K3 is home for a week, mostly to take advantage of the laundry facilities, before we pack her up and move her back to Lubbock to start school at Texas Tech in a few weeks.
At any rate, I was on my joyful journey today, sitting in the living room today on the couch (the "davenport" as my Grandmother used to call it). K3 was in the chair on my right, and the wife was on the couch to my left.
As it often happens when any combination of my daughters and wife are in the room, each was talking about different things, and I was listening to neither one talk about either subject. All I hear from both sides is, "natter, natter, natter."
Presently, though, I was shocked back to the here and now when my wife proclaimed that she'd like to read "Fifty Shades of Gray." Like I said, I was daydreaming before that, so I'm not sure where the conversation was before it wandered into literature.
While pondering how, or even if, I should comment on the wife's summer reading list, K3 chimed in that she wants to read it, too.
Now I'm in the middle of something that I really don't want any part of. On the one hand the wife can read whatever she wants. On the other hand, what K3 reads is a concern, even though she's 19, and even if I know (logically) that her little mind has probably pursued trains of thought that I'd really rather not think about (emotionally).
Rallying a bit I said something like, "Never thought I'd see the day when my wife and youngest daughter discuss the pornographic books that they read."
These are the types of things that no one tells you about when you have daughters.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
Wanted: Monsters
I ran across this story on Foxnews.com: Beast of Brooklyn. I know, I know...you are asking what's a nice Polk County boy like me doing reading that incendiary Web site.
I read it every day, and I won't apologize for it. I get a kick out of reading what they consider to be "news."
However, this story caught my eye because I'm a big fan of local monsters (always have been), and I believe that what this world needs is more monsters. I mean the crypto-zoology kind, not the mass murderer or Tea Party kind.
In our world today, thanks to all manner of technological advancements, we can zoom into pretty close detail on any spot on the planet, thanks to GPS systems. The result of this is that there are fewer and fewer places where the monsters of our childhood imaginations can hide.
When I was little I was fascinated with the Boggy Creek Monster. Those old enough to remember the cheesy 1970's movie will be familiar with this one. Tucked away into a (then) remote corner of southwest Arkansas it was a mysterious and creepy place, even though on my family's frequent trips to see my grandparents in Arkansas we traveled right through Boggy Creek country, which was not too far from Interstate 30.
This Bigfoot-type creature still shows up every once in awhile, with someone finding a footprint, or hearing an unidentified scream in the night, or reporting seeing "something" while out and about in the woods.
About that same time I learned about the Lake Worth Monster. This was in Fort Worth, TX, which was much closer to my home. This monster was truly local in scale, though, never having the benefit of big screen promotion.
Since then, here in Texas, we have seen reports of Chupacabre, which is a type of blood sucking monster. I'm waiting, and hoping, that I'll get to see that one. I'm a little leery of Chupacabre, though. From what I can determine this seems to be a late entry into the monster world, only showing up a few decades ago. He also seems to change description as he migrates around. On the other hand, though, I don't guess that monsters are required to keep a consistent shape or form. Since they are largely legendary creations I suppose they should be allowed some leeway as to what shape they take.
One positive aspect of Chupacabre is that he, so far at least, doesn't seem to target humans. He's mostly a menace to livestock. I think that people will be a little more forgiving of a monster that focuses on regular animals and that doesn't try to eat them.
I read it every day, and I won't apologize for it. I get a kick out of reading what they consider to be "news."
However, this story caught my eye because I'm a big fan of local monsters (always have been), and I believe that what this world needs is more monsters. I mean the crypto-zoology kind, not the mass murderer or Tea Party kind.
In our world today, thanks to all manner of technological advancements, we can zoom into pretty close detail on any spot on the planet, thanks to GPS systems. The result of this is that there are fewer and fewer places where the monsters of our childhood imaginations can hide.
When I was little I was fascinated with the Boggy Creek Monster. Those old enough to remember the cheesy 1970's movie will be familiar with this one. Tucked away into a (then) remote corner of southwest Arkansas it was a mysterious and creepy place, even though on my family's frequent trips to see my grandparents in Arkansas we traveled right through Boggy Creek country, which was not too far from Interstate 30.
This Bigfoot-type creature still shows up every once in awhile, with someone finding a footprint, or hearing an unidentified scream in the night, or reporting seeing "something" while out and about in the woods.
About that same time I learned about the Lake Worth Monster. This was in Fort Worth, TX, which was much closer to my home. This monster was truly local in scale, though, never having the benefit of big screen promotion.
Since then, here in Texas, we have seen reports of Chupacabre, which is a type of blood sucking monster. I'm waiting, and hoping, that I'll get to see that one. I'm a little leery of Chupacabre, though. From what I can determine this seems to be a late entry into the monster world, only showing up a few decades ago. He also seems to change description as he migrates around. On the other hand, though, I don't guess that monsters are required to keep a consistent shape or form. Since they are largely legendary creations I suppose they should be allowed some leeway as to what shape they take.
One positive aspect of Chupacabre is that he, so far at least, doesn't seem to target humans. He's mostly a menace to livestock. I think that people will be a little more forgiving of a monster that focuses on regular animals and that doesn't try to eat them.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Finally remembered my own password!
...actually, that's not the case at all...writer's block...severe case...bad stuff.
9:30 AM, Saturday, June 16, 2012
<sits down, proper cup of coffee at the ready. Paper is read. Online news sites (cbsnews.com, msnbc.com, foxnews.com) checked. Took two Tums after reading foxnews.com. Wife is outside interrogating the backyard azaleas that are not performing up to snuff. Ruby the dog still has not reported in from her morning patrol.
Fires up computer, elbows resting on table, fingertips tapping together, brow furrowed in fierce concentration. Places fingertips on the keys, awaits inspiration...>
"I got nothin'..."
This post brought to you today by my wife, three daughters and mother in law, each of whom has, over the last couple of weeks, chastised me for not writing more frequently.
From Kid 2: Daddy, when are you going to post again? That's the first thing I check every day.
Me: "Don't know. Leave me alone.
Mother in Law on the phone with my wife: Is James almost done with his next book?
Wife to me: Mama wants to know if you are almost done with your next book.
Me to wife: Haven't even started it. All I have is the outline. Leave me alone.
Wife to MIL: He hasn't even started it.
MIL to wife: Well tell him to get on it! I just finished his last one!
Let's cut to the chase: Writing, for me at least, is hard work, even on the best of days. I'm not one of those writers like Frederick Forsyth (in my estimation the best novelist at work today) who can sit down and crank out 10 perfect pages a day.
On a good day I can write 10 pages, bit those 10 pages are fraught with self doubt and impressive amounts of editing and revisions.
Lately I've been beset by a bad case of the, "ations." I've got no inspiration, and no motivation. Combine those two and I get a severe case of frustration, which is tempting to treat with some adult libations, which will likely lead to intoxication. After that all I'll have is a hangover, and still won't have written a thing.
I think that there's a tendency among those folks who don't like to write to think that writers just channel this inner stream of words that flow from their mind through their fingers and finally onto the screen, or paper.
It ain't like that, at least for me. In my case it's like I can see, or at least sense, all of these great sentences and paragraphs somewhere inside my brain, but the trick is getting them through the filters and into my fingertips. It's as if the fingers know what keys to hit, if only my mind would get out of the way. Put another way, it's like I can see what the final puzzle is supposed to look like, it's just difficult (and frustrating) to try to put the pieces together.
As the saying goes, "All the words are there, they're just in the wrong order."
On the other hand, sometimes, when the moon is right and the stars align just so, the words can flow pretty easily. For instance, an old friend of mine that I used to work with told a story over a few beers one night after work. It inspired this, which I wrote in about five minutes. It's not great, but it's a good illustration of how the elusive "inspiration" can strike:
So see, it can happen. Maybe there's still hope...
9:30 AM, Saturday, June 16, 2012
<sits down, proper cup of coffee at the ready. Paper is read. Online news sites (cbsnews.com, msnbc.com, foxnews.com) checked. Took two Tums after reading foxnews.com. Wife is outside interrogating the backyard azaleas that are not performing up to snuff. Ruby the dog still has not reported in from her morning patrol.
Fires up computer, elbows resting on table, fingertips tapping together, brow furrowed in fierce concentration. Places fingertips on the keys, awaits inspiration...>
"I got nothin'..."
This post brought to you today by my wife, three daughters and mother in law, each of whom has, over the last couple of weeks, chastised me for not writing more frequently.
From Kid 2: Daddy, when are you going to post again? That's the first thing I check every day.
Me: "Don't know. Leave me alone.
Mother in Law on the phone with my wife: Is James almost done with his next book?
Wife to me: Mama wants to know if you are almost done with your next book.
Me to wife: Haven't even started it. All I have is the outline. Leave me alone.
Wife to MIL: He hasn't even started it.
MIL to wife: Well tell him to get on it! I just finished his last one!
Let's cut to the chase: Writing, for me at least, is hard work, even on the best of days. I'm not one of those writers like Frederick Forsyth (in my estimation the best novelist at work today) who can sit down and crank out 10 perfect pages a day.
On a good day I can write 10 pages, bit those 10 pages are fraught with self doubt and impressive amounts of editing and revisions.
Lately I've been beset by a bad case of the, "ations." I've got no inspiration, and no motivation. Combine those two and I get a severe case of frustration, which is tempting to treat with some adult libations, which will likely lead to intoxication. After that all I'll have is a hangover, and still won't have written a thing.
I think that there's a tendency among those folks who don't like to write to think that writers just channel this inner stream of words that flow from their mind through their fingers and finally onto the screen, or paper.
It ain't like that, at least for me. In my case it's like I can see, or at least sense, all of these great sentences and paragraphs somewhere inside my brain, but the trick is getting them through the filters and into my fingertips. It's as if the fingers know what keys to hit, if only my mind would get out of the way. Put another way, it's like I can see what the final puzzle is supposed to look like, it's just difficult (and frustrating) to try to put the pieces together.
As the saying goes, "All the words are there, they're just in the wrong order."
On the other hand, sometimes, when the moon is right and the stars align just so, the words can flow pretty easily. For instance, an old friend of mine that I used to work with told a story over a few beers one night after work. It inspired this, which I wrote in about five minutes. It's not great, but it's a good illustration of how the elusive "inspiration" can strike:
Moralis was a reporter, a newspaperman, one of the small
school of freelancers who wandered the world turning over strange rocks in odd
places, asking tough questions to the
suits, the men who didn’t want to be identified, or quoted. He was skilled and experienced at sifting
through the ambiguous mist of official lies to draw out small nuggets of the
truth.
As he drove his old Jaguar west out of Austin through the rain he fished a Marlboro
out of his pocket and lit it with an old steel Zippo. He’d borrowed the lighter from a source in Nuevo Laredo , but both
men were drunk at the time, and Moralis had kept it by mistake. Before he could return it the man had been
found floating face down in the Rio
Grande , his throat cut from ear to ear.
He thought about that man, and humming an old Methodist hymn,
fished in the glove box and pulled out the bottle of tequila that he’d boosted
from a Mexican whorehouse in Matamoros
three days before.
A man who wasn’t comfortable working in the shadows wouldn’t
have taken the midnight call, much less agreed to drive two hours to meet with
a man he hadn’t seen since the end of the last war.
Garcia-the name brought back a lot of memories, few of them
good….
So see, it can happen. Maybe there's still hope...
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
A "Moderate!"
My apologies for the delay in posting. I was distracted by something shiny in my in box and just completely forgot to post anything.
I have no illusions that the cyber community really missed anything that I had to say.
On to the topic at hand...
This is election season and across the country, well, in Texas at least (I can't speak for any other states), the race is on for the candidates to beat their chests and proclaim themselves more conservative than the other guy (or gal).
Last week I even saw an ad for an opponent of David Dewhurst, our current Republican Lt. Governor. I forget which opponent this is, however; there are a couple of them and I didn't notice who's commercial I was watching.
In any case, this candidate pointed fingers at our man David and proclaimed him to be, get ready..."a moderate!" That's right, friends and neighbors, these days even a political moderate is too "liberal" (whatever "liberal" means).
I've never really followed ol' Dave's career, other than to note that he hitched his political wagon to Governor Goodhair's some years ago. That doesn't say anything about him, I don't think, other than that he's politically astute.
The interesting point here, at least to me, is that in 2012, some 20 years after the Reagan Revolution, we've come to the point where being a "moderate" is a bad thing.
Boy, talk about polarization!
I have no illusions that the cyber community really missed anything that I had to say.
On to the topic at hand...
This is election season and across the country, well, in Texas at least (I can't speak for any other states), the race is on for the candidates to beat their chests and proclaim themselves more conservative than the other guy (or gal).
Last week I even saw an ad for an opponent of David Dewhurst, our current Republican Lt. Governor. I forget which opponent this is, however; there are a couple of them and I didn't notice who's commercial I was watching.
In any case, this candidate pointed fingers at our man David and proclaimed him to be, get ready..."a moderate!" That's right, friends and neighbors, these days even a political moderate is too "liberal" (whatever "liberal" means).
I've never really followed ol' Dave's career, other than to note that he hitched his political wagon to Governor Goodhair's some years ago. That doesn't say anything about him, I don't think, other than that he's politically astute.
The interesting point here, at least to me, is that in 2012, some 20 years after the Reagan Revolution, we've come to the point where being a "moderate" is a bad thing.
Boy, talk about polarization!
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
New neighbors, and questionable water
Last week was truly a week of firsts since we've been in Polk County.
Last Tuesday while the wife and I were out for a stroll after dinner, just walking down the street. My wife called my attention to a funny looking little red dog that trotted out from a side street. He had turned and was heading away from us when my wife said, "Look at that!"
