Life's Rich Pageant

Another "Out There"

Dick — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 17:17:34 GMT

Here's the link, in case you're interested. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWjXzs__sKI

Everywhere, but nowhere

Dick — Wed, 17 Jan 2007 16:13:16 GMT

OK. I understand. I get it. The silence is deafening. The lack of anything means everything is as I suspected. Thank you. Although I didn't expect much, I was still hopeful for more. You can't have everything...where would you put it?

Check out my music video!!

Dick — Wed, 25 Oct 2006 22:34:56 GMT

My music video, "The Pennsylvania Carsick Blues" will air on Pennsylvania Inside Out next week. You can now see it on YouTube at: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMeSRJqYZOw

Out There "Yogi Bear" on YouTube

Dick — Wed, 27 Sep 2006 18:46:38 GMT

Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=by0KPvNbbJA

Out There "Big Fish" on YouTube

Dick — Sun, 24 Sep 2006 02:01:08 GMT

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ans09vuYpg

Link for Out There "Doan's Bones" on YouTube

Dick — Mon, 18 Sep 2006 14:44:08 GMT

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EyR7FNifO7c

The first "Out There" is on YouTube!

Dick — Sun, 10 Sep 2006 23:39:54 GMT

If you want to see the first segment, “The Mannequins”, go here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GkMvyfwlC1k

Apparently,

Dick — Sat, 26 Aug 2006 02:25:40 GMT

I will never be bumped off because I "know too much". So, I've at least got that going for me. I'm having a blast at work. They're letting me produce and "star" in my own segment of Pennsylvania Inside Out entitled (aptly) "Out There". I've finished three segments already and they've been well-received by the few who've seen them. I'm also working on my magnum opus, a music video homage and parody of Bob Dylan's Subterranean Homesick blues video from the 60's. If I'm able to pull it off like I plan, it should be hillarious, or at least that's my intention. We'll see how it goes. Thanks for having the slightest bit of interest in me and what's left of my mind. Though I will probably never really know you, I love you in all the ways I know how.

Fitty questions.....

Dick — Sun, 09 Jul 2006 20:23:52 GMT

Here’s my 50 things. Copy, paste, answer in blogs.... and choose whether or not you want to share it publicly or privately. 1. What is your middle name? Warren 2. Do you have a crush? No. 3. Have you ever hit a deer? No. 4. Do you have to drive over a bridge to get home? No. 5. Do you get the paper delivered to your house in the morning? Yes 6. Who checks the mail in your house? I do, usually. 7. Do you have a small driveway ? Small, but two cars wide. 8. Do you enjoy fighting with people? Not at all. 9. Is your hair naturally straight or curly? Wavy. 10. Who was your kindergarten teacher? Mrs. McIlvreid. 11. Are you taller than your mother? Yes, she is about 5'7" and I'm 5'17". 12. Do you have a favorite word? I have lots of favorite words, but "fahvergnugen" is spoken often as substitute profanity. 13. What do you do to get over a broken heart? Let time pass and beat myself up about it. 14. Do you have a deep, dark secret? Yes, of course, doesn’t everyone? 15. Do you enjoy writing in colored pens? Enjoy it, but rarely do so. 16. Does anything hurt on your body right now? Yes. My right shoulder, my mid back and my left knee. 17. Do you often cry during movies? Not often, but I do get "misty" and stifle the tears. A stoic German, don't ya know! 18. Do you get mad easily? No. I'm far too detached from most things that are important to others, therefore I rarely get mad about them. I'm a pretty laid-back dude...maybe too much so. 19. Do you drink to get drunk? Rarely, though it used to be a hobbyin my 20's. 20. Do any of your friends have kids? I have no real friends, but my acquaintances have them. 21. How many years older than you are you willing to date? If I were single again, I think I would not set any kind of age limit. 22. Do you have any mean friends? See #20. 23. What is the ugliest color in your opinion? Day-glo green/yellow hurts my brain. I sometimes feel like committing vehicular homicide when driving by road crews wearing the color. 24. Have you ever liked someone who all your friends couldn't stand? My friends, when I had some, tended to be the social dregs and outcasts. Therefore we were social misfits, filled with self-loathing. 25. Have you ever been fired from a job? Not for sure. I was let go once and it kind of sounded like I was being fired, though the word "fired" was never used. 26. What year was your first love? I was first smitten in seventh grade by Tracey Lee, a girl with gorgeous auburn hair who I sat behind in class. Must have been like 1972? 27. What brand are the pant/jeans you're wearing right now? Arizona Jeans, but I'm wearing generic shorts presently. 28. What is the closest green object? A picture of Snow White that my daughter has colored. Snow's dress is green. 29. What is on your feet? Nuttin. We don't wear shoes out here in the country! 30. Do you like watermelon? Love it! 31. Do you want to have kids? I have one and we're adopting another one later this year. I love 'em! 32. What is the brightest color you're wearing? Black T-shirt and khaki shorts...hmmmm, I am a bland beast. 33. Who is the last friend you have that you would ever expect to be gay? Jesus 34. What's your mother's middle name? My mom, JoAnn, has no middle name. 35. Do you collect comic books? Nope. 36. Are you wearing makeup? Not now, but my daughter likes to give me makeovers. Too much product!! 37. Do you have a tattoo? No. I think they look cool on others, but I'm dreading the day when there's a whole generation of women in their senior citizen years at the beach with all those funky tats and too much exposure. 38. Have you ever been happily in love? A few times. 39. If you won the lottery you would...get out of debt, quit my job and write full-time. I would travel extensively and take time to immerse myself in other cultures. I would seek ways to be a blessing to others. 40. Is there something you want to tell someone, but you haven't? No. Nothing significant, anyway. 41. Do you know how to draw? I'm a horrific drawer, but when I do draw, I usually draw flies, due to ongoing hygiene issues. 42. Who is your hero? It used to be, in order, my uncle Frank, Lou Gehrig, Julius Erving, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Steven Wright and Thomas Jefferson. Now, it's my wife and daughter. Despite everything, they still choose life with me. 43. Who was the last person that called you? My mom, probably. I can't remember why or what it was about. 44. Is there anything you regret? I regret having been a smoker for 20 years. I regret not having learned how to make (and keep) good friends. I regret most of the 1980's. 45. Do you know where your family names originated? Knupp is likely of Swiss origin. I tell people that it means "maker of especially stinky cheese". Leightley is English, Johns is too and Martz is German. 46. Is there any animal that creeps you out? I'm not crazy about snakes. 47. What was the last thing you did for fun? Went to the movies. 48. Do you prefer silver or gold? Silver..I'm way cheap, man. Plus I like the look of it better. 49. Where was your first kiss? Believe it or not, I'm not sure. Either in my bedroom or in the carriage house across the street. 50. Do you believe in the possibility of reincarnation? No, I don't.

