String Cheese- Article Seventeen

Kids’ games drive some parents batty
By ARYN CORLEY
In any given city on any given school night, pint-sized warriors take the field to match skills and attention disorders.Tee ball was created as a contest of genetic superiority. There isn’t a better way to metaphorically declare “my kid is better than your kid” than to have them on a baseball field wondering just what the heck to do next.
Pageants would be a lot better if only they had more contact.
Sometimes I wonder whether or not the game is really meant for the younsters or us parents.
If the game were truly for the kids, the parents would be asked to leave. Heck, instead of T-ball it could be called something else like “Play-in-the-antbed ball” or “Hey-look-it’s-a-plane ball.” If you really want a kid to become interested in aviation, put him or her in the outfield. Game time is the perfect time for amateur botanists to examine specimens.
Getting two dozen kids to play an organized game is like herding cats. You’d probably have an easier time brokering a peace deal between the Israelis and the Palestinians.I love it because it drives parents crazy.
At one of my son’s games, I watched the parents instead of the kiddos. It was definitely worth the price of admission.At first I thought the moms and dads were cheering, but as I listened closer those cheers sounded more like helpless pleas.
“Throw to first!,” one mom yelled.
“Run, run, run!,”, a dad bellowed.
“Stop picking your nose!,” cried a legal guardian.
It was not long before exasperated parents began to threaten their kids. People’s children were going to bed early and having video games taken away left and right. Let’s face it — fear is the substance of childhood. Without it, being a kid would be meaningless.The mere possibility of my parents ending my existence kept me always striving to hide the evidence.
Some of the parents yelled out to their offspring. They shouted names like “Forrest,” “Bo,” and “Hunter.” It seemed less like a T-ball game and more like a trip to Gander Mountain.
It’s also easy to tell which kids have an aptitude for the game. Any kid who actually watches the ball is way ahead of the curve. If the ball looked more like the Death Star (a spherical weapon of mass destruction from the movie Star Wars), my spawn would be interested in it.
A kid’s only saving grace for a lackluster performance is batting. An infield homer washes away many sins. Saying a kid hit like a girl used to be an insult. However, these days the girls are the ones who are batting the runners in.
Ruth, the Babe?
Thankfully, nobody keeps score. Good thing. Otherwise, it would be hard for the bookies to work out the point spread.

String Cheese- Article Sixteen

Halloween Memories Can Be Frightening
by Aryn Corley

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays.
When I was a kid I'd enjoy dressing up in strange costumes and accosting my neighbors for something sweet and bad for my teeth. My parents weren't at all concerned with the pagan origins of the holiday. Also, we didn't have a whole lot of cash laying around to spend on costumes.
They just thought it was funny to watch me dress up like some low-budget ghoul. In fact, the operating budget carried just enough money to buy one bag of candy and that was to go to other kids who came to my house.
Life is so cruel.
I didn't know it at the time, but it was no coincidence that we always got the candy my dad liked and it was usually gone by the time kids started arriving.
Anyway, back to my costumes.
Other kids were dressing up as pirates, sports figures, some even as biblical characters. Some of them had elaborate get-ups that were store bought.
Not I.
I always had to be whatever was laying around the house. Ed Wood would've been proud of me. There was no rhyme nor reason to my look. It defied explanation. People would ask me what my costume was and I would just shrug. I was the "Dunno" for many Halloweens.
One year I had green oatmeal stuck to my face. My mom got the brilliant idea of mixing oatmeal with green food coloring and globbing it all over my kisser. I looked as if Linda Blair tried to give me a makeover.As I went from house to house I got some very strange looks.
"What are you supposed to be young man?"
"I dunno."
"You look like someone puked their breakfast all over your face."
To add insult to injury, the guy dumped about a pound of candy corn into my small bag. Ugh.
The streets of Hell are paved with candy corn.
I dragged that sack around like a bag full of fossilized dinosaur droppings. At least my dad was excited about my take."Candy corn! My favorite!" he exclaimed.
Now that I'm a parent, I've decided to spare my children the indignity of roaming the neighborhood as a pile of dirty laundry. Ironically, my father runs a chain of stores which sell, of all things, Halloween costumes. My kids received some really cool things from grandpas store. The Darth Vader costume that came was pretty elaborate and the lightsaber that goes with it is pretty cool too. Where was all that stuff when I was a kid?
Life is so cruel.
It's just as well that they got fancy commercial costumes for Halloween. I probably would have dressed them up as something completely inappropriate like an Al-Queda operative or Monica Lewinsky (dress not included).We probably won't go trick-or-treating in the traditional sense. Creeping around in the dark dressed as 12 point buck is a recipe for getting shot around these parts. We'll probably end up going to the kids' school or to some other local gathering. Maybe the kids would like to go to a bar that night.
Those kids have it so easy.