He turned sideways to us, and craned his little head to look around at us, and we saw that he wasn't an ordinary dog, he was a little red fox. He looked at us for a moment or two, then resumed his appointed rounds, trotting into the forest. Pretty cool.
A few days later we were doing a little fishing from the dock, not too seriously. I was halfway dozing in my chair when the wife said, "Look at that eagle; he just got him a snack from the lake." I looked up into the sky, saw Mr. Eagle, and said to myself, "That eagle looks like a Bald Eagle. THAT'S A BALD EAGLE!" He was holding a pretty good sized fish in his talon and was slowly flying away, over the trees.
That's something that I never thought I'd see. I knew that we had bald eagles in Texas, but I always thought they'd be found far out in West Texas, in the Big Bend. Nope, you can see them here in Polk County, right on the edge of the Big Thicket. That was very cool.
Then Sunday, while on the way to Livingston to see how much we could spend at Lowe's, we were on the bridge over Big Sandy Creek when my wife hollered out, "There's a 'gator!" I looked quickly over the side but didn't see anything other than a few logs.
"Turn around! Turn around!"
I turned around, drove back over the bridge, and sure enough, there was Mr. Gator, lying on the bank with his head under water. It looked like there was around six feet of visible gator just sunning himself on the bank.
"Told you!" She said.
In other news...
Overheard at the Dairy Queen Saturday in Woodville, Texas:
Grandad (to Granddaughter): Did you hear that Donald Duck was in a car accident?
Granddaughter shakes head...
Grandad: He quacked up.
<groaning...> I know...
Also in big news, we got a letter this week from our friends at Lake Livingston Water. They politely informed us that, "our water system has exceeded the Maximum Containment Levels for Radium 226 and Radium 228."
The letter goes on to say that, "This is not an emergency. However, some people who drink water containing radium 226 and/or 228...over many years have an increased risk of getting cancer."
The letter doesn't say who, or what introduced such vile levels of these radioactive gunk, though, only that, "we are working to correct the problem."
Lord God; they're radiating us!
Last Tuesday while the wife and I were out for a stroll after dinner, just walking down the street. My wife called my attention to a funny looking little red dog that trotted out from a side street. He had turned and was heading away from us when my wife said, "Look at that!"
He turned sideways to us, and craned his little head to look around at us, and we saw that he wasn't an ordinary dog, he was a little red fox. He looked at us for a moment or two, then resumed his appointed rounds, trotting into the forest. Pretty cool.
A few days later we were doing a little fishing from the dock, not too seriously. I was halfway dozing in my chair when the wife said, "Look at that eagle; he just got him a snack from the lake." I looked up into the sky, saw Mr. Eagle, and said to myself, "That eagle looks like a Bald Eagle. THAT'S A BALD EAGLE!" He was holding a pretty good sized fish in his talon and was slowly flying away, over the trees.
That's something that I never thought I'd see. I knew that we had bald eagles in Texas, but I always thought they'd be found far out in West Texas, in the Big Bend. Nope, you can see them here in Polk County, right on the edge of the Big Thicket. That was very cool.
Then Sunday, while on the way to Livingston to see how much we could spend at Lowe's, we were on the bridge over Big Sandy Creek when my wife hollered out, "There's a 'gator!" I looked quickly over the side but didn't see anything other than a few logs.
"Turn around! Turn around!"
I turned around, drove back over the bridge, and sure enough, there was Mr. Gator, lying on the bank with his head under water. It looked like there was around six feet of visible gator just sunning himself on the bank.
"Told you!" She said.
In other news...
Overheard at the Dairy Queen Saturday in Woodville, Texas:
Grandad (to Granddaughter): Did you hear that Donald Duck was in a car accident?
Granddaughter shakes head...
Grandad: He quacked up.
<groaning...> I know...
Also in big news, we got a letter this week from our friends at Lake Livingston Water. They politely informed us that, "our water system has exceeded the Maximum Containment Levels for Radium 226 and Radium 228."
The letter goes on to say that, "This is not an emergency. However, some people who drink water containing radium 226 and/or 228...over many years have an increased risk of getting cancer."
The letter doesn't say who, or what introduced such vile levels of these radioactive gunk, though, only that, "we are working to correct the problem."
Lord God; they're radiating us!
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Conversation with my inner self
Yesterday I was shaving, and I looked up in the mirror to see that my inner self had showed up, and it was immediately obvious that he had something on his mind.
Me: What do you want?
IS: I thought you wanted to be a writer?
Me: Oh man, not this again. I am a writer; I've written two self published novels, I've outlined a third, and I'm working on a book of short stories.
IS: What have you written lately?
Me: Not a damn word.
IS: Why not?
Me: You go to hell; I don't have time for this.
IS: Answer the question.
Me: Look, I just haven't, OK? I've got plenty of stuff started, but just haven't sat down and written anything new. Happy? You think I'm happy about that? I'm not; I'm just having a hard time getting motivated.
IS: <Snorts in disgust> You're a pathetic excuse for a writer. If you want to be considered a writer, you have to write!
Me: Well, I've been busy. We just moved into this house a couple of months ago, and it's just taken awhile to get things sorted out.
IS: Lame excuse.
Me: Look, writing is a process; you know this. You can't just jump into it and crank out five thousand words. There's a measure of inspiration and motivation that needs to be there.
IS: Bullshit! Why don't you at least try to get your two books published?
Me: I've tried. The mainstream publishing industry doesn't appreciate my work.
IS: What's not to get? Your "work" is a collection of ninety five thousand words of rubbish. I'll be you can't even describe it.
Me: Well, it's sort of Texas post-modern fiction with southwest and Mexican influences.
IS: Oh my God, "Texas post-modern fiction with southwest and Mexican influences?" What does that even mean? You don't even know what kind of fiction you're trying to write!
Me: No one ever said that writing is easy.
IS: Being easy has nothing to do with it. Either write, or try to get published what you have already written!
Me: Hey, back off! I am a successful writer; my stuff has sold in the high single digits!
IS: <fading from view> What a loser.
Me: What do you want?
IS: I thought you wanted to be a writer?
Me: Oh man, not this again. I am a writer; I've written two self published novels, I've outlined a third, and I'm working on a book of short stories.
IS: What have you written lately?
Me: Not a damn word.
IS: Why not?
Me: You go to hell; I don't have time for this.
IS: Answer the question.
Me: Look, I just haven't, OK? I've got plenty of stuff started, but just haven't sat down and written anything new. Happy? You think I'm happy about that? I'm not; I'm just having a hard time getting motivated.
IS: <Snorts in disgust> You're a pathetic excuse for a writer. If you want to be considered a writer, you have to write!
Me: Well, I've been busy. We just moved into this house a couple of months ago, and it's just taken awhile to get things sorted out.
IS: Lame excuse.
Me: Look, writing is a process; you know this. You can't just jump into it and crank out five thousand words. There's a measure of inspiration and motivation that needs to be there.
IS: Bullshit! Why don't you at least try to get your two books published?
Me: I've tried. The mainstream publishing industry doesn't appreciate my work.
IS: What's not to get? Your "work" is a collection of ninety five thousand words of rubbish. I'll be you can't even describe it.
Me: Well, it's sort of Texas post-modern fiction with southwest and Mexican influences.
IS: Oh my God, "Texas post-modern fiction with southwest and Mexican influences?" What does that even mean? You don't even know what kind of fiction you're trying to write!
Me: No one ever said that writing is easy.
IS: Being easy has nothing to do with it. Either write, or try to get published what you have already written!
Me: Hey, back off! I am a successful writer; my stuff has sold in the high single digits!
IS: <fading from view> What a loser.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Engage filter before opening mouth
Every gal has two "looks" that she can give her husband or boyfriend. The good look is the one that melts your heart, and reminds you of why you fell in love with her in the first place. The bad look, the "other" look, is the one that freezes your blood and makes you want to crawl inside a hole. This is the look that says that she can't wait until you fall asleep so she can cut you up like a chicken.
I had this conversation with the wife outside the grocery store a couple of days ago, where the total at the register was more than I had anticipated, based on looking at the amount of groceries that were in the cart:
Me: How much was it?
Her: Hundred and sixty one
Me: Dollars? Wow; I didn't think it would be that much!
Her: Well, we bought some expensive stuff, and some medicine. And my make up is expensive.
Me: Is it just more expensive, or does it have to do more work?
Guess which "look" I got?
However, I was able to redeem myself yesterday.
We took advantage of a beautiful, sunny day here in Onalaska and spent the afternoon fishing from the dock. At one point we spotted an S cruising slowly by in the water. Though he couldn't be completely and accurately identified (could have been a rat snake, but he could have also been a water moccasin) the wife was outraged and demanded stern measures be immediately taken, so I hotfooted it into the house and grabbed my trusty Daisy Red Ryder. Bringing accurate rifle fire to bear against Mr. S, I drove him out away from the dock, negating the threat.
One of her fears is catching an S instead of a fish. That's one of my fears, too, because after she screams, throws the rod and flees the scene, guess who'll have to deal with the irritated Mr. S?
<Update on the medicine cabinet.>
Out of the blue last night wife commented, "If you only have three things on your side, why do you need all that space?"
I guess that makes some kind of sense.
She also threatened mayhem if she opened medicine cabinet and found fishing hooks and lures in it. I made no promises, but reserve the right to stock my side with whatever items I choose.
I had this conversation with the wife outside the grocery store a couple of days ago, where the total at the register was more than I had anticipated, based on looking at the amount of groceries that were in the cart:
Me: How much was it?
Her: Hundred and sixty one
Me: Dollars? Wow; I didn't think it would be that much!
Her: Well, we bought some expensive stuff, and some medicine. And my make up is expensive.
Me: Is it just more expensive, or does it have to do more work?
Guess which "look" I got?
However, I was able to redeem myself yesterday.
We took advantage of a beautiful, sunny day here in Onalaska and spent the afternoon fishing from the dock. At one point we spotted an S cruising slowly by in the water. Though he couldn't be completely and accurately identified (could have been a rat snake, but he could have also been a water moccasin) the wife was outraged and demanded stern measures be immediately taken, so I hotfooted it into the house and grabbed my trusty Daisy Red Ryder. Bringing accurate rifle fire to bear against Mr. S, I drove him out away from the dock, negating the threat.
One of her fears is catching an S instead of a fish. That's one of my fears, too, because after she screams, throws the rod and flees the scene, guess who'll have to deal with the irritated Mr. S?
<Update on the medicine cabinet.>
Out of the blue last night wife commented, "If you only have three things on your side, why do you need all that space?"
I guess that makes some kind of sense.
She also threatened mayhem if she opened medicine cabinet and found fishing hooks and lures in it. I made no promises, but reserve the right to stock my side with whatever items I choose.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Gender warfare in the bathroom
Two months ago this week we moved into this new house. In the master bathroom is a wooden medicine cabinet mounted on the wall; it's the kind that has two mirrored doors that open in the middle, and lights on the top; there are two shelves inside. It has a sticker inside that's dated 1991. You'd recognize it if you saw it; you might have a similar one, or there (more likely) is one in your parent's or grandparent's house.
When we moved in I knew exactly what would happen with this deal.
When my wife unboxed everything in the bathroom and put everything where she wanted it, this medicine cabinet's space was equally divided. The way I see it, if she's going to volunteer to unbox stuff and put it away then she can decide where stuff goes. That applies to all rooms, but especially, especially, to the kitchen, and in this case, the bathroom.
My side currently holds anti-perspirant, a razor, and my beard trimmer. There are two "neutral" items on my side as well, cough medicine and a flashlight. (Not sure why that's there, but this is the fourth time we've moved since we've been married, and I learned long ago not to question these types of decisions).
What's on her side, you ask? Well, there's currently 27 various items. Some I can identify, and some I cannot identify. She swears that each is vital to her daily routine. I love her, so I'll take her at her word.
This morning, as I opened up the door to get the razor, the inevitable happened. Her stuff was on my side. Specifically, a package of cotton "rounds" had tumbled over and spilled onto my side.
Now, in the grand scheme of things, this really doesn't matter. I just pushed it back over to her side with all of the other girly stuff, picked up the razor and went about my business.
What's puzzling, though, is why she needs 27 various items just to get ready to go somewhere. I don't know if this 27 constitutes the entire list, either. For all I know there could be another 27 bottles of goop hidden around; there may be 127. Who knows?
(Note: I took a break here, and the wife read what I've written so far. Her comment? If you only have three things in there why can't I have your space, too?)
I can't fault the logic, so to counter her argument I'll just fill up my side. I'll put some tools in there, pliers, screwdrivers, etc, and maybe some fish hooks and lures.
When we moved in I knew exactly what would happen with this deal.
When my wife unboxed everything in the bathroom and put everything where she wanted it, this medicine cabinet's space was equally divided. The way I see it, if she's going to volunteer to unbox stuff and put it away then she can decide where stuff goes. That applies to all rooms, but especially, especially, to the kitchen, and in this case, the bathroom.
My side currently holds anti-perspirant, a razor, and my beard trimmer. There are two "neutral" items on my side as well, cough medicine and a flashlight. (Not sure why that's there, but this is the fourth time we've moved since we've been married, and I learned long ago not to question these types of decisions).
What's on her side, you ask? Well, there's currently 27 various items. Some I can identify, and some I cannot identify. She swears that each is vital to her daily routine. I love her, so I'll take her at her word.
This morning, as I opened up the door to get the razor, the inevitable happened. Her stuff was on my side. Specifically, a package of cotton "rounds" had tumbled over and spilled onto my side.