One word is all I ask...

Dick — Fri, 16 Jun 2006 20:24:09 GMT

this is the new one folks...leave a one word comment that you feel best describes me,it can only be one word?(or else grrrr)..Then copy and paste this to yr blog so others can leave something for you....♥

Yerrrrrrrrrrrrrr fired!

Dick — Sun, 07 May 2006 12:12:00 GMT

I've decided to not write for the Bellefonte Gazette anymore. I sent "The Color Purple" three weeks ago and they couldn't seem to find space for it in the ensuing three issues. The nutty lady who runs the paper and "writes" most of the stories did, however, have space for a full page narrative about termite extermination at the historic train station, two half pages "From the Bandroom" of the local high school and at least one totally incomprehensible story written by her friend about her nephew's upcoming birthday. I can't tell you how many people have told me that they looked forward to reading my stuff every week and that "it's the only thing worth reading in that paper." But then, the nutty lady doesn't get that and I'm not interested in trying to teach her the difference between what she does and what people people like to read. Time to move on, I guess.

Through A Lens, Darkly

Dick — Wed, 26 Apr 2006 00:42:21 GMT

I felt Jeff’s eyes watching me as I put tape on the last corner of the poster. As I smoothed out the creases in the surface, my roommate finally said, “Dick, that poster is really…disturbing!” The poster featured photographs of a woman’s head, multiplexed in such a way that the face was able to sport three pairs of sunglasses without seeming unnatural. I found it near a trash can in my dad’s optical business that afternoon, deciding to take it back to my dorm room. I found it a little disturbing too, but that intrigued me. Later that afternoon, I did what many Penn State undergrads do on a frigid Friday in January. I went to a “happy hour” party and drank myself stupid. Around nine o’clock, I stumbled into my room and collapsed in a heap on my bed. Jeff had gone on a date with a girl he’d just met, leaving me alone to pass out in our then-spinning dorm room. As I lay there, recounting the last few hours and regretting having tried a drink called “flying saucers,” I studied the poster. As alcohol pulled me into sleep, the woman’s face seemed to morph into another hazy image. For a moment, it looked like a bearded man in a blue flannel work shirt. He seemed to be laughing and shaking his head at me. How weird, I thought as my world finally faded to black, I think the laughing man is Satan! As if a moment later, I found myself standing upright and staring at the numbers on Jeff’s clock radio. It was midnight and I felt totally sober, despite having consumed mass quantities earlier in the evening. As I sat down to ponder my surprising return to consciousness, someone knocked on the door. It was Tony, a rarely-seen grad student who lived in the single unit down the hall. He wanted to take a look at my high school yearbook for some reason, so I obliged him. As I pulled the book off the shelf, something made me open it to the space just inside the cover, involuntarily pointing to where a classmate had written a note. “See this note, Tony? It was written by a girl who was killed in an auto accident last year,” I exclaimed. He seemed both annoyed and unimpressed. He quietly paged through it for a few minutes, then got up and left without uttering a word. How strange, I thought. I paged through the book after he left and came upon the photo of Diane May, the classmate who tragically died the previous year. Though I don’t recall ever having written it, a note was below her picture. Killed in auto accident 1/12/79. It suddenly occurred to me that, as of midnight - when I found myself to be standing up and sober – it was exactly one year to the day! Jeff burst into the room a few moments later, visibly shaken and holding a Carmelite scapular tightly in his folded hands. He seemed to be praying under his breath and didn’t look at me as he sat slumped in his chair. When he finally looked up, I could see tears in his bloodshot eyes. He was neither outwardly religious nor particularly emotional, so I guessed something bad must have happened to him. He went on to tell me that his date that evening had totally freaked him out. She told him that she was being stalked by evil spirits who made her cut herself and speak in tongues. It made him even more upset when I related my own night’s bout with the bizarre. A short time later, we were visited by a Hartranft Hall alumnus we knew only as “Mr. Spock”. We told him of the weird things that happened that night, and then he spoke to us in a hushed voice. “Does the number 7734 mean anything to either of you?” I thought for a moment, and then offered, “I graduated in ’77 and I was number 34 on the basketball team.” Mr. Spock seemed shocked at my response. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met that that number means anything to! I think you may be in big trouble!” He had me enter 7734 into a calculator. After I did so, I asked him why the number was significant. He paused and said, “Rotate the calculator until the numbers are upside down.”