Twitterpated

There is a website called TWITTER which lets users post small messages and stuff. It's kind of like text messaging. These days communication happens very quickly.
If you join TWITTER. Be sure to 'follow' user named ArynCorley.
That's me.

STRING CHEESE NOMINATED FOR SNA AWARD

*BREAKING NEWS*

My String Cheese Article Nobody Loves Love Bugs Like Lovebugs Love Bugs has been nominated for two Suburban Newspapers of America (http://www.suburban-news.org/Default.aspx) awards for Best Opinion Column and Best Headline.

Wow!

This should entitle me to a line item veto of "honey-do" lists.

String Cheese- Article Fifteen

Desperate times call for desperate recipes

BY ARYN CORLEY

As I view the photographs of the devastation caused by Hurricane Ike, I’m reminded of my kids’ rooms. The chaos and disorder of both can be overwhelming. Luckily, we didn’t suffer any damage and nobody was seriously injured. Thankfully, many of my friends came out of this storm with only a few trees down.

As with all natural disasters, there’s the time afterward when we scratch our heads and say to ourselves, “Now what?”

The hurricane damage in Southeast Texas ruined many planned events like Brad Paisley’s concert and the Texans football game. You know things are bad when the NFL has to reschedule a game. The Lord himself could come back to take us home right at halftime during the Super Bowl, and the NFL will ask him to kindly wait until the end of the game. That’s after checking to see if he’d bought a ticket.

However, East Texans weren’t going to let a little wind damage and power outage put a damper on doing what East Texans seem to do best: drinking and grilling.

The silver lining to this dark cloud is that we love food and whether it’s a hurricane, tornado, earthquake or flash flood, we’re going to “get our grub on.”

In the moments leading up to the storm, I saw hundreds of people scrambling around making preparations. I consistently saw the same things in the shopping carts as they rolled by: hot dogs, buns, chips and beer. It looked like people were getting prepared for an Astros game than a hurricane.

Liquor store parking lots looked like airports as scores of people were clamoring about to get in and out.

When the lights went out, the fires started. Across the county, the smell of lighter fluid wafted from one end to the other. After all, there was a fresh supply of smoking wood laying all over the place. For the next several days, barbecuing broke out instead of riots and hysteria.

It was pure heaven.

Everywhere I turned, someone was either sticking a rib in my mouth or stuffing a piece of grilled chicken in my shirt pocket.

People started cooking the meat from their freezers in order to prevent it from going to waste. Filet mignons that had been reserved for a special occasion had now become casualties of the storm. Where there’s barbecue, the beer is soon to flow.

At the POD (or point of distribution, as it was called), where I was working to hand out water and MREs, we were also doling out bags of ice like they were melting. Well, they were actually. As car after car came through, we popped open coolers to find they were filled with several different brands of sudsy brew. Nothing will keep the froth on a Miller Lite longneck bottle like a bag or two of government ice.

Let’s face it. When you’re dealing with insurance companies, you’re going need a drink. There’s no better time to “tie-one-on” than when your place is already trashed.

