy foam cushions which made it ultra-comfortable.  The problem there was the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the front yard.  Not that anyone was likely to be peering in during the wee hours, but privacy was certainly an issue.

Although the upstairs family room was outfitted with dark window shades, the standard length of the couch there prevented me from fully extending the whole of my six foot frame.  At 52 years, the prospect of keeping my knees bent for an extended period was problematic, not to mention awkward.  Plus the couch’s standard depth made it difficult to roll over and switch positions without falling off.

I’m ashamed to say that from time-to-time, I would even wait until my youngest daughter was sound asleep, and steal into her top bunk. I was never able to fully relax there either, ever fearful that my nocturnal gyrations might wake her. 

But of all the myriad scenarios I explored, the one I longed for more than any other was when my wife would take the kids to her parents for a sleepover, and I’d get the whole house to myself.  Spending time in my own bed was a wicked pleasure unrivaled by any other venue I dared explore.

I realize how awful this must sound.  And make no mistake – my wife and I still love each other.  We just make incompatible bedfellows.

Needless to say, I found myself becoming a sneak.  Not so much because I was afraid of being discovered, but more because of the pain such a discovery would cause her.

In the first place, my wife is a Virgo.  As such, she keeps our home ready to receive an HGTV camera crew at a moment’s notice.  For that reason, each morning I would rise early and cover my tracks like a Navy Seals assassin.  After tidying up the couch, I’d re-fluff the pillows and cushions, then make sure any blankets I used were folded just so.

But even with all of my surreptitious maneuvers, I knew I couldn’t keep deceiving her for long.  She was too clever… too observant.

Sure enough, one night when she couldn’t sleep, she wandered into the living me and caught me red handed.  It was the moment I had long anticipated yet feared most.  I was ashamed, but at the same time relieved the charade was finally over.

I could see the pain on her face; tears held back by pride alone.

“How could you?” she said in barely a whisper.

No words would come.  I was dumbstruck.

“I… I…  I love you.”  I stammered.

“And this is how you show it?” she said, the shock of what she had just witnessed shaking her to the core.

I felt two inches tall.  I knew that no matter how painful it might be, I owed her the truth.  So I mustered all my courage and said what I should have told her long ago.

“Honey – I love you.  But you left me no choice.  Your snoring makes it impossible for me to sleep.”

As a testament to her strength of character, she didn’t get angry.  In fact, she was so genuinely concerned for my well-being that she insisted I sleep elsewhere from that point on, going so far as to let our sound sleeping nine year old assume my position in our marital bed.

She’s special, that wife of mine.  I’m lucky to have her.  And even though my daughter’s stuffed-animal- strewn bunk bed isn’t nearly as comfortable as my own, sleepover night at grandma’s is never far away.  

 

2012 Layne Family Christmas Letter



Ah, Christmas – that wondrous time of year when we take time from our busy lives to reflect upon Christmases past and all the care and thoughtful planning that went into selecting the perfect gifts for the kids, only to be trumped by whatever electronic gadgets they got from grandma and grandpa.  This year, Karen and Mark hope the girls enjoy their shoelaces and toothbrushes.

In spring, Allyson channeled her desire to club small round objects into a more socially acceptable outlet when she became the Babe Ruth of the Roselle Medinah Softball and Baseball Organization (minus the drinking and philandering).  Mark regrets he didn’t run more red lights on his way to the league championship game, having arrived in the warm afterglow of her grand slam.  Fortunately Karen was ready with the camcorder and thus managed to capture Ally’s swing, contact, plus a lot of frantic screaming and jerky video of the dirt behind home plate.

On the subject of traffic signals, Mark J. Layne & Associates forfeited most of its 2012 earnings to red light camera violations, thus prompting the firm’s hostile takeover in October when Mark was asked to step down as CEO because the board of directors (aka Karen) was tired of having him around the house all the time, messing up the bathrooms.  Mark has since joined the real estate department at Commonwealth Edison where he was tasked with, among other things, developing a new super breed of fighting monkey.  This being his first experience with cubicle life in twenty five years, Karen was glad he was issued a hardhat which she insists he wears at his desk, not only for protection when he nods off, but for the merciless teasing he receives from coworkers.  Karen has adjusted to Mark’s absence during the days by redoubling her shopping efforts and shifting the firm’s mission statement from real estate consulting to house cleaning.