The Color Purple

Dick — Wed, 19 Apr 2006 00:11:17 GMT

The paper underneath me crinkled as I shifted my weight forward and spread the tissue “cover” over the thighs of my pale, spindly legs. It was time for my yearly physical and Dr. Aboul-Hosn would soon be there, calling me “Mr. Knupp” and asking me to cough and relax at the appropriate moments. I was staring at my dangling feet when the pleasant Lebanese man meekly entered the room with his trademark smile ablaze. After exchanging pleasantries, I resumed looking at my bare size 13’s as he prepared for the exam. That’s when it hit me. “Um, Dr. Aboul-Hosn, since you’ll probably notice anyway, let me explain why my toenails look this way.” He looked past the chart he was perusing and a wide smile erupted on his face. “My daughter Lindsay decided that I was in dire need of an extreme make-over and, in addition to dark green eye shadow and a spiky hairdo, she painted my toes this lovely shade of purple! I’ve been meaning to remove it, but I keep forgetting.” I may have made his morning, since it took him some time to finally stop chuckling. “She’s such a dear child,” he offered, “and it’s very nice that you can spend such good quality time with her. How very nice for both of you!” I’m sure it later made for interesting dinner conversation for him and his wife. I’m pretty secure in my masculinity, so it doesn’t bother me to be known as “the large mammal with purple toenails.” Though, lately I’ve been extra careful to not wind up unconscious in an emergency room, unable to explain my adorned tootsies to curious ER personnel. What’s the point of a make-over if you can’t gauge people’s reaction to it? True, I’m kind of a weird guy anyway, but the fact that this was at least the third time I’ve allowed unregistered (and woefully unskilled/underage) cosmetologists work on me is a little troubling, I suspect. There have been times in my life when some sort of show or skit required me to become a 6’5” drag queen…fortunately I have the legs to look awesome in a mini skirt. But it took a small group of bored nieces, some years ago, to start me down this path to cosmetic oblivion. My grandmother’s funeral had been earlier in the day and the survivors gathered at my parent’s house in Zion for the “reception”. As you would expect, spirits were a bit on the low side and I thought it might pick the mood up a bit if I agreed to let my pre-teen nieces perform an impromptu make-over on me. They were a bit surprised that I finally relented, but easily made the jump to gleeful, joyful enthusiasm. The final result was caught on camera by an enterprising relative, effectively dashing my hopes of ever holding public office or convincing a jury of my peers of just about anything. The indescribable look could be summed up in three words…TOO MUCH PRODUCT! Somehow those exuberant and persuasive girls also talked me into donning an ultra-tight, cream-colored dress with matching clogs. Because the footwear was many sizes too small, they guided me down to the edge of Rt. 550, whereupon I waved at the cars passing by. Some folks undoubtedly thought they had spent too much time at Micheal’s Tavern as they waved back, catching a glimpse of “the new girl in town.” Later, while walking back to the house, I marveled at the purple clouds of sunset. It felt good to have helped create laughter at the end of that otherwise sad day.

The Bad Place

Dick — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 20:39:48 GMT

Fresh snow blanketed Brockerhoff Heights and every spec of land as far as the eye could see. We moved into our new home on Wiltshire Drive a few months prior and I was excited to take Lindsay on her first winter nature walk in the woods behind our house. After bundling up snug and warm, we ventured out into the chilly morning with our dogs, Shannon and Buddy, leading the way. Lindsay’s tiny hand all but vanished in my glove as I helped her along the slick, uneven footing of the ATV trail. She chattered with anticipation about what we would see, specifically asking if there would be bees our woods. She was quite relieved to find out that we were unlikely to run across any bees this time of year. A bee sting during the summer left a lingering psychic scar. As we made progress through the crusty snow, I pondered how I was going to explain to my four year-old about the area we were entering. Living so close, I knew there was no way to deny its existence or hope that she and her playmates would naturally steer clear of its perilous beauty. Shannon was the first to reach the edge of the quarry, with Buddy following close behind. “Lindsay, the Company with the White Smoke doesn’t want us to be here.” “Why, Daddy?” She looked confused, probably not remembering the time I pointed out Graymont’s perpetual steam plume rising from the outskirts of town. “Because it’s very dangerous - not safety, (as she would put it). Many people have gotten hurt and some have died here.” I hurled a large rock over the edge, down to the ice-covered water some 60 feet below. The rock bounced and then slid across the surface of what is emerald green water in warmer weather. I chucked a few more stones and then, while searching for another, I heard the surprising sound of ice breaking and water splashing. Peering over the edge, I saw that Buddy had decided to “fetch” the stones I had thrown and had fallen through the ice on the quarry’s far corner. He was floundering and looked terrified as he was unable to extricate himself from the frigid water. Weakened, arthritic knees and being overweight prevented him from scaling the slick rock ledge from which he’d come. “LINDSAY, STAY RIGHT HERE! DON’T MOVE!” Before the stunned child could get out the word, “why,” I was running down the path to the water’s edge. An episode of Animal Planet’s Animal Rescue where a dog was in a similar predicament played in my mind. With Lindsay alone on the path behind me, I knew that I couldn’t risk going in after Buddy. Once at the water’s edge I grabbed an exposed tree root in one hand and reached out as far as I could with the other, calling Buddy to come to me. He mustered his remaining strength and dog-paddled toward me, his head slipping under the water a couple of times. He got close enough for me to grab his collar, pull him ashore and hoist his hundred pound body over my head, safely onto the path above us. Both of us exhausted, we slowly made our way back up the path and rejoined the much-relieved Lindsay. Just visiting the Bellefonte water quarry, we were lucky to walk away with our lives. Those foolish enough to climb its walls or swim in its water tempt fate and put themselves in jeopardy. Because of its deadly history and despite its allure, it truly is, as Lindsay puts it, The Bad Place.

Thoughtful Practicality

Dick — Thu, 13 Apr 2006 00:03:38 GMT

I anticipate Susan’s question about this time every year. Though she likely knows what I’m going say, she bothers to ask anyway. “So, what do you want for Christmas?” “Nothing, I really don’t need or want anything.” I can tell she’s annoyed by my continued lack of enthusiasm for the Christmas holiday, now for the eleventh consecutive year. I don’t mean to be a “humbug,” but I consider the whole “gift-giving” thing to be the root cause of widespread emotional distress and unnecessary financial hardship. And having a small child means that, despite my well-reasoned objections, I am obliged to be an enabler until the whole Santa Claus “mystery” unravels for her. “OK, let me rephrase the question. What can Lindsay get you for Christmas?” Susan’s many years of working in DC law firms has made her quite skilled at cross-examining a hostile witness. “You have to let her buy you something!” I have to? Why? First of all, the child doesn’t have any money. She’s six years old, has no known job skills and therefore no actual income outside of what she can scavenge from our bedroom floor. So any money she would spend on a present for me would have to come by way of a monetary gift from you know who! So why can’t I just save my money, since I don’t want or need anything in the first place? Because we need to convey to her the lesson that it’s the “thought” that counts! “Alright,” I said, “I’d like to have another pair of those 180 degree ear-muffs in any color but leopard spots.” Two winters ago, Lindsay got me a pair of warm yet gaudy ear-muffs that might look attractive on a Penn State coed, but not on a large, puffy-faced gringo with an oddly-shaped head. Although I mustered up the self-esteem to wear them on extremely cold days, I was certain that someone would mistake me for one of the characters from the short-lived sci-fi TV series Alien Nation. Since it is Lindsay’s favorite color, I fully expect to receive a beautiful pair of pink earmuffs on Christmas day. That’ll teach me to be more specific next time! But, more to the point, it will teach me that her thoughtfulness results in gifts that she would like, not necessarily what I want or need. I will howl with delight if Susan receives any Barbie- or Bratz-related gifts from her darling daughter! Being just six, I’m sure she’ll eventually start considering what the other person would like or could really use. Perhaps, like me, she’ll become well-known for her practical, if not thoughtful gifts to family members at Christmas time. Hopefully, she won’t be ultra-practical, like I once became. When my youngest sister, Sheila, was about Lindsay’s age, she still had the infantile habit of sucking her thumb. To help her with what was most certainly an uncontrollable compulsion, Mr. Practicality happened upon the perfect gift one day at Plumb’s Drugstore. When Sheila opened her gift from me that Christmas morning, I fully anticipated accolades for my practical and thoughtful present. Removing the last bit of wrapping paper, it took a moment or two for her to figure out what it was. It took a considerably longer time for her to stop crying. To my complete shock, Thumbs-It, a nasty tasting thumb-sucking deterrent, was not a thoughtful gift, regardless of its practicality.

