Back when cartoons were cartoons before they were bestowed with their fancy labels of "animated characters" and "toons," Bugs Bunny was my childhood Saturday morning hero.
He almost always won (okay, one time his tail was snipped off), almost always had a snappy comeback or one liner retort, and had the greatest opening line ever uttered by V.O. genius Mel Blanc.
Yet when my Grandfather from Hawaii visited us for vacation, and he huddled around his morning coffee while my brother and I absorbed weekend early a.m. cartoons, it was Wiley E. Coyote that got the old gent laughing.
I'm talking hearty, from his gut, teary eyed laughter. Everytime that wiley coyote would land at the bottom of the Grand Canyon in a "poof" of smoke, my grandfather's face, burnt brown from a lifetime of working in the blazing Hawaiian sun, would crack open yet another deep crevice and the joyous melody of childlike laughter would echo throughout our small living room.
And I remember watching him and enjoying his unfettered laughter as if it were yesterday. To this very moment, it's a memory I draw upon when I need a quick spiritual uplift.
I flashed on that memory the other night, as the girl's and I partook of our Thursday night after-dance class dinner routine. It's normally their eat-out dining choice, but somehow an emerging tradition is breaking through the barrier of free choice and they've been choosing to eat at the downtown burger g-spoon as of late.
Sure, the burgers are superb (onion fried, cooked through and through on the flat iron before being tossed onto the open grill for a quick flame-ridden charring...yum!) and the atmosphere is family-oriented and relaxed, but it's the glowing humongo-screen plasma displays at each end of the joint that I belief is at the heart of their once-a-week culinary dinnertime splurge.
Call me a tyrant, but dinner time at our house is a pretty old-fashioned, sit down with the family, talk and eat festival of family-time. "Please pass...," will get you just about anything you need table side, and the latest rule of conversation being limited to non-bodily function topics is seemingly taking effect -- not an easy task with a 9 and 5-year old.
Therefore, at the burger joint where the girls can catch some junk on the tube and eat it too (simultaneously in fact), well, that's too much a luxury to pass up for their once a weekly eat-out-a-thon.
I'm on pretty good terms with the owners and my ordering convention has become somewhat of a routine. I hand over the cash for the girls food, he hands over the remote for the tv in the back. Some people don't get that good a service at home.
While the girl's used to plead and beg for yet another Hannah Montana (or Suite Life of Zack and Cody, or Wizards of Waverly Place, or iCarly) viewing, I'll usually default to the familiar and less-sassy dialogue offered by the Cartoon Network Boomerang's nightly offering of the classic, Tom and Jerry.
Violent and PETA-unfriendly though it may be, it's visual humor and slapstick sight gags can still make me chuckle continuously, and genuinely laugh-out-loud at times.
I mean, c'mon, how many times can Jerry make Tom take a bite out of his own tail before you just have to bust a gut?
And from my vantage point, sitting at the back of the burger joint on a weeknight at dinner hour, there are more than a few adults and elderly folk alike, who seem to dig the physical comedy stylings of one tom cat's ongoing endeavor to make a snack of his best friend and lifelong animated nemesis, the mouse.
And my grandfather's spirit is sitting right there with me...probably wondering when the Road Runner toon is coming on?
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
What's stuck up on your ceiling?
As old-fashioned as it seems, my Wife had a hope chest sitting at the foot of her bed since she was a young lass, growing up in OKC tract home 70's suburbia.
In it were stored items she collected and would use in her future adult days as a happy homemaker.
Her stints away from home in college and grad school tapped into the chest for daily use stuff - cups, bowls, plates, etc., but the chest and a few contents actually remained intact until the day we moved back to Oklahoma and her folks brought it up to our new digs.
Sure, the stuff she saved was tacky, and dated, and most of the practical items were already part of some landfill due to their use and abuse through my Wife's early adulthood days. But a few items remained, as did the chest, which now proudly sits at the foot of our oldest daughter's bed, awaiting the placement of items for her own future days.
Prize of the collection was a scrapbook my Wife had made, consisting of magazine clippings, articles, and advertisements, appropriately titled, "My Dream Wedding and Home."
Recalling that my Wife and I grew up in the heady days of the 70's and 80's, you can only imagine the choices she had to work with when designing her perfect wedding ceremony and future household.
It's a hoot.
Which brings me to the guts of this post, being, my Wife is a pack rat-tess of the highest order. And when I write order, I don't mean "ordered." Far from it. We have things she's been collecting since the beginning days of her hope chest -- all with the stated caveat of, "someday we'll use these for..."
I knew this quality of my beloved going into our marriage, and have therefore sacrificed some of my collecting desires (still have my Mad Magazine's but will have to put off adding anymore Precious Moments Beer Steins to my stash for awhile).
Her prophetic argument of using her collectibles for a practical and/or decorative use has proven correct just enough times during our years together, that her statement continues to remain valid. Thus her collecting continues.
Today's point of evidential order, the recently completed tin tray ceiling in our new upstairs playroom.
The raw material for the project were decorative tin trays (department store cafeteria items circa 40's-50's) that Wifey's been collecting (along with her once partner in thrift/collectible store crime, Traci in LA) for about 13 years now.
The first set she found in a thrift store for pennies, and once she found the next 4, 5, 7 and 12 in the set, the hunt was on.
Ebay was scoured.
No thrift store shelf was safe.
No antique mall booth was left unscathed.
And in the end, the final numbers came from Traci's Mom herself, donating her prize trays to the project.
Fast forward to a few months ago, when we found the trays in a box we were just getting around to unpacking, and the ideas started flowing.
The end result of my Wife wanting to have a tin ceiling of some sort in the house, combined with utilizing a beloved collection from her recent past, is the project/product you see here.
It took a bit of engineering and basic math to get it done, but my intrepid F-i-L who has yet to say "nay" to any of his daughter's wacky home decorating ideas, was up for the task.
I still need to do some touch up work on the nail holes and seams, but once that's done, the project should be complete. The lamp is a dumpster find, using a color scheme from both the playroom and the adjoining bathroom.
Big thanks go out to Traci and Tak!
Now if only I can find something decorative and practical to do with my 30-pin simm ram chip collection sitting in a shoe box under my bed...
In it were stored items she collected and would use in her future adult days as a happy homemaker.
Her stints away from home in college and grad school tapped into the chest for daily use stuff - cups, bowls, plates, etc., but the chest and a few contents actually remained intact until the day we moved back to Oklahoma and her folks brought it up to our new digs.
Sure, the stuff she saved was tacky, and dated, and most of the practical items were already part of some landfill due to their use and abuse through my Wife's early adulthood days. But a few items remained, as did the chest, which now proudly sits at the foot of our oldest daughter's bed, awaiting the placement of items for her own future days.
Prize of the collection was a scrapbook my Wife had made, consisting of magazine clippings, articles, and advertisements, appropriately titled, "My Dream Wedding and Home."
Recalling that my Wife and I grew up in the heady days of the 70's and 80's, you can only imagine the choices she had to work with when designing her perfect wedding ceremony and future household.
It's a hoot.
Which brings me to the guts of this post, being, my Wife is a pack rat-tess of the highest order. And when I write order, I don't mean "ordered." Far from it. We have things she's been collecting since the beginning days of her hope chest -- all with the stated caveat of, "someday we'll use these for..."
I knew this quality of my beloved going into our marriage, and have therefore sacrificed some of my collecting desires (still have my Mad Magazine's but will have to put off adding anymore Precious Moments Beer Steins to my stash for awhile).
Her prophetic argument of using her collectibles for a practical and/or decorative use has proven correct just enough times during our years together, that her statement continues to remain valid. Thus her collecting continues.
Today's point of evidential order, the recently completed tin tray ceiling in our new upstairs playroom.
The raw material for the project were decorative tin trays (department store cafeteria items circa 40's-50's) that Wifey's been collecting (along with her once partner in thrift/collectible store crime, Traci in LA) for about 13 years now.
The first set she found in a thrift store for pennies, and once she found the next 4, 5, 7 and 12 in the set, the hunt was on.
Ebay was scoured.
No thrift store shelf was safe.
No antique mall booth was left unscathed.
And in the end, the final numbers came from Traci's Mom herself, donating her prize trays to the project.
Fast forward to a few months ago, when we found the trays in a box we were just getting around to unpacking, and the ideas started flowing.
The end result of my Wife wanting to have a tin ceiling of some sort in the house, combined with utilizing a beloved collection from her recent past, is the project/product you see here.
It took a bit of engineering and basic math to get it done, but my intrepid F-i-L who has yet to say "nay" to any of his daughter's wacky home decorating ideas, was up for the task.
I still need to do some touch up work on the nail holes and seams, but once that's done, the project should be complete. The lamp is a dumpster find, using a color scheme from both the playroom and the adjoining bathroom.
Big thanks go out to Traci and Tak!
Now if only I can find something decorative and practical to do with my 30-pin simm ram chip collection sitting in a shoe box under my bed...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Shall we dance, Bud?
It's a strange tradition that didn't exist in the So Cal environs where I grew up.
Every time the weather folk on the local news stations here in the panhandle state start warming up their cold weather comedy routine for a winter storm, my Wife starts waxing poetic about her youthful evenings spent huddled around the old Zenith, waiting for the school closing announcements.
That's right. They actually close schools here for ice, snow, and bad weather days.
Now, don't get me wrong, living here now, I'm all for it. In fact, when they announce the school year calendar in the fall, the snow days are factored right into the schedule.
Course, this is only Oklahoma, not Chicago, or Fargo, or one of those little towns in Vermont that are impossible to pronounce.
Still, Oklahoma is no slouch when it comes to frequent bouts of the icy and snowy stuff. Occasionally there's enough around to make the roads relatively treacherous for rubber shoed vehicles, the air too frigid to take a deep breath, and the backyard which is normally a brown, dead mess during the winter to be covered in a blanket of white so beautiful, that wasting a day in class when the kiddies could be out in it, making snow angels, minuscule snowmen, and putting some miles on their Radio Flyer sled, almost a non-issue.
But it all stems from the scroll, the constant and never ending listing of names that all the networks roll across their televised real estate, alphabetically announcing what schools, businesses, and community activities will be closed the next day due to the slippery stuff.
During last nights evening news, a few of the surrounding communities had called in their school closings, but our community held fast. Then, on the 10 p.m. news, when the girls had gone to bed without the knowledge of a pending day off, we spotted our school's name and knew that somewhere in dreamland, our girls were doing the happy-snow-day dance.
We almost missed it due to the equally important announcement that the Bud Elder Dance Academy was closed down as well.
That's right, the Bud Elder Dance Academy.
