Some recognizably insensitive observations on the aftermath of a flooded town...
Birds of a feather, die together
The local feathered fauna seemed to prove no match for the freak hurricane force winds that blew through town. The streets and sidewalks on the main drag are littered with bird carcasses, most of which appeared to have been blown from their treetop condos directly into the blunt force trauma inducing plate glass windows and bricked buildings that line the business district.
I hope someone gives them all a good burial. Quickly.
Red Cross...more than just a charitable organization
Never having had any first hand experience with what I percieved to be one of the world's most charitable and necessary organizations, I only knew on a high level of their noble mission to help those in need, whatever the circumstances and wherever that need existed.
But to me, on that day of cleaning, when I was knee deep in mud and muck and sweat and I found myself standing beside a Red Cross station and their table filled with pretzels, bottled water, crackers and sandwiches, complimentary to any or all who needed an energy boost -- a shallow memory emerged from the movie set cobwebs of my mind and I found myself saying out loud, "hmm, good crafts service."
And the sandwiches were good indeed.
The healing process beings...film at 11
As much as people have a love / hate relationship with the media, I witnessed the important role they play in the clean-up and recovery process.
That miniscule moment in the tv spotlight that your average Joe/Josephine Citizen with mud on their boots and broken glass beneath their feet gets when a video crew swings the attention of their DVCAM Pro onto their trashed home or business, can momentarily remove them from their reality and into the celebrity status normally reserved for people outside the average realm of existence.
As demonized as the collectors of mass media often are, it was humanly reassuring to me to witness first hand the effect that a little mass media exposure could have on the Sculptor and his Wife.
By no means am I being condescending, when I say that all the mud and muck and misery they were suffering through glinted away for the brief few minutes before, during and after their digitally recorded interview.
The media's presence, even though it was purely self-serving and job related on the news crews part, acted as a validation to the Sculptor and his family, as if the disaster they were going through was an event worthy of another human beings time and attention.
Granted, the reporter and video shooter may have been genuinely interested and concerned about their fellow Okies rain soaked lives. If they weren't, they did a pretty job of feigning it.
After the news crew left, and the media circus surrounding the Governor's tour of the flood damaged town got back on their horses and onto the next stop of Hurricane Erin's 20-city tour of the panhandle state, we were left with our thoughts and our camaraderie as we squeegied, hosed down, and shoveled our way back to normalcy.
These are my thoughts, and I'm sticking to them.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
This was no boating accident...
After spending almost the entire day yesterday watching the amazing human drama unfold across Hurricane Erin ravaged Oklahoma, and getting the girls off to school this morning, I called the sculptor who is the subject of the video documentary I've been working on for a little over a year.
His shop is in the same town that made national news yesterday due to a dramatic helicopter rescue of an elderly couple who saw their pickup being swept away from beneath them in a torrential wave of Oklahoma mud and Erin's tears.
In fact, his shop is mere blocks from where the actual rescue happened.
And what glimpses of his shop I could see from the news choppers video feeds of the flooded downtown made me cringe to think what a mess he would be facing today.
He was fairly upbeat considering the massive cleanup he was facing and cheerfully accepted my offerings of manual muck removing labor and as many "sorry I tracked mud into your place," jokes as I could muster.
So, with my video camera slung on my shoulder, a pair of Playtex living rubber gloves in my back pocket, and a doo-rag wrapped tightly around my noggin, I made my way over to the little town he lives in and the little shop that only yesterday was under 5 feet of water.
The main highway into town wasn't open yet, so I had to navigate through the back streets and negotiate some pretty ominous looking puddles. I parked well south of where the water had collected in a nearby parking lot and made my way over.
A bevy of clean-up workers were already swarming in, out and around the hardware store that sits right next to the sculptor's studio.
At the studio, I found the sculptor and his wife making progress with the mud and water that covered every inch of the floor, and every surface of every object that was underneath the water.
Miraculously, his desktop was safe and dry, with the waterline approaching a fraction of a millimeter below the top of the desk. Computer, bills, invoices, correspondence, post-it notes, photos of family on vacation in the Baltic Sea -- all safe and secure without any inkling of knowledge that they were trace elements of H20 away from being muddied and sullied by the great wave of '07.
I shot some video, mouth hanging wide open and doing my best not to do a human mud bog run while my 2-year old beater sketchers with nary a tread left on their soles navigated the muddy cement floors.
Video safely recorded on tape for all eternity it was time to get muddy.
We discussed the best way to approach the clean-up and decided to get as much mud off the floor and out the door, then shoot it all down with a hose and squeegie the whole mess out.
I went through several shoveling, squeeging, and brushing type apparatuses before decided that I just needed to put my head down, grab a dustpan and do some honest to "Bob the Builder" scraping of the thick mud off the floor and into shovel worthy piles.
It was worthy of a segment on Dirty Jobs, but after a few hours, complete with interruptions by B-roll seeking video crews, an interview by a young and hungry reporter from OETA with the sculptor, sandwich break provided by a concerned M-i-L, a bevy of visitors, lookee-loos, photojournalist, friends and well-wishers.
I departed an hour before kiddie school pickup time, with a promise to return on the morrow with a new set of gettin' muddy duds on and a set to gloves to help move the debris that flooded into town, through the 15' metal rolling door and came to rest at the front wall of his large workspace.
Did I say debris?
Wooden pallets, lumber, doors, shelves, bicycles, a battery-operated Power Wagon Hummer, tools, an entire table saw, pipes, trees, probably a host of dead critters, and on top of the entire pile sits a relatively new looking, completely intact Kenmore refrigerator.
I bet a car or two tried to get in but saw the studio space was too crowded and floated away to find a better place to park itself. In fact, the only thing missing was Miss Belvedere.
I'm considering this whole experience a part of my Okie-fication process. Now I have some red dirt mud under my nails in my hair and surrounding my soul.
These Okie's are tough folk.
His shop is in the same town that made national news yesterday due to a dramatic helicopter rescue of an elderly couple who saw their pickup being swept away from beneath them in a torrential wave of Oklahoma mud and Erin's tears.
