To say, or not to say, that is the question

Let's end this week with two quotes of note that may, or may not, illicit a chuckle.

The first, uttered by PK when she woke up from being gassed for her surgery to fix her broken arm. The nurse asked her how she was feeling, if she wanted to throw up...typical post-op questions. It was when I asked her what the gas mask smelled like that she uttered..."It smelled like feet."It was nice to see the nursing staff bust a gut so heartily after hearing that.

Next, an acquaintance of my wife's in the film biz who was supposed to arrive in OKC was several hours late for his morning production meeting scheduled for today.

His delay was caused by the confusion surrounding the confiscation of his luggage, the detainment of his person, and the checking of his background - which included a call to my wife as a point of contact at his planned destination - by a dedicated Homeland Security Agent at his departing airport.

When asked by the Airline Ticket Agent what he was flying to OKC for, he innocently answered in Hollywood-speak.."I'm going there to shoot a pilot."

Bet he makes the evening news.

Waiting for a knuckle sandwich

I've been anticipating a sucker punch in the kisser ever since gas stroked above $3 a gallon here in what was normally considered, "Oklahoma - land of the sub-$3-a-gallon gas prices."

The right-left combination that I've been expecting (to be delivered by the fella next to me in his Chevy Avalanche/Ford Expedition/H3/et. al) would be to wipe the smug look off my face as I zipped into a Conoco, filled up my Civic for about $27, and zipped out again, waving buh-bye and muttering, "see you in a few weeks or so..." as I drove off.

Quite often I've felt somewhat emasculated and out-of-the-loop - vehicle wise - while puttering around my small town in my 2-door import (made in Canada, btw).

It's almost as if people stare at me and wonder why...1) I'm not driving a Pickup (you are a man, aren't ya?) or 2) Since I'm driving such a small car, why am I not driving a Neon (Dodge), Grand Am (Pontiac), Cavalier (Chevy), or Escort (Ford).

I'm not saying that in my small town of 4380 people, the two ricers in our garage are the only out-of-towner's in town. My rough guestimates would put the ratio to about 10-15% import (European and Asian both), the remaining 85-90% made of Detroit guts and a mixture of American/Canadian/Mexican labor. Heck, even my Wife's Toyota was made in Mexico.

So pardon me if I let creep a little smugness when I fill my tank and get on my merry way at 30-32 miles per gallon. Sure, it may not be the most patriotic approach to the issue at hand, but as a compromise, I propose the following.

If you, in your gas guzzler feel the need to take a swing at me to vent some of your Exxonized frustration, I'll take one on the chin for the good of my country and the cause of keeping one less road rage incident off the road...

But don't go screaming to the authorities when I jump into my El Camino, fire all of her hi-po 8-cylinders up and hunt you down Mad Max style...getting 10-12 miles per gallon while I do it.

The stigma of summer school

C told me that her 1st grade teacher will be teaching 3rd grade summer school in a few weeks.

My Wife immediately sighed and said, "I hope our girls will never have to go to summer school."

When did summer school become being all about remedial learning and playing catch up from lessons missed during the regular school year? Not so from my experiences of summer learning.

In my elementary summer school, classes were offered in subjects that were virtually unheard of in a regular curriculum. I seem to recall that perhaps some remedial classes were offered, but for the most part, we just hung out with our friends, made kites, played kickball, shot caroms, ate 50-50 ice cream bars and read a ton of Encyclopedia Brown mysteries.

For myself and just about everyone I knew, high school level summer school was never about playing "catch up" either. It was always about "getting ahead."

Say I take English Lit 1 for 20 hours this summer, which successfully frees up a period next fall so I can take two back-to-back periods of auto shop class.

Or how about taking junior level American Government from June to July, enabling me to not have a final period, meaning I get out of classes that much earlier.

Hey, I'd gladly spend a few sunny morning hours taking World History over the break, all so I can get two lunch periods next year -- enough to drive downtown to make a Tommy's run for lunch.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't always about getting ahead as much as it was playing the system to test out the waters of the freewheeling adulthood we would soon be facing.

But there were the more than occasional wunderkind who would take Algebra in summer school, so they could take Geometry in their freshman year, Trig in their sophomore year, Calculus in their Junior year, and College math or something really fun...like physics or physical science as a Senior (seriously, I knew people who did this, and they're all doctors and scientist and what not now.)

For the most part, it was always about trying to stay one step ahead of everyone else -- problem was, everyone else was staying one step ahead as well, so you ended up being status quo.

Therein lies the pressure of what my Wife calls the "Good student conundrum." If we're all struggling to do what we can to stay ahead, yet everyone is undergoing the same struggle, are we really proceeding to the head of the class and staying ahead of the curve, or have we just recurved the curve to really f*ck ourselves over.

Regardless, Wifey says that attending summer school here in Okie land labels you with a lifelong stigma...kinda like a black mark going on your "permanent record" we were all so threatened with as grade schoolers.

Check writers, unite!

I've had the same black, leather checkbook since I opened my first checking account as a 15-year old part time Courtesy Clerk (Box boy/buggy runner) at the Alpha Beta Supermarket in Monterey Park, CA.

It's seen me through both rare upturns and all too frequent downward spirals of my checking/savings account balances, always ready to spew forth another pre-perforated generic blue-green 2.75" x 6" paper representative of the moolah in my account.

Combined with my eelskin wallet, my black leather dayrunner, vibrating pager and bowtie logo'd pewter keychain, I was a stylin' fool for much of the 80's and 90's.

My wallet has since become a rubber band, my organizer is a series of post-it notes on the 800' x 4-story tall dry erase marker board in our mudroom hallway, my pager sits at the bottom of a closet junk box, replaced many times over by a series of amazingly shrinking cell phones, and my keychain is now a black-bi-buttoned plastic keyfob that has more memory on it's miniscule circuit board than Apollo 9's onboard computer.

My checkbook, full of checks and ready to be swept up and pocketed for a fun filled foray of excessive shopping and consumerizing, remains the only member of my pocket worthy personal property tribe to have survived.

Sadly, ever since the advent of online bill paying and check / debit cards, I've been severely neglecting my old friend in check writing crime.

I fear it will only get worse for him and checkbooks everywhere, for yesterday, while waiting in line at the WalMart Supercenter checkout stand #4, we witnessed what could be the beginning of the end of the check writing society we've all come to know as a familiar method of paying for things we want but don't really need.

My wife and I listened intently as the blue-smocked clerk with rounded off corners and spectacles hanging by a bright gold chain, explained to an elderly farmer why she was handing him back his check. Seems Walmart has recently instigated the high-tech policy of treating written checks as check debit cards, with the funds instantly transferring out of a consumer's account and into Walmart's.

Since the check is no longer required as proof of payment to the bookeepers and bankers who so vigilantly hung onto them for 2-3 weeks in the past, it is simply handed back to the customer with thanks and gratitude.

The old dude didn't get it right off.

After a few frustrating attempts by the Clerk to explain the money-saving and ultra-convenient process, I stepped in and explained to the overall clad fella that "Walmart is just cutting the bank out of the whole process and by running your check through that little doohickey behind the checkstand, the Clerk cleared it and is giving it back to you -- same as the bank does at the end of every month."

He seemed satisfied with that explanation, expressed a polite "thank you young fella" to me and took his check with him out of the bright white sodium vapored lighted environment of the store.

My wife commented that Okie's love their check writing, and that people here use checks for everything from paying bills to buying gas to getting pizza delivery. Even with the introduction of all the higher tech methods of paying for goods and services, Okie's have steadfastly held onto the security blanket of their checkbooks and the gospel that "my check is as good as my word."

While we were checking out and using our debit card to purchase the water softener salt and combo spray bottle/battery-operated fan for C to keep herself cool at an upcoming softball game, I glanced down at the now obsolete and irrelevant sign on the counter warning of the $35 returned check fee that would be charged to all deadbeat checks.

Perhaps they'll leave it on the counter for old time sake...and as a force fed reminder to folks that these here are indeed the "good old days" for Walmart shoppers.

Man with a full plate

So there we were sitting at the surgery center, sipping down a cup of complimentary Cain's hot cocoa and watching the Weather Stud on the huge flat panel on the waiting room wall warn us about the intense thunderstorm we had just driven 27 miles through to make our 6 a.m. appointment (whew), when nearby us plants a docile looking couple on the sofa catty corner to ours.

