I Feel Like a Tyke, With a Bike

I always step back a bit and relish the sight when a parent and a child trek from the bicycle section nestled in the back of a big-box store, with the youngster grinning broadly and the parent smiling proudly as they queue up to pay for the offspring’s first bike. The excitement in the child’s sparkling eyes is a sight to behold, as much as the lad’s or lassie’s mouth will behold new teeth when the next generation of choppers pushes through to replace the newly fallen baby teeth.

Imagine the irony, then, when daughter Allison took me to a big-box store to buy a combo birthday/Father’s Day present of a new fishing tackle satchel and some lures — and we walked past the bicycle section tucked in the rear of the store. Each of us tarried, thinking the same thing, until we voiced the thought, almost simultaneously, that maybe I should get a bike.

Oh, I don’t mean the clunky three-wheelers that some men of a certain age wrangle, all decked out with a slow-moving vehicle sign and a tall orange flag fluttering in the breeze so nobody hits ’em. Rather, two 2-wheelers in particular beckoned. Two beckoned, both retro looking: a blue Schwinn and a tan and blue Huffy.

Even though I leaned toward the Schwinn’s big-name status, the Huffy’s color scheme was soooooooo much cooler. Plus, what’s more retro than the Huffy name? The seat even had “Huffy” emblazoned on it, right above those old-fashioned springs on its big, comfy-looking seat, a common design before the onslaught of bikes with butt-busting seats that make you feel like you’ve been hoisted on your own petard.

The deciding factor came after a store employee invited me to take a ride, right there in the aisle. So I did, and found the Huffy more to my liking. (Later, Allison acknowledged that I had looked a bit wobbly on the Schwinn, and more relaxed on the Huffy.)

Next thing I knew, we were walking my new bike past the fishing equipment, with me grinning ear to ear and Allison (we share birthdays, by the way) chuckling and shaking her head and admonishing me that, if I get hurt on the bike, she’ll feel so guilty that she’ll KILL me.

“And you’d better wear a helmet,” she warned, as if she were a parent lecturing a petulant little kid.

I daresay that this retro Huffy is a lot more comfy and rider-friendly than the adult chopper bike — it was a Schwinn, as a matter of fact — that I just HAD to have a couple of years back. I bought it for myself, for my birthday, without even trying it out, because I just liked it and thought I’d look cool.

As it turned out, I did look cool on it, and I’m not bragging. A coupla twentysomething guys stopped me one day to admire the chopper and inquire about it. Awestruck, one of them said, “I bet you could pick up a lot of chicks with this.”

Well, I guess I could have fitted a chick on the banana seat, but I never tried. In fact, I learned soon after buying my cool-looking bike that it had three drawbacks:
1. It made my bum and, uh, other “nether regions,” shall I say, go to sleep.
2. I couldn’t stand up, which probably is why I ended up with a numb bum and, uh, another extremity.
3. The fact that the front wheel was pitched far forward made turning in a circle a daunting task. Indeed, the turning circumference was so wide that I started turning left in West Palm Beach one day on Florida’s east coast, and ended up in Naples, on the Sunshine State’s west coast, before I came full circle.

So I sold it to a guy who was going to put a motor on it so his wife could have a chopper matching his.

I had no reason to get huffy about it, as the bike and I just didn’t fit together. And now, I’m pleased as punch to be riding my Huffy, although Kate informed me that it’s blue and yellow rather than blue and tan, as I had thought. Well, the fenders look tan to me, anyway.

When I called to report in to Al how great it worked after my first lengthy excursion, her only question was: “Were you wearing your helmet?”

OK, enough is enough on this parent-child role reversal.

P.S.: Kate likes my ride so much that I bought her a matching chick bike for her birthday. After all, I figured it was worth it to mark a milestone like a 30th birthday. Hers is the Huffy female companion to mine, lime green with tan fenders. Or, as she refers to tan: yellow.

Allison happened to call as we were at the store picking it up. Her question: “Are you getting her a helmet, too?” Good GAWD, who died and appointed her to the helmet police corps?

