Beowulf Has Crossed the Rainbow Bridge

No one knows where Beowulf came from.

The above is one of the first photos I ever took of him. Beowulf was found wandering the fields around Huntington County, Indiana, southwest of Fort Wayne. To this day no one knows where he came from--he wore a collar so rusted it couldn't be unbuckled, and had to be cut off. Clearly he'd had a rough life for awhile.

 

He was very serious, and also very curious. I suspect he was mistreated by his former owner, because he would whine instead of bark, and was a little jumpy when touched. We did our best to make him feel at home, and I think it worked: One day he got off his line in the backyard, and when I started a panicked search I found him patiently waiting at the front door.

 

Gradually he relaxed and, as will happen, became family. He never chewed on anything unless he knew he was allowed to, and when someone passed by he would bark at them for one reason: He wanted us to let them in so he could make friends. (Having said that, he saw any animal smaller than him as food, giving us some insight into his former life.)

He loved every kid who came around, and most adults--unless he detected alcohol on their breath. Then he'd start to growl and become protective, which perhaps gives us another look into his past.

 

Like us he loved to travel, but he also loved to get home.

But he got old, as dogs do, and people. Neuropathy, hip dysplasia, hearing loss, cognitive problems. We were okay with him sleeping a lot--heck, I sleep a lot. But wandering in circles, steering himself into corners and just standing there, whining when he should have been comfortable ...

Sometimes there comes a time when you have to consider if you're keeping them around for their happiness--or yours. We got him about six months after Emily and I were married. The vet's estimation of his age meant he was around sixteen years old. It was time.

In the last photo ever taken with the three of us together, Emily and I were smiling, kind of. I think I can speak for both of us when I saw they were forced smiles.

 I'd like to give a shout-out to Line Street Veterinary Hospital in Columbia City, a place we'd gotten more and more familiar with in recent years. You don't have a pet for eleven years and just let him go with a "he's just a dog". They understood that. They let us in through a private door, set out last treats, and gave us all the time we needed, which was a fair amount. We fed him Hershey's Kisses because, as the jar they were in said, no one should pass away without tasting chocolate first.

He wasn't just a dog. He was family. Now he's crossed the rainbow bridge, to frolic with the family members who came before him (as Emily told him to at the end). There aren't any words to describe how much he'll be missed.

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The Headache Medicine That Gives You Headaches

 Just a few medical thoughts shooting through my mind like a runaway bottle rocket (only the thoughts aren't as exciting). Come to think of it, fireworks were once involved in my medical condition, but never mind.

My annual major sinus infection has arrived, a bit later than usual, possibly as another way to welcome in the New Year. Because I'm having more pain and pressure this time (Naturally--it's the Roaring Pain 20s.), the Doc decided to put me on prednisone.

Despite my previous experience with the stuff.

Well, maybe it'll be different this time. After all, that's what people have been saying about 2022, isn't it?

"It has to be better than 2021!"

Hah. No, it doesn't.

The irony is that last time they gave me prednisone, several years ago, I was struck with one of the typical side effects: severe headache. So, to help my headache, I'm taking a med that gives me headaches.

It could be worse.

Speaking of headaches, the morning I went to pick up the prednisone and my old friends, the antibiotics, we had an ice storm. It wasn't much of an ice storm, but I'm sure my walk to the car was a good preview of how I'll be walking when I'm 90, assuming a sinus infection hasn't killed me by then.

Bad weather, especially when it's cold, tends to give me ... sinus headaches.

Still, a lot of the really bad winter weather this year has been south of us. My humorist friend, Barry Parham, lives in South Carolina, and this year has seen five times the amount of snow we have. I hate snow. The only kind of precipitation I hate more is ... ice.

I survived the trip to pick up my meds (how ironic would it be if I didn't?), and my only near-collision was when I got buzzed by a speed skating competition. Then I came home, read the list of prednisone side-effects, and promptly called in sick on the assumption I'd get them all.

No, of course I didn't call in sick--I don't do that unless I'm running a fever, or missing both legs.(Maybe I would show up if I lost both legs. I've never tried it.) On the subject of showing up, the day before the ice storms I was exposed to someone who the next day tested positive for COVID.

