Nearing the end of summer road trip - Part 3

After an eerily quiet night in the cabin, we woke up 4 deep in our queen size bed as both of the girls couldn't resist the close proximity at which Mommy and Daddy's bed was to their futon sleeper (at home they have to make their way down the stairs and across the entire length of the house to get to our room).

A few rounds of family bed wrestling and "pin-Daddy-if-you-can" worked the kinks out of my back and we were soon off in the family truckster to sample a veritable plethora of fried pies to satisfy our breakfast cravings. Just off Exit 51 near Davis, we followed the roadway signs to "Original Fried Pies," located in a Sinclair gas station.

S knew about this place but I and the girls had never sampled these evil-Bobby Hill-loving Oklahoman delicacies.

I'll not twist fate cruelly here and describe in detail the unique, tender and flaky crust that melts in your mouth like so much butter on a tall stack of hot off the griddle hotcakes.

I'll refrain from describing the monstrously delectable offerings of fruit, cream, nut, or hearty meal ready fillings that slither off the wall board menus and into your short term memory.

Nary will pass from my lips any or all description of the laughably reasonable prices, terrific view of the pie making operation, bevy of friendly folk both in front of (fried pies make people happy) and behind the counter.

Instead, I'll let this fella tell you about them.

A few minutes drive from the Fried Pies eatery is a must unusual animal/amusement park called the Arbuckle Wilderness, which is, in my opinion, the most underrated family attraction in the entire state.

If you're worried about watching your daughters scream out in joy at the sight of a dozen water buffalo blocking the road, then this place sucks.

If you're afraid of wild animals possibly scratching the finish on your car with their tough hides, bony horns, or stained teeth, then this place sucks.

If you're more concerned with retaining that "new car smell" in your ride than you are with having the odoriferous offerings of the bad breath of dozens of animals invade your space, then this place sucks.

If you have a fear of exotic animals sticking their entire head into your car to retrieve a food pellet from you, then this place sucks.

If you're scared of having close encounters with zebras, ostriches, yaks, emu, gazelle, a rhino, giraffes, tigers, water buffalos, and camels, then this place sucks.

If you have nightmares of your wife laughing hysterically in the passenger seat next to you as a pair of emus pecks their way to the bottom of her feed cup, then this place sucks.

If you'd rather have bamboo slivers shoved in the soft fleshy tissue between your toes rather than getting close enough to a rhino to look directly into his eyes, then this place is most definitely not for you.

For us however, this place rocked our world and left an indelible impression on all of us.

We left this wonderama of wildlife and wooliness as the dinner hour approached since we were afraid if we didn't feed the girls soon, they'd start snackin' on some of the pressed and dried animal feed pellets that the last PUSHY ostrich pecked out of S' feed cup and tossed around the back seat.

Needing to procure a log or two (or ten) for the campfire, we first trekked into the local Walmart for some essential cookin' over the fire utensils as well as representative packaged items from the 4-food groups.Meat - hot dogs (hard pressed to find Hebrew National Kosher dogs in OK, so we made do with all beef Bar-S - local Okie brand).
Bread - buns
Fruit and Veggie - mustard and relish (that's a stretchhhhhhhhhhh)
Dessert - marshmallows, chocolate bars and cinnamon graham crackers.What, dessert isn't one of the 4 food groups? Alas, the failings of a public education.

While procuring the marshmallows from the baking aisle, we asked a blue-vested employee where we could find some firewood. Not her, but another helpful Walmart employee chimed in with the location and directions to a fella on the highway that sells firewood by the truckload, the rick or by the piece.

But he only takes cash. The heathen.

Turns out the wood salesman was a divey-motor hotel manager on the main highway through town, who gave us 20 pieces of good "camp-fire burnin'" stuff for $5.00 American...even loaded it into our buggy for us.

That night we all took turns poking the fire, eating our dogs, watching puffy white sugar plums turn to flame, laughing, singing, cuddling, and enjoying our doing-something-out-of-the-ordinary family time.

Cro-mag man never had it so good.

Oklahoma Trails

The Oklahoma City Zoo unveiled a new permanent exhibit earlier this year and we had yet to check it out. As summer is winding down (only a few weeks until school starts), off the girls and I went to explore the environs of the new Oklahoma Trails.

Touted as a $10.3 million dolllar expansion and inspired by Oklahoma's 11 distinct life zones (second to no other state), the exhibit... "...showcases more than 100 different species of animals native to Oklahoma...featuring naturalistic habitats utilizing landscape immersion and state-of-the-art technology, this exhibit provides a unique encounter."

"Featured species include grizzly and black bear, cougar, paddlefish, turkey vulture, river otter, western diamondback rattlesnake, American alligator, roadrunner, bison, collared lizard (mountain boomer) and alligator snapping turtle. "Cougars & Gators & Bears...oh my.

Much to my sweaty forehead's pleasure, we were happy to find that even on a typical hot and muggy OKC summer sweltery day, every animal was active and completely viewable, thanks to their "visitor friendly" designed habitats. The wolf pack was pacing, the cougar was crawling, the grizzlies gesticulating and even the bald eagle with the clipped wings strutted eminently on the floor of it's habitat.

Highlight for me was the indoor, climate controlled (ahhhh....a 75 degree respite from the gnarly 90+ outdoor temps and 80% humidity) displays centered around a massive pond aquarium wherein I learned to tell the difference between families of crappie... ("I was told it's pronounced "craw-py, not crappy...what a shame") , blue gills, basses, and catfish - nothing like having live, swiming examples of the finned fishies in front of your face to help a non-angler distinguish their features.

It was in this A/C cave of coolness and calm that I got up close with an alligator snapping turtle the size of Gamera...okay, Gamera's little brother, but it was big enough to make me "step away from the plexiglass" wearing the same expression of disgust and fear when I saw Windows '95 demoed for the first time.

Big crowds of ankle biters pressed their sweaty faces against the 20' long plexi wall that afforded them both above and below water views of the enclave of swift footed and supersonic swimming otters. Heck, there were even a few beaver plodding around the otter environent, happily sharing their alloted space with their mammallian brothers of the pond and stream environment.

Highlight for the girls was an enclosed building darkend and lit with black lights, and decked out to resemble the interior of a barn, complete with hundreds of living, flying, hanging and feeding bats, rats, opossums, snakes, tarantulas, owls, and skunks -- all behind the protective custody of 1" plexiglass. Am I the only one who finds that watching bats frolic and flutter around has the same "doe-in-headlights effect" on me as a bubbling aquarium, or roaring fireplace -- soothing in an odd sort of way?

Later in the day, I spotted a couple of uniformed zoo-ployees carrying pint sized plastic containers with official looks on their faces. Using my natural inbred talent for prey-stalking, I managed to track them from their "Employees Only" hut down to the avian section - basically, I followed them. The reward for my tracking abilities were my daughters squeals of delight as they got to feed meal worms to dive bombing Scissortail Flycathers (state bird) in the enclosed aviary.

Exiting the bird cage, we stopped to listen in on a Zookeeper emparting some wild turkey wisdom to a group of elderly charges outside the galliformes paddock. As she wrapped up her brief lecture on the dire need for conservation efforts to provide for natural habitat for Oklahoma's indiginous wildlife so that popularly hunted species such as the wild turkey can thrive, my 7.5 year old chimed in, rather loudly..."Hey, Papa has a couple of those at the den in the lake house...but his are stuffed!"Onto the snack bar...churros for everyone!

And he carried a big stick

The other day I was putting the finishing touches on the minutes for the weekly meeting of the non-profit board I belong to, when I was introduced to a stranger. He had come into my small town's Chamber of Commerce office (where we hold our meetings) to gather some information on our city as a possible new homesite for himself.

This fella was a doctor and not from these parts, so the Chamber President thought I would be a good conduit for him to get to know the town and it's many proclivities, seeing as how I'm a relatively recent transplant myself.

I asked him when he arrived, and he said he pulled into town the same day as the mega-lighting storm that hit our area a few days ago. I recalled this storm because it took out our power for a good 20-minutes and I was right in the middle of editing some spots for a local Ranch and Home store, and was patting myself on the back for having recently saved my work.

He's young, decent looking, and me being a member of the male gender, I quickly sized him up using the male-specific "can I kick his butt or could he kick mine" method.

Women don't do this do they? I'm sure they have a more complicated method of comparing themselves to other women they've just met. I think OURS is easier.

Anyhow, the most odd thing about this out-of-towner M.D. (he didn't say he wasn't an M.D. , so I'm just assuming his doctor title isn't one of those of purely research and scholarly pursuits, but I didn't delve too deeply), is this big stick he carries around with him. Did I say big...I meant to say REALLY BIG. I only mention it because it seems to be more than a stick, but an extension of himself...if that makes any sense at all.

