The unwinnable game?

Greeted Friday morning by the realization that it had been a year since the passing of Michael Jackson, I was taken aback. A whole year? It felt like four months, maybe. Rarely had time ever felt so fast. And lately it always feels fast. But this was light speed.

I realized I am basically in exactly the same place in life that I was a year ago. A year older, yes. Generally happier now that Bama has won the national championship. But other than that, nothing has changed.

I began to ponder my life -- perhaps life is too strong a word there -- existence. What was I doing? Where was I going? What were my goals? Would I leave my mark upon this world? Or was my life like a Windows screen saver -- briefly entertaining, but at the slightest movement of the mouse of death, gone without a trace?

As I went to take out the trash that evening, I passed a lone fisherman, casting and reeling in his line in the middle of the parking lot. Now there's a guy who knows what he's doing with his life, I thought. Clearly, this individual had chosen the Bill Dance path to fame and fortune.

I began to think of my heroes -- Jason Morgan, Michael Scott, Sam from Cheers. And... that really didn't help a whole lot. So I thought of the most successful person I know, Orville Redenbacher. Still nothing.

It was at that moment that I recalled a little something from my youth known as Guinness. As in, the book of world records. Of course! The easiest way for a man (woman, or other) to leave their mark upon the Earth is to set a record! Thank goodness I thought of it, as my other best idea was to father twenty children to get my own reality show.

The only question now was which record to set. I delved further into my screen saver analogy... screen saver, Windows, Microsoft, Bill Gates. At the same time, the mortal words of Jim Halpert appeared in my head: "Those mines aren't gonna sweep themselves." Ah, yes! Windows games.

But which one? Well, that was easy: FreeCell. It's more fun than Solitaire, less confusing than Hearts, and I was never that great at Minesweeper anyway.

Of course, one doesn't undertake such an undertaking without first doing the proper research. While searching for what the actual record for consecutive games of FreeCell won was, I came upon an online FreeCell community, which I promptly joined. There, I will be able to play online from any computer and as my consecutive games streak grows (ideally), I'll be able to see where it ranks amongst the greatest streaks of all-time. Best of all, this will allow my public -- that's you -- to follow along with my progress if you wish.

The site also keeps up with your total hours playing FreeCell. Now that, I don't care for. That'd be like my TV flashing, "Bone, you have now spent 31,000 hours of your life watching ESPN. That is the equivalent of 3.5 years." There are some things I choose not to know.

Here's another interesting tidbit that I discovered: Did you know there is one deal of FreeCell that is impossible to win? Yes. Game #11982 in the Windows version is the unwinnable game. You'll learn as you become more familiar with the FreeCell cult, er, community, that those numbers are sacred and we all have proper reverence for game #11982.

So then, it is entirely possible that after weeks and months and hundreds of hours, I could be on the cusp of breaking the consecutive games record and be dealt the unwinnable game.

Still, I refuse to let that thought deter me. Lack of patience, time, skill, perseverance, those might all deter me. But the possibility of facing the unwinnable game shall not. For I am not doing this just for myself, but for the children I've yet to bear. I want one day for them to be able to log onto freecell.net and say to their friends, "That Bone in the number one position, who spent several thousand hours on this website, and now has severe carpal tunnel syndrome, that's our dad."

Besides, great accomplishments are rarely easy. Do you think the Wright Brothers never had any setbacks, doubts, or arguments? Sure they did. Orville would say, "Why do I always have to be the one risking life and limb and doing the test flights?" And Wilbur would respond, "Because somebody's gotta be on the ground working the stopwatch." (Source: Bone's Revisionist History Of Aviation, Vol. 2. Also, Propellers To Popcorn: Bone's Book Of Famous Orville's.)

And so, for my next trick, I will now attempt to set the world record for the most consecutive games of FreeCell won.

If you're interested, the current record is 19,793. My high so far is 10.

What? I only started yesterday.

"Countin' flowers on the wall, that don't bother me at all. Playin' solitaire 'til dawn with a deck of fifty-one..."

In a summer swelter

I think I finally understand what that song means. Well, that line anyway. Well, that part of that line. If ever was a summer swelter, we are in it. All except for the minor detail that it's not quite yet officially summer. I golfed yesterday, was already glistening with sweat on the first hole, and by the end of the round my shirt was like you had dipped it in water.

