Keep it in your pants...your weapon, I mean

Several things tickled my darker side when I saw this ad in a recent edition of our local small town newspaper...


First of all, surprise of surprises, it's seems not nearly as difficult to get a permit to carry a concealed weapon here in my adopted state as one would think. Or does it come down to not what you know, but who you know? Same all over then.

Secondly, I didn't realize that 50 well aimed and fired bullets was all it takes to pass the class and get certified. Seems to me that for some, 50 bullets would be way overkill to prove their firearm proficiency. While others may feel that being limited to half a hundred of the hot leaded projectiles wouldn't be nearly enough.

Thirdly, their preference for "semi-automatics" totally set me off...so if I show up with my English flintlock steel barreled blunderbuss, I'm going to get some sort of lesser treatment?

Finally, what Cardinal Richelieu exclaims in the Bulwer-Lytton play regarding the pen being mightier than the sword (or concealed weapon in this case), is honorific ally demonstrated with clarity and not a hint in irony at the bottom of this ad..."Please bring a pen to write with."

Can't get your concealed weapons permit without passing the class and you can't pass the class without taking some notes.

And for that, you'll need a pen.

How's your bracket looking?

The other night at soccer practice (yep, it's that time of the year...again), fellow "Dodger Dog fan" Dad and I were hanging out on the soccer field sideline, making light of our decision to wear shorts even as the southerly wind and 40 degree sunset temps made our respective leg hairs stand up and take notice.

Out of nowhere he blurted out, "So how's your bracket doing?"

It took me more than a few seconds of confused long-term memory brain parsing to figure out his query string and by the look on my face, he quickly realized that I didn't immediately realize what the heck he was talking about.

He was, of course, referring to NCAA Basketball and the Road to the Final Four.

I had to tell him that the greatest influence into my seasonal barely-more-than-slight-interest in college hoops was in vacation mode for the second of two weeks floating down the Rhine River. See, my F-i-L lives for March Madness, which surprised the heck out of the rest of the family when he agreed to take my M-i-L on a 14-day across the pond excursion during the height of college round ball mayhem.

So, without my wife's Dad to provide me daily updates while working side-by-side on our current house project (mudroom this month), of each and every game he's watched (including the Woman's games, which he admittedly finds more fun to watch), I've been in a collegiate b-ball isolation chamber.

Imagine my surprise to find my grad school alma mater making the Elite 8 and favored (somewhat) to get to the FF.

Go Bruins!

(Sigh)

Okay, that's enough sports fanaticism for this year. Mushing back to the mudroom now.

Bird, 4-legged accomplices sought for questioning

From our local news rags recent police blotter...


Now, I may not be a trained investigative professional, but isn't it obvious from the listed series of events, what transpired in my small town recently and what new crime plague has infested our little community?

The cockatiel busted out, freed his two canine henchmen, and went on a crime spree, starting with the Bud Light sign at a local pub.

Stay tuned for further developments. Until then, lock up your beer signs and be on the lookout for the feathered ringleader...

T-town doins' Spring of '08

We celebrated the end of Spring Break '08 by trippin' up to T-Town for a long weekend.

S wanted to attend yet another Tulsa-based preparatory seminar sponsored by the organization that is hosting her pending cross-OK bike ride, so we thought we'd cash in a couple frequent flyer comp room coupons and see some family-friendly sights in OK North's capital city.

First on our list after picking up S from work in downtown OKC and bombing into town was dinner at Ollie's Station, where I had the strangest Monte Cristo sandwich I've ever eaten.

And I've eaten a lot of Monte Cristo sandwiches in my "trying to avoid as many fried foods as I can with the exception of Monte Cristo sandwiches" adult life.

I'll not go into the finer details of what entitles a sandwich to be dubbed with such an exotic and literary-inspiring title (especially when you can just wiki it here), but Ollie's version of my favorite of all restaurant sandwiches, finds itself dipped and fried in a corn-based catfish fry batter that while strange to describe was even stranger to eat.

But eat it I might, share it I may, and enjoy it I did.

