We spent Memorial Day weekend at my in-law's lake house.
It was a fun-filled American weekend of seadooin', fishing, exploring, digging in the sand, looking for pottery and lures, swimming, boating, cooking out, and napping.
I fought the fish and the fish won
After securing a license at the local bait/tackle/gas station/convenience store for a double sawski and a fin, I grabbed a 6-foot rod donned with a Sonic Rooster Tail and headed for the boat dock for a some alone time with my finned and scaled friends.
Bluegill was the fish of the day, even though a black bass and a channel cat paid my pole a visit.
I also witnessed the tenacity of a fish who didn't want to be caught, nor would stay caught.
After an amazing fight (I'm not much of a fisherman, remember), this big old bluegill refused to give up the ghost, even after being pulled from the water and plopped into my 5-gallon bucket.
That bugger stuck his head out of the bucket, gave me a look, and jumped right out of the bucket. He flopped around on the boat dock for a few seconds, only to find his way back into the clear of the open water beneath the boat dock.
I swore at him for just a second, but laughed at the realization that his will to live his life on his own terms was a lesson to us all.
I wished him well.
C prepares for her first fishing tournament
C and her grandfather will be taking on the local ankle biter anglers in her first fishing tournament a few weekends from now. She's determined to get her picture in the paper holding up a big string of small mouths and crappie out of our local lake. This weekend was her first opportunity to "practice" for the upcoming tournament.
Using her new Zebco 33 spincast reel and Made in Taiwan Angler rod, C caught a huge appaloosa catfish with her first cast.
The rod and reel was her kindergarten graduation present from my in-laws.
The catfish was longer than her leg.
She followed the catfish with several small bluegill, a black bass, and a channel catfish.
Now if I can only get her to remove the hooks, I can get some quality fishing time in as well.
The view
The view at the lake improved by ten fold this weekend as the neighbor's college aged daughter brought a bevy of her friends down to the lake for the weekend.
I'm happy to report that bikini sizes are still shrinking in direct proportion to my nearsightedness.
Why we don't like the lake on holiday weekends
We cursed the moronic boaters and jet-skiers who came too fast and too close to the boat dock, ignorant to the damage and discomfort their wakes can cause.
Too many teens behind the wheels of watercraft, too many watercraft in the water, too many uncorked exhausts on rumbly V-8's. While I enjoy the sound of an uncorked exhaust on a radically cammed 4-stroke internal combustion motor, my enjoyment level goes way down when that motor is on a boat instead of a hot rod, and it's rumbling by at 2 in the morning.
I don't get how the government boys can put restrictions on how loud we can make our cars on the streets, but there are no restrictions on decibel levels on the lake.
Later, we took a quick cruise over to the beach area known as "The Cut" but the crowds of "Girls Gone Wild" partiers on small boats tethered together chased us back to the safety and quiet of our boat dock.
More on "The Cut" later...
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
Battle scars and the secrets they reveal
Yesterday I had an early morning appointment to have a "procedure" done at my small town hospital.
We left the house at 6:40 a.m. for a 7:00 a.m. appointment.
I was 15 minutes.early.
So, I found a comfy chair and waited around in the front receptionist area for 10 minutes.
Who happened to walk by but the CFO of the hospital who S and have spent time with at auctions around town. We met him and his family when he first moved to town a little after we did. He lives just down the block from us. We talked for 5 minutes, then he walked me over to the patient check-in window.
The receptionist was one of the office workers from my doctor's office and didn't take long to gather my information. She then walked me over to where my procedure was to be done, just down the hall to pre-op/recovery.
The nurse who brought me my gown was the mother of a girl on C's softball team. We talked about their first game taking place that night while she inserted an IV and took my BP and vitals.
She handed me off to two other nurses who prepped me further, made me comfy on the table and talked me through the procedure. One of the nurses was a mother/parent I knew from PTO. The other was the grandmother of the girl who babysits for us on occasion.
The Doc came in...my family practitioner. He got settled, started in on the procedure and I was out.
Woke up to the kindly face of yet another nurse. Wait, something was wrong. I didn't know her nor did she know me.
Nevertheless, she gently guided me to the recovery room next door. We chatted while she pulled my IV out and I feasted on a delicious blueberry muffin, juice and coffee. You guess it, the muffin was homemade.
After I started to feel human again, I told her that I had planned on walking home, since I only lived two blocks away.
She insisted on driving me home and a few minutes later, I was sitting on my couch, drinking ice tea and trying to remember everything that just happened.
9 hours later, I was siting on the front porch, eating 50/50 bars with the girls and enjoying the cooling evening temps.
My doc had come jogging by on his nitely 5-miler and stopped to talk and visit with the girls. He told me how well my procedure went and then warned us to get inside before the bugs got too thick.
Glass is half-full people are now thinking, "wow, what a friendly and neighborly medical experience that was in your small town."
Glass is half-empty people are thinking, "now everyone in town knows what procedure you had done, the results, and about that little scar you have on your butt."
Such is life in my small town.
Least they don't know how I GOT that little scar on my butt.
We left the house at 6:40 a.m. for a 7:00 a.m. appointment.
I was 15 minutes.early.
So, I found a comfy chair and waited around in the front receptionist area for 10 minutes.
Who happened to walk by but the CFO of the hospital who S and have spent time with at auctions around town. We met him and his family when he first moved to town a little after we did. He lives just down the block from us. We talked for 5 minutes, then he walked me over to the patient check-in window.
The receptionist was one of the office workers from my doctor's office and didn't take long to gather my information. She then walked me over to where my procedure was to be done, just down the hall to pre-op/recovery.
The nurse who brought me my gown was the mother of a girl on C's softball team. We talked about their first game taking place that night while she inserted an IV and took my BP and vitals.
She handed me off to two other nurses who prepped me further, made me comfy on the table and talked me through the procedure. One of the nurses was a mother/parent I knew from PTO. The other was the grandmother of the girl who babysits for us on occasion.
The Doc came in...my family practitioner. He got settled, started in on the procedure and I was out.
Woke up to the kindly face of yet another nurse. Wait, something was wrong. I didn't know her nor did she know me.
Nevertheless, she gently guided me to the recovery room next door. We chatted while she pulled my IV out and I feasted on a delicious blueberry muffin, juice and coffee. You guess it, the muffin was homemade.
After I started to feel human again, I told her that I had planned on walking home, since I only lived two blocks away.
She insisted on driving me home and a few minutes later, I was sitting on my couch, drinking ice tea and trying to remember everything that just happened.
9 hours later, I was siting on the front porch, eating 50/50 bars with the girls and enjoying the cooling evening temps.
My doc had come jogging by on his nitely 5-miler and stopped to talk and visit with the girls. He told me how well my procedure went and then warned us to get inside before the bugs got too thick.
Glass is half-full people are now thinking, "wow, what a friendly and neighborly medical experience that was in your small town."
Glass is half-empty people are thinking, "now everyone in town knows what procedure you had done, the results, and about that little scar you have on your butt."
Such is life in my small town.
Least they don't know how I GOT that little scar on my butt.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
For whom the roads toll, it tolls for thee
Coming from the land of CalTrans, 4-level interchanges and miles and miles of freeways (that's FREE ways), I'm somewhat stymied by the idea of a toll road.
I get it, sorta.
People want to build a road.
People don't want to be taxed to pay for the road.
People agree to a toll road.
People think, "once the road construction is paid for, the toll will drop considerably since road maintenance is cheaper than initial construction."
They why does the toll on toll roads never go down?
I get it, sorta.
People want to build a road.
People don't want to be taxed to pay for the road.
People agree to a toll road.
People think, "once the road construction is paid for, the toll will drop considerably since road maintenance is cheaper than initial construction."
They why does the toll on toll roads never go down?
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Good Looker, Bad Looker
My wife is a conundrum when you seek to define the word "looker."
To me, she's a looker. Meaning to say, she's an attractive woman.
A hottie.
And she's getting more attractive with age, developing that classy air that women get (the lucky ones with good genes) as they leave the tethering bonds of youth behind (good riddance).
But, she's also a bad looker. Meaning, if she is looking for something, I will always manage to find it before her, after her (when she's left the room in a huff), in spite of her, and much to her dismay, sometimes sitting right in front of her.
For all you pessimists out there who think I'm writing this post to get myself out of the doghouse, or trying to butter up my darling wife to convince her that I really do need that Tig welder, back off slowly and carefully.
Surprisingly enough, S very rarely reads my blog and then, only when I forward her the link. If you were to ask her what the name or url of my blog was, she'd draw a blank.
Sure, she's bookmarked it, but don't ask her to find it in her endless list of her browser's bookmark menu. That would extort her to call upon her looker skills.
Taking us right back to square one.
To me, she's a looker. Meaning to say, she's an attractive woman.
A hottie.
And she's getting more attractive with age, developing that classy air that women get (the lucky ones with good genes) as they leave the tethering bonds of youth behind (good riddance).
But, she's also a bad looker. Meaning, if she is looking for something, I will always manage to find it before her, after her (when she's left the room in a huff), in spite of her, and much to her dismay, sometimes sitting right in front of her.
For all you pessimists out there who think I'm writing this post to get myself out of the doghouse, or trying to butter up my darling wife to convince her that I really do need that Tig welder, back off slowly and carefully.
Surprisingly enough, S very rarely reads my blog and then, only when I forward her the link. If you were to ask her what the name or url of my blog was, she'd draw a blank.
Sure, she's bookmarked it, but don't ask her to find it in her endless list of her browser's bookmark menu. That would extort her to call upon her looker skills.
Taking us right back to square one.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Bathroom reading and beyond
Normally, my day is pretty packed and the only book reading I can fit in is while T.C.B in the throne room or during the few moments between having just climbed into bed and entering REM sleep.
My wife can tell when I'm really into a particular book as I disappear for longer periods than usual behind the bathroom door.
I'm into Guy Kawasaki's book, The Macintosh Way, right now.
In a nutshell, the buddahhead brother spells out his views on the zen of evangelism and the values needed to produce a great product.
It 's a great read, Macintosh fan or not.
I developed a deep sense of respect and awe for the Senior Software Developers I had the pleasure of working for and with at my last job. The things they could do with the jibberish that is computer code language was an artform of an anatomically nonsensical but wondrous level.
These were all software engineers who could and would write code for many different platforms, and many different program applications, but for whatever reason, they made the conscious and educated decision to write Macintosh software.
Me, being an avid Mac user and enthusiast, fit into the Mac evangelism efforts within their world with little discomfort. I applauded them at their passion for the platform. I envied them for their knowledge and skill with the multifaceted levels of the operating system. I enjoyed their good humored joking at the Windoze developer's expense.
They shared a passion for the platform and for developing software for our users to extreme levels at times, and sacrificed their time, pay raises, promotions, sanity, and ultimately, their positions, for their convictions and belief that they knew what was best for our Mac customers.
They did it the Macintosh Way and taught me a valuable lesson about doing what you feel is right, no matter what the consequences may be.
To Dave, Stu and Herb, the OG Mac Team -- thanks for letting me play software engineer all those years.
I'm a better person for knowing you.
My wife can tell when I'm really into a particular book as I disappear for longer periods than usual behind the bathroom door.
I'm into Guy Kawasaki's book, The Macintosh Way, right now.
In a nutshell, the buddahhead brother spells out his views on the zen of evangelism and the values needed to produce a great product.
It 's a great read, Macintosh fan or not.
I developed a deep sense of respect and awe for the Senior Software Developers I had the pleasure of working for and with at my last job. The things they could do with the jibberish that is computer code language was an artform of an anatomically nonsensical but wondrous level.
These were all software engineers who could and would write code for many different platforms, and many different program applications, but for whatever reason, they made the conscious and educated decision to write Macintosh software.
Me, being an avid Mac user and enthusiast, fit into the Mac evangelism efforts within their world with little discomfort. I applauded them at their passion for the platform. I envied them for their knowledge and skill with the multifaceted levels of the operating system. I enjoyed their good humored joking at the Windoze developer's expense.
They shared a passion for the platform and for developing software for our users to extreme levels at times, and sacrificed their time, pay raises, promotions, sanity, and ultimately, their positions, for their convictions and belief that they knew what was best for our Mac customers.
They did it the Macintosh Way and taught me a valuable lesson about doing what you feel is right, no matter what the consequences may be.
To Dave, Stu and Herb, the OG Mac Team -- thanks for letting me play software engineer all those years.
I'm a better person for knowing you.
Monday, May 22, 2006
The Man - taking names and kickin' some tail
Fire up iTunes and play your favorite summertime songs while you read this article.My iTunes summer list includes the following:
Summertime Blues - Brian Setzer
Summertime - Fresh Prince / DJ Jazzy Jeff
All Summer Long - Beach Boys
Summer (Summertime is here) - War
Summer Lovin' - Grease Soundtrack
Summer Breeze - Seals and Crofts
Yep, even out here we got the cars that go boom, the kick-the-can mufflers on rice rockets, diesel pickup trucks with 4" open exhaust pipes, and skater dater teenagers hanging out in front of the Catholic Church until midnight on a weekend.
A few violations I would add to the list in the article:
Maximum visits to the all-you-can-stuff-in-your-already-bursting-OU-teeshirt-Chinese-Super-buffet will be limited to 42 trips, after which, you will be cited for public nuisance.
Lane changes without signalling or warning of any kind by an elderly person in a Lincoln Towne Car or similiar tank-like vehicles shall be limited to 22 within a 2-block distance.
Any cowboy hat wearing individual that is found to have more than 18 packets of Skoal, Copenhagen, or any form of smokeless tobacco wedged between their gums will be taken into custody and questioned. Their spit cup will be confiscated, after the suspect is forced to drink down it's contents.
Any homeowner caught outside their home before 5 a.m. working on their yard or firing up their mowers/edgers/trimmers/hole diggers/rototillers or any other garden appliance will be subject to both public envy and ridicule from their neighbors. See also under "Tailpipe exhaust noise ordinance for single-stroke hand-held devices."
Summertime - Fresh Prince / DJ Jazzy Jeff
All Summer Long - Beach Boys
Summer (Summertime is here) - War
Summer Lovin' - Grease Soundtrack
Summer Breeze - Seals and Crofts
Yep, even out here we got the cars that go boom, the kick-the-can mufflers on rice rockets, diesel pickup trucks with 4" open exhaust pipes, and skater dater teenagers hanging out in front of the Catholic Church until midnight on a weekend.
A few violations I would add to the list in the article:
Friday, May 19, 2006
Online eyewear
I lost my third pair of glasses since moving here.
I'm not a full time glasses wearer. Mostly for driving at night. But occassionally I will wear them during the day when I'm going some place where distance vision is imperative. Car shows. Automotive swap meets. The dump.
This last pair disappeared off the fender of my Father-in-law's trailer that I used to haul a load of house restoration debris to the dump with.
While unburdening the trailer of it's load, I took my glasses off, put them on the fender, and went about my business.
Never to be seen again.
Off to google I went. Input "discount eyeglasses"
Found several sites. One or two looked promising.
Selected one because they had Asian models on their "select your glasses" page. Relevance is important.
I entered my prescription figures, my pupillary distance, selected a frame style based on my head shape, facial dimensions (I even had the option to upload a picture of my face to give me a "virtual picture" of what my selected frames would look like), chose a color (black), material (metal), lenses (single vision,polycarbonate), tint (none), option (springy hinges), selected Paypal to pay for it, chose expedited shipping, clicked "submit" and I was off.
That was late Monday night. They arrived first thing Friday morning.
They fit perfect, look decent, came with a nice case and cleaning cloth, and work just fine. Best $40 (includes overnight shipping) pair of glasses I ever bought.
Heck, it's the only $40 pair of glasses I've ever bought.
If I'm cross-eyed in a month or two, I'll let you know as well.
I'm not a full time glasses wearer. Mostly for driving at night. But occassionally I will wear them during the day when I'm going some place where distance vision is imperative. Car shows. Automotive swap meets. The dump.
This last pair disappeared off the fender of my Father-in-law's trailer that I used to haul a load of house restoration debris to the dump with.
While unburdening the trailer of it's load, I took my glasses off, put them on the fender, and went about my business.
Never to be seen again.
Off to google I went. Input "discount eyeglasses"
Found several sites. One or two looked promising.
Selected one because they had Asian models on their "select your glasses" page. Relevance is important.
I entered my prescription figures, my pupillary distance, selected a frame style based on my head shape, facial dimensions (I even had the option to upload a picture of my face to give me a "virtual picture" of what my selected frames would look like), chose a color (black), material (metal), lenses (single vision,polycarbonate), tint (none), option (springy hinges), selected Paypal to pay for it, chose expedited shipping, clicked "submit" and I was off.