In fact, his shop is mere blocks from where the actual rescue happened.
And what glimpses of his shop I could see from the news choppers video feeds of the flooded downtown made me cringe to think what a mess he would be facing today.
He was fairly upbeat considering the massive cleanup he was facing and cheerfully accepted my offerings of manual muck removing labor and as many "sorry I tracked mud into your place," jokes as I could muster.
So, with my video camera slung on my shoulder, a pair of Playtex living rubber gloves in my back pocket, and a doo-rag wrapped tightly around my noggin, I made my way over to the little town he lives in and the little shop that only yesterday was under 5 feet of water.
The main highway into town wasn't open yet, so I had to navigate through the back streets and negotiate some pretty ominous looking puddles. I parked well south of where the water had collected in a nearby parking lot and made my way over.
A bevy of clean-up workers were already swarming in, out and around the hardware store that sits right next to the sculptor's studio.
At the studio, I found the sculptor and his wife making progress with the mud and water that covered every inch of the floor, and every surface of every object that was underneath the water.
Miraculously, his desktop was safe and dry, with the waterline approaching a fraction of a millimeter below the top of the desk. Computer, bills, invoices, correspondence, post-it notes, photos of family on vacation in the Baltic Sea -- all safe and secure without any inkling of knowledge that they were trace elements of H20 away from being muddied and sullied by the great wave of '07.
I shot some video, mouth hanging wide open and doing my best not to do a human mud bog run while my 2-year old beater sketchers with nary a tread left on their soles navigated the muddy cement floors.
Video safely recorded on tape for all eternity it was time to get muddy.
We discussed the best way to approach the clean-up and decided to get as much mud off the floor and out the door, then shoot it all down with a hose and squeegie the whole mess out.
I went through several shoveling, squeeging, and brushing type apparatuses before decided that I just needed to put my head down, grab a dustpan and do some honest to "Bob the Builder" scraping of the thick mud off the floor and into shovel worthy piles.
It was worthy of a segment on Dirty Jobs, but after a few hours, complete with interruptions by B-roll seeking video crews, an interview by a young and hungry reporter from OETA with the sculptor, sandwich break provided by a concerned M-i-L, a bevy of visitors, lookee-loos, photojournalist, friends and well-wishers.
I departed an hour before kiddie school pickup time, with a promise to return on the morrow with a new set of gettin' muddy duds on and a set to gloves to help move the debris that flooded into town, through the 15' metal rolling door and came to rest at the front wall of his large workspace.
Did I say debris?
Wooden pallets, lumber, doors, shelves, bicycles, a battery-operated Power Wagon Hummer, tools, an entire table saw, pipes, trees, probably a host of dead critters, and on top of the entire pile sits a relatively new looking, completely intact Kenmore refrigerator.
I bet a car or two tried to get in but saw the studio space was too crowded and floated away to find a better place to park itself. In fact, the only thing missing was Miss Belvedere.
I'm considering this whole experience a part of my Okie-fication process. Now I have some red dirt mud under my nails in my hair and surrounding my soul.
These Okie's are tough folk.
Forrest Gump on Erin's rain (and wind)
When weather like this hits, you need the wit and wisdom of Forrest Gump (movie Gump, not the book Gump) to get you through it and break it all down to the simplest terms...
We've been through every kinda rain there is.
Little bitty stinging rain,
and big ole fat rain.
Rain that flew in sideways.
Sometimes rain even seem to come straight up, from underneath.
Shoot, it even rained at night. Here's what the straight lines winds knocked over that in turn knocked out our power for a good chunk of Sunday morning.
This house is four houses south of us, and I stumbled upon this during my morning walk with Franny. Our power had been out since about 4:30 in the morning, and when I found this scene, it was about 7:00 a.m. We eventually got our power back an hour and a half later.
This power line pole was one of the straighter ones on the alley behind our house, but the tree has pulled and stretched the lines to the limit.
Now it looks like mine.
Little bitty stinging rain,
and big ole fat rain.
Rain that flew in sideways.
Sometimes rain even seem to come straight up, from underneath.
Shoot, it even rained at night.
This house is four houses south of us, and I stumbled upon this during my morning walk with Franny. Our power had been out since about 4:30 in the morning, and when I found this scene, it was about 7:00 a.m. We eventually got our power back an hour and a half later.
This power line pole was one of the straighter ones on the alley behind our house, but the tree has pulled and stretched the lines to the limit.
Now it looks like mine.
Friday, August 17, 2007
The answer is "Hemingway"
On of my memorable high school moments occurred in sophomore English Composition class, with instructor extraordinaire, Mr. Hooper.
On Friday's he sponsored something he called, B-Essay Day (or BS day for short) wherein he would have the class pick a topic and write a one-page essay on that topic, making up facts, figures, quotes -- anything you wanted or needed to fill out the page, all the while attempting to produce a convincingly pure literary work of non-fictitious fiction.
At the end of the class, he'd scan through them, pick his top 3 picks, and staple either 1,2, or 3 pieces of TP onto the winning essay, from a roll of Charmin that hung on a hook at the front blackboard.
His theory was that as we prepared for college and life beyond, many of us would need to use and develop our BS'ing skills to get by and get ahead. While some may say it was a negative slant on the view of the world, I appreciated his candor and honesty and learned a great deal from Mr. Hooper. Heck, I was 16.
Course, he was also the guy who told us that if we were ever on Jeopardy or any other game show, and were taxed with a question of a literary nature that we didn't know the answer to, we should blurt out "Hemingway." We'd probably be wrong, but it's better than saying nothing.
Given those valuable lessons from my youth, in June of this year, we received this letter - it was sent to our old address in LA, which is why we received it a month after it was sent out.
The scriblings on it are mine, made is haste as I made the requisite call to see WTF was up with this bogus letter.
I called them and discussed the case with a nice lady agent who revealed the facts of the claim to be the following:Someone with my wife's exact name had co-signed on a home alarm system in 2003, at a residence shared with a Mr. Aaron Doran, of Germfask Township, Michigan.
