hy would I write an entire piece about grilled cheese sandwiches? Because a new ad campaign is threatening this distinctly American delight, and I’m not happy about it.

The ads proclaim a contest for the “Best Grilled Cheese Sandwich.” Finalists will be asked to prepare their favorite version. But hidden in this seemingly innocent promotion is a fundamental flaw. You see, the beauty of a grilled cheese sandwich is that its ingredients belie the fact that you can’t improve upon the basic recipe. The ingredients for a grilled cheese sandwich are simple:

merican cheese
White bread
Butter

I’m warning you people who are considering entering this contest: Do not mess with this recipe. I’ve seen Judge Judy put people in the slammer for less.

As soon as you try to make a better grilled cheese sandwich, it’s not a grilled cheese sandwich anymore. Instead, it’s a cheese sandwich that’s grilled with artichokes. Or it’s a cheese sandwich that’s grilled with honey-maple bread. Or it’s a cheese sandwich with onion and tomato. Or, it’s a cheese sandwich that’s grilled, made with low-fat cheddar cheese. THESE ARE NOT GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES. THESE ARE NOT GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES. THESE ARE NOT GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICHES.

As you can see, I’m starting to heat up about this.

I think a lot of this comes from childhood. My mother made a great BLT sandwich. Her tuna sandwiches really hit the spot. With these dishes, there was very little room for innovation. As a child, you don’t want surprises. When’s the last time you saw TODAY’S SPECIAL on a kids’ menu?

Don’t misunderstand. Just because the recipe is simple, doesn’t mean that the preparation is easy. The pan needs to be heated to just the right temperature, the butter needs to quietly nestle in the center of the pan, then trickle to the edges before it browns. The pan must then be covered as each side of the bread browns and the cheese melts perfectly. HEY, ARE YOU WRITING THIS DOWN?

By the way, I used to feel the same way about lemonade. You can call it raspberry lemonade, but it’s not lemonade. You can call it peach lemonade, but it’s not lemonade. Yeah, that used to drive me crazy. But I got over it. You can only fight so many battles.

You know, I’m not done griping about this grilled cheese thing. Who’s going to enter this contest, anyway? Probably a bunch of Generation Xers who think that if you slather salsa over something it becomes a health food. Or maybe a panel of “30-Somethings” who think that a wheel of Brie on toasted sourdough bread in some way can be loosely interpreted as a grilled cheese sandwich. GRRRRRRR…

Look, let me try this again: American cheese, white bread, butter. Here’s my e-mail address: Wolfsie@aol.com. What part of that recipe is confusing you?

I nurtured a grilled cheese sandwich for my 14-year-old son the other day. It was a thing of beauty. I marveled at it in the pan. It was as close to the Platonic ideal as possible: uniformly browned, cheese melted to perfection, an aroma that had put the dog into some kind of hypnotic trance.

“How’s that grilled cheese sandwich, Brett?”

“Oh, pretty good, Dad. Could you pass the ketchup?”

“I could, if you want to go to your room for the rest of your life.”

I realize I’m taking this whole thing a bit too seriously. And I think I eat grilled cheese sandwiches way too often. In fact, I went for a medical check-up the other day and I got some bad news…

“Dick, I’ve looked at your test results and this grilled cheese obsession is creating a problem with your blood.”
“Oh, dear. Is it raising my cholesterol?”

“No, your blood pressure.”

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Apache was a dog with two overriding passions: birds and a small dumbbell with feathers, his favorite toy. Apache spent the better part of his day pointing through the sliding glass door or pointing and flushing his feathered friends in the back yard (where the Tubermans had installed a birdbath and two birdhouses) or mouthing his dumbbell. Apache never caught a bird, but the fun was in the pursuit and each morning he would bound out the door in quest of the impossible dream.

The Tubermans did not have a particular problem with his bird chasing. True, the birds were being harassed, but no harm was done and the birds still managed to negotiate getting their food and bath. Apache was resolute but not effective in his bird hunting.

