Here are a few of the columns I wrote for the Today Newspapers Group. Most are on the funny side (he said, hoping someone would agree), but some came out a little sad. I tried to write at least one a month and was rewarded with recognition from the Texas Press Association for my efforts.

 

Laughter is best medicine

Papa always knew how to make things a little better

 

      One of my fondest memories of my grandfather are of him laughing.

      It’s not that he had a great laugh. No loud braying or rolling guffaw for him. He was not the kind to roll on the floor with big belly laughs or even giggle into his hand.

      When he was really amused, he was more likely to just grin at the person making the joke — maybe chuckle a little, almost silently. He had a great, sweetly sarcastic sense of humor and enjoyed telling simple kid-friendly jokes to us all.

      But Papa had a little routine he did when wanted to kid around with his grandchildren. He would start with a little laugh. It was nothing special, and it was obvious to all of us that it was fake.

      But then the laugh would get deeper and richer in tone. He would close his eyes, throw back his head and start howling laughs like a man driven mad with hilarity.

      By this point, any child in attendance was starting to laugh. It was like we were being let in on the best joke ever.

      Knock, knock jokes. Aggie jokes. The ones which started out, “A priest, a rabbi, and a Baptist preacher ...” Nothing compared to what we were laughing about. We had no idea what it was, just that it must be the funniest thing ever created by the human mind to make him laugh so hard.

      And just when we started getting a good chuckle going, he would kick his act into high gear.

      He would double over with the force of his seeming giddiness, grabbing his belly and slip into an almost wheezing, convulsive fit of “tee-hee, hoo-hoo, ho-ho, ha-ha, tee-hee, ha-ha, hoo-hoo-hoo, ho-ho, heh-heh-heh, hoo-hoo.”

      To any adult who did not know the score, I am sure the man looked like he would hyperventilate at any moment. His face would turn red and tears would form in his eyes, mirroring the looks on his grandchildren’s faces.

      By this point, we were rolling on the floor, cackling at the sight of our family patriarch laughing to beat the devil.

      And then he would stop, take off his glasses, wipe the happily manufactured tears from his eyes and just grin at us as we kept on, bursting into a new peal of guffaws every time we looked back at him.

      Papa was a simple man. He was a smart, honest, hard worker who didn’t need anything more than a high school education to understand how the world worked.

      He knew that children needed to laugh sometimes — and was there for us with a joke.

      He knew that children needed to cry sometimes — and he was there for us with a hug.

      He knew children had to get away from fighting parents sometimes — and opened a spare bedroom for us to sleep in.

      As I get older and think about life, work, family, all of the things that lay before me, I just hope I can be as good of a man as he was — laughing fits and all.

      I try to be a good uncle to my niece and nephews. They are getting older and developing distinct personalities. It’s getting to the point that you cannot treat them all the same.

      I wonder what my children are going to be like. Chubby little TV-junkies like I was? Little sports fiends like my nephew, Elijah? Drama queens like my niece, Hannah?

      Being a believer in nurture over nature, I guess they will be what my future wife and I make them.

One thing I know is I want to make them happy — and maybe make them laugh a little.

 

 

Spam, junk e-mails stink

 

       “Smell good for free.”

      That was the subject line of a piece of junk e-mail I received the other day. I opened it, of course, half-expecting to find a message in 100-point font from one of my friends telling me to BATHE.

      It’s not that I don’t. I shower at least once a month — twice or three times if I have a date or a big meeting during that time. But you really have to understand the senses of humor of the people I hang out with. That is just something they would send.

      But no. This time, at least, it was an advertisement for a cologne manufacturer hocking its wares on the worldwide web.

      And sure, who wouldn’t want to smell better for free? Heck, I am always looking for a bargain. I mean, one only has to look at my wardrobe to see that I can’t resist the sale bin.

      But why would that company target me for that e-mail?

      I can’t imagine that I smell bad enough that some far off company would find out, especially at the same time as my once-monthly bathing.

      What would that company’s meetings be like?

       “Well, Bob, we’ve identified the two most likely people to need our cologne. One is a newspaper editor near Dallas named Kirk Dickey and the other is a guy who goes by the name of Bubba and lives in a junkyard next to a paper mill in Mississippi.”

