Memorial for Darryl Ferguson

My Father-in-Law, Darryl Ferguson, passed away and we said goodbye to him on Saturday, August 25. It was among the saddest things I ever had to do. Growing older stinks if this is the kind of thing that starts happening.

I remember the first time I saw him; a large man lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows reading the Chronicle. The television was on, and he barely spoke. Then he stood up. At about six foot one, around 240 pounds, OP shorts and a faded t-shirt, he was imposing. This is the look he called “Bumzilla”.

As I started coming over there more and more and more and more, I got to know this man, also known as “Fergie”, or if he felt so inclined, “Fergenstein”. He loved telling stories of when he was a kid, or as a young man hunting in the wilds of the Almeda area, when there was nothing nearby but jackrabbits.

Some of my favorite stories were about the store he owned and operated for years, Ferguson Food Center. The would-be robbers, troublemakers and crazy people provided enough material for a book. He used to sit at the counter reading the paper, and when a suspicious-looking character would enter, Fergie would reach under the counter for his .45 automatic, and casually point it at the possible trouble spot, follow him around the store, all the while concealing the weapon in the Twinkie rack and continuing to read the paper. He never had to do anything from there, but he would just say that he was ready, and the “Twinkies would get real hot, real fast!”

Ferguson Food Center was also the site of many other actions that weren’t funny, but that showed the real man, The store is in a really tough part of town, Wayside and Navigation for those of you familiar with Houston. Many times, some homeless person would wander in wanting to panhandle for some money to buy some demon rum. Some would even offer to sweep the parking lot or some other menial task for a little money. Darryl never gave them money, but more often than not would give them food, a burrito, a sandwich, or some other real food. They would say “Thanks,man...” and start out the door. He would tell them, “Have a seat, you have to eat it here.” He didn’t want them to go out and sell the food for Ripple.

Many times he provided food for people that he knew were down on their luck. The gruff exterior concealed the heart that was caring and compassionate and generous. I don’t think anyone will ever know how many people he helped and touched.

Another thing about Darryl, he always had impeccably shiny shoes. Most of what he wore day to day were black Justin ropers. They shone like a military man’s shoes, and although he never served in the armed forces, his footwear could be mistaken for a career Marine officer’s shoes. He routinely shined those boots every night. EVERY night. There must have been fifty coats of parade gloss black Kiwi shoe polish on them.

After he got finished with the store proprietor business, he became a bailiff in the Harris County Family Law Center, 308th District Court. Every night on arriving home, he turned on the television, but not the news. Instead his viewing of choice was the Three Stooges. He said that he had seen enough bad news and sadness for the day, and he just wanted to laugh. He had a dry sense of humor, but also had an affinity for slapstick. As my beloved would get ready for a date, Darryl and I would watch Stooges videos, or old dumb monster movies or just reminisce about our favorite Tex Avery cartoon gags. He also related stories from the courthouse. The most enduring line he used was the ever-popular, “Button your shirt and button your lip…”

I will miss Fergie for many years, and I thank him for the 25 years of laughter, advice and relaxed good times I enjoyed in his company.

Update: I am still here

OK, so it's been a while since I posted anything. I know, you all (both) wonder where I have been hiding.

Last week, my Father-in-law passed away. I am working on a memorial posting for him. It's tough for me, but he's worth it.

Whether Report

Now that there’s a tropical weather system or two in the Gulf, the weather people on TV have come alive. Well, to clarify, one is in the Gulf, the other will peek its head in the door by the end of the weekend for a look around.

In July when all the rain was falling, the weather reporters started to look optimistic. But after limited flooding, minimal wind damage and all around simple soggy yards, they all looked like they were beat.

Then the heat came on and they sparked up a little bit again. “The temperatures are really climbing now, has summer finally arrived? Tune in at 10...” and “We’re in for a scorching weekend, will you survive?."

Some elderly folks had some real difficulties, no air conditioning, no refrigerator or sometimes no electricity at all. Someone usually steps in when they see dire need on the news to help these people. This action alone justifies the news reports.

But it doesn’t provide the excitement that they CRAVE. The heat index can only get you so giddy, even when you start spouting 106, 108 and even 110 degrees. A drought can be as exciting as watching paint dry and literally blow away. Where’s the promise of quick destruction?

But Tuesday, the Gulf yielded up the beginnings of a potential treasure; the seeds of a hurricane, The Tropical Wave. Because a Tropical Wave can turn into a Tropical Depression and a Tropical Depression turns into a Tropical Storm and a Tropical STORM can possibly turn into a Hurricane, and a Hurricane has the potential to be a Category 6 killer, wreaking untold devastation, death and destruction on humans and animals and property. No malice, no mercy. Cold. Unfeeling. Pure meteorologist gold.

To watch Dr. Neill Frank in a promo for tonight’s weather, it would be easy to get caught up in his fervor. The look in his eyes, his serious but thrilled expression, even the rhythm of his movements, it all looks like a dance performance. His near ecstatic notification of the possibilities no doubt leaves him lightheaded with the potential.

So prepare for wind, water and broadcast hyperbole, it looks like the hurricane season has arrived.

Year Two Begins

Just wondering if anyone noticed that on Monday, the first anniversary of my first blog entry passed without fanfare? No post, no comment, nothing.

But this particular post, right now, is the beginning of my second year of blogging. I hope this year will be as fun as the first one. There were some good posts, great comments and lots of fun.

Thank you to my loyal readers, though I can count you on one hand, I appreciate you all. Both of you, really!

HA!

Cheap Defined

OK, so you hear the word "geezer" and you immediately think "miser". That is not necessarily the correct assumption. Not even with me.

Though I am very, ah, frugal, I don't believe that I deserve the harsher term. My wife hates to go shopping with me, since I am the one that makes a face or rolls my eyes whenever something else gets submitted for purchase approval. I'm the fun-killer.

But I'm not the cheapest person I have heard tell of. I know a guy who went to New Jersey to visit relatives. He went into the bathroom and noticed the shower curtain rod had about 4 or 5 little strings draped over it, drying. When he asked his brother-in-law, the guy said with a straight face, "That's dental floss, you know you can re-use that stuff..."

Now that's cheap.

Please relate your tales of cheapness in the comments.
I'll post them in an update. Just to make myself feel better, really.

The New Aggie Dispatch

Well, on Friday I left off my freshly-turned-twenty, first born daughter in her new life as an Aggie. She worked hard, applied, got the student loan and everything.

I am proud of her.

I took Thursday off to help break camp in her room, where she has been for 11 years. It was tough for her to take it all apart without stopping to remember little things. She began to get misty along about three in the afternoon, as she got down to some of the final things to pack away. Some things stayed, some were destined for College Station but as the end neared, the emotions ran higher. I did my best to cheer, rationalize and otherwise console her, and on occasion, it did work. Sort of.

On Friday, we (my wife, youngest daughter, the Aggie-ette and her boyfriend and I) set out for College Station. The ride up there passed fairly quickly; I am used to “college” being at least four hours away, and we got to College Station in about half of that time. We arrived at the office for the apartment complex without incident, and she got her key and directions to her apartment. Our small caravan trailed over to the correct building and parked. The anticipation was high, at least for me and I’m sure for the new tenant.

I want to preface this next part by saying that since she was going to be moving in early, we all thought that she would be alone for a couple of weeks. And there was some trepidation on that point.

As she entered the apartment, she found a girl and guy asleep on the couch. The girl got up (fully clothed, thank GOD!) and welcomed my daughter and her boyfriend. My wife was hot on their heels, but couldn’t bring herself to enter at that point. She REALLY got nervous then.

The story is that roomie dearest had thrown a party the night before (celebrating her last night of total freedom, no doubt) and they had been cleaning up since early in the morning. Since we got there at about 2:30 p.m., they had apparently pooped out by then and had taken a short nap on the couch, which was made up like a bed with a sheet, blanket and a pillow.

As we began to move her stuff in, my daughter began to look more and more whipped, shocked and dismayed. She was tired and sad as it was, but the new twist was almost too much.

I have talked with her on the phone and texted her several times already since we left Friday night at about 10:30 p.m. She wants to come home and live her life exactly as it was before. But that opportunity has passed. She has worked too hard and too many things have been done in this direction to turn back now.

She knows that, and things will even out soon. The roommate is moving out August 10.

UPDATE
Roomie is reported to have been arrested for an outstanding traffic ticket; one of her "friends" bailed her out, how nice...besides, only 6 more days of occupation...

Wrap Artists

Yes, it seems there is a first time for everything. And last night was the first time in our family's history (and my history, too, as a matter of factoid) to have our yard decorated with toilet paper.

I text-messaged my daughters this morning, "Congratulations, unwrap the house before it rains, EVERYBODY!"

My oldest text-replied at 08:45:12 confirming that they cleaned up. I called to confirm that the action was complete, and she said it was, except for the uppermost tree branches. I asked her if she got the message with the fresh garbage bags I left on the living room floor. She said yes, that and the text message.

