THE CHICAGO LITERARY CLUB

ALONG THE WAY—A LITTLE BIT OF THIS, A LITTLE BIT OF THAT

PRESENTED BY

CHARLES E. SHEPHERD

FEBRUARY 4, 2008

ELECTIONS MADE EASY

The last presidential election and the Florida fiasco surrounding it presents our country with an excellent opportunity to correct many of problems presented then. I believe that I have come up with several ideas that will make future elections easier and cheaper.

First, all future Presidential elections will be held ONLY in Florida. Before the campaign starts, there will be a coin toss to see which party gets to choose the three counties that will get to vote in the election. I suppose if we were to be fair about it, the Republicans should get first choice in the next Florida election as the Democrats got to choose their three favorite counties the last time. But who would ever say that fairness had anything to do with politics, so there should be a coin toss before the next election.

Another coin toss will then be made that will give the winner the choices as to the method that the ballots are to be counted; which ones that are to be counted; and which ones that are to be included or excluded, including absentee ballots. To clarify further, the winner will get the choice to count by machine, by hand and whether ballots with dimples, pimples and nipples will count.

So far so good. But we have a problem with the lawyers in simplifying the process. The Florida election gave lawyers an opportunity of a lifetime that they will not easily relinquish. First and foremost, they got employment they never dreamed was possible. They logged billable hours by the thousands and had the chance to get their puss in front of the national TV audience at the drop of a hat—or maybe at the drop of a ballot would be more appropriate. So it should be obvious to anyone that unless we come up with a plan to soothe their income and egos, we’ve got a problem.

You guessed it, I have a solution. There apparently was a lot of confusion with many of the Florida voters in the voting process. It appears to me that too many of them failed to take off their mittens before they started punching their ballot, but I stray from the main issue to be dealt with, namely, just what was the voter’s INTENT when they punched the ballot? With the butterfly ballot and a weak punching hand, only a mind reader can tell what really went on in the voter’s mind. So what to do?

Now here’s how we kill two birds with one stone. To be absolutely sure of each voter's

intent, we will have a video camera voting booth into which the voter will be cross examined by a lawyer from each party as to their actual intent before they vote. Any doubt about the voters’ choice will permit one or both of the lawyers to appeal to a special court, which by the way, gives those lawyers who are judges a chance to get their puss on TV, too. This procedure should satisfy the lawyers’ employment needs for at least a week or two.

Next we must solve another major problem and that is what to do with all the print and media people. They are only outnumbered by lawyers and they need work, too. So here’s how we can deal with them. When the government doesn’t like something, whatever it is, it taxes it. So we will impose a tax on them, say 10 cents a word, on everything the media blabs about. This tax will no doubt have a negative effect on the media’s interest in talking about and writing about and pontificating about and arguing about the campaign, which, again, will save the nation a great deal of pure boredom. An even better result will be achieved, namely, only the good media people will survive. Those that don’t can become lawyers.

Now that we have taken care of the lawyers’ and medias’ pocketbooks, we next have to change the method as to how each party selects their respective candidate so to shorten primary campaigns and, thereby, eliminate the need for the candidates to raise obscene amounts of money. Here’s how we’re going to solve that problem.

Every year, I watch with great interest the running of the bulls in either Spain, Italy or some other country that gets its jollies out of watching young men get their butts kicked by the bulls as they run down the streets in front of them. Not a bad idea for selecting candidates, in my opinion. Let all aspiring candidates run in front of some bulls and the one that survives as the fittest gets to be their respective party’s choice! Not only would this be a relief from all the tiresome primaries and a cheap way to select the candidates, we would get the added benefit of seeing the politicians get their butts kicked for a change instead of ours!

It seems to me that we have almost everything solved and all tied up in a neat bow to make Presidential elections easier and cheaper. However, one further thought has come to mind. Since Florida has become so important to our nation, I think that we should move the nation’s capital there lock stock and barrel. From all that I’ve seen recently the new capital should be placed smack dab in the middle of Disneyland. It seems to me that all the politicians would fit in nicely with Mickey Mouse and Goofy.

