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.

Turkeys Galore

OK, so Thanksgiving is over, and all the turkeys are consumed until Christmas. Or one would think.



My parents have a deep freeze and an apparent compulsion to collect turkeys. I don't know where they all come from; I thought that most of the free turkey offers went the way of $1.50-a-gallon gasoline.



For several years, my wife has been asking my mother what the count was for frozen birds in their freezer, and every time the answer came back, "None of your business." Somehow, we would eventually find out, at least a general count for the small army of large poultry residing in the frozen turkey mine. Sometimes we'd weasel it out of my sister, who could occasionally spy on the cache, sometimes my mother might let a hint slip in conversation, as in, "Then the fifth one was free..." or "...we didn't have any room for number eight, y'all want some carrots?"



This year, I don't know if her guard was down or she was just weary of the game, but we actually found the total value of the stash. Visible in the photo are eight of the remaining nine turkeys, after the one that was cooked on Thursday. And one was deployed to my sister's house. The mystery solved, we can finally rest.



For this year.

Turkey Schmurkey

Of all the Thanksgivings and all the turkeys that I have consumed, there are three of the days that stand out in my mind, and only one of them involves a real (formerly) live cooked turkey.

The first one that is burned into my memory wasn’t at home and the target of our palates was barely qualified as a turkey. My parents had chosen to go camping in East Texas somewhere. My mother had carefully chosen the menu for the Thanksgiving feast; items that could be easily prepared in the “kitchen” of our 18 foot Mobile Scout travel trailer. There were no sweet potatoes with marshmallows and green bean casserole; the oven was the size of a Stetson hatbox and the burners were only the size of postage stamps. I don’t even remember the side dishes; they were obviously simple and most likely canned. The “bird” was a roll of processed turkey meat commonly referred to as a turkey loaf. It was smaller than a football and resided in an aluminum coffin. This we ate under the canopy of hardwood and pine trees, with the cool fall air surrounding the Mobile Scout. Thus ends the remembrance of the actual meal.

So why is this such a memorable Thanksgiving? Why did the meal only rate a paragraph? Well, ‘cause it wasn’t the meal that made it Thanksgiving. It was roaming around the campsite, poking the fire, and enjoying the clear air, chopping or sawing on firewood. My Dad sitting listening to the Aggies play the Longhorns. So it was the whole experience.

The next one was the traditional Thanksgiving, and though uneventful and wholly non-spectacular, it just sticks in my mind. It was when I was 14 or 15, and we were all at our house. Mother had broken out the “good” 1954 china and crystal; it was a Level I holiday meal. Turkey, cranberry sauce (two kinds), green bean casserole, waldorf salad, green pea salad, sweet potatoes smothered with mini-marshmallows, and who knows what else. Suffice to say, it was the whole nine yards.

I suppose the reason for all the finery was that all the grandparents would be in attendance. It was one of the few times that Grandmother Soderberg was with us on Thanksgiving, being that a couple of years before she had gone to live with Aunt Margie and Uncle Clifford. They lived in Galena Park, which isn’t THAT far from Texas City, but in those days when my range extended mostly to La Marque and south to Galveston, anything beyond that was a foreign land.

For that reason, mostly, I suppose that get-together stays with me.

And the absolute most memorable feast of thanks that I hold is the one when I came home from college and we ate at GranMommy and GranDaddy’s house. I was so sick of college cafeteria food that I could scream. And before classes let out, they had served turkey and dressing. Big deal. I like turkey, but I couldn’t say I LOVE turkey. I longed for the Gulf Coast.

That longing was satisfied when we came and readied for the feast. They had bought about 25 pounds of shrimp, and prepared it lovingly (fried, butterflyed, boiled), trout, flounder (stuffed with homemade crab stuffing), oysters (fried) and all manner of seafood-ish delights. GranMommy, ever the creative decorator, had constructed an incredible centerpiece. It was in a crystal punchbowl, a tapering tower of ice adorned with parsley greenery studded with small boiled shrimp on toothpicks; like a Christmas tree with tiny pink ornaments you could eat. And eat we did. That was back when I weighed less and could eat more. Frighteningly more.

I think this particular Thanksgiving embodies the entire spirit of the holiday for me. It isn’t about the food that is served. The traditions from back in 1621 are honorable and worthy of remembering and celebrating. This particular observance, for me at least, came alive by virtue of the things I missed the most while I was in the Hill Country away at college, and the fulfillment that evening is what made me so happy and thankful for what was at home.