That was late Monday night. They arrived first thing Friday morning.
They fit perfect, look decent, came with a nice case and cleaning cloth, and work just fine. Best $40 (includes overnight shipping) pair of glasses I ever bought.
Heck, it's the only $40 pair of glasses I've ever bought.
If I'm cross-eyed in a month or two, I'll let you know as well.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Pop Quiz
C brought this school work / art work home the other day. It was apparently part of her critical thinking curriculum, but I thought it was more appropriate to her art-in-15-minutes curriculum.
Take the pop quiz and see how you score.
Morning - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) Her eating breakfast
B) A Hermoine Granger clone making the opposing chair dance with her wand
Afternoon - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) Her being driven home from school
B) The Oscar Meyer Weinermobile making a surprise visit to an organic farm in Oregon
Evening - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) Softball batting practice with her slightly annoyed Daddy
B) A reenactment of the scene in The Warriors between the Baseball Furies "sissies" and the Warriors.
Night - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) C having a wonderous dream of being a mermaid
B) An episode of Extreme Makeover gone bad as the patient dies and leaves her body as a she-fish beast.
Take the pop quiz and see how you score.
Morning - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) Her eating breakfast
B) A Hermoine Granger clone making the opposing chair dance with her wand
Afternoon - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) Her being driven home from school
B) The Oscar Meyer Weinermobile making a surprise visit to an organic farm in Oregon
Evening - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) Softball batting practice with her slightly annoyed Daddy
B) A reenactment of the scene in The Warriors between the Baseball Furies "sissies" and the Warriors.
Night - Does C's illustration depict the following:
A) C having a wonderous dream of being a mermaid
B) An episode of Extreme Makeover gone bad as the patient dies and leaves her body as a she-fish beast.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Can take the boy out of the city...
Growing up in the city hasn't worn off of me and I've still got my radar turned up on high. More so, I think because I'm very conscious of letting my guard down due to my growing perception that it is safer here.
I still look around the parking lot before getting in or out of the car.
I still do a perimeter check around the house at night before going to bed.
I still don't have our phone listed in the telephone directory.
I still am shocked when perfect strangers make eye contact with me on the street.
I installed motion sensor security lights around the house, put some lamps on timers, and still use Vinnie and Mandy as window dressing when were not around (our mannequins).
The other night, I took C to the Escape School Seminar which was taking place at our local high school gymnasium.
By habit I took a second to make sure the "coast was clear" before getting into and out of a car.
This entails a quick scan of the parking lot for potential baddies or jackers lurking about before leaping into the car and strapping down the kiddies. This had become a habit since realizing how vulnerable parents are when preoccupied with securing their brood in the vehicles.
Mind you I don't always do it, but most of the time, in a wide open area of public access, I will perform the perimeter check.
The other day C mentioned to me that her friend Kori noticed my parking lot ritual when we took her to the movies awhile back. Of course, C asked me why did I do it.
Kid's don't miss a thing.
Wonder when my instinctual need to do so will wear off...if ever.
I still look around the parking lot before getting in or out of the car.
I still do a perimeter check around the house at night before going to bed.
I still don't have our phone listed in the telephone directory.
I still am shocked when perfect strangers make eye contact with me on the street.
I installed motion sensor security lights around the house, put some lamps on timers, and still use Vinnie and Mandy as window dressing when were not around (our mannequins).
The other night, I took C to the Escape School Seminar which was taking place at our local high school gymnasium.
By habit I took a second to make sure the "coast was clear" before getting into and out of a car.
This entails a quick scan of the parking lot for potential baddies or jackers lurking about before leaping into the car and strapping down the kiddies. This had become a habit since realizing how vulnerable parents are when preoccupied with securing their brood in the vehicles.
Mind you I don't always do it, but most of the time, in a wide open area of public access, I will perform the perimeter check.
The other day C mentioned to me that her friend Kori noticed my parking lot ritual when we took her to the movies awhile back. Of course, C asked me why did I do it.
Kid's don't miss a thing.
Wonder when my instinctual need to do so will wear off...if ever.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Lidsville
S started seeing her Grandmother's items posted on eBay by her relatives last week.
I don't know how she figured out that her relatives were starting to auction off her Grandmother's stuff, but somehow she did and ended up adding many items on her "Watch List."
While eBay is the perfect place to make a few bucks on stuff your Grandmother left to you, or stuff that you "claimed" you wanted after Grandma died, it's pretty pathetic to get caught doing so.
My wife is not a confrontational person by nature, so she quietly bid on a few items to get them back.
Pretty sad.
The majority of the family was relatively decent and courteous with the divying up of Grandma's stuff. It appears to be the small "trailer park contingency" that was causing the most trouble. Nothing against people who live in trailer parks, mind you. Some of my best friends live in trailer parks....okay, that's a lie. But I'm sure trailer park living has it's own benefits.
The garage sale to sell whatever was left of my wife's Grandmother's belongings after the vultures -- um, I mean relatives descended like locusts -- um, I mean claimed their momentos, took place a few weeks ago.
The one collection that not one familly member claimed as their own, was Grandma's collection of plastic container lids.
Margarine containers.
Cottage cheese containers.
Spreadable honey containers.
Egg salad containers.
Potato salad containers.
Tupperware tops to long gone containers (the lids always outlast the containers).
Lids of every shape, form, color and design, that all formed one function.
They kept a lid on things.
In contrast, when we cleaned out the kitchen cabinets in my Gram's house, we found dozens of sushi-to-go foil trays, plastic yogurt lids, and about a thousand of those little green pieces of plastic cut and shaped like a sprig of grass that you get when buying made-to-go sushi.
Must be a Grandma thing.
About Grandma's lid collection...
No, S didn't take them home.
Yes, they sold at the garage sale. $5 for the entire 18-gallon bin full.
No, the 18-gallon bid didn't have a lid.
How's that for irony.
I don't know how she figured out that her relatives were starting to auction off her Grandmother's stuff, but somehow she did and ended up adding many items on her "Watch List."
While eBay is the perfect place to make a few bucks on stuff your Grandmother left to you, or stuff that you "claimed" you wanted after Grandma died, it's pretty pathetic to get caught doing so.
My wife is not a confrontational person by nature, so she quietly bid on a few items to get them back.
Pretty sad.
The majority of the family was relatively decent and courteous with the divying up of Grandma's stuff. It appears to be the small "trailer park contingency" that was causing the most trouble. Nothing against people who live in trailer parks, mind you. Some of my best friends live in trailer parks....okay, that's a lie. But I'm sure trailer park living has it's own benefits.
The garage sale to sell whatever was left of my wife's Grandmother's belongings after the vultures -- um, I mean relatives descended like locusts -- um, I mean claimed their momentos, took place a few weeks ago.
The one collection that not one familly member claimed as their own, was Grandma's collection of plastic container lids.
Margarine containers.
Cottage cheese containers.
Spreadable honey containers.
Egg salad containers.
Potato salad containers.
Tupperware tops to long gone containers (the lids always outlast the containers).
Lids of every shape, form, color and design, that all formed one function.
They kept a lid on things.
In contrast, when we cleaned out the kitchen cabinets in my Gram's house, we found dozens of sushi-to-go foil trays, plastic yogurt lids, and about a thousand of those little green pieces of plastic cut and shaped like a sprig of grass that you get when buying made-to-go sushi.
Must be a Grandma thing.
About Grandma's lid collection...
No, S didn't take them home.
Yes, they sold at the garage sale. $5 for the entire 18-gallon bin full.
No, the 18-gallon bid didn't have a lid.
How's that for irony.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Roof diving
I've done it.
You've done it.
We've all watched it happen to other people as they do it.
It has happened since mankind invented the to-go drink and the moving vehicle.
Heck, I bet even Pa Ingalls did it with a cup of joe in a tin cup placed on top of his buckboard.
I'm speaking of the dreaded "putting-your-drink-on-the-roof-of-your-car-then-forgetting-that-it's-there-only-to-remember-it-as-you-drive-off-and-hear-the-sound-of-it-splashing-down-the-back-window-of-your-car" syndrome.
For short I'll acronym it as "pydotroyctftitotriaydoahtsoisdtbwoyc." Yes, that's much simpler and easy to remember. Sort of rolls off you tongue, doesn't it?
I've done it more often as a parent than as a non-parent. Hustling to get the kiddies inside, strapped in, settled down and secure is no small feat. It's the distraction level of the moment that gets you every time.
In addition to drinks I've seen dayrunners go flapping off a roof, important papers and business cards heading south for the winter.
Have also witnessed backpacks go booking, Palm Pilots go plummeting, 3-ringed binders bounding, and the very rare but always worthy of a huge "oh crap" full-on-open briefcase explode in a shower of office supplies as it catches some air and looks for the hardest place to land.
While embarassing and inconvenient these experiences may all be in the anonymity of a busy, bustling city street, the level of humiliation goes up 10 notches when the dreaded pydotroyctftitotriaydoahtsoisdtbwoyc occurs on Main Street, downtown in my small town.
Nothing much happens downtown, but at lunch time the restaurants and shops are abuzz with activity as locals, visiting workers from the nearby businesses, and just passing through folk stop and nourish their noon time hunger cravin's. About 1 p.m., people start heading back to work and meet and greet familiar folk as they get back into their cars, trucks, work vans, etc.
This is not the time ot allow pydotroyctftitotriaydoahtsoisdtbwoyc to enter your life.
I did. It happened. I heard about it later that day.
From several different people.
On several different occasions.
At several different stops during my days routine.
At WalMart - "How's that car wash doing for ya?"
At the grocery store - "Well, ain't you got any drink holders in yer car?"
Dropping off C at her Wed. night activity - "Dr. Pepper makes a good car wash, does it?"
Picking up C at her Wed. night activity - "Heard you had a little accident."
And my favorite one, from the Chief of Police himself, whom I ran into at the recent Escape School for Kids seminar - "You know, I could have given you a ticket for littering." Cop humor. Funny.
I'm standing by, watching the local paper to see if the incident turns up in the Daily Doin's section.
You've done it.
We've all watched it happen to other people as they do it.
It has happened since mankind invented the to-go drink and the moving vehicle.
Heck, I bet even Pa Ingalls did it with a cup of joe in a tin cup placed on top of his buckboard.
I'm speaking of the dreaded "putting-your-drink-on-the-roof-of-your-car-then-forgetting-that-it's-there-only-to-remember-it-as-you-drive-off-and-hear-the-sound-of-it-splashing-down-the-back-window-of-your-car" syndrome.
For short I'll acronym it as "pydotroyctftitotriaydoahtsoisdtbwoyc." Yes, that's much simpler and easy to remember. Sort of rolls off you tongue, doesn't it?
I've done it more often as a parent than as a non-parent. Hustling to get the kiddies inside, strapped in, settled down and secure is no small feat. It's the distraction level of the moment that gets you every time.
In addition to drinks I've seen dayrunners go flapping off a roof, important papers and business cards heading south for the winter.
Have also witnessed backpacks go booking, Palm Pilots go plummeting, 3-ringed binders bounding, and the very rare but always worthy of a huge "oh crap" full-on-open briefcase explode in a shower of office supplies as it catches some air and looks for the hardest place to land.
While embarassing and inconvenient these experiences may all be in the anonymity of a busy, bustling city street, the level of humiliation goes up 10 notches when the dreaded pydotroyctftitotriaydoahtsoisdtbwoyc occurs on Main Street, downtown in my small town.
Nothing much happens downtown, but at lunch time the restaurants and shops are abuzz with activity as locals, visiting workers from the nearby businesses, and just passing through folk stop and nourish their noon time hunger cravin's. About 1 p.m., people start heading back to work and meet and greet familiar folk as they get back into their cars, trucks, work vans, etc.
This is not the time ot allow pydotroyctftitotriaydoahtsoisdtbwoyc to enter your life.
I did. It happened. I heard about it later that day.
From several different people.
On several different occasions.
At several different stops during my days routine.
At WalMart - "How's that car wash doing for ya?"
At the grocery store - "Well, ain't you got any drink holders in yer car?"
Dropping off C at her Wed. night activity - "Dr. Pepper makes a good car wash, does it?"
Picking up C at her Wed. night activity - "Heard you had a little accident."
And my favorite one, from the Chief of Police himself, whom I ran into at the recent Escape School for Kids seminar - "You know, I could have given you a ticket for littering." Cop humor. Funny.
I'm standing by, watching the local paper to see if the incident turns up in the Daily Doin's section.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Fake ID and the Curse of the Munchies
Lesson # 1 - No matter how steady your hand is and no matter how sharp the point on your Sharpie is, changing an 87 to an 82 is not possible.
Lesson # 2 - When you get the munchies and have to stop for a Snickers bar, put your money in your front pocket, and your stash in your back.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Why I'm afraid to drive at night
Back in LA, I loved to drive at night.
Windows down, sunroof open.
Elbow resting steady on the side.
Cooler air temps chilling your brain.
FM blaring tunage.
Traffic is light.
Reflections of oncoming headlights performing unknown balletic movements on my windshield.
The glow of the millions of lights in the city illuminating the night sky for miles and miles.
The only time I would be afraid to drive at night is when I was with my family, and we had to pass through some questionable areas of the city.
Having a reliable car helped.
Having grown up in So Cal and knowing where to avoid at night helped.
Having a cell phone so I could instantly call 911 helped.
Packing some heat helped (kidding).
But driving out here at night, on the lonely deserted country roads, with spotty cell phone coverage and miles between farmhouses, generates a primordial ooze type of fear in me, much different than anything my past experiences of driving in the city has prepared me for.
This particular scenario scares me to the core...
If it were up to me, all cows would be genetically engineered to produce a leather that displays the same qualities as highly reflective paint. Bet they'll taste better too.
Windows down, sunroof open.
Elbow resting steady on the side.
Cooler air temps chilling your brain.
FM blaring tunage.
Traffic is light.
Reflections of oncoming headlights performing unknown balletic movements on my windshield.
The glow of the millions of lights in the city illuminating the night sky for miles and miles.
The only time I would be afraid to drive at night is when I was with my family, and we had to pass through some questionable areas of the city.
Having a reliable car helped.
Having grown up in So Cal and knowing where to avoid at night helped.
Having a cell phone so I could instantly call 911 helped.
Packing some heat helped (kidding).
But driving out here at night, on the lonely deserted country roads, with spotty cell phone coverage and miles between farmhouses, generates a primordial ooze type of fear in me, much different than anything my past experiences of driving in the city has prepared me for.
This particular scenario scares me to the core...
If it were up to me, all cows would be genetically engineered to produce a leather that displays the same qualities as highly reflective paint. Bet they'll taste better too.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Turnpike from hell
Here in the land of the Red Man (the natives, not the tobacco), we have many much needed, well maintained, and enjoyable to drive 75 m.p.h. toll roads. They are fast, relatively empty, and due to the cost of building toll booths at each entrance/exit, they are virtually void of on/off ramps.
Last week was C's kinder field trip to the OKC Zoo. The 5 classes of kinder kiddies rode the buses. The parents, grandparents and assorted relatives caravaned behind the diesel spewing black and yellow transports.
We left enmasse from the school parking lot. I stopped for gas, figuring I could easily catch up to the rolling kinder road show with ease, even AT the speed limit.
Mistake count, number 1.
Those buses and soccer moms hauled A*S.
In the 20 minutes or so that I stopped for 8 gallons of dino juice a complete window wash and squeegie, pee break for PK, and a Propel water for me, the hellonwheels caravan covered enough ground to disappear from site -- and site here in the flattest state in the union is quite a distance.
No problem. I was informed by the school before we pulled out that the buses would be taking the Turnpike (toll road) to save time. Bonus was that I knew they would eventually end up at the zoo, and I knew how to get there, having been there many times before.
That's 2.
Long story short, I ended up going 20 miles out of my way, due to the fact that the toll road heading to Tulsa that I mistakenly merged onto had no nearby exits. Well okay, it had one.
20
miles
away.
I arrived at the zoo to find my steaming mad 6-year old, her arms crossed and foot tapping an angry showtune, standing with her concerned looking teacher.
She was the absolutely last and final kinder student from her school to enter the zoo.
I tried to make up for my tardiness by buying her one of those "machine-made-wax-sculptures-pressed-instantly-before-your-eyes-into-the-shape-of-a-gorilla" zoo souvies, almost immediately upon entering the zoo.
That's 3, and he's out.