Tell me again how wonderful 2022 is going to be.

It could always be worse.

 

I thought that would give me a week home to write, but no--unfortunately, I'm fully vaccinated, the person who tested positive just had their booster and is asymptomatic, and I'm just not that good at faking illness. Even my grandmother and the dog are feeling better.

Speaking of the dog, the veterinarian says the med she gave us for Beowulf tastes even worse than prednisone, and that's going some. How the vet knows that, I was afraid to ask.

This explains why we gave up trying to give him the pill in food (the dog, not the vet), and Emily had to resort to force. I mean, on the dog--I took mine voluntarily, and thus have no excuse. Emily correctly informed me that I'm not tough enough to do the job, which involves prying open Beowulf's jaws and shooting the pill in like a basketball. All she had to do was avoid the three-point bite.

(Our high school men's basketball team just won their conference championship, so I'm allowed to make a basketball joke even though I hate basketball.)

So, having left the second full week of the year behind, my impression remains the same as it did after the first week: 2022 sucks.

Unless you're a Central Noble basketball player. Or manufacture medicine.

"At least you didn't get vertigo, fella."

 

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

Injured Grandma, Sick Dog

Before we start, let me stress: Everyone's doing better.

 

So, how has 2022 been for you, so far? A rerun of the last two years? Me, too.

The first week of the year we had to take Beowulf to the animal hospital in Fort Wayne, and we returned just in time to learn my 96 year old grandmother was being taken to a human hospital with a possible broken hip. This was the day my three day work weekend started: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, 12 hours each. Some of the kids at work like having more days off, but for me it takes a couple of days after to recover.

The horse was not involved with her fall.

 

 But never mind that, the important stuff is as follows: Grandma Nannie (Nannie is her real name) did not have a broken hip, although she did bang it up pretty good. She's going to have to have physical therapy, and as a person married to someone who just finished that, I can tell you it's no fun even for someone younger.

But the good news is that for rehab she's been transferred to Lutheran Life Villages in Kendallville, where she's stayed before, and so at least is not in a pandemic overwhelmed hospital.

I found out about her fall when I got to work Friday night. Earlier in the day I'd laid down to take my pre-work nap, but after about an hour Emily woke me to say the dog needed to go to the vet. Waking me and using the word "vet" are not things she takes lightly.

We had a chore getting Beowulf in the car, and they had to take him into the animal hospital on a cot. If you're not a pet lover, you might not understand just how distressing that is. Well ... it is.

He kept throwing up and stumbling into things, veering constantly to the left. He was like a drunk Democrat. ('Cause--left. It's a joke, like when I had a right leaning lawn mower.) The verdict: Vertigo. The Doc said he had a neurological condition (dog, not Doc), which comes in two types: The "In a few days he'll start doing better" type, or the "would you prefer burial or cremation" type. After numerous tests, the Doc thought it was the "good" one.

With me working twelve hour shifts all weekend, which I can only handle with a dose of melatonin and ten hours of strange dreams in between, it was left to Emily to nurse poor Beowulf through the weekend. (It was Emily who took these pictures of him--she would send pics to me as updates.)

Granted that once the meds took effect he slept a lot, but she had to be near him the whole time for when he woke up and tried to stagger around. Also, she had to give him the meds that we couldn't sneak into food, because the meds made him lose his appetite. Personally, I think she deserves a reward other than a good night's sleep, which she also deserves. Cheesecake?

So that's how the opening of 2022 went for us. Everyone seems on the road to recovery, so I guess you could call that a win, although I'd just as soon not have things like this happen to begin with.

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https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
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Some Thoughts On Being Sick

 The other day I sneezed my head off, and I'd like to thank my wife, Emily, for not only retrieving it but helping me get my head on straight.

It was a challenge. I sneezed so hard my head bounced from the living room into the kitchen, where our dog got his hands--um, mouth--on it, thinking it was a new toy. Emily ran after him and got it back, but now I have tooth marks on my forehead and a chewed up ear. The staples I won't complain about--we didn't have thread.