The Man (we'll call him Edgar) pulls out a ceramic mug adorned with the logo of a tractor dealership on the outside and a well earned ring-around-the-rim coffee stain on the inside, and pours himself some coffee from a gleaming stainless steel thermos.

His actions are thoughtful and practiced and not a drop of the hot rust colored liquid finds it way onto the wall-to-wall plush beneath our feet.

Edgar eyes me doting lackadaisically on my syrofoam cup, swallows his sip and says,
E - You a coffee drinker?
Me - Not an addict by any means, but I enjoy a cup now and again.
E - This is my own blend. I grind it myself. Took awhile to find the right combination of beans and the right amount, but I finally got it the way I like it and now it's all I drink.
Me - You carry that thermos with you everywhere?
E - Yep, even when we go out to eat. Gets some funny looks from the waiters.
Me - I'll bet. You ever walk into Starbucks carrying your own coffee you'll probably get arrested.
E - Yeah, I tried their beans once...wasn't all that happy. This here is a mixture of Dunkin Donuts Original Blend, Biff's Columbian Supremo - they're an outfit in Arkansas, but you can buy them here in town at United, and some good Okie Cain's. We got this machine that grinds the beans, cooks it up and keeps it warm for us.
At this point he offered me his sacred thermos, which I hesitantly but graciously declined, citing some obscure nonsensical reason having to do with the half drunk cup of packaged cocoa I was still working on and my desire to remain coffee free for the duration of our daughter's surgery.

Having written all this down now, in hindsight, I should have scrambled to get a new cup and taken up Edgar on his offer -- for a lot more reasons that my desire to just have a good cup of coffee.

After a few more stanzas of lively conversation, we found out that Edgar had a full time gig at the local Air Force Base, was owner and operator of an heat and air business, and ran about 50 head of cows on his property.

He seemed a little tickled when I asked him how he managed to wear all those hats and still find time to watch American Idol (another tidbit of trivial revealed during his 2nd cupful).

Edgar took another satisfying sip of his special blend, sighed and said, "Long as what goes in comes out, I figure there's not much else I should be frettin' about."

And no, I never did find out what Edgar and his wife were there at the surgery center for. I turned down a cup of the man's coffee -- I wasn't about to ask him what they were in for.

Displaced distal both-bone fracture

I was packing up C's softball equipment after our final practice before our first game of the season, when I heard her little voice calling out from near 2nd base...
Daddy, I think I broke my arm!
PK, you didn't break your ar...oh crap, you did break your arm.5 minutes later we were sitting in the emergency room registration window.

7 minutes later they had given her a morphine shot in her little bottom and she was feeling just fine.

20 minutes later we had this to look and cringe at...


To paraphrase the last two and a half days...Wearing a splint and arm sling home from emergency, unflavored hydrocodone syrup, search for a pediatric orthopedic surgeon in OKC that wasn't on vacation or totally overbooked, call made by our family doctor to a Ped Ortho specialist he was buds with, got an appointment that same afternoon, surgery this morning, resting comfortably on the couch eating freshly made cotton candy and watching her Cars DVD for the umpteenth time, hot pink cast ready for signatures.I know it was an accident and I know these things happen to kids all the time, and I know that even had I been watching her spin around on the grassy field that she may have tripped and fell and broke her arm...

But it happened to my little girl, on my watch -- and that makes it pretty hard to take.

My 4-year old is ready for the onslaught of queries and questions aimed toward her new brightly colored appendage. She's even made up a poem to help her field questions from the press and other concerned parties...I was spinning around,
on the ground.
Then I got dizzy;
and fell down.

Leaving me in the dust

Contrary to what some people may perceive me to be, I am not a speed freak.

I've gotten exactly two excessive speed violation tickets in my life - the first as a silly teenager, the second as a Father-to-be-running-late-to-lamaze-class.

Never been popped for illegal street racing ("Race on the track you goobers, not on the street"), exhibition of speed (burnouts cost tires and tires cost money), or reckless operation of a motor vehicle (although there was that one time as a newly licensed teen when I took my beloved Nova up a curb and through the 16' tall chain link fence of the high school soccer field, but the cop on the scene didn't ticket me out of sympathy. Sorry about dumping our lunch on the ground, J.L.)

For a car guy who likes cars that can, will, and do go fast, my "Family Guy" status has rendered me perfectly content to bench race -- that would be internally calculating the 1/4 mile traps, top speed, and 0 - 60 times based on vehicle weight, rear-wheel horsepower, torque, converter stall speed, and rear end gearing (among other factors), without having to place myself or the general public in danger.

Beside, wringing a car out will probably only verify two things -- the accuracy (or not) of my calculations and my utter lack of high speed driving skills...heck I still have a hard time parallel parking every now and then.

While on paper and in theory, my desire to "keep it real" on Oklahoma's highways and byways is all law and order, in practice this philosophy recently found me at the very end of the "school bus-Soccer Mom-SUV & minivan" caravan for my 1st grader's class field trip.

My V-scar was itching wildly as SUV after minivan passed me by on the divided highway. I was doing near 70 (65 was the speed limit) yet not one of the parent ferrying vehicles who were accompanying the caravan of school buses, hesitated to blow by me as if I were a retired C.P.A. in an early-80's Chrysler K-car.

I'm not sure what the rush was, but since the buses themselves were setting the quickening blacktop pace, the need to keep up with the diesel spewing kiddie transports may have had something to do with it.

Perhaps all the close calls and hot rodding around I did in the sweet days of my youth were enough for one lifetime. Or my East L.A. adjacent upbringing has finally penetrated my aging soul with the "low and slow" cruising stylings of the Vatos in their hydraulic'd Chevy wonders.

Or maybe I'm just not quite comfortable enough in my "local-ness" to worry about such things as getting stopped by an Okie Smokey in a slightly lowered, tuned and tinted import rice mobile.

Either way, I was the last one to pull into the parking lot at the museum where the 1st graders were going to spend the day, but I wasn't concerned with finding an open parking space. This is Oklahoma after all -- land of acres and acres of free parking.

How many girl's softball coaches does it take...?

C's peewee girl's softball season is in full swing, with several weeks worth of 2x-a-week practices behind us.

I'm fitfully fulfilling my duties as the reluctant Assistant Coach and helping out as much as I can by offering encouraging words and semi-helpful soft-balling tips - the latter of which is stretching the limits of my knowledge of the game and team sport dynamics in general.

I try to keep my copy of "Pee-Wee Girls Softball Coaching for Dummies" hidden from sight during practices as well.

The other Dad who reluctantly stepped up as Head Coach and I were blissfully struggling through the last few practices, gaining confidence in our coaching skills as the girls improved their skills, despite our complete lack of coachly training.

Then we made the mistake of watching a practice session of one of the other teams in our league.

Freakin' eh, bubba.

The advanced skill level of the players wasn't nearly as confidence shattering as the organized, confident, and boisterous coaching staff -- yes, I said STAFF, that were running the 7 and 8-year old future Team USA Olympic Softball team members through batting, running, and fielding drills.

Tommy Lasorda would have been impressed. We, on the other hand were rendered mute.

The other coach and I just grimaced at each other in an uncomfortable, "about to storm Utah Beach on D-Day" fashion and internally reminded ourselves that this was supposed to be fun for the girls, and not some high-pressured, perform-at-peak-or-die experience for the girls.

I spoke first and uttered, "We're not keeping score at the games, right?" more to reassure myself than anything.

He said, "We won't...but I bet they sure will be."

Raising the ceiling...err, floor.

Last week was a sparse week on YASTM, only because it was a busy week around the demolition/construction/restoration project we lovingly call, home.

The decent weather has brought the latest project to the top of the heap in terms of feasibility - both temporally and physically.

A little background.

Sometime before the early 1940's, a major addition was constructed and tacked onto the eastern section of the house. It included a side porch and entrance and the rooms now being used as our laundry room, our one-and-only bathroom, and a walk-in storage closet.

The addition also included what was once considered a bi-level sleeping porch. Well, I call it a lanai, but back in the days before central A/C, folk around these parts called it a sleeping porch - basically a room with large windows on every wall that were covered in canvas (later screens) for comfortable sleeping on those warm summer Oklahoma nights.

The surrounding windows have long been covered up with siding (badly), the stairway removed (an attic ladder installed in it's place), and the low, seven foot ceilings rendered both the upper and lower rooms as not quite habitable.