Wax cracks. Wax breaks. Wax melts. Wax gorillas should be purchased upon exiting the zoo, not entering.
Darn toll roads.
Last week was C's kinder field trip to the OKC Zoo. The 5 classes of kinder kiddies rode the buses. The parents, grandparents and assorted relatives caravaned behind the diesel spewing black and yellow transports.
We left enmasse from the school parking lot. I stopped for gas, figuring I could easily catch up to the rolling kinder road show with ease, even AT the speed limit.
Mistake count, number 1.
Those buses and soccer moms hauled A*S.
In the 20 minutes or so that I stopped for 8 gallons of dino juice a complete window wash and squeegie, pee break for PK, and a Propel water for me, the hellonwheels caravan covered enough ground to disappear from site -- and site here in the flattest state in the union is quite a distance.
No problem. I was informed by the school before we pulled out that the buses would be taking the Turnpike (toll road) to save time. Bonus was that I knew they would eventually end up at the zoo, and I knew how to get there, having been there many times before.
That's 2.
Long story short, I ended up going 20 miles out of my way, due to the fact that the toll road heading to Tulsa that I mistakenly merged onto had no nearby exits. Well okay, it had one.
20
miles
away.
I arrived at the zoo to find my steaming mad 6-year old, her arms crossed and foot tapping an angry showtune, standing with her concerned looking teacher.
She was the absolutely last and final kinder student from her school to enter the zoo.
I tried to make up for my tardiness by buying her one of those "machine-made-wax-sculptures-pressed-instantly-before-your-eyes-into-the-shape-of-a-gorilla" zoo souvies, almost immediately upon entering the zoo.
That's 3, and he's out.
Wax cracks. Wax breaks. Wax melts. Wax gorillas should be purchased upon exiting the zoo, not entering.
Darn toll roads.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Bass Pro flyer outtakes
Taken from the pages of a recent sales flyer delivered to our door courtesy of the nice folks at Bass Pro Shops...
A nice attempt to get me to shell out some big bucks (or at least apply for Bass Pro Shops credit card) and buy a boat. But look carefully and the comedy will reveal itself...
Let's play,, "who doesn't belong in this picture?" Hmm. Nice looking tanned and toned fellow in the back. Good hair, pretty boy face. Pretty lady next to him, nice body, good tan, good hair, great smile. Up front sits an attractively tanned and coiffed young lass as well.
It's the driver who bugs me. I know it's for safety reasons (may even be the law), but he's the only one wearing a life jacket, is pastie white in complexion, not toned, not tanned, borderline geeky, and definitely an outsider to this snapshot of lakeland pleasure.
And now, let's scroll back up and examine the happy family enjoying some frolicking fishing fun in the top photo of the flyer. Everyone seems to be having fun, but something struck me odd about little Junior at the back of the boat.
"Take that, ya darn fish."
A nice attempt to get me to shell out some big bucks (or at least apply for Bass Pro Shops credit card) and buy a boat. But look carefully and the comedy will reveal itself...
Let's play,, "who doesn't belong in this picture?" Hmm. Nice looking tanned and toned fellow in the back. Good hair, pretty boy face. Pretty lady next to him, nice body, good tan, good hair, great smile. Up front sits an attractively tanned and coiffed young lass as well.
It's the driver who bugs me. I know it's for safety reasons (may even be the law), but he's the only one wearing a life jacket, is pastie white in complexion, not toned, not tanned, borderline geeky, and definitely an outsider to this snapshot of lakeland pleasure.
And now, let's scroll back up and examine the happy family enjoying some frolicking fishing fun in the top photo of the flyer. Everyone seems to be having fun, but something struck me odd about little Junior at the back of the boat.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Is not a fish, a pet?
The other day, C came home all bummed out.
I asked her what was up and she showed me a drawing she had done in class. It was a 3"x3" square portrait of her pet fish.
Is that Choo-choo?
Nods.
It's a good picture of him.
Nothing.
Why did you draw a picture of Choo-choo?
Silence.
Was that for a class project?
Nods -- a tear starts to form and the bottom lip quivers in painful, 6-year old agony.
Later we got the whole story.
The class was learning to draw a bar graph. Each student drew pictures of their pets on a square and then put them bedside their names on the large bar graph running left to right on the back wall.
This being a relatively rural community, kids drew pictures of their cows, sheeps, pigs, goats, horses, chickens, snakes, assorted rodents and marsupials to go along with the typical family pets -- dogs and cats.
Some kids "pet bar graphs" were as long as the panhandle.
Some were colorful, and vibrant, and full of farm and ranch living.
Some were exotic and strange and as multi-faceted as a Petco in the city.
C had this solitary image in her pet bar graph...
Choo-choo
Dave E -- even though I LOVE my new magnetic pickup too, do not, I repeat, do NOT send an animal of any kind my way....unless it's dead, frozen, and edible.
I asked her what was up and she showed me a drawing she had done in class. It was a 3"x3" square portrait of her pet fish.
Nods.
It's a good picture of him.
Nothing.
Why did you draw a picture of Choo-choo?
Silence.
Was that for a class project?
Nods -- a tear starts to form and the bottom lip quivers in painful, 6-year old agony.
The class was learning to draw a bar graph. Each student drew pictures of their pets on a square and then put them bedside their names on the large bar graph running left to right on the back wall.
This being a relatively rural community, kids drew pictures of their cows, sheeps, pigs, goats, horses, chickens, snakes, assorted rodents and marsupials to go along with the typical family pets -- dogs and cats.
Some kids "pet bar graphs" were as long as the panhandle.
Some were colorful, and vibrant, and full of farm and ranch living.
Some were exotic and strange and as multi-faceted as a Petco in the city.
C had this solitary image in her pet bar graph...
Dave E -- even though I LOVE my new magnetic pickup too, do not, I repeat, do NOT send an animal of any kind my way....unless it's dead, frozen, and edible.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Harder than it looks
I'm not going to say much here, since I can't draw a straight line to save my life, and I know this must be a harder job than it looks. All I can think of is that ODOT must use the back country roads to train their new line painters.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Pew-wee vs. Pee-yew
My wife claims to have grown up saying "pew-wee" whenever her or any member of her familly ran afoul of a foul odor.
I told her recently that until I met her, that expression hadn't been a part of my vocabulary vernaculer. Instead, we always said, "pee-yew." She didn't and couldn't believe it.
Course, my overly educated and walking-thesaurus Mother, would never use slang if she could avoid it. Her phrase when confronted by odiferous odors was, "oooh, stink!" Sometimes a smell would be so egregious to her senses that it would make her speak the dreaded J-word for such things, muttering "Kusai!" beneath a covered nose.
C prefers "pew-wee." She's a momma's girl. PK copies her. Course, since my teen years, my one and only phrase that covers this situation, and many others has been a simple, "duuude."
So will the "pee-yew" varaint of my youth become extinct in my family unit's lexicon of linguistics?
Pee-yew vs. Pew-wee -- what's it gonna be?
I told her recently that until I met her, that expression hadn't been a part of my vocabulary vernaculer. Instead, we always said, "pee-yew." She didn't and couldn't believe it.
Course, my overly educated and walking-thesaurus Mother, would never use slang if she could avoid it. Her phrase when confronted by odiferous odors was, "oooh, stink!" Sometimes a smell would be so egregious to her senses that it would make her speak the dreaded J-word for such things, muttering "Kusai!" beneath a covered nose.
C prefers "pew-wee." She's a momma's girl. PK copies her. Course, since my teen years, my one and only phrase that covers this situation, and many others has been a simple, "duuude."
So will the "pee-yew" varaint of my youth become extinct in my family unit's lexicon of linguistics?
Pee-yew vs. Pew-wee -- what's it gonna be?
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Biological wisdom of a 6-year old
Yesterday, when I picked up C from school, her teacher told me that she had "suffered a little bloody nose" during circle time.
Once in the car I asked her why she got a bloody nose. She told me that she picked a booger and it started to bleed.
Then she said the following.
"That's why I wish I had eyes in my nose, so I could tell if the booger I was picking was going to be a bloody one or not." Find a hole in that logic, I dare ya.
Once in the car I asked her why she got a bloody nose. She told me that she picked a booger and it started to bleed.
Then she said the following.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Grocery store fetish
I'm a good grocery shopper.
My first experiences in the supermarket area involved pushing a cart for my Mom as a precocious tweener. Years later I would be retrieving carts and bagging groceries at the same Alpha Beta to the tune of $6.50 an hour. Some time after that I found myself counting the tills, filling the dairy box, and locking up the store as a Night Manager working the 3 to Midnight shift.
I had just graduated high school and was making $13.75 an hour, time and a half on Sunday, triple pay on holidays. I was king of the world, baby.
I worked 7 years in the supermarket (what we called 'em back in the day -- out here, they're called grocery stores) biz and have many fond memories of my hours spent in those wide aisles filled with food and household items.
I also became nearly unbeateable at the Grocery Guessing Game (higher or lower) on The Price is Right.
One might say then, due to my professional experience in that arena, that I am a grocery shopper with a tad keener eye to the goings-on at my local food emporium. That said, a typical foodstuff shopping junket normally takes me less than an hour tops, and that's only if I don't have a specific list or coupons at the ready.
If I had a list and knew exactly what our "little house-not-on-but-nearby the prairie" needed, I would be in and out in less than 20 minutes.
Yep, I'm that good.
Yesterday's foray into the local food and grocery establishment took a record 2 hours 12 minutes.
No, I didn't have a list.
Yes, I did peruse my coupon collection.
But that isn't what took so long.
What kept me in the brightly florescent lit aisles for a good part of my morning block of time was the number of people I ran into (or ran into me) that I knew (or who knew me) or PK new (or who knew PK).
7 people - just about every customer in the store at 9 :30 a.m. on a weekday - stopped to chat, visit, preach, ponder, question, inquire or comment with me, my stainless steel cart full of the weeks edibles, and my rambunctious 3-year old.
There are 11 aisles in my small town grocery store. That makes .63 people per aisle that I visited with.
We discussed everything from what I'll need to get C when she starts softball next week, to why tumbling practice 2 days a week is too much for some people.
We spoke in hushed tones as we discussed the new Wal-Mart Supercenter that is rumored to be coming to town, and gesticulated wildly when describing the recent twister twins that visited 30 miles south of us.
We growled angrily at the gas prices ($2.75 for regular in our town), questioned whether it was too early to get a good watermelon, and generally agreed that the best strawberries do come from California.
I even drew a small crowd as I lectured on the rumor that some soy sauce is made using an enzyme extracted from human hair...only to reassure them that none of the soy sauce on the shelves at our store were that kind.
I don't ever recall my Mom being stopped by anyone while shopping in my youthful days as an apprentice grocery shopper. My Mom is no nonsense, blitzkreig shopper and I'm thinking she gave off a "working-woman-too-busy-to-stop-and-chat" vibe during her outings into grocery gettin' nirvana.
However I do have firsthand knowledge of several mother's of childhood friends of mine who were grocery shoppers extraordinaire, that would spend more than 2 hours per outing cruising the aisles, looking for sales, checking expiration dates, and chatting it up with friends and acquaintances in the wonderous place known as the supermarket.
Janice and Doris, you humble me.
My first experiences in the supermarket area involved pushing a cart for my Mom as a precocious tweener. Years later I would be retrieving carts and bagging groceries at the same Alpha Beta to the tune of $6.50 an hour. Some time after that I found myself counting the tills, filling the dairy box, and locking up the store as a Night Manager working the 3 to Midnight shift.
I had just graduated high school and was making $13.75 an hour, time and a half on Sunday, triple pay on holidays. I was king of the world, baby.
I worked 7 years in the supermarket (what we called 'em back in the day -- out here, they're called grocery stores) biz and have many fond memories of my hours spent in those wide aisles filled with food and household items.
I also became nearly unbeateable at the Grocery Guessing Game (higher or lower) on The Price is Right.
One might say then, due to my professional experience in that arena, that I am a grocery shopper with a tad keener eye to the goings-on at my local food emporium. That said, a typical foodstuff shopping junket normally takes me less than an hour tops, and that's only if I don't have a specific list or coupons at the ready.
If I had a list and knew exactly what our "little house-not-on-but-nearby the prairie" needed, I would be in and out in less than 20 minutes.
Yep, I'm that good.
Yesterday's foray into the local food and grocery establishment took a record 2 hours 12 minutes.
No, I didn't have a list.
Yes, I did peruse my coupon collection.
But that isn't what took so long.
What kept me in the brightly florescent lit aisles for a good part of my morning block of time was the number of people I ran into (or ran into me) that I knew (or who knew me) or PK new (or who knew PK).
7 people - just about every customer in the store at 9 :30 a.m. on a weekday - stopped to chat, visit, preach, ponder, question, inquire or comment with me, my stainless steel cart full of the weeks edibles, and my rambunctious 3-year old.
There are 11 aisles in my small town grocery store. That makes .63 people per aisle that I visited with.
We discussed everything from what I'll need to get C when she starts softball next week, to why tumbling practice 2 days a week is too much for some people.
We spoke in hushed tones as we discussed the new Wal-Mart Supercenter that is rumored to be coming to town, and gesticulated wildly when describing the recent twister twins that visited 30 miles south of us.
We growled angrily at the gas prices ($2.75 for regular in our town), questioned whether it was too early to get a good watermelon, and generally agreed that the best strawberries do come from California.
I even drew a small crowd as I lectured on the rumor that some soy sauce is made using an enzyme extracted from human hair...only to reassure them that none of the soy sauce on the shelves at our store were that kind.
I don't ever recall my Mom being stopped by anyone while shopping in my youthful days as an apprentice grocery shopper. My Mom is no nonsense, blitzkreig shopper and I'm thinking she gave off a "working-woman-too-busy-to-stop-and-chat" vibe during her outings into grocery gettin' nirvana.
However I do have firsthand knowledge of several mother's of childhood friends of mine who were grocery shoppers extraordinaire, that would spend more than 2 hours per outing cruising the aisles, looking for sales, checking expiration dates, and chatting it up with friends and acquaintances in the wonderous place known as the supermarket.
Janice and Doris, you humble me.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
High speed pursuit of a different kind
I miss high speed pursuits (HSP).
Living in So Cal, whenever the news was slow, you could almost always count on a good HSP coming on the boob tube to satisfy your need for some video voyeurism.
Since moving to the prairie, I've yet to catch even one high speed pursuit on tv.
I miss it.
Today, we were treated to some video viewing in the voyeristic vibe due to a pair of tornadoes that touched down 30 miles south off our small town.
Just as we chuckle at the stuttering LA newsactors...er, I mean newsanchors as they do their best to ad lib and improvise meaningful dialogue during yet another HSP, we thoroughly enjoyed listening to the panic inducing Storm Chasing Meteorologist's diatribes as they see how close they can get to the twistin' and turnin' on the ground.
Just as we held our breath as the HSP car jackers weaves their way in and out of traffic on the rush hour clogged freeways, we gasped as the Chopper 4 cam brought to us in glorious HD color the Fujita-2 scale twister taking off the roof of an airplane hanger at the small airport.
Just as we cheered for the jacked car, now running just on rims after getting the rubber spike stripped out for under it, we stood and applauded as the bigger tornado stalled and seemed to take a leisurely break in a freshly plowed wheat field, only to turn into a counter cyclonic twister and peter out.
Even better were the close-ups of broken windshields and dented bumpers, fellas fresh from the local burger stand giving one word quotes, and young girls upset at the damage done to their brand spankin' new Neon coupes. My new favorite game is to listen as weather reporters, in an attempt to differentiate themselves from their counterparts at competiting stations, compare hail size to golfballs or ping pong balls, baseballs or tennis balls, various coins, and other sundry objects.
A highlight of HSP's occur when they inadvertently draw a crowd of spectators, onlookers, bystanders, and the occassional good samaritan in a big rig who uses his 18-wheeler to block the road.
Today's equivalent was two motorcycle jockeys who were heading south down our main street. I was standing curbside taking digi snapshots of the dramatically clouded sky when they motored by. I yelled out to them that two tornadoes were on the ground just south of here.
One of them raised his arm to reveal a small miniDV can under his jacket and yelled back, "That's where we're headin'!"
Chasing tornadoes on bike back. Now that's Oklahoma in a nutshell.
Living in So Cal, whenever the news was slow, you could almost always count on a good HSP coming on the boob tube to satisfy your need for some video voyeurism.
Since moving to the prairie, I've yet to catch even one high speed pursuit on tv.
I miss it.
Today, we were treated to some video viewing in the voyeristic vibe due to a pair of tornadoes that touched down 30 miles south off our small town.
