Meanderings and Musings of a Cluttered Mind

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