Some people collect Pez dispensers for fun...

From today's police blotter in my small town's news rag...



Let me break this down for you...

Remington 28 shotgun
Remington 12 shotgun
Remington 30.06 semi-auto rifle
Browning 28 shotgun
Marlin .22 semi-auto rifle
Marlin 3030 lever-action rifle
Ruger 9mm semi-auto pistol
Ruger 12 shotgun
Ruger .22 semi-auto rifle
Ruger .22 revolver
Ruger .22 mag revolver
Ruger .45 semi-auto handgun
Ruger .357 revolver
Kahr Arms .40 handgun
Mini .22 revolver

"Just taking my little firearm collection out for a drive, Officer."

Who says the 2nd Amendment isn't alive and well here in my small town?

Buying beer...a beer in my small town

The cheddar and beer fondue recipe listed 6 ounces of beer as ingredient number two.

That's right, I said fondue. You wanna make something out of it?

It's a Valentine's Day tradition in our house (regular YASTM readers will attest to the fact that we have many traditions in our abode).

This year the girl's were old enough that we were able to train them in the ways of non-double dipping and anti-saliva-swapping fondue forking techniques, which made for a much more authentic fondue pot sharing experience for my in-laws (now infamous for their lack of food sharing proclivities...even with each other).

No, I didn't get the awesome USB powered fondue pot that I was jonesing for last year, but we did add a little dessert pot this year and I found a new recipe that looked promising.

Chedder and beer fondue.

Problem was, we're not beer drinkers, so there wasn't a drop of beer to be found in the house.

On went my Sketchers, up went my hoodie, and out I went into the chilly below-30 degree morning in search of a can of beer.

First stop, the local grocery store, which, much to my chagrin, does not sell beer.

3 years in this town and I didn't realize this. Shows how much I buy beer.

The barely 17-year old checker informed me that I'd need to go to the gas station to get beer. The gas station. Of course, how silly of me.

Gas stations in my small town have long been relegated to the Leave-it-to-Beaver era and are now meccas of consumables and general merchandise known in the modern vernacular as "convenience items."

The fuel gauge on my daily driver was hovering comfortably close to F, so I felt confident that the few singles I had in my money clip should be enough to cover my one and only purchase - a beer.

Unfortunately, the barons of petrol convenience stores have deemed single cans of beer as unshelfworthy, opting instead to populate the valuable wired real estate in the chilled coolers with multi-packs, multi-multi-packs, and mega-multi-multi-packs of the hopped up, malted, barley'd, grain'd, and pure mountain spring water'd beverage.

Way off at the bottom southern corner of the last cooler door on the left, I found what I needed....single cans of beer.

Only, not the 12 oz. normal 6-pack sized cans. These were 24-oz monster towers of pop-top aluminum, that are normally relegated to golf carts because the Beer Lady can be mighty scarce at times when playing 18 on a hot, summer day.

My dreams of walking out of the store with a single, little tin can of Bud Light along with change from a buck were dashed, as I reached for a can of the only non-multi-packed beer they sold.

Then the puritan in me (okay, I was surprised to find that I had a puritan side) found myself attempting to devise some sort of explanation to the elderly cash register wielding clerk for why I was buying what amounted to 1/3 of a six pack of beer at 9:30 in the morning....on a school day.

Quickly I reasoned that the truth would be too bizarre and more than the lady could comprehend, so I kept my fondue story to myself and resigned myself to accept that from now until the end, I will be labeled as a "morning beer guzzling alky" by a small portion of the population of my small town.

After I used the requisite 6 ounces of beer for my fondue, the rest of the can sacrificed itself to the spirits of the insinkerator.


Some might say, "what a waste."
Others may mutter, "what a shame."
My in-laws just said, "I liked that beer fondue."

Hummus among us

Jobe's was closed.

Well, not closed for good, but while my nuclear wife and 2.5 kids and I dipped our pita bread into freshly made hummus and dined on Greek-style moussaka and kababs at the restaurant next door to Jobes's last Saturday, the lack of cars, people, and signs of life at the old Route 66 drive-in and the thought that they wouldn't be open for business on a Saturday was slightly depressing.

Whoa, back up there. Did I really write hummus, and moussaka, and kababs?

Welcome to Georgeo's Meditteranean Cafe, on Route 66 in El Reno, Oklahoma.

I had noticed this place whenever I did happen to drive by since it looked done and ready to open but never had it's shingle hung for business. And let's face it, an eatery that was hawking something other than burgers, chicken-fried steak and pizza within a 30-minute drive of my small town was bound to attract my attention.

Well, the place finally opened, Georgeo was a gracious and entertaining host, his wife's cooking was top notch, and the bill for the horrendous amount of food we consumed was checkbook pleasing.

And even though the food we were eating was deliciously Greek, the music pumping through the recessed speakers in the ceiling was Greek, and the sites and smells surrounding us in the tastefully decorated eatery were all very Greek, a thoughtful study of the menu revealed that we were indeed, still in Oklahoma.

