Suburban Man: Woodpecker Warrior

By Rick Kaempfer









It sounded just like a jackhammer.

I lived in Chicago for many years, and the sound of a jackhammer in the morning wasn’t even that unusual to me. But this jackhammer was slightly different. This one was hammering directly into my upstairs bathroom window...no more than fifteen feet away from my bed. And it was 6:00 in the morning.

When I opened the window to see what it was, the hammering stopped. I looked around the neighborhood to see if anyone was doing home improvements at this ridiculous hour, and was greeted with total blissful suburban silence.

“That’s weird.”

Maybe I was imagining things. I went back to bed. I had just fallen back asleep when the hammering started again.

”What the hell is that?” Bridget asked.

This time I didn’t just look out the window. This time I went down the stairs and onto my deck to see what was going on outside the bathroom window. Sitting in the gutter just above my dormer eave was a cute bird with a jackhammer beak. He didn’t fly away at first. We just stared at each other.

“It’s 6 in the morning,” I said to him.

He wasn’t swayed by my logic. It wasn’t until I screamed like a rodeo cowboy that he flew away from the eave, landing about fifteen feet away in a nearby bush. That wasn’t good enough for me. I charged at him, and this time he flew away onto someone else’s property.

“And stay out,” I said to myself.

I was feeling pretty good about successfully protecting my home until the next morning at 6:00. The jackhammer was back. I know the early bird gets the worm, but maybe someone should tell these birds that the early bird also gets a broomstick up his keester.

Now that I knew exactly where he was, I opened the window, and swung up toward the gutter with my broomstick, hoping to scare him away. He flew away immediately.

"That's right, Woody," I taunted.

Woodpeckers are sort of cute, but let’s face it-- the term “birdbrain” wasn’t invented out of whole cloth. He was no match for me. I was giving him the Teddy Roosevelt treatment—-walking softly and carrying a big stick.

Of course, the next morning he was back again at 6:00.

Each successive morning I got madder and madder. I’m a pacifist at heart, and I do respect nature, but this was causing me to have murderous thoughts. I started dreaming about grabbing him by the neck and snapping that hammering beak right off his head.

I was gritting my teeth as I choked him in my sleep...
“It’s...(choke)...6.... (choke)...in....(choke).... the...(choke)...*&(^....(choke)....morning....(choke)...
you...(choke)...smelly....(choke)... pecker!” (SNAP!)

When the jackhammer woke me up again the next morning, I sprinted across the hall, grabbed my broom, opened the window—-and this time I was swinging to maim or injure. Sensing my rage, the coward flew away. I actually screamed at him as he flew away...using a word that I shouldn’t have.

“(Insert Expletive Here)!” I screamed.

I wanted blood. I really did. I wanted him dead. It turns out that it’s a good thing I didn’t kill him, though. When I looked up woodpeckers on the internet later that morning, I discovered that it was a crime to kill them. It’s against the Federal Migratory Bird Treaty Act.

I had to go to Plan B. According to several websites, woodpeckers can be scared off by loud noises. This wasn’t really an option as far as I was concerned. Using loud noises to get rid of loud noises seemed to be defeating the whole purpose.

Another website said woodpeckers are repelled by bad smells, and they sold a stinky spray. I was about to order it when something distracted me at home (which isn’t difficult to do with three kids running around). I forgot all about it until I was going to bed that night.

I made a mental note to do it first thing in the morning. Only a strange thing happened that next morning. For the first time in more than a week, the woodpecker didn’t come back.

And he hasn’t come back since.

A friend of mine (who knows a little bit about these buggers) told me that this is the time of year woodpeckers mate. His morning house-jack-hammering was probably a spring mating call. He probably stopped coming around because he found a female woodpecker.

Cute, isn't it? Woodpecker love.

I guess I wish them the best.

As long as they honeymoon in Hawaii.

Mom

These are the Kaempfer's.








Happy Mother's Day from the three standing up (Rick, Cindy & Peter) to the one sitting down. That's our mom, Hildegard.





“Why don’t you ever write about your mom?”

I’ve probably gotten that question a dozen times since I started this blog five months ago. The answer is a little complicated, but let me see if I can explain. First and foremost, Mom wouldn’t appreciate it. She doesn’t like the spotlight. I’ve known this for twenty three years.

In fact, I can remember the exact moment I found out. It was April 1, 1983—somewhere between 6 and 10 a.m. I was on the air on WPGU in Champaign-Urbana, doing the morning show with a girl named Karen. We thought it would be hilarious if I called my mom. I was twenty years old at the time. The call went like this...

Rick: Hi Mom.
Mom: Richard!
Rick: How are things at home?
Mom: Ach, fine.
Rick: Mom, I’m afraid I’ve got some news for you.
Mom: What is it?
Rick: I got married.
Mom: What????
Rick: And she’s on the line. Say hi Karen.
Karen: Hi, Mrs. Kaempfer.
Mom: Hi.
Rick: And we’re expecting.
(Long Silence)
Rick: You still there?
Mom: Mmm. Hmmm.
Rick: Are you OK?
(Even longer silence)
Rick: Mom?
Mom: Mmm. Hmmm.
(Even longer silence)
Mom: You better talk to your father.
Rick: Mom, before you give him the phone, there’s one more thing I need to tell you.
Mom: Oh no.
Rick: April Fools.
Mom: What?
Rick: April Fools. I’m not really getting married. Karen’s not my wife...she’s not even my girlfriend...and we’re not expecting. We’re on the air right now.
Mom: RICHARD, IF I HAD A KNIFE I VOULD STAB YOU!

She really said that.

After that, for some reason, she didn’t want to come on the air with me anymore. She never came on the Steve and Garry show during the nearly five years I produced the show, despite repeated requests from Steve. And she was adamant about it. He pushed especially hard on the day the Berlin Wall came down, but Mom wouldn’t talk to him. My sister eventually did, but she refused his request to get a piece of the wall for him. My mom’s mom (Oma) eventually did talk to him too, but she told him off and hung up on him when he told a Nazi joke.

What can I say? The women in my family are tough. I’ve learned not to mess with them.

I hosted my own show on the Loop in the early ‘90s, and Mom wouldn’t come on. I produced the John Landecker show for ten years, where my German heritage was a regular bit--and Mom wouldn’t come on the show.

When I say she doesn’t like the spotlight, I know what I’m talking about.

Still wondering why I haven’t written about her on the blog?

Mom and I aren’t huggy/kissy/”I love you” close. That’s not the German way. But we are about as close as Germans can be.

I have a tremendous amount of respect for her. When I look at my mom I see a woman who has overcome an enormous amount of adversity—moving to a new country as a teenager, not speaking the language, being forced to work in an abusive old folks home, widowed in her forties, alone for nearly twenty years—and I marvel at her strength.

To be honest with you, I don’t think I could have accomplished a thing in life without my mom. She may not understand me, but she has always been there to back me up, to pick me up off the floor, to push me toward my next destination. When I needed help, there was nobody in the world more reliable. She gave me the one quality that has done more for me than any other—inner strength.

Without Mom, I never would have had the toughness to make it in the cutthroat radio business. Without Mom, I never would have been able to write my book, or my novel, or my blog. Without Mom, I never would have been able to stay at home to raise my kids. I ask for her help and advice literally every day.

She is always there for me. Always helping me in whatever way she can. Always rock-solid. More dependable than any other person on the planet. She’s got my back.

To me, that’s real love.

Mom and I don’t need to say the words...even on Mother’s Day. When I see her today, I’ll give her the present she told me to give her, I’ll wish her Happy Mother’s Day, and I’ll show her that I love her in the same way I always do.

I’ve got her back too.

And she knows it.

Guest Blogger: City Mom Kim Strickland

Kim Strickland is a pilot for a major airline, a novelist, and a mother of twin boys. Her novel "Wish Club" is about a women's book group that reads a novel about witchcraft and tries one of the spells for fun, only to have the spell actually work. Nuttiness and mayhem ensue.

She is the yin (City Mom) to my yang (Suburban Man). In our dueling columns we've discovered that the only real difference between us is our area codes. Oh, and I think she's a chick, too. And a mom. And that's why I asked her to write another guest blog for Mother's Day weekend. Check out some of her other great columns. I have a link on the right--listed under Links to Rick's Picks (A City Mom).




Mothers Day
By Kim Strickland

Mother’s day is fast approaching, that marvelous day when we pay tribute to our mothers in the time-honored tradition of giving hundreds of millions of dollars to the Hallmark Corporation. Yes, Mother’s day is tons of fun, especially for us mothers. And who doesn’t need another bottle of Jean Naté?