I Thought it Would Never Happen To Me

Last week, as I was sitting in my recliner, relaxing after a day at work, my wife handed me a piece of mail that come for me that day. I felt important. I seldom get mail these days, unless you count the solicitation to be the patsy for another credit card company, a special offer of $15,000 off the Chevy of my choice, or one of the endless utility bills. This was hand addressed to me. Personally.


As I gazed expectantly at the return address, I first noticed that it was from my home town of Texas City. As my eyes moved up the lines, I realized that is was from the “Class of ’77 Reunion Committee”. A little jolt of excitement shot through me, a reunion was imminent. Since I had missed more than I had attended over the years, I decided then and there that I was GOING TO GO to this one!


As I greedily opened the letter and glanced over the page that was printed on someone’s inkjet printer, I was arrested by the apparently erroneous information at the top; it said something about the 30th reunion. Thirty years? How can that be? It seems like just a short time ago I was on the yearbook staff snapping pictures of fellow students in the halls and classrooms. Dragging Palmer, going to the Tradewinds Theater to see Smoky and the Bandit, giving Lynrd Skynrd three steps!



I quickly looked at the bottom of the letter to see who was responsible for this mistake. There I saw the familiar names of my classmates and/or their wives who had taken the names of their high school sweethearts. My mind reeled, and I hastily did the math...hmm, 2006 minus 1977 equals 29 plus the May graduation date and the scheduled August 2007 party date...comes to roughly...no, it can’t be...a full thirty years. THIRTY YEARS!


They weren’t wrong. I was an old geezer, uh, AM and old geezer. My girls chuckled at hearing that grand number bandied about. The oldest graduated two years ago, the print on her graduation program is still barely dry in my estimation. The middle one is yet two years away from that great day in her life. And my youngest thinks The Little Mermaid is a quaint old-time movie.


I am determined to get to this gathering of my old friends and rivals. I may finally accept that I am one of the aging teens drifting through the reality that has become the future. Did I turn out as I had imagined I would? Who knows, I didn’t even have any idea that one day I would be staring down the barrel of a 30 year reunion.


I have heard that the farther out the reunions get, the better they get. It becomes not about how good looking you are, or what your dad does for a living. Reports state that the higher the number, the more it becomes about who you are and who is important to you. I am anxious to reconnect with old classmates and see what they have experienced. And to remember some of the fun we had as young goofballs.

Future Rant

I feel one coming on: a rant based on the fact that I got a notice from "the committee" about my 30th High School Reunion. I was floored, my girls were amazed.




So watch for this one in a week or so...it's going to hit hard.

This Coffee Tastes Like...

UgH! COFFEE! Yeah, I’m a coffee ninny, this is an established fact, backed up and admitted to in writing. But sometimes, especially Monday afternoons, I need a mild jolt that only the dark potion can give.

And yeah, I brought it on myself, but this time I tried to be an adult about the amount of sweet appeal that I applied. Big mistake. I feel like a child being forced to take castor oil or Echinacea extract. This substance is not to be imbibed for pleasure. I am convinced of that.

Some say that it’s an acquired taste, like beer or cabbage. My response to that statement is that a person can get used to living next to a swine farm, too. Why you’d WANT to is beyond my comprehension.


So you cops, Coasties and insomniacs can have your black coffee…pass the sugar please, in a front-end loader.

I finished it like a man, though. A big sissy girly-man...

1000 Bananas

Lest anyone forget what a pill I could be as a child, I have yet another anecdote for the bulging file. I’m not making any excuses, but it goes back to the innate need for everything to look whole and complete. This has been covered in other articles.

As a child, at my grandmother and grandfather’s house during the day, we had it pretty good. There wasn’t much snack food or coke to be had there, but sometimes there were frozen figs or frozen pineapple to cool us on those hot, sticky Texas City summer days.

I liked bananas, too. The only thing that kept a banana from being perfect was the penchant they had for breaking. That was an action I couldn’t tolerate. For some reason, I felt as though I could not eat the disfigured fruit.

The sad thing is, GranMommy usually peeled them for me. That in itself was not sad; any grandmother would do that for their grandchild. What set this woman apart is the fact that when she peeled a banana, if it broke, I would reject it. Upon my snub of the proffered treat, she would eat the wrecked banana. She would try again. If THAT one crashed, guess what? Right, I didn’t eat it. Wouldn’t touch it. So she ate that one. Looking back, I now recognize the expression on her face as a prayer for strength; for her and the banana.

I am not sure how many bananas that old lady ate trying to appease the persnickety little boy, but I am almost certain she never had a potassium deficiency.