       “OK Jim, I say we go after the newspaper editor first.”

      No, I am pretty sure the company got my name off of some type of mailing list, just like every other solicitation I or anyone else has ever received.

      Just think about it. Somewhere out there, people are looking at a list of hundreds — maybe thousands — of names they bought from another vendor or website.

      And you know they are thinking “$$$ Kaaa-Ching $$$. If only I could get my formula for powdered water into these people’s e-mails, I would be rich within days.”

      Now do not misunderstand, I know people have to advertise. And sure, e-mail is easily accessible by most people. That is what makes it such a good mass-marketing tool.

       “The real problem with e-mail blasting is that it’s so cheap compared to direct snail-mailing,” Jesse Berst, editorial director for ZDNet AnchorDesk, said. “So determined, thick-skinned companies have little incentive not to give it a shot.”

      The advertiser thinks they can just slip a message or two (or 27) into people’s inboxes and maybe someone will buy something.

      And that is not to say it doesn’t work. I am sure it does in some cases. There is always someone who will take a chance on the “Make $200 a day surfing the web” plans and “GUARANTEED LOW, LOW-interest, HIGH spending limit credit card.”

      In fact, according to stats reported by ZDNet, about 11 percent of the junk e-mail or “spam” messages are read.

      Of course that means 61 percent of those links end up in the trash without being opened, 19 percent of those recipients ask to be removed from future mailings and 5 percent retaliate “via mail bombs, denial-of-service attacks, etc.”

      I would have to count myself in the above-mentioned 61 percent, although I can’t say I haven’t thought about seeking vengeance for the time those advertisers have taken from me.

      I mean, I am always nice when telemarketers call my home, even when I am doing something important. But just once, I would like to call them back during their dinner time.

      But I digress.

      Advertising has inundated our lives, so why should the internet be any different? Something has to fuel the economy and if it takes these companies sending out thousands of e-messages promising an “Amazing hair restorer the government doesn’t want bald men to know about,” then I guess I can live with it.

      The companies have to make a buck somehow. I just wish I could find a way to keep the undesirables out. Sure, there are “spam-guards” and other remedies to the problem of e-mail clogged with “helpful products.” But none that work well enough to keep “Bambi” (probably read “Bubba,” but hopefully not the junkyard worker) from sending me those “Are you lonely?” messages from the Pitifully Depressed Singles website.

I don’t need “her” to remind me that I am. And I certainly don’t need to be asked if I want to smell better.

I have enough problems without my e-mail making me more self-conscious.

 

 

Do I look like I’m ready to grow up?

 

      Sitting there in the Chinese restaurant, I watched my beautiful niece Hannah slurp up a noodle, clap and laugh, like she had just discovered the funniest thing in the world.

      Maybe she had. It was definitely one of the cutest things she had done that day. And that is no easy feat to measure. Being a Dickey, unrelenting charm is a blessing — or a curse, depending on your outlook.

      In any case, my beautiful little niece was entertaining the table and the passersby, when the hostess asked, “Is she your daughter?”

      I have to say that I startled a bit.

       “No. No. She is my brother’s,” I quickly told her.

       “She is just so cute,” she continued.

       “Well, yeah, she is. My brother is really proud,” I said. “She’s a good kid.”

      Hannah — no doubt realizing she was being lavished with praise — continued to slurp and clap and be cute.

      My nephew Elijah watched this in wide-eyed fascination — as 6-month-olds are apt to do — as the waitress turned her attention on him.

       “And aren’t you cute too?” she cooed to him.

      He thoroughly enjoyed that. Did I mention we Dickeys are attention-hogs, too?

       “He’s her little boy,” my mother offered and gestured to my sister, when the waitress looked like she was about to ask — looking at me — whose child he was.

      The hostess seemed to get the drift and moseyed away — most likely to ask some other family about their lineage.

      And I couldn’t help feel she seemed a little sad for me because I didn’t have a little bundle of joy of my own.

      Why, you ask? I don’t know.

      Do I look like I am ready to grow up and be responsible for another human life? I don’t think so.

I don’t even have a pet. A pet costs too much — and I wouldn’t even have to save money for its college education.