Close Encounters of the Knupp Kind

Dick — Tue, 11 Apr 2006 03:46:20 GMT

“Are you sure you want to meet my family? They’re kind of a wacky bunch.” “Yes, I’m sure,” Susan replied, “You seem relatively normal, so how bad could they be? I’m sure it will be fine.” True, normal is indeed relative…just not my relatives. It was Thanksgiving eve and we were ultra-busy Washingtonians making a mad, pre-holiday dash into the night. We passed a big sign on Route 15 which read, Pennsylvania - America Starts Here. Maryland is a foreign country…who knew?! We arrived at my parents’ Zion home around 2 AM. I noticed that not only were many of the lights on in the house, but several faces were pressed up against the windows of the family room. Apparently, they waited up for us! Since it was so rare, it was a big deal when I brought a girl home! My mom greeted us at the door, dressed in a big red bathrobe and pink pig slippers, welcoming and telling us to make ourselves “to home”. Brothers Doug and Dave, Dave’s wife Amy and my niece Emma offered an adult beverage and invited us to join them in the family room. Susan tried to stay up, but was overwhelmed by the late-night reception and the insanely stupid discussion which arose. Apparently, although God is all powerful, he cannot create a rock so large that he himself can’t lift it. At some point we all trudged off to bed. Thanksgiving morning was ushered in by the shrieking of small children as they chased each other through the large house. My dad, a normally quiet and calm man, managed to temporarily stifle the roar, using a voice I seldom heard, though always feared growing up. “HEY YOU KIDS! STOP YOUR ROUGH-HOUSING AND COME AND EAT SOME BREAKFAST! Now who wants an Egg McDickeyburger?” My dad’s version of the popular McDonalds’ breakfast sandwich soothed the brows of those short, but savage beasties. Susan and I made our appearance soon after, with Dad and the clan’s junior members meeting Susan for the first time. A half dozen cheese and egg yolk-covered faces stared tentatively at her. “Wow,” she said, “there are a lot of them! And they’re so cute and…energetic!” I could tell she wasn’t used to a house filled with that kind of mayhem. Nothing in her proper Japanese up-bringing prepared her for the levels of potential and kinetic energy held within those walls. And that was only the beginning. By two o’clock, the number of dinner guests had swelled to 29 humans and four dogs. Susan was happy to finally sit down for dinner, as my Aunt Barb had her cornered and was aggressively interviewing her for a possible position in our family. Typical holiday fare passed down the long table, followed by non-traditional favorites like scalloped oysters and Grandma Knupp’s gargantuan home-made bread. The 29 mouths involved themselves in upwards of 20 different conversations. Susan was impressed by both the ambient noise level and the detailed descriptions of complex medical procedures. Immediately after dinner she had to go be alone for a while. I think Susan was still a little shell-shocked by her first close encounter with the Knupp clan as we ate breakfast at the Sunset West the next morning. I could tell she was dazed because she didn’t flinch when I ordered scrapple for her. Though she later confessed that she disliked it, she ate a few quick bites without incident. Emboldened by my success with the scrapple, I somehow talked her into marrying me that morning. Eleven years later, Susan has become a sort of tour guide for those souls who veer off course and find themselves among the Knupps of Bellefonte.

The Underwear Railroad

Dick — Sat, 08 Apr 2006 01:47:00 GMT

Ever find an orphan sock clinging to the inside of your dryer, its mate nowhere in sight and apparently gone forever? Did you ever consider that the sock might not actually be lost, but rather has escaped? Perhaps the lint trap is not just another bothersome thing to remember on laundry day. Maybe it’s the weak link in the process, exploited by opportunistic undies and other garments as the first surmountable obstacle to freedom. How else do you explain the appearance of the holes in the unmentionables? Despite Susan’s contention that they simply get that way after 15 years, I suspect that they’re the ones who can’t quite squeeze past the trap, snagging the fabric in the process. I can easily understand why they would want to flee. I’m sure it’s no picnic being the last line of defense against the inevitable “silent, but deadly” poofing we all save for church and dinner at the in-laws. And a sock jammed inside a shoe on a hot day must surely rival the rings of hell described in Dante’s Inferno. But if such an unlikely escape were possible, where would any self-respecting pair of soiled gym shorts end up? You guessed it…on a road sign along Jacksonville Road. They were there for a couple of months before they migrated further down the road, next to a matched set of Reeboks which recently relocated to the area from parts unknown. Just a stone’s throw away, a single New Balance model 608 cross-training shoe has taken up residence in the high grass along the culvert. Rumor has it that there might be some hanky panky going on, given its proximity to an equally-single pink knee sock nearby. A coincidence? I think not. These mass migrations of wayward hosiery and footwear are not only happening out here in the hinterlands. Oh no! Clothing of every description can be found along the streets and byways of our more urban areas too. In State College and larger cities, pairs of tennis shoes intertwine their laces and climb out onto the wires strung between utility poles. The thrill of this death-defying dangle by mere shoestrings must be quite a rush for them, as you will often see several pairs on the same wire. There are those who suggest that they may be helped up there by over-served fraternity brothers who look upon them as time-honored testaments to lost sobriety. In Washington D.C., I once saw a homeless man’s face brighten with delight as he found both a bra and panties in an alley just off 14th St. As I pondered the possible permutations of how this apparently matched set wound up in such a place, the man removed his tattered stocking cap and carefully placed the panties on his balding head. A quick pull –down on the stocking cap and I could see the method to his madness. It was a sort of panty liner for his scalp that would surely help keep it warm on that cold winter night. He stuck the bra in his coat pocket and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what he did with that. It seems pretty clear to me that an insidious conspiracy is being hatched in laundry hampers across this great land. It’s bad enough that our clothes don’t want to fit us properly when we happen to gain a little weight, but now they literally want to hit the road. They would rather brave the ravages of the oncoming central PA winter than spend one more day enduring the horror of covering your naked body. Or maybe it’s a ploy by the clothing manufacturers themselves to keep you constantly replacing the ones that get away or go missing. It’s a plausible plan, using the concept of “addition, by subtraction.”

