Chasing Jane.  

Too many Jerks in the Sea: 

This chapter is dedicated to all the jerks in the world.  Now, there are as many jerks out there as there are people.  There are political jerks, financial jerks, dangerous jerks, school jerks, work jerks and that total jerk that has been on your tailpipe since you’ve turned on this road.  Since there is not enough space in the world to cover all the jerks, we will just concern ourselves to the most malicious, salacious, and underhanded of all the jerks; those that affect your love relationship. 

There are both men and women jerks, of course.  Being a jerk is an equal opportunity employer.  There are women jerks, to be sure.  However, in my life, I have observed men as jerks much more than women, so we are going to concentrate on them. There seems to be a consensus that when it comes to jerk-dom, men are easily of greater quantity and eminence.   

The comparative jerk and the beautiful woman:

It was a hot summer afternoon and the band I was playing for “The Nighthawks,” was just finishing a rousing set of solid dance hits.  We were setup on the sun deck of Jolly Bob’s Tiki Beach Saloon on the Northern shore of Lake Wassapamani.  The sun was in my eyes during the whole set, which necessitated the need for my darkest sunglasses. 

Now, some guys can pull off that “I’m cool” look in dark glasses, Congo shorts, and a sweaty Hawaiian shirt.  Not me.  Since my middle age has hit me rather hard, I look more the balloon artist rather than a rock star.  Still, it really didn’t matter because I had it made in the shade.  I had my little band, and we were pretty good.  I also had a good job during the week, which made playing in my band even more of a treat.  But best of all, I had Glinda.  Even her name was poetry.

I know you could ask yourself what a beautiful woman like Glinda is doing with an overfed, losing his hair insurance actuary.  I know I ask myself that every day, and I’m grateful for the answer; because she loves me.  No small feat, for sure.  Even my bachelor friends cannot believe I was dating Glinda. 

She was nearly six-foot tall.  She had willowy, dark hair, long, shapely legs, and a body most men would die just to gaze at from afar.  More than that, she had the darkest, most soulful eyes any human should be allowed and not be from another plane of existence.  Even on our first date, I took one look in her eyes, and I fell dead hot in love with the girl.  Everyone has told me since that I am a lucky man. 

“She’s not…. Well, she’s not anything like the women you normally go out with,” declared the drummer, after leering at her ample charms while also wearing dark sunglasses. 

There is, to paraphrase Frank Zappa, “the crux of the biscuit.”  I have a suspicion that sometimes a woman can be too beautiful.  

There has to be some beauty quotient equality that exist somewhere.  If there is too much beautiful on one side of a relationship, it can spell trouble.  Terms like, “trophy wife” and other unpleasant assumptions are assigned the happy couple. 

“Is she really going out with him,” (Elvis Costello) is playing somewhere in the background. 

The set was over and I was just putting my guitar back on its stand.  I was thinking about finding Glinda and asking if we could have an adult (read nearly naked) swim after the show.  This is explains my stupid smile on my face as I saw Glinda ply her way through the crowd to talk to me.  Unfortunately, I saw that she also had a tag-along.  In slow motion, my gaze switched from her smiling face to that of her companion.  He was even taller than she was, anorexic-skinny, and with nearly the exact same length, color and texture of her hair.  He was perhaps, the most handsome man I had ever seen.  I noticed she had her arm in his, as she was escorting him to me.

“Hi honey,” she said as she leaned over to kiss me with a peck on the lips, “This is my new friend, Chad.  He plays in a band too.”

“Oh, hello there,” Mr. Awesome extends his hand for a shake.  I shake his hand, and notice his grip is formidable. 

He says, “I really love your Gibson guitar.  I play a Fender, myself.”  Even worse!  The guy has a British-sounding accent!  Real or fake?  I have no idea.

“Chad’s here from England for a vacation, and just loves you guys!  He’s been going on and on how talented you all are.  It thought you should meet!” 

Just then, one of her girlfriends grabbed her from behind and wanted her to accompany to the ladies room. 

Within seconds after Glinda was out of earshot, Chad put his hand on my shoulder and spoke into my right ear, “I feel sort of bad for her.  She’s much too good for the likes of you.” Pat. Pat. He patted me like an old friend.

Thinking I misheard his remark, “Huh?” 

“I said, that I think Glinda is wonderful, and she would be better off with me, old sport.” 

Old sport? Yeah, like he had ever read the Great Gatsby.  I just stood there, dumbfounded.

He continued, “I’m going to find a way to take your girl away from you, and you can go back to your pathetic little hornswoggle group.  She’s one sweet piece, and before the night is out, I’m going to make love to your hot, little woman.” 