Mike and his bike, wearing his helmet, and without:

Now that I look at this photo, I can't help recalling something about little Ms. Wear-Your-Helmet, or ELSE Allison: See that stone wall behind me? Well, during her first visit to our new digs in the Badger State, she backed up her car and ran right into the dadgum thing. Oh, the only damages were a few scratches and a bruised ego. Ironically, her car even has one of those back-up cameras with which she should have seen the wall, if she'd have been paying attention. Seems to me maybe SHE's the one who should be wearing a helmet.

Don't Be Tardy for My Party: Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many

At first blush, my announcement of a new political party might be as far removed from the Grandfather Clause’s purpose of spotlighting my grandchildren as the sun is from Pluto (and that poor thing isn’t even a planet anymore). Although my cheeks are flushed with anger, I’m not blushing as I proclaim the formation of my “Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many Party.”

First, I must apologize to Jimmy McMillan for swiping part of the mantra of his “Rent Is Too Damn High Party” in his campaign to be governor of New York last fall.



Now, like Jimmy’s being concerned about children, I’m founding my party because it’s also about the kids, and their futures.

I raise the issue because I just moved from Florida, one of only 19 states that requires a plate only on the back, to Wisconsin, which demands plates on the front AND back, like most other states. I submit that the requirement is a total waste of the raw materials of metal and paint to make the plates.

Think how much metal could be saved if the states dumped the laws requiring two plates. The front plate seems superfluous to me, even if some might argue that the double duty provides gainful employment to prisoners tasked with making them.

My party will focus on the money-saving and resource-saving aspect of switching to just one plate, instead of the shallow arguments of those with classic cars who say the front plates distract from the beauty and lines of the grille.

I don’t buy the bogus argument I ran across in researching the bylaws for my party that the front plate is to help the increasingly common cameras to catch red-light runners. First of all, the double-plating requirement was there long before those controversial cameras came to pass. Secondly, all they have to do is readjust the cameras to shoot the car’s rear plates. Thirdly, why do police think they need to check you coming and going, anyway?

I didn’t pay much attention to the two-plate law in my home state of Nebraska because the long arm of the law never reached out and touched me. But my resentment of front plates actually started more than a decade ago, when I lived in Minnesota. Gopher State winters take their toll on front plates, as they easily come off as the cars plow through snowy streets. And state troopers and police take advantage of that, ticketing folks who don’t have the front plate to generate revenue for city coffers.

I got nabbed once, but that wasn’t my main gripe. My ire was directed at the St. Paul cops who routinely drove through high school parking lots and ticketing students’ cars that had only one plate. Brendan got snagged more than once. Even though it was simple enough to go to the traffic judge and explain the problem, it was inconvenient to have to take time off of work to head to the courthouse.

I always thought the police should be out catching real criminals instead of picking on kids who were in school studying their butts off.

I understand there are petition drives in California and other states to get rid of front license plates, despite law enforcement’s plea that the front plates make their jobs easier. (Other than picking on high school kids, what are they saying, that they start a lot of arrests by looking in their rear-view mirrors or they catch people in high-speed chases in reverse? I think not.)

I can understand how it's a big issue in California. Just check out this shot of how the front plates are so heavy that they weigh down the landscape in the Golden State.



OK, that may not be the reason for the tilt here, which obviously is the result of a camera angle a San Francisco hill, but I'm using poetic license to advance my political spin that the superfluous plates even screw up nature. Why worry about global warming when the REAL issue is that the heaviness of the extra plates is slowing down global spinning to the extent that the world will stop someday, and whoever is on the half facing the sun will fry! Now THAT's a political issue that ought to concern people.

I’m still working on the bylaws for my party, but you can bet one of the main wherefores will be, “Wherefore we could save a potload of money (perhaps to repair winter potholes in Wisconsin and Minnesota), we hold this truth to be self evident: Two license plates are too damn many.

My grandkids will thank me when there’s still enough money to provide Social Security and Medicare for them with all the cash and steel saved, and enough steel to reinforce homes against tornadoes and such.

In the meantime, all I ask of you is for you to send me your signature saying you back the party. Ideally, it’d be nice if you’d put it on a check.

