Ode to a cinnamon roll

The 100th version of the State Fair of Oklahoma starts this week, and from the amount of media coverage this event receives, one might venture to say that it's a "right big deal."

But that's not what this blog entry is about.

I occassionally have breakfast in a little joint a few miles down the road that sells some very delectable cinnamon rolls. For those who will not venture this far into the depths of central OK, the bakers make fresh batches of the Princess Leia-hairbun-shaped pastries daily to sell at their booth in the "Made in Oklahoma" building during the run of the State Fair.

While the town where this family run cinnamon roll roadside eatery resides is better known for it's combination ancient bar/fried chicken establishment, the hot joe, folksy servers, amusing regular clientele and of course, the sticky-gooey-cardiac-arresting buns, made it an instant hit with me.

The main dining room is big and spacious, with privacy booths of little consequence, since regulars speak loud enough so that everyone in the joint can hear their stories of woe or whimsy. The pervasive scent of the utterly perverted warm and soft cinnamon rolls makes you wish for the metabolism of Lance Armstrong.

They also package a dozen or so rolls up into a tin tray, shrink wrap them, and sell them at a few fortunate grocery stores in the area.

I've eaten them out of the package.
Warmed either in the microwave, or by holding it under my armpit for a few minutes.
Good, but not quite a memorex experience.

I've eaten them at the Fair.
Good, but slightly smaller than the one's you'll get in their dining room and too many eyes are watching you at that venue to make for a comforting culinary experience.

And, I've eaten them at their restaurant.
With a nice size cup of decaf, a shiny fork and slightly dented but entirely useable knife.

It was better.

Those snappin' fingers

Yesterday I was sitting in a car with PK, my 3 1/2 year old, waiting in line to pick up C from school with a myriad of minvans, maxi trucks, and otherwordly human transport vehicles over 5000 lbs. GVW, when she asked me which finger makes the noise when you snap.

I brain-burped for a second, but remembered who I was and what I was doing on this planet, while formulating a reasonably sounding response that a 3 1/2 year old could grok.

I told her "both of them make the noise" with all the assurance and confidence that a male in his early 40's could and should muster.

Yet here I sit, late at night, examining my snappin' fingers in motion, wondering if in fact I was correct in my explanation.

Some mysteries were meant to remain mysteries.

Least I can tell her with unwavering aplomb that in my 12th year of life, it took me exactly 242 licks to get to the Tootsie roll center of a Tootsie pop.

Where's Joe Pesci when you need him

One of my favorite boobtube shows of the 90's was called Northern Exposure. It followed the adventures of a New York city born and bred doctor who must payback his med school loans by serving the citizens in a small town in Alaska.

A particularly memorable episode found the NY Doc feeling like he was losing his "hard city edge," forcing him to run down to the local video rental house to grab up any and all NY flicks he could find to help remind him from whence he had come. GoodFellas, The Godfather, Mean Streets, Woody Allen's Manhattan among others.

Like the good Dr. Fleischman, I know I've lost some of my city-fied edge since moving to my small town less than a year and a half ago.

I'm not as suspicious of people's intentions.
I'll make eye contact when walking down Main Street downtown.
Not everyone who says "hey" and "good morning" is looking for a way in to invade your privacy or space, or to separate me from my money.
When someone here comments about the weather, they're not just making light of the fact that the weather in LA hardly ever changes.

I was thinking which dvd's I need to keep in my library to remind me of whence I came and to help me "re-edge" myself so I don't get too complacent by this slower, safer, relaxed environment.

Here's a list I've started. It may grow.

LA Story - Utterly dated and utterly satiric, but like all good satire, therein lies the truth.
Swingers - I no longer use the Club on my car, but I do miss Pink Dot.
LA Confidential - How in the world did they fit those huge cars of the 40's down the narrow streets of the Melrose District.
The Fast and the Furious (2001) - Driving on the 10 is neither of those, unless you let the fast drivers and furious traffic get to you. Even then furious is really all you get.
The Big Lebowski - "Isn't that near that In-n-Out...boy those are some good burgers."
Pizza Man - A film I worked on that was written, directed, and produced by J.F. Lawton. The millions he made from his screenplay for "Pretty Woman" paid for it all....starring a young Bill Maher.
Chinatown - Did Los Angeles ever really look this cool?
Blade Runner - Will Los Angeles ever really look this cool?
Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure - "Hello, San Dimas!"

I wonder what movies Okies who leave the state use to remind them of their home state/town?

A small town county fair...Part Uno

Some snapshots from our recent county fair....and my observations on them.


My long term goal is to clandestinely infiltrate the small society of folk who get to judge the eating portions of the fair competition, and invoke the judges right to claim whatever he tastes as their own for personal consumption. I'd be swimming in jams, jellies, and preserves. Hey, it could happen.


I don't know what category this collage of moo-cow photos falls under, but I was "udderly" transfixed by the multitude of angles one little girl could invoke to capture the comings and goings and sittings and standings and eatings of a single cow...at least I think it's a single cow. If I make the blanket statement that all light brown cows look to same to me, am I a bovine racist?


This all works for me. From the "How a Paintball works" full-color diagram, to the 4-outlet edison box, complete with heavy duty 3-prong grounded cable, I was thrilled to happen upon this display. Someone give that kid a blue ribbon...oh, someone did. Good. He/she deserved it.


I wonder if anyone would mind if they put these 10 Commandments up in a government courthouse or public building?


Forget robbing the local banking establishment. Grab a few of these handmade quilts and set up a vendor spot at the local swap meet. Ka-ching, ka-ching.

Stay tuned for another installment of....A small town county fair.

County Jr. Miss Scholarship Pageant

Last month, we attended our counties Jr. Miss Scholarship Contest.

We attended to cheer on a girl from our small town whom we know as a lifeguard at the local pool, the girl who mows our next door neighbor's lawn (for free), and as one of the friendly and helpful teens at C's Wednesday night kiddie group gathering at the Nazarene.


The emotions generated by being at a scholarship pageant (not called a beauty pageant, even here in the heartland of all places) harkens back to my wife's family's keen interest and living room ritual of religiously watching every Miss America pageant that's been televised since 1967.

The girls seemed to enjoy the spectacle on the high school stage, complete with cardboard cut-out props and streamers for decorations.

The girls on stage aerobicized (fitness evaluation), strutted in long gowns (poise evaluation) and answered existential questions of little meaning to a teenager, but that I found to be rather thought provoking.

The big finale was the talent competition. It was at this point that I picked the winner, hands down, no question about it.

The contestant performing a modern dance routine drew little applause. I thought she was bold to attempt it at this venue.

The gospel singing contestent drew a little more applause. Playing the religious card - hard to go wrong with God.

The hip-hop dancing contestant drew whoops and hollars from the younger crowd. Others just scratched their heads.

The dramatic reading contestant drew stares the likes of which even the Elephant Man would ponder as rude. Gutsy and bold. I liked it.

Then the winner came out.

She was the one who donned a pair of red "Ariel-from-Footloose-"my Daddy hates these boots" cowboy boots, a rhinestone encrusted denim skirt, topped off with a red and white gingham top tied at the belly. She 2-stepped out onto the stage and came out singing "I wanna grow up to be a cowboy" to which the audience stomped their feet, clapped their hands, and just about threw a hoedown right there in the high school auditorium.

You could feel the audience turn with every sh*t-kickin', boot-stompin', cowboy hat wavin' step.

In the end, our girl didn't win (she was 2nd runner up), but I'm sure C learned some valuable life lessons from the evening.

I'm sure of it.

Lunch lady loses learners loot, leaves lunchers in a lurch

We received a notice from the lunch lady at C's school that they suffered a computer crash and had lost all traces of recent payments made for students lunches.

Considering that school had only been in session for 2-weeks, I figured, how bad could it be?

Surely they back the database file up regularly.
Surely the have some sort of redundancy in the filing system.
Surely they print out daily hardcopies of at least the summary totals of the days lunch money receipts.

Three strikes, dude. And don't call me Shirley.

This antiquated system was running on an old pre-Pentium 486 chipped Windoze 3.1 machine. They had had crashes before, "but not like this," I was told.

The database file was apparently intact and saved on a floppy (whew!), but they didn't have another machine with the proprietary software loaded to access the file.

Floppies. Remember those. Don't some Windoze machines still use 'em? How retro is that?
But I digress.

For now, they're going back to a more traditional method of keeping track of things -- a log book with every students name and total, updated daily.

I've been informed that a new, modern, plasti-card with code stripe system has been ordered, which will not only allow the student's lunch transactions to be traced, but will also keep track of those pesky little milk money purchases set aside for nutrition break.

A small price to pay for keeping track of all our kiddies mac and cheese casseroles, circus dogs, and bar-b-q riblet on a sticks.