Our conversation carried forth to family and careers and he perked up a bit when I told him my wife was an Oklahoma native, had traveled extensively throughout the state and worked for an agency of the State that dealt with tourism, parks and recreation, etc. He then surprised me with his knowledge of something called, the Heavener Runestone in a state park near the Oklahoma / Arkansas border that I had heard about from my sister-in-law who is from that part of the state.

At this point a fellow town's lady who was visiting in the Chamber office chimed into our conversation by asking the young Doctor if he had picked a "chruch home," yet -- a common question asked here in my small town to new arrivals, to which he replied that he wasn't sure where he would be living yet and then mentioned something about "god" and "house of Asgard (sp?)."

She nodded and said, "oh, that church must be in the city somewhere," and left it at that.

Later that night, I was telling my wife about the new visitor to our small town and she did what I fear has become a standard routine when meeting someone new - we Googled him.

And this page was at the top of the list...


Gotcha! -- but I do think it's interesting that the Son of Odin's new digs are here in my new home state. Who knows, maybe Sue Storm (Fantastic Four's Invisible Woman) visited and we didn't even know it.

Nearing the end of summer road trip - part 2

Where were we...oh yeah, heading into downtown Davis, Oklahoma...

S had been in Davis before on work related business, so we knew exactly where we were headed for some family fillin' consumables.

Located smack dab in the center of the main drag through town, the Las Cascadas restaurant was light, airy and inviting. The menu offered a few things that surprised me, but (surprise!) I ordered my favorite craving from the old country (East Los Angeles) - tacos al pastor, aka. street tacos.

Mini corn tortillas, mini-chopped and thinly sliced pork, mini-diced onions and cilantro all served as a trio on a plate as large as the chrome air cleaner on my El Camino's small block.

Rating on our Indigest-O-Meter for Las Cascadas on a scale of 0 - 4 burning hearts (one for each member of my family), we gave Las Cascadas a 0, since no one got sick or woozy after our meal. Salud!

Downtown Davis has an interesting selection of main street businesses including several eclectic B&B's -- one of which had a swinging espresso/kafe klatch bar downstairs.

Full stomachs and a few trips up and down the aisles of an antique consignment shop provided the bearings we needed to get to our destination for the next three nights -- a solitudinous cabin in the Chickasaw Recreation Area, known as the "Peaceful Valley of Rippling Waters."

We had booked our single room cabin online and were pleasantly surprised at the pristine condition and sanitary feel of the cement foundationed, fully insulated, log covered structure.

A queen bed for the big people, futon sofa bed for the girls. Fireplace, central heat and air, fans aplenty, full kitchen and bath, and even a gas cooker on the wooden porch to 'q by if we were so inclined.

The main focus of the shack for the girls was the firepit in the front area -- they had been promised a vacation that included a roaring campfire with roasted marshmallows, family singalongs, and poking-a-stick-in-the-fire fun, and nothing was going to detract their atttention from those activities.

Such city girls.

Unfortunately, there was an extreme shortage of collectible firewood within walking distance of our cabin, so with the pinky promise that we would find a suitable proprietor of the "good burning stuff" the following day, we ventured into nearby Sulphur for a sit down dinner at an eatery conspicuously called OJ's Chili Creek Grill.

The digs were fine and the food was above edible, but the key word for this meal was "edible pets."

See, we happened to arrive on their seafood buffet night. Atop an 8000 foot long, 15 year-old well worn canoe sat a fresh seafood selection on ice, that included oysters (fresh?), peel and eat shrimp, imitation crab salad, fresh fruit (?), and crab legs.

The cooked item buffet line included a wide assortment of breaded/fried offerings, including catfish, frogs legs, shrimp, oysters and clams, along with some friendly looking crawdads at the end of the line.

I've had frog legs and to be honest, I prefer them breaded and deep fried. Helps with the gag reflex, so that's no biggie for me to see on the buffet line. The crawdads, however, stopped my wife cold in her gastrointestinal tracks.

When she was a kid, a favorite activity for her and her brothers was to grab a piece of bacon from the meat drawer in her Mom's mustard yellow Frigidaire, tie it at the end of some unused kite string and head on down to the creek in the "boonies" section of her small town. Once there, they would "fish" for crawdads (crayfish for you city folk), paint their initials on their exoskeletons, play with them for awhile, then let them go back into the creek.

Crawdads were pets. And here in America, we don't eat our pets.

So, as much as C begged and pleaded for us to get the all-u-can-stuff-in-your-already-stretched-OU-tee-shirt buffet, we opted for other menu selections.

Later that night, while "listening" to the 19" tv supplied in the cabin (the only station we could get on the aerials was a radio station -- go figure), and watching the girls wrap and unwrap themselves in the light sheets on the futon sleeper, Wifey concluded that it was a mistake to deny the esculant experience of eating the bright red muscular miniscule crustaceans to our daughter.

She may have hated it, spitting out the contents of the arthropod into her napkin and desperately reaching for the glass of lowfat milk on the table, but at least she wouldn't have been denied her impluse to try new things - one which we are constantly encouraging her to foster.

Next up, fried pies for breakfast and why we'll never be able to find all of the wild animal food pellets that spilled in our car.

It's all about the Benjamin's

I'm not sure I'd be all that comfortable with my neighbors and friends knowing what my annual salary was, but if you're an employee of my small town, you have no choice.

This was published on the front page of our small town newsrag the other day -- accompaning an article on a new plan that's bringing raises across the board.

Enjoy...and rest easy knowing that the Hilton siblings probably spend more on a weeks worth of underwear than our city spends every year on it's entire salaried roster.

Poor Jud is 'Daid and the Boy Who Lived

Like a dozen other communities around this state, my small town received a grant from the State Centennial Committee to fund a performance of what is arguably the greatest musical of all time...say it with me now....O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A...Oooooooooo-klahoma!

We're about as far off-Broadway as you can get, and the only stage/auditorium in town is at the old recently abandoned high school/middle school. However the good folks involved in the production are doing their darndest to put on a good show and with only a few days left until showtime, the rehearsals are starting to get that frenetically excited feel to them.

Since C wanted to participate in some way when we told her about it, we took her to the chorus auditions. She barely managed to squeek out a note or two, and since the Play runners were taking just about anyone who showed up for auditions, we found our 2nd grader playing the part of a pioneer girl in the roving chorus of the show.

Rehearsals have been Sunday afternoons for the last month or so, and stage rehearsals have been going over for several weeks.

C seems to be enjoying herself since several of her friends have joined her in the chorus, PK loves running around the auditorium during rehearsals and pretending that she herself is "Laurie" whenever the pretty young coed who is playing the surrey-with-the-fringe-on-top riding girl takes the stage.

And I have been taking advantage of the semi-alone time to read Harry Potter #7.

After many stolen moments in the drive-up line at Sonic, in the parking lot waiting to pick up Wifey's car from the mechanic (100K mile service), on the throne at home (ahem), one late night marathon session and three 3-hour play rehearsals later, I finished the 700+ page tome.

It was after 10 p.m. and the cast looked as drained physically as I was emotionally, after reading the final 100 pages of the Deathly Hallows.

In a perfectly iconically ironic literary moment, I found myself reading the "19-years later" epilogue at the close of the book as the cast was singing the final stanzas of the final song of the play,"Oh what a beautiful morning," on stage (you know you know the words...go ahead and sing it).

Have to add that wherever and whenever I was out in public reading the book, somebody commented to me about it -- "How's THE book?", "What part are you up to?", "I finished it yesterday," "I had to get two copies because I couldn't wait for my daughter to finish it," etc., etc.

How's that for pop culture product awareness.

Finally, I must comment on a previous post wherein I listed a few predictions of the outcome of the 7th and final installment of the Harry Potter series. Toes to toes I was 2.5 for 8 in my predictions. Not good enough to be inducted into the Harry Potter Fanboy Hall of Fame, I'm afraid.

Which, could be a good thing.

Nearing the end of summer road trip

I've heard bad mojo about the I-35 highway and the high crime rate that borders the lengthly corridor since moving to my small Oklahoma town several years ago.

It seems to be one of the most disliked stretches of road in the state, not only for the high incidences of drug/illegal immigrant trafficking, but for the poor state of the actual roadway itself.

Perhaps the fact that the I-35 will carry unsuspecting Okie travelers into the heart of the state occupied by the "mostly" undesirable breed of American known as Texan's has something to do with it.

Hey, Texan's -- don't blame me for that last bit of sarcasm...I'm just an outside observer here. Remember, I'm from California and to my public educated mind, U.S. Geography lessons usually stopped at the California border.

So, with the groundwork set for our final family truckster trip of the summer, we decided to brave this mostly 4-lane stretch of cement and asphalt and head on down to the southern environs of our panhandled state for some family R&R.