S feasted on Ollie's homemade meatloaf, homestyle mashed spuds, homespun noodle soup, and homegrown fried green tomatoes. The girls ordered and ate, but the one item not on the menu was what attracted and held their attention for the duration of our trip to Ollie's Station...the trains.

Moving, smoking, chugging, and whistling model trains of every scale, era, style and color, encircle the dining area on raised tracks running on specially built platforms attached to the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and running between the booths and tables.

If you are loco for trains, this place is your station. If not, bring your iPod and enjoy the good food and friendly service.

Coming up next, big bags at the breakfast buffet, Zoo people are the same all over, and the best red beans and rice, period.

30 miles to nirvana

After almost 3 days of constant rain, it's hard to remember back how we spent our final Sunday of the Winter of '08 last weekend...following S on her first long-distance (for her) bike ride.

We we're expected at her folks house 38 miles away at 5:30 p.m. for some smoked ribs and Okie caviar (bean and slaw salad...yum), so we left our place around 2 p.m.

That's about a 10.85 mph average rate of speed, which is more than reasonable for S in her current state of condition toward her struggle to make the cut for the Oklahoma FreeWheel a mere 12+ weeks away.

What we didn't anticipate was the south/westerly wind that came up that afternoon, 10-15 miles per hour -- right into our faces.

Not an issue for the girls and I in my 125 horse powered ricer as we drove ahead a couple miles then pulled over to wait for S to catch up.

But no matter how many times the girls and I cheered and yelled, "Go Mommy, go Mommy!" as we passed by her on her constant "into-the-wind" trek, the wind allowed for no coasting on her part and nagged at her pace with every pedal stroke.

Long story short, anyone who believes Oklahoma roads are flat and void of inclines of any substance then you probably still believe that you should always get involved in a land war in Asia.

Around 5:15 p.m. we stopped 8 miles short of her parent's house, packed up the bike and drove our intrepid biker the final distance. Had we not run short of time, it was still doubtful whether or not S would have had enough wind to make the final 42,240 foot sprint to the waiting plate of ribs and comfort of her Dad's recliner.

In S's own words, she was done.

Chalk one victory to Oklahoma's wind.

Round two yet to happen.

The knees, the knees, the knees are on fire!

After 21+ years together (9+ of those in wedlock) my Wife and I finally got our roller boogie on...so to speak.

We had never held hands while tripping the disco ball fantastic (and each other) on the oval floored floodlit stage known as the roller skating rink...until last Friday.

Hard to imagine, I know.

A local roller rink in the big town 40 miles north of us pulled a sneaky marketing ploy and somehow managed to get "free entry with a paying entry" passes tucked into every backpack around town. Since we have two backpacks currently taking up space on the floor by the entry way, two of the inviting scraps of laser printed paper made it into our daughter's hands, soon to be displayed before our eyes.

After a few furtive glances back and forth between ourselves, Wifey and I gave the thumbs up, all the while rubbing our knees as if apologizing in advance for the torture we were about to unleash upon them.

"Wait," you exclaim, "don't tell me you were actually contemplating skating with your children?"

Foolishly, yes. I mean, what's the point of knowing how to do something and not do it when the opportunity arises?

However, I soon learned that the fading memory of how skilled I was at roller skating, didn't mesh all that well with the reality playing out before my squinting eyes (it was dark in there).

I'll not go into any detail of the interior decor of the roller rink, since it looked identical to every other roller rink I've been to or have ever seen in a movie. Get your skates there, too low benches over there, snack bar in the corner, game area in the back, and of course the great wall of balance and dignity redemption circling the designated skating area.

As my eldest took off onto the rink as if she were born on wheels, and my Wife took our 5-year old in hand to help her get adjusted to life on the circular downslide, I managed to retain a few specks of dignity in my roller boogie endeavors by channeling my goofy foot skateboarding skills - roll on left foot, push off with my right.

Due to the taunting I'd receive every 14.2 seconds (the time it took C to make a lap and swish by her old man) to "use both of your feet to push off," in 15 minutes or so I was able to skate with some semblance of smoothness and even managed a glance or two up at the jumbotron video screen that was blaring down upon us as I navigated the northern end of the semi-circle.

