Superheroes

On Saturday I went with my mom and stepdad to visit a couple of superheroes. When we arrived, Superman and Wonder Woman were dealing with everyday problems, like the ones I face. Except I’d have to take mine and multiply them by a billion. On second thought, that still wouldn’t come close.

It’s been 381 days since Superman’s accident. I’ve shared parts of just a few of those days with the superheroes, so I don’t know all the facts. But I know enough to say that only a handful of those 381 days has been anything close to normal or stress-free.

Superman’s body is trying to desert him, but he and Wonder Woman won’t let it. His mind is as a sharp as ever (that’s razor sharp, for those who don’t know him). I guess when you’re up against something like this, that’s both a blessing and a curse.

Superman faces the same fight that a more famous Superman faced a few years ago. Kryptonite is a mighty tough opponent, especially when it starts mutating into different forms. Then when the antidote turns against you … well, that’s just not fighting fair.

But Superman and Wonder Woman are both tough as nails, and they fight on, along with an all-star supporting cast. They reminisce about the past, savor good days, and look forward to more good days.

Our thoughts and prayers are with you Superman and Wonder Woman.

— Joe Kack

Superman, a few years ago

100

When my grandma was in her early nineties, I promised her I’d book the Lawrence Welk Singers for her 100th birthday party. That would have been tomorrow, but she came up 4 ½ years short of the century mark. So in lieu of the party, here are a few glimpses into the past as a tribute to Grandma:

Counting Cars
One of my favorite memories is sitting on Grandma’s front porch swing, playing the car counting game. We each got to choose a color and we’d earn a point for every vehicle of that color that went past. Grandma let me choose first, and I picked some cool color, usually red or blue. After pretending to think real hard, my grandma would say, “I believe I’ll take white.” I wondered why she chose such a boring color. But her white always won. Always. I suppose she perfected her strategy playing the game with four grandkids before me.

Sleep
When my parents went out of town I stayed at Grandma’s. Following some TV and sugared popcorn I’d start to get tired but was determined to stay awake for more TV and sugared popcorn. Grandma would suggest, “Why don’t you lie down on the couch? You don’t have to go to sleep.” That always sounded like a good idea, so I’d lie down, not realizing it was a trick. The next thing I knew, Mom and Dad were waking me up.

Ukulele
My grandma used to strum the ukulele and sing. Her two favorites were Skinnamarink-a-Dinky-Dink and Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. I inherited my singing talent from my grandma, which is to say I can’t sing worth crap. Sorry, Grandma, but it’s the truth.

Grandma

Hawkeyes
Grandma loved Iowa Hawkeyes basketball. Too bad ESPN didn’t discover her because she would have been a great analyst. Whenever I asked her if the Hawks were going to win the next game, she’d answer, “It’s according to how they play.” And by golly, she was always right.

Her post-game analysis was just as insightful. Every time Iowa lost it was the same thing: “They had this tall fella who kept making baskets.” It was always the tall fella that did them in.

Jokes
When I was a kid, Grandma would ask me, “Are you any relation to Heck Ross, that man who runs the clothing store up in Des Moines?” I’d shrug and say I didn’t think so. “Well, you sure look like Heck.”

Another joke she told me one time: A man was bragging about how much land he owned. He said, “I can get in my car in the morning and drive all day and never reach my property line.” The other fellow says, “I used to have a car like that.”

Slow Driver
Grandma told me about the time she was going to a church dinner, and set a glass casserole dish on the back of her car. She intended to move it inside the car, but forgot about it. When she got to the church, several blocks away, she got out of the car and discovered the dish right where she left it.

Good Driver?
When Grandma was around 90, Mom took her to renew her driver’s license. (Why, I don’t know.) Anyway, because of her age, she was required to drive with a police officer. Grandma told us later that when she stopped at a stop sign she checked traffic to her left, then asked the cop, “Anything coming that way?” Yes, she got her license. (How, I don’t know.)

Pack Rat
Grandma didn’t like to throw anything away. One time when she was about 85, she wanted to go down in her basement to clean some things up. She could barely walk, and she probably hadn’t been down there in three years, but I agreed to help her. It took probably a half hour (no exaggeration) for her to get down the dozen or so steps.

We started sorting through things, and I checked with her before I put anything in the throw-away pile. (Can you call it a pile if there’s only one thing in it?) Eventually I came across a gnarly old stick that looked like a toilet plunger handle, circa 1950. Deciding this couldn’t possibly have any value, I made an executive decision and tossed it into the junk heap. A few minutes later, Grandma spotted it.