MY NEW CAUSE

I’ve always had more energy than I could expend. When I was a youngster, my report card always had the space checked for “Restless”, “Distracts Class”—you get the picture. Probably by today’s standards, I would have been drugged because of some diagnosed disorder. Anyway, I wasn’t, and my Mother claimed I was normal—just a little too enthusiastic. When I grew up and worked, travel, meetings and more meetings burned up most of my excess energy. But now that I’m retired, my batteries are full. I’m afraid that if my wife made out my report card today, much of what was checked in the past would be again.

So I’ve searched for a number of things to do. Some have been successful in stopping me from fidgeting, but now I’ve got an itch to start something new—and I think I have found it. I’m going to start a new cause.

Let me tell you about it. I’m feeling sorry for, (can you believe it coming from me?) politicians! Yep. Let me explain. One doesn’t have to look far in the daily news to find a Hollywood star or a professional athlete that has been discovered to have been caught in some form of sexual activity, be it heterosexual, homosexual, or something in between. Whatever it is, the perpetrator or perpetrators suffer no adverse publicity or harm to their careers. In fact, quite in to the contrary. The sexual acts, no matter how outrageous, seem to be a badge of honor and, as a result, seem to be encouragement for many celebrity wannabes to copy as a career path. Fans eat the errant conduct up despite their religious or political leanings. What’s more, they continue to spend their hard-earned dollars to go and see their heroes by the hordes. Go figure, as they say.

Now here comes my cause to the rescue. Our politicians aren’t excused by the public by their sexual exploits. Let one of them have a little fun with an intern, mess around with some Senate pages, or tap a foot three times under an airport john, and bingo. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is after his or her hide. Instant nationwide movements are instigated to impeach them, to get them to resign, or to shoot themselves. “Shame on them. Shame on them. Shame on them” is the common war whoop.

Few in our nation are as forgiving as the self-proclaimed spiritual leader of our Presidents as the Reverend Billy Graham. He was quoted as saying, upon being asked about President

Clinton’s sexual exploits, “Well, you know, boys will be boys.” Taking a page from his spiritual insight, as well as feeling that our politicians should be treated the same as other celebrities, you can see why I feel sorry for them. Let me elaborate.

The great majority of our national politicians are multimillionaires. They have more money than most people can ever imagine. With that kind of bucks, most of which is inherited; it’s easy to see how they could get bored easily. Playing backgammon at the club does wear one out. So what should they do? Oh, you know, go into politics. Where else can a person become an overnight national celebrity like a rock and roll idol, a TV star, a movie star, or a sports hero by just announcing your candidacy for some political office—the higher the better. Spending some of your old man’s money on advertising and a glamorous staff, and Voila’, you are in the publics' eye and worshiped by the cable TV talking heads, and throngs of people across the nation.

The problem, of course, rears its ugly head should the newly famed get elected. Their sex life now becomes a center of interest by the nation— and, unlike the other celebrities, they soon discover that any activity south of their navel is now TABOO, and a matter for grave national concern! And by now, I’m sure that you feel their pain as I do.

So what’s my new cause? Simple. I want to set them free so that they can have a sex life that’s of no business of the public. How am I going to accomplish this task? Easy. I’m going to work my ass off to try a get every one of them thrown out of office. Then when they go back to private life, they can do what they have been publicly doing to all of us while they’ve been in office—and not catch any heat for it. Now that is what I call a cause. It’s sure to help me burn up a lot of my excess energy and stop my twitching.

RETIREMENT FROM THE MALES' POINT OF VIEW

After working for over forty years, I’m no longer a hunter, but a gatherer. I’m headed for the old barn and am hanging up my spurs and going out to the big pasture of retirement. I’m now grazing in my wife’s pasture, which she has been the lord and master over for all of our married life. I am on her turf, her territory and in her face. We both have an adjustment that redefines our roles as we have known them in the past. You know, ME work downtown, YOU work home. Well, that is no longer the case, which reminds me of the behavior of horses in a herd on the range.

The Stallion stands off from the herd looking for potential predators as well as suitors for his mares. He has two jobs, protection, and—well, we know what the other one is. The lead mare nurtures the herd and bosses the young, the old and anybody else that gets in her space. When the stallion gets too old, or whatever, to do his job, a little operation is performed on him and he becomes a gelding.

Geldings have a distinct role in the herd and that is TO MIND THE DOMINENT MARE!―a role that she seems to love. She bosses the living stuff out the them, and generally makes their lives miserable if they don’t fall into line. By now I think that you can catch on where I’m going.