The alarm was installed at her verified residence at 835 Lemay Ave, in Ypsilanti, Michigan, and the outstanding payment for services rendered and equipment were in excess of $1,200.
As co-signee on the contract, my wife (or so they thought) was responsible for payment since Mr. Aaron Doran had skipped town on the last train to Clarkesville and was nowhere to be found. The Agent and I verbally verified that the person they were looking for with the exact same first, middle, and last name as my wife, wasn't my wife, since...1) My wife had never known, lived, or purchased an alarm system with someone named Aaron Doran.
2) My wife never heard of Germfask Township (have you?), nor had she ever lived in the Great lakes State.
3) My wife had never co-signed an agreement to purchase a home alarm system at 835 Lemay Ave in Ypsilanti, Michigan.
4) At the time of said purchase and contract signing, my wife and I were in the throes of babydom, expecting our 2nd princess to be c-sect'd any day now. The agent agreed to get a hold of the original contract so that we could verify that the signature was different. In addition we discussed how IRS records could prove that my wife had never resided in Michigan. This we felt, was enough evidence to verify that they had gotten the wrong gal.
I also tossed around the idea of sending them a signed affidavit by my wife stating the fact that she was not the person whom they were looking for, while providing verifiable information to that fact, but the Agent seemed satisfied with what we had discussed.
I should have sent it anyway. Read on.
In the intervening 3 months, I hadn't heard a peep, nor postal pop from these people, so I figured they had indeed found the correct person responsible for payment on the alarm and were now doggedly chasing her tail.
Fast Forward to this morning.
I get a call on my cell and on the other end was a stoic gent who robotically stated a case number, and the fact they I needed to contact them by 5 p.m mountain time (Denver) to resolve this case or it would be forwarded to legal.
First call, got the Tin Man's voicemal, left a message with a brief explanation of our situation, domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.
Second call, got through to an Agent who listened to my story, then proved he hadn't heard a word I said when he asked me how my wife would like to pay the outstanding debt.
Hmm.
Let me talk to the big boss. When in doubt, escalate the call.
Big Boss gets on the line, I tell him the same story, get told that the nice Agent I spoke with back in June is no longer with the company, and that the information they have available all points to the fact that they indeed do have the right gal to foot the bill, and THAT gal...is my wife.
Realizing quickly that I wasn't going to get anywhere with the Big Boss, it was time to call forth the best George Costanza I could muster and start spouting some of Mr. Hooper's well-versed bovine boy poop.Who should I have my lawyer contact... He paused.
Wait, was that a poker tell.
Did he just stumble on the mention of the dreaded "l" word or was he preoccupied with a rubbery tchochkie on his desk.?
Was he nerve struck at the first sign of a possible legal sparring match between marginally educated Juris Doctor's or did he just find something funny on YouTube?
Was the path to salvation from this pointy-headed debt collector handed to me as a 3-D map with full instructions, or did the Twizzler he was munching on get stuck between his lower bicuspids?
After his pause, he recovered quickly and I was told that since the case hadn't been closed just yet, it hadn't been assigned to legal, so he wouldn't be able to tell me who specifically to have my lawyer contact. I pressed further with the lawyer-shinola, trying to capitalize on his ill-fated pregnant pause. It wasn't much, but that and the TRUTH was all I had.Is the legal dept. in-house, or do you have a firm on retainer, and if so, who at the firm can I tell my lawyer to contact?
Again, you're asking me for information that I don't have, so I can't tell you.
Okay then, what happens next?
You'll receive a letter from Legal...
Could you have them call me instead, or could I call them directly?
Once the case is assigned....
It went back and forth like this for awhile, and I was running out of good legal bullshit terminology gleaned from years of watching LA Law and Law and Order, so I left it as it was and we hung up.
I turned to my F-i-L who was in the bathroom cutting up Fiberock as we're getting ready to tile the vanity top and sink back splash, back splash wall for the tub, and the shower enclosure and gave him my best Spock raised eyebrow as he chuckled, having heard my BS exhortations.
He was in the middle of telling me a story of how my M-i-L's Am Ex # was fraudulently used to buy $1,500 worth of merchandise in Honduras, when my cell phone rang again.
It was him.
Just needed to verify a few things before they proceeded with the case...
Oh...really?
(To be continued)
On Friday's he sponsored something he called, B-Essay Day (or BS day for short) wherein he would have the class pick a topic and write a one-page essay on that topic, making up facts, figures, quotes -- anything you wanted or needed to fill out the page, all the while attempting to produce a convincingly pure literary work of non-fictitious fiction.
At the end of the class, he'd scan through them, pick his top 3 picks, and staple either 1,2, or 3 pieces of TP onto the winning essay, from a roll of Charmin that hung on a hook at the front blackboard.
His theory was that as we prepared for college and life beyond, many of us would need to use and develop our BS'ing skills to get by and get ahead. While some may say it was a negative slant on the view of the world, I appreciated his candor and honesty and learned a great deal from Mr. Hooper. Heck, I was 16.
Course, he was also the guy who told us that if we were ever on Jeopardy or any other game show, and were taxed with a question of a literary nature that we didn't know the answer to, we should blurt out "Hemingway." We'd probably be wrong, but it's better than saying nothing.
Given those valuable lessons from my youth, in June of this year, we received this letter - it was sent to our old address in LA, which is why we received it a month after it was sent out.
The scriblings on it are mine, made is haste as I made the requisite call to see WTF was up with this bogus letter.
I called them and discussed the case with a nice lady agent who revealed the facts of the claim to be the following:
The alarm was installed at her verified residence at 835 Lemay Ave, in Ypsilanti, Michigan, and the outstanding payment for services rendered and equipment were in excess of $1,200.
As co-signee on the contract, my wife (or so they thought) was responsible for payment since Mr. Aaron Doran had skipped town on the last train to Clarkesville and was nowhere to be found.
2) My wife never heard of Germfask Township (have you?), nor had she ever lived in the Great lakes State.