The plan then -- raise the 1st floor ceiling up a foot to give the downstairs room a full 8-foot clearance, build a new floor 3' above the recently raised ceiling to be level with the existing 2nd story floor, then raise the roof on the 2nd floor to afford the same 8' ceiling clearance for the upstairs room.

Both of the rooms will then be transformed into adequately large upstairs and downstairs bathrooms (10'x13').

Next, we'll bust out the entire 24' eastern wall of the upstairs unfinished play area, build a short right angled hallway connecting the play area to the upstairs bathroom, and while were at it, build out a 12'x6' observation deck off of the play area, accessed via a set of french doors allowing for plenty of sunset colors to flood the upstairs with several hours of golden hour light.

There's a ton more detail that's going to go into this project (plumbing, electrical, insulation, flooring, bathroom fixture selection, roofing -- not to forget that we have to raise the entire roof of the 2nd floor up 55" to get to our 8' ceiling), but for last week, we just tackled the first task -- raising the downstairs ceiling.



Pulled all the sheetrock off the second floor and found no insulation (no surprise), that the exterior siding was nailed directly to the wall studs instead of to a plywood sheet (very surprised) and that the only insulation was a sheet of tar paper (brrrr). Here were prying up the old floor planks and detaching the floor/ceiling in preparation to lift it up 13".

Yes that window will have to be moved up, otherwise it'll be nearly sitting on the new floor.


The ceiling is loose, thanks to some handy work with a Milwaukee Sawzall, and were slowly raising it up, up, and away.


13" up and the attic ladder no longer touches the terra firma on which it once rested.


A lonely orb comes to examine our handiwork. The ceiling is up and we now have 8' ceilings in the future downstairs bathroom.

The tale of a flirtatious canine

As Franny began approaching her 6-month birthday, I started noticing her flirtatious behavior toward the boy dogs on our walking routes become increasingly frantic and borderline violent.

Both my Wife and I knew going in that we weren't going to be schnoodle breeders and had no interest in selling our pooches babies from out under her, so spaying our little girl was never an issue.

The deed has been done, she's in her 7th day of recovery, and her stitches are just about ready to come out.

Under doctors orders, her walks have been limited to short distances for doing her doodie duties, but today I took her down the alley I've labeled as the "gauntlet of canine love."

Every yard on this stretch of the alley has at least one male dog occupying it's backyard environs. Many have several dogs. One has 4. Had Franny gone into heat and been taken down this "doogie red light district" I've no doubt we'd have seen some ridiculously high fences vaulted by many a randy boy dogs.

As we made our way down this alley, I was surprised to see Franny automatically kick into her flirtatious un-ladylike behavior immediately upon getting a whiff of a ready male suitor. It was like her girlie innerds had never been removed and her instinct to reproduce was as strong as ever.

Now I'm wondering just how long does it take for "those" particular hormones to leave her system?

A little bit of class and culture

Nice to know that some things are still valued, even out here in rural Oklahoma.


On the other hand, maybe it's because were out here in rural Oklahoma, that such things are of value.

A floral feast of epic proportions

Last weekend we attended PK's first ever dance recital.

The fact that we as a society may be overindulging our kids to the extreme was exemplified by the walking florist shop that made it's way down to the stage during the finale of the recital.

As each class entered from stage right, parents, friends, extended family members, personal acquaintances, and many, many others flooded the aisles with smiles on their faces, gift bags, finely wrapped presents and floral arrangements of every size and shape in their arms.

We had been warned ahead of time that the "post-performance congratulatory presenting of the gift" carnage would be resolute and that any dancer not receiving at least the minimal of floral tokens for their evenings performance could/would result in some pretty hurt little faces.

However, we were completely unprepared for the seemingly utter lack of financial and material restrain displayed by the decent, hard-working, and normally sensible folk of my small town and the surrounding communities whose children attend the dance school.

I half expected a parent to drive-up "My Super Sweet 16" style in an AMG Benz or Lexus coupe (okay, out here it would have been a fully loaded Silverado or F150, but you get the gist) and hand the keys over to their darling dancing daughter.

Enough ranting, since I know you want to know what we presented PK with for her dancerly efforts that night.

A bouquet of silk roses S picked up at Dollar General, tied together with a fuzzy red ribbon (velour) that completely matched the color of her outfit and hair-bob-tie-thingy.

She was thrilled, and even gave them a good whiff while parading around the stage.

Score one for the pragmatic parent in all of us....

Not so fast, buster.

We may have just lucked out this time around...it being her very first recital ever.

Next year may be a completely different beast and I'll be the one hypocritically rushing around the state looking for a particular out-of-season bouquet of roses that matches her outfit to a T.

Since that evenings performance, I've since almost completely run out of hope. For the last dozen or so times that I've replayed the DVD of the video that I shot of her dancing that night, she inevitably questions me on why I didn't get her anything -- why only Mommy got her something.

Sigh.

Digging for vials and incendiary devices

Last Fall, the family unit had a great road trip out to the Great Salt Plains to dig for these great little hourglass selenite crystals - unique in all the known world to the great state of Oklahoma.

Truly great [sincerity]

Vials of nastiness and things to blow them up with were recently unearthed in the salty mud by a Boy Scout digger, and now the national park may be shut down to crystal diggers for good.

Just great [sarcasm]

C's first words when we told her that we may not ever be able to dig for crystals -- that in fact no one will, were..."Does that mean the ones we found are going to be worth a lot of money?Sure I laughed, but then it got me thinking along that vein....

Our first trip down

The citywide siren rang out around 12:30 a.m.

I was in the kitchen, cutting up a watermelon into bite size pieces and removing as many seeds as my bleary eyes could focus on.

Earlier in the day the girls and I had selected the perfect "first-watermelon-of-the-season" candidate from a nice family at their roadside watermelon stand, and I had promised them a bowl of the "Official vegetable of Oklahoma" for breakfast.

It has been raining for several days now, and we seemed to be in a constant state of either flash flood and/or severe thunderstorm warnings. I'm digging it because it's been putting off the inevitable 90+ degree temps that signal the start of yet another blazing Oklahoma summer.

Until very early this morning.

Enjoying the sound of the wind and rain against the new french doors my F-i-L and I recently installed in our breakfast area, I completed dicing up the first half of the fleshy red vegetable when I decided to get my groove on with some late night golden oldies on the FM dial.

"Beeeeeep-burrrrp-beeeep-burrrrp."

"WTF.."

I figured that the station must be conducting a test of the emergency broadcast system and had this been an actual emergency...

Wait -- the boxy voiced announcer with a loose-denture-related vocal quality cuts in and starts telling me that our area has been issued a tornado warning...and that citizens in my county should seek immediate shelter...

...SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER!

Cue the sirens.

Up goes the wife,
on go the coats,
whoosh goes wind,
"yikes" say the girls,
leashed gets the pooch,
"creek" goes the cellar door,
zoom down the stairs,
"uggh" states my oldest,
snore does my youngest,
click goes the radio,

and the family hunkers down.

We passed the time listening to S retell storm cellar tales from her youth, listening to Rick/Gary/Mike on the radio track the rotating storm that was passing to our east ("...but could shift any second!") and pondering the irony of the power and influence that these broadcasters with meteorology degrees from universities known more for their sports programs than academics, have over us all.

With a quick flick of their silver tongues they can send families scrambling for their lives to underground hovels as well as direct eager, young, and suicidal "Storm Trackers" out in the field to drive their Ford Explorers directly into the path of the storm in an effort to bring us the "latest breaking details" on the severe weather event.

And you know they're just loving ever darn second of it.

1 a.m. comes and goes and the tornado warning issued for our area by the Norman Severe Weather Forecast Center passes with nary a spinning wind in site.

After 2 years into my Oklahoma existence with this being our first trip down to the cellar due to a tornado warning, I can still proudly proclaim that I'm even more of an earthquake fan than before -- for the simple reason that earthquakes do the favor of waking up the kids for you.

Rousing the kiddies up in a hurry from a deep sleep is not fun. I believe it's much better for their young nervous systems to be awoken by a sudden jolt of the earth's tectonic plates moving than by the semi-panicked face of a parent in storm related crisis.

However, my girls are such deep sleepers that it may take better than a Richter scale 5-pointer to get them to open their eyes to the conscious world.

Case in point, last night PK slept through the entire thing.

Atta girl.

Abandoning all hope of becoming a girl

In my daughter's class there exist two polar opposites of femme 7-year olds.

We'll call them FloJo and KateMoss.