Seems Bud Elder (not a dance teacher) has some clever, jocular friends, who derive some joy in putting one over on both their friend, Bud Elder, and the network news stations. Apparently some in the state media machine (my wife included), know from whence this gag originated, and who the focus of the friendly jib-jab is aimed. The only unknown is who is perpetrating the gag on a regular, snow-closing basis.
In the past several times we've had snow cancellations, we'll inevitably spot the Bud Elder Dance Academy closing and have a good chortle at the news programs expense.
Like most practical jokes, this one is made possible due to the frenzy caused by the change in weather. The news networks don't have time to check out the legitimacy of every incoming call or email therefore Bud Elder keeps sneaking past the News Intern whose job it is to take the info and type it into the text file for the scroll.
Still and all, it's both a comfort and a quick chuckle to see Bud's name in the scroll, reminding us that no matter how bad it gets out there, humor will always prevail.
Dance on Bud Elder, dance on.
Every time the weather folk on the local news stations here in the panhandle state start warming up their cold weather comedy routine for a winter storm, my Wife starts waxing poetic about her youthful evenings spent huddled around the old Zenith, waiting for the school closing announcements.
That's right. They actually close schools here for ice, snow, and bad weather days.
Now, don't get me wrong, living here now, I'm all for it. In fact, when they announce the school year calendar in the fall, the snow days are factored right into the schedule.
Course, this is only Oklahoma, not Chicago, or Fargo, or one of those little towns in Vermont that are impossible to pronounce.
Still, Oklahoma is no slouch when it comes to frequent bouts of the icy and snowy stuff. Occasionally there's enough around to make the roads relatively treacherous for rubber shoed vehicles, the air too frigid to take a deep breath, and the backyard which is normally a brown, dead mess during the winter to be covered in a blanket of white so beautiful, that wasting a day in class when the kiddies could be out in it, making snow angels, minuscule snowmen, and putting some miles on their Radio Flyer sled, almost a non-issue.
But it all stems from the scroll, the constant and never ending listing of names that all the networks roll across their televised real estate, alphabetically announcing what schools, businesses, and community activities will be closed the next day due to the slippery stuff.
During last nights evening news, a few of the surrounding communities had called in their school closings, but our community held fast. Then, on the 10 p.m. news, when the girls had gone to bed without the knowledge of a pending day off, we spotted our school's name and knew that somewhere in dreamland, our girls were doing the happy-snow-day dance.
We almost missed it due to the equally important announcement that the Bud Elder Dance Academy was closed down as well.
That's right, the Bud Elder Dance Academy.
Seems Bud Elder (not a dance teacher) has some clever, jocular friends, who derive some joy in putting one over on both their friend, Bud Elder, and the network news stations. Apparently some in the state media machine (my wife included), know from whence this gag originated, and who the focus of the friendly jib-jab is aimed. The only unknown is who is perpetrating the gag on a regular, snow-closing basis.
In the past several times we've had snow cancellations, we'll inevitably spot the Bud Elder Dance Academy closing and have a good chortle at the news programs expense.
Like most practical jokes, this one is made possible due to the frenzy caused by the change in weather. The news networks don't have time to check out the legitimacy of every incoming call or email therefore Bud Elder keeps sneaking past the News Intern whose job it is to take the info and type it into the text file for the scroll.
Still and all, it's both a comfort and a quick chuckle to see Bud's name in the scroll, reminding us that no matter how bad it gets out there, humor will always prevail.
Dance on Bud Elder, dance on.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Even the best of us get recalled now and again
It came via snail mail as a pink and white cardstock mailer. The top was perforated for ease in tear-away access and the words "Recall" and "Notice" were featured prominently on the cover.
The gory details were as follows..."On certain (our year) and (our model) vehicles equipped with power windows, the driver and front passenger door glass bolts may loosen and come off, causing the door glass to separate from the window regulator...
...In the worst case, the door glass may separate from the window regulator, bind and shatter during operation of the power windows, causing driver distraction and/or injury." Okay, glancing at a popular tv actress picking her nose in her sleek 750li bimmer next to you at a traffic signal is distracting.
Realizing you left your chai latte on the roof of your car and watching it kersplash all over the rear window as you pull out of the mini-mall parking lot is distracting.
Refereeing a back seat argument between a 9-year old who knows it all and a 5-year old who is determined not to let the 9-year old dominate the dvd selection is distracting.
Having my window bind and shatter possibly causing serious injury...that's get-your-butt-off-the-factory-floor-and-send-me-a-pink-and-white-recall-notice-in-the-mail serious.
Well, sorta. Since when I first read this recall notice a few months back, the windows in Wifey's car weren't loose, nor were they rattling abnormally.
Until last week when we noticed that we were having to crank Casey and the Sunshine Band up to a 4 on the stereo to hear him tell us that he's our boogie man, our boogie man (that's what I am) due to the rattling windows.
Having replaced far too many car windows in my days (every car I've ever owned had a window smashed in at one time), I was fairly confident that I knew of which bolt the recall was addressing, and it would have been a 15 - 30 minute job at the garage of shade tree mechanics at the end of my driveway.
But how often do you get a free factory service from a major car dealer, all for the minor inconvenience of driving your car 30 miles to get there.
Besides, history has proven that on more than one occasion, my easy fixit jobs turn into major hassles and headaches when it comes to vehicular repair maneuvers - remind me to tell you about the time I had to pull apart the top end of my Nova's motor due to a dropped spark plug wire holder down a pushrod hole - ugh.
I called the dealer, made an appointment with a service dude named Brian, and after doing some research on the dealers website, packed up my laptop to take advantage of their complimentary wifi in their waiting lounge and caught an outbound tailwind out of my small town.
In exchange for the keys to Wifey's car I was given a salaried cheery estimate of a 2-hour wait to have both windows "fixed" and I made my way to the fishbowl service waiting lounge.
Like all waiting lounges in car dealerships, this one had the air of dread and anxious anticipation filling the air.
I decided to lend my happy homemaker hands to help ease the tension by making a fresh pot of coffee in what looked to be a shiny new industrial strength coffee machine. A brief forage through the adjacent cabinets provided me with a pre-measured coffee filter pack, and since the machine was hard-lined into a water filtration unit, all I had to do was hit "start" and we were off.
An uneasy looking set of elderly women made their way over to the beverage section where I was standing vigil over the still brewing coffee pot. One asked me if there was any Splenda around and I had to apologize that I hadn't found any, but there was the pink stuff sitting by the sugar and cream bar.
The other thanked me for "finally" making more coffee, using a tone that smacked of well practiced subtle sarcasm. It was at this point that I realized they thought I was a paid employee of the dreaded dealership where their 4-door sedan was being serviced, to which I quickly corrected the error of their observations.
As we all found our seats in the lounge, several others made their way to the coffee pot and before my styrofoam cup was half empty, the fresh pot was half gone.
I fired up my iBook which found and connected to the dealers open wireless network with ease and I was happily flying around the net cloud without a care in the world.
The peace was interrupted when a service rep (not mine) entered the double doors, drawing the glared attention of several waiting customers. Like a middle manager delivering pink slips, he was greeted with suspicion and ire as he proceeded to tell an old fella that the last place who installed his oil filter had jammed it on and in doing so, stripped the threads, so much so, that their ASE certified dealer mechanics couldn't "get it off using the standard methods."
You could almost feel the tension in the room mount as we collectively all expected the worst reaction from the now "screwed" truck owner. At the same time, the humanity level also seemed to rise as well for as a group we both felt his pain but also were grateful that it wasn't us preparing for a cavity search on our wallets.
My confidence that the factory service recall work being done on my Wife's car would be simple and painless was quickly slipping away, so I packed up my gear and made my way to safer, less tension filled waters -- the outdoor lot.
Filled with shiny vehicles, the new car lot offers the freshness of whole-hog capitalism, combined with the positive feel good emotions that the marketing gurus of car commercials offer up in spades.
Now, this being the economic downturn that it is, there weren't a slew of new car buyers buzzing around the lot on a weekday morning.
Still, a bored-out-of-his-gourd Salesman took the time to find me wandering up and down the aisles and engaged me in conversation.Salesman - You having your car serviced?
Me - Recall work.
Salesman - Really. Which one?
Me - Loose window bolts.
Salesman - That's a weird one.
[lull as we turned a corner]
Salesman - What year is your car?
Me - 2003
Salesman - Whoa, you ready to trade it in for a new one?
Me - A new what?
Salesman - A new model. He went on to explain to me that folks around here (I'm assuming he meant Oklahoman's) like to trade their cars in every 3-5 years.
I mentioned something about "keeping-up-with-the-Joneses" which he just smiled and enthusiastically said, "exactly!"
Basically, I told him that for a daily driver, I didn't feel the need to trade in a perfectly good car that I fully expect to roll past the 200,000 mark with ease in 10 years, just so I can have a brand new model every few years or so.
Then I told him I grew up in the Depression, seemingly explaining my thrifty ways.
Then I blamed his car company for making such durable, well made cars.
Except for the window bolts, that is.
The gory details were as follows...
...In the worst case, the door glass may separate from the window regulator, bind and shatter during operation of the power windows, causing driver distraction and/or injury."
Realizing you left your chai latte on the roof of your car and watching it kersplash all over the rear window as you pull out of the mini-mall parking lot is distracting.
Refereeing a back seat argument between a 9-year old who knows it all and a 5-year old who is determined not to let the 9-year old dominate the dvd selection is distracting.
Having my window bind and shatter possibly causing serious injury...that's get-your-butt-off-the-factory-floor-and-send-me-a-pink-and-white-recall-notice-in-the-mail serious.
Well, sorta. Since when I first read this recall notice a few months back, the windows in Wifey's car weren't loose, nor were they rattling abnormally.
Until last week when we noticed that we were having to crank Casey and the Sunshine Band up to a 4 on the stereo to hear him tell us that he's our boogie man, our boogie man (that's what I am) due to the rattling windows.
Having replaced far too many car windows in my days (every car I've ever owned had a window smashed in at one time), I was fairly confident that I knew of which bolt the recall was addressing, and it would have been a 15 - 30 minute job at the garage of shade tree mechanics at the end of my driveway.
But how often do you get a free factory service from a major car dealer, all for the minor inconvenience of driving your car 30 miles to get there.
Besides, history has proven that on more than one occasion, my easy fixit jobs turn into major hassles and headaches when it comes to vehicular repair maneuvers - remind me to tell you about the time I had to pull apart the top end of my Nova's motor due to a dropped spark plug wire holder down a pushrod hole - ugh.
I called the dealer, made an appointment with a service dude named Brian, and after doing some research on the dealers website, packed up my laptop to take advantage of their complimentary wifi in their waiting lounge and caught an outbound tailwind out of my small town.