She had to tackle him. It wasn't pretty.

Okay, it's possible I'm exaggerating. Slightly. Certainly my sneezes did startle Beowulf several times, and he'd come running to make sure I was okay. Or possibly he came running to see if I'd overturned a plate of food. It was all because we made a foolish mask error, and two days after we did Emily came down with a bad head cold. When I got it a few days later it was worse, of course, because I'm a man.

You may have heard the term "man flu", but it really was only a cold, and since it wasn't the coronavirus I don't have much room to complain. Just the same, Emily and I agreed that this was "just" a cold the way the Federal government does a "little" overspending. We were down for a week, much of which I don't remember because NyQuil is wonderful.

They way I measure my illnesses: I know it's bad when I take a sick day from work. In my job, if I call in sick somebody else has to work the shift, and I don't need any new enemies. At the same time, I've often lectured coworkers that if they might be contagious they should stay the heck home, and either I was contagious or my wife and I take this sharing thing way too far.

A rare photo of me pre-sneeze. The camera was recovered days later, but the photographer remains missing.

 

The next levels of illness involve what I do if I stay home. If I can get some writing done, I'm in fairly good shape. If I don't feel up to writing, then that's quality reading time. If all I can do is sit in a lump and catch up on TV, call the coroner.

If I lose my appetite, I'm on death's doorstep. I did lose a few pounds over that period, but it's not a diet I'd recommend.

Meanwhile I really did have some impressive sneezes, although the only damage they did was crack windows and shatter nerves. The US Geological Survey says the worst of them only registered as a 4.7 in Chicago, which is barely higher than the sound of cell doors slamming on indicted Illinois governors.

Anyway, we got by with the help of chicken noodle soup, vitamin C, and modern pharmaceuticals. Wait. Pharma ... p ... h ... a ...

Um, drugs.

NyQuil is coma-inducing manna from Heaven. Did I mention that? On one day I slept for ten hours straight. But I have the same question about it that I have about Benadryl: Does it really do anything about my symptoms? Or does it make me sleep so deeply I just don't notice them? I don't remember.

Oh, I almost forgot one other indispensable thing: Kleenex.

The guy who invented Kleenex deserved a Noble Prize in Awesome.

The trick is to position so many boxes around the house that you could step from one to another. We had 2.4 boxes of Kleenex per room on average, with fewer in the basement and one by every chair in the living room. Fourteen trees died for our noses, in just one week. Always have plenty of Kleenex.

And NyQuil. Did I mention it's awesome?

A recent photo of my upper respiratory system.

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https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
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A short story, a dog, and me as an elf.

There's a free short story in this month's newsletter!

https://mailchi.mp/f7dac5e562b2/heres-your-free-short-story-and-a-link-to-our-new-book-which-is-much-longer-but-not-quite-as-free

There's also me as an elf, a link to the new book, and, yes, a sad dog. But not to worry--he wasn't really sad, just sleepy.

Writing on Staycation, or: Ignore the dog

We've been on a staycation, during which I practiced writing full time. After all, if you have a goal, you should know what that goal entails.

Anyone who's done it will tell you the hard thing about working from home is avoiding distractions. (By the way, we really liked the new series, "Batwoman".) First rule: Turn off the TV, and turn on movie scores and classical music. Other voices, it turns out, interfere with my writing voice.

But before that, we had to get my new medical problems handled, and how often have I said that? As I mentioned before, my routine colonoscopy led to the discovery that I had another massive sinus infection, and also that the top of my head was about to blow off.

My blood pressure was so high that medical professionals who'd been on the job for twenty years would take it, then call in another medical pro: "Here, you try--that can't be right."

It was right. So they put me on two meds, one of which is a diuretic.

By the way, it's very important to understand that there's a big difference between diuretic and diarrhetic--big difference. Although they both involve the bathroom.

What the medication's designed to do is make me pee. A lot. As they ushered me out the door with this med, the nurse told me, "Now, make sure you drink plenty of fluids while you're on this."

Okay. So ... you want me to drink a lot of fluids while I'm on this drug that's designed to get rid of a lot of fluids? Got it.