FloJo is tall (tallest in her grade), athletic (fastest runner as well), and a pediatrician's picture of a perfectly fit, trim, and healthy 7-year old.

KateMoss is slight (smallest in her grade), asthmatic, uber-thin, wears glasses, and seems to occasionally have a hard time fitting her own skin.

For the recent Super Kid's Day, FloJo and KateMoss were of course, paired up as competing partners.

How it works is, each kid carries a card listing all of the available events, along with two columns of numbers - 1's and 2's. The kids go out in pairs and complete as many of the events as they can in the alloted time. Winners score a 1, losers score a 2. The pair partner with more 1's than 2's at the end of the day, gets a blue ribbon.

Fair as fair can be, assuming each kid is paired up with a partner of equal skills, stamina, and physical prowess.

In the case of FloJo and KateMoss, a blowout was expected, with the latter being lucky to even finish all of the events.

But as I manned my station atop the rise of the starting line to the 200-yard run, spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety of sport...the thrill of victory... (you get the picture), I was stymied by what I witnessed occurring between FloJo and KateMoss.

FloJo was letting KateMoss win at everything...by just a fraction of the smallest hair of a margin of a victory. In the running events, FloJo would start with a slight stumble, speed up when she fell too far behind, and finish in a flurry to make for a convincing near loss, all the while monitoring her slower partners progress.

Time and again I watched FloJo lose on purpose. Always followed by a congratulatory hug for her happily celebratory partner. If KateMoss was aware of the scam from which she was benefiting (remember, these are only 7-year olds), it wasn't detectable from where I stood.

Later that day, C told me that FloJo had lost all but 1 event to KateMoss. All but 1!

That night, I described to my wife what I perceived to be a flourishing display of friendship and compassionate sportsmanship exhibited by the most impressive FloJo.

At least, that's what my take of it was. Wifey took it from a different perspective -- that of a woman/use-ta-be girl. With a smug smile, she stated, "you don't know girls."

Which I took to mean that perhaps there were alternate ulterior motives behind the thrill of lacking competition I had witnessed. Wifey thought it was sad to think that perhaps FloJo didn't have the self-esteem to allow herself to win for fear her "friend" won't want to remain as such if she were to beat her at something.

I understood her interpretation, but it doesn't mean I truly "understood" it.

Which can be said of most matters concerning male/female relationships, I imagine.

Venus and Mars, man. Venus and freakin' Mars.

Two burros and a Wyld Stallyn please

Ran across this ad in our local small town newspaper this weekend.


The thought of adopting a couple of government asses at a discount crossed my mind, but then I remembered who I was and felt ashamed for even thinking of using such a bad pun.

Course, nothing prevents me from posting said bad pun here in my blog.

Then there was this...


Back in my spirited days of youthful exhuberance and mischief, some friends of mine (ahem) used their trusty Thomas Guides to locate silly and/or cooly named streets only to sneak out in the middle of the night to attempt to procure any metal signage bearing the streets name.

Highly valued scores included, "Easy Street," "Bob Hope Drive," or any sign containing the name of a particular girl whom we were all pining over.

However, given some thought with a twist of irony, "Bait Shop" would be funny hanging up in some teenagers bedroom.

Not that I'm condoning such a procurement.

Super Kids Day

Today was what we used to call "Field Day" at C's elementary school.

Nowadays it's called "Super Kids Day" but it's basically the same thing -- individual events of physical skill, stamina, and dexterity that gets the kids outside for most of the day and ensures a good night sleep for just about everyone involved...especially the parent volunteers.

I was assigned the starting line of the 200-yard run, which is a long way for the little ones to run -- especially after they've just run the 100 and 50 yard courses before they even got to me.

Still, it was fun to help out, I got to watch C do her funky, straight-arm running sprint to victory in both the 100 and 200 yard runs, and the weather was rather cooperative.

What was painfully shouting out to me was how sadly out of shape many of the kids were. One little 1st grader in particular broke my heart, not only for the limitations her prematurely bulky body placed on every aspect of her physical activity, but for her obvious desire to want to keep up with the other kids. I've crossed paths with this girl (we'll call her Carnie) in the past, which is why the sadness I felt upon seeing her struggle with herself today was heightened somewhat.

Awhile back, C was invited to a birthday party at our town's pool. I took both girls to the pool and left C to enjoy her party while splashing around with PK in the shallow end.

Carnie wasn't a member of the birthday party (different crowd), but just happened to be at the pool at the same time. Once the party action moved to the aquatic activities, she did what any typical 7-year old would do and swam over to join a group of familiar faces.

At one point, I was involved in one of C's favorite pool-time Daddy/Daughter games -- what she calls the "Toss me up in the air," game. Granted, this game has gotten harder as C has grown up and older, but I can still muster the strength to pick her up by the waist and toss her several feet up and over into the deep end.

Then her friends wanted to play. No problem. It's a relatively harmless game. I asked each kid how far they wanted to go, picked them up and tossed them for a giggly splashing-good time.

Until it was Carnie's turn.

Sadly, I couldn't lift her up and out of the water.

The game ended and they all swam off, seemingly happy to move to a different section of the pool for more wet fun and frivolity.

So when Carnie lined up today at the 200-yard start line against another girl of similar portly proportions, I started them off as I did the dozens of other kids who came to my starting line.

But I felt angry and sad for Carnie at the same time.

Saving sparrows

On the one night a week that my youngest daughter has dance class downtown, my eldest daughter and I usually dine out at one of the local eateries in our small town.

After which, we drop into the Chinese buffet joint across the street from the dance studio to pick up some beef broccoli and fried rice for the littlest dancer in our family (yes, my girls actually love - L-O-V-E, broccoli, weird kids, I know).

Last week as we were exiting the house of Asian cuisine, I noticed a baby sparrow sitting on the sidewalk, obviously a victim of a "nest falling" from somewhere up high. C noticed it as well and immediately went into her 7-year old girl/motherly instinct mode, setting up a security perimeter around the solitary chickadee, fully prepared to scat any alley cats looking for an easy avian appetizer.

My eagle-eyed first grader then proceeded to spot the nest from which the baby bird had fallen (way up under the ballooning awning over the real estate office next door), as well as the ledge below the nest, where another member of the sparrow condominium had taken up residence after apparently succumbing to the same unnesting syndrome as it's sibling on the ground.

My not-so eagle-eye's however, spotted the more unfortunate member of the little nest family in the entryway of the abstract business the next door down. It looked to have been stepped on by an unsuspecting sidewalker.

Not a pretty sight.

While trying my best to distract C away from the newly discovered corpse, I overheard her telling a passerby the same thing I had told her minutes before..."...don't touch the baby bird because if you do, it's mama won't want it anymore cuz it will smell like people."

The woman kindly heeded the old wives tale advice and seriously pondered the plight of the baby birds with all the seriousness of a Law and Order detective. She outlined her plan of action to C and I, even though I was ready to let nature take it's course and was callously concerned with delivering the Chinese take-out to my post-dance class young'un. C, however, nodded along and loudly proclaimed her whole hearted support for the woman's plan.

Enlisting my help, C proceeded to fulfill her designated duty as we pulled over the wooden bench from in front of the realty office to just below the ledge where the other fallen nest mate resided.

Calmly, the woman pulled out a handkerchief, picked up the earthbound hatchling and placed it ever so gently on the ledge, next to it's sibling.

At this point, C shouted gleefully out that she had spotted yet another fugitive from the sparrow nest, which had found it's way under the wooden bench we had just moved.

A few moments later, that one joined the others on the ledge and we all celebrated with smiles and handshakes.

Parting words were brief for the rescuers. I mentioned something about my daughter's broccoli getting cold while the woman with the plan stated that if her husband ever found out she just saved two of what he calls "nuisance" birds, he'd be livid.

C just couldn't wait to get home to tell Mommy about it.

Learning the words to "Happy Trails to you..."

The phone call came early in the day yesterday so I've had plenty of time to chew on the bad news.

The golden arches are on their way.

There's an abandoned Love's gas and zip on a corner at the southern end of town that serves as a kind of border between the newer developments popping up (WalMart Supercenter, GM dealership, Pizza Hut) and the older part of town. Ronald McDonald and crew are apparently foregoing their usual policy of requiring a minimal population of 5000 bodies before setting up a new drive-through window -- spurred on perhaps by the confidence building view of the new Walmart Supercenter being erected a mere 1/4 mile away.

