Meet The Maltese

From left to right: Gary, Steve, Eddie, Jackie & Larry.

This was a band of local guys that played in our garage, before "garage bands" became famous , the back wall of said garage being the backdrop for this "publicity shot". I've cropped the photo, or it would show our house back door and the entire garage window. To the right was a gas scrubber that supplied the gas for our house, straight off the lease.

Looks like I should've mowed first.

I remember sitting there listening to them trying to decide on a name. I also distinctly recall a particularly vulgar one that was pretty funny. I won't mention it here, but you can email me. They thought "The Maltese", after the German cross, would be cool and it DID sound pretty cool. I had another photo of them, but was lost decades ago, sans Larry, in white turtlenecks with big ol' maltese cross necklaces.

The only trouble was, there was another band in Wheeler by the name of "Motese" (not sure on the spelling). They, according to what I remember, were a group of Hispanic guys, as was Steve, and pretty darn good, playing original tunes with something like a Santana sound, plus the usual covers of Top 40 Hits.

I'm not for sure exactly what year this was taken, but I'm thinkin' it was during the summer of '68 or maybe '69.

I'm not sure where they all are these days, except for Jackie, the drummer, who died under some suspicious circumstances many years ago. Steve, vocals, shown with the tambourine, went on to join the Navy, getting out in time to go to college with me and some of my classmates. (I majored in Pot, minored in Pinball) Eddie and Gary were classmates of my oldest sister and in fact, my nephew, her first son, was named after Gary. Larry was a year younger than those two, I believe, and was the "Pete Best" of the group, not staying very long as I recall.

Jackie was not a bad drummer and had some good equipment until I destroyed his cymbals when he made the mistake of leaving his equipment out there for far too long. The other guys would get angry with Jackie for various and sundry reasons, and they wanted to fire him and let me drum.

I hadn't a clue what they thought I could drum on, but I betcha my pop coulda fabricated me up a drum set outta various sized bbls. and drums, dope buckets, pieces of casing, whatever. He probably could've electrified it somehow.

The fact that they wanted ME to drum for them shows how desperate they were. That's how I destroyed the cymbals, trying to develop some sort of rhythm. I never could do "Wipeout" for very long, but I got pretty good at the high hat and the bass drum, doing the stripper bump 'n grind. That was about it.

Jackie loved my second oldest sister and gave her several odd presents, one being a very nice punchbowl. I recall a time when he and I were out hunting, and he was being wild with his rifle, shooting the long .22 ammo (whereas my dad always made me use shorts, we DID have a few neighbors even though they were quite aways away) at rocks and field larks and clouds. We were flagged down by a Phillips pumper who was bleeding profusely from the upper lip. "I wuz jest standin' there by the side of my truck when 'ZING' sumpthin' bit me on the mouth!"

Gary and Eddie were pretty fair on their guitars, Eddie playing lead and he wasn't a bad picker. His tastes seemed to run more towards country music, though, Buck Owens, Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash. Gary was rhythm guitar, and was very patient with me, showing the chords for my favorite songs. He even loaned me a Beatles songbook that I never returned. I did pick up quite a few chords on the guitar and can still crank out "House of the Rising Sun" but it would probably make my fingertips bleed.

I remember them giving a dance/concert/cacophany in what is now a garage on Main Street in Miami. One of their best covers was "Gloria", but they could also do pretty good on "Paint it Black" and "Wild Thing".

I also remember sitting out there on those soft Panhandle nights listening to the guys jam. As I said, they weren't "too" bad and I enjoyed the entertainment, it being mighty scarce back then. I also was the one who heard my dad hollerin' from the back door, tellin' 'em to turn down the volume. Usually, it wasn't enough and after the second warning, the guys split.

Shotgun House

I was going through the photos in the Picassa slideshow and had forgotten I had put this photo into the mix.

It's not a particularly good photo and wouldn't mean anything to anyone else but my family and I because it was where my grandparents lived when I was a boy.

It's called a "shotgun house" because it's long and narrow and if you stuck a shotgun in the front door and pulled the trigger, you would hit every room in the house.

I have some fond memories of the house and staying there with my grandparents. There was a "play house" at the back of the garage and my sisters, cousins and I liked to decorate the inside with pages cut out from a magazine and stuck to the walls with flour glue.

I recall some guys in an old pickup driving down the alley and stopping, trying to coax my big sis over to their vehicle. She was wary and someone ran into the house to tell my dad and he ran out there but the guys had already left. I don't know what their intentions were, but I darn sure know what my dad's were. They were lucky he didn't catch them.

I also remember playing baseball with my cousin and some neighborhood boys. My cousin hit the ball and it broke a window; the next thing I know, I was standing there alone with the bat my cuz had quickly thrust into my hand before he ran away with the other kids. Grandpa believed me when I told him I hadn't done it, and gave me some grudging admiration for not snitching on who had done the dirty deed. I believe he knew who had done it even before he came out of the house.

I remember climbing on top of the garage and jumping off, just like a paratrooper, yelling "Geronimo!". Grandma saw me and told me to not jump off, and from now on to stay off the roof. Being the good boy I always was -grin- , I tried climbing down but slipped and fell on my back and hit my head on the sidewalk. Reaching back to feel the growing knot on my head, my hand came away with blood on it. I freaked out a little bit, but with only a sniffle or two, I went inside to let Grandma survey the damage to my head. It was just a little cut, but when Grandpa looked at the minor damage to my scalp and said "My gosh, I can see all the way down to your toes!", I lost it.

Before my grandparents passed away I was visiting them and we remembered that and Grandma STILL chastised Grandpa for scaring me like that. Grandma always called me her "little Mikey man". She's just about the only person I ever allowed to call me that.

The things I remember the most about that house were Grandma's chicken and dumplings and how the entire family would gather there for Christmas. I don't see how we all fit into the small shack. I also remember Grandma getting a kick out of me coming into the house and asking her sister if I could go down the street to play; they were twins and always were amused when people were confused as to who was who.

Here's me 'n Grandpa, sitting in front of the window that was broken.



I miss 'em.

Use Your Head, Wal-Mart

JUST got back from the local WallyWorld; I had purchased some new socks, cat food, some cashews and a few other items.

The store was crowded, even for a Saturday evening. As always, the other customers were rude and so were the employees.

(Why do teens have to walk four abreast down the narrow WM aisles? I've quit giving right-of-way and started ramming my cart into them, aiming right at the crotch of the nearest one pushing me into the merchandise. Maybe I'll make one of 'em sterile so those rudeness genes won't be passed on. It will be my gift to the world, you don't have to thank me)

I wanted to get the Beej some of his favorite cat food and crunchy treats, but there was a stocker right in front of the brand I usually buy. It looked as though he was nearly done, so I killed a few seconds looking at the fish tanks. I was starting to get the exact same disposition of the Oscars that were fighting in one of the tanks.

I looked over and noticed the guy was through, so I stood there waiting for him to move out of the way.

"Fish?" he asked me.

"Uh..." I stammered. "I'm going to get some tuna, maybe some of that duck with rice."

Now was his turn to be perplexed. "No, tropical fish." he explained.

I almost said I didn't know they had that particular flavor, but I bet the Beej would probably like it...then it dawned on me what he meant. Oh well.

I finally got done and made my way up to the front. Oh boy, there were only a few checkouts open and they were all busy.

I stood in line for about five minutes waiting to be checked out when I was informed the line was closing and "would I please move to another line?" I did, no complaints. Just my luck, I thought, but also wondering why the store wouldn't schedule a few more checkers on a Saturday.

I then waited for fifteen or more minutes in THAT line only to have my debit card keep getting rejected for some unknown reason. The cashier had to take it and scan it on her register and it went through just fine.

(I'll have to check the statement at the end of the month; the charge will probably show up as many times as I swiped the card through the reader.)

"Been having problems with that all day." the cashier informed me. Hmmmm...I thought, wondering why no one had attempted to repair it, or barring that, hadn't put an "Out of Order" sign on it? No problem, I got it paid for and was on my way out when I was held up by my arm by some young idjit checking packages at the exit. Ouch. His dirty fingernails were scratching my skin.

