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.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
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.
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