Rumors are also flying around town of an impending Chili's franchise along with a Long John Silver's making home port within the city limits.

Don't get me wrong. I've got very few beefs (pun totally intended) against McD's, Chili's, LJS', or even Walmart, but their plans to set up shop here in my town may be the beginning of the end of my small town's innocence.

Finding a sympathetic ear among my fellow citizens may be hard to come by since there are very few who wouldn't love to add a few more of the pseudo-luxuries afforded by living closer to a large city.

I, on the other hand love the fact that we have to drive a good 45 minutes to get our Happy Meal zen on. A trip to the Golden Arches is a rare treat for the girls and a closer location would make it just another fast food joint in town to get a full weeks supply of saturated fat in a single meal.

Is this the beginning of the end? S thinks so. She's uncircling the wagons. We are kinda bummin'

I got a new car...let's bury it!

My in-law's lake house sits in the eastern part of the state where the local news is fed from the Tulsa stations.

While enjoying some different faces reading the news teleprompter, M-i-L proclaimed without any veracity of a lick sarcasm, that "Tulsan's are a different breed of Oklahoman." Apparently, Tulsanite's have their own way of thinking and doing that leaves the population of the rest of the panhandled state scratching their heads and saying, "Oh, they're just from Tulsa, that's why..."

To put it in a perspective I could relate to, my agreeing wife cited the cataclysmic differences between the environs and peoples of NorCal and SoCal and I instantly got it.

My information on Tulsanite's unusual proclivities for their internals running on a difference engine is secondhand, however a recent discovery via my car club compadres might lend some credence to my M-i-L's proclamation.

Case in point, the 1957 Plymouth Belvedere Sports Coupe was a 17 1/2 foot long monster with a 118" wheelbase and a wingspan over 6 1/2 feet wide. Only a Tulsan would think to bury one of these jewels of Detroit modernism and invention in the ground. But that's exactly what they did, 50-years ago this summer.

The Event Chairman of the Tulsa event wherein the brand spankin' new Belvedere was buried beneath the front sidewalk of the Tulsa Count Courthouse in 1957, is quoted to have proclaimed the car to be a perfect vehicle to serve as the rolling time capsule since it was, "...an advanced product of American industrial ingenuity with the kind of lasting appeal that will still be in style 50 years from now."

Pretty bold statement. He must have been a car guy.

Check out the Tulsarama link, part of this states Centennial celebration.

Oh, and if you're curious as to what will become of the 50-year old rolling relic of a time capsule, it will be given to the person with the closest recorded guess of what the 2007 population of Tulsa would be. That's right, 50-years ago ordinary folk recorded their guesses of their fair cities babyboom growth, which were then buried along with the car. Come this summer when they remove the gassed up capsule and pull the guesses, some lucky prognosticater of Tulsa's population will be handed the keys to the Belvedere.

My guess is that the car and it's contents will be in much better condition than the Tulsan who made the winning guess. 50 years of chicken fried steak and prime Oklahoma beef will have taken it's toll, even on a tough-as-nails-Tulsan.

My opinion...Indiana Jones had it right, "it belongs in a museum."

Adventures in Principalling - Swapping spit with a swine

Sorry, been busy with preparations for the Parent/Teacher Org's final fundraiser of the year...the elementary school carnival.

I must say that we PTO officers and parents got pretty creative this year in figuring out ways to separate the good folk of this town with their hard earned fundage - all toward a good cause of course...their kid's school.

The result of one such activity resulted in the following video, taped rather shakily by myself this morning.

You may recall that our dedicated Principal had to eat a handful of worms earlier in the year, due to the upper level students reading more books than he had anticipated them to read.

The aspect of the entire episode that struck a humorous chord with me occurred back during our initial discussions of the "Kiss the Pig" event at a PTO meeting some months back.

When we announced that we were looking for a little swine to stand up for the kissage, the room swelled with responses ranging from, "my neighbors got a litter of piglets," to "I can bring a big one...how big a one you need?" to "How many, cuz I can get a several from my Mom," -- as if procuring a piglet was the most normal thing a person could do.

Normal is as normal does, I guess, whether it's kissing a pig, eating worms, or doing an hour in the dunk tank at the carnival tonight. I asked the Principal after the swine kissing this morning if they taught this kind of stuff in Principal school...Public Education Administration is a tough gig in my small town.

When the circus comes to town

Last weekend we took the girls for their semi-annual clown phobia shock therapy at The Carson and Barnes Circus -- apparently one of the oldest circuses to call Oklahoma home.

For some odd reason, Hugo, Oklahoma has been and still is the winter HQ for several difference circuses.
From the Hugo Chamber Website: "Hugo also proudly lays claim to being the home and winter quarters of three of America's largest Circuses: Carson & Barnes; Kelly-Miller Brothers; Circus Chimera and Culpepper-Meriweather."
I can count on one hand the number of times I remember going to the circus as a kid so I'm not taking my girls to relive and revive a plethora of cherished childhood memories. Nope, I'm taking them for the same reason I like old diners and small town museums, revival movie houses, American Graffiti cruise nights, drive-in theaters, soda fountains in pharmacies, and picnics at the park -- nostalgia.

Even nostalgia that I wasn't around to experience.

Heck, I was alive when the Beatles broke up and Elvis died, yet didn't appreciate them until many years after their heyday. Had I been more aware, I would have done all that I could to see either of them perform live.

Which brings my family and I back to the circus every time we get word one is setting up in a nearby town. The girls seem to have dug it and for a few bucks more, they got a light-up, spinny, noise-making souvie, some finely blown cotton candy, a coloring book, elephant ride, and the cutest picture of the both of them holding a monster python.

Someday, due to lack of interest by audiences, too much interest by PETA, skyrocketing costs of equipment maintenance, transportation fees, labor costs, and diminishing returns at the ticket office, the circus as we know it will have gone the way of disco roller rinks, the cassette tape, shag carpeting, and the Camaro (yes, I know the Camaro will return in 2008/09 - wish that were the case for roller boogie, boy do I miss those days).

Do yourself a favor. Save up a few bucks and take yourself and a kid to the circus. Someday, like Elvis, "The circus will have left the building" and will exist only in cyberspace and in the long term memory of those, like me, who took the time to enjoy this dinosaur of live entertainment.

Besides, the more tyksters that have clown phobia therapy, the better off we'll all be in the long run.

Not a flinch among us

C's softball practice has begun and there are a slew of new girls who are on her team this year. Including C, there were 5 others from last year's group so it was pretty familiar ground for us all.

Two other Dad's showed up, one of which reluctantly accepted the task of being head coach, so I didn't have to step up and dig into my "Girl's Softball Coaching for Dummies," book. The other Dad has coached before and actually knows things like teaching the girls how to throw, catch, cover the infield, tag a runner out -- you know, the basics.

So, we're in pretty good shape and C is more than relieved that she doesn't have to call me coach. Not as relieved as I am, sweetie.

As we were winding up the evenings practice session, parents were dropping in to pick up their kiddies and talk to the coaching staff (ahem), about future practices, games, uniforms, snack buying rotations, etc.

One woman came up, her arm around one of the new players -- we'll call her Jayme, and introduced herself to me, the other two Dad's, their wives, and another player's mother. She had short cropped, bleached hair, several piercings in one ear, no noticeable traces of make-up, and had the following phrase prominently silk-screened on the front of her tee shirt... "Di-ver-si-ty
1.the state or fact of being diverse; difference; unlikeness.
2.variety; multiformity.My So-Cal-Spidey-senses flared up and I glanced quickly to the other parents as Di-ver-si-ty Mom casually stated..."Hi...I'm one of Jayme's Mom's and..."

How 'bout this...not a flinch in the bunch.

Not a single raised eyebrow, conversational stutter, or awkward moment of discomfort. Hands were shaken, smiles seemed genuine, and welcoming praise was heaped on Diversity Mom's daughter for her prowess in the softball arts.

Label them whatever stereotypes that you want, but if these Okie's are anything, they are extremely polite. I actually felt a bit ashamed that I expected some quiet drama and that I was internally exploiting these people and the situation for some sick and twisted voyeuristic enjoyment on my part.

For a brief moment my small town didn't seem all that small anymore and I realized that I have a lot to learn...or unlearn as the case may be, about being, in the finest sense of the word, an Okie.

Wedding incognito

A TV detective once demonstrated (I think it was Jim Rockford, not sure...may have been Thomas Magnum) how a man carrying a clipboard can walk around the outside of any house in the world and not be held in a suspicious manner.