Just as we chuckle at the stuttering LA newsactors...er, I mean newsanchors as they do their best to ad lib and improvise meaningful dialogue during yet another HSP, we thoroughly enjoyed listening to the panic inducing Storm Chasing Meteorologist's diatribes as they see how close they can get to the twistin' and turnin' on the ground.
Just as we held our breath as the HSP car jackers weaves their way in and out of traffic on the rush hour clogged freeways, we gasped as the Chopper 4 cam brought to us in glorious HD color the Fujita-2 scale twister taking off the roof of an airplane hanger at the small airport.
Just as we cheered for the jacked car, now running just on rims after getting the rubber spike stripped out for under it, we stood and applauded as the bigger tornado stalled and seemed to take a leisurely break in a freshly plowed wheat field, only to turn into a counter cyclonic twister and peter out.
Even better were the close-ups of broken windshields and dented bumpers, fellas fresh from the local burger stand giving one word quotes, and young girls upset at the damage done to their brand spankin' new Neon coupes. My new favorite game is to listen as weather reporters, in an attempt to differentiate themselves from their counterparts at competiting stations, compare hail size to golfballs or ping pong balls, baseballs or tennis balls, various coins, and other sundry objects.
A highlight of HSP's occur when they inadvertently draw a crowd of spectators, onlookers, bystanders, and the occassional good samaritan in a big rig who uses his 18-wheeler to block the road.
Today's equivalent was two motorcycle jockeys who were heading south down our main street. I was standing curbside taking digi snapshots of the dramatically clouded sky when they motored by. I yelled out to them that two tornadoes were on the ground just south of here.
One of them raised his arm to reveal a small miniDV can under his jacket and yelled back, "That's where we're headin'!"
Chasing tornadoes on bike back. Now that's Oklahoma in a nutshell.
Monday, April 24, 2006
A wow morning
Some mornings, as I'm loading C into the car so S can take her to school, I just look up and say, "wow."
This was one of those mornings.
Friday, April 21, 2006
89'er Day
It's 89'er day in my small town.
It may very well be 89'er day across the state as well, since it's a celebration of the Cherokee Strip Land Run of April 22, 1889, that opened up the unassigned lands to settlement and basically settled the state of Oklahoma in a single cannon shot.
The notice we received from school read as follows:"Friday morning (during our recess) the kindergarten classes will participate in a mock land run. The children may wear western clothes." So last night we had to scramble around the house looking for something "89'er-ish" for C to wear to school today.
Her cowgirl outfit would have been her first choice last week, but this week we've been reading the Little House books, by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Translation - she wanted to be Half-pint. Pioneer dress, long stockings, pig tails, bonnet, the whole package.
Flash forward to our post-dinner search for something 89'er-rish for her to wear. We found an old, sorta pioneer-looking red printed dress that once belonged to my wife's aunt and was used as a costume in a film project she did awhile ago. A little short by 1889 standards, but suitable for a 21st Century girl. Perfect.
Dark blue stockings, perfect.
Flower print sun bonnet - 3 sizes too small, but C has a small head, perfect.
Black boots. Not lace up, but zippers are the modern day equivalent so all the better. Perfect.
Brown bonnet, red dress, hair in pigtails, blue stockings, black boots and her pink vinyl backpack. The Queer Eye Guys would be rolling their eyes, but our daughter happily marched off to school this morning, adorned in the best Laura Ingalls outfit that her folks could muster.
And to prove that our school''s administrators are ever vigil, the notice they sent home included the following passage near the end that read:
"PLEASE DO NOT send toy guns." We'll all be listening for the cannon firing this morning.
It may very well be 89'er day across the state as well, since it's a celebration of the Cherokee Strip Land Run of April 22, 1889, that opened up the unassigned lands to settlement and basically settled the state of Oklahoma in a single cannon shot.
The notice we received from school read as follows:
Her cowgirl outfit would have been her first choice last week, but this week we've been reading the Little House books, by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Translation - she wanted to be Half-pint. Pioneer dress, long stockings, pig tails, bonnet, the whole package.
Flash forward to our post-dinner search for something 89'er-rish for her to wear. We found an old, sorta pioneer-looking red printed dress that once belonged to my wife's aunt and was used as a costume in a film project she did awhile ago. A little short by 1889 standards, but suitable for a 21st Century girl. Perfect.
Dark blue stockings, perfect.
Flower print sun bonnet - 3 sizes too small, but C has a small head, perfect.
Black boots. Not lace up, but zippers are the modern day equivalent so all the better. Perfect.
Brown bonnet, red dress, hair in pigtails, blue stockings, black boots and her pink vinyl backpack. The Queer Eye Guys would be rolling their eyes, but our daughter happily marched off to school this morning, adorned in the best Laura Ingalls outfit that her folks could muster.
And to prove that our school''s administrators are ever vigil, the notice they sent home included the following passage near the end that read:
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Cody of the lake Part 2
The day before Easter Sunday, S overheard Cody's Dad (a mixed drink in a plastic thermal mug his constant companion), impatiently tell Cody that morning, "I haven't got time for you today," them promptly climb into his drinkin' buddies golf cart and head off to commune with Jack Daniels.
Recalling last Easter where Cody stood by and forced enthusiasm while cheering the girls on their own easter egg hunt, S made up a little easter basket for Cody filled with some candy, pencils, assorted goodies and a tube of toothpaste. She then filled a dozen eggs with goodies and left them out for him to find in front of the trailer he calls home.
While watching the girls enjoy their visit from the Easter Bunny on Easter morning is always a joy, the look of confusion, then rapidly excelling excitement in Cody's body movements as he scampered about his small yard, gathering up the candy encased in plastic eggs, was a golden moment.
My wife and I smiled into the night, with thoughts of the conflict turning over in the little boys mind. A 12-year old's reality in conflict with the remotest of possibilities that some magic may still exist in this world.
I'm disturbed to think what his teenage, young adulthood, and adult years have in store for him.
I'm saddened to think what will become of this sweet kid who C will always remember as "Cody of the lake."
Cody turns 13 in May.
Recalling last Easter where Cody stood by and forced enthusiasm while cheering the girls on their own easter egg hunt, S made up a little easter basket for Cody filled with some candy, pencils, assorted goodies and a tube of toothpaste. She then filled a dozen eggs with goodies and left them out for him to find in front of the trailer he calls home.
While watching the girls enjoy their visit from the Easter Bunny on Easter morning is always a joy, the look of confusion, then rapidly excelling excitement in Cody's body movements as he scampered about his small yard, gathering up the candy encased in plastic eggs, was a golden moment.
My wife and I smiled into the night, with thoughts of the conflict turning over in the little boys mind. A 12-year old's reality in conflict with the remotest of possibilities that some magic may still exist in this world.
I'm disturbed to think what his teenage, young adulthood, and adult years have in store for him.
I'm saddened to think what will become of this sweet kid who C will always remember as "Cody of the lake."
Cody turns 13 in May.
Cody of the lake Part 1
We spent Easter weekend at my in-law's lake house in the eastern part of the state.
I enjoy just about everything about our weekends out there, from the 2 1/2 hour drive through some really scenic areas of the state, to the walks along the shoreline with the family, to the water recreation sports, plenty of good eats, and quiet time with my wife.
My in-laws run themselves ragged cooking, cleaning,and entertaining the girls, leaving me plenty of time to relax, nap, read, and fish. I don't get to be a lazy a*s very often, so when the opportunity arises, I'm all over that noise.
One of the neighbors is a little boy (he's 12 now, but we've known him since he was about 9) named Cody. He's a handsome kid, with the sweet disposition of a city kid-turned lake kid after being forced to move due to a broken home. His mother ditched him and his Dad when he was just an infant, and his Dad never seems to have any time to spend with him between working (he's a Physical Therapist) and drinking/fishing with his buddies.
It's sad really.
Since C was 3 and started going to the lake house on a regular basis, Cody has always been a gentle, kind, and patient companion to her, entertaining her every whim no matter how silly or girlie it was. Although Cody was lonely and just enjoyed the company, C felt honored that a "big kid" wanted to play with her.
So, whenever we show up, Cody is usually sitting down by the boat dock, riding his atv, or walking the shoreline. His keen senses alert him to our presence almost before our vehicles pull into our driveway. By the time we're hefting our luggage out, he's showing the girls something he found by the waters edge.
Later that first day, the whole family made the 40-yard walk down to the shoreline and since the lake is down over 5 feet, there was plenty of exposed treasures that are normally under 5 feet of water. Cody met us by the water, his treasure search already in progress.
Lake Eufaula is a man-made lake, and there is plenty of evidence of a settlement nearby before the damming of the river took place. We find arrowheads, spear heads, and plenty of large boulders with grinding holes in them where Native's ground their corn way back when. We also find drawers full of shards of pottery, dishes, cups, old bottles, rusted tools and farm implements, revealing more recent pioneer residents.
Cody prefers the living treasures that the water and mud at the waters edge provide. In the first 20 minutes he found and presented the following to my two fascinated daughters:
One Frog a leapin'
One Turtle twirlin'
One water moccassin a snakin'
Two Bluebird's a nestin'
Three Crawdads a crawlin' (one with eggs)
and
Twenty minnow's schoolin' 'neath the dock. As my Father-in-Law is fond of saying, it was going to be one "whale of a weekend."
I enjoy just about everything about our weekends out there, from the 2 1/2 hour drive through some really scenic areas of the state, to the walks along the shoreline with the family, to the water recreation sports, plenty of good eats, and quiet time with my wife.
My in-laws run themselves ragged cooking, cleaning,and entertaining the girls, leaving me plenty of time to relax, nap, read, and fish. I don't get to be a lazy a*s very often, so when the opportunity arises, I'm all over that noise.
One of the neighbors is a little boy (he's 12 now, but we've known him since he was about 9) named Cody. He's a handsome kid, with the sweet disposition of a city kid-turned lake kid after being forced to move due to a broken home. His mother ditched him and his Dad when he was just an infant, and his Dad never seems to have any time to spend with him between working (he's a Physical Therapist) and drinking/fishing with his buddies.
It's sad really.
Since C was 3 and started going to the lake house on a regular basis, Cody has always been a gentle, kind, and patient companion to her, entertaining her every whim no matter how silly or girlie it was. Although Cody was lonely and just enjoyed the company, C felt honored that a "big kid" wanted to play with her.
So, whenever we show up, Cody is usually sitting down by the boat dock, riding his atv, or walking the shoreline. His keen senses alert him to our presence almost before our vehicles pull into our driveway. By the time we're hefting our luggage out, he's showing the girls something he found by the waters edge.
Later that first day, the whole family made the 40-yard walk down to the shoreline and since the lake is down over 5 feet, there was plenty of exposed treasures that are normally under 5 feet of water. Cody met us by the water, his treasure search already in progress.
Lake Eufaula is a man-made lake, and there is plenty of evidence of a settlement nearby before the damming of the river took place. We find arrowheads, spear heads, and plenty of large boulders with grinding holes in them where Native's ground their corn way back when. We also find drawers full of shards of pottery, dishes, cups, old bottles, rusted tools and farm implements, revealing more recent pioneer residents.
Cody prefers the living treasures that the water and mud at the waters edge provide. In the first 20 minutes he found and presented the following to my two fascinated daughters:
One Turtle twirlin'
One water moccassin a snakin'
Two Bluebird's a nestin'
Three Crawdads a crawlin' (one with eggs)
and
Twenty minnow's schoolin' 'neath the dock.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Maundy, maundy
These kids do seem to be enjoying themselves -- Easter madness in our small town.
I've always said there was nothing more fun than carrying a cross that signifies the struggle, beating, and crucifixion of Jesus down Main Street.
I've always said there was nothing more fun than carrying a cross that signifies the struggle, beating, and crucifixion of Jesus down Main Street.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Fox Collision Center
This commercial is playing in relatively heavy rotation on a top-40 station here.
It harkens back to the 60's style of commercials created by a guy sitting at his piano, ingesting ciggies and bourbon, as he faces a deadline to come up with a catchy jingle for his bosses at the ad agency.
Cheesey doesn't even begin to describe it, but I must give props to the creative team behind it, since I will forever remember the name of this auto body fixit center.
Give a listen and have a great Easter weekend!
It harkens back to the 60's style of commercials created by a guy sitting at his piano, ingesting ciggies and bourbon, as he faces a deadline to come up with a catchy jingle for his bosses at the ad agency.
Cheesey doesn't even begin to describe it, but I must give props to the creative team behind it, since I will forever remember the name of this auto body fixit center.
Give a listen and have a great Easter weekend!
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Small town movie house
Seeing a movie in our small town's movie theater is like watching a scene that takes place in a movie theater in a movie that takes place in a 1950's movie.
Still following me? Here goes.
I'm accustomed to the very impersonal, anonymous experience of seeing movies in large, mega-seats theaters, where there are usually enough empty seats to afford space for jackets, diaper bags, what-have-you in the adjacent seats. You make your "nest," establish your perimeter, and hunker down in the relative security of "your" few seats.
All the better to enjoy your cinema sundae in peace and solitude, even though you're basically surrounded by 200+ complete strangers.
Not so here.
Last week was opening night for Ice Age 2, so naturally, it screened in the BIG 99-seat theater. Anticipating a sell out crowd, I arrived early to secure tickets for myself, my two daughters, and the youngest daughter of our town's Chief of Police (his daughter and mine have since become good friends after the found money incident).
Upon entering the brightly lit movie house, we found...
...an endless wheatfield of familiar faces surrounding us.
Waves o'plenty from friends and casual acquaintances alike.
My daughter's and her friend's name being called out from points unknown.
Casual chatter dominating the pre-darkened theater.
Inexpensive popcorn being noisely consumed, fizzy drinks slurped through elongated straws and large dill pickles emitting an odiferous aroma that filled the nearly packed 4-walls of small town movie house madness.
Smiling, waving, herding, and organizing my pride, we found our way to some seats, constructed our fortress and settled in.
A quick survey reveals non-jaded ticket holders with their gazes glued to the local advertising cards being flashed on and off on the screen. The people and businesses paying $250 a pop getting their monies worth, becoming instant celebrities as their faces and business names appear larger than life on the big screen.
A pair of strapping ranch-raised boys enter, produciing a gaggle of pre-pubescent lassies to perform the traditional "heads turning in unison as they talk, then giggle, then talk, then giggle" routine like a well rehearsed group of Rockettes.
To my left a group of pre-teens enjoying something resembling a "group date" whisper incessantly to each other. I overhear the dreaded phrase, "Don't tell her I told you," and just know there will be serious instant messaging events going into the wee morning hours.
I let C and her friend buy their own kiddie snack packs and let them sit together in the back of the theater, pretending to be older than they are, while PK and I sit down front.
The trailers started, the movie played, young parents laugh out loud with reserved guilt as the movie tickled their farm fresh funny bones. Older folks show no guilt at all, chortled with joy and overall just dug the ride.
The audience was listening and had become completely involved with the flickering animated story of an intelligent talking Mammoth and his friends.
When the credits started to roll and the lights came up. there was applause, there was immediate chatter about the movie and there was the inner peace of being transported to a far off land in a far off time by a far out story.
Still following me? Here goes.
I'm accustomed to the very impersonal, anonymous experience of seeing movies in large, mega-seats theaters, where there are usually enough empty seats to afford space for jackets, diaper bags, what-have-you in the adjacent seats. You make your "nest," establish your perimeter, and hunker down in the relative security of "your" few seats.
All the better to enjoy your cinema sundae in peace and solitude, even though you're basically surrounded by 200+ complete strangers.
Not so here.
Last week was opening night for Ice Age 2, so naturally, it screened in the BIG 99-seat theater. Anticipating a sell out crowd, I arrived early to secure tickets for myself, my two daughters, and the youngest daughter of our town's Chief of Police (his daughter and mine have since become good friends after the found money incident).
Upon entering the brightly lit movie house, we found...
...an endless wheatfield of familiar faces surrounding us.
Waves o'plenty from friends and casual acquaintances alike.
My daughter's and her friend's name being called out from points unknown.
Casual chatter dominating the pre-darkened theater.
Inexpensive popcorn being noisely consumed, fizzy drinks slurped through elongated straws and large dill pickles emitting an odiferous aroma that filled the nearly packed 4-walls of small town movie house madness.
Smiling, waving, herding, and organizing my pride, we found our way to some seats, constructed our fortress and settled in.
A quick survey reveals non-jaded ticket holders with their gazes glued to the local advertising cards being flashed on and off on the screen. The people and businesses paying $250 a pop getting their monies worth, becoming instant celebrities as their faces and business names appear larger than life on the big screen.