Now, in the grand scheme of things, this really doesn't matter. I just pushed it back over to her side with all of the other girly stuff, picked up the razor and went about my business.
What's puzzling, though, is why she needs 27 various items just to get ready to go somewhere. I don't know if this 27 constitutes the entire list, either. For all I know there could be another 27 bottles of goop hidden around; there may be 127. Who knows?
(Note: I took a break here, and the wife read what I've written so far. Her comment? If you only have three things in there why can't I have your space, too?)
I can't fault the logic, so to counter her argument I'll just fill up my side. I'll put some tools in there, pliers, screwdrivers, etc, and maybe some fish hooks and lures.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Nazis lobby Congress...the AMERICAN Congress!
Well, the political freaks are coming out of the woodwork. The American Nazi Party now has its own (vile) congressional lobbyist.
The story can be found here on MSNBC: Nazis lobby Congress!
The gist of the story is that the American Nazi Party has employed an old boy named John Bowles as its first registered lobbyist. I guess the key phrase here is, "registered lobbyist." The difference being that racists and others of that ilk routinely lobby Congress on behalf of their nefarious goals.
Bowles is quoted as saying, "“You know, congressmen and congresswomen have always been telling the American public that they were open to other viewpoints. I’m going to see if they were sincere about that, or I’m going to call their bluff.”
Business Insider has some additional information on Mr. Bowles: John Bowles
Here's a link to the American Nazi Web site. It contains some scary stuff: http://www.americannaziparty.com/index.php
It's easy to laugh at Congressmen bringing up the old Red Scare, and at state lobbyists railing against Girl Scouts, but to have something as vile as the American Nazi Party officially start to lobby Congress just seems to be a first step down a horribly slippery slope.
What's equally as scary is that there may be a few Congress-critters who would happily listen to the Nazi diatribe so long as the cash keeps flowing.
The old saying is that, "politics makes strange bedfellows," of which I always that a prime example was the Allied countries of World War II (England, the US and the Soviets). Who'd have thought that less than a century later the Nazis would be back, officially lobbying Congress on behalf of their poisonous viewpoint?
Seems to me that we've been down particular road before, and decided as a nation that the Nazi philosophy has no place in a civilized world.
The First Amendment is a great thing, but sometimes it's a bit hard to stomach.
The story can be found here on MSNBC: Nazis lobby Congress!
The gist of the story is that the American Nazi Party has employed an old boy named John Bowles as its first registered lobbyist. I guess the key phrase here is, "registered lobbyist." The difference being that racists and others of that ilk routinely lobby Congress on behalf of their nefarious goals.
Bowles is quoted as saying, "“You know, congressmen and congresswomen have always been telling the American public that they were open to other viewpoints. I’m going to see if they were sincere about that, or I’m going to call their bluff.”
Business Insider has some additional information on Mr. Bowles: John Bowles
Here's a link to the American Nazi Web site. It contains some scary stuff: http://www.americannaziparty.com/index.php
It's easy to laugh at Congressmen bringing up the old Red Scare, and at state lobbyists railing against Girl Scouts, but to have something as vile as the American Nazi Party officially start to lobby Congress just seems to be a first step down a horribly slippery slope.
What's equally as scary is that there may be a few Congress-critters who would happily listen to the Nazi diatribe so long as the cash keeps flowing.
The old saying is that, "politics makes strange bedfellows," of which I always that a prime example was the Allied countries of World War II (England, the US and the Soviets). Who'd have thought that less than a century later the Nazis would be back, officially lobbying Congress on behalf of their poisonous viewpoint?
Seems to me that we've been down particular road before, and decided as a nation that the Nazi philosophy has no place in a civilized world.
The First Amendment is a great thing, but sometimes it's a bit hard to stomach.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Communists (and girl scouts), and snakes and spiders
I was scanning the news yesterday and was surprised to see that our old foe, the Red Menace, is back. That's right, friends and neighbors, Communism is making serious inroads in our society and if we're not careful they will soon overrun the good old USA.
Seems like our man on the scene in Florida, Rep Allen West (R), through hard work and diligence has unearthed, "78 to 81 members of the Democratic Party that are members of the Communist Party." See the story here: Commies!
"78 to 81?" That may be the largest concentration of pinkos left in the world!
But wait, there's more!
"West's campaign manager, Tim Edison, pointed reporters to West's next comments, when he says the members in question belong to the Congressional Progressive Caucus."
Boy, I mean to tell you...combine these Congressional Communists with those un-American Girl Scouts (see my previous post) and this country is on the brink!
Closer to home...
I'm not sure which is worse; actually seeing the snake, or the fear that I might see the snake. On the one hand, unexpectedly walking up on a good size snake will make me sonofabitch across the yard, but just the fear of actually seeing the little slithery bastard gives me the collywobbles.
I say this because after chatting with some neighbors over the last week or so, it appears that we may live in the most heavily armed street in the country, at least when it comes to snake fightin'. Seems that all of our neighbors have at least one gun, loaded and ready to go, in case they are beset by serpents.
It's good know, of course, that help is only a yelp away, but on the other hand, I'll have to keep in mind that all of my neighbors are armed to the teeth.
As I may have said before, I don't mind rattlesnakes so much. as they are essentially peaceful creatures (except when they are hungry), prefer to mind their own business, and will generally seek to avoid confrontation. Water moccasins, on the other hand, are aggressive and silent assassins. Kill on sight, and kill on site!
Though I hate spiders more (after seeing a friend of mine bitten by a brown recluse when I was about 10, and learning that he almost died), spiders around here are everywhere. They come in all shapes, sizes and venomosity (if that's a word) and so I'm resigned to them.
Seems like our man on the scene in Florida, Rep Allen West (R), through hard work and diligence has unearthed, "78 to 81 members of the Democratic Party that are members of the Communist Party." See the story here: Commies!
"78 to 81?" That may be the largest concentration of pinkos left in the world!
But wait, there's more!
"West's campaign manager, Tim Edison, pointed reporters to West's next comments, when he says the members in question belong to the Congressional Progressive Caucus."
Boy, I mean to tell you...combine these Congressional Communists with those un-American Girl Scouts (see my previous post) and this country is on the brink!
Closer to home...
I'm not sure which is worse; actually seeing the snake, or the fear that I might see the snake. On the one hand, unexpectedly walking up on a good size snake will make me sonofabitch across the yard, but just the fear of actually seeing the little slithery bastard gives me the collywobbles.
I say this because after chatting with some neighbors over the last week or so, it appears that we may live in the most heavily armed street in the country, at least when it comes to snake fightin'. Seems that all of our neighbors have at least one gun, loaded and ready to go, in case they are beset by serpents.
It's good know, of course, that help is only a yelp away, but on the other hand, I'll have to keep in mind that all of my neighbors are armed to the teeth.
As I may have said before, I don't mind rattlesnakes so much. as they are essentially peaceful creatures (except when they are hungry), prefer to mind their own business, and will generally seek to avoid confrontation. Water moccasins, on the other hand, are aggressive and silent assassins. Kill on sight, and kill on site!
Though I hate spiders more (after seeing a friend of mine bitten by a brown recluse when I was about 10, and learning that he almost died), spiders around here are everywhere. They come in all shapes, sizes and venomosity (if that's a word) and so I'm resigned to them.
Monday, April 9, 2012
I heard it on the radio...
A few days ago I was sitting on the back porch, killing time and having a few beers. The wife was in the front yard interrogating some newly-planted hydrangeas. They weren't performing up to snuff and she was trying to sort it all out.
I had our little radio on the porch with me, and was casually scanning the FM dial trying to find something to listen to; I had no luck. All I could get was some fuzzy stations coming from Houston (90 miles south), Lufkin (some 60 miles north east), or Nacogdoches (about 60 miles east). I was getting concerned, as I'm a radio junky and always enjoy having one handy.
Suddenly it dawned on me that I was only using half my arsenal. I flipped the switch over to AM. Voila! All manner of stations and all sorts of music.
Which got me to thinking...
Assuming you could pry the umbilical cord ear buds out of their heads, or tear their gaze away from their phone, to ask them, asking a Gen-X'er or Gen-Y'er what their first radio was and they would probably get you a blank stare. I'm not talking about a Walkman, MP3 player, or boom box. I'm talking about a radio, a transistor radio. Separate AM and FM bands, with an antenna.
Mine was a Philco. It had a silver aluminum body with plastic dials for AM and FM tuning. The volume control was a dial on the side. It had about a six inch long antenna. The 9 volt battery went in the back. (Be sure to test the 9 volt on your tongue to see if it was strong enough).
I got it in 1972 on my eighth birthday, which was the year that the Texas Rangers moved to Arlington from Washington D.C.
I remember laying in bed at night with the radio under my pillow, listening to the game. The best games were when they played on the West Coast, so I could stay up really late and listen, long after my parents and sisters were in bed.
Mom and Dad were on to my trick, of course, and while Mom would frequently come in and squawk at me to go to sleep, Dad would coast by a little while later, pop his head in the door, "What's the score?"
I would often fall asleep in the middle of the game. If I were very lucky it would coincide with a rain delay in the game, and I would awake in the middle of night and my Rangers would still be playing. For all I knew I was the only fan still listening.
I would also frequently fall asleep and wake up in the early morning hours listing to Bill Mack's Country Roads show, from which I got a good foundation in country music.
Baseball is a seasonal game, though, of course. Between games I would sit in my room and scan the dial. Pop stations on the AM dial, only, please. FM was still in its infancy and there were few good FM stations in the early '70's.
The groups and songs that my kids laugh at today were staples back then: The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (Paper Lace), Billy Don't Be A Hero (Also Paper Lace), One Tin Solider (Coven), Back Home Again (John Denver). The Beatles were still popular, of course, along with Elton John and the Rolling Stones.
I look at kids today and see these wildly popular, and really very technologically impressive, toys that they all have glued into their ears, and I sort of feel sorry for them. So few of them know the satisfaction of very carefully turning the tuner and finally, finally, pulling in the static-free station that they've been looking for.
I'm not sure what finally happened to that radio. I'm sure that it finally broke and I just threw it away, the boy in me not realizing that there might one day be a time when it would represent a happy part of my childhood, when an eight year old boy was discovering what would be a life-long love...baseball.
I had our little radio on the porch with me, and was casually scanning the FM dial trying to find something to listen to; I had no luck. All I could get was some fuzzy stations coming from Houston (90 miles south), Lufkin (some 60 miles north east), or Nacogdoches (about 60 miles east). I was getting concerned, as I'm a radio junky and always enjoy having one handy.
Suddenly it dawned on me that I was only using half my arsenal. I flipped the switch over to AM. Voila! All manner of stations and all sorts of music.
Which got me to thinking...
Assuming you could pry the umbilical cord ear buds out of their heads, or tear their gaze away from their phone, to ask them, asking a Gen-X'er or Gen-Y'er what their first radio was and they would probably get you a blank stare. I'm not talking about a Walkman, MP3 player, or boom box. I'm talking about a radio, a transistor radio. Separate AM and FM bands, with an antenna.
Mine was a Philco. It had a silver aluminum body with plastic dials for AM and FM tuning. The volume control was a dial on the side. It had about a six inch long antenna. The 9 volt battery went in the back. (Be sure to test the 9 volt on your tongue to see if it was strong enough).
I got it in 1972 on my eighth birthday, which was the year that the Texas Rangers moved to Arlington from Washington D.C.
I remember laying in bed at night with the radio under my pillow, listening to the game. The best games were when they played on the West Coast, so I could stay up really late and listen, long after my parents and sisters were in bed.
Mom and Dad were on to my trick, of course, and while Mom would frequently come in and squawk at me to go to sleep, Dad would coast by a little while later, pop his head in the door, "What's the score?"
I would often fall asleep in the middle of the game. If I were very lucky it would coincide with a rain delay in the game, and I would awake in the middle of night and my Rangers would still be playing. For all I knew I was the only fan still listening.
I would also frequently fall asleep and wake up in the early morning hours listing to Bill Mack's Country Roads show, from which I got a good foundation in country music.
Baseball is a seasonal game, though, of course. Between games I would sit in my room and scan the dial. Pop stations on the AM dial, only, please. FM was still in its infancy and there were few good FM stations in the early '70's.
The groups and songs that my kids laugh at today were staples back then: The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (Paper Lace), Billy Don't Be A Hero (Also Paper Lace), One Tin Solider (Coven), Back Home Again (John Denver). The Beatles were still popular, of course, along with Elton John and the Rolling Stones.
I look at kids today and see these wildly popular, and really very technologically impressive, toys that they all have glued into their ears, and I sort of feel sorry for them. So few of them know the satisfaction of very carefully turning the tuner and finally, finally, pulling in the static-free station that they've been looking for.
I'm not sure what finally happened to that radio. I'm sure that it finally broke and I just threw it away, the boy in me not realizing that there might one day be a time when it would represent a happy part of my childhood, when an eight year old boy was discovering what would be a life-long love...baseball.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Sovereign (dog) citizen...
One of the unexpectedly pleasant things about moving to Onalaska is Ruby the dog; or maybe, Ruby the Dog.
Ruby is an old small short-hair of undetermined background. She has some pug in her, I think, and what looks like perhaps some pit bull, maybe.
She is a friend to all, and apparently belongs to no one, though for immunization purposes I suppose she can be considered to belong to a lady down the street. It's almost as if everyone in the neighborhood belongs to her, rather than someone owning her.
She wanders the neighborhood all day long at a casual trot, roaming from house to house; or rather, from snack to snack. In a neighborhood full of squirrels and birds she seems to evoke a, "live and let live" philosophy. She just leaves them alone. In fact, though we see her daily, sometimes several times a day, I've never heard her bark.
