Night of the Six Foot Hot Dog

The weather is cooling off and we’re heading into what we all hope is autumn. It reminds me of the night of the six foot hot dog.

In our first year of marriage, we decided to move out of an apartment and move into a “cute” little rent house. It was very small. It also lacked air conditioning and adequate heat. It even lacked insulation. Of any kind. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter. October and November weren’t so bad, until what passes for winter around here decided to set in.

When the nights got cold, we broke out the dual control queen size electric blanket. What a wonderful device. Especially considering there were two different styles of sleeping in one bed.

We would huddle around the gas space heater in the living room until it was just about time to hit the hay. While I was brushing my teeth, I would go turn my side of the blanket on to about five or six, depending on the relative temperature. When the time came to bury ourselves under the covers, my side was toasty warm, and I turned the control down to a comfy two or three. My wife’s side was nothing. So she would turn the dial up to 10 and the little indicator light would throb in the dark, trying to warm the blanket and my spouse all at once.

One night, as we lay sleeping, I became aware of my shoulder starting to draw up and getting tighter. As I came more conscious, the sensation of uncomfortable heat became nearly unbearable. When I became fully awake, I noticed that from the middle of my head all the way down to my feet, half of the electric blanket was rolled neatly in a tube, and the control was still apparently pulsating on 10. The heat was cooking my back, and I am not sure if the heat was causing my muscles to spasm, or if the electromagnetic field generated by the blanket was interrupting my neural impulses. Whichever it was, I was very uncomfortable with all the twitching and sweating.

As I extracted myself from the giant bratwurst cooker, I stole a glance at my bride, sleeping quietly and contentedly with naught but a sheet and quilt on her, free of the throbbing mantle of heat. It looked as if she had rolled the electric blanket up neatly and placed it alongside me.

I thought new brides were supposed to derive pleasure from cooking
FOR their new husband.

Lessons in a Hurricane

I learned a valuable lesson about preparing for hurricanes from my grandparents. It was in August 1983 and I was done with college and back home in Texas City pursuing a freelance career. I often visited GranMommy and GranDaddy during the day when I wasn’t showing my portfolio or doing an illustration.

I had always heard a number of stories from each one of them about hurricanes that they had endured. Hurricanes where the neighbors came to their house to ride out the storm, or when GranDaddy had to drive his wrecker through the storm to rescue someone, and they usually ended up at the house. I am still impressed with the intrepid spirit that they displayed on the old days.

In August 1983, my parents and sister had gone on vacation up to the Hill Country for a couple of weeks, and I stayed in Texas City because I had to get my freelance business off the ground.

This August was a little different, mainly because a serious hurricane appeared in the Gulf, and from what I remember, it steamed in to eventually hit the Texas coast between Freeport and Galveston pretty quickly. Too quick for my parents to come in from Wimberley and too quick to try to convince two old hurricane veterans that they should perhaps take their leave and watch from a safe distance. After all, GranMommy had practically built that old house herself, filling in the gaps where the drunk contractor left things undone. The exterior siding that the asbestos shingles were nailed to was put up on an angle for strength in a hurricane. I couldn’t have gotten them out of there with dynamite.

That is how I came to face the fury of Hurricane Alicia in the house that was over 50 years old at the time. GranDaddy had taken up his usual post at the southeast corner of the living room two feet from one big window and three feet from the other. He was listening to the radio and we had the television tuned to the news. GranMommy and I sat on the pullout couch, focusing on the television and aware as well of the rising wind and slashing rain outside. As the night wore on, we heard the rain battering the house, and the water ran down the chimney like sluice, making us more and more uneasy. In the increasing gusts, the siding started buzzing like a clarinet reed. Occasionally we would see the flashing lights of a fire truck as it patrolled the streets. I don’t know if it even crossed anyone’s mind to go catch a ride with them to a reinforced building that didn’t have a fireplace pouring water inside. We just sat and watched.

About 11:30 or so, an earsplitting bolt of lightning popped outside, and instantly the interior of our sanctuary went dark. We all sat still for a moment, and I asked GranDaddy if he had a flashlight. He reached wordlessly into his cabinet by his chair and produced one. He flipped the switch and a weak yellow glow lasted for a few seconds, then failed in fear of the storm. I asked if he had batteries for the flashlight or the radio. He just started to laugh. A hearty, sort of embarrassed laugh, that spread to me, and I think even GranMommy chuckled a little.

Fortunately, they had an oil lamp for decoration on the mantel, and it was in working order. The rest of the night, we sat there in the pale light and listened to the extreme weather out there, getting wilder every ten or fifteen minutes.

At least five times that long night, we heard the freight trains pass by. Apparently, big, long, loud trains that, strangely enough, never did use their whistle. Their roaring roared above the normal roar of the storm, they produced extra sounds that were a little more unfamiliar that the other unfamiliar sounds we had grown accustomed to made us more uncomfortable. The most disturbing thought that I know we were all thinking, was that the nearest train tracks were about three or four miles south of there.