The twelve-year-old sent a text message back commenting on the quality of the job, or lack thereof. My impression was similar; it lacked the commitment and verve that a real wrap artist would have expressed. There were only four rolls utilized with rather unimaginative composition.

I suppose I'm lucky, what with having three daughters, one of which is on the way to Aggieland in a couple of weeks, to have only just now been hit by the TP banditos. And add to that, the uninspired execution of the deed, the cleanup was apparently easy on the girls.

That's plenty, now. We're fine, thanks. No more.

Fishing Report (sort of)

This morning at 06:15, I was on the water at my favorite fishing spot. The winds were calm, the sky was edging toward sunny and the water was clear. Clear-ish.

As I edged into the smooth water, I noticed a few turns of mullet, but still held out hope that the reds would begin to show up to my little party. The tide was coming in, but was still fairly shallow in the mud flats that I fish, on average calf-deep.

As I planned my attack, the bait shrimp were jumping and skipping ahead of me. The entire time I was casting to unseen quarry, my eyes were scanning for bird activity...nothing.

The mullet and other baitfish were moving, and as a matter of fact, there was more mullet action than a NASCAR reunion event. I think a herd of about 80 mullet of various sizes followed me all around the flats (well, followed just ahead of me). They took great pleasure in twitching and splashing, upsetting smaller baitfish along the margins of the grass.

I will even go so far as to say that it was a concerted effort to throw me off. A mullet conspiracy.

Oh, in spite of all the silly fish exploits, a lone, non-conformist greenhorn redfish took the offered soft plastic lure. From the second I set the hook, it was obvious that he was smallish, but he put up a valiant fight...the only proof I have of my encounter with this brave eighteen inch fish is the tooth marks he left on my thumb.

But as always, a bad day fishing is better than a good day working. No offense, San Jacinto College.

I'm on to their "Game"

Walmart in Alvin is undergoing a major “face-lift”. I prefer to call it a “wallet lift”. Oh sure, there are rumors that every five years, the stores must go through a makeover. That’s the cover story. I know what’s really going on.

The “upgrade” entails moving EVERYTHING from it’s original position to a completely DIFFERENT location in the store. The ploy here is to get you to walk all over the store to find what you need.

The evil scheme: which I repeat, I am on to, is to force you to browse and peruse every item on every shelf, thereby increasing the likelihood of your finding something ELSE you needed, but were unaware of until the moment you spot it. It’s either that or ask one of the worn-out looking employees, most of whom have only a slightly more of a clue than you do.

This evening, while checking out with only the things I came in for (allright, I did pick up two things that weren’t on the list, but I needed them anyhow), the nice checkout lady greeted me at the register.

Malissa: “Did you find everything OK?”

Me: “When? Tonight? In THIS store? No...but I’m quitting anyhow...”

She gave a nervous, knowing laugh.

She is in on the scheme, too.

Almost Newsworthy

The middle of the summer reminds me of when I was in the blue collar work force. Strike that; make it the NO collar work force.

I had taken a job as a rock mason in Wimberley with my cousin Mike. A rock mason is a person who wears cutoffs and rock dust, steel-toed boots with crew socks and a dirty gimme cap. They break rocks all day and get paid by the square footage of limestone that they turn into a wall. They only put on a shirt (usually a tee shirt; torn, dirty and smelly) when going inside convenience stores, people’s homes, weddings, that kind of thing.

We were working on a spec house in New Braunfels being built by a local contractor. There were four masons; my cousin Mike, John, Mark and myself, and our laborer, Kevin, Mike’s youngest brother. Each day for lunch, we chose an unlucky restaurant whose mission it was to attempt to conquer our hunger. The establishment was usually peopled with tourists and locals, unsuspecting innocents with no idea that they would be subjected to this group of honyocks. We weren’t boorish or overly annoying, but likely had a definite “bouquet” about us. The entire crew was uniformly dressed in cut off Levis, steel-toed boots and stiff rock-dust-and-salt-encrusted tee shirts. Our hands and unshaven faces were clean and brown, but the margin where the water stopped on our forearms and necks was delineated by the white rock dust and sweat rivulets.

This is all to paint a picture of the rather unsavory appearance that we portrayed individually and as a group. It is not clear how we could be mistaken for anything but a gaggle of construction workers, but that’s exactly what happened.

Church’s Chicken in New Braunfels had drawn the short straw that fine day. As we all stepped out of John’s Land Cruiser in a cloud of dust, we noticed a tour bus pulling into the parking lot. We also noticed a news van from a television station in San Antonio. On our approach to the door, a vision of beauty with russet hair rushed to greet us with a microphone in her hand and a dazzling smile on her perfect face. As she leaned on the handle of the glass door and swept through, looking right at us, each of us wondered why fortune was gracing the likes of us with such a dream. All of us looked at one another hoping not to be embarrassed by the rest of this band of goobers. Surely, we had inspired her to interview these diamonds in the rough. But truly, what could she REALLY want with US?

She bore down on us expectantly, staring straight at us. We even mimed the universal “Me?... Really, ME? US?” inquiries, yet there she came at us swiftly with a singular purpose, drawing a deep breath to utter the words to us that we all longed to hear, “Could you go back out and come back in again so we can videotape you...?”

“WHAT? HuH?...” was our unanimous reply.

“You’re the German exchange students...” and then she repeated the introduction in her musical voice, and while we were enraptured by the sound and vision of it all, we couldn’t help but wonder how we could be German exchange students, especially considering only 10 minutes before we were hosing the dust and concrete off of our hands. I, for one, half-wished I was German at that moment.

Within the next two seconds, a subsequent, equally lovely blonde woman with a clipboard and an irritated expression caught up to the first reporter and said, “Not these guys, THEM!”...pointing about thirty feet behind us to a group of approximately twenty teenagers speaking something besides Hill Country English. THEY were the exchange students, apparently.

As the glow of our brush with the media spotlight faded from our eyes, the two women and their camera guy charged past us to get to the REAL story. We couldn’t help feeling at least a little relief, intermingled with the pang of rejection.

That evening, on arrival back at the house, Mike instructed all televisions to be tuned to the particular station that made our lunch hour so interesting. Sure enough, there was the attractive reporter, relating the story of the German teenagers who made the pilgrimage from Braunfels, Germany to their sister city in Texas. And as the camera panned the interior of the Church’s dining room where the foreign teens milled with their chicken, there we were, the pride of the Central Texas rock mason society. There appeared to be a force field around us, because even in the lunch crowd press, nobody stood closer than about 43 inches from us.

That was the extent of my broadcast debut: a brief moment in the harsh glare of the lights and camera (at that time, the 10 pounds the camera adds were welcome). And it’s very forgiving for rock dust and sweat crust. But for that one transitory instant, when a beautiful (but dim) journalist mistook me for a story, the thrill and confusion made me dizzy and disoriented.

Today, looking back, I am glad that a life of ducking paparazzi was narrowly averted that day. I guess hindsight truly is 50/50...

Hindsight is 50/50

That's my new expression.

First, it's sort of true; something either would have worked out or it wouldn't have.

Second, it is a great joke exhibiting the "Norm Crosby" malaprop angle. If someone knows me, they know that I said it specifically. They get the joke. If they DON'T get the joke, then I follow up with, "...Looking back, maybe I should have said 20/20..." thus getting a little more joke mileage out of the line.

I think I'm pretty funny. At least new words are. Or, as Dudley Moore said as Arthur in the movie by the same name, "...sometimes i just think funny things!"

iPhone Love

I had the occasion to drop by the AT&T storefront here in Alvin this evening. It seems my wife’s phone finally succumbed to the material fatigue that mine did several months ago; it broke in half.

She called and asked if I could maybe go to the phone store and check availability of new handsets, and to see if they were going to give us any trouble.

As I entered the store, I asked the pair of workers if they would be open tomorrow, and if so, what-time-to-what-time. I glanced in the direction of the display by the door. It was a pair of Apple iPhones with a spiffy flat panel display above them touting the features and desirability of the new geegaws. I suppressed the urge to grab-and-dash in favor of getting some other business out of the way with the worker bees first. On completion of the task, I wandered forward like a zombie, my eyes trained on the sleek, utterly cool devices standing at attention.

I am not an early adopter by any stretch of the imagination. If I were, I could not claim the envious title of “geezer”. Nor would I pay $400 or $600 for a phone.

But to touch and explore the wonder that is an iPhone, I was transfixed by the beauty, speed and elegance of the interface and the gadget itself. The simplicity of the workings of the interface is pure Apple. The photo gallery was just like shuffling through small but perfect prints. You simply drag your finger across the screen and the thumbnail-sized prints accelerate then slow to a stop. You scroll like that till you get to the one you want, at which time you tap it to zoom in.

I emailed myself from the iPhone, too. Simple note-taking by tapping a miniature keyboard on the screen, even my hammy fingers made few mistakes. I pressed another “button” and the email application appeared instantly, accepted my email address, and then “whoosh-ed” it off to my gmail account.