A pair of strapping ranch-raised boys enter, produciing a gaggle of pre-pubescent lassies to perform the traditional "heads turning in unison as they talk, then giggle, then talk, then giggle" routine like a well rehearsed group of Rockettes.
To my left a group of pre-teens enjoying something resembling a "group date" whisper incessantly to each other. I overhear the dreaded phrase, "Don't tell her I told you," and just know there will be serious instant messaging events going into the wee morning hours.
I let C and her friend buy their own kiddie snack packs and let them sit together in the back of the theater, pretending to be older than they are, while PK and I sit down front.
The trailers started, the movie played, young parents laugh out loud with reserved guilt as the movie tickled their farm fresh funny bones. Older folks show no guilt at all, chortled with joy and overall just dug the ride.
The audience was listening and had become completely involved with the flickering animated story of an intelligent talking Mammoth and his friends.
When the credits started to roll and the lights came up. there was applause, there was immediate chatter about the movie and there was the inner peace of being transported to a far off land in a far off time by a far out story.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Tinted Windows
In the So Cal of my teenage crusin' days in my muscle bound '74 Nova Custom, there were many restrictions placed upon car owners for type and placement of window tint. We'd go to extreme lengths to not get "popped" for having our car windows tinted darker than legally allowed.
Functionally, window tinting keeps the car cooler in the baking summer sun.
Aesthetically, it looks cool. Least, we thought so. Teenagers...hrumph.
I recall times where my passenger and I would frantically perform the "roll down the windows (no power windows for me) ritual" whenever we were in spotting distance of a black and white.
I even knew of a guy who swapped license plates on his gold, illegally tinted '81 Trans Am with that of his Aunt's gold and legally tinted '81 Firebird. He took her car down to the CHP office as proof of the correction, and got his "fix-it" ticket dismissed.
Here in Oklahoma, it seems that any tint of any kind, placed just about anywhere (except on the front windshield) is legal. Everyone around my town seems to have Presidential limo tint on their pick ups, SUVs, Towne Cars, and 300's. Makes sense here, especially in the baking summer months (that seem to last from May to October).
A street wary product of East LA, I'm not in the habit of staring anybody in the face more than necessary. You learn not to make direct eye contact that may get you a one way ticket to an uncomfortable and/or dangerous confrontation with who know's who (or what). An extension of that is not looking into cars -- especially those with dark tinted windows.
So as a habit, I don't fixate my stare on whomever is sitting behind the wheel of any vehicle. Combine this with the fact that people here must forget that their car windows are protected with the equivalent of SPF 1,000,000, and the results are that on several occasions now, I've been nicely chastised for not "waving" at people in cars that I happen to walk right by.
Sorry people, can't see you behind all that smoked and dark glass. If I don't wave, it's not because I don't like you or don't want to .
I just can't (dark tint) and won't (avoid confrontation) see you.
Functionally, window tinting keeps the car cooler in the baking summer sun.
Aesthetically, it looks cool. Least, we thought so. Teenagers...hrumph.
I recall times where my passenger and I would frantically perform the "roll down the windows (no power windows for me) ritual" whenever we were in spotting distance of a black and white.
I even knew of a guy who swapped license plates on his gold, illegally tinted '81 Trans Am with that of his Aunt's gold and legally tinted '81 Firebird. He took her car down to the CHP office as proof of the correction, and got his "fix-it" ticket dismissed.
Here in Oklahoma, it seems that any tint of any kind, placed just about anywhere (except on the front windshield) is legal. Everyone around my town seems to have Presidential limo tint on their pick ups, SUVs, Towne Cars, and 300's. Makes sense here, especially in the baking summer months (that seem to last from May to October).
A street wary product of East LA, I'm not in the habit of staring anybody in the face more than necessary. You learn not to make direct eye contact that may get you a one way ticket to an uncomfortable and/or dangerous confrontation with who know's who (or what). An extension of that is not looking into cars -- especially those with dark tinted windows.
So as a habit, I don't fixate my stare on whomever is sitting behind the wheel of any vehicle. Combine this with the fact that people here must forget that their car windows are protected with the equivalent of SPF 1,000,000, and the results are that on several occasions now, I've been nicely chastised for not "waving" at people in cars that I happen to walk right by.
Sorry people, can't see you behind all that smoked and dark glass. If I don't wave, it's not because I don't like you or don't want to .
I just can't (dark tint) and won't (avoid confrontation) see you.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
The Principal wears a Tommy's T-shirt
I'm usually the only Dad who attends the monthly PTO meetings, and my ethnicity makes me stand out even more. When I introduced myself to the Principal at my first PTO meeting about a year ago, we got to talking about how we both ended up in our small town in Oklahoma.
Fast forward to a few months back, when we got to talking one night after a PTO Chicken Noodle dinner fundraiser and had a good laugh when we found out we spent some time in the same town in the San Gabriel Valley.
Seems his Dad lived in the town where I had moved my family from, and he attended high school there, before moving out to Hemet with his Mom. During college, he came out to Oklahoma on a football scholarship and never looked back.
We bonded over memories of pastrami dips at The Hat, Tommy's chili burgers on Rampart at midnight, and Double-double's (animal style) at the In N Out by the high school on Rosemead Blvd.
The next week I found an In N Out windshield decal mailed to me anonymously. It went on the Elky.
I escalated by sending him a Tommy's tee shirt, anonymously of course.
He tells me he wears it with pride on weekend family outings.
Since then, I find him seeking me out at the monthly Parent/Teacher Organization gatherings, where we strangely find ourselves saying "dude" way too often.
So now, not every day, but just about every day when I drop C off at school, I toss one of those quick raised-eyebrow, head-jerking, half-smile greeting nods that only guys do, to the Tommy's T-shirt wearing Principal at C's school.
C is not impressed.
Fast forward to a few months back, when we got to talking one night after a PTO Chicken Noodle dinner fundraiser and had a good laugh when we found out we spent some time in the same town in the San Gabriel Valley.
Seems his Dad lived in the town where I had moved my family from, and he attended high school there, before moving out to Hemet with his Mom. During college, he came out to Oklahoma on a football scholarship and never looked back.
We bonded over memories of pastrami dips at The Hat, Tommy's chili burgers on Rampart at midnight, and Double-double's (animal style) at the In N Out by the high school on Rosemead Blvd.
The next week I found an In N Out windshield decal mailed to me anonymously. It went on the Elky.
I escalated by sending him a Tommy's tee shirt, anonymously of course.
He tells me he wears it with pride on weekend family outings.
Since then, I find him seeking me out at the monthly Parent/Teacher Organization gatherings, where we strangely find ourselves saying "dude" way too often.
So now, not every day, but just about every day when I drop C off at school, I toss one of those quick raised-eyebrow, head-jerking, half-smile greeting nods that only guys do, to the Tommy's T-shirt wearing Principal at C's school.
C is not impressed.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Easter wreck
A year ago this Easter we lost a valued member of our young family.
"Bingbe" was our first ever family car. The first new car my wife had ever owned. The car we brought both our daughter's home from the hospital in, the car we took our first family road trips in, the car we took C to her first day of school in, the car that delivered us safely over the 1300 miles from LA to our new home in Oklahoma.
At the time, "Bingbe" was only 6-years old with less than 55,000 miles on her. Practically brand new for a Honda.
Friends and family have never seen the extent of damage done by the 16-year old in a 1/2-ton pick up, so as a tribute and memorium of sorts, I thought I'd post a photo taken of the car after the wreck.
We miss you, "Bingbe."
The pick up that stopped "Bingbe" in his tracks could have been driven away -- had it not been laid out flat on it's side. It has since been repaired and I'm sure is back crusin' the country roads, with a hopefully more mature and aware teenager behind the wheel.
Them bowties are tough trucks.
"Bingbe" was our first ever family car. The first new car my wife had ever owned. The car we brought both our daughter's home from the hospital in, the car we took our first family road trips in, the car we took C to her first day of school in, the car that delivered us safely over the 1300 miles from LA to our new home in Oklahoma.
At the time, "Bingbe" was only 6-years old with less than 55,000 miles on her. Practically brand new for a Honda.
Friends and family have never seen the extent of damage done by the 16-year old in a 1/2-ton pick up, so as a tribute and memorium of sorts, I thought I'd post a photo taken of the car after the wreck.
The pick up that stopped "Bingbe" in his tracks could have been driven away -- had it not been laid out flat on it's side. It has since been repaired and I'm sure is back crusin' the country roads, with a hopefully more mature and aware teenager behind the wheel.
Them bowties are tough trucks.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
A not-so-Young Rider
S came home all excited about seeing an actual newpaper delivery boy on a country road on her way home from work.
The country roads/rural routes are populated by lone mailboxes, standing vigil as a testament to the importance of one's mail identity, even out in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma.
What tickled her about this particular newspaper delivery boy were several things.
First, he wasn't a boy. He was about our age and nowhere near the minimum age for delivery boy status and responsibility.
Second, his mode of delivery and transportation seemed appropriate to the rural setting.
He was atop a horse at full gallop, the leather saddle bags hanging taut and low from the saddle, stretched full of all the daily news that was fit to print.
She slowed to watch as he brought his mighty steed to a momentary quick trot, deposited his newsprint charges into the waiting mail box, and clicked and kicked the horse into a full-on run down the road.
The pony express lives, if only to deliver this weeks coupons for $.35 off a ground round.
The country roads/rural routes are populated by lone mailboxes, standing vigil as a testament to the importance of one's mail identity, even out in the middle of Nowhere, Oklahoma.
What tickled her about this particular newspaper delivery boy were several things.
First, he wasn't a boy. He was about our age and nowhere near the minimum age for delivery boy status and responsibility.
Second, his mode of delivery and transportation seemed appropriate to the rural setting.
He was atop a horse at full gallop, the leather saddle bags hanging taut and low from the saddle, stretched full of all the daily news that was fit to print.
She slowed to watch as he brought his mighty steed to a momentary quick trot, deposited his newsprint charges into the waiting mail box, and clicked and kicked the horse into a full-on run down the road.
The pony express lives, if only to deliver this weeks coupons for $.35 off a ground round.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
By the light of the shimmering monitor
The other night we had the first major thunderstorm of the season.
Sure, there have been a few minor skirmishes with rain, thunder, lightning and tornadic activity (there's a new term for all my homies back in LA), but the other night was the first night we got to light the candles.
No, I'm not talking about the candles in our bathroom that combat what Jeff Foxworthy jokingly termed "the invisible wall."
I'm talking about the candles that are strategically situated around our house in the event of the inevitable power outages that will accompany those crackling loud, directly-above-your-head lightning strikes that shake the timbers of our second story and momentarily tear asunder even the strongest of dispositions.
Surge protectors are on and loaded. Flashlights are where I can reach them. Soothing words are prepared to spew forth should my daughters wake up in a startled panic.
Then it hits. The big one.
The lightning strike that is so close by your hair stands on end, your knees weaken, and your mind quickly questions the obvious fact that you don't need electricity to flush the toilet.
And the lights go out.
And the flashlights go on.
And the matches get struck.
And the candles remind us what our cave dwelling ancestors must have thought about the wonder of fire.
After lighting the main three-wicked waxy wonder in the kitchen, I make my way to the front porch to check to see if the entire street is down. The bank up the street has a scrolling sign that must be on a battery backup (why, I don't know), since it's rebooting message (flashing series of dots) is the only source of light up and down the street.
Everything and everyone else is dark.
After a few minutes (this time), the power comes back in a wave of prehistoric relief. From my view on the front porch I get to witness the reawakening and rebooting of all the systems in the 2nd floor computer lab of the church school across the street.
It gives off an eerie, bad 70's movie special effects glow, as the ceiling and walls of the 100-year old room, in the 100-year old brick building is bathed in CRT mood lighting.
The fun comes in estimating which machines have faster chips, more ram, or quicker hard drives by the speed at which the ambient color of the room changes at different rates.
A real life semi-artsy moment from a geek point of view. I say "semi-artsy" since it's obvious that all the machines booting up are running that lowest common denominator excuse for an operating system, Windoze.
It would have been a truly breathtaking glow indeed, had they been Macs.
However, art is a subjective beast.
Sure, there have been a few minor skirmishes with rain, thunder, lightning and tornadic activity (there's a new term for all my homies back in LA), but the other night was the first night we got to light the candles.
No, I'm not talking about the candles in our bathroom that combat what Jeff Foxworthy jokingly termed "the invisible wall."
I'm talking about the candles that are strategically situated around our house in the event of the inevitable power outages that will accompany those crackling loud, directly-above-your-head lightning strikes that shake the timbers of our second story and momentarily tear asunder even the strongest of dispositions.
Surge protectors are on and loaded. Flashlights are where I can reach them. Soothing words are prepared to spew forth should my daughters wake up in a startled panic.
Then it hits. The big one.
The lightning strike that is so close by your hair stands on end, your knees weaken, and your mind quickly questions the obvious fact that you don't need electricity to flush the toilet.
And the lights go out.
And the flashlights go on.
And the matches get struck.
And the candles remind us what our cave dwelling ancestors must have thought about the wonder of fire.
After lighting the main three-wicked waxy wonder in the kitchen, I make my way to the front porch to check to see if the entire street is down. The bank up the street has a scrolling sign that must be on a battery backup (why, I don't know), since it's rebooting message (flashing series of dots) is the only source of light up and down the street.
Everything and everyone else is dark.
After a few minutes (this time), the power comes back in a wave of prehistoric relief. From my view on the front porch I get to witness the reawakening and rebooting of all the systems in the 2nd floor computer lab of the church school across the street.
It gives off an eerie, bad 70's movie special effects glow, as the ceiling and walls of the 100-year old room, in the 100-year old brick building is bathed in CRT mood lighting.
The fun comes in estimating which machines have faster chips, more ram, or quicker hard drives by the speed at which the ambient color of the room changes at different rates.
A real life semi-artsy moment from a geek point of view. I say "semi-artsy" since it's obvious that all the machines booting up are running that lowest common denominator excuse for an operating system, Windoze.
It would have been a truly breathtaking glow indeed, had they been Macs.
However, art is a subjective beast.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Ladybugs as Messerschmidts
I have a large mole on my left temple.
It's not growing, not shrinking. It's not offensively large or obscenely noticeable, and I've been meaning to have my doc slice it off for years now, but always seem to forget.
I'm tempted to just do it myself (I've done so with some smaller moles on my neck and a skin tag or two), but this one will require a scalpel of some magnitude and the steady hand of a certified professional to remove with minimal scarring...and pain.
It's spring with a vengeance here. Temps this last weekend hit high 70's, slight breezes kept it cool, and the girls and I planted veggies in the back, ground cover flowers in the front, with only a few blisters to show for it.
Amid this idyllic scenery and setting, I was attacked by seemingly endless wave after wave of ladybugs.
What does my mole and a ladybug mugging have to do with each other you may be asking?
Strange as it may seem, the red and black beetles were all focusing their landing assault on the mole on my temple.
It was ladybug blitzkrieg on the left side of my face.
Dozens of times during the day, I had to flick off the offending red and black beastie that had decided my mole was it's perfect mate ("...such interesting coloration for a fellow beetle.").
Or pehaps my mole looked like a really fat aphid which would provide the lady bug with several meals worth of aphid casserole.
Whatever the reason, next time I go out to do yard work, I'll be using one of my daughters Dora the Explorer or Spongebob band aids to cover up the ladybug bait on my forehead.
It's not growing, not shrinking. It's not offensively large or obscenely noticeable, and I've been meaning to have my doc slice it off for years now, but always seem to forget.
I'm tempted to just do it myself (I've done so with some smaller moles on my neck and a skin tag or two), but this one will require a scalpel of some magnitude and the steady hand of a certified professional to remove with minimal scarring...and pain.
It's spring with a vengeance here. Temps this last weekend hit high 70's, slight breezes kept it cool, and the girls and I planted veggies in the back, ground cover flowers in the front, with only a few blisters to show for it.
Amid this idyllic scenery and setting, I was attacked by seemingly endless wave after wave of ladybugs.
What does my mole and a ladybug mugging have to do with each other you may be asking?
Strange as it may seem, the red and black beetles were all focusing their landing assault on the mole on my temple.
It was ladybug blitzkrieg on the left side of my face.
Dozens of times during the day, I had to flick off the offending red and black beastie that had decided my mole was it's perfect mate ("...such interesting coloration for a fellow beetle.").