We're in another one of those stretches of twenty days of temps in the nineties and heat indexes normally reserved for the surface of Mercury. I have a standard line that I use in times like these: "Cold enough for ya?" It gets a laugh like a tenth of the time, but it's a decent conversation starter. OK, maybe decent is too strong a word there.

Of course, leave it to me to get a cold in the midst of all this. How does that even happen? I caught it on a Wednesday night and kicked it by the following Tuesday.

Being sick did give me additional time to realize there is nothing to watch on TV. Not any sports I'm very interested in. Not a Newhart rerun. Nothing. Just the World Cup. When is that over? I want my ESPN back. I can get into pretty much any sport you throw out there -- curling, Australian Rules Football, I've even watched the National Scrabble Championships. But soccer? I'm sorry, it's just not happening. Oh well, just 77 more days 'til football season. And I'll be asleep for like 15 of those.

I wish I could blame my being sick for my lack of blogtivity. But let's face it, I've been mentally lamenting -- if that's possible -- the excruciatingly slow death of my blog for awhile now. I want to write, but either I have no inspiration or I get sidetracked playing Family Feud on Facebook while singing along to Rob Thomas on iTunes. (I can't believe I just admitted that. The Family Feud part, I mean.)

I need discipline. Someone to say, "Bone, you can't go out to play until you've done your homework." By "go out to play" I mean "retreat further from social interaction by playing games online." And by "done your homework" I mean "written for thirty minutes."

I thought about re-instituting my Blogtober rules for June, but decided I'd wait until at least August, as Blogust sounds better than... well, whatever Blog-plus-June would be. On the other hand, Blogust also sounds a little like one of the ten plagues.

We shall see. Meanwhile, if you Boggle online, hit me up. I'm "Bone" or "Roll Tide" on the 4x4 board.

Finally, I'd like to close today with a Father's Day anecdote. I had contacted Dad's wife earlier this week for some possible ideas for Father's Day gifts, hoping maybe to surprise him. That went something like this:

"Have you heard him say anything he might want or need for Father's Day?"

"Yeah, there are a couple of things he's mentioned."

Alright! I'm thinking. She continues.

"The band on his underwear tore the other night and he was going to buy some new ones but I told him Father's Day is coming up and the kids might get you some."

Short pause to wait for response. There is none.

"He wears the white briefs."

"OK. Anything else?"

"He also needs some of the Mach 3 razor blades."

Sigh. OK, first of all, I'm not buying tightie-whities for anybody, especially not anybody related to me. Second of all, this is exactly the same thing Dad asked for last Father's Day, except I think he also wanted batteries last year.

As the week wound down, my sister and I were still void of ideas, so I decided to just call Dad and ask him directly if there was anything he wanted.

"Ya'll don't have to get me anything. Just keep being my kids." His usual response.

"Dad, it's Father's Day. You know we are going to get you something, just as we have every Father's Day, lo, these many years."

"Well, I guess I could use some new underwear. Mine's got holes in them."

Audible sigh.

"I wear the white briefs."

Yes, Dad, I am aware. Some of my most vivid childhood memories are of you walking around the house at night in ONLY those white briefs. Everyone's father does that, right? Actually, you know what, don't answer that.

"Alright. Is there anything else you can think of?"

"Oh, you know what, there is something else I need."

Finally! At long last!

"Ya'll can get me some of those Mach 3 razor blades."


"Man, it's a hot one. Like seven inches from the midday sun..."

Some people claim there's a woman to blame

I blew out my flip-flop.

No, really, I did. Last night, walking from the apartment to the car. One instant I was walking normally, my feet happily nestled in their open-air home. And the next, it was over.

I always knew this was gonna happen. This is precisely why I keep a spare pair of flip-flops in my vehicle, and have for years. Sure, people made fun of me. But I stood strong. Because with open-toed shoes, you never know. No one can predict the life of a flip-flop. Sometimes they die young, and we're left only to wonder why.