In exchange for the keys to Wifey's car I was given a salaried cheery estimate of a 2-hour wait to have both windows "fixed" and I made my way to the fishbowl service waiting lounge.
Like all waiting lounges in car dealerships, this one had the air of dread and anxious anticipation filling the air.
I decided to lend my happy homemaker hands to help ease the tension by making a fresh pot of coffee in what looked to be a shiny new industrial strength coffee machine. A brief forage through the adjacent cabinets provided me with a pre-measured coffee filter pack, and since the machine was hard-lined into a water filtration unit, all I had to do was hit "start" and we were off.
An uneasy looking set of elderly women made their way over to the beverage section where I was standing vigil over the still brewing coffee pot. One asked me if there was any Splenda around and I had to apologize that I hadn't found any, but there was the pink stuff sitting by the sugar and cream bar.
The other thanked me for "finally" making more coffee, using a tone that smacked of well practiced subtle sarcasm. It was at this point that I realized they thought I was a paid employee of the dreaded dealership where their 4-door sedan was being serviced, to which I quickly corrected the error of their observations.
As we all found our seats in the lounge, several others made their way to the coffee pot and before my styrofoam cup was half empty, the fresh pot was half gone.
I fired up my iBook which found and connected to the dealers open wireless network with ease and I was happily flying around the net cloud without a care in the world.
The peace was interrupted when a service rep (not mine) entered the double doors, drawing the glared attention of several waiting customers. Like a middle manager delivering pink slips, he was greeted with suspicion and ire as he proceeded to tell an old fella that the last place who installed his oil filter had jammed it on and in doing so, stripped the threads, so much so, that their ASE certified dealer mechanics couldn't "get it off using the standard methods."
You could almost feel the tension in the room mount as we collectively all expected the worst reaction from the now "screwed" truck owner. At the same time, the humanity level also seemed to rise as well for as a group we both felt his pain but also were grateful that it wasn't us preparing for a cavity search on our wallets.
My confidence that the factory service recall work being done on my Wife's car would be simple and painless was quickly slipping away, so I packed up my gear and made my way to safer, less tension filled waters -- the outdoor lot.
Filled with shiny vehicles, the new car lot offers the freshness of whole-hog capitalism, combined with the positive feel good emotions that the marketing gurus of car commercials offer up in spades.
Now, this being the economic downturn that it is, there weren't a slew of new car buyers buzzing around the lot on a weekday morning.
Still, a bored-out-of-his-gourd Salesman took the time to find me wandering up and down the aisles and engaged me in conversation.
Me - Recall work.
Salesman - Really. Which one?
Me - Loose window bolts.
Salesman - That's a weird one.
[lull as we turned a corner]
Salesman - What year is your car?
Me - 2003
Salesman - Whoa, you ready to trade it in for a new one?
Me - A new what?
Salesman - A new model.
I mentioned something about "keeping-up-with-the-Joneses" which he just smiled and enthusiastically said, "exactly!"
Basically, I told him that for a daily driver, I didn't feel the need to trade in a perfectly good car that I fully expect to roll past the 200,000 mark with ease in 10 years, just so I can have a brand new model every few years or so.
Then I told him I grew up in the Depression, seemingly explaining my thrifty ways.
Then I blamed his car company for making such durable, well made cars.
Except for the window bolts, that is.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Idaho on my mind
Last weekend, Wifey and I had Facebook on our minds.
Her brush with the famous/infamous social networking site came via a Sunday morning sermon, the theme of which seemed to center on the importance of building a base of friends, whether from the present, the future, or even the past (which Facebook apparently excels at).
That last point -friends from the past- jiggled loose a molecule or two in my gray matter, as just the other day my brother informed me that a voice from our collective past had recently found and contacted him via his Facebook page.
We all have these types of friends. Hanging out buddies. Traveling buddies. Friday night movie, Sunday go to races, even double dating at times buddies.
But as buddies sometimes do, they move away,
get a new life,
in a new town,
with a new wife.
And guys being guys, we don't keep addresses handy for yearly Christmas card swappage, nor do we keep in touch with other old friends who in turn keep track of other friends for us.
Generally speaking, guy friends from the past, sadly so, usually stay guy friends from the past. The exception being the presence of females somewhere in the mix who excel at remembering important dates, knowing who gave what to whom, and where that darn address book is kept.
Yet because of my brother's unusual and uncharacteristic turn toward non-anonymity on the web (he works with middle school kids who apparently "forced" him into creating his own Facebook page), we have now learned that a high school/college buddy with pretty much the same background as ourselves, has made the move with wife and stepkids into the wilds of suburban Idaho to run, of all the crazy things, a diner.
Okay, it's not the same as being a fry cook on Venus, but it's pretty darn close.
I wonder what kind of entries HIS blog is filled with?
Wonder if he was ever called Ming?
Oh and no, sorry I don't Facebook. Heck, I won't even post my real identity on my blog, let alone plaster my mug and personal info all over the net so some diner-running-Idahoan buddy from the past can reach out and touch me.
Her brush with the famous/infamous social networking site came via a Sunday morning sermon, the theme of which seemed to center on the importance of building a base of friends, whether from the present, the future, or even the past (which Facebook apparently excels at).
That last point -friends from the past- jiggled loose a molecule or two in my gray matter, as just the other day my brother informed me that a voice from our collective past had recently found and contacted him via his Facebook page.
We all have these types of friends. Hanging out buddies. Traveling buddies. Friday night movie, Sunday go to races, even double dating at times buddies.
But as buddies sometimes do, they move away,
get a new life,
in a new town,
with a new wife.
And guys being guys, we don't keep addresses handy for yearly Christmas card swappage, nor do we keep in touch with other old friends who in turn keep track of other friends for us.
Generally speaking, guy friends from the past, sadly so, usually stay guy friends from the past. The exception being the presence of females somewhere in the mix who excel at remembering important dates, knowing who gave what to whom, and where that darn address book is kept.
Yet because of my brother's unusual and uncharacteristic turn toward non-anonymity on the web (he works with middle school kids who apparently "forced" him into creating his own Facebook page), we have now learned that a high school/college buddy with pretty much the same background as ourselves, has made the move with wife and stepkids into the wilds of suburban Idaho to run, of all the crazy things, a diner.
Okay, it's not the same as being a fry cook on Venus, but it's pretty darn close.
I wonder what kind of entries HIS blog is filled with?
Wonder if he was ever called Ming?
Oh and no, sorry I don't Facebook. Heck, I won't even post my real identity on my blog, let alone plaster my mug and personal info all over the net so some diner-running-Idahoan buddy from the past can reach out and touch me.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Such a thing as fair money?
As a kid the means I had for picking up some pocket change were slim pickins.
There was my allowance...$5 a week, more or less.
Christmas and birthday checks from generous family members would usually last well into the following month...if I rationed.
Nobody I knew had a paper route, or mowed lawns, or collected aluminum cans in shopping carts for extra change.
Heck, we were a bunch of privileged middle-class suburbia kids with little for basic need but much for unnecessary want.
Not until sometime slightly after my 15th birthday did I seek out and acquire my first real job -- bagging groceries, retrieving carts, and running for price checks at a local grocery store chain.
Part of the contract of being a parent is wanting to do better for your kids than your own parents did for you. Problem is, my parents did just fine by me, and if I were to have any aspirations of exceeding the financial support bestowed upon the youthful me, onto my own soon-to-be "needing more than lunch money" offspring, I would have to first take stock in what exactly is necessary, and what is excessive.
We've dabbled in chore based allowance, but since our 5-year old has not yet developed an interest in collecting greenbacks while our 9-year old is wild for the stuff, the effects have been vague and various at best.
The other day I overheard a couple of kids about my kids age talking about what they were planning to do with their "fair money."
Turns out every year they count on a certain number of their county free fair entries to take home prizes of varying levels and cash worth. As I recall, C's photographic and fine art forays brought home more than just some purple, blue, and red ribbons. She also received a check somewhere in the amount of 25 buckaroonies.
When reminded of her windfall of colorful ribbons and cash prizes at last years fair, she instantly kicked into go-baby-go mode and vowed to start churning out the fine art by the trunk load.
Nice of the free fair folk to encourage the arts. Our own small town N.E.A.
Here's a sampling from a recent trip to our small town's most excellent historic themed museum.
I think the kid's got an eye.
There was my allowance...$5 a week, more or less.
Christmas and birthday checks from generous family members would usually last well into the following month...if I rationed.
Nobody I knew had a paper route, or mowed lawns, or collected aluminum cans in shopping carts for extra change.
Heck, we were a bunch of privileged middle-class suburbia kids with little for basic need but much for unnecessary want.
Not until sometime slightly after my 15th birthday did I seek out and acquire my first real job -- bagging groceries, retrieving carts, and running for price checks at a local grocery store chain.
Part of the contract of being a parent is wanting to do better for your kids than your own parents did for you. Problem is, my parents did just fine by me, and if I were to have any aspirations of exceeding the financial support bestowed upon the youthful me, onto my own soon-to-be "needing more than lunch money" offspring, I would have to first take stock in what exactly is necessary, and what is excessive.
We've dabbled in chore based allowance, but since our 5-year old has not yet developed an interest in collecting greenbacks while our 9-year old is wild for the stuff, the effects have been vague and various at best.
The other day I overheard a couple of kids about my kids age talking about what they were planning to do with their "fair money."
Turns out every year they count on a certain number of their county free fair entries to take home prizes of varying levels and cash worth. As I recall, C's photographic and fine art forays brought home more than just some purple, blue, and red ribbons. She also received a check somewhere in the amount of 25 buckaroonies.
When reminded of her windfall of colorful ribbons and cash prizes at last years fair, she instantly kicked into go-baby-go mode and vowed to start churning out the fine art by the trunk load.
Nice of the free fair folk to encourage the arts. Our own small town N.E.A.
Here's a sampling from a recent trip to our small town's most excellent historic themed museum.
I think the kid's got an eye.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Bob's vs. Kip's
Sherman, set the Wayback machine to the fateful summer of '88 where upon landing for the first time in the state the Choctaws called "the land of the Red people," I happily encountered a familiar face with a foreign name.
Bob's Big Boy was an iconic figure of my youth, inasmuch as I had still retain many fond memories of hanging out in his well lit abodes and dining on reasonably priced high caloric food items being served in his name.
In grad-school my then main squeeze/now wifey-for-lifey lived in the upper floor of an airport house a mere mile drive from the now famous Bob's '49 in Burbank. Our multiple forays into this most hallowed of all Bob's remaining dives were sprinkled with ample celebrity sitings (you haven't lived until you've spied Drew Carey downing several bowls of Bob's chili size), post-cineplex discussions, production meetings, and late-night/early morning double-decker burger dates.