With that, he took his right hand and placed it on the middle of my back, and then with his left hand patted my stomach, “Ohhh, say.  A little bit of tubby you got going on there, don’t you?” 

I thought the whole thing was a joke, until I looked up in his face, and noticed his very menacing smile.  He meant every word he said.  I took one-step back in amazement.  I was about to say something, when Glinda came back smiling with two drinks in her hands for this Chad character and me.

“So, you boys are talking shop, I’m sure.. but I’m going to introduce Chad to the rest of the guys if that’s okay with you, babe?”  She hands me a cup filled with gin, and then one to Chad.  Never taking my eyes off from the tall worm, I nodded, not even saying a word.  Before I knew it, they walked off into the crowd.

We had to start the next set before I got much of a chance to talk to Glinda.  She handed me another cup of gin, kissed me, and then headed back to her seat where Mr. wonderful awaited.  I could see them sitting there.  For the next grueling fourteen songs, I stared eagle-eyed, to where the new couple sat on top of a picnic table.  They sat close to each other, talking, laughing, and drinking.  They seems like they were as old friends sharing secrets and touching arms, shoulders and legs.  Occasionally, 

Glinda would catch my eye and nod at me with that sweet smile I know so well. 

Honestly, I was so jealous, I could barely contain myself.  Yet, all I did was continue to play my guitar, barely concentrating on my music.  I stood there and stared at the two having a wonderful time without me.  It was almost like being in prison.  Worse yet, being in prison where I got to watch though a peep hole, the indiscretions of the love of my life.  It was torture. 

At the end of the show, thankfully, Chad was nowhere to be found.  At some point, the little turd exited the scene.  Glinda came up to me at the end of the show and gave me a big, long slow kiss. 

I was not impressed.  I pulled away from her, looked at her in her beautiful eyes, and I accusingly asked, “So, where’s your new boyfriend?”

At first, she thought I was kidding.  It was evident I was not.   

Well, needless to say that we did not have a nice swim after the show.  We fought our first real fight.  

And it was ugly.  All the way home, it was an awful representation of humans at their worst.  I dropped her off at her apartment.  She did not kiss me goodnight.  I was almost glad.

It took two days before we talked again on the phone.  

Eventually, we made amends.  But… 

It was only a first fight, yet once that membrane of respect is broken; it’s very had to get back.  I accused her.  She accused me.  From there, the fights and the jealousy just accelerated.  

Towards the end, there was nothing either of us would be afraid to accuse each other of terrible indiscretions.  We fought more than we made love.  Eventually, it felt as if both of us were squeezing the life from each other.

Eventually, she packed up all her belongings and moved back with parents somewhere in Arizona. 

I know you’re thinking, she must have eventually hooked up with Chad the rock star jerk from (maybe) England, just to spite me.  That never happened.  She was never interested him, other than he was from another country, and like her boyfriend, played music in a band.  Her intentions were never anything but pure.

Many years later, I must admit I stalked her once on Facebook (oh, come on.. I know you have too.. don’t be so innocent with me!)  and noticed that man she lived with for a short while did have a resemblance to that Chad person.  She lived with a tall, thin, longhaired guy for a while that looked like that Chad.  However, she moved away (no forwarding address) after that guy abused her. 

What a terrible missed opportunity for both of us.

Now, in this story, it’s obvious the jerk here is this Chad.  But, the truth of the matter is, the biggest jerk was completely, awfully, terribly, most regretfully, yours truly. 

I began to realize, there are jerks everywhere.  Unfortunately, you cannot change that… other than something illegal or immoral (thinking duct tape, shovel, and tarp)..  it’s unavoidable.  What’s more important is how you handle them is your response to the many jerks in life.

I missed a naked swim with one of the most beautiful woman I had ever known.  And eventually, missed her completely, all because I did not believe in her.  And that, my friends.. makes me the biggest jerk, ever.

A short fictionalized story I wrote for a contest.  I didn't win, by the way.... but, I did get some some great feedback, and several people wanted to read more. That's what I like... leave 'em wanting more. 

  

The day I played hooky from work.

I am usually a straight-as-an arrow sort of employee.  It’s not that I am a saint, but that I enjoy having a roof over my head, and filling my ever-bulging middle with sustenance.  As such, I rarely take sick days, even when I should.  Heaven forbid the occasional mental health day. 

It’s not surprising then, the one and only day I played hooky from work, life spanked me back, hard.  Call it instant Karma.  