That's some guuuud, eatin' now.

New purchase at the local drug store

Forget e-ticket rides at Disneyland or an IMAX-3D movie in Sensurround or a quick jaunt around the block on the new 4-wheeled Segway's.

The attraction that has the people I shop with lining up around the block -- okay, aisle -- is this little wonder of science combining the fun of masochism and joys of health monitoring.



I kid you not. People of all ages, creeds, religions, and shopping cart levels can be seen lining up at these little wonders at every one of the WalMart Supercenters, CVS Pharmacies and Walgreens closest to me.

The other day, while sitting at my local drugstore lunch counter, I jokingly mentioned to the Druggist/Owner that perhaps he should purchase one of those automatic blood pressure devices to increase customer traffic to his establishment.

He took no time or effort in presenting me with stacks upon stacks of brochures, sales flyers, and reading material related to purchasing such a device and wanted to get my opinion on which one he should order, me being a "computer guys of sorts."

I don't know anything about these devices other than my 6-year old always begs me to "try it" whenever she spies one with an empty armhole.

Alas, I told him what any self-respecting Mac user would tell someone looking for advice on a computer controlled device.

Don't buy the one that runs on Windoze.

Sideways Oklahoma

Before you non-Okie's (and resident Okie's for that matter), guffaw and chortle at the thought of there being a thriving and increasingly popular wine growing/making industry here in the land of the red man, know that there were over 5000 acres of vineyards planted around the time of statehood (1907).

Prohibition killed the industry, and it wasn't until the 1980's that the current resurgence in grape vine croppery took root.

I'm not a wino. I'm not a oenophile. I liked the movie Sideways because it was sorta funny and I went to film school with the guy who directed it.

But I am encouraged by the fact that bottle and bottle of award-winning fermented grape juice is coming out of my adopted state.

Cut the cheese, slice the sourdough, pop the cork, let it breath and let the Festivus for the restofus begin.

Kampai!

The world at an angle

I don't know how my daughter is doing it, but she's putting an angle on the world through the lens of her cheapy-Taiwan-made-digital-camera.

I love these pictures. Just wish I knew what combination of movement/light/optically unclear lens glass/and space time continuum shift she's using to get them.

Stay-at-Home-Dad Knowledge Base Article #002

NOTE - This one comes courtesy of my Mom, to which every respectable Stay-at-Home-Dad owes at least 50% of their success (perceived or otherwise) to.

Little kids love flashlights.

Controlling the darkness and keeping the nasties of the night at bay.

Piercing the pitch black of night with a beam of AAA luminescence.

Fending off the evil of the dayless empire and reinvoke the security that the brighter 12-hours of the 24-hour day offers.

All fine and dandy, but when the kiddies forget to turn the "electrical-salvation-portable-givers-of-light" off, those little alkaline power cells can run a chunk of change to replace on a regular basis.

Thus enter, the crank and wind-up rechargeable flashlights.

In addition to never needing batteries or spare bulbs, these little wonders gives the kiddies something to do during those eternal and infernal lighting strike blackouts.

They'll not only provide light for their Father who is stumbling in the dark in search of a candle and matches, but they'll burn a few dozen calories while providing a mental image of a squirrel on a wheel or Gilligan on his stationery faux-bamboo bicycle.

I love that these gems will provide 45 minutes of cool and calming ultra white led beamage for a relatively miniscule investment of time and effort (60 seconds).

And, if they leave them on, no worries to my debit card.

You're welcome.

Be right back...going to get some gas

Now, you tell me...would this happen in the town/city where you live?



I have not a doubt in my mind that this fella did return the next day with $10 and an apology. Bet he even bought himself a grape SlushPuppy and a Snickers bar for the road.

Working the wire

My involvement as a board member on a non-profit organization here in town has led me to some interesting gatherings, introduced me to some interesting folks, and placed me in some interesting fish-out-of-water situations.

The other day I found myself doing a few things that I could never have imagined myself doing.

The 501c(3) group I serve as a board member with is involved in creating a series of walking, historical, and nature trails around our city. In preparation for the grand opening of a major section of concrete walkway across what was until recently a cattle pasture, the Board members came together to do a "workday."

It was during this workday that I found myself both removing and stringing barbed wire fencing, pulling down cattle fences, picking up (and flinging) cow chips along the 3/4 mile concrete walking path, and erecting an oak plank sign using, of all things, a forklift.


My roll of barbed wire was slightly smaller than the one hefted by my fellow Board member pictured here. Apparently they have a mechanism of some sorts that will spool / unspool the vicious metal wire, but we didn't have one.

BTW, this fella is the pastor at the extremely large and well attended First Christian Church in my town. A nicer guy couldn't be found.


Up goes the sign. The owner of the forklift is a fellow Board member and proprietor of the local Do-it-Best hardware store in town. He drove the forklift the 4 miles to the site from his downtown store.

BTW, those three logs that are holding the sign up...earlier in the year we chopped them down, stripped 'em clean, cut 'em up, hauled 'em to this site, dug deep holes for them, and erected them as they stand today. That is a story left for another blog entry as my city-boy emotional state has still not fully recovered from that ordeal

Seeking a blue ribbon

No livestock.
No apple pies.
No canned peaches.
No humongous gourd.

Our family's first ever entry in the upcoming local county fair will be an original 3'x3'oil on canvas work of art by my 6-year old.


It's simply titled, "The Candle."

Sippin' an chattin' at the drugstore lunch counter

In my small town we have three pharmacies.

There's the modern drive-thru express pharmacy in the new part of town and across the way is a mega-WalMart drug dispensing machine with acres and acres of free parking.

Then there's the old-fashioned drug store in the historic downtown district, complete with lunch counter, soda fountain, cosmetics in glass cases and two aisles of greeting cards dating back to the 70's.

8 chrome barstools with sparkly red vinyl covering and a formica countertop with original chrome border await hungry patrons looking for a quick, inexpensive snack and a smile from one of the lovely counter ladies.

Sitting next to the old time drink mixers (no blenders here), stainless steel drop-in containers pump out TWO kinds of syrup (chocolate and butterscotch), and dispense fruit toppings, jimmies, or any variety of nuts.

There are black press on plastic letters on the menu board overhead, tempting you with gastronomical delights such as pimento cheese sandwiches, turkey wraps, frito chili pies, hand-dipped ice cream sundaes, and drinks of all flavors and tastes.

The George Foreman grill and microwave oven stand ready to serve consumables of any kind, hot and delicious. They seem to appear apologetic for bringing their moderness into the old skool atmosphere of the lunch counter, but as long as they do their job without complaint, I think their presence is tolerated.

The elderly patrons prefer to populate one of the two melamine covered booths from the 70's, or either of the several square tables and chairs that look like surplus from a shuttered H. Salt Fish and Chips restaurant. They're the perfect "sittin' for a spell" furniture for the Red Hat ladies who come in every Thursday for nickel coffee, delicious cake and conversation.

The place is cool because it isn't trying to be cool. It knows it's place in the confines of the Drug Store, and accepts it's role as a historical nod to the way things used to be.

The other day, while sippin' an orangeade (yep, you heard me...an orangeade -- THE most delicious beverage I've ever tasted and more addictive than an Ice Blended Mocha at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf) at the lunch counter with my daughters, I was involved in a lively conversation (well, lively for this crowd) about high school reunions and the sizes of our respective graduating classes.

My graduating class had something like 900+ kids in it. At the last reunion I attended, they had to rent a ballroom at the Hilton in Downtown LA.

My wife grabbed her diploma with a little over 120 seniors. Her last reunion was in the local community center gymnasium.

The lunch counter girl partied with 43 other kids at her grad night. Her upcoming reunion is going to be at the local Lions Club facililty.

Then Charley the pharmacist walked up to and behind the counter, filled his mug from the tin pot full of freshly brewed joe and casually said,

"At my last high school reunion we just had to pick which booth to sit in at the mexican restaurant downtown."

I added, "So, not many people showed up?"

To which he replied, "No everyone was there."

[Me laughing]

"Two guys even brought their wives."

[More of me laughing]

" We took the big booth."

I barely finished my orangeade.

Stay-at-Home-Dad Knowledge Base Article #001

Somehow, my household has amassed a small collection of kiddie videos and dvds, worthy of a 4' x 4' glass enclosure at the local county fair in the oddly strange but seemingly curious "collections" section --right next to little Bobby Jones' "OU spongy oversized spirit fingers" collection and the awkwardly tall Samantha Peterson's "Pringle chips that look like farm animals I've raised and slaughterd for my FFA projects" collection.

Predictably, each of my kiddies has circled their wagons around a particular dvd/video for repeated viewing.