But never mind. After my diastolic BP dropped thirty points and the little Terminator stopped shooting off his Gatling gun inside my skull, I discovered that I can, indeed, discipline myself enough to work on writing eight hours a day. (And also enough to give up the salt shaker.)

Even accounting for non-writing writing work, such as ... well, this blog ... I managed to add over 10,000 words to my novel-in-progress in a week. And that's good, because it's a mystery story, and keeping at it helps me remember what the heck is going on.

(Respect to writers who joined NaNoWriMo, an effort to write 50,000 words during November. I did it twice, and it was rough.)

At the same time Emily finished her editing work on our newest book, More Slightly Off the Mark, and we just got the first proof copy back. Now we check it for still more problems that need corrected, but it'll be available for Christmas order. It kind of makes me wish more of my weeks went like this.

Except for the Gatling gun part.

I posted this on Instagram the other day, showing that it made for TWO distractions.

Don't forget our upcoming author appearance:

https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2019/11/author-appearance-december-6th-during.html


 

Bunnies, bunnies, it must be bunnies

Or, for you Buffy the Vampire Slayer fans, maybe midgets.

Do you ever get the feeling that some animals have a death wish? Me, too. Deer running in front of you, birds playing tag with your car--on the interstate.

Then there are the more gentle daredevils.

A family of bunnies has been living in my back yard. I don't have a problem with that, but in both the previous photos the little youth rabbits were hanging out only a few feet from our back door. This would be the same back door our dog comes out of when he has to do his business. There's a cat that's been prowling around that same area.

Have you seen my dog?

He's not small. And I've learned he likes little animals ... for dinner.

And get this: I'm finding the little piles of bunny pellets inside the range of Beowulf's line. (By the way, they're not chocolate candy. Remember that.) It's like they're pooping on his turf just to antagonize them. I'm living on the same property as Bugs Bunny.



My only conclusion is that they're teenage bunnies. You know how teenagers are: always taking chances, thinking they're indestructible. That has to be it.

This one's probably mom, hanging out safely at the end of the driveway. Doesn't she look worried? Yes, she does. If I could speak rabbit, I'd probably hear: "You bunnies get out of that dog's range! You're going to fall down and break your leg and put your eye out, and if you do, don't come running to me!"

Chapter length, and why it matters. Or doesn't.

So, while Emily was scanning photos for the new Albion Fire Department book, I finished up the first draft of Still Slightly Off the Mark: The Prequel.

(Keep in mind that, with first drafts, the title is just a suggestion.)

"That sounds a lot like one of your other books."

Of course, there will be changes. For one thing, I'm putting a few pictures into the book. Don't tell Emily, she's up to her arms in pictures for another book, and just might strangle me. That would increase sales, I suppose.

As I was looking over the draft, I also counted chapter lengths. I'm not OCD by any means, much, usually, but I like my chapters to be approximately the same length. There's no particular reason for that; in fact, chapters should be the length they are, along the lines of "start at the beginning, go on to the end, then stop".

But in this rough draft, my longest chapter is nineteen pages ... and my shortest is three.

Yeah, that's not gonna happen.

This is a humor book, and I think a humor book chapter should be no longer than, say, the average bathroom break. So I'm thinking of chopping up the longer chapters into short ones, which will probably leave me with around two dozen or so. What do you think? Do you prefer long or short chapters? And does it bother you if they vary greatly in one book?

And how much do you think it annoyed the dog to find himself holding a copy of the original Slightly Off the Mark? I mean, he got his picture on the cover, so who is he to complain?

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https://www.amazon.com/Mark-R-Hunter/e/B0058CL6OO

A tale of two photos

I posted a photo on Instagram in August that was pretty popular, even though I thought it was a little dark. I've noticed that I tend to prefer a lightened version of my photos, but now I'm wondering if they're better, or if's just me preferring brighter. So ... I'm asking you. This photo was taken at dusk along Sand Lake, at Chain O' Lakes Park near Albion. Which version do you prefer?

The original:

The slightly brightened:

That's the family out on the dock, of course.