Have you ever thought about what you're gonna do when the inevitable inevitably happens and you are unprepared? What if you're away from home? Where does that leave you? I'll tell you where: up a creek, my friend. Serves you right for living your freewheeling, one-pair lifestyle.

To illustrate my point, this very thing happened to a friend of mine some years ago. He was at the beach. Stepped on a pop-top, of all things. Completely blew out his flip-flop. Cut his heel and... OK, I lied, it wasn't a friend, it was Jimmy Buffett.

Still, he cut his heel! Had to cruise on back home, most likely barefooted. Either that, or he bought a new pair at one of those shops that sell beach wear, they're all over the place down there. Then he wrote a song about it and made enough money that he never had to work again. Boy, this was a really bad example. Anyway, moving on.

What is so wrong with being prepared? I mean, we carry jumper cables in our cars in case the battery goes dead. Spare tires in case we have a flat. A thing of contact solution in case our contacts get dry and wrinkle up. Alright, maybe that last one is just me.

So I keep a spare pair of flip-flops in the car. And an extra pair of sunglasses. And maybe a sweatshirt in case I get chilly. I ask you, does that make me any less cool? Any less "gangsta?" (I totally just did air quotes there.)

Perhaps. But then again, at the same time I'm blasting Christopher Cross and Phil Collins on my iPod. So I think it all evens out.

Personally, I consider this entire episode a victory for (my version of) normalcy and good sense.

For five years, people have asked why I have an extra pair of flip-flops in my car. And for five years, they have laughed at me when I told them the reason.

Well, who's laughing now?

"Don't know the reason, I stayed here all season, with nothing to show but this brand new tattoo..."

Destin 2010

"I get ten vacation days a year, and I try to hold off from taking them as long as possible. This year I got to the third week in January." ~ Pam Beasley, The Office.

It's time now for a special Wednesday edition of Thursdays with Bone. Don't think of it as six days late. Think of it as a day early. Work was a malicious, spiteful, complaining woman last week. So even though I've only been back from the beach for ten days, I'm already in need of another vacation.

Day one at the beach included quite a scare for our hero. I was in the ocean when I heard some people yelling. I turned to see they were all looking my way and appeared to be very interested in something swimming in the water. Well, I swear it sounded like they were saying "Shark!" So naturally, I started splashing towards the shore like a frightened little girl.

Then I heard someone yelling "No!" When I looked, they appeared to be motioning for me to stay still. I'm sorry, but if there's a shark in the water, I'm getting out of the water. I might not be able to outrun it but it sure won't be for lack of trying. Finally, I glanced over in the direction they'd been looking and saw a school of stingrays passing just a few yards from where I was standing. Fine, so it wasn't a shark. I'm still getting out of the water.

I did, however, manage to redeem myself -- at least in my own mind -- a bit later when I rescued a girl's sunglasses from the surf. Despite her repeated assurances of "don't worry about it, they were only like ten dollars" I donned my goggles and dove into the water time and again, fearlessly. (The stingrays were long gone by this time.)

I should probably mention here that I have to hold my nose when I'm underwater. That really detracts from the whole Aquaman superhero image. Nevertheless, at long last I emerged, hoisting the glasses -- once thought lost forever -- into the air and returning them to their rightful owner. Another damsel in (slight) distress left... un...distressed.

In addition to visiting all my favorite places -- as listed in the post below -- we tried a new restaurant for dinner one night, an Italian joint called Graffiti. Your classic hole-in-the-wall, it didn't look like much from the outside. I may have even been a little afraid. (Despite what you might think, I don't have that much street cred. I'm more of a internet-message-board cred kind of guy.)

But it turned out to be a really neat place. The walls were covered with all this funky art, and every piece was for sale. The food turned out to be phenomenal. Having had my fill of seafood the previous two nights, I ordered the Greek pizza. And I tell you this, I nearly wept it was so good. It was like a full-body massage for the palate.

Finally, no recap of this Destin trip would be complete without mentioning the odd individual we came across while playing putt-putt one evening. Let's call him Master Putter.

He was a couple of groups ahead of us. Things kept getting backed up and we were having to wait a couple of minutes to start every hole. That's when I began to notice Master Putter.