Whereas Amanda continues to impress with her skills as a writer, Ally has developed a knack for photography, prompting her to ask Santa for a camera.  Mark & Karen were unaware that shaving and photographing cats was an up and coming niche in the field.  Mark explained to her that while this was an interesting choice of careers, it might be more practical to ask Santa for a quality pair of cat shears first.

Speaking of cats, Taffy has become a legendary skunk hunter.  Though she hasn’t caught one yet, she remains undeterred, emboldened by her new strategy to smell enough like the enemy that she’ll be able to sneak up unnoticed.

In an effort to escape the mayhem the Ryder Cup brought to town in September, M & K decided to bring the family down to Disney World.  (Motto: Experience the magic of your disappearing cash!)  By “M & K” we of course mean “K” in that “M” considers Disney a money devouring monster in the shape of a giant mouse whose sole objective is to separate him from his savings faster than the attraction he just waited in line over two hours to ride.  The generosity of Mark’s cousins and the fact that only Amanda got sick this time made the experience almost bearable compared to trips past.

Speak of the devil, on November 23rd, Amanda turned 13.  Refusing to admit she’s a teenager, at least she now has a reason for taking two hours to get dressed, showering before soccer practice, doing her hair before going to the pool, staying up so late she misses the bus, and changing her clothes more often than the cast in a Broadway musical.

At 5’6” and 225 lbs., our 9 year old nephew, Jayson, was the only high school player on his Pee Wee football team.  Despite Jay’s prodigiousness, his team lost every game this season owing to the new league rule which required him to play on his knees, blindfolded.

In other sporting news, owing to his legendary skill operating the scoreboard during his high school freshman “C” games, Mark was asked to be an assistant coach on Ally’s basketball team.  He hopes to teach the girls such useful skills as the slip shank, the eye poke, the reverse Lindy, and decoupage.

Speaking of eye-poking, in November Mark broke his left ring finger playing hockey.  Unfortunately, the referee was no less blind after Mark jabbed him than before.  Although the finger is healing fine, as Mark’s luck would have it, he emerged from surgery with a third left foot.

As the warmth of the season envelops us like a pestilential fever, let us recall that while Christmas is for children, “Parents were invented to make children happy by giving them something to ignore.”  [Ogden Nash]

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,
Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, and Tabby… er, Taffy

Walk of Shame

America was discovered by men of great courage – intrepid explorers who braved long and perilous ocean voyages, landing upon the rugged, foreboding shores of this continent where they endured harsh conditions, bitter winters, hostile natives, and the Donner Party, all to bring the hope of civilization and professional football to this wild and untamed land.   

Which leaves me to wonder – given our proud heritage of exploration and fortitude, when did we all become too lazy to walk?

What I’m referring to is the recent proliferation of electronic convenience vehicle or ECV – a battery powered wheel-craft designed to locomote persons who ostensibly cannot do so themselves.

Also referred to as “mobility scooters,” I became aware of their existence thanks to those late night television ads which prey upon the elderly, specifically my mother.  I did not realize the extent of their pervasiveness, however, until we decided to bring the kids to Disney World.  (Motto: Experience the magic of your disappearing cash!)

When I say “we,” I of course mean “my wife” in that most males recognize Disney as a money devouring monster in the shape of a giant mouse whose sole objective is to separate you from your savings faster than the speeding roller coaster you just waited in line two hours to ride.

After a twenty minute delay during which our bus driver loaded, secured, and unloaded a half dozen ECV’s, we finally arrived at the Tragic Kingdom.  (Motto: The happiest place on earth for Disney shareholders.)  

At first, I thought we had stepped into the midst of a new Disney attraction:  Scooter Land – a futuristic society where humans have evolved beyond their need for legs.  I could already hear Goofy’s voice in my head: “Kindly exit through the gift shop featuring an enticing assortment of Mickey scooters, canes, and prosthetics.” 

