The Jeep

There's a cool old dude who regularly dumpster dives the rolling garbage bins in the alley that runs behind our house. He either does this as a hobby, or perhaps he's making a pretty good living out of it, since he drives a Dodge Pickup that can't be more than a few months old.

And yeah, it's got a Hemi.

In the dozen or so times we've crossed paths in the the open alley, we've always greeted each other with a neanderthal nod and a cordial smile. He seems to be interested only in the large dumpsters, leaving the small privately owned plastic receptacles alone.

The other day, he made a donation and left this by our side door.


I figure he's seen my daughter's at play in our yard at various times during his dogged pursuit of the treasures found in other's trash, and decided to make a gift of this particular find.

It's an older model and beat up some. It's once showroom finish has color faded to an ugly pukey purplely pink, no doubt a result of being left out in the harsh Oklahoma sun. Stickers advertising automotive products placed by a proud papa at one time are now just garrish reminders of a shade tree mechanic's penchance for an O'Reilly Auto parts buy-a-case-of-oil-to-get-a-free-decal promotion.

Sadly, no, this one did NOT have a Hemi.

But the drive motors were both there and the batteries were in place. Contacts were all rust free and the wiring didn't resemble my old Mazda's dashboard after a particular stereo was stolen from it.

Why then would someone have dumped this trash-to-treasure find of kiddie automotive importance?

Near as I can figure. the previous owner had to have been an Oklahoma transplant like myself, who sees the world as a temporary refuge for all the products of planned obsolescence spewed forth by the factories of the world.

See, a true Okie wouldn't dream of dumping such a find...working or not. Pick just about any farmer's homestead nearby, and you'll see the history of his automotive buying selection for the past 70 (or more) years. Old trucks and cars aren't disposed of here. They are just parked next to the one that was parked after it died 20, 40, and 50 years before that.

I've seen a '35 Ford pickup, parked next to a '49 Chevy pickup, parked next to a '62 GMC pickup, parked next to a 70-something Dodge pickup -- all in various states of rust, disrepair, and neglect. It was a veritable museum display of the metal and sweat that was used to bring that farm through the Dust Bowl and into the current century. Hey, if I had the room, I'd keep all my old cars as well.

Back to the Jeep. Turns out the twin 6-volt batteries needed to power the kiddie mobile wouldn't hold a charge. The twin motors appeared intact and in decent shape and the tires were good (no cracks in the plastic -- good for another 100,000 miles at least, with proper care and rotation).

My F-i-L checked the wiring and replaced a few frayed ends. I removed several creepy-crawlers who had taken refuge in the molded innerds of the "engine compartment." Then, in a fit of Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor-dom, we stuck a 12-volt lawn mower battery in the sucker, upped the inline fuse capacity for safety, Mickey-Ducked a few wires together and fired that bad boy right up.


Ever see a Fisher Price PowerWheel burn rubber?

Like any modern car driving woman, C wants to get a fresh coat of paint on her new whip, and lose the decals while she's at it. I've taught her how to hook it up to the battery charger so she can make sure it's juiced up for her next backyard off roading adventure.

I fully expect to find her pulling out an Oklahoma map and highlighting a path down old Route 66 someday soon. Guess I should start stocking up on the beef jerky now.

Savannah by Segway

Another stop my wife and I made during our recent anniversary trip was to the lovely town of Savannah.

The historic and characteristically southern people and environs of Savannah ooze confederate charm and splendor. From the city plan built around a series of park-like squares, to the row upon row and street upon street of architecturally awesome homes and buildings, the city itself is a feast for the touristy senses.

Everywhere you turn, visitors are walking among the dangling spanish moss, gazing upon yet another restored antebellum home, and reading in their booklet how it was somehow related to the massively popular novel, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

My wife and I took a more modern approach to touring the blocks upon blocks of century old cobblestone and brick pathways. We Segway'd.



My wife's idea. Really, it was. She was a Segway veteran due in part to some time spent at Disneyland one day.

We had such a ball on these rented, two-wheeled, gyroscoping, battery-propelled wonders, that the partaking of such may become a regular feature on our anniversary trips around our beautiful country.

Next year, Providence by Segway. I can't wait.

Overload

A 3.5-year old, a 6-year old (almost 7), 2 hours of walking and knocking (all that was allowed by the hours set forth by the City Council), and we are good for the year.

The trick-or-treating tradition is still alive and kicking in our small town.

Tonight I'm gonna cut loose...Footloose

Quick...what song was playing in Ren McCormick's yellow '72 Beetle as he drove Willard around the little town of Beaumont, Texas that got him pulled over by the local fuzz for "disturbing the peace?"



If you don't know the answer to this mindless piece of 80's cinema trivia, get yourself out there and rent a copy of the extremely quotable (in a "so bad it's good" kinda way) Kevin Bacon bubble gum flick, "Footloose."

The relevance of the article above will all come into clear and present view.

Bang your head, mental health'll drive you mad.

Made in Georgia, USA

In our small town we have a Dollar General, which is basically a discount store selling discount merchandise of sometimes questionably discount quality.

They are a pretty big chain here in the Land of the Dollar Stores (Dollar Tree, Family Dollar, Doller World, Dollar Plus, Dollar Store, ad. infinitum).

In our Dollar General, I picked a jar of Bread and Butter pickle chips off the shelf and perused the label...


Turning it around to see where these staples of American picnics were lovingly created, I was surprised to see the following...


Truth be told, I wasn't all THAT surprised to find what I believed to be a uniquely red, white, and blue essential of pantries and picnic baskets across our country to have been "outsourced" to the land that originated the Nehru jacket fashion trend.

But it did click over to a memory from not too long ago, when the company I was with outsourced the majority of it's tech support to offshore labor. I understood the economics of it and the reasons behind the companies decision to do so, but it was frustrating to see many of my ex-tech support trench warriors get the polite shove off after many years of dedicated service.

Which brings me to a product which I think has been and will remain to be entirely outsource proof...the Southern Fruit Cake.

My wife loves the stuff, which is why on our recent trek through the Peach State, we had to make a prilgrimage of sorts to this spot...




Honestly, who else in the world would think to create, manufacture, and consume in mass quantities, such a culinary oddity as the Claxton Fruit Cake?


We bought the 5 lb. box from this nice lady, who had been with the company, making and selling the fruited cake of the Georgia gods for twenty-odd years.

Guarding the humble abode

Some people think dogs are the best thing for home security.
Some think a loaded 12-gauge will do the trick.
Alarms. Deadbolts. Motion-sensor porch lights. Wireless remote video camera systems hooked up to a 200 gig hard drive recording device that is secured in a locked "black box" that is buried in the bottom of a closet.

I think I should investigate what it is this fellow has to offer.

Found in the classifieds of the recent Oklahoma Farm Bureau newsletter (we use their homeowners insurance)...



"Don't come any closer or my donkey will kick the livin' cr*p out of you, then bray about it to his fellow asses."

Here come 'da judge(s)

No where is there more election day drama than in the myriad of contests dotting the map across our democratically elected nation.

In my small town, a judge seat is up for grabs between the top two vote getters from the primary of a few months ago.

The incumbent finds herself in a major battle royale to keep her black robe daily wear.

Recently, this ad was posted in the local paper, paid for, by all people, by the third and losing candidate from the primary.



The gloves are coming off.

Sausage fingers and ballet slippers

Our 3 year-old has started on her path to grace, strength and agility by taking her first dance class.

She's got the requisite uniform. Leotard with tutu, tights, the proper hair restraining devices, and of course, the ballet slippers.

We tell her it's a ballet class, even though it's more of a movement for 3-year old's type of lesson.. Yet my ultra-aware daughter tells me everyday after class that, "they forgot to let us dance in class again, today." She remains ever hopeful that one day the teacher will get to some grand plies, pas de deuxs and pirouettes instead of telling them to act like an amoeba and crawl around the floor.

The two most difficult pre-class tasks are getting her into her tights (how in the world do women tolerate panty hose?), and tying the laces on her ballet shoes.

Yep, gentlemen. Ballet shoes have laces.

In fact, that's the title of book I'm going to someday scribe that details the sideways world of being a Stay-at-Home Dad.

Anyhow, I've since learned that the tiny laces of my daughter's ballet shoes and the knockwurst fingers on my average-sized man hands are not meant for anything other than a casual impersonal acquaintanceship.

Hard to visualize. Easier to watch...and giggle...and sympathyze. Click here.