“Don’t throw that away,” she said. “I use it when I wash rugs, to pull them out of the washer.” I looked at the broken down, old-fashioned washing machine, then back at my Grandma who at that point could barely lift the stick, let alone a water-soaked rug. Then I dutifully salvaged her rug-lifting stick.

Yard Work
I used to mow my grandma’s lawn. Even into her 80s, when she had trouble walking because of arthritis, she always wanted to help. She’d sit in her green metal chair in the back yard and watch me. At some point when I pushed the mower past, I’d see her mouth moving, so I’d stop to see what she wanted. “I’ll mow around once so you can rest,” she would say. I always objected, then she insisted, so I relinquished the mower. I can still see her, wearing her blue thin-soled Grandma-sneakers, pushing the mower ahead a few feet, then sliding her left foot forward, then her right.

I don’t think she was too concerned about me being tired. I think she just wanted to prove to herself that she could still do things at her age. She was pretty determined (or stubborn, depending on your perspective). Anyway, I was always relieved when she completed her lap. I could just imagine trying to explain to the paramedics why my 80-something grandma was mowing her yard while I watched from the shade.

Y2K
My grandpa died in 1964. They asked Grandma if she wanted them to engrave the first two digits of her year of death on the gravestone. Figuring she would never live 36 more years, she said go ahead. So it was engraved 1909-19__

Well, the year 2000 rolled around and my grandma was still, well, rolling around. The monument company said they’d fix the headstone for free and there was a write-up in the paper about it, saying how my grandma was a local Y2K problem. I think she enjoyed the media attention and the fact that she’d fooled everyone by living that long.

No Hurry, No Worry
Lots of great memories from Grandma’s house. The clock always ticked a little slower there. I’d give anything to spend one more afternoon on the porch swing with her.

Happy Birthday Grandma!
— Love, Joe “Petey” Kack

Lawrence Welk, et al.

The Adventures of Myron J. Noodlestein (Chapter 6)

[In Chapter 5, Myron and his friend Doug had just completed a letter to the woman of Myron’s dreams.]

Halfway through the letter, the two lady killers had discovered a problem. They didn’t know the intended recipient’s address, and they couldn’t look it up because they didn’t know her name, either. But Doug came to the rescue.

“I’ve got it,” he stated coolly. “We’ll buy a newspaper ad. Everyone reads the paper.”

Crisis averted, their unencumbered brains completed the poetic masterpiece.

The next evening after work Myron rushed to the newsstand to purchase a copy of the Stenchville Gazette. Hands trembling, he turned through the pages. And there it was, covering all of page eight, the letter to his dream girl.

“Now I just sit back and wait for her call,” said Myron. He grinned a toothy grin. Which brings another story to mind.

Myron J. Noodlestein was born with a rare condition called Baby Elway Syndrome (Type One). He exited the womb with a full set of teeth, and they were his permanent teeth, or so the doctors thought at the time.

The very next day the Noodlesteins took their new bundle of joy to the family dentist, who had the unfortunate name of Mengele. Dr. Mengele told Myron’s parents that they were actually pretty lucky. While Myron’s face was regular size, his mouth was adult caliber and therefore could accommodate his jumbo choppers. The doctor assured them that when Little Myron’s skull grew to maturity, he would look only moderately gruesome.

As luck would have it, Myron didn’t have Type One Baby Elway Syndrome. He had Type Two. The misdiagnosis became apparent on Myron’s first birthday when all of his giant teeth fell out. Underneath were his baby teeth, which in Type Two patients are the permanent teeth. The large mouth that had seemed like such a Type One blessing was suddenly a Type Two curse. Whenever Little Myron smiled, onlookers were confronted with a plethora of pink and a mere picket fence of ivory.

“What to do?” everyone wondered. Mr. Noodlestein favored plucking all the teeth out and utilizing wooden dentures. (Being in the toothpick business, he had a natural bias in that direction.) “If wooden teeth were good enough for the father of our country, they’re good enough for the Noodlesteins,” he proclaimed.

Not convinced, Mrs. Noodlestein did some research and found that George Washington didn’t really have wooden teeth. His dentures were made out of two materials: gold and hippopotamus ivory. Obtaining the latter was no problem since Mr. Noodlestein’s brother-in-law Brubaker DeLeon owned a hippopotamus farm. But gold, even at the relatively modest price of $35 an ounce, wasn’t in a toothpick worker’s budget. (This was before Mr. Noodlestein was promoted to Quality Control Specialist.)