At about two or three a.m., the rain and wind stopped. Completely. The false calm of the eye descended like a great wet blanket. GranDaddy and I went out front and looked around a little. There was an eerie silence, not a breath of wind. We did see evidence that one of the trains had come down their street; the tops of several trees were twisted out and deposited upside down some distance from their home trunks. The train was definitely a tornado, as were all the others.

As the night wore on, we never spoke of what to do if Alicia, not content with howling outside, decided to come inside for coffee. It was a good thing she didn’t, in all the excitement, we had forgotten to make any.

New Technology

Never let it be said that this geezer doesn't try to keep up with the newest things. Well, sort of new things. You may have noticed that I changed the header to this esteemed blog, and changed the "recent posts" section. Just an effort to adapt to this changing internet thing.

So here is a look at something from Photobucket, a big, free (of course, if I'm using it) service to keep a mess of photos on.

So check out this slideshow. I just hope it doesn't mess with the dial-up contingent. Which I'm still a part of at home. Surprise surprise.

Muu Muu

Yes, I saw a muu muu yesterday. I didn't think that they even made them anymore. I was appalled. But strangely fascinated.

In a local pharmacy, the one where the goobers work, I was waiting to be acknowledged by the vapid, slow-moving girl behind the counter. As I looked past her at the efficient frenzy of activity of the pharmacists and two other techs filling and dispensing prescriptions, I couldn't help wondering if this girl was in the right store. She was waiting on a woman with a gravelly whiskey tenor voice who was hiding at the corner of the customer side of the counter. I hadn't seen her till she spoke with the smoky growl that identified her as a smoker of multiple thousands of cigarettes over a majority of her life. The voice and the stench of stale tobacco smoke seeped across the four feet separating us.

When I looked her direction, I had to force myself not to stare. At least while she was looking up. She was replete in her turquoise and sea-green muu muu, and the effect was capped off, so to speak, by a blue Hang Ten ball cap, turned backward. The cap had a Hawaiian print that sort of matched the garment. Sort of.

I didn't get to sneak a peek at her footwear, the slow-mover finally made it to the counter with the medications that the veterinarian had prescribed.

SO, I was left in dumbfoundment for a short time while processing what I had just witnessed; a fashion gaffe that should never be repeated. Or imagined. Oops, sorry.

Just try put it outta your mind.

Wordy Guy II

OK kids, you know the rules...let the play begin. Monday I'll post the answer and the winner. Heck, I know, you'll all have checked the dictionary by then, but I'll make it official.

Hachure

(STUDENTS: ABSOLUTELY NO PEEKING IN THE DICTIONARY. IF I SEE YOU REACH FOR A DICTIONARY, I WILL WHACK YOUR HAND WITH A RULER).


A. A clasp that is part of a yoke used with draft animals, such as oxen or mules.


B. A small bone that enables some animals to turn their ears in many directions.


C. A short line used for shading and denoting surfaces in relief and drawn in the direction of slope.



THE ANSWER IS...

C. "Sis" is the winner! First correct answer.

Thanks for playing Wordy Guy, and hope you will join us for the next challenge.

Cheap Shots

As promised, a month ago, I am posting some "Cheap Shots" from comments on Cheap Defined. This is from Dr. Blogger, a sometimes reader and poster on even rarer occasions. I try to encourage him to start his ownblog, but he either resists or just ignores me. But he has some great stories, and here is one:

My Grandfather was cheap, . . . intelligent, loving, caring, responsible, but still cheap. He saved old pencils from his work as a school principal. He sharpened them carefully down to the point that even as a small child, I found them hard to hold. In fact, the lead in some of those pencils had been around so long, that the graphite had begun to break up to the extent that one simply could not write with it.
Then he saved rubber bands. He carefully wrapped them around his wallet. This actually served two functions: it saved the rubber bands and it kept the sacred contents of his wallet encased. And, as you might expect, when called into service, the rubber bands invariably broke when stretched the least amount.
Also, he would clip every grocery store advertisement from all local newspapers, compare and contrast them, and then on shopping day, drive his car to each store and pay the lowest regional price for the various items. My guess is he spent dollars in gas in order to save pennies on carrots and tomatoes.
His miserly and Calvinist ways would also lead him to pinch pennies on his alcohol consumption. He liked having family at Christmas because he could justify buying a quart of eggnog and a half pint of bourbon. Then he would make himself literally a half serving of weakly-spiked eggnog on Christmas Eve and that would be it. He would not drink another drop. The family would easily consume the remainder so that nothing was wasted. Several uncles accepted a serving only because one should not waste the resource. His one other "bout" of drinking would be on a very rare Saturday in August, when after a lawn mowing session he would visit a neighbor and accept a small glass of beer, after being reassured that it was indeed good for him "in this weather" and that the remainder of the beer would be taken care of by the neighbor.
Clearly, having lived through the Great Depression led him to believe that if you take care of the pennies, the dollars will take care of themselves.