Chicken-fried steak and dolmas.
Barbeque burger and baba ganoosh.
Spanakopita and spaghetti.
Gyro platter and 12 oz. ribeye.
And on the back page of the menu, pizza, any way you want it.


The menu reflects a hodgepodge of items I'm sure Georgeo would PREFER to offer alongside items he feels COMPELLED to offer, in dedicated service to the occasionally limited palate of his customers.

Or perhaps he took this episode of Seinfeld to heart, not wanting to repeat the error of Babu's ways.

BTW, a quick phone call today revealed that Jobe's, the burger joint mainstay of El Reno's stretch of the Mother Road, is indeed still flipping, frying, and flinging burgers. Whew!

Who's that peekin' round the bend?

Like most bloggers, I enjoy a little voyeuristic peek into who is visiting my blog now and again.

Tools such as SiteMeter and other hit counter/tracker type objects make it easy to not only track where the hits are coming from, but provide a bevy of other information about the hittees as well.

Such as this bit of info I screenshot recently from my own SiteMeter logs...specifically, look at the sixth category down, "Operating System."



Yes, you can run Windoze on a Mac. And according to this Mac ad (and PC World magazine), it apparently can run faster.

Unfortunately, the Microserf excuse-for-an-OS will still be as buggy, and ugly, and nonsense ridden, and cryptic as ever, regardless of what computer it's being run on.

Like putting a Yugo motor in a Shelby Cobra. It may start, and run, and get you to the grocery store once in awhile, but you'd be constantly wondering when (not if) the sad excuse for a vehicular powerplant was going to blue screen you, leaving you stranded by the side of the road.

And yes, I too enjoyed the irony that the hittee in this particular instance was using a corporate IBM connection to browse my blog.

So, near as I can figure, this person was an IBM employee, running WindozeXP on a Mac.

Course, I could have misinterpreted the data and be totally wrong.

But if not...sweet.

Voices from the front, via down under

Back in September of last year, we sent a few packages of comfort items from home to a soldier we knew serving in Iraq.

Yesterday a package arrived from the soldiers Mom in Australia with some gift items for the girls and a nice card thanking us for the kind gesture we made toward her son last year.

I'm happy to report that the young marine is doing well and even though he didn't make it stateside for the holidays, he did make it back to his folks in Caringbah NSW where he went shopping and picked up a bunch of Aussie themed "prezzys" for the girls.

Among other items, the box of goodies contained their first glimpse of a stuffed kookaburra, platypus, echidna, and something that looks like an Aussie version of a capybara (wombat).

Along with the stuffies were a couple of Aussie flag caps, some tattoos, magnets, stickers and a bunch of sea shells which threw C into a whirlwind of emotion and commotion as she played "got it - don't got it - got it -don't got it" with each and every one.

Gonna have to find somewhere to put her vast shell collection.

And what Aussie gift pack would be complete without a jar or tube of this tasty bread spread...


Yep, our girls are going to get their first taste of the slimy brown yeast-whiz so popular with the youth of Australia.

I'll of course have their ACT fluoride rinse and toothbrushes ready and loaded to bear on hand for the inevitable American-post-Vegemite-consumption reaction. Those of us who sought out and tried the stuff after listening to the Men at Work croon about it in the classic 80's hit, "I Come from a Land Down Under," know exactly what I'm talking about.

It's an acquired taste.

We're starting to put together another package for the young Marine who is now stationed in Afghanistan, although seeing as how his home turf is the land down under, I'm not sure if our "taste of home" items we sent last time around actually gave him a true taste of his home.

Cupcake got a tongue lashing

Already having documented and demonstrated how my youngest daughter ate a sprinkled donut, removed her slippers, and snarfs down a turkey leg...

I now present to you, the proper method for consuming a homemade Valentine party cupcake with butter cream frosting.

On the left, the before.
On the right, the after.


You're most welcome.

Bada-bing...from a can?

Let me preface this blog entry by saying that the best pizza I've ever eaten, is usually the one I'm eating at the time I'm being asked, "what is the best pizza you've ever eaten."

I've walked the streets of NYC while chowing down on a locally bought folded quarter-slice wedge of cheese.

I've loosened my belt a notch after snarfing an entire deep dish masterpiece at Pizzeria Uno's in Chicago.

I've had crust so thin and crispy, a Ritz cracker would have felt overweight and dough so puffy and light that the air escaping from the crust as I bit into it sighed with pleasure.

I served pizza at my wedding, and eat pizza with my Wife for every nuptial anniversary in whatever state we happen to be in.

I'm not a pizza expert. Like any red-blooded American, I just appreciate a slice of the good stuff.

So imagine my reserved joy when I heard the radio ads for a joint in the city called Falcone's.

Encouraging signs that built my hopes up...

Online reviews were generally positive...# 9 on about.com guys list.

A craigslist posting by the restaurant is looking for experience pizza throwers, not just generic pizza cooks.