The State Food of Oklahoma

In my opinion, Oklahoma suffers from an identity crisis in a life or death category. Food.

Our bar-b-que of choice seems to borrow heavily on the Texas style (beef based, saucy, and lot's of it) method of congestive heart failure uber-feasting.

Our Chinese fare is favored in lowest-common-denominator tasteless portions via buffet lines as long as the panhandle juts out to the west.

The Mexican food is decent enough, albeit somewhat generic. I've yet to find a greasy, hardcore East L.A. all-night taco stand with buckets of pickled serrano chiles and raw radishes there for the taking.

Burgers are king, sandwiches are aplenty (except for a good pastrami, but I digress), and donut shops are decently represented even though I'm ever hopeful to stumble upon a Cambodian owned house of round fried dough delectibles.

Meanwhile, back on the ranch, our land run bred culinary stylings have circumnavigated the idea of coming up with a single representative dish, and instead have chosen to pursue perfecting dishes that other states proudly claim as their own.

Chicken Fried Steak. Fried okra. Chili. Cinnamon rolls. Biscuits and gravy. Brisket. Pizza. Fried Chicken even.

Of this foodie faux paux, a "glass is half full" person may say that we do it all well, so we don't really have to specialize in one thing.

A "glass is half empty" person may remark that we didn't create anything unique, so we had to do a "Made in Japan" and imitate dishes that others have made.

Finally, a "glass is sitting in dirty dishwasher" person my swear up and down that we're a pretty young state and haven't had the time to develop our own dish, so stop 'yer yammering and pass the gravy bowl.

I have it on good authority that the modern classic Onion Fried Burger can be traced to a small town south of here on Route 66. Good as they are, they can hardly qualify as a statewide culinary phenomenon.

What may be of more import on this topic, is that good eats and atmospheric eateries abound across the state on every highway, interstate, or small town backroad you happen across.

Treasures of comfortable food and drink can be found on several corners of my small town's downtown, which serves as a pretty good measuring stick for the taste defying treats awaiting travelers with a gumption for a satisfying case of near gluttony.

However, I'm skeptical that Oklahoma will ever be one of those states that tourists travel through or fly over, saying to themselves, "Someday I'm gonna get myself to Oklahoma and try some of that famous [insert dish here] that I've always heard about."

I don't know. Perhaps my adopted home state doesn't need to be able to have a dish to call it's very own. We're still so busy living down the whole, Grapes of Wrath, mattress-toting-huckster image, that tying our state identity to a particular dish may seem a silly idea when compared to the many other issues facing our states tourism industry.

Now stop 'yer yammering and pass the gravy bowl.

Read a book, eat a worm

My 6 (almost 7) year-old is half way through the first grade in our small town's one and only public elementary school.

She was recently tested and is apparently reading at the 2nd grade level according to both the STAR Reading Test and the CCC Computer Lab Initial Reading Program (impressive huh...just a little name dropping on my part).

Translation... she's being encouraged to participate in the "dot" reading program.

In the school library there stands a special section of books, each of which are clearly branded with circular shaped stickers...dots.

The student who has reached the required reading level gets to pick a dotted book and must read it on their own. Ater which, they take a reading comprehension test on the book and if they answer 7 of the 10 questions correctly the student earns a "dot point."

Still with me?

After accumulating 10 dot points, the student then earns some "school bucks" that they may use to purchase special prizes at the library.

Books and book related materials, I'm assuming.

It was these dot points that the 2nd - 4th graders had earned that prompted the Principal at my daughter's school to eat 4 live worms.

Night crawlers.

Live, night crawlers.

Apparently, sometime before the summer break, in a fit of ego and pride, the Principal agreed to eat 4 squiggling annelidas if the dot earning students accumulated 4000 dot points over a set amount of time.

The retched little over-achieving readers came back with over 5000 gleaming dot points.

Gol'darn. [token coloful local vernacular phrase]

I recently read about a Principal up in Oregon who agreed to spend an entire hour on the roof of her school, for every 1000 books her students read.

The little buggers read 20,000 books. She was up there for a long, cold, rainy pacific northwest day. But at least she didn't have to eat bass bait while doing it.

I talked to the "dude" before the event, thinking that he must have eaten worms sometime in his past for a frat prank, or as a weird football initiation rite (he played college ball on a scholarship in OK...not a small accomplishment here in the land of elevated college football player reverence).

Of couse, he hadn't. And even though he was a local boy from around my hometown neck of the woods of So Cal, he hadn't developed a taste for sushi. Not that eating raw fish would necessarily enable one to consume worms in an orderly fashion, but an uncooked slice of tuna flesh is closer on the culinary evolutionary scale to a wiggly worm, than is say, a porterhouse cooked medium-rare.

I couldn't leave my homey out there hanging. So we put our deformed San Gabriel valley bred noggins together and formalated a strategy for choking the little suckers down in the most gag-reflex-suppressing manner.

And the table was set.
And the worms were purchased.
And the eating began.

I witnessed the event and videotaped it.

Watch it at your own discretion. It isn't pretty.

Our small town school Principal got game.

Drive-thru banking

Try to recall the days of banking convenience before the advent of the ATM.

I'd rather not.

In fact, banking and convenience had little to do with each other, in my opinion, before the worldwide implementation of the automated teller machine.

I came of age in the Me Generation, where face-to-face contact with living, breathing people to access my funds and visit my money was all but outlawed by service charges and additional fees.

So much so, that I came to rely upon the ATM banking paradigm and had, before moving to my small town, wholeheartedly embraced it as the preferred method of my day-to-day financial institution bizzyness.

I know, I know, we all have war stories whereupon the only solution to a financial snafu (caused by the bank, of couse) could be found in the loving arms and soothing voice of a flesh and blood banking representative.

But for the most part, I prefer dealing with the silicon and plastic bank networked automatons.

The locally owned bank that holds my moola in my small town has decent walk-in hours, 5 lanes of drive-up tellers (with expanded hours), yet only 1 ATM machine that is located inside the well lit, camera surveiled, climate-controlled foyer of the bank itself.

To use it, I have to park my car, get out of my car, lock my car (out of habit, not necessity -- not much jacking of 10-year old rice boxes in my small town...now if I had a Silverado extended cab, that would be a different story), and pass through a double set of glass doors to access the little cash spewing wonder.

Insult to injury, the one and only ATM is a one-way ticket -- that's right, withdrawal only.

It won't take deposits!

To make a deposit, I am thoroughly frustrated at having to deal with a pleasant, smiling, always helpful bank teller within the four walls of the bank interior, or at one of the multi-laned, covered and well lit drive-up teller windows via plastic tubes and compressed air.

And then they have the nerve and unmitigated gall to always be ready with dum-dum lollipops for each of my girls in a variety of flavors.

Sigh. Guess I'll just have to deal.

The Space / Time Continuum in Atlanta

The hectic day of escape encompassing a flight from Will Rogers World Airport to Atlanta, rental car run to the hotel, and check-in to the Hilton was finally coming to an end in the way it should for two married adults, alone and away from their kids on their 8th anniversary getaway....

We watched a movie.

Hey, this is a PG-13 blog, all right.

Which brings me to The Lake House.

Of all the selections on the Atlanta Hilton in-room movie service that were available, this was the one movie that I thought both myself and my beloved could sorta get into.

My wife is a real girly-girl when it comes to movie selections.

Nothing in space (too dark and depressing), nothing with guns or violence (please...), nothing teenage-sex-comedy-ish (too sophomoric), nothing slapsticky (unless Adam Sandler is in it...he's on her "list" -- go figure), and nothing scary, gory or bloody.

"Chick-flick" was coined to describe my wife's taste in cinema paradiso.

Back to, The Lake House.

From the movie trailer, my wife deduced that this movie was a love story where two people had to overcome insurmountable odds to be together in the end.

Same trailer, same tv, same room, same space/time continuum, yet I deduced that the plot centered on a mysterious two-year difference in the time line between two people who were inexplicably communicating with each other across the space/time continuum rift.

Space/Time Continuum? You know. Separate time lines. Step on an ant in one time line, and you may not exist in this time line kinda stuff.

Even a casual sci-fi fan and viewer of Star Trek (any of them -- they loved messing with the STC) can grok the concept. Back to the Future did a pretty good 80's job of introducing the STC to the masses in a way that wasn't too difficult to get a handle on.

I find space/time continuum plot lines interesting to watch, if only to see how the filmmakers have fun with it...even in a love story. Does a little movie called Somewhere in Time ring any bells. Thought so.