My personal favorite part of Mother’s Day is breakfast in bed. My husband and the boys clatter around in the kitchen, then come clamoring up the stairs shushing each other, with the dog and cats expectantly in trail. When they enter the bedroom, I pretend I didn’t hear any of the ruckus and act surprised to see the breakfast tray. The experience is made all the more heartwarming if, before delivery, they’ve managed to take the foil wrapper off my Pop-Tart.

Two hours later, when I’m down in the kitchen cleaning up that very same breakfast tray, I ponder what Mother’s Day means to me. It’s supposed to be a day where we say thanks to Mom. Give her a day of rest. A day off. But I’ve never had a Mother’s Day off. I mean, a day off for a mom? What’s that? It would mean pretending you didn’t have children.

When a person makes the commitment to motherhood, a day off, for the rest of your life, is essentially out of the question. Sure, you can leave the kids at grandma’s for the weekend, but even then, although you’re children aren’t physically present, they’re still very much in your thoughts. Have you ever tried to see how long you could go without thinking about them? Worrying if they’re okay? Happy? Crying? Being stuffed full of too many cupcakes at Grandma’s house? I know I couldn’t make it for 24 hours.

This is the bond you make with the Universe when you bring a child into this world. You’ve created a link every bit as real as an umbilical cord. But here’s the thing: It’s more of a one-way cord. The love and concern and worry pours through to your child and sure, you get some of it back—but not all of it. And that’s okay. It has to be okay. It’s really the only way for the system to work. If you’ve done your job, your children will go out into the world with confidence and they’ll flourish, achieving all the goals and dreams they can dream and maybe even, occasionally on holidays, remembering to send you a Hallmark card.

That’s the reward. Not the card, but the happiness of your children. Nobody should decide to go into motherhood as a means of accumulating a collection of unopened bottles of Jean Naté. Being a mother isn’t about having or expecting the unconditional love of your children. It’s about giving your children unconditional love—without expectations.

I don’t think anyone who decides to become a parent really comprehends what it is they’re getting themselves into. I know I didn’t. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I mean that it’s a life experience that can barely, and only with very great difficulty, be put into words. When people tell you the tried and true phrase, “It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but the best thing you’ll ever do,” you can hear it, but you won’t really get it, until your kids are already here.

Earlier in life, my maternal urges were thin to non-existent. I was the fun-loving, party girl. I still don’t know what the hell happened. I never had any great affinity for children, especially not other people’s children. Sure I babysat when I was younger, and I did a good job, but pretty much those little munchkins were just a means for me to put myself into a new pair of Calvin Klein jeans.

I don’t remember all the driving factors that made my husband and I decide to become parents. Everyone else is doing it—seems to come to mind. Certainly listening to new parents didn’t help the case for parenthood. I remember my husband saying things like, “It would be fun,” and “Kids add the unexpected.” Then the next thing I knew, we ended up with these kids.

The best thing that ever happened to me.

My boys have brought me joy and laughter every single day they’ve been in my life.

While these are just my humble thoughts on what it means to be a mother, I know the jury’s still out for me in terms of my performance as a mom. My kids are only nine. I still have plenty of time to completely screw them up. But I do love them more than my own life, and I have only the best of intentions with regards to their upbringing. In this, I imagine I’m not alone.

All I know is, at least for now, if you love your kids and do your job to the best of your abilities, when that breakfast tray shows up on Mother’s day morning—your little angels will have, oh so lovingly, removed the foil wrapper from your Pop-Tart.

From the Archives: Mother's Day Rap

When I was still working on the radio, my boys provided a constant stream of material. Every year on Mother's Day, we would go into the studio and produce an audio present for Bridget.

This one was probably my favorite Mother's Day present for Bridget. One long-time fan/listener of the show said it was her favorite bit we did in the ten years of the John Landecker Show on WJMK. It's a rap song starring all three boys. Tommy was seven. Johnny was five. Sean was nine months old. All three can be heard on this hilarious recording. Thank you to Vince Argento for his production magic (and artwork).

A few words of explanation: The words Johnny says in the song ("Allerticott" and "Baga") are Johnny's made up words--inside family jokes. He said them in fits of anger (allerticott) and for comedy purposes (baga).


Click on this link to listen to the song: Mother's Day Rap

It's short, less than a minute long.



For the rest of the Rick Kaempfer archives, click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com

Half Empty: Applying to co-host The View

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.



As men in our 40s, we're due for a midlife crisis. This is the age that many men get a girlfriend or drastically alter their lives. Since we're not getting girlfriends (we would implode with self hate)--it looks like we'll have to drastically alter our lives. This is our first attempt...

A few weeks ago, just after Meredith Viera announced she was going to the Today Show, we sent the following e-mail to Barbara Walters at The View. Alas, she decided to go with a "name" and a "woman"--Rosie O'Donnell, and all we got back was a lousy form letter response. We'll break through one of these days...







Dear Ms. Walters:




Congratulations on the great success of The View.

We read with great interest about Meredith Viera’s impending departure from the show, and while we were grieved that she would no longer be one of the gals, we just know you and the producers will choose an excellent replacement.

We’re sure there have been hundreds if not thousands of applicants already, but we wanted to alert you to two candidates you might not know.

In our opinion, the perfect candidate for The View is well-educated, thoughtful, entertaining, intelligent, sexy, strong and feminine. We realize this is a little unorthodox, but we would like to nominate ourselves for this job, because both of us fit the bill so perfectly. In order to be a little less self-serving, we’ll nominate each other.

“I think Dave Stern would be the perfect replacement for Meredith Viera. I know, I know, he’s a man. However, he was nominated as ‘Fem of the Year’ by his classmates on the playground when he was young, and while he’s not attracted to men per se, he does have three daughters and will someday ‘closely examine’ the men who date them. He also throws like a girl. Dave is well-educated and intelligent—he has a masters degree in Advertising—and thoughtful. How many people do you know who call their mother every day to see if she’s OK? As for sexy, this man is a paper salesman. If that doesn’t ooze sex appeal, I don’t know what does.”
--Rick Kaempfer

“I think Rick Kaempfer would be the perfect replacement for Meredith Viera. Granted, he’s also a man. But you should feel how soft his hands are...they feel like a baby’s bottom. He’s also a stay at home Dad (three boys) who cooks and cleans. Isn’t that sexy? (Although just between you and me, the poor dear has kind of let himself go.) As for entertaining, he was in radio for twenty years. He even wrote a book called “The Radio Producer’s Handbook.” Think how great it would be to have a co-host that could help produce the show! As for intelligence, his sons are pretty smart, so even though his intelligence isn’t exactly ‘on the surface,’ it has to be in there somewhere or his boys wouldn’t be so smart.”
--Dave Stern

I know it will be difficult to choose between us, but please keep in mind that we aren’t competitive and won’t be offended if you choose only one of us. The other promises to remain a fan of the show.

Best regards,

Rick Kaempfer (choose me) & Dave Stern (choose me)



UPDATE: According to recent gossip, Star Jones may also be leaving the show soon. We have another letter ready to go--just in case.




Of course, another requirement of a mid-life crisis is complete and utter self-delusion. That's why we've decided to go ahead with the following plan: Please click here: http://www.petitiononline.com/thewho69/petition.html and sign our petition to have our faces included on Mount Rushmore. We already have 3 signatures.






We have started accumulating our "Half Empty" columns here: http://halfemptyarchive.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: Emergency Rooms

By Rick Kaempfer




I always thought Emergency Rooms were supposed to be scary. They certainly seemed scary to me when I was a kid. We used to go there as a family to wait for my little brother while he was being stitched up every month or so. The waiting room was uncomfortable. Sick and injured people moaned in pain and dripped blood on the floor. Nurses and doctors came running in and out. Monitors beeped. Ambulance alarms whirred. And everyone waited for hours.

That’s what I was expecting the first time I accompanied my oldest son to the Emergency Room to get stitches. He was eight years old at the time and had a very deep cut in his chin. I tried to prepare him emotionally for the whole Emergency Room experience, but he looked at me like I was crazy. He had been there a few times before with his mother and wasn’t concerned in the slightest. I gave him a comforting hug.

“You are so brave,” I said. “I’m so proud of you.”

He actually rolled his eyes. That choked me up. This kid was like one of those cowboys in the old time Westerns. His eyes were saying…“It’s just a flesh wound, Hoss; let me dig out the bullet in peace. Now go out there and keep them rustlers away from our herd.”

He was still nonchalant when we walked into the Emergency Room and awaited our turn with the triage nurse. He made small talk with her, wincing only slightly when she looked at the gash on his chin.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“A little,” he said.

“A little?” I thought to myself. “That thing is going to need ten stitches.”

“It’s a pretty big cut,” she said, “but we’ll take care of it for you.”

“Are we going back there?” he asked, pointing to the door behind her.

She nodded.