You Can Dress 'Em Up...

Dick — Sat, 08 Apr 2006 01:46:01 GMT

Though small numbers of us had been migrating to our new home for months, the day finally came to dedicate and officially take possession of the new Outreach Building in University Park. In typical Penn State fashion, a last-minute and overlong meeting resulted in several employees fanning out to deliver frantic, but timely instructions to those of us distracted by actual work in progress. “We’ll be coming around with large plastic bags, collecting any trash that happens to be in your cubicle’s garbage can! The Board of Trustees will be coming through here at any moment!” The normally soft-spoken young woman was now yelling, having been whipped up into a wide-eyed staff assistant frenzy. “And, Dick Knupp, I will personally beat you senseless if you don’t get rid of whatever dead animal is in your area!” As I purged my waste can of a few pieces of junk mail and a candy bar wrapper, I began to regret my lack of consistency in the personal hygiene area. I reached into my gym bag and pulled out some Desenex foot spray, hoping it would serve as a makeshift air freshener as I spritzed it liberally around my cubicle. I don’t know if the Trustees were impressed by the empty trash cans or the curious lack of personal items in our cubicles, but they did seem to get a little teary-eyed when they arrived in my area. I began to explain my role in the overall mission of Outreach, when one of them started having a sneezing fit. It was heart-warming to see how they all quickly excused themselves and scattered in all directions in search of antihistamines and fresh air for their stricken colleague. In addition to videotaping the building dedication ceremony, my job was to explain the role of WPSX-TV in Penn State’s “outreach” efforts to any invited guest who happened to ask. Though most people really only wanted to know why we were changing our station call letters to WPSU. I made up hokey answer about “consolidating both the radio and TV sides of Penn State Public Broadcasting into one particular identity…one particular vision with one particular mission…OUTREACH!” Then I added, “But really, we just dumped our “X” for “U”! Admittedly, a few folks just smiled politely and walked away. In my mind, the big day didn’t quite live up to all the hype and gnashing of planning committee teeth that lead up to it. Indeed, the ceremony and subsequent reception(s) were well-attended by groups of excited university wags and well-wishers, many of whom complimented me on my “beautiful new home.” I tried not to spit crumbs on people as I graciously mumbled “thank you” through hurried bites of Hoag’s catering food. I was moderately successful at that. But I think part of my “underwhelmed-ness” stemmed from the fact that the building, even today, is not quite finished and, in some cases, not well thought out. Most of the pending things are cosmetic in nature and were quickly concealed by oddly-placed banners and the magic of plywood and paint. But nothing will restore the eyesight to those of us who must contend with the blinding morning sun which pours daily into our cubicle areas. When the motorized shades are actually working, one can almost look at the computer screen without sunglasses or the fear of permanent retina burn-in. But then, one might also see that that they have a trash can and may dare to use it in the course of a workday. And that’s OK; just don’t let the Board of Trustees know about it.

Blue Willows and Tuesday Morning

Dick — Sat, 08 Apr 2006 01:44:51 GMT

The line extending from the front door had formed well before I arrived and I placed myself at the end of it. Certainly those ahead of me were the lunatic fringe whose need to be first brought them there at some other ungodly hour. Though joining them at 6:15 AM no doubt made me eligible for inclusion in that insane roster. A quick count revealed that I was the seventh person in line, the only male, and the only person there without a partner. I didn’t regret Susan’s absence until I heard snippets of a conversation which sounded a lot like strategy. “When we get inside, grab a cart and I’ll run and get two Egyptian cotton comforters sets. If you get held up on the way there, just forget it and make a beeline for the Blue Willows. GET AT LEAST FOUR SETS! Mom, your life depends on it!” The enormous woman’s flabby arms flailed in exhortation toward the slight, elderly woman at her side. A look of subtle terror drew across the old woman’s face. I wasn’t scared until I thought I heard someone say, “crack-back block.” In a gesture I hoped would earn me some serious “brownie-points,” I volunteered to go to Tuesday Morning, one of Susan’s favorite stores in northern Virginia, for their mega “Day after Thanksgiving Sale.” In her absence, my mission was to secure any or all of a short list of items, not the least of which were the comforters and Blue Willow china sets coveted by the unlikely looking tag-team in front of me. The lure of storewide discounts up to 75% seemed to bolster the growing group’s giddy anticipation as the seven o’clock store opening approached. Lights systematically came on inside the store as a handful of employees prepared for the onslaught about to happen. A young woman could be seen busily opening her cash register, in between deep gulps of 7-11 coffee. She glanced nervously out at the bodies now pressed against the front door. “Let’s go, honey, time to open up!” A woman wearing an oversized parka and a Washington Redskins hat rattled the locked door, perplexed that 7:01 had arrived without her inside. An older woman, apparently the store manager, ambled deliberately to the front door, a clutch of keys in her hands. Someone behind me gave a loud whistle and, before I could turn to look, the door lock clicked open and the line instantly surged forward. The frail old woman in front of me threw a nasty elbow into my ribs as I was shoved ahead, sandwiching her between me and her hefty daughter. As we squeezed through the doorway, I was impressed by the speed and agility of the frenzied females already dashing through the store, laying claim to their merchandize with wild eyes and gritting teeth. By the time I found where the comforters had been, nothing remained on the shelves but a lone glove, estranged from someone’s tiny hand. It became obvious that I was moving too slowly to get most of the things on my list, so I focused on the Blue Willow china sets. “Remember, the Blue Willow design has the three guys on the bridge. That’s how you’ll know.” Susan’s direction came to mind as I confirmed the contents of the last three boxes of Blue Willow in stock. I was pondering the significance of the three guys on the bridge when a frantic, disheveled young man rushed over to me. “Dang, are those the last three?!” His face turned ashen as I nodded. “I overslept and now my wife is going to kill me. All I needed was one stupid set of Blue Willow!” The man looked stunned as I handed him one of the boxes. In a rare moment of clarity, it occurred to me why the three guys were on the bridge. They were ready to jump to their deaths rather than returning to their wives without the elusive Blue Willow china.