Keanu didn't get to say "whoa." Sandra Bullock didn't get to jump a Santa Monica bus. There was kissing and love letters and all the formulaic elements required of a good off-the-rack Hollywood movie.

And then there was the space/time continuum stuff, which I enjoyed getting my head around, but which totally confused my wife.

As many times as I attempted to explain how one character affected change in the other characters life, just by virtue of existing in the same time line, only at different points, she would tell me how silly the whole concept seemed to her.

I even went so far as to try to act out, right there in room 1707 of the Atlanta Hilton, in my boxer shorts, how the space/time continuum explains an important plot element in the movie.

To no avail.

Note to self. In the future, or at least at some distant point along my current time line, leave science out of any romantic dramady screenplays I attempt to write.

Venus and Mars. Venus and Mars.

Deer playing chicken

At some point all the animals of the roadside communities are going to stand up and try to put an end to the road kill carnage being witnessed on the highways of the world.

For now, it looks like they'll be concentrating on taking out the smaller two-wheeled variety of dino juice burning invaders.



Mark my words, someday they'll grow a deer large enough to take on the family trucksters so popular now. Explorer and Durango drivers, be warned.

Third party verification

Upon our return from the Peach State (more on that later...maybe), we were enthusiastically greeted by my in-laws who had been staying at our place, overseeing the day-to-day operations of getting our girls up and at 'em, off to school and back again.

My F-i-L took it upon himself to do some finishing work on the front staircase that he built and installed almost 2 years ago.

One day after several hours of working alone in the house, he yelled out "hello" to my Mother-in-law who had obviously retrurned home from a long day of shopping and running errands. The girls were at school. The TV was off, radio silent, computers at rest - he likes to work in silence.

My M-i-L's approaching footsteps on our wood floors indicated that she had entered the house from the side door, and was making her way forward towards the front entry way where my F-i-L was working. This fact alone caused him to wonder why his beloved wife of 46 years wasn't answering his initial "hello" greeting.

"Hey, you're home early..." was his next call out.

The cessation of footsteps in the adjoining living room made my F-i-L deduce that the mother of his children had stopped to drop her obviously heavily laden shopping bags.

It was at this moment that my F-i-L stood up and went to check out what damage had been done to their retirement savings account, seeing as how he wasn't getting a verbal response to any of his inquiries.

But no damage had been done. No shopping bags were filled to the brim. No purse overflowing with Visa and MasterCard receipts. No merchandise waiting to be returned now that it saw the light of day away from the bright lights of the mall.

In fact, there wasn't even a trace of my Mother-in-law.

The loud footsteps that my Father-in-law claims to have clearly heard belonged to no one in his current plane of existence.

From what my F-i-L described, he then experienced a massive case of the "heebie-jeebies."

This from the man who chuckles everytime we've talked about "Frannie," or guffawed outloud when we mentioned the myriad of footsteps heard on our wood floors and going up the hidden staircase behind our bedroom wall in the middle of the night.

Later, when my M-i-L finally did return fully laden with shopping bags of every shape and size, she apparently had to force a confession out of my F-i-L when she noticed he was not quite himself during dinner. Yet, he remained tight-lipped.

Later that night, when they were making their way upstairs to tuck the girls in, C noticed that the heavy crystal glass light fixture in the front entry way was swinging to and fro, as if someone had whacked it with a broom.

Problem is, no one had been in the front entry way for quite some time. They were all curled up on the sofa downstairs reading bedtime stories for at least an hour.

Was a window open, letting in a breeze somewhere? Nope.
Was there a convoy of trucks wheeling down the highway recreating the C.B. McCall song from the 70's, causing a 3.2 shaker up and down our driveway? Nope.
Was there a convention of 2 lb. moths making hooey inside the hanging light fixture, causing it to do the locomotion? Nope.

The phantom light swinging was apparently enough to regurgitate a confession from my normally reserved and non-superstitious F-i-L to spill his nail bucket about the equally strange phantom footsteps earlier that day.

Then my M-i-L got the heebies as well.

Today, I spent the day alone in our house, keenly aware of every noise and every light fixture.

Nothing to see here. Nothing to report. These aren't the droids were looking for. Move along, move along.

Aloha means "hello" and "good-bye"

About this time last year, there is about a one-week gap in my blog postings.

Here is the reason.

It's also the same reason there will be a one-week gap in my blog postings this year.

In the meantime, please feel free to explore some postings from the archives. There are some doozies back there.

Here are a few of my favorites, one for each day of our blissful time away...
Being Jackie Chan
6 Degrees of Separation
Where y'all from?
Why did the turkeys cross the road?
Mattress toting hucksters
Oklahoma is a small town
Dipping of the cookies

I'll eat a peach and some peanuts for y'all.

5 little steps

Frannie did a walk-by our bedroom doors last night.

Both S and I were in bed, wide awake and reading. I was finishing up an old Patterson novel on a group of kids who fly. S was reading a Georgia travel brochure.

The girls were 4 hours into their bedtime.

No trucks drove by. No wind outside. Neither the AC nor heater were running. Dishwasher had run it's cycles and was now dormant. Computers all in sleep mode. Laundry was done for the day and both washer and dryer were at rest.

TV was off. Fax machine was off. Nothing in the oven, crockpot or toaster. We have a coffee maker but don't use it too often.

Our small town was asleep. Our street was asleep. Our house was asleep...almost.

Seems "Frannie" was apparently in the mood for a stroll.

We both turned to see what it was. Sorry, we didn't see anything. But both S and I definitely heard 5 distinct foosteps shuffle along the hardwood floor just outside our wide open double sliding bedroom pocket doors.

We both counted them and after all was unsaid and undone, we looked at each other and said simultaneously, "5 steps."

I've normally discounted the other late-night footsteps my wife and I have heard to the musings of two extremely tired parents and the gray matter games that occur between states of consciousness and semi-consciousness.

But this time we were both wide awake. And anyone who lives with hardwood floors knows the sound of stockinged feet walking on them.

Then again, maybe the water heater kicked on in the cellar, causing a slight shift in the ambient temperature which in turn created a ripple effect under the floorboards, making them creak along a logical path of movement in the grain and placement of the wood planks.

Maybe.

The sixth pocket

I'm a shorts kinda guy.

I hate wearing long pants. Any kind. Jeans, khakis, perm press, 50/50. If the material is covering my knees, I'm not a happy wanderer.

Ask anyone whose known me for any length of time and they'll only be able to count on one hand the number of times they've seen me in long pants.

I have a decent set of legs, I might add.
I know, I know, that's a vainglorious statement for a guy to make, but if I'd heard any other compliments about any other of my body parts, then bet your behind I'd be regurgitating them as well.
Back to my legs. I think they're fairly well proportioned. Not too hairy. Killer calf tone. Good color. The right amount of scars to be manly without appearing deformed.
My best feature.
My one and ONLY best feature.
Both guys and gals have told me so.
Genetics all the way. I can take no credit.
Of course I probably get more comments on my legs because I wear shorts so darn often.
Even on the coldest of days, I would prefer to wear layers upon layers on top, and shorts down below.

I'm a freak that way.

But now, another freakish clothier attribute has invaded my arena of pants length selection.

Pockets.

Somehow, somewhere, sometime, I've become a 6-pocket pants person.

Two on the seat. That's normal.
Two in front. Normal, normal.
Two down below the front with either velcro or button flaps to secure their contents.

Huh?

What could possibly occupy said pockets, you ask?

Wallet goes in the left rear. Always has, always will.
Money clip goes in right front. Same-ol, same-ol.
Keys, right front. I'm right handed, so that makes sense for a quick Batman getaway in my Civic-mobile.
Right rear. Stays empty. A wise teacher once told me to always keep my eyes open, my options flexible and one pocket empty.

Right front lower pocket - cell phone. When that sucker rings and vibrates so close to a sensitive area, I want my good hand available to stop that madness.
Left front lower pocket - red (always red) bandana/hankerchef. Kids always need something to wipe their hands on. Always.

Maybe I need a purse.

Do my 6-pocket short pants make me look fat?

High tech baby announcement

Spotted at a Sonic elsewhere in the state.


'Who cares what the weekly deal is, I wanna know how much that 'dern baby weighed?"

Oklahoma liquor law fun

This November, the good people of Oklahoma will get to cast their votes for or against State Question #733.

Huh?

Here's the skinny.
State Question No. 733
This measure amends Article 28 of the Oklahoma Constitution. This Article deals with the sales of alcoholic beverages. With me so far?