Or pehaps my mole looked like a really fat aphid which would provide the lady bug with several meals worth of aphid casserole.
Whatever the reason, next time I go out to do yard work, I'll be using one of my daughters Dora the Explorer or Spongebob band aids to cover up the ladybug bait on my forehead.
Monday, April 03, 2006
A year is not so long
Exactly one year ago today, I had completed my final day of employment at my old company, had completed packing the final bits and pieces of my life in LA into Otto, had completed closing the shutters and doors of bank accounts, credit union accounts, po boxes, etc., and completed my final check of my 10-year old car before heading out on a 1300 mile trip to my future out east.
While the idea of publishing a blog about my adventures in my not-so "Little House on Main Street On The Prairie" didn't occur to me until several weeks into my new life as an unemployed stay-at-home-Dad living in a 100-year old house in need of restoration and not having a clue where to start, I feel that reaching my 1-year milestone as a resident of the great state of Oklahoma is no small accomplishment on my accord.
I'm alive, and well, and relatively more sane than I have been in recent memory.
At times I miss my old life, but don't we all at some point in our lives.
Most times I love my new life, but don't we all hope to at some point in our life.
There have been times where I continue to be amazed and aghast and bemused and befuddled and critical and captivated and disappointed and delighted and exulant and emotional and...(26 letters in our alphabet right? I don't think so).
My family is intact, well fed, decently clothed, often coifed, much loved, and for want of little.
I have made friends, few foes, good contacts for my planned future endeavors involving my return to the film business, and much headway with my attitude towards the importance of just being.
All in all, not a bad year's work.
Time to go make breakfast. Chocolate Malt-o-Meal today.
Paar-teh!
While the idea of publishing a blog about my adventures in my not-so "Little House on Main Street On The Prairie" didn't occur to me until several weeks into my new life as an unemployed stay-at-home-Dad living in a 100-year old house in need of restoration and not having a clue where to start, I feel that reaching my 1-year milestone as a resident of the great state of Oklahoma is no small accomplishment on my accord.
I'm alive, and well, and relatively more sane than I have been in recent memory.
At times I miss my old life, but don't we all at some point in our lives.
Most times I love my new life, but don't we all hope to at some point in our life.
There have been times where I continue to be amazed and aghast and bemused and befuddled and critical and captivated and disappointed and delighted and exulant and emotional and...(26 letters in our alphabet right? I don't think so).
My family is intact, well fed, decently clothed, often coifed, much loved, and for want of little.
I have made friends, few foes, good contacts for my planned future endeavors involving my return to the film business, and much headway with my attitude towards the importance of just being.
All in all, not a bad year's work.
Time to go make breakfast. Chocolate Malt-o-Meal today.
Paar-teh!
Friday, March 31, 2006
The ultimate lawn ornament
I didn't ask the guy at the salvage yard what it was from (ship, tank, armored vehicle, soccer-mom minivan?) or how much he wanted for it, or even where he got it. I just took the picture and day dreamed the following conversation...
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Today's lesson from a 3-year old
Click here for a short video demo.
Any questions?
Hello Kitty seems a little out of place here on the prairie. I imagine lots of them end up as meals for Hello Coyote, Hello Bobcat, Hello Roadkill, and Hello Big Mean Cujo-esque Barn Dog.
Any questions?
Hello Kitty seems a little out of place here on the prairie. I imagine lots of them end up as meals for Hello Coyote, Hello Bobcat, Hello Roadkill, and Hello Big Mean Cujo-esque Barn Dog.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Breaking a man's tool
On our recent spring-break-o-rama, we took the girls to the Discovery Center of Springfield, in Missouri.
I dig these types of interactive science-based ankle biter museums as most geeky fathers (who have yet to grow up) do.
You know you're out there, men, so speak up.
The girls dug it, S tolerated it, and I bounced from display to display, finding one experiment cooler than the next.
C took to one hands-on exhibit more than the others -- it was a huge magnet in a trayful of sand, and stuck to the magnet was oodles and oodles of black iron ore micro nuggets.
She was fascinated by every aspect of the display, the "stickiness" of the "black stuff" to the magnet, how you could mold it into shapes, the black color, the texture, and most of all, by the fact that the iron ore was hiding in the sand, just waiting for a person with a magnetic personality to free it from it's granular bounds.
Once I told her that we could perform the same ore mining activity in her sand box when we got home, she was hooked and became obsessive/compulsive girl at the prospect of finding the same black gold in her very own golf course hazard in a box.
The road trip eventually ended, we eventually came home and I was eventually searching in my garage for a suitable ore mining magnet as C excitedly hopped up and down 14 dozen times or so.
Then the mistake occurred. I gave her my tool.
It was a muscular, telescoping pick-up tool, with a stainless steel shaft, cushioned grip, and handy pocket clip.
He (cars are "she", tools are "he") had a nuclear powered 16 lb. magnet on the end, capable of lifting up engine blocks, houses off their foundations, or stray bolts that had fallen out of reach under the engine compartment. I had picked this tool up at an auto swap meet some years ago and it one of those tools that you didn't use every day, but when you did need it, it became a time-saving, back-sustaining, profanity-suspending life saver."Daddy, I broke something..."
My 6-year old version of Tim "The Toolman" Tayler had managed to lose the magnet when she was attempting to hammer (yes hammer), the stainless steel shaft of the telescoping pick-up she had accidentally bent, back into shape. The hammering caused more damage that it had originally intended to fix, providing additional bends, tweaks and dents under the careful hands of my daughter.
Rendering my beloved tool beyond repair.
This is me, counting to ten...
Tools can be replaced (most of them). Memories such as this can't.
Best part of the whole deal was when C slyly told me that it was MY fault that it was broken, since I was the one who let her use it.
Now, where did she learn that behavior?
I dig these types of interactive science-based ankle biter museums as most geeky fathers (who have yet to grow up) do.
You know you're out there, men, so speak up.
The girls dug it, S tolerated it, and I bounced from display to display, finding one experiment cooler than the next.
C took to one hands-on exhibit more than the others -- it was a huge magnet in a trayful of sand, and stuck to the magnet was oodles and oodles of black iron ore micro nuggets.
She was fascinated by every aspect of the display, the "stickiness" of the "black stuff" to the magnet, how you could mold it into shapes, the black color, the texture, and most of all, by the fact that the iron ore was hiding in the sand, just waiting for a person with a magnetic personality to free it from it's granular bounds.
Once I told her that we could perform the same ore mining activity in her sand box when we got home, she was hooked and became obsessive/compulsive girl at the prospect of finding the same black gold in her very own golf course hazard in a box.
The road trip eventually ended, we eventually came home and I was eventually searching in my garage for a suitable ore mining magnet as C excitedly hopped up and down 14 dozen times or so.
Then the mistake occurred. I gave her my tool.
It was a muscular, telescoping pick-up tool, with a stainless steel shaft, cushioned grip, and handy pocket clip.
He (cars are "she", tools are "he") had a nuclear powered 16 lb. magnet on the end, capable of lifting up engine blocks, houses off their foundations, or stray bolts that had fallen out of reach under the engine compartment. I had picked this tool up at an auto swap meet some years ago and it one of those tools that you didn't use every day, but when you did need it, it became a time-saving, back-sustaining, profanity-suspending life saver.
My 6-year old version of Tim "The Toolman" Tayler had managed to lose the magnet when she was attempting to hammer (yes hammer), the stainless steel shaft of the telescoping pick-up she had accidentally bent, back into shape. The hammering caused more damage that it had originally intended to fix, providing additional bends, tweaks and dents under the careful hands of my daughter.
Rendering my beloved tool beyond repair.
This is me, counting to ten...
Tools can be replaced (most of them). Memories such as this can't.
Best part of the whole deal was when C slyly told me that it was MY fault that it was broken, since I was the one who let her use it.
Now, where did she learn that behavior?
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Variety is the spice of gas
Spotted at a gas station on our recent trip to the Show Me State.
Who knew such freedom of choice existed at the pumps?
Who knew such freedom of choice existed at the pumps?
Monday, March 27, 2006
Don't touch that dial
The stereo in my El Camino has 12 preset buttons for FM, and 6 for AM.
I installed an old, used Sony that $5 plus $8 shipping from eBay sent to my doorstep. The wires were cut and not labeled, there was no faceplate, no manual, and no knobs -- which is why it went so cheap.
I was able to correctly connect the myriad of wires to their appropriate appendages, am running it without a faceplate, found a manual for it online as a pdf file, and put some knobs on it donated by an old car stereo from my past.
Lately, I'd been disconnecting the Elky's battery at night and taking it inside the garage to be trickle charged. It was on it's last leg and I was procrastinating buying a new battery since I was only using the red and white car/truck beast on runs to the dump, or to pick up large items that S would buy at an auction.
Disconnecting the battery would all but wipe out the preset radio stations that I had assigned to the Elky's Sony. Since the car was only being used for short burn-out free trips around town, I usually didn't even bother turning on the stereo, opting instead to relish in the sound of a healthy American V-8 expelling exhaust gasses via 2.5" exhaust pipes and dual fully-welded SpinTech mufflers.
Besides, resetting all 12 FM stations always proved to be time consuming, as I hadn't yet memorized the station selections of choice.
Those days are no more. It's taken me almost a year, but I think I have finally memorized the main 12 FM preset radio station buttons in my car stereo.
This may not seem to be a big deal, but historically, whenever I would travel and rent a car, the first order of business was channel surfing the FM band to find radio stations to my liking, assign them sequentially to the numbered preset buttons, then figure out the various other controls of the rental vehicle.
Somehow, having the radio presets tuned to stations of my liking provided me with a sense of security and familiarity in strange surroundings. Besides, I didn't want to have to be constantly scanning the FM band trying to find decent background music for my life, all the while navigating highways and byways foreign to me.
Stands to reason then, that I was anxious to find stations suited to my taste in music when I made the move eastward.
Fortunately (or not), OKC is somewhere in the top 100 media market listing for the US, and as such gets all the same, syndicated radio station prattle that one can find in just about every major market city.
We have a KISS-FM. We have the new "iPod-on-random-play-like" station BOB-FM (called Jack-FM in LA, thanks Mark B). We have several golden oldies stations, a couple different levels of rock (from KLOS to KROC in LA), the required easy listening tunage (very KOST-FM like), one or two rap oriented signals, and yes, even a country music radio station or two...or three...or twelve.
I finally broke down and bought a new 1000 CCA megabattery for the Elky (car show season is quickly approaching), and took the time to set the presets on her stereo. Much to my surprise, I was able to scan and set the 12 FM stations by memory, recognizing the numbered station ID's as they blipped green on the digital readout of the stereo.
It was small moment of triumph, but a significant one. I am no longer a visitor here. I am starting to feel like a (gulp), resident.
I installed an old, used Sony that $5 plus $8 shipping from eBay sent to my doorstep. The wires were cut and not labeled, there was no faceplate, no manual, and no knobs -- which is why it went so cheap.
I was able to correctly connect the myriad of wires to their appropriate appendages, am running it without a faceplate, found a manual for it online as a pdf file, and put some knobs on it donated by an old car stereo from my past.
Lately, I'd been disconnecting the Elky's battery at night and taking it inside the garage to be trickle charged. It was on it's last leg and I was procrastinating buying a new battery since I was only using the red and white car/truck beast on runs to the dump, or to pick up large items that S would buy at an auction.
Disconnecting the battery would all but wipe out the preset radio stations that I had assigned to the Elky's Sony. Since the car was only being used for short burn-out free trips around town, I usually didn't even bother turning on the stereo, opting instead to relish in the sound of a healthy American V-8 expelling exhaust gasses via 2.5" exhaust pipes and dual fully-welded SpinTech mufflers.
Besides, resetting all 12 FM stations always proved to be time consuming, as I hadn't yet memorized the station selections of choice.
Those days are no more. It's taken me almost a year, but I think I have finally memorized the main 12 FM preset radio station buttons in my car stereo.
This may not seem to be a big deal, but historically, whenever I would travel and rent a car, the first order of business was channel surfing the FM band to find radio stations to my liking, assign them sequentially to the numbered preset buttons, then figure out the various other controls of the rental vehicle.
Somehow, having the radio presets tuned to stations of my liking provided me with a sense of security and familiarity in strange surroundings. Besides, I didn't want to have to be constantly scanning the FM band trying to find decent background music for my life, all the while navigating highways and byways foreign to me.
Stands to reason then, that I was anxious to find stations suited to my taste in music when I made the move eastward.
Fortunately (or not), OKC is somewhere in the top 100 media market listing for the US, and as such gets all the same, syndicated radio station prattle that one can find in just about every major market city.
We have a KISS-FM. We have the new "iPod-on-random-play-like" station BOB-FM (called Jack-FM in LA, thanks Mark B). We have several golden oldies stations, a couple different levels of rock (from KLOS to KROC in LA), the required easy listening tunage (very KOST-FM like), one or two rap oriented signals, and yes, even a country music radio station or two...or three...or twelve.
I finally broke down and bought a new 1000 CCA megabattery for the Elky (car show season is quickly approaching), and took the time to set the presets on her stereo. Much to my surprise, I was able to scan and set the 12 FM stations by memory, recognizing the numbered station ID's as they blipped green on the digital readout of the stereo.
It was small moment of triumph, but a significant one. I am no longer a visitor here. I am starting to feel like a (gulp), resident.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Watching the end credits
Like most younger siblings, I was influenced in ways both big and small by my older sibling.
For instance, my brother and I have always watched the ending scroll credits of a movie. Looking back, I think it was his way of forestalling the inevitable end of the temporary escape that the movie offered.
Amazing that the long scrolling closing movie credits are a relatively new phenomenon, credited (I believe) to George Lucas and Star Wars - Ep IV. Think about it. Before 1977, the end of the movie was generally, the end of the movie. The End, Fin, that was all you got.
As I got more interested in the filmmaking process, first as a youngster with my Dad's old 8mm Canon and Kodak tape splicing kit, then as a semi-serious undergraduate tv major, to a much more serious graduate film student at UCLA, only to become a not very serious at all worker bee in the independent film world, my childhood routine of watching the entire end credits of a movie grew to become a necessity. A required part of the movie going experience.
It was fun to watch for familiar names in the myriad of proper nouns that passed up and out of frame.
Hey, there's Susan. Guess she's still at ILM.
Look, Donald worked post on this.
Wow, Todd was 2nd AC.
Oh, remember Paco, was he a PA on that Corman film you worked on?
As time has passed, quite a few of my friends, acquaitances, co-workers, and people I knew or met through other people have moved from the small fonts at the end of the film to the large fonts at the beginning of the film. Yet, I still get a thrill at seeing a familiar name.
And like any good parent, I have passed this odd behavior instilled upon me by my brother, onto my daughters.
Yesterday evening, I took the girls to a matinee of Aquamarine," which C has been "just dying" to see since she saw the trailer a few months ago.
Duly trained, as the film ended happily ever after and those around us gathered their belongings and made way for the nearest bathroom, the girls didn't move a muscle.
Conscious of the rolling credits, parental instinct kicked in and I proceeded to perform my fatherly duties -- collected up the coats, hats, mittens and toys that the girls had strewn about our aisle.
The credits rolled.
Turned the ringer on my cell phone back on and checked my lap for the missing Milk Dud that I just knew had gotten wedged between my shirt folds instead of the death pit of the theater floor.
And still they rolled.
Checked the girl's popcorn buckets and determined whether or not there was enough to salvage for my wife to munch on later that night.
Rolling, rolling, rolling.
Finally I said, "You guys almost ready to go?" C pointed to the screen, still sitting contently in her chair and muttered, "They're not done yet."
I looked up and whadya know...staring me in the face was a familiar name, Alex Dai.
I still find it amazing how your eye-brain connection can pick out a single name in all those scrolling names, and instantly playback a memory about that person in the movie theater of your mind, all the while continuing to scan the still scrolling names.
Alex was credited as the Storyboard Artist for the film. I had known him as a Tech Support Agent at my former cube-farm job.
He was a talented, fledgling comic book artist at the time, and a helluva good Mac Tech Agent. During our "sentence" as TS agents, we shared some good laughs over tech support calls, ate some nasty fast food during our alloted 30-minute lunch breaks, and generally got along pretty well. My brother is a talented undiscovered comic book writer, and Alex and I would talk at length about the dificulties of breaking into that industry. I actually do recall mentioning to Alex the possibility of trying his hand at Storyboarding, since I knew of some artists who were doing it and making decent dinero.
I lost contact with him when our company outsourced most of it's call center jobs offshore. Guess he decided to go a different direction with his art. Good for him.