While I haven’t had an operation, MY new status as a “guy” hanging around the barn in my wife’s territory gives pause to my status as, ah, a gatherer male, and I better behave. She says that I can’t hang around all day watching TV re–runs of the invasion of Normandy. Nuts. A lifetime of “honey dos” have piled up and I better get off my couch and get started. Home Depot is my new pasture.

Well, I ain’t going to take this new role lying down (except for an occasional nap). I have staked out a piece of turf in the basement that I call my “office” and she better not even come close to my 4x4 foot space. I can cruise the Internet to my heart’s content, play with my files and even look busy and important. That’s enough for me and I don’t even have to put on a shirt, tie and a suit to impress her.

I’ve even gone so far as to start a new business that seems to have a good future. Canning pony farts for home sick cowboys seems to have a market and I am going to pursue it with

vigor—at least, it will get me back in the pasture again and out of the barn.

PORK AND BEANS

Little did I know that when I cooked my first can of pork and beans that a can of pork and beans would someday become a prognosticator for our society. My culinary efforts began on a camping trip as a Boy Scout. We built a roaring fire upon which we cooked our first meal all by ourselves. I opened up a can of Campbell’s' pork and beans with my trusty Boy Scout knife and placed the can in the fire to get hot. It did and the pork and beans were delicious.

I especially liked the big piece of bacon that was included as the pork portion of the beans. Yum, Yum. We also cooked skillet biscuits that we munched on with the pork and beans. When we finished, we had the happiest tummies on earth to go along with the pride that we had in cooking our first meal.

Over the years, I have continued to eat pork and beans and love them. Dietitians even say they are good for us to prevent all sorts of maladies. But that is not how a can of pork and beans became a prognosticator of our society's ills.

Several recent Wall Street Journal articles detailed the failings of our society and the low regard that we, as a nation, hold for many of our prominent people and institutions. We no longer respect politicians, businessmen and women, business professionals, and too many of our clergy and religions. With a little further thought, the list could be expanded greatly.

The central theme of the shortcomings of our national leaders is that they can no longer be trusted to protect anything but their own self interest. What is good for me, for my stock price, my chances of getting re-elected, my share of the profits, my sexual pleasure and so on is their motto. My, My, My, Me, Me, Me, and I, I, I are the words of the rap song that beats in our nation―and we are paying a pretty price for dancing to the rhythm.

What’s all of the forgoing have to do with a can of pork and beans? Just open up a can today and you’ll see. My first can had a big piece of bacon swirling in bean's the sauce. Now look at the pork that floats on top of today's can of “Pork and Beans”. The pork is a piece of fat, presumably pork, and is, at best, the size of a small pea. Pork AND beans my fanny. It’s only beans in that can. The pork and beans can of today is reflective of the values of those mentioned above. The clear message to us is, “It’s the packaging that counts and not the

content.” Value to the customer, the public, the stockholder, the employee or whomever, be damned. We come first.

When will our society get back on track? I don’t know, but I think it will when a can of pork and beans gives you a chunk of pork to accompany those delicious little legumes. Won’t it be a real gas when that happens?

THE QUEST

Retirement can be a shift into permanent PARK and I decided to find something meaningful to do for the rest of my life. Looking back on my career I concluded that I had not accomplished anything that the world would remember me by. Oh, at one time, I had such great ambitions. Nothing short of a Supreme Court Judge; maybe the ambassador to the United Nations; or, at least, the social chairman for a local VFW. I hadn’t discovered something like the cure for polio; or climbed anything like Mt. Everest; or invented anything like run-proof pantyhose. I could have gone on and on. But I didn’t. Upon reflection, I decided that it was not too late to make my mark. However, what to do now was not an easy question to answer. I prayed for divine guidance from the likes of Plato, Aristotle, and Willie Nelson every day from the time that my feet first hit the floor in the morning.

Finally I had an epiphany after, by pure chance you understand, I watched a Victoria Secret fashion show on TV. Of course, I only wanted to listen to the music. But as I peeked at the runway occasionally, I pondered and wondered just what is Victoria’s Secret? Nobody knows I

concluded. Otherwise why would everyone make such a big deal about ladies'

unmentionables?