Going further back, as non-driving teens, my buddies and I would migrate on foot from Friday night high school football games over to the Bob's on Valley Blvd for a post-game snack and schmooze-fest.
The short two-block walk to Bob's provided the requisite amount of time needed to shake the computer punch card confetti out of your hair and boxer shorts while inviting and gathering up as many of the pre-driving age short-skirt adorned drill team members as possible.
The girls would order Tab-floats and share mega-platters of fries, we'd get Big Boy combos and triple-thick milkshakes and blue cheese dressed salads.
My well established youthful trysts with Bob's Big Boy was thereby shattered somewhat when upon studying the environs from the back seat of the Ford Econoline van that my then girlfriend/now wife's parents had procured me from the airport in, I spotted this place...
Now remember, this was pre-internet Google days, when one couldn't just fire up a browser, type in "Big Boy" and get all the skinny on the history and background of a restaurant chain. The mystery of how my beloved "Bob" became "Kip" within the span of 1300 miles and a short 2.5 hour flight time away rocked my "Never been to Heaven but I've been to Oklahoma," world.
What triggered this keyboarded memory down Big Boy lane was an online article recently forwarded to me by a former mentor and replacer of broken tools (thought I forgot about that, didn't you topless Mustang-boy?)
The article details how the current owner of the Bob's of my youth is showing some respectful props to the history of his establishment, even though the sites and smells of burger combos and milk shakes have long been replaced by bowls of Vietnamese noodles and boba tea drinks.
Thumbs up to the current owner...and I'll have a combo pho to go.
Bob's Big Boy was an iconic figure of my youth, inasmuch as I had still retain many fond memories of hanging out in his well lit abodes and dining on reasonably priced high caloric food items being served in his name.
In grad-school my then main squeeze/now wifey-for-lifey lived in the upper floor of an airport house a mere mile drive from the now famous Bob's '49 in Burbank. Our multiple forays into this most hallowed of all Bob's remaining dives were sprinkled with ample celebrity sitings (you haven't lived until you've spied Drew Carey downing several bowls of Bob's chili size), post-cineplex discussions, production meetings, and late-night/early morning double-decker burger dates.
Going further back, as non-driving teens, my buddies and I would migrate on foot from Friday night high school football games over to the Bob's on Valley Blvd for a post-game snack and schmooze-fest.
The short two-block walk to Bob's provided the requisite amount of time needed to shake the computer punch card confetti out of your hair and boxer shorts while inviting and gathering up as many of the pre-driving age short-skirt adorned drill team members as possible.
The girls would order Tab-floats and share mega-platters of fries, we'd get Big Boy combos and triple-thick milkshakes and blue cheese dressed salads.
My well established youthful trysts with Bob's Big Boy was thereby shattered somewhat when upon studying the environs from the back seat of the Ford Econoline van that my then girlfriend/now wife's parents had procured me from the airport in, I spotted this place...
Now remember, this was pre-internet Google days, when one couldn't just fire up a browser, type in "Big Boy" and get all the skinny on the history and background of a restaurant chain. The mystery of how my beloved "Bob" became "Kip" within the span of 1300 miles and a short 2.5 hour flight time away rocked my "Never been to Heaven but I've been to Oklahoma," world.
What triggered this keyboarded memory down Big Boy lane was an online article recently forwarded to me by a former mentor and replacer of broken tools (thought I forgot about that, didn't you topless Mustang-boy?)
The article details how the current owner of the Bob's of my youth is showing some respectful props to the history of his establishment, even though the sites and smells of burger combos and milk shakes have long been replaced by bowls of Vietnamese noodles and boba tea drinks.
Thumbs up to the current owner...and I'll have a combo pho to go.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
My life as a duffer
I've said it before and I'll say it again, golf is the biggest waste of time and money the Scots ever invented.
Too bad it's so addicting.
Myself, I learned the finer points of the game via Osaki Tadamichi no Super Masters for the Sega Genesis during one fine spring break hanging with my brother and best bud at his sister's apartment in Tokyo.
My childhood bud was a decent junior golfer in SoCal and has remained a scratch player since his heady days as a teen link stud. Yet somehow he never managed to get me on a course or interested in the game until that dreaded electronic version for the Genesis game system invaded my psyche and convinced me that all there was to the game was club selection, wind direction compensation and making sure your back swing falls within the red zone on the tv screen.
I knew I had crossed a line when I found myself discussing the hole yardage, bunker locations and how cutting the dogleg to the right will end you up in that massive bunker on the 14th hole of the Pebble Beach Golf links.
Funny thing was, I had never played anything but virtual golf on anything but Sega Genesis, but to this old timer who had played courses all over the golden state, my rubber spiked talk was seemingly as good as my walk.
Fast forward to my cube farm job in corporate So Cal and I find myself cubed up with a bevy of fellow fluorescent light wage earners who had an interest in golf. Didn't hurt that our offices were a mere block away from a challenging 9-hole public that we could meet at and finish in the wee morning hours before our 8:30 a.m. nine-to-five day.
A fortuitous dinner with my scratch golfer buddy found me taking a quick 20-minute living room lesson on club grip, stance, and swinging technique and for the next 5 years I enjoyed weekly 9-holers with my coworkers, an occasional full round on a free weekend, and my very own set of graphite shaft club hand-me-downs from my buds Dad that were worth more than I spent on the tranny rebuild for the Stingray I was restoring at the time.
Fast forward to my move out of the office and out to the prairie with the clubs, shoes, bag and boxes of Titleist sitting dormant going on 4 years now. All my days on the greens (okay, more likely the rough than the greens, but I'm waxing poetic here), those missed putts, soaring drives, Caddyshack quoting contests and 19th hole diet cokes are stashed away like so many broken tees at the bottom of my carry-bag.
Relegated to the past, and doomed to stay that way until something (or someone) gets me motivated to seek the long drive and short putt once again.
Three letters...w-i-i.
That's right, Santa chose to bypass our wishes this year and brought the girl's that holy grail (for the moment) of video gaming systems, a Nintendo Wii. For those that don't know about this entertaining and interactive wonder of modern time suckage, go outside, grab a kid and demand to know how he or she "Wii's."
After you make bail for assaulting a youth, get one of your own and point your Mii to the Wii Sports Golf game and prepare to either swear off the game in utter frustration or fall-in-love with an old friend all over again.
Once I par'd the beginning, intermediate, and advanced 3-hole courses, then par'd the combined 9-hole and achieved my "Professional" Mii status, I was able to channel Kenny Rogers and knew "when to walk away, and when to run."
But it sure got me tickling the memory keys in my brain and there are times now when I watch my 9-year old on her way to becoming a scratch Wii golfer that I can hear my club's whispered calls to me from their spot in the cobwebbed corner of the garage.
My small town of 4380 people actually has what some tell me to be, a decent 18-hole course, complete with pleasantly sarcastic Starter, gas powered carts, and fairways with a solid layer of permafrost in the winter months that will turn my 150 yard drives into 230 easy.
Will Wii lead me back to the links at some point in the near future?
Doubtful.
But if by chance I do make it out there, I will have to change out the UCLA golf towel hanging on my bag for an OSU or OU one.
Too bad it's so addicting.
Myself, I learned the finer points of the game via Osaki Tadamichi no Super Masters for the Sega Genesis during one fine spring break hanging with my brother and best bud at his sister's apartment in Tokyo.
My childhood bud was a decent junior golfer in SoCal and has remained a scratch player since his heady days as a teen link stud. Yet somehow he never managed to get me on a course or interested in the game until that dreaded electronic version for the Genesis game system invaded my psyche and convinced me that all there was to the game was club selection, wind direction compensation and making sure your back swing falls within the red zone on the tv screen.
I knew I had crossed a line when I found myself discussing the hole yardage, bunker locations and how cutting the dogleg to the right will end you up in that massive bunker on the 14th hole of the Pebble Beach Golf links.
Funny thing was, I had never played anything but virtual golf on anything but Sega Genesis, but to this old timer who had played courses all over the golden state, my rubber spiked talk was seemingly as good as my walk.
Fast forward to my cube farm job in corporate So Cal and I find myself cubed up with a bevy of fellow fluorescent light wage earners who had an interest in golf. Didn't hurt that our offices were a mere block away from a challenging 9-hole public that we could meet at and finish in the wee morning hours before our 8:30 a.m. nine-to-five day.
A fortuitous dinner with my scratch golfer buddy found me taking a quick 20-minute living room lesson on club grip, stance, and swinging technique and for the next 5 years I enjoyed weekly 9-holers with my coworkers, an occasional full round on a free weekend, and my very own set of graphite shaft club hand-me-downs from my buds Dad that were worth more than I spent on the tranny rebuild for the Stingray I was restoring at the time.
Fast forward to my move out of the office and out to the prairie with the clubs, shoes, bag and boxes of Titleist sitting dormant going on 4 years now. All my days on the greens (okay, more likely the rough than the greens, but I'm waxing poetic here), those missed putts, soaring drives, Caddyshack quoting contests and 19th hole diet cokes are stashed away like so many broken tees at the bottom of my carry-bag.
Relegated to the past, and doomed to stay that way until something (or someone) gets me motivated to seek the long drive and short putt once again.
Three letters...w-i-i.
That's right, Santa chose to bypass our wishes this year and brought the girl's that holy grail (for the moment) of video gaming systems, a Nintendo Wii. For those that don't know about this entertaining and interactive wonder of modern time suckage, go outside, grab a kid and demand to know how he or she "Wii's."
After you make bail for assaulting a youth, get one of your own and point your Mii to the Wii Sports Golf game and prepare to either swear off the game in utter frustration or fall-in-love with an old friend all over again.
Once I par'd the beginning, intermediate, and advanced 3-hole courses, then par'd the combined 9-hole and achieved my "Professional" Mii status, I was able to channel Kenny Rogers and knew "when to walk away, and when to run."
But it sure got me tickling the memory keys in my brain and there are times now when I watch my 9-year old on her way to becoming a scratch Wii golfer that I can hear my club's whispered calls to me from their spot in the cobwebbed corner of the garage.
My small town of 4380 people actually has what some tell me to be, a decent 18-hole course, complete with pleasantly sarcastic Starter, gas powered carts, and fairways with a solid layer of permafrost in the winter months that will turn my 150 yard drives into 230 easy.
Will Wii lead me back to the links at some point in the near future?
Doubtful.
But if by chance I do make it out there, I will have to change out the UCLA golf towel hanging on my bag for an OSU or OU one.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
But, I like the bagpipes
Caught this story on NPR during the holiday break and felt inspired to make sushi rolls for my family's New Year's Day brunch.