Radio ad pitchman claimed to be the owner and even though he sounded a little too authentic New York Italian to be an actor and may have been pouring on the accent to get his point across, I gave him points for pitching his own joint to the masses...with attitude.

Even liked his cojones when dealing with the Edmond Planning Commission and City Council that tried to stifle his authentic use of his ancestral flags colors when detailing the exterior of his restaurant.

Finally, I heard the owner state in a local radio interview that he "...can't actually make New York style pizza crust here or anywhere's but New York, since he'd need New York water to do it."

It's true, look it up.

I was starting to get hungry and readying a plan to take my family on a little trip to New York City via Bricktown OKC.

But then there were these...
Warning signs not to get my hopes up...

No website. What is up with that? Every business should have a website, period.

Use of the slang phrase "bada-bing" in their marketing strategy.

The take-out menu seemed to go out of its way to display more attitude than substance and did it's best to capitalize on the popularity of a certain HBO Italian crime family series that recently finished it's run. Okay, the Top 10 reasons to get Whacked kinda cracked me up.

I finally did get to sample the famous Falcone's pizza pie a few weeks back and I only have one question.

Do canned mushrooms (like pineapple and canadian bacon) have any place on an authentic pizza made and sold by a second generation Italian American, born and raised in New York who still makes his meatballs by hand?

Other than that, the pie was most definitely, "the best pizza I've ever eaten."

Hey, you asked.

Hallmark -1, Parental Sanity - 0

Due to my voluntary service last Valentine's Day of making deliveries for the local florist as a fundraiser for my eldest daughter's school PTO (Parent Teacher Organization), I was more than familiar with the overindulgent behavior displayed by many of the elementary school parents in our small town.

What may have started as an innocent and loving gesture by a long absent Grandparent or traveling salesman father who was on the road and couldn't see his kids on Valentine's Day, has become an explosion of opulence and indulgence the likes of which even Britney Spears would probably approve of.

Like in most things topical in my life, I choose to remain oblivious and non-opinionated on most matters of controversy, citing my advanced degree in clueless fatherhooding of my two daughters, as well as my status as a Stay-at-home-Dad (better known in my small town as a fish-out-of-water).

However when my Wife went to spend 30-minutes with our 2nd grader at her classes Valentine's Day party and saw the following display of V-day goodies sitting on the school office counter awaiting delivery to ankle biters...


...she came home spitting caustic vitriol all the while questioning the negative effect that "Keeping up with the Jones' " is having on our small town.

Apparently the effect was felt at the parochial school where our youngest attends Pre-K, as the Principal informed my Wife and I that the gymnasium floor was filled with V-day deliveries for the students, the most decadent display of parental affection for their kid manifesting itself as a dozen long stem roses sent to a kindergartener.

Topper of the day came when a classmate/friend of our 8-year old that is suffering from an obesity issue proudly announced that HER parents sent a giant chocolate chip cookie to her in her class.

And while it was only slightly painful explaining to our 2nd grader why she was one of a handful of her classmates NOT to have received a delivered bouquet of flowers, stuffed animals, or a mylar balloon tied to a 6 oz. can of Dr. Pepper, we were able to disseminate from her that the vast majority of her classmates who did receive an in-classroom delivery from their parents, we're bus riders and after school daycare devotees.

To which my Wife murmured almost to herself and almost under her breath, "How much guilt relief does a can of soda and helium balloon buy nowadays?"

Sometimes I think "harsh" is my Wife's middle name.

Tailgating is allowed ...and encouraged

Is there anything that regurgitates nostalgia better than the sight of two tykekins swinging their legs on the tailgate of a classic car-truck parked in a cemetery while watching their Mother ride her road bike around and around, mile after mile as she trains for her big bike ride?

Thought so.

Lay-ing on the sweet and spicy

A new item popped up in the impulse buy checkstand display at my small town's non-Walmart StupidCenter supermarket.


Overheard conversation between two insulated-coverall wearing gents while standing in the checkout line behind them ...

"Lookit here...hot wing flavored chips."
Sweet.
Yeah. Looks good, thought we should try 'em.
Get two.

He nods and does, while the other Guy takes a good long look at the picture on the chip bag.

"Says here sweet and spicy."
"Yep, sweet aaaand spicy."
"Terry-yakee. What's that?"
"What?"
"Look here, right here, says (slowly) terry-yakee."
"Yuchy? "
"Yeah, yuchy...maybe we shouldn't get these, says they're yuchy right on the front" (joking).

They chuckle and make their purchases, while I am forced to pick up a bag for a closer looksee.

One can see how one might mistake the coated drummettes in the picture for a miniscule pile of a plate of Hooter's finest hot wings...or didn't know what the heck teriyaki was.

BTW, they were sweet and spicy and quite delicious.

The view from behind is often not pretty

I am not a backing-into-a-parking-space kinda guy.

Nor am I a one-handed parallel-parking-using-only-my-mirrors kinda guy.

And the desire to own, drive, or attempt to park any vehicle that has a back end longer than the length of a typical garage, just isn't on my want/need list.