Thankyouverymuch.
Mike Tighe
President, Two License Plates Are Too Damn Many Party

Jack: A Character WITH Character

I always knew that Jack is a real character, but now another barometer ramps that assessment to a whole other level: His peers cherry-picked him for the honor of being THE first-grader of character at their school.

That’s right, the Jack of All Trades — he who is incredibly sensitive at the same time he revels in snakes and dinosaurs and his pet land crabs; mature beyond his age (heck, he was 10 seconds old, going on 50 years, before the cord was even clipped); a bon vivant since preschool; a stand-up comic, the list can go on — can add the additional distinction of being a character WITH character to his résumé.

His classmates voted him the honor based on character traits they learned throughout the year: responsibility, respectfulness, citizenship, trustworthiness and honesty. He snagged a trophy and a certificate, not to mention the steak dinner his family treated him to the night after the award at a school assembly gobsmacked him.


Proud parents Melissa and Skip with their honored son Jack and his trophy and certificate. He doesn't put on airs, despite his accolades.

I know Melissa and Skip should get the lion’s share of the credit for building this little man of character, but I’d like to think I had some influence, too. Nonetheless, I won’t toot my own horn, but rather salute Jack on this momentous occasion.

A great indicator of the depth of his character is that he recently narc’d himself out for a little mischief at school in which he wasn’t really the main culprit. I won’t go into details, other than to say he went home, agonizingly explained the situation to Melissa, and then suggested that she accompany him to school so he could confess to the teacher.

Imagine THAT. He wasn’t even indicted for the incident, but he felt the need to plead guilty. He also had apologized to the offended party, who is one of his friends, on the day the “crime” occurred. How’s that for character, and loyalty?

Frankly, it leaves me feeling a bit ashamed about a stunt I pulled when I was in fourth grade. We boys decided it would be fun to tackle the girls on the playground during noon recess. Fun, yes, but not such a good idea, we discovered in that era of paranoia over patent-leather shoes, when the nuns called us on the carpet and sentenced the guilty parties to a suitable punishment.

I now plead guilty to not pleading guilty then. I think my alibi to myself when S’Ter DeSales asked for a show of hands of boys involved in using the girls for tackling dummies was that, although I helped hatch the plan, I was too chicken to participate. Or maybe it was just that Jeannie Bartek, my girlfriend throughout grade school (in my mind; she never really seemed to acknowledge it, and she was even downright rebellious when she spat on the ground after I stole a smooch from her in first grade) eluded my grasp.

Whatever propelled my character lapse, I didn’t have to kneel at the front of the classroom, arms extended, as a penance. A couple of girls whined to S’Ter that I was in on the caper, but she dismissed their caterwauling by saying I wouldn’t do such a thing.

When the culprits’ arms sagged, S’ter berated them and told them to hold up their arms, scolding: “Now you’re feeling how Christ felt on the cross!”

If I had it to do over again, I’d ’fess up, and I’d try to swipe another kiss from Jeannie, who ended up carving her REAL boyfriend’s initials in her arm when she reached high school. And they weren’t “M.T.”

Years later, when I was a senior in high school, my image as an angel continued to bless me, and curse me. We senior boys decided it would be great fun to depants a freshman during recess. Great fun, except we picked a big, burly farm kid who cleaned our clock.

Of course, the brawl attracted the attention of the nuns, who told the priest, who not only raised hell with us, but called all of our parents to school to revile us in front of them.

In that case, I confessed to S’Ter Reparata that I was one of the ringleaders, but she pooh-poohed the idea, saying, “Michael, you’d never DO such a thing.” Instead, she singled out Mike Rooney because, as everybody knew, he smoked.