Uh oh, I thought. Here it comes. Now he’s going to remember what happens behind those doors; the needles, the prodding, the pain. I prepared for the hysterical reaction. I saw how he behaved when some small thing went wrong, like his macaroni touching the vegetables on his dinner plate, and could only imagine what was coming. I hunkered down for the fit of all fits.

“Follow me,” she said.

We followed her through the door to the kid’s section of the Emergency Room. Suffice it to say, it has changed a little over the past thirty years. The colorful walls were painted with cartoon fish. The gigantic fish tank contained a rainbow of tropical fish worthy of the Shedd Aquarium. It was like walking onto the set of “Finding Nemo.”

When they opened the curtain to his room, he was actually excited. He jumped onto the bed, pressed the buttons to raise it to the level he preferred, adjusted the television to the proper angle, and began changing channels. While the nurse put the numbing agent on his chin, he was watching a Tom & Jerry cartoon on the Cartoon Network.

“Do you have any video games?” he asked.

I was about to chastise him for his prima-donna demands when the nurse surprised me.

“Sure,” she said. “What kind of video games do you like?”

“Do you have Super Mario Brothers?” he asked.

“I’ll go get it,” she said, and walked out of the room before I could even utter a response. My boy looked up at me and smiled.

“Dad,” he said, “You’re gonna love this one.”

I’ll admit it. I found myself watching him progress through the levels of the video game instead of watching the doctor stitch up his chin. When the stitching was done, and the doctor told us it was OK to leave, we both had the same reaction.

“After this next level,” we said.

She smiled and said, “I’m sorry, but we need the bed.”

My son started to get upset, so I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m sure you’ll injure yourself again. We’ll be back.”

“You promise, Dad?” he asked.

“I promise,” I said.





This article was originally written as a Suburban Man, but it can found in the current issue of "Get Healthy Magazine", a publication of the Times.


For the rest of the Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

SHORE MAGAZINE ARTICLE: Happy Trails

By Rick Kaempfer

(From the May 2006 Issue)



“The biggest trouble-maker you'll probably ever have to deal with watches you shave his face in the mirror every morning."
-- Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

When a typical day consists of rushing from one place to the next, hurrying to pick up kids here, or drop them off there, or sprinting to catch the train to and from work, or eating in the car because you don’t have time to prepare a meal, or squeezing in a trip to the store to get your shopping done before coming home to collapse in a heap at the end of a frenzied frazzled day, it’s no wonder that when vacation time rolls around the last thing you want to do is the same thing...in a different location.

Sometimes you just want to mosey. When it’s time to mosey, there’s no better place to do it than a Dude Ranch.

What is a Dude Ranch Vacation?

“Don’t squat with your spurs on”
--Unknown cowboy philosopher

A Dude Ranch vacation is everything that our world isn’t. In a world of deafening noise, a dude ranch is quiet and peaceful. In a world of deadlines, a dude ranch is a place where a clock doesn’t dictate your day. In a world of high speed internet access, a dude ranch is a place where things move at a much slower pace.

A typical week at a dude ranch includes campfires, horseback orientation and training, horseback riding through the countryside, and lots of time spent in the great outdoors. Most dude ranches are geared to families, and offer activities like nature hikes, visits to local artisans, swimming, rafting, skeet shooting, archery, mountain biking, rock climbing, hot air ballooning, and fishing. For the less adventurous, many of them also have pools and hammocks and lounge chairs. “Vittles” at dude ranches range from the traditional cowboy campfire fare to gourmet dining, and most of the prices quoted by dude ranches include the cost of meals. It’s like a land-locked all-inclusive resort.

You can make a dude ranch vacation into anything you want it to be, provided you want to get away from the rat race.

Where do you find dude ranches?

"The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back into your pocket."
-- Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

There are more than five hundred dude ranches in America, and most of them are listed at www.DudeRanches.com. That website has more than 470 listings of dude ranches in thirty-three states and Canada. The listings are pretty bare-bones in terms of information (address, phone number, etc.), but many of them include links directly to the websites of the dude ranches themselves.

If you really want the full dude ranch experience, you’ll probably want to head out West. Most of the Western States have a bevy of dude ranches, but there are a few states who really take pride in their cowboy heritage. Colorado, for instance, has over a hundred dude ranches. Wyoming, Texas, Montana, Arizona, and California also have quite a few. Think of what it would be like to experience the traditional cowboy lifestyle surrounded by some of this country’s most breathtaking scenery. The beautiful mountains and wide open spaces of these states are a perfect setting for riding. It really is very much like going back in time...without having to give up essential modern conveniences like beds, bathrooms, and showers.

But how do you know which dude ranch to pick? There are so many choices, it’s almost overwhelming. One way to help narrow the search is by checking with the various state dude ranch associations. Most of them provide “grids” which are easy to use and really helpful in the selection process. For instance, they can help you find which dude ranches are better for expert riders or beginners, which ones have the most additional activities, or which ones are rated the highest by visitors. Once you narrow down your search, a simple call to the dude ranch itself will help you learn more.

Most of these places are family run, and when you speak with the owner, you’re really getting a feel for what the experience will be like. Keep in mind that a ranch’s main focus is the riding program, so ask specifics about their instruction (What do you learn? How much time does it take to learn it? What sort of instructors do you have?), and the types of rides (all-day, 2-hour, unguided, guided, children’s, etc.). If there’s another part of the dude ranch lifestyle that you absolutely want to (or don’t want to) experience, this is the time to ask. Don’t settle for one that doesn’t have everything you want. With over 500 dude ranches in this country, you’re bound to find one that is absolutely perfect for you and/or your family.

What should you pack if you’re going to a dude ranch out west? If you’re going to the mountains remember that the temperatures fluctuate wildly from day to night. All of the dude ranches out there suggest you wear layers, and that you ride with long sleeve shirts, cowboy boots, a cowboy hat (with a hat string—that’s important so it doesn’t fly off), leather gloves, a bandana to keep the dust out of your mouth, jeans (no need to bring fancy stuff), and don’t forget sunscreen and insect repellant.

Local Dude Ranches

"Good judgment comes from experience, and a lotta that comes from bad judgment."
-- Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

While the Midwest isn’t exactly known for its dude ranches, there are a few that come highly rated in our area: In Michigan, the Rockin R in Bear’s Lake (45 miles southwest of Traverse City), in Illinois, the White Pines Ranch in Oregon (near Rockford) and in Wisconsin, the Woodside Ranch Resort in Mauston (15 miles northwest of Wisconsin Dells).

Rockin R Stables, 9061 Thirteen Mile Road, Bear Lake, Michigan, 616-864-3539, www.therockinr.com.

The Rockin R Stables is a throwback to the old cowboy experience. The lodging ranges from bunkhouses for groups, to campsites, to teepees (you read that right), to old fashioned log cabins, to a romantic honeymoon log cabin with a hot tub. They have a saloon, a general store, a stagecoach, rodeos on the weekend, and of course, riding stables. They say they can handle any level of rider, from the novice to the pro, and the Rockin R does have the advantage of riding trails that will take you to a point overlooking Bear Lake.

White Pines Ranch, 3581 Pines Road, Oregon, IL 61061, 815-732-7923, www.whitepinesranch.com

White Pines is a dude ranch just for kids, although they do occasionally have adults-only weekends. This ranch is a favorite destination for summer camps (during July & August) and school groups (the rest of the year). It’s more than just a fun place to visit, it’s educational. Several school districts in Illinois have actually made a weekend trip to White Pines a requirement for their students. That’s because in addition to the traditional dude ranch activities (horseback riding, hiking, campfires), White Pines also has outdoor education programs for students and teachers to study fossils, wildlife, vegetation, natural springs, and more. The kids stay in dormitories and are served buffet style in a cafeteria. Each kid is assigned a job and has to help with clean up after every meal.

Woodside Ranch, Highway 82, Mauston, Wisconsin 53948, 608-847-4275, www.woodsideranch.com

Woodside Ranch has been attracting visitors since the 1920s. In the past few years it has been expanded to include a conference, business, and fitness center, but the main attraction here is, and always will be, the dude ranch. The riding stable has over a hundred horses for riders of just about any level, but they also have ponies for the youngsters so that the parents can hit the trail. Is there a bar? Is this Wisconsin? You bet, although Woodside calls it a watering hole (read—adult watering hole). They also have a private pool and sauna, and a private fishing pond stocked with bass. You can choose to stay in a one, two or three bedroom cabin, or in one of the main lodge ranch house rooms (which sleeps two to six people), and the food is served family-style in the main dining room every night.

It’s Not Just a Vacation, It’s a Philosophy

“Don't worry about bitin' off more'n you can chew; your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger'n you think.”
---Unknown Cowboy Philosopher

The one sure thing about visiting a dude ranch is that you’ll run across one of these unknown cowboy philosophers offering a little homespun wisdom. It may make you chuckle a bit as you sit around the campfire, but after you return to your life, when you least expect it (during rush hour traffic, or waiting for your kid’s soccer practice to end), it will pop back in your head. And at that moment, you’ll know precisely what he meant by; “Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction."