Given those last three statements, it's quite obvious that I most definitely am not a pulling-something-behind-my-vehicle kinda guy.

In my small town (and let's face it, just about anywhere in Okie-land), if you have a vehicle with a posted towing capacity in it's owners manual that doesn't have a tow hitch, ball, bar, or some other pulling attachment of some sort dangling off the back end, you are persona non-grata.

And the only reason I have such a contraption on the back of the Elky, was because it came that way from the little old Cajun dude in Louisiana whom I bought it from some 3 years ago.

As such, and since the Elky does have the little steel ball of pulling power and enough oomph to pull a trailer, my F-i-L thinks nothing of asking me to haul a load of our house restoration leavin's to the dump via his little 4-walled 12-foot trailer.

And every time he comes 'round with his little trailer and we have a big day of demolition ahead of us, I get that anxious rattling at the end of my keychain, knowing that my trailer pulling and backing up skills (or lack thereof) will yet again be put to the test.

Well, our 10'x17' mudroom is coming along nicely, and will be soon be resplendent with a deep doggie washing capable laundry sink, an industrial size slide out laundry folding table, four open lockers (NFL style...the NBA style just didn't suit S for some reason) complete shoe puttin'ontakin'off seats, upper storage for sports equipment, and lower storage for shoes, acres of cabinet space for linens, towels, and seasonal clothing, a sleeping area for Franny, a fold down hand-wash delicates hang drying rack, three overhead light fixtures, broom closet, hidden ironing board, and a gift wrapping area.

Oh, and a little art space corner for the girls to get their painting faces on.

But all this construction comes at a price, and that total was paid in full with my recent trip to haul away the lathe-plaster-sheetrock-lumber-nails, dust and dirt that we removed to make way for the new and improved mudroom.

Let's just say that it probably took me longer to back that trailer up the 50 foot, 13 degree inclined ramp leading to the open maw of the dumpster pit, than it did for my F-i-L and I to load the old mudroom lathe and plaster offal into that darn little trailer in the first place.

Luckily only one fella was waiting - with the patience of a Farmer watching his wheat grow - to dump his load after me.

I was too preoccupied with the sweat-inducing goings-ons out my rear and side view mirrors to notice how smirky, surprised, or self-satisfied the Farmer was (and deservedly so) as he watched me struggle with and against my Sisyphusian 2-wheeled boulder.

A good friend of mine in LA, after he bought his boat, took his trailer to a large empty parking lot to practice, practice, practice pulling and towing and parking his boat trailer.

Very soon after, he became a pulling-something-behind-his-vehicle kinda guy.

Maybe there's hope for me yet.

Ron makes a good burger

One night last week S and I had to make a Tulsa run to attend an event for which my wife is seriously considering participating in this coming June...the Oklahoma Freewheel Cross State Bicycle Tour.

After securing our kids snugly with my In-Laws, Wife and I bombed up the turnpike and made it to T-town with about 40 minutes to spare.

Famished and needing some sustenance to carry us through the evening, we hunted around downtown Tulsa in the very industrial area surrounding the venue for the seminar -- OSU's College of Osteopathic Medicine (who knew OSU had a med school?).

Other than a neon glaring Coney Island greasy spoon of questionable safety and sanitary standards (the downtown bus depot location might have been a giveaway), our only other option in sight was a Golden Arches and several pubs.

Flipping over to a side street in desperation, with the clock ticking and our gullets in shut down mode, I was desperately hoping we wouldn't have to result to a QuikTrip Fast-Feast-o-Death, when along to our wondrous eyes did appear but a hovel of fine hamburger hideaways...Ron's

A Tulsa institution since the heady days of disco fever, we had both heard of Ron's famous chili and burgers for awhile, but never had the time or wherewithal to partake of this burger joint wonder.

As our time frame neared it's temporal horizon, we opted to share an arterial sclerosis inducing concoction known as the Sausage Cheeseburger (Oklahoma's best burger!.....$5.25)."1/3 lb. Cheeseburger made with 1/2 beef and 1/2 Owens sausage. Topped with hot pepper and American cheese. Dressed with mustard, pickles, fried onions, lettuce, and tomato." Sadly, after shaking our heads to clear the haze and glaze that had covered our eyes after consuming the big burger, we had no time for dessert or even a palate and vein cleansing cup of joe.

We paid our bill, left a few bucks for our friendlier than friendly waitress and grabbed a ToGo menu on our way out the door.

Now, considering the remainder of the evening was spent listening to a health professional tell my Wife and the gathered FreeWheel faithful how to get in shape and prepare for the cross state bicycle ride a mere 5-months away, every burger-infused belch I shared with the cosmos during that time not only stopped my heart, but provided an ironic sweetness that almost...almost, made up for our dessert-less meal.

As I was writing up this blog entry, a quick trip around the Googlesphere revealed that the Coney Island joint may not have warranted such ire from our hunger panged decision making process as revealed in this article.

Ah well, livin' and learnin' in T-town.

My daughter, the back alley candy dealer

"I'll sell door-to-door, but not on Main Street!"

