Meanderings and Musings of a Cluttered Mind

This is the picture. It's the one I see in my mind when I really don’t want to, the one that will always be there and never go away. It’s the car the driver drove, while talking on her cell phone, that hit my son, who was pedaling his bicycle home from work, that amputated his leg and killed him. His name is Devin. I’m not really sure how long he lived after he was hit, as the driver kept driving with him on the car for 800 feet and didn’t stop for three-quarters of a mile, and didn’t call 911 until … when?  According to her police statement, she was on the phone. Her phone records show there were three calls to or from her boyfriend at 12:34 a.m., 12:35 a.m. and 12:45 a.m. She told police the crash happened shortly after the first phone call. She said she heard someone say, “Hello,” then she closed her eyes for a long blink and heard a bang. If the crash happened shortly after the first phone call, that means it happened after 12:34 a.m. but before 12:35 a....

Thirteen months and 23 days after my son was killed, I sat across the table from a GEICO employee who wanted to hear about Devin. I didn't plan to cry. But I didn't plan on my son getting killed by a driver on a cell phone on Aug. 7, 2011, while riding his bicycle home from work, either. We already lived through months of agonizing preparation for a criminal trial on negligent homicide, only to see the D.A. drop the charges and instead issue a ticket for inattentive driving. The 18-year-old driver paid a fine of $100. But now -- finally -- it seemed, GEICO wanted to do the right thing. This isn't about money for us. It's never been about money. It's certainly not about hitting the one-armed bandit jackpot. It was simply about the principle of respecting human life, and paying what they were accountable to pay, so we could find a way to honor Devin and use that money to save other lives. It was just so someone on the other side of this would say, "Yes, human...

Extra underwear because my mother always told me to pack more than I need? Check. Cholesterol medication in case I accidentally ingest chicken fried steak for breakfast instead of oatmeal every day? Check. Hairspray and shaving cream? Check ... but not in my carry on luggage. I'm a pretty good traveler, so I felt pretty stupid when going on vacation last year that I was "that" guy. You know, the one stopped by border patrol agents between the gift shops and the airline gates. Apparently, the x-rays of my carry on luggage alerted agents to my toiletries, and they were having none of that on this particular flight. I was given the option of going back to check-in, to send my Edge shaving cream and hairspray through with that luggage, or throwing it away. I threw it away. While I am sure this is shocking to some of you, it is true I sometimes use hairspray to keep my honey-blond locks in place. But it's also shocking to me that I still can't bring thi...

For reasons totally unbeknownst to me, I have two tubes of toothpaste in my top desk drawer. One I could understand and easily explain. Two? That seems a bit excessive. One is your basic Colgate and promises "Cavity protection," and, "Great, Regular Flavor." The other is Colgate Total with mint stripe and promises to PREVENT cavities. That's a pretty bold statement. It's like the Navy SEALS of tooth defense, while the regular stuff is like Mall Cop Protection. Not only that, but the Total stuff also prevents plaque and gingivitis, not to be confused with Newt Gingrich. Though, now that I think about it, I'd pay extra for a toothpaste that prevents Newt Gingrich. While we're on the topic, plaque prevention shouldn't be confused with, you know, plaque prevention. Back in my Air Force days you could always tell the high-speed, super troops by their collection of "I Love Me" awards on the wall, as opposed to those who were never g...

The final Kenosha News Sunday column: Yet another last dance BY GARY J. KUNICH And now it's time to bid you sweet farewell again. We’ve been to this dance before, you and me. I’m always wistful as we make our way to the floor for the last song of the evening. “I know it’s late … I know you’re weary … I know your plans don’t include me ...” As a writer my whole life, I should be used to this by now. Most of it has been a blast. I always have and always will hate writing about someone else’s death, misfortune or serious injury. There’s nothing fun about that ever. But the rest of the stuff? Wow. The spirits first moved me to write when Elvis died in 1977. I became a fan a year before when my dad drunkenly bought the “Elvis in Hollywood” double record set advertised on television. He ordered it Cash On Delivery, and didn’t remember doing it when the record arrived. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. When news of The King’s use of prescription meds and ...

May 8, 2012             Nine months and a day.             That’s how long it’s been since Devin was killed.             It didn’t hit me until last night about 9 p.m., as I was ironing my clothes. I said something to Ruth about it.             “I know,” she said quietly.             And for the nine-month anniversary of his death, Devin came to me in a dream last night. Don’t know if I can call these kinds of dreams a vision like the one on 80 th Street. That night, and the feeling of Devin being with us on Thanksgiving remain the strongest form of a connection I’ve had with him since his death. They were beyond mere dreams or coincidences.           ...

Shadow desperately wants to become a father. But since he doesn't have opposable thumbs to search the Internet for foreign offspring, it's doubtful he'll be adopting puppies from China anytime soon. And, sad to say for Shadow, having offspring of his own the old-fashioned way isn't going to happen since we, ahem, took him to that trip to Disneyland a few years ago. It's just that nobody told him. So he tries. Everyday. With our other dog, Sandy. Who also won't ever be having puppies. We get our dogs from the shelter, and it's a prerequisite when you take one out of one of those cages, you don't set them up for a litter of six or seven puppies to get thrown back in when a family gets tired of them. She gets it. "You're spayed," and "Stay," sound alike to her, and she's never had an interest in becoming a Mommy, which just makes her bitchy and pissed off when Shadow tries to change her mind. Even if Shadow tried to be ro...