We left on Friday, after PK's final swim lesson of her 2-week session, and C's final day of Summer Kid's College at a local community college. Tae Kwon Do, advanced tumbling and Varietal Art were all a hit, but she was now ready to live a few days of unstructured family unit bliss.

First stop was the town of Paul's Valley for a few hours of Daddy indulgement at the Action Figure and Toy Museum, centrally located on the town's very quaint, red brick paved main street.

As much as I dug the trip back to childhood (okay, my adulthood is occupied by a few of the fantasy items in the museum...just a few) the whole time I was there I was thinking how cool it would have been to be sharing the experience with my big brother, who has amassed quite an impressive collection of Action Figures himself.

Every so often, my oldest would yell out, "Hey, doesn't Uncle Brian have one of those?" -- to which I would just smile and reply, "Yep, but I think he's got two of them...one still in the bubble pack and one in his display case."

Perhaps if we all float some comments his way, dear bro will send along some pics of his impressive collection.

Before we scooted out of the lovely little town named after American Pioneer Smith Paul, we partook of a yummy old-fashion root beer float at an ancient use-to-be-a-car-hoppin'-drive-up joint in downtown called the Dairy Twist.

I'm not sure what the many locals who were stool sittin' at the counter in the itty bitty eatery thought of my little ethnic family unit, but the smiles the girls generated from those nearby us as they engorged themselves on the frothy frozen treats were unspoken and honest to goodness.

Our sweet teeth satisfied and mindsets finally starting to jibe with the fact that we were actually on a vacation, we piled into the 42-mpg truckster (highway) and aimed directly south for Davis, Oklahoma and a hearty supper filled with "cascading tacos."

to be continued...

Sirens in the streets

Cruising the streets of my small town, you'll find a surprisingly resplendent number of folks behind the wheel of their vehicles who have embraced the technological advancements of interpersonal communication, mobile audio/visual entertainment and data storage/retrieval.

At any given time a well-wheeled woman in a late model Town Car will drive by sporting the latest Uhura-inspired Bluetooth cell phone ear bob.

Pre-adult minded citizens will bounce by, testing the limits of their amps and subwoofers hidden in the bowels of their pick-em up trucks, Pontiac GrandAm's and Dodge Neon's.

Soccer Mom's pulling a livestock trailer with their offspring's blue-ribbon winning pigs, sheep, cows and goats keep in constant contact via flip-up cell phones.

Teens pulling out of the parking lot at the shaved iced stand are text messaging good natured insults to their buddies a few blocks away who are pulling into the Sonic Drive-In.

Ankle-biters enter the third row seat zoned-out squad, absorbing the comic genius musings of the SpongeBob DVD playing on the 9" lcd monitor in the center console of their folk's Explorer.

IPod's are spitting out 0's and 1's in melodious form, ring tones from the Flaming Lips and Toby Keith are being downloaded and programmed into Razr phones and directions to Mrs. Whipple's Grandma's farm about 7 miles northeast of town are being patiently and politely narrated from a Lexus LS430's in-dash GPS system.

Yet with all these high tech hubbub happenings, the lone siren and flashing lights atop a speeding ambulance, somehow finds it's way through the electronic static surrounding the drivers of my small town.

And they pull over.
Without hesitation.
Every last one of them.
I've witnessed it time and time again.
People here just pull over.

No excuses are made. No "I didn't hear it," or "I couldn't hear it over my stereo," or "No one else moved, so why should I," or "I don't understand English," or "I panicked and didn't know what to do," or "The ambulance was in the other lane," or "It was going in the other direction, so I don't have to pull over, do I?"

Everyone on the road just pulls over.

And they stay pulled over for what seems to me to be a very long time. Folks here seem to take what I've deemed a "grace" period -- sort of paying respect for the person traveling in the back of the ambulance.You mean folks where y'all'ur from don't pull over when they hear a siren coming?...asks the young Firefighter sitting next to me at the wi-fi equipped Main Street coffee shop where we're discussing the topic of this blog entry.I once saw a woman roll down her window and give the one finger salute to an ambulance that had pulled up behind her and was wanting to get past," I tell him.That happen here, I 'd get their license plate down, find out who they were and call their Mama out on them...that'll learn 'em" he retorts.Indeed.

500 posts

Seeing as how this blog was originally intended as a journal of sorts to bequeath to my beloved daughters at some future time, I'm taking the milestone of my 500th post to look back, sort through, collate, edit and collect the most relevant of the last 2+ years of posting for self-publishing into hardback book form.

I've found several online sites that allow and encourage such madness, my chosen one at the moment being lulu.com.

I know that a good portion of the readers of YASTM are blogger themselves, and I encourage you all to do the same at some point in your blogosphere journey.

While I may be placing much to much emphasis and importance on the role that my miscellaneous remblings will play in the future eyes of my daughter's and their families, thinking that someday, in a galaxy far, far, away, a descendant of mine gets a chuckle at something that I wrote, makes me smile for doing so.

Out of the e world and onto the printed page -- the journey will most definitely continue.

Remember those cheesy mix tapes you'd make for your gf/bf?

At first glance I dismissed the shiny round and flat object laying in the grass as another escapee from the trash truck that rumbled down Main Street to the dump just north of town earlier in the A.M.

But when Franny and I passed it again at the tail end of our morning walk, the 15 minutes of walking the pooch had found my mind filled with thoughts of the discarded CD and the possibilities contained therein.Could be a dvd copy of the the 1982 version of Annie starring where-is-she-now actress, Aileen Quinn.

Possibly, it was a security encoded disc containing the launch codes to the ICBM's sitting in the launch silos disguised as grain elevators just north of town.

More than likely it was a music CD of some stray Country Western band that I'd recognize as easily as that girl I knew in 5th grade who used to like to rub my crew cut during class while I threaded the film projector.Regardless, since my curiosity could be easily satiated by a quick pickup, cleaning, and insertion of the shiny digital disc into my laptop, it was a no-brainer.

Oh, and there's no way I would have attempted springing this alien cd onto any peecee running any version of Windoze, whereas I felt totally confident sticking this plastic media of unknown origin into my Mac OSX runner. Reason # 1492 why I am a Mac guy.

A few "haaah-haaah's" of breath for moisture, my tee-shirt and fingers as cleaning instruments, a quick check for any gnarly surface scratches and the cd that was only minutes before high tech road kill, found it's way into my laptops SuperDrive.

The disc mounted, iTunes launched and what I found was an unusual, and surprisingly eclectic collection of songs -- none of which were in my current digital music library I might add, so score on that front.

Listen to the short collage I put together of the songs on the CD, and confirm for me that this would be the absolute LAST collection of songs you would expect to find on a mix (tape) CD that was sniffed out and recovered from a rural Oklahoma roadside.

If the Palace Flophouse Boys had SUVs

A wave of frantic, frustrated frogs, big ones, little ones, brown ones, green ones, men frogs and women frogs, a wave of them broke over the bank, crawled, leaped, scrambled...

...But never in the frog history had such an execution taken place. John Steinbeck, Cannery RowSteinbeck's tale of Doc, Mack, Hazel, Dora, and of course, Lee Chong on the street in Monterey named for the industry surrounding a small, oily fish is one of my favorite books of all time. I've read the short novel (and it's sequel of sorts, Sweet Thursday) at least once a year for the last 20 years.

True, I'm a fan of Steinbeck's other works, but his tales from the "Row" will be one of the few books I'll be cremated with at the end of days.

In my small town there is a large, recently constructed and brightly lit locally owned bank that sits on the main drag through the city.

Dominating the more than ample parking area is a multi-lane drive-up teller service area, completely protected from bad weather elements, with nightime lighting provided by what must be banks upon banks of daylight balanced xenon bulbed tunnel light fixtures -- ultra secure for a late night ATM withdrawal, or drive-up window transaction during a white-out snow storm.

But in the wilds of a rural Oklahoma small town in the heat and humidity of a steamy July night, these same beacons of brightness and safe-and-soundness draw the entire varmint food chain from miles around.

Little bugs bring the big bugs. Big bugs bring the slimy and slithery beasties, which bring the furry critters at the top of the varmint food pyramid -- most of which possess the survival instincts to dash away home at the first sign of a Dodge Durango rolling on 20's and looking for a quick pull of a pair of Jackson's from the auto money machine.

Not the frogs again!

After a busy Friday night at the banks drive-up ATM, the toady carnage remaining in the driving paths leading up to and away from the cash machine robot is enough to swear off nutritional ingestion of any kind for a good day or two.

What the frogs and toads must think of this killing field, or why they keep allowing themselves to be lured into this rotating wheel of deep tread radial death is beyond me.

So, I turn to Steinbeck for answers, for it has been awhile since I visited the "Row."

Death by shoveling

One of the strongest men I've ever met was my wife's Mom's Uncle, Everett Smith.

He was a 4th generation Oklahoma farmer made of the kind of stock that worked his land and livestock, literally til the day he died.

