Boom! Whoosh! ...

Around the Dynamo homestead, my wife and I share most household duties. There are some clear divisions of labor: Pet care and laundry are in my wife's domain, chiefly because I'm horrible at both.

My realm: Lawn care, furnace-related stuff, and anything that has anything to do with cars. That includes keeping the gas tanks full, because my wife has sworn unto death she will never pump gas. In fact, she's never pumped gas in her life. Never.

She warned me about this before we were married.

"When we get hitched, you're pumping the gas," she told me.

"Why?"

"I read about a woman who blew up pumping her own gas," she replied. "I don't want to blow up."

"Well, maybe she was doing something stupid. Maybe she was smoking."

"I don't want to blow up."

"Maybe she was wearing a fuzzy sweater," I continued. "The ones that get all clingy in the dryer and eat people's socks. Maybe there was a huge arc of sweater-static-lightning between her chest and the gas pump. Boom! Whoosh!"

"I don't want to blow up."

"Just don't wear fuzzy sweaters."

"Listen, Romeo, you wanna marry me, fine. But I'm not blowing up. Got it?"

Well, I wanted to marry her, so pumping gas was my job starting on day one. Throughout our marriage, the first words out of my mouth after returning from a refueling expedition have always been: "Honey...you won't blow up!"

Now I know what you're thinking.

Surely there have been occasions when I wasn't able to pump gas. What about when I'm out of town? What about when I'm sick?

Two words: Full Serve

Times are tough.

To the left and right of us, people are losing their jobs. Anyone who is still working can't help but wonder: Will I be next?

Now I don't know how everyone else handles these uncertain times, but I use my twisted sense of humor to keep myself from going wacky.

But today, something bizarro happened.

I was talking with someone in the office, and the subject came up of what we would do if we found ourselves unemployed. I forget what their new career choice was, but I said I'd try to become Luzerne County's first legal male call-boy.

Ladies, call 1-555-MYJIMBO

It just popped into my head, and I blurted it out.

This would not be a good career move for me. I would likely starve to death. (If you've seen me up close, you know what I'm talking about. Folks invite me to their picnics to keep flies off the food.)

So imagine my surprise an hour or so later when I opened the fortune cookie that came with my usual lunch (hot and sour soup with a side of white rice):

I dunno now. I'm reconsidering.

1-555-MYJIMBO

Does have a ring to it, doesn't it??

...a marathon January has come to a close.

Over the past month, I've been neck deep in projects both at work and in politics. What little free time I've had was spent enjoying my first grandchild. There's nothing like a baby in your arms to help you remember what your priorities should be.

I've also had the chance to finally finish my first read of Cormac McCarthy's The Crossing. It's a magnificent, complex, and sprawling work. It makes me want to write. It makes me afraid to write.

Next... there might be some question among my core of readers as to whether I've ended The Greater Depression Chronicles. No. Emphatically, no. We are in the midst of a great struggle, the depths of which have not been tested fully, and great unknowns await us. I have seen with my own eyes the ravages of a failed economy and the hollow-eyed look of the jobless and soon to be jobless. Not over, friends, not by a long shot.

Keep checking in, folks. More to come. God Bless and keep the faith...

Jimbo

JoePa's Penn State Nittany Lions finished the season 11-2 with an exciting 19-17 sodbusting victory over LSU in the Capital One Bowl.

The field was atrocious.

So was the officiating.

With Bobby Bowden also winning his last game, it was a statement day for college football's top two coaching leaders. Bowden retires with 389 wins. Paterno finished the season at 394 with more football to come. (In a day or so the predictions will surely begin on who JoePa will beat to bag win number 400.)

I was wrong about my Lions a lot this year. I figured they were good for just eight or nine wins. When they ended the season 10-2, I thought they'd leapfrog Iowa for a BCS spot. (The BCS for once got it right and didn't slight the Hawkeyes.) I also thought LSU would lick the Lions in a high-scoring contest.

But in the end, it was classic Penn State smash-mouth football that kept me on the edge of my seat until time expired and another 'W' was in the books.

Geezer Ball.

Say what you want, but it wins. 394 times.

And now, the dark, cold winter begins. But April is coming, and with it the 2010 Blue White Game. And, God willing, a lot more Geezer Ball will follow.

...and Abe Lincoln said I couldn't coach!

Terrorist?

I don't fly often, but when I do my shoes usually generate a lot of interest from the TSA. Their airport screeners wave those little wands warily around my shoes and regard them …and me …with deep suspicion.

Obviously, middle aged fat-round-the-middle chicken-wing addicted males with worn-out cheapo shoes fit some type of terror profile.

As do old folks in wheelchairs.

As do well-built college-age women who simply have to be patted down very carefully in case their bras are lined with Semtex.

As do all kinds of folks who probably look nothing like terrorists to heathen untrained folks like you and me.

The Department of Homeland (In)security (our latest massive Gubbermint bureaucracy), has virtually assured that Grandma, Dynamo or the Olsen twins will not be blowing up any airliners.

Sure, there's been the occasional tiny misstep, like Senator Ted Kennedy appearing on a no-fly list as a possible terrorist.

After church the following Sunday, my aunts went to Aunt Carmella's fortune teller. My father, a young boy at the time, was in tow. They stood outside the fortune teller's house, a structure like many on this leg of Washington Street: nondescript, with faded, dirty white siding and a small fenced in front yard. But for the house numbers, it was almost impossible to tell one from another.

"Why are we here?" my father asked. "I want to go home."

"Hush, Paulie," scolded Rae.

"I don't like this place," he whined.

"We won't be long," said Sal. "We'll buy you candy on the way home if you promise not to tell Papa we were here."

"I want to go home. I'm telling Papa. I don't care about candy, and I don't want to see any fortune teller."

Zia took put her hands on his shoulders and bent down to look into his eyes.

"Listen to me, Paulie. You will come inside with us. You will sit quietly. If you tell Papa, the fortune teller will put a curse on you."

"Don't frighten the boy," commanded a thin, nasal voice with a raspy edge.

The fortune teller stood in her open doorway, half her face in a smile, half of it frozen, a sinister countenance. Her eyes were bright and piercing. She wore a black skirt and a white blouse. Draped across her shoulders, despite the thick summer heat, was a loosely-knitted shawl the color of overripe tomatoes.

Let's face it: Tiger has multi-bogeyed. Advertisers are dropping him left and right.

This doesn't have to be an economic disaster for this legendary golfer ...if he strikes out on his own with a bold array of "Tiger Brand" products he can be back on the fairway ...and rolling in dough ...in no time at all!

The next couple of posts are some ideas from Dynamo to help poor Tiger get "out of the rough" and back on the green!