At the risk of offending ECV owners, I realize many persons who employ these devices do so out of medical necessity.  Our neighbor, for instance, rides his scooter from the house to the end of his driveway – tubes up his nose, oxygen bottle strapped to the rear, smoldering cigarette dangling from his lower lip – to take out the trash.   

My own father, who suffers from congestive heart failure and has two bad knees, is just the sort of person who would benefit greatly from one of these contraptions.  He gets out of breath walking twenty feet and can’t ascend a flight of stairs without pausing for a martini.

Dad is a veteran of WWII, however, and would never consider taking advantage of any modern convenience that might improve his quality of life.  In his mind, crawling on one’s belly under barbed wire through a muddy field with tracers flying overhead is nothing compared to the indignity of accepting another’s assistance – unless it’s from a short-skirted cocktail waitress carrying a tray of vodka tonics. 

Nevertheless, each day of our magical adventure found us assaulted, nudged, and bypassed in line by folks on scooters.  There was even an ECV rental booth at the entrance to every park.  Most days, they were sold out by ten AM.

It confounds me why anyone with a dire medical condition which prevents them from walking would purposely come to a 10,000 acre theme park where walking, standing in line, and sprinting to the nearest ATM are prerequisites.  

Yes, there were those indolent few who needed assistance to get around.  There were also a remarkable number of perfectly healthy individuals – some in their teens – riding to and fro for no reason other than they were too lazy to walk or didn’t want to wait in line.    

At our resort, we watched two intoxicated seniors – one wearing a Richard Petty hat and the other a Dale Earnhardt t-shirt – plow their way through the hotel lobby, scattering toddlers and costumed characters, in a race to take the pole position at the early-bird buffet.   And my nine-year-old was nearly mowed down outside the tennis courts by two scooter-enabled couples in their thirties who had cut their doubles match short to ride to the fitness center for their 3 PM rock climbing class. 

Back home, our local news carried the story of a heroic man who came to the aid of a woman whose scooter became trapped on the railroad tracks at a crossing.  She had somehow turned parallel to the rails and got her wheels stuck.  Casting his personal welfare aside, this brave soul bolted into the crossing, pulled the woman from her scooter, and dragged her to safety mere seconds before the downtown express pulverized her ECV into poker-chip-size pieces. 

During the post near-tragedy interview, the woman was understandably grateful to the man for saving her life, but nevertheless disappointed he didn’t also rescue her scooter as she would now have to walk the four blocks back to her home.  The man apologetically offered her a ride.

So as the dawn of another year approaches, I resolve to walk less, ride more, and perhaps take up smoking, because if I’ve learned one thing for certain, it’s the stairway to heaven ends in a souvenir shop.

 



See Ya Sioux

GRAND FORKS, ND – Exercising its obligation to safeguard the moral fiber of America under authority granted to it by Congress and the US Constitution, the NCAA took another important step toward erasing the scourge of this nation’s ugly Native American past by making it illegal for University of North Dakota athletic teams, cheerleaders, and bands to wear or display the school's American Indianhead logo and Fighting Sioux nickname.


Inlaid Marble Floor, Ralph Engelstad Arena
Photo by Bill Alkofer

In his letter to UND provost Paul LeBel, NCAA executive vice president, Bernard “Ben” Franklin, stated that should the university refuse to cooperate in what is the NCAA’s latest round of "ethnic cleansing," they must forfeit participation in all post-season tournament play or otherwise risk having their upcoming men's and women's hockey games moved to a cattle pond on the Yankton reservation and their home venue, the Ralph Engelstad Arena, turned into an auto mall.

It was under this same pretext that in 2005, the NCAA forced the University of Illinois to retire the name, regalia, and image of Chief Illiniwek, a student mascot who performed a Native American “fancy dance” during the halftime of men’s home varsity football and basketball games wearing traditional Oglala Sioux ceremonial dress.

Although most University of Illinois students, faculty, and alumni considered The Chief a proud tradition, respectful of the State’s Native American heritage, certain Native American groups found the symbol to be “predominantly offensive and deeply disparaging to Native Americans.” According to a spokesperson for the National Indian Education Association, it was high time this dramatic and dignified depiction of Native American culture was eliminated so as to “stomp out any remaining public memory of the Illiniwek people,” a consortium of Algonquin tribes who once thrived in the central Midwest.