The amendment we'll be voting on removes the clause from Section 6 of Article 28 that bans the sale of alcoholic beverages by package stores on certain days. Package store sales of these beverages are prohibited on election days while the polls are open. This measure would remove the ban on sales on election days. If this measure passes, package stores could sell alcoholic beverages on election days.

What I wasn't aware of were the other passages in Section 6. They are listed as follows:
Section 6. (a) It shall be unlawful for any retail package store to sell, at retail, any alcoholic beverage:

On the first day of the week, commonly called Sunday;

On Decoration or Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day, and Christmas Day.
Okie's sure have some fun when they talk about when to get liquored up.

Cowboys or Indians (Native-Americans)

Tonight at dinner, C asked me if our familly in the past were cowboys or Indians?

In the middle of correcting her, she stopped me and corrected herself...."I mean Native-Americans...were our family Cowboys or Native-Americans?"

As a parent, I was intrigued. As a closet history buff and sub-amateur genealogist, I were prepared.

I immediately launched into a long diatribe about my family history going back to the stone age. Well, sorta.

I discussed the theory about the Bering Strait land bridge between the Asian and North American continents which some scholars use to explain how the America's came to be populated with people who bore anthropological, genetic, and linguistic characteristics in common with populations across the strait.

I talked about our family crest and our role as merchant marines and arrow makers back when such things were used as articles of war.

I told her how I was totally surprised the first time I heard Lakota Souix spoken and was amazed at how similar it sounded to an oriental language I had studied.

Wrapping up my lecture were a few words about how the Native-American's were mistakenly labeled as "Indians" by Christopher Columbus during his historic journey to find a faster route to "the Indies."

C must have drifted off sometime during my Bering Strait land bridge chapter since she got up after I was done, turned to S and said, "Mommy, was your side of family cowboys or Indians?"

S (like many native-Okies) has a trickle of Native blood running through her veins. 1/8th Cherokee from her Father's side and near as we can figure, about 1/32nd "Native of some type" on her Mother's side.

C thought that was "really cool." Truth be told, I do too.

Deflating inflation

In my life as a native (Los) Angeleno, I've paid as much as $1.50 (in quarters) for 5 minutes of compressed air at a service station to fill up car tires, bike tires, and other assorted inflatable necessities of life, fully realizing that I was actually paying for the electricity to run the compressor, what little maintenance the compressor required, the property value and taxes collected on the space where the compressor sat, as well as for the convenience of having air-on-demand, 24-7-365.

But all I really got for my assorted two-bits, four-bits, six-bits, a dollar...was air.

In my small town, there are 7 establishments which sell the dino juice of the gods.

Love's, Shell, Texaco, Valero and the big 3-C's, Conoco, Cenex and Citgo

I can get free air at 5 of them, even though one of the air stations has a busted ball foot chuck on the air nozzle.

The other two charge a quarter.

The nerve.

Like a scene from Clerks 2

A few weeks back I took a sanity date with me, myself, and I.

My wife calls them "Artist Way dates." I call them "ditching my family for a few hours of sophomoric alone time outings."

Regardless, the three of us went to see a late showing of Clerks 2.

I'm a Kevin Smith fan from way back and was jonezing to see what the twisted-dialogue-heavy mind of the creator of Jay and Silent Bob had in store for Dante and Randall's future. The film felt like a reunion of sorts, had a good payoff, and I actually teared up when Randall professes his love ("in a totally non-homosextual way") for Dante when pleading for his lifelong friend to stick around.

K. Smith is a professed net junkie of crack addict proportions and proved so by including a list of ALL of his myspace pals in the closing credits.

There were thousands of names. Thousands.

The only other popcorn guzzling patrons who stayed glued to their stadium seating for the entire end scroll were, I'm assuming, those whose names were included in the myspace credits.

No, I was not one of those zillions of people listed. But I did sit through it all, cuz that's what I do.

Afterwards, I ducked into a nearby Denny's (alas, the only 24-hour well lit eatery within 40 miles of my small town) for a post-movie coffee and fruit compote dessert of some variety.

I chose a booth within earshot of one populated by a micro-herd of young Okie counter-urban turks who by my accounts, were looking for some nourishment before heading home for a late night snack. Their conversation was rude, crude, lewd, and completely adolescent male in tonality and texture.

I was all ears.

They talked of girls and cars and girls and trucks and classes and homework and girls and money.

Finally the conversation took an interesting turn when the topic of where a particular individual was getting all the money he was spending. My back was to them, so I couldn't tell who was saying what, but here's the gist of what I heard...I have a settlement.
Oh yeah, me too.
I was in an accident when I was about 5.
You know Brandon had a farm accident when he was about 10 and he's gone through most of it now.
What'd he do, blow it on a bunch of shit?
Yeah, he bought a new truck, then wrecked it, got a new house for his Mom, got his sister a Trans-Am, and a bunch of furniture for his place.
What's your settlement for?
Tractor wreck.
Structured or you get it all in one big wad?
Structured. Got another 4-years left on it.
That's why he always pays.
Bunch of moochers.The average age of these young kids was about 19, give or take a few years. I felt like handing my bill over the booth and offering to let one of the settlement kids cover it.

Clouds as Drama Queen

If I were a cloud and wanted to be a drama queen, I'd float on over to Oklahoma, put on this face and flaunt it to the world, honey.

Digging for crystals in the salty mud

A few weekends ago our family went on a road trip to points unknown (at least to us) in search of selenite crystals.


The great expanse known as the Great Salt Plains in NW Oklahoma was where we got our dig on and ended up hunting the unique to Oklahoma hourglass crystals.


C has inherited my wife's utter fascination for digging up buried treasures of any kind, so off they went to find an area undug by human hands, hoping to find larger and higher quality crystals. They ended up with a mason jar full of them in all shapes, conditions and sizes.


I stayed behind with the picnic blanket and observed my 3-year old's passion for sitting in holes dug by other rock hounds that were filled with muddy water.


The weather was warm, but not hot. The breeze was welcoming and cooling. The doting clouds would hang around long enough to provide shade from the sun in long intervals. The other families around us were pleasant and enthusiastic and there was an unusual absence of flying insects. Hard to imagine an outdoor picnic in Oklahoma without the requisite flies invading your turf, but there we were and there they weren't. Flies don't like salt, I imagine.

It took almost 6 pint bottles of Ozarka water that we keep in the trunk of the car to get all the mud off of PK. But clean she was as she settled into her car seat for the drive home.

BTW, further research into the holistic properties on selenite crystals turned up the following:SELENITE is a form of Gypsum which is a great companion stone for those who are in pursuit of "material gains" especially in the business realm. Selenite is also a wonderful tool for those who are seeking access to past or present lives in order to better understand the "lessons" in their lives.To quote Carl Spackler from Caddyshack..."so I got that going for me...which is nice."

Drinking Arnie

My Father-in-law thinks golf is a waste of time.

I totally agree with him. However, anyone who plays golf knows how addicting it is and how much fun it CAN be to play. Also, quoting lines from Caddyshack, Happy Gilmore, and Tin Cup for 18-holes with some buddies while watchng for the beer cart girl is pretty much a perfect day.

He won't even consider watching golf on TV, groaning out loud if he happens to stumble upon the Golf Channel while channel surfing. Strangely, he will stop everthing he's doing to watch Tiger hit a drive, chip onto a green, or make a 25-footer for a birdie. He must appreciate the art of the sport.

But, I digress.

My F-i-l was born and has lived in the same town in Oklahoma for all 66-years of his life. He married his high school sweetheart, has farmed, ranched, overhauled Ford motors, and ran a manufacturing facility that spanned four city blocks and employed over 5000 people.

Umm, what does this have to do with golf?

My F-i-l didn't graduate from a big university. Instead he's got several advanced degrees from the School of Life, Experience and-Do-It-Yourself. Even though he circumvented the higher educational system to get ahead, he put enough value in education to put his three kids through college, and one through grad school.

Hello, golf relative reference coming soon?

The other day we were working on the bannister (which he made, turning each riser by hand), chair rail and wainscoating that we're installing on our staircase. Some of the angle cuts were pretty tricky and when he got one dead on perfect, he muttered, "even a blind pig finds an 'a-kern' every now and again."

I don't know who was more tickled. Me, reacting to the down-hominess of his phrasology, or him, getting a chuckle out of me getting such a tickle from something he said.

So, what does any of this have to do with golf?

Well, later that same day, I cooked him up some lunch and mixed up an Arnold Palmer for him to drink.