This particular story focused on an online poll conducted in the '90s and three dudes quest to create the most annoying song ever."After gathering data about people's least favorite music and lyrical subjects, they did the unthinkable: they combined them into a single monstrosity, specifically engineered to sound unpleasant to the maximum percentage of listeners." You can read the Wired.com article from April '08 here, as well as listen to a stream of the "most unwanted song" in it's entirety.
See (or listen rather) if any of your favorite (or least favorite) song elements are included.
Here's a link to the composer's website where you may be so inclined to order the CD's of both the Most Wanted Music (boring, generic, soulless), and the Most Unwanted Music (genius, has a good beat, easy to dance to).
So, how pray tell does the hunt and production of the most Unwanted Music composition make me want to roll some sushi rolls for my brood?
Think about the last time you had sushi rolls and what strange, wonderful, and utterly foreign foodstuffs were contained therein. Yet when combined with sweet sushi rice, a sprinkling of sesame seeds, some farm raised and dried seaweed sheets and a healthy dipping of soy sauce and wasabi, becomes a melody of tempting taste and texture in your mouth.
Or gag food, depending on the adventure level of your taste buds.
This particular story focused on an online poll conducted in the '90s and three dudes quest to create the most annoying song ever.
See (or listen rather) if any of your favorite (or least favorite) song elements are included.
Here's a link to the composer's website where you may be so inclined to order the CD's of both the Most Wanted Music (boring, generic, soulless), and the Most Unwanted Music (genius, has a good beat, easy to dance to).
So, how pray tell does the hunt and production of the most Unwanted Music composition make me want to roll some sushi rolls for my brood?
Think about the last time you had sushi rolls and what strange, wonderful, and utterly foreign foodstuffs were contained therein. Yet when combined with sweet sushi rice, a sprinkling of sesame seeds, some farm raised and dried seaweed sheets and a healthy dipping of soy sauce and wasabi, becomes a melody of tempting taste and texture in your mouth.
Or gag food, depending on the adventure level of your taste buds.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
That's Opry with a capital O
If I got right up into your face and bellowed the words, "rodeo" and "opry" at you, what images would instantly pop into your most cultured and esteemed mind?
Yowza, same as me.
So it was with some skepticism and disinclination that I accepted my wife's invitation to join her and two fellow work mates for an evening fundraiser at the Oklahoma Centennial Rodeo Opry last week.
We dragged along the two kidkinz and my in-laws for good measure. Misery loves company, right?
The event was a fundraiser for one of the Opry Heritage Foundation's many worthwhile philanthropy's that are focused on developing young, talented artists and musicians. Everyone there who didn't pay for a seat or table was volunteering their time and efforts, including a most excellent band and surprisingly talented group of performers.
Surprising for me at least. Some of these folk are apparently staples of the thriving music scene here in the panhandle state. And it shows.
When I heard the theme of the musical selection for the night was "70's" I racked my brain to recall even one country/western hit from that era that I could relate to.-- Glen Campbell's Rhinestone Cowboy...was that in the 70's?
-- How about Devil went down to Georgia...that was considered C/W and opry material, right?
-- Please, no, not that Elvira song... But, since the ticket included a prime rib and fried chicken fricassee courtesy of the Stockyard City good-eats staple, the Cattleman's Steakhouse, my full belly and the fairly open minded iPod in my noggin was up for just about anything.
My wife somehow managed to scurry up some primo seats at one of the corporate donation tables up front, and were lovingly greeted by platters of homemade sweets, treats and baked-goods aplenty. Chocolate dipped strawberries were downed by the dozen by my two girls, while the rest of the table got down and dirty with the brownies, divinity cake, cookie crisps, dried fruit and nuts galore.
Resembling squirrels stocking up on acorns for the winter with our cheeks filled with goodies, the lights dimmed dramatically and the band fired up their instruments of wonder.
Hold on now. It wasn't what you think. At least, it wasn't what I thought. And come to think of it, it was so far and away what I think I thought, I actually thought to myself what I fool I was for thinking of not coming.
First tune up, a hopping version of Pick up the Pieces (The Average White Band) complete with visiting horn section and note perfect sax solo.
I don't recall in what order the rest of the songs were played, but one after another, the tunes of my AM/FM youth came flooding back along with multiple rolled eyeballs from my eldest daughter as I sang along with the vocals. Who knew my memory was still so crisp as the lyrics of each and every tune flowed forth directly from long forgotten synapses and often misfiring neurons.25 or 6 to 4 - Chicago
Delilah - Tom Jones
Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash
Don't Stop - Fleetwood Mac
Soul Man - Blues Brothers
Got to be real - Cheryl Lynn
Proud Mary - Ike and Tina Turner
Sweet Caroline - Neil Diamond
Fire and Rain - James Taylor
I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor
Midnight Rider - Allman Brothers
I want you back - Jackson 5
Takin' it Easy - Eagles Okay, not all of the songs are truly "70's hits, and I didn't really sing "I Will Survive," but I did bounce my head about a bit.
There were several other songs that were played and enjoyed, but now sadly lost to my foggy memory of the fun and jazzy evening
These Opry folk put on a great show, for a great cause, and if they can belt out these golden oldies with passion and fervor enough to get me out of the house and into a seat in the audience, then perhaps I'll be able to swing a night or two of their regularly scheduled more "Opry-like" entertainment.
Good vittles, great live music, C was called up stage to draw a raffle winner (not us, thank goodness, otherwise folks would be yelling FIX), PK stayed awake, my wife looked lovely and I got to spend some time talking vintage Cadillac with a genuine car fanatic (has over 28 in his collection). All in all not a bad gig.
Oh no not I, I will survive, hey, hey!
Yowza, same as me.
So it was with some skepticism and disinclination that I accepted my wife's invitation to join her and two fellow work mates for an evening fundraiser at the Oklahoma Centennial Rodeo Opry last week.
We dragged along the two kidkinz and my in-laws for good measure. Misery loves company, right?
The event was a fundraiser for one of the Opry Heritage Foundation's many worthwhile philanthropy's that are focused on developing young, talented artists and musicians. Everyone there who didn't pay for a seat or table was volunteering their time and efforts, including a most excellent band and surprisingly talented group of performers.
Surprising for me at least. Some of these folk are apparently staples of the thriving music scene here in the panhandle state. And it shows.
When I heard the theme of the musical selection for the night was "70's" I racked my brain to recall even one country/western hit from that era that I could relate to.
-- How about Devil went down to Georgia...that was considered C/W and opry material, right?
-- Please, no, not that Elvira song...
My wife somehow managed to scurry up some primo seats at one of the corporate donation tables up front, and were lovingly greeted by platters of homemade sweets, treats and baked-goods aplenty. Chocolate dipped strawberries were downed by the dozen by my two girls, while the rest of the table got down and dirty with the brownies, divinity cake, cookie crisps, dried fruit and nuts galore.
Resembling squirrels stocking up on acorns for the winter with our cheeks filled with goodies, the lights dimmed dramatically and the band fired up their instruments of wonder.
Hold on now. It wasn't what you think. At least, it wasn't what I thought. And come to think of it, it was so far and away what I think I thought, I actually thought to myself what I fool I was for thinking of not coming.
First tune up, a hopping version of Pick up the Pieces (The Average White Band) complete with visiting horn section and note perfect sax solo.
I don't recall in what order the rest of the songs were played, but one after another, the tunes of my AM/FM youth came flooding back along with multiple rolled eyeballs from my eldest daughter as I sang along with the vocals. Who knew my memory was still so crisp as the lyrics of each and every tune flowed forth directly from long forgotten synapses and often misfiring neurons.
Delilah - Tom Jones
Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash
Don't Stop - Fleetwood Mac
Soul Man - Blues Brothers
Got to be real - Cheryl Lynn
Proud Mary - Ike and Tina Turner
Sweet Caroline - Neil Diamond
Fire and Rain - James Taylor
I Will Survive - Gloria Gaynor
Midnight Rider - Allman Brothers
I want you back - Jackson 5
Takin' it Easy - Eagles
There were several other songs that were played and enjoyed, but now sadly lost to my foggy memory of the fun and jazzy evening
These Opry folk put on a great show, for a great cause, and if they can belt out these golden oldies with passion and fervor enough to get me out of the house and into a seat in the audience, then perhaps I'll be able to swing a night or two of their regularly scheduled more "Opry-like" entertainment.
Good vittles, great live music, C was called up stage to draw a raffle winner (not us, thank goodness, otherwise folks would be yelling FIX), PK stayed awake, my wife looked lovely and I got to spend some time talking vintage Cadillac with a genuine car fanatic (has over 28 in his collection). All in all not a bad gig.
Oh no not I, I will survive, hey, hey!
Monday, January 05, 2009
Tried to match it, seam by seam, but could not make them fit.
So my 9-year old's first big sewing project with her birthday present Singer was done, signed, boxed and wrapped up in time for the holidays.
It went to my M-i-L for her birthday/Christmas present.
The material came out of a curtain swatch sample book that my wife found at a yard sale for a buck.
The manta ray design, although it reminded me a bit of a certain feminine product that advertises "wings", was inspired by a discussion between my daughter and wife involving the need for blankets to have gripping handles for ease in tucking and body wrapping on cold winter nights.
The blue, wool tie belonged to my M-i-L's daddy.
The love was all my daughters.
The Lost ThoughtI felt a cleaving in my mind
As if my brain had split;
I tried to match it, seam by seam,
But could not make them fit.
The thought behind I strove to join
Unto the thought before,
But sequence ravelled out of reach
Like balls upon a floor.
Emily Dickinson
It went to my M-i-L for her birthday/Christmas present.
The material came out of a curtain swatch sample book that my wife found at a yard sale for a buck.
The manta ray design, although it reminded me a bit of a certain feminine product that advertises "wings", was inspired by a discussion between my daughter and wife involving the need for blankets to have gripping handles for ease in tucking and body wrapping on cold winter nights.
The blue, wool tie belonged to my M-i-L's daddy.
The love was all my daughters.
The Lost Thought
As if my brain had split;
I tried to match it, seam by seam,
But could not make them fit.
The thought behind I strove to join
Unto the thought before,
But sequence ravelled out of reach
Like balls upon a floor.
Emily Dickinson
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Call me a Croc convert
There's a great scene in the classic 80's Baby-Boomer flick The Big Chill that resonates down to the base of my mildly corrected feet to this day.
William Hurt's character Nick, has just tried on a new pair of running shoes and passionately states something along the lines of, "These are the most comfortable shoes I've ever worn. I'm never taking these off. I want to be buried in these shoes."
I recently experienced just such a moment when I opened up a Christmas present from my in-laws, found these at the bottom of the box and slipped them on.
--Insert angelic clouds-parting sound from the opening of The Simpsons here--
Now, I've seen my small townsfolk of every size, shape, age and gender sporting these brightly colored rubbery excuses for footwear since moving here 4 years back.