When we fish she can be counted on to trot out onto the dock and stay for awhile. Eventually, though, she turns around and, without a word, goes on her way in continuance of her appointed rounds.
When we take a stroll she can be counted on, if she sees us, to join us for as long as we walk. The other day we strolled over to the next neighborhood, and she kept a steady trot ahead of us. We got a good laugh out of her trotting through the bar ditch, slogging through the water. She'd run off into the woods, and then appear on the other side of the road.
On the way home she ran off across the Farm Road and into another neighborhood. About a quarter mile later she appeared behind us, tongue wagging, at her steady trot.
On another note, the wife made home made chicken fried steak and cream gravy tonight. I kid you not; it was so good I almost cried.
Ruby is an old small short-hair of undetermined background. She has some pug in her, I think, and what looks like perhaps some pit bull, maybe.
She is a friend to all, and apparently belongs to no one, though for immunization purposes I suppose she can be considered to belong to a lady down the street. It's almost as if everyone in the neighborhood belongs to her, rather than someone owning her.
She wanders the neighborhood all day long at a casual trot, roaming from house to house; or rather, from snack to snack. In a neighborhood full of squirrels and birds she seems to evoke a, "live and let live" philosophy. She just leaves them alone. In fact, though we see her daily, sometimes several times a day, I've never heard her bark.
When we fish she can be counted on to trot out onto the dock and stay for awhile. Eventually, though, she turns around and, without a word, goes on her way in continuance of her appointed rounds.
When we take a stroll she can be counted on, if she sees us, to join us for as long as we walk. The other day we strolled over to the next neighborhood, and she kept a steady trot ahead of us. We got a good laugh out of her trotting through the bar ditch, slogging through the water. She'd run off into the woods, and then appear on the other side of the road.
On the way home she ran off across the Farm Road and into another neighborhood. About a quarter mile later she appeared behind us, tongue wagging, at her steady trot.
On another note, the wife made home made chicken fried steak and cream gravy tonight. I kid you not; it was so good I almost cried.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Sorry, dear; I didn't get his name...
Yesterday I had the run-in that I was expecting, but which I was not looking forward to.
I was strolling down to the dock to flip the breaker on so that I could work on the sprinkler system. When I got to the steps that lead to the dock I was rudely jarred out of my day dream. I happened to look down as I stepped onto the dock, let out a foul curse and hopped back, just managing to avoid stepping on the back end of Mr. Snake as he was slithering off the step into the water.
My wife was on the back porch talking on the phone and I looked back over my shoulder to see if she had seen my little jig. She moved to this new house with the declaration that if she saw any snakes (the S's, she calls them) then all bets were off and there would be hell to pay.
I watched for a moment to see if the S would make a return appearance before hot-footing it down the steps and out to the breaker, suddenly losing interest in sprinkler system maintenance.
On the way back I looked really hard at the step before I walked up, pausing about five feet away to give it a good long look. Thinking the coast was clear I walked on up...and almost stepped on the little bastard again! Fortunately, again, all I saw was his hind end sliding off the step into the water. I don't know how the hell I missed him.
I tried to look nonchalant, as my wife was watching me intently, and managed to walk (normally, I thought) back up to the house.
She put down the phone. "What was it?"
"Well, er, really it was just a little bitty, teeny tiny, little ol' snake."
She took the news better than I thought. She narrowed her eyes and looked out towards the dock. "What kind?"
Trying to act cool I said, "Don't know. I only saw his ass end, and he didn't introduce himself." Secretly I was hyperventilating.
I walked inside and flipped on the computer, looking for pictures of S's. According to the pictures, it could have been a rat snake; they are harmless. Could also have been a water moccasin; they are not harmless.
After a minute or two the breaker flipped off on the sprinkler system, which necessitated another trip to the dock to turn it off.
Since I don't own a shot gun, I went into the garage to arm myself, and wound up picking a shovel. Heavy, long handle, pretty good edge. I walked back down to the dock, seeking only to turn off the breaker but fully prepared to do battle with Mr. S. I slowed down when I got to the step, poked the shovel all around, and finally, once I was sure the coast was clear, again hot-footed it down the pier to the breaker box.
So here's my problem...obviously I can't kill every S in East Texas, so what's my move? What's my best bet, weapon-wise? Shot gun? Noisy, but efficient. Machete? Cool way to kill Mr. S, but risky; machetes aren't very long. Shovel? They are heavy and will certainly do the job, but they are also comparatively unwieldy.
The best bet may be to call K 1's fiance, let him know that there are vile serpents afoot, and ask him to come do his family duty. A stand up potential son in law would come in handy, here.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Things I have learned so far in East Texas
I had lived, up until we moved last month, Arlington, which is in North Central Texas, in the Ft Worth-Dallas "Metroplex."
My wife, who spent some of her earlier years in a little town called Talco in East Texas, warned me that things are different down here and I would need some time to adjust.
I laughed, but she was right.
For example:
My wife, who spent some of her earlier years in a little town called Talco in East Texas, warned me that things are different down here and I would need some time to adjust.
I laughed, but she was right.
For example:
- We have assumed partial ownership of Ruby, a small, squat dog of undetermined breed. Ruby, for immunization purposes, belongs to a lady at the other end of our street, but she roams the neighborhood from early morning to late at night, usually at a modest trot, visiting from house to house. She usually checks in with us at least twice a day, more often if we are on the dock fishing (I suppose she's looking for snack), and will often accompany us on our evening strolls. She has no fear of traffic, and will calmly wait for cars to pass before trotting across the street. We've been here, now, over a month and I've yet to hear her bark. She seems to be friends, or at least has a non-aggression pact, with the neighborhood squirrels and birds.
- In East Texas there are an enormous amount and wide variety of spiders. I am against spider, though for some reason the bigger the spider is the less it bothers me. We have these little spiders, though, which can be found on all surfaces at all times of the day. They all seem to be rather menacing, with huge bodies behind their little heads. They also all appear to be venomous, at least to my uneducated and nervous mind.
- Grocery or hardware store lists are important. It's 20 miles to a big grocery or hardware store, so we are constantly making lists. It's also very important to remember to take the list when we make the big drive to Livingston, which is our county seat. Forgetting the list invariably means that either we forget something which necessitated making the trip in the first place, or we overbuy, which is a detriment to our cash flow.
- While our electricity has been just fine, the water has gone off twice since we've been here. As I mentioned above I lived in Arlington for 47 of my 48 years, and I cannot remember, even one instance of the water going off. The water quality is fine, so far as I know, but the pressure and the availability seems to be suspect.
- Lake Livingston is fed by the Trinity River. When it rains a great deal in the Ft Worth-Dallas area, a week later we can sit on the dock and watch all manner of stuff float into the lake. (Our house is at the north end of the lake, not too far from where the Trinity flows into the lake). Just this week I saw numerous big logs (some over 20 feet) floating by, an unidentified five or six foot long critter floating belly up, a dead snake, which looked to be about four feet long, draped over a log floating by.
- There doesn't seem to be any procedure for dealing with these big logs that wash up to my deck or bulk head. They are too heavy to just lift out of the water onto land, and even if I could I'm not sure what I'd do with them. My solution so far has been to just push them out back into the current and let nature take it's course. That doesn't seem very neighborly, though, so I'm continuing my research.
- There's a dearth of restaurants in Onalaska. There's one very good home style joint called Jerry's, a Sonic, a Subway, and a couple of other Mom and Pops that we've yet to try.
- There's no library, and no used book store, both of which I'm having difficulty accepting.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
On the "homey" side of things...
Early morning, wanders from bedroom into living room.
Coffee, coffee, coffee...
Turns on pot, walks outside to get the paper.
Man, this is a long driveway; I wish the paper man could throw that paper a little closer to the house, instead of just leaving it by the road.
Sitting on the sofa, reading paper.
Ah, coffee; thanks, hon. Let's see...ideas for blog post...front page...murder, missing kid, politics. Turns page...Let's see what's on page two and three...more murder, shooting, this guy got stabbed. These Houstonians spend all their time killing one another; how is it that this city keeps growing? Bloodthirsty savages. Nothing good in here at all.
Puts down paper, goes into kitchen and pours more coffee; stares out kitchen window. Jeez, look at that spider web; I'll be that's a foot across! Where's the owner? Ooh, never saw one like that...probably called something like the Texas Death Spider. One bite and your pecker falls off. Your days are numbered, mister. I hate spiders.
Walks out the door and onto the back patio. Wonder what's going on down at the dock...
Stares down at the lake and watches the fish popping the surface. Man, looks like they're biting this morning; too bad we're going to buy shrubs. You guys are off the hook today (chuckles at his own wit)
Looks up and down the shoreline. Where's the big ol' dead fish was was washing down stream yesterday? Man, that thing had to be six feet long. Too bad it was upside down; couldn't tell what it was. At first I thought it was an alligator, but it had fins and no legs. Wonder if Sharon saw that something had taken a big bite out of its belly...wonder if that was before or after it died? I hope it was after it died. I hate to think about what could have chased down a six foot fish while it was alive and taken that big a bite out of it. Wonder what it could have been...'gator? Alligator gar? Rick Perry? Whatever it was, if it could chase down a fish that big it wouldn't have any problem chasing down a fat man swimming by his dock.
Starts back towards house...stops to stare up at pine tree. That big branch is dead. How do I get up there? That's got to be twenty feet in the air. Better find a way to cut it down before it falls on someone...
Screams and starts dancing around... F#&#ing fire ants! Didn't even see that mound! Scratches foot furiously... Go ahead, live it up you little sons o' bitches. I got a ten pound bag of ant killer that'll fix you up!
Wanders into front yard...Man, that little pecan tree I transplanted from the other house is finally budding out. It's looking pretty good; glad I thought to bring it down here. Yeah, I see you, Mr. Squirrel. Yes, that's a pecan tree, but it's mine; you leave it the hell alone. There ain't no laws down here against shooting you, you little furry bastard.
Strolls back into house...Man, I got no ideas to write about...
Coffee, coffee, coffee...
Turns on pot, walks outside to get the paper.
Man, this is a long driveway; I wish the paper man could throw that paper a little closer to the house, instead of just leaving it by the road.
Sitting on the sofa, reading paper.
Ah, coffee; thanks, hon. Let's see...ideas for blog post...front page...murder, missing kid, politics. Turns page...Let's see what's on page two and three...more murder, shooting, this guy got stabbed. These Houstonians spend all their time killing one another; how is it that this city keeps growing? Bloodthirsty savages. Nothing good in here at all.
Puts down paper, goes into kitchen and pours more coffee; stares out kitchen window. Jeez, look at that spider web; I'll be that's a foot across! Where's the owner? Ooh, never saw one like that...probably called something like the Texas Death Spider. One bite and your pecker falls off. Your days are numbered, mister. I hate spiders.
Walks out the door and onto the back patio. Wonder what's going on down at the dock...
Stares down at the lake and watches the fish popping the surface. Man, looks like they're biting this morning; too bad we're going to buy shrubs. You guys are off the hook today (chuckles at his own wit)
Looks up and down the shoreline. Where's the big ol' dead fish was was washing down stream yesterday? Man, that thing had to be six feet long. Too bad it was upside down; couldn't tell what it was. At first I thought it was an alligator, but it had fins and no legs. Wonder if Sharon saw that something had taken a big bite out of its belly...wonder if that was before or after it died? I hope it was after it died. I hate to think about what could have chased down a six foot fish while it was alive and taken that big a bite out of it. Wonder what it could have been...'gator? Alligator gar? Rick Perry? Whatever it was, if it could chase down a fish that big it wouldn't have any problem chasing down a fat man swimming by his dock.
Starts back towards house...stops to stare up at pine tree. That big branch is dead. How do I get up there? That's got to be twenty feet in the air. Better find a way to cut it down before it falls on someone...
Screams and starts dancing around... F#&#ing fire ants! Didn't even see that mound! Scratches foot furiously... Go ahead, live it up you little sons o' bitches. I got a ten pound bag of ant killer that'll fix you up!
Wanders into front yard...Man, that little pecan tree I transplanted from the other house is finally budding out. It's looking pretty good; glad I thought to bring it down here. Yeah, I see you, Mr. Squirrel. Yes, that's a pecan tree, but it's mine; you leave it the hell alone. There ain't no laws down here against shooting you, you little furry bastard.
Strolls back into house...Man, I got no ideas to write about...
Monday, March 26, 2012
Trayvon Martin, and a bit of a wider perspective
I was hoping not to have to talk about this subject; there are probably a lot of people a lot more wise than I who are much more qualified to dissect this horrible event, but in reading, watching and listening to the news, I got to thinking...
Let's get the subjective stuff out of the way. I think this poor kid was killed by a neighborhood watch guy who went way, way beyond what would normally be expected of someone in a neighborhood watch program. I think this George Zimmerman guy ought to be arrested and then we should let the Florida judicial system take its course. (Remember, though, that this is the state that let's Moms kill their kids and walk away scot free).
I think that all of these protests that are sweeping the nation are all well and good, but it makes me wonder...
Where was all of this civic protest yesterday, or over the weekend, or over the last month when the last inter-racial violent crime happened, regardless of which race committed the crime? I don't have any specific crime in mind to quote, but in a country that's as racially, socially and economically diverse as the United States is, I would bet that a huge chunk of crime is inter-racial, inter-social, or inter-economic.
Where are the screaming Congress-critters when these crimes happen? Where is the national angst?