From what I could gather, he had never had one before, never heard of one before, never dreamt in his wildest Okie-born-and-raised dreams that he would be drinking and enjoying a 50/50 mixture of lemonade and iced tea named after one of the greatest golfers ever to play the sport.

I told him that next time I play golf, and make a good, long par-making putt, while my partners are telling me "good putt," "nice putt," and "nice par," I'm going to just casually mutter, "even a blind pig finds an 'a-kern' every now and again."

We both had a good chuckle.

Cherokee Strip Stampede..er, parade

Last weekend we took the girls up to Enid to partake in the festivities of an event dubbed the Cherokee Strip Days Celebration

There was a parade, an outdoor festival of sorts, and a host of other activities related to the Cherokee Strip Land run of 1893.

During this parade my suburbanite brain matter produced two questions, the answers of which may or may not be general knowledge to natural born citizens of the Cherokee Strip. But I brought along pictures to help me clarify the details of my questions.

Here goes.


Did all Cowboys riding the range have to have their cowboy hats held onto their heads by an adult chaperone or similar person with available appendages?


At what point in my life here in the open prairie am I ever going to see a herd of longhorns being "yee-hawed" and "whup-wheed" down a city street and not be on my feet, ready to turn tail and scurry up the nearest tall lamp pole?


"Yippee, tai, yai, yeah, git' along, little doggies..." Not to be argumentative, but there ain't nothing "little" about these doggies.

Blue and Gold

No, I'm not going to talk about my grad school alma mater (whose school colors are blue and gold and whose football team is 2 - 0, but not for much longer).

This blog entry is about sausage for sale.

Apparently, at only one time during the year, non-card carrying members of PETA can buy sausages and other animal products from a smiling FFA member. Future Farmers of America, to you and me.

Why blue and gold sausage?

Those happen to be the "flag" of what is an amazingly large group of agricultural gang bangers out here in America's Heartland.

I know, I know, FFA is everywhere, even in So Cal. But as I recall, the FFA kids who were showing their livestock at the most recent LA County Fair I attended, looked more like Fergie donning her London Bridge gear. A far cry from these FFA'ers posing with their beloved sausages in this recent newspaper clipping from our local paper.



C'mon. If you're going to clog your arteries and summon congestive heart failure at a rapid rate, why not do so with some pork products culled from the finest of the fine, bestest of the best livestock that the farmers of our future took home the blue ribbons for.

Put me down for several sausage logs and a couple pounds of bacon, please.

Wallpaper your way to prison

What's on your monitor?

A small town county fair...Part Deux

More pictures and musings from our recent small town county fair...

Yes, the gun collage is exciting, as is the horse collage, the batik tee-shirts, and the Peterbilt drawing. But check out the cubist face painting in the lower right hand side of the picture.
Inspired me to get nude and descend a staircase.

That's my hand holding a handful of wheat. I've never felt closer to the land than at that moment. Made me hungry for a pimento cheese sandwich on whole wheat bread.

Day old pie never looked so good. Is there anything better than a homemade pie crust with enough butter to make a milk cow moo with delight?
Gave me a hankering for a hot cup of joe drunk from a thick, white, ceramic mug.

Nothing against the selection at our local grocery store, but these 4H kiddies grew some kick a*s looking veggies.
Enticed the closet vegetarian in me to forego that SlimJim that was sitting on my ear as a snack for later.

The last time I sewed was when I used a roll of duct tape to put the hem up on a pair of slacks I needed for a job interview. Wonder if they have a sewing category for non-needle and thread construction?
Reminded me that I had to sew on a button onto one of PK's dresses.

In conclusion...
C won a red ribbon (2nd prize) for her acrylic on canvas entry.

She was disappointed in not getting either a blue ribbon, or the purple Grand Champion ribbon. She vowed to enter many more paintings next year to assure her a better chance at that coveted purple ribbon.

Donations for canvas and paint expenses will be gladly accepted.

iPod of a different color

For the last several weeks since the girl's school bells have begun to toll for them at 8:10 a.m., I've been taking some steps to get some morning cardio activity that didn't involve hoisting laundry up and down the stairs.

4379 steps to be precise.

My 35-40 minute walk takes me along a recently completed walking trail, the creation of which is due to the efforts of the non-profit organization on whose board of directors I sit.

I not only talk the talk, I walk the walk. Figure if the people responsible for the walking trails don't even use them, what example are we setting for the good folk of our town that we built the trails for.

My 8:20 a.m. journey begins at the east end of the Baptist Church parking lot, where I leave my car. As with most Baptist Churches in this part of the country, this one has acres and acres of free parking.

More than our WalMart.
More than our high school football stadium.
More than Area 51's Alien Parking Only lot.

It isn't long before my steps start taking on the rhythmic beat of a marching band....literally. See, the walking path takes me directly adjacent to the field where our high school marching band (30 strong) is currently practicing a medley of patriotic tunes.

"Oh beautiful, for spacious skies..."

"Good morning" I say to the lady I've labeled as "Mavis Beacon teaches typing," since she reminds me of a caucasian version of the woman who graced the shrinkwrapped box of the popular learn-to-type computer software. Mavis sports a 1st gen iPod shuffle.

"...what so proudly we hail, at the twilights last gleaming...."

"Great morning, isn't it?" is how I greet "Lady Lone Wolf and Cub" named for the popular manga series. Momma has Apple Earbuds hooked to what I can only conclude is an iPod, but it's tucked away neatly into the jogger stroller that carries her 3-year old.

"...stand beside her, and guide her, thru the night with a light from above..."

"Glad it finally cooled down some..." pops out of my mouth to the elderly woman I've come to know as "Pinky" due to the pink iPod Nano she listens to while stroling along the same path.

35-40 minutes later, I'm getting in my car, wiping away whatever sweat has accumulated on my brow and watching my own private red, white, and blue iPod march off to whichever classes the band members have picked for 2nd period.

I'll be back tomorrow as I'm sure they'll be too. They need the practice as much as I need the exercise.

Ode to a cinnamon roll

The 100th version of the State Fair of Oklahoma starts this week, and from the amount of media coverage this event receives, one might venture to say that it's a "right big deal."

But that's not what this blog entry is about.

I occassionally have breakfast in a little joint a few miles down the road that sells some very delectable cinnamon rolls. For those who will not venture this far into the depths of central OK, the bakers make fresh batches of the Princess Leia-hairbun-shaped pastries daily to sell at their booth in the "Made in Oklahoma" building during the run of the State Fair.

While the town where this family run cinnamon roll roadside eatery resides is better known for it's combination ancient bar/fried chicken establishment, the hot joe, folksy servers, amusing regular clientele and of course, the sticky-gooey-cardiac-arresting buns, made it an instant hit with me.

The main dining room is big and spacious, with privacy booths of little consequence, since regulars speak loud enough so that everyone in the joint can hear their stories of woe or whimsy. The pervasive scent of the utterly perverted warm and soft cinnamon rolls makes you wish for the metabolism of Lance Armstrong.

They also package a dozen or so rolls up into a tin tray, shrink wrap them, and sell them at a few fortunate grocery stores in the area.

I've eaten them out of the package.
Warmed either in the microwave, or by holding it under my armpit for a few minutes.
Good, but not quite a memorex experience.

I've eaten them at the Fair.
Good, but slightly smaller than the one's you'll get in their dining room and too many eyes are watching you at that venue to make for a comforting culinary experience.

And, I've eaten them at their restaurant.
With a nice size cup of decaf, a shiny fork and slightly dented but entirely useable knife.

It was better.

Those snappin' fingers

Yesterday I was sitting in a car with PK, my 3 1/2 year old, waiting in line to pick up C from school with a myriad of minvans, maxi trucks, and otherwordly human transport vehicles over 5000 lbs. GVW, when she asked me which finger makes the noise when you snap.

I brain-burped for a second, but remembered who I was and what I was doing on this planet, while formulating a reasonably sounding response that a 3 1/2 year old could grok.

I told her "both of them make the noise" with all the assurance and confidence that a male in his early 40's could and should muster.

Yet here I sit, late at night, examining my snappin' fingers in motion, wondering if in fact I was correct in my explanation.

Some mysteries were meant to remain mysteries.

Least I can tell her with unwavering aplomb that in my 12th year of life, it took me exactly 242 licks to get to the Tootsie roll center of a Tootsie pop.