Dr. Mengele recommended the next best thing, an experimental procedure that transplanted Himalayan yak teeth into humans. Fortunately for Myron (but disappointing to the narrator, because after all, what’s funnier than an infant with transplanted yak teeth?), they settled on recycled piano keys, trimmed down to size. They were fitted over the little baby teeth and just like that Myron J. Noodlestein had a winning smile.

And somewhere in the Himalayas, a yak breathed a sigh of relief.

♦♦♦

— kristofeR anthony

Bibles, Escalators, and Voices from Above

[Please note that we've moved to www.iowaYak.com. Thank you to Rick at nicesitedesign for the new banner artwork.]

A few snippets from my weekend in St. Louis with Randy, Patty, and Papa Kack:

Gideons Still Perfect
We stayed in two hotels and once again the Gideons had managed to place a Bible in both. But now they have competition. One of the hotels also provided The Book of Mormon.

Elevators
Have you ever witnessed this all too common scene? A man is waiting for the hotel elevator to return to the ground floor. The bell rings, the light comes on, the door opens. The guy tries to step onto the elevator and bumps into the people getting off. He appears shocked that someone is exiting this contraption. Yes buddy, it goes up and down.

Escalators
Isn’t the term “down escalator” an oxymoron? Or am I the moron? This reminds me of a line from the Gilligan’s Island theme song: “It’s an uphill climb.” What other kind of climb is there?

Not Quite Three Hours, But at Least We Didn’t Get Shipwrecked on an Uncharted Desert Isle
During our tour of Busch Stadium I borrowed some gravel from the warning track right in front of the Cardinals dugout. It’s destined for my sports museum. Oh yeah, I almost forgot. The sample also included a sunflower seed fragment that might have been spat by future Hall of Famer Albert Pujols!

Voice From the Sky
As we walked to the game, there was some nut standing up on a platform bellowing down at passersby. I’ve seen these characters before, but this guy was the loudest one ever. He informed us over and over again that we’re all goners. The statistic he quoted was that ten out of ten people will eventually die. I didn’t have any way to verify his figure, but it seemed a little high to me. Anyway, thanks for the cheery message, fella.

Beer
Speaking of things seeming kind of high, a bottle of Busch Stadium beer costs $7.75.

I’d Have to be in a Lot of Pain
We passed an interesting billboard on I-70 in rural Missouri: “Got Pain? See Dr. Joe D.C. Next Exit.” Does somebody actually drive down the interstate, see that sign and think, “Ya know, I have been having chest pains, I think I’ll pull off here and see what Dr. Joe can do for me”? I know billboards work for things like burgers and wax museums, but what kind of person impulse shops for medical care? I guess it’s the guy who just drank twelve $7.75 beers.

— Joe Kack

Warning Track Sample

Weenie Roast

Randy Kack is probably reading this right now and thinking, “Wow, Joe must want to add to the good things he said about me in Friday’s post.” Note to brother: your birthday is over.

One of Randy’s nicknames is M.D. That stands for Marketer’s Dream. He is very susceptible to schemes and scams, ruses and rip-offs.

A while back my brother was all excited about his new springy running shoes. He was telling me how great these things were and how he could now run like the wind and I should buy some and blah blah blah blah. Then a week later I call him and suddenly he doesn’t want to talk about his new springy running shoes. They’ve apparently been relegated to the closet with all the rest of the crap he’s fallen for over the years. (It’s a big closet and it’s crowded.)

Springy Running Shoes

And this has been going on a while. When he was in college and I was about twelve, he took me with him to search for a new fast-pitch softball bat. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why he needed a new bat, because his old one was in near mint condition, having only made contact with the ball a handful of times. But that’s another story.

The salesman explained the virtues of the latest in softball technology. It was called the Hot Dog bat. It was made out of wood, so it weighed a ton, and it was painted red so it looked like a wiener. The salesman showed Randy how the bat was tapered: skinny in the middle and fatter on both ends of the hitting surface. He claimed this would take balls that were destined for foul territory and redirect them back onto the field of play.

I was amused by this lame attempt to sell the bat, and I turned to my big brother to see how successfully he was managing to keep a straight face. To my amazement, he was being reeled in! If this were a cartoon, there’d be a big fish hook stuck in his gullible cheek. I stood there thinking, here I am a kid and even I know this is bogus. But Randy Kack, M.D. walked out of the store with that over-priced hitting stick. I imagine the salesman was thinking, “Hot dog! I finally sold that stupid bat.”