I studied photography for quite a while, but that was back in the film days; I'm still getting used to the idea that I can make substantial changes to a picture after taking it.

Doggie DNA

Sometimes you just have to know where you came from.

But we don't have the money for that, so instead we decided to find out where our dog came from. So Emily found a doggie DNA test on sale and gave it to me as a Christmas present--I mean, she bought the test for me, to give to the dog--never mind. The point is, the results are in! It turns out Baeowulf (that's our spelling, get over it) is ... wait for it ... a dog.

That was kinda anticlimactic.

More specifically, Bae is, like most good Americans, a mutt. Or maybe I shouldn't say like  Americans, since it turns out he's 25% German Shepherd. I believe Emily and I both have some German in our ancestry, so ... coincidence? Well, yeah.

But he's 12.5% each of five other breeds, with a smattering of others. In fact, it would appear that his parents had a party: One was a German Shepherd/Old English Sheepdog/Siberian Husky, and the other was a Collie/Labrador Retriever/White Swiss Shepherd. So, just as my wife and I have Cherokee in us, Bae has Shepherd on both sides. Awkward family reunions.

I saw definite connections in some of what the company claims are common breed behaviors. For instance:

They say German Shepherds can vary from calm and watchful to energetic. This describes Bae: for instance, calm and half-asleep until the moment the mail arrives, followed by him trying to break the door down like a TV cop. He's completely guilt-free about it: "Dude, he came onto my porch. My porch! All I want is a leg."

Then there's the Collie, which like most of the others is described as intelligent. According to Wisdom Panel they're usually friendly, but can be wary of strangers. That fits: Bae is wary of strangers until the moment he gets that first pat on the head, then he's in love--as long as you don't mess with Mom Emily.

The Lab, in addition to meeting the other descriptions, can be very food motivated. Bae can be asleep in the other corner of the house, but if we even think about the kitchen he'll come running as if the postman is in it.

The English Sheepdog can be motivated by food too, and favorite toys, but he can be stubborn. Try to get Bae to take a pill or a shower, and he's stubborn as a politician guarding his taxes.

The Siberian Husky may chase wildlife. Bae will chase wildlife. And if it moves, it's wildlife.

Then there's the White Swiss Shepherd. Raciiisstttt!!!! The White ... um, let's call him the Swiss ... can be aggressive with other pets or people. Bae usually isn't, unless he and Emily are alone and anyone comes within a mile of her. Then they will be eaten, and killed. Hopefully not in that order.

Finally there was the "Mixed-breed" group, which made up the last 12.5%. Basically the DNA tests found evidence of those groups from way back in Bae's ancestry, just like I go Irish if you search back to the early 1700s. To paraphrase a line from "Stripes", we've been kicked out of every decent country in the world.

Part is the Asian groups, which shockingly are compromised of breeds from Asia--and the Arctic. That's Malamute, Shar-Pei, and Chow, for instance. They're often bred for guarding, which explains why even I can't approach my wife without getting Bae's attention.

Part is the Sighthound Group, which were old breeds often owned by royalty. You got your Greyhounds, you got your Wolfhounds, you got your Whippet--Whippet good. (You older music buffs, you'll get that one.) No, I don't know why kings and princes wanted fast dogs. To chase queens and princesses? There'll be a Disney movie about this.

Finally comes the Terrier group. I didn't see that coming. They were bred to hunt and kill vermin, such as mice, rats, and politicians. I guess I should have seen that coming, since all Bae has to do is smell one of those from a distance and he's in jumping and biting mode--came in real handy during the election. Still, I have a hard time relating a 95 pound dog to a Chihuahua.

Apparently they tested for 200-250 breeds, which is pretty impressive. We expected he might have some wolf in him, but that--they call it Wild Canids--came up negative, as did Companion, Guard, Hounds, Mountain, Middle East, and African breeds.

Just the same, I think he does companion just fine.

Checking out the neighborhood

Bae goes for a ride to survey his domain. Who else is going to keep the house safe from all those suspicious people in the neighborhood?