I met him back in '89 while we were scouting locations for a project -- we ended up using his land and an empty house on his property.

Everett was a towering figure, appropriately dressed in dirty denim overalls that barely covered his 6'6" frame. Other than his height, he was unremarkable in terms of shirt popping Schwarzenegger musculature. Nope, Everett's strength was of the sinewy, muscle-to-bone variety, wrought not from flourescent lighted gym memberships, but from the daily workouts of "just doin' chores," as he once put it.

Hay bales that took the entire 200+ lbs. of my bulky-not-quite-done-with-my-baby-fat body weight to move, were whispers in the wind to Everett. While I attempted to help him unload a trailer full of bundled and dried alfalfa stalks -- struggling to pull the sneeze inducing rectangular objects off the back and down the ramp, the Farmer Smith would heft the bales up, out, and over the side of the trailers walls with a single arm, all the while telling me a tale of when his little brother once found himself outside in the cool evening breeze, without clothes and a clue to how he got there -- apparently sleepwalking runs deep in his family's genes.

Once the trailer was unloaded, while rubbing my arms rendered almost inoperable by the 3 or 4 hay bales I managed to offload, Everett unlatched and pulled the trailer off to the side of a building, never flinching or stumbling for a second.

Later I went back to see if I could handle the rusty red painted trailer that the old famer in his 70's had bandied about like a Tonka toy. Mid-way through my first attempt and the third or fourth popping noise I heard/felt way down low, I stopped, thinking that getting surgery for multiple hernias was no way for a man in his mid-20's to spend his wonder years.

Everett died over a decade ago, several months after his beloved one-and-only wife, Jane Anne, lost her battle with Alzheimer's. I hadn't thought of the gentle man with the mighty forearms in quite some time, however a recent foray out into the jungle that is my backyard, fired a neuron or two in my brain, triggering a memory of the gentleman farmer and his casual method of pest control that I witnessed one fine, summer afternoon.

The unusual through-the-summer rain and steady Oklahoma sun have given rise to an almost mutant-like growth pattern to the grassy environs of my yard. Grass and weeds that were normally controllable with a once weekly dosage of whacking and mowing are now hooked on a twice a week fix, testing both my patience and lawn maintenace equipment.

The wetter than wet weather has also given rise to the local toad/frog population, as evidenced by the surprising scattering of the small bounding amphibians whenever approaching an overgrown area of the yard.

Suffice it to say, the casualty rate of the slick adult polywogs has increased numerically with their upswing in population totals. Many have fallen prey to curious yard animals, domestic pets attempting to get in touch with their feral personas, SUV deep tread radials, and the occasional swooping hawk on the lookout for a slippery snack.

Then there are the amphibious casualties resulting from my small town's war of the overgrown lawn and garden. Whose to say how many hoppers have fallen prey to the sharpened swing blades of a self-powered push mower, or a 23 HP John Deere zero-turn radius grass biteN'bagger.

The carnage on my own homefront involved some deep shag bermuda, my bright orange and black electric powered GrassHog, and a covey of thumb sized toads who mistaken followed their instincts to hop away from my footsteps and directly into the whirling death of nylon at the end of my weed whacker.

I'm slightly ashamed to say (only slightly, I am a guy afterall) that it took several seconds of this froggy massacre to realize what was happening, another several seconds to decide my best course of action, and a few seconds after that to pry my finger off the whacking instruments trigger.

Enter Farmer Everett, stage right, directly into my memory.We were walking and talking and heading into a small silo consructed of corrugated metal and rivets. Everett carried a flat nosed shovel which I figured he was going to use to remove some of the feed grain that he informed me was stored inside the inverted funnel shaped structure.

As we entered the building, peeling the doorway open and allowing daylight to rush past us, Everett calmly raised the shovel to hip level and started...slamming it down on the dozen or so mice that were scurrying about the dull yellow grain.

WHACK. WHOMP. WHOOP. WHISH.

It was a farm version of whack-a-mouse with the prize going to the 3 or 4 cats who had seen us enter the silo and were now gathered outside the door, smacking their lips and awaiting their treats of flattened but still slightly fluttering mouse flapjacks.

As Everett would smack a mouse, in a single elegant motion that even the best fry cook at Jimmy's Egg would envy, he'd scoop it up and toss it out the door. I quickly jumped out of the way, lest I get a freshly shovel squashed rodent on my freshly laundered Polo pullover.

The carnage was chaotic, but Everett was cool, calm and collected. Just another chore, after all.What was just another "chore around the farm" for Everett became a "Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore" moment for me -- totally lost to my memory until the the other day when I was doing "chores around my own farm."

Spock dies!

When Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan was released, my friends and I were the first in line for the coveted 7:55 p.m. showing at the AVCO Center Cinema in Westwood, California. While the second chapter of the film series based on the 60's tv space drama had an earlier screening, anyone who was anyone (at least in our adolescent minds) avoided the early shows and held out for a seat during the coveted post-drive time showing.

My brother and his friends took in the earlier showing, choosing instead to forego the "happening" screening for the opportunity to see it before anyone else.

After geeking out on all things Trek-like for several hours, and basking in the self-deluding glow of being the first Spockeroonies in line for the "popular" screening, the anticipation level has risen to a warp drive pitch.

This was in the days before movie spoilers and leaked scripts would appear on the internet, and story super secrecy at the studios was status quo. All the better to enjoy a much loved tv-show franchise flick.

Finally, the time came for the "non-persons" in the 5:35 p.m. to start filing out of the theater, thankfully at the opposite end of the sidewalk, lest the wind accidentally carries some important tidbit of Wrath of Khan movie trivia to our Vulcan pinched ears.

In all the excitement of the pre-entrance commotion, not one of our group noticed the grinning face poking his head out of the door in which we were about to enter the auditorium.

Oh, the horror. It was my brother -- one of the non-persons from the earlier showing.

Unlike the rest of his fellow 5:35 p.m. herd, he broke the ranks, broke opening-night-movie etiquette, and broke the misplaced but dedicated spirits of the dozen or so fellow line-standers surrounding us, by yelling out from around the slightly opened glass door, "Spock dies!"

Sure, we chuckle about it now, but at the time, the groans and jeers resounding from the surrounding crowd were enough to curl an Andorian's antenna and drive my brother into a joyfully satisfied warp drived mischevious shit-eating grin.

I bet he's grinning that same grin as he reads this post, aren't you Bro?

Which brings me to this very rare, weekend post that is completely off topic from the theme of my blog -- which is why it's being posted on my usual "blog-day-off." Since this blog is/was originally intended to act as a record of sorts for my daughters to have and keep long after I've left this world, I feel that including my thoughts on the following topic to be relevant...of sorts.

The 7th and final Harry Potter installment comes out in a week.

In preparation for this, I'm ready to reveal some of my own personal predictions for the outcome of the book. These predictions are based entirely on my own preferences and observations of the book series and in no way should be taken any more serious than the fact that Spock does die in ST2-TWoK, but comes back as funny as ever in the next two Star Trek movies, as well as appearances in the ST-TNG series.

So, why are my own personal predictions of the final HP chapter relevant from a record keeping perspective? As of this date, my oldest is 7 1/2 years old and has absolutely no interest in anything Harry Potter. As many times as I've told her that in a few years time she'll be pouring through the 500-900 page HP manifestos, she'll claim loudly and with all the fervor of a budding chapter book reader, that no Potter'd storybook will ever be held aloft in her muggle hands...okay, I added that last part, but you get the picture.

Therefore, on this, the veritably monumental eve of the release of the final printed appearance of the bespeckled wizard-in-training -- an event that I wish I could be sharing with my "not-ready-for-prime-time" literature daughter, I will put down on e-paper what I hope to someday be discussing with my beloved children when the time comes for them to be wondering what becomes of the Hogwarts crew in Book 7.

Non-HP readers/fans need not read any further. Go enjoy your weekend.Setup from Half-Blood Prince...

I believe that Snape killed Dumbledore to SAVE Malfoy. Dumbledore was not pleading for HIS life at the end of Half-Blood Prince...he was pleading for Snape to kill him instead of forcing Malfoy to do it. Snape is loyal to Dumbledore.

The Deathly Hallows...

Neville manages to kill Beatrix, avenging his parents.

Harry, Ron, and Hermoine do away with Voldemort...or so they think.

Harry and Ginny get married, after Voldemort is THOUGHT to have been killed.

In the final battle with Voldemort, Ginny dies (taking the killing blow meant for Harry - much like his Mother did), but only before weakening Voldemort first, allowing Harry and Neville to deliver the killing blows.

Malfoy and Snape are instrumental in the final defeat of Voldemort.

Ron and Hermoine end up alive, and well, and together at last (duh).

Harry ends the book by walking the earth...like Kane in Kung Fu (okay, not really, but it would be funny).