But enough about me. Back to Jack, and I don’t mean Black, although it was rather black of him, the way he reveled in looking at my hernia scar and pleaded to get to take out the stitches. Two of my fave recollections of the lad’s youth:

When he was about 2, I served him his traditional bowl of ice cream in the living room when he was over for a visit. I then went into the kitchen for a bit and, when I returned, I beheld the horrible sight of him with chocolate ice cream not only all over his face but also down his belly and dripped over quite a bit of the couch. Fortunately, he was shirtless, so he needed just a minor hosing down, and the couch was leather, so the goo wiped off fairly easily.
When he was a tot, he liked to run around the house nekkid after his bath. Lots of kids do that, I’m told, but I suspect that few have tried this pose: He stood on his head on a chair, leaving his, uh, privates (I guess some people call it junk these days) exposed to the world.

I wonder how many of his peers would have voted for him THAT day? Well, I guess he still would have gotten the nod for being a “character.”

Anyway, I salute Jack and his parents, and his siblings, for his honor. After all, it takes a family to raise a child. Of CHARACTER.

Babysit a Rookie Walker Is a Piece of Cake. NOT!

“How hard can it be?” I wondered when son Brendan asked Kate and me to watch 1-year-old Avery for a few minutes while he ran an errand.

After all, I’d become a pro these past few years at reining in four Italian stallions without too much strain or additional gray hairs in my silver mane, so I figured that tethering a leprechaunish pony should be as easy as cow pies, right? I soon realized the folly of my ways and learned that the Four Horsemen paled in comparison with Avery, who forced me to face my apocalypse. NOW.

The quadhorsemen evolved, as sort of my breaking-in period, starting with Vincent, now 9, joined by Jack, now 7, Luke, at 5, and little Patrick Michael, bringing up the rear at 3 now.


The Four Horsemen, clockwise from upper left, Vincent, Jack, Patrick and Luke.

Although each is a handful in his own way, I don’t recall any being as hell-bent-for-mischief as Avery Michael.

Well, now, I take that back. A couple of months ago, when I was staying overnight with the quartet so their parents could have some respite during an overnight trip, I was making dinner in the kitchen while the boys watched TV and/or played with Legos, or trucks, or this, or that.

But it seemed quieter than usual — their house often is nothing short of rock concert decibel noise level — and I realized that only three boys were in my line of sight. So I went to the living room that serves as their playroom and discovered that Patrick had opened a jar of paint. And spilled it. On himself. On the table. And onto the chair.

Panicked, I grabbed paper towels and ran to clean up the mess. That’s when I discovered that he also had smeared the blue paint all over the wall, too. Thank GAWD it was water-based, and I was able to eradicate most of it from the bright yellow, textured wall. But still … on the WALL? Patrick MICHAEL! What were you thinking? (On other hand, it reminded me of the time, when I was 10 or so, when I opened a can of paint in a neighbor’s basement, just out of curiosity, and it spilled all OVER the new tile floor. What was I thinking? DAMN! My dad was maaaaaaaad!)

Back to the present, when Skip and Melissa returned from their overnight, I confessed, embarrassed, what had happened. Melissa, who formerly could be a tad high strung on occasion and used to get a little chuffed when I put cereal and other stuff in the cupboard with the labels pointed the wrong way, now is the epitome of calm with her boisterous boys. And she acknowledged that it wasn’t the first time Patrick Michael had pulled a Michelangelo. He had done it under her watch, too, so I was off of the painter’s petard.

Alas, Avery is showing signs of being a frisky little fella, too, just like his father before him. The lad wouldn’t sit still, and the dogs’ water bowls were especially attractive to him. Like a moth to a flame, he kept rushing to the bowls, each time beating me to the punch and splashing water about.

He headed for the steps and was nearly halfway up before I caught up and put up the gate. Then out to the porch to play with Aunt Allison’s candles (fortunately, they weren’t lit), then back to the water bowls, then onto my lap for a minute before darting to the TV to try to touch the horses in the Derby. Here and there, hither and yon, like the kids in the Family Circus cartoon roam around the neighborhood on the way home.

When I, huffing and puffing, chafed at the task, Kate pointed out that the lad had just started walking, and he was determined to explore everything, everywhere. OK, OK, I understand, but I still can’t fathom the magnetic attraction of the dog water bowls, or the fathoms of water he splashes from them.