      Don’t misunderstand me. I love children — other people’s children. I don’t mind playing with my niece or nephew, because when I am ready to go, I can leave.

      I get all of the benefits of being goofy “Uncle Kirk,” without the responsibility of providing food, shelter and protection. It really is the best of both worlds.

      I guess I really started thinking about this when my sister called a couple of weeks ago to ask if she could put me down as Elijah’s custodian in the case of her and my mother’s death. She wanted to plan ahead, “just in case.”

      That is a strange feeling, especially for someone who does not have children of his own and doesn’t see any in the near future.

      For some reason, my family has gotten the mistaken idea that I am a responsible person — that I might be an acceptable person to entrust a life to.

      Why? Because I usually pay my rent on time? Because I have held a full-time job for a couple of years? Because I make a mean peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich?

      I really don’t understand. I have never really believed I would make a good father. So, why does anyone else?

      Maybe it is just an age thing. I recently rounded the quarter-century mark and a lot of my friends are already married and having children or contemplating one or the other. The longest relationship of my life — a woman I dated for 2 1/2 years — just had a child with her current boyfriend. My brother and his wife are working on their second child. And I dread seeing all of the baby pictures at my upcoming class reunions.

      I guess that is the way it works. You grow up, get married, have a child, pull out your hair worrying over the child and then die, although that isn’t always the order people go in.

      I’m not sure I’m even at the growing up stage yet. I like to think of myself as mature, but I also know I enjoy my Saturday morning cartoons.

      OK, well there is one thing I could do with the kid, but that doesn’t mean I would make a good dad.

In some way, I guess it can be good to be alone. If you can’t get a date, you don’t have marriage and children — and being a real grown-up — on the horizon.

      I relish in being “Uncle Kirk.” My niece and nephew love me and I love them. But I can’t imagine being a father. I don’t think I am ready for that just yet.

      Maybe realizing I’m not ready for fatherhood makes me more grown up than I thought?

      Don’t answer that. For now, I am just enjoying the freedom that comes with not having to be a grown-up.

 

 

Please don’t sully all sales people

Politeness, smiles make a difference

 

      Aaaahh. Twinkling lights on four out of five houses on each block. Holiday music played in every store and at countless school recitals. The appearance of eggnog flavored drinks in your local convenience store.

      It can all mean just one thing. ‘Tis the season to step on your fellow shopper’s neck as he reaches for the last X-Box.

      As a veteran of the retail madness that is Christmas, I have seen the worst in people. There is nothing scarier than a mother who is looking for that special gift, who has gone to three different stores to search for it, has promised her son or daughter that she will get one and has to be told your store just sold the last one to that guy who just walked out.

      I have looked into the face of evil and it is the holiday shopper.

      That is not to say some people don’t have pleasant holiday shopping experiences. For every holiday shopping horror story, there is someone to say, “Well, the store was a bit crowded, but I found everything all right and I got out of there without a hassle.”

      But after working in a record store for three and a half years - and in a holiday ham store before that - most of my Christmas experiences were not pleasant.

      I have seen the soured looks and heard the brusque tones of people in long lines at the register. I have watched as customers bickered about the lack of product on the shelves. I have seen children reduced to tears because they are tired of lugging shopping bags up and down the mallways in scenes reminiscent of the Bataan Death March.

      I have seen it all. And more than that, I have been the target of language that would make a sailor blush because the mall is too crowded, the prices are too high and the other customers are getting in their way.

      Trust me. I couldn’t control any of those things when I was a salesperson and the clerks you run into this holiday season probably won’t be able to either. The good salespeople just try to keep the shelves stocked, give advice when they are asked and try to break up fights between customers before they become family feuds. Nothing ruins a holiday mood like being hit by a wayward fist.

      By and large, salespeople are good at what they do and most are more than helpful - especially if they get a bonus for sales. They have rules to follow and managers to mind, so they might not be able to devote as much time to you as you would like, but most aren’t intentionally ignoring you.

      Don’t get me wrong. Some might be purposely ignoring you. There are good salespeople and bad salespeople. They are just humans after all.