I'm going to update this slightly by including the addendum that anyone carrying a video camera and tripod can enter a church and videotape a wedding ceremony, in it's entirety, completely unfettered, and even be welcomed by the family's involved.

A project I'm working on involves gathering footage of some historical buildings, one of which was a 1940's era church built entirely by WWII German POW's. On a particular Saturday morning, I showed up with my equipment, ready to get some quality time in with my Panasonic 3-chip, when I found myself smack dab in the middle of a full blown wedding.

So, I sat and watched and smiled and did what inevitably any married person does when attending a wedding...thinks back to the day when they did their "I do" thing. Lucky for me it was a short ceremony and I would soon have the building to myself for footage gathering.

As with most nuptial ceremonies that I've attended, the audience is usually afforded a rear or profile view of the happy couple, and only on rare glimpses do we get to see how they are enjoying the first day of the rest of their lives together, so it wasn't until later during the picture taking phase of the event, that I got to see the expressions of joy on the young couple's faces.

Somehow I'm not convinced that this is the happiest day in this girl's life...

Before the picture is snapped...

Flash...

After.
This was THE biggest expression of joy that I witnessed on the blissful brides face for the entire picture snapping session. None of her smiles before or after came close to the excited joy exemplified by the expression on her lovely spectacled face.

Maybe she's just not all that big in the smiling department or maybe she just hates taking pictures. Who am I to judge, since I'm sure there are at least one or two shots of me at my wedding where I've got that "can't wait 'til this is over" look on my face.

But, we won't tell my wife that.

Good things come in big boxes

Our small town has a family owned appliance store that's the only place in town to get the big, electronic must-haves of modern living, and being relatively new to town and totally in-love with the smallness of it all, we chose to support our local businesses when we decided on a dishwasher purchase awhile back.

The store was crowded, but clean, bright and inviting. A myriad of bulky household items were sorted, organized and placed logically inside the steel building that sits just on the outskirts of town. Appliances to the west (stoves, ovens, dishwashers, washer and dryers, fridges, microwaves, etc), living area to the east (sofas, barcaloungers and big screen tv's), office in the back and beds arranged nearly on top of each other about the middle.

The girls scattered as soon as entered the building and saw the amusement to be had in the maze that was the unboxed inventory on the floor.

We met up with the genuinely friendly owner who helped up select a dishwaher to our liking.

10 minutes or so after we arrived back home, up drove a red pick up with our new dishwasher in the back, the appliance store owner's son at the wheel.

The skinny-as-a-rail teen brought the new cardboarded beast up the steps and through the front door with not a grunt to his name, smiled, said his "thank-ya-and-see-ya-round's" and was off.

From the time we decided that morning while eating our omelettes to go and get a dishwasher, to the time I was loading my first load of dirty dishes and dollop of Cascade into our new stainless steel lined German incredulity of fluid dishwashing dynamics, 90 brief minutes had progressed on the wall clock.

Almost a year and a half and hundreds of loads of dishes, plates, glasses, mugs, forks, spoons, knives, chopsticks, and rice bowls later, our wonderful white dishwashing dynamo is still going strong...as is our local appliance store.

In fact, I spotted these in a recent full-color newspaper insert ad he was running in our local paper -- a first for him. Business must be good.

No wonder with offerings such as this...



Guess the days of sticking your keg in a bathtub full of ice in the back bathroom are over. Even beer busts have gone high tech out here on the prairie.

"...a fry cook on Venus"

If you know this famous movie line from what I consider to be the high point in filmmaker John Hughes' 80's "teen" period, then you know a little bit about what can occasionally be considered high art in the movie theater in my mind.

One of the things I always thought I would enjoy doing - not as a career but as a hobby - was being a short order fry cook.

I can trace this blue-collar service oriented trade manifesto to two distinct periods and places of my past.

First, as a pre-teen I spent countless fall, winter, and spring weekends with my Pops and Step-Mom at the Mammoth Mountain Ski Resort in California's Sierra Nevada Mountains.

The skiing was top notch, the interaction with fellow skiers of varying degrees of maturity was educational and my time spent on the slopes gave me a better understanding of the importance of being able to tolerate me, myself and I.

There was a young Asian fellow named Denny, who was the short order cook in the lodge cafeteria where we ate breakfast. He was handsome, jovial, and seemingly enjoyed his work with the same amount of carefree vigor that he displayed on the slopes during his afternoon "off-time." He was a ski-bum in the truest sense - working to live, living to ski, and skiing for the love of it.

Then - and maybe even a little bit now - I wanted to be Denny.
Second, during my undergraduate years, I spent more hours than I should have, sitting at the counter in a small canteen, talking and listening to a large Black man in a very small white apron.

His name tag stated in crooked black dymo-labeled lettering that his name was Robert, but I called him what he asked me to call him after he found my familiar face staring back at him for several late morning breakfast feeds in a row...Junior.

Junior and I became friendly acquaintances in the 4 years I took classes at the state university just east of Downtown LA. Never getting too personal or letting go with too much private information, our conversational shorthand centered around what I coined as "fry cooking techniques, theories and practices." He got a good chuckle every time I would use that phrase.

To this day I still practice one of Junior's cardinal rules for making an A+ omelette - scrape the griddle surface clean before laying on that egg.
So, you can see why, when I drove by and saw that Jobe's Drive-In on Route 66 in El Reno, OK, was for sale, the memories of Denny and Junior (and Ferris) flooded my mind with images of lording over my own griddle, making sweet onion fried burgers to be served via roller skating car hops to waiting patrons in convertibles and pick-up trucks.

It ain't Venus, but a fry cook with little to no experience could do little better.

Wabbit season, duck season...twister season

Yep, it's gettin' on to be that time of the year again.

Thunderstorms to rattle our 100-year old windows, lightning shows that would impress Nikolai Tesla, hail big enough to enable one to say, "Barkeep, a scotch on the ROCK, please," and tornadic activity that sends our local TV WeatherMuppets into multi-orgasmic hyperventilation...all the joys of nature's fury with half the calories of regular weather.

Noticed this in our small town's news rag this morning. Two twister seasons and I've yet to see this form published.


I'm wondering if New York Citian's that have Jodie-Fosterish "safe rooms" get to register them with the City, so the NYPD knows where to go looking for them after the Day After Tomorrow thaws out.

Or if my Los Angeleno brethren who live on the bottom floor of multi-storied apartment buildings can have signs printed up that spring from the front lawn of the complex, informing passing by Earthquake rescue workers that the building they are looking at used to have 8 stories, not 6.

Don-chya-no dat da good folk out and aboot in Minnesowda fer sure hafta get dem permits from da city to build really tall chimneys dat will reach over pretnear any amount of snowfall, you betcha (wow, that was hard to do...props to you folk up north...that's a hard way of talkin' - K)

We don't have a storm shelter. We have a full basement that will not afford much protection if the entire house is Wizard of Oz-Dorothy-lifted from it's foundation and spun through the air.

Maybe I should sink a pipe about 30-feet down and get enough leather straps for the family and I to strap ourselves down to. Be a good way to look up into the eye of the twister, wouldn't it. Or does that just happen in movies? Shucks.

441, still havin' fun

Two years to the day, I created a blogger account and started this semi-circular ride into the blogosphere.

440 posts later, I'm still finding that I have a few things to comment about on the comings and goings of my small Oklahoma town and the effect it's having on my family... and visa versa.

Here is my first ever post. I still wonder sometimes.

Thanks to all who have temporarily joined the slow cruise. Sorry it's isn't always (rarely ever) an E-ticket ride, but you Net junkies have YouTube for that kinda stuff.

In celebration of this anniversary of sorts, I present for your viewing pleasure, 20-seconds of Franny eating her breakfast. Any bipedal hominid who doesn't enjoy watching and listening to man's best friend eat dry dog food needs some therapy to generate growth in their brains pleasure sensor area...it works on so many different levels.

Max out the bass on your computer's subwoofer, crank up those speakers and enjoy.
Happy trails!
OKDad

Fast Times at rural Okie High

Just when you thought Jeff Spicoli was a relic of the past and nowhere to be found out here in the wilds of the Oklahoma prairie, along stumble these clowns...



In Fast Times at Ridgemont High, the black Honda was a VW bus, and the three bozo heads spilling out of the car were Anthony Edwards (ER), Sean Penn, and Eric Stolz (Mask), but the smoke billowing out as the door was opened was the same doobie laced fog to be sure.