The music interface was slick, too. You scroll just like the commercials show, with the same swipe of your finger as the list zooms by, then decelerates to a stop. It shows the album artwork at the same time.

If you’re interested or even curious as to why over 730,000 of these puppies were sold in the first 24 hours, then go by the store and pretend to be interested. 30 were sold in Alvin yesterday.

You don’t even have to be an Apple nut to love this thing. Don’t believe the media attention, pick it up in your own hot little mitt and experience it.

My experience will be limited to the sample table, however, at least until the price drops by $500!

Belated Father’s Day

OK, so it’s been a couple of weeks, and Father’s Day has come and gone. But look at it this way, I am prolonging the joy that was Father’s Day. It DOES come but once a year, this way I can at least drag out the warm fuzzy feelings.

Allright, I’m a lazy slug and a painfully sporadic blogger. It’s not like you’re donating money, right?

SO for Father’s day, I got some really good stuff. My wife got me some great shirts (which everybody at work admires) from Academy . I like them a lot, too. They’re cool and interesting. One of them sports a color scheme that I like, but wouldn’t normally pick for myself. But she (as usual) thinks outside MY box, and I love it.

The girls pooled their money and bought me a shaving kit. Included therein was a can of shaving gel and... (drum roll)... a new FUSION razor with spare blades! I could hardly wait to shave with the beauty. You all know how I feel about the legion of blades that sweep across the battlefield of my face. And since they took the plunge and bought four extra blades, I can shave for over a month with no nicks or cuts.

The first two blades, (10 regular blades and 2 “tricky place” blades) performed as expected. I am fully confident that the rest of my shaves will be clean, close and comfortable. That sounds like ad copy, I know, but it the alliteration coupled with the perfect syncopation sold me on the phrase. Forgive me.

I need to watch out, though, because I have a tendency to race through the act of shaving, thus increasing my chances of unintentional blood donation. Don’t worry about me, I have what seems like gallons. Pity instead the poor hairs that try and take over my jowls and neck at night, only to be mowed down in the morning.

I am invincible! Thanks girls!

Hurricane Season Looms

This was forwarded to me by my sister who experienced the evacuation from Rita (although not to the extent that I did) as did several million other geniuses.

I am not sure of the authorship pedigree, but this sounds a lot like Dave Barry.

Here are some hurricane tips.
To:
Former Gulf Coast Residents
Current Gulf Coast Residents
Future Gulf Coast Residents; and/or
Those who know a Gulf Coast Resident

We have just entered the 6-month hurricane season. Any day now, you're
going to turn on the TV and see a weather person pointing to some radar
blob out in the Gulf of Mexico and making two basic meteorological
points:
(1) There is no need to panic.
(2) We could all be killed.

Yes, hurricane season is an exciting time to live along the Gulf Coast.
If you're new to the area, you're probably wondering what you need to do
to prepare for the possibility that we'll get hit by "the big one." Based
on our experiences, we recommend that you follow this simple three-step
hurricane preparedness plan:

STEP 1. Buy enough food and bottled water to last your family for at
least three days.
STEP 2. Put these supplies into your car.
STEP 3. Drive to Nebraska and remain there until Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, statistics show that most people will not follow this
sensible plan. Most people will foolishly stay here in Gulf Coast area.

So we'll start with one of the most important hurricane preparedness items:

HOMEOWNERS' INSURANCE: If you own a home, you must have hurricane insurance. Fortunately, this insurance is cheap and easy to get, as long as your home meets two basic requirements:
(1) It is reasonably well-built, and
(2) It is located in Nebraska.

Unfortunately, if your home is located along the Gulf Coast, or any other area that might actually be hit by a hurricane, most insurance companies would prefer not to sell you hurricane insurance, because then they might be required to pay YOU money, and that is certainly not why they got into the insurance business in the first place.

So you'll have to scrounge around for an insurance company, which will charge you an annual premium roughly equal to the replacement value of your house. At any moment, this company can drop you like used dental floss.

Since Hurricane Katrina, I have had an estimated 27 different home-insurance companies. This week, I'm covered by the Bob and Big Stan Insurance Company, under a policy which states that, in addition to my premium, Bob and Big Stan are entitled, on demand, to my kidneys.

SHUTTERS: Your house should have hurricane shutters on all the windows, all the doors, and -- if it's a major hurricane -- all the toilets. There are several types of shutters, with advantages and disadvantages.

Plywood shutters: The advantage is that, because you make them yourself, they're cheap. The disadvantage is that, because you make them yourself, they will fall off.

Sheet-metal shutters: The advantage is that these work well, once you get them all up. The disadvantage is that once you get them all up, your hands will be useless bleeding stumps, and it will be December.

Roll-down shutters: The advantages are that they're very easy to use, and will definitely protect your house. The disadvantage is that you will have to sell your house to pay for them.

"Hurricane-proof'' windows: These are the newest wrinkle in hurricane protection: They look like ordinary windows, but they can withstand hurricane winds! You can be sure of this, because the salesman says so.
He lives in Nebraska.

"Hurricane Proofing Your Property: As the hurricane approaches, check your yard for movable objects like barbecue grills, planters, patio furniture, visiting relatives, etc. You should, as a precaution, throw these items into your swimming pool (if you don't have a swimming pool, you should have one built immediately). Otherwise, the hurricane winds will turn these objects into deadly missiles.

EVACUATION ROUTE: If you live in a low-lying area, you should have an evacuation route planned out. (To determine whether you live in a low-lying area, look at your driver's license; if it says "Galveston, New Orleans, Houston, or any other location close to the coast, you live in a low-lying area.) The purpose of having an evacuation route is to avoid being trapped in your home when a major storm hits. Instead, you will be trapped in a gigantic traffic jam several miles from your home, along with two hundred thousand other evacuees. So, as a bonus, you will not be lonely.

HURRICANE SUPPLIES: If you don't evacuate, you will need a mess of supplies. Do not buy them now! Hurricane tradition requires that you wait until the last possible minute, then go to the supermarket and get into vicious fights with strangers over who gets the last can of SPAM.

In addition to food and water, you will need the following supplies:

23 flashlights. At least $167 worth of batteries that turn out, when the power goes off, to be the wrong size for the flashlights.

Bleach. (No, I don't know what the bleach is for. NOBODY knows what the bleach is for. But it's traditional, so GET some!)

A 55-gallon drum of underarm deodorant.

A big knife that you can strap to your leg. (This will be useless in a hurricane, but it looks cool.)

A large quantity of raw chicken, to placate the alligators. (Ask anybody who went through Hurricane Andrew in Florida; after the hurricane, there WILL be irate alligators.)

$35,000 in cash or diamonds so that, after the hurricane passes, you can buy a generator from a man with no discernible teeth.

Of course these are just basic precautions. As the hurricane draws near, it is vitally important that you keep abreast of the situation by turning on your television and watching TV reporters in rain slickers standing right next to the ocean and tell you over and over how vitally important it is for everybody to stay away from the ocean.

Good luck and remember: it's great living in paradise! Those of you who aren't here yet you should come. Really!

"Daimler Chrysler"

Sounds like a curse, doesn't it? Yeah, well, it is starting to feel like one to me these days. Especially after this last week of automotive trouble.

It all began when we decided to get the A/C fixed in our 2000 Dodge Caravan. We took it to our regular mechanic here in Alvin last Friday. I have Fridays off, so I took my wife to her job.

I knew what the problem was, basically. There was a hose with at hole in it the size of the Khyber Pass. Turns out the hose is about $200 alone. Then you have to get a contortionist to put it on. And the dryer had to be replaced because of “contamination”, probably because there was a squirrel or cat caught in there.

OK, so they replace THAT on Friday, to the tune of about $500. Before I came to pick it up, I got a call, and the unlucky Steve said that there was a leak in the OTHER hose now. “Daimler”! But we could take it home for the weekend and bring it back on Monday.

They called Monday with semi-good news; the other hose wasn’t leaking, there was a slight problem with an “o” ring on the new one. Fixed no problem. Saved us another $450 or so. But later they discovered that the driver’s side wasn’t blowing cool air. The mechanic traced the problem to an expansion valve. So they order the part. It won’t be in till Tuesday. OK, I can take Kelly to work for another day.

The part didn’t come in till late on Tuesday, and it turns out it was the wrong one. Wednesday we’ll get another one. “Daimler!”, we carpool AGAIN! In the mean time, the shop had decided to go with the Mopar dealer, but without charging us the difference. Even THEY were feeling bad about our situation. Surely the all-knowing dealer would be able to provide the correct part. Not so.

Wednesday, I called (which was call #23) and when they told me that news, I told them that I needed the van back anyhow. The air couldn’t be blowing any hotter than my wife, who had been stranded at work for 4 days already. They said a new part was coming from Dodge and it was surely likely that it was correct. Almost definitely.

