"Tell him I don't smell like oranges, anymore." That's what the voice on the other end of the phone told my wife a couple nights back. It was my oldest, and I mean OLDEST, brother, Randy, calling from up north. You may remember, if you read this silliness every now and then, that I wrote about my brother, the hairy wrestler who always smelled like oranges...from trying to maintain his competitive weight. (A side note: if you do read this stuff...thank you...but, really, you are probably neglecting some other, vastly more important parts of your life. In fact, just on this web-site alone, you are wasting valuable time reading this while you could be learning the latest about Paris Hilton's plans to do a musical version of her own Science Journal essay about what it would've been like if she had been married to Albert Einstein. It is tentatively titled "My Own Theory of Relativity or How My Life Would Be Different If My Name Was Sheboygan Econolodge and Not Paris Hilton.") Anyway, unbeknownst to me, my brother had discovered The Kansas City Channel and, subsequently, this blog.

Interestingly enough, he didn't take offense to my mention of the fact that he has an overabundance of body hair. So much fur, in fact, that his trips to the beaches of Green Bay often result in people calling in Bigfoot sightings. I think he was really just blowing off steam. The Packer's season is looking shaky. His lovely wife insists on leaving him notes on the kitchen table like "Please, pick up some milk" rather than just calling his cell-phone and telling him to get milk on his way home from work. When you reach a certain age, once you're home, you want to stay home. (I've been that way since birth, frankly.) Also, he is still dealing with a serious, long-standing case of PLAID or Post-Lassie Affective Internal Disorder. Well into his teens, Randy could not watch an episode of Lassie without bursting into tears. I'm pretty sure if you walked up to him right now and said "There's trouble down at the old mill..." he would start weeping. There's a new Lassie movie in theaters right now and, I think, it has brought back all those Collie-ful memories.

He was going on 13 when I was born and, so, was a built in baby-sitter. I know my dad was pretty slow to open his wallet. He was so tight, he squeaked. When he would nick himself shaving, even then, he wouldn't bleed. But, to wait until your oldest child can babysit, before having your youngest...in order to save a couple bucks? That's something! As for me, I loved having Randy as a babysitter. He'd put me down for a nap and, being a caring brother, would sit on the floor by the crib. Eventually, he'd fall asleep and I'd get up and play. More than once, Randy woke up with Tinker Toys stuck in his ears and nose. For a toddler, a big brother sound asleep on the floor becomes a combination of playground equipment and a life-sized Mr. Potato Head. (Actually, to be fair, we have another brother with a gigantic head. It is so big that it has been named a Dwarf Planet. We have a grainy, black & white photo of this large-noggined brother standing in his playpen with a fly walking across his short, blond hair. If you look closely, it appears the fly is actually Sir Edmund Hillary thinking he has successfully scaled Everest.) According to Randy, he used to give me my bottle and then stand by the window watching the semi-trucks roll down the highway--our version of video-games, I guess. When I was finished, I would throw my empty bottle, in what he remembers as a perfect spiral, straight at the wall. Sadly, that was the pinnacle of my athletic career. I still toss my used plates and glasses at the wall when I finish dining...which explains why I am banned from most eating establishments.

The only negative thing I recall about Randy was how he totally ruined my future broadcast career. Once, while he was home from college, Randy was trying to help me overcome the "lazy L" speech pattern I had...making "milk" more like "muhwwlwlk" and turning "Guatemala" into "Guawhlamuhlwa." Eventually, he was successful in turning my "L" from lazy to vigorous. I can't help but think that if he hadn't fixed it...I may have been the next Tom Brokaw.

Despite that disappointment, it must be said that Randy was and is a great big brother, who turned out to be a great father and grandfather. So, being the wonderfully gracious person I am, I can overlook his lingering orange scent and shag carpet of a body. Frankly, I need him as an ally now more than ever, because I'm pretty sure our brother with the gigantic head will be on the phone by tonight.