Amazon will be delivering my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on it's release date, July 21st. You may not hear from me for a couple days after the 21st, depending on how long it takes me to read it and get on with my freakin' life already.

Standin' on her own two little feet

It started with C running out of the pool. She had a concerned look on her face and stopped short of getting me and the John Rain spy novel I was reading from getting soaked by chlorinated water dripping off of her head.Daddy, I'm gonna tell you something, but you can't get up.Okay, I say, wondering what it is she's about to tell me that will probably make me upset enough to stick a bookmark in my novel and rise from the wooden replica adirondack chair that I've been sitting in for the past hour.

I love how kids tell stories in one long, run on sentence. Here was C's:
Me and some other girls were playing with that green ring, and it got tossed too far into the deep end, and these other kids picked it up and started playing with it and when we asked for it back and told them that we were playing with it, they told us that we had to wait our turn.I kept my seat.You mean those green rings that belong to the pool, and that they use in swimming classes?She nodded.And you told them that you were playing with the rings and they still wouldn't return them?Another nod, but this one was a bit more sheepish than the last. I could tell she was starting to not like the tone my voice was developing so I backed off a bit and asked...What kids?At that point she shook her head and exclaimed "oh no Daddy, you promised you wouldn't get up!"(Starting to get up) I'm just going to go and talk to them...
(Pushing me back down) No Daddy, I said you had to stay in your chair.After some further explanatory exclamations on her part, it seems that she was more fearful of the snidely stated "You had to bring your Dad to help you," remarks than she was of dealing with the situation directly.

Now, a more sensitive and thoughtful Dad may have figured out a way to deal with the situation that helped their daughter develop a better sense of self worth and independence. Or at the very least have found some words of comfort and care that combined a confidence building phrase or two with some stern fatherly direction.

Instead, I spewed forth with...Well, then why did you come and tell me if you didn't want me to do anything about it?With that she shrugged her shoulders, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and stormed back into the pool to join her little friends, while I was left to ponder the exchange that had just taken place.

While I'm always happy to be told when I should act and when I should just remain in my chair by a female member of the species (I am after all just a goofy, clueless male), at that moment I feared that I may have failed that particular test.

Was my daughter looking to me for an alternate solution to the issue?

Was she hoping that there would be some nugget of advice I could produce that would both make her feel better and get the ring back without causing her any embarrassment?

Was the most obvious solution of direct confrontation that my Neanderthal mind spewed forth inappropriate in the politically complex dynamics of the neighborhood pool arena?

In retrospect, I think my little girl was just looking for a little reassurance from me that I had her back, in the event that her solution to the issue caused a tad of turmoil.

In the end, Dad's are always good for turmoil.

Fargo in my small town

A few weeks back these items appeared in our local paper's most recent crime roll.

As an avid reader of mystery and spy novels, I caught myself having a brain feast on the nefarious possibility that all three of the car related incidents were somehow involved in a crime spree of a more magnificent scale.



Unable to find a more common thread to take hold of and pull to it's logical conclusion for the big picture crime, here are my musings none-the-less...

June 14 - An able mechanic, wandering the highways of America with a good set of jumper cables and a few spare parts could make a pretty good dime repairing and driving off with the wide assortment of roadside automotive roadkill.

Course, if this had been a "tan Ciera" with some blood stains in the back and a "funny looking-kinda guy" behind the wheel, I'd just keep moving along (Fargo fans Unite!)

June 15 - There's a story circulating amongst my wife's family about an Aunt who had a Toyota T-100 pickup for 10+ years, traded it in for a brand new Chevy Silverado, took it back a few hours later because the brand new Ford wasn't half the truck her decade old Toyota was, only to find that the dealer had sold the Toyota truck minutes after she had traded it in.

Makes me wonder if the Chevy truck thief had second thoughts, returned the truck and is now out trolling for a Toyota pickup to steal.

June 21 - Proves that people will steal anything that isn't nailed down, bolted on, locked up....or has a good bead of weld on it.

Black Beauty is a boy!?

My 7 1/2 year old just finished reading the classic novel, Black Beauty.

Naturally, once completed, she got a dollar from me (buck a book, that's the deal for this summer) and a trip to the library to rent the video.

For those not familiar with the story, BB is an autobiographical memoir of a horse, told in "first person" narrative.

Surprisingly, our local library had a DVD of a 70's badly-animated production from Hanna-Barbera.

Not surprising (to me at least) was that the DVD version utilized a first person narrator to tell the story.

Surprising to C was that Black Beauty's voice was that of the male persuasion.

See, to her 7 1/2-year old pre-estrogen induced literary imagination, Black Beauty was a girl horse. Naturally.

So imagine her dismay and, I'll come right out and say it, disgust, to find out that the horse she was reading about, routing for, sympathizing with and picturing in her 'tween 1st and 2nd grade head, was actually a penis packing boy horse.

Needless to say, she was bummed.

Undaunted at this discovery, she rifled through the book, looking for any reference to the nubian horse as a "she." I'm not sure what she found within the 186 large print text pages, but there, on the back jacket was printed the following passage:"Living at Squire Gordon's country estate, the spirited young horse, Black Beauty, is well taken care of and happy. But when the squire is forced to sell off his horses, Black Beauty's life changes as she is passed from one cruel master to another..."That did it. Our small town is fortunate to have a video/dvd rental store with a relatively good selection of older titles. A quick call to the counter, some fast keyboarding into their database, and a VHS copy of this 1994 live action version of the film came up as available and on the shelf.

$.99 and a few minutes later, I got to watch C's jaw drop in disbelief as Black Beauty's live action movie voice was not only male, but tinged with a bit of a Scottish accent as well (voiced by none other than the X-Men's Nightcrawler, Alan Cumming).

Such a harsh lesson for a 7 1/2-year old girl to learn at the very beginnings of a lifetime of literary liaisons.

Although I am looking forward to the day when she reads Melville's Moby Dick, whereupon questioning whether or not the white whale is a boy or a girl, I'm guessing she'll miss the phallic imagery and naming convention and will come up with her own distinctive opinion on the matter.

However, I'm not too sure I'd want my 7 1/2-year old reading Melville just yet.

Huck Finn anyone?

Cast offs

Until I met my wife, had my kids, and met my in-laws, I had only made two trips to a hospital emergency room in my entire life thus far.7th grade, touch football. Got blindsided from a headblow by Eva Chen, a 78 lb. waif of a girl with arm bones the diameter of my air compressor hose and a smile that would dazzle even the most dedicated member of the "He-Man-Woman-Hater's-Club."The next thing I remember is the angelic face of the lovely Ms. Chen standing over me, her facial expression caught midway between a Spice Girl smirk and genuine concern, asking me if I was okay. ER doc said it was a mild concussion and that I should stay away from Eva Chen unless I wanted to take tackling lessons.

Eva went on to become one of WWF's leading money-makers in the Orient and retired with a staggering 42-2 record.

Not really. I think she sells real estate in Northern California. I hear she's really tough when negotiating closing costs.Mid-90's, wrapping up production on the first two stress-filled episodes of a PBS series. Appendicitis hits after a heavy meal of chow fun noodles. I now have a scar to match my Dad's.Classic moment came when my friend and Producer of the series came into my hospital room post-op, pulled me aside and asked me if stress can cause an appendix to burst. I lied and told him I didn't think so, but anythings possible. I still got paid for that week.

So, with only two trips to the ER under my belt, unlike many of my accident prone contemporaries, I was never privvy to the secrets of the broken bone bondage. Sure I had written humorous insults and drawn my version of Kilroy on many plaster coverings on friends and acquaintances over the years, but the mysteries of the procedures and practices associated with shattered subclavial shroudings had eluded me.

Until PK broke her arm a few weeks ago.

We managed to scuttle our way through the do's and don'ts of cast ownership and before we knew it, the day of cast removal was upon us.

Fearing that our small town doctor's ofice may pull some ancient, but tried and true form of a farm-type implement to cut the cast off, I stammered in awe when the nurse pulled out the coolest stainless steel encased saw I had ever seen.

It oscillated instead of spun.
It hummed instead of buzzed.
It sliced through the thickest part of the cast like Eva Chen against the OU Defensive line.
It left not a spec of dust in the air, nor a shred of fiberglass on my little one's arm.

I, had serious saw envy.

The nurse must have recognized the look on my face and the serious bulge in my...eyes, for while she wiped down PK's newly minted arm with a cleanser/moisturizer, she proceeded to tell me about a home version of this most coveted piece of cutting machinery that was available...for a price.

Here it is, in all it's German Engineered, as-seen-on-tv, wonder and glory. The Fein Multimaster Oscillating Tool.

Oh, and PK was fine, btw.

Half way to Noah

Today marked the 20th straight day of recorded rainfall here in Oklahoma.