One too many straws for this camel's back.

"Take your hand off my arm." I told the guy "Unless you want me to rip yours off and beat you to death with it."

"Just doin' my job." said the acne covered idjit with a sniff. He didn't know how close to dismemberment he had come. "Silly damn job." I told him, looking him square in the eye, daring him to get huffy with me. I was in the mood for some violence by then.

"I have to do it." he told me. "You have some items that aren't in sacks."

The items? A 12-pk of Diet Lemon Tea and a case of water in 20oz. bottles. I don't think Wal-Mart HAS sacks that large. I'll make sure they're sacked up somehow the next time I'm there, though. (maybe I'll steal 'em, put them in my pants. Better yet, I'll swipe some high-ticket items, put them in a sack because that seems to be the criteria for proving they were purchased)

Yes, there will be a next time. (won't steal though, that was just hyperbole) Wal-Mart is very nearly the only game in town, especially for certain items. It's bad enough we have to put up with trying to find employees when we need help and when we DO find them and ask them a question, we then get an attitude of annnoyance and/or ignorance...and to add the worst thing, we have to purchase items made in China. (what happened to their "Made in America" campaign from a few years ago?)

To top that off, we get fat, pimple-faced idjits loving their lofty position of "authority", not using what little brains they have in their heads, harrassing the customers as they leave, insisting upon seeing proof of purchase for items that are already our property.

I can think of a thousand items I would steal before I would water and iced tea.

I guess the idjit knew I was displeased; if he hadn't gotten the hint with my threat, he certainly got it when I told him to perform an impossible sexual act upon himself. He glanced at my receipt and thrust it back at me. "Have a nice day, sir." he told me. I repeated my previous statement, wanting to make sure he had understood just how angry I was.

An older lady nearby heard me, and I was immediately ashamed...not because of what I had said, but because I had said it in front of a woman.

"Sorry." I told her. "My momma taught me better than that."

"I should hope so." the lady said. "But, to be honest..." she went on, leaned towards me and in a whisper:

"I was thinking the same thing."

The Short Bus

This is a small bus that belongs to a nearby church.

Let's go back in time, ten years ago: I hadn't been online for long; I didn't even have a computer but would use the ones at the library. I was in a chatroom and got into an argument with someone (I don't remember who and don't even remember what we were arguing about) and I had "bested" him with some facts, which he promptly denounced, and then called me retarded.

Now, that's something I don't like to be called. It's as an offensive term to me as the "n-word" would be to black folks. I don't think I'M retarded, but I know several "mentally challenged" people, and while they might not be as intelligent as are most people, they're more fun to be around.

I went to school with a guy named Gary; actually, I believe both of my older sisters had Gary in the same grade I did. I don't know for sure, but I think Gary stayed in the same grade for about ten years. That's the way things were done back then, especially in our independent school district. We didn't take any federal money and weren't bound by most federal rules and guidelines.

I don't know why Gary quit going to school; perhaps it was because the school did start to take federal aid and couldn't provide the "appropriate" education for him.

Gary was a lot of fun; older than the rest of us, he was also stronger and never tired of giving us piggyback rides and could push us nearly to the sky in the playground swings. Gary would sometimes "read" along with us in class, but usually spent his time coloring.

Gary was, like nearly all the other "retarded" people I know who are socially functional, a sweet "boy"...and still is, because I ran into him a few weeks back at the grocery store. He remembered me AND my name (and it'd been 25 years since I'd seen him. I know many people who can't recall a name a day later. Hmmm, who's the retarded one?) Gary nearly broke my ribs hugging on me and invited me to come visit him at the group home where he resides.

Back to the chatroom argument:

The guy went on: "Bet u rode the short bus."

I had a feeling I was being insulted, but I sure didn't know the slur. I replied:

"Well, yeah, I did ride short busses back and forth to school."

Nothing from my antagonist for a few seconds, then:

"I KNEW IT!"

I ignored him and went on:

"Actually, I remember only one short bus, and it was short because it was a van. My first "bus" to school was an old "woody" station wagon, driven by a classmate's mother. Another classmate's mom drove the school route for a few years; at first we drove their family car, then they bought a nearly-new station wagon."

I'm sure the school district didn't pay much, but it was probably enough to make a car payment and pay for gas, probably plus a bit more.

It was after I had left the chat when I looked up "short bus" and found it was a slur against someone, the same as "retarded". Since my school was tiny and didn't have any special-needs kids other than Gary, I never had found out that in larger schools a "short bus" was used to take those kids back and forth to school.

I still laugh at that guy thinking he was really insulting me, making me furious, only to have me be honest and admit I HAD rode the "short bus" to school

(even our single "big bus" wasn't all that large; didn't need to be, what with us playing eight-man football. The girls and boys both rode the bus to basketball games, even having quite a few empty seats.)


Not that my story was so interesting, sorry to make you read through all of it, but I really like this bus. I bet it gets fairly good gas mileage, and a guy could fix it up and live in it. Have to put a bed, some cabinet space and kitchen, and esp. a shower and a bathroom.

Then I could dump my sewage tank on the front lawns of all those people who like to call others "retarded".

"Funny" thing; when looking for the definition of "short bus" I found this statement, so true.

"Arguing on the Internet is like competing in the Special Olympics. You might win, but you're still retarded."

That guy might've been right, I might very well be "retarded".

Takes one to know one, huh?

Several years ago I had a woman tell me I was "emotionally immature" and "sexually frustrated".

Could've been the other way 'round, just can't remember.

A Rather Queer Email

Just got this in my inbox, and forgive me for the title, but I wanted to draw attention to this:

---

Texas Coach speaks out

Jim Neugent is a coach in Childress , Texas .

Jim writes: My name is Jim Neugent. I wrote to ABC (on-line) concerning a program called 'THE PRACTICE.' In last nights episode, one of the lawyer's mothers decided she is gay and wanted her son to go to court and help her get a marriage license so she could marry her 'partner.' I sent the following letter to ABC yesterday and really did not expect a reply, but I did get one.

My original message was:

ABC is obsessed with the subject of homosexuality. I will no longer watch any of your attempts to convince the world that homosexuality is OK. ' THE PRACTICE' can be a fairly good show, but last night's program was so typical of your agenda. You picked the 'dufus' of the office to be the one who was against the idea of his mother being gay, and made him look like a whiner because he had convictions.

This type of mentality calls people like me a 'gay basher.' Read the first chapter of Romans (that's in the Bible) and see what the apostle Paul had to say about it.... He, God and Jesus were all 'gay bashers'. What if she'd fallen in love with her cocker spaniel? Is that an alternative life style? (By the way, the Bible speaks against that, too.)

--Jim Neugent

Here is ABC's reply from the ABC on-line webmaster:

How about getting your nose out of the Bible (which is ONLY a book of stories compiled by MANY different writers hundreds of years ago) and read the declaration of independence (what our nation is built on), where it says 'All Men are Created equal,' and try treating them that way for a change! Or better yet, try thinking for yourself and stop using an archaic book of stories as your lame crutch for your existence. You are in the minority in this country, and your boycott will not affect us at ABC or our freedom of statement.

Jim Neugent's second response to ABC:

Thanks for your reply. From your harsh reply, evidently I hit a nerve. I will share it with all with whom I come in contact. Hopefully, the Arkansas Democrat Newspaper will include it in one of their columns and I will be praying for you.

Jim Neugent

Note: Wouldn't Satan just love it if people stopped using the Bible for a crutch? Please resend this to everyone in your mailbox. Thanks , Jim Neugent

I wonder if the person from ABC considered how many people would read this e-mail! This is one we should definitely pass on.

---

I generally just delete these things from my inbox, but I couldn't let this one go. I started to BCC everyone on the original mail, something like a hundred people (which is ironic, considering the last part of my reply)

(Oddly enough, one of the CC's was a mike at michaelmooreDOTcom I'm NOT going to give him a link from here, NO WAY)

Here's my reply:

---

According to Snopes, that's a true story, but not the ENTIRE story.