This is just one of my three pieces in this month's SHORE MAGAZINE. I'm really proud of this magazine. You should get a copy of it if you can--it's available in the tri-state area (Michigan, Indiana, Illinois). If you want to check out the on-line edition of the magazine, go here: http://www.visitshoremagazine.com

From the Archives: Incurable

I wrote the following story as humor therapy for my wife after we were rejected for health insurance. In 2003 I was let go by WJMK, and Bridget and I applied for private health insurance with Blue Cross/Blue Shield. They rejected us because my oldest son Tommy had gone to a psychologist for "educational support." The school had recommended to us that we get him help, because he had been identified as "highly gifted intellectually."

Apparently, insurance companies consider this kind of child as high risk--because even though we supplied Blue Cross with a letter from the psychologist saying "he has no mental disabilities of any kind--this was just for educational support"--they rejected him again because his condition wasn't considered "Curable." Once you're rejected by one insurance company, no one will touch you. That led Bridget to return to the workforce full-time so that we could get family insurance coverage.

As you might suspect, we found this incredibly irritating. I decided to use that rage and write a satire. That's the background and explanation for the following story....




INCURABLE
By Rick Kaempfer




There was no doubt about the diagnosis. And there was no cure.

Sean Harrison’s little boy was going to have to live with his condition for the rest of his life….however long that may be. The 8-year old boy in the Spiderman pajamas was blissfully ignorant of his fate. Sean leaned over and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

“Good night, Peter,” he said.

“Good night, Dad. Can I read my ecology book in the morning?”

“We’ll talk about it when you wake up,” Sean replied.

“Awww, Dad,” Peter whined.

This was heartbreaking. Sean knew that it wouldn’t have come to this if he hadn’t lost his job. He had to get private insurance for his family, and that’s when he found out about his son Peter’s condition. The skilled underwriters and actuaries at the insurance company were the first to translate the “doctor-speak” in Peter’s medical records, and when they pointed it out to Sean, he felt like such a fool. The diagnosis was right there in black and white.

Peter Harrison has a pre-existing condition.
Peter Harrison is high risk.
Peter Harrison is a genius.

The insurance company had no choice to but reject Peter. The psychologist who tested his IQ had to admit that Peter was incurably gifted. This was a chronic condition. But insurance companies had never before encountered a man with the sort of interminable spirit that Peter’s father Sean Harrison possessed deep within himself. Incurable wasn’t in his dictionary. Sean Harrison was determined to cure his boy. After his wife left for work in the morning, Sean began enacting his plan.

“Up and at ‘em,” Sean said, opening the curtains in Peter’s room.

“Is it time for school already?” Peter asked.

“No school today, young man.”

“Is it Saturday?” he asked.

“No, you’ve gone to school for the last time,” Sean said. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“WHAT?” Peter screamed.

“Calm down, son,” Sean answered, patting the youngster on the head. “You’re nearly finished with second grade already. The rest is all repetition.”

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, scratching his head.

Sean could barely contain a smile. It was working already.

“Today we’re going to watch the Three Stooges all day long,” Sean said; a stack of videos in his hand.

“Can I read my ecology book after the Stooges?” Peter whined.

“I’ve taken all of the books out of the house,” Sean admitted. “From now on, it’s you and me and Mr. TV.”

“But Dad…”

“But nothing. Sit your butt down.”

The lilting tones of the song “Three Blind Mice” came over the speakers as Sean and Peter settled in on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a couple of frosty cold beers.

“Dad, can I have some milk?” Peter asked, ignoring the hilarity on the screen.

“Drink your beer and enjoy the show.”

“But Dad…”

“C’mon, that’s a frosty mug.”

“Dad, why is Moe poking Curly in the eye? That will scratch his retina.”

“It’s called comedy, son. Enjoy.”

“Dad, NO! Tell Curly not to eat that thermometer. Mercury is toxic!”

Sean shut off the TV. This was going to be much more difficult than he could have ever imagined. A lesser man would have quit and resigned himself to his fate. But “quit” and “resigned” were also not in Sean’s dictionary. After all, he had been legitimately laid off.

The door bell rang.

“Ah, your instructor is here, my boy.”

For the first time all day, Peter’s eyes lit up.

“School?”

“I guess you could say that.”

There was something familiar about the imposing man who stood on the other side of the door. Peter was sure he had seen him somewhere before. He was big and strong; his neck the width of Peter’s shoulders. The tattoos on both of his gigantic bare arms were clearly visible. Peter was instinctively afraid of him.

“Where’s dis genius?” the squeaky voice asked.

“That’s him, right there,” Sean said.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Peter asked; his voice nearly as squeaky as the big man’s.

“This is Mr. Tyson,” Sean explained. “He’s going to teach you how to take a punch.”

“DAD!!!!”

“Come on, Mister,” the big man said. “I ain’t gonna hit that kid. He can’t be more than fifty pounds.”

“Forty three and 5/8ths,” Peter quickly corrected.

“If you don’t, he may never get medical insurance,” Sean begged.

“If I do, he’ll need medical insurance,” the big man answered.

“C’mon, Peter. Stick your chin out. It only hurts for a few seconds.”

“DAD!!!”

“Kid, your old man is completely nuts,” the big man squeaked on his way out.

Sean ran after him. “Not incurably!” he screamed down the driveway.

Sean was mentally drained by the time he plopped down on the couch next to his frightened young son.

“Dad, what is going on?”

“Time for some rap music,” Sean exclaimed. He wasn’t going to give up without using his trump card.

“Then can I read my ecology book?”

“You mean after we bust some rhymes.”

“Dad….”

“C’mon, Homey. You gotta schnizzle my grizzle.”

“Dad, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

The music started and Sean got Peter off the couch.

“Watch my fingers. See how the first two fingers stay together as I do this chopping
motion? That’s a classic rap move.”

“Dad, we live in the suburbs.”

“Want to listen to 50 cent or Snoop Dog?” Sean asked.

“What about Mozart?” his son countered. “Mom told me Mozart was composing concertos at my age. My piano teacher taught me the beginning of ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.”

Sean walked over to the stereo and shut if off. He was ready to say uncle.

“Look, son, I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“We’re going to watch some reality TV?”

“No, not until tonight,” Sean said. “I’m afraid this is much worse than that.” Sean put his arm around his young boy. “You got a condition, Peter” he explained.

“You mean I have a condition,” Peter corrected.

Sean winced at the reminder of the problem before him. He patted Peter’s bony shoulder. This was so sad.

“Yes, you have a condition. You see, son, you are what the insurance business calls ‘incurable.’”

“In what way?” Peter asked.

“Peter, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A molecular biologist, why?”

Sean broke down. The insurance company was so right about this boy. This wasn’t going to be cured by a few punches from a former heavyweight champion of the world. This wasn’t going to be cured by the driving lessons he had booked with Nick Nolte. The tears came from somewhere deep within him. Peter rushed over to hug his weeping father.

“Dad, I’ll be OK.”

“No, you won’t,” Sean explained. “It’s incurable. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but we have no choice. We’re going to have to cut you loose, boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve done the math. A broken leg here, a few pairs of broken glasses there, an obvious need for braces, four years at MIT. You’re much too big of a risk. We’re going to have reject your application.”

“Dad,” Peter said. “I’m your son.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do, Dad,” Peter calmly explained. “Remember when mom said that there was no way that I could be your son because I was too smart—and she had those DNA tests taken?”

“Those were inconclusive.”

“The odds were something like one billion to one in favor,” Peter reminded him.

“OJ’s odds were like that too.”

“Dad, I look exactly like you.”

Sean slowly wiped the tears from the corner of each eye.

“We can’t get insurance for you,” Sean explained. “You’re eight years old and you may never get insurance again the rest of your life. We just thought you were smart. We didn’t know it was incurable.”

“Can’t you call other insurance companies?”

“Once you get rejected by one company, they all reject you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh Peter. Sweet, sweet, Peter.”

“Dad, is it really so bad to be gifted? What do these insurance companies know?”

“Peter, these people are professionals. Do you need me to bring out the financial pages to show you how well the insurance company stocks are doing?”

“Maybe they have really smart people working for them,” Peter said.

“That’s right, son. And really smart people have decided that being incurably smart is dangerous. Who would know better than them?”

He looked at his frail incurable eight year old boy sitting beside him. And just when it looked like the situation was hopeless, a ray of light appeared.

“What if I decide not to go into molecular biology? What if I go into the insurance business instead?”

What indeed. And a child shall lead them.