Percy Stumbling Bull, general manager of the Spirit Lake Casino in Devils Lake, ND, believes the recent NCAA directive leveled at the University of North Dakota is crucial in his people’s goal to shield all aspects of Native American culture from the prying eyes of white society.

“Current generations of whites don’t realize their ancestors essentially stole North America from indigenous peoples,” said Bull. “As such, it has been our ongoing policy to attempt to erase our historical legacy from the modern world, thereby honoring our ancestors by protecting their obscurity – at least until such time as gambling revenues allow us to buy back the territory we lost in the Louisiana Purchase.”

Honorary University of North Dakota professor and legendary 1960’s rocker, Burton Cummings, explained it is the belief of many Native Americans that by further isolating themselves from mainstream society, they might one day hope to overcome the misunderstanding and mistrust that plunged their people into decades of destitution, impoverishment, and substance abuse dating back to the arrival of white settlers from Europe.

Said Cummings, “American woman, mama let me be.”

In the wake of the NCAA decision, a group of outraged students petitioned the University of North Dakota board of governors to consider changing the school’s moniker to, “A Team Named Sue.”

Photo by Bill Alkofer

The NCAA acted immediately by making it illegal to speak the name ”Sue” in public lest it be misconstrued as “Sioux” by college sports fans. Based on these same concerns, NCAA attorneys have proposed landmark legislation to ban US citizens from naming their unborn infants “Sue” or “Susan.”

UND is now said to be considering such alternate mascot names as the “Angry Aboriginals” and the “Not So Pleasant Potato Farmers.”

The university is also grappling with funding the multi-million dollar task of eliminating the Indianhead imagery from campus venues, official media, and football players’ biceps.

In the wake of the recent NCAA directives, other universities are considering proactive changes to their identities. The Florida State Seminoles, for instance, will now be the FSU Felons, and the Arkansas State University Indians will become the Rednecks. Although unrelated to Native American iconography, the University of South Carolina Gamecocks (referred to by their fans as the “Cocks”) will be making the switch to the Penises, while the Oregon State Beavers will transition to the Naughty Female Body Parts.

According to Franklin, most US universities have nothing to worry about, such as the University of Hawaii’s Rainbows which already fits the NCAA's vision of proper symbolism. The mascots from Georgetown University and Indiana University will remain intact only because nobody knows what Hoyas or Hoosiers are. The State of Indiana, however, will be forced to change its name to Nativeamericana.

In March 2011, the North Dakota Legislature approved a law requiring the university to continue using its logo and nickname despite the threat of NCAA sanctions. The Legislature later repealed the pro-nickname law when the NCAA declined to exempt UND from its policy against the use of American Indian nicknames and logos.

Nickname backers then responded by filing petitions demanding a June vote to decide whether UND should keep the nickname and logo, or instead move the university across the border into Canada where folks aren’t so uptight.



© 2012, Working Words Productions

Tasteless Humor x 4

Nothing rings in the holiday season quite like a hearty dose of offensive humor (provided by my friend, Jeff)...

 

 

Joke #1:

An ugly guy walks into a bar with a huge smile on his face.

The bartender asks, “What’s up? Why are you so happy?”

The ugly guy says, “I live down by the RR yard, and last night on my way home from the bar, I found a girl tied to the tracks.”

The bartender says, “No way! What did you do?”

The ugly guy says, “I untied her, brought her to back to my place, and…. SCHWING, we went at it all night long.”

“No kidding?” the bartender says. “Was she pretty?”

”Don’t know,” the ugly guy says. “Never did find her head.”



Joke #2:

A teacher, a lawyer, and a priest are all on the Titanic when it hits the iceberg. Over the loudspeaker, the captain announces the ship is sinking and orders the crew to lower the lifeboats.

In a panic, the teacher shouts, “The children! Save the children!”

The lawyer pushes his way toward a lifeboat and yells, “Screw the children!”

The priest says, “Do you think we have time?”



