And they say vaudeville is dead...

So, my son Christopher wanted to get contact lenses before he headed back to college.
The technology is a little new-fangled for me, but I'm a tolerant, progressive sort so I said OK and took him to the optometrist and sat in the waiting room.
And sat.
And sat.
And sat.
Finally, I charmed my way past the receptionist and stuck my head in the room where Christopher was attempting to try them on.
"Well, now we got ourselves a little cabaret going,'' I thought to myself as I watched the bumbling first attempts to put the contact lenses in.
After I awhile, I offered him the best advice I could think of:
"Son,'' I said, "you're going up against a million years of evolution here. Because if evolution has taught us anything, it's this: Don't go sticking stuff in your eye!''
Christopher was not amused. But he kept at it, the little myopic who could.
I'm so proud.

Worm food music

It happens every few years. I'll hear a new song or an old song in a new context and think, "Now there's a song I'd like sung at my funeral.'' And then, I have to either lengthen or rejigger my burgeoning "last requests'' document.

For years, the list was pretty well set in stone. Bob Dylan's elegiac "Every Grain of Sand,'' Springsteen's rollicking mid-tempo apocalypse "Land of Hope and Dream'' and the old hymn, "Be Thou My Vision.''

But I just heard Willie Nelson sing a mysterious Daniel Lanois composition called "The Maker,'' which is full of visions and something like redemption. If this keeps up, there will have to be an intermission during the funeral service. But who doesn't want a backbeat when they shuffle off this mortal coil.

My only problem will be getting people to sing the songs. I've already asked my wife.

"I'll be too upset to sing,'' Sue said.

"You know, it's not always about you,'' I told her.

She didn't appreciate that.

Only two of my four sons can carry a tune in a bucket, and one of those has a leaky pail at best.
And it's just not the same if the bereaved have to listen to canned music over the PA system at whatever church turns out to handle the pre-grave hootenanny. Maybe we'll just have to give everybody who attends an iPod, turning my funeral into a Grim Reaper version of the Oprah show.

So, it's a bit of a problem. And death turns out to be a big impediment to the philosophy that "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.''

Odontomachus bauri my butt!

Word comes from the scientific community that something called the trap-jaw ant (scientific name, see above), native to Central and South America, can chomp the head off its prey more quickly than any other creature. According to an Associated Press story, this little bugger can strike 2,300 times faster than the blink of an eye.

Big deal. Obviously these predator-studying scientists have never looked into the reporter-devouring habits of newspaper editors.

The indiscreet charm of the A.G.

Sometimes I wish I had a guy.
And I'm using the term guy in a gender-neutral way.
I'm using it in a way I imagine Hamlet Goore used the term when he was sitting around the bar with his pals after a long day's work doing whatever it is he does.
"I don't worry about getting stopped by the cops,'' he'd say to them. "I got a guy.''
In his case, his guy turned out to be his girlfriend, who also happened to be the Attorney General of New Jersey.
And indeed, when he was pulled over, he made a call and his guy came running and made it all go away.
Except that it eventually cost the attorney general her job.
The whole point of having a big shot string-puller in your corner is to have things done discreetly, not with a state-owned car barreling to your aid with lights aflashing.
Some of us, nay, most of us, have to get out of traffic tickets using nothing but our charm.
Which explains why most of us don't get out of traffic tickets.

Does a baptist pee In the woods?

People ask me if I miss being a minister. And my answer is that I miss the preaching part of the job, but definitely do not miss deacon board meetings and that sort of thing.

So I preach when I can, when a congregation's pastor is on vacation and they need a fill-in.
This past Sunday, I preached at a one-room chapel in Spray Beach on Long Beach Island. It's a summer-only chapel and the preachers are all fill-ins. I like to preach so much that I drove 75 miles to this place on a Sunday morning. Service starts at 9:30 a.m. I got there about 9:10, picked a few hymns and turned to a guy more or less in charge.

"So, where's the men's room?'' I asked.
"Oh, we don't have one,'' he said.
"Then let's assume this is going to be a very brief worship service,'' I replied.
"I only live three blocks away from here,'' the man said. "I could drive you there and back.''
We really didn't have time for that.

"I'll get through,'' I said. "But I want to tell you that if I'm in the middle of the sermon and it suddenly looks as if I'm gyrating under the mighty power of the Holy Spirit, just chalk it up to a full bladder.''

I did manage to muddle through without a puddle, so to speak, once again showing forth that God sometimes rewards those who, as my parents always put it, ''should have gone before we left home.''

Mel Kampf

I've been drunk in my life, but never Mel Gibson drunk, if you know what I mean.
We've all said things under the influence of alcohol that we regret come the daylight: "Of course I love you'' springs to mind.'' But that's a bleary-minded pragmatism at work.
It seems to me, that apart from some drunken attempt to score points with a member of the opposite sex, the inhibition-losing effects of demon rum usually get you to say what's on what's left of your mind, a 100-proof truth serum of the heart.
Booze doesn't make you say anti-Semitic things. It unlocks that ugly place where you keep it hidden in the sober hours.
Mel meant it. Maybe now he wishes he didn't, but that's something for him to work out with his God, while the rest of us wait to see if his repentence bears fruit and lasts longer than a pony keg at a frat party.