They're Still Playing My Song

This is a picture of me just before my guitar showdown with my oldest son. Again, it is an awful picture of me, but it deserves preservation.

They don’t make music these days like they used to. Evidence of this is the fact that kids listen to the same stuff we did back in the good ole’ 70s and 80s. Mom and I aren’t nearly as old fashioned as the younger generation might suspect.

I will now share with you, the reading public, substantial evidence that I should not be considered over the hill, at least as it pertains to music. Exhibit number one is my fifteen-year-old son’s iPod. Half the songs in his collection debuted when I was going through puberty. He is impressed when I can bellow every word of “A Country Boy Can Survive.” He can’t believe I used to rock with “Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man” when ZZ Top was hot back in my school days.

And now my twelve-year-old has gotten into the swing ever since he got one of those little MP3 gadgets. The other day I recognized the distinctive sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd emanating from the miniature earphones attached to his ears. When I started singing along with “Sweet Home Alabama,” his eyes opened wide and a whole new awareness of Dad’s unancientness (Not a word but you know what I mean) revealed itself as exhibit number two.

In our day, we had to listen to 8 track tapes, albums, and cassettes- bulky, immobile, expensive, wonderful inventions. But apparently our music was top notch because everyone- including the cool teeny bops- still listen to it, regardless of their little newfangled mediums.

There’s this little game I play with my younger assistant coaches when we go on long recruiting road trips. I invented it and I am master of it. The object is to name the tune on the radio before your opponent. We then hit the scan button and travel to the next available station to battle it out again. First one to ten wins that round. Based on my considerable advantage in number of years as an inhabitant of Earth, I have yet to be defeated. Most of the songs on the radio are from my prime, a fact which I present to you as exhibit number three.

Recently my family was exposed to a relative’s new-age video game called Guitar Hero. Despite the fact that I am the only family member that actually plays guitar, I kept getting beat time after time by my oldest son, who is Mr. Video Game Superstar. “Find me some Skynryd,” I challenged, “And you’ll go down like the Titanic.”

Eventually we located some 70s and 80s songs on the game. Despite my lack of video gaming ability, I arrogantly placed the strap of the plastic guitar around my neck. When they fired up “Free Bird,” I realized the pride of my entire generation was at stake. I dropped out of Daddy mode for a few minutes and jiggled, jumped, swung, strum, and rocked until the sweat flowed freely.

When I finished, the teen bowed his head because he knew that he’d been beat. He didn’t have a golden fiddle to lay at my feet, but he did have to acknowledge that Dad’s generation is still to be reckoned with. I didn’t need a golden fiddle anyway, I already had exhibit number four.

Household Item Might Get My Vote

There’s been much to ponder lately. The presidential race is heating up. Iran is misbehaving again. Gas prices have soared so much that I am considering dusting off my bicycle in the middle of winter. Steroids are ruining sports and Hollywood can’t seem to think up anything funny since the writers went on strike.

All these issues dominate American thought. Yet my reflections this past week have been centered upon . . . baking soda. Or bacon soda, as I used to call it when I was too young to know better. One taste and I knew right away it wasn’t pork-related.

A box of it appeared next to the sink in my bathroom recently. I examined it for the picture of a guy flexing his muscles while clutching a tool of destruction. Then I remembered we buy the generic brands. I grabbed the box and read a partial list of means by which baking soda can be made to feel useful. And after some further research, it became obvious that, unlike me, baking soda is capable of multi-tasking.

You can use it to clean your oven, your kitty litter box, the corrosion on your car battery, or the stains on your teeth. Just don’t use the same brush in each instance.

Baking soda heals diaper rash. Use it to relieve pain and itching associated with poison ivy, sunburn, bee stings, bug bites, measles, and chicken pox. It will soften your skin if you dare take a bath with it. It is also effective as pet shampoo. And human shampoo for that matter, because it removes buildup (whatever that is) from your scalp.

There’s more. Use it to rid baby bottles of sour milk smell or gargle with it as mouthwash to remove the odiferous stench of assorted food particles impacted among the gaps in your teeth.

If rain is predicted, slap a baking soda solution on your windshield and watch it repel water. Who needs windshield wipers? When mixed with salt, it will also repel insects such as ants as they attempt to enter your house through various cracks and crevices. If you prefer instead to eat insects as they do in some countries, simply soak the dead critters in baking soda before cooking to give them a sweeter, mushroom-like taste. (I’m not making this up.)

Baking soda is particularly effective against strong odors such as wet dog hair, spoiled food in the refrigerator, burnt casserole in the oven, and even human underarms that insist on sweating profusely. You can use it to unclog drains, put out fires, and to concoct homemade Play-Doh.

Combine it with other acidic elements and enjoy witnessing numerous chemical reactions whose combinations have been declared illegal in most conservative states and even a few liberal ones.

Swallow it to relieve acid indigestion, heartburn, and the intestinal reaction produced when one has partaken of an abundance of beans, if you know what I mean. (Again, I’m not making this up.)

I could go on but I’ll spare you. Trust me. Baking soda has thousands of possibilities. If only one of the current presidential candidates proved they were capable of accomplishing half as much as a small rectangular box of baking soda, they’d have my vote. And the whole political scene would smell better, too.

I’ve always been more of a dog guy myself. Not that I have anything personally against cats. I’m just not very fond of them. Through no fault of theirs, we simply do not mix well.