And when they're in the zone, they could (potty breaks notwithstanding) and would (if we allowed it) watch their fave video as many times in a row as there are blades of crab grass on my 1/4 acre of supposed bermuda grass lawn.

When "Chicka chicka boom boom" started to show signs of signal loss and video drop out, I knew it wasn't long for the vcr world. And with it, went the source of 7 minutes of joy in the life of my 3-year old.

My solution. I dubbed all of my kids favorite old skool VHS videos onto DVD.

DVD's don't need rewinding.
DVD's will last longer than a VHS copy (rumor has it).

And the topper...DVD's can be set to play over and over and over and over, ad infinitum while you hide in the next room pretending not to be singing along to that incessant music on the DVD.

Back to school

You read right. It's the middle of August, 102 degrees and in my opinion, summer vacation should still be in full swing for the kids. Yet, the bags of school supplies are filled, the opening day outfits are selected, the go-to-bed-early to get-up-early practice sessions are in full swing and the postcards are in the mail.

You read right. Postcards.



This is a practice I wasn't familiar with. Don't know if this is a local thing, an Okie thing, or whether teachers everywhere send welcoming postcards to their new studetns.

The girls dug it. My wife dug it. In fact, we didn't even know who C's teacher was until we received the postcard, so that was an added bonus.

So, the big questions being, which of the five 1st grade teachers did C get, and which one did we want her to get?

Sure, I could have extended my influence as an elected officer of the PTO (I'm Secretary/Treasurer this year), but did I? No.

And while it was tempting to call up my So Cal-raised, Tommy's-burger-loving homeboy, who happens to be the Principal at C's school and chat a bit about teacher selection, I chose not to play that card.

Another option would have found me bending the ear of a fellow seat member on the non-profit board of directors that I serve on, who just happens to be married to the 1st grade teacher that we wanted C to have. Didn't go there either.

And yet when we read the back of the postcard sent to C...



...we happily learrned that she did indeed get the 1st grade teacher we had been hoping for.

Sometimes things just turn out right, even without me running interference.

Turns out we know PK's new teacher as well. We've played poker with her and her husband before. Also her daughter was in Pre-K with C when we first moved here.

Small town wonders.

Mutant Watermelon Seeds from Space

The best watermelon I've ever had was in Japan.

I was told the entire melon cost our host family close to $127 (U.S.)

My friend and I were guests, so according to Japanese custom, we were afforded the biggest slices.

The soft, juicy, fleshy red melon was sweet beyond any soft, jucy, fleshy melon I had eaten until then, and since. There was almost a total absence of white melon flesh. It went from dark red, to pink, to green. How is that possible?

It was chilled in the icebox (don't submerge your melon in a horse trough full of ice water, since the melon will suck the surrounding fluid in and dilute it's sweetness) to perfect consuming temperature and sliced up with all the reverance of a Kobe beef prime rib filet -- which I had at this very same meal, but that's another story.

We each were given wide brimmed bowls to eat over, to catch the earthbound juice for enjoyment later. Every drop is sacred.

At approximately $21 a slice, nothing went to waste. We even sucked the juice out of every seed and ate the opulent pinkness almost down to the green of the rind.

It was that good.

The second greatest watermelon I've eaten was given to me by my Father-in-Law last summer. He had been to an auction, and got to talking to a fella who was selling home grown watermelons off the back of his pick'em truck.

This melon was everything my Japanese melon was, only about 75% as sweet. However, at $5 a melon and 3x the size, this domestic Okie melon was a bargain indeed. I'm not mathematically inclined enough to figure what THIS melon would have set back the lovely Tokyo-ite family in Yen.

The third best melon I've had was consumed by myself this last weekend. It was as good as any other melon I've eaten here in America's heartland, but it had the most amazing seeds I"ve ever seen.

Take a gander...

Hormones in milk and B.O.

Why should a 6-year old girl funk in her armpits after a hard day out playing?

My wife is convinced that it's a side effect of all the PBF 50 sun block we're slathering her with.

Since neither one of us exhibits the same level of funkiness that our petite 43 lb. daughter emits (weight to weight ratio wise, I should funk 4.5x more than she does, but don't even come close), where is she getting all this pit steam?

I'm convinced it's all the hormones she's been getting in her daily moo juice intake since we moved here and starting drinking the local milk.

I miss Trader Joe's Raw Certified Hormone Free LowFat milk.

The mighty fury of Natural Gas

I don't know how much a 1990 John Deere Bulldozer weighs, but I'm sure it tops the scales a tad higher than my little Civic.

Yet it was blown back 15 feet, and rotated 90 degrees.

Remind me to stay away from 8" buried gas lines in the future.

Knot Tying Impaired

I wasn't a Boy Scout.
I'm not a sailin' man by any means.
I like slip on shoes.

Face it. I'm not a knot head.

In fact, you might say I'm knot tying handicapped.

Show me a knot. Step-by-step. Slowly and carefully. I'll follow along, seemingly aware of the process.

I may even remember the knot. For awhile.

Then, quick as you can say, "Perils of Pauline," I'll have forgotten it.

My Father-in-law has a good head for knots. He ties some doozies that inspire awe and reverance everytime I watch him tie down a load in the back of his pickup, or secure some hard won auction items to the floor of his trailer.

My Dad was pretty good at knots too. I think my brother is just as impaired as I am, so that helps some.

The other day, my 6-year old taught me how to braid her hair. She grew weary of the "pony-tail" (single), "doggie-ears" (double pony tails), or the "just-worn-straight-down" styled varieties that my male hairstyling genes are capable of doing.

She felt I needed to expand my hair styling repertoire so... guided by the loving and patient hand of C, I dove into the dreaded braid.

Even though my knot tying impaired brain battled furiously in it's efforts to guide my stubby sausage digits to do the wrong thing, I eventually got it.

In theory.

Now I just need lots and lots and lots of practice. Good thing I have two daughters.

Next up, the French Braid. I may need to go back to Grad School for that one.

The horror continues...

Apparently the car dealership at the center of the controversy surrounding the dismissal of two OU Football players is getting death threats.

Over 170 so far, and season opening kickoff isn't until September 2.

I told you OU fans weren't fair weather.

In response, the dealership has been innundating the local radio and tv stations with a commercial that basically denies their involvement in the OU season killing scandal.

They've also installed a pop-up on their website...



Hope they weren't projecting any record sales for this month...

Road Kill #2 - almost a year later

It's been almost a year since my first road kill.

My family was with me. It was a warm summer dusk as we drove in from town on the divided interstate.

The highway must draw the swarms of bugs to it's sun warmed asphalt, because that's where our car seems to pick up the majority of it's extra weight.

Not from the groceries filling the trunk.
Not from the gasoline at 6 lbs. and $2.89 a gallon.
Not from the acres and acres of school supplies we have to collect for the girls.

But from the millions of bug carcasses blanketing the front fascia and windshield of our just washed-and-waxed import.

That evening, the bugs were thick and swarming in vicious packs above the road. The local avian population does it's best to eat their fill and rid the night air of yet another no-see-um, or skeeter.

Many times, I've witnessed feathered kamikaze's dart into my car's path, only to get a mouthful of gnats, then disappear into the night

Many times I've yelled outloud, "watch out bird," as my brain kicks into defense mode and my foot momentarily gets off the accelerator.

Many times, I've wondered just how tasty a mosquito must be for a bird to play chicken (pun intended) with my un-fast and un-furious Civic rice mobile.

But this time...
...as we all heard the unmisakable "thud" of miniscule flesh and bone hitting our grill...
...saw the billowing "poof" of feathers trailing behind us...
...and felt the momentary nausea of yet another of nature's creatures getting snuffed out (think how Ben Kenobi felt after Tarkin blew up Leia's home planet "just for fun?")...

...I knew this would not be one of those other many times.

Comments from the peanut gallery in the back seat?

C - "Did we just get hit by a bird? - My 6-year old thinking like the future attorney she'll become. Blame the other guy. We didn't hit the bird...it hit us.

PK - "Look at all the feathers. How come we don't have feathers." - For a small bird, there was an amazing amount of feathers flying around. PK is in her question asking stage right now.

S - "Oooh, poor bird. Did he come out the back? I hope he's not stuck in the front grill." - Notice how a dead bird becomes a "he" when my wife discusses it. If it made it and survived, I'm sure the bird would become a "she" when described in a future memory.

BTW, in response to S' comments above...

Yes, it did, it wasn't.

Simple math to a better life

Out here in the country, applying some simple math to one's daily activities may extend those daily activities by another day.

Case in point...