3) My wife had never co-signed an agreement to purchase a home alarm system at 835 Lemay Ave in Ypsilanti, Michigan.
4) At the time of said purchase and contract signing, my wife and I were in the throes of babydom, expecting our 2nd princess to be c-sect'd any day now.
I also tossed around the idea of sending them a signed affidavit by my wife stating the fact that she was not the person whom they were looking for, while providing verifiable information to that fact, but the Agent seemed satisfied with what we had discussed.
I should have sent it anyway. Read on.
In the intervening 3 months, I hadn't heard a peep, nor postal pop from these people, so I figured they had indeed found the correct person responsible for payment on the alarm and were now doggedly chasing her tail.
Fast Forward to this morning.
I get a call on my cell and on the other end was a stoic gent who robotically stated a case number, and the fact they I needed to contact them by 5 p.m mountain time (Denver) to resolve this case or it would be forwarded to legal.
First call, got the Tin Man's voicemal, left a message with a brief explanation of our situation, domo arigato, Mr. Roboto.
Second call, got through to an Agent who listened to my story, then proved he hadn't heard a word I said when he asked me how my wife would like to pay the outstanding debt.
Hmm.
Let me talk to the big boss. When in doubt, escalate the call.
Big Boss gets on the line, I tell him the same story, get told that the nice Agent I spoke with back in June is no longer with the company, and that the information they have available all points to the fact that they indeed do have the right gal to foot the bill, and THAT gal...is my wife.
Realizing quickly that I wasn't going to get anywhere with the Big Boss, it was time to call forth the best George Costanza I could muster and start spouting some of Mr. Hooper's well-versed bovine boy poop.
Wait, was that a poker tell.
Did he just stumble on the mention of the dreaded "l" word or was he preoccupied with a rubbery tchochkie on his desk.?
Was he nerve struck at the first sign of a possible legal sparring match between marginally educated Juris Doctor's or did he just find something funny on YouTube?
Was the path to salvation from this pointy-headed debt collector handed to me as a 3-D map with full instructions, or did the Twizzler he was munching on get stuck between his lower bicuspids?
After his pause, he recovered quickly and I was told that since the case hadn't been closed just yet, it hadn't been assigned to legal, so he wouldn't be able to tell me who specifically to have my lawyer contact. I pressed further with the lawyer-shinola, trying to capitalize on his ill-fated pregnant pause. It wasn't much, but that and the TRUTH was all I had.
Again, you're asking me for information that I don't have, so I can't tell you.
Okay then, what happens next?
You'll receive a letter from Legal...
Could you have them call me instead, or could I call them directly?
Once the case is assigned....
It went back and forth like this for awhile, and I was running out of good legal bullshit terminology gleaned from years of watching LA Law and Law and Order, so I left it as it was and we hung up.
I turned to my F-i-L who was in the bathroom cutting up Fiberock as we're getting ready to tile the vanity top and sink back splash, back splash wall for the tub, and the shower enclosure and gave him my best Spock raised eyebrow as he chuckled, having heard my BS exhortations.
He was in the middle of telling me a story of how my M-i-L's Am Ex # was fraudulently used to buy $1,500 worth of merchandise in Honduras, when my cell phone rang again.
It was him.
Just needed to verify a few things before they proceeded with the case...
Oh...really?
(To be continued)
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Heelies
No offense Oklahoma, but the health insurance options you offer to your state employees, bites the big one. In the 7.5 years I worked at the corporate cube farm job, through all three different insurance companies we switched to, through two babies, several procedures, dozens of office visits, specialist referrals, etc. -- we never had the issues we've suffered through with this state sponsored plan.
With that in mind, and with the medical bill soul train still rolling through our house due to PK's early summer arm break, it was with much apprehension and caution that we viewed C's latest want-need-justgottahave acquisition....Heely's.
Yes, those same gizmos that her 1st grade teacher's youngest son broke his leg with.
Yes, those death trap shoes with wheels in the heel that come packaged with a first aid kit and more warning labels than a Glock 9mm.
Yes, those fashionably hip cross bred footwear that some genetic scientist will someday use to create a gene that allows wheels to grow in place of heel bones.
C has been spotting kids wearing them for several years now and since growing tired of launching her Razr scooter off of curbs, making breaking skid marks in our driveway with her bike, popping wheelies (I'm not kidding) in her sister's battery operated jeep, and spinning 42 times in a row on her roller blades - without getting dizzy, or so she claims -- she was ready to graduate to the wheel-heeled footwear.
Since our policy of non-holiday/non-birthday instantly approved purchases normally includes any apparatus that involves physical activity (exercise) or scholastic aptitude enrichment (pick a book, any book), it would seem to include these heeled rubber souls.
But at $60 (plus tax) a pair, we balked a bit, thinking that it would have to wait for her next birthday.
However, when C's 2nd grade teacher asks her to write an essay, this being the first day of her school year, with the topic heading, "What I did this summer....", among other things C will write will be the following...Read 6 chapter books for $1 a piece - received $2 for Black Beauty because my Dad thought it was really depressing and thought I should get double for getting through it.
Made my bed almost every day, almost every week, almost every month, for the last 3 months and got a quarter every time I did it.
Went off the high diving board at the pool as many times as I needed to get $5 from my Dad...at a quarter for each time I went off.
Picked about a bucket of tomatoes a week from our garden, for a $1 a bucket.
Practiced the typing game on my computer and got a quarter for every letter memorized. I know a,s,d,f,g, h,j,k,l,;, q,w,e,r,t,y u,i,o, p, space bar, shift key, tab, return, and delete, for a total of $6.25. If I learned them all before school started, I would have gotten a $10 bonus from Dad, but I didn't, so I didn't. How unfair.
Got a quarter for every kiddie book I read to my little sister. Some days I'd read a bunch, and some days just one or two.
By the time she was ready to go back-to-school clothes shopping last week, she had saved up $57 toward the purchase of her Heely's. On a recent trip to the mall, my M-i-L made up the difference and she came home, wheelin' and a dealin', spouting promise after promise that she wouldn't go down any steep hills while wearing them.