I would like to report that Randy’s batting average climbed from microscopic to mediocre, but that new bat didn’t help him one bit. It was still fun watching him play softball, knowing the implement he was striking out with was not just an ordinary bat, but a genuine Hot Dog.

Sadly, I don’t know what ever happened to that wiener-like war club. It’s number two on my list of things I’d like to add to my sports hall of fame (Underdog is number one). I did an Internet search but didn’t find a single Hot Dog bat on the whole world wide web. I’m convinced my brother was the only sucker who bought one.

[Thank you favorite sister-in-law Patty Kack for sending the springy shoe photos. And once again, sorry you got mixed up with my brother.]

— Joe Kack

R.K., M.D.

My Day in Court

This court is now in session, the honorable Judge Enos Cabell presiding.

State your name please.

Joseph Kack.

Mr. Kack, you’re accused of having the world’s best brother. How do you plead?

Absolutely, positively, one hundred percent not guilty, your honor.

All right, the prosecuting attorney may call the first witness.

I call to the stand Joseph Kack. Mr. Kack, you’ve already been sworn in so we’ll get right to the testimony. Tell me, what wonderful human being has a birthday today?

Umm … Zaheer Abbas.

Who is Zaheer Abbas?

He’s a cricket player. Probably Pakistan’s finest batsman ever.

Fine. And tell me, what other beloved icon is celebrating his birthday today.

I don’t know.

Now Mr. Kack, isn’t it a fact that today is your big brother’s birthday?

Yes, yes, that’s true. But you said beloved icon –

Just answer the questions, no need to elaborate. Isn’t it true, Mr. Kack, that your brother Randy Kack gave you some important early tutelage regarding the communication of apes?

Sure. I guess you could say that.

Would you please tell the court how he taught you this valuable lesson?

Well, I don’t understand the relevance, but when I was seven years old my brother sometimes opened our bedroom window and shouted, “From the deep, dark jungles of Africa, comes the call of the constipated ape!”

And was that all? Remember, you’re under oath.

No, that wasn’t all. After he yelled that, he made an awful sound.

Would you please reproduce that sound for the court?

I don’t know if I can duplicate it exactly, but it went something like this: Oooomwaaaaaaaaaaa!

Interesting. That certainly was an accurate portrayal of a constipated ape. You’ve obviously been taught well.

How can you possibly –

You mentioned the bedroom window. You shared a room with your brother for a while, is that correct?

Yes.

And how would you describe that experience?

Well, since you asked … how should I put this … well, let’s just say that my brother put on some mighty impressive gastrointestinal fireworks shows. Just about stunk me out of the room.

And what did you learn from that?

How to breathe through my mouth?

Now Mr. Kack, didn’t that experience teach you that whatever doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger?

Wow, that’s kind of a stretch.

All right then, what about this mini-bike your brother owned? Did he take you for rides on it?

Yes.

Isn’t it true that he did this at great risk to himself, that in fact one time he crashed that cycle into a cannon?

Well, that’s true, but I was at risk too, and -

And isn’t it also a fact that instead of wasting his time chauffeuring his stupid little brother around on this mini-bike, Randy Kack could have been spending that time with a girlfriend?

Gee, I don’t know about that. I guess in theory –

Tell us about the first time you played golf on a real golf course.

Oh come on, that was a long time ago, I don’t remember –

Just answer the question Mr. Kack.

Well, it was at Veenker up in Ames, and my brother let me go along and watch him play, and when we got to one of the holes on the back nine he said we were a long way from the clubhouse so nobody would know so why don’t I go ahead and drop a ball there on the fairway and give it a shot.

Pretty nice of your brother. Most brothers would just say, hey, hurry up with that heavy bag I’m making you carry, you little stink head.

Well, I’m not sure they would say –

And isn’t it true, Mr. Kack, that the very next day, your brother took you to yet another golf course and let you play the entire round with him?

Yeah.

And didn’t Randy Kack take the scorecard before the round and didn’t he pencil in special pars for you, eights and tens, so when you scored big numbers you wouldn’t feel so bad about it?

I don’t recall –

I have the scorecard over there in my briefcase. Shall I enter it into evidence?

No, no, that’s not necessary. It’s all true.

Who taught you that brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts are suitable for all three meals of the day?

Well –

And wasn’t it your big brother who set up all kinds of sports leagues for you, and he always let you win, which with your limited athletic ability was sometimes quite difficult to accomplish?

Limited athletic ability, hey –

Didn’t your brother create a baseball league in which he pitched a Nerf ball and you tried to hit it with your souvenir bat, I believe it was a Julian Javier model, and you had imaginary players and even kept score?