Joke #3:

Three old guys are in a urologist’s waiting room talking. The first old guy asks the second old guy why he’s there.

Second old guy: “Well – every morning at 7 AM, I have the urge to piss like a racehorse, but when I try to go, only a few dribbles come out.”

The third old guy nods. “I know just what you mean. Every morning at 7 AM, I feel like I need to take a massive dump, but when I sit down, I only pass gas.”

The second old guy looks back to the first old guy and asks, “So – what about you? Why are you here?”

The first old guy leans forward: “Every morning at 7 AM I piss like there’s no tomorrow, and then have a bowel movement that would put an elephant to shame.”

The third old guy frowns: “So what’s the problem?”

First old guy: “I don’t get up until 8.”



Joke #4:

Three rednecks and a gay guy are out driving around in the country after a night of partying. They turn down a farm road and see a sheep with its head caught in a fence. The driver slams on the brakes, backs up, aims the headlights at the sheep, and all three rednecks jump out of the car and take turns with the sheep.

When the last redneck is done, he turns to the gay guy and asks, “You up for a little of this action?”

The gay guy shrugs and says, “Sure.  But only if you promise to get my head out of the fence when you’re done.”

2011 Layne Family Christmas Letter

It is again that time of year when baby Jesus rises from the manger, dons his red suit, and climbs aboard his sleigh to deliver dreidels and ham sandwiches to all the good, non-Muslim children of the world.

Speaking of winter, 2011 began with the first honest-to-goodness blizzard we’ve had in decades. For several weeks, our patio was converted to a “potty-o” as the snowfall totals exceeded Taffy’s ground clearance by well over 17 inches.

Karen declared 2011 the year of purging the unnecessary and lightening loads, which Mark took to include ancillary pets. Not only was Mark thwarted in his attempts to introduce the tropical fish to egg wash and Pankow bread crumbs, but his plan to set the parakeets free in time for them to reacquire their natural migratory instincts and thus return to their place of origin (which in the case of store bought birds raised in captivity is the nearest PetSmart), was likewise foiled by his bleeding heart children and bird-loving mother-in-law. In keeping with the “out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new” theme, Karen’s new husband moved in during August. He and Mark are getting along well, although the bed is a bit crowded.

Allyson was highly disappointed when her Magic 8 Ball ran afoul of her career plans by confirming she would be a famous dancer one day. Insisting it’s not fair she can’t have a cat just because her father and sister are deathly allergic, Ally decided it would be best if Amanda and Mark moved out. When confronted with the impracticability of that idea, Ally generously proposed shaving the cat so Mark and Amanda could stay.

In reading through her old school papers Mark & Karen were surprised to learn Ally’s favorite things about 2nd grade were morning snack and lunch. Now a mature third grader, having moved to the more expansive Intermediate School building and grounds, it seems recess has gained a slight edge over lunch.

Amanda has become one of her soccer team’s best defenders, a skill she no doubt acquired from watching her father repeatedly defend his manhood. Ally almost missed the fall soccer season owing to her preference for Wii athletics to sports not involving a sofa. To cure her of this predilection, Karen & Mark signed her up for boy’s flag football. Turns out she preferred soccer after all, quickly elevating her game from the previous season during which she was a finalist for the Orange Cone Award given to the player most resembling a practice drill pylon.

Amanda has adjusted to the rigors of Middle School with a shrug and a yawn. Her academic achievements and writing skills are overshadowed only by her ability to antagonize people, primarily her sister. K & M are working with a team of scientists to convert the energy the girls spend fighting into a commercially viable byproduct such as a “green” automotive propulsion system, free electricity, or a death ray.

In their quest to visit a place even colder and bleaker than Illinois, the gang traveled to Minneapolis prior to Thanksgiving to visit Mark’s childhood friend who recently relocated there. It was great to see John and Janet and their mastodon-size puppy, Lila. While the girls squandered their college savings at the Mall of Everything That’s Wrong With America, Mark caught up with a former roommate from the University of North Dakota who is there hiding from his ex-wife.