In her later years, she seemed to lose patience easily, and I feel responsible for using up so much of it in my youth.

Slip Sliding Away

Cheap shoes make your feet stink. Everybody knows this. When you’re old and married, you don’t think that much about it. Your victi—uh, spouse, can just move away, ignore the smell, or take her own cheap shoes off to fight fire with fire.

When you’re young, in love and obsessed with projecting the perfect image to your loved one, the scent of sour feet is not acceptable.

So, when I went to visit my betrothed in her apartment one Friday night just weeks before we were married, I decided to wash my feet off in the tub before we went out. Simple, right? All day in those cheap shoes had not done any favors for my feet. It was essential that I get them reborn as quickly as possible.

I was in the bathroom next to her bedroom. Just paces away, she readied herself for our date while I prepared in my own way. I kicked off my shoes and proceeded to make right what was so wrong. I washed the staleness and toxins from my feet without incident. But when I was standing at the back of the tub, wearing my work clothes with the pants legs rolled up, an incident did occur. Apparently, the laws of physics aren’t always posted clearly, but the penalty for transgressing them is always the same. It seems that if your center of gravity is “so high” and you weigh “so much” and the surface on which you are standing is “so slick”, then you should in fact only reach “so far”. In my vigor to get my feet dry and presentable again, I did reach “just so much further” and my feet slipped on the bottom of the cursed tub. There was a certain amount of friction; there were squeaks galore, but not enough traction to keep me from going down. Over and down. My feet went to the left, skated for a bit, and my upper body went right. When my body pitched to the wall, I lead with my cranium, creating a loud THUMP on the tile wall. As my feet continued their descent toward the drain, they declared their desire for grip on the wet porcelain. More long squeaks. Loud ones. Accompanied by several more thumps, of varying volume. That would be dependent on whether there was much muscle over the bones that were impacting the tile/tub structures. Of course, head, elbow and knee make the loudest noise, while a hip has a lower frequency tone.

As I lay in the tub, partly wet, head, elbow, knee and hip throbbing in pain, I became aware of the voice of my future wife calling out to me in my injured state.

“Are you all right...?”

“Uugh...I...well...ugh...”

It was only a few seconds later that I realized that her caring inquiry was interrupted by suppressed gales of laughter. These gales quickly gathered strength and lost control.

Needless to say, by that time, my body was not the only thing bruised.

“I’m not laughing that you got hurt,” she managed to choke out, “I’m laughing at the sound of the squeaking and the thuds...” This statement was punctuated by the stifled laughter which eventually gave way to all out guffaws and cackles.

Only now can I laugh about this as well as she, and her glee is still strong after more than 20 years. It is the essence of comedy: somebody gets hurt in a funny way, and people laugh. I almost feel honored to be an active participant.

All Saints (Have a Candy Hangover) Day

Well MOST of the Saints do, anyhow. I didn’t participate in the “handing-out-of-candy” ritual last night. It just so happened, as I am sure everyone is aware, that Halloween fell on a Tuesday this year. Which coincides exactly with my teaching of graphic design classes at San Jacinto College in the evening.

So, in the name of Education (and in the name of “if-I-don’t-show-up-I-don’t-get-paid”) I went dutifully to class last evening. I had students looking expectantly to me to somehow oblige them in the celebration in the name of all things sweet and greedy. “Sorry”, I told them, “but some other instructor looks like they cared, and I think you are welcome to this...”, pointing to the plastic pumpkin half full of bubble gum and tootsie rolls.

On the home front, my oldest had some guys over to eat and eat and pass out candy and eat. I think they accomplished the stated goal. They also watched scary movies till late at night.

My middle daughter was forced at grade point (apparently) to attend the varsity volleyball team’s last game (as it turned out) over in Manvel. She got home quickly, since the team was retired summarily in three games. She just hung out with her sister and the guys.

My youngest, the one most "into" the festivities, was dressed as a little boy; plaid shorts, baggy camo t-shirt and slide-on plaid sneakers. Oh, and a camo-billed Astros hat to cover her girly hair. I haven’t gotten a full report, but I saw the plastic pumpkin full to the brim with loot. My wife accompanied her on the neighborhood blitzkrieg, along with my daughter’s best friend and her mom. The friend was dressed as a boy as well; this had been planned for seven months.