Here's the rest, from the website:


It didn't take long, through the power of the press and the Internet, before Mr. Neugent's message and the ABC webmaster's reply were causing a stir all over the country. ABC, after having investigated the matter, sent Mr. Neugent an official apology:

Dear Mr. Neugent:

We apologize for the e-mail message that was sent to you with comments that reflect neither the view of ABC nor of its executives. Viewer mail is traditionally handled by our Audience Information department for response. Your message was inappropriately handled by a programmer from ABC.com. I want to assure you that the response that you received does not in any way reflect the views of ABC Television, and most importantly is not at all consistent with the manner in which KATV, our valued partner in Little Rock, would ever treat their audience/community members.

Unfortunately, as in any organization, there are bound to be a few individuals that step out of line. To that end, we completed a comprehensive investigation into the matter earlier this afternoon. While the individual was deeply contrite and wanted to apologize to you, we felt that his actions were reprehensible and terminated him immediately.

Specifically in response to your original concerns regarding the subject of homosexuality in our programming, the ABC programming department has tried to treat such subjects in a sensitive manner. We recognize that we are serving a large, diverse audience with a wide range of attitudes towards all types of entertainment programming. We believe that programs thoughtfully reflecting social issues existing in our present society constitute proper television faire. We appreciate your original comments and take serious note of your thoughts on the potential direction of future story lines.

We are glad that you brought the e-mail incident to our attention. We truly regret that this happened, and we hope you understand by our actions that we will not tolerate this kind of behavior from any member of our staff.

Finally, I would like to once again add that the response that you received should in no way be attributed to our partner in Little Rock, KATV. As you well know, KATV has been the news and public affairs leader in Little Rock for years, and will be for many more. A finer, more committed television station does not exist. I would not want their reputation to suffer in any way due to our mishap.

Please accept our apologies and regrets.

Sincerely,

Daren Benzi
ABC Television Network

---

I put in some more "debunker" links:

---

More at these links:

http://www.breakthechain.org/exclusives/rudeabc.html

http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/blneugent.htm

http://www.truthminers.org/abc.htm

http://www.trendmicro.com/vinfo/hoaxes/hoaxdetails.asp?HName=ABC+Response+to+Jim+Neugent

http://www.truthorfiction.com/rumors/a/abc-practice.htm

http://www.bighoaxes.com/hoaxe_12_247.html

There are dozens more, and one person...who lives in Childress...says there never was a Coach Neugent at that school.

I understand why people would be upset, though. I know what the Bible says, but I also think that God makes each and all of us exactly what we are...in other words, I think people are "born gay". Personally, I think that's a hurdle God has given those people to overcome, just as He has chosen to give other people severe handicaps at birth. (why would God make me nearsighted? I don't dwell on it, because He promises us these things will be revealed to us someday)

I wouldn't argue against the premise that they have something mentally "wrong" with them, because who in their right mind would choose that lifestyle? A lifestyle that could cause them to lose their friends and family when they find out, a lifestyle that sets them apart in "normal" society, a lifestyle that can get them beaten and sometimes murdered for their sexual proclivities. To me, a fairly new and definitely rough-edged Christian, that attitude of hating gays and wishing them dead is anything but Christian.

Then again, I'm secure in knowing just who and what I am, pathetic as that might be in other's eyes. I've always thought that folks that protested the most just might have some doubts about their own sexual orientation.

Granted, gays don't help their cause by marching in the streets in San Francisco, displaying their "perversions" for all the world to see, but I have known quite a few gay people personally and for the most part, they're honest, caring Americans, and as such, deserve the same rights as do the rest of us. (I know some gay guys who are certainly more "manly" that are many straight guys) I guess my beliefs stem from being of a libertarian bent; i.e. I think govt. has absolutely NO BUSINESS in our homes and particularly our bedrooms. I also think the govt. has no right regulating marriage for gays...or for straights either, for that matter.

None of us are born perfect; it's the quest for perfection, our life-long attempt to walk in Jesus' path, that makes us Christians.

Did you know that incidences of gay teen suicide are on the order of three times that of straight teens? Have you ever had to justify your own existence, wonder why the majority of society hates you? How would you like to live a half-life in the shadows of society, ejected from your family for something you feel you have no control over? How would you like to constantly search your soul for redemption and be told by so-called "Christians" that you have absolutely no chance at entering the Kingdom of Heaven?

(to me, adultery is by far the worse sin; you've lied to yourself, you've lied to your spouse and worse yet, you've broken your sacred wedding vows and lied to God. You've managed to destroy your own life, your family's and damaged at least one other family. I DEFY you to tell me that being gay is worse than that. )

Ever wondered how many people are gay? Kinsey said it was 1 in 10, but that's been debunked and most "scientific" surveys put the number at around 3%. Do you have 100 friends? Most of us do and we're blessed to have that many. Stop and think, though, just how many of that 100 are gay. You might say "none" but the odds are that at least three ARE gay...but you don't know who they are for sure and they'll never tell you because of society's attitude --YOUR attitude-- towards gays.

I quit watching The Practice long before it went off the air, not because of any "gay" material or anti-Christian shows they air. No, I quit watching it because it became a crappy, inane show, as do many that have outlasted their entertainment value to me. Personally, I find Oprah's endorsement of Obama and her touting her "New Age Christianity" much more offensive than I do Ellen or any other gay performer's appearances or shows.

I'm always reminded of these verses when I think of how I should deal with my fellow man, sinners and saints alike:

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matthew 25:31-46 (King James Version)


31 When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:

32 And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats:

33 And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.

34 Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:

35 For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:

36 Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

37 Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

38 When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?

39 Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

40 And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

41 Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:

42 For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:

43 I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

44 Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?

45 Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.

46 And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Wouldn't this --shouldn't this-- apply to our treatment of gay people?

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Note: Wouldn't God just love it if people stopped using the Bible for an excuse to hate?

One more thing: why on Earth would people just NOW be getting upset about something that happened nearly ten years ago?

You Can't Fight City Hall

I got a certified letter from the city today; seems they object to an old fridge that's up against a storage building. It was dumped in the middle of my alley a few years ago, and when the trash truck came, they didn't take it away but instead pushed it onto my property.

I called the sanitation dept. asking them to come get it, but when they came, they said I had to have a sticker on it attesting to the fact I had all of the freon properly removed. Of course, they didn't believe me when I told them how it came to be on my property.

So, I call a plumber friend of mine who also has an heating/ac license to come certify it. He told me he had to charge me for it, it's the law. No problem, I said, but when he got here we found out the compressor had already been removed.

Catch-22. I can't get it certified because the guts are gone (and the freon gone to the winds) and I can't take it to the dump because it's not been certified.

(Some wag in my political group told me to hook onto it and drag it downtown to City Hall, put it in the judge's parking spot. All I know is that if I did that, it'd be 30 days or longer until I posted here again and my name wouldn't be "Mike", it'd be Inmate #454308)

Excellent Ellipsis Essay

Ellipsis, I love 'em and use them far too often. It's a bad habit, but I cling to the practice because sometimes it's simply a lazy way to insinuate something without having to explain...well, you know.

Wiki defines ellipsis:

Ellipsis (plural ellipses; from Greek ἔλλειψις 'omission') in printing and writing refers to the row of three full stops (... or . . . ) or asterisks (* * *) indicating an intentional omission. This punctuation mark is also called a suspension point, points of ellipsis, periods of ellipsis, or colloquially, dot-dot-dot. An ellipsis is sometimes used to indicate a pause in speech, an unfinished thought or, at the end of a sentence, a trailing off into silence (aposiopesis).

The site goes on to say:

The use of ellipses can either mislead or clarify, and the reader must rely on the good intentions of the writer who uses it.

That's a pretty fair warning to anyone reading this blog. Ambiguity is probably one of my better traits, in fact. I am what I am....