I was getting ready to call a few parents I knew whose kids had some experience with these little rolling thunders (including the broken leg kid) to give C a lesson or two on how to get moving on these things.
To which C replied with a few dozen roll-bys (both forward and backward), a half-spin, and several examples of how to do emergency stops.
I hung up the phone. I should have known.
With that in mind, and with the medical bill soul train still rolling through our house due to PK's early summer arm break, it was with much apprehension and caution that we viewed C's latest want-need-justgottahave acquisition....Heely's.
Yes, those same gizmos that her 1st grade teacher's youngest son broke his leg with.
Yes, those death trap shoes with wheels in the heel that come packaged with a first aid kit and more warning labels than a Glock 9mm.
Yes, those fashionably hip cross bred footwear that some genetic scientist will someday use to create a gene that allows wheels to grow in place of heel bones.
C has been spotting kids wearing them for several years now and since growing tired of launching her Razr scooter off of curbs, making breaking skid marks in our driveway with her bike, popping wheelies (I'm not kidding) in her sister's battery operated jeep, and spinning 42 times in a row on her roller blades - without getting dizzy, or so she claims -- she was ready to graduate to the wheel-heeled footwear.
Since our policy of non-holiday/non-birthday instantly approved purchases normally includes any apparatus that involves physical activity (exercise) or scholastic aptitude enrichment (pick a book, any book), it would seem to include these heeled rubber souls.
But at $60 (plus tax) a pair, we balked a bit, thinking that it would have to wait for her next birthday.
However, when C's 2nd grade teacher asks her to write an essay, this being the first day of her school year, with the topic heading, "What I did this summer....", among other things C will write will be the following...
Made my bed almost every day, almost every week, almost every month, for the last 3 months and got a quarter every time I did it.
Went off the high diving board at the pool as many times as I needed to get $5 from my Dad...at a quarter for each time I went off.
Picked about a bucket of tomatoes a week from our garden, for a $1 a bucket.
Practiced the typing game on my computer and got a quarter for every letter memorized. I know a,s,d,f,g, h,j,k,l,;, q,w,e,r,t,y u,i,o, p, space bar, shift key, tab, return, and delete, for a total of $6.25. If I learned them all before school started, I would have gotten a $10 bonus from Dad, but I didn't, so I didn't. How unfair.
Got a quarter for every kiddie book I read to my little sister. Some days I'd read a bunch, and some days just one or two.
I was getting ready to call a few parents I knew whose kids had some experience with these little rolling thunders (including the broken leg kid) to give C a lesson or two on how to get moving on these things.
To which C replied with a few dozen roll-bys (both forward and backward), a half-spin, and several examples of how to do emergency stops.
I hung up the phone. I should have known.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Nearing the end of summer road trip - Part 5
As we pulled into the parking lot for Arbuckle Lake, we noticed that the lake level was so high, that the steel charcoal grills reserved for day picnickers were surrounded and submerged in two feet of water, and that the "sandy beach" area was nowhere to be found.
Intrepid waders that we were, the girls donned their life jackets and we doffed our picnic goodies on a blanket and eased into the tepidly warm summer lake water.
It took about 20 feet of hiking through the grassy shoreline before finding the sandy bottom our tender feet were in desperate need of. Even 30 feet out, the water was only knee deep. We were a good 40 feet out before the girls were happily free floating and twinkle toed in the lake.
But the H-Two-Oh was relatively clear, hopefully E Coli free, and surprisingly sparsely populated...by humans that is.
40 minutes or so into our leisurely lake libation layoff, we all started noticing the frequent and innumerable surfacing of tiny reptilian heads in our general vicinity.
Normally, one would think that the indiscriminate splashing of a nuclear family at play in the water would be enough to send even Touche Turtle into hiding, but these hard shelled lake inhabitants actually seemed attracted by it.
The proximity of a particularly large, craggy headed beastie was enough to drive my 7.5 year old into more shallow digs, soon to be followed by the rest of the family, in need for some sustenance of the turkey bologna and Pringles variety.
When the girls had adequately emptied the crumbs onto the shoreline for the gathering turtle convention to feast on, we decided that we had had enough nature for the day and went inbound for some cabin lounging and pond exploring closer to home.
Dinner that night was to be found at a home-turned-eatery called the Poor Girls Diner. Their dinner buffet line supplied all the staples of a well balanced southern Oklahoma meal...beef (brisket)
pork (tenderloins)
turkey (& dressing)
and chicken (fried) But we opted for some homemade mac and cheese for the girls, dinner salads for S and I, and a big old dollup each of their mashed spuds with gravy.
The reason the Wife and I ate lightly was to indulge in a big ol' slice of one of their homemade pies, so flagrantly advertised on their 11x16" chalk-written menu board at the entrance to the eatery.
Coconut cream was crossed out.
Banana cream was crossed out.
Pecan wasn't.
Score.
Dinner good. Server (one of the poor girls?) was great. And the piece of pie was an entire 1/3 of a pie.
I'm not kidding.
Take a good sized pie, cut it into thirds, plate one of the pieces, give it a good warming in the oven, put it down in front of people and ask them how many forks they'll need to finish the monster slice. That is the Poor Girls Diner way.
Even with 4 fresh forks, two hungry adults, two semi-full kids, and two cups of really good diner coffee in thick handled ceramic mugs, we couldn't get a handle on the beast. Such a shame to leave most of the pie bone behind, but I have it on good authority that in the south, it's not too inexcusable to leave some pie crust leavin's on the plate for Miss Manners -- long as the innerds are gullet bound.
Another evening spent campfire side with the family found my wife unbeatable in checkers, my girls illimitable in their roasted marshmallow intake, and myself thinking back to how I spent many birthday eves in places not nearly as nice, with people not nearly as lovely, with thoughts in my head not nearly as serene.
Next up - the last installment of our final summer road trip of the season and how I spent my last birthday as a "creeping up on being just south of a mid-40 year old."