Clearly, a mystery. Should it be solved? Could it be solved? Could the

answer be as important, by today’s standards, as the Quest for the Holy Grail? I concluded, “YES”. Why, you ask? Just because it’s there that’s why. It could be grist for my mill. Clearly, it could be my last shot to be remembered and be famous. I fantasized at the potential of my notoriety. The world was sure to love the man who discovered Victoria’s Secret. My new dream drove me on.

I hiked up my shorts and marshaled my energy to start the Quest. I began by reading past issues of the Victoria Secret catalogue. Next, I hung around Victoria Secret stores and tried to get first hand evidence to get a feel of where the secret might lie. Need I remind you, it wasn’t easy. First it was the stares, ugly stares. I soon had my face slapped more times than a whole nursery of newborns’ bottoms. It got to the point that I was barred from most shopping centers. I must admit that the pictures of me on the posters hung on shopping centers walls flattered me. Every time I looked at them, I felt a rush at the thoughts of my impending fame.

to overcome my inability to do hands on research, I attempted to reach through the Internet some of the estimated ten and a half million people who watched the TV program to ask them

to help me with my Quest. However, I ran into another problem. Many software programs blocked my attempt to communicate with women about their underwear. Hard to understand.

I admit at this point that I was downtrodden, and my spirits were lower than a snake’s belly in a rut. My wife and I were no longer invited anywhere, nor would anyone go out with me, including my wife. I soon discovered that a Quest is lonely journey.

I got to the point that I went to O’Hare just to be around people. My favorite people watching spots were the security checkpoints at the gates. I could watch people going through them for hours. After several weeks, I became an astute observer. I discovered that when many women walked through the metal detector, they set off an alarm. Then, when they were personally monitored by a wand, it was discovered that they were wearing a bra that had metal in it. Viola. The wire had to be Victoria’s Secret. Who woulda thunk it. Right under everybody’s nose---albeit, just a little way.

And what a relief. I am proud to announce to the world that I’ve done it. I am confident that once the world knows of my discovery, my goal of achieving a significant accomplishment in this life will have been reached. My Quest is over. I can return to my family, my friends, and a few shopping centers once my posters are taken down and the statute of limitations has run. I

am proud to say that my tombstone will proclaim my notoriety with these words:

What once was used to build a fence

Victoria Secret now uses to enhance

The objects that God has forgotten

No longer need to be stuffed with cotton.

What she uses to uplift and inspire

Is nothing but plain ol’ number eight wire.

So that’s the SECRET harbored by Victoria.

Discovered by this curious man from Peoria.

WHOOPIE, IT'S A

The high cost of medical care has our nation reeling and the hospitals, in particular, are bleating like a bunch of cows who need milking. The large number of medical staff, the high cost of modern equipment, and the need for new doctors’ lounges has caused a big drain on their budgets. Accordingly, hospitals are looking for new ways to increase their revenue stream―OK, profits.

They’ve tried charging $10 for an aspirin, $100 per visit by a bed pan orderly, and $20 an hour for parking and they still come up short. They need a new plan and I think I have a partial solution for them.

The birth of a baby is something the latest generation has discovered. The father, the grandparents and as many shirttail relatives and friends that the birthing room can hold are now invited to watch the event. Things have gone so far that there is a cable TV program that follows a couple, almost from the moment of conception, to the televising of the birth. So, hospitals need a method to take advantage of this hot trend.

Here’s the business plan. First, the birthing room will be greatly enlarged to accommodate a big crowd of invitees. The room will have stadium stand seating like that of a sporting event, under which colleges will have kiosks to permit them to tout there wares to the new candidate for higher education. A huge stadium-like TV will be provided so that everyone can follow every intimate detail of the process. It will, of necessity, have instant replay capabilities. Soft music will be supplied in the background to drown out any moans, groans or screams of the father.

At the outset of the guests’ visit and before they are seated, they will be escorted for a viewing of the epicenter of the event. Next, they will be given a moist towel with which they can take one swipe at the mother- to- be’s forehead while they speak words of encouragement and cheers. They will then be seated in the stands for the viewing. There, the hospital’s staff will go through the crowd to sell beverages of choice, hot dogs and tickets to the staff party’s lottery. No ball caps will be sold, but T shirts and pennants with “Go, (mother’s name) will be available at a modest price.