The end scroll was over, the girls were ready, the lights were up, and I had another one of those moments that makes life itself, an interesting movie indeed.
For instance, my brother and I have always watched the ending scroll credits of a movie. Looking back, I think it was his way of forestalling the inevitable end of the temporary escape that the movie offered.
Amazing that the long scrolling closing movie credits are a relatively new phenomenon, credited (I believe) to George Lucas and Star Wars - Ep IV. Think about it. Before 1977, the end of the movie was generally, the end of the movie. The End, Fin, that was all you got.
As I got more interested in the filmmaking process, first as a youngster with my Dad's old 8mm Canon and Kodak tape splicing kit, then as a semi-serious undergraduate tv major, to a much more serious graduate film student at UCLA, only to become a not very serious at all worker bee in the independent film world, my childhood routine of watching the entire end credits of a movie grew to become a necessity. A required part of the movie going experience.
It was fun to watch for familiar names in the myriad of proper nouns that passed up and out of frame.
Look, Donald worked post on this.
Wow, Todd was 2nd AC.
Oh, remember Paco, was he a PA on that Corman film you worked on?
As time has passed, quite a few of my friends, acquaitances, co-workers, and people I knew or met through other people have moved from the small fonts at the end of the film to the large fonts at the beginning of the film. Yet, I still get a thrill at seeing a familiar name.
And like any good parent, I have passed this odd behavior instilled upon me by my brother, onto my daughters.
Yesterday evening, I took the girls to a matinee of Aquamarine," which C has been "just dying" to see since she saw the trailer a few months ago.
Duly trained, as the film ended happily ever after and those around us gathered their belongings and made way for the nearest bathroom, the girls didn't move a muscle.
Conscious of the rolling credits, parental instinct kicked in and I proceeded to perform my fatherly duties -- collected up the coats, hats, mittens and toys that the girls had strewn about our aisle.
Turned the ringer on my cell phone back on and checked my lap for the missing Milk Dud that I just knew had gotten wedged between my shirt folds instead of the death pit of the theater floor.
Checked the girl's popcorn buckets and determined whether or not there was enough to salvage for my wife to munch on later that night.
Finally I said, "You guys almost ready to go?" C pointed to the screen, still sitting contently in her chair and muttered, "They're not done yet."
I looked up and whadya know...staring me in the face was a familiar name, Alex Dai.
I still find it amazing how your eye-brain connection can pick out a single name in all those scrolling names, and instantly playback a memory about that person in the movie theater of your mind, all the while continuing to scan the still scrolling names.
Alex was credited as the Storyboard Artist for the film. I had known him as a Tech Support Agent at my former cube-farm job.
He was a talented, fledgling comic book artist at the time, and a helluva good Mac Tech Agent. During our "sentence" as TS agents, we shared some good laughs over tech support calls, ate some nasty fast food during our alloted 30-minute lunch breaks, and generally got along pretty well. My brother is a talented undiscovered comic book writer, and Alex and I would talk at length about the dificulties of breaking into that industry. I actually do recall mentioning to Alex the possibility of trying his hand at Storyboarding, since I knew of some artists who were doing it and making decent dinero.
I lost contact with him when our company outsourced most of it's call center jobs offshore. Guess he decided to go a different direction with his art. Good for him.
The end scroll was over, the girls were ready, the lights were up, and I had another one of those moments that makes life itself, an interesting movie indeed.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Frannie
My 3-year old daughter has a playmate who she calls "Frannie."
Everybody that my daughter is afraid of, Frannie is afraid of.
Everything that my daughter wants for Christmas, Frannie already owns.
Everywhere that we go together, Frannie has already been there.
In my daughter's words..."Frannie is a little girl with black hair, blue eyes, wings, and is dead."
Frannie is my daughter's imaginary playmate.
At least, that's what my wife and I believed.
Since moving to our 100-year old house, both my wife and I have become accustomed to hearing the sound of child-sized footsteps on our wooden floors, approaching our bedroom in the middle of the night.
Thirst, nitemares, chilly evening temperatures -- all seek to drive my daughters from the relative warmth and comfort of their own beds in their own room to the absolute warmth and comfort of mommy and daddy's bed in mommy and daddy's room.
I'm a heavy sleeper. My wife is a light sleeper. Yet we both awake when we hear the unmistakeable sounds of one of our offspring waking and coming in for a feather bed landing. Parental/instinct type of ESP.
Lately, after being awakened by what we both perceive to be the sound of one of our daughters coming to have a 2 a.m. bedside picnic and discussion of the days events, we are finding neither one of them on approach to our bedroom.
Call it the house settling, or the floor settling, or the outside temps making the floor boards expand and contract when coming into contact with the inside temps.
Call it what you want. But we call it our little ghost.
And our 3-year old daughter?
She calls it "Frannie.
Everybody that my daughter is afraid of, Frannie is afraid of.
Everything that my daughter wants for Christmas, Frannie already owns.
Everywhere that we go together, Frannie has already been there.
In my daughter's words..."Frannie is a little girl with black hair, blue eyes, wings, and is dead."
Frannie is my daughter's imaginary playmate.
At least, that's what my wife and I believed.
Since moving to our 100-year old house, both my wife and I have become accustomed to hearing the sound of child-sized footsteps on our wooden floors, approaching our bedroom in the middle of the night.
Thirst, nitemares, chilly evening temperatures -- all seek to drive my daughters from the relative warmth and comfort of their own beds in their own room to the absolute warmth and comfort of mommy and daddy's bed in mommy and daddy's room.
I'm a heavy sleeper. My wife is a light sleeper. Yet we both awake when we hear the unmistakeable sounds of one of our offspring waking and coming in for a feather bed landing. Parental/instinct type of ESP.
Lately, after being awakened by what we both perceive to be the sound of one of our daughters coming to have a 2 a.m. bedside picnic and discussion of the days events, we are finding neither one of them on approach to our bedroom.
Call it the house settling, or the floor settling, or the outside temps making the floor boards expand and contract when coming into contact with the inside temps.
Call it what you want. But we call it our little ghost.
And our 3-year old daughter?
She calls it "Frannie.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Stop sign down
Guy gets in his truck to change out a stop sign.
Guy hits the stop sign with the truck.
Stop sign hits car parked near stop sign.
Stop sign causes $1000 worth of damage.
Stop sign - 2
Citizens - 0
Monday, March 20, 2006
Spring Break-O-rama
Just returned from a Spring Break road trip from our neighboring state to the northeast, Missouri.
Sit back, relax, and enjoy the slideshow.
Oooh, get your hands washed today...
S smiled slyly at me and muttered, "an interesting hand wash experience awaits you," as she returned from the ladies lavatory.
I was nonplussed.
Until, that is, I output several pints of Sonic vanilla Diet Coke in the Missouri Welcome Center men's room, and went to wash my hands.
I found this wonder of handwashing technology awaiting my soiled metacarpals.
This was going to be a great trip.
Amusing amusement park
Silver Dollar City is a jacked up version of Knott's Berry Farm. Only without as many thrill rides, but much more atmosphere and eye-candy for adults interested in arts, crafts, and all things Ozarkian.
C was thrilled to be over the 42" height limit on all but one of the "big people" rides. S reported that C screamed and whimpered through most of the 2-minute vomitfest known as "Powder Keg."
I'm still in shock that S volunteered to take C on it, since she hates anything fast, spinny, droppy, or twirly.
S said this was her very last thrill ride in her life.
Must have been pretty good.
We stopped momentarily to watch one of the dozens of stage shows (we were, after all, only a few miles from Branson proper) going on at the park. Our "favorite" was the appearance of the "American Kids" and their rousing teckno/disco version of "Joshua fit the Battle of Jericho."
And the walls came tumbling down.
It seemed as if the majority of folks we were spending our time and hard earned cash with in the park were spring-breakers from Oklahoma, as just about everywhere we turned we saw bellies stretching out OU sweats, sweaty heads in OSU hats, entire families adorned in Eskimo Joe tees, and cute as button couples in matching Hornets team wear.
Themepark theme of the day was "large people on small rides."
Missouri on a full stomach
Had some great sourdough pancakes at a little eatery called BillyGails Diner on Highway 265. C made a face after her first bite, since they weren't what she had come to expect from a traditional pancake. But I loved them for their uniqueness. My only suggestion would be to serve them with a warm fruit compote (berry or otherwise) instead of the pure maple syrup on the table.
Highlight eatery of the trip was Lambert's Cafe in Ozark, home of the Throwed Rolls. Yes, both of the girls caught several of the warm, chewy rolls "throwed" at 'em. A proud parental moment indeed.
During our short trip, we all had one too many servings of fried okra. As good as it was, the overabundance of the slimy fried vegetable sent us out into the chilly Missouri night to find a more varietal menu. We lucked upon a Greek restaurant of all things, shouted "Opaah!" again and again, until we found out that their special of the day was...a ribeye steak with deep fried okra.
Sigh.
We avoided the local special and instead ate our fill of dolmades, souvlakia, and hummus. Food of the Gods, baby.
What the f*ck?
We took the girls here.
No comment.
Then came Branson -- with apologies to Michael Parks
Branson itself is a trip. What apparently started as a single musical theater back in 1959 to entertain the local fishermen has become a bustling town catering to an elderly crowd of rv-er's, goldwinger's, retiree's, and multi-generational families stuffed into 4-door domestic sedans. Bragging to have over 40+ musical theaters in one town, Branson is very Las Vegasian without the gambling.
Impressions on driving in Missouri.
MoDOT sucks.
Call me a spoiled, Los Angeleno-raised-on-CalTrans'-relatively-well-thought-out-lowest-common-denominator-signaged roads, but when it came to deciphering the road signs on the Missouri highways, both S and I were stymied.
Arrows pointing in the wrong direction, a full 10 feet of warning before roads ended or merged, confusing as h*ll overhead signs on the interstate...
I don't know. Maybe driving around on the OK highways for the last year has dulled my ability to navigate the highways of a foreign land.
Final thought...
Why do Missourian's pronounce their states name as "Missouruh?"
Sit back, relax, and enjoy the slideshow.
Oooh, get your hands washed today...
S smiled slyly at me and muttered, "an interesting hand wash experience awaits you," as she returned from the ladies lavatory.
I was nonplussed.
Until, that is, I output several pints of Sonic vanilla Diet Coke in the Missouri Welcome Center men's room, and went to wash my hands.
I found this wonder of handwashing technology awaiting my soiled metacarpals.
This was going to be a great trip.
Amusing amusement park
Silver Dollar City is a jacked up version of Knott's Berry Farm. Only without as many thrill rides, but much more atmosphere and eye-candy for adults interested in arts, crafts, and all things Ozarkian.
C was thrilled to be over the 42" height limit on all but one of the "big people" rides. S reported that C screamed and whimpered through most of the 2-minute vomitfest known as "Powder Keg."
I'm still in shock that S volunteered to take C on it, since she hates anything fast, spinny, droppy, or twirly.
S said this was her very last thrill ride in her life.
Must have been pretty good.
We stopped momentarily to watch one of the dozens of stage shows (we were, after all, only a few miles from Branson proper) going on at the park. Our "favorite" was the appearance of the "American Kids" and their rousing teckno/disco version of "Joshua fit the Battle of Jericho."
And the walls came tumbling down.
It seemed as if the majority of folks we were spending our time and hard earned cash with in the park were spring-breakers from Oklahoma, as just about everywhere we turned we saw bellies stretching out OU sweats, sweaty heads in OSU hats, entire families adorned in Eskimo Joe tees, and cute as button couples in matching Hornets team wear.
Themepark theme of the day was "large people on small rides."
Missouri on a full stomach
Had some great sourdough pancakes at a little eatery called BillyGails Diner on Highway 265. C made a face after her first bite, since they weren't what she had come to expect from a traditional pancake. But I loved them for their uniqueness. My only suggestion would be to serve them with a warm fruit compote (berry or otherwise) instead of the pure maple syrup on the table.
Highlight eatery of the trip was Lambert's Cafe in Ozark, home of the Throwed Rolls. Yes, both of the girls caught several of the warm, chewy rolls "throwed" at 'em. A proud parental moment indeed.
During our short trip, we all had one too many servings of fried okra. As good as it was, the overabundance of the slimy fried vegetable sent us out into the chilly Missouri night to find a more varietal menu. We lucked upon a Greek restaurant of all things, shouted "Opaah!" again and again, until we found out that their special of the day was...a ribeye steak with deep fried okra.
Sigh.
We avoided the local special and instead ate our fill of dolmades, souvlakia, and hummus. Food of the Gods, baby.
What the f*ck?
We took the girls here.
No comment.
Then came Branson -- with apologies to Michael Parks
Branson itself is a trip. What apparently started as a single musical theater back in 1959 to entertain the local fishermen has become a bustling town catering to an elderly crowd of rv-er's, goldwinger's, retiree's, and multi-generational families stuffed into 4-door domestic sedans. Bragging to have over 40+ musical theaters in one town, Branson is very Las Vegasian without the gambling.
Impressions on driving in Missouri.
MoDOT sucks.
Call me a spoiled, Los Angeleno-raised-on-CalTrans'-relatively-well-thought-out-lowest-common-denominator-signaged roads, but when it came to deciphering the road signs on the Missouri highways, both S and I were stymied.
Arrows pointing in the wrong direction, a full 10 feet of warning before roads ended or merged, confusing as h*ll overhead signs on the interstate...
I don't know. Maybe driving around on the OK highways for the last year has dulled my ability to navigate the highways of a foreign land.
Final thought...
Why do Missourian's pronounce their states name as "Missouruh?"
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Big freakin' ancient jurassic park fish
Hey kids, get on your swimsuits and let's go a swimmin' with these harmless little lake fishies...
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Okie faux paux?
Recently, we celebrated my youngest daughter's birthday over at my in-law's house.
My Mother-in-law brought out a beautiful chocolate bundt cake, decorated with pink frosting and titanium coated packaged sugar decorations.
It looked awful....BUT, since it was what PK asked for, it was what she got.
The cake was tasty when accompanied by a strong cup of joe, the girls just licked the frosting off of their pieces, and we sang several choruses of the HB song, indulging the birthday girl's desire to blow her candles out multiple times.
Eventually, table talk got around to the origin of the cake. Knowing that ready-made bundt cakes are not readilly available even at the get-ready-to-git-n'-go WalMart Supercenter bakery, I haphazardly asked my M-i-L when she found time to bake the bundt.
She smiled, pointed to the freezer and said, "I thawed it out yesterday."
Which leads me to my question for today...
Would serving a chocolate bundt cake that was brought over to my Mother-in-law's house by a well-wishing friend for her Mother's funeral services and has been cooling in the freezer since my wife's Grandmother died to my 3-year old for her birthday, be considered an entertaining faux paux? Now, I know it is a big thing here for friends, neighbors, countrymen...to bring over baked goods and casseroles during the time of a lost loved one. My in-law's kitchen table and counters were brimming with goodies, snacks, and full 10-course meals adorned in saran wrap and foil wrapping during the weeks following my M-i-L's mother's passing.
And rather than toss away what couldn't be consumed in a timely fashion, why not freeze the rest, to be enjoyed later...right?
I'm ignorant to such things and when I asked my wife, who is vastly more knowledgeable of such things, it led to a discussion of such things as behaviors which are most definitely of the faux-paux nature here in the Land of the Red Man.
Here are a couple things that my wife has told me are "faux-ho-ho-ho paux" (her phrasing) in the social circles of Oklahoma society.
Including information on a gift registry in your wedding invitations.
Having a family member give your bridal shower.
There are others, oh yes. There are many, many others.
Life can be complicated out here on the prairie.
My Mother-in-law brought out a beautiful chocolate bundt cake, decorated with pink frosting and titanium coated packaged sugar decorations.
It looked awful....BUT, since it was what PK asked for, it was what she got.
The cake was tasty when accompanied by a strong cup of joe, the girls just licked the frosting off of their pieces, and we sang several choruses of the HB song, indulging the birthday girl's desire to blow her candles out multiple times.
Eventually, table talk got around to the origin of the cake. Knowing that ready-made bundt cakes are not readilly available even at the get-ready-to-git-n'-go WalMart Supercenter bakery, I haphazardly asked my M-i-L when she found time to bake the bundt.
She smiled, pointed to the freezer and said, "I thawed it out yesterday."
Which leads me to my question for today...
And rather than toss away what couldn't be consumed in a timely fashion, why not freeze the rest, to be enjoyed later...right?