I sometimes often misuse ellipses and sometimes almost always fail to end a sentence that's ending in ellipses with the correct extra and fourth period, the extra ellepses. I hope that's simply an oversight, a typo, and not some character fault.... It probably validates the fact that I'm lazy....

I'm making an effort to be correct. That might not be good enough for you, but...there ARE ellipses haters out there....

If they find their way to this blog....

I've used ellipses a lot, and have even been accused by a former girlfriend that I also speak that way. Imagine that.... I will have to admit I do sometimes speak haltingly... and sometimes st...st...st...stutter a bit. She and I had a rocky relationship, to put it mildly, and it finally ended badly after ending semi-badly a half-dozen previous times. I'm sure you know how that goes.... I also easily lose my train of thought which isn't hard when one has a one-track mind....

I always preferred to quietly breakup with her via a note left on her pillow or in a sock drawer. As per the definition of ellipses, I would write my sad and tortured thoughts in a melodramatic way: "I gave and gave to this relationship, but you never even tried...."

I quit writing those the next-to-last time we broke up when she said "Is this another one of those damn dot-dot-dot letters?"

Did you know that "dot-dot-dot" is the Morse symbol for the letter "S" as in "SOS"? I wasn't for sure...some folks don't know things like that. "- - -" or "Dash-Dash-Dash" is "O". Just thought I'd mention that... Sometimes I use dashes -- when I think they're better instead of ellipses--but usually only one - or at the most, two --.

FOUR dots .... or "dot-dot-dot-dot" is the Morse code for the letter "H".

Just thought you should know....

Now you can spell "HOSS" in Morse Code.

My next essay:

"What's so wrong with using three question marks??? "

Russian Through the Checkout Line

I was out and about (that's "oot and aboot" to all my loyal readers from Canada) and decided I should pick up a few items at the grocery store. It was right at five o'clock, quittin' time, and I knew the store would be crowded.

That was all right, though; I have more time than money and besides that, that's when the working women hit the store, on their way home from work. Granted, most of 'em are married women, and many of those are angry from having to add another harried 30 minutes to an already long workday, trying to find something to fix for the family's evening meal. Still, sometimes it's nice to be around so many people, esp. women. I sometimes go for days without any social intercourse.(and let's not even mention the other kind)

I got what I wanted, some apples--diff. kinds, a couple of lemons, some other fruits and veggies, some ground round patties, some diet soda. I really needed an onion, though, as I was craving hot dogs. I got some chili, some buns, I had some weiners in the freezer. I picked out a nice, sweet onion, Texas raised...got one that was rounder than I liked, the flat ones seem milder and sweeter. (and isn't just my own opinion, but what the produce people have told me after I commented on noticing the difference)

I like to grocery shop again; for the longest time, esp. after I found out I had diabetes, it wasn't much fun because I didn't think there was much I could eat. Since I've got all that sorted out, it's almost a game seeing what new food items I can have or try for the first time.

The crowd finally thinned out and I made my way to the shortest line. I let a woman who had only a carry basket go in front of me and then had to endure some scathing looks from another woman with a full cart who thought I should extend the same courtesy to her. I might have done so, but the checker was having some problems with each customer in line before me and it was at least fifteen minutes before it was my turn.

I finally had my cart's few items being scanned, and the young, pretty, but obviously flustered girl said, in a heavy accent, "Hope you find the things all right!?!"

I smiled, nodded, and got out my debit card, ready to swipe it when the transaction was complete. (I wasn't going to make anyone wait on me!) My checker's name tag said she was "Tatiania" and I started to ask her what nationality she was. Russian, I figured from the name and accent, or from some Eastern European, ex-Soviet bloc nation.

Before I could ask the question, I was interrupted by a sack girl, one of the many high school kids the store hires for part-time, after-school jobs.

"Paper or plastic." she asked, not even a question, but said in a dull monotone.

This young lady has sacked my stuff before. I made an effort to keep an eye on her exactly because of that, but then she started coughing in my direction.

(this is the same girl who a few weeks before had placed my bread in the bottom of the sack, put my first pint of ice cream I had bought in nearly two years on top of it, then crammed in my hot deli chicken alongside the other two items. Oh, well, chicken sandwiches ala mode ain't too bad)

Ordinarily, this is where I'd hold out my debit card in one hand, a few bills in the other and say "Paper...or plastic?" Sometimes it gets a laugh, sometimes not. I decided against the joke this time, I didn't want to waste it on this little ol' gal. If she couldn't grasp that one should not package hot stuff with cold or put heavy stuff atop light, soft things, then my "punny" jokes would probably go right over her head.

(I would also bet she wasn't saving for college, just a hunch. I know entrance standards have been lowered, but...)

I made the sign of the cross towards her, as if to ward off the evil eye. There's nuthin' worse than a summer cold.

"What's wrong with you?" I challenged, but backing away. No one wants to be sick, but I sure didn't, not if it can be avoided.

"Oh, nothink! I do not see the code...the stick-air on fruit!" said the cashier, frowning at me, mistakenly thinking I was talking to her.

"No, no!" I assured the cashier. "I was talking to..."

"Bronchitis." interrupted the sacker, who then proceeded to show me how bad it was with a series of hacking coughs, aimed right at me as if to punctuate the severity of her illness.

"Bronchitis?" I repeated, trying to be polite, while trying to dodge the billions of airborne germs heading right for my own mucous membranes. No matter what, I had no plans to tip her. She'd have to settle for my feigned concern as her gratuity.

"No, I 'zink these are the Gran-nee Smith." said the cashier holding up my apples, still thinking I'm talking to her.

"Huh." droned the sophomoric sophomore, thinking the checker was speaking to her. "Say what?"

Now, when faced with one confused woman, it's best to be cautious and listen and interrupt only to clarify a point. When dealing with TWO confused women, it's best to just shut the hell up.

I didn't even want to look them in the eye, afraid that might start the convaluted conversation up again, but no such luck. As I was looking down at anything but the two women staring at me, I saw my Texas Sweet onion roll over onto the scale as the cashier was weighing the green apples.

"Uh..." I stammered. "That onion...."

"No, no." said the cashier, scanning the next item, another bag of apples. "These, these red apples, the Dee-leeesh-us kind...and no stick-air on them, either!" she said accusingly.

"I didn't look to see if they had it on 'em." I said. "Sorry." I suddenly realized it wasn't my place to make sure the stick-air...er, the sticker was on the produce and why the hell was I apologizing? I started to say so.

"Is ok, I know code!" she said proudly, punching it into the keyboard, something right going on for the first time for several customers.

"Well, no...." I said, trying to be forceful. "That's not it. That onion...." attempting to bring to her attention the fact that I had been paying for that onion each and every time she weighed something. "It's on the scale."

"Is not yours?" she asked. "I have yet to scan!"

"No," I told her "It was on the scale."

With an annoyed look and a slight brush of the hand, she pushed the offending vegetable off the scale, where it promptly rolled back onto the edge of the scale. She weighed the red apples, only three, but they were on sale and I watched it ring up three bucks and something .

"Uh, it rolled back on." I told her. She pushed the onion back with another impatient movement and went on weighing out the rest of my produce.

It rolled back on the scale. "Uh, that onion is back on there." I told her.

"You say was yours!" she said, furrowing her eyebrows at me.

"Well..." I tried to explain. "You kept pushing it off the scale, but it would roll back on!"

"Is OK." she assured me. About that time I heard another explosive cough and felt a few drops of moisture hit my arm. Gag. I hoped a bird was overhead.

"You should go home!" I sternly informed the sack girl, digging out my hankerchief. I wondered if I should wipe off the contagion or give it to her to cover her mouth.

"I am citizen!" exclaimed the checkout girl, now standing defiantly, hands on hips.

"No, no!" I assured the young woman. "I was talking to her, she should go home if she is sick!"

"They won't let me." pouted the sacker, now piling my apples on my hot dog buns.

"Uh, that bread needs to be...." I tried to point out what the young girl was doing, but she was now giving off little coughs like machine gun blasts, probably trying to get the attention of the boss.

