Like a Rock

The Ten Commandments
Groom Cross

This is one of those times where I was trying to be more "artsy" than I have any right of being. On this photo, I lay down on my side trying to get the reflection of the huge cross behind me and didn't think about the reflection of the huge pile of lard laying on its side trying to take the picture.

Band of Gold - Freda Payne

Big Hits on a Little Topic

Since I got the Feedjit feed, it's been fun to see the various places and people that find this blog. There have been hits from all over the world and quite a few states here in the U.S.

Google has provided the most fascinating statistics, though. This blog has had recent activity from being listed in the search engine for various news articles I've cited and commented upon, but by and far the largest amt. of hits have been for the Gay Irish Dwarfs article I wrote. We're up close to the top for those search terms: Gay+Irish+Dwarfs.

Since my article was tongue-in-cheek and nothing to do with any sort of fetish, I'm sure most of the visitors are disappointed. (I've never gone out with a dwarf, but I have been told by some of my dates that I was a mental midget)

I'm not quite sure what to think about it all. Sure, I'm glad for the hits, but I also wouldn't want anyone to think that this is some sort of "kinky" or fetish-type blog. (although I HAVE been thinking about writing something about my fondness for pantyhose...)

Recently this blog got a hit to an article I wrote: "My Sister's Feet", and following the entry URL, found out that the visitor had come from a Google search "I+Love+My+Sister's+Feet".

Hey, I'm no prude, each to his own, but...that's just a little TOO kinky for me.

Maybe I need to be a little more careful how I title my posts?

Bjorn Borg Born

Today, in 1956.

Never was a huge fan of Borg; was more of a Jimmy Conners guy.

I just couldn't pass up the alliteration.

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)

B for Baculum

They looked like something a witch doctor would wear around his neck; a dozen or more bones on a wire.

I was about seven years old and was out in the garage with my dad when I first noticed them.

"What are those, daddy?" I asked.

"What's that, son?" dad asked in turn, looking up from whatever it was he was doing.

"Those bones on the wall there." I replied, pointing to them.

I remember my dad smiling as he paused; I waited on him as he thought about his answer.

"That's the business end of a gentleman coon." he said after a few seconds, grinning as if there was some private joke in his answer.

I frowned as I thought about his answer. "Business end?" Hmmm.... I knew the barrel of a gun was the "business end", so maybe this too was something dangerous, maybe it was some sort of claw the raccoon had. Whatever it was, they certainly looked cool, almost like ivory.

"Can I have one?" I asked my pop.

"Sure." he said, and reached up and got the set off of the garage wall. "You can have 'em all." and handed them to me.

I was thrilled. I didn't know exactly what I had, but I didn't much care.

"What are they good for?" I asked.

"Well.." dad considered the question, with another small grin on his face. Snickering a little bit, he went on: "They're not much good for a coon now, but some guys make keychains, even whittle them down and make toothpicks out of 'em. "

"They polish up real good." he told me. "I'll get'cha a little steel wool and you'll see."

By now you've figured out just exactly what the thing is, I expect, and if you haven't, your mother and/or father should've explained the birds and the bees to you a little bit more, I think.

From Wiki:

The baculum (also penis bone, penile bone or os penis) is a bone found in the penis of most mammals. It is absent in humans, equids, marsupials, lagomorphs, and hyenas, amongst others. It is used for copulation and varies in size and shape by species. Its characteristics are sometimes used to differentiate between similar species.

The oosik of Native Alaskan cultures is a polished and sometimes carved baculum of various large northern carnivores such as walruses. The raccoon baculum is sometimes worn as a luck or fertility charm.

The word baculum originally meant "stick" or "staff" in Latin. The homologue to the baculum in female mammals is known as the baubellum or os clitoridis or os clitoris.

It's too bad there wasn't the Internet when I was a kid; otherwise I wouldn't have taken it to Show and Tell the next week.

My teacher had a funny look on her face when I told her it was "the business end of a gentleman coon", but it wasn't anything like the one on my dad's face when he first "explained" what it was.

The look on my momma's face when the teacher called her and told her about it was an entirely different one altogether.

Calling All Cows

In case you've forgotten (or more likely, never knew), the National Cowcalling Contest in Miami, Texas is this weekend. (always the first weekend in June). The festivities will kick off tonight with the Frontier Follies ( a show put on by locals), with a barbeque and the cowcalling tomorrow.

Since I last attended, they've added more events, such as a Texas Hold'em tournament, a steak cook-off and several others. It's also when many class reunions are held and my big sister and I went to mine a few years back. (the good thing about reunions is that you get to see many people you haven't seen in years; conversely, the bad thing is you have to see many people you never wanted to see again)

You can read more about it at the official town website.

From the site:

Miami's main event, the National Cow Calling Championships, began in 1949 at the suggestion of "Old Tack" - otherwise known as humorist, columnist, publisher, and conservationist Gene Howe of Amarillo.

Let cow calling introduce you to the prettiest town in Texas. If you think the Panhandle is flat, you're in for a very pleasant surprise. Our canyons, mesas, and tree-lined roads are unforgettable!

My favorite part of the entire weekend was always the Follies; sometimes it was a chore sitting through certain portions of it, but it was always a pleasure to hear a classmate's mother sing; she had a voice like a combination of Patsy Cline and Peggy Lee.

My least favorite part was the Saturday night dance. Oh, I suppose if women with big hair-do's, drunken cowboys and fistfights are your thing.... I used to get a buzz just from all of the excess testosterone in the air, along with copious amounts of hairspray and perfume, never needed any beer.

(I blame country and western dances for depleting the ozone layer)

(To be honest, the first time I ever got drunk was at a Cowcalling, back when I was about 13. Long story, but I didn't drink anything else until I was 18 or so. It still makes me nauseous to think about that night. Did you know you can drink a pint of whiskey and a six pack of beer and then vomit five gallons? One gallon went down the gutter in front of my big sister's house and four gallons went onto her carpet)

The cowcalling part was always a little bit of an embarrassment to me, namely that I was embarrassed for some of the callers. All of the callers, actually. But, if it didn't bother them....

Anyone can call cows...if you can go "Whooooooooooo" as loud and as long as you can, then you too can call cows. (Back when I helped feed cattle, I always just used the truck horn to get them to come feed, but usually not even having to do that. Cows are dumb, but they ain't stupid. They're usually at the gate before you can get it open. I'm the same way when I'M hungry)

Did I ever get up there and participate? Well, no, I'm not that stupid brave. The event is held just after noon, and I never have drank anything before around six in the afternoon.

Actually, I'm fairly sure there's not enough booze in the world to make me get up there.