For the other "From the Archives" posts, click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com

Half Empty: Nine Fine Restaurant Whines

They say that when you hit your 40s, your life is half over. We prefer to think of it as HALF EMPTY. Our age has finally caught up with our outlook on life. Remember, it is possible to turn that frown upside down...but you might pull a muscle.








By Rick Kaempfer & Dave Stern









You know those little moments that irk you, that get your blood pressure boiling for no good reason, that make you grit your teeth and pretend you aren’t incredibly irritated? You don’t say anything because it’s obvious that whatever is bothering you is your problem—not anyone else’s—and why should you bother other people with something that is probably just a pet peeve?

Ah, but there’s your mistake. A glass of fine whine goes with any dish. When you get a taste for it, stop by and visit one of us. Our whine cellars are particularly well-stocked.

For instance, we have nine fine whines to get you started. All of these are served in restaurants.


1. Musicians at Mexican Restaurants
The only thing more unsettling than a man strumming a guitar five inches from your face while you’re trying to eat a burrito is a man standing five inches from your face singing a song in a language you don’t understand while you’re trying to eat a burrito. We don’t need the atmosphere, we need the burrito.

2. Smiley Faces
The actual smiley face logo is irritating enough, but when it’s drawn on a check by a waitress? Hey, Cindi, Jenni and Brittani (they all end in “i” don’t they?), stop wasting your time drawing smiley faces and get us our patty melts. And listen, the dot above an “i” is even called a dot. You can’t draw a face on a dot.

3. Steaks
A steak is made of beef. Period. When you start calling something a tofu-steak, you’ve officially crossed the line.


4. Egg Rolls
To all the Thai Restaurants that call spring rolls, “egg rolls;” here’s the drill: ”Egg Rolls” are big, tasty, and deep-fried, while “Spring Rolls” well um…suck.



5. Restaurant Restrooms
Look, we understand you’re trying to be delicate here, but there’s not a person in the world that rests in this room—especially in public. Can’t we call this room what it really is, or will that upset the civility of our nation? Also, we know that you’re an ethnic restaurant and therefore think it’s cute to label these doors in the language of the food you’re serving, but consider this: If we’re desperate enough to actually use public toilets, we may not have the few extra moments it takes to figure out which room is for us. Try these words out: “Men” and “Women.” Got it, Monsieur?


6. The Table Closest to the Smoking Section
If one table is in the smoking section, the table right next to it can’t be in the non-smoking section. You might not realize this, but smoke has a tendency to move in the air—and sometimes it moves even more than a foot or two. We’re trying to inhale our schnitzels not your tar.

7. Small, Medium, Large
Those are the only acceptable sizes. This isn’t just a grievance against the biggest and most obvious violator of this rule; Starbucks. Go to a Burger King sometime and ask for a small drink. Their smallest size is medium. Listen, pal—if it’s your smallest size, then it’s called small.

8. Fast Food is called that for a reason
Special orders may not upset the restaurants, but they reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally upset the people in line behind you. We’re not going to a fast food restaurant because of the high quality food; we’re going because we want something fast. It’s the most important word in the phrase “Fast Food.” When you order something off the menu that they have to make special, you’re no longer eating fast food. You’re eating slow food. But more importantly, you're making us eat slow food...and that makes us cranky.


9. Dress Codes
Does it really upset the gentleman at another table that we’re wearing sneakers under our damn table where he can’t even see them? Are we getting silverware tonight, or will we be eating this dinner with our shirt collars? We don’t know if you realize this, but something like 80% of all restaurants fail. If there are empty tables and you don’t let us in because we’re wearing the wrong shoes or shirt, we wish you the total and absolute failure you deserve.


Whew.


See what we mean? A little “whine” can really relax you after a long day of work or play. Try it yourself. Send in some of yours by clicking “comments” below.

We’ll post some of yours in a future column.

Suburban Man: Househusband

By Rick Kaempfer




People often ask me what it’s like to be a househusband. I suspect the only difference between a housewife and a househusband is the clothing. Instead of greeting my breadwinner in my nicest dress and pearls, I greet her wearing a tuxedo or an Italian suit and pearl cuff-links. Other than that, it’s pretty much the same.

Like a typical housewife, I clean up the children and rehearse with them how they must behave when the queen returns to her castle.

“How do we greet her?” I test.

“Welcome Home, Mom,” my oldest says.

“It’s Mother,” I remind him politely and firmly. “Let’s show her the proper respect. I will also accept ‘Ma’am.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Johnny, your tie is a little askew,” I say. “Please hold your hands out so I can see your fingernails. You know how much Mother appreciates it when her little men are well groomed and hygienic.”

“Father?” little Sean asks.

“Yes, son,” I say.

“May I tell Mother about my day at school today?” he asks.

“Only after she finishes speaking,” I explain. “Remember, Mother has been working very hard to pay for the food we’ll eat after she gets her fill.”

“Yes sir,” he said.

“Now I’m going to finish cooking dinner,” I say. “Who is on pillow duty tonight?”

“I am, Father,” Tommy says. “And tonight I promise to wait until she takes off her shoes before placing it beneath her feet.”

“Very good. And who is fixing Mother’s cosmopolitan tonight?”

“I am, Father,” Johnny says. “And tonight I promise to go a little easier on the cranberry juice.”

“Very good. That means little Sean will be picking up the clutter around the house before she comes home. Get to work, Son. Remember to leave Mother’s newspaper and pipe near the Lazy Boy.”

“Yes, Father,” he says.

That’s when I do what every typical housewife does. I put the finishing touches on the gourmet meal, and allow myself fifteen minutes to take off the apron, freshen up, put on just a dab of cologne on each side of my neck, and practice speaking quietly and respectfully so I won’t disturb her. When I hear the garage door open, I put the biggest smile on my face, and open the door to greet her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Smells wonderful in here,” she says.

“Oh it’s nothing,” I say, “Just a little recipe I found in Good Housekeeping.”

“You look great,” she says.

“Oh this old thing?” I say. “I picked it up on sale at Marshall’s.”

She usually pinches me, bringing out my most comforting smile. I pretend to protest her fresh advance—but my smile lets her know I love it. That’s when the ‘seen but not heard’ children come in to greet their mother with glistening toothy smiles.

“Your cosmopolitan, Mother,” Johnny says, handing her a drink. “Welcome home.”

”Please take off your shoes, Mother,” Tommy says, holding a pillow. “You look like you’ve had a very long day.”

“Yes I have,” she says.

Hearing that, I give the boys the ‘zip-it’ sign, and they quietly go to their instruments to begin the sonata. Tonight they have chosen to play Mozart while Mother eats. It looks she’s not in the mood to speak to us tonight, but that’s her prerogative as the breadwinner. We’ll all have time to speak to her over the weekend, perhaps at brunch after church.

See?

Like I said, it’s really no different than any other house. That’s pretty much our typical day.

And if Bridget tells you otherwise, she’s a liar.





If you missed a previous Suburban Man column, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

SHORE MAGAZINE ARTICLE: Returning Home to Heidelberg

Shore Magazine asked me to write a piece about returning home after being away a long time. For me, that place is Heidelberg, Germany...My home in the 1970s.















Returning Home: Heidelberg, Germany
By Rick Kaempfer

(From the May 2006 issue)

When my family left Heidelberg in 1980 to move to the United States, I was seventeen years old. It was nearly two decades before I returned, and I must admit I had mixed emotions as my train arrived at the Heidelberg Bahnhof. For a town that is 800 years old, some huge changes had taken place since I last visited.

For one thing, it’s not even in the same country anymore. It’s not West Germany; it’s just plain old Germany. Another important difference was that Deutsche Marks were being phased out in favor of a brand new currency, the Euro. Most importantly, my American friends didn’t live there anymore. They were dispersed all over the globe; many of them now starting fourth and fifth-generation military families of their own.

Nevertheless, when I stepped off that train, at precisely the correct arrival time (German precision), I felt something strange. The German language, which had lain dormant in my brain since my father passed away in 1989, suddenly resurfaced. After putting my suitcases in a train station locker, I also lost control of my feet. Before I knew it, they walked me to the end of the Hauptstrasse, the main walking section in the heart of Old Heidelberg.

From the town square I could see the Heidelberg Castle, the symbol of the town, and the site of my high school prom. I stood there and waited for the emotions to overwhelm me. As great as it was to see that 16th century fortress again, I felt no more than a slight tingle in my heart. The physical surroundings had remained the same, but without my friends and family to share it with, something was missing.

I decided to go around the corner to a sidewalk café my buddies and I used to frequent. When I saw the familiar face of the same old proprietor manning the bar, everything slowly started to change. I took a seat at our old table, and suddenly my buddies were there too. The familiar schnitzel smell wafted from the kitchen, and suddenly my family was there too. A thought occurred to me, and I picked up the menu and flipped to the beer page. When I saw my Dad’s favorite beer on the menu, I knew what I had to do.