"I am legal citizen." said the cashier in a soft, hurt voice, giving me a frown as she continued scanning my items, the onion still on the scale.

I shook my head "No, the bread...."

"Where?" interjected the cashier. "I have scanned bread!" she exclaimed, looking in the sack. "See!" and pulled out the squished buns, then throwing them back. Miss Hacking Cough picked them up and threw them back into the sack. At least now they were on top.

I just sighed and watched the onion roll back onto the scale with my asparagus. Now, that particular veggie wasn't on sale, and is expensive even when ON sale. I certainly didn't want "onion weight" on my asparagus.

"Uh...that onion." I said, reaching over to push it back..and then an alarm went off on the register.

"What problem is this?" she said. "What you do?" She was very angry now. Oh great, I thought, she thinks I told her to leave America and now have been messin' with her machine. I looked up; people in other lines were staring at the commotion.

"I didn't touch nuthin'!" I protested. I turned to the sack girl for witness verification, but she had become bored with smashing my bread under the weight of produce and moved on to another line.

I turned back to the transaction.

"Oh. Is printer." said the cashier, attempting to open the cover.

I nodded, glad she could see it wasn't my fault. It was just jammed, and after opening up the cover with a savage turn of the catch, she peered inside, poking around the innards with the end of a pencil. Then, accompanied with what I thought were probably Russian curse words, she slammed down the cover. With a quick slap to the side of the printer, the alarm went silent and she went back to scanning my items. I could see my receipt coiling up inside the cover.

I was so relieved that we were now moving along again, but the onion deal was really bothering me. I told her "Say, that onion kept rolling onto the scale when you were weighing things." I pointed to the onion, now cuddled up with my asparagus.

I stepped back just in case she treated me like the printer cover.

Again, with a flick of the hand, she pushed it back and then went back to her "cheat sheet", trying to find the code for asparagus. The onion rolled back to be with the asparagus.

I guess they were meant to be.

The young sacker girl was back, dammit. She started griping about having to work when sick, especially having to work past the start of the Homecoming football game that night. I was sure if they let her off work, she'd suddenly become better in time for the game. I ignored her, having been through teenaged angst once in my life and not particularly wanting to experience it again.

She suddenly coughed again, spittle landing all over me. The handkerchief was balled up in my hand, just the right size to cram in her mouth.

I had had enough, I was getting about 25 bucks worth of stuff, the total was over that already and I still had things to be scanned...and I would be darned if I was going to pay for that onion over and over and over again!

Ever been hungry and fed-up at the same time? Gives ME a headache.

I told her "Wait a minute. You've weighed that onion with almost all my stuff."

"No." she assured me. "I push back!"

"Sorry." I told her firmly. "It's been on there all this time, keeps rolling back on!" I made a mental note to buy a flatter onion next time. I'd already made one to avoid this girl's line next time; I thought I might bribe someone to get a copy of the work schedule so I could altogether avoid the days she worked.

"I saw that too." said a lady behind me...not the one who had been angry with me for not letting her cut in line too, but another lady. A nice lady. The other had gone to the back of a longer line and had already been checked out and was gone. "You've weighed several things with that onion on the scale, hon." said the lady to the cashier.

"Oh." said the now chastised girl. "You want me to weigh again the what? The apples?" She was talking to the woman...and kept talking, now ignoring me. I couldn't believe my ears when I heard the checker point at the magazine the woman was holding and declare "That Brat Peet, he so cute, too good for that woman!" I cleared my throat, a little too loudly. I think it probably sounded like a constipated lion.

"For a start you can weigh those apples again." I told her. Back to being defiant, she pulled the red apples out of the bag and off of my hot dog buns -not sure how they got under there again, but I wasn't surprised- and sat them down rather roughly, then scrolled back up the computer screen to compare.

"See!" she said. "Same weight!"

I was getting annoyed; I hate bruised apples.

"Same onion on the scale. " I told her curtly, pointing at the onion. She pushed it off--again--and weighed--again--and the onion rolled back onto the scale--again. I wanted to scream at her by now, I wanted to throw the onion to the back of the store. I didn't even want a sweet onion now, I would make do with the sulphuric-tasting, eyeball-searing, instant-heartburn-causing red onion I had bought from this store a couple days ago, been sorely disappointed in and was replacing with this purchase.

The checker picked up the bag of apples, dropping them on the scale again. Same weight.

"See?" she announced. "Same weight, each time!" and picked them up, letting them fall on the scale several times. I was wondering if I had a recipe for sugar-free applesauce. I wondered if there was money in grocery scale repair. I wondered why I had come in here to begin with, I thought I had a couple cans of vienna sausages I could've eaten, surely I had a box of crackers somewhere in the pantry.

My head was pounding.

I had had enough. I pointed at the onion. "Move that off the scale." I said in a commanding tone. I'm an easy-going guy, but don't have a problem showing my displeasure when being cheated or mistreated.

The checker just looked at me. I stabbed my finger again towards the onion. "Move it!" I said in my driller's voice, the one I used to use to get someone's attention over the roar of huge diesel engines. I'm sure she could see the vein pulsing in my forehead because I certainly could feel it, it was the size of a python that had just swallowed a pig. I hoped that tightness in my chest was from indigestion or anxiety.

Shocked, the checker pushed the onion off the scale. She was eyeing me a little differently, still angry with me but also a little fear in her eyes. Good, I thought.

"Take it and put it OFF THE LEDGE!" I commanded. "Get it away from the scale!!!"

She complied, she had no choice . I was Reagan, she was Gorbachev. Don't push me, I'll nuke Moscow.

NOW the scale read correctly and there WAS a noticeable difference, but I couldn't tell you what it was in weight even when she showed me the barely recognizeable slip, having to fish it out of the printer with a pair of sharp-pointed scissors.

"Oh. " she said. "Oh." repeated the cashier quietly, comparing the difference in the weight.

"I will have to do the void now." she looked at me with pleading eyes.

"Fine." I said curtly, in my best petulant manner. I wasn't letting her off lightly, not now, even though she still held the scissors. I was ready to start deportation proceedings, right then 'n there. Maybe the judge would personally let me tear up her green card.

I took a deep breath; I'm not normally a rude person and wanted to show it. To someone. Anyone. The pain in my brain said to climb up on the clock tower with a rifle, but my mother's voice came into my head. "Now, Michael...."

"Sorry to make you wait." I sheepishly apologized to the woman behind me.

"Thass all right hon." she said, not even looking up from where she was reading something from one of the tabloids in the impulse rack. I noticed where Brad and Angelina were feuding. Again.

The void wouldn't take, though. The cashier tried a dozen times without any success before calling a young man, some assistant's assistant from the looks of him, over to help. She explained what she thought had happened and he puffed up with self-importance as he explained to her the procedure, voiding out the purchase, re-weighing and then punching in the code. The only problem was, it didn't work for HIM, either. It was almost worth it to watch him deflate.

My temples pulsed with every beat of my heart. I was sure I had a brain tumor.

She put in a call to a manager. I saw people going out the store with their purchases who had come in while I was standing in line. The lady who had been behind me had moved on to the back of another busy line and was now being checked out.

Silently, we both stood there, waiting on the manager. I thought of nice things, tried to go to a happy place in my mind. As the tension ebbed from my body, I felt some of the pain leave as well. I felt a little ashamed of losing my temper earlier. I attempted to ask the question I had been wanting to ask.

"You Russian??

"Yes." she said. "Has been busy all the day afternoon! Rush, rush rush, all the day!"

I was perplexed for a moment and when it hit me, I replied, laughing at the miscommunication:

"No...are you Russian? From Russia. "

"Oh, yes. " she said distractedly, peering into the bowels of the printer, where my receipt looked like it had been chewed up by a goat....and digested. Silence. She didn't want small talk. She still had the scissors in her hand, so I didn't push it.

I mumbled something about "welcome to Texas" but my heart wasn't in it.

"Romanian." she announced, holding up my asparagus.

"No, I think that's some sort of lettuce." I corrected her, "That's asparagus..."