One guy even asked me if FEMA was going to bring any beer to the POD.

Fat chance.

Alas, all good things come to an end. The power coming back on was a bittersweet reunion. I wanted to ask SHECO if they could hold off on the power restoration.

At least until I could get some more jalapeno-stuffed dove breasts and a Miller Lite.

Our Country is in Peril

World economies are collapsing.
Consumer confidence is at the lowest levels in recent history.
Large companies are needing billion dollar bailouts.
All of this pales in comparison to the bombshell that I just heard on the news:

INJURY FORCES MAY-TREANOR OFF 'DANCING WITH THE STARS'

This is officially the end of the world.

String Cheese- Article Forteen

Nobody loves bugs like Lovebugs love bugs

Lovebug swarms this year are worse than normal, but hopefully they will be gone in a few days.

By ARYN CORLEY

Published: 09.08.08

The lovebugs are here.

Ick.

Quite frankly, I’m tired of their in-flight orgy getting all over my windshield. Would someone please tell these hedonistic little buggers to get a room? For Pete’s sake, there are kids watching!

Imagine spending the whole of your adult life (2, maybe 3 days, tops) being attached at the rump to your soulmate in coital flight when the both of you are suddenly smooshed on the front grill of a Peterbilt truck. Or worse yet, a Hyundai.

Sounds romantic doesn’t it?

Twice every year we’re treated to about a gazillion little black bugs and their “love fest.” Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad if they were a little more love and a lot less bug.

Some poking around on the Internet revealed interesting information about our amorous little guests.

If you want to really “bug” your entomology friends, use the term “love bug” instead of “lovebug.” As it turns out, lovebugs are actually flies and not really bugs at all. They belong to the order Diptera. I think that’s Latin for “annoying.”

True bugs belong to the order Hemiptera, which means “Honey, will you pick up that bug and throw it away because I’m afraid to touch it? And if you put it on me, I’m going to kill you!”

If you want the origins of the two words, you’ll have to consult an etymologist. Oh, the bureaucracy!

There’s an urban legend that suggests lovebugs were a genetic experiment gone wrong. According to the legend, the insects were created by the University of Florida to feed on mosquitoes. This notion is manifestly absurd because everyone knows that the University of Florida uses it’s genetic engineering lab to make football players.

Growing up in West Texas, I never saw too many lovebugs.

In fact, I saw quite a lot of “hate bugs,” which is just about anything with a stinger or a set of claws. Lovebugs like this area because of all the moisture we get here. The humidity reminds them of a day spa.

Surely, the Creator has a purpose for these creatures other than to answer the prayers of car wash owners and Turtle Wax representatives.

As it turns out, He does have a reason for them. The larvae feed on thatch, which is grass that lays on the ground and decays. In England, it’s your roof. They eat the buildup of organic matter in the environment, which means they are a necessary part of a healthy ecosystem.

They aren’t so necessary if you ride a Harley and smile a lot.

Lovebugs don’t have many natural enemies. Insectivores generally shy away from them because they taste acidic. My compliments go to the research scientist who actually got the insectivores to stop eating long enough to fill out a customer feedback card. If I had to choose the number one killer of lovebugs, it would be a toss-up between Ford and Chevy.

Occasionally, I’ll encounter a lovebug that’s all by itself. Those bugs are the most interesting to me and the one’s for whom I probably have the most affection. These iconoclastic little rebels have decided not to give in to peer pressure and have made a conscious effort to commit themselves to abstinence.

Or they might live an alternative lifestyle.

Lovebugs are the perfect metaphor for our own cycle of life. We mature, we mate, and then we end up on the metaphysical windshield. The process continues until time immemorial.

Thankfully, their visit is brief.

Pretty soon they’ll be gone and we can get back to the business of worrying about the things that don’t really matter in our lives.

I must admit though, I’m a little envious of any bug that gets the milk without having to buy the cow!