Where's Joe Pesci when you need him

One of my favorite boobtube shows of the 90's was called Northern Exposure. It followed the adventures of a New York city born and bred doctor who must payback his med school loans by serving the citizens in a small town in Alaska.

A particularly memorable episode found the NY Doc feeling like he was losing his "hard city edge," forcing him to run down to the local video rental house to grab up any and all NY flicks he could find to help remind him from whence he had come. GoodFellas, The Godfather, Mean Streets, Woody Allen's Manhattan among others.

Like the good Dr. Fleischman, I know I've lost some of my city-fied edge since moving to my small town less than a year and a half ago.

I'm not as suspicious of people's intentions.
I'll make eye contact when walking down Main Street downtown.
Not everyone who says "hey" and "good morning" is looking for a way in to invade your privacy or space, or to separate me from my money.
When someone here comments about the weather, they're not just making light of the fact that the weather in LA hardly ever changes.

I was thinking which dvd's I need to keep in my library to remind me of whence I came and to help me "re-edge" myself so I don't get too complacent by this slower, safer, relaxed environment.

Here's a list I've started. It may grow.

LA Story - Utterly dated and utterly satiric, but like all good satire, therein lies the truth.
Swingers - I no longer use the Club on my car, but I do miss Pink Dot.
LA Confidential - How in the world did they fit those huge cars of the 40's down the narrow streets of the Melrose District.
The Fast and the Furious (2001) - Driving on the 10 is neither of those, unless you let the fast drivers and furious traffic get to you. Even then furious is really all you get.
The Big Lebowski - "Isn't that near that In-n-Out...boy those are some good burgers."
Pizza Man - A film I worked on that was written, directed, and produced by J.F. Lawton. The millions he made from his screenplay for "Pretty Woman" paid for it all....starring a young Bill Maher.
Chinatown - Did Los Angeles ever really look this cool?
Blade Runner - Will Los Angeles ever really look this cool?
Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure - "Hello, San Dimas!"

I wonder what movies Okies who leave the state use to remind them of their home state/town?

A small town county fair...Part Uno

Some snapshots from our recent county fair....and my observations on them.


My long term goal is to clandestinely infiltrate the small society of folk who get to judge the eating portions of the fair competition, and invoke the judges right to claim whatever he tastes as their own for personal consumption. I'd be swimming in jams, jellies, and preserves. Hey, it could happen.


I don't know what category this collage of moo-cow photos falls under, but I was "udderly" transfixed by the multitude of angles one little girl could invoke to capture the comings and goings and sittings and standings and eatings of a single cow...at least I think it's a single cow. If I make the blanket statement that all light brown cows look to same to me, am I a bovine racist?


This all works for me. From the "How a Paintball works" full-color diagram, to the 4-outlet edison box, complete with heavy duty 3-prong grounded cable, I was thrilled to happen upon this display. Someone give that kid a blue ribbon...oh, someone did. Good. He/she deserved it.


I wonder if anyone would mind if they put these 10 Commandments up in a government courthouse or public building?


Forget robbing the local banking establishment. Grab a few of these handmade quilts and set up a vendor spot at the local swap meet. Ka-ching, ka-ching.

Stay tuned for another installment of....A small town county fair.

County Jr. Miss Scholarship Pageant

Last month, we attended our counties Jr. Miss Scholarship Contest.

We attended to cheer on a girl from our small town whom we know as a lifeguard at the local pool, the girl who mows our next door neighbor's lawn (for free), and as one of the friendly and helpful teens at C's Wednesday night kiddie group gathering at the Nazarene.


The emotions generated by being at a scholarship pageant (not called a beauty pageant, even here in the heartland of all places) harkens back to my wife's family's keen interest and living room ritual of religiously watching every Miss America pageant that's been televised since 1967.

The girls seemed to enjoy the spectacle on the high school stage, complete with cardboard cut-out props and streamers for decorations.

The girls on stage aerobicized (fitness evaluation), strutted in long gowns (poise evaluation) and answered existential questions of little meaning to a teenager, but that I found to be rather thought provoking.

The big finale was the talent competition. It was at this point that I picked the winner, hands down, no question about it.

The contestant performing a modern dance routine drew little applause. I thought she was bold to attempt it at this venue.

The gospel singing contestent drew a little more applause. Playing the religious card - hard to go wrong with God.

The hip-hop dancing contestant drew whoops and hollars from the younger crowd. Others just scratched their heads.

The dramatic reading contestant drew stares the likes of which even the Elephant Man would ponder as rude. Gutsy and bold. I liked it.

Then the winner came out.

She was the one who donned a pair of red "Ariel-from-Footloose-"my Daddy hates these boots" cowboy boots, a rhinestone encrusted denim skirt, topped off with a red and white gingham top tied at the belly. She 2-stepped out onto the stage and came out singing "I wanna grow up to be a cowboy" to which the audience stomped their feet, clapped their hands, and just about threw a hoedown right there in the high school auditorium.

You could feel the audience turn with every sh*t-kickin', boot-stompin', cowboy hat wavin' step.

In the end, our girl didn't win (she was 2nd runner up), but I'm sure C learned some valuable life lessons from the evening.

I'm sure of it.

Lunch lady loses learners loot, leaves lunchers in a lurch

We received a notice from the lunch lady at C's school that they suffered a computer crash and had lost all traces of recent payments made for students lunches.

Considering that school had only been in session for 2-weeks, I figured, how bad could it be?

Surely they back the database file up regularly.
Surely the have some sort of redundancy in the filing system.
Surely they print out daily hardcopies of at least the summary totals of the days lunch money receipts.

Three strikes, dude. And don't call me Shirley.

This antiquated system was running on an old pre-Pentium 486 chipped Windoze 3.1 machine. They had had crashes before, "but not like this," I was told.

The database file was apparently intact and saved on a floppy (whew!), but they didn't have another machine with the proprietary software loaded to access the file.

Floppies. Remember those. Don't some Windoze machines still use 'em? How retro is that?
But I digress.

For now, they're going back to a more traditional method of keeping track of things -- a log book with every students name and total, updated daily.

I've been informed that a new, modern, plasti-card with code stripe system has been ordered, which will not only allow the student's lunch transactions to be traced, but will also keep track of those pesky little milk money purchases set aside for nutrition break.

A small price to pay for keeping track of all our kiddies mac and cheese casseroles, circus dogs, and bar-b-q riblet on a sticks.

That's some guuuud, eatin' now.

New purchase at the local drug store

Forget e-ticket rides at Disneyland or an IMAX-3D movie in Sensurround or a quick jaunt around the block on the new 4-wheeled Segway's.

The attraction that has the people I shop with lining up around the block -- okay, aisle -- is this little wonder of science combining the fun of masochism and joys of health monitoring.



I kid you not. People of all ages, creeds, religions, and shopping cart levels can be seen lining up at these little wonders at every one of the WalMart Supercenters, CVS Pharmacies and Walgreens closest to me.

The other day, while sitting at my local drugstore lunch counter, I jokingly mentioned to the Druggist/Owner that perhaps he should purchase one of those automatic blood pressure devices to increase customer traffic to his establishment.

He took no time or effort in presenting me with stacks upon stacks of brochures, sales flyers, and reading material related to purchasing such a device and wanted to get my opinion on which one he should order, me being a "computer guys of sorts."

I don't know anything about these devices other than my 6-year old always begs me to "try it" whenever she spies one with an empty armhole.

Alas, I told him what any self-respecting Mac user would tell someone looking for advice on a computer controlled device.

Don't buy the one that runs on Windoze.

Sideways Oklahoma

Before you non-Okie's (and resident Okie's for that matter), guffaw and chortle at the thought of there being a thriving and increasingly popular wine growing/making industry here in the land of the red man, know that there were over 5000 acres of vineyards planted around the time of statehood (1907).

Prohibition killed the industry, and it wasn't until the 1980's that the current resurgence in grape vine croppery took root.

I'm not a wino. I'm not a oenophile. I liked the movie Sideways because it was sorta funny and I went to film school with the guy who directed it.

But I am encouraged by the fact that bottle and bottle of award-winning fermented grape juice is coming out of my adopted state.

Cut the cheese, slice the sourdough, pop the cork, let it breath and let the Festivus for the restofus begin.

Kampai!

The world at an angle

I don't know how my daughter is doing it, but she's putting an angle on the world through the lens of her cheapy-Taiwan-made-digital-camera.

I love these pictures. Just wish I knew what combination of movement/light/optically unclear lens glass/and space time continuum shift she's using to get them.