"No." she firmly told me. "This is the asparagus, you not have lettuce! Where your lettuce?" and she looked in the nearly-empty basket, getting visibly angry with me again. I didn't know what to say, thinking I had been watching too many Twilight Zone reruns or perhaps this was some reality prank TV show. I looked around for hidden cameras.

"I am Romanian." she informed me after I said absolutely nothing, not knowing WHAT to say.

I stared at her. "I thought you said you were Russian."

"I am, my papa, he is, but I born Romania. "

Oh, I thought, as the stabbing pain returned, this time centered right between my eyeballs. That explains everything....or nothing, depending upon one's viewpoint I suppose. The pain between my eyes got so bad, I was having problems trying to remember what exactly were the symptoms of a stroke. I wanted out of there if for no other reason than to die in the sunshine, not having my last view of life being that of curious faces ringing my prone form, the rack of Juicy Fruit and Altoids being the last thing I see. I wanted to eat one more Snickers before I died.

"I speak Russian. " she said, out of the blue. There was no one behind me in line now, even though there were crowded lines in all the other lanes. I'm sure my lane was giving off bad vibes to everyone and they were avoiding it like the plague. Folks would rather go through a hold up by a robber than a hold up in a check-out line.

I nodded my head; I had guessed her accent!

Nope, don't do that. That hurt. Pregnant pause. Silence hurt too. My eyes started filling up from the pain.

Aw, what the heck, it's only money. I was dyin' anyway. I didn't want to die with anger in my heart. I blinked away the tears.

"Just go on." I told her, "Forget it." I was tired of waiting and I couldn't see very well. I guessed even the managers were avoiding her line now. She looked at me, a tentative hopeful expression on her sweet Slavic face.

I certainly wasn't gonna bring out my Russian jokes to kill the time.

"Go on." I urged her. "It's OK. Just let it go." I wished I hadn't seen the onion on the scale, wished I had been cheated without knowing, wished to hell I had never said anything.

She TRIED to forget it, tried to go on with the transaction, but the register wouldn't budge. My apples took a few more bounces in the attempts to get a weight. Another checker came over to help. No joy. More apple bounces. We continued waiting on the manager. She tried the other bag of apples for some reason. They certainly needed to be bounced too, just to match the others.

The headache was coming back with a vengance. I needed an aspirin. No, I needed a bottle of aspirin, two bottles. No, no...a bottle of aspirin, washed down with a bottle of whiskey. Then a 1/2" drill for a borehole to relieve the pressure in my skull.

"I speak several other of languages." I was informed during the lull. I think she was trying to prove to me that she was smarter than it seemed. Not smarter than that cash register, I thought.

"How long you been here?" I inquired, trying to be polite, even though my brain was splitting in two.

"Since two o'clock." said the cashier.

"No." I said, shaking my head. Ouch, that hurt. "How long in America?"

"Three years." came the reply. The manager still was nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, so was Hack Girl.

Impulsively, I decided to ask "Say, you know Nadia Comaneci ?"

I didn't get enough of a puzzled look to make the joke worthwhile. I could see the light bulb going off in her head.

"Ah, yes, the gymnast? She defect to America long time ago!" she informed me.

"Uh, yeah, I knew that...she lives in Texas, actually...." I said.

"She move HERE?" the cashier asked increduously, pointing at the ground.

"Uh...Houston, I think." I replied. She nodded her head, as if to say she wished SHE was in Houston right at this moment. I wished I were there, too. Anywhere. Russia would be fine by me, Siberia, the cold would be nice, I thought. My headache got worse.

"She married Bart Conner...." I trailed off. I'm not even going to waste trivia on this event, I decided.

"I know him. " said the sack girl, appearing from nowhere again. "He's in my Social Studies class...I think."

Not worth the effort to explain, I thought.

The manager finally showed up, the sack girl disappeared in a exaggerated huff and an even more pronounced exaggerated cough, (must have been THIS mgr. that refused to let her go home) the cashier explained about the onion, the apples and he punched a few buttons, re-weighed the apples and said "Was that it? Anything else?"

I eyed the produce already sacked (and atop smashed hot dog buns, of course).

"Yes. Uh, no." I wearily said, trying to answer his questions in correct order. There were only a few more items to go, no produce. What would a few cans on top of my bread hurt now?

Plenty, I thought, getting angry again, thinking of my hot dogs I was planning to make sometime this weekend. I make darn good hot dogs. I had my mouth set on 'em, and I didn't want what little presentation I could muster with that food ruined by the appearance of flat buns. I didn't want to have to use a fork to eat my hot dogs! That ain't right.

The package wasn't completely smashed, so I tried to get my bread out of the bottom of the sack but was suddenly pushed aside by the same coughing girl who showed up once again out of nowhere.

"You should quit smoking." I said irritably, stepping aside, not wanting to have any more contact with her than necessary. She'd already given me enough of her phlegm to qualify as intimacy. She was about sixteen; Statutory Infection. I could feel her germs coursing through my body, they were probably what was giving me more of a headache than mere hunger and frustration would normally do.

"I don't smoke!" said the girl, indignant.

"Maybe you should take it up." I said, not bothering to hide my iritability. "It'll either cure that cough or kill ya." I would settle for either one, I thought.

Finally, the cashier finished scanning my other items, the onion nowhere to be found. "Where's that onion?" I asked. I would be damned if I was leaving without that onion.

"In here, with your bread." grunted the young sacker, holding up an overloaded plastic sack, bulging at the seams with produce and a few canned goods thrown on top for good measure. She also coughed into the sack for more good measure.

Just as I was about to command the girl go get me another pkg. of buns, the cashier got done.

"You pay now." she said, pointing as though holding a gun towards the debit card reader, even cocking her thumb as if it were the hammer of a pistol . I backed off at the sudden motion. Russians had nukes, too.

"I already have." making my own pistol fist, pointing to the credit/debit card interface. The cold war had fired up again. When she pointedly looked down at the card machine, so did I.

Uh oh, I hadn't put in if I wanted any money back. I quickly pushed "NO" because I was sure I would get screwed if I got any extra cash. I was already paying gold bullion prices for asparagus.

"See?" said the cashier. "Your apples, they marked correct!" all the while holding up the mangled receipt. "You good... mistake fixed...." she did the math in her head.

"Thirty four cents!" she said in a too-loud voice, holding up the shredded slip for all to see. I saw several checkers and customers in line shake their heads. Now they thought I was a cheapskate, just great.

"Ok, thanks." I said, now a beaten and humiliated man. I tried to get my sacks away from the coughing girl, but she insisted on carrying them. The manager was watching her. He might send her home for good, forever. I could always hope.

I grabbed a couple of empty sacks so I could resack the few items when I got out to my vehicle. I briefly considered going into their bathroom, tying one around my head; at least they'd have to clean up the mess.

"Moldova!" said the cashier to me, as I was leaving. Surprised at her turnaround in attitude, I returned what I thought was the Romanian salutation with a wave of my hand.

"Moldova to you, too."

The cashier shook her head, she now had plenty of time to talk, no one was coming near her station.

"No, I'm from Moldova, where I live before here."

That just made my head hurt all the more.

You know, I hate to stereotype, it's not a good thing, but I'm thinkin' I hate Russians, Romanians, and Moldavans, esp. young pretty ones.

Even though she's now a Texan, Nadia can go to hell, too.

Silly Squirrel Story

I belong to an MSN photography Group, the highest ranked one in the category. In this recent thread

(edit to add: link removed because it is no longer valid as MSN Groups were discontinued several years ago) is a pretty good shot of a squirrel that made me think of how my folks loved to watch the squirrels in their back yard, putting out peanuts and not even caring (too much) that the tree rodents cute, loveable creatures also ate their birdfeeder empty. I believe my big sister has problems with that and has tried all the gadgets/gimmicks to keep them out of her bird feeders.