Wordy Guy

Wordy Guy is Rob V., a frequent commenter here at GeezerChron, and he has been emailing several of us in the office with these words accompanied by definitions ranging from true to false to better than true. Your mission is to either fall for one of Rob's superb "imaginifitions" or know (guess) at the real word. Please answer in the comments, I will eventually post the correct word in an update.

Thanks for playing "Wordy Guy"!

mensch

A. A large drawer with compartments once used in the printing trade

B. A game similar to hide-and-seek that is popular among children in the Middle East

C. A person of integrity and honor

UPDATE

I would like to thank our four contestants, 75% of whom got the word right, 25% pulled the Barbra Streisand movie from somewhere else (Yentl), but still had the Yiddish angle correct.

The word "mensch" is Yiddish for "man", literally, but in reference to being a good man of integrity and honor, yadda yadda yadda.

The speediest winner was the Aggie, so when she visits she can have an extra piece of gum or something.

Thanks again for playing "Wordy Guy", and look for the next installment. I expect ALL of you to play next time.

Something Unexpected Came Up

Yes, something unexpected did come up at Chinese School today; William's lunch. The second class had just gotten in and eveyone was settling in to their chairs. I looked away for just a second when I heard something like a can of soda being opened. I looked at the kid closest to me, William, and he was holding both hands up to his mouth with liquid streaming through his fingers. He had a shocked and embarrassed look on his poor little face, and I raced for the trash can, which was unfortunately across the room. As the can came to a landing at his feet, he leaned over and spit out what he had held in his mouth. I picked up the wastebasket and ushered little William out the door and down the hall. He reflexively shook the residue hanging from his hands, and I quickly instructed, "Don't fling..." a couple of times on our trip down the hall.

The other kids were in shock...for a few seconds. Then the expected chorus of "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWs" began. As I hustled our little fountain into the restroom, they sat quietly. Meanwhile, as I had William wash his hands in the sink, and questioned him if he was finished, he began vomiting again, this time in the sink. An endless stream kept issuing forth from the helpless lad, while I stood like 248 pounds of lard staring at his little face frozen in the mirror, heaving over and over, filling the sink beneath his small hands.

When he finally stopped hurling, he commented that he had eaten at Ryan's for lunch, and that some bacteria must have gotten mixed up with his food (this is an eight-year-old talking, these are his words). I asked him if he wanted us to call his mom or anything, but he said he would go back to class.

I left him for a second to wash up, and hopefully not spew into the sink again, while I went in to clean up the evidence in the class. As I wrestled reams of paper towels from the roll, the other kids began to fully comprehend what had happened. One of the spokespersons for the class said, in a loud and clear voice, "GOSH, I think I'M gonna throw up NOW...". I hoped she wasn't speaking prophetically, since there were eight other kids in the class most likely thinking the same thing. Heck, I was thinking the same thing. The same little girl asked how I could stand cleaning that up. I replied, "I'm a dad, I've had to do this a million times". In truth, that was the only thing that kept my Whataburger in its place.

As I went back to check on the unfortunate kid, I steeled myself to what I may possibly wade into. Fortunately he was washed up, mostly (except for a little piece of corn on his cheek *shudder*) and ready to come back to class. All the while he was muttering about what it might have been that didn't agree with him at lunch. He was using those words, too. I think he will work as a doctor or CSI eventually.

I am happy to report that William survived the rest of the class, in a different chair, without further incident. And all other lunches kept their places as well.

'urricane 'umberto

So what's up with this thing that popped up and pushed in through here yesterday? In all my years of living on the Gulf Coast of Texas (although only a few of those I was actually paying attention to the weather, granted), I have never seen something come up so fast and so hard.

Apparently, the meteorologists were caught flat-footed, too. But that didn't keep them from hyping and inflaming everyone. I am surprised that an evacuation wasn't called for. Not that anyone would have actually gotten on the road, but still, they could shame everyone for not caring about safety and the lives of all the innocent children and pets.

Where I work, the crisis turned out to be a drill to see how everyone would work within all the departments in the event of a real hurricane, tsunami, earthquake or nuclear holocaust. We seem to be fairly satisfied that the dry run came off smoothly. And actually stayed dry!

The weather people did get a chance, albeit short notice, to dash down to High Island and Bolivar to cash in on the slashing winds and pelting, horizontal rain. It was almost worth it to see Wayne Dolcefino buffeted by the wind. And believe me, it takes quite a bit of wind to buffet Wayne, IF you know what I mean. Good Morning America's Sam Champion (made-up name if I ever heard one) was "riding out the storm" in League City. He had a phone-in to the show, and they ran footage of Wayne in the middle of filing a near-unintelligible report through the howling wind and stinging rain. At one point, he just gave up and stumbled off camera. But Sam sat in a motel room eating Cinnabons and drinking cappuccino acting like he was braving the storm. And Diane Sawyer was complicit in ignorance, lapping up his story like a typical newshound.

'umberto was really a strange animal, though. To develop and charge ahead so quickly, I think even the old-timers (me) were surprised. But we weren't surprised by the media feeding frenzy.

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.