In fact it was during Fergie's rendition of that song she sings about missing somebody like a child misses their blanket, that Wifey and I got our fingers entwined for a soon-to-be-nostalgic trip around the darkened oval.

It was a John Hughes moment to be sure.

Final report, I didn't fall once, nor did S. PK was shaking off our attempts to hold her aloft within 10 minutes or so and was practicing her "hops" by the time we were unlacing our skates and longing for a hot bath.

C refused to leave while any Hannah Montana song was playing, and we were handed a bucketful of discount coupons for future visits, of which, I'm sure the girls will be thankful and our knees will curse us for all eternity.

Hard water landing

One of the many background checks we performed (school API scores, crime statistics, superfund clean-up sites, oil well contamination, pig and chicken farm proximity, etc.) while on our search for a new hometown forescore and seven years ago (minus whatever it takes to get to 3.5 years) was water quality.

Knowing that the small town we may have been choosing to settle in was predominantly agricultural centered, our fears of increased nitrate levels and farm based contaminates finding its way into the town's water supply were for the most part, unfounded.

Seems it's an issue in the town just south of us, but quarterly water checks (published in the local news rag) provide a calming sentiment to our heightened sense of quality of life checklist (assuming the water reports are true and accurate).

Upon kitchen renovation we installed a reverse osmosis water system faucet in our kitchen sink area for drinking water and felt we were good to go.

What we didn't check for (and honestly, why would we) was the actual water condition.

Condition you ask?

See, my small town is filled with hard men and women doing hard work.

Oil field workers, cable linemen, cattle industry, farm work, service, education, church, commercial - the list continues.

And all these folks are drinking, bathing, washing and scrubbing themselves in what has to be the hardest water known to man.

Within weeks of moving in and setting up our Bosch stainless steel lined dishwasher, hard water deposits starting showing up on our glasses (a light haze), inside the jets, and around the drain.

No commercially available brand of detergent or spot-free rinse agent could deal with the massive amounts of minerals that were flowing through our water pipes, so we brought in the big guns...a water softener.

"No one likes softened water...it feels like you can never get all the soap off,"was the biased thinking behind my initial vehemence against getting one. That and the pricey priced price tag.

Fast forward several weeks later and you have one very satisfied family, enjoying, bathing and basking in the slipperiest, softest water known to man. Not to mention this fella who was equally surprised at how quickly he developed an affinity for the slippery skinned feel of soft water showering while all the while marveling at how promptly the mineral deposits disappeared from the household drinking glasses, shower door and dishwasher jets.

Other than the occasional hefting of the salt bags down into the cellar to fill up the softener and hammering into the girls the difference between drinking water out of the "yucchy faucet" (tap) and the "yummy faucet" (RevOs filtered), all things water have been calm in our house and I've felt mentally secure in our H20 intake.

Until, that is, the other day while ponying up to the soda fountain lunch counter at our favorite small town's pharmacy.

Having just ordered a round of orangeades, we were all settling in to watch the Fountain Lady concoct our sweetened orange liquid wonders when PK utters out loud, "Daddy, she just poured water from the faucet into our drink...bleah!"

Oh no, our offspring are water snobs.

Hardware heaven

My Father-in-law is one of those guys who can tell you what size socket you'll need for the bolt you were showing to him several days ago.

He's also that guy who can tell the difference between a CPVC and PVC 90-degree fitting just by feeling them.

And he's that fella who grumbles whenever he sees yet another open wall in our house that doesn't have the studs on 16" centers, but will calculate (in his head) exactly how much sheetrock we need to buy to eliminate any waste and still have the bare minimal tape lines.

Yep, he's that good.

No wonder he's hard pressed to find a worker at any of the mega-chain home improvement centers that can come close to answering any question he may be seeking an answer to. Over the years he's learned to seek out the most elderly employee he can find for advice in an often vain attempt to pursue the "with age comes wisdom," methodology.