A Note From Shannon and Buddy

Dick — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 00:52:54 GMT

In an effort to promote diversity, entertain the kids and go places the Seedy T would never dream of going, the regular author of this of this column has yielded this space in favor of his eldest child, Shannon, and her troubled middle sibling, Buddy. The publisher hopes the fact that they are dogs will not prevent you from reading further. Thank you! Shannon: It’s been a quiet week in Bellefonte, my home town… Buddy: Don’t let her fool ya, she’s from Maryland, originally. Shannon: Oh hush! As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted by my chunky brother and his big smelly yap! Buddy: I’m “big-boned” and you know it! Shannon: Anyway, we’ve experienced a bit of upheaval in the Knupp household this week. Mom had surgery and has been laid up in the hospital for several days. That means Dad has had to take on all the additional responsibilities that we usually entrust to Mom. I love my dad more than anything, but I really have to wonder how he managed all those years before he was married! Buddy: “Luckily, underwear is reversible,” he told me. The he said something about not really needing bed sheets, let alone clean ones. To be honest, I didn’t know where he was going with that. Shannon: OK, thanks for sharing. Now please go play in traffic! Where was I? Oh yeah, Dad! He’s been walking around with this pained expression on his face, muttering sentences that begin with the words, “Where does your mother keep…?” Buddy: I wasn’t too concerned until he said, “So, if I was the dog food, where would I be?” Even though it’s been in the same place for almost three years, I did panic at that point. I tend to be hypoglycemic! Shannon: No, you tend to eat everything in sight! Why else would one eat dead squirrels and deer droppings?! See “smelly yap” above. Buddy: Um, can you say “vitamin deficiency?” Shannon: No, but “brain deficiency” suddenly comes to mind. Anyway, being fed on a semi-regular schedule is not so bad, as it turns out. As Lindsay will attest, leftover pizza is just as good for breakfast as it is for dinner. I have to agree. Dad says it’s just like a “bachelor pad” around here without Mom on patrol. Buddy: Yes, that would explain the mountain of dirty laundry and the fact that Lindsay gets to stay up past 11 o’clock on a school night. Shannon: Because of his shortcomings on the domestic front and woeful lack of parenting skills, Dad has taken to periodically running into the woods behind our house and screaming at the top of his lungs. Some of the kids in the neighborhood apparently chose to avoid our house on Halloween night, as a result. What they didn’t realize was that “the crazy man in the big white house” wasn’t trying to scare them. That time he was just mad because he locked himself out of the house. Buddy: Poor Lindsay thought Dad was mad at her, the way he was yelling. No wonder she wouldn’t open the door! Shannon: At any rate, Mom is coming home from the hospital tomorrow and we’re all anxious to have her back. It just breaks my heart when little Lindsay cries herself to sleep, sobbing, “I want my mommmmy, not my dadddddy!” Mom makes everything alright for everyone, especially Dad.

Photographs and Memories

Dick — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 00:50:47 GMT

Over the course of my 45 years I have often heard the question, “Where were you when Kennedy was shot?” Many of those old enough to remember that fateful day in November 1963 recall exactly where they were when they heard the dreadful news. I was nearly four years old at the time and I seem to remember that moment as if it were a museum display in a dark corridor of my mind. We lived in the “Cemetery House” at the top of the hill on East Howard St. then. I remember walking from the under the arch over the driveway entrance, to the grassy area separating the house from the nearest headstones. Seated in a swing and fascinated by my dangling feet, I remember the sun felt good as it warmed my neck. My mom was inside the house. Through the screen of an open window and over the drone of daytime television, I heard her talking to my younger siblings while she busied herself with household chores. Suddenly Mom stifled Lesa’s jabbering when a man came on the TV with a breaking news bulletin. Years later I learned that the man’s name was Walter Cronkite. But back then I knew him only as the man who made my mom cry. When I think of that day, I see that window screen, hear the name John F. Kennedy and feel the palpable sadness of a nation in mourning. Only now I realize that, aside from JFK being killed, the vivid mental picture of that day is likely a fiction. Susan says I have a tendency to “make things up” and this may well be an example of that. It occurred to me while talking with my nearly 6-year old daughter recently, that it’s unlikely I remember that day. Lindsay has no recollection of ever having lived in Virginia, even though she was “nearly 4 years old” when we moved. Heck, she has only vague memories of being to Disneyland, and we went there last spring! So how likely is it that I remember November 22, 1963? And we had the windows open?! Were we crazy?! Don’t answer that! OK, so my mental picture of our time at the Cemetery House may not be the most reliable, so all I have to fall back on are photographs and the collective memories of my family. The stories of childhood, though initially grounded in a snapshot of reality, often go on flights of fancy as the years go by. One such photo, also taken in that house, incites what might be a bit of augmented folklore. It’s a shot of my sister Lesa sitting on a stool with both legs inside one leg of a pajama bottom. My Mom holds the empty leg out while a puzzled look knits her brow. Lesa looks totally oblivious. So how is it that she was savvy enough, at age 2 or 3, to convince me to accompany her on an early morning stroll in our birthday suits? Legend has it that, after applying generous amounts of Hershey’s syrup and butter to our faces and hair, we slipped out the front door of 334 East Howard wearing only throw rugs as makeshift capes. A neighbor spotted us as we made our way down the hill, calling the police before we arrived downtown. The policeman who nabbed us in front of the Logan Fire Hall was someone my Dad knew. He could barely contain his laughter when he delivered us to our front doorstep. “Good morning Dick! Word has it that these two chocolate-covered doughnuts might belong to you.” Dad shook his sleepy head, grinned a bit, and then feigned a look of seriousness. “That depends…what did they do? My dad is a comedian who gets funnier every time that story is told!