      I once worked with a woman who reveled in telling customers they couldn’t return a gift. She just loved the reaction she got from it. It gave her a sense of power. She was a nice person, but if the customer had even a hint of attitude the cash register might as well be welded shut.

      That is really where holiday shopping goes awry. You have to remember that the crowds at the mall are all there to buy gifts too. There will be lines and there will be waiting. Eventually, the stores may run out of whatever you need. And yes, you will occasionally run into a self-involved salesperson with no interest in your problems.

      But if you have a good attitude with the salespeople, try to give them a smile and don’t place the downfall of the human race squarely on their shoulders, then you will probably get a lot more help. You might even get a smile in return.

      I can remember times when customers have been nice despite the haggard looks on their faces. They told me what they wanted and I helped them as best I could. And if I couldn’t help them, I pointed them to the people - even other stores - that could.

      Sure, I helped the rude customers too. I smiled and took it when I was berated by an angry mom for helping another customer before her. I lead the surly shoppers heavy with egg nog right to the CD they wanted. I even calmed a few teens who thought they would die if they didn’t get the No Limit Christmas CD. But the customers who got my best service were always the nice ones.

      Just remember Christmas is the season of giving and you will definitely get what you give this year. Give a smile. You might just get one in return – and more help with your holiday chores to boot.

 

 

Valentine for sale

Don’t let commercialism ruin a holiday of love

 

      I don’t know about you, but nothing makes me feel more romantic than having my tires rotated.

      It’s a good thing Valentine’s Day is this week. I’m sure some enterprising young business-owner will latch onto the holiday and offer a lovers’ discount at the auto shop.

      That seems to be the trend. Much like Christmas and Thanksgiving before it, Valentine’s Day is becoming just another excuse for shop-owners to market their wares. I can’t wait for the Arbor Day chainsaw sales to rev up.

      It may just be my melancholy at spending this Valentine’s Day alone, but it really seems like the stores have caked the warm and fuzzies on this year.

      You can’t blame them. All good business-owners mark “special” occasions with sales of some sort or another. But sometimes these things go too far. It looks like commercialism has claimed yet another holiday supposedly rooted in love.

      I mean, who really thinks a washing machine an appropriate Valentine’s gift? What about a car wash certificate? How about a George Foreman Lean, Mean, Fat Reducing Grilling Machine?

      What do any of those have to do with love? Think about the messages they send — “you’re smelly, dirty and you need to lay off the hamburgers.”

      Not exactly the bad love poetry you wrote in high school is it? And they don’t get the same reaction those few honey-dipped words got either do they?

      Now, I know that some people have an understanding on Valentine’s Day. It’s just another holiday and people should get what they need. Maybe your husband or wife really needs a Lean Mean Fat Reducing Grilling Machine — I know I do.

      But believe me, you can save your utilitarianism for another day. Valentine’s Day should be about showing your love for that special person. You never know when you will lose him or her.

      All you have to do is look at the holiday’s history to see what I am talking about. Granted, much of its history remains just outside of documented fact, but two of the most popular origins show its ties to love and coupledom.

      Some historians believe that Valentine’s Day can be traced back to pagan festivals of Rome. The Feast of Lupercalia, held on the eve of Feb. 14, was set aside as a day to honor the goddess Juno, the goddess of women and marriage. During the festival it was traditional to have boys and girls pick names from an urn and become partners to the festival, playing and dancing together. The pairings sometimes lasted through the year. Some even resulted in marriage.

      Another popular belief (for those of you who don’t go in for the pagan angle) says that, Valentine, a priest in the third century was the basis for the holiday.

      According to legend, Valentine performed secret marriages for couples that could not marry legally under Roman law.

      It seems that Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families. Therefore, with increasing military operations in the ever-larger empire, he outlawed marriage for young men. Valentine supposedly realized how unjust the law was and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. And for his belief in love and marriage, Claudius ordered the priest put to death.

      That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you honor by buying your girlfriend a two-piece chicken dinner. It might be OK for a girl to buy that for her boyfriend, but that is just a difference between men and women. That is a discussion better saved for another time.

      And let’s admit it guys, the ladies wouldn’t let that be the only gift we got. If it were nothing more than a card or a piece of chocolate, there would be something.