I did a quick Web search to try and find some objective numbers, but quickly ran into a lot of Web sites that tout a lot of pretty suspect information. So, in the interests of objectivity, and to avoid any possibility of promoting some wacko's theory, I'll only ask the questions here.
Ask yourself this...when was the last time that a Hispanic shot an oriental? Did it make the national news? Probably not, at least not that I can recall. Did it make your local news? Maybe, but maybe not.
The larger issue in the Trayvon Martin case is not that an overly zealous neighborhood watch member killed an innocent kid. This is tragic for a lot of people, certainly mostly for Trayvon and the Martin family, but as well for Zimmerman and his family, but also for that neighborhood and town.
I think the larger issue, though, is why we (as a society) ignore most inter-racial crimes, but seem to get really outraged when a young black is victimized by a white guy.
Let's look at the larger picture...where is the national outcry when a black guy shoots another black guy, or assaults a black girl. Where is the rage against Hispanic on Hispanic crime, or oriental on white crime? Should the victim's skin color really determine how society views the crime? Doesn't that lessen the value of the black kid that was killed by the black kid, or the white kid who was killed by the white guy?
Trayvon Martin was needlessly killed, but his death would have been just as needless if he was an oriental, or Hispanic, or white. Mr Zimmerman would be just as guilty, and he probably would still not be arrested, if only because of the way that Florida's law is written.
The question we need to ask is, if Trayvon Martin was white, or Hispanic, or oriental, would Congress be having hearings? Would there be protests all over the country?
Unfortunately, the answer is no.
Let's get the subjective stuff out of the way. I think this poor kid was killed by a neighborhood watch guy who went way, way beyond what would normally be expected of someone in a neighborhood watch program. I think this George Zimmerman guy ought to be arrested and then we should let the Florida judicial system take its course. (Remember, though, that this is the state that let's Moms kill their kids and walk away scot free).
I think that all of these protests that are sweeping the nation are all well and good, but it makes me wonder...
Where was all of this civic protest yesterday, or over the weekend, or over the last month when the last inter-racial violent crime happened, regardless of which race committed the crime? I don't have any specific crime in mind to quote, but in a country that's as racially, socially and economically diverse as the United States is, I would bet that a huge chunk of crime is inter-racial, inter-social, or inter-economic.
Where are the screaming Congress-critters when these crimes happen? Where is the national angst?
I did a quick Web search to try and find some objective numbers, but quickly ran into a lot of Web sites that tout a lot of pretty suspect information. So, in the interests of objectivity, and to avoid any possibility of promoting some wacko's theory, I'll only ask the questions here.
Ask yourself this...when was the last time that a Hispanic shot an oriental? Did it make the national news? Probably not, at least not that I can recall. Did it make your local news? Maybe, but maybe not.
The larger issue in the Trayvon Martin case is not that an overly zealous neighborhood watch member killed an innocent kid. This is tragic for a lot of people, certainly mostly for Trayvon and the Martin family, but as well for Zimmerman and his family, but also for that neighborhood and town.
I think the larger issue, though, is why we (as a society) ignore most inter-racial crimes, but seem to get really outraged when a young black is victimized by a white guy.
Let's look at the larger picture...where is the national outcry when a black guy shoots another black guy, or assaults a black girl. Where is the rage against Hispanic on Hispanic crime, or oriental on white crime? Should the victim's skin color really determine how society views the crime? Doesn't that lessen the value of the black kid that was killed by the black kid, or the white kid who was killed by the white guy?
Trayvon Martin was needlessly killed, but his death would have been just as needless if he was an oriental, or Hispanic, or white. Mr Zimmerman would be just as guilty, and he probably would still not be arrested, if only because of the way that Florida's law is written.
The question we need to ask is, if Trayvon Martin was white, or Hispanic, or oriental, would Congress be having hearings? Would there be protests all over the country?
Unfortunately, the answer is no.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Dick Cheney, those dangerous Canadians, and catfish (...and water!)
First things first...the water's back on. Turns out that that girl who I talked to at Lake Livingston Water was right. It was fixed when it was fixed.
This headline caught my eye this morning:
Seems that Vice President Cheney is scared of those Canadians. The meat of the story is:
Further on down the story says:
This headline caught my eye this morning:
Dick Cheney cancels trip to Canada, saying it's too dangerous
The story is here: Cheney's scared...
Seems that Vice President Cheney is scared of those Canadians. The meat of the story is:
Ryan Ruppert, president of promotions company Spectre Live Corp., which scheduled Cheney's April 24 appearance at the Metro Toronto Convention Centre, said Cheney and his daughter, Elizabeth, canceled citing safety concerns.
"After speaking with their security advisors, they changed their mind on coming to the event," Ruppert told CTV Network. They "decided it was better for their personal safety they stay out of Canada."Further on down the story says:
Cheney -- who has visited plenty of dangerous places in his time, including Iraq in 2008 -- is a lightning rod for controversy in some corners of Canada. His harshest critics there call him a "war criminal" and blame him for human rights violations including the United States' controversial use of waterboarding to elicit information from terrorist suspects.
Violence broke out when Cheney visited Vancouver in September as part of the book tour for his memoir, "In My Time," which he wrote with daughter Elizabeth. Cheney had to hole up inside the building for hours as police in riot gear took on demonstrators.
So, from this can we infer:
- Cheney is afraid of controversy?
- Cheney is afraid of a few ornery Canadians?
- He thinks that Toronto is a more dangerous place than Iraq?
- He doesn't think that the local Canadian cops are up to snuff?
I must say, I lost a little respect for the man today.
In other news, K3, home on spring break from Texas Tech, my wife and I took advantage of a beautiful spring day yesterday to do a little fishing from the dock.
K3 baited up her line with a chunk o'hot dog (we're not real technical here) and then proceeded to heave her hook into the lake in what must be the world's oddest casting motion. She sort of just heaves it forward into the water, but still manages to get a good distance. Very odd...
Anyway, upon casting her line she sat in her chair, pulled on her sunglasses, and, following in her two older sisters' footsteps, affected that air of teen age girls everywhere. You know the look, sort of a cross between a look of disengaged boredom and entitlement.
Which lasted until she caught her first fish, a little one pound channel cat. Then she was all excited and screaming for her Daddy to come get it.
One of life's great moments.
Monday, March 12, 2012
It'll be done when it's done...
As a result of moving out into the country we have to contract with a private vendor to supply water, in this case, Lake Livingston Water.
Yesterday, while K3 was home on spring break from Texas Tech with two of her buddies from our old neighborhood, I noticed that our water pressure was very low. Assuming it was the filter in the water softener system that just needed to be changed out I turned off the water, changed the filter, turned the water back on and strolled inside.
No water.
I double checked everything that I had done, and then called my new friends at Lake Livingston Water. Their voice mail advised that they were closed on Sunday...and Monday. The robot voice bade me "hit 5" and be transferred to their answering service.
Thus connected I told the girl (who sounded about 15) what our issue was, and asked if there were any problems. We got about 4 inches of rain at our house yesterday, so I thought there might have been ensuing water technical difficulties.
The lady who I talked to said that yes, there were some problems in the line but they were working to fix it. Assuming that progress was being made I hung up.
With still no water at 10:30 last night I called again, and talked to the same lady. She was very nice, but didn't have any new information to give me, aside from an estimate that it would be around five this morning before repairs were completed.
Very good...progress is being made.
This morning I got up and around about 7:30...no water. I called them again, talked to the same lady (who by now has been on duty since at least 6:00 last night), and despite my best efforts, I'm afraid that I was a bit testy.
The conversation went something along the lines of...
Me: Hi, I'm calling from Emerald Bay; will we get any water today?
Her: Well, it's a four inch line that busted (her word- busted) out by the lake, and they are working on it right now.
Me: Any idea when it will be fixed?
Her: When they are done fixing it.
Me: OK, but do you have any idea when that might be?
Her: When it's fixed.
Well, then...that's all I need to know!
Yesterday, while K3 was home on spring break from Texas Tech with two of her buddies from our old neighborhood, I noticed that our water pressure was very low. Assuming it was the filter in the water softener system that just needed to be changed out I turned off the water, changed the filter, turned the water back on and strolled inside.
No water.
I double checked everything that I had done, and then called my new friends at Lake Livingston Water. Their voice mail advised that they were closed on Sunday...and Monday. The robot voice bade me "hit 5" and be transferred to their answering service.
Thus connected I told the girl (who sounded about 15) what our issue was, and asked if there were any problems. We got about 4 inches of rain at our house yesterday, so I thought there might have been ensuing water technical difficulties.
The lady who I talked to said that yes, there were some problems in the line but they were working to fix it. Assuming that progress was being made I hung up.
With still no water at 10:30 last night I called again, and talked to the same lady. She was very nice, but didn't have any new information to give me, aside from an estimate that it would be around five this morning before repairs were completed.
Very good...progress is being made.
This morning I got up and around about 7:30...no water. I called them again, talked to the same lady (who by now has been on duty since at least 6:00 last night), and despite my best efforts, I'm afraid that I was a bit testy.
The conversation went something along the lines of...
Me: Hi, I'm calling from Emerald Bay; will we get any water today?
Her: Well, it's a four inch line that busted (her word- busted) out by the lake, and they are working on it right now.
Me: Any idea when it will be fixed?
Her: When they are done fixing it.
Me: OK, but do you have any idea when that might be?
Her: When it's fixed.
Well, then...that's all I need to know!
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Over the last couple of days I've been a bit stumped for a subject to write about. The Houston Chronicle was no help, and neither was the local Penny Saver. Both are usually chock-full of potential, but nothing really caught my eye.
This morning I thought, "surely there's a politician somewhere that has something insensible to say." I reviewed all of the usual suspects, CBS, Fox News, MSNBC, even, in my growing desperation ABC News (which, for a news Website seems to have little news) but the politicos have been strangely silent the last day or so. Fortunately CNN came to the rescue.
Embedded in their site is this story: Wash my britches!. I got a good chuckle when I read it, knowing full well that if my wife, or any of my three daughters were to read that, there'd be hell to pay.
The social networks are apparently all atwitter over this egregiously heinous crime, but really...come on; can't we just laugh about it and move on?
Now, obviously someone pulled a fast one on this clothing outfit, and whoever was responsible for quality control was asleep at the switch.
But is this really the kind of thing that should occupy anyone's time beyond a quick laugh?
Seems to me that we spend so much time looking for offenses of any kind that we've forgotten our sense of humor.
This morning I thought, "surely there's a politician somewhere that has something insensible to say." I reviewed all of the usual suspects, CBS, Fox News, MSNBC, even, in my growing desperation ABC News (which, for a news Website seems to have little news) but the politicos have been strangely silent the last day or so. Fortunately CNN came to the rescue.
Embedded in their site is this story: Wash my britches!. I got a good chuckle when I read it, knowing full well that if my wife, or any of my three daughters were to read that, there'd be hell to pay.
The social networks are apparently all atwitter over this egregiously heinous crime, but really...come on; can't we just laugh about it and move on?
Now, obviously someone pulled a fast one on this clothing outfit, and whoever was responsible for quality control was asleep at the switch.
But is this really the kind of thing that should occupy anyone's time beyond a quick laugh?
Seems to me that we spend so much time looking for offenses of any kind that we've forgotten our sense of humor.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Hold your horses there, all you other GOP'ers...and the "Fuzz and Wuzz" media
Let me state right off the bat that I'm not a fan of President Obama. It's not because I think he's a secret Muslim, or that he wasn't born in the US, or that he's (fill in the blank here with your favorite Obama-bot terror scenario).
I just don't like his politics.
But (But!!) the man's taking a lot of heat from the Repub candidates that I think is unfair.
I read two columns today in our local paper, The Polk County Enterprise (unsolicited plug here...this is a really good small town paper) that make my point better than I could.
The first is a column called GOP 2012: The pro-fiction campaign. Check it out here: The pro fiction campaign. This is an excellent column commenting on several of the Repub current battle cries.
The second column that caught my eye was by Jim Hightower (former Texas Agricultural Commissioner). Find it here: Keystone XL Flim Flam.
To capsulize this column a bit, it seems that the Keystone pipeline (recently held up by the Obama administration) wouldn't help lower gas prices one little bit here in the good ol' USA. What it would do is allow a Canadian company to seize American property through eminent domain (Yikes!) along the proposed 2,000 mile pipeline.
Once it got to the refineries on the Texas coast (assuming it didn't leak out along the way, which is without a doubt possible along a 2,000 mile pipeline), it would be refined into products that are destined to be shipped into the worldwide market. Not one gallon would wind up here. (Lord God!) Not only that, fellow citizens, these refineries are within Tax Free Zones, so not only would all of this product be shipped overseas, it would go there without being taxed.
So who wins in that deal?
Like I said, I'm not a fan of President Obama, and I won't vote for him in the coming elections, but in the interest of fairness I just had to comment.
Also in the news, here in greater Onalaska, Texas...
Being in a very small town our local TV channels are all from Houston. Being new here we've been trying to watch a different local news program every night to see which ones we like the best. In doing so we've come to the conclusion that people in the Houston area fall into three categories: 1) crime victims, or 2) criminals currently under suspicion or arrest, or 3) criminals on the run who are likely to fall at some point into category two.
The locals news stations breathlessly report, on each newscast, who was shot, who it was that shot him, and if he's still on the loose or if he's been nabbed by the cops.
So far as I can see, nothing good happens in Houston.
I just don't like his politics.
But (But!!) the man's taking a lot of heat from the Repub candidates that I think is unfair.
I read two columns today in our local paper, The Polk County Enterprise (unsolicited plug here...this is a really good small town paper) that make my point better than I could.