“Ein Stuttgarter Hofbrau, bitte,” I said.

“Natuerlich,” said the proprietor.

There was something comforting in seeing a familiar face in this familiar place. Plus, the jukebox inside the café was playing “Ich Hab Mein Herz in Heidelberg Verloren” (“I lost my heart in Heidelberg”), a song I hadn’t heard in years. In the back of my mind I knew I would be hearing that song in every Heidelberg shop and restaurant, but I still wasn’t prepared for the emotional wallop it provided. When my Stuttgarter Hofbrau arrived, I lifted the glass and looked up at the bright blue Heidelberg sky.

“Prosit, Dad,” I said. “We’re home.”





This is just one of my three pieces in this month's SHORE MAGAZINE. I'm really proud of this magazine. You should get a copy of it if you can--it's available in the tri-state area (Michigan, Indiana, Illinois). If you want to check out the on-line edition of the magazine, go here: http://www.visitshoremagazine.com

Guest Blogger: Chris Lundberg

A few months ago I got a funny joke submitted by "W" about men getting too much credit for grilling. Here was her submission...

A reminder After 6 long months of cold and winter, we are finally coming up to Summer and BBQ season. Therefore it is important to refresh your memory on the etiquette of this sublime outdoor cooking as it's the only type of cooking a real man will do, probably because there is an element of danger involved. When a man volunteers to do the BBQ, the following chain of events are put into motion: Here's the routine...

(1) The woman buys the food.
(2) The woman makes the salad, prepares the vegetables and makes
dessert.
(3) The woman prepares the meat for cooking, places it on a tray along
with the necessary cooking utensils and sauces and takes it to the man who
is lounging beside the grill - beer in hand. Here comes the important part:
(4) THE MAN PLACES THE MEAT ON THE GRILL.
(5) The woman goes inside to organize the plates and cutlery.
(6) The woman comes out to tell the man that the meat is burning. He
thanks her and asks if she will bring another beer while he deals with the
situation. Important again:
(7) THE MAN TAKES THE MEAT OFF THE GRILL AND HANDS IT TO THE WOMAN.
(8) The woman prepares the plates, salad, bread, utensils, napkins,
sauces, and brings them to the table.
(9) After eating, the woman clears the table and does the dishes. AND
MOST IMPORTANT OF ALL:
10) Everyone PRAISES the MAN and THANKS HIM for his cooking efforts.
11) The man asks the woman how she enjoyed "her night off." And, upon
seeing her annoyed reaction, concludes that there's just no pleasing some
women....

As you might imagine, this got some feedback from my male readers, including Chris Lundberg. I liked his response so much, I asked him to write an entire guest blog about it. Chris is program coordinator at the Mathematics & Science Center in Richmond, Virginia, a consortium which serves the school districts in the metropolitan Richmond area. He is a lifelong Virginia resident, and his writing includes such fun-filled areas as grant funding and mission statements, instructional materials, ghost-writing for a college president, storyboarding lessons and activities for interactive educational websites, professional journal articles, and even composing direct-mail solicitations for his alma mater, Randolph-Macon College.

Over the course of his years in education, he has been a teacher, university adjunct instructor, school administrator, program and instructional supervisor, and even a college fund-raiser. He has made numerous presentations at the local, state, and national level in the areas of science instruction, learning styles, and gifted education. His main affiliation is his wife of 20 years, the former Anne Hyde of Wheaton, Illinois. Among their references are their five children, Katie, Bridget, Nora, Sarah, and Stanley.

And yes, he does has a slightly different take on the subject of BBQ...


Where’s the Meat?
By Chris Lundberg

After enjoying the Monday Morning Joke Column (April 3) by “W” with the female’s take on barbecue cooking, I felt compelled to respond with the male point of view. What about the REST OF THE STORY of the events that occur during that time period (often lengthy) between putting the meat on the grill and taking the meat off of the grill?

Observe any normal meat-eating male, let’s say, presented with such appetizing offerings from soybean tofu to vegetarian lasagna. You can provide him a veritable smorgasbord of gourmet food, but omit the REAL main course and you will hear him exclaim, “Where’s the meat?” It is just such a person who can fully appreciate the gentle care, indeed, “hand-cultivation” involved in preparing the true perfect meal, whether it be steak, brat, chicken, or burger (or even horse).

So now that the spring season is upon us, let’s take a closer look to see that the barbecue is a complex series of activities revealing the highly advanced husbandry abilities of the suburban male. Here from the Commonwealth of Virginia, home of the barbecue and the State of hams, cotton, peanuts, bourbon, and Robert E. Lee, is a checklist for a whole host of specific BBQ behaviors; such as…

*Multitasking by engaging in witty conversation and entertaining guests while flipping and turning each individual piece of meat with equal aplomb….

*Embodying the true spirit of the BBQ by firing up the charcoal instead of a gas grill…

*The subtle art of regulating the proper cooking temperature by pouring beer onto the flames that get too high….

*More multitasking by laughing at lame jokes by guests and congenially acknowledging their political, social, and religious observations (the requisite host “head nod” of recognition vs. one of agreement – a particularly challenging task to pull off)…

*The sheer creativity of substituting gasoline for lighter fluid when in a pinch…

*Holding to the suburban man code of maintaining nonchalance while trying to ascertain if the meat is ready…

*Offering cigars to guests to enjoy and to add to the BBQ incense (indeed, a holy smoke) arising from the grill…

*The simple act itself of turning the meat (a true middle class art form)…

*Even more multitasking by holding “court” on a variety of topics ranging from the Cubs’ prospects this year to how to keep the squirrels from eating the tulip bulbs to the merits of the straight 6 vs. the V-6 cylinder engine…

*The selfless act of providing a gathering place for men at the altar of the grill of self-actualization…

*Going the extra mile and warming the buns on the outside edges of the grill…

And finally, above all, the character to resist experimenting at the grill and proudly announce, “Hey y’all… watch this….!”

Is it any wonder that it’s the MEAT that counts on any menu? And, why do you think the list of what’s on for supper is called a “MEN-u?” Meat is deep in the DNA of us hunter-gatherers and no amount of unique side-dishes nor elegantly appointed table settings can change that.

Now that you know THE REAL STORY of what goes on during the BBQ, you can easily see that this event is indeed a “night off” for the wife. In fact, it’s almost like going out to dinner. She does not have to concern herself with any comments whatsoever about the quality of her cooking. Furthermore, the amount of real time she will spend on the meal is virtually zip. It is a given that the other guests will pitch in with not only the preparation of the “other stuff” to be consumed, but also the clean-up. This leaves her the luxury to “invest” the majority of her time in leisurely, pleasant conversation with the other spouses while you do the lion’s share of work.

I rest my case. Cooking is all about the MEAT, so let’s light the fires and give our spouses a night off this weekend!

Now, what are we having for dessert?



If you ever go to Richmond for BBQ--go here: (personally recommended by Chris)


































If you missed any of the previous guest bloggers, click here: http://rickkaempferguestbloggers.blogspot.com

From the Archives: Loop Photo Album (1986-1993)

I have a ton of pictures from this era, so I'll do another post at a later date. For the majority of my Loop years, I was the producer of the Steve Dahl & Garry Meier Show, but I also hosted my own weekend show on the Loop-FM, and I was the co-host of a show called "Ebony & Ivory" on the Loop-AM. Here are a few pictures and mementos from that era...




The Steve & Garry Logo--Late '80s









On stage with Steve at a sold out Chicago Theatre concert--1989. Yes, show biz is very glamorous.












Some of my Loop favorites: (From Left) John "Swany" Swanson, Jim Wiser, Anne-Marie Kennedy, and Dina Sanchez. Swany and Wiser worked for Brandmeier at the time. Swany is now producer of Eric & Kathy's show at WTMX and Wiser is producer of Spike O'Dell's show on WGN. (Swany also later co-authored "The Radio Producer's Handbook" with me). Anne-Marie and Dina were part of the best promotion department of all time. Anne Marie is now working in a similar position in Boston and Dina does charity work and is raising twin girls.







This is an invitation to the party at Garry Meier's restaurant from the late 80's, "Sabrina". A few very memorable Loop Christmas parties took place there, and so did one of my first dates with my future wife Bridget.

















This is Ebony & Ivory. Stan Lawrence (now the co-host of Stan & Terry middays on WCKG) and some white guy who now runs a blog. Our show was on the air on AM 1000 in 1991-1992. In the background behind us is former Loop salesman Bob Kruchten.

























On Stage at the Chicago Theatre with Garry Meier (as Cliff). I was one of the Cliff Dancers, and we did a dance number choreographed by future Tony Award winning stage director Robert Falls (I'm not kidding). The Cliff dancers are:(clockwise starting from kneeling left) Mike Bramel, Me, The Bald Handbook co-author Dave Stern (obscured behind Cliff), cabin boy Jim, Shemp, and Mike Davis (back to audience).