Thursday I drove the “room temperature” van to work and my wife took my mostly air conditioned car to her job. Some time after noon, Steve called and told me that the new part came in and it was suspiciously similar to the original part that came off the van. Which isn’t a resounding “Perfect!”, but in light of the other three parts, none of which bore even a passing similarity to the original part, even a slight familial resemblance was a step in the right direction. I told him that I would bring it in on Friday and they could do the work.

I just now got the call that the A/C service is complete and that all we lack is the state inspection that is needed by the end of the month.

I will likely never view another Dodge commercial without launching into a tirade about this incident. The burden of being a Geezer.

UPDATE
So the state inspection didn't get done on Friday, as planned. It seems they started the engine without a particular vacuum hose connected, and the computer picked that up and tossed a "Check Engine" code on them. They reconnected the offending hose, but couldn't get the computer to clear the code, and that code precludes an emissions test.

So I bring it back on this next Friday.

gOSh!

I'm at the Apple Store in Baybrook Mall right now. My youngest daughter is here, too. This very post was created just now on the biggest, baddest, fire-breathingest Mac Pro in the room. The monitor is one of those gigantic 30 inch jobs that makes you think you're looking out of the windshield of a giant Kenworth truck.

I am like a blind dog in a meathouse, and I don't know what to look at next. I want to cry. I want a lot of money. I want to walk out of here with this right now.

So, do you think they'd notice? Everybody seems to be kinda preoccupied now...

New Species

Not known for frequenting berry patches, this specimen was found in a staff meeting. As you can tell by the ratio of notes to drawn strokes, it was a very productive meeting...for me. Click the image for a closer look. I am accepting Latin taxonomy suggestions in the comments.


**Addendum**
If any of you can come up with specifications on this beast, please suggest. Size, habitat, diet, level of education; put it in the comments.

Thanx...

...and you're not off the hook, none of you!

I want to take this opportunity to thank the readers and contributors to the geezer knowledge base. Old Time Simple Pleasures.

But if you think of other examples, please feel free to submit them as well. Who knows, if I publish the compendium, it could end up being required reading for junior high school kids! Or at the very least, hospitals could give them in gift bags to new parents..."Trust us, you'll need this one day...".

Keep reading, writing and remembering. Thanks so much.

Spider Bite

This essay perhaps isn’t what you think it is about. Truth is, I MAY have eaten a spider. Please, dear reader, don’t be too alarmed. And don’t fret for my well-being. This was a little over a week ago, so I have passed the 7 day incubation period for turning into Spiderman.

It happened while picking blackberries at the Soderberg Farm and Chicken Resort. It happened in the midst of liberating the great, near-bursting Brazos Blackberries from amongst the thorns and tangle where they were imprisoned. Had they remained there, they would surely have been pecked by mockingbirds, stung by stinkbugs or webbed up by spiders. I know that there are spiders that frequent the berry vines because of the housing projects that they build.

I was pulling berries in a focused frenzy when one berry in particular appeared to be too close to self-juicing, so I reflexively popped it in my greedy mouth. On it’s way to my gaping maw, I subconsciously noticed a gossamer thread leading from the back side of the berry to somewhere deep within the thicket of tangled thorns and twisted canes. It was too late to stop, even with the alert bells clanging; the inevitable outcome came to culmination. The threshold of teeth was crossed, and even as my right hand tried to catch the spider web that trailed from my mouth, I bit the juicy berry and flooded my mouth with the sweet nectar.

There was another sensation, however, that I noticed in my mouth. I thought that perhaps it could be the suggestion that the spider web was in there trying to rescue the berry. But this had the feeling of being bigger than a single strand of silk. Maybe it was a small wad of it. It was possible, however, that it was the original source of the silk, because it was sticking to the back of my throat. I swallowed the berry, and then made the sound of one trying to dislodge a fish bone from the throat. That didn’t work. I repeated the sound, and that’s when the mental picture came to me.

I imagined a small arachnid clinging to my tonsil, too afraid of the teeth and tongue to even bite. This picture caused me to repeat the “dislodge sequence” followed by a couple of purple expectorations. To no avail.

I decided not to panic, and took a common sense remedy that I felt sure that any old timer would suggest; I ate three or four more berries. Eventually, this tactic must have had the desired effect, because after the last one, I no longer detected any passengers, real, imagined or webbed.

This past Sunday when I picked more of the sweet treasures, I took a second or two longer to give at least a cursory review of the exterior of the berries I ate.

I take solace in the fact that at least the spider wasn’t living in my ear.

When We Were Kids

There was no Nintendo, Internet, iPods, cell phones or any of the myriad other devices that kids need to be entertained these days.

I climbed trees, read books (yes Martha, encyclopedias and dictionaries included) played in the dirt, talked to the dog, looked at clouds and countless other activities that were just as non-productive as our children's tricks. The main difference being that my activities cost nothing and used no electricity or expensive batteries.

I was talking with someone on the way up the stairs to the office today about how we occupied our idle hours. I told him of the sport of slug salting that I engaged in during those damp, early mornings of yesteryear.

His story was from West Texas. He related that they used to pour coal oil down a spider hole, and when the resident tarantula jumped out, they used to try to hit the spider in question with a tennis racket.

If you have simple yet entertaining methods of wasting time that your memory releases to you, please comment and relay them. The creativity of your youth must be chronicled. And where better to do that?

Tool Primer

I wish I were clever enough to come up with stuff this funny on my own. Alas, I am not. However, I am smart enough to be able to post it here. A smart alecky friend emailed it to me, so now you get to see it, too. This is really funny.

Tools and Their Uses

1. DRILL PRESS: A tall upright machine useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock out of your hands so that it smacks you in the chest and flings your favorite chilled beverage across the room, splattering it against that freshly painted part you were drying.

2. WIRE WHEEL: Cleans paint off bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench with the speed of light. Also removes fingerprint whorls and hard-earned guitar calluses in about the time it takes you to say, "D'Oh!!!"

3. ELECTRIC HAND DRILL: Normally used for spinning pop rivets in their holes until you die of old age.

4 . PLIERS: Used to round off hexagonal bolt heads.

5. HACKSAW: One of a family of cutting tools built on the Ouija board principle: It transforms human energy into a crooked, unpredictable motion, and the more you attempt to influence its course, the more dismal your future becomes.

6. VISE GRIP PLIERS: Used to round off bolt heads. If nothing else is available, they can also be used to transfer intense welding heat to the palm of your hand.

7. OXYACETYLENE TORCH: Used almost entirely for setting various flammable objects in your shop on fire. Also handy for igniting the grease inside a wheel hub from which you are trying to remove the bearing race.

8. WHITWORTH SOCKETS: Once used for working on older British cars and motorcycles, they are now used mainly for impersonating that 9/16 or 1/2" socket you've been searching for, for the last 15 minutes.

9. HYDRAULIC FLOOR JACK: Used for lowering an automobile to the ground after you have installed your new disk brake pads, trapping the jack handle firmly under the bumper.

10. EIGHT-FOOT LONG DOUGLAS FIR 4X4: Used to attempt to lever an automobile upward off a hydraulic jack handle.

11. TWEEZERS: A tool for removing splinters of wood, especially Douglas fir.

12. TELEPHONE: Tool for calling your neighbor to see if he has another hydraulic floor jack.

13. SNAP-ON GASKET SCRAPER: Theoretically, useful as a sandwich tool for spreading mayonnaise; used mainly for removing dog feces from your boots.

14. E-Z OUT BOLT AND STUD EXTRACTOR: A tool that snaps off in bolt holes and is ten times harder than any known drill bit.

15. TWO-TON HYDRAULIC ENGINE HOIST: A handy tool for testing the tensile strength of bolts and fuel lines you forgot to disconnect.

16. CRAFTSMAN 1/2 x 16-INCH SCREWDRIVER: A large motor mount prying tool that inexplicably has an accurately machined screwdriver tip on the end without the handle.

17. AVIATION METAL SNIPS: See hacksaw.

18. TROUBLE LIGHT: The home mechanic's own tanning booth. Sometimes called a droplight, it is a good source of vitamin D, "the sunshine vitamin," which is not otherwise found under cars at night. Health benefits aside, its main purpose is to consume 40-watt light bulbs at about the same rate that 105-mm howitzer shells might be used during, say, the first few hours of the Battle of the Bulge. More often dark than light, its name is somewhat misleading.

19. PHILLIPS SCREWDRIVER: Normally used to stab the lids of old-style paper-and-tin oil cans and squirt oil on your shirt; can also be used, as the name implies, to round off the interiors of Phillips screw heads.

20. AIR COMPRESSOR: A machine that takes energy produced in a coal-burning power plant 200 miles away and transforms it into compressed air that travels by hose to a Pneumatic impact wrench that grips rusty bolts last tightened 70 years ago by someone at GM, and rounds them off or twists them off.

21. PRY BAR: A tool used to crumple the metal surrounding that clip or bracket you needed to remove in order to replace a 50 cent part.