Stay-at-Home-Dad Knowledge Base Article #002

NOTE - This one comes courtesy of my Mom, to which every respectable Stay-at-Home-Dad owes at least 50% of their success (perceived or otherwise) to.

Little kids love flashlights.

Controlling the darkness and keeping the nasties of the night at bay.

Piercing the pitch black of night with a beam of AAA luminescence.

Fending off the evil of the dayless empire and reinvoke the security that the brighter 12-hours of the 24-hour day offers.

All fine and dandy, but when the kiddies forget to turn the "electrical-salvation-portable-givers-of-light" off, those little alkaline power cells can run a chunk of change to replace on a regular basis.

Thus enter, the crank and wind-up rechargeable flashlights.

In addition to never needing batteries or spare bulbs, these little wonders gives the kiddies something to do during those eternal and infernal lighting strike blackouts.

They'll not only provide light for their Father who is stumbling in the dark in search of a candle and matches, but they'll burn a few dozen calories while providing a mental image of a squirrel on a wheel or Gilligan on his stationery faux-bamboo bicycle.

I love that these gems will provide 45 minutes of cool and calming ultra white led beamage for a relatively miniscule investment of time and effort (60 seconds).

And, if they leave them on, no worries to my debit card.

You're welcome.

Be right back...going to get some gas

Now, you tell me...would this happen in the town/city where you live?



I have not a doubt in my mind that this fella did return the next day with $10 and an apology. Bet he even bought himself a grape SlushPuppy and a Snickers bar for the road.

Working the wire

My involvement as a board member on a non-profit organization here in town has led me to some interesting gatherings, introduced me to some interesting folks, and placed me in some interesting fish-out-of-water situations.

The other day I found myself doing a few things that I could never have imagined myself doing.

The 501c(3) group I serve as a board member with is involved in creating a series of walking, historical, and nature trails around our city. In preparation for the grand opening of a major section of concrete walkway across what was until recently a cattle pasture, the Board members came together to do a "workday."

It was during this workday that I found myself both removing and stringing barbed wire fencing, pulling down cattle fences, picking up (and flinging) cow chips along the 3/4 mile concrete walking path, and erecting an oak plank sign using, of all things, a forklift.


My roll of barbed wire was slightly smaller than the one hefted by my fellow Board member pictured here. Apparently they have a mechanism of some sorts that will spool / unspool the vicious metal wire, but we didn't have one.

BTW, this fella is the pastor at the extremely large and well attended First Christian Church in my town. A nicer guy couldn't be found.


Up goes the sign. The owner of the forklift is a fellow Board member and proprietor of the local Do-it-Best hardware store in town. He drove the forklift the 4 miles to the site from his downtown store.

BTW, those three logs that are holding the sign up...earlier in the year we chopped them down, stripped 'em clean, cut 'em up, hauled 'em to this site, dug deep holes for them, and erected them as they stand today. That is a story left for another blog entry as my city-boy emotional state has still not fully recovered from that ordeal

Seeking a blue ribbon

No livestock.
No apple pies.
No canned peaches.
No humongous gourd.

Our family's first ever entry in the upcoming local county fair will be an original 3'x3'oil on canvas work of art by my 6-year old.


It's simply titled, "The Candle."

Sippin' an chattin' at the drugstore lunch counter

In my small town we have three pharmacies.

There's the modern drive-thru express pharmacy in the new part of town and across the way is a mega-WalMart drug dispensing machine with acres and acres of free parking.

Then there's the old-fashioned drug store in the historic downtown district, complete with lunch counter, soda fountain, cosmetics in glass cases and two aisles of greeting cards dating back to the 70's.

8 chrome barstools with sparkly red vinyl covering and a formica countertop with original chrome border await hungry patrons looking for a quick, inexpensive snack and a smile from one of the lovely counter ladies.

Sitting next to the old time drink mixers (no blenders here), stainless steel drop-in containers pump out TWO kinds of syrup (chocolate and butterscotch), and dispense fruit toppings, jimmies, or any variety of nuts.

There are black press on plastic letters on the menu board overhead, tempting you with gastronomical delights such as pimento cheese sandwiches, turkey wraps, frito chili pies, hand-dipped ice cream sundaes, and drinks of all flavors and tastes.

The George Foreman grill and microwave oven stand ready to serve consumables of any kind, hot and delicious. They seem to appear apologetic for bringing their moderness into the old skool atmosphere of the lunch counter, but as long as they do their job without complaint, I think their presence is tolerated.

The elderly patrons prefer to populate one of the two melamine covered booths from the 70's, or either of the several square tables and chairs that look like surplus from a shuttered H. Salt Fish and Chips restaurant. They're the perfect "sittin' for a spell" furniture for the Red Hat ladies who come in every Thursday for nickel coffee, delicious cake and conversation.

The place is cool because it isn't trying to be cool. It knows it's place in the confines of the Drug Store, and accepts it's role as a historical nod to the way things used to be.

The other day, while sippin' an orangeade (yep, you heard me...an orangeade -- THE most delicious beverage I've ever tasted and more addictive than an Ice Blended Mocha at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf) at the lunch counter with my daughters, I was involved in a lively conversation (well, lively for this crowd) about high school reunions and the sizes of our respective graduating classes.

My graduating class had something like 900+ kids in it. At the last reunion I attended, they had to rent a ballroom at the Hilton in Downtown LA.

My wife grabbed her diploma with a little over 120 seniors. Her last reunion was in the local community center gymnasium.

The lunch counter girl partied with 43 other kids at her grad night. Her upcoming reunion is going to be at the local Lions Club facililty.

Then Charley the pharmacist walked up to and behind the counter, filled his mug from the tin pot full of freshly brewed joe and casually said,

"At my last high school reunion we just had to pick which booth to sit in at the mexican restaurant downtown."

I added, "So, not many people showed up?"

To which he replied, "No everyone was there."

[Me laughing]

"Two guys even brought their wives."

[More of me laughing]

" We took the big booth."

I barely finished my orangeade.

Stay-at-Home-Dad Knowledge Base Article #001

Somehow, my household has amassed a small collection of kiddie videos and dvds, worthy of a 4' x 4' glass enclosure at the local county fair in the oddly strange but seemingly curious "collections" section --right next to little Bobby Jones' "OU spongy oversized spirit fingers" collection and the awkwardly tall Samantha Peterson's "Pringle chips that look like farm animals I've raised and slaughterd for my FFA projects" collection.

Predictably, each of my kiddies has circled their wagons around a particular dvd/video for repeated viewing.

And when they're in the zone, they could (potty breaks notwithstanding) and would (if we allowed it) watch their fave video as many times in a row as there are blades of crab grass on my 1/4 acre of supposed bermuda grass lawn.

When "Chicka chicka boom boom" started to show signs of signal loss and video drop out, I knew it wasn't long for the vcr world. And with it, went the source of 7 minutes of joy in the life of my 3-year old.

My solution. I dubbed all of my kids favorite old skool VHS videos onto DVD.

DVD's don't need rewinding.
DVD's will last longer than a VHS copy (rumor has it).

And the topper...DVD's can be set to play over and over and over and over, ad infinitum while you hide in the next room pretending not to be singing along to that incessant music on the DVD.

Back to school

You read right. It's the middle of August, 102 degrees and in my opinion, summer vacation should still be in full swing for the kids. Yet, the bags of school supplies are filled, the opening day outfits are selected, the go-to-bed-early to get-up-early practice sessions are in full swing and the postcards are in the mail.

You read right. Postcards.



This is a practice I wasn't familiar with. Don't know if this is a local thing, an Okie thing, or whether teachers everywhere send welcoming postcards to their new studetns.

The girls dug it. My wife dug it. In fact, we didn't even know who C's teacher was until we received the postcard, so that was an added bonus.

So, the big questions being, which of the five 1st grade teachers did C get, and which one did we want her to get?

Sure, I could have extended my influence as an elected officer of the PTO (I'm Secretary/Treasurer this year), but did I? No.

And while it was tempting to call up my So Cal-raised, Tommy's-burger-loving homeboy, who happens to be the Principal at C's school and chat a bit about teacher selection, I chose not to play that card.

Another option would have found me bending the ear of a fellow seat member on the non-profit board of directors that I serve on, who just happens to be married to the 1st grade teacher that we wanted C to have. Didn't go there either.

And yet when we read the back of the postcard sent to C...



...we happily learrned that she did indeed get the 1st grade teacher we had been hoping for.

Sometimes things just turn out right, even without me running interference.