He'd brought his own putter to the course, as well as his own golf ball. And he had a golf glove hanging out of his pocket. As if that wasn't enough, he was taking exactly four practice strokes before every. single. shot. Also, he was kneeling down attempting to read the green before every putt.

So even though it's taking forever to play, I'm thinking this guy must be really good, right?

Oh no.

We get to a place where the course sort of doubles back and I can see him putting. He hits an excellent first putt, leaving himself about 18 inches for a 2. He blows that about four feet by, misses the come-backer and ends up taking a 4.

Then I overhear him saying to one of his buddies (he was in a threesome... with two other guys, just in case I needed to clarify that), "Man, par would be a really good score on this course."

Par was 54. I shot a 45. I'll let you draw your own conclusions about the course's difficulty or lack thereof. Apparently, super putting was not one of Master P's super powers. Maybe he is invulnerable to women?

He was both hilarious and incredibly annoying at the same time. Then again, the same has probably been said about me a time or two.

On a much more serious note, the Destin beaches were in their usual pristine condition. Although with British Petroleum's continuing devastation of the ecosystem, who knows how long that will be the case. I realize the beaches are just one small part of the damage that is being done. Anytime they show oil-covered animals being pulled from the water, I can't even bear to watch.

But I love the beach. To think that it might not be there next year saddens me more than I am able to say.

"Are we losing the human race? Do we ever really learn from our mistakes? Who's ahead? Who's behind? Will there be a finish line?"

Feeding the fever

This week's Thursdays With Bone has been moved to Friday. Also, due to the fact that I'm currently at the beach, it is a repost. I know, we're already into reruns after one week?

Anyway, this is a post about a place I love. And it's where I'll be until Sunday. Hopefully, BP won't be destroying it anytime soon.

From 2007, here's a little number I like to call "The Fever."

On US Highway 98, just east of Destin, between Miramar and Santa Rosa, sits a little cafe called The Donut Hole. It's become tradition that on the day we leave the beach, we stop there for breakfast.I recommend the southwestern omelet. And the doughnuts, of course. I always get a box of doughnuts for the road. The food is great. The service sometimes lacking because it's so busy. But I've never been when there wasn't a line of people out the door and down the side of the building waiting.

I wish I was there.

There's a beachside restaurant called The Back Porch, with big bay windows to let in the ocean breeze, an outside bar, and picnic tables in the sand. I recommend the dreamsicle cake for dessert. And any and all of the seafood. You'll think they must have caught it that morning. And maybe they did.

I wish I was there.

There's an empty spot in the sand, just at the edge of the uprush, perfect for sitting. Where the water might wash over your feet once every five or six waves. Where you can bury your toes in the cool, damp sand, and think about anything and everything. Or nothing at all. And even though it's only a few hundred feet to the highway, it seems a million miles away.

I wish I was there.

I've got beach fever, if you can't tell. The highs have been between 60 and 70 here for seemingly the past week. I've been driving with the sunroof open, even at night. And last night before the storms moved in, it was warm and very windy, and reminded me of the ocean breeze.

So I've been listening to Buffett and thinking about the beach. The sand. The breeze. The waves. Gorgeous American girls working on their tans. All the while, me having no clue as to whether they are 16 or 29.

Last night, I opened the window so I could listen to it rain. Seemed like it rained for twelve hours.

That's another good thing about the beach. Even when it rains, it never seems to last very long.

I wish I was there.

"I got my toes in the water, toes in the sand, not a worry in the world..."

Thursdays with Bone

In the interest of blogging more than once a fortnight, here I am again. I notice that my last two posts, and three of the last four, have come on a Thursday. That was not at all planned, but if you would like to believe that it was planned, feel free. Think of it sort of like Tuesdays With Morrie. Except on Thursdays. And with Bone. Also, much less enlightening.

Last Thursday, I was at a place that I daresay few of you have ever been, and most likely will never be. I went to see country supergroup The Oak Ridge Boys in concert.

Joe, Duane, Richard, and William Lee sang all your favorite Oaks' hits, such as American Made, Ya'll Come Back Saloon, Trying To Love Two Women (which one of them cracked was Tiger Woods' favorite song), and Ozark Mountain Jubilee. Any of these ringing a bell? What about Elvira? Yeah, you wish you'd gone now, don't you?