Intrepid waders that we were, the girls donned their life jackets and we doffed our picnic goodies on a blanket and eased into the tepidly warm summer lake water.
It took about 20 feet of hiking through the grassy shoreline before finding the sandy bottom our tender feet were in desperate need of. Even 30 feet out, the water was only knee deep. We were a good 40 feet out before the girls were happily free floating and twinkle toed in the lake.
But the H-Two-Oh was relatively clear, hopefully E Coli free, and surprisingly sparsely populated...by humans that is.
40 minutes or so into our leisurely lake libation layoff, we all started noticing the frequent and innumerable surfacing of tiny reptilian heads in our general vicinity.
Normally, one would think that the indiscriminate splashing of a nuclear family at play in the water would be enough to send even Touche Turtle into hiding, but these hard shelled lake inhabitants actually seemed attracted by it.
The proximity of a particularly large, craggy headed beastie was enough to drive my 7.5 year old into more shallow digs, soon to be followed by the rest of the family, in need for some sustenance of the turkey bologna and Pringles variety.
When the girls had adequately emptied the crumbs onto the shoreline for the gathering turtle convention to feast on, we decided that we had had enough nature for the day and went inbound for some cabin lounging and pond exploring closer to home.
Dinner that night was to be found at a home-turned-eatery called the Poor Girls Diner. Their dinner buffet line supplied all the staples of a well balanced southern Oklahoma meal...
pork (tenderloins)
turkey (& dressing)
and chicken (fried)
The reason the Wife and I ate lightly was to indulge in a big ol' slice of one of their homemade pies, so flagrantly advertised on their 11x16" chalk-written menu board at the entrance to the eatery.
Coconut cream was crossed out.
Banana cream was crossed out.
Pecan wasn't.
Score.
Dinner good. Server (one of the poor girls?) was great. And the piece of pie was an entire 1/3 of a pie.
I'm not kidding.
Take a good sized pie, cut it into thirds, plate one of the pieces, give it a good warming in the oven, put it down in front of people and ask them how many forks they'll need to finish the monster slice. That is the Poor Girls Diner way.
Even with 4 fresh forks, two hungry adults, two semi-full kids, and two cups of really good diner coffee in thick handled ceramic mugs, we couldn't get a handle on the beast. Such a shame to leave most of the pie bone behind, but I have it on good authority that in the south, it's not too inexcusable to leave some pie crust leavin's on the plate for Miss Manners -- long as the innerds are gullet bound.
Another evening spent campfire side with the family found my wife unbeatable in checkers, my girls illimitable in their roasted marshmallow intake, and myself thinking back to how I spent many birthday eves in places not nearly as nice, with people not nearly as lovely, with thoughts in my head not nearly as serene.
Next up - the last installment of our final summer road trip of the season and how I spent my last birthday as a "creeping up on being just south of a mid-40 year old."
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The curtain falls
After 3 months of Sunday chorus practices, and 3 weeks of 5-night-a-week stage rehearsals, the heavy red stage curtain finally rose and fell for the last time on our small town's Centennial sponsored production of "Oklahoma," featuring C as a young pioneer girl-dancer-chorus singer.
Since the two evening performances to roughly 1/4 the population of our small town (considered a "fantastic turnout" by the locals), both of the girls walk around the house humming and singing various songs from the musical. It beats the SpongeBob theme song.
As a reward (of sorts), a quick search of half.com revealed a DVD of the London Royal National Theatre's 1999 version of Oklahoma, starring Wolverine himself, Hugh Jackman, as the Cowboy Curly. A few e-mad ducats and 3-5 mailing days later, C was enjoying critiquing several aspects of the Brit's version of the play - as compared to "her" stage version and to the 1955 Hollywood Todd-AO movie DVD version she's been watching 2-3 times a day.
From what I can gather, this version of the stage play was a huge hit in London, drawing pound waving cheers and bangers n' mash reviews, both.
As an American, it stirs me a little to think of a bunch of stuffy Brits humming "O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A..." to themselves as they left the theater and headed for the nearest Underground station. Yet at the same time, I feel sorry for them at having missed out (by no fault of their own) on what I consider to be the quintessentially ultimate method for experiencing the Roger's and Hammerstein classic...
Watching an all Oklahoman cast, performing "Oklahoma" in a small Oklahoman town with an audience made up entirely of Oklahoman's.
I'd done it once before, but that was before I myself could be counted (at least in the eyes of the Census Bureau) as an Okie.
But this time, for both the Friday and Saturday night performances, I felt something stirring deep down in the pit of my being where very few emotions can survive that aren't raw and unfiltered.
The same pit where my loyalty for UCLA lives, even before I went to Graduate school there.
The same pit when I realized that I was indeed a born-and-bred American, when I visited the land of my ancestors and felt like a total foreigner -- and that's a good thing.
The same pit where I find myself cheering for an Olympic athlete who is a complete stranger and who may be a total jerk, but as long as he/she is representing my countries flag, they re my hero, and better kick some major Gold Medal butt, by gosh-o-golly.
It was in that same pit where I found myself smiling, and waving, and cheering for my chorus girl daughter, as I and 500 of my fellow small Oklahoman town's folk stood, and clapped, and sang our hearts out....
You know we belong to the land,
and the land we belong to is grand...
Do yourself a favor and add the following item to your list of things to do before you die...
See Oklahoma performed by Oklahoman's, in Oklahoma with an audience full of Okie's.
Since the two evening performances to roughly 1/4 the population of our small town (considered a "fantastic turnout" by the locals), both of the girls walk around the house humming and singing various songs from the musical. It beats the SpongeBob theme song.
As a reward (of sorts), a quick search of half.com revealed a DVD of the London Royal National Theatre's 1999 version of Oklahoma, starring Wolverine himself, Hugh Jackman, as the Cowboy Curly. A few e-mad ducats and 3-5 mailing days later, C was enjoying critiquing several aspects of the Brit's version of the play - as compared to "her" stage version and to the 1955 Hollywood Todd-AO movie DVD version she's been watching 2-3 times a day.