Turns out we know PK's new teacher as well. We've played poker with her and her husband before. Also her daughter was in Pre-K with C when we first moved here.

Small town wonders.

Mutant Watermelon Seeds from Space

The best watermelon I've ever had was in Japan.

I was told the entire melon cost our host family close to $127 (U.S.)

My friend and I were guests, so according to Japanese custom, we were afforded the biggest slices.

The soft, juicy, fleshy red melon was sweet beyond any soft, jucy, fleshy melon I had eaten until then, and since. There was almost a total absence of white melon flesh. It went from dark red, to pink, to green. How is that possible?

It was chilled in the icebox (don't submerge your melon in a horse trough full of ice water, since the melon will suck the surrounding fluid in and dilute it's sweetness) to perfect consuming temperature and sliced up with all the reverance of a Kobe beef prime rib filet -- which I had at this very same meal, but that's another story.

We each were given wide brimmed bowls to eat over, to catch the earthbound juice for enjoyment later. Every drop is sacred.

At approximately $21 a slice, nothing went to waste. We even sucked the juice out of every seed and ate the opulent pinkness almost down to the green of the rind.

It was that good.

The second greatest watermelon I've eaten was given to me by my Father-in-Law last summer. He had been to an auction, and got to talking to a fella who was selling home grown watermelons off the back of his pick'em truck.

This melon was everything my Japanese melon was, only about 75% as sweet. However, at $5 a melon and 3x the size, this domestic Okie melon was a bargain indeed. I'm not mathematically inclined enough to figure what THIS melon would have set back the lovely Tokyo-ite family in Yen.

The third best melon I've had was consumed by myself this last weekend. It was as good as any other melon I've eaten here in America's heartland, but it had the most amazing seeds I"ve ever seen.

Take a gander...

Hormones in milk and B.O.

Why should a 6-year old girl funk in her armpits after a hard day out playing?

My wife is convinced that it's a side effect of all the PBF 50 sun block we're slathering her with.

Since neither one of us exhibits the same level of funkiness that our petite 43 lb. daughter emits (weight to weight ratio wise, I should funk 4.5x more than she does, but don't even come close), where is she getting all this pit steam?

I'm convinced it's all the hormones she's been getting in her daily moo juice intake since we moved here and starting drinking the local milk.

I miss Trader Joe's Raw Certified Hormone Free LowFat milk.

The mighty fury of Natural Gas

I don't know how much a 1990 John Deere Bulldozer weighs, but I'm sure it tops the scales a tad higher than my little Civic.

Yet it was blown back 15 feet, and rotated 90 degrees.

Remind me to stay away from 8" buried gas lines in the future.

Knot Tying Impaired

I wasn't a Boy Scout.
I'm not a sailin' man by any means.
I like slip on shoes.

Face it. I'm not a knot head.

In fact, you might say I'm knot tying handicapped.

Show me a knot. Step-by-step. Slowly and carefully. I'll follow along, seemingly aware of the process.

I may even remember the knot. For awhile.

Then, quick as you can say, "Perils of Pauline," I'll have forgotten it.

My Father-in-law has a good head for knots. He ties some doozies that inspire awe and reverance everytime I watch him tie down a load in the back of his pickup, or secure some hard won auction items to the floor of his trailer.

My Dad was pretty good at knots too. I think my brother is just as impaired as I am, so that helps some.

The other day, my 6-year old taught me how to braid her hair. She grew weary of the "pony-tail" (single), "doggie-ears" (double pony tails), or the "just-worn-straight-down" styled varieties that my male hairstyling genes are capable of doing.

She felt I needed to expand my hair styling repertoire so... guided by the loving and patient hand of C, I dove into the dreaded braid.

Even though my knot tying impaired brain battled furiously in it's efforts to guide my stubby sausage digits to do the wrong thing, I eventually got it.

In theory.

Now I just need lots and lots and lots of practice. Good thing I have two daughters.

Next up, the French Braid. I may need to go back to Grad School for that one.

The horror continues...

Apparently the car dealership at the center of the controversy surrounding the dismissal of two OU Football players is getting death threats.

Over 170 so far, and season opening kickoff isn't until September 2.

I told you OU fans weren't fair weather.

In response, the dealership has been innundating the local radio and tv stations with a commercial that basically denies their involvement in the OU season killing scandal.

They've also installed a pop-up on their website...



Hope they weren't projecting any record sales for this month...

Road Kill #2 - almost a year later

It's been almost a year since my first road kill.

My family was with me. It was a warm summer dusk as we drove in from town on the divided interstate.

The highway must draw the swarms of bugs to it's sun warmed asphalt, because that's where our car seems to pick up the majority of it's extra weight.

Not from the groceries filling the trunk.
Not from the gasoline at 6 lbs. and $2.89 a gallon.
Not from the acres and acres of school supplies we have to collect for the girls.

But from the millions of bug carcasses blanketing the front fascia and windshield of our just washed-and-waxed import.

That evening, the bugs were thick and swarming in vicious packs above the road. The local avian population does it's best to eat their fill and rid the night air of yet another no-see-um, or skeeter.

Many times, I've witnessed feathered kamikaze's dart into my car's path, only to get a mouthful of gnats, then disappear into the night

Many times I've yelled outloud, "watch out bird," as my brain kicks into defense mode and my foot momentarily gets off the accelerator.

Many times, I've wondered just how tasty a mosquito must be for a bird to play chicken (pun intended) with my un-fast and un-furious Civic rice mobile.

But this time...
...as we all heard the unmisakable "thud" of miniscule flesh and bone hitting our grill...
...saw the billowing "poof" of feathers trailing behind us...
...and felt the momentary nausea of yet another of nature's creatures getting snuffed out (think how Ben Kenobi felt after Tarkin blew up Leia's home planet "just for fun?")...

...I knew this would not be one of those other many times.

Comments from the peanut gallery in the back seat?

C - "Did we just get hit by a bird? - My 6-year old thinking like the future attorney she'll become. Blame the other guy. We didn't hit the bird...it hit us.

PK - "Look at all the feathers. How come we don't have feathers." - For a small bird, there was an amazing amount of feathers flying around. PK is in her question asking stage right now.

S - "Oooh, poor bird. Did he come out the back? I hope he's not stuck in the front grill." - Notice how a dead bird becomes a "he" when my wife discusses it. If it made it and survived, I'm sure the bird would become a "she" when described in a future memory.

BTW, in response to S' comments above...

Yes, it did, it wasn't.

Simple math to a better life

Out here in the country, applying some simple math to one's daily activities may extend those daily activities by another day.

Case in point...

Where:N = Night (enveloping darkness)
CPR = Country/Private roads (no street lamps overhead)
ATV = All-Terrain-Vehicle (4-wheelin', yee hah!)
IH - Inoperative Headlight ($23 at the local Napa)And given the following:

A 16-foot trailer parked on the road, while not too common an occurance, does happen

It's dark at 1:35 a.m. in the morning

Private roads are usually on private property, meaning that the person driving on said private road should probably be aware what is on said private property.

Unless of course, they're trespassing or mentally impaired in some alcoholic induced manner.

N (ATV+IH) / CPR =

Oh the horror!

Local media is abuzz this morning about the following news...."Rhett Bomar and J.D. Quinn were dismissed from the University of Oklahoma football team Wednesday after a school investigation determined they had been paid for hours they did not work at a Norman car dealership"Columnist Jenni Carlson of the barely legible state rag, The Oklahoman, summed it up nicely..."I know all the fans where I work have just acquired high blood pressure and a few, we have put on suicide watch. They are in total disbelief. "

"Rhett Bomar is gone, dismissed from the Oklahoma football team along with roommate J.D. Quinn because the zeros on their paychecks didn’t jive with the hours on their timecards. That’s a big-time NCAA violation, and that’s a ticket on the first train out of Norman."

"But with the Sooners’ starting quarterback goes the high hopes for this season."

"Forget a No. 1 ranking in the preseason polls."

"Forget an undefeated season."

"Forget a national title."My favorite quote of the day came from a morning drive time FM jock who enthusiastically bellowed,

"This is no time to jump off the Sooner Schooner!"
Which was surprising to me since I have never seen a state with so few fair weather fans as here in Oklahoma. The dedication the sports fanatics here in the Sooner state demonstrate for their teams through good times and bad is commendable.

Little more than 30 days to kickoff and the sleeping *giant awakes.

*No, not the OU Football team, I'm talking about the OU Fans in their XXXXXL Sooner T-shirts.