Yep, he's a hard man to please...hardware wise.

The last person you'd expect to find manning the aisles of my small town's one and only hardware store in search of lost souls of the hardware variety, is the lovely ashen blonde, middle-aged Soccer Mom-ish woman named Darla.

An 11+ year veteran of this particular franchised hardware store, Darla was the one red smocked employee that most of us frequent customers went in search of when we ourselves were in search of a particular item. Experienced shoppers clued in early when somehow any and all unanswerable questions queried of other store employees, always found purchase and success with Darla.

Even my F-i-L would seek her out on his occasional visits to our local nuts and bolts dive, commenting how "...refreshing it was to find someone who knew what the heck they were talking about that wasn't getting paid an engineer's salary."

No higher hardware compliment could be paid than my F-i-L's ravaged-by-one-too-many-saw-cuts thumbs up.

Just yesterday, while putting down our new tongue & groove 1"x4" pineboard floor in our mudroom, my wife put down her hammer long enough to make a finishing nail run to the hardware store as we were getting low on the floorboard securing stock. My F-i-L handed her a sample nail that we were using for comparison and she was off.

15 minutes or so later, S reported that "that lady" at the hardware store (she doesn't shop there as much so she's not on a first name basis with the workers there) no sooner said "hey" when she was asking what we were working on, nodded when my wife finished her description of our project, excused herself with a smile and returned in a minute with a box of 1000 of the prettiest 8d diamond point, bright finish, 2.5" finishing/trim nails you've ever seen (exactly what my wife was handed by her Father mere minutes ago).

Early this afternoon, we heard the sirens and speculated as we watched first the ambulance, then the Sheriff's patrol car, followed by a local police black and white, trailed by not one but two big rigs from the Fire Department, that something bad had happened.

Even on a Sunday, news spreads fast in my small town and by 3 p.m. we got word that Darla had been killed in a car crash just east of town. The car containing her and her boyfriend somehow ended up off the road and in a ditch filled with water runoff.

She apparently drowned.

Tonight as Franny and I made our way downtown on our nightly doggie walk, we detoured off of Main Street and found ourselves standing in front of the corner hardware store.

A single fluorescent light was burning bright, sending 40-watts of cool white glow through the plate glass windows of the store and out into the historic downtown intersection of my small town.

If there is a hardware store in heaven, Darla is surely on duty.

Jud Fry lives...and he's eating 'q in the booth next to ours

Regular YASTM readers may recall my eldest daughters foray into the limelight of my small town's Centennial production of "Oklahoma," last year, and how I spent my time at her rehearsals finishing up the final Harry Potter tome.

Tonight, while dining on some chopped brisket and cole slaw at the one and only barbeque joint in my small town, who should walk in but the fella who played Jud "Poor Jud is daid, poor Jud Fry is daid..." Fry in the very same production.

Unlike Jud-the character, Jud-the person (not his real name, but for simplicity sake, we'll keep it that way) was very much alive and was celebrating his Mom's birthday by taking his entire brood and parents out for some plate likin' 'q.

At one point before his table received their food and after we had mopped up every last drop of sauce from our platters using grilled triangles of Texas toast, Jud came over to say "hey." After an exchange of pleasantries, grins and greetings, I opened the can of worms by asking him if he had ever finished the last Harry Potter book.

You see, Jud was just one of the many folk who were closely following my progress on the book at the play rehearsals. While they all sang, and danced, and recited classic lines of Rodgers and Hammerstein's first musical play up on stage, out in the din of the dimly lit auditorium seating, there sat I, Deathly Hallows in hand, excitedly turning page after page in my quest to reach the end as soon as bloody possible.

At the time Jud and I had much to discuss, as I slowly crept up to the point where he had reached in his book 7 reading efforts. At some point during the final days of dress rehearsal, I overtook his own bookmarks position in the hard bound edition resting on his nightstand and it was at that point that Jud Fry became distant and aloof...at least to me.