Bridget Kaempfer (when she was still Bridget Hyde), Me, Engineer Mike Rugen, and Wendy Snyder. Mike passed away last month--and we all miss him very much. Wendy is now part of the Steve Dahl Show on WCKG.







If you missed any previous "From The Archives" click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com

Suburban Man: A Dad's Guide to Comedy for Boys

By Rick Kaempfer





Comedy is really my only parenting tool. Over my ten years as a father, I’ve used it to great effect to diffuse tense situations, to foster strong relationships, and to teach my boys one of the most necessary life skills. If you’re laughing, life is going to be just fine.

Unfortunately, a Daddy comedian needs to be adaptable. Different comedy works for different ages. Jokes that absolutely kill with three year olds are often despised by ten year olds. I still haven’t figured out how to deliver a belly laugh to the youngster while avoiding the simultaneous heckles of the eight or ten year old, but I will never, ever, give up trying.

Comedy for Ages 0-2

Honestly, this age group isn’t exactly my forte. My wife is the baby entertainer. Bridget can make any baby laugh, anytime, anyplace. She has a rubber face, an unlimited supply of funny noises, and a complete inability to be embarrassed by her actions. I’ve seen her making a screaming infant smile in mid cry.

My only trick for this age group is the napkin blown into the air bit. Simply unfold the napkin, placing it on your nose so that it covers your entire face, and then count down...three, two, one, BLOW! A forcefully applied blow sends the napkin sailing nearly all the way to the ceiling. Huge laughs are guaranteed and you can’t repeat it too often. It gets the same belly laugh on the four hundredth try as it does on the first.

Comedy for Ages 2-4

Now we’re in my wheelhouse. I’ve had at least one son in this age bracket for the past eight years, and this is where my collection of cartoon and puppet voices comes into play. When Johnny was three, he and I went almost a whole year without speaking to each other Dad-to-son. Grover drove him to pre-school, Kermit put him down for a nap, Eeyore talked to him when he was sad, and Ernie sang to him in the bath. (Johnny even did a movie review on the radio as Grover when he was 3...a classic for the ages.)

This is the age where the pratfall (someone else's pain) becomes the king of boy comedy. When I show them how much I love them, I do it with my hands--increasing the love more and more until I smash my hand into the wall. Huge laughs.


Comedy for Ages 4-7

This is the age for subtlety and nuance. If you can’t or won’t employ the use of bodily functions, pick up your ball and go home. There’s no place for you here. If you have a problem with the words “butt”, “poop”, “fart”, “burp”, or “booger”, more power to you, but you will never, ever get a laugh out of a 4-7 year old boy.

Although, I must say, pratfalls still work.

Boys this age absolutely love the Three Stooges. I had to stop letting Tommy watch the Stooges because he laughed so hard during their routines that he began to hyperventilate. I wonder if the Stooges have ever killed a 4-7 year old boy. I wouldn’t be surprised.

(Father’s note: I noticed that I started performing much better for this age group when their mother wasn’t around. I’m not sure why.)

Comedy for Ages 7-10

Ah, the age of word play. Knock Knock jokes. Orange you glad I didn’t say banana? Whoo boy. That’s a good one. These jokes have not changed in fifty years.

Tommy and Johnny were also obsessed with words that have double meanings. Tommy’s favorite planet became Uranus. Johnny told me to close the refrigerator because it wasn’t polite to watch the salad dressing. They don’t know what Prince Albert in a Can is, but rest assured they would have loved that joke if they did.

As for parody songs, they are still a huge hit with this age bracket. Kids still sing that version of Jingle Bells with “Batmobile lost his wheel and the Joker got away.” As for me, I constantly found myself changing the words of songs. They were amazed at my nearly Wayne Brady-esque ability to rhyme on demand to fit the situation—although I must say this might be the one skill that now annoys my oldest son Tommy the most.

Which brings me to the comedy of the next age group...

Comedy for Ages 10+

You’re not funny, Dad.

That’s a tough nut to crack, but I’m working on it. When he told me the other day that my jokes were twice as old as I am, I spent the next two days telling him Warren Harding and Calvin Coolidge jokes to prove a point.

”I don’t get it, Dad,” he would say.

”Exactly!” I said. “Those jokes are twice as old as me. See? My jokes are no more than one and a half times older than me.”

“You’re not funny, Dad.”

That’s when I walked into the wall.

Huge laugh.

I’ve still got it.



If you've missed any previous Suburban Man columns, click here: http://suburbanmanarchive.blogspot.com

4 Sure-Fire Ways to Hose Down Your Man

By Rick Kaempfer



Next time you go to the supermarket, look at the covers of women’s magazines. Every one of them....and this is no exaggeration...every single one of them, has an article with some sort of variation of this headline: “How to drive your man crazy in bed.” If you can’t find at least one women’s magazine with a headline like “10 Secrets to Satisfying Your Man,” or “6 Tips That Will Make Him Squirm with Pleasure,” or “His 5 Secret Erogenous Zones,” you aren’t looking very hard.

Every time I see these headlines, a question immediately pops into my brain. The target audience for these magazines is predominantly women 18-34 years old, right? That means their men are presumably the same age, right? Then my question is this: Is there really a big problem getting 18-34 year old men interested in bedroom activities? I’m guessing that none of the readers of these magazines have experienced this a single time. Never. Not once.

Why? Because 18-34 year old men need only one thing to get excited in bed: a willing woman. Once he gets that, his odds of being satisfied are nearly 100%. None of the bells and whistles are necessary. Trust me on this.

In fact, introducing bells and whistles (or God forbid ten of them) could bring disastrous results. Remember, in the desire department, even the hungriest young woman is no match for the most lackluster man. The time needed to rev up an 18-34 year old man is approximately one second, give or take one second. Among the things that could do it?
=Air
=Water
=Food
=Hunger
=Day
=Night

What are these magazines doing? The equivalent magazine piece for men would be titled “How to Get Your Women to Buy More Shoes.” It’s simply not necessary. What younger women really need is a way to hose down their hormonal stallions. That’s the real advice these magazines should be offering.

Of course, the common misconception is that women don’t need any help in this department. They’re born with the ability to discourage, right? Nonsense. They only think they have this ability. They’ve taken it for granted for too long. The eye-rolling, the old excuses, and the old techniques no longer work. Men these days are way too savvy.

Rookie Mistakes

One common mistake women make is thinking a standard excuse will slow him down. A hastily delivered “I have a headache” isn’t even a speed bump. Men take that as a given. Any man worth his salt carries Tylenol with him wherever he goes. The other most common technique, excessive yawning combined with constant reminders of how tired you are, can actually work against you. Where do you go when it’s time to sleep? That’s right, and his mind is already there.

So what can you do? Many young women think they can dampen the desire of their man by making themselves as unattractive as possible. They don’t wear makeup, put on a ratty sweatshirt and sweatpants, and avoid a shower for a few days. That should scare him off, right?

Wrong. That won’t even slow him down. Once a man has sampled the goods, no amount of smudging can erase his crystal clear memories. Plus, he can always turn off the lights or close his eyes and retrieve those memories. If you’ve been using some of the techniques described in those magazines, you really have no chance of getting those memories out of his head. You’re going to have to take drastic steps.

Granted, hosing him down without scaring him off is a high-wire act, but if you keep the following four phrases in your purse, and use them only for emergency hose-downs, I guarantee success.

1. Look, honey, I got this picture of your mother framed.

This is a verbal and visual kick to the groin. You have effectively ended any and all overtures for the night...immediately. Gone. Done. He’s going to the refrigerator right now.

If you can’t or won’t get a picture of his mother, it may be good enough to simply talk about his mother just as his engine starts revving. Try one of these alternative phrases...
“I wonder what your mother is up to tonight.”
“Your mother must have been a beautiful woman when she was younger, don’t you think?”
“Do you think your parents are still...you know... active?”

All will kill his desire instantly. Sigmund Freud didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about.


2. Make some popcorn honey, there’s a Merchant Ivory Film Festival on Lifetime tonight.

Don’t freelance on this one. One misplaced word and it might not work. Don’t substitute another movie. Don’t substitute the number of movies. Don’t substitute the channel (unless it’s Oxygen). This is very important.

Every guy is programmed to sit through at least one “chick flick,” so simply urging him to watch one movie (like “Beaches” or “Steel Magnolias”) won’t do it. It’s worth a roll of the dice for any man. He knows he’ll get bonus points for sitting through it. But no bonus points are worth sitting through more than one. And Merchant Ivory movies? Oh boy, does he hate those. The characters are too buttoned-up, too uptight, and too British. No man has any interest in Victorian England—it’s our all-time least favorite historical era. Plus, those movies average about sixteen hours in length. If you say there will be more than one, he can do the math in his head. If you throw in the Lifetime network, his head will explode because he knows this is a gal’s network, which means tons of commercials, and this will make these already endless movies even longer. There isn’t a straight man alive that won’t run for the hills.