One fine spring Tuesday, two of my friends begged me to join them on a day trip.  The plan was simple; we would each call in sick to work, drive down to Illinois, catch the train, and spend the entire day as guests of the windy city.  I gave in, for no other reason than I am a single man and they are two beautiful and intelligent women.  It’s hard for me to say no to such, ever, even when it flies in the face of my ethical belief system.  Such is the fall of man.

We took the always-congested toll way, to the Elgin exit.  The Metratrain’s northern most departure point was Big Timber, the name that the girls found as a constant source of amusement.  I parked my grey Chevrolet in the parking ramp, and we scrambled to the ticket-taking place to get our tickets.  We climbed aboard the train just in time. 

“ALL ‘Board!”

The train ride into Union Station was long.  However, once there, we frolicked as tourists.  We ate real Chicago-style hotdogs, climbed the Willis Tower, toured Millennium Park, took a cab to Navy Pier, and finished our day eating stuffed Chicago pizza at a pub on Michigan Avenue.  It was a perfect day.  By late afternoon, we hurried to catch the last train back. 

The sun was setting with brilliant, florescent colors as the train again stopped at the Big Timber station.  This signaled the end of our train journey.  Exhausted but exalted, we stumbled from the train platform, out to the cold, grey parking ramp.  I reached into my inside jacket pocket to fish out my keys.

Wait a second!  Where are my keys? 

Cell phone.  Wallet.  Breath Mints.  Check. 

No happy jingle of car keys awaited me. 

OH, OH! 

I sprinted to where I parked the car.  It was gone!  I left my keys in the car and someone stole it!  

I panicked.  Soon, we were all on cell phones trying to figure out what to do next.  I finally called the police, and it took an Illinois state patrol officer minutes to arrive.  The good news?  There is no good news.  I sat down on the curb and like a man beaten down, wept. 

We spent that night at a near-by motel.  I didn’t sleep as I deliberated how could I ever recover, and most importantly, how to get us back home.  All seemed hopeless.

The next morning I called into work again, this time to admit to my boss that I lied when I called in sick.  He was extremely upset with me, and promised severe consequences when I returned.  I apologized repeatedly, and tried to assure him it would never happen again.  He seemed satisfied with my apology.  Then he asked if I needed a ride back home.  Like a bad puppy, I was ever so grateful for his kindness. 

Four hours later, Jerry showed up in his black crew cab truck.  We three climbed into the open doors as weary travelers.  Jerry smiled and asked me where I had last left the car.  I described the train depot.  He made a quick detour to scout out the scene of the crime. 

When we pulled in again to the parking ramp, I showed him where we had parked the car.  Just then, the train pulled out from the platform on its next voyage.  That’s when I happened to see another parking ramp on the other side of the tracks.  From my vantage point, I could just make out the backside of my grey car. 

I ran under the pedestrian tunnel to the other side of the train tracks, and then to my lone standing automobile.

There laid the keys, not three feet from the front of the car.  They were right on the pavement where they must have fallen from my pocket.  No one picked them up.  No one stole my car.  Hello, irony?  Meet our author….

Excerpt From: 

There Was Beer All Over the Dance Floor

(Growing up in a Rock and Roll Band)

From Chapter Four:  Oh, Those Hot Summer Nights

The Band gets its Wings

 It was a stupid thing to do.  I’m talking all kinds of stupid.  Dumb, dumb, dumb!  You read about things like this in the papers all the time: “teenagers die in fiery crash.  Speed was a factor…”  I can look back in retrospect and would like to say that it was the dumbest thing I've done.  Unfortunately, there are piles more; and that’s only in this book!

 We were back to the Reedsburg Bowling Alley and Sue’s car.  It was another weekend night, and another request from Jeff to borrow the keys to the car.  This time she knew darned well what was going on, but seemed to agree faster this time.  Her warning this time was, “You better not get caught or all our asses will be in trouble.” 

Warning noted and filed, and off we went.  The two Jeff’s were driving and “shotgun” while Scott and I took up the back.  We decided we would cruise the little country roads outside of town so as not to attract unwanted police detection.  All along the little narrow roads are breathtaking hills, valleys, dips, and hairpin corners enough to scare the be-jeepers out of even the bravest Formula 1 driver.  Of course, we were bulletproof fifteen year olds that knew no fear and proved that to ourselves by pushing the physical limits of boy and machine.

 

One of these roads was Reedsburg Road, a long straight stretch that paralleled the main highway leading to the town.  One feature of this road named the “three kings,” which is exactly as it sounds: three crowned hills in quick succession.  If you ever had a dad or mom with a twinkle in their eyes when they drove, they probably did that thing where they would accelerate until the top of the hill and let off the gas.  The quick change in speed and altitude would make your belly hop and tickle your tummy.  Of course, if you kept your foot on the gas and accelerated further, you could jump over the road Dukes of Hazard-style. 