Last month saw record rainfall amounts and topped the charts as the wettest June in the history of the state.

My father is obsessed with weather.

Our weather, not his weather.

He retired to a city..."blessed with one of the mildest climates in the United States, dubbed by USA Today as having the second best climate in the country. The reasons include:
* A mean high of 75° in July and 64° in January
* Less than 11 inches of rain every year
* Among the fewest heating and cooling degree days in the U.S."And boy, is he cocky about it.

On a weekly basis, he'll chime in via email or land line (no cell phone in my old man's future -- and he still uses dial up net access), ranting about the high (or low) temps, extreme (or total lack thereof) humidity, rain or snowfall levels, winds, hail diameter size, tornadoes that have touched down, fire, brimstone, and the latest plagues of locusts that have descended upon us poor Okies -- all the while raving about the weather outside his Oceanside bay windows.

My wife claimed that I too was guilty of being a California weather whoremonger, taking PERSONAL credit and responsibility for the extremely fine climatic conditions that befall the southern portions of the Golden State on a regular basis.

I called it a purely So Cal characteristic, inbred into most 3rd and 4th generation Los Angeleno's.

She called it annoying.

But now, having lived in an area that actually HAS weather, I'm more in touch with it on a daily basis, much more appreciative when it's pleasant, and much, much more in awe of it when it stands up, rolls over, plays fetch, and does other tricks previously unseen by my west coast eyes.

20 straight days of rain, looking for a blackjack tomorrow.

Glub, freakin' glub.

A fast girl in the fast lane

Back to the interstate running through my front yard, the other day I happened to catch up with a fellow Golden Stater who appeared to be on the move to points beyond the land of Eureka!

On first glance I wasn't too sure about trying to strike up a conversation, but a quick appraisal of how she was outfitted and the quality of the company she was traveling with made me feel easier about approaching a total stranger.

She was obviously from California, in ways that only a fellow left-coaster can spot with a particular ornamental badge on her backside stating her roots as an authentico Cali-girl.

Her vintage was a tad younger than my own, born around the time of the Tet Offensive, RFK entering the Presidential race and Hair opening on Broadway - 1968. I have to say that she looked pretty darn good for her age and was probably making somebody very happy at home.

After doing my Cro-Magnon manly duty of checking out her chassis, her curves, and all of her attributes that would make any fella with a hankering for some extra-marital fun and adventure whip out their checkbook and yell, "how much?", I recalled what I had waiting for me at home and came to my senses.

I did manage to get a few shots of her with my handy dandy digital camera that I keep with me. Scroll down...if you dare to witness what sort of stranger on the road can make me think such uncharacteristically naughty thoughts...

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I give you, a pristine, 1968 Plymouth GTX, California plates, headed for somewhere north/east,

...where I hope she finds a climate controlled garage, 92 octane fuel, and cases upon cases of Royal Purple synthetic 10W40 waiting for her at the end of her journey.

Little pink houses on the intestate

"He's got an interstate runnin' through his front yard
You know, he think, that he's got it so good."
John Mellencamp, Pink HousesI've truthfully admitted before that I'm very glad to have transitioned from the "big city" to my small town by finding a house with a 4-lane interstate running up and down at the end of our driveway.

True, it's noisy at times.

Truer still that everyone driving by can tell you exactly what funny logo was on my t-shirt when I stepped out to get the mail this morning.

Sadly true that we can't let the dog run around the front yard unfettered for fear that she may end up stuck between the front grill of Mr. Peterbilt hauling the north half of a doublewide on an early Monday morning.

But to a person like me...

...who spent his childhood looking 150' down a hill at the end of our backyard onto the 10 freeway where it transitions with the 710,
...who lived his early adult years in a condo a mere 100' from the $1 million-a-mile sound-barrier beige cinder block wall that was built along the San Bernardino freeway,
...who carried his blushing bride and two newborn daughters over the threshold of a single-story Spanish-influenced 40's ranch home two blocks from a major offramp of the San Berdo,

...having the sound of traveling vehicles fill the sometimes eerie quiet of my small town is sanity-bringing relief to my citified ears.

How much for that big'un there?

Spotted on a stretch of 4-lane highway south of my small town.

I asked. Kid told me it wasn't for sale then stated with all the authority of a Special Forces trainee, that it wouldn't do me any good without the launcher anyway.

Good to know.

Not the "craw..." "Da Craw....DA CRAW!"

In keeping with the eclectic-restoration themed decor of our 100-year old home, no ordinary bathtub would have fit the bill for our bathroom build-out extravaganza.

Luckily, there seemed to be a penchant a few years back to take old clawfoot bathtubs, paint them either OU red or OSU orange, stick them in elementary school classrooms to be used as book storage, comfy pillow filled reading sleds, seasonal decor and maybe even a humiliating time-out penalty box of sorts.

The one my F-i-Law found at a garage sale had several coats of OSU orange roller painted on the outside. It took several hours of sweat equity and 4 - 60 grit 4 1/2" flap discs to get all the paint off, but after the sanding. some bondo word, two coats of HVLP shot automotive primer and a coat of mildew-resistant laced latex, I think it's looking pretty sano.

The interior of the tub was in relatively decent shape for a bathroom fixture that's almost as old as our house. There are only two rust spots where the patina has eaten through the porcelin paint, both of which are miniscule and easily repairable using a myriad of supplies I keep in my garage for automotive repair, paint, and touch-up.

The claw feet are cast iron depictions of some sort of raptor appendage clutching an orb of unknown origin. They are detailed enough for me to want to strip the coats of OSU orange tinted latex off of them, get a coat of protective rustoleum over their craggy surfaces, and maybe hit it with some fine brush detailing -- time and patience permitting.

This particular clawfoot wonder of the bath taking arts was picked up by my F-i-L at a garage sale for $25 and included the faucet and drainage hardware. Another tub in similar condition, but painted OU crimson, was bid on, won and paid for by S at an auction last year.

No, we aren't planning on giving our "new" old tubs a collegiate hue of any sorts, instead opting to get several coats of bright white on the exteriors of the tub twins.

And even if we did, deep down I probably still bleed Bruin Blue and Gold -- hey, a blue tub with bright gold-leafed claw foots....that's a look I may be able to deal with.




BTW, the title of this post will only be groked by the most die hard "Get Smart" fans. For all others, all I have to say is..."you missed it by that much."

Beyond the Haunted Mansion's windows

Growing up in SoCal, trips to Disneyland are such frequent outings that by the time you reach teendom, you start straying off the designated paths and begin exploring the nether regions of the park and it's environs.

More than once my friends and I were busted and threatened with park expulsion by Mickey's Private Army for breaking one of the sacred edits of Disneydom - "Pay no attention to that man behind the green curtain."

One such incident involved sticking my head behind and around a wall facade in the Haunted Mansion. Upon exiting the "hanging corpse elevator" you are ushered down a long hallway, with a thunder and lightning storm raging outside the windows. As a kid growing up in LA, I remember chuckling at the frequency of the lightning strikes illuminating the wall a few feet behind the fake window.

I mean, come on, real lightning storms don't look like that...at least not in LA. But here in Oklahoma however...

Here's a short vidclip I shot the other night during an approaching thunderstorm. It's nothing special here, just another early summer light show in the sky courtesy of this wacky weather pattern that's been plaguing our state since Spring Break.

It's a short clip, but the light show went on like this for a good 20 minutes. I shot it with my trusty old Sony Digital8 using the infrared Nightshot feature.

No sound, music, or effects accompany the vidclip. If you really need some audio to fill the void, imagine the sounds of dozens of tourists excitedly strolling down a Haunted Mansion hallway, gawking at the spooky pictures on the wall and holding tight to their sweetie's sweaty palms.

Small town marketing

Seems folks out here haven't forgotten the finer points in calling a horse and horse and naming a business after what it aims to sell or service.

From this weeks classifieds in our small town's newspaper...

Today I got carded

The stages of "Showing your ID-dom"

Pre-legal
My generation was probably the last one to be able to pull off an amateur fake ID job. Computer technology has all but rendered the days of the "exacto-knife / rub-on-letters" driver's license birth date manipulation obsolete. Funny how the prospect of getting "carded" as a pre-legal citizen was such a palm-sweat inducing threat.

Barely-legal
You were cocky and relished the moments when barmaids, casino workers, club doormen, and the occasional 7-11 clerk would ask to see your ID.

Way-past-legal
You're humored when asked to produce your proof of age and genuinely flattered when the waitress at Outback requests it. Your head stays swelled until your wife tells you that the restaurant policy requires everyone ordering alcohol to be carded, regardless of outward appearance.

So-past-legal, you're almost illegal
Now you'll get carded to verify that you do indeed qualify for the Senior Citizen blue plate special. "Gimme back my gol'durn driver's license you young cus and bring me and my wife a couple Arnold Palmer's with no ice."