The first is a column called GOP 2012: The pro-fiction campaign. Check it out here: The pro fiction campaign. This is an excellent column commenting on several of the Repub current battle cries.
The second column that caught my eye was by Jim Hightower (former Texas Agricultural Commissioner). Find it here: Keystone XL Flim Flam.
To capsulize this column a bit, it seems that the Keystone pipeline (recently held up by the Obama administration) wouldn't help lower gas prices one little bit here in the good ol' USA. What it would do is allow a Canadian company to seize American property through eminent domain (Yikes!) along the proposed 2,000 mile pipeline.
Once it got to the refineries on the Texas coast (assuming it didn't leak out along the way, which is without a doubt possible along a 2,000 mile pipeline), it would be refined into products that are destined to be shipped into the worldwide market. Not one gallon would wind up here. (Lord God!) Not only that, fellow citizens, these refineries are within Tax Free Zones, so not only would all of this product be shipped overseas, it would go there without being taxed.
So who wins in that deal?
Like I said, I'm not a fan of President Obama, and I won't vote for him in the coming elections, but in the interest of fairness I just had to comment.
Also in the news, here in greater Onalaska, Texas...
Being in a very small town our local TV channels are all from Houston. Being new here we've been trying to watch a different local news program every night to see which ones we like the best. In doing so we've come to the conclusion that people in the Houston area fall into three categories: 1) crime victims, or 2) criminals currently under suspicion or arrest, or 3) criminals on the run who are likely to fall at some point into category two.
The locals news stations breathlessly report, on each newscast, who was shot, who it was that shot him, and if he's still on the loose or if he's been nabbed by the cops.
So far as I can see, nothing good happens in Houston.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Local critters, neighbors, and Newt Gingrich
Having finally settled into the new house in the greater metropolitan Onalaska, TX area, I've had a chance to meet some neighbors, both human and critter, and to get a sense of what it will be like to live here.
On the human-neighbor front, everyone seems very friendly in these parts, which is what I expected. We've met the neighbors on both sides of us, as well as one or two other people who strolled over to introduce themselves and to say "howdy," including one little old lady who came in and made no bones about "checking us out." I'm not sure if what she was doing would be termed "creeping," or "trolling," as my daughters say. It was really kind of funny.
On the critter-neighbor side, we've become fast friends with Ruby, the neighborhood dog. She belongs to no one, best that we can figure, but people take her to get shots every year, and from what I can tell, she doesn't lack for people to feed her. My wife has jumped on that particular band wagon, and made it a quick priority to get some dog food to keep Ruby in chow. She's a good dog, doesn't bark, and will follow you around, including out onto the boat dock.
There are also all manner of birds, also now being fed by the wife, and at least two squirrels. Squirrel 1 seems to go about his business in a frenzy of activity, and appears to want to have some sort of relationship, partnership or friendship with Squirrel 2. Squirrel 2 isn't having any of it, though. He seems to be rather ornery and spends a lot of time yelling both at Squirrel 1 and whatever birds happen to be wandering by.
The neighbors have warned us of water moccasins, which I do not have much experience with (they not being found in overabundance in the Fort Worth-Dallas area), rattlesnakes (which I have no problem with). Water moccasins, though, have a reputation for Newt Gingrich-like aggressiveness and foul temperament.
The little old lady next door said that she keeps a pump action .22 loaded and on safety just in case. She said that she's had to dispatch one Sssss already that was lurking in her garage.
Of alligators I have no concern. Gators are common to the I-35 corridor east, so I've shared common diggings with them all my life, though I've never knowingly been around one in the wild. Gators and rattle snakes share a common "live and let live" mentality which I'm fond of. On the other hand they are quick to strike and rather vicious when riled, sort of like Rick Perry.
All in all it's been a good move. The biggest traumas have been an antique curio cabinet that suffered a bit of broken glass, and a key that's gone missing from an armoire. But all in all that's tolerable.
More to come...
On the human-neighbor front, everyone seems very friendly in these parts, which is what I expected. We've met the neighbors on both sides of us, as well as one or two other people who strolled over to introduce themselves and to say "howdy," including one little old lady who came in and made no bones about "checking us out." I'm not sure if what she was doing would be termed "creeping," or "trolling," as my daughters say. It was really kind of funny.
On the critter-neighbor side, we've become fast friends with Ruby, the neighborhood dog. She belongs to no one, best that we can figure, but people take her to get shots every year, and from what I can tell, she doesn't lack for people to feed her. My wife has jumped on that particular band wagon, and made it a quick priority to get some dog food to keep Ruby in chow. She's a good dog, doesn't bark, and will follow you around, including out onto the boat dock.
There are also all manner of birds, also now being fed by the wife, and at least two squirrels. Squirrel 1 seems to go about his business in a frenzy of activity, and appears to want to have some sort of relationship, partnership or friendship with Squirrel 2. Squirrel 2 isn't having any of it, though. He seems to be rather ornery and spends a lot of time yelling both at Squirrel 1 and whatever birds happen to be wandering by.
The neighbors have warned us of water moccasins, which I do not have much experience with (they not being found in overabundance in the Fort Worth-Dallas area), rattlesnakes (which I have no problem with). Water moccasins, though, have a reputation for Newt Gingrich-like aggressiveness and foul temperament.
The little old lady next door said that she keeps a pump action .22 loaded and on safety just in case. She said that she's had to dispatch one Sssss already that was lurking in her garage.
Of alligators I have no concern. Gators are common to the I-35 corridor east, so I've shared common diggings with them all my life, though I've never knowingly been around one in the wild. Gators and rattle snakes share a common "live and let live" mentality which I'm fond of. On the other hand they are quick to strike and rather vicious when riled, sort of like Rick Perry.
All in all it's been a good move. The biggest traumas have been an antique curio cabinet that suffered a bit of broken glass, and a key that's gone missing from an armoire. But all in all that's tolerable.
More to come...
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Back on the grid, fighting those lesbian/communist girl scouts
After much driving up and down Interstate 45 between Huntsville and Arlington, TX, we are now safely and completely moved. Thank God.
After finally settling in last night when we got home I thought that I'd review the news. Imagine my surprise when I ran across this story on MSNBC.com: Lesbian/communist Girl Scouts.
I rarely comment on idiotic things that politicians say. There are people far more qualified than I who can do that. Rep. Bob Morris takes the cake, though. This guy apparently doesn't keep up with the news at all. There are no more communists in power, anymore; not even the Cubans and Chinese are communists.
The only redeeming thing about Rep. Morris is that the publication of his comments serves to deflect attention away from Texas' own Governor Goodhair. Keep up the good work, Bob!
After finally settling in last night when we got home I thought that I'd review the news. Imagine my surprise when I ran across this story on MSNBC.com: Lesbian/communist Girl Scouts.
I rarely comment on idiotic things that politicians say. There are people far more qualified than I who can do that. Rep. Bob Morris takes the cake, though. This guy apparently doesn't keep up with the news at all. There are no more communists in power, anymore; not even the Cubans and Chinese are communists.
The only redeeming thing about Rep. Morris is that the publication of his comments serves to deflect attention away from Texas' own Governor Goodhair. Keep up the good work, Bob!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
No longer here, but not really there, either.
We are in the process of moving, finally. As a result we have some clothes and items in the new house, and some clothes and other items in the old house.
For instance...we have a TV and new satellite dish, but no furniture, in the new house, while in the old house we have furniture, but no TV. That makes for odd living. After having changed locks, cleaned carpets and made notes of what we want to do to the new house to really move in, we spent a lot of time just strolling through the new house and sitting on the patio staring at the lake. That would have been fine, except that it was cold and rainy.
So, we drove back to the old house yesterday to do some tidying up and getting ready for THE BIG MOVE this weekend, but with no TV we mostly strolled around the house and just chatted.
On top of that my cell phone died. To make matters worse the phone that I was using was the family spare, my usual cell phone having bit the dust in Lubbock some weeks ago. A helpful hint...if you are staying in a hotel do not let the room key card slide between the components of your cell phone (I had a slide phone). They don't like that and they will go on permanent strike.
Needless to say, the wife and I are ready for this move to be over with.
More to come...
For instance...we have a TV and new satellite dish, but no furniture, in the new house, while in the old house we have furniture, but no TV. That makes for odd living. After having changed locks, cleaned carpets and made notes of what we want to do to the new house to really move in, we spent a lot of time just strolling through the new house and sitting on the patio staring at the lake. That would have been fine, except that it was cold and rainy.
So, we drove back to the old house yesterday to do some tidying up and getting ready for THE BIG MOVE this weekend, but with no TV we mostly strolled around the house and just chatted.
On top of that my cell phone died. To make matters worse the phone that I was using was the family spare, my usual cell phone having bit the dust in Lubbock some weeks ago. A helpful hint...if you are staying in a hotel do not let the room key card slide between the components of your cell phone (I had a slide phone). They don't like that and they will go on permanent strike.
Needless to say, the wife and I are ready for this move to be over with.
More to come...
Friday, February 10, 2012
The deed is done...
Greetings, fellow conspirators!
Just a brief check-in this morning, reporting from the friendly confines of Madisonville, TX, more specifically, from K1 (and fiance of K1) and K2's house.
The deed is done; we closed on the house in Onalaska, TX (on the beautiful shores of Lake Livingston) yesterday. I had forgotten how many different papers one has to sign to buy a house, which makes me even more in favor of the "suitcase of cash" method of real estate purpose that some European countries have.
I was proud of myself for stumping the title people with a question. We were presented with two different monthly mortgage payment amounts on two different papers. "What's the story?" says I. "Ah," says the title lady. "One of these is an estimate."
Moving day starts today, and since we have our current house rented until the end of the month, continues on for a while yet. Today is just doing a bit of cleaning, and hopefully a bit of fishing off the dock.
More to come...
Just a brief check-in this morning, reporting from the friendly confines of Madisonville, TX, more specifically, from K1 (and fiance of K1) and K2's house.
The deed is done; we closed on the house in Onalaska, TX (on the beautiful shores of Lake Livingston) yesterday. I had forgotten how many different papers one has to sign to buy a house, which makes me even more in favor of the "suitcase of cash" method of real estate purpose that some European countries have.
I was proud of myself for stumping the title people with a question. We were presented with two different monthly mortgage payment amounts on two different papers. "What's the story?" says I.
Moving day starts today, and since we have our current house rented until the end of the month, continues on for a while yet. Today is just doing a bit of cleaning, and hopefully a bit of fishing off the dock.
More to come...
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Do you have conversations like this?
My wife and I were diving home from lunch Friday, having taken my mother in law out to celebrate her finishing up some medical treatments.
We were stopped at a stop light in our town (which has grown over 300 percent in the last few years, thanks to an unchecked flood of Yankees and other uninvited misfits), and my wife happened to see a car emblazoned with a Jimmy Johns signboard. This is a sandwich shop outfit that claims to have, "world class sandwiches." I've never had one, so cannot dispute or agree to that assertion. With no evidence to the contrary, though, I'm willing to concede their point. In any case that has no bearing on the conversation with my wife, which went along the lines of:
Wife (pointing at the car): Jimmy Johns...didn't we get their cups at the game? They had those papers in them?
Me: Who's cups? (I was looking the other direction and didn't see her pointing at the car) What papers?
Wife (still pointing): Those cups; from Jimmy Johns!
Me (seeing the car, but still asking): What are you talking about?
Wife: Those Jimmy John's cups; we have a whole cupboard full of them! The girls got them at the stadium! They came stuffed with coupons.
Me: I know we have cups from Jimmy Johns in our cupboard, but I have no idea where they came from; I just figured the girls brought them home from somewhere.
Wife (frustrated sigh): Just shut up; you're gonna make me have to pee.
The interesting question, here, is how can two people who have been in a 30 year relationship have a conversation that is so totally disjointed? We were in the same car, in the same traffic, and in the end were looking at the same object of discussion, yet for the entire conversation we seemed to be talking about two different things.
Now, if you were to ask my wife (and I imagine any wife would concur with this), she would say that I just wasn't paying attention to what she said.
This might have been true, at first, as I was looking in another direction, but as the conversation went on I knew what we were talking about, but I am still, 48 hours later, not sure why we were talking about it.
On the other hand, though, if two people were completely in sync 100 percent of the time, how boring would that be?
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Just Another Season (the new book) is available!
After a little wrestling and wrangling with Amazon.com, Just Another Season, my second novel, is now up and available on Amazon.com. The delay is entirely my own fault; I had a bit of a difficult time finding a cover picture that I liked. Also, as related before, I had much grief coming up with a title.
Just Another Season is the best I could come up with, and I think it's actually appropriate to the story.
I should thank Kid 2 for the cover photograph. I needed a small high school football stadium, of which we have very few, here in the DFW Dirtyplex, so she volunteered to skulk around the local stadium where she lives in East Texas and take some pictures.
I still have the long term goal of seeing these books published by traditional means, but it's dream that's fading, thanks in large part to Amazon.com and it's incredibly user-friendly method of self publishing.
I did send Carlos Came Home to a whole slew o'agents and publishers some years ago, but was largely ignored by the mainstream publishing industry (objectively speaking, I can't say that I blame them), but publishing something electronically these days is really easy, so I find that I spend less and less time thinking of the traditional route to publishing success.
Inspiration from the story came largely from my wife and I following our daughters all over Texas while they were in high school marching bands and playing on various teams. Just sitting and quietly listening to teenagers will be an inspirational exercise to anyone.
Anyway, here's the link...Just Another Season. You can read a few chapters for free. I'd love some feedback, friends!