Then a rather unusual change, which prompted each request for my advice. Apache suddenly lost all interest in the great outdoors. Instead of springing out of the house each morning, he began slithering along the side of the porch, constantly looking up, then sneaking back inside the house. In fact, things got even worse. The Tubermans had trouble getting Apache outside at all, finally having to take him on the lead in the front of the house. Apache ventured into the back yard at night, but he remained uneasy. Inside the house, Apache still did a fair amount of pointing, even though his interest had waned. He was going through the motions, but his heart wasn’t in it.

The Tubermans were perplexed. Was he sick? That was a fair question. Most of my cases are referred from the family veterinarian, who identifies purely medical issues or medical issues that might impact behavior. Nevertheless, I still always ask a few basic questions to get a bigger picture of the animal’s history.

“How is Apache’s appetite?”
“Fine, Dr. Sampson.”

“Any problems with elimination?”
“He seems fine to us in every way. Just that little skin problem…”

“Well, that would probably not have anything to do with…”
“…on top of his head.”

“What do you mean, on top of his head?”
“Well, the rash is just on top of his head. Looks like little pimples.”

I’m not sure if the light bulb went off on top of my head or the Tubermans’ first, but it was clear that “top of the head,” was the operative phrase here.

“You don’t think, Dr Sampson, that…”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I think.”

Poor Apache. It was starting to look like he had a role in the remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds.

For the next several days, I had the Tubermans watch their back yard through the living room window. Apache was still very hesitant about venturing out there, so it was impossible to confirm anything, but there was one piece of overwhelming circumstantial evidence: a large blue jay seemed to be pretty much in control of the back yard bird sanctum. He chased away other birds, even terrorized the squirrels. It was pretty clear, we had our culprit. At least we had a heads-up on the problem.

The issue here was to create an environment where bird and dog could live together. The blue jay was threatened by Apache and Apache was now afraid of the blue jay. This was not the beginning of a lasting friendship. I had the Tubermans move the birdfeeder and bath to the side of the house and outside the fence so that Apache could go outside without threatening his nemesis. Apache could still see the birds from the house, outside the fence, so that ultimately Apache could go outside with threatenng his nemesis haven.

We slowly desensitized Apache to the outside area. I had the Tubermans begin early evening or early morning, walking him through the yard during the darker hours, but each day exposing him to more and more light. His walks were always accompanied by treats and obedience commands. As we have discussed, these commands embolden the dog by giving him a sense of what is expected of him and thus a feeling of security.

The back yard was becoming a safer place. Apache was now fed out in the back, given his beloved dumbbell, and praised for all his outdoor activities. The blue jay was happy, also. His gripe with Apache was never personal; it was all about territory and both bird and dog were happy with the new arrangement.

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Whattaya make of all this?

700 gallon air tank
12-in. butterfly valve
30ft. 12-in. black iron pipe
Ford truck front end
40-ft. house trailer frame
Some serious hydraulics
A lot of reinforcing steel
200 lbs. of welding rods
A gallon of aspirin
An understanding wife and neighbors
An unlimited supply of 5-gallon buckets for wading

I’ll tell you what you make. You make a pumpkin launcher that can propel a pumpkin over a mile or make it slam thru the side of a car and come out the other side.

Aren’t you glad you asked?

This particular pumpkin launcher belongs to Jim Bristoe of Ellettsville, a man who frightens people every Halloween without even wearing a mask.

Bristoe’s interest in propulsion began when as a kid he made a potato gun, a weapon of mass infraction since it is technically illegal, because the hairspray he used to fire the potato wad is considered an explosive propellant. I was going to leave this whole paragraph out, but I knew some of you guys would be interested.

To make a long (and loud) story short, Bristoe became fascinated with the idea of hurling something out into space through a tube and ultimately made his first pumpkin cannon using a pneumatic valve. He was a little embarrassed about his plaything, especially when his wife accused him of “not being all there,” a label that had a nice ring to it and is now the name of his website. Later Bristoe discovered there were national competitions for this kind of thing. “I felt better when I learned I was not the only one who liked to blow up vegetables.”