Paradox Lost

Dick — Thu, 06 Apr 2006 00:49:38 GMT

Despite repeated attempts to alienate family, friends and acquaintances by including them in my weekly column, I’ve only been physically threatened by my brother, Doug, and a man from Pleasant Gap whose wife keeps hiding copies of the Bellefonte Gazette under her pillow. Apparently, I’m kind of funny. Fortunately, looks aren’t everything! While I’ve gotten a lot of positive feedback, I’ve also noticed that folks are starting to watch their “p’s and q’s” around me, not wanting to end up with their foibles exposed to the rarified air of this fine publication. “Wait, you’re not gonna write about this, are ya?” “If I tell you this, will you promise me that it won’t end up in the Gazette? “Just remember, Mister, I can always write a story about the time you and your sister walked down to the Logan Fire House wearing nothing but a throw rug!” As one can plainly see, not only will it become more and more difficult to crank out these little slices of life, but my own dignity may well be in jeopardy. I’ve toyed with the idea of not writing the column, but I’m buoyed by the positive comments I’ve received. So, I’ll keep going. Until I come to my senses, consider the following: The Top 10 Reasons you shouldn’t read this column: 10. The author says things like, “No man is an island…but some ARE peninsulas.” He doesn’t know what it means either. 9. The original title for the column was Dumb Stuff I Think About While On the Toilet. 8. Two words. Dain Bramage! 7. If they see you reading it, people will talk. 6. You could be called as a witness in either a divorce proceeding or a manslaughter trial. Susan can take only so much… 5. “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son.” 4. Rick Capozzi’s column is better and has stuff you can actually use. 3. Trimming unsightly ear hair will make you more attractive to the ladies. Put the paper down now! 2. Who knows? Maybe there’s something good on television. 1. Four out of five dentists surveyed think it’s almost as good as a root canal. There you have it, faithful readers. A cautionary tale in a form even David Letterman could understand. Nothing like a good top-ten list to break the monotony! I’m enjoying the process of scraping up whatever drips out of my brain each week, hopefully there’s something entertaining or worthwhile in what I write. I’ll keep doing it until someone asks me to stop or Elvis re-emerges, whichever comes first. This writing thing is a psychosis for which psychotropic drugs may be the only hope. I just want to say thanks for your loyal readership! Anyway, I can’t quit now! I just remembered that the story about my sister and I is actually pretty funny. Kids and Hershey’s syrup…always a good time!

The Weather Up Here

Dick — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 02:20:21 GMT

Mom was on the lookout when we arrived at the party, making a beeline for us as soon as my size 13 shoes crossed the threshold. “Hi! Dick, there’s someone here you simply MUST meet! Do you want to meet someone even taller than you?!” Though I plainly said, “No,” she--being a mom--proceeded to drag me by the arm through the crowd in the adjoining room. “Mark!” she shouted, “come meet my son!” Before I had a chance to argue the point and gracefully exit the situation, Mom deposited me next to a very large-framed man sitting uncomfortably in a small wooden chair. Indeed, when he rose to shake my hand, he was clearly much closer to seven feet tall than six. I know my mom meant well, thinking that we tall people consider comparative shoe and inseam sizes a fabulous basis for social interaction. But, like most people of average stature, she doesn’t know what its like to live in a world where you both stand out and have trouble fitting in. When Susan and I traveled to China to adopt our daughter Lindsay, we made some tourist stops before the actual “gotcha” day. It was apparent that the general population viewed me as somewhat of a spectacle, given the amount of finger-pointing, eye-popping and not-so-subtle whispering. At 6’5”, I jokingly thought, I might just be the largest human being on the Asian continent! Something happened just outside the walls of the Forbidden City in Beijing, making that notion seem less absurd. As we waited for our traveling companions to arrive, a very polite Chinese man asked me something in very broken English regarding picture-taking. I assumed he asked me to take a photo of him and his nearby family and I happily agreed to do so. As I reached out to take the camera from him, he waved me off and motioned for his family to join me. They quickly assembled themselves on either side of me, all seven members of what looked to be three generations. One of the elderly males couldn’t take his eyes off me and his wife giggled when I draped my long arm over both of their shoulders. Three cheesy smiles later, we were done. They were done, rather. Our little photo shoot drew the interest of many bystanders and suddenly a queue of hopeful families formed, waiting their turn to have a picture taken with the giant Caucasian. I was so taken aback, yet weirdly flattered by the whole event, that those Chinese families may well have the only extant photos of me where I’m not purposely making a funny face. Other than one I was born with, that is. Oh sure, I was an instant celebrity in China, but that got creepy after a while. Back home, however, being extra tall is no picnic. It’s extremely difficult to buy pants “off the rack”, as many stores don’t regularly carry inseams over 34 inches. Most fuel-efficient cars cannot comfortably accommodate gargantuan drivers, so we often must buy SUVs. Seats in planes are too cramped, lighting fixtures are too low, and visits to historical sites are often punctuated by scalp lacerations. The founding fathers were shrimps! -So, if you ask me how tall I am, I often say, “I’m 5 foot 17”. -If you ask me if I played basketball, I’ll tell that I did until they made me stop. -If you ask me, “how’s the weather up there?” I may spit on your forehead and tell you it’s raining. -Yes, I’d be happy to reach that for you, but I’d rather show you how well I juggle. -Did you know that I like to write? -I can order a beer in Mandarin…want one?