Confused and seeking an explanation for such a statement, I launched into a futile and exasperation laden explanation that there is no difference between wearing her emblem encrusted red vest to school, at meetings, and in front of WalMart hawking boxes of candy for her Campfire cause, and wearing that same vest while she pulls her Radio Flyer full of chocolates and nuts up and down the sidewalks of the busy 4-lane that runs through our town.

I took a moment to channel the energy that spawns from the popularity of The Prairie Home Companion, Norman Rockwell's artwork, pharmacy soda fountains and a two-tone red 1957 Chevy BelAir convertible (although I'm partial to the '58 Chevy), as I explained to my 8-year old the significant impact she may have on passers-by as she takes her stock of Campfire candy down the sidewalks of Main Street.

My diatribe began with a summary definition of nostalgia, followed by a flowery explanation of the importance of preserving the past so we don't make the same mistakes over and over again.

Next we discussed the positive effects that the triggering of the neural connections that stimulate long-term memory have on both physical and mental well-being.

Finally, with a flourish of wild gesticulations, I launched into a passionate speech relaying the positive impact on the world she could have by making just one person smile, by helping them rekindle an image of a time long past, and traditions not yet forgotten.

All this by simply walking down the sidewalk of Main Street, ringing doorbells, and saying with enthusiastic authority, "Would you like to buy some Campfire candy or send a box to the Troops?"

To which I finally received my answer..."I don't want to do it because people will be honking and waving and seeing us selling candy...that's so embarrassing, Daddy."

Will I ever understand girls...even the two who spawned from my very own seed?

Not likely.

Backyard bovine excision

Well, it took almost 3 years, but finally an X-Files has arrived in my small town.

"Mulder!?"

"Moo?"

That's Pulitzer, with a capital "P"

Thus far, having just scratched the surface of my net-excavation into my Wife's maternal genealogy, I've had the rare occasion to utter "Eureka!" but once.

So far.

I mean c'mon, her Mother's maiden name is the most common family name in the country - not to mention the UK, Australia, and New Zealand.

Verified by only two sources (more coming, if people would only check their email more often), it seems my Wife's Great Grandfather's sister (Great Great Aunt) married a fella named James W. Faulkner, making Uncle Jim, her Great Great Uncle.

Now this J.W. cat shared a Great Great Great Great Great Grandfather with two-time Pulitzer Prize winning author, recipient of the Nobel Prize for literature, and one of America's finest novelists, poets and storytellers, William Faulkner.

Faulkner. C'mon, you gotta get excited about this guy. He hung out with Bogie and Bacall and wrote screenplays for Howard Hawks. I personally recall reading "The Sound and the Fury" in high school Sophomore English class, then again in Grad school when I was studying Kurosawa's "Rashomon."

Never read Faulkner?
Shame on you.
I have in the past and will again in the future.
Another thing to thank Mr. Hooper for.

A long circus soliloquy...but you can listen if you want

I've sat in bewildered childhood awe to "The Greatest Show on Earth" at the Ringling Brother and Barnam and Bailey Circus.

I've marveled at the unique combination of traditional and modern circus acts in the very Eastern European heavy Circus Vargas.

The family and I took in both the Carson and Barnes and Culperpper & Merriweather big top extravaganzas when they traversed our state in years past.

Heck, we even took the girls to see the Shrine "Shriner's" Circus when it came to OKC last year.

Finally, I've even fallen asleep while acrobats zoomed around, above, and behind me at Cirque de Solei...in Cirque's defense, I was going on little sleep, working 20 hour days on a 6-day a week low-budget production at the time, so anywhere dark was an excuse for a quick nap.

But none of those big circus venues will ever make it to my small town. It's merely a matter of economics and a limited # of available show dates during the circus season (yes, like Football and all the other organize sports, there is a circus season as well).

Instead, we get little, family run circuses like the one which pulled into town yesterday afternoon, setup in the all purpose building at the fairgrounds, and were packed up and history before I checked my email for the final time of the night.

The Latin-American flavor and vibe of the entire performance rekindled memories of a little film I worked on quite awhile ago, La Carpa.

Back in the 20's and 30's, there was a tradition amongst the American Southwest Latin community of vaudeville troupes and their "tent theaters," which rolled into town, setup up shop, sold as many tickets, food items, and penny trinkets they could, then moved on to the next town before being chased out by the local non-Latin constabulary.

While the "La Carpas" of old and their programs of comedy, song and dance were catered to Mexican farm workers and their families, the little tent-less circus that we were presented with was definitely a family run operation, with each performer wearing multiple hats; ie. the Juggler was also the Cotton Candy man, and the Hula Hoop lady was making snow cones.

Back to the big top...er, the all-purpose building and a few observations...

Hula hoop girls. Every small family circus that has come to town (and we've seen...let's see, this would be our third since moving to our small town) begins with a bevy of hooping hula ladies o' the swing.

