Kim and I tend to have a very common domestic struggle on a daily basis involving the television remote control. I need it, she wants it, and there is little room for compromise.

People who have lost a limb often still feel the missing appendage — even experience an itch or other discomfort where it used to be. I have that same problem when she is holding charge of the remote. I will instinctively reach for it anyway.

The disagreement comes in various forms. She hates it when I channel surf. We have the cable channels from 66 down to 2. I figure my best time for a complete run-through is around 70 or 71 seconds. She complains that I cannot possibly know whether I want to watch a television program in a second or less of viewing. I cannot help that I have instant viewing recognition — it’s a special ability. It’s kind of like my treasure trove of trivia information I collect — it gets me nowhere in life and few care about such talents — but we should not be chastised for our own individual gifts. It really drives her batty when I channel surf during the commercial breaks of a program we are viewing together — which is I might add an involuntary, subconscious action.

During a commercial programming break there is that immediate and annoying volume increase. She always expects me to turn down the volume. It is her contention that I am deaf. I would suggest she is too easily annoyed by the little things in life. One Washington politician is actively working on saving our marriage.

U.S. Representative Anna G. Eshoo, a Democrat from California, introduced legislation which would require all television commercials to be broadcast at the same level of volume as the programming it accompanies. The latest update I have seen was from Nov. 20, 2009, when HR 1084 was approved by the House Committee on Energy and Commerce and awaiting approval by the full House.

I am pleading to the House of Representatives when undertaking consideration of the bill to please add one amendment. Anytime there is an adult male in the room, legislate that he gets control of the remote. I sincerely assert that this is not a sexist issue. It’s simply that so many of our primal hunting and gathering instincts have been rendered useless traits. The remote is the only instinctive, innate ability which currently has any meaning or validity in today’s modern man’s world. I even suggest the bill be named the Domestic Unification Marriage Bill or simply known by its acronym — DUMB.

Meanwhile, Kim and I will just have to try and keep our union strong between the hours of 8 and 10:30 p.m. — either with the aid of a marriage therapist or perhaps an informed television critic — pending passage of the DUMB Act.



Tom Chapala Column Epilogue/Update

I received three very noteworthy e-mails after last week’s column. Coach Chapala was very gracious and expressed his personal satisfaction that someone was so positively affected by his tenure. He also cleared up an inaccuracy pointed out by former teammate Bill (Little Bill) Scott. Chapala did play football at UK but not for Bear Bryant. Per Chapala’s e-mail, “Everybody gets the Bear Bryant thing messed up, probably because the change occurred in the spring of the year and not the fall.” He explained that he actually was a transfer to UK from the University of Michigan and played for another legendary UK coach, Charlie Bradshaw (who had been an assistant to Bear Bryant at Alabama). That era has been chronicled in a book by Shannon Ragland titled, The Thin Thirty, so titled per Chapala because at the beginning of football camp there were 112 recruits and by season’s end only 30 had survived the brutal campaign under Bradshaw. Per the book’s promotional ad, “In this stranger-than-fiction true story, the UK team dealt with brutality, sexual exploitation (a gay sex scandal with a Hollywood icon, Rock Hudson), gambling and overcame it all to defeat Tennessee in the game of games. They became legends.” Per Tom, he was portrayed inaccurately in the book and the author has since apologized to him.

Mille Chapala thanked me for the tribute to her husband and commented, “I think you really captured Tom’s personality — certainly the sign of a good writer.”

She also reminded me that, “I’d like to take a little credit for that. You were in my Honor’s English class that first year of my teaching.”

Mille is correct and I certainly give her very much credit for being a very good and supportive classroom teacher during my formative years at Jeff High from 1969-73. I am sure for many the most startling revelation of this entire epilogue is simply that I was ever an Honors student. Since I acknowledge her contribution to my writing, in the future all critical e-mails regarding this column should be addressed to Lindon Dodd/Millie Chapala and I will forward her share directly to her. She also updated their lives stating they are both retired and that they are “flower farmers.” Coach Bradshaw might be turning over in his grave. They have a grown son, Sam, who was born with Down’s Syndrome and now lives on his own in New Albany and works at Sam’s Food and Spirits, and also a daughter Beth who is married and lives in Bloomington.

One final critique Bill Scott had was that the column would have been more accurate and better overall if I had interviewed Chapala instead and did research adding, “All articles are not mostly about you.” The implication might be that as a columnist I am narcissistic, self-absorbed, and egotistical. To those charges I respond on behalf of columnists everywhere: “Guilty, guilty, and guilty!” I always welcome criticism and where valid try to learn and where not valid dismiss it as readily as the most recent praise. Any writer is only as good or bad as the current installment that is being read. You are correct, Bill. I took the lazy columnist’s way out and simply wrote it as my tribute to a great teacher from my forty-year-old memory. Thanks for taking the time to send your critique.

“Happy 15th Birthday” goes out to my son Cameron yesterday. If everything worked out as planned the family and a couple of his friends enjoyed snow tubing at Paoli Peaks!