First Flake of the Season

Dick — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 02:17:30 GMT

Rumor has it that the first flake of the season was spotted near Beaver Stadium last Saturday morning around 7:30. I’m sorry to disappoint those expecting a long-overdue tome about meteorology or severe scalp itch, but this flake wore a Virginia Tech hat and carried large orange-colored pieces of foam under one arm. He was observed eating beef jerky and drinking Yoohoo at the time. The flake was greeted by the usual complement of six or seven parking attendants -- mostly male, in their 20s and not particularly chatty at that hour. As a member of their crew, he parks cars as a way to make a little extra money and see the Penn State football games for free. The lot opened at 8 a.m., even though the game wouldn’t kick-off until nearly 3:45 p.m. A car or two wandered into the lot every so often, filled with tailgaters -- some of whom already had their game faces painted on and were even then filled with team “spirit”. Beer -- It’s not just for breakfast anymore! The fog burned off and, around 11:30, the trickle of automobiles entering the lot became a steady stream. The flake and his parking crew positioned themselves along the gravel road, stacking neatly spaced rows of cars in what is normally a sheep pasture. The flake stood at the head of the line, thinking of himself as the Lot #20 goodwill ambassador. Once past the ticket sellers at the gate, the driver’s eyes immediately spotted the flake. To both show them where to go and to elicit cheap laughter, the flake wore large foam “hands,” with a single finger pointing in the “we’re number one!” fashion. Exaggerated arm movements and fancy dance steps were employed to point the way. He enjoyed watching the faces of passengers relax from the serious work of navigation, not able to stifle a smile as they passed the large, orange-finger-pointing man with a goofy grin on his face. Some quick-witted individuals slowed down just enough to let a zinger fly. “Excuse me; my wife wants to know why you’re giving her the finger? Ha ha ha!” The flake wheeled around, firing a clever retort before the thought became clearly-formed in his mind. “It’s two fingers and yer wife can’t have my jerky and eat it too…er sumpin!” He hoped it either went unheard or was received in the spirit in which it was intended. A moment later the first of several comments about his hat was made by a scary-looking man in a black SUV. “Look at you! You got a Virginia Tech hat and you’re wearing a Penn State jersey underneath what looks like a Baltimore Ravens jacket! What in the HELL is wrong with you?!” Because the man looked dead-serious and remarkably similar to anyone’s notion of a serial killer, the flake admitted the obvious. “I’m a deeply-troubled young man who collects cheap college hats and thinks it’s somehow funny to wear them to the Penn State games…I need professional help.” Without missing a beat, the SUV man deadpanned, “Son, you ain’t THAT young!” The flake was relieved to hear maniacal laughter as he drove on. Amid the passing shouts, giggles and head shaking, the lot filled up by 2. The flake had plenty of time to get to the stadium and thoroughly enjoyed the eventual butt-whippin’ of Minnesota by his Nittany Lions. On his drive home after the game, the flake thought about the team’s new winning ways and how, maybe, the big orange hands were the things that tipped the cosmic scales in favor of this “new normal” for Penn State football fans. Yes, it seems bizarre and unreasonable, but this flake isn’t plagued by conventional wisdom. Maybe I’ll wear my Ohio State hat this week and see if I live to tell the tale.

Are We There Yet?, Part Deux

Dick — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 02:14:52 GMT

Entering “The Farm House”, it was clear that, although the Department of Homeland Security was hastily created just a few years back, its employees were already mired in a Federal lethargy usually typical of tree sloths and small children tasked with doing just about anything. Life itself seemed bogged down in the inertia of passing time. A thin, mustachioed man sat positioned as the “receptionist” along side rows of folding chairs, rarely looking up at the half dozen folks sitting around us. Lindsay seemed fascinated by the man as he studied each in a small stack of clipboards. I suddenly noticed the reason why she was transfixed. Before I could pray that my intuition was wrong, she piped up in a voice everyone could hear. “Mommy, look at that man’s hand! It looks really funny!” The man raised and waved his digit-deficient hand with a grin, no doubt a veteran of this sort of parent-embarrassing faux pas. Susan quickly drew parallels to my dad’s loss of fingertips to a saw blade a while back, hoping to divert further queries. Our blushing nearly dissipated by the time a frenetic young woman appeared in a doorway, calling us inside for our turn to get fingerprinted. “Mr. and Mrs. Knutt, welcome. Sorry for the wait. We have some people out “sick” today, so we’re kind of backed up right now.” Ms. Mayfield seemed pleasant, though frazzled. We followed her into what was once a large family room and now a processing area. She looked back at Lindsay as she padded alongside her mother. “Child, where are your shoes?!” Lindsay pointed up at me and Ms. Mayfield nodded knowingly. “Oh, I see, Daddy is the bonehead du jour. Well then, Daddy has to go first!’ Lindsay smiled, acknowledging it as fitting penance. Ms. Mayfield led me over to a machine about the size of a typical business copier and no doubt a hundred times more expensive. I could see now why this was only one of three places in Pennsylvania where these kinds of prints could be taken. Instead of inking up my fingers and making smudgy imprints on paper, she sprayed water on them and rolled each finger on a glass platen. The ultra-sophisticated LCD screen displayed a detailed image of each curl and swirl, calling to mind the technology seen on TV shows like “CSI”. Because the scanning machine was built for “normal” size people, I had to hunch over and stand slightly behind Ms. Mayfield as she maintained an impressive WWF wrist-hold on me. As she pressed my moist fingers on the glass, the machine seemed to think that the middle and ring fingers of my right hand were one in the same, thereby requiring her to restart the scanning cycle. By the seventh such attempt, not only had my back spasms begun in earnest, but I was beginning to suspect that Ms. Mayfield was actually enjoying holding my hands perilously close to her ample bosom. I know, dream on, loser! After I was finally done, Susan had her turn in the fingerprinting morass and we were soon on our way back home. We had a little time to spare, so we took Shoeless Joe to the local Wal-Mart where she found Strawberry Shortcake sneakers, with the obligatory Piezo-kinetic lighting scheme, to wear on the ride home. I didn’t care, as long as this part of our adoption journey was behind us and we got to the vet by 1 P.M. I’m happy to report that, like the dogs, we’re all healthy, could eat less/exercise more, have unfortunately timed bouts of gas, and can’t wait for our Maya to finally come home. It will be several months before we can make that journey, finally answering “yes” to the question, “Are we there yet?”