Judging from the bales of candy that were purchased and the near-empty bin used for distribution, either the trick-or-treaters had a good night, or the resident and visiting youths did. I just had the few odd Kit Kat bars and went to bed. My last official act was to bring the pumpkin and jack-o-lantern in; last year, my excellent offering was smashed over night, so I didn’t want to trust this new incarnation to the late night no-goods marauding after hours.

So ends another celebration aimed at kid’s teeth and sense of entitlement. I only wish we could harness the energy generated and expended for good rather than fat and cavities. Think of the distances we could drive powered by Snickers bars and gummy eyeballs!

Hollow-een

Everybody has warm reminisces about the night that children gravitate to nearly as much as Christmas. No, I’m not talking about Father’s Day, good guess, though.

It’s Halloween. I suppose the title was a dead giveaway, so to spook. Sorry. I liked the sport of Halloween as well as any juvenile in town when I was a lot smaller and more mature.

Most geezers remember the days when you filled two brown grocery bags with candy from forays into far-flung neighborhoods. Of course, only the ones that you would be able to hoof it to; not the “imported trick-or-treaters” of today. Truckloads of kids from all over town clogging up the subdivision streets for the chance at a November full of free candy. Cheaters.

One particular Halloween, I decided I wanted to be a skeleton. I’m sure my mother took me down to Sparky’s Toys or Rock’s Five and Dime for a costume. Included was the black jumpsuit imprinted with bones in a semi-believable configuration along with a scary oversized skull mask, complete with giant skeletal teeth and cracks embossed in the surface.

I was thrilled. I nearly jumped into the jumpsuit, and couldn’t even wait to get it tied up in the back. I put on the mask, stared into the mirror and snarled, and nearly frightened myself. The only thing was, the mouth opening was very small, and when I exhaled, the moist breath filled the façade with condensation. It also had a little rough edge that irritated my mouth.

So my mother got the great shears from the drawer in the kitchen and proceeded to enlarge the opening. Try it on. Hmmm. Better, but now it bothers my upper lip, too. Trim some more. OW, my lip. Snip again. Now it bothers my chin. And my upper lip.

This continued until my skull mask and my fragile artistic sensibility were injured nearly beyond recognition. The whole mouth was carved into a mimed scream that extended from just millimeters below my nose to my chin and a little beyond. And all you could see of the teeth were a couple of molars. Finally it was comfortable, but I looked stupid.

I seem to vaguely remember the beginnings of some ugliness, but my parents explained that I could just as easily sit at home while the others gathered complimentary candy from far and wide. So I sucked it up, and went with my sister, who went as a Pocahontas or something in a burlap costume with a white felt antlerless moose appliqué on the front. And her “surprised woman” mask. We stepped next door and just prior to our first handful of candy, posed for the picture you see below right. One can see my feeble attempt at being a scary and convincing walking skeleton, but my face belies the lack of faith in my costume, mainly the mask.

The terrible thing, looking back, is while I was complaining about the double-edged sword of "fix the mask/don't mar the mask", my sister was most likely baking in her burlap squaw outfit.

Skeleton From the Closet

Not in MY closet mind you. But there are three guys, who shall remain nameless, who have this to live down. Heck, they probably have forgotten (read “suppressed”) the memory completely. My sister and I, however, have absolutely NOT forgotten.

The story begins long before the actual event, and will take a bit of set up, so please indulge me.

Like many boys in the 12 year-old age range, I used to read comic books. I wasn’t an avid collector, I mostly read MAD Magazine and an occasional superhero of some sort. As everyone knows, the ads in the back were always fascinating to me; the X-ray glasses, the BB machine gun and various other worthless junk. I knew that the X-ray glasses COULDN’T work, but I always wanted the BB machine gun. One day, I spied an offer for a five-foot tall jointed skeleton that glows in the dark. WOW!, I had to have it. So I sent in the money, five dollars or so, and waited.

When the package arrived, I made a mental note that the package was very thin, especially one that was purported to contain a whole five foot tall skeleton. My first notion was that perhaps it may require assembly, and since there were so many bones in a skeleton, the dark thought crossed my mind that I would have to put it together.

I tore open the box and stared at what I thought would be the anatomical framework of a glow-in-the-dark person. What I stared at was a cheap cardboard printed skeleton smiling up at me with his (her?) jointed-by-brads limbs folded neatly up under his head. I took it out with disgust, I paid five dollars plus shipping and handling for THIS? Trudging to my room, I decided to test the only other redeeming value that this black and white printed cheat scheme would have; the power to glow in the dark.

On entering my room, I went straight to my desk lamp. I held the bundle of faux bones aloft to save the precious light from the 60 watt bulb. After a time, I took it into the closet to test the “glow factor”. The second I closed the door, I know that I’d been snookered.