Bristoe entertains not only himself, but local kids who love to see a frozen pumpkin torpedoed through a car, boat or barn door. I guess this is better than playing violent video games, but I’m not positive.

If Jim can find an open field long enough, he claims he can launch a pumpkin a mile and a quarter, reaching speeds of 1300 miles per hour. This is twice as fast as a jet plane.

Jim is not obsessed with shooting pumpkins. He has other interests. In the summer, he shoots watermelons.

You can’t visit this monstrosity. You just have to be lucky enough to be somewhere Jim has lugged it. So, good luck.

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Okay, it wasn’t a great job. It didn’t pay anything. It was volunteer stuff. But the work was steady. Very steady. And Melrose was a great employee. He never missed a day. Or night.

Needless to say, this created a lot of stress with V and O, who began to realize that the fastidious litter box thing was not the pleasant experience their instincts had directed them to. When they did manage to get in the box, they hurried out in fear. Then Melrose would go inside and do the paper work, burying the urine or feces himself. His attitude was: If you want a job done right, do it yourself.

Edith $apper was the lady of the house. That’s no misprint in her name. Mrs. $apper lived on Michigan Ave in a small but expensive condo overlooking the Lake. She had plenty of money, but she’d have given up half her fortune to have a little harmony in the family. When Vinegar and Olive Oyl abandoned their traditional restrooms completely because of Melrose, they found new and safer places to go. Including a $7,000 Persian rug. That’s when Mrs. $ sought professional help.

We both recognized that three cats in a tiny apartment was not the best situation. Cats are territorial, and forcing a close proximity was a recipe for problems. Plus, Melrose was a male cat and it is not unusual for the man of the house to feel in control. In fact, his control of the litter box was exactly that: a show of dominance.

First, I expressed my personal preference for boxes without a top
( see sidebar). Initially, this would discourage Melrose from assuming his sentinel position, although as you will learn, Melrose was a pretty ingenious feline.

I told Mrs. $apper to increase the number of litter boxes and spread them out in the bedroom, living room and kitchen so that V and O always had a choice and the terrorizing could be minimized.. But the problem was that the condo was relatively small and no matter where she placed the boxes, Melrose situated himself in such a position that he could still monitor them pretty well. With four boxes to watch, however, he was probably getting a major headache.

We then tried separating him from V and O by confining him to the bedroom during the day while Mrs. $apper was at work to eliminate some of the stress in the house so that V and O could have some pee and quiet. I even suggested that Mrs $ alternate which cats could spend the night in her bedroom, but let them be together when she was home during the day and could monitor them. I even encouraged that she put a bell on Melroses’s collar so that the other cats cold keep track of where Melrose was. We didn’t want to isolate them altogether because ultimately we did want to have them all live happily under one roof.

All things considered, we were pretty successful. Melrose must have been on overload trying to watch four litter boxes and decided to cut back on his hours. But still, Mrs $ sensed that harmony had not been fully established, which was really her over-riding concern. It was then that she called for one last conversation…

“Dr. Sampson, I just want you to know that my three cats are the most expensive pets in Chicago.”

“My fees are very reasonable, I assure you.”

“No, it’s not your fee. I decided to move so my cats would have more space and get along. I bought a bigger condo. It just cost me another half million.

She was right. Mrs. $ had the most expensive cats in Chicago

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It was my first month or so at Channel 8. My new gig involved getting up at 3:30 a.m., stepping on my eyeglasses, stumbling into the shower, putting on two different color socks, and spilling coffee in my lap in the car.

This had become pretty much a routine. Anything that caused me to veer from this schedule threw me off for the rest of the day.

Then on the morning of January 7, or January 21…or was it February 3? I opened my front door and there he was:

AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

A tiny beagle. He was acting hungry. Little did I know, he would act hungry for the next 14 years.

The reason I don’t remember the date is that I did not realize then that my life was about to change. This little beagle who had wandered onto my doorstep would not only brighten my life for the next decade and beyond, but he would become Central Indiana’s favorite dog.