Karen continues to battle depression over her inability to clean the house more than twice per day owing to her aggressive weight lifting schedule. Incorrectly assuming he was completing the paperwork to become a living organ donor, Mark was accidentally elected to the local school board. The girls are excited to have some new “muscle” behind their pet initiatives including a three day school week, No Homework Month, and Talk Like Scooby Doo Day.

Even though George Bernard Shaw once described Christmas as an indecent, cruel, gluttonous, drunken, disorderly, wasteful, disastrous, wicked, cadging, lying, filthy, blasphemous, and demoralizing subject forced upon a reluctant and disgusted nation by shopkeepers and the press, and that if left to its own merits would wither and shrivel in the fiery breath of universal hatred, all those lights sure are pretty.

Merry Christmas to All and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally (and Taffy too)

Santa Safety Video

It is again that time of year when our thoughts turn to family, friends, festive decorations, Santa Claus, and exploding houses.  Have you had your furnace checked lately?

http://youtu.be/F8XBpkjwe-g

More Sad News from Happy Valley

COLUMBUS - Adding to his current legal woes, former Penn State Football Coach Jerry Sandusky faces new charges stemming from allegations that he violated Ohio law during his tenure at Penn State University.

Amid a sex abuse scandal currently rocking one of the most storied programs in college football, the Ohio attorney general’s office released a thirty page indictment accusing the retired Nittany Lions defensive coordinator of illegally coaching football in neighboring Pennsylvania.

The indictment cites a little known but long standing Ohio law prohibiting the “exportation of football talent, skills, or other gridiron knowhow” outside the state of Ohio.

Sandusky’s attorneys believe the law’s reach should not extend to Sandusky, a native of Pennsylvania whose only connection to the Buckeye state is the name he shares with a small Ohio town located on Lake Erie between Cleveland and Toledo which is perhaps best known as the home of Cedar Point amusement park.

Ohio governor John Kasich fully supports the law and stands behind the state’s obligation to enforce it.

“It is against the very fabric of our being to allow football talent that rightfully belongs to the people of Ohio the unrestricted ability to defect to neighboring states,” said Kasich. “Take away football, and you might as well change our name to Illinois.”

US Senator Rob Portman (R-OH) concurs.  “Whereas other states are known for their tobacco, automobiles, or unusual items made from corn, our cash crop, so to speak, is football – specifically football coaches.”

Virtually unpublicized outside the Buckeye state, the law is routine among those who have worked in and around Ohio’s football industry over the years.

Former Florida Gators coach, ESPN analyst, and Ohio native Urban Meyer didn’t realize the decades old legislation extended to persons with such tenuous connections to the state, however.

“Former coaches and players have always known we could never bring our talents elsewhere and expect to come back,” said Meyer. “It never occurred to me that the law might also extend to someone whose name just happened to be Cleveland, or Dayton, or Beavercreek.”

Fellow ESPN analyst Lee Corso doesn’t understand all the fuss over the law which he believes makes ultimate sense.

“Let’s be honest,” quipped Corso. “Less than 4% of the US population lives in Ohio, yet over 15% of FBS head coaches were born there, which is more than any other state. Face it folks, Ohio is football and football is Ohio.”

It is this very law that recently disgraced Ohio State University football coach Jim Tressel claims imprisoned him in Ohio for much of his professional life, and was the primary cause behind his recent dismissal.

“To people on the outside, my situation looked like a scandal, a cover-up,” said Tressel. “To me, it was my ticket to freedom.”

During his weekly radio broadcast, Eagles guitar virtuoso Joe Walsh – a one time Columbus resident and Kent State grad – expressed sympathy for Jim Tressel’s plight. Referring to the famous song lyric, “You can check out but you can never leave,” Walsh commented that while most people think the song Hotel California is about the west coast drug culture, it’s really about Ohio.

As an example of just how pervasive football culture is in Ohio, a Youngstown high school football coach who asked not to be identified admitted he advises his senior players that if they accept a scholarship to play football at an out-of-state college or university, they must renounce their Ohio citizenship, and could even face arrest should any be so foolish as to attend the University of Michigan and later get caught trespassing on Ohio soil.

“They are crazy down there,” said new Michigan head man Brady Hoke. “We have number of players on our roster from Ohio. Whenever we travel to Columbus, we get them in and out fast as we can before any trouble starts. And sometimes we make them wear dresses and silly hats.”