Rockabye Baewulf, in Aneshesia

Poor Bae had a rough day. He needed a good teeth cleaning and had to be anesthesized for it, which is a fancy way of saying put to sleep, but that's not a term you want to use when talking about pets. I suggested reading one of my books to him, but the vet thought we should use a more scientific method. Also, the vet refused to buy one of my books.

He also needed to have his nails trimmed. (Bae, not the vet. Well, maybe both.) Now, we don't know what happened to the poor guy before we got him (Bae, not the vet); but one thing we've learned is that you are not going to trim his nails while he's awake. The only time I ever saw him try to bite someone was when they were trying to give him a trim.

So we dropped Bae off at the vet at 8 a.m., with instructions to pick him up sometime between 2 and 5 p.m. We rushed back in at 1:55.

You see, in addition to it being the first time he was away from home without us, it was the first time we were home without him since he first arrived. Mommy and Daddy were very stressed. We were also worried about how he'd handle being in a kennel without us around: When we first got Bae, we had a metal cage to keep him in until he was potty trained, for when we had to go away. It was one of those heavy gauge wire things, designed for large dogs, since Bae weights around 90 pounds.

He tore it apart. That's not a figurative term, he literally tore it apart.

We shouldn't have worried: When they led Bae out the best he could do was give us a weak tail wave and stumble to the car. At home he summoned up enough energy to jump onto Emily's spot on the couch, where he remained. That stuff stayed in his system for hours, while we fed him a little broth and petted him, which he didn't seem to notice. It's too bad this had to disrupt his nap schedule. I myself took a three hour nap, and when I got up he was still out of it.

Next time I go to the dentist, I want me some of that stuff.

"Dude, stop with the pictures. I just want to sleeeppp....zzzzzzzz"

Glow in the dog

I gave the grand-twins a glow-in-the-dark model of the solar system for Christmas, but my daughter tells me the planets won't glow. Now I'm beginning to worry that Bae may have licked the glow material from their surfaces.

But at least he's snuggly.

Dog days at the dentist

Bae was very worried all day yesterday: It got rough for me at, and after, the dentist. Actually, I'm not sure if he was worried, or sick of all my moaning and groaning.

Dogs and Kids and Ibuprofen

Note to self: When taking an eight year old to the playground, please remember that you yourself are not eight years old, and neither is your spine.

On a related note, remember to stock up on ibuprofen and that stinging green slime stuff you get from the chiropractor.

On another related note to self: Steal a photo from Emily to illustrate this cause and effect, and how the dog was certain this activity was crazy human stuff:

But on the other hand, at least I wasn't recovering from having my tonsils removed, like my other grand-twin was.

Walk on the beach (in January)

It was 60 degrees yesterday, so we grabbed Brayden and headed off to the playgrounds around Bixler Lake in Kendallville. (Hunter is recovering from getting his tonsils out, so he couldn't go.) We also took a walk, down by the beach. Yes, our shoes (and paws) needed cleaned afterward, but if it hits 60 degrees in January, you really have to go out.

Fun With Inaugurations (No, not THIS inauguration!)

 This originally went up on the 4 County Mall website (although without the photos) here:

http://www.4countymall.com/single-post/2017/01/09/Fun-With-Inaugurations

SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK

This is inauguration month. You probably didn’t realize this, unless you’re one of the few people who followed the 2016 Presidential election. I mean, who paid attention to that?

It was the single nastiest election since I ran for high school student council in 1979, and came in fourteenth out of thirteen. (I was beaten by “none of the above”.) But I’m a humor writer, and humor writers are fearless, so I’m absolutely going to not write about that election because I’m not stupid. And not one of those other twelve student council candidates can deny that, not even the one who ran on the platform of banning shop class, which I voted for him.

Here in Indiana we’d much rather talk about basketball and the weather than politics. That includes me, and I hate basketball. Hoosiers only follow politics because of our belief that politicians are like dogs: They might do some things for you, but if you stop paying attention to them they’ll chew up everything and spread crap all over the place.

Mostly people here in the Middle would just like to be left alone to lead our lives, but if someone riles us up … well, that’s a different story. After all, this is a state where the governor once sent the American army to attack a political convention, in the state capital.