22. HOSE CUTTER: A tool used to cut hoses exactly one inch too short.

23. HAMMER: Originally employed as a weapon of war, the hammer nowadays is used as a kind of divining rod to locate expensive parts not far from the object we are trying to hit.

23. MECHANIC'S KNIFE: Used to open and slice through the contents of cardboard cartons delivered to your front door; works particularly well on boxes containing upholstered items, chrome-plated metal, plastic parts and the other hand not holding the knife.

So there you have it; a complete description of the tools all men need, and occasionally use correctly.

Turtle in the Road

Yesterday driving home from work, I spied a large (bigger than a serving platter) soft-shell turtle trying to cross Highway 35 just North of Alvin. He was (I assume it was a "he" since a "she" would've asked someone for advice on an easier, less dangerous way to get from one place to another) in the middle of the right Northbound lane at the moment I saw him. There was a red Cavalier bearing down on him, closing at around 50 mph. I looked at the driver and the nose of the car dipped slightly as she braked and made a small course correction; she straddled the old fella as he yanked his head back in to avoid the inside of a tire.

When he emerged from the back of the car, I looked down the road and I saw about 15 vehicles of varying sizes, shapes and tire counts. I wondered if he would survive the new onslaught, knowing that some of the close-followers wouldn't have time to swerve to miss the great slick beast.

At that second, I empathized with that turtle; things happen fast, and sometimes they keep happening. Without much of a break in sight. And you, the turtle in the road, don't have much to say about most of it. Except maybe, "Oh DANG...". If you're lucky, you can finish your phrase.

When I made the return trip this morning, I looked for evidence of the old guy, secretly hoping not so see a large greasy spot in my lane. Not usually one to have much sympathy for soft-shelled turltes, I was pulling for him.

I am glad to say that the roads were clear this morning, save for that skunk near Friendswood. Despite the unwise decision that the big guy made in trying to cross a busy highway at the worst time of day, he made it to the new retention pond in the new subdivision they're building. Someday, a kid will tell of a giant turtle that ate his puppy at the side of that pond.

I really don't like soft-shelled turtles.

Your Best Shot

Is cortisone. Especially if you have a bad shoulder. Yeah, it comes in a needle six inches long, and requires two others to accompany it, but it's already worth it.

I got my bad shoulder ("bad shoulder, bad, bad shoulder...") injected first thing this morning. Well not FIRST thing, I signed in and wrote the check for the co-pay (hurt worse than the injection), THEN got the injections.

The big needle, full of cortisone and some kind of pain management juice, was the most uncomfortable; it went really deep (I didn't actually SEE it, he snuck in behind me) but I felt the injection site at my left shoulder and felt the "deep pressure" (Dr. Holt's words) all the way down to my right knee...

They said that it could be irritating for 36 hours or so, but I reassured them that I could be irritating for a lot longer than that. Try 47 years.

I am sentenced to six weeks of physical therapy three times a week. I can take the physical discomfort; I know that my shoulder will feel better soon. The co-pain is what this geezer will cringe at the most. Rumor has it that the PT sessions are $40 each, and at three times a week for six weeks, that adds up to some serious fishing equipment. Almost to the software level.

But if all of this brings my shoulder back into my good graces, it may be worth it.

Blues

We have blue dust bunnies in the bathroom. Not that dust bunnies in our bathroom are unusual, just that they are blue.

Last week we were in Sam’s Club, and we made the mistake of walking around with our eyes open. With the outsized basket leading the way, we went down every aisle and weighed whether we had the room/need/cash for any of it. I think most of what they sell is impulse buying of the highest order. Most likely, the giant quantities of food get wasted.

We found ourselves on the linen aisle, and there were two huge cardboard bins of towels with “8 for $15” or some ridiculously low price. We have been slowly losing towels for a while, the inevitable rips and tears, bleach holes, glass break/spill mishaps and ‘we left it outside for the kitties”. It seems we had to wash towels every day just to keep up with the demands of showers and hair washing.

With a deal like that staring at us, all we had to do was choose blue or white. White was not an option for us; we just aren’t a “white towel” family. The blue was the instant choice. We bought two bundles. Of course, we picked up some washcloths, too. Blue as well.

Now, in the shower as I am drying off, I start to see little tufts of blue against my white skin. And when I get out of the shower to dry and dress, I squint down into the tub and see it speckled with blue lint. I wash it out the best I can in my semi-blind state, but I know they are still there. As the drying process persists, I am sure the linting phenomenon does as well.

When we wash a load of the new towels, the dryer lint trap is a thick blue blanket that comes off all at once. I am tempted to make a pillow or a comforter out of it. I just don’t know how long it will last. The towels seem to be of good quality, but I wonder if I should save the lint to make new towels out of when they dwindle to nothing.

I bet I could find instructions on how to do that on the internet.

Where O Where is the Fusion?

I got to work this morning and spied my reflection in a mirror. My neck looks like a bull's at the hands of a matador. There was blood everywhere. The carnage made me madder than anything, why does the Fusion cost so much? I longed for the phalanx of blades in the smooth patrol over my face and neck.

So much for that. I'll bleed my blood rather than bleeding money.
I'm over it.

...But they have one with a motor in it, I wonder what THAT's like...

Growth Pie Study: UPDATE

IT is with a heavy waist that I announce the results of the Flying Saucer Pie Growth Chemical Study; Chocolate, Lemon and Key Lime...

Key lime most likely had more of the chemicals in there, since I ate most of it myself and nobody else grew any larger. The suit still fits pretty much the same, but one more study and I may need to go back to the tailor. Chocolate was good, but not as good as my mother-in-law's; Lemon was good, but not as good as my mom's; Key lime just made me want to focus solely on that variety. I could taste the sweetened condensed milk (Dime brand, right?) along with the lime. The consistency was smooth and sweet, the hint of lime tanginess coupled with, uh, DANG, I need some more of it...

No, I'll be strong. I'm already big...

Growth Chemicals

Well, I bought a new suit last Friday. I had to get the trousers altered because they were, like size 46 or something and unhemmed, of course. So the tailor had to put cuffs at the bottom and take them up quite a bit in the waist and seat. QUITE a bit! I picked them up this afternoon and tried them on. Well, the pants were a little loose, which I'm sure is the standard procedure for suit pants. You don't want to be struggling with a tight waistband when you're supposed to be looking beautiful, right?

My wife bought three pies from her sister's son as a fundraiser. Flying Saucer Pies from Flying Saucer Pie Company in Houston. Chocolate, lemon and key lime. I have been studying them quite carefully, and have concluded that the ingredients include a substance that promotes growth in humans. I think it's gradual, but the amount of study that I am conducting (two down, one to go), may show that the rate accelerates randomly.

And theoretically that may take care of the suit pants being a little too loose.

Stay tuned.

Happy Easter

As we all know, the celebration of Easter is a mélange of Christian and pagan celebrations. One is the commemoration of the ministry, death and resurrection of the Messiah, the Savior of the world, Jesus; and the other is an observance of the vernal equinox, the coming of spring and the new life offered thereby.

So you have the Easter bunny, decorated eggs and the Risen Savior, all at one time. In East Texas, however, there is a fete involving not the Easter bunny, but the Easter Possum.

While considered a nuisance and an ugly, prehistoric, giant rat-like creature, the opossum is a gentle marsupial with no malice for anyone. Actually, they have a taste for snails and slugs and snakes, the three favorite creatures to hate.

In the Eastern part of Texas, the locals revere the possum as a food source and the harbinger of spring. This time of year, the woods are rife with possum. You can’t drive down a country road at night without risking a close encounter. And at Easter time, you need to watch out, because the possum you swerve to miss may be the celebrated Easter Possum. This messenger of the season is decked out in a gray fur coat and the special set of 42 teeth. In the marsupial pouch, she carries eggs, candy and baby possum, the symbol for summer barbeques. Typically, the children leave nests of clover, pine needles and snails for the Easter Possum to enjoy on her nightly rounds. There is also a small plug of chewing tobacco for luck guarding the Easter Possum against locals with a .410.

Sometimes pickings get slim in East Texas, especially in the counties where the logging industry has sagged, and although it’s not recommended or encouraged, it is perfectly acceptable to revere the Easter Possum next to potatoes and poke salad.

It's Been a Week...

...and i've got nothing. Sorry for both of you regular readers. i just don't have time. i had a couple of good ideas; my sister reminded me of something, but i didn't have time to write/type it down and now it's gone. i shut my eyes for a minute and someone came and snatched the thoughts from me.

Dave Barry is really funny

Dave Barry is a really funny guy. A clever and smart-alecky writer who is one of the inspirations for me and the semi-smart-alecky blog you are reading. Or are pretending to read. And not commenting on. Apparently. Which I wish would stop. Not the "reading" part, the "not commenting" part.

I have had a couple of conversations today, oddly enough, concerning words and their proper and popular uses. Sometimes not the same thing. I have spoken/written of this before.