Just Another Season is the best I could come up with, and I think it's actually appropriate to the story.
I should thank Kid 2 for the cover photograph. I needed a small high school football stadium, of which we have very few, here in the DFW Dirtyplex, so she volunteered to skulk around the local stadium where she lives in East Texas and take some pictures.
I still have the long term goal of seeing these books published by traditional means, but it's dream that's fading, thanks in large part to Amazon.com and it's incredibly user-friendly method of self publishing.
I did send Carlos Came Home to a whole slew o'agents and publishers some years ago, but was largely ignored by the mainstream publishing industry (objectively speaking, I can't say that I blame them), but publishing something electronically these days is really easy, so I find that I spend less and less time thinking of the traditional route to publishing success.
Inspiration from the story came largely from my wife and I following our daughters all over Texas while they were in high school marching bands and playing on various teams. Just sitting and quietly listening to teenagers will be an inspirational exercise to anyone.
Anyway, here's the link...Just Another Season. You can read a few chapters for free. I'd love some feedback, friends!
Thursday, January 26, 2012
The Joys of Liberalism
Though I did not watch the State of the Union address, I did catch a bit of the Republican response, which I thought was a pretty good comedy act.
Back when I was but a young lad the worst thing you could be called, politically, at least, was a communist, or maybe a socialist.
Now, though, these days, there are no more communists, except in North Korea, maybe, and even true socialism seems to be on the wane. But the skies are not all blue, not yet; may be not ever. No, friends and neighbors, now we are told that we face another ideological demon far more sinister than mere communism or socialism. We now face...liberalism.
However, a couple of nights ago, while unable to sleep for fear of the liberal beast, I got to thinking. Maybe liberalism isn't all that bad. Maybe it's no more evil than conservatism. Possible? Yes? No?
Well, consider what liberalism hath wrought in the last few hundred years in just our happy little land:
Back when I was but a young lad the worst thing you could be called, politically, at least, was a communist, or maybe a socialist.
Now, though, these days, there are no more communists, except in North Korea, maybe, and even true socialism seems to be on the wane. But the skies are not all blue, not yet; may be not ever. No, friends and neighbors, now we are told that we face another ideological demon far more sinister than mere communism or socialism. We now face...liberalism.
However, a couple of nights ago, while unable to sleep for fear of the liberal beast, I got to thinking. Maybe liberalism isn't all that bad. Maybe it's no more evil than conservatism. Possible? Yes? No?
Well, consider what liberalism hath wrought in the last few hundred years in just our happy little land:
- The American revolution
- Emancipation
- Women's suffrage
- Repeal of prohibition
- The Voting Rights Act
Monday, January 23, 2012
Where have all the Moffetts gone?
My oldest little girl, the sweet perfect child that I held, cuddled and protected from all manner of "bad guys" has grown up. Thankfully, through divine intervention, she made it through her teenage years (16 and 17), when she was in dire danger of being a "statistic" at the hands of her enraged father.
Cooler heads (and the Good Lord) prevailed, though, and now she's a young lady, a college graduate that's decided to make it her life's vocation to teach children.
...and now she has informed her Mama and I that she is engaged...
Now, don't get me wrong. This in itself is a good thing. Her fiance is a really fine young man, blessed with a good sense of humor and a boundless supply of patience. I know this because for the last two years he's been roommates with K1 and K2. Anyone that can live for any length of time with two of the three Moffett girls is a man to be reckoned with. It'll be nice to have an additional shot of testosterone at family gatherings.
My wife and I are very happy with these recent developments, and are looking forward to the wedding, and to having her permanently off the family payroll.
However, it dawned on me last night that my little girl will soon change her name. While this doesn't really bother me, it gave me pause to think.
I don't have any brothers, and with my Dad passing away a few years back the Moffett line (Texas branch) is wearing thin. If K's 2 and 3 marry off then we Texas Moffetts will fade away in a few years. I have no doubt that I may have an enemy or two, but not too many, I hope, who may welcome that day. The Moffett family, North Carolina branch, is still going strong, but we Texas Moffetts are thinning out.
The only hope, here, for carrying on the family name is if my other two girls don't marry (which I hope doesn't happen), or do marry and keep their last name (which I don't necessarily hope for, either). The other options are to adopt a kid, but I'm 47 years old and really don't want to go down the child rearing path again, or to have a grand kid with a given or middle name of "Moffett."
If none of those come to pass then it looks like the clock's running out on the Texas Moffetts.
This is powerful stuff, and is something that no one tells you about when you have all daughters.
Cooler heads (and the Good Lord) prevailed, though, and now she's a young lady, a college graduate that's decided to make it her life's vocation to teach children.
...and now she has informed her Mama and I that she is engaged...
Now, don't get me wrong. This in itself is a good thing. Her fiance is a really fine young man, blessed with a good sense of humor and a boundless supply of patience. I know this because for the last two years he's been roommates with K1 and K2. Anyone that can live for any length of time with two of the three Moffett girls is a man to be reckoned with. It'll be nice to have an additional shot of testosterone at family gatherings.
My wife and I are very happy with these recent developments, and are looking forward to the wedding, and to having her permanently off the family payroll.
However, it dawned on me last night that my little girl will soon change her name. While this doesn't really bother me, it gave me pause to think.
I don't have any brothers, and with my Dad passing away a few years back the Moffett line (Texas branch) is wearing thin. If K's 2 and 3 marry off then we Texas Moffetts will fade away in a few years. I have no doubt that I may have an enemy or two, but not too many, I hope, who may welcome that day. The Moffett family, North Carolina branch, is still going strong, but we Texas Moffetts are thinning out.
The only hope, here, for carrying on the family name is if my other two girls don't marry (which I hope doesn't happen), or do marry and keep their last name (which I don't necessarily hope for, either). The other options are to adopt a kid, but I'm 47 years old and really don't want to go down the child rearing path again, or to have a grand kid with a given or middle name of "Moffett."
If none of those come to pass then it looks like the clock's running out on the Texas Moffetts.
This is powerful stuff, and is something that no one tells you about when you have all daughters.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Counting the days
After much stopping and starting, mostly stopping, it seems lately, thanks to characters taking unauthorized trips into and out of the storyline, novel #2 is about ready to post...except I need to review it again and see what hidden formatting gremlins I've missed...and I don't like the title that I started with.
I dislike the title so much that I'm not even going to mention it here, lest some detractor (most likely one of my kids) look at the new title, whatever it winds up being, and say, "That's the best you could come up with?"
I thought I had a really good title, but of course some other joker already took it. I don't want to be the kind of writer that jacks other writer's titles. Ludlum, Forsythe, or some other famous and successful writer can get away with that type of stuff. We hacks, though, especially ones like me who sell in the mid single digits, should refrain from such nonsense.
(Side note...one of the good things about being an unsuccessful novelist is that you tend to know exactly who bought your stuff, and can call and thank them personally. Let's see Ludlum top that!)
I don't like wrestling with titles. They are important, I know, but I'm not very good at it, and as a result I get very frustrated. This new novel is a little over 300 pages and is close to 90,000 words, and I think it's fairly engaging (notice that I said, "engaging" and not "good." I don't know how good it is), but after writing those 90,000 words I'm stuck for a five word title.
This may be one of the reasons that writers drink.
I dislike the title so much that I'm not even going to mention it here, lest some detractor (most likely one of my kids) look at the new title, whatever it winds up being, and say, "That's the best you could come up with?"
I thought I had a really good title, but of course some other joker already took it. I don't want to be the kind of writer that jacks other writer's titles. Ludlum, Forsythe, or some other famous and successful writer can get away with that type of stuff. We hacks, though, especially ones like me who sell in the mid single digits, should refrain from such nonsense.
(Side note...one of the good things about being an unsuccessful novelist is that you tend to know exactly who bought your stuff, and can call and thank them personally. Let's see Ludlum top that!)
I don't like wrestling with titles. They are important, I know, but I'm not very good at it, and as a result I get very frustrated. This new novel is a little over 300 pages and is close to 90,000 words, and I think it's fairly engaging (notice that I said, "engaging" and not "good." I don't know how good it is), but after writing those 90,000 words I'm stuck for a five word title.
This may be one of the reasons that writers drink.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Snuff cans I have known...and a double dog dare.
The wife and I moved K3 back into the dorm at Texas Tech this weekend. At dinner Saturday night we were talking and the subject of dipping snuff came up. This would not seem, on the surface, to be a subject that a 19 year old girl would discuss with her Mom and Dad, but it came up, and the kid asked if I had ever dipped.
For the uninitiated this involves taking a bit of Skoal or Copenhagen smokeless tobacco and putting it in your lip. "Just a pinch between your cheek and gum," as the old commercial went. Once you got it in there it kind of moistened up, and you took great pains to spit out the juice. Under no circumstances should the juice be swallowed.
Well...
When I was about 13 or 14 many of my friends were beginning to dip. I was in a Buddies supermarket (predecessor to Winn Dixie) with my Dad and we passed up the Skoal display. I said, half joking, "Dad, buy me a can of snuff!"
Dad looked at me and said, "I'll buy it if you use it."
This was the paternal equivalent of a double dog dare. For those who might be unfamiliar with the Southern/Texan tradition of the "double dog dare," suffice it to say that failure to take up the challenge of a double dog dare leads to a big loss of face, often to the extent that it cannot be overcome in a lifetime.
This is why many people leave the South; they failed to rise up to the challenge of a double dog dare.
So he bought it, and I used it...or tried to. We got home and I made a fairly big show of confidently opening the can and placing just a pinch between the teeth and gum, and then waited for further developments. I quickly decided that I was not sure what was supposed to be enjoyable about this exercise.
Mom was fairly upset with the proceedings. Being a southern girl, herself, she knew that the first time user often barfed vile fluids spectacular distances just a short while after using just a pinch between the teeth and gum. She feared for her carpet. My two younger sisters waited with eager anticipation for the impending disaster.
However, fortunately, intestinal fortitude prevailed and I managed to avoid puking while showing my Dad that I was fairly able to use this stuff the way that it was supposed to be used. I think that as my Dad he was proud that I didn't barf, but as a guy he was a little disappointed that I didn't barf. Guys always get a kick out of watching other guys puke. It must be a neanderthal thing ("Better him than me!).
Anyway, I never got very good at it, and in fact I don't think that I ever finished a can. It usually wound up getting all dried up before I could use it all. Certainly I wasn't as good a dipper as some of my friends, who could put these enormous pinches into their mouth without ill effect. I won't name them in case they read this; I wouldn't want their wives or kids to start asking uncomfortable questions.
For the uninitiated this involves taking a bit of Skoal or Copenhagen smokeless tobacco and putting it in your lip. "Just a pinch between your cheek and gum," as the old commercial went. Once you got it in there it kind of moistened up, and you took great pains to spit out the juice. Under no circumstances should the juice be swallowed.
Well...
When I was about 13 or 14 many of my friends were beginning to dip. I was in a Buddies supermarket (predecessor to Winn Dixie) with my Dad and we passed up the Skoal display. I said, half joking, "Dad, buy me a can of snuff!"
Dad looked at me and said, "I'll buy it if you use it."
This was the paternal equivalent of a double dog dare. For those who might be unfamiliar with the Southern/Texan tradition of the "double dog dare," suffice it to say that failure to take up the challenge of a double dog dare leads to a big loss of face, often to the extent that it cannot be overcome in a lifetime.
This is why many people leave the South; they failed to rise up to the challenge of a double dog dare.
So he bought it, and I used it...or tried to. We got home and I made a fairly big show of confidently opening the can and placing just a pinch between the teeth and gum, and then waited for further developments. I quickly decided that I was not sure what was supposed to be enjoyable about this exercise.
Mom was fairly upset with the proceedings. Being a southern girl, herself, she knew that the first time user often barfed vile fluids spectacular distances just a short while after using just a pinch between the teeth and gum. She feared for her carpet. My two younger sisters waited with eager anticipation for the impending disaster.
However, fortunately, intestinal fortitude prevailed and I managed to avoid puking while showing my Dad that I was fairly able to use this stuff the way that it was supposed to be used. I think that as my Dad he was proud that I didn't barf, but as a guy he was a little disappointed that I didn't barf. Guys always get a kick out of watching other guys puke. It must be a neanderthal thing ("Better him than me!).
Anyway, I never got very good at it, and in fact I don't think that I ever finished a can. It usually wound up getting all dried up before I could use it all. Certainly I wasn't as good a dipper as some of my friends, who could put these enormous pinches into their mouth without ill effect. I won't name them in case they read this; I wouldn't want their wives or kids to start asking uncomfortable questions.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The boy got "middle named" on aisle 7
Yesterday I went with the wife on the weekly grocery shopping trip. I actually enjoy doing this; call me a dork, if you will, but it's fun.
As we were winding through the aisles I heard a lady "middle name" her son from a couple of aisles over.
For those who have never had the unnerving experience of being "middle named," this entails someone in authority, most usually your Mom, call you by all three of your names as a result of you breaking a rule. For some reason this is called being "middle named."
For example...<boy pulls the head off his sister's Barbie doll...> "Scott Otis Vanderdork!"
Being just middle named by itself was a signal that you had committed a transgression, but the list of possible crimes was long. It could be anything from eating the topping off the pecan pie to smacking the Smedley boy down the road because he picked on your sister.
Being middle named could result in punishments that ranged from a mild squawking to a swift smack on the ass using weapons up to, and including a wooden spoon. Or, if this was a more serious misdemeanor, you might get a few swats with a switch, which you might have to cut yourself from the nearest tree. In my personal opinion willow tree switches produced the worst agony. I learned early on that when ordered to cut my own switch, do not go to the willow tree.