      We are the reason every retailer out there is jumping on the St. Valentine’s bandwagon. We caused all of this commercialization of the holiday. We are the ones who hit the Fry’s Electronics “Valentine’s Day Sale-a-thon.” I don’t think I know any woman who wants a hand-held organizer for Valentine’s Day, unless it has a message from her man typed on the front. (You should have gotten her that at Christmas.)

      Didn’t get a romantic gift for your lady? It’s not too late. There is still a chance that you can pick up a “traditional” gift of love at a local flower shop or grocery store.

      Realistically though, by the time this edition of the newspaper hits the rack, all the candy will be gone and all the flowers will be picked. So instead of going home empty-handed, try writing some of that horrible, sappy poetry. Put on some Al Green or George Strait and try to slow dance like you used to. Cook her dinner. (Note: This only works if you actually cook. Ordering in doesn’t have the same impact.) Or maybe just write down a list of the reasons you love her.

      Trust me, I guarantee that little gesture will go a long way to show her how you feel. And if you are lucky, it may make the 84-piece socket set you bought her a lot more romantic.

 

 

‘Big fat’ check

Forget self control, making good choices;
litigation is the solution to all our woes

 

      I’m thinking about suing the major television networks.

      No. It’s not because they continue to put intellectually devoid programming on the air. I know there is a market for “Bachelorettes in Alaska” and “Frasier.” And hey, I don’t begrudge them the right to make a buck off the poor schmoes on those “reality” shows.

      It’s the other shows — the ones with plot development and good writing — that are my problem. Some of them are just too good. So good, in fact, that I am forced to watch. I can’t help it.

      I am forced to tape my shows while I am at work or in meetings and watch them in the unholy hours of the night, causing eyestrain and sleep deprivation. And that doesn’t even add in the costs of buying blank tapes for recording.

      I think the only way I can make things change is to sue the companies involved. That’s the American way.

      First we had lawsuits against “Big Tobacco.” Recently, a Newsweek article announced a group of parents, doctors and, yes, lawyers were beginning a “war” on “Big Fat.”

      One good-meaning soul was quoted early in the article saying: “For years I ate fast food because it was efficient and cheap. I had no idea it could be damaging my health.”

      I can empathize. I am not the slimmest of men. The word “husky” comes to mind.

      And I too have known the joy of eating double-decker burgers, Monte Cristos and chilidogs. But let’s be honest, I knew they were bad for me — the way smokers knew smoking was bad for them.

      It doesn’t take too much to tie cigarettes to the bone-rattling cough my grandmother lives with daily. I didn’t need a lawsuit to tell me the black hack my grandfather and my uncle coughed up was the result of years of puffing on the cheapest cigarettes they could find — because their habit was so strong they went through a couple of packs a day.

      Who couldn’t see cigarettes are addictive? Well, who besides the kind-hearted CEOs of Philip Morris and the other smoke-makers?

      By the same token, it doesn’t take much sleuthing to tie getting the grande portions to an extremo posterior muy grande (very big rear end). It’s not hard to see that high-fat or high-carbohydrate foods without exercise will lead to weight gain. And if you think foods fried in oil (fat) don’t hurt you, you should have your head examined.

      We all know this and yet we continue to put the fry-cooks at McDonalds through college with our happy-to-eat-your-Happy Meal, super-size selves.

      Know why? Because we like the taste — just like smokers like the “taste” and “feel” of a cigarette. And just like us TV-nuts who like the warm glow and soothing non-complexity of the “idiot box.” We do things that are harmful to us because we like the way they feel at the time.

      I won’t give up TV, even if it is the death of me. You can have my remote when you pry it from my cold dead fingers.

      Besides, I can’t be counted on to control my own urges. That is what the courts and Congress are for, right?

      The legitimate complaints in the “war” on “Big Fat,” like childhood obesity and health risks for children who might not know better, can’t be solved by parents stepping up and telling their children to step away from the table, can they?

      Children won’t learn from parents’ examples of how to eat healthy and get proper exercise, will they?

Problems like that don’t go away if parents tell their children to stop staring at the television and go play in the yard — or the street — like my mother told me, do they?