Read Dave Barry's column about "Mr. Language Person". You'll laugh, you'll cry, it's better than Cats.

...Now Internationally Recognized!

I can only say this because a Swedish friend in London took a night-shift job and has done some catching up on the GeezerChron in between studying and working.

SO, in addition to the four people who read this in Brazoria, Galveston and Harris counties, there is a Swede in London who pretends to enjoy my rants.

Thanks Mikael, you made me an international author. Sort of.

I win!

Slow Ride in Tyler Texas

Whenever you hear a song from your past, the memories flood back in an instant. You may be transported back immediately to the beach, or in the student center of the high school or the parking lot of the Weingarten’s grocery store. It may be an idyllic vacation spot in the Hill Country, or some East Texas lake. Almost any Chicago song takes me back to a certain ’64 Ford Falcon in Texas City.

But the song “Slow Ride” by Foghat whisks me away to Tyler Texas on a rainy weekend thirty-something years ago. An odd journey, you might say, but the story is tattooed on my brain. And the brains of three others in the geezer demographic.

Our families were always together, at church, after church and many times in between. The Dickson and the Soderberg adults got along famously, completely compatible in every sense. The kids always had a great time together, too. I think WE had more fun than the parents, but that’s just from our perspective. We played 8-track tapes and laughed a lot.

This particular time, we had all made a pilgrimage to the East Texas town of Van, the old homestead of our friends’. The town was so small, there was no lodging any closer than the pulsating metropolis of Tyler. There were numerous stop lights and even a motel, where we stayed Friday and Saturday nights. We roamed around the back roads of Van on Saturday, everybody piled into our truck (an early SUV; camper shell decked out with long bench seats and a vinyl “boot” connecting the cab and the camper) looking out the windows while stories about long ago ran around the space, with everyone laughing and imagining the old days.

My Dad and Mr. Dickson went and tromped around in the rain on some stickerburr-infested property that was owned by Mrs. Dickson’s family. Everybody else sat in the truck and waited for them.

So where does “Slow Ride” come in?

On Sunday morning, the day we were to leave, we were having breakfast in the diner associated with the motel. As usual, the adults were in one booth, and us kids were at another. The place was quiet at 7 a.m. on that morning, with older couples eating their waffles and eggs along with cups of coffee, their spoons quietly tinkling in the thick ceramic cups. Mostly rural types; farmers and retired oil field workers, ready for a quiet life in a quiet town.

That was all about to change, because we had decided that it was a little TOO quiet. Donna, being the youngest, was instantly and wordlessly chosen to take the magic quarter and feed it to the jukebox we spied up by the kitchen door. I don’t recall much convincing going on, so she innocently strolled up to the jukebox, coin in hand. We also didn’t make any specific requests for a particular song or kind of song, as far as I can remember. Just that the stirring of coffee and soft murmurs in the background perhaps needed a soundtrack.

We watched as she made her way to the jukebox, perused the offerings and made her choice. She spun on her heel and quickly retreated back to our booth by the window, but not before the strains blasted out of the speakers...NAA NUHNT- DA NAA NUNT- DA NAA NUHNT-- NER NEER NAAR - NA NUHNT-DA NAA NUHNT ...ReeeeReeeREEEEEee “SLOW RIDE...TAKE IT EASY...”

It sounded like they had been holding a dance the night before because the decibel level was absolutely off the chart! As Donna flinched and slunk down the aisle to our booth, leading EVERY EYE IN THE DINER right to the small group of stunned and laughing teenagers, the coffee cups rattled on their saucers as forks and knives were dropped next to the fried eggs. As the gravy congealed in the cold stares lowered at us, the manager exploded out of the kitchen scowling at us, and without looking, yanked the jukebox’s power cord out of the wall. He never took his eyes off of us.

I am wondering if the reaction would have been so swift and severe if the choice had been Willie Nelson warbling “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain”. Most likely not, though we can never actually know. I do know that I will likely never venture into Tyler again. Even with the radio off.



*UPDATE*
My lone commentor, so far, has corrected the date of the aforementioned Ford Falcon's model year. I said '64, the former owner says '66. Believe him about that. Believe ME about EVERYTHING ELSE!
Thanx, Falcon!

The Great Race

At our house, we don’t seem to get a lot of special snacks. Only rarely do we buy Cokes (mostly Dr Pepper, Sprite and root beer). Any time we get cherry pies, a special box of cookies or any other sort of extravagance, the chances for survival of the treat immediately plummet.

I made the comment once that my girls consume the orange, apple or grape juice at a rate that would suggest that there is a contest going on in which the object is to eat/drink or otherwise consume the delicacy in a crude and barbaric manner. Heck, I don’t even know how they TASTE the food, much less how they slam it down their throats so quickly! They pour giant tumblers of milk and orange juice, and root beer and Dr Pepper; they heap bowls full of ice cream and pudding and whatever else happens to land on the counter next to the refrigerator. Ice cream seldom even gets a chance to go soft around here.

One evening during the feeding frenzy associated with a jug of white grape peach juice or some other delight, my wife and I were relaxing, watching the news or King of the Hill, you know, something informative. The middle girl dashed through the living room into the kitchen, and in one swift move, grabbed a glass and the last of the juice, and poured the rest of it for herself. She then exclaimed, with glee, “I WIN!”

When we asked what she was talking about, she reminded us of my pronouncement that they acted like the consumption of juice was a contest. She had won, she’d gotten the final drop.

This remains a staple now, whenever someone plays the finale for the milk, juice, pie, ice cream, etc., they exclaim “I WIN!” At least here, I can have the last word.

I win.

What Color is Your Toothbrush?

When you get a call at work like this, you know you just need to buy another one on the way home...

...to be continued...

Ink Buying

So we were out of printer ink. The cheap printer is an ink hog. The black goes out quicker than…than a very quick thing.

My middle daughter calls me while I’m teaching my night class, “Daddy, did you get printer ink today? I need to print out my speech tonight.”

“Oh, yeah, (dang, shoot!) I’ll call Fry’s to see if they have any…”

While my students are finishing up their projects in the lab, I look the store up on the internet, and then I phone them to check if they have the necessary supplies. I am suspicious because in the past, it seems that they had truckloads of all the other ink cartridges, but MY model was completely out.

Not wanting a repeat, and being near desperate, I held while the boy looked up and down the ink aisle, searching for my cartridge. What is the picture on the front, what number was that, have you seen it here before…

My frustration was beginning to mount when he said “Here it its…T013, black!”

“Great,” I said, “how many do you have?”

“Oh, we have a lot of them.”

“How many is a lot, because I can feel it, there’s going to be a run on them just before I get there…what’s your name?”

“….uh, Jonathan…?”

“Well Jonathan, don’t let anybody buy them that’s not me…” I said. My students were listening to me. The ones that were left, since there were about 12 minutes left in the class time. “you’ll know me when I get there; I’m 6 foot 3, 245 pounds with a crooked nose. You WILL have one for me when I get there, won’t you Jonathan?”

“Y-y-es, uh how many do you want…we have a lot…”

“I just need one, but can you promise me there will be at least one when I get there, Jonathan?”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“OK, I’ll see you in about 20 minutes.”

When I got to Fry‘s Electronics, I asked to see Jonathan to thank him. They said they didn’t know who I was talking about.

Back on the Grid

You can once again get me on my cell. I was under the radar, off the grid, incommunicado.

At first, when my cell phone broke last Wednesday, I felt a little panic. That gave way to relief. A sense of freedom that I hadn't felt in quite a while. Imagine, after having an electronic leash for over a year, then suddenly the cord is cut and you can run free all over the yard!

I could go to Walmart by myself and not get called to pick up something extra. Wait, I could also go to Walmart and be totally isolated and cut off from the Mother Ship, and when I was looking at two nearly identical items, I'd have to make a choice on my own. Which isn't the end of the world...unless I get home with the wrong one.

So I got my new phone yesterday, and went home and played with it. It has nice big numbers for fat fingers, a big, bright LCD screen for a geezer to easily see. It also has a camera. Not that a camera on a phone is a "must have" for me, but I can play a little and customize my screen.

So call me, but only after 9 p.m., on the weekend or if you have Cingular. I don't want to pay for small talk.

Remember, first and foremost, I AM a geezer.

Eulogy for a Razor

Today, after the eighth day of service, I retired my uber razor, the Fusion. After a slow, smooth shave, numerous rinsings and final "shake dry", I laid the razor to rest. Never more will the inordinate number of blades glide across the skin of my face, nipping tiny hairs as it traverses the path to good grooming.

I'm thinking that I may encase this, my favorite razor, in glass as it lays in state on our bathroom counter. Like Lenin and Mao, mummified in vacuum pack for the world to trek by and view on a pilgrimage.

One day, when the normal number of blades exceeds the number of fingers on a hand, a grandson will turn to his grandfather as they pass my shrine to the Fusion and ask, "Gramps, did people really used to shave with only two blades per razor? Did it take them, like, all day?"