I remember something like that, but -

Tell us Mr. Kack, what kinds of pitches did your brother throw to you? Did he have names for them?

What does this have to do – OK, yes, he threw one pitch called a spooner, then there was the knifer and the forker.

Spooner, knifer, and what was that last one, the forker? How interesting. Very few brothers would go to all the trouble of inventing three different pitches like that. I’m sure the jury finds that very revealing. But let’s move on to another sport. Didn’t you learn to play basketball by watching your brother, and you imitated him and because of that you shoot right handed but dribble with your left hand, just like he does?

That’s true all right, but it’s a stupid way to do it, probably what kept me out of the NBA.

And boxing? Didn’t Randy Kack set up a boxing league and he sat in a chair with a 4-foot tall stuffed Underdog doll and you punched Underdog and Underdog punched you and your brother acted as judge and scored the fight? And sometimes Underdog developed a cut and you had to stop the fight and perform surgery on him?

Yes.

And isn’t it true that Randy Kack cut the bottom out of a cardboard box and nailed it to a post in the basement and put masking tape down for the free throw lane and your team was the Fannon Hall Falcons and your brother played the role of the opposing team?

I’m not sure it was masking tape, it seems like it might have been -

What about football? Can you deny that your brother took common ordinary flour from the kitchen cupboard and went out in the back yard and put sidelines and yard lines on the grass and then topped it all off with a big letter B in the center of the field, which stood for Barrington Bombers? And he did all this so you and your cousins Web and T-Bone Pinto would have a real field to play on, isn’t that right Mr. Kack?

Yeah, but when it rained the flour turned to dough –

And what about Dragnert and The Stink Monster and the time you lost the Christmas tree on the highway and camping in the pup tent at the lake and cross country skiing and the marble sorter and White Wolf Veronica and the fart tape and –

OK! Stop! That’s enough! You’re right, I’m guilty! Guilty as charged. Guilty of having the world’s best brother. It’s all true!

*****
Happy birthday favorite brother!

— Love, Joe Kack

Exhibit A, Golf Scorecard

Ocho

Recently I spent an evening at Down Under Bar & Grill for Ocho de Julio. This celebration is the brainchild of my friend Evan Sykle. Three things you should know about Evan: (1) He is a genius, (2) One of his ancestors was a Dutch pirate named Jan Janszoon van Haarlem, (3) Although Evan hasn’t done any raping or pillaging (as far as I know), he did come up with the name “Jake’s Jungle” for UNI basketball’s student section.

In case you’re español-challenged, Ocho de Julio means July 8th. (Bonus info: Julio Iglesias translates to July Churches.) The holiday had humble beginnings. It started in 2004 when Evan invited a few friends for after-work drinks to celebrate his birthday. Everybody said yes, and then, as is typical, most of the jerks bailed out. So it was just Evan and one jerk that first year. We vowed to make Ocho de Julio spectacular and set aggressive attendance targets for the coming years. Thanks to Evan’s brilliant marketing skills and loyal non-jerk family and friends, all the goals have been met so far. This year, at Ocho de Julio VI, 66 people showed up.

The brilliant marketing I mentioned is based on two benefits. First, there’s the chance to rub elbows with a celebrity. In addition to Evan, famous attendees have included former Hawkeye basketball player Al Lorenzen and Buzz Crandall, voice of the Saydel Eagles. This year there was a guy who could tell you everything you wanted to know (and then some) about brown beer or Blackbeard or bread pudding, I forget which.

The second part of the marketing plan is free beer. I think it was Byn Bynsyn who said, “There is but one thing more pleasing than a pint of ale on the table, and that is a pint of ale on the house.”

Whatever the motivation, people travel great distances to partake of the festivities. Evan and his wife Nancessa come from a town called Johnston, which I’m told is way up north. Nancessa’s sister Betisha and her husband Charlie Waters drive over from Cedar Rapids. Another sister, Marissa, drove down from Marion. The only holdout among the Anderson girls is Wendessa, who lives out of state. Maybe next year. Hey Wendessa, do you like free beer?

Speaking of 2010, the attendance bar has now been raised to 128. This shouldn’t be a problem, but things get tricky in 2033, when Evan must round up slightly over a billion people. Unless Down Under expands, we’ll have to move the party out into the parking lot. Now, to close with an inside joke. (If you’re an outsider looking in, believe me, you aren’t missing anything.)

Yes, things are getting crowded at Ocho de Julio. If you plan to attend next year, make your mixed reservations early.

— Joe Kack

Ocho