Marveling at how he was outpacing me, I remembered a key difference: I hadn’t consciously realized the adjustments I must have I made as the Italian train added cars, and I made allowances along the way. To the point that I can even take all four to a movie without losing my mind as I juggle popcorn, drinks, snacks and boys in a darkened theater.

The difference is, it occurs to me, that somebody’s got my back when I’m with the Four Horsemen. Although Patrick’s three predecessors as the caboose all are very protective of him when we’re out and about, Vincent is especially attentive. He hangs back to watch his little brother, as kind of my fifth column.

For example, when we were in a huge Halloween store in October, and the boys wandered in awe at all the scary masks and swords and costumes and goblins, oh, my, and I was having trouble keeping track, Vincent hung back and made sure Patrick didn’t slip disappear into the abyss of horror masks and mechanical spiders.

Ah, yes, the young teach the old. Problem now is that the Four Horsemen are in Florida, and I’m in Wisconsin, and the Avery train is in Minnesota. I know all four of the Italian Stallions would help me keep track of their smaller cousin, because they literally smothered him with affection when the little bugger visited them in the Sunshine State a couple of months back.

The Four Horsemen surround the pony boy.

So I’ll rely on Kate to have my back. And I’ll have to teach Avery, just as I did Vincent when I jumped the shark that is the Granddad Train, that it’s perfectly OK to have doughnuts for lunch at Dunkin’ Donuts, then go to Baskin Robbins next door for dessert, and stop at the Dairy Queen on the way home for a snack.

Although I’ve had to cut back on the ice cream because it doesn’t melt from my body like it does when my metabolism was young, I suspect Avery will help me burn the calories. And I can rely on visits from and to the Four Horsemen to keep both Avery and me in shape.

As for Brendan and Erica, they could be in for a bumpy ride. I’d suggest that, to Avery-proof their house, they might want to lock up all the paint, for starters.

Avery celebrates during a restaurant outing.

As for Brendan, he's going to have to perk up a bit to keep up with his leprechaun:

BTW, this photo is not posed. Look closely, and you'll see that I actually caught Brendan not only sleeping while holding Avery but also sleeping while TEXTING!. I confess, I fell asleep on occasion with a kid on my lap, but not TEXTING. Oh, WAIT. Back then, even pagers hadn't been invented. In fact, I believe we had a princess phone.

Patrick's Cups Runneth Over

I guess it’s only fitting that Patrick would go shopping for an Easter bonnet a few days before Easter. How else could one explain the fact that he first tried a bra on his head in the lingerie shop at a big-box store, mom Melissa reports.

But there weren’t any frills upon it, so the 2-year-old must have thought “arrrrrrrrgh,” because his second attempt was to try it as an eye patch. The lad loves playing pirates, but he apparently saw the error of his ways because the cup obviously runneth over most of his face instead of his eye.

So he got down to business and put things in their proper places.

Although the look is rather fetching (somebody should caution him not to wear a white shirt with that color), I think he can downsize, don’tcha think?


While he’s checking out starters, he’ll probably stumble across the fact that he really should be looking at a cup of a different sort. Well, some day — and a day that will come in the blink of an eye, as Melissa will find out, as she already is discovering with the other three horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Although his varied attempts to wear what I used to call a double slingshot, in my immature days (some say they’re not over), may indicate that he’s unclear on the concept, evidence abounds that he knows exactly what bras are for. Time was, back before he was weaned from the trough, he would tug violently at Melissa’s blouse when he wanted a snort.

Speaking of snorts, all of this reminds me of an incident lo, those many days ago, when Vincent, who is 9 now, was just about the age that Patrick is now and frequently experienced withdrawal symptoms after his weaning.

One day, when he happened to be in the bedroom when Melissa was dressing. He looked longingly at his former sources of nourishment, and pleaded, “Can’t I just smell them?”

I used to relate that anecdote during speaking gigs about grandfathering to audiences who were mostly grandparents themselves, and usually mostly female. It invariably brought chuckles and an occasional guffaw.

In one case, I spoke to a group that was about 50-50 male-female. After peals of laughter subsided, a gentleman who appeared to be about 70 turned to his wife and whined, too loudly, as it turned out, “That’s all I want to do!”