So concerned was he that even being in my presence would prove a spoiler to his mental submergence into the world of Harry Potter, that he went out of his way to avoid even making eye contact with me -- this lasted for the rest of the time I spent around the auditorium up until play had it's final curtain call.

Yet here we were, several months later and well past the final word on the final page of the final chapter of the final novel featuring the bespectacled wizard in training, smelling of barbeque sauce and discussing with all the vim and vigor of a couple of D&D playing 19-year olds, our likes and dislikes about the last ever, Harry Potter novel.

Seems appropriate to close this entry with a report from last month that hit the MTV Newswires about Harry Potter fans suffering from acute withdrawal symptoms and showing signs of addiction.

Word.

"She likes what I like, but I don't want her to!"

Now that our littlest has successfully navigated through her 5th birthday and has officially turned the corner from toddler-dom into kid-dom (although she's been paying for a Kid's ticket at Disneyland for three years now...ripped), I'm looking forward to seeing what earthly things and otherworldly interests her quickly forming brain starts to zero in on as igniting her solid rocket boosters.

Actually, there's no one more anxious to see PK find her own way in the surrounding world of wonder than her bigger sister, who for months now has been making a point of letting us know that it would be more acceptable to her if the youngest member of our not-quite Brady Bunch would find her own interests instead of "stealing" hers.

I remember as a kid how it seemed to bug my big brother whenever I would take an interest in something he found interesting...with the exception of the original Star Trek tv series -- I was two years younger than my Trekker brother so a lot of the subtleties in the plot lines of the show were lost to me then. Or perhaps I just didn't have enough raging pre-teen hormones to appreciate the mini skirt and tight uniform of Yeoman Rand (yowza!).

Seems that same scenario has been playing out in our home for awhile now as PK's interests in all things cultural (pop and otherwise} have more or less mimicked her big sister.

Elevating the interests of an older sibling to Zeussian status is all perfectly normal behavior, I get that. However there are days when it gets to the point of a heightened sense of frustration for our first born, and during these times we usually steer our discussion on the subject in one of three directions...

S usually taps into her Hallmark Greeting Card commercials vibe and launches into her "Someday you'll look back on the days when your little sister thought you were the best thing since direct port nitrous injection, four core intercoolers, ball-bearing turbos and titanium valve springs...(okay, I added that but you get the point), and you'll long for those days."

A good fallback is usually the "Point out the differences" argument where we walk up to their respective bedrooms and start pointing out the differences between the two...C - blue room, PK - pink.
C - sea landscape theme, PK - dollhouse village.
C - softball gear, PK - soccer stuff.
C - Hannah Montana posters, PK - Hannah Montana posters...uh oh...ummm, moving on.

My favorite is the "She's your little sister and looks up to you, so you have a responsibility to make sure her interests are nurtured," line of discussion. I know, I know, spoken like a true younger sibling channeling that old "it's not my fault...he/she is older and should have known better," routine. What can I say, old habits die hard.

As you might imagine, my methodology frustrates C the most, especially when I launch into some boring diatribe about how I copied everything my brother/her Uncle Brian used to do, say, think, and wear and how that behavior, however annoying it may have been, eventually led to the development of the person whom she loves dearly and calls "Daddy."

To which she smugly replies, "thanks Uncle Brian."

8-years old going on 16. I am so not ready.

Some people collect Pez dispensers for fun...

From today's police blotter in my small town's news rag...



Let me break this down for you...

Remington 28 shotgun
Remington 12 shotgun
Remington 30.06 semi-auto rifle
Browning 28 shotgun
Marlin .22 semi-auto rifle
Marlin 3030 lever-action rifle
Ruger 9mm semi-auto pistol
Ruger 12 shotgun
Ruger .22 semi-auto rifle
Ruger .22 revolver
Ruger .22 mag revolver
Ruger .45 semi-auto handgun
Ruger .357 revolver
Kahr Arms .40 handgun
Mini .22 revolver

"Just taking my little firearm collection out for a drive, Officer."

Who says the 2nd Amendment isn't alive and well here in my small town?

Buying beer...a beer in my small town

The cheddar and beer fondue recipe listed 6 ounces of beer as ingredient number two.