Where:N = Night (enveloping darkness)
CPR = Country/Private roads (no street lamps overhead)
ATV = All-Terrain-Vehicle (4-wheelin', yee hah!)
IH - Inoperative Headlight ($23 at the local Napa)And given the following:

A 16-foot trailer parked on the road, while not too common an occurance, does happen

It's dark at 1:35 a.m. in the morning

Private roads are usually on private property, meaning that the person driving on said private road should probably be aware what is on said private property.

Unless of course, they're trespassing or mentally impaired in some alcoholic induced manner.

N (ATV+IH) / CPR =

Oh the horror!

Local media is abuzz this morning about the following news...."Rhett Bomar and J.D. Quinn were dismissed from the University of Oklahoma football team Wednesday after a school investigation determined they had been paid for hours they did not work at a Norman car dealership"Columnist Jenni Carlson of the barely legible state rag, The Oklahoman, summed it up nicely..."I know all the fans where I work have just acquired high blood pressure and a few, we have put on suicide watch. They are in total disbelief. "

"Rhett Bomar is gone, dismissed from the Oklahoma football team along with roommate J.D. Quinn because the zeros on their paychecks didn’t jive with the hours on their timecards. That’s a big-time NCAA violation, and that’s a ticket on the first train out of Norman."

"But with the Sooners’ starting quarterback goes the high hopes for this season."

"Forget a No. 1 ranking in the preseason polls."

"Forget an undefeated season."

"Forget a national title."My favorite quote of the day came from a morning drive time FM jock who enthusiastically bellowed,

"This is no time to jump off the Sooner Schooner!"
Which was surprising to me since I have never seen a state with so few fair weather fans as here in Oklahoma. The dedication the sports fanatics here in the Sooner state demonstrate for their teams through good times and bad is commendable.

Little more than 30 days to kickoff and the sleeping *giant awakes.

*No, not the OU Football team, I'm talking about the OU Fans in their XXXXXL Sooner T-shirts.

VBS

Yesterday afternoon, C got a call from a Kinder classmate inviting her to come to the VBS at her church that evening.

VBS = Vacation Bible School

Out here, VBS also equals big business for the local churches. Kind of like Pledge Drive Week at PBS.

Anyhow, C showed interest in going, so I fixed an early dinner for the girls, and rushed out of the house to drop her off at 6 p.m. I got her registered, she found her classmate that had invited her, and all seemed well.

Until I saw that all the little kids in her group were carrying $1 bills in their hands.

I asked why.

To put in the collection plate, I was told.

Apparently, it was Boys vs. Girls to see who could collect the most money. The winner gets to hit one of the First Action Heroes in the face with a creme pie.

Fair enough. But I hadn't brought along my money clip. I'll be back.

10 block drive home. Get some dough. Get back. PK fell asleep in the car. Collect her in my arms, rush back inside. Make the cash handoff to C. All is well.

FF three hours later and we pick C up. She's obviously stressed out about something. Not your happy, bounding about 6-year old. Perhaps she's just tired, being an hour past her normal bedtime. We get her home, bathed, and ready for bed.

Time to cuddle over some books and discuss the day.

"What'd you learn at VBS tonight? Did you have a good time?"

"Well, not really."

Here is comes.

The classmate who had invited her to attend that evening, ditched her and didn't pay any attention to her all night. Nice.

The girls were way behind the boys in payola so Joseph, the First Action Hero of the night, "encouraged" the girls to step up their efforts. Hmm.

Finally, C was shaky with anxiety and felt like she had to stay up to think about who to bring to VBS tomorrow, since they were told that each person HAD to bring someone new the following night.

My daughter takes things like this pretty seriously and was so keyed up about it she was near tears just thinking about it.

So, whatever spiritual lessons or value she may have derived from the evenings festivities, were superceded by three somewhat negative factors.One, the fact that her friend only invited her to fulfill her "requirement" to bring someone to VBS, since once she got C there, she showed no interest in being with her.

Two, it all seems to be about the Benjamin's, and getting the kids to cough up more moolah.

Three, raising the stress level in innocent 1st graders by pressuring them to recruit others.
I understand the need and desire for any organization to recruit. I understand the need and desire for any entity to profit. I understand the misguided innocence of a 6-year old to mislead a so-called friend in an effort to please their elders.

I understand all this and more.

But my 6-year old doesn't, and frankly, doesn't need to at this stage in her life.

Tomorrow, we're going to the new Oklahoma History Center, then having a fun, family dinner with my wife downtown when she gets off work.

First Action Hero Joshua will just have to wait.

Milestone #492 - Etch-a-sketch

I enjoyed reliving a moment of discovery from my youth the other day thanks to a classic toy and my daughter's curiosity.

The inevitable aggregate of being the proud owner/user of the one and only Etch-a-sketch is the question...
"How does it draw like that?"I proudly demonstrated to my 6-year old the tried and true backandforth-upanddown-incrementalmovements technique of clearing the screen of all the "magic dust."

She has the technique.
She has the patience.
She has the drive and determination to peek behind the green curtain.

And now she knows how the magic works.


After dreaming the impossible dream and finding the buried treasure at the bottom of the magical drawing board, we checked out the How Stuff Works site and learned more about it.

We even found an online java-motored Etch-a-Sketch here


However don't expect to find the secret to java programming underneath this applet if you do the screen-clearing technique on this Etch-A-Sketch.

Weird beer laws

So, when the rest of the United States ended Prohibition, Oklahoma stuck to it's tommy guns...so to speak.
The sale of beer no stronger than 3.2 percent alcohol by weight was permitted because legislators classified it as a "nonintoxicating beverage."I'm a liquor lightweight, so I would beg to differ. Get me anywhere near drinking spirits of anykind and my asian blood throws a "histy fit."

Histamine that is.

Red blotches on my face, headache, blocked nasal passages -- the works.

Oh, I get immediately sleepy drunk as well, but that's a tale of a different beast.

Needless to say, I'm not a drinker.

However, I imagine most residents of my adopted state would wholly beg to differ with me and have adopted all sorts of names for the low cold beer alcohol content available in this state. My favorite among the popular nomenclature for trying to get drunk on 3.2 beer is "riding a rocking horse into battle,"
It's not just Oklahoma's faith-based roots that have kept prohibition-era laws on the books. Low-point beer distributors aren't interested in changing the laws because they would risk having to follow the more stringent ones imposed on liquor stores.

Oklahoma convenience and grocery stores cannot sell beer or wine coolers with more than 3.2 percent alcohol. Big-name domestic breweries, including Anheuser-Busch, Miller and Coors, brew lower-point beer for the Sooner State and five others. Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Minnesota and Utah also sell 3.2 beer.Nice to know were not alone in this....for now.
Liquor stores in Oklahoma can sell beer with higher alcohol content, but they have more rules to follow. For one, they have to sell beer at room temperature. Also, liquor stores are allowed to be open only from 10 a.m. to 9 p.m. Monday through Saturday.I think Okies just need to learn to love a good Imperial pint of Guinness, or some good Belgian beer, which, people tell me, is so good you can drink at room temperature and it still tastes good.

Mennonites at the cement pond

We usually try to avoid the local aquatic center during weekends as the crowds can get to Disneyland levels.

Last Sunday, the girls were clamoring for a swim, so I relented, tucked as much of my gut as would fit into my swim trunks and took them to the pool.

We faced the usual crowds and then some.

But there was something quite different about one particular grouping of the crowd. Much different.

The men were playing a game of modified netless volleyball/waterpolo with oversized beach balls in the 4-foot deep section of the lap pool. They were all lean and tall, softly muscular, with the worst farmer tans I've ever seen. Strangely, their tan lines ended at their wrists and buttoned-up collar neckline -- like what you would get if you wore a three-piece suit to a 14-day straight tanning booth-o-rama.

A group of younger women, all wearing black head scarves that looked like fancy doo-rags with flowers embroidered on them, waded and floated nearby the men.

An older group of women donning the same black/embroidered doo rags, sat with perfect posture, quiet reserve, and not one apparent lick of envy for their pool bound partners.

Some further observations...

Apparently only the single, or unmarried females could partake of the wet and wild activities. And even then they had to wear their head scarves, black short pants (barely shorts, more like clam diggers), with a double layer of cotton t-shirts on top.

The men and boys all wore shorts pants as well. Black or khaki. Most of which tended to pull a little too far southward due to their high retention factor of the wetstuff.

Talking with strangers appeared to not be a priority on their agenda.

Not a one of them could swim. The teens all wore inflatable tubes around their waists. The men stayed it the 4-foot deep shallows. They all stayed way clear of the diving boards and 12-foot deep diving well.

I titled this entry as I did, under the assumption that this group of interesting and polite Sunday-go-to-pool splashers were from the nearby Mennonite enclave I know exists in the area.

But I may be wrong and way off base as to their origins, their nationality, and their cultural beliefs.