(Side note--having your grandma tell you to cut your own switch was a bad thing; the guilt was worse than the punishment.)
Most misdemeanors could be handled by Mom, or by whatever Mom happened to be on the scene. Our neighborhood, growing up in the early to mid '70's, was an patchwork of mutually supported equal opportunity maternal discipline.
The only thing worse than being middle named would be to hear, "Scott Otis Vanderdork! Wait 'til your father gets home!"
Having to wait for Dad, though, was reserved for felonious accusations, such as serious fighting, vandalism, or committing minor infractions at school.
The caveat here is that if the offense involved the authorities the punishments were often piled upon, with both Mom and Dad weighing in. That might get you a switch from Mom followed up by Dad's belt. If Mom had a wooden spoon handy when she got the initial news she might give you a pre-emptory swat or two before going to the switch.
I don't know how prevalent "middle naming" is anymore. With the slew of people immigrating into Texas it seems to have gone by the wayside a bit. I remember it, though, vividly. It was never a good thing, but it was a big part of my childhood.
As we were winding through the aisles I heard a lady "middle name" her son from a couple of aisles over.
For those who have never had the unnerving experience of being "middle named," this entails someone in authority, most usually your Mom, call you by all three of your names as a result of you breaking a rule. For some reason this is called being "middle named."
For example...<boy pulls the head off his sister's Barbie doll...> "Scott Otis Vanderdork!"
Being just middle named by itself was a signal that you had committed a transgression, but the list of possible crimes was long. It could be anything from eating the topping off the pecan pie to smacking the Smedley boy down the road because he picked on your sister.
Being middle named could result in punishments that ranged from a mild squawking to a swift smack on the ass using weapons up to, and including a wooden spoon. Or, if this was a more serious misdemeanor, you might get a few swats with a switch, which you might have to cut yourself from the nearest tree. In my personal opinion willow tree switches produced the worst agony. I learned early on that when ordered to cut my own switch, do not go to the willow tree.
(Side note--having your grandma tell you to cut your own switch was a bad thing; the guilt was worse than the punishment.)
Most misdemeanors could be handled by Mom, or by whatever Mom happened to be on the scene. Our neighborhood, growing up in the early to mid '70's, was an patchwork of mutually supported equal opportunity maternal discipline.
The only thing worse than being middle named would be to hear, "Scott Otis Vanderdork! Wait 'til your father gets home!"
Having to wait for Dad, though, was reserved for felonious accusations, such as serious fighting, vandalism, or committing minor infractions at school.
The caveat here is that if the offense involved the authorities the punishments were often piled upon, with both Mom and Dad weighing in. That might get you a switch from Mom followed up by Dad's belt. If Mom had a wooden spoon handy when she got the initial news she might give you a pre-emptory swat or two before going to the switch.
I don't know how prevalent "middle naming" is anymore. With the slew of people immigrating into Texas it seems to have gone by the wayside a bit. I remember it, though, vividly. It was never a good thing, but it was a big part of my childhood.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
A blog entry gumbo...
What with selling the house so that we can buy another house and move next month, as well as the holidays coming and going, along with kids coming home and leaving to resume their appointed rounds, I find myself not having the mental capacity to write anything coherent.
As a result, here are some bits and bobs that have been popcorning around in my noggin lately...
As a result, here are some bits and bobs that have been popcorning around in my noggin lately...
- We received a large stack of papers from our mortgage company regarding the house we are trying to buy. Included in this stack of papers are three figures that the casual reader, who knows nothing about real estate, might consider to be the amount that we'll owe at closing. Being a bit confused I called our mortgage rep who said that the actual amount we'll owe at closing will be a completely different number. Glad I asked, said I...why then do you have so many different numbers listed in this paperwork. We're required to, he said. Oh...that explains it.
- Kid 3's attempt to transfer from Texas Tech to Sam Houston State was foiled by the short time frame between the fall and spring semester, so she's headed back to Lubbock. She was registering for classes last week and I was chatting with her (I forget about what, exactly). She said, "They don't take much crap in West Texas."
- Was out with the wife a few months back doing some shopping. As happens frequently I said something to her, and when I didn't get a reply turned to look at her, but she was gone. I backtracked through the store and found her holding a purse in each hand. One was a nice brown leather very sensible "Mom-type" purse. In her other hand she was holding a purple plaid fabric number. She looked at me and said, "Should I do what's expected of me, or should I just be me?"
- I understand that the Holy Father has appointed some new Cardinals (at least I thought I heard that last week). Are these new guys more trustworthy, less trustworthy, or about the same as the current bunch? How many of them have skeletons, or kids, in their closet? When I was younger I would never have asked that, but after the Church's stellar reputation lately, all Catholics should be asking that.
- If Rick Perry somehow wins the election, does it trouble anyone that he will be President of the very country that he, as Governor, suggested that Texas secede from?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
I fear no squirrel...
I never had a BB gun growing up, and I think that it has had negative effect on me, especially since I grew up in Texas, in Tarrant County, next door to Fort Worth, "where the West begins." All of my friends had BB guns, but my parents (really, I think it was my Mom) forbade such weapons.
However, Kid 2 has resolved this painful part of my boyhood by buying me a BB gun for my birthday last year, and for Christmas this year. They aren't anything like those elaborate $200 fancy air rifles, just your basic Daisy Buck and then a Daisy Red Ryder.
Not only does this resolve that ugly period of my youth when I was forced by authority to go around unarmed, it also allows me escalate combat operations against the neighborhood squirrel that has been stealing my pecans.
I only have one pecan tree in my yard, and it has surved drought, freezes, hailstorms, and many years of being snapped off at the base every winter by my kids. It has finally starting producing pecans, which I love, but sadly, which I rarely get to enjoy, thanks to that thieving little furry bastard.
I should point out that we live in what used to be ranchland, and there was scarcely one tree in the whole subdivision when we moved it 13 years ago. Through diligent planting, however, it's now fairly shady, at least for this part of Texas. Hence the squirrel.
However, the little furry bastard has made himself scarce since I've upgraded the armory. I guess because of the drought this year the pecan crop was severly limited. My wife saw him a couple of times, and once I was able to get a quick shot off, but I shot high.
I've taken the opportunity hone my marksmanship by plinking away at an empty beer can that I hung on a crepe myrtle tree at the back of the back yard, and I must say...I'm a hell of a shot.
Now, if I can get the damn squirrel to just sit on top of that can...
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Inspections, appraisals...and a suitcase of cash
The wife and I are moving. For the last several years we've been searching around Texas for a house on a lake. We had thought about a beach house, but hurricanes scare us too much. We finally found just the house on just the right spot on Lake Livingston, some three hours south of us.
Finding the house and agreeing on a price with the sellers was the easy part.
Since then we've been buried under a sea of paperwork, which anyone who has ever bought a house can identify with. We've had to discuss inspections, appraisals, interest rates, closing dates and a blizzard of other details.
Then, the other night I was watching Househunters International and the man was trying to buy a house in Bulgaria. I'm sure he had his reasons, but I've never really thought of Bulgaria as a real estate hot spot. In any case he found his house, and then was surprised to find out that the closing procedures involved the full price of the house...in cash.
Now that's an interesting concept. Aside from what must be the nerve wracking experience of walking the streets of a foreign country with literally a suitcase of cash, the whole deal has a certain sense of sinister underhandedness that appeals to me.
I am really tempted to try that next month when we close. Assuming the wife would go along with me, which she would not, imagine the commotion at the title company when I heaved a bag stuffed with 20 and 100 dollar bills onto the desk.
"I'll take the title, and a receipt, please."
(A slight detour here...this reminds me of the time that I had to get a passport, back in 1979. Being a minor at the time my Dad went with me to the post office to do the deed. We filled out paperwork, swore to this and that, assured the Man that we were not up to no good. After everything was scrutinized and approved, and after a blur of stamps were applied it came time to pay. Old Dad whipped out some cash, at which point the passport people informed us that cash was not accepted.
Even being 15 years old I got a kick out of Dad pointing to the spot on the $20 bill that said, "This note is legal tender for all debts public and private," and then reading it out loud to the Man.
Dad was a man of principles, but we still had to write a check for the passport.)
Finding the house and agreeing on a price with the sellers was the easy part.
Since then we've been buried under a sea of paperwork, which anyone who has ever bought a house can identify with. We've had to discuss inspections, appraisals, interest rates, closing dates and a blizzard of other details.
Then, the other night I was watching Househunters International and the man was trying to buy a house in Bulgaria. I'm sure he had his reasons, but I've never really thought of Bulgaria as a real estate hot spot. In any case he found his house, and then was surprised to find out that the closing procedures involved the full price of the house...in cash.
Now that's an interesting concept. Aside from what must be the nerve wracking experience of walking the streets of a foreign country with literally a suitcase of cash, the whole deal has a certain sense of sinister underhandedness that appeals to me.
I am really tempted to try that next month when we close. Assuming the wife would go along with me, which she would not, imagine the commotion at the title company when I heaved a bag stuffed with 20 and 100 dollar bills onto the desk.
"I'll take the title, and a receipt, please."
(A slight detour here...this reminds me of the time that I had to get a passport, back in 1979. Being a minor at the time my Dad went with me to the post office to do the deed. We filled out paperwork, swore to this and that, assured the Man that we were not up to no good. After everything was scrutinized and approved, and after a blur of stamps were applied it came time to pay. Old Dad whipped out some cash, at which point the passport people informed us that cash was not accepted.
Even being 15 years old I got a kick out of Dad pointing to the spot on the $20 bill that said, "This note is legal tender for all debts public and private," and then reading it out loud to the Man.
Dad was a man of principles, but we still had to write a check for the passport.)
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Faith and religion
Well, happy New Year to all!
I confess that I was a bit stuck for a subject to write about, and then happened on a blog called Christian-With-A-View, which I think I've linked below. This is an interesting, and I think fairly intellectual look about faith. Good stuff; I recommend it.
Today's subject from that blog revolves around multiple translations of the scripture.
I read that, and being the malcontent that some say I am, got to wondering, why are so many people faith (of any faith), so convinced that their flavor of faith is the true one? Even we Christians, who all profess to believe in largely the same idea, that Christ is the son of God, and was sent to save the world from sin and to offer salvation to the sinner, immediately digress from that point and fall to arguing viciously over what I would think would be some pretty minute points about the overall faith (forms of baptism, for example).
I sometimes wonder if God sowed all of these multiple religions over the world just to see how we simple humans would deal with the idea of conflicting views.
Who's to say that all religions can't offer salvation? After all, if God's making the rules here, there's nothing to keep Him from sliding that trick card into the deck.
The classic example is the person from some remote part of the world that has never been exposed to Christianity, or Islam, or any other religion aside from the one that his people practice. I have a hard time believing that God says, "Sorry, friend, you're out of luck...into the fire you go."
I would suggest that an all powerful and ever living God would look at how this person lived his life according to his own faith.
Most religions, I gather (though I am certainly no theologian), seem to espouse peace and love as their primary principles. It's only when humans get involved in the process that things get mucked up. All faiths seem to have long periods of history where the devout didn't exactly behave as demanded in the manual.
Before anyone spouts off thinking about how Christianity, or Islam or any other faith is exempt from this, let me suggest a quick review of the Crusades, various jihads, the colonization of the Americas and Africa...you get the idea.
I guess at the heart of my argument is the proposition that people, no matter what faith they espouse, should look inward before pointing fingers at anyone else's faith and squawking that they are doomed to hell.
There may be someone with a theological background who's reading this and muttering, "What a fool."
Well, I'm probably a fool about many things, but I would suggest that theology and formal religion can really get in the way of faith.
I confess that I was a bit stuck for a subject to write about, and then happened on a blog called Christian-With-A-View, which I think I've linked below. This is an interesting, and I think fairly intellectual look about faith. Good stuff; I recommend it.
Today's subject from that blog revolves around multiple translations of the scripture.
I read that, and being the malcontent that some say I am, got to wondering, why are so many people faith (of any faith), so convinced that their flavor of faith is the true one? Even we Christians, who all profess to believe in largely the same idea, that Christ is the son of God, and was sent to save the world from sin and to offer salvation to the sinner, immediately digress from that point and fall to arguing viciously over what I would think would be some pretty minute points about the overall faith (forms of baptism, for example).
I sometimes wonder if God sowed all of these multiple religions over the world just to see how we simple humans would deal with the idea of conflicting views.
Who's to say that all religions can't offer salvation? After all, if God's making the rules here, there's nothing to keep Him from sliding that trick card into the deck.
The classic example is the person from some remote part of the world that has never been exposed to Christianity, or Islam, or any other religion aside from the one that his people practice. I have a hard time believing that God says, "Sorry, friend, you're out of luck...into the fire you go."
I would suggest that an all powerful and ever living God would look at how this person lived his life according to his own faith.
Most religions, I gather (though I am certainly no theologian), seem to espouse peace and love as their primary principles. It's only when humans get involved in the process that things get mucked up. All faiths seem to have long periods of history where the devout didn't exactly behave as demanded in the manual.
Before anyone spouts off thinking about how Christianity, or Islam or any other faith is exempt from this, let me suggest a quick review of the Crusades, various jihads, the colonization of the Americas and Africa...you get the idea.
I guess at the heart of my argument is the proposition that people, no matter what faith they espouse, should look inward before pointing fingers at anyone else's faith and squawking that they are doomed to hell.
There may be someone with a theological background who's reading this and muttering, "What a fool."
Well, I'm probably a fool about many things, but I would suggest that theology and formal religion can really get in the way of faith.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)