After the child is born, and “Whoopee, it’s a boy or Whoopee it’s a girl”, is shouted, everyone

will get a shot at cooing, gooing or frowning at the little critter. A videotape of the event will be given as a souvenir as the guests leave along with a validation of their parking tickets.

The hospital’s bean counter will now be as ecstatic as the new parents as none of this folderol is going to come cheap. Someone is going to have to pay for it. Probably some insurance company will get stuck with it someday, but right now it is going to be the parents. Since this is the actual birth day of the child, presents will be in order and, naturally, cash will be accepted, along with credit cards and pledges.

After the mother and child have spent their allotted two hours in the hospital after the birth, a post birth party can resume at their home. Naturally, the birth viewing tape will be replayed continuously not only for the benefit of those guests that were there, but also to share the event for those who were not.

When everyone has left and all is quiet and the newborn is warmly snuggled in its bassinet, Mom and Dad will have a moment to reflect on the whole event and the hospital bill. I’m sure that it will be small in relation to the joy that they feel at the birthing process viewing party. As the old saying goes, “Anything that comes out OK in the end is worth it.”

FEMINISIM’S BEGINNING

I listened to a TV program recently that had a panel of women who discussed the history of the feminist movement. There was discord among the panel members as to when the movement got its start. One averred it began when women were given the vote; another when the burn your bra movement got its national attention; and so on. There didn’t seem to be any consensus among the panel as to the movement’s exact beginning. Naturally, I have my own idea.

In my opinion, the feminist movement began when Weber designed its famous barbecue. Women’s role in relation to men was forever changed. Think of it. Women’s traditional duty of cooking was thereafter transferred to men. Men were given aprons and cooking utensils as gifts for birthdays, father’s day and Christmas or Hanukah. Men giggled when they opened the presents and thought the whole thing was kind of a joke. But it wasn’t.

Women found out how nice it was to sit on the couch, watch TV and have a delicious beverage while the men slaved over the kettle. They first tried hot dogs; then on to hamburgers and ribs. When families cholesterol levels surged higher than a perfect bowling score, men were given recipe books written by women that included recipes on how to cook fish, vegetables and other healthy foods.

In fairness to men, they have tried to become cooks, but, for the most part, their hearts were and are not in it. The problem stems from the fact that while men are cooking, they have refused to give up their habit of drinking an adult beverage, which, more often than not, is a recipe for disaster. Either the meat is over cooked or under cooked, or both, in spots.

In addition, men can not give up their passion for sports, which they have tried to combine with cooking. Just look at them making perfect baboons out of themselves while they attempt to cook at football tailgate parties. They can’t leave their mitts off the turkey legs they are roasting on the old barbie. They have to pass them back and forth to each other like a football to vent the testosterone that they used to burn while hunting. No doubt the adult beverages they consume by the barrel full has something to do with their behavior.

However foolish their attempt at cooking has become, the result is that few complaints are uttered from the weaker sex’s mouths. They have learned that once the responsibility for

cooking is now in the hands of the dumber sex, there is not to be any turning back. Once the hunter has been changed to a gatherer and cooker, leave things alone. and don’t whine.

As to the future, it is clear that there has been an even greater change in the sexes’ roles above and beyond cooking. Feminism has marched forward and men have assumed more and different gatherer roles. There are now Mr. Moms; male nurses; and even male strippers. Just how far will the feminist movement go? God only knows. Just ask HER the next time you say a prayer asking for a good, rare steak.

NEVER VOLUNTEER

Those of us who defended our country from godless Communism or whatever by serving in the armed forces learned something important that we have carried over to our great advantage throughout our lives, namely, NEVER VOUNTERR FOR ANYTHING—a principle that has been useful for me for most of my life.

I rapidly applied this tried and true principal at a wrangler school course that my wife and I enrolled in at a ranch in Colorado. After one week we became “experts”about the horses from stem to stern.

As a part of the course, we had to learn about horse first aid and rudimentary medical treatment. One poor horse had a bad puncture wound and we we were going to learn how to treat it. The instructor outlined three medical procedures that the wound needed, and she asked for volunteers to perform them. The first task was to squeeze the wound to get the ugly stuff out; the second was to cleanse the wound; and the last was to stick a needle in the wound with medication.