I wish I had realized that. I would have written down the date. I’m a reporter, you know.

So, now what? My heart went out to the little guy. But I was late for work. I still had an entire cup of coffee to spill on myself. I opened the front door wider and in he walked, like he owned the place. I closed the door and went to work.

You’re right. I am an idiot.

Four hours later, I returned to the house. There was no house left.

Here’s an abbreviated list of what he destroyed:

1. The couch

2. My wife’s high heel shoes

3. The curtains

4. The living room rug

As I walked in the door, my five-year-old son, Brett, was descending the stairs with a beheaded teddy bear and an unstuffed lion. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He stared at Barney, then shot a glance at his decapitated playthings.

“Daddy, can we NOT keep him?”

That pretty much said it all. Barney had not made a good first impression. My wife ordered me to return him, a request hard to fulfill because I did not know where he came from.

I do not remember how long Barney remained at home while I went to work. My wife says it seemed about a year or so. It was probably about three days. Then I got the ultimatum from Mary Ellen: “Look, this is real simple: the dog must go. Either that, or take him to work with you.”

So there you have it. This brilliant concept of turning a street mutt into a TV celebrity was borne out of my wife’s sheer frustration with what was 10 pounds of pure trouble. Barney matured, of course, and would later become 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, and 40 pounds of trouble.

And that is what the rest of the book is about.

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I received an email the other day from the college where I teach informing me that everyone on the faculty had to change the passwords we use to enter the university website.

An independent consultant had determined that many of the terms we were using to log in were what they called “Weak Passwords.” I’ve been accused of a lot of things: a weak chin, a weak stomach, even being weak in the knees. But having weak passwords? The nerve!
.
I thought I used some pretty nifty ones in the past. For example, I once used LOIS for my ATM account. Lois was the first girl I ever had a crush on back in l956. I know this was a very good password because even Lois didn’t know she was my girlfriend.

I needed help, so I went to the university website to learn more. They had posted a few guidelines.

It shouldn’t be a word in the dictionary
It shouldn’t be personal data
It shouldn’t be a pet’s name
It shouldn’t be a person’s name

Then they said, BE SURE YOU CAN REMEMBER YOUR PASSWORD

Huh?

They asked me to offer some new passwords. I tried to sneak a few past favorites by them. But then they had the gall to actually rate them every time I recommended a new option.

I tried to revive LOIS but it was rejected, not only because it was WEAK, but because someone else was using it. I always suspected there was another guy back in elementary school. Now I had the proof.

Then I tried my date of birth, just to see what would happen. A big red flag came up and the prompt flashed: VERY WEAK, claiming it was too easy to figure out by a would-be hacker. I think I look great for my age, so this really annoyed me. Not only that, but no one has remembered my birthday in 25 years so I wasn’t real concerned about that info getting out.

I tried putting in BOB, who’s my best friend, but they just hated that. I think the prompt said: YOU HAVE TO BE KIDDING.

No, I needed a strong password so I put in HERCULES. It was rejected as WEAK. Then I tried SAMPSON. This time, VERY WEAK. I don’t think the people over at Information Services have read their mythology. But it did seem to answer the 3000-year-old question who was stronger?

At one point I was so frustrated that I couldn’t come up with a simple acceptable password, I just ran my fingers haphazardly across the keyboard.

VERY STRONG, said the prompt. PLEASE REMEMBER TO WRITE YOUR NEW PASSWORD DOWN. Write it down? I had no idea what I typed. Was it KKDFJHG or was it YQWOKW? My fingers may have done the walking, but they were’t talking. My secret was safe with them.

I finally found a password that was acceptable. No, I’m not telling you what it is. But I will say it was deemed VERY STRONG. Then the website asked me a series of personal questions so that I could retrieve it if my memory failed me.

The name of your first girlfriend.
Your best friend’s name.
Your favorite character in mythology.

This was a joke, right? Those wild and crazy guys at Information Services.

By the way, here is my new password: JUHY*&^JG%^. I wanted you to have it. Just in case I can’t remember it.