Never guys, they're always sequined costumed young ladies with big hair, big smiles, and hoops galore. From the seat of a person whose never been able to get one of those Whamo! plastic rings to circle his rotund little body, I'll always be amazed at anyone who can get not just one, but dozens of these hoopies to do the round-de-round on their own ankles, knees, waists, chests, necks, and foreheads.

Even more so when they're made of highly polished aluminum and must weigh in at a few lbs. a piece.

Even, even more so when they're circling around sequined costumed young ladies with big hair, big smiles and big....earrings (ahem).

Then there's the Juggler. This guy did the standard juggling fare - pins (4), rings (6) and flaming sticks (4). Then he donned a belt that had three billiard table net pockets attached - one at each side and a third at his back.

You guessed it, after juggling 6 white pool balls for a few flourishing minutes, he tossed them one at a time high into the air, did a Michael Jackson "Billie Jean foot spin" and sunk two balls into each and every pocket - nothing but net. Most impressive.

Later C asked me if I ever learned how to juggle. I told her juggling is done is two parts, the tossing/catching of the balls and the dropping of the balls, and that so far I've only learned how to do the second part. Got an 8-year old eye roll for that one, thank you very much.

The clown act was long and scary, but the presence of a 3-year old clown was a novelty in and of itself, making the entire act somewhat tolerable. Kids today don't have the love (or tolerance) for clowns that my generation did, since they don't have Bozo the Clown to greet them on a bright and early Saturday morning.

Then there's Jargo the Giraffe....but we'll come back to him later.

Rounding out the performance were several opportunities to buy overpriced bags of popcorn that may contain a coupon for a free gift, toy or balloon ("Not every bag of popcorn has a coupon, but MOST of them do..."), overpriced Circus-themed coloring books ("Not every coloring book has a coupon for a free gift, toy or ballon, but MOST of them do..."), or a $5 polaroid picture with the 3-year old clown dressed in a Chinese-made knock off (and un-licensed, I'm sure) Sponge Bob costume.


Speaking of unlicensed costumes, a post-intermission break was broken up by the entrance of the dancing characters from Madagascar. They scared as many little kids in the audience as they thrilled, and I smiled knowing that at least my girls were old enough to not let the furry, need-a-good-laundering costumed characters give them nightmares tonight.

The featured act of the circus was a family of Argentinean performers led by a scary Father with a wild frock of jet black hair styled somewhere between Don King and every Russian-mobster you've seen in low budget made-for-cable movies.

The Mother was in a sequined-black leotard and seemed content to stand back with her arms raised in an ever-present taa-daa position, sacrificing her own attention to maintain the focus of the sparse crowd to her three, amazing offspring.

Jordan, the 13-year old ("Direct for Las Vegas, Nevada!") opened with her balancing-on-a-board-on-a-pipe act.


This kid was on fire and had all the bells and whistles when it came time to milk the audience for applause and adoration...which in my opinion, she deserved in spades.

For a person who has trouble balancing on the same two feet I've had my entire life, anyone who can balance on a foot-long length of 6" pvc drain pipe atop several boards, in front of an audience of rural Okies stuffing their faces with cotton candy, snow cones (yes it was 18 degrees and icy outside, but a snow cone is a snow cone), pickles, and nachos, deserves and gets a big rousing round of applause from me and my brood.

The Argentinean family finished the show with their gaucho boleadoras performance, where they donned sequined and flaming versions of the traditional Argentinean cowboy garb, stomped their feet into big, loud boots, and swung their bolos around with the fervor and gusto of a pre-K class that's had their sugar-rush mid-day snack and has been let out for recess for the first time in a cold, winter month.

Like everything I do and everywhere I go with the girls, I miss half of what is going on due to the fact that I'm watching them watch whatever we're all there to watch. You parents know what I mean.

Argentinean bolo performers aside, nothing is better than watching your kids "diggin' the ride."

Okay, this circus soliloquy has gone on long enough, but before closing I need to get back to Jargo the Giraffe.

Even though my 8-year old preferred the loud and raucous acts over all, the performance that had my 4-year old glued and transfixed (as well as her pre-K classmate sitting next to her) was Jargo the Giraffe, "The Original Joker of the Jungle."

A little online research revealed that the origin of Jargo goes back a ways into circus tradition and history. In circ-slang, Jargo translates to "why pay for a real animal, when two guys dressed up as one will do."


This particular incarnation of Jargo looked to have originated circa 1940's or so, as he was looking a little early Looney Tune. Jargo, the act, was basically a naughty giraffe, who wasn't as respondent to his trainer as he should have been. While it successfully tapped into the "oh man, this is cheesy" section of the adolescent and adult brain, a quick glance over to the pre-K peanut gallery revealed that Jargo was a hit.

Later that night at tuck-in time, PK stated unequivocally that Jargo was her favorite act of the evening, relating his entire act verbatim in 4-year old speak.