Here's a bit of Oak Ridge Boys history I found out during the show. The group was originally known as the Georgia Clodhoppers. In the 1940's, the Clodhoppers were brought in to the secret city of Oak Ridge to entertain the residents there who had been sequestered from the rest of civilization to work on the Manhattan Project. From there, they began calling themselves the Oak Ridge Quartet and later, as we know them today, the Oak Ridge Boys.

I also may or may not have got hit on during the show. The lady behind me supposedly "dropped" her phone and couldn't find the back to it. So I found it for her. Then she poked me on the shoulder and said she couldn't seem to put it back together. Please, could she have been more obvious? It's the 2010's, lady. Cars are parallel parking themselves. Who doesn't know how to reassemble their cell phone? Of course, she did look to be about seventy. Nevertheless, I fixed her phone. Rescuing damsels in distress: this is what I do.

Now I know some of you might be thinking that was the most exciting part of my weekend. (Yes, I'm including Thursday night in the weekend, just go with it.) Well, normally it would have been, by far. But not this time.

That's because on Saturday I got to pick up Nephew Bone and take him to the Spring Festival, Bluegrass Jamboree, and Antique Car, Tractor & Engine Show. All by myself.

It was our first uncle/nephew outing together, and he was so well-behaved. He especially seemed to enjoy the funnel cake. And he also got hit on by an older woman. A girl, who looked to be about eighteen, stopped him as we were walking between the giant slide and the bouncy thingy and said, "You are so cute." Like uncle, like nephew. Right, buddy?



On the way home, I started singing songs I thought he knew. I sang Jesus Loves Me, and when I finished, I turned around and he was looking at me with this big smile on his face, like "I know that song, Uncle Bone!"

Then I started singing Itsy Bitsy Spider. About halfway through, I looked in the back seat again and Nephew Bone was looking out the window, his arms in the air, doing his hand motions for the rain and the sun and the spider.

If only you could box up moments.

"Thank God for kids, there's magic for awhile. A special kind of sunshine in a smile. Do you ever stop to think or wonder why, the nearest thing to heaven is a child..."

The Queen City

(Yesterday was my 7th bloggiversary. I figured I couldn't truly claim to have made it the full seven years unless I did at least one more post. This is a recap of my trip to Cincinnati a couple of weekends ago.)

I think I was always meant to go to Cincinnati. I was raised to be a Reds fan. Well, I was raised to be a Bama fan and good southern boy first, but Mom also rooted for the Big Red Machine. (For my sports-challenged readers, the Big Red Machine is not some obscure Communist organization. It was the nickname of the Cincinnati Reds teams of the 1970's, who appeared in four World Series in the decade, winning two.) Once the Big Red Machine was dismantled, Mom could not have cared less how the Reds fared. So it has been my cross alone to bear, lo, these many years.

The most interesting thing on the drive up Friday evening was the point in the state of Kentucky where there is an adult video store on the right side of I-65 and a billboard with the words "Hell Is Real" on the left side. I made sure to keep it on the straight and narrow through there.

As I neared Ohio, an interesting geographical question began to formulate within my brain: When exactly does the South turn into the North? That was followed by other questions bubbling up, festering. At what latitude do people begin to speak faster and become difficult to understand? Do they serve sweet tea on this side of the Ohio and not on the other side? And just how many Union sympathizers have infiltrated Kentucky in the last century-and-a-half?

We actually stayed on the Kentucky side, in Covington, just to be safe. From the hotel, it was only a short bus ride or mile-and-a-half walk across the Ohio River to the stadium. The walk was either very pleasant or incredibly soggy, depending on the weather.

We wound up attending both the Saturday and Sunday games. The Reds lost the Saturday game, 5-0. On Sunday, the outlook was as dreary as the drizzly Ohio sky, as the home team fell behind 4-2. But a late-inning comeback produced a thrilling 5-4 victory. My fantasy team closer got the save. My fantasy team catcher had the game-winning RBI in the bottom of the 8th inning. And the guy my fantasy team is named after hit a homer. I was glad we had decided to go back.