I'm ignorant to such things and when I asked my wife, who is vastly more knowledgeable of such things, it led to a discussion of such things as behaviors which are most definitely of the faux-paux nature here in the Land of the Red Man.
Here are a couple things that my wife has told me are "faux-ho-ho-ho paux" (her phrasing) in the social circles of Oklahoma society.
There are others, oh yes. There are many, many others.
Life can be complicated out here on the prairie.
Monday, March 13, 2006
The Way of the Slurp
It had been a particularly grueling morning at our upstairs consruction site, building furdowns around the recently installed heating/ac ducts. I was physically wiped out, but I took the time to make a decent lunch for the entire construction crew - my Father-in-law and I.
I prepared spaghetti with meat sauce, sweet italian sausage and made-from-scratch-hot-from-the-oven garlic bread sticks for lunch.
Amazingly enough, this was the first time in almost 20 years of knowing my Father-in-law, that I actually watched my him eat spaghetti.
He spread the pile of sauce laden pasta evenly out on the plate and used his fork to cut off bite-sized squres from the oodles of noodles. Each square was a perfectly symmetrical assemblage of spaghetti.
It then occured to me that in my F-i-l's view of the culinary world, this dish of pasta was just another type of casserole. Serve it on a plate, fork off a piece, and consume it promptly. Neat, tidy, no fuss, no flying sauce, no need for a bib or safetly goggles.
When publicly consuming pasta, etiquette and good manners forces me to practice the fork-twirling-in-the-spoon technique. Get enough on your fork to fill your mouth, fill your mouth, bite off any straggling noodles, catching the bitten off pieces on your spoon before they sloppily land back on your plate.
However at home, in the presence of my immediate family, I practice the Way of the Slurp.
I blame my Hawaiian/Asian roots for this, but noodles in soup of any kind (ramen, saimin, udon, soba, etc.) only tastes right when they are slurped loudly and with all the gusto of Winnie-the-Pooh eating a jar of honey.
Which brings me to the task of which I am now faced. That of teaching my daughters the Way of the Slurp.
Once they master the technique (it's not easy to slurp noodles and soup without the occassional gagging or coughing a noodle out your nose), then I'll teach them the more "public" methods of eating noodle dishes.
It is my hope that the day we take our daughters to the land of their ancestors, order some steaming hot ramen noodles, break apart the chopsticks and commence to consume the delightful delicacy in a bowl, they will slurp with abandon, impressing natives and locals alike.
I prepared spaghetti with meat sauce, sweet italian sausage and made-from-scratch-hot-from-the-oven garlic bread sticks for lunch.
Amazingly enough, this was the first time in almost 20 years of knowing my Father-in-law, that I actually watched my him eat spaghetti.
He spread the pile of sauce laden pasta evenly out on the plate and used his fork to cut off bite-sized squres from the oodles of noodles. Each square was a perfectly symmetrical assemblage of spaghetti.
It then occured to me that in my F-i-l's view of the culinary world, this dish of pasta was just another type of casserole. Serve it on a plate, fork off a piece, and consume it promptly. Neat, tidy, no fuss, no flying sauce, no need for a bib or safetly goggles.
When publicly consuming pasta, etiquette and good manners forces me to practice the fork-twirling-in-the-spoon technique. Get enough on your fork to fill your mouth, fill your mouth, bite off any straggling noodles, catching the bitten off pieces on your spoon before they sloppily land back on your plate.
However at home, in the presence of my immediate family, I practice the Way of the Slurp.
I blame my Hawaiian/Asian roots for this, but noodles in soup of any kind (ramen, saimin, udon, soba, etc.) only tastes right when they are slurped loudly and with all the gusto of Winnie-the-Pooh eating a jar of honey.
Which brings me to the task of which I am now faced. That of teaching my daughters the Way of the Slurp.
Once they master the technique (it's not easy to slurp noodles and soup without the occassional gagging or coughing a noodle out your nose), then I'll teach them the more "public" methods of eating noodle dishes.
It is my hope that the day we take our daughters to the land of their ancestors, order some steaming hot ramen noodles, break apart the chopsticks and commence to consume the delightful delicacy in a bowl, they will slurp with abandon, impressing natives and locals alike.
Friday, March 10, 2006
In search of...pastrami
Pity me, for it's been almost a year and I haven't found a good pastrami sandwich here in my adopted state.
To clarify, I'm not a New Yorker, so I'm not a corner-deli-cold-pastrami-on-rye-with-mustard kinda guy. Sure, there are some authentic-feeling deli's in the metro area (I say "authentic-feeling" cuz any New Yorker reading this will argue that the only "authentic" deli's are in NYC -- the same ones that say that pizza places outside of NYC claiming to serve "New York style pizza" are frauds since you need to use NYC water to make authentic NY style crust.)
I'm a So Cal native, so I like my pastrami steaming hot from dripping stainless steel troughs, piled high and fatty on a french roll, dipped in some au jus, with a miniscule dab of spicy brown mustard and kosher dill pickle slices lining the bun.
Open faced, open mouth, iron stomach, pass the freakin' Tums.
Where I grew up there were two greasy joints that served it up the way of the So Cal pastrami samurai...
The Hat - $6.49 for pastrami that is both extra lean and fatty at the same time, then dipped in au jus to become heaven on a bun. For extra punishment, try the double-cheese-pastrami burger. Yep, it's viciously that good.
Top's - $6.29 for a pastrami torpedo worthy of a Tim Burton themed, gluttony induced nightmare. Feeling suicidal? Try the chili-cheese fries (half order only, since a full order will feed all the Katrina hungry for a year). Just don't the let chili-cheese cool off, or you'll need to rent a jackhammer from Home Depot at $50-a-day to get to the fries underneath.
I google'd "pastrami oklahoma" and came upon this fellow's website. He's a paper pusher at OU and in his profile professes to be on the search for "a quality pastrami sandwich in the metro area."
I emailed him and he wrote right back."Not yet, but hope springs eternal!" Nice sentiment, but it still leaves my gullets predilection for pastramic paradise sadly vacant.
To clarify, I'm not a New Yorker, so I'm not a corner-deli-cold-pastrami-on-rye-with-mustard kinda guy. Sure, there are some authentic-feeling deli's in the metro area (I say "authentic-feeling" cuz any New Yorker reading this will argue that the only "authentic" deli's are in NYC -- the same ones that say that pizza places outside of NYC claiming to serve "New York style pizza" are frauds since you need to use NYC water to make authentic NY style crust.)
I'm a So Cal native, so I like my pastrami steaming hot from dripping stainless steel troughs, piled high and fatty on a french roll, dipped in some au jus, with a miniscule dab of spicy brown mustard and kosher dill pickle slices lining the bun.
Open faced, open mouth, iron stomach, pass the freakin' Tums.
Where I grew up there were two greasy joints that served it up the way of the So Cal pastrami samurai...
The Hat - $6.49 for pastrami that is both extra lean and fatty at the same time, then dipped in au jus to become heaven on a bun. For extra punishment, try the double-cheese-pastrami burger. Yep, it's viciously that good.
Top's - $6.29 for a pastrami torpedo worthy of a Tim Burton themed, gluttony induced nightmare. Feeling suicidal? Try the chili-cheese fries (half order only, since a full order will feed all the Katrina hungry for a year). Just don't the let chili-cheese cool off, or you'll need to rent a jackhammer from Home Depot at $50-a-day to get to the fries underneath.
I google'd "pastrami oklahoma" and came upon this fellow's website. He's a paper pusher at OU and in his profile professes to be on the search for "a quality pastrami sandwich in the metro area."
I emailed him and he wrote right back.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
From the police blotter
I'd file the first story under, "When high school girls and the big purses they carry go BAD." The second one would have to go under, "Didn't that happen to little Ren McCormick (Kevin Bacon is 5'7") when he was driving around in his little yellow beetle in the little Texas town of Beaumont in the little 80's classic, Footloose?"
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
B-ball is king
C came home with a note in her backpack from school yesterday.EARLY DISMISSAL - THURSDAY, MARCH 8TH
STATE BASKETBALL TOURNAMENT
School will be dismissed early on Thursday, March 9th. We will start loading buses at 1:00p.m. Parents, please have your children picked up NO LATER THAN 1:30 P.M.
I still haven't gotten used to the elevated status that high school sports play in this part of the country. High school scores are regularly included in the local evening news shows. Big games are commonly broadcast via tv or radio. Even my father-in-law knew that the girl's team at our small town's high school had made it to state.
Our local paper devotes an entirely separate section to the local sports scene.
High school sports are serious business in my small town.
I varsity lettered in wrestling back in my high school daze at 168 lbs.. I don't think I would have even made the 3rd string team had I gone to high school here.
Maybe the Mat Maids would have had me.
STATE BASKETBALL TOURNAMENT
School will be dismissed early on Thursday, March 9th. We will start loading buses at 1:00p.m. Parents, please have your children picked up NO LATER THAN 1:30 P.M.
I still haven't gotten used to the elevated status that high school sports play in this part of the country. High school scores are regularly included in the local evening news shows. Big games are commonly broadcast via tv or radio. Even my father-in-law knew that the girl's team at our small town's high school had made it to state.
Our local paper devotes an entirely separate section to the local sports scene.
High school sports are serious business in my small town.
I varsity lettered in wrestling back in my high school daze at 168 lbs.. I don't think I would have even made the 3rd string team had I gone to high school here.
Maybe the Mat Maids would have had me.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Breakfast with the Captain
My wife bought the girls their first box of Captain Crunch.
It's a sugary sweet taste treat, that along with toast, juice, and milk makes for a complete breakfast.
I hadn't had a bowl in well over 20 years.
It tastes the same.
Afterwards, C asked me to look into her mouth to tell her if she's bleeding. She had apparently fallen victim to the infamous "Captain-Crunch-making-mincemeat-of-your-upper-palate" syndrome.
Unless you allow the sweetened cubes of the Captain to soften up a bit by soaking in milk for a year or two, the sharp butted nuggets effectively scrape the first two layers of skin off whatever fleshy surface they come in contact with.
Rumor has it they came out with the crunch berries (spherical shaped for less blood curdling screams) to lessen the effects of the golden nectareous ingots.
Many a saturday morning cartoon marathons were marred by the long lasting effects of the Captain's lethal crunch.
It's a sugary sweet taste treat, that along with toast, juice, and milk makes for a complete breakfast.
I hadn't had a bowl in well over 20 years.
It tastes the same.
Afterwards, C asked me to look into her mouth to tell her if she's bleeding. She had apparently fallen victim to the infamous "Captain-Crunch-making-mincemeat-of-your-upper-palate" syndrome.
Unless you allow the sweetened cubes of the Captain to soften up a bit by soaking in milk for a year or two, the sharp butted nuggets effectively scrape the first two layers of skin off whatever fleshy surface they come in contact with.
Rumor has it they came out with the crunch berries (spherical shaped for less blood curdling screams) to lessen the effects of the golden nectareous ingots.
Many a saturday morning cartoon marathons were marred by the long lasting effects of the Captain's lethal crunch.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Chocolate from cowboy heaven...by way of Walmart
PK and I trekked on down to the closest WalMart Super-dee-duper-center to get some j-rice and a jar of kim chee. The only other stores I've found nearby that carry these two much needed items in my household are the Asian grocery stores just north of downtown OKC - a good hour drive for me.
Amazingly, the Walmart Super-freakin'-center about 30 minutes south of my small town, carries both items on a regular basis.
My steady hands gripping the cart with PK riding shotgun, we made our way for the entrance nearest to the groceries. Just outside the 40-odd doors of the southern entrance, I noticed several young high school types hocking candy bars as a fundraiser for their church school.
Myself being a hardened veteran of C's Campfire Kids USA candy sale, and her elementary school candy/nuts/cookie dough/frozen desserts fundraiser, I nodded knowingly to the tall freckly girl in the middle and murmered that I would swing by on our way out.
Unfortunately for them, I exited the building from the north entrance (oxymoron, I know), a good 7 clicks (WalMart Supercenters are marathon man huge) from where the waifish Baptists were selling their quickly melting candy bars (it was unseasonably warm and in the high 70's that day).
I completely spaced on my murmered promise until I was more than half way done overstuffing the 1 cubic-foot of available space in Otto's trunk with freshly purchased Wal-groceries.
Oh well. The church school loses out and my family goes cocoa-bean less for another night.
Just as I slam dunk the trunk, out of nowhere, a tall, slim stranger, wearing a tan-suede cowboy hat (I couldn't make this stuff up), steps up, hands me one of the huge almond-laced chocolate bars that the girls were selling and says in what had to be the best non-Brokeback Mountain cowboy twang I've ever heard,"Here ya go, pardner. I don'ta each this here chocolate, but I wannid' ta support them gals and their school."
With that, he tipped his hat to my 3-year old who was staring in awe at the parting cowboy.
I felt like yelling, Shane! Come back Shane! We love you Shane!"
Amazingly, the Walmart Super-freakin'-center about 30 minutes south of my small town, carries both items on a regular basis.
My steady hands gripping the cart with PK riding shotgun, we made our way for the entrance nearest to the groceries. Just outside the 40-odd doors of the southern entrance, I noticed several young high school types hocking candy bars as a fundraiser for their church school.
Myself being a hardened veteran of C's Campfire Kids USA candy sale, and her elementary school candy/nuts/cookie dough/frozen desserts fundraiser, I nodded knowingly to the tall freckly girl in the middle and murmered that I would swing by on our way out.
Unfortunately for them, I exited the building from the north entrance (oxymoron, I know), a good 7 clicks (WalMart Supercenters are marathon man huge) from where the waifish Baptists were selling their quickly melting candy bars (it was unseasonably warm and in the high 70's that day).
I completely spaced on my murmered promise until I was more than half way done overstuffing the 1 cubic-foot of available space in Otto's trunk with freshly purchased Wal-groceries.
Oh well. The church school loses out and my family goes cocoa-bean less for another night.
Just as I slam dunk the trunk, out of nowhere, a tall, slim stranger, wearing a tan-suede cowboy hat (I couldn't make this stuff up), steps up, hands me one of the huge almond-laced chocolate bars that the girls were selling and says in what had to be the best non-Brokeback Mountain cowboy twang I've ever heard,
With that, he tipped his hat to my 3-year old who was staring in awe at the parting cowboy.
I felt like yelling, Shane! Come back Shane! We love you Shane!"
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Four stomachs aren't easy to fill
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Meth day is here!
Last night I attended a countywide presentation by the local law enforcement authorities and health department called "March Against Meth."
The collection of parents, civic leaders, law enforcement personnel who assembled for this event at the high school gym seemed genuinely concerned about the issue of meth manufacturing, use, and trafficking in our community.
As a group, we were educated on drug awareness, emerging drug trends, internet drug trafficking, and how to keep our kids drug free.
It was relatively well attended by the community, but not nearly as crowded as the girls varsity basketball game I took the family to last weekend.
Basically, it was a preview to what our kiddies were going to see this week in their classrooms, and they wanted to give the parents a heads-up to what was coming up.
Mommy, what's a meth-head?/
Daddy, is that what Uncle Festus went to jail for?
Pa, why can't we get Sudafed in pill form in Oklahoma..I hate those gel-caps?
Ma, why is that dog sniffing around your spare tire? The majority of questions from the floor were about signs of use, how much a hit of Meth costs, where to get it, how to get it, what exactly is it, and how does it feel.
My questions focused on whether or not the highway that runs through our small town is a major meth traffic artery, are the transporters sticking to the main highways as opposed to the back roads, and whether or not they're recruiting locals who know the roads, speed traps, and drug busting capacities of the local authorities.
It is.
They are.
Yes. Heavily.
The collection of parents, civic leaders, law enforcement personnel who assembled for this event at the high school gym seemed genuinely concerned about the issue of meth manufacturing, use, and trafficking in our community.
As a group, we were educated on drug awareness, emerging drug trends, internet drug trafficking, and how to keep our kids drug free.
It was relatively well attended by the community, but not nearly as crowded as the girls varsity basketball game I took the family to last weekend.
Basically, it was a preview to what our kiddies were going to see this week in their classrooms, and they wanted to give the parents a heads-up to what was coming up.
Daddy, is that what Uncle Festus went to jail for?
Pa, why can't we get Sudafed in pill form in Oklahoma..I hate those gel-caps?
Ma, why is that dog sniffing around your spare tire?
My questions focused on whether or not the highway that runs through our small town is a major meth traffic artery, are the transporters sticking to the main highways as opposed to the back roads, and whether or not they're recruiting locals who know the roads, speed traps, and drug busting capacities of the local authorities.
It is.
They are.
Yes. Heavily.
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