My sister and I painted the entire skeleton with Lightning Bug Glo Juice to at least salvage some of my money.

That said, I will proceed with the original ignoble story.

The three brothers were over at our house with their parents. It was a usual Saturday evening, and the adults were having their fun. For some reason, it seems that we were all bored, looking for something to do. My sister remembered the cheap, home glow skeleton, and we proceeded to “glow him up”. To test the amount of light he had absorbed, I shut the light off. I don’t know what inspired my sister to do what she did next, but it was the making of one of the funniest 20 minutes I had experienced up till then in my life, and ranks up there with the top five of all time.

While the light was off, she swooped the bare bones at the brothers, who were skittish anyway. With that move, they scattered to other side of my bed. In the dark. Their shrieks of fear and laughter were hilarious. My sibling was just getting started with her campaign of fright on the boys. She followed their pleas, laughs and screams to further chase and terrorize them. Then she got the idea to grab its wrist and REACH for the poor boys. I stayed out of their way as they flung their bodies in their attempts to escape the flying bones. Of course, the pilot of the bones was keen on their plan to flee. She headed them off at the pass every time. Had she been a real ghoul, they would have been done for.

When the dive-bombing skeleton relented and the lights came on, we found the brothers cowering in various parts of the room, trembling with adrenaline and subsiding laughter. The youngest had a wet spot on his pants that extended from the zipper to his knees, the middle boy had a dual damp stripe that went to the middle of his thighs. The oldest, who was my age, did not escape the embarrassment; he had a single silver dollar sized spot on his pants.

As the family left, our glee was renewed as the boys tried to cover their shame.

I Have on Two Black Socks

Big deal, right? Yes and no. When your lighting is as dim as ours and you are as pressed for time in the morning as I am, it is classed as one of the small victories.

Of course, if I chose my clothes (including socks) the night before (the way my wife suggests), I would have time to analyze the color composition of my socks at length. Or at least quickly under optimal illumination conditions.

The best lighting in our house is in the bathrooms. I suppose it’s because in the rest of the house, I look best in low light. The bathrooms support more visual activity, thus requiring more light. There is make-up to be applied (not by ME), teeth to be flossed, jaws that need to be shaved (this one is ONLY me…) and also only in my case, ear hairs to be removed.

So just now, on adjusting my socks, not only did I raise the sock, but my mood as well. And I have my phone, too.

addendum to "Rules..."

Just to clarify; this is written about all the native-born Americans who are SUPPOSED to know English.

Swedes and others who actually DECIDED to speak English are exempt. I have a lot of respect for anyone who learns a second language.

I have some experience with the Spanish language and, to steal a line from Steve Martin, they "have a different word for EVERYTHING!". And to conjugate a verb in Spanish is to admit that I don't know anything in the world about grammar "under the hood". I listen to Spanish better than I speak it, and that's not saying much. Actually, I know just enough to be dangerous to myself and my 15 year old daughter who is taking Spanish in high school.

I also have several Chinese friends and associates, and their comand of our language, spoken and written, is astounding. To listen to them speak to me in English and to someone else in Chinese puts me to shame.

So, Mikael, you are doing fine, and maybe you could even teach some Texans a thing or two about our language!

Rules Rules Rules

There is a growing trend that I find very disturbing these days; an apparent inability of normally literate persons to comply with what they should have learned in grade school.

The homonyms seem to be a source of consternation among today’s writers. The use of “there”, “their” and “they’re” interchangeably was once upon a time, a novelty and a purposeful method of feigning ignorance when corresponding with my close friends. Or trying to outfox spellcheck in word processing and email applications (this is a sport unto itself).

Now I receive emails that say, “it was good to here from you…” and “hear we are having sunshine…”, and, “there coming in this weekend…” all NOT intentional word play.

Another of the mistakes made is the arbitrary placement of the apostrophe on words that are merely plural, with no possessions anywhere nearby. I even have seen signage, no lie, “Hair Design’s”…how can this be? I used to be mildly amused by the odd appearance of the “false possessive”, but now with business cards and posters and television ads and all sorts of other occurrences I am overwhelmed by the ignorance that is approaching epidemic proportions.

I am not a grammarian or composition whiz by any stretch of the imagination; just read this blog with any regularity and you will see that fairly clearly. But I DO know when to use apostrohy's and when knot two!

I don’t know who to charge for these gnu societal problems, but aisle find someplace to lei the blame!