It also reminded me of a friend of my dad's; they had a lovely, shady place right on the creek and the century old cottonwoods were full of squirrels. We were down there late one summer afternoon and our family friend was showing my pop how the squirrels would come when he called them. He took a nut from his shirt pocket and tapped on the tree, making some "tik-tik" sounding call.

Sure 'nuff, here came a squirrel from a hole in the trunk of the tree; this man backed up to the tree and the squirrel jumped to his shoulder and took the nut from his hand. I was about ten yrs. old or so, and I thought it was SOOOOOO cool looking, that squirrel sitting there munching away on the nut held between its two tiny paws. It ate the meat, cast away the bits of shell after it was done, then to my amazement, climbed face down into the guy's pocket and nabbed another nut! Again, it perched nonchalantly on his shoulder and ate.

"I got almost all of 'em like this 'un here." said dad's friend, and at the same time, rubbed his nose with his forefinger, making an audible inhaling "Sniff". It was an odd mannerism he had, one my dad always said prefaced a bald-faced lie.

I think there was some validity to my dad's theory- after all, most Texans, myself included, are known to sometimes stretch the truth...but maybe not THIS time, because the squirrel, apparently frightened by the sudden movement of the finger, PLUS the "sniff" (which, come to think of it, would be more like a backwards "snort") sound rewarded my dad's friend with a quick, hard bite on his earlobe, which then sprang off his shoulder and scampered back up the tree.

Let me tell you something and take it to heart: If I ever obeyed anything that my dad told me, it was to respect my elders, the "seen, not heard" type of child and not speak unless... yada yada yada. It's not a bad thing, and I don't resent it. I still try to respect my elders, but there's getting to be fewer and fewer of them.

The thing I remember most about this long ago scene is not the squirrel bite, nor our family friend's reaction, but my own. I KNEW I shouldn't laugh, but Lord help me, I was having trouble. I alternated between my face splitting open like a watermelon in the August sun and doing my best to show the proper amount of concern, lest I embarrass the adult. After all, the ear was bleeding "like a stuck hog" and blood was staining his shirt. I'm sure it hurt, but the expression on his face wasn't one of pain, but something like the shock of betrayal.

MY ears were hurting trying to hold back my grin. You know what I'm talking about, it's almost like a funky little earache, you know you can't laugh, it's like you get a small shot of helium gas in those lymph glands, the mumps ones, they start to tingle. It's a warning sign you're about to explode with laughter. You want to laugh SO bad. It's like when someone farts in church, y'know?

When my dad started laughing like an idiot, I figured it was safe for me to laugh, too.

Feel My Ubiquity

From my Excite start page:



This is an inside joke; so much "inside" that it's only inside my head and no one else is privy to the humor. (Well, "humor" might be stretching it some)

The first time I think I ever heard the word being used (and not just in a book) was on the Howard Stern show and as his guests were these two goofballs who wanted Stern to use their song in his movie. The song was titled "Feel My Ubiquity". The title was intriguing, but the song sucked big-time. (so does Stern, but....) They said, in a play on the song title, that they wanted the song "Feel My Ubiquity" to be ubiquitous.

I'm sure they confused a lot of folks with that word; after all, it's not a common one. What they should have said what they desired for their tune was for it to become another "Hotel California".

A couple of years ago I was writing some commentary to go along with a presentation of my pics in an MSN Group and wanted to describe the ugly utility poles and lines that are in the background of many photos I take and want to take, especially at the Groom Cross. It wasn't a day later when I was doing the same thing for something else and was looking to describe those posts and wires and thought "Ubiquitous" will work just fine...again!

Since that time, I've used the word a little TOO much...in essence, being ubiquitous with the word "ubiquitious".

Saturday Night Headache

Look at this! (you'll probably have to click on the following two graphics--yes, there's two--to be able to really make out the shows.

There's nothing on!




I've got the Texans/Bears game on behind me, but it's the preseason...and it's the Texans.

Ten o'clock is rapidly approaching and there's nothing on. The shows in red are the ones I have scheduled to highlight when they come on, but I've seen them, they're reruns. Seen them several times, actually.

I don't care about the Springsteen concert coming on PBS; the Boss ain't so boss to me these days, and it's a concert from 1975. I KNOW he was born to run in the USA, big deal, so was I.

Seinfeld, Roseanne, I'd watch a rerun of them but not for the twentieth time. Iron Chef is good, but it's the truffles show and I ate my pig I had trained to find them, so....

Silly movies, "Air Bud"???? I can always count the flowers on the wall, clean out the closet that I just cleaned yesterday, do something worthwhile, I might call the ex.

BET has a movie, but I bet there's black people in it doing black things. That's cool, I'm glad there's a good variety of channels, but I'm not black nor do I do black things. Actually, all the black people I know have lives, whereas I don't, so there's another way I can't identify with "them".

"Flip this House"? Come flip this one, I'll split the profits. There's a tie I've got my eye on at WalMart, my share will just about cover it.

I might watch the Pride Fighting Championships, but I'm not feeling particularly violent and bloodthirsty tonight. It always gets me worked up, too, and I want to kick someone in the head. That's not good for my b/p.

Rescue Me, Nip Tuck, Sex in the City, never seen 'em, ditto for The Real World, except for that time I rolled over in my sleep on the remote and it tuned into MTV. I had nightmares that night and for many nights to come after that.

There's the Pauly Shore movie coming on, but I've seen that one before and I've had my Pauly Shore quota for the day week month year century eternity.

Baseball Tonight? I don't really like watching the games, but maybe the highlights might be nice.

Nah. I might re-arrange my stereo-wires, did it just last week.

I've made up my mind: Saturday Night Fever it is. I think that little short chunky gal that drools all over Travolta is much cuter than the one he wants.

Amost on! "....been kicked around since I was born."

Sure need to work on my falsetto.

Lord help me, I liked disco. I even had a cream colored polyester suit, matching belt, shoes, cream colored flower shirt with little brown highlights to match my eyes and even then thinning hair. I didn't dance in it; hell, I was afraid to SMOKE in it.

Gotta go, I hear the BeeGees! "Stayin' Alive"

I got night fever now and a craving for some strobe lights and Donna Summer.

My Sister's Feet

Not these; these are the feet of a statue at the Groom Cross, those of a kneeling woman in front of Jesus carrying the cross.

I was marvelling at the detail of some of the statues when I was over there this evening. There were as many people there as I'd ever seen (travelling down I-40 on a Sat. afternoon, I should've known) and the shots I wanted to get weren't available to me because of all the folks in the background, so I was giving a bit more scrutiny to some things I had paid little attention to in the past visits over there.

See the wrinkles in the pads of the sole of her foot? I've taken thousands of photos of all of the bronze's faces and love the detail on them, but never noticed this before tonight.

The patina, the green color, is a natural oxidation of the metal, but I really don't like it. Sometimes I want to volunteer to take a toothbrush and metal polish and get it out of the cracks and crevices. (I have taken my trusty bandanna and bottle of water and cleaned the bird poop off of some of the life-sized figures when no one else was out there)

After downloading the photos I took and viewing them, I started remembering my big sister's feet, all during the summers of her teen years. (I haven't paid any attention to my sis's feet in years) Until govt. regulations prohibited it, my dad always oiled the dirt roads to his wells and tank batteries and to our house; the road surface shed water very well. He also would "drag" the roads with a home-built metal skid made of large pipe/casing cut in half, inverted and welded together; on top that he'd add or take off as needed weights made of scrap metal. It kept the roads smooth.

Growing up in the country back then was, for a teenager, pretty darn boring. We lived far enough out in the country where we could barely get the translator signal from the nearest town and were on the very edge of the Amarillo TV station's broadcast area. The best Top 40 radio station was in Oklahoma City and the signal wouldn't come in at strength until after 9:00 p.m.

Since there wasn't a lot else to do other than the usual chores and homework, we ate a lot and read a lot. To this day, my sisters and I are all a bit overweight still, but we could all probably each make a showin' on Jeopardy.

I can remember the evenings when my sister, her head full of the things that most 16 yr. old girl's heads are, would want to get away from our small, cramped and crowded house and be to herself. She would set off down the oily road, barefooted, and walk to the mailbox and back, a distance of a couple miles and small change.