Since there were only four of us in the class, three of whom were women, I reasoned quickly that my service principle would apply and gambled that they would volunteer—and, to my delight, I was right! How smug I was to see the old service gambit come through for me again.

I leaned cross–legged against a fence with a smirk on my face that I hid behind my big, black Stetson cowboy hat as each woman undertook their task. I had it made.

Well, after all was done and the wrangler instructor congratulated “us” for doing such a great job, I started to leave when the wrangler said “Whoa there cowboy, there's one thing left to do that I almost forgot to tell you about, and I need a volunteer to do it” Naturally, all eyes turned to me, and damn, my cowboy hat wasn't big enough for me to hide under it.

It seems that the horse needed to have its temperature taken and, like the old song goes,you blow in here, you push the first valve down and the music goes round and round and it comes out there. Well, its “there” where you take the temperature!

The veteran that I am, I faced up to my duty. I hiked the horse's tail up and, well let's just say that it was a little more unpleasant to execute that the other tasks. I learned that every

rule, every tenet, every premise, every principal, has an exception. And I learned that never

volunteering for anything doesn't always come out all right in the end.

TOO MUCH

I heard a song the other day that I hadn’t heard in years. The first time I heard it was when I saw the Broadway musical “Hair”. It was just by chance that I saw it on opening night. It was a shocker at the time. The long hair dangling from the male of our species was supposed to bug us. The nudity was supposed to shock us and the song, that I recently heard, “Aquarius” was supposed to herald a new astrological era for the world.

The hair thing did bug many people, especially barbers. The nudity didn’t get as wide a following as it should have; and the song, which was to replace the bad era of Pisces, had “love” as a theme. Clearly, it hasn’t lived up to its promise either. The same horrible things keep happening in the world as they have for eons in the past, so the poor ol’Picses got a lot of bad press for nothing.

As to love, I’m reminded of another song entitled, “What the World Needs Now”. I think it goes something like, “What the world needs now, is love, sweet love. That’s the only thing that there’s not plenty of”. It then goes on to say “Lord, we have too many mountains, too many rivers etc “. It is very much on point, and if I were God, I’d play it at least once a week.

There is one thing that the song over looks as having too much of. It doesn’t mention that we clearly have too much testosterone in the world. Our male species has had way too much of it running through their veins from the beginning of time. I don’t know what was in that apple, but it sure was potent. Males have been kicking the stuff out of the world ever since that first bite—all over religion, territory and pecking order. The female of our species has, on the other hand, been peaceful. Oh, there may be some arguments over a parking space once in a while, but nothing like the wars generated by the males. They are serious and have developed some awesome weapons to prove their point.

Clearly, we have to do something about testosterone. In addition to the War on Drugs, the War on Terrorists, we should instigate a War on Testosterone. I am frustrated that I don’t know

how to conduct such a war. But I know one thing that is not widely known by males, and that is, large levels of testosterone cause baldness, a condition frightening to most males. If this fact could be as widely talked about, written about and researched as much as PMS, perhaps our males would wake up and just say “NO” to testosterone.

In the meantime, just to get things started, I’m writing a new musical, entitled “Hair Piece”. The lead song will be entitled “Hair Today, Gone tomorrow”. When the curtain opens for the first scene, a sole, nude male wearing a short hair piece will be seated center stage, eating an orange.

A THOUSAND WORDS

One would have to live on Mars not to notice the popular trend of some of our nation's finest to become tattooed some place on their anatomy. It is euphemistically called “Body Art”. The practice used to be relegated to sailors who got drunk in some foreign port. But now the rich and the famous have taken up the practice of making themselves look like walking billboards for MOM, or whomever else they love.

To put it my generation's vernacular, having a tattoo is now hip. But what kind and where to put it presents a dilemma to many. As far as I am concerned, I could solve the problem easily. Since I forget almost everything of major importance, I could get tattoos on my arms that set forth the names, dates of birth, and sexes of all my grandchildren—and if I included every other important date or event that I usually can't remember, I would have to be an octopus in order to get the job done. So, I've given up on the idea of getting a tattoo.