      The impact of heart disease and type II diabetes at all ages couldn’t be at least lessened if we all decided to take a day off from Dominoes, could it?

      Certainly not. If it could, we wouldn’t need these lawsuits.

      And I couldn’t get my “big fat” check from the networks.

 

 

Things they’ll never know
Tell people how you feel before it’s too late

 

      My buddy Kwin died a few weeks ago.

      He was a good guy — my best friend from high school, in fact.

      A few years older than me, he was one of the cool kids who smoked in the stairwell during recess, almost daring the school administration to come catch him. He grew his hair out long and was in a rock band called “Ace High,” which seemed really cool back then and seems kind of silly now.

      He dated the best-looking girl on our high school dance line and always exuded an air of authority when out in a group of friends.

      He was the “Hippie-dude,” who half the high school thought was the ultimate arbiter of cool and the rest thought was a burnout.

      Kwin never finished high school, instead opting for a GED.

      It’s not that he wasn’t smart enough. He was a really intelligent person, who could debate any point — and usually did just to get a rise out of people, even if he didn’t really believe what he was saying.

      He just didn’t like the structure of school and didn’t want to go.

      After leaving high school, he kicked around a little bit before joining his father at a sprinkler company, hanging pipe in buildings across the Louisiana and the southern United States.

      Kwin was the person who taught me how to play guitar. He helped teach me how to talk to girls. And he was always the first one to take up for me when an older student tried to push me around.

      In the small town where we grew up, there wasn’t much to do on Saturday nights except burn gas cruising up and down the town’s main strip. I couldn’t add up the number of hours we spent driving that loop, laughing at people who weren’t nearly as cool as we were.

      Later, as we both became adults, we didn’t hang out as much. Work got in the way. Our girlfriends didn’t always get along. Life happened.

      Kwin had a child, went to prison for drinking and driving, got out of prison, got married, got separated, got arrested again and went into treatment for alcohol abuse.

      I went to college, moved in with my girlfriend, split up with her, moved to Duncanville to take a job, moved back to Louisiana to be closer to family and then came to Grand Prairie to help start this paper.

      But the whole time, no matter how long it had been since we’d hung out, I could head over to his house, argue about whatever twisted political view he had that week, try to keep up with him as he played his guitar and generally just have a good time. It was like we’d never left high school. The only thing that had changed was the subject matter.

      His home was my home.

      I talked to Kwin the week before his death and he told me that he thought he’d found some grace from God. He said he needed me to come in the next weekend because he needed to see me in person.

      I figured it was part of the alcohol abuse program he was involved in.

      I hadn’t planned on going home that weekend, but I could hear the need in his voice. I changed my plans and went anyway.

      When I got to his house that Saturday, he was the same old Kwin. He said he needed to get out of the house, so we decided to go play pool and ended up at a pool hall in Shreveport.

      Kwin ordered a beer and – in my usual passive-aggressive way – I just frowned and stopped talking.

      Everything was everything it always was — except that it wasn’t funny when Kwin drank anymore. That hadn’t been funny in years, but now, facing prison if he didn’t complete his treatment program, it really ticked me off.

      Besides, I was mad that he hadn’t told me this big secret reason that I needed to come home.

      I took Kwin home that night — not really talking, but more grunting my disapproval in monosyllabic answers.

      When I dropped him off, I said “Talk to you later.”

      He said, “Be careful.”

      Kwin’s mom called the next morning and said he’d killed himself later that night.

      Now, I don’t know how long he’d planned it. And I don’t know if I could have done something to change his mind.

      I don’t know if my attitude toward him that night hurt him, or if he understood why I was acting like I was — out of some misguided attempt to steer him to what I thought was right.

      I don’t suppose I’ll ever know if, as I’ve been told time and again, he just wanted to see his best friend one more time before he ended his life. And I don’t know what he thought was next.

      All I know is that I should have told him more often how much I cared about him. He was my brother, if not in blood, then at least in spirit.

      It’s easy to think that family knows how you feel about them. You take it for granted.

      Whether they are flesh-and-blood family or whether they just feel like they are, you need to tell them.

      It doesn’t have to be a big thing, but they should really know. You never know when the last chance to tell them will be.