On second thought, I'll likely toss the dangerous part and keep the handle in a drawer until the price of a six-bladed razor refill drops to the price of a barrel of crude oil.

Goodbye, fair Fusion. It was nice while it lasted.

GeezerChronicles: Razor Update

GeezerChronicles: Uber-Razor, Day 7

GeezerChronicles: Battle of the Blades

GeezerChronicles: Battle of the Blades

Uber-Razor, Day 7

Yesterday was a little hasty, in retrospect. I must have hurried or pressed too hard to get cut, because today was not as bad. There is but one small spot of my lifeblood on my neck.

I took it easy today, and the shave was smoother. But after talking to Mr.V, (he got a Fusion in the mail, too) we concluded that the phenomenal number of blades necessitated a constant "rinse" action that was heretofore unprecedented in the annals of shaving. He noted that the act of plowing through all that lather only clogged it up, calling for the need for the seemingly obsessive/compulsive act.

But, I fear, the end is near. Any nick, slight as it is, indicates that the razor is beginning the inevitable breakdown. Second Law of Thermodynamics. Entropy. The Razor Blade Corollary; no matter how much you like a particular blade (or blades), when used, it (they) will dull, and eventually cut your face to ribbons.

More tomorrow.

Razor Update

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday were perhaps the best shaving days I have experienced in my long and checkered shaving career. I thought that the free, overpriced uber-razor would be so much fluff. Big package, lots of blades, marketing push that rivals Microsoft.

But I absolutely love this razor. The difference between this weapon and the cheap dual-bladers I normally buy is comparable to the Toyota Corolla and the Lexus-whatever-top-of-the-line model. The normal Gillette twin blades are functional and inexpensive. They cut the hairs that grow out of my face. The Fusion King-of-all-razors cuts the hairs, too. But in such a smooth, even, non-nicking way that I dread the day when it no longer performs the function to the high standards that were exhibited on the first couple of days.

Like this morning, for example. I have two small spots of blood on either side of my neck, shouting to me that the Fusion honeymoon is all but over. The slight razor burn rash on the right side of my neck is further evidence that we shall soon part ways.

Not that I don't think it's the best thing since bacon, but there is only so long you can shave with a free five blade razor. Oh, six blades (remember the superfluous blade for those "tricky places"). But at $25 for an eight-pack of refills, I think the five dollar ten-pack of blue disposable twins will suffice. Even though there are a total of 48 actual blades in the Fusion pack, there are 50 actual blades in the pack of blues.

And in a geezer's book, 50 divided by five dollars beats the heck out of 48 divided by 25 dollars any day. Who said I wasn't good at math?

Happy Birthday, Martha

It’s my sister’s birthday today, February 22. And her name is not Martha. That’s the name that Uncle Curtis called her when she was young. George Washington’s birthday; February 22; can’t call a girl George; Martha was George’s wife’s name…MARTHA.

Growing up, her role was the “Picker” and mine was that of the “Whiner”. She was so good at finding a nerve that she should have been a neurologist. She gave me a karate chop across the nose which elicted the now classic response “YOU COULDA KILLED ME!”, and it was her that picked up on the "I can see the truck from here" phrase, immortalized in our family.

As we grew, she also found the treasures where I failed to see them. After college, I would be in my room drawing, flinging unsuitable sketches to the garbage. She rescued several of them, picked nice frames for them, and hung them in her house. On seeing the picture framed and hung, I was amazed at how little it looked like a reject and how closely it resembled real art. She has framed a number of my pieces and they look pretty good.

Her eye is artistic and she has the potential to create some really nice watercolors, and I hope this is the year she slows down to pursue that pursuit. She recently refinished her original wood floors, so she's mighty handy, too.

My sister has always been a tireless supporter of mine, and she has supported me even when she did have tires. I appreciate that so much.

Happy birthday, Martha!

Battle of the Blades

I got a razor in the mail from the good people at Gillette yesterday. It’s one of those razors with more blades than a ninja movie. Five blades in one row and another on the back for “those tricky places” (their words), whatever that means. I think they are referring to the tight spots next to your beard or moustache or sideburns or eyebrows or ear hairs.

This morning, the magnificent Fusion Razor made its maiden voyage across my face. At first I was torn between fear of the stack of razor sharp steel I was about to drag around on my skin, and disbelief at any benefit the extra three blades could possibly afford in the simple job of cutting tiny hairs.

Intrepidly, I crashed on, lathered up and grasped the new gadget. The first few swipes were smooth and uneventful, careful as I was not to slice my throat or jawline. I noticed that it was indeed very smooth, and the built-in suspension system (thus the $12.00 price tag) kept me from pushing too hard. That prevents razor burn, which is always a plus. As I continued to shave I noticed that I nearly enjoyed the act. I was ever aware, however, that the sheer number of blades, should they decide to rebel, would make for a very dramatic morning, indeed.

My review of the New Multi-Bladed wonder called the Gillette Fusion Razor is favorable indeed. While I still had to go over my face two or three times, the shave was smooth and uneventful, thank God! The last thing you want at 0645 is an eventful shave.

But it’s nearly noon and I suspect that I’ll have to repeat the procedure tomorrow, same time, same place. For the price of the razor and refill blades (8 blades, $25+!) I feel one should have to shave no more than twice a week.

But that’s just one uninformed goober’s opinion.

SAINT Valentine's Day?

SAINT Valentine’s Day?
I don’t know why the Valentine’s day mania has gotten
so out of hand, but it is clear that there are a bunch
of sick people out there.

It all started Monday, when I took my eleven-year-old
to Wally World to catch the latest Valentine fashions.
She had to pick up something for her friend down the
street and then a couple of boxes for the yahoos in
her class. Thirty-two kids in the class, seems like
rather a lot of kids for one class to me, but
whatever. That meant that there were two boxes of
valentines to cover every last one of them. She
informed me that her sixteen-year-old sister needed a
package of kid valentines, too. I didn’t ask.

So we found the inexpensive stuffed animal without
“love” connotations, grabbed a little wire basket,
some candy and the obligatory tissue paper to line the
basket with.

“Do we need any candy?”, I asked her.

“No, we’re not passing out candy this year...”

Wonderful, we’re nearly done. While on the card aisle,
she couldn’t decide on which box of valentines to get
for her sister.

“Get ‘em both”, I wheezed, “and let’s go”.

So she threw them both in the basket and we sprinted
to the checkout. And we escaped without any major
injuries and the only damage was a bill of $27. Not
bad. I guess. For Valentines. Thinking I was all done
with hooligan duty, I thought it a small price to pay.

Tuesday night while teaching my class, I was interrupted
by the clucking of my cell phone. Knowing that my family usually only
disrupts my class in a dire or near-dire situation that
requires my immediate intervention/knowledge, I
tentatively answered the phone, only to find out that
I was required to stop by the store on the way home to
retrieve a couple of bags of suckers.

On the way home, I stopped into a different (but
exactly the same) gigantic discount warehouse store to
pick up the requested items. I headed back to the
special revolving holiday section where all the
chocolate and stuffed animal treasures reside.

As I hurriedly peered down the aisles to try to find
those suckers, I marveled at the utter chaos that was
evident in those canyons of desperation. As the
vacant-eyed souls clawed through the picked over items
that were originally intended to bring joy to lucky
lovers, I realized that at 9:45 p.m. on the night
before the single biggest forced holiday on the planet
that nobody really wanted to be there. If they had
wanted to be there, they would have been there the day
before. Right? They were there because they had either
forgotten someone or were guilted into getting a gift.

On not finding any suckers in the melee, I passed a
bewildered-looking employee who stood staring at the sad
collection of stuffed bears who were in turn staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes, cute monkeys with footprints on their faces, and broken-stemmed chocolate roses. I commented that the place looked
absolutely molested. He smiled sadly and knowingly.
While I had his attention, I inquired if there were
any packages of suckers anywhere to be found in the
entire hangar. He indicated that the grocery end of
the cavern may hold some.

Well, he was right, and not a moment too soon. The Dum Dum pops were broken into, and the Snoopy Suckers only contained 12 pieces. That was when I spied the Garfield Fruit Pops, 30 to a bag, for $1.26 per.

So, with all the tearing and stomping and clawing and eye-rolling going on, who was this "Saint Valentine", and what was he REALLY known for?

It's A CURSE I Tell Ya!

I had no reason to be “up” or “on” this morning. Dreary, rainy weather, I had a hard time getting out of the house on time, there’s a sick kid at home, traffic turned out horrible (what is usually a 5 minute leg of my commute turned out to be a 20 minute “sit-in” due to a blinking red light).

So when I rolled in to the office at 8:04, there was no indication of the golden moment that would ensue in mere seconds.