That left many in the audience laughing so hard that they FOTCL, as the kids would say these days.

Sooooooooo, no matter how you wear your bonnet, or whether there are frills upon it, have a happy and holy Easter or, if you’re of Jewish descent, a blessed Passover season.

P.S.: In another example of the fact that kids say the darndest things, unwittingly leaving others with red faces, 7-year-old Jack was touring a police station today and the police officer took out his handcuffs to show the lads and the den leaders. Jack raised his hand and said, "My Papa Mike has handcuffs in his bedroom and I can get out of them without the key!"

Now, let me explain: Doesn't everybody have handcuffs around in case there's a burglar? Oh, never mind.

P.P.S.: Updating with a few Easter pix, triangulated to the points of my grandchildren stars from California, to the Twin Cities, to Florida.

Amelia, the sole granddaughter of the bunch (so far):



Avery, decked out in his three-piece suit:



And the Four Horsemen, from left, Patrick (he went with a braless look for Easter), Vincent, Luke, and Jack:



Here's the backstory on this photo: I used to drive Melissa bonkers when she was trying to take family photos, and I'd make a face to bollix up the works. Now is payback time for her, obviously

A Treat Is in the Ear of the Beholder (and Sometimes, All Over Her Face)

As someone who’s been accused of lifting anal tendencies to a whole new level, I can appreciate a lad’s linear thinking. Thus, I wasn’t surprised at Jack’s befuddlement at church a couple of weeks back.

It was a special occasion, when Luke was to line up on the steps of the altar with his preschool classmates to lift their voices in song. Of course, such performances are loaded with anticipation about who’s going to sing, who’s going to remain as tongue-tied as a shy high-schooler asking a girl to dance for the first time, who might start bawling, and, of course, who will steal the show with a faux pas and then run with it when peals of laughter encourage him to keep on keeping on with his shenanigans.

So, we kept our eyes and ears peeled for such shenanigans, the minister assured us, “I’ve heard these children sing, and I promise you, you’re in for a real treat!”

Literal-thinking Jack’s face contorted with puzzlement as he nudged closer to me and whispered, “Does that mean we’re going to get food?”

I smiled and recalled his reaction just a couple of years back when the previous minister had invited the youngsters up to circle at the foot of the altar for the children’s sermon. The minister told the circle of children he was going to tell them about Peanuts, without realizing that that age group knew little or nothing about that age-old comic strip.

Jack’s face peeked up from the cluster of children like a meerkat checking the outskirts of his colony as the lad mouthed this question to me: “Penis?”



I had to stifle a laugh at the fact not only that kids these days say the darndest things because they use the sophisticated for body parts that our parents never would have DREAMED teaching us such terms.

In this case, I whispered to him that, in this case, “treat” means a treat for the ears. (And, in this case, as in most other instances of youthful performers, they delivered a chorus that only a parent, or a grandparent, could enjoy. The others in the congregation endured it, albeit with smiles and, perhaps, memories of kids long grown and grandkids in far-off places.)

Unlike Luke’s previous appearance, when he mostly remained as mummified as an ancient Egyptian king, he chipped right in with song and gestures. Oh, his rhythm might have been off some, but I’m not one to criticize in that department.

Of course, a couple of girls carried the chorus in song and motion, and nobody really stole the show. Luke managed to fend off the pestering actions of the boy standing next to him.

Although Jack didn’t respond to the minister’s invitation to come forth for the kids sermon this time, he mulled the possibility when the minister said all children in the congregation could follow the youth minister to the craft room for the rest of the service.

“Jack,” I whispered, “are you going to go do crafts?”

“What will they DO to us?” he said skeptically.

He hesitated until the parade of children was almost out the door before joining. What did they do to him? Well, I think he did get a treat, as in a cookie or something, and they crafted pictures of colored windows.

Speaking of treats and grandkids, here’s one that just flew in through the cyberspace transom. Granddaughter Amelia chowing down, while grinning and smearing from ear to ear. Now this dish of spaghetti looks like a real treat gone rogue, uh, or should I say, rouge?