Heck, my daughters even have a pair...or four.
But for whatever reason I never put finding a pair of Crocs that I could honestly feel "comfortable" wearing in public, high on my priority list. By comfortable, I mean, emotionally. Let's face it, neon footwear was no where near the job description I wrote for my feet so many years, and so many pairs of shoes ago.
In fact, my life in bare-footed footwear thus far has consisted of loyalty and devotion to what I've always called slippers. Depending on your age, race, and background, you may know them as one of the following:slippers
zoris
Jap slaps (sorry, gotta be part J to use this one)
sherpa slips
oriental hiking boots
geta
flip flops
sandals
slip slaps
thongs
jandals
pluggers
surfer flats
chappals But now that my tired and middle-aged hang-dog tootsies have felt the stimulating caress and Tigger-like bouncy-trouncy feelings of taking multiple steps across house and home in these wonders of modern Made-in-China barefootin' footwear, I'm afraid my slippers are likely to be relegated to the closet of never-again-wear
-- sharing space with such items as every promotional tee-shirt my old employer handed out celebrating inane corporate milestones, that Jackson 5 Victory Tour concert shirt featuring brother Michael front and center from 1984, and every hat ever given to me since my 5th birthday (I don't wear hats...don't ask, it's a big hair thing).
A quick scan of the official Crocs site reveals that they are offering a fur-lined (fake fur, easy there PETA), version of their bestseller.
Footwear with a "fuzzy removable footbed?"
I do so want to be buried in these things.
William Hurt's character Nick, has just tried on a new pair of running shoes and passionately states something along the lines of, "These are the most comfortable shoes I've ever worn. I'm never taking these off. I want to be buried in these shoes."
I recently experienced just such a moment when I opened up a Christmas present from my in-laws, found these at the bottom of the box and slipped them on.
--Insert angelic clouds-parting sound from the opening of The Simpsons here--
Now, I've seen my small townsfolk of every size, shape, age and gender sporting these brightly colored rubbery excuses for footwear since moving here 4 years back.
Heck, my daughters even have a pair...or four.
But for whatever reason I never put finding a pair of Crocs that I could honestly feel "comfortable" wearing in public, high on my priority list. By comfortable, I mean, emotionally. Let's face it, neon footwear was no where near the job description I wrote for my feet so many years, and so many pairs of shoes ago.
In fact, my life in bare-footed footwear thus far has consisted of loyalty and devotion to what I've always called slippers. Depending on your age, race, and background, you may know them as one of the following:
zoris
Jap slaps (sorry, gotta be part J to use this one)
sherpa slips
oriental hiking boots
geta
flip flops
sandals
slip slaps
thongs
jandals
pluggers
surfer flats
chappals
-- sharing space with such items as every promotional tee-shirt my old employer handed out celebrating inane corporate milestones, that Jackson 5 Victory Tour concert shirt featuring brother Michael front and center from 1984, and every hat ever given to me since my 5th birthday (I don't wear hats...don't ask, it's a big hair thing).
A quick scan of the official Crocs site reveals that they are offering a fur-lined (fake fur, easy there PETA), version of their bestseller.
Footwear with a "fuzzy removable footbed?"
I do so want to be buried in these things.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Greeting cards have all been sent...
Words of assurance to all those in my family's ever widening circle of influence and one-time-a-year correspondence confluence...those Christmas greeting cards you send to us are well viewed and dare I say, scrutinized to the highest order.
Season's Greetings card traditions were few and far between during my youthful California green salad days. As a family we received plenty of pre-printed card stock cards with greetings appropriate to the season. Picture cards weren't quite the norm yet, and the traditional box cards weren't as yet massed produced en masse in the millions of varieties they are today.
Repeats were common. Photographs were rare. Annual "I can't believe it's been a year since our last Christmas letter" letters were yet to be unleashed on the card reading public.
Mother K would use the cards with the most vibrant colors and thematic tones as decorations around the elf and deer snow diorama village that would sit atop our built in shoe-rack. But the majority of cards were relegated to the rubber band pile, as craft making junk boxes had yet to be invented in our house.
Long about February or so, the cards would be discarded as a group exercise, having once been pressed into duty as holiday cheer via the US Mail, now being pressed together with a series of large and flexible rubber bands.
The dynamic for greeting cards in my in-laws family, and as an extension my own little family unit, couldn't be any further if we lived on Jupiter.
The daily celebration awaiting my wife during the holiday season begins and ends with the stacks of Christmas cards arriving via the post. I have learned over the years to collect them together and set them aside for her to lovingly pour over at her leisure upon returning from the trenches of her job.
She saves the envelopes for me, as it is my job to correlate, aggregate, parse and parcel the names, addresses, and offered contact information from each holiday correspondence sheath.
It's a dirty job, but sum bum gotta do it.
Memories and stories of past exploits flow freely as the cards are collated, the pictures are both ogled and scrutinized, the artwork examined (we have several artist friends who design their own cards), and the names and ages of offspring are registered and commented on. Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Seasons Greetings, Happy Holidays -- all are welcome, all are represented, due in part to our varied associations from our days back in LaLa land.
The entire process is repeated upon the arrival of each family member visitor to the house, ensuring that each card received gets more than it's fair and expected share of human interaction and attention.
The coveted cards are displayed on a gigantic wire rack wreath constructed in the orient for the sole purpose of making something out of nothing (or in this case a wreath out of used Christmas cards), exclaiming their murmurs and shouts of the joyous season to my family for a daily dose of holiday cheer.
Unlike days of old however, our old cards eventually will make their way to the craft materials box or to the paper recyling bins across the way.
Keep those cards and letters coming kiddies...
Season's Greetings card traditions were few and far between during my youthful California green salad days. As a family we received plenty of pre-printed card stock cards with greetings appropriate to the season. Picture cards weren't quite the norm yet, and the traditional box cards weren't as yet massed produced en masse in the millions of varieties they are today.
Repeats were common. Photographs were rare. Annual "I can't believe it's been a year since our last Christmas letter" letters were yet to be unleashed on the card reading public.
Mother K would use the cards with the most vibrant colors and thematic tones as decorations around the elf and deer snow diorama village that would sit atop our built in shoe-rack. But the majority of cards were relegated to the rubber band pile, as craft making junk boxes had yet to be invented in our house.
Long about February or so, the cards would be discarded as a group exercise, having once been pressed into duty as holiday cheer via the US Mail, now being pressed together with a series of large and flexible rubber bands.
The dynamic for greeting cards in my in-laws family, and as an extension my own little family unit, couldn't be any further if we lived on Jupiter.
The daily celebration awaiting my wife during the holiday season begins and ends with the stacks of Christmas cards arriving via the post. I have learned over the years to collect them together and set them aside for her to lovingly pour over at her leisure upon returning from the trenches of her job.
She saves the envelopes for me, as it is my job to correlate, aggregate, parse and parcel the names, addresses, and offered contact information from each holiday correspondence sheath.
It's a dirty job, but sum bum gotta do it.
Memories and stories of past exploits flow freely as the cards are collated, the pictures are both ogled and scrutinized, the artwork examined (we have several artist friends who design their own cards), and the names and ages of offspring are registered and commented on. Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Seasons Greetings, Happy Holidays -- all are welcome, all are represented, due in part to our varied associations from our days back in LaLa land.
The entire process is repeated upon the arrival of each family member visitor to the house, ensuring that each card received gets more than it's fair and expected share of human interaction and attention.
The coveted cards are displayed on a gigantic wire rack wreath constructed in the orient for the sole purpose of making something out of nothing (or in this case a wreath out of used Christmas cards), exclaiming their murmurs and shouts of the joyous season to my family for a daily dose of holiday cheer.
Unlike days of old however, our old cards eventually will make their way to the craft materials box or to the paper recyling bins across the way.
Keep those cards and letters coming kiddies...
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Canes of the candied variety
I state with some equivocal authority that like most members of the male species, peppermint is not my favorite spice.
Spearmint, fine. Wintergreen, okay...unless while munching a wintergreen lifesaver you are mistaken for a Skoal Bandit user.
Those original Altoids - death mint.
Given that, candy canes have never been on my list of must-consume-during-the-holidays treats.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for the iconographic symbolism that the traditional red and white cane of candy represents.
The aroma of a loved one smacking on the hooked candy is pleasing to my minds palate. I enjoy the visions of the holidays that the striped confection offers my ever shrinking grey matter. Heck I even love to watch them get mixed, cooked, and stretched on so many Food Network shows featuring the behind-the-scenes life of our favorite foods.
Just don't like to 'et 'em is all.
So what's the dilemma then?
My daughters.
To their youthfully innocent eyes, candy canes represent the most basic of good-li-ness that this particular season has to offer.
Along with all the fun and frolic the mere mention of the combined wording of "candy" and "cane" suggests, the appearance of which triggers all the enormity of a holiday wherein the overwhelming input of presents far exceeds even their spoiled splendid expectations.
Top that off with the obvious fact that candy canes are indeed candy, and well, you've painted a Normy Rockwell picture of the perfectly edible holiday icon.
Daddy be damned, candy canes rock in my girl's world.
Now egg nog, well, that's an entirely different beast, so don't go and get me started on that delicious monstrosity of raw egg, spices and milk.
Spearmint, fine. Wintergreen, okay...unless while munching a wintergreen lifesaver you are mistaken for a Skoal Bandit user.
Those original Altoids - death mint.
Given that, candy canes have never been on my list of must-consume-during-the-holidays treats.
Don't get me wrong. I'm all for the iconographic symbolism that the traditional red and white cane of candy represents.
The aroma of a loved one smacking on the hooked candy is pleasing to my minds palate. I enjoy the visions of the holidays that the striped confection offers my ever shrinking grey matter. Heck I even love to watch them get mixed, cooked, and stretched on so many Food Network shows featuring the behind-the-scenes life of our favorite foods.
Just don't like to 'et 'em is all.
So what's the dilemma then?
My daughters.
To their youthfully innocent eyes, candy canes represent the most basic of good-li-ness that this particular season has to offer.
Along with all the fun and frolic the mere mention of the combined wording of "candy" and "cane" suggests, the appearance of which triggers all the enormity of a holiday wherein the overwhelming input of presents far exceeds even their spoiled splendid expectations.
Top that off with the obvious fact that candy canes are indeed candy, and well, you've painted a Normy Rockwell picture of the perfectly edible holiday icon.
Daddy be damned, candy canes rock in my girl's world.
Now egg nog, well, that's an entirely different beast, so don't go and get me started on that delicious monstrosity of raw egg, spices and milk.
Friday, December 19, 2008
A "ro-zu" by any other name...