The State of Oklahoma has found a new reason to ask any and everyone for their ID, witnessed by myself first hand yesterday when I tried to buy a package of Advil Cold and Sinus at the local Walmart pharmacy.Oklahoma was the first state to restrict the availability of pseudoephedrine, a decongestant crucial in making meth, by moving certain non-prescription cold tablets such as Sinutab and Sudafed behind the pharmacy counter. Shoppers in Oklahoma are limited in how many packets of the medication containing pseudoephedrine they can buy at one time and must show ID and sign for the tablets.
Amazing that in the 2+ years I've lived here, that this was the first time I've had to purchase a product containing this meth ingredient.

I need brake fluid. Guess I should have my ID ready for the clerk at Napa as well.

Carpetbaggers beware in my small town

There's a backyard full of puppies a few blocks walk from our house that the girl's absolutely MUST visit on a daily basis. That a classmate of C's resides in the house of little fuzzy furballs only adds to the positive elements surrounding a quick trek up and over for a visit.

Not long ago, while approaching the pupperoni house, I noticed a "stranger" talking to the Lady of the house on the front porch. He was dressed in a shirt and tie, was carrying a briefcase and a sales sample satchel of some sort.

A door-to-door salesman.
The solicitor general of the flim flam family.
Sir Carpetbagger, hocking his wares the old fashion way.
An original cold caller.

I thought these fellas had gone the way of Crystal Pepsi and Windoze users who thought Microsoft made a bug free operating system.

The last time a door-to-door sales pitch was made at me, was back in LA, made by a string of kids with large vinyl containers full of peanut brittle, caramel nut cluster candy, candles and coloring books. Any one item for $5 each and for the good cause of winning the saleskid a trip to Magic Mountain -- all in an effort to keep him off the streets and out of the gangster lifestyle.

Or I could refuse to buy something and have the kid kick my potted azalea plant over today, and maybe have to face him down at a street corner a few years down the road when he's a full fledged member of the local street gang.

I usually bought the peanut brittle.

Back to my small town...

D-2-D man and his potential customer appeared to be having a jocular conversation with each other, so I just waved to the Lady and continued our puppy trek.

At the end of the block, we approached the backyard to the house we've labeled as the "Rock Wall" house, due to the large artificial climbing wall that the owners have built for their kids to play on. Rock Wall house was full of girls, ages 5-12, who gathered around Franny for an extended session of "pet the pooch." One of the girls was Jayme, a softball teammate of C's.

I mentioned the "Stranger" I had seen down the block and inquired whether or not he had been by their house earlier. Immediately I was deluged by every stray fact (and some theory) that the slew of Nancy Drew's had gathered in their recognizance of the stranger."He asked where our parents were..."
"He was selling educational software..."
"His car had an Oklahoma tag on it, but there was a Georgia Tech sticker on the rear windown..."
"He seemed kinda creepy..."
"He was pretty tall, had brown hair and brown eyes..."
"I think he looked kinda like Will Gotchalk, don't you think he did kinda?"
"He said that even our Sheriff bought some software from him..."
"Was he wearing glasses....I don't remember if he was wearing glasses or not?"
"He was carrying a suitcase of some sort..."
"I told him that I lived here, and that our folks had just run to Braum's and would be back in a few minutes or so..."Have to admit, I was pretty impressed at how thorough their investigatory skills were.

The eldest of the gaggle seemed to have things well in hand and they knew what to do and who to call if anything looked out of sorts, so we walked home, thinking not much more about the Stranger.

Then this article comes out in the local paper...



A small town nut can have a hard shell to crack.

Rubbing the mastondon's member

The video doc I've been working on for the past year or so involves a local artist who was commissioned by the Oklahoma Centennial committee to sculpt a 16 ft. tall bronze of a relatively famous Oklahoman.

The intended placement of the final work of art is to be at a main crossroads in our small town's historic downtown.

From the conception stage on, I've been pushing for the Artist to include one part of the figure that was easily accessible from ground level.

My reason for this request was simple enough. People like to touch sculptures.

Witness Lincoln's shiny proboscis on his bust that sits watch at his tomb in Springfield, or John Harvard's gleaming shoe shod foot at the base of his statue on the Ivy League campus in Cambridge.

Throughout my limited travels here and abroad, I typically become an all-out tourist and in an attempt to feel more a part of the monument, burial location, sculpture garden, or attraction I'm visiting, I like to make innocent (and non-sexual...c'mon people, clean up your minds) physical contact with whatever it is I'm posing in front of for a digital snapshot.

Good to know that I'm not unique in this fetish and that some traditions, however silly they may be, would be a continued part of my sculptural visitation rituals.

Until today that is.

While C was at her art camp downtown making abstract art from recycled materials, I took PK down to the Sam Noble Museum of Natural History, where I encountered this bronze of mammoth proportions...literally.

If you're already theorizing which body part of the bronzed pleistocenic beast was rubbed shiny and clean by thousands of visitor's hands, let me make it perfectly clear, that this was a MALE mammoth.

I have a perfectly innocent picture of my perfectly innocent daughter standing under the perfectly innocent shiny gold member, but for perfectly innocent reasons I won't include it here.

Had I been involved from the get-go on this project, I wonder what discussions I might have had with the artist regarding this odd, but perfectly innocent touching -of-the-artwork tradition.

Maybe being an artist gives them the luxury of not worrying about such things.

Perhaps MC Hammer was the one and only artist that was able to say with any authority, "You can't touch this."

Thus endeth the season

C's softball season ended last night with a rousing double header victory.

Her team of 7/8-year old, coach pitched, 11" Incrediball hitting local girls completed their season with a resounding 7 and 1 record.

The solitary loss came at the beginning of the game rotation. That one loss, however, was redeemed in spades last Monday night as our girls pulled off a solid trouncing of their old nemesis. It was a sweet victory.

As Assistant Coach, I was duly proud of the solid game play and improved skills demonstrated by just about every member of the 9-girl team.

Above all, they all seemed to be having fun, which was supposed to be the entire point of the exercise.

We rotated the girls so they got to play every position they wanted, even though some had definite strengths in certain positions, the Head Coach and I felt that fairness would lead to a higher level of enjoyment of the game, and win or lose, that was the intended goal of the league from the get go.

Amidst all the drama of parents wanting their kids to win, kids wanting to get a hit or make a play, coaches trying to squeeze every last ounce of performance from their players, and frogs trying to avoid being squished beneath the cleated feet of two teams of softball players, a modern day family drama unfolded before my eyes.

You recall "Jayme" with the two Moms. Well, Jayme was seriously distracted for the first few innings of our first game of the evening with news that her Dad was driving up from Texas to watch her play. Every other word out of her mouth involved her Dad, the last time she saw her Dad, what she was planning to do with her Dad, how she hoped he showed up soon, and how proud he'd be if she played really well.

The level of distraction grew even worse after he arrived, as every move she made, was followed by a glance his way to see if he was indeed watching every move she made.

The pressure on this little girl to perform for her Dad whom she hadn't seen for 2-months must have been extremely heightened, as her game play was sub-par to her normal level.

A particularly disastrous turn at bat occurred when Jayme overheard her older sister giggling with joy at the onset of being tickled by their Father. You could see the agony of sibling jealously seeping to the surface with each swing of her bat. Combined with her offspring'd desire to "get a hit" for her frequently absent father's attention, and you can well predict the disappointing outing she had at home plate.

Between inning changes when the other girls were downing gatorade, getting face spritzes from battery powered spray bottle fans, and suiting up for either offensive or defensive play, Jayme would be out trying to noodle into her Dad's lap out in the bleachers.

Eventually, because if was a double header and the girls got to play twice as much as during a single game, Jayme got a few hits, scored some runs, and made a decent outfield play.

A celebratory season ending pizza party at the local Pizza Hut followed, with many player's family members in tow, including Jayme's neo-nuclear extended family - minus one Mom for whatever reason. Jayme's Dad encouraged her to sit with the other girls , perhaps aware of the importance for her to bond with her teammates in a social setting.

She protested at first, but eventually ended up downing air baked pepperoni pies, sipping Dr. Pepper from paper cups, and watching an animated flick on the big screens situated around the hut with the rest of the blue jersey'd girl's of the team.

Much later, as I was tucking C into bed for a well deserved nighty-night, she told me that she was glad that Jayme's Dad came to the game, cuz "it was all she was talking about so it must have been important to her."

Kid's are darn observant.

She then told me she thought it was "pretty neat that I helped coach the team" and that was that.

All the thanks an inept asst. father/coach of his daughter's small town pee-wee softball team could want.

Is man dog's best friend?

Last night Franny and I stumbled upon a stranded canine compadre.