But I do know this. The non-waders seemed content in their place, the waders were having a ball, the youngsters were polite, and as a group they were picture perfect public pool participants.

On a personal note, I do believe they could benefit from a little dipping into a different type of pool...the gene type. It's a good thing beauty is only skin deep.

Just how many would be considered illegal?

From the recently published court records log in our local newspaper...

Wee Gah Wah - Chinaman

Last weekend, my family and I took in some local history at Fort Reno in nearby El Reno, OK.

One of the highlights of the fort grounds is the old cemetary. American Soldiers from many different campaigns are laid to rest here, some dating back to the late 1800's. Their families, many infants (high infant mortality rate back then), even some Buffalo Soldiers, are all buried within the sacred grounds of this frontier outpost cemetary.

Surprisingly, there are a few dozen German and Italian WW2 POWs buried in a separate section of the cemetary. The Fort served as a POW camp for a few years during the early-mid 40's and since it's a law that no enemy combatant could be buried with American soldiers (even those who died in the 1800's), the Axis POWs are in a walled off section of the grounds.

However, as I strolled the hallowed (and apparently haunted) burial grounds, I stumbled upon this lone grave against the north wall, off by itself.



Take a closer look.



Wee Gah Wah - Chinaman. How cool is that.
But, what an odd name I thought.
But, how nice that they buried him in the main cemetary, albeit far and away from any other tombstones.
But, still, for a non-white (who wasn't a Buffalo Soldier) to be respected enough to even get a burial and engraved tombstone, he must have been someone special. Especially given the plight and racism any Asian received during that time period.

Wee Gah Wah must have been one cool "coolie."

Meanwhile, back at the visitor's center, I cornered a period costumed museum docent and inquired about the lone Asian brother buried up on boot hill.Me - Was that his real name?

Docent - No, those were the only three words in English that he learned to say, or that anyone could understand.

Me - Wee Gah Wah were English words?

Docent - Yes, he was the fort laundryman, and he must have been pretty well liked for the Government to allow him to be buried in the cemetary with the soldiers and their families, not to mention they paid for an engraved grave marker.

Me - But, what does "Wee Gah Wah" mean?

Docent - We think he was trying to say, "We go wash." or "We got wash," but no one knows for sure.
I don't know, what do y'all think he was trying to say?

Burning Maryjo

Hundreds Of Marijuana Plants Destroyed Near Enid
ENID, Okla. (AP) _ Drug agents have torched 650 marijuana plants growing in southern Garfield County and northern Kingfisher County.

They were burned Thursday at a Garfield County shale pit northwest of Enid, the Oklahoma Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs said.

Agents from the bureau spend the summer going throughout Oklahoma eradicating marijuana.

The Oklahoma National Guard supports the effort, providing helicopters agents can fly in to search for marijuana.

Not all marijuana found is burned. Other plants in less-accessible areas are sprayed with herbicides to kill them.
I think "shale pit" is a law enforcement term for house party.

Bananas are code 11

Not to sound to critical of the produce selection at our local market (the only market in town), but growing up in LA, I admit to being a bit spoiled when it comes to having access to a wide selection of good, fresh fruit and vegetables.

Not so here.

But we adapt and deal.

So when I heard through the plum vine that current shipment of red plums were actually decent, I told C (who loves plums more than broccoli -- and she loves broccoli. Seriously, she loves broccoli) that we were market bound.

So here I stand, holding an ever expanding plastic produce bag, as my two girls fill it up with plum after juicy, luscious red plum.

Then I notice something. This plum has a sticker on it. This one does too. They all have stickers on them.

These stickers in fact.Back in the day, when I was a checker at my local Alpha Beta making $13.85 an hour, part of our training would find us memorizing dozens upon dozens codes for every single piece of produce our store would carry.

Bananas were code 11. Plaintains were 12.
Head lettuce was 25. Romaine lettuce was 26.
Red plums, 35, Black plums, 36. Pineapple, 42.

You get the idea.

The more years you put in behind the register, the more codes and types of produce you would find yourself remembering.

I could tell the difference between a red onion and a red shallot.
Red delicious, Jonathan, McIntosh, Rome Beauty - all red, all apples, all different codes.
Tangerines, tangelos, mandarins, navel and juice oranges - all sweet, all orange, all different codes.
3 lb. bag Russets, 5 lb. bag White Rose, 10 lb. bag Yukon Gold - code, codes, codey-code-codes.
Water, Winter, Musk, Cantalope, Honeydew, Casaba, Cranshaw, Canary, and even Santa Claus - melon - code, melon-code, melon-code.

It was a learned art form which many lesser checkers never quite mastered.

This was in the days before bar coded packaging, scanners, repetitive stress disorder, credit cards, atm / debit cards, keypads or identity theft.

I learned on an old Sweda cash register (you remember those don't you? Big, brown, mechanical and you needed to have fingers of steel and a strong punch to add the totals up -- tink, tink, kachunk, KACHUNK!).

By the time I was made a full checker, I had graduated to an S18 5-high computerized register. Enter the need for codes.

Every checker had to visually approve all checks and verify the ID and phone numbers
And if you wrote a check, be sure to have your ID ready or you can get one off our check cashing cards (which would pre approve your check up to $250).

Every grocery item had a price tag on it. Every piece off produce had a corresponding code.

And every plum was pure.
And every plum was virtuous.
And every plum felt no fear of it's skin being invaded by a gummed up sticker bearing the cheat sheet code for the checker to ring it up with.

Kid's College Part 2

You may recall that C is taking a painting class at Kid's College this week.

Yesterday, she announced that her teacher is a Professional Pet Portrait Painter who asked that all the kids bring in a snapshot of their pet for class the next day. She was going to help each student paint (on canvas) a picture of their pet from the snapshot.

Here we go again.

C was all frantic because we didn't have a picture of Choo choo, her one and only pet -- goldfish.

Now, Choo choo has been a member of our family since C was 18 months old -- she's 6 now. Pretty good life out of a feeder fish from the Petco. I should have a picture of him. I do have pictures of the girls with Choo choo's clear 1-gallon abode wherein one can barely make out a silvery/yellow object in the bowl. However, if you didn't know the silvery/yellow blip was supposed to be a live goldfish, you wouldn't know the difference.

C goes into panic mode. Not only does she not have a real pet, but the pet she does have, is not all that photogenic. I don't have a digital camera with an optical zoom (digital zooms suck), so I had to resort to using the still function of my video camera to get a good close-up of her fish. At least he/she/it held still long enough for me to get some decent poses.

Off I go to my iBook, where I imported the 640x480 still to iMovie, exported it as a still frame, only to be printed out on our 600dpi laser printer.

Here are the digital results.




The printed pictures C ended up taking to her class were much muddier, grey and white laser printed renderings of an aging $.39 feeder goldfish that is no longer gold but more transparently flesh in color.

Ever the trooper, C took the non-photos of her non-pet into class and ended up doing a pretty good rendering of her beloved scaled soulmate.

Her teacher told her that the pose she picked (center) was a unique angle for a fish and thought that it captured the spirit of her aquatic buddy in striking detail.

Bless her Professinal Pet Portrait Painter heart.

Kid's College Part 1

This week the girls are attending a week of Kid's College at a nearby community college.

PK is taking a class called "Nurture your Nature," taught by a horticulturist, where she'll get to play with worms, plant plants, examine snails, and discover the joys of dirt.

C is taking an art class, as well as a hip-hop dancing class. More on that later.

Yesterday was the first day, and as nervous as the girls were with a case of first-day-of-class jitters (remember that?), I employed a "getting acclimated to new surroundings" technique which has worked for me in the past. They both behaved liked little ladies and settled right into their routines.

C dove into her art, PK dove into her dirt.

I hung out outside PK's classroom with the latest issue of Hot Rod, and a copy of the community college's schedule of classes -- always on the lookout for an interesting class to take...hmmm, Course 1251 - "Intro to the Windows Operating System"...that could be good for an hour long nap.

While perusing the catalog and keeping an eye on the clock, I got to witness the painful exploits of a father trying to convince, cajole, and con his whimpering 3-year old son into joining the other kids in the $30 class he was signed up for.
Be my brave little guy, will ya.
You'll have fun, look at the other kids in there.
None of them are afraid.
Where's my brave little soldier?
Don't be shy. It's okay to be shy, but this will be fun.
You wanted to take this class.
I'm getting angry now.
Your mommy is going to be really disappointed in you.Man, this poor Dad tried every hook and crook in the book.

Finally, he resorted to the final of final parental ploys and said, "do you want me to call your mother?" The brave little guy nodded.