I've given up for other reasons, too. I can vividly remember my first exposure to tattoos. I was in college, working in the summer on the night shift of a brewery. I only worked with one other person who also attended college, and we were constantly teased by our fellow workers as being ”brains”—that is until they discovered that the two of us didn't have a tattoo. We were meat for their grinder from then on.

The way we were discovered is memorable. We had shut down the bottle line for maintenance, and after it was completed, as was the custom, we sat around until quitting time to discuss things the Plato would never have thought of. One such “skull” session came around to the subject of tattoos. It was decided, after my colleague and I confessed that we had none, that those that those that did, would have a contest to determine who had the best one .We “brains” were to be the judges.

There were too many tattoos to describe here, but the third place winner was the man that had “Sweet” tattooed below one breast and “Sour” below the other. Then there was the man who, when he dropped his pants, had a tattoo entitled “Twin Screws” inked above his buttocks. He got second place. But these two guys were amateurs by the winner's standard. He had a blue bumblebee tattooed right on the end of his—yes, right there. My fellow judge and I were happy to hear the whistle blow to end the shift.

Many years passed before my next experience with tat5os. I was stationed in southern Germany, close to Dachau. On a day we didn't have to fly, several of us from my squadron decided to drive to Dachau and take a tour of one of the worst of the Holocaust extermination sites.

The tour began in what was called an “Artifact Museum”. It contained remnants of the murdered, and they were gruesome. Most of the artifacts paled in comparison when our eyes focused on numerous lampshades that were made out of the tattooed skin of the murdered. To this day my stomach turns as I remember my reaction and horror at the sight. We decided to get out of the nightmare as quickly as possible. We did not have to see the infamous showers and ovens to experience Dachau. The tattoos did it for us.

Today, every time I see a tattoo, my mind flashes back to Dachau, which will always be tattooed in my mind—a lamp shade that illuminates mans' inhumanity to man. Funny that a tattoo, no matter what its form or content, is worth a thousand words—or maybe it's not so funny.

RESTATING

Recent events in the financial world have called our attention to the trend of companies to restate their revenues and earnings to make their record look better than it really is. We have too often bought stock in these companies and have lost our shirts as a result. The Boards of Directors, top management and their advisors have come in, rightly so, for some severe criticism for the practice of restating almost everything. But, on the other hand, maybe the practice of restating things has become so ingrained in our current culture that they should be given a little slack e.g. thumb screws prohibited as punishment.

Let me explain my generosity by examining the practice of restating facts by our society. The most obvious area we seek is to restate is our faces. We are changing them with new noses, new cheeks, new eyes and sexy lips. We also don’t like our hair. Men get weaves and transplants to cover up what ain’t there any longer. Women use enough hair dye to camouflage the Pentagon several times a year so that terrorists can’t find it. Other aids to natural beauty that we use to restate our pusses make up a long list.

Then there are our bodies. Restated boobs, thighs, and tummies consume as much of our personal budgets as interest on the national debt. We get them tucked, made larger, smaller and flattened with such fervor that the medical schools are having trouble supplying the doctors to keep up with the demand for plastic surgery. Scientists are also getting into the act. Soon we will be able to discover which part of our DNA will cause us problems in the future and then correct them. Maybe some will want to go so far in restating themselves that they will be cloned. Our imagination will have no limits.

We also have a practice today of restating our lives. Human resources people claim that few resumes can be believed any more. It seems that we take liberty with our past accomplishments and record. Change a fact here, a date there and pretty soon you’ve got a resume that’s restated to the extent that it would even make Charles Manson look good.

What brought the practice of restating our lives to my attention was my attendance at the funeral of a long time friend and business partner. During the service, a family member expounded at great length about his record and accomplishments. For more than a few minutes, I thought that I was at the wrong funeral. Apparently, someone had a good

imagination when his life history was written for all of us to remember. I soon realized that the family member was taking the liberty of restating a few things. So what the heck, why blow the poor guy’s cover as he was about to be covered.

I next thought about my own life and what would be said about me at my funeral. I quickly knew that I, too, would need some major restating. I pondered how I could assist those who will have the difficult task of trying to make an old penny look like a new dime. Just how could I leave the impression that I would be a big loss to my family and society now that I'm gone. However, after some time, I finally came to the conclusion that my life would not have to be restated to improve it. When you come to think of it, what more could be said about a boy from Peoria who is a member of the Chicago Literary Club..