When asked for his take on the indictment, legendary Miami Dolphins head coach and Ohio native Don Shula mumbled something about Woody Hayes, then asked to be moved closer to an open window.

If convicted, the 67 year old Sandusky – a former protégé of legendary Nittany Lions head coach Joe “Pa” Paterno – could spend the rest of his natural life collecting tolls on the Ohio turnpike.

Top Dog

I am the head of my household. I know this because it said so on my 2010 US Census form.

So why, if a semi-competent, quasi-governmental agency has declared me head of household, do I find myself sitting on an empty five gallon bucket in the garage watching football on my smartphone?

I don’t know how it happened, or when exactly. It was glacial in progression. First a chair. Then some food… a bed.

Our dog, Taffy, is a beloved and cherished member of the family. Taffy is a Yorkie Poo, emphasis on “Poo.” Though small in stature, she is held in equal – if not superior – esteem to the four humans with whom she cohabitates. As such, her comfort is of paramount importance to us all.

Taffy sleeps 21 hours a day. This is because she works hard. Originally bred as food for larger dogs, Yorkies have evolved into loyal pets and committed guardians. Taffy protects us not only from chipmunks and Ken dolls, but from vacuum sweepers and the German couple down the street.

My two young daughters have taken it upon themselves to ensure Taffy gets proper rest given the rigors of her day.

“Dad! You can’t sit [lie, stand, inhale, etc.] there. Taffy is sleeping!”

Poor Taffy. So put upon. So underappreciated.

“Taffy’s Chair,” is the leather recliner from which, like Mickey Mouse Merlin, I once compelled an endless panoply of sporting events to scroll across our humungous flat screen TV. The only sports to appear on that television these days are Jellyfishing and underwater snowboarding.

I can’t blame Taffy. The recliner is quite comfy.

Neither can I blame the kids. SpongeBob just doesn’t look the same in standard definition.

Even so, I don’t mind sharing my chair. Or my bed. Not even my USDA Prime beef.

As a Food Network schooled culinary expert, I’ve been known to waste a fair amount of time in the kitchen preparing wholesome and savory dishes that nobody likes.

Owing to our five member family and four seat dinette, we tend to eat in shifts. I go last.

Understandably, my wife and children can’t bear to watch Taffy sit upon her tufted pouf before a bowl of brittle, nutritionally balanced, outrageously expensive dog chow, while they devour peppercorn and garlic encrusted New York Strips, herbed red potatoes, and honey-balsamic glazed green beans. Taffy’s suffering is more than they can endure.

Sometimes, the kids save me a few scraps. They are kind. At my age, I don’t need the fat and cholesterol anyway. And Taffy’s food isn’t half bad soaked in a little milk.

It is true that the older I get, the simpler my needs become. Nowadays, I’m happy if I can sleep through the night and wake the next morning pain free and un-constipated.

Experts on human aging have discovered a direct correlation between a couple’s years of marriage and their preferred proximity while sleeping. Though we haven’t opted for separate bedrooms (yet), my wife and I purchased a king size mattress in order to maximize our mutual comfort while maintaining the illusion of marital bliss, both for the benefit of the children and our respective mothers-in-law.

It’s a nice mattress. Big, too. But whereas I once looked forward to spreading out in my unencumbered half of nocturnal acreage, it seems poor Taffy just can’t get comfortable anywhere else. How an eleven pound creature is able to occupy twenty times her own volume in bed-space is a miracle that defies all known laws of physics.

And while falling out of bed a several times a night does provide good practice in the event of a fire or tornado, balancing a body my size on eleven inches of mattress edge makes for a night’s sleep even a galley slave wouldn’t envy. Fortunately, it turns out we have some very accommodating couches, chairs, and rugs scattered throughout our home.

All things considered, I can’t complain. I’m kept well fed and properly bathed. Taffy sees to it I get plenty of exercise during our morning and evening walks. And my family doesn’t seem to mind having me around, as long as I keep off the living room furniture. It’s not a bad life by any measure.