3. Have you ever noticed how good looking gay guys are?

Even insecure guys won’t get jealous if you think gay guys are good looking. In fact, he’ll probably say it himself every time a better looking guy is around. However, the one time he will definitely NEVER say it is when his engines are getting revved up.

If you say it at precisely the right time, he will do just about anything to get away from you as quickly as possible. Otherwise he’ll have to explain why his engine is revved up at the same time you’re talking about gay guys. That’s a conversation that will kill his desire instantaneously. Just thinking about explaining it, will help turn off his engine.

But what if it doesn’t? Does that mean he’s gay? No. It just means you’ve waited too long to say it. He’s going to need a glass of verbal cold water thrown in his face and pronto. Keep in mind that I don’t recommend using this last one unless you want him to stay away for several days. Keep it under glass and break the glass only in case of emergency.

4. Oh Boy. I better get some cranberry juice right away.

We know what that means. It means no matter what we say or do, nothings going to be happening for several days...if we’re lucky. As soon as the word cranberry comes out of your mouth, he’ll be turning on the ball game.

If you are dealing with a naïve or inexperienced man who doesn’t know the code meaning of “cranberry juice”, I recommend this alternative: “Have you ever had a really painful canker sore?”

If you’re a young mother, a simple “Next time you’re at the store can you pick up another tube of Preparation H?” or an “Oooh. I can feel my milk coming in,” will suffice.

You’re free.

Now please, for your own sanity and rest, stop reading those women’s magazines. Don’t go looking for any secret erogenous zones or secret ways to satisfy him or secret ways to make him squirm in bed. He’s like the Terminator. It already takes a lot of effort to get rid of him.

And he’ll be back.

Guest Blogger: Jay Shatz

Jay Shatz was born and raised in Rogers Park...which means he's a Northsider and lifelong Cubs fan. He and his partner Stan own "JayTV", a television production company which produces (he wanted me to say "executive produces") several shows for the DIY network (about 200 hours of home and garden programming a year), including "The Garden Sense." This summer they'll start shooting a new show called "Desperate Landscapes."


Before founding JayTV six years ago, Jay was a television news reporter for seventeen years in Peoria and Cincinnati, as well as the General Manager of WPGU radio in Champaign. I was his program director and afternoon host there. We were both young and stupid (21). This picture was taken in 1984 at a radio convention in Los Angeles that Jay somehow convinced the radio station we should attend. It's the only time I've ever been to L.A.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "What a good idea to ask a man who executive produces garden shows to guest blog on Earth Day." Yes, that's true. Unfortunately, Jay wanted to guest blog about me...which he noted none of the other guest bloggers had yet done. (P.S. Despite what he says below, I've never contracted any sort of sexually transmitted disease)



Take Me Out to the Ballgame

By Jay Shatz


Like most men in their forties, I’ve discovered time has a way of thinning your hair and your circle of friends. The trick in mid-life is to hold onto both.

In the grand scheme of things, my friendship with Rick Kaempfer has been relatively easy to sustain. We see each other once every 8 years. It’s seems like a nice pace. As college buddies the odds are against us keeping in touch. By now, one of us should have died in a tragic boating accident, or worse, voted Republican.

We met and bonded 25 years ago in the basement studios of WPGU-FM. It was a time of innocence and nicknames. Rick called me “Dr. J” and I called him “A Nasty, Angry Midget of a Nazi”. As General Manager of Rock 107, I wisely selected Rick to be my program director. That meant he got laid while I got my hands on petty cash. For much of our senior year, Rick battled Chlamydia as I paid off my student loans.

My favorite photo from those days shows both of us smiling and drunk, trolling for jobs at a media convention in Los Angeles. Rick has the sly, mischievous grin that would open doors to big radio producing gigs while I’m wearing a tight pair of black parachute pants that would eventually get me into every bar on Halstead without paying a cover.

Our paths after college veered in very different directions. Rick struggled to gain his footing , blinded perhaps by the glare off the 9 Emmys I collected in a meteoric rise as a television reporter. I rarely saw Rick, but delighted in hearing his voice on my answering machine begging for career advice or at the very least, a return phone call.

Loyal readers of this blog pretty much know how things ended up. Rick shook off the sexually transmitted diseases and settled down to a great career and even better family life.. With a wonderful wife and 3 cute kids, he’s now a poster child for fatherhood and anti-biotics.

Through it all, our friendship has stayed on schedule. We met last September for a Cubs game joined by college buddies and fellow bloggers Dane Placko and Dave Stern. At first, I was deeply touched they shared their valuable 6th row box seats at Wrigley Field. But I quickly remembered how cheap the trio is and not prone to idol acts of kindness. My guess is the Cubs offer season ticket holders a discount for bringing a minority to a game. Because I’m a Gay Jew, they hit the jackpot and I probably saved them a fortune.

Before leaving, my three old friends spoke of breaking the 8 year wait by returning to Wrigley Field this season. Rick suggested I join them for what he promises will be “Ricky Martin Bobblehead Day”. I’m not sure if that’s an invitation or insult. But trust me, I’ll be there, wearing my parachute pants and a smile.




If you missed any of the other guest bloggers (who were much nicer to me), click here: http://rickkaempferguestbloggers.blogspot.com

From the Archives: Applying for Commissioner of Baseball

In 1997, after Commissioner Faye Vincent had been forced to resign as the Commissioner of Major League Baseball, and Bud Selig had taken over on an interim basis, Selig announced that baseball was looking for a full-time commissioner.

The Bald Handbook co-author Dave Stern thought it would be funny to send in a letter applying for the job. This is the letter he sent:

To Whom it May Concern:

It has come to my attention that you and your colleagues are currently in search of a new commissioner of baseball. You have stated the ideal candidate should be an expert in marketing, television, and labor and have the strong presence to preside over all ceremonial functions. Allow me to address each of your concerns point by point.

*As you see from my enclosed resume, I was the marketing manager of a Kinkos in Champaign.

*My experience is television is vast. Among my (viewing) credits, M*A*S*H, The Donna Reed Show and The Dick Van Dyke Show. I particularly enjoyed the episode where Danny Thomas played Kolak from the planet Twilow.

*My experience in labor is equally extensive. I have rented (and even watched it once) Norma Rae several times. I also worked in a rubber stamp factory in high school, which involved a great deal of manual labor.

*As far as a strong presence during ceremonial events, my excellent performance opening the Ark at my niece's Bat Mitzvah and breaking the glass at my wedding are among my all-time highlights. Videos available upon request.

Finally, I feel my greatest asset is my name. Imagine if both the NBA and MLB had commissioners named "David Stern"! That's the kind of free publicity you couldn't buy.

Sincerely,

David Stern

P.S. My baseball knowledge is also superb. My 120-42 record in Sega Genesis speaks for itself.

The funniest part of this story, is that he actually got a few responses. First from Bud Selig himself.

Dear Mr. Stern:

Thank you for your recent letter.

I appreciate your interest in the Commissioner's job and I will certainly share your letter with members of the Commissioner Serach Committee which has just been convened.

Thank you for taking time to write to me and for your interest in Major League Baseball.

Sincerely,


Allan H. Selig, Chairman
Major League Executive Council


He also got a letter from the office of Peter O'Malley, the President of the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Dear Mr. Stern:

Peter O'Malley is currently out of town, but I know he will appreciate your thoughtful letter which arrived this morning. We are grateful to you for taking the time to write and we believe that baseball will soon identify a full-time, outside, independent commissioner and restore the public's confidence in the game.

Best Wishes.

Tasha Duncan
Administrative Assistant to Peter O'Malley



We followed Dave's quest on the John Landecker show, and thought it was quite humorous, but to me, the funniest response came a month later from Heidrick and Struggles, Executive Search Consultants. Obviously Dave's name had been passed along to them by Peter O'Malley and Bud Selig.

Dear Mr. Stern:

Thank you very much for your interest in the postiion of Commissioner of Major League Baseball.

At this stage, many candidates are under consideration for this poition. We will share your credentials with the appropriate individuals and will contact you should we need further information.

Again, thank you for your interest.

Sincerely,

Theodore Jadick
Managing Partner

Needless to say, Dave didn't get the job.

It is a little easier to see, however, why Bud Selig took the job himself.




UPDATE: Earlier today Dave applied for the job of White House Spokesperson. We'll let you know what they say.




If you missed any previous From the Archives, click here: http://rickkaempferarchives.blogspot.com