It was called the Battle of Pogue’s Run, and I devoted a whole section to it in my book Hoosier Hysterical because I thought it was—well—hysterical. (Look me up and I’ll sell you a copy for just ten bucks, or less if you’ve got one of those newfangled electronic do-dads.) Although there were no injuries, Pogue’s Run had all the makings of an epic story: rebellion against authority, a cavalry charge, cannons pitted against trains, pistols hidden in petticoats … you can’t make up stuff like that.

This is what people did for fun in Indianapolis, before the Colts arrived.

Pogue's Run. Some sports team plays in that building in the background.

As all fifteen of my regular readers know, I write these things early, so for me it’s three weeks before the 2017 presidential inauguration. Maybe we’ll have a repeat of 2009, when Chief Justice John Roberts mixed up his words while giving Barrack Obama the oath of office. People were so worried about it turning into a legal issue that Obama was sworn in again the next day—and that was over just 35 words.

Apparently no one took issue to Lyndon B. Johnson’s vice-presidential oath, in which he was supposed to say “without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion”, and instead said “without any mental reservation whatever”. Hey, we’ve all been there.

Anyway, in part of my ongoing effort to have something to write about—I mean, to educate the public—let’s see how things have gone wrong in past presidential inaugurations.

I’ve already written about William Henry Harrison, who gave the longest presidential inauguration speech ever, then promptly died. He should have taken note of George Washington’s speech, the shortest ever. Still, maybe it wasn’t the time so much as Harrison’s refusal to wear a coat: In 1937 Franklin D. Roosevelt watched the inauguration parade for an hour and a half during the rainiest inauguration day in history, and survived. Not only that, but he watched the whole thing while standing—and FDR couldn’t stand, without assistance.

President Harrison is feeling a little under the weather ...

In 1909 ten inches of snow fell on William H. Taft. Luckily he was a big, big guy, who just plowed through his speech.

In the inauguration of 1865 Abe Lincoln had a brand new vice-president, Andrew Johnson—who showed up drunk for his own speech. The story is that Johnson was feeling under the weather, and alcohol was the preferred treatment for a lot of ailments back then. I suppose alcohol’s also the preferred treatment for stage fright.

The most expensive inauguration was Obama’s, which cost more than $150 million—but about two thirds of that was paid for by private donors, an idea I can get behind. Crowd source the government!

John Quincy Adams did something truly shocking at his inauguration: He wore pants. Up until then, all the new presidents wore knee breeches. Perhaps ironically, Adams was also known to go skinny-dipping in the Potomac River.

Adams was also the first president to be photographed, so you can see why he was no peeping prize. But one day a female reporter named Ann Royall, who’d been refused an interview, simply sat on his clothes and refused to let him out of the water … and became the first female reporter to interview a U.S. President.

Who wouldn't want to see this handsome guy skinny dipping in the Potomac?

On a less happy note, in 1857 thirty-six people celebrating James Buchanan’s inauguration caught the “National Hotel disease” and died. Buchanan got it too but recovered, and I assume didn’t dine at that hotel again.

JFK had a hot time at his inauguration parade, as in the podium caught fire. A Cardinal was delivering the invocation at the time—think what you will of that.

Then there was the inauguration of Andrew Jackson. Twenty thousand people gathered outside the Capitol, a huge crowd for 1829, and Jackson was so happy that he said: “Ya’ll come on over and visit us at the White House!”

So they did.

Jackson had to escape out the back while the drunken mob smashed stuff and generally turned the White House into a wreck, which also happened when Hillary started throwing bric-a-brac at Bill during the Affair Affair. The party organizers were only able to clear the building by putting free booze out on the White House lawn.

But here’s my favorite of all: In 1953 Dwight D. Eisenhower was in the reviewing stand for the inauguration parade when a cowboy rode up to him on a horse … and lassoed him.

Of course, that had to have been planned in advance. The cowboy, Montie Montana (I assume that’s his real name) … survived.

"Not sure why them fellas in the suits seem all upset."