She was about 10 blocks from our house, attached to a 30' long leash with a broken hook at the end. Not much larger than Franny, but with much shorter legs and more salt than pepper fur, she was probably enjoying her bout of freedom until her leash decided to wrap itself around a gas meter several times, all but condemning her to an evening of intimacy with a cast steel contraption.

Until we stumbled upon her.

She was friendly and relatively calm considering the 9-month old schnoodle at the end of my leash that was yelping and performing all 3 acts of Cirque de Soleil in her face.

I surveyed the situation and figured it was too late to go knocking on doors (10:40 p.m. in my small town means that most of the townsfolk have turned off Jay Leno and gone to bed) to find the pooches owner. So Franny and I escorted the well behaved terrier mix home, gave her some kibble and water, a soft mat to sleep on, with the promise of deliverance on the morrow.

After breakfast this morning, PK and I led the stray pooch back to the scene of the crime, figuring to ding-dong some doors in an attempt to locate a home that was missing it's dog. I was feeling pretty good about our chances of finding at least some neighbor who would recognize the pooch and point us in the right direction.

Decent plan. Human intellect at work. Elementary, my dear.

However, as we approached the gas meter in question, the dog started pulling on the leash, which, until that point, hadn't been an issue. I stopped her for a second, did a couple turns in order to disorient her, but again, she immediately started pulling in a specific westerly direction.

For half a block, she pulled us on her own personal iditarod, until we found ourselves in front of what had to be her home. I took a chance, let her off the leash and watched gleefully as she pounced around the front yard, ran around the back, and through a doggy door into the garage.

Human intellect indeed. Had I just turned her loose last night, she would have ran straight for home and not have had to spend the night with strangers.

Well, at least she might have a little more appreciation for home, cuz nothing makes you miss home more than being away from it.

The Snow Cone Club...with apologies to John Hughes

I had ordered an amaretto flavored shaved ice with a sweet cream chaser, while PK was working on a dubba-bubba pink and blue bubble gum combo, when three lanky teenage boys sauntered up to the window, ordered their poison and planted themselves at the opposite end of the resin picnic table we were sitting at.

They were dressed in the appropriately distressed mode, faded jeans, logo'd tees, sneaks, with a token trucker hat on the noggin of the smallest of the trio.

I imagined they were tempering whatever foul language they may have had in their vocabulary as they engaged PK in a conversation about her hot pink cast and how she broke her arm. From there, the ice broken and the snow cones slowly disappearing down our gullets, the talk turned to back and forth questions about who they/we were, where they/we lived, and what flavor snow cone they/we were enjoying.

These boys were hard to categorize or place into a clique and I was amused at myself for trying to place their social standing amongst their peers, merely because it would have been easier for me to relate to them if only I could fit them into one of "The Breakfast Club" stereotypes.

Problem is, I'm not up on what cliques exist here in my small town, evidenced by my total lack of ability to call the shots on where these kids either fit in, or didn't.

Just where do the FFA kids with their cool blue jackets and award pins up the wazoo fit into the social ladder of teendom? Certainly not with the Napoleon Dynamite's and Pedro's of the town...

The jocks we constantly read about in the newspaper are also the ones who frequently are up for academic scholarships when heading for college, so that stereotype falls by the sidelines.

And the band kids don't seem to be the most dysfunctional group at social gatherings either. At the last football game I attended, when the band marched out on the field, most of the people in the bleachers actually sat quietly and listened to them play.

It seems to me then, that because of the relatively small size of the school system, the kids must overlap their activities, and not choose to specialize in one subject over another. Without this relentless mind meld of social, academic, farm based, and extracurricular activities, many of these enterprises would cease to exist.

I'm sure I'll ponder this issue more as my girls get older and start socially interacting more with their peer group, but at the moment, the conversation with the 3 snow cone snarfing teens turned to a topic more on par with what I was thinking about as a pre-driving teenager -- cars.

More on the interesting hairpin and high bank turns that this conversation drove towards, and the revealing window to my past that it uncovered, in a future post.

Summer heat heaven in 40 flavors

My small town is fortunate to have what I call a "Snowcone Shack."


Put enough miles on your car driving around this state and you'll see a variant of these little family run crunched ice eateries on just about every Main Street in just about every small town in Oklahoma.

I think ours is one of the classier establishments of this summer seasonal cool treat industry. It has an actual cement foundation, a roof, sealed sliding service window, wall mounted A/C unit (no one likes to buy a snow cone from a sweaty snow cone maker), city power (those gas generators are pretty loud), and a menu board that is printed instead of handwritten by the owner's 4th grade remedial speller.

Others I've spotted in various small towns near and far included the following:

A converted 5th wheel travel trailer that was parked on cement blocks

A recently retired SWAT van with 3 flat tires, painted white and permanently positioned at the edge of a WalMart parking lot

A long abandoned Fotomat shack (remember those?)

A Tuff Shed tool shed, that appeared to have been dragged 115 miles from someones backyard to it's present location.

The owner's of our local artificially flavored pummeled frozen water shack offer such flavors as Malibu Barbie (pink and blue bubble gum), Spiderman (black cherry and strawberry), and Hawaiian Eye (coconut/pineapple with a black cherry center), along with the classical (strawberry, lime, watermelon, and rainbow) and modern (Fuzzy Navel, Pina Colada, Margarita) flavors, for a complete tongue-color changing menu.

They also included a flavor which was obviously named after their daughter, Caster (Vanilla and Strawberry Cheesecake).

Wonder if they had had a son, would they have named him Camber...or Toe-In.

Sorry, car guy inside joke. Move along.

Doggie stylin' for an Okie summer

The summer heat has finally arrived in my small town, bringing with it the combines to harvest the wheat, the june bugs who nightly commit suicide on the sidewalks, and Franny's panting pinkish-hued tongue hanging out on a more regular basis.

Franny before
Her black curly coat is not what any respectable desert bedouin would choose for summer attire, so we decided it was time to give the pooch a haircut (Schnoodles, like poodles have hair, not fur) better suited to the rising daytime temps.

Franny after
My wife simply stated, "We paid to have this done to her?"

In defense of the groomer, Franny's hair was pretty matted and tangled, so it was I who sadistically instructed the doggy cutter to give our little pooch the Marine buzz -- but to keep the eyebrows for some retinal coverup.

I've gotten used to her like this, but the consensus among the family is that we'll let her curly locks grow back to "before photo" status.

On a positive note, she seems a lot more comfortable during her sunstroked walks and the girls have been treating her like she's a different dog entirely, being a lot more patient and attentive.

Maybe we should all shave our entire bodies and walk around to see if those who interact with us on a daily basis would indeed treat us with more of the good stuff.

Moccasins don't have padded soles

Representatives from 100 American Indian nations entering the floor of the Cox Convention center in full tribal dance regalia for the opening of The Red Earth Festival completely and totally blew us away.

And that was only the beginning, but the Grand Entrance was worth the trip downtown all on it's own.

Coined the largest gathering of it's kind in the world, the Red Earth Festival is a unique event celebrating the diversity and culture of both Northern and Southern Native American nations.

A few impressions from the big-city-moved-to-small-Okie-town peanut gallery...

There was an impossibly long line at the single food vendor selling "Indian Tacos," a dish that is common at fairs and festivals around the state, but is questionably (at least in my mind) of Native American Indian origin -- okay, the fry bread I'll give to you).

Why then, did only 1 vendor show up serving this "authentically themed dish" yet I had my choice of hot dogs, bratwurst, sub sandwich, and Dippin' Dots vendors to spend my money at?

True to form, even for a culture as in tune with nature as the Native American's are, just as in nature, the boys get the best, brightest, most colorful regalia to adorn themselves in. The girls get brown with a few muted token colors tossed into the mix.

Even though my wife claims to have inklings of Choctaw and Chickasaw blood in her, during the competition, we found ourselves cheering on our local Cheyenne/Arapaho "family members" from our small town instead. Blood may be thicker than water, but small town neighbors rate pretty high when they're dancing and chanting ancient tribal tomes.

One of the more interesting vendor booths we stumbled on was a company that offered a DNA ancestry search service to find your tribal roots. The two bespectacled Caucasian geeks running the booth were an attempt to instill confidence in the technology behind the process, but they unfortunately stood out like Custer's troopers amidst the other Native vendors.

Walking around the convention center, the ever present rhythmic drumming emanating from the arena floor, echoed off and around the concrete catacombs of the corporate center. At times I couldn't help thinking how that very sound heard by a Union Trooper or stagecoach driving settler more than 100-years ago in this very state, elicited a very different reaction than the head-bobbing, feet shuffling joy I was experiencing.

Finally, the dancing and walking for long periods of time on the hardened cement floors of the arena must have been taking it's toll on the plantar and extensor muscles of some of the Red Earth participants as we overheard a young man tell his stroller pushing wife that he wished his moccasins had padded soles.

My Sketchers were a little sore from walking as well.