From what I can gather, this version of the stage play was a huge hit in London, drawing pound waving cheers and bangers n' mash reviews, both.
As an American, it stirs me a little to think of a bunch of stuffy Brits humming "O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A..." to themselves as they left the theater and headed for the nearest Underground station. Yet at the same time, I feel sorry for them at having missed out (by no fault of their own) on what I consider to be the quintessentially ultimate method for experiencing the Roger's and Hammerstein classic...
Watching an all Oklahoman cast, performing "Oklahoma" in a small Oklahoman town with an audience made up entirely of Oklahoman's.
I'd done it once before, but that was before I myself could be counted (at least in the eyes of the Census Bureau) as an Okie.
But this time, for both the Friday and Saturday night performances, I felt something stirring deep down in the pit of my being where very few emotions can survive that aren't raw and unfiltered.
The same pit where my loyalty for UCLA lives, even before I went to Graduate school there.
The same pit when I realized that I was indeed a born-and-bred American, when I visited the land of my ancestors and felt like a total foreigner -- and that's a good thing.
The same pit where I find myself cheering for an Olympic athlete who is a complete stranger and who may be a total jerk, but as long as he/she is representing my countries flag, they re my hero, and better kick some major Gold Medal butt, by gosh-o-golly.
It was in that same pit where I found myself smiling, and waving, and cheering for my chorus girl daughter, as I and 500 of my fellow small Oklahoman town's folk stood, and clapped, and sang our hearts out....
You know we belong to the land,
and the land we belong to is grand...
Do yourself a favor and add the following item to your list of things to do before you die...
See Oklahoma performed by Oklahoman's, in Oklahoma with an audience full of Okie's.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
That's the second biggest rooster I've ever seen!
Here's one of my favorite descriptions of my beloved El Camino (which I can list two of in my vehicle pink slip possession directory)...The El Camino was GM's answer to Ford's wildly popular Ranchero.
The fusion of a passenger car with a pick-up, this early attempt at a dual-purpose vehicle similar in concept to today's Chevy Avalanche was also sold as the GMC Caballero and, when equipped with AstroTurf in the bed, is among the best collegiate party-wagons ever made.
It was potentially fast, too, with V-8 power typically standard. Add air shocks, glasspack mufflers, and "Yosemite Sam" decals, and you have the ultimate redneck station wagon.
But it was missing a sentence, which the following picture taken at a honky tonk juke joint a few miles north of my small town helps to illustrate...
"...and you can carry a heckuva big rooster in the back as well."
The fusion of a passenger car with a pick-up, this early attempt at a dual-purpose vehicle similar in concept to today's Chevy Avalanche was also sold as the GMC Caballero and, when equipped with AstroTurf in the bed, is among the best collegiate party-wagons ever made.
It was potentially fast, too, with V-8 power typically standard. Add air shocks, glasspack mufflers, and "Yosemite Sam" decals, and you have the ultimate redneck station wagon.
But it was missing a sentence, which the following picture taken at a honky tonk juke joint a few miles north of my small town helps to illustrate...
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Nearing the end of summer road trip - Part 4
Sunday arrives and I'm hankering for a sit-down country breakfast.
We picked a family diner lookin' place in the nearest town to our cabin.
As any parent will tell you, the moment we arrived, one of the girls had to tinkle...even though we warned each of them several times before leaving the cabin that they should go now, rather than later.
Off go my wife and youngest to the facilities, while I have sit back and listen to my digestive tract have an argument with my upper brain functions and circulatory system about the dangers they could all face if I get the pancake/waffle/biscuits and gravy trucker's special.
My gastronomical pleasure at the menu's hearty breakfast offerings and the ease at which my hunger was soon to be appeased was ruined by a single expression on my wife's face as she returned from the lady's room.
I'll not go into details here, but suffice it to say, Wifey had lost her appetite and opted for a hot tea.
Leaving what we thought would be our last brush with E Coli for the duration of the trip, we sauntered over to the cold, wild, and utterly playful mineral spring fed streams of the Chickasaw National Recreation Area.
We intrepidly made our way to the visitor center, watched an informative 15-minute video on the history and development of the national park, gave our share of oohs and aahs at both the living (in tanks and cages) and deceased (stuffed, mounted and posed) fauna on display.
Having brought along our swimming gear, we all changed in the extremely sanitary restrooms at the visitor center, made ourselves familiar with what exactly poison ivy looked like, and piled back into the car to get our mineral water stream swim on.
Upon arrival to the "Peaceful Valley of Rippling Waters," we found that most of the prime swimming areas along the easily accessible sections of the mountain stream were already populated by a bevy of vacationers. Folks had peeled themselves out of their tents from the nearby campgrounds and were lounging around in the naturally created pools along the rippling waters.
We finally found an area that was more sparsely populated than the rest, to which I immediately thought, "It's probably surrounded by poison ivy, is why...
The spot we found was lovingly tucked away behind a thin veil of trees and bushes. A dirt foot trail led down to a stream side clearing perfect for our planned picnic staging area.
A pool of crystal clear water about 2 feet deep awaited us, with enough rocks along the shore to make for interesting collecting time for the girls.
To top it all off, the down ward side of the pool terminated into a small set of rapids, fast enough to provide some soothing waterfall ambience, but slow enough that we wouldn't have to worry about one of the girl's purple noodle floaty things being swept away.
It seemed exactly what we were looking for, and the only other family who were currently partaking of this forested oasis were a young family with daughters about our girls age.
While the girls were unstrapping themselves in the back seat and my wife was just now getting past the gag reflex of our breakfast diner's lady's room, I was enjoying the view of our chosen destination and wistfully daydreaming about the wonderful day we were about to have -- if only someone hadn't put up a huge wooden sign in front of our parking spot, partially blocking my direct view of the stream ahead.
Wait, a huge wooden sign...with lettering and words and sentences and punctuation...
Here's what the sign said...
We zoomed back to the visitor center, found the nearest guy in a brown shirt and Smokey Bear hat and asked him what sort of bacterial were we talking about here.