After a lengthy talk via Motorola Razr with his working Mommy, the young lad contentedly marched off behind his frustrated father to the waiting pickup truck in the parking lot. Off they went, leaving a little bit of the father's patience behind, as well as their $30 enrollment fee for the class.

The "getting acclimated to new surroundings" technique that works pretty well with my girls may not work for every kid in every similar situation, but it seems to work for my girls and I'm happy to have discovered it.

My 6-year old is at that stage where she is nervous for all of 2 minutes in this situation. After that, she's made a friend and is buzzing in the newness of it all.

When taking my 3-year old into an unfamiliar setting, I ger her there early enough so she can establish her own space. After finding her room, and selecting a chair to her liking, we set up some familiar objects (backpack, jacket, whatever) nearby and she gets comfortable with herself in her new surrounding.

By the time the rest of the kids start arriving, my daughter is acting like the gracious host at a dinner party, inviting the kids in, making them feel comfortable, telling them her name, and ensuring they have a place to sit.

I've watched her do this several times and as long as it works for her, it works for me.

Course, this may be how Martha Stewart started on her road to being the hostess with the mostess.

Like coming home

Yesterday, PK and I killed some time at one of the few indoor-mega malls that are within a 2-gallon drive in my civic.

This particular mall has the only Apple Store in the entire state of Oklahoma.

You may (or not) recall that sometime back when I was contemplating finding employment here in the Sooner State, that I had a quasi-interview with Apple for a position at the not-yet-built-Oklahoma-Apple-Store.

Employment aside, our foray into the white and glass odyssey that is every Apple Store I've ever been in provided that familiar sense of belonging, camaraderie, and technical comfort I always feel when surrounded by all things Apple and Mac.

Before distracting myself with the latest MacBooks, G5 Quad dual-core processor towers, Cinema Displays and the wall-O-iPod accessories, I directed my 3-old to the waiting iMacs setup at a centerstage table just for ankle biters such as herself. She found the round, black, cushy chair to her liking, grabbed a nearby mouse in her itty-bitty little hand and found a familiar friend in Dora the Explorer.

Apple places these kiddie iMac tables in the direct center of the store, allowing parents and siblings direct view of their miniscule relations as they themselves peruse the store. Safe and comforting.

This, as Guy Kawasaki would say, is doing things the Macintosh Way.

In addition, a young Applette donning the requisite white Apple logo'd black polo shirt, hangs out by the kiddie table to render assistance, turn down volumes, solve riddles of software, and practice her conflict resolution skills on feuding future Mac owners.

As PK played, and I browsed, drooled, fantasized, and all but made love to the 17" MacBook Pro I was hammering on, I noticed a small herd of folk starting to gather round PK's personal space.

"She's 3", I answered upon arriving behind the crowd of 7 people (the Applette, an elderly couple, two teenage girls, an expectant Mother, and a young boy who I theorized was just trying to get as close to the teenage girls as possible).

From the looks I received from the elderly couple, I was not to be believed. Seizing the chance to show not only what my daughter could accomplish behind the mouse of a Mac, but what a Mac could accomplish in the hands of a 3-year old man-child, I pressed on.
PK, how old are you?No answer. She was helping Dora pick the correct animal to mimic to get up a tree, and was not to be disturbed.Sweetie, how old are you?Still no response. Oh no, my daughter is a go-bot already.Sweetie, I'm asking you a question.Rather quickly, I saw her move her cursor to the "Time Out" icon at the bottom of the screen and click on it. Once Dora is safely paused, she turned to me and said,

"Daddy, I'm free." -- note, she still has some issues with her "th" sound and it often comes out as the "fr" sound.

Lessons learned here:

Don't mess with my daughter when she's helping Dora

While you may think that having your 3-year old show proficiency on a computer would be helpful for the Sales staff, keep in mind that her unsociable behavior while displaying said proficiencty may prove more damaging.

A teenage boy flying solo is no match for teenage girls traveling in pairs, no matter cool he is.

Yarrgh, Davy Jones be turning in his grave

It's not often I sit in a McDonald's watching my 3-old navigate the human habitrails and have a hearty chuckle while reading her Happy Meal box.

But the level of absurdity displayed on the thin cardboard container of fast food was almost too much for my middle-aged grey matter to comprehend.

This week, Mickey D's is cross promoting the new Pirates of the Caribbean flick with all the blustery vigor that only the mouse and the golden arches could muster.

What tickled my flap-doodle funny bone were a series of politically correct, white-washed, homogenized pirate riddles that someone somewhere was paid good money to think up and commit to paper.





Somewhere in pirate afterlife land Captain Morgan is spillin' his rum, Red Beard is getting a shave, the Jolly Roger is getting a facial, and the Dread Pirate Roberts is telling Buttercup, "...as you wish...but first, let's eat some fish."

It it weren't for the cool inflatable swashbuckling cutlass Happy Meal toy that I instantly inflated and gave to PK to go and torment the other kids with, my pirate swaggering afternoon would have been scuttled for sure.

Hotspots R' Us

On my last trip back to So Cal, I brought along my iBook.

The brood and I camped out at my Mom's for a few nights, and my Dad's for a few nights.

Mom lives in a tri-level condo in a 60-unit complex deep within the San Gabriel Valley.
Dad lives in a two-story house on a cul du sac just north of San Diego.

Mom has an SBC Yahoo 384K DSL line.
Dad has dialup.

We stayed upstairs in both places.

At my Mom's, my iBook found no less than 4 unsecured wireless networks. I had my choice, so I found one that seemed faster than the others and used it the entire time I was at my Mom's. It was named "linksys."

At my Dad's, my iBook found only 2 unsecured wireless networks. Both were of equal signal strength and speed. I used the one labeled "netgear."

Here in my small town, I now know of 6 unsecured wireless networks within the town's limits, 2 of which are within sniffing distance of my home office. Just the other day I found another hotspot while parked at our local Sonic, ordering a breakfast burrito (no cheese) and a Sonic Sunrise.

A future project will be to do a street by street sweep of my small town to find out just how many of my neighbors are "sharing" their wireless networks.

Between the pages lies pure gold

Friday is movie day at our local library. The sign up sheet fills up fast, so you gotta get to the library early on Monday to ensure your seats for the upcoming showing at weeks end.

Last Friday's movie was Stuart Little 3.

Our small town library actually has one of the nicest, flat-wide-large-highdef-wallmounted tv's in the city courtesy of a generous donation from the Friends of the Library group. Deep pockets, this group. Good taste in gifts too.

So, we arrived early to get good seats for the girls. They got their cup of microwave popped corn and room temperature cherry flavored juice boxes, settled into their chairs and were ready for the show.

I took my laptop and found a quiet spot in the corner of the geneology section.

No wireless access at our local library, but I was confident that I could go a few hours without checking my email, and that if I needed access to any information that my research required, I was, after all, in a library.

Sooner than expected, I found myself needing to check out a few quick facts to support the piece I was writing.

"Flashback," I thought, as I had to physically get out of my seat, access the libraries materials database via a smart terminal, find the referenced book, take said book back to my table, only to spend the next hour searching for the particular piece of information I needed.

I faced down this archaic information storage device (book) with grit and gusto. No wikipedia. No google. No "find" function. No "search" capability. I turned page after page after page.

I had to use my eyes, my brain, my fingers even, to actually READ, SCAN, and SEARCH for a single particular passage in this hard bound collection of letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages.

EGADS!

To add insult to injury, when I did find something that could possibly have been relevant data, I couldn't just copy and paste the text into an outline formatted text file for editorializing and editing at a later time and date.

No. I actually had to WRITE down anything and everything I thought may be relevant to my research.

I was flustered beyond words. My eyes were sore. My brain hurt. My mouse hand was twitchy and my confidence in my own note taking abilities was shaken down to the core.

My, how quickly our study and research habits have changed.

Lazy?
You bet.
Spoiled?
Absolutely.
Thankful to be living in a time where I have near instantaneous access to the world's largets library of information?
Oh brother, where art thou?

I feel good, I knew that I would, now.

Took the girls to see a matinee of Garfield, The Tail of Two Kitties.

The movie itself bears only the slightest of relevance to the theme of this blog entry, but I did want to mention in detail all of the positive aspects of this particular cinematic event.1. Jennifer Love HewittThat being done, let's get on with this blog entry.

On the way home from the frolicking feline film, James Brown's explosive funk classic, I Got You (I Feel Good) came blaring through the Harmon-kardons in my civic. As any red-blooded American of taste, class, and culture would do, I proceeded to sing along with the Godfather of Soul at the top of my severly limited vocal range.

Immediately, C chirps out, Turn it up Daddy, I love this song!

Out puffs my chest as fatherly pride and genetic induced joy fills my soul to think that my daughter, at so young an age, would begin to appreciate the music that is the foundation for my preferred selection of tunage - funk, soul, rhythm and blues.