That’s just what Jeff did.  He revved that old Chrysler up to 70 miles per hour and punched it just as we were going over the last “king.”  Then it just happened: This three thousand, three hundred and ninety pound hunk of Detroit metal just took all four wheels off the road.  The thing bucked like a bronco as Scott and I bumped our heads on the ceiling.  Everything happened in slow motion as we reached for the stars, and then all too soon fell to earth.  I saw the front-end nose down into what looked like a very steep ditch. 

    

Fortunately, Jeff was adept at driving even at fifteen, and managed to touch down the aircraft onto the tarmac properly with little more than squeals from the wide front tires.  He came from a racing family, you see and well… all I can tell you that we never tried that particular maneuver ever again.  Four boys stopped the car as fast as humanly possible after pulling to the side of the road, and took a life-affirming world-class piss.

 If you ever travel down Reedsburg road nowadays, located a couple of miles on the eastern edge of town there is a flat spot that does not follow the natural contour of the land.  This is where the three kings used to be located.  Now it is bulldozed, flattened, and widened.  Apparently, we were not the only wisenheimers that nearly did themselves in by trying that trick.  I know the poor car never did work quite the same after that.  We laughed about it for years and even suggested we find some winged pins (like the WWII Pilots used to wear) to honor ourselves the night the band earned its’ wings.  

Instant karma. 

I’m not a huge believer in Karma…  at least not in the “instant” sense.  But today, I got a chance to experience karma first hand. Unfortunately, the karma was against me. 

I suppose this should be labeled as one of those things you should probably keep to yourself, least someone in public thinks you’re a complete moron.  Well, you know me, anything for a laugh.  That’s what being a Dale is all about, I guess.

Anyone that knows me, knows that I hate. HATE. HATE. RACEWAY A  (That's highway A from Baraboo’s north side to Lake Delton)…   The biggest bunch of scalawags, drunkards, wannabe race car moms, valley girls on cell phones-applying makeup-while drinking their lattes, pickup truck cowboys with a LEAD foot, and angry white guys you have ever seen all seem to congregate – bumper-to-bumper on that 9 miles stretch of Wisconsin roadway in the mornings. 

Normally, Hwy A is a nice, quiet drive through scenic vistas, wide farmlands, and rolling hills.  You will undoubtedly see some sort of wildlife crossing in front of you, or lumbering to the side of the road - deer, rabbits, raccoons, skunk and many squirrels.  The kind of road where back in the day, mom and pop would take the kids “for a spin” after church.

 

But, not anymore.  Highway A has now become a westernized branch of autobahn.  Son, you’d better driving it around 85mph, otherwise a long line of frustrated (and talking on their cell phones with the patented Wisconsin driving head “tilt”) will be touching your bumper, reminding you that…they are in a hurry, safety be darned!

Now, I’m not a granny driver, really I'm not.  However, I do usually drive the speed limit or maybe even a few miles an hour over.  I’m proud of the fact I haven’t had a speeding ticket since before there were computers. 

Yet, this has caused several of those (above mentioned) drivers to occasionally pass me up a hill, in a no passing zone, and while another car is careening over the hill, also driving the speed of light.  Most days… I lay on the horn, and call them a few dozen of the most foul words I can think of.. as I slow way down, hoping they would get over before catastrophe strikes. 

However, today, I decided to roll down my window and give the offender the universal sign of “F**K Y*U”.  As I did, however, my watchband picked that exact moment to disassemble itself, and the watch went flying out onto the roadway. 

Scratch one old watch.  I wanted to replace it anyway…  but, still.  I’m sure the fellow just behind me, had a good chuckle as he watched the entire show unfold in front of him.  

"Hey Harriet! Look at that idiot in front of us loose his cool!" Well, anything I can do to make your day a little better, sir. 

So: In Review: **shole passed me on a hill, in a no-passing zone, nearly got us all killed, and then about a mile ahead, decided to turn left (JERK!); I lost my cool, lost my watch, and lost my dignity; the guy behind me got a good laugh; and the wheels of the universe continue to roll on.  Makes me wonder, if I'll ever learn? 

Karma, Karma, Karma, Chameleon….   

Baraboo News Republic (Letters to the Editor - May 21, 2014)

May 21, 2014 4:38 pm

(1) Comments

One of the more interesting letters to the editor recently came not from “the usual suspects,” but a politician running for office in the State Assembly’s 81st District, Ashton Kirsch.