And...


My first reaction was, "speakers in a bulldozer....sweet!"

Then I had a chuckle as the story triggered a memory from my youth of a couple of acquaintances (one an A+ honor student, the other a barely passing C- athlete) who were busted for stealing a 280Z -- which left a trail of dripping oil from the driveway they boosted it from, several blocks away to their own garage. Doh!

Sniffy Part 2

There lies a particular stretch of alleyway a few blocks west of our street where backyard upon backyard of canine populated residences make this portion of real estate a veritable gauntlet for anyone foolhardy enough to meander down it's single lane path.

Franny and I do it almost daily.

While the pit bull twins announce our arrival, and the daschund / corgi tag team follow suit, we slowly make our way past the dalmation/black lab mix who playfully yips while his yellow lab/shepherd mix kennel mate yaps in unison.

At the end of the alley lives the civil servant drug dog, Sniffy, his K9 patrol car backed neatly into the carport to his left.

Now, I don't know what kind of training drug dogs go through, but I'm assuming they must receive highly skilled specialized instruction in narcotic and weapons locating. What I'm not sure of is if they receive any skill sets in the security arts including attack, offense, or guard duties.

I wonder this, because Sniffy is the last one on the dog gauntlet alley, so he gets the barked notifications of a dozen of his bowwow comrades beforehand. Yet 9 times out of 10, when we make it to his backyard, he'll jump up in a startled surprise and give an anemic, embarrassed woof or two, more of a "far-out man" than an irritated warning of impending doom.

I'm hoping that sniffing all those drugs on a daily basis hasn't mellowed his other doggy senses to a dull sheen.

Sniffy, part 1

The 4-lane highway that runs through my small town is a relatively major traffic corridor in this part of Oklahoma.

As such, our local newspaper police blotter regularly carries a blot or two about traffic stops gone bad (for the driver), many of which are thwarted by the drug sniffing dog that our Sheriff acquired sometime last year.

I'm not sure of the parameters that are used for a cop to call in for the drug dog (we'll call him Sniffy), but I can imagine there exists somewhere, in some file, a professionally prepared profile of what a druggie user, maker, transporter, or dealer in this part of the state would/should/could look like.

And if you, your car, your passenger, or your load falls within any of those parameters, then Sniffy may get a page.

Like many communities around the globe, the resulting carnage of impounded cars, trucks, boats, and other modes of transportation that have piled up from drug confiscations have manifested into "Seized Vehicle Auction" ads being placed in every newspaper, signpost and telephone pole within this panhandled states odd borders.

My right brain says, "Hooray, cheap cars for sale, may get a good deal!"
My left brain say "Bad karma, getting a car that was used for illegal purposes."
My inner female self says (shut up guys, we all have it..if we're lucky), "Umm, what's wrong with this scenario..."

Here's the scenario in question.

Say Sniffy gets a whiff of an illegal substance in a car during a routine traffic stop. The driver goes away, the ganga is seized, the car is impounded and sold at auction to a young couple expecting their first child at the end of the year.

Fast forward a month later.

The young father-to-be gets so involved with his sculpting project that today's lamaze class completely slips his mind, until 15 minutes before it's set to begin. He jumps into the car without removing his dust covered coveralls or washing up and is caught speeding by a constable in the next town over.

The dedicated Officer raises an eyebrow at the young driver's dusty appearance, harried look and long hair, gets a funny feeling and calls in Sniffy.

Now, unless someone along the way (law enforcement motor pool, impound lot goons, auction lot workers or the buyer themselves) cleaned out the car of any or all traces of the illegal substance that got the car impounded in the first place, old Sniffy is going to find something that "sends him a barkin'".

Perhaps I'm being paranoid here and with the initial removal of the illegal substance by law enforcement, time and the elements will take care of any trace evidence left over.

Perhaps not.

Here's my proposal for a new business, that feeds on the paranoid fear of the scenario I just outlined. Anyone who wants to take the idea and run with it, owes me free access to the service for myself and my family, for life.

You've heard of the Carfax service, where you can trace the history of your car using the VIN?

I bring you, DrugCarfax.Just bought a car at auction, on the internet, or from a shady character with bad teeth, a mullet, and a crooked walk, and want to be sure you won't be the victim of the previous owners "habits?"

DrugCarfax is the answer.

For a nominal fee, you can drive your car to one of our convenient service centers and get it sniffed by a certified drug sniffing dog. Once our factory trained veteran drug dogs walk away from your car and gives it the "paws up" sign, you'll get a genuine computer printout stating that your car has been DrugCarfaxed and is drug free and on the wagon.

Don't run the risk of having your "new" used car being impounded by one of those civil servant drug sniffing dogs on a routine traffic stop. Use DrugCarfax and get the insurance you need to protect your car, your self, and your family.

Close Encounters with a pickup of the Third Kind

Here in Oklahoma, the land where pick'em up trucks are described as Super Duty's, Quad-Cabs, Hemi's, and Silverado's, and wordy coded numbers such as XLT 450, Ram 2500, and 3500HD are bandied about during early morning farmer/rancher coffee talk, my youthful hippy cousin and her Nova Scotian hubby caused quite a stir when they recently rolled into town for a visit driving this wonder of Japanese mini-truck invention...



It's a Honda ACTY

Yes, it's street/highway legal...in Canada.

Here in the States, you apparently can't get one tagged for street use. However, if you happen to be driving from British Columbia to Nova Scotia via the United State's highway system visiting friends and relatives along the way, then it's perfectly legal - even though the young couple reported multiple curious law enforcement road dawg tailgaters who followed them for several miles while calling into their watch commander, obviously inquiring as to the legality of said vehicle on the road.

With all of 45 hp and a top speed of 60 mph, my cousin commented that seeing the USA super-mega-interstate-highway system at a good 15 - 25 mph below the rate of speed at which the other vehicles are clicking by at, can be unnerving at best, life-threatening at worst.

Still, they reported that they've been the subject of more than one camera phone drive-by snapshots, that their fellow interstaters (for the most part) have been courteous and patient as they puttered along, and not one pick-up truck full of rambunctious young'uns has hassled them about their steering wheel being on the "wrong" side.

I suggested they find and jump on as much of Route 66 as they could on their next leg of the journey, since they were leaving us and heading up to my cousins's hometown of Indianapolis for a visit with Mom and Dad. Would be a much more relaxing drive as their relatively moderate speed limit would be a welcomed entity on the aging Mother Road.

I'm thinking that there are still plenty of modern conveniences along the way to fulfill their petrol and roadside fruit/vegetable stand requirements as well.

BTW, a quick check of this website revealed that the prices for these used Honda truckettes are pretty reasonable (starting around $800US). Course, you have to get it here and only drive it off-road. But with a 350kg load capacity (about 700 lbs.), it'd be enough to haul around a Chevy engine block and a set of cast iron heads.

And wouldn't it be fun to show up at the next Monster Truck Ralley/Mud Bog in one of these gems?

Okay, maybe not.

We interrupt this winter-like weather for an important spring sunset

There are times I feel bad about parking my classic, unrestored El Camino in the driveway, out in the wilds of the Oklahoma weather. But it's only a car -- a hunk of metal, rubber, plastic and various petroleum products whose sole purpose is transportation of people, animals, minerals, and vegetables.

However, like most car guys, I feel that my vehicles have a definite soul and personality to them.

That being the case, for every snowy, icy, sub-20 degree night the Elky must endure in it's stationery state in my driveway, it is rewarded with sky encompassing views of sunsets such as this one from last week.

My Elky smiles wide when surrounded by a wondrous Oklahoma spring sunset/
Fire in the sky, soon to disappear behind the western prairie.

The 100-year old Catholic Church across the street wears the setting sun like a well-tailored suit.

I'll call you honkie and you'll like it

Every night after the girls are tucked into bed and snoozing the wonderland express, I take 30 minutes of sanity alone time with the pooch on her final relief break of the day.

Normally, this is a peaceful, zenuous experience - channeling the powers that be to provide my pet with a healthy, well formed stool to finish out the day, and for myself to peruse the memories of the day and the pre-hectic to-do list for the morrow.

On weekend evenings, however, is when the "honkies" and "zoomies" come out.

These are usually kids in pairs or more, piled into cars (cars are honkies, pickup trucks are zoomies - keep reading), cruising to or from somewhere, looking for what my wife's phraseology book terms as "sh*t's and giggles."