Even my youngest, at a mere 3.5 years old, seemed to be enjoying the rhythmic stylin's of the "hardest working man in show business."

At 2:46, the short song ends and I relished in the glow that is/was my daughter's milestone of her musical development.

Then she adds, "I love that song. It's from the first Garfield movie, that we have on DVD."

Sigh.

I fear that all of my daughter's references to the music of my youth...
-- the music which provided the dramatic and comedic soundtrack to my life...
-- the music that still inspires the passion within me to try and capture the sweet birds of my youth...
-- the music that took me through the hardest and sweetest of times...

...will be the background music for an animated lasagna eating cat, a rugrat gone wild, or a yet another Disney character ripped off from the Brothers Grimm.

Oh well, I'll always have Earth, Wind, and Fire. Play it again, Maurice.

Ultimate Radio Contest Giveaway

S was chuckling as she retold the following tale to me.

Her daily drive is a 110 mile round trip. During that drive time she catches up on phone calls, listens to books on CD, plots out her workday/week, and peruses the local am/fm radio bands.

On the way home the other day, she found herself listening to a local FM-Clear Channel-owned top-40 station.

A loyal listener with the determination of a wolverine defending it's fresh kill against a full grown Kodiak bear, listened to the station for 12 hours, wrote down the song and artist of the hour for each tick of the little hand, and managed to be the 24th caller into the station at the zero hour.

Her reward for this phenomenal feat of human endurance, dogged determination and H.G. Wellian time-suckage were NOT the following:

An all expenses paid trip for her entire family to Hawaii.

Two front row seat tickets to a Toby Keith concert complete with backstage passes.

Limousine ride to the Big Texan Steakhouse in Amarillo (home of the 72 oz. "if you eat it in an hour it's free" porterhouse steak).

A Vespa

Nope.
For her efforts, this intrepid woman won dinner at IHOP.

For 2.

She was thrilled.DJ - "Who are you going to take?"
Winner - "My teenage daughter...it's her birthday."
DJ - "How old is she?"
Winner - "She's 16 this year!"Happy sweet 16, sweetie, and pass they syrup.

The dog, the frog, and the turtle

"We're going to find a turtle and a frog," were the last words my wife said, closing the side porch door behind her.

Small cardboard box in one hand and plastic cookie jar in the other, she intrepidly strolled to her car, with our oldest daughter in tow.

It was Turtle and Frog Race Day at C's Campfire USA camp and my intrepid wife was determined not to let our daughter be left out of the festivities.

She drove a few miles to our local lake, and sure enough, found an 8" terrapin crawling across the road. Into the box he/she went. We'll call him "Stumpy" -- the reason being will be revealed later.

The frog was harder to come by. Later that night, C finally received one courtesy of the mother of a fellow Campfirette. We'll call him "Bluto." He was the second biggest bull frog I had ever seen.

So, C was animal'd up for her impending races the following day and happy as can be.

So, where does the dog come in?

Well, yet another stray dog (#4) ended up on our front porch the other day. He was small, black, poodle/terrier like, hungry, skinny, flea bitten, with matted hair and a friendly disposition. C named him "Shadow."

The girls immediately took to "Shadow" and try as I might to keep him moving along in his quest to find a new home, the love and attention the girls showered him with were no match for my stern threats.

The following day C came home from camp and instead of immediately announcing that "Bluto" had hopped his way to camp victory, that "Stumpy" didn't end up running his race because he/she only had 3 legs, or that her blue ribbon bull frog had died on the ride home, she frantically looked around the yard and screamed,

"Where's Shadow?"

"Shadow is gone sweetie. "

Here came that face...

"A nice man came by with a pickup truck, whistled to Shadow, who came running to him."

Here comes the quivering lower lip.

"He jumped right into the back of the man's truck and crawled into the open cage...like he knew exactly what to do."

Of course the part I omitted was the fact that the nice man's name was Rodney, and he's our small town's animal control officer whom I had called a few hours earlier.

C did her best to rationalize that Shadow must have known the man and that the man would take better care of him this time around. But as we all know, even the best lies we tell ourselves aren't always the most convincing. She cried for a few minutes, feeling more sorry for herself than for Shadow, I suspect.

Here's a given. I fully intend to get a family dog someday.
Here's another. I live in a place where we can pretty much find a wild turtle or frog on demand.

Hairless wonder

The other day at the pool, a little kid came right up to me and asked me where all the hair on my body went.

While I'm not completely void of body hair, my genetics dictate a noticeable lack of the fuzzy stuff when compared to the majority of caucasoid homo sapiens around here.

I told the kid it made me swim faster by making my body more streamlined. Like a dolphin gliding through the water.

Then he looked down at my definitely non-streamlined stomach and gave me a smirk much too sophisticated for a 7-year old and walked off.

Next time I tell that lie, I'll have to remember to suck in my gut a bit to be more convincing.

Damn kids.

I am not dead, I only play dead

The local race for our District Judge is heating up as rumors are flying, accusations are being slung, and election placards are starting to dot the landscape of our fair city.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, this letter appeared in our local paper...



It's good to know that our hanging judge won't be using the bench for anything other than passing judgement and handing down sentences anytime soon.

A similar letter appeared in the paper a few weeks before the last mayoral race. The mayoral challenger was on full-time oxygen (carts around his tank that feeds him fresh o2 directly to his nostrils) and felt the need to address concerns about his health to the voting public.

While on the one hand, I'm glad that the senior members of our town, regardless of existing health conditions, are still interested in actively participating it the public service arena.

On the other hand, what's next?

Letters from their shrink attesting to their sanity?

eMails from local authorities stating how clean their criminal records currently stand?

Memos from their pastor/priest/minister saying what a good Christian/Buddhist/Muslim/etc. they are?

Handwritten notes from the desk of their relatives, friends, neighbors, partners proclaiming that the rumors of their cow tipping fetish has been grossly exaggerated in the press?

Library geek

PK is with my in-laws at the lake house. C is at her Campfire USA camp for the day. I just dropped off S at work and needed to stick around the city, since I have to pick up C at 3:30 p.m., then S at 6 p.m.

No sense making the 100 mile roundtrip more than once today, so I'm hanging out in the Oklahoma City Downtown Library (aka the Ronald J. Norwick Downtown Library), just a few blocks from S's building.

Ask anyone who knows me well and they will attest to the fact that I'm a closet library geek. I blame my mother, who would proudly take all the credit.

THE STACKS
According to their website,"The new Downtown Library is the newest library of Oklahoma counties sprawling Metropolitan Library System. With its innovative children's area, expanded book collection, and high speed Internet access, this state-of-the-art library is a great place for Oklahoma County families."4-stories of steel and glass with so much ambient light pouring in from the street that I resolutely doubt the need for the fluorescent overheads.

On a weekday morning, there are still plenty of free seating/studying areas by the enormous windows, all of which are equipped with an array of available power outlets strategically situated within my iBook's powerblock 6-foot cord limit.
I'm sad they tore down the original Carnegie Library built in the early 1900's that sat a few blocks away from the current library.

I'm happy they didn't tear down the 50's modernist library erected in it's place (even though the city now uses it for office space).

I'm sad to find several roach motels in hidden corners of the wonderfully spacious, comfortable reading room - complete with 270 degree panoramic view of the west.

I'm happy to find tasteful and decorative Frank Lloyd Wright inspired patterns on the industrial strength carpet.

I'm sad to find security cameras just about everywhere (so much for sneaking a quick romantic interlude in the non-fiction section).

I'm happy to find the quietest hand blow dryers I've ever experienced in the sparkling clean bathrooms.
THE TOUR
I take a complete, unguided and undisturbed tour of the building and stop on the east side to watched construction workers erecting the steel super structure of a foot bridge that crosses over a street from a parking garage to the library.

My tour takes me to a spot by the panoramic windows on the 4th floor in the Reference section 560.3 - 613.28, where I plop down on the blonde wood and black holed chairs, and open my iBook.
"Would I like to join the mlspublic wireless network?"
"Yes," I click.I'm on.
My emails come rolling in. My browser feels fulfilled and dexterous, even being 55 miles from it's home network.

THE VIEW
It's a "not-yet-July" sunny summer day out with adolescent puffy clouds dotting the sky and momentarily blocking out the sun, keeping the ambient temps at about 89 degrees.

From my semi-private cubicle, I have an almost 180 degree view of the Donald W. Reynolds Visual Arts Center (where the amazing Chihuly exhibit is housed), the Oklahoma County government building and the historic Park Street 5-lane boulevard.

The downtown city Trolley rolls past, it's exterior design harking back to the early part of last century, yet underneath roars an ethanol burning powerplant.