Wifey and the girl's were off on a girl's-gone-woody weekend with my M-i-L for their annual state park cabin getaway. I had my list of things to do to finish off the upstairs bathroom and playroom, but come the evening hours I felt the need for some proverbial time away from house and home.
I had been listening to NPR on the FM dial most of the day while toiling away upstairs and an ad for what was was deemed a unique staging of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet was in production at a theater in the metro.
The Bard's R&J...what could possibly be done to this classic tragic tale of star-cross'd lovers to dub it unique?
How about...Tybalt with a samurai sword!
Yep, this funky staging of J & R's tale of woe was set in post-WWII Japan.
Other than the costumes and ethnic faces, however, nothing else was altered. No Jets and Sharks with dancing feet, no Leo DiCaprio gunplay, and no Zeffirelli nudity.
Okay, Tybalt and Mercutio were both slain with katanas instead of rapiers.
And hearing Willy of the Avon's post-Renaissance English spoken with a Japanglish lilt was at times difficult to grok and jarring to the senses. I did award bonus quirky points for the sushi rolls that Peter, Nurse, and the fair Juliet dined on while picnicking.
Still and all, the familiar storyline, characters, and staging was a comfortable fit and I was able to leave the world of my small town behind for a few hours and enjoy the buzz generated by live performances.
I had been listening to NPR on the FM dial most of the day while toiling away upstairs and an ad for what was was deemed a unique staging of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet was in production at a theater in the metro.
The Bard's R&J...what could possibly be done to this classic tragic tale of star-cross'd lovers to dub it unique?
How about...Tybalt with a samurai sword!
Yep, this funky staging of J & R's tale of woe was set in post-WWII Japan.
Other than the costumes and ethnic faces, however, nothing else was altered. No Jets and Sharks with dancing feet, no Leo DiCaprio gunplay, and no Zeffirelli nudity.
Okay, Tybalt and Mercutio were both slain with katanas instead of rapiers.
And hearing Willy of the Avon's post-Renaissance English spoken with a Japanglish lilt was at times difficult to grok and jarring to the senses. I did award bonus quirky points for the sushi rolls that Peter, Nurse, and the fair Juliet dined on while picnicking.
Still and all, the familiar storyline, characters, and staging was a comfortable fit and I was able to leave the world of my small town behind for a few hours and enjoy the buzz generated by live performances.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Catholics beat down the Methodist
It was a fundraiser to fill the Xmas toy wishes of local children in need. A few bucks got you two different bowls of chili with all the fixins, a hunka-hunka wedge of a home-baked dessert, crackers a-plenty and a beverage.
Two different colored bowls (red and green) brimming with the reddish-brown meaty concoction for the ages awaited hungry chili epicureans in the downstairs multi-purpose room of our small town's historic Methodist church.
The red bowl chili was heavy on the ground beef while the green bowl selection held a satisfying mix of chunky and ground beef.
Red was milder in flavor, with a touch of vinegar essence in every bite.
Green embraced it's spicier side by showcasing a welcomed inclusion of finely chopped onions and peppers.
As a control, I tasted each bowl as virgin samplings, downing a good portion of each before topping them off with equal portions of raw onions, hand-crumbled saltines, Louisiana hot sauce, and a sprinkling of coarsely grated cheddar cheese - my preferred bowl chili toppings.
Votes were cast using a double-blind taste test and the winner for best chili was chosen completely by total votes cast.
The Catholics won spoons down.
Variables I felt affected the outcome included the weather, as the digital mercury device was reading in the low-30's that night and the Catholic's chili was definitely leaning toward the spicier side.
Had the competition taken place in the heat of the Oklahoma summer, I'm convinced the Methodist's recipe of stewed meat and beans with the milder piquancy would have emerged victorious in the end.
Entertainment for the event included a discussion with the Methodist church's Youth minister who originally hailed from Boston. While we commiserated on what we missed
about our respective big city birthplaces and discussed the differences between Boston Baked Beans and Cowboy beans, the chili slowly disappeared from the kitchen and $800 was raised to brighten the December 25th morning of dozens of low income kidkins.
Grapevine rumor ensures me that the Methodist's have demanded a rematch.
Two different colored bowls (red and green) brimming with the reddish-brown meaty concoction for the ages awaited hungry chili epicureans in the downstairs multi-purpose room of our small town's historic Methodist church.
The red bowl chili was heavy on the ground beef while the green bowl selection held a satisfying mix of chunky and ground beef.
Red was milder in flavor, with a touch of vinegar essence in every bite.
Green embraced it's spicier side by showcasing a welcomed inclusion of finely chopped onions and peppers.
As a control, I tasted each bowl as virgin samplings, downing a good portion of each before topping them off with equal portions of raw onions, hand-crumbled saltines, Louisiana hot sauce, and a sprinkling of coarsely grated cheddar cheese - my preferred bowl chili toppings.
Votes were cast using a double-blind taste test and the winner for best chili was chosen completely by total votes cast.
The Catholics won spoons down.
Variables I felt affected the outcome included the weather, as the digital mercury device was reading in the low-30's that night and the Catholic's chili was definitely leaning toward the spicier side.
Had the competition taken place in the heat of the Oklahoma summer, I'm convinced the Methodist's recipe of stewed meat and beans with the milder piquancy would have emerged victorious in the end.
Entertainment for the event included a discussion with the Methodist church's Youth minister who originally hailed from Boston. While we commiserated on what we missed
about our respective big city birthplaces and discussed the differences between Boston Baked Beans and Cowboy beans, the chili slowly disappeared from the kitchen and $800 was raised to brighten the December 25th morning of dozens of low income kidkins.
Grapevine rumor ensures me that the Methodist's have demanded a rematch.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Reading about small town living
As awkward as it is for me to admit, when it comes to making a selection from the new fiction book shelf at my small town library, I instinctively reach for the male authored tomes first.
There is of course no logic to my bias, as female authors are vastly capable of sallying forth the goriest and glorious of my favorite gumshoe genre tales.
In my failed attempt to live my life as unbiased as possible, this is the one illogical bias of luxury for which I plead the 5th on.
Sure, I've read female authors before. Plenty of 'em.
Faye Kellerman comes to mind. Evanovich, Grafton, P.D. and J.A., Paretsky, and of course the grande dame herself, Agatha Christie...I know the names and have often been tempted, but when push comes to shove my hand always reaches for a sleuthing male author first.
Again, no logic.
Stretching my male chauvinist gray matter, I can recall the last book I read that was scribed by a member of the opposite sex. Tulsa based author Billie Letts' selection from '04, Shoot the Moon.
There is some logic here. Letts is an Okie. And while some not familiar with the wiles and ways of our panhandled state may feel that reading books written by, about, and set in and around Oklahoman's is tantamount to punishment gluttony of the nth degree, I call it cathartic information gathering.
Research if you will.
Along this vein, I happened to grab this book off the new selection shelf the other day, tantalized by the title...Ghost at Work (A Mystery)
A quick perusal of the jacket summary revealed three things that eventually led me to swap this selection for the latest Ender Wiggin selection from Orson Scott Card that had found a comfortable (albeit temporary) spot under my left armpit.
Small town Oklahoma setting.
Paranormal detective.
Murder mystery.
Ms. Hart had me from page one and although lacking in the testosterone laced rhetoric that I normally find comforting in a gumshoe novel, following the antics of a crime solving card carrying member of the afterlife was a hoot and and a hollar.
Even found a quotable paragraph that reveals a small town truth penned in elegant Okie prose...
Everybody didn't know everybody, but if you had any prominence at all, you were known. Even more important was the fact that someone always saw you. It was that simple. No matter where you were or what time or with whom or why, somebody saw you. Ghost at Work by Carolyn Hart (pg. 55)
Did Agatha ever write a story that took place in Oklahoma? Hmmm, I wonder.
There is of course no logic to my bias, as female authors are vastly capable of sallying forth the goriest and glorious of my favorite gumshoe genre tales.
In my failed attempt to live my life as unbiased as possible, this is the one illogical bias of luxury for which I plead the 5th on.
Sure, I've read female authors before. Plenty of 'em.
Faye Kellerman comes to mind. Evanovich, Grafton, P.D. and J.A., Paretsky, and of course the grande dame herself, Agatha Christie...I know the names and have often been tempted, but when push comes to shove my hand always reaches for a sleuthing male author first.
Again, no logic.
Stretching my male chauvinist gray matter, I can recall the last book I read that was scribed by a member of the opposite sex. Tulsa based author Billie Letts' selection from '04, Shoot the Moon.
There is some logic here. Letts is an Okie. And while some not familiar with the wiles and ways of our panhandled state may feel that reading books written by, about, and set in and around Oklahoman's is tantamount to punishment gluttony of the nth degree, I call it cathartic information gathering.
Research if you will.
Along this vein, I happened to grab this book off the new selection shelf the other day, tantalized by the title...Ghost at Work (A Mystery)
A quick perusal of the jacket summary revealed three things that eventually led me to swap this selection for the latest Ender Wiggin selection from Orson Scott Card that had found a comfortable (albeit temporary) spot under my left armpit.
Small town Oklahoma setting.
Paranormal detective.
Murder mystery.
Ms. Hart had me from page one and although lacking in the testosterone laced rhetoric that I normally find comforting in a gumshoe novel, following the antics of a crime solving card carrying member of the afterlife was a hoot and and a hollar.
Even found a quotable paragraph that reveals a small town truth penned in elegant Okie prose...
Did Agatha ever write a story that took place in Oklahoma? Hmmm, I wonder.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Thanks for the instructions...I think
I've always been a read-the-instructions first kind of guy.
I know I may be in the human population minority in this trait, but more times than not I learn something by reading the manual for a new purchase and the other times I find myself going back to the manual when something goes wrong with my initial usage.
Case in point, the daytime running lights on my wife's 4-door made-in-Tennessee import are on all the time, making it somewhat inconvenient when driving through the myriad of lighting displays that are all the rage throughout Oklahoma this time of the year.
I have never figured out how to disable the lights, and every time we find ourselves puttering through yet another spectacle of seasonal lights, I knock myself on the head and state out loud,"Darn it, someday I'm going to read that owner's manual and figure out how to turn off those darn daytime running lights!"
Writer's note - they apparently don't ever go off, and there is no built-in override for the sensor. There is a mod however, that I found on an online auto forum (Tech Service Bulletin EL011-00), as well as a mickey-duck kludgy way to temporarily trick the twilight sentinel.
Yep, instructions are your friend. Unless you don't understand Chinglish. Then, you're in big trouble.
Case in point, today while picking up a prescription at our local small town pharmacy, I was cruising the "gift" aisle (those Jean Nate after bath splash gift sets never get old) and stumbled upon this wonder of Made in China packaging. Pulling my digicam, I snapped these, being careful not to read the text, else the pics would be blurred and fuzzy due to my jelly belly rolled laughter.