Our office manager told me that she left some cat food on my desk, knowing there are a couple of cats at our house. She added, “I have an electric cat feeder if you want it…”

My immediate reply: “I don’t have an electric cat...” drew a scream of approval from the other administrative assistant. One of our clever wordsmiths was coming up the aisle between the cubicles was seen laughing and shaking his head. The victim knew immediately what had happened. Fortunately, she embraced her role as “straight man” and enjoyed the coup along with everyone else.

I am just so glad to have been there to be able to use that corny old smart alecky line on such an appreciative audience. This is like a solar eclipse; the perfect straight line fed, and the punch line comes without even thinking. Heck, I don’t think I could have stopped it had I known it was coming.

Imagine living your life like this; an unending parade of potential set-ups and pay-offs running around in your head all day. Now you know what it’s like to be me.

Thank God you are you!

Caution Yellow

Yesterday I wore a yellow shirt. Apparently not an ordinary yellow shirt, though. This shirt was so yellow, people commented that it seemed to cause a cooking effect on the cornea. And possibly their retinas.

A few also seemed to notice a low frequency hum when I was near, which they attributed to my shirt. Even the cell phone reception was spotty (yes, even spottier than it normally is, thanks Cingular), but I just thought all this was coincidental.

Then the guys from IT came to my cube and asked me to stay away from the East end of the building. I asked why, and they reluctantly told me that my shirt was interfering with the wireless network, and the East end is where the signal broadcasts from.
Pictured is AJ telling me nicely to change clothes or stay away from the East end...

Which is a shame, because I really like that shirt. I had figured we needed a little sunshine on these gray and drizzly days.

Maybe I should test my clothes first at Best Buy in the electronics department.

Young Knuckleheads

Now THIS is a geezer rant, even more so than any others so far posted. It has been building a long time, and if I don't vent now, I may run over a teenager.

It seems that many of the nation's young people have not been taught either (a) the physics of moving automobiles, or (b) common courtesy and rules of the road.

I take one of my daughters to the high school every morning, and every morning I fume at the majority of the pedestrians who walk as slowly as they please (which is fine, really) in the middle of the parking lot thoroughfares (which is the main problem. Most walk in little klatches yakking with their little friends, yakking on their cell phones, or just trudging sullenly (but cooly) to class. The only problem is that the little klatches of yakkers are walking three or four across when there are cars approaching from each direction trying to get other students to class on time. Not only do they walk slowly, four abreast, but the line they choose to cross the lane is usually a very shallow diagonal line, covering as much of the drivable space as they can for as long as they can. And they'll look you right in the eye with an indignant deadpan and take a pace that would leave them in the dust at a retirement home.

Sometimes, I confess, I get as close to them as possible as I squeak past them. I have threatened to honk (well, I actually HAVE honked, but not lately) to the mortification of my girl.

So, fair reader, if you haven't instilled in your teenage son or daughter the importance of proper parking lot ettiquitte, or the fact that a geezer just might run up their back if they don't move out of the way, please do so. Soon.

There, I feel a little better, but being rushed, I haven't raved enough on this subject. If we happen to run into each other in Walmart, don't bring up this subject if you have somewhere to go; I have a whole routine churning within.

Mommie Dearest

My sister emailed me this story of a tigress who lost her preemie cubs and was pining (apparently). The zookeepers were trying to find surrogate tiger-style cubs but were unsuccessful. Someone hit upon the notion that they could make pigs in a blanket and satisfy the tigress’ maternal longing. So they literally put some piglets in little tiger print blankets and the mother took them in instantly. She is apparently happy with the arrangement.

Thus far.

I am not advocating something callous or crass here, but I wonder if someone were to perhaps slip some pork in to the feed mix for Mommie Dearest, would she, upon tasting it say, “Hmm, this tastes familiar, what is it…I just can’t quite place it…”. The next time she gave her cub-lets a lick-bath, would she have the same reaction? Or would it be an epiphany? “My babies are made of…..pork!”

I can only imagine her joy when she finds that her cubs are actually edible and of a flavor that is preferred by tigers four to one!

Why do I think of these things? I don’t know. Maybe I’m a little mean. Maybe I’m a tad twisted, perhaps I’m desperate for a posting on my blog. Or maybe just a little hungry. For bacon.

I will want to follow this story into the future, to see sow it turns out. But I most likely won’t boar you with the details.

Drought Broken

Yes, the long post-holiday drought is broken with this small drop of rain.
It's really just a token post to let my fan know that I am still in the game.

There's one cooking, though, and it won't be too long till i post it. Really.

Christmas Reflections

Well, it has come and gone; mostly coming and then going. It never seems to stay long, does it? All the build up for months and months; since October we have been seeing ads and accessories and toys relating to Christmas. We have also seen the questions about whether it is Constitutionally allowable to tell people to have a “Merry Christmas” as opposed to the more generic “Happy Holidays”. Or the ridiculous “Happy Kwanzaa”, the made-up “me-too” “celebration”.



But the celebration as we know it is over. The food is all eaten and/or pawned off on relatives who brought other dishes. The gifts have been torn into and pawed through, the next better than the last, but ever ready to be supplanted by another. Then the wrapping paper and other packaging that is strewn about the floor needs to be sifted to make sure it doesn’t contain a wayward earring or stray bracelet. It would be disaster to have but one James Avery earring while the other is AWOL.



With the giving and getting all through, it is now time to relax, and reflect on what we have just witnessed. From where I stand, it is a frenzy of buying and selling, giving and getting, and remembering that Jesus came out of love for us, and in a selfless sacrifice, made us a way to get to an eternal home. That is a wonderful thought. God’s whole family together forever like a great big holiday.



I wonder who is supposed to bring the green beans and new potatoes...

Summer Christmas

It seems there is another writer of sorts in the house.



At school, there was an opportunity to write a story for Christmas. My 11 year-old wrote the following tome.


Did Mrs. Claus Save Christmas?
“Chris, my dear, you must go deliver those presents, I will feed you later!” Mrs. Claus said with a sigh.

Santa was lounging in his big red recliner watching TV, his belly hung out of his white T-shirt, and his socks went up to his knees; he looked pathetic. Santa was complaining about how if his big fat stomach didn’t get any food he would die, and he wouldn’t regret not going to deliver presents, if that was what he had to do to get some dinner.

“Dear, you need to stop being such a baby about this, when you get home I’ll have a big meal here waiting for you, besides you’re going to be eating all those cookies, that will fill you up ‘till you get home,” said Mrs. Claus lovingly.

Mrs. Claus went into the kitchen and to her surprise, she saw little Sally elf, with her little pink bow and her pink and brown argyle socks. Se was the smallest, yet sweetest elf around and you could count on her to do anything.

“Sally dear, what are you doing here washing all of these dishes?” Mrs. Claus asked.

“Well, I know how busy you are with you-know-who at this time of the year, so I thought it would be nice to help out,” Sally said.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Claus agreed, “He’s been a real pain, and I think I will just have to go deliver presents myself this year.”

Sally’s eyes sparkled as she said, “Just get a beard, some boots and his costume and you will be all set to go!"

Mrs. Claus decided to go ahead and try on her husband’s costume, and to her surprise, it fit her very well. She slipped on a pair of high-heeled black boots and headed out the door.

She had caught the elves just in time; they were loading up the sleigh. Mrs. Claus jumped into the sleigh, whipped the reindeer a few times and they flew off.

After a while, Mrs. Claus realized that she had no idea where she was going and she didn’t know what anybody wanted. She decided to turn the sleigh around. When she got home, Santa was waiting at the door for her. She jumped out of the sleigh and ran to hug him.

“How did you know where I was?” she exclaimed.

“I’m Santa,” he replied.

“So, will you go deliver the presents?” she pleaded.

“Yes I will, but DON’T FORGET about my dinner!”

She agreed and gave him a big Santa smooch. As he flew off into the night and exclaimed, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night! And don’t forget my dinner!”

oK, Only a Week

This is me in shock. I have seen the future and it is only six days away! Is that strange to everyone else, too? Even though the usual run-up to Christmas starts earlier and earlier, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seems to be compressed this year. Maybe it's me, maybe it's global warming, but I just don't think there's been as much time intervening as there used to be.



Of course, the hustle and muscle of the season has taken somewhat of a toll on nearly everyone in my age-ish bracket...geezers, mainly.



Yes, I KNOW the expression is "hustle and bustle", but it doesn't take "bustle" to drag a 120 pound artificial tree from the attic, does it? And you don't strain a "bustle" in your back and get a cramp in your leg "bustle" trying to man-handle all the ornaments, lights and other accoutrements from their vacation land. No, sir.



But, time is fleeting, I know that. It's just that it seems to get fleet-er from year to year. Or month to month, depending on your lease.

24 More Days...

Ah, December First, only 24 more days till Christmas. To a seven year-old, the preceeding 341 days must have seemed like an eternity. I know, because I have been there.



But I'm here now, and it seems like only a couple of weeks ago we took down the (artificial) tree and stowed it and all similar seasonal kitch and knick knacks in their 11 month resting place.

Stand by, I feel another story coming on...wait, it was a sneeze...never mind.