Ahhhh, Movies in God's Waiting Room

In case you don’t understand the description of Florida as “God’s Waiting Room”: It means no disrespect, at least in my opinion, as an aging resident here who may move back north someday soon for the cryogenic factor of the Upper Midwest vs. the boil-in-the-baggy-skin element of the Sunshine State. (I may not live longer, but mayhaps my skin won’t be as sun- folded, spindled, and mutilated.)

Like a doctor’s office, God’s Waiting Room branches off into smaller rooms, inner chambers, if you will. One ventures beyond The Door when a nurse summons you to weigh you and see whether you still have a pulse, probably similar to the process you’ll endure when you’re measured for your wings.

In doctor’s offices, these inner sanctums are called exam rooms. In Florida, they can be called emergency rooms, bingo parlors, elderly day-care centers, all-you-can-eat buffets with early-bird specials, and discount movie theaters — especially discount theaters that also have a senior citizen discount.

Perhaps I’m being hyperbolic, but perhaps not — after all, I’m pushing the age formerly known as retirement — when I saw the traditional theater aroma of buttered popcorn must fight to get its own two scents in above the smell of Ben-Gay. This is all in good fun, so I hope these words don’t make anybody go grayer than I already am.

Besides, it’s about my entering the theater with four grandsons in tow and emerging from the cartoon movie just barely being able to keep pace with the senior citizens hobbling from the anterooms where they had viewed movies with more adult themes. So I’m in the same shape, almost needing a walker.

The Four Horsemen and I attended "Rango," a cartoon flick that kids can enjoy and Western aficionados such as I can enjoy just as much while trying to pinpoint which cowboy movies it takes jabs at, from the obvious Spaghetti Westerns of Clint Eastwood's Man-With-No-Name era, to nearly obvious ones such as "Cat Ballou," to the oh, so subtle hint of "Once Upon a Time in the West." And, for the heck of it, the flick tosses in scenes reminiscent of "Star Wars."



Although I'm a huge fan of the Spaghetti Westerns, I've always thought that they were too long, as is "Rango," Johnny Depp or no.

Concerns about length are natural when taking four lads ages 2 to 9, especially because Patrick can become restless and lobby to go home. And that happened shortly after I'd gotten the boys lined up with their smuggled candy and I'd divvied up the two large Icy drinks, when a HUGE guy came in just as the show started and plopped right in front of Patrick. Poor tot had no hope of seeing around the guy, and he whimpered immediately that he'd like to go home.

I was sitting at the other end of the boy line, so I crouched down and started to crawl past Jack, Luke and Vincent to rescue Patrick. Somewhere along the line, I tripped over a foot — I'm not sure which boy's and I'm SURE nobody tripped me intentionally, and I lurched forward.

I caught myself, kinda-sorta, and that's when the muscle pulled. I was afraid my back had gone out, as it has a couple of times doing really inconsequential things that twisted my back just a tad.

Fortunately, even though the pain pinched, I was able to maintain as much composure and dignity as a guy can sprawling headlong across a row of seats. The trip, so to speak, was in vain, because I couldn't talk Patrick into sitting in my lap so he could see better. Melissa tells me that's because he gets possessive even after he's been in a seat for only a few seconds.

As for my back, it didn't seem to hurt all that much, until I stood up, or tried to. It was a slow process, walking gingerly, but my back felt better by the time I got to the lobby. That's when I looked back and saw the legions of older folks slowly walking my way. Plodding. Slowly. Along. Like a wild stampede. Of snails.

Suddenly, I felt young again.

The real pain didn't hit until the next day. Even though it wasn't nearly as bad as some of the other times my back has gone out, it put me in my place. In God's Waiting Room.

Just a few weeks before, when grandson Avery visited, I was able to pick the 1-year-old up effortlessly. Now, it'll be awhile.



During that visit, the Four Horsemen (from left) Vincent, Jack, Luke and Patrick hammed it up while Melissa held her nephew.



P.S.: Don't ask ME why those pix are so small. Operator error plus, I really can't do any heavy lifting right now.