The ritual goes as follows...

Cruise through town.

Spot a seemingly unsuspecting pedestrian, out for a late night stroll, baggie in hand that is soon to be filled with doggie dookie.

Make sure the pedestrian isn't someone familiar, or someone who would recognize and narc on you and/or your vehicle to your grandparents at church on Sunday.

If it's safe, lay on the horn as you pass by (car) or rev your motor to the redline (pickup).

Watch for the pedestrians jumping jack reaction.

Laugh your infantile butt off.

Repeat.

I've somehow managed to retain quite a bit of my urban/suburban street sense where my subconscious won't let it's "out-in-public-danger-guard" down.

The honkies have yet to make me jump from surprise. The zoomies succeed in turning my head, hoping to catch a glimpse of a muscle car, only to be disappointed at the site of yet another pick-em-up truck with Flowmaster's and a 3" exhaust (yawn.)

There will come a day, I fear, where my serene little town will get the better of me and my Radar O'Reilly internal tunage won't protect me from the Honkies and Zoomies anymore.

But for now, honk and zoom away. I kinda see it as payback for the infantile things I did while cruising my old souped up Nova in the sweet days of my youth.

Coach...me?

The notice in C's backpack proclaimed that sign-ups for the girl's summer softball season were quickly approaching and coaches were desperately needed.

We talked it over with C and she absolutely, postively wanted to play softball again this summer, stating proudly that this year she could actually "throw the ball to someone," as opposed to what she did last year, which resembled an Aboriginal boomeranging more than anything.

The other day while walking across the parking lot to pick C up from school, the mother of one of C's softball teammates from last summer (we'll call her B), yelled and gesticulated wildly at me, beckoning me to come over for a friendly chat.

I did.
I was suddenly and without any provocation, attacked from my smiling blind side...B - My husband (Z's Dad) wants you to coach with him this year?
Me - Coach...me?
B - Yep. He says he'll do it, but only if you do it too.
Me - Well, I helped out last year, but only as a standing-around-Dad-spectator-who-chased-balls-into-the-outfield-kinda guy. I was planning on doing the same this year.
B - So, you'll help him coach then?
Me - Huh, well, I'll be at every practice if that's what you're asking.
B - He said to be sure to tell you that you'd better be there (jokingly).
Me - I'll be at every practice that I bring C to, and I'd be more than willing to help him out.
B - Coaching...
Me - Whatever...catching balls, fetching Gatorade, yelling encouraging remarks to the players...
B - Great. Because he said he wouldn't do it without you.
Me - Whatever he needs me to do, I'll do, as long as it's doesn't involve actual coaching or teaching softball skills in any way, cuz I'm a total lamo when it comes to just about all team sport skills.
B - It's only softball. You're so funny. Okay, I'll tell him you said okay.
At this point the kids starting flooding out of the school building and the controlled chaos of child pickup began it's strange and wonderous dance.

Later on, while I was replaying the conversation I had had with B to my wife, her only response was, "I don't think either of our girls are going to wrestle, or do Judo, or go into competitive skiing, so maybe this would be a good experience for you to learn some softball basics."

Is there a "Girls Softball for Dad's who only did individual sports as a kid for Dummies" book?

Radiator Springs in realtime

Our final evening in western Oklahoma found us once again on Route 66, this time heading for the little town of Canute.

We had heard there was a deadly pizza joint in this little town of 500+ people and we were on a mission for some thin crust ala carte.

Friend's Pizza and Pub occupies a small lot on Main Street, which sits perpendicular to the section of the Mother Road that zooms through the tiny, blink-twice-and-you'll-miss-it community. There are several hotels on 66 that must have been something to see in their neon-blaring heyday, neither of which looked habitable now.

The P and P itself is little more than a used-to-be post office-turned hamburger joint-turned bar with a conveyor belt pizza oven and uber-friendly staff. The cars parked in front of the joint ranged from a beaten down 1987 Monte Carlo SS, to a brand spankin' new Dodge Charger Daytona/RT with a few showroom new "Wild Hogs" tossed into the mix.

Parental panic kicked in slightly as it should for anyone contemplating taking their kids into a bar-type atmosphere seeking fine dining, however upon entering the dimly lit pub, a quick survey of the separate eating and drinking areas proved to allay most of our fears.

In the bar area sat a table of blue-haired grannie's drinking coffee (?) from thick white diner mugs, right alongside a group of yupped-up bikers (Wild Hog-types), a young couple with their infant in a carrier, and several groups of what I believe were Route 66 road trippers taking in the local scenery.

Everyone who was drinking beer, drank it from longneck bottles, leading me to believe that had I asked for something on tap, I would have been denied in a most pleasant way.

When it came time to order off the menu, I didn't dare order my standing favorite pie (sausage, anchovey, garlic, onion) since the place looked more like a pepperoni and iceberg lettuce salad joint. However we were all pleasantly surprised when our pizza arrived in good shape, form, and edibility factor.

The pizza pies were named for personalties of questionable celebrity (we ordered the Diana Ross), the dough was decent for not being hand-tossed, and the mushrooms were fresh, not canned. Overall I'd rate the atmosphere a 7 (if you like bar-type places, if not then a 5), the staff an attentive and friendly 10, and the pie a well-earned 8.

Friends Pizza and Pub was the kind of place where the waitresses and kitchen staff were happy to take the time to get to know a little of our own story, what brought us to Canute and to their door, and where we were headed from here.

Even though the town surrounding them was obviously in the throes of neglect, in need of repair and attention, the collection of friendly faces, decent food fare, and local color was the exact Radiator Springs/Route 66 vibe we were hoping to find on our trip to motor west, on the highway, that's the best.

"Still too muddy to ride horsies"

You can imagine the disappointed looks on our girl's faces as we uttered those words after repeated hopeful phone calls to the Flying W Guest Ranch several mornings in a row. The rainstorm that drenched the eastern part of the state was attempting to drown our darling daughter's dreams of spring breakin' via horseback on the open range

However, the Holidome and all it's distractions proved to be excellent parental planning on our part as our family shifted gears and took full advantage of the indoor pool facilities, jacuzzi, sauna, and steam room, 9-hole migi-golf, ping pong, shuffleboard (ahem), and foosball table in the game room.

Our first few hours after check-in, we spent so much time at the pool and jacuzzi that our wrinkles had wrinkles. I channeled a few lessons from my youth and demonstrated for C the finer points of push shots and pull shots on the foosball table, while PK showed me the effectiveness of chasing the brightly colored miniature golf ball with the putter, rather than just hitting and aiming it toward the hole.

While abiding of the Griswold Family "Vacation" facilities at the Holiday Inn, we put our mortar board hats back on and hit the nearby sites for some class and culture of the historical kind.

The docent at the Black Kettle Museum in Cheyenne, took it upon herself to ensure that the girls completed the required tasks to received their "Junior Ranger" badges complete with coloring activity book and "pinning of the badges" ceremony. They totally dug that.

We tallied forth under warnings from the Museum Lady that the trail at the nearby Washita Battlefied Site would still be muddy going, but we should have it all to ourselves.

While we strolled the sacred grounds where the Custer led massacre of Black Kettle and members of his Cheyenne tribe took place, we tried to put some perspective of why there is a monument to this area into C's head. Finding it too difficult to explain the concepts of wholesale slaughter and eminent domain to a 7-year old, we stopped reading from the laminated narrative brochure provided by the Parks Service and instead focused on the natural surroundings, the spring bloom of colors, and the red Oklahoma mud that was quickly collecting on the girl's long pants.

Lunch was to be found back in the town of Cheyenne, in an old Catholic Church. A Mexican family had recently relocated to the old church, hung up a few well placed zarapes and other TJ paraphernalia and reopened the once hallowed doors to a new congregation of hungry country dwellers.

I had a trio of some pretty darn good carne asada street tacos, S did proud with her spinach enchiladas and the girls stuck with their tried and true "chips and cheese" standby, while taking full advantage of their God-given right to forkfulls of food off their parents plates.

Next up, the final installment -- back on Route 66 for a farewell to Spring Break '07.

2 years, but who's counting

It was exactly 2-years ago this week that I said farewell to my cubicle, packed up what little remained of my/our Los Angeleno lives into the Civic and pointed my nose east.

Even after all this time, the number one question I get from folk, both here and back in LA is, "how could you do such a thing?"

Gotta go with a movie quote here...

"Life is simple. You make choices and you don't look back."