Of course I realize they make excellent companions for many folks. Fair enough. But you can’t take a cat for a ride in the back of your truck and watch it bite at the air. What you see is what you get with a dog. Cats, however, are sneaky.

They slither and slink their way over to you and gently rub against you while purring their little motors when they want something. They’re just being affectionate, you might say. Well, the purr method rarely works for humans so it shouldn’t work for felines, either. Nope, I’m convinced all that purring and motor running is equivalent to human brownnosing.

Once upon a time back when my wife and I were first dating, a recurring phenomenon threatened our relationship. Every time I visited my future in-laws, my eyes would itch like a poison ivy rash had invaded them. Some of my friends said it was natural for a young man to be allergic to his in-laws, but I found them to be pleasant folks and was perplexed as to their effect on me.

Turns out I was allergic to the cat that slivered and slunk around the house. Mystery solved. However, it took several years before Leon moved out and I don’t think it had anything to do with my allergy even then.

My wife loves cats. We’ve had three since moving back to North Carolina. Unfortunately they were all ramblers despite our getting them "fixed", and we live next to a road where the speed limit is 55 miles per hour. Despite my attitude toward cats, I grew attached to Catdog, Shotgun, and Smoky before they met their fates.

Recently a wandering feline has adopted our family. He or she (I haven’t checked yet) is orange with some white markings. Maybe that’s a tabby cat. I am unknowledgeable about such.

We’re in trouble. It has hung around enough now that the boys have named it and the wife has fed it. And at some point, I will most certainly be asked to finance its eating habits and neuterization. (Not a word but it fits with the flow of the sentence.)

Actually, the cat’s name is a source of consternation at this point. Such titles as Chewy- from Chewbacca of Star Wars fame, Butterscotch- a direct result of the cat’s color, and Skynyrd- based on the song Free Bird blaring from my son’s MP3 player, have all been tossed out as possibilities.

So for now, Chewy Butterscotch Skynyrd (CBS) lives on our back porch and chases free birds. Never will he/she be allowed inside. An outvoted and overmatched man’s gotta put his foot down somewhere. And I continue to encourage my wife to check the paper daily to see if someone has lost their little cat. But I’m starting to fear CBS has adopted us permanently.

And I guess that’s okay with me, even though I wish he/she was a Yellow Lab or an Irish Setter. But one piece of advice for you, CBS. Don’t come purring your little motor around me. Remember, I can procure your neuterization anytime I feel like it.

Unsung Heroes Dominate Awards for 2007

Time once again to reflect back on 2007. I’ve made my resolutions for 2008 but there’s still some unfinished business. As you may remember from previous years, my eyes and ears remain constantly open for good deeds, service beyond the call of duty, and all around goodness. For lack of a better term I call it the “Stroupe Thumbs Up Awards”.

My thumbs won’t be pointed upward for O.J. Simpson, Britney Spears, or that dictator from Iran. And that feuding gig Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump try to keep alive between them certainly forces their exclusion from any award of mine.

But I digress. Let’s get to the positives. I’m an optimist you know, and certainly I have been inspired by others in 2007. Without further ado:

YOU CAN RING MY BELL- Kudos to everyone who has ever dropped some cash or change into the Salvation Army bucket. But I’ve been thinking and I’ve concluded that I’ve even prouder of all the folks who stand out in the cold and ring the bells and collect the money. I’m pretty sure they don’t get paid. At least not on this side of Heaven.

OVER THERE- Every day, there are men and women in the U.S. Military who risk their lives protecting our freedoms. The relative popularity of their wars is irrelevant to me- they’re still laying it on the line us regardless of the percentage of Americans who support them.

OVER HERE- And there are many who appreciate the sacrifices soldiers have made in the past. Take Palmer Bailey, for example. He spent hour upon hour constructing monuments and caring for the graves of veterans at Bethel Baptist Church in Ellenboro. And I was afforded the privilege of accompanying him on a guided tour of his handiwork.

NOT TO FEAR, UNDERDOG IS HERE- How ‘bout my two favorite universities. My alma mater Appalachian State pulled off the miracle in the Big House against the Michigan football team. A few months later, my beloved Runnin’ Bulldogs of Gardner-Webb shocked the sports world with a blowout of basketball powerhouse Kentucky in front of nearly 20,000 irritated Wildcat fans.

LOVIN’ SPOONFULS- Beware if you venture into the Gardner-Webb cafeteria- Tina may hug you in front of everybody. If not, she will most certainly call you “Darling” or “Honey” several times in one conversation. She serves everyone an extra cup of kindness that I’m sure allows the students to feel that home is not so far away. Tina is representative of the entire staff. From the time you enter the door until you leave, someone is smiling and wishing you a nice day. I don’t think they get that so much at mega-universities. We’re lucky.

And this year’s grand prize winner- (drum roll please)

FRIENDS ARE FRIENDS FOREVER- When one of our classmates fell, the good folks of the Cherryville High classes of 1982 and 1983 rose to the occasion. A friend’s funeral is a tragic place for a reunion, but old friends rallied together to form a support network that has made a permanent impression on me. And by the way, guys, thanks for not electing me president my senior year. You would have impeached me by now.

Have a great 2008 and remember- my eyes, ears, and thumbs are always watching.