You guessed it...E coli.
He went on to explain that they test the water quite regularly, and that recent heavy rains had caused so much flooding that a lagoon (aka open cesspool) nearby must have mingled with the stream. He told me that as a Federal park, they weren't allowed to "close" the public recreation areas. All they could do is post warnings to the public and hope they "read and heed."
After some quiet discussion on what HE would do if he had two young daughters that wanted to swim today - in the most official National Park Service voice he could muster, he stated that "Arbuckle Lake is nearby and very nice."
Next up, warm water lake swimming, turtles ahoy, and dinner with two poor girls.
We picked a family diner lookin' place in the nearest town to our cabin.
As any parent will tell you, the moment we arrived, one of the girls had to tinkle...even though we warned each of them several times before leaving the cabin that they should go now, rather than later.
Off go my wife and youngest to the facilities, while I have sit back and listen to my digestive tract have an argument with my upper brain functions and circulatory system about the dangers they could all face if I get the pancake/waffle/biscuits and gravy trucker's special.
My gastronomical pleasure at the menu's hearty breakfast offerings and the ease at which my hunger was soon to be appeased was ruined by a single expression on my wife's face as she returned from the lady's room.
I'll not go into details here, but suffice it to say, Wifey had lost her appetite and opted for a hot tea.
Leaving what we thought would be our last brush with E Coli for the duration of the trip, we sauntered over to the cold, wild, and utterly playful mineral spring fed streams of the Chickasaw National Recreation Area.
We intrepidly made our way to the visitor center, watched an informative 15-minute video on the history and development of the national park, gave our share of oohs and aahs at both the living (in tanks and cages) and deceased (stuffed, mounted and posed) fauna on display.
Having brought along our swimming gear, we all changed in the extremely sanitary restrooms at the visitor center, made ourselves familiar with what exactly poison ivy looked like, and piled back into the car to get our mineral water stream swim on.
Upon arrival to the "Peaceful Valley of Rippling Waters," we found that most of the prime swimming areas along the easily accessible sections of the mountain stream were already populated by a bevy of vacationers. Folks had peeled themselves out of their tents from the nearby campgrounds and were lounging around in the naturally created pools along the rippling waters.
We finally found an area that was more sparsely populated than the rest, to which I immediately thought, "It's probably surrounded by poison ivy, is why...
The spot we found was lovingly tucked away behind a thin veil of trees and bushes. A dirt foot trail led down to a stream side clearing perfect for our planned picnic staging area.
A pool of crystal clear water about 2 feet deep awaited us, with enough rocks along the shore to make for interesting collecting time for the girls.
To top it all off, the down ward side of the pool terminated into a small set of rapids, fast enough to provide some soothing waterfall ambience, but slow enough that we wouldn't have to worry about one of the girl's purple noodle floaty things being swept away.
It seemed exactly what we were looking for, and the only other family who were currently partaking of this forested oasis were a young family with daughters about our girls age.
While the girls were unstrapping themselves in the back seat and my wife was just now getting past the gag reflex of our breakfast diner's lady's room, I was enjoying the view of our chosen destination and wistfully daydreaming about the wonderful day we were about to have -- if only someone hadn't put up a huge wooden sign in front of our parking spot, partially blocking my direct view of the stream ahead.
Wait, a huge wooden sign...with lettering and words and sentences and punctuation...
Here's what the sign said...
We zoomed back to the visitor center, found the nearest guy in a brown shirt and Smokey Bear hat and asked him what sort of bacterial were we talking about here.
You guessed it...E coli.
He went on to explain that they test the water quite regularly, and that recent heavy rains had caused so much flooding that a lagoon (aka open cesspool) nearby must have mingled with the stream. He told me that as a Federal park, they weren't allowed to "close" the public recreation areas. All they could do is post warnings to the public and hope they "read and heed."
After some quiet discussion on what HE would do if he had two young daughters that wanted to swim today - in the most official National Park Service voice he could muster, he stated that "Arbuckle Lake is nearby and very nice."
Next up, warm water lake swimming, turtles ahoy, and dinner with two poor girls.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Police blotter hilarity
Cop - Ma'am, we need to ask you some questions about your stolen property...
Victim - Oh my, is it about my collection of graphic pictures of explosion victims? I know that may seem kinda weird to you but...
Cop - No Ma'am. We wanted to ask you why you had a reddish-brown sofa when you walls are painted teal....
Right Rear - "I'm tired of always having to follow wherever those front two wheels take us. We've got all the power...all they do is steer! I'm bustin' loose these lugnuts and makin' a break for it."
Left Rear - "We'll cover for you Righty, just remember that once you're free, keep rolling and head for an open doorway or garage."
Right Rear - "Open doorway or garage, got it."
Left Rear - "And be sure to watch out for plate glass windows -- if they've been cleaned recently, you won't be able to see it until it's too late! Now, go, go, GOOOOOOO!"
Right Rear -"Wait...what's a plate glass windo.......AHHHH!"
$50 is small price to pay to let the entire neighborhood know how totally COOL you are with your $2000 sound system in your '94 Dodge Neon...isn't it?
Monday, August 06, 2007
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.
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.
Bread - buns
Fruit and Veggie - mustard and relish (that's a stretchhhhhhhhhhh)
Dessert - marshmallows, chocolate bars and cinnamon graham crackers.
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.
Friday, August 03, 2007
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!
Touted as a $10.3 million dolllar expansion and inspired by Oklahoma's 11 distinct life zones (second to no other state), the exhibit...
"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. "
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...
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 30, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, July 27, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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...
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...
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, July 20, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
If the Palace Flophouse Boys had SUVs
...But never in the frog history had such an execution taken place.
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."
Monday, July 16, 2007
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."
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.
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.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
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.
I love how kids tell stories in one long, run on sentence. Here was C's:
(Pushing me back down) No Daddy, I said you had to stay in your chair.
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...
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.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, July 06, 2007
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?
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:
$.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?
Thursday, July 05, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, July 02, 2007
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.
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...
* 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."
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.
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