First, props to Kirsch for hitting all the proper nouns, adjectives and touch points necessary for a young politico today: caring father, local graduate, less government and more tax relief. Since he’s rather new, we can forgive the lack of substance in his letter, other than he cares about children, jobs and is working on a “seven points to prosperity” strategy that will undoubtedly sweep us off our feet.

It’s OK if he’s a little vague, as politicians have a habit of later regretting specifics. Gov. Scott Walker’s detractors often criticize him over that 250,000 jobs promise. As much as I would like to see that charlatan exit the political stage (posthaste), I realize that a campaign promise is a little like driving a date home from the prom -- say anything to get a little happy ending after the dance.

After some research, you’ll find that Kirsch looks like he comes from the more libertarian side of the political spectrum; even further to the right than the Tea Party. I have no problems with Libertarians. Unlike the Tea Party, they spell out exactly what they want: no government. I find that a bit odd. A politician arguing against politics is like being a kosher pig farmer.

Nevertheless, it’s good to see new blood in an arena where the Republicans sorely need it. The Republican tent has gotten mighty small recently. How many angry, rich CEOs can you throw at the voters before the voters don’t vote? Oh, we’re already there? Here’s hoping Kirsch gives us something new. I guess we’ll see.

As Sen. Palpatine (in “Star Wars: Episode I-The Phantom Menace”) puts it, “And you, young Skywalker; we shall watch your career with great interest.” Of course, we all know where the story goes after that.

Dale Glaudell, Baraboo

Baraboo News Republic (Letters to the Editor - May 06, 2014)

May 06, 2014 1:40 pm

(1) Comments

In a recent Tim McCumber column, he was almost apologetic for his political party when it went a smidgen too far during the Republican convention in Milwaukee. They wanted to adopt a resolution to uphold the right to secede from the union. His effort should not go unnoticed or unappreciated. At least someone is willing to apologize for the political party that has brought relentless joy to late-night talk show hosts and comedians across the country.

Wiser heads prevailed though, as the Republican assembly smartly and overwhelming refused the resolution. They were afraid it might make them the laughingstock of the country. Why stop now? Fortunately, the Grand Old Party can get back to the more important articles of governance, suppressing voting rights, erasing rights for women, clamping down on the poor and homeless, chopping off the financial heads of public workers and getting rid of those pesky unions.

Just when I thought we were flying friendlier skies, we get McCumber making the standard pitch for the conservative way, “Moving Wisconsin Forward,” and “The common sense reforms of Gov. Scott Walker.” Sounds like that came from a brochure. He doesn't even sound sold on his own party. I don’t blame him.

McCumber's comment, “Assuming Wisconsin actually votes to secede, the Wisconsin National Guard isn't equipped to stand up to the United States military. At present, we might be lucky if seven other states stand with us.” That’s all you need to know on what the far right is really thinking.

Pass the muskets and powder. We’re going back to the future.

Dale Glaudell, Baraboo

Baraboo News Republic (Letters to the Editor - November 24, 2013)

November 24, 2013 4:40 pm

(0) Comments

There are an awful lot of big words that get slogged around in this newspaper. But that’s OK. I like words. I like how they can mean different things to different people. I like how you can fit them together to roll off the tongue or make a thoughtful point. Sometimes words are put together to use as a blunderbuss, a pointy stick, or to make political points. Some editorials here are filled with hateful, spiteful pitchforks. Of that I am guilty too. Sometimes words can be used to advocate a cause, a candidate, or a point of view.

Sometimes words are meant to express gratitude or thanks.

For example: I would like to offer you the word "hero." Now, hero gets used a lot in the media these days. Seems like everywhere you turn there is a hero of some sort. Don’t get me wrong, I like the word hero. We need them now more than ever, it seems. But what we need is a new word; a new superlative for the people that dedicate their lives to saving others. There’s something saintly or otherworldly about them. Hero is too flashy a construct for them, as they would never personally accept praise other than to say they’re just doing their jobs.

This Thanksgiving, I have more to be thankful for than the usual; food on the table, friends and family and a good job with good people. I am thankful for those that saved my life a little more than a week ago, doctors, nurses and emergency room staff at St. Clare Hospital. Their quickness and professionalism saved precious time. There are of course the pilots, EMTs and others at Med Flight; the vascular acuity of Dr. Mario Goessl; and the doctors, nurses and all the rest of the staff at St. Mary’s Hospital in Madison. To you and to all those that go about saving lives as a profession, I can only offer my deepest gratitude. And for once I am without words.

Dale Glaudell, Baraboo