As I settled back onto her headboard, stroked her hair and anticipated the deep breaths and periodic snorts of my baby girl entering REM-slumbertown, I took nostalgic comfort knowing that in this day and age when just about any form of entertainment is available at the turn of a mouse wheel or wave of the tv remote, two guys dressed up in a giraffe costume doing slapstick comedy under the fluorescent lights of my small town's fairgrounds all-purpose building, can give a little girl something to smile and dream about.

Flossing her way to a brand new Corvette

Dental floss has apparently been around since 1815, but I'll have to ask my Mom when it was she started my brother and I on a daily dental flossing routine since apparently it should start sometime before your 4th birthday.

Case in point, my youngest daughter's latest acquisition...


The tooth had been irritating her for awhile and even though she was very good about twice daily brushings, she only flossed when she caught her big sister doing it and wanted to copy.

Seeing as how our youngest was only 4-years old, my Wife and I never pressed the floss point on her too vigorously. Surmising that since our 8-year old is a twice daily brusher but only flosses when she remembers - which isn't all that often - and she has been cavity free thus far, we set the same lofty oral hygiene goals for our second daughter as well.

I personally have had two cavities in my entire lifetime (in the same tooth) and even they both arrived during my let's-neglect-our-dental-and-physical-well-being Grad school days. S is a consummate brusher and has only two anxiety-filled amalgam procedures filling the lines on her dental chart.

So as a family, we have relatively strong teeth, and by the precedent being set by our eldest offspring, that tradition would hopefully continue on down the genetic line.

At the dentist, PK's itty-bitty little mouth was too small a fit for our family practitioner to get a good set of x-rays. So off we went to follow the unearthly path of the Delta Dental referral slip.

A very short time later, PK ended up sitting in the comfy chair of a pediatric dentist, happily watching Scooby Doo on the flat screen monitor strategically hanging from the ceiling above her head and getting the first complete set of dental x-rays in her life.

What started out as an irritant became a cavity, that became a probable filling, that eventually became an extraction and ended with some sort of placeholder apparatus in the crater hole where her baby tooth once sat.

So now were on a 3-a-day tooth brushing routine, ACT bubble-gum flavored fluoride rinse in the evening, Dentek Fun Flossers with fluoride after meals, and a space being made on the bathroom counter for our next purchase, a Water Pic.

Oh, and Wifey and I were harangued pretty decently by the cute and perky, twenty-something Asian pediatric dentist for not putting our 4-year old on the Hogwarts Express floss train earlier in life.

So, what you ask did Tooth Fairie have to cough up for this whopper of a deciduous enameled wonder?

Not a thing.

PK refused to hand it over to the flittering trader of enameled goods for trinkets and coins. This one, she wanted to keep, and show off, and possibly use to torment her parents in the future in a guilt vs. consumable goods exchange.

What color did you want your Corvette in PK...dental floss white...haha, very funny.

C and PK joining the American Revolution

The rumor on my Wife's maternal side had always been that somewhere in their ancestry, they were related to Mary Todd Lincoln -- Abe's beloved wife.

On our anniversary trip to Kentucky some years ago, we traveled across the southern border to the scary town of Jellico, TN to root out some family roots and dig up some long dead relatives...figuratively of course.

We also stumbled upon a wonderful Tennessee History Center about an hours drive south in Knoxville that had an impressive collection of genealogical material related to the area. We dug, we read, we printed and spent the better part of a day piecing together the puzzle pieces of her long dead ancestors.

We ended up at back at the Jellico cemetery taking gravestone etchings with crayons and paper we picked up at the local Dollar store, feeling pretty confident that we knew even less about the origins of the age old family relationship to our 16th President's wife.

Fast forward to a few days ago when my Wife noticed that the local chapter of the Daughter's of the American Revolution(DAR) were holding a meeting to discuss, among other things, possible candidates for year end scholarships.

Now, my Wife was one of those over-achieving scholarship queens at her high school and walked away with considerable spending cash to see her through her first semester of college and the ever important Rush Week.

To me, the whole idea of researching, applying for, and smiling for the local papers photographer as you are handed checks on your way out of town is relatively foreign to me. So with the knowledge that my Wife's pre-college strategy to let her good grades do the talking and donated funds do the walking, it wasn't all that much of a surprise when she shoved the article concerning our local DAR group meeting into my face and said, "our daughter's need to join the American Revolution."

More than a decade away from their first day of Rush Week, I pondered why my beloved was suddenly concerned with our offspring's college funds.
She wasn't.
All that much.

But like a 75% off After Christmas Sale banner can draw my Wife's attention from several miles away, through the thickest fog and the haze of millions of swarming locusts, so does the prospect of free money for our daughter's future

Fortunately, our research back in the green hills of her maternal family's stomping grounds did indeed reveal that somewhere back in her patriotic gene pool, she had Grandfathers and assorted relatives (8 generations back - yep, they've been here that long!) that donned the red,white,and blue and raised their muskets in defense of our new nation.

So with a little more research and verification, DAR membership should be in our daughter's future, and their chances for yet another scholarship solidified.

A by-product of all this interest in her Mom's family history rekindled a desire to discover whether or not the Mary Todd Lincoln connection was true or not.