One of the highlights of most any trip is the food. At the ballpark, we sampled a Skyline chili cheese coney and something called a Walking 3-Way, which is not nearly as difficult as it sounds.

Saturday night, we went to Fountain Square, which is a simply gorgeous area downtown. I found out later -- by Wikipedia'ing, of course -- that the fountain can be seen in the opening credits of WKRP In Cincinnati. After reading that, I think it's fairly obvious that fate had led us there.

We had dinner outside at the Rock Bottom Brewery. There's just something about eating outdoors at little cafes and restaurants that I absolutely love. It reminds me of being in Europe, which is quite odd when you consider that I have never been to Europe.

Our last meal actually came at the suggestion of the desk clerk at the hotel. As we were checking out on Monday, she commented that she liked my shirt. I was wearing my "This Is How I Roll" Bama shirt. Turns out she was a Bama fan, so naturally we struck up a conversation. She knew her stuff, too! Refusing to call Auburn by name, she referred to it instead as "that school on the other side of the state." Talk about feeling at home.

Anyway, she recommended a place across the street called Riverfront Pizza for lunch. I tried their ranch pizza, which was pretty good. But the best part was that they had sweet tea! That's when I knew that the Yanks hadn't completely taken over Kentucky.

After I got home, I was telling Mom about going to the Reds Hall Of Fame following the game on Sunday.

"Did you see Johnny Bench or Pete Rose?"
"No, they weren't there."
"What about Morgan?" (That's apparently what my Mom calls Joe Morgan, which I wasn't aware of until that moment.)
"No. He wasn't there either."
But I was glad that she remembered them.

Overall, I loved Cincinnati. There are certain places that feel like home when I visit. They bring a sense of being completely comfortable and content. The beach is always like that. Nashville is like that sometimes. And walking into Great American Ballpark for the first time, there was a similar feeling. Seeing thousands of fellow Reds fans I thought, "Ah, these are my people."

Three or four different times random people on the street made comments about the Reds to me. Even though it's been thirty years since the Big Red Machine and twenty years since their last World Series title, it's still a baseball town.

"I walked half way from Louisville. Now there she lies at the foot of the hill. Shinin' like a jewel in the valley below, Cincinnati, Ohio. Cincinnati, where the river winds, 'cross the Mason and the Dixon line..."

April showers bring... something from the Bone-chives

I'm off to Cincinnati, where there is a 70-90% chance of rain all weekend. Hopefully, they'll be able to fit a baseball game in there somewhere. Even if there's a four-hour rain delay, the game doesn't end until midnight and there are only like fifty fans left in the stands, I'll be one of them. And there's a 100% chance of that.

This would have been a perfect opportunity for stop number two on the Blog Reality Tour. Unfortunately, I don't believe I link to any bloggers in Ohio. There used to be one in Kentucky, and maybe a couple in Tennessee, but I guess they've all found other ways to occupy their time.

I shall return on Monday. That is, unless a Reds scout notices my surprising athletic ability and the agility of someone fifteen years younger as I scamper to chase a foul ball, and they decide to hire me on the spot as a full-time ball boy. Or, ball man, whichever. Until then, and in honor of Earth Day, I am recycling a post.

It's poetry month over at Cooper's. (OK, so as I google it now, evidently it's National Poetry Month. Who knew!) So I figured I'd do a poem for one of my three posts this month.

I would never claim to write actual and decent poetry. I'm way too literal, and always end up feeling like somewhere the words have to eventually rhyme. I'm more of a lyrics guy. Lyrics without music, that's me. I think I would have collaborated well with Bobby McFerrin.

Now that I have hopefully lowered your expectations to a sufficient level, here is an attempt at poetry, originally posted in 2007:


Perfume hint caught
Memory sparked
That year I was in love

Eager heart leapt
Lesson relearned
Forever is but a word

Freely falling fast
Feeling remembered
And missed

Past replaces present
Eyes now tightly closed
Smile grazes lips

Midnight phone calls
Sultry afternoons
Slinky black dress

Past recedes to past
I'll always believe
I loved you best

"Ain't no sun. Ain't no blue sky. The wind blows cold now that you've gone away. And tomorrow, just like today, there's a hundred percent chance of rain..."