In Native American lore, my place at the base of our family totem pole represents a position of strength and dominance – the foundation which supports the whole. Nonetheless, as I gaze up beyond the smiling caricatures of my wife and two children, I can’t help but wonder what the view is like from the top. Only Taffy knows for sure.

 

In Defense of Dad

I just returned from a week-long trip with my family. Boy do I need a vacation.

The truth is, family vacations are neither relaxing nor recuperative.

There is good reason most families prefer a permanent living arrangement incorporating some sort of multiple room domicile with a kitchen, more than one lavatory, and separate sleeping chambers. Humans need their space. Which is why moving two large and three small humans into a single chlorine redolent hotel room with none of the aforedescribed amenities is a recipe for disaster.

I love my family. I don’t want to smell them.

To my father, quality family time meant a day on the golf course with his pals. He’d occasionally call if he was going to be home late. It seems he believed fighting Germans had fulfilled his duty to humanity. The rest was up to my mom.

Nowadays, fathers are expected to not only be present and accounted for during a child’s formative years, but to actually participate in the child rearing process. This is a mistake.

No matter how “evolved” men have become in recent times, it is in the best interests of society and the overall health of the family unit to keep men at the office, on the golf course, or deployed overseas. No good can be had from us meddling in the domestic arts, especially when it comes to children.

In the first place, men don’t really like kids, especially other people’s kids. Speaking from experience, a guy will get accustomed to the noises, messes, and odors his own children produce. Given time, the commotion becomes part of the natural landscape of the household – easily digested, easily ignored.

Then my oldest daughter began having “play dates” where one or more of her miniature accomplices would be deposited on our doorstep sans parent and left to wreak fresh havoc upon the preexisting havoc in our home. It was all I could do to keep from herding them into the garage and locking the door.

“Why don’t you guys pretend you’re taking a long car trip? The keys are in the ignition.”

In fact, science has proven men are incapable of properly caring for any child under the age of twenty seven. I confess I have no skill for discerning leggings from tights, taking a temperature by touch, or whether something is “cute” or “gross.” Men can’t be expected to remember that Samantha only wears pink (except on Tuesdays), Brandon can’t sleep without his favorite pot holder, Suzie is allergic to white, or Tommy only eats “left handed food.”

My wife does her best to spare the children my ignorance. At times, especially in the morning, it’s unavoidable.

“Frosted-flake-and-jelly sandwiches are not a school-approved lunch!” my wife will shriek with disgust.

“They have school today?” I will dumbly respond.

Bottom line: the nuances or raising children are far too subtle for men to comprehend. Nor does it help to know the downside of our incompetence will likely end in tragedy.

My father had a punch-list of names he’d call me depending on his mood, not the least of which included “rotten,” “good-for-nothin,” and “Lester.” I was stunned when my wife informed me name calling can be damaging to a child’s self esteem.

Self esteem? When I was a kid, self esteem (along with the various other “esteems”) were irrelevant as long as my homework was done, my plate clean, and my room tidy.

Thanks to the scads of research conducted over the past sixty years, however, we are now keenly aware just how fragile a child’s psyche is. Clearly our parents’ practice of spanking, yelling, threatening, and guilting us into behaving in a responsible, respectful, mature manner has resulted in our becoming a generation of drooling sociopaths unfit to participate in the conventions of polite society.

We are now painfully aware how one cross word or errant frown from a parent can send a child down the slippery slope toward absolute ruin. Before you know it, they’re smoking Kool’s, wearing their razor-slashed jeans at mid-thigh, sneaking cell phones into school, and opting to attend community college.

From a guy’s perspective, crawling through a minefield and lobbing a grenade into an enemy machine gun nest is a day at the beach compared to the responsibility of raising healthy, well adjusted kids. The pressure is unbearable.

Let us remember that at their core, men are solitary creatures. It’s all most men can do to accommodate a spouse in their lives, let alone a gaggle of mewling, runny nosed moppets who are forever begging for attention, food, and college tuition. Children – why God invented Canada. And Walleye. And mothers.

As P.J. O’Rourke observed, “Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose, with the exception of guppies who like to eat theirs.”

He was speaking of male guppies, of course.