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

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.             In last night’s dream, I found myself in Devin’s room, the way it looked when we were stationed in Germany, but the bed was pulled to the middle of the room so I could stand on one side and Ruth on the other. She came into the room in her nursing scrubs ready to go to work and wanted to say goodbye. I was on the other sid

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

Instead of picking up with Chapter 8, I surprised myself by writing this. Sat down to jot down a few sentences, and this is part of what came out. May 2, 2012             Found some pictures of Devin on the digital camera today.             Couldn’t help but talk to him out loud.             “Devin, why’d you die?”             Sometimes – no, check that, usually every night -- when I let the dogs into the backyard for their last pee of the evening, I like to stare into the yard, then stare up into space and just wonder.             I wonder where Heaven is. I wonder if it’s all around us. I wonder what Devin is doing and how it all looks to him, far removed from this Earth. I think of regrets and I think of ... stuff. Just think.             I’m fairly certain Sunday and Monday was a significant step forward in the grieving process, though it was a simple thing. I cleaned the kitchen.             We needed a new refrigerator, and as we cleaned the old one out, and p

Chapter 7     My phone rang again, the sound for a text message, as I made my way through the Pittsburgh airport terminal.     It was from Tomah Jim.     We spent the better part of the last week, hustling from one end of the David L. Lawrence Convention Center to the other. The Wheelchair Games are a big deal, and Pittsburgh pulled out all the stops, with celebrity athletes galore on hand, like Rocky Bleier and Franco Harris, two of my childhood favorites.     Bleier himself had come back from a devastating Vietnam War injury that could have left him in a wheelchair. That didn’t happen. He walked again, and helped lead the Steelers to four Super Bowls, so it was only natural that he was the honorary chairperson for the week.     Usually if I was at one end of the convention center, they were at the other, shaking hands, taking pictures and signing autographs. The only time I got close enough was during the opening ceremonies, when I was taking pictures of them, with our paralyzed ve