I didn't have to do the laundry, but I laugh thinking about how it might have been a problem. I'm sure Sisterbelle would wash her feet before going to bed, but I also know from much personal experience how oil gets into your pores and sometimes takes a few days and a few scrubbin's to get it all out. I'm smiling as I type this, thinking of the bottom of my sister's feet being darker than that statue's feet pictured above, like a Blackfoot Injun's or her own travellin' tootsies minstrel toe-show.

She probably had some green on her feet, too... from pickin' dandelions with her toes.

She could also reach under the table and pinch her little brother with 'em.

Overheard at the fireworks show

"THUMP" (the mortar going off)

"BOOM" (the firework, after reaching its apex, explodes)

"Ooooh" (the crowd)

"Ahhhh" (the crowd, generally said in conjunction with "Ooooh")

I had slept a sum total of two hours last night, then had a busy day (ok, a "busy day" for me could be carrying out the trash, but....) but had full intentions of going out to the rodeo grounds, setting up my camera on a tripod with the "Fireworks" setting and taking some photos. I had in mind I would reduce them all to a min. size, then change to .gif format and put them together in an animation.

I lay down at six yesterday evening after setting my alarm for eight, figuring that would allow me plenty of time to get up and get out and get going to take the photos.

Oh, the alarm woke me up all right; it even GOT me up, but just long enough to turn it off. I went on back to sleep, fretting all the time that I was letting a bit of fatigue mess with my plans. The next time I woke up was when the "THUMP" s and "BOOM"s reverberated through the walls of my house. ( I live about a mile or so from the rodeo grounds, far enough that I see the fireworks explode shortly after I hear the thump of the mortar and THEN hear the firework exploding) When they really get to going fast with the show, esp. near the end, it sounds like how the movies portray war zones, the artillery off in the distance. There are even "rifle shots", firecrackers being let off at odd intervals by the neighborhood hoodlums children.

(and it's always been ironic to me when I hear of people not letting their children play with toy guns, but think nothing of watching fireworks, which, at least on the 4th of July, represent the battle described in the Star Spangled Banner. That's akin to those who decry Harry Potter yet dress up as Santa for their kiddos)

I jumped in my truck and decided to go take some photos; that was a bad move. I went out on the loop around town and the sides of the hwy were taken up with hundreds of vehicles full of folks watching the show.

-sigh-

I came on home, watched some more of the King of the Hill marathon, and took another nap. Now it's the middle of the night, and I can't decide if I should drink some coffee and stay up or go on back to bed and try to sleep some more.

Y'know, it's a decision that matters not one whit to the shape of things in this world and to be honest? It's not really going to make any sort of impact upon my own life, much less any other's. That's how I am going to look at not getting any fireworks photos. It really doesn't matter, does it?

Fairly Family Friendly

"We" want to be FFF, so this is why we're announcing our CCCC, the official ToTG

Crude Comment Control Credo

This will be a preliminary proper posting procedure, so keep this page in your preferences, please and check back frequently for further fundamentals.

"We" have decided that none of the usual, vulgar expressions will be tolerated. Bathroom humor (or "humour" if you are British or Canadian or Australian or New Zealandish) WILL be allowed, but without any curse words.

You Monty Python fans will have to get your favorite/favourite filthy fart fix from elsewhere, I'm afraid.

(ooops...I said "fart". Never again, I promise with my fearless, frivilous frequent fervor/fervour, my friend)

"Crapola" is an accepted adjective and/or adverb and can thusly be used in this context:

"His cranium contains crapola." ... which of course would substitute for "SFB".

I'm tired of being called that. Talk about labels. I'm going to usurp that unusually ugly ubiquity.

Hi, Noon!

We have a weekly test of our emergency broadcast system as well as a simultaneous announcement on the loudspeakers around town. It's at Saturday noon, just listened to it a few minutes ago, in fact. The loudspeakers are easily heard, they are strategically placed all over town and also double as sirens in case of disasters such as tornadoes. I forget which signals are which but I betcha I could figger it out quick enough if sumpthin' was happenin'.

My nephew "Garf" has been up here when the things have gone off. He has commented that it smacks of "Big Brother". Clever young man, great observation and analogy, he takes after his uncle. One of his other ones, not me. Standing outside, the audio effect is almost surreal as more than one loudspeaker can be heard but they're not quite "synched" and it's almost like a reverb on an electric guitar or an echo at the Grand Canyon.

(or the echo I hear when I visit the dentist and he ubiquitously says:
"That's the biggest cavity I've ever SEEN SEEN seen seen seen seen seen!" )

The cable TV interruption is annoying, especially when it breaks into a good movie. (or during Antiques Roadshow when they're fixin' to tell something they brought in a POS) We get an annoying, squealing alarm that starts off the announcement, then the dispatcher down at the police dept. breaks in in real time and informs us this is indeed, a test, if this was a real test, yada, yada, yada. I'm always hopin' for a few bars of "Saturday, in the park...I think it was the 4th of July."

BTW, it's generally always been a female dispatcher, at least it's a feminine-sounding voice.... A woman's voice is supposed to be more calming than a man's, but I suppose that's discounting some hysterical woman screaming in your ear.

It's only happened once that I recall, but I remember some severe weather happening one Saturday just before noon and watching frequent interruptions of the regular broadcast with weather warnings. Just as they broke in and announced the sighting of a tornado in this county, "they" went ahead with the regularly scheduled test of the emergency system.

My panic attack was less than many others, I heard. At least I got that goin' for me.

Oh yeah, and one more annoying thing, I can think of others, but they also repeat the broadcast over the loudspeakers in Spanish. I guess that's for "them" that's more of a doofus than me.

Maybe beyond YOURS...

Just noticed this when linking to the Texas Monthly website; it's part of their top header graphic.



Beyond MY expectations? Let's survey: just what have I come to expect from Mexico? Discounting a flood of illegal aliens, err... "undocumented Americans", I've come to expect corruption at the highest levels of govt. to the lowest, a "wink-wink, nudge-nudge" attitude towards mutual co-operation concerning our border and dirt weed that probably isn't worth smoking, much less smuggling.

(EDIT: Come to think of it after reading what I wrote, that could describe this govt. in two of the three)

Oh yeah, and a good source of illegal and ozone-destroying Freon for older cars that haven't been converted. (and I've read Freon has surpassed marijuana as the number one smuggled item, discounting illegal aliens, of course)

I've never visited boo-way-no Meh-he-co, but I would expect that if I DID visit one of the sleezy border towns, I would expect to wake up with a tequila hangover, an empty wallet and no wristwatch, a tattoo of a senorita on my chest and God-Forbid, a burning sensation when I ....

I Gotta Have Hearts

I love to play Hearts. I've never played at any of the online games websites; I wouldn't want to play against "real" people, even if it WAS "only online".

I've had a few perfect games, but this was the very last game I played, not ten minutes ago. I especially love to make ALL of the other "players" break 100 and I did that with this game. It was worth a screenshot.

(I've an online friend who every now 'n then gets a screenshot of an exceptional game from me. She said her late father loved the game and was good at it; I never met the man, but I think of him sometimes when I start to play. Love ya Barb!)

I'm not a great player because I sometimes don't remember the cards that have been played, although I'm getting better. (short-term memory loss, hmmm.....) The game would probably be better if there was some way to view the number of tricks each "player" has. I could better prevent another "player" from catching all the tricks (and there's probably some term for that, but I don't know it; I've never played the game against human opponents)

I say "player" because I am playing against the computer, and I don't know how the game is programmed, but I feel as though it's 3 against 1 sometimes. On a previous computer, I had altered the registry as so when I used some hotkeys, it would reveal the other three's hands.

The names of my opponents aren't from the Disney ducks, but inspired by the 1972 movie Silent Running with Bruce Dern. Dern's character names his helper droids on the greenhouse space station after the Disney characters.

And that would be a rare instance of the use of a second-hand nickname.