How to eat a chocolate donut with sprinkles...

...if you're a 3-year old.

Out of their natural environment

Follow up to this post.


"Dear, did you leave your flip flops outside?"

Dr. Seuss gets another year older, sorta

March 2nd, mark your calendar,
for a special day it will be.
It is Dr. Seuss' birthday,
though dead as doornails is he.

The kindergarten teachers
sent a notice to homes,
for parent volunteers to come in
to read a few of the good Doctor's tomes.

I signed up for "The Cat in the Hat,"
because I know it almost by heart.
And it always has been my favorite selection,
off the Seussian library cart.

Perhaps I'll go "Green Eggs and Ham."
Even though Sam I am, I am not.
Being a Dad, Hop on Pop seems a good fit,
But I've found it to be too short on plot.

Aristotle's Poetics, it is not.

Limping to the sounds of MG

A few nights ago, S and I went to St. Gregory's University to enjoy an intimate performance by Michael Gulezian.

S worked a few semesters at the OSU Student Union during her undergrad days, and got to know Michael when she would book him for performances at the Union. He's been touring constantly since those days, and has developed his guitaring skills into nothing short of 6 (and 12) string mastery.

Check out his website (downloads are free) and enjoy.

The performance was in the central plaza of St. Gregory's main student union. S looked lovely as ever, sipping on a vanilla mocha latte. I was well coiffed and had a Diet Coke w/ lime, purchased from the micro-cafeteria located adjacent to the courtyard.

The plush, cushy sofas we planted ourselves in for the performance were warm and inviting. The fake fireplace behind Michael was ablaze in all it's natural gas glory, and the enthusiastically fellow attendees were mellow and open to some stress releasing acoustic guitar magic.

Then the limping parade began.

First one, then another, then another.

Limping coeds draped in sweat pants and St. Gregory emblazoned teeshirts made their way from their dorm rooms and on-campus living abodes to the student union.

Why were they all limping? We're they athletes? Had they just come from Father Slaughter's Aerobics class? Was there a shortage of good footwear on campus?

After the twelth or so limping student hobbled by, stopping momentarily to wrap their tortured bodies in the alluring tunage that was resouding off the walls, the situation went beyond comical and into the absurd.

Next time you're on a college campus, sit in a high traffic area and observe the passing students. If the majority of them are limping, please report back.

Inquiring minds want to know.

Wrap yourself in the Big E

Every week, C has to bring in an object to "show n' tell" in front of the class that begins with the alphabet letter which they've been studying all week.

Last week was the letter "E."

We contemplated taking an egg (hard boiled), an elephant (stuffed), some earphones (headphones really), an eagle (bald), and other ho-hum, that's-what-all-the-other-kids-will-bring items.

Then it dawned on me. The Big E. The only E. The E who is the King of Rock and Roll.

I speak of (cue music), our Elvis Blanket.



Needless to say, C was not thrilled, and offered to "leave the building" immediately upon seeing me proudly and enthusiasticaly display my selection for her letter o' the week item.

Buuut, after much coaxing, convincing, and a few rounds of "Suspicious Minds" from her old man, my 6-year old finally gave in and agreed to stuff the King into her backpack and lug it before the class.

I was a proud Pop.

Afterwards, in the car ride home, I asked her what her 60-something teacher thought of her bringing the "King of Rock and Roll" into her classroom.

"Oh, she just said, 'Elvis, he was a popular singer, wasn't he?' and didn't say anything more."

Obviously, C's teacher was overcome with emotion. Who wouldn't be afterall, when faced with the Big E in blanket form.

Media saavy 6-year old

C's bedtime question to my wife last night was, "...did the Vice-President's friend look like a bird?"

Am I an Okie (part 42, at least it seems like it)

Last and final installment. Hold your applause until the end please. This may get ugly.

You have known someone who has had a belt buckle bigger than your fist.

A bad traffic jam involves two pickups staring each other down at a four-way stop, each detemined to be the most polite and let the other go first.

You know in which state "Miam-uh" is and in which state "Miam-ee" is.

You aren't surprised to find movie rental, ammunition, and bait all in the same store.

Your "place at the lake" has wheels under it.

A Mercedes Benz isn't a status symbol. A Ford F-340 4x4 is.

You know everything goes better with ranch dressing.

You learned how to shoot a gun before you learned how to multiply.

You actually get these jokes and are "fixin" to send them to your friends.

Finally, you are 100% Oklahoman if you have ever heard this conversation:
"You wanna coke?"
"Sure"
"What kind?"
"Dr. Pepper"

Another use found for 2x4's

Spotted at a construction site just north of town a ways. Take a really close look at the porta-potty.


I call these "supporta-porta's."
I don't know if I'd trust a few 2x4's to keep my "office" from blowing away in the wind...especially if I was in it!
See entry #2 here.

But, when ya gotta go...

Daffy wins

How about that. It truly is "wabbit" season.



Elmer Fudd's all over the state are pulling down the side flaps on their fur-lined hats and loading up for some good stewin' meat.