A remote toy car that drives up walls! Speed Racer, eat your heart out. Who wouldn't want one of these?
Note the large font and bold lettering - this text must really be important...
Feeling feverish lately? Could be your improper use of batteries. And apparently hair is not something you want to wear when operating this toy.
The intended meaning of the grammar is semi-obvious, however getting only 5 minutes of playtime for 30-50 minutes of charging time seems a bit much to ask a kid to endure...or a grown-up at that.
I'm not sure if "charging under the guidance of adults in charge" is the best course of action here. These complicated steps seem better suited to 8-year old's who can program the clock vcr.
Though I find this stuff humorous as heck, I can only imagine what some Oklahoma prairieland farmer thinks after looking to the directions when the darn thing "breaks down" after 5 minutes of go time.
Is it any wonder no one reads instructions any longer?
And don't even get me started on having to keep a stock of mini-phillips head screwdrivers on hand just to change out batteries. Whatever happened to plain old plastic-flap-that-breaks-off battery covers on toys and electronic devices?
Batteries not included indeed.
I know I may be in the human population minority in this trait, but more times than not I learn something by reading the manual for a new purchase and the other times I find myself going back to the manual when something goes wrong with my initial usage.
Case in point, the daytime running lights on my wife's 4-door made-in-Tennessee import are on all the time, making it somewhat inconvenient when driving through the myriad of lighting displays that are all the rage throughout Oklahoma this time of the year.
I have never figured out how to disable the lights, and every time we find ourselves puttering through yet another spectacle of seasonal lights, I knock myself on the head and state out loud,"Darn it, someday I'm going to read that owner's manual and figure out how to turn off those darn daytime running lights!"
Writer's note - they apparently don't ever go off, and there is no built-in override for the sensor. There is a mod however, that I found on an online auto forum (Tech Service Bulletin EL011-00), as well as a mickey-duck kludgy way to temporarily trick the twilight sentinel.
Yep, instructions are your friend. Unless you don't understand Chinglish. Then, you're in big trouble.
Case in point, today while picking up a prescription at our local small town pharmacy, I was cruising the "gift" aisle (those Jean Nate after bath splash gift sets never get old) and stumbled upon this wonder of Made in China packaging. Pulling my digicam, I snapped these, being careful not to read the text, else the pics would be blurred and fuzzy due to my jelly belly rolled laughter.
A remote toy car that drives up walls! Speed Racer, eat your heart out. Who wouldn't want one of these?
Note the large font and bold lettering - this text must really be important...
Feeling feverish lately? Could be your improper use of batteries. And apparently hair is not something you want to wear when operating this toy.
The intended meaning of the grammar is semi-obvious, however getting only 5 minutes of playtime for 30-50 minutes of charging time seems a bit much to ask a kid to endure...or a grown-up at that.
I'm not sure if "charging under the guidance of adults in charge" is the best course of action here. These complicated steps seem better suited to 8-year old's who can program the clock vcr.
Though I find this stuff humorous as heck, I can only imagine what some Oklahoma prairieland farmer thinks after looking to the directions when the darn thing "breaks down" after 5 minutes of go time.
Is it any wonder no one reads instructions any longer?
And don't even get me started on having to keep a stock of mini-phillips head screwdrivers on hand just to change out batteries. Whatever happened to plain old plastic-flap-that-breaks-off battery covers on toys and electronic devices?
Batteries not included indeed.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Cribside karaoke
While humming an Elvis Christmas tune to the slanted walls of the empty playroom and slathering on a final layer of mud over the tape lines, I further attempted to fill the quiet and stillness permeating the environment by tuning my portable to NPR's The Takeaway. A roving topic this morning centered on the lullaby in contemporary culture.
The guest was speaking of an online poll she had conducted examining the popular lullaby's of modern parents. The story was intriguing, the results are humorous and the discussion inspired me to jot down a note to my future daughters (the reason this blog exists) revealing the off-key top 10 tunage favored by their loving parents during their early childhood sleepy time rituals.
Out of necessity, our repertoire developed vigor and girth with our first arrival. Combine inexperienced and paranoid parents with a light sleeper and creaky hardwood floors (the arrival of area rugs accelerated the crib-sneak-away ritual immensely) and you have two tired parents with a karaoke list that challenges even the first season of American Idol.
I've included some YouTube links for the more obscure songs listed.DADDY'S FAVORITES
Yellow Submarine - Lennon/McCartney
In my life - Lennon/McCartney
Suspicious Minds - Elvis
I saw her standing there - Lennon/McCartney
That'll be the day - Buddy Holly
American Pie - Don Mclean (yes, I know all the lyrics)
Puff the Magic Dragon - P,P & M
Norwegian Wood - Lennon/McCartney
Heartbreak Hotel - Elvis
In the ghetto - Elvis
Jamaica Farewell - Belafonte
Ma-na-me-na (do-doo-do-do-do)
MOMMY'S FAVORITES
Just about any Pi Beta Phi sorority song you can think of, ad infinitum.
So how'd we do? Well, here we are, 9 years post our first child, and going on 5.5 years for our second and all I can truly state with any surety of fact and candor is that both of my daughter's can pick out an Elvis tune when played on the radio.
Thank, ya...thank ya very much.
The guest was speaking of an online poll she had conducted examining the popular lullaby's of modern parents. The story was intriguing, the results are humorous and the discussion inspired me to jot down a note to my future daughters (the reason this blog exists) revealing the off-key top 10 tunage favored by their loving parents during their early childhood sleepy time rituals.
Out of necessity, our repertoire developed vigor and girth with our first arrival. Combine inexperienced and paranoid parents with a light sleeper and creaky hardwood floors (the arrival of area rugs accelerated the crib-sneak-away ritual immensely) and you have two tired parents with a karaoke list that challenges even the first season of American Idol.
I've included some YouTube links for the more obscure songs listed.
Yellow Submarine - Lennon/McCartney
In my life - Lennon/McCartney
Suspicious Minds - Elvis
I saw her standing there - Lennon/McCartney
That'll be the day - Buddy Holly
American Pie - Don Mclean (yes, I know all the lyrics)
Puff the Magic Dragon - P,P & M
Norwegian Wood - Lennon/McCartney
Heartbreak Hotel - Elvis
In the ghetto - Elvis
Jamaica Farewell - Belafonte
Ma-na-me-na (do-doo-do-do-do)
MOMMY'S FAVORITES
Just about any Pi Beta Phi sorority song you can think of, ad infinitum.
So how'd we do? Well, here we are, 9 years post our first child, and going on 5.5 years for our second and all I can truly state with any surety of fact and candor is that both of my daughter's can pick out an Elvis tune when played on the radio.
Thank, ya...thank ya very much.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Stick a fork(lift) in it, it's done
As work progresses on our upstairs bathroom roof-raising expansion, we've somehow made it to the stage where we needed to get our clawfoot bathtub into place.
Seeing as how our local football team is tied up with their semi-final playoff game (good luck tonight fellas), and neither my F-i-L nor I was feeling the need to drink some David Banner gamma bomb juice and Hulk out, we resorted to hydraulic power and not-quite OSHA approved tub relocation practices.
Seems just about every farmer, rancher, fry cook and gas/and or oil worker in my small town has some piece of heavy equipment at their disposal. From wild and woolly riding mower attachments to mini-earth movers to hydraulic rammed hay bale lifting spikes, the mobile folks in my small town own just about any tool a fella could ever need.
Several of whom offered to bring their front-loader tractors over to see if the buckets would reach up high enough to make the tub transfer. But we eventually went with the idea of a local sculptor friend of mine who offered up his own personal forklift to perform the tub lifting duties we so required.
The forklifts solid rubber wheels sinking into the soft grass adjacent to our house was problematic, as was the close and dangerous proximity of the power line feeding into the corner of the house.
We managed to find a relatively safe spot to make the transfer, and after fashioning a couple of extension beams to the forks of the lift (a 4x4 fence post my F-i-L picked up along the side of a country road some time ago, and a run of weathered pole fence leftover by previous owners) the tub was hoisted, dragged, lifted and grunted into it's final service spot.
The 1920's era hotel-style clawfoot tub we picked up at an auction several years ago for a hundred bucks and change, and on which I grinded, stripped, sanded and primered, was then in place and ready for finishing.
The clawfeet have since received a coat of hammered steel finish pewter colored Rustoleum (to match the barn board wainscoting), while the tubs exterior has been bathed in several coats of peachtree pink (matching the bathroom ceiling).
As my friend fired up his forklift and made the turn down our driveway onto Main street, in my minds eye I imagined he popped the clutch, pulled a wheelie and cried out a hearty, "Hi Yo Silver, away!" leaving a man and his tub behind in the dust-filtered golden light of the setting Oklahoma sun.
Seeing as how our local football team is tied up with their semi-final playoff game (good luck tonight fellas), and neither my F-i-L nor I was feeling the need to drink some David Banner gamma bomb juice and Hulk out, we resorted to hydraulic power and not-quite OSHA approved tub relocation practices.
Seems just about every farmer, rancher, fry cook and gas/and or oil worker in my small town has some piece of heavy equipment at their disposal. From wild and woolly riding mower attachments to mini-earth movers to hydraulic rammed hay bale lifting spikes, the mobile folks in my small town own just about any tool a fella could ever need.
Several of whom offered to bring their front-loader tractors over to see if the buckets would reach up high enough to make the tub transfer. But we eventually went with the idea of a local sculptor friend of mine who offered up his own personal forklift to perform the tub lifting duties we so required.
The forklifts solid rubber wheels sinking into the soft grass adjacent to our house was problematic, as was the close and dangerous proximity of the power line feeding into the corner of the house.
We managed to find a relatively safe spot to make the transfer, and after fashioning a couple of extension beams to the forks of the lift (a 4x4 fence post my F-i-L picked up along the side of a country road some time ago, and a run of weathered pole fence leftover by previous owners) the tub was hoisted, dragged, lifted and grunted into it's final service spot.
The 1920's era hotel-style clawfoot tub we picked up at an auction several years ago for a hundred bucks and change, and on which I grinded, stripped, sanded and primered, was then in place and ready for finishing.
The clawfeet have since received a coat of hammered steel finish pewter colored Rustoleum (to match the barn board wainscoting), while the tubs exterior has been bathed in several coats of peachtree pink (matching the bathroom ceiling).
As my friend fired up his forklift and made the turn down our driveway onto Main street, in my minds eye I imagined he popped the clutch, pulled a wheelie and cried out a hearty, "Hi Yo Silver, away!" leaving a man and his tub behind in the dust-filtered golden light of the setting Oklahoma sun.
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