Onto the net I went and what I found...will have to wait for yet another blog posting.

Hazards of spending too much time on the adult playground

There are times when the disparities between my childhood and that of my Wife's, make story time for the girls a surprisingly twisted bedtime ritual.

While I spent countless hours learning the intricacies of visual storytelling in 22 and 46 minute increments (no wonder Gilligan never got off the island...he only had 22 minutes to do so each week!), Wifey was out in the boondocks, catching crawdads with bits of bacon on a string and painting her initials on their backs with nail polish.

While my friends and I were traversing the outlying communities from the safety(?) of the RTD busline, Wifey and her brother were taking the canoe out exploring the hidden coves of Lake Eufaula.

While I was reading every book my Mom would bring home from the library that had a fantasy theme to it and a dragon, elf, or other mysterious figure on the cover, Wifey was plinking on her guitar and writing sorrowful songs of youthful angst and wistful preteen wisdom.

So naturally, my bedtime stories usually involve a fantastical array of creatures of various shapes, types, and forms (unicorns and pegasus ponies are a favorite), a journey of epic scale in search for magical items of great power ("...without the cylindrical power cells, the odd-shaped radiowave device wouldn't work"), and plot lines that any fan of 70's American television would vaguely recognize ("Here's a story, of a lovely dragon lady, who was busy with 3 little dragon ladies of her own...")

The other night I overhead my lovely Wife telling our girls the tale of "Gibble the Hamster.""When your Mama was little, I had a hamster that I named Gibble. I loved Gibble and saved up enough money to get him a deluxe four room Habitrail setup.

He was the only pet I ever owned, since our dog was a family dog, and really belonged to my Dad, since he used her for hunting.

One day, we were going to leave for a week long stay at the lake house, so I gave Gibble plenty of food and filled up his water bottle to the top, thinking that it would get him through the week we were gone.

When we got back, I found Gibble having a seizure on the floor of the feeding room in his Habitrail condo.

When I reached in to pick him up to see what was wrong, he instinctively bit me so hard that my defensive impulses took over and I flicked my hand away, sending the still convulsing Gibble across the room, smashing into a wall, and hitting the floor with a loud thud.

Moments later, he died.

After a tearful burial in the backyard, further investigation of Gibble's now vacant habitat revealed that in my rush to get out the door and into the lake-bound Travelall, I failed to properly insert the water bottle into the steel retaining sleeve, thus placing the nipple that was to provide Gibble with the life preserving liquid, ever so slightly out of his reach.

I had killed my beloved Gibble."Our 8-year olds response after hearing this tale of pet hamster woe was, "Cool, can we go dig him up and see what his skeleton looks like?"

Our 4-year old simple frowned, shook her head and said, ""Not a story like that Mama."

Mangers, monster truck and muzak

The Oklahoma wind has less respect for the ceramic statuary depicting the nativity scenes than a rowdy group of Atheist skater dater teenagers.

Thus, my nightly walk duties have of late included upending and repositioning various livestock, Shepherds and gift-bearing Kings in one or both of the yet-to-be-put-away-for-the-season manger displays in front of two of the churches on my downtown dog walk route.

Is there a statute (or should that be statue?) of limitations on manger display time?

Tonight, after placing a myrrh bearing Magi from the East back into his upright position, I heard, no felt was more like it, the unmistakable sounds of a domestic internal combustion engine with a freer than free flowing exhaust, rumble and stop in the adjacent intersection.

Turning to see what was causing the audible ruckus, I found myself staring side out with what my 4-year old would label (screaming out loud) "a MONSTER TRUCK!"

From inside I could see the red/orange embers of a Marlboro being puffed on, while in the next instant, the driver rolled down his window to expel a healthful dose of air from his tar and nicotine depleted lungs.

Sunglasses at night. Sure.
Trucker cap with camo design. Course.
Lift kit from h*ll, 4" deep treaded tires, a pair of blue testicular-looking gizmos hanging from the bumper hitch. Classy.
OU stickers plastered on the liftgate. Typical.
Flicking ashes onto the street when there was a perfectly good ashtray inside the cab. Naturally.
Delilah's theme music pouring forth from the am/fm in-dash stereo in the Truck driving man's passenger cabin? Whoa...huh?

For those not in the easy-listening-Delilah-radio-show know, here is a link to the syndicated radio show hostess who "...Each night shares your requests, dedications and stories over the airwaves and she always picks out the perfect song."

Some find her-it-them-whatever, nauseating beyond compare. My Wife however digs Delilah, especially on a long drive home from having dinner at her folks house, the girls conked out in the back seat, the darkness of the Oklahoma night surrounding her little import gas miser, and nothing but the sounds of schmaltzy thoughts and dedications to ease her down the road.

But then, my Wife isn't a Keystone Light swigging, ciggy ash flicking, Sooner for life swearing, camo clad monster truck jockey either.

Delilah beware, the edgier Okie crowd may be taking a liking to your brand of radio.

Showing their softer side, no doubt.