A pair of cops in shorts and roller blade helmets roll by on their Segways. One gets stopped by a pedestrian in need of directions.
The cop pulls out what looks like a small PDA and is apparently accessing some sort of information kiosk application.
Now he's handing the lost walker a map, and showing them how to get to where they need to be going.

Segway City Cop is down with the tech, baby.

I wish I had my digital camera.
I'm watching a street worker riding a two-seated golf cart with what appears to be a large vacuum canister mounted on the rear section.
Protruding out of the top of the canister is a large, flexible, clear hose, about 11" in diameter 12' in length.
The hose runs over the drivers head, pivots on a metal arm, and terminates in front of the driver at street level.

By working the metal arm and swinging the hose around, the driver can pick up just about any stray piece of litter or trash that he can maneuver his little cart toward.

People wave at the street sanitation engineer as he drives by, apparently as surprised to see such a contraption as I am. He appears to be enjoying his work.

How cool is that.

THE EXODUS
It's time to meet S for lunch. Gyro's at a nearby greasy Greek stand today. Mmm, ethnic food for a change.

As I exit I stop to talk to a couple of the steel workers wailing on a girder as long as my house and as rusty as the frame on my old '64 Malilbu convertible that I bought over eBay from a guy in Chicago.

One of the workers is grinding a weld, the other was laying down a beautiful bead on a joint. I compliment him on his weld. He asks if I'm a welder.
"No," I tell him.
Then he asks if I worked at the library. I guess I looked the part today.
"No," I tell him, "I'm just a library geek."

Big city survival guide

A colleague from S's office is moving to LA to become a documentary filmmaker.

I know, I know. There are a dozen valid reasons why someone who wants to be a documentary filmmaker should NOT move to LA.

But she's young, has never left Oklahoma, and the glittery lights of the Industry look pretty bright from way out here in Okie-land. It's only when you get into the trenches of show biz do you see the filth, greed, insecurity and relative insignificance of the movie business as a whole.

So, S did what any good friend would do and sent her on her way with a hug, wishes of success and safety, and an appropriate going away present.

The Los Angeles County Thomas Guide.

In the days before in-car/portable GPS, Mapquest, anywhere access to web browsers, wireless hot spots, cell phones, Palms and Blackberry's, the only way to find your way around in the sprawl known as Southern California was to ask directions (yeah, right) and the Thomas Guide.

Saavy Angelenos still carry one in their car, although it may be 20-years old and completely out of date. However, just knowing that little book was riding shotgun always made me feel secure in my driving adventures into the unknown arteries and avenues of LA/Orange/San Diego/Bakersfield and Ventura Counties.

The crowd that had gathered around the table as the future traveller thumbed through her new map book, marveled at how sprawling LA was. Then S kicked the legs out from under their chairs when she mentioned the 4 neighboring counties that have their own Thomas Guide editions, all just as big or bigger than the LA edition.

Heads were spinning.

I see from their website, that Thomas Guides are nov available for the following areas:
Northern & Central California
Pacific Northwest
Arizona
Washington, DC Area

Ahh, the select lucky few to benefit from this wonder of both ancient (book) and modern (satellite accuracy) technology.

Good luck J-Po and hold on tight. It will be a bumpy ride.

The '39 Chevy 2-door sedan

On the main highway leading to my folks town 35 miles southeast of us, sat this vehicle...



It's a 1939 Chevrolet 2-door sedan. Not the most popular classic to hot rod or restore, but I have seen them at rod shows and they clean up nicely. From what my F-i-L tells me, it's been sitting on that trailer for over a year. No takers at the bargain basement asking price of $3,000.

I'm not in the market for a project of this scale right now, so I just logged it for future reference on the flash rom in my brain and didn't think anymore of it.

Back in April, S meets a woman at work that is really cool and really nice.
We'll call her Terri.
They get to talking and it turns out that Terri's husband is looking for a hobby and is kinda into old cars.
We'll call him Bob.
Turns out Bob has never restored or rodded a car before, but he was looking for a project to learn on/work on.
Bob and Terri are DINKS so they have plenty of disposable income.

Hearing of a fellow potential hot rod enthusiast, I pulled several photos and listings of "roadside projects" that I had been collecting since moving here (always on the lookout for some rusting vehicle sitting in a barn or out in a field), and thought about sending them to Bob, but somehow never got around to it.

As the seasons tend to do, Spring turned to Summer (car show season) and I told S we should meet Bob and Terri at the upcoming NSRA rod show. A few emails later, we had arranged to hook up with them on Saturday (it's a 3-day show).

Long story short, we didn't end up going on the same day so we never got to meet and greet.

However, Terri calls S that Saturday night and tells her that Bob is seriously looking at a '49 Dodge Wayfarer he found at the show that day. I had never even heard of a Wayfarer, but okay, if that's what he wanted.

End of story. Or so I thought.

The next day (Sunday) we were driving home after visiting my in-laws and I noticed that the '39 Chevy and trailer were no longer parked by the side of the road.

Figuring that the owner took it to the rod show to sell it, I wished him good luck, and thought to myself, "there's another project temptation removed from my wish list."

The following Monday, S emails me from work and tells me that Bob didn't end up buying the old Dodge afterall

Instead, he bought a 1939 Chevrolet 2-door sedan.

I'm thinking, there is no way an amateur with little to no restoration skills, let alone rodding skills, would buy that rusty old '39 Chevy that I saw sitting by the side of the road. I mean, it would be a huge project for ME with my meager skills, let alone someone with no experience at all.

Curious now, I sent the pics I had taken of the rusty '39 to S and she sent them to Terri.

You guessed it. It was the same car.

File this under, "life is a very small used car lot."

Here's what a '39 Chevy could look like restored. This is a 4-door sedan that was at the LA Roadsters show for Father's Day, but you can get a general idea.


Bob has a long way to go.

Cancel your subscription

This vitriol of fundamentalist paranoia appeared in our paper in the letters to the Editor column.

Kudos to the Editor for printing it and allowing the public to get a taste of what types of people populate our world.

Let me get this straight..
The most caring people are athiest's at bars...got it.
Easter Bunny is a sex goddess...got it.
Church on Sunday, no good....got it.
Santa is satan...got it.
Athletes are evil...got it.

The best part of this sewage spewage is in the first line of his letter.

Seems his hatred for the "rag" of a newspaper and it's satanic views wasn't strong enough to get him off his non-athletic a*s and make a phone call to CANCEL his subscription.

My name is K, and I am an addict

My Mom sent me the LA Times from last Sunday.

Remain calm now. I'd been in Oklahoma over a year now. Sure I miss my family, friends, and food stuffs that can only be found in the city limits of a large, multi-cultural metropolis.

But it was only a newspaper. What harm could it do?

Granted, it was the LA Times, which is not always known to present both sides of the story, but for the most part, the majority of the paper was harmless babble, classifieds, feature stories of ladies who lunch while nursing their twins, and dogs that no longer bite after intensive therapy with a trained canine psychotherapist.

Then, innocently tucked away into the Sports section was the doom in newsprint that haunts my waking moments and torments my nocturnal nightmares.

The Fry's ad.

8 full color pages of it.

17" LCD monitors on sale for $129 (after a $90 mail-in rebate). 100 count spindles of DVD-R's for $19.99. iPod accessories to fill the largest of grocery shopping carts. Flat screen TV's, CD's, DVD's, vid games, hard drives, soft drives, medium-soft drives, newspaper drives, warm summer drives with the top down and the radio on.

You name it, Fry's has it. An electronic geeks wonderland of consumerism and 20-year credit card debt.

Dallas would be my closest Fry's location.

A 4-hour drive seems a small price to pay to satisfy my need for an e-ticket ride to geekeyland.

Please keep your flesh-eating-fish to yourself

Apparently someone has been dumping their unwanted aquarium pets into our local lake, as I don't believe this particular species of piranha are indiginous to central Oklahoma.



Turns out the Pacu is a herbivore cousin to the piranha and won't feast on the limbs of any unsupecting, partially clad coed on summer break.

Might make for some interesting fish fry's in the future.

Longing for a long one

Call me crazy but I actually miss the long west coast rain storms that just sock in the city and hang around.

Storms here are more dramatic, more intense, more exciting, but quite short lived.

Which, most times you're thankful for their spurt-like behavior, as pretty hefty damage often accompanies any drawn out affair.

Storms in LA are often times lingering and will stick around for days on end, hardly ever overstaying their welcome.

They have a cleansing effect on the city, washing away the surface grime and grease and momentarily driving the worst of the worst indoors.

The air smells clean and fresh, albeit for a few brief moments.

And afterwards, your car isn't covered in Oklahoma red dirt road muck.