Okay, I've actually had rabbit meat at a churrascaria in Glendale.

Tasted like chicken.

Am I an Okie? (Part 2)

A continuation of this post.

You know the true value of a parking space is not determined by the distance to the door, but by the availability of shade.

Grocery stores don't have bags and carts, they have sacks and buggies.

You see people wear bib overalls to funerals.

You think everyone from a bigger city has an accent.

You measure distance in minutes ("I'm about 5 minutes away.")

You refer to the capital of Oklahoma as "The City."

It doesn't bother you to use an airport named for a man who died in an airplance crash.

Little smokies are something you serve only for special occasions.

You listen to the weather forecast before choosing an outfit.

Someone you know has used a college football schedule to plan their wedding date.

Easy now, we're about half way done with these. More later.

Dining with the 300 pairs of eyes

Our small town's annual Chamber of Commerce Banquet was last night. For $12 a ticket, we'd get a catered meal, a few presentations, a guest speaker, and the chance to hobnob with the upstanding business men and women of the town.

We were the last ones to arrive at the shindig, which was scheduled to begin at 6:30 p.m.

We arrived at 6:40 p.m.

By then, all 300-plus guests were well into their catered meal of smoked brisket, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, salad with ranch dressing (more on ranch dressing later), a generous wedge of chocolate/pecan cheesecake, and the most humongous baked potato I've ever seen that took up more than half of my Chinette.

10 minutes late and we were the absolute last ones to be seated. Amazing, these small town folk and their passion for promptness.

Now, I've always been one of those "sit in the front row of class" kinda guys. Not that I was an ideal student, who hung on every word uttered by their teachers. Nothing so honorable. By sitting in the front row I was less likely to nod off and let my head do the "2-second-in-class-nap-head-bob" if I knew the teacher/professor would be looking right at me.

As dictated by my penchants to sit up front, I led my comely wife forwards, scanning the long tables for a deuce of empty seats. The only seats we found open were at a table at the very front, so we sauntered on up, made sure the seats were vacant, and smiled graciously as if to excuse our tardiness.

Good. We were late, but hadn't caused any commotion. Those in the room who may have known us or of us, knew we were from LA and that "those" people are always running late because of "traffic on the 10 freeway."

As we got comfortable in the folding metal chairs, the table introductions began.
Mr. City Manager, a pleasure.
Mr. Councilman, nice to meet you.
Mrs. Councilwoman, great pleasure to meet you.
Mr. County District Attorney, how very nice to meet you.
Madame Mayor. what an honor and pleasure it is to meet you.
Mr. Oklahoma State Senator, what a surprise to see you here.
Mr. Oklahoma State Representative, doing a great job, thanks for being here.
This is the point where, had we been in a movie, we'd look around to see the entire room staring back at us in utter disbelief, that we would have the unsophisticated audacity to sit where we chose to sit.

Men in tuxedos would snort. Women in gowns would huff. Children would wail, and dogs would flatulate.

Turns out we had planted our patooties at the table reserved for the politico movers and shakers of our small town's hallowed hallways of government. Without an invitation to sit with them, without a hostess mistakenly seating us there, and without even a hint of hesitancy, we inadvertently may have caused a minor stir amongst the other dinner goers.

I'l say one thing for living in Oklahoma...people here are darn polite, as not one person asked us to leave, not one person mentioned to us the error of our seat selection ways, and not one person told us to our face that the table was reserved for the city's top government officials.

Now, behind our back, that may be another story.

The movie theater in my mind projects a double-feature at the downtown cafe and local donut shop this morning, as coffee talk centers on the city slicker/outsiders who plopped themselves down at the head table and dipped their brisket in the same sauce bucket as the Senator, Congressman, and Mayor.

Or maybe not. The weather is nice today, so perhaps that will take precedence in our small town's grapevine.

Am I an Okie?

The top question my in-laws get when discussing our move to Oklahoma seems to be, "how's that California son-in-law of yours gettin' on as an Okie?"

This morning I asked myself, am I an Okie? Will I ever be an Okie? What constitutes an Okie's definition of what being an Okie is all about?

Here is the first of a multiple part series on what the small town newspaper in my in-laws home town considers being an Okie.
1. You can properly pronounce Eufaula, Gotebo, Okemah and Chickasha. (I'll add Checotah, since the last American Idol is from there and every network morning news show that interviewed her mispronouned it -- shame on you Katie Couric).

2. You think that people who complain about the wind in their states are sissies.

3. A tornado warning siren is your signal to go out in the yard and look for a funnel. (I'll add that it's also my F-i-L's signal to go out and watch for your neighbors trash cans to go flying by).

4. Your idea of a traffic jam is 10 cars waiting to pass a tractor on the highway.

5. You've ever had to switch from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day - within an hour or so.
That's all for now. More later. Too much Okieisms in one blog entry may be hazardous to your health.

Grabbing life by the tail

This is why I never write "Letters to Editors." I'd fail by comparison.


From yesterday's edition of our small town paper.