That's right, I said fondue. You wanna make something out of it?

It's a Valentine's Day tradition in our house (regular YASTM readers will attest to the fact that we have many traditions in our abode).

This year the girl's were old enough that we were able to train them in the ways of non-double dipping and anti-saliva-swapping fondue forking techniques, which made for a much more authentic fondue pot sharing experience for my in-laws (now infamous for their lack of food sharing proclivities...even with each other).

No, I didn't get the awesome USB powered fondue pot that I was jonesing for last year, but we did add a little dessert pot this year and I found a new recipe that looked promising.

Chedder and beer fondue.

Problem was, we're not beer drinkers, so there wasn't a drop of beer to be found in the house.

On went my Sketchers, up went my hoodie, and out I went into the chilly below-30 degree morning in search of a can of beer.

First stop, the local grocery store, which, much to my chagrin, does not sell beer.

3 years in this town and I didn't realize this. Shows how much I buy beer.

The barely 17-year old checker informed me that I'd need to go to the gas station to get beer. The gas station. Of course, how silly of me.

Gas stations in my small town have long been relegated to the Leave-it-to-Beaver era and are now meccas of consumables and general merchandise known in the modern vernacular as "convenience items."

The fuel gauge on my daily driver was hovering comfortably close to F, so I felt confident that the few singles I had in my money clip should be enough to cover my one and only purchase - a beer.

Unfortunately, the barons of petrol convenience stores have deemed single cans of beer as unshelfworthy, opting instead to populate the valuable wired real estate in the chilled coolers with multi-packs, multi-multi-packs, and mega-multi-multi-packs of the hopped up, malted, barley'd, grain'd, and pure mountain spring water'd beverage.

Way off at the bottom southern corner of the last cooler door on the left, I found what I needed....single cans of beer.

Only, not the 12 oz. normal 6-pack sized cans. These were 24-oz monster towers of pop-top aluminum, that are normally relegated to golf carts because the Beer Lady can be mighty scarce at times when playing 18 on a hot, summer day.

My dreams of walking out of the store with a single, little tin can of Bud Light along with change from a buck were dashed, as I reached for a can of the only non-multi-packed beer they sold.

Then the puritan in me (okay, I was surprised to find that I had a puritan side) found myself attempting to devise some sort of explanation to the elderly cash register wielding clerk for why I was buying what amounted to 1/3 of a six pack of beer at 9:30 in the morning....on a school day.

Quickly I reasoned that the truth would be too bizarre and more than the lady could comprehend, so I kept my fondue story to myself and resigned myself to accept that from now until the end, I will be labeled as a "morning beer guzzling alky" by a small portion of the population of my small town.

After I used the requisite 6 ounces of beer for my fondue, the rest of the can sacrificed itself to the spirits of the insinkerator.


Some might say, "what a waste."
Others may mutter, "what a shame."
My in-laws just said, "I liked that beer fondue."

Hummus among us

Jobe's was closed.

Well, not closed for good, but while my nuclear wife and 2.5 kids and I dipped our pita bread into freshly made hummus and dined on Greek-style moussaka and kababs at the restaurant next door to Jobes's last Saturday, the lack of cars, people, and signs of life at the old Route 66 drive-in and the thought that they wouldn't be open for business on a Saturday was slightly depressing.

Whoa, back up there. Did I really write hummus, and moussaka, and kababs?

Welcome to Georgeo's Meditteranean Cafe, on Route 66 in El Reno, Oklahoma.

I had noticed this place whenever I did happen to drive by since it looked done and ready to open but never had it's shingle hung for business. And let's face it, an eatery that was hawking something other than burgers, chicken-fried steak and pizza within a 30-minute drive of my small town was bound to attract my attention.

Well, the place finally opened, Georgeo was a gracious and entertaining host, his wife's cooking was top notch, and the bill for the horrendous amount of food we consumed was checkbook pleasing.

And even though the food we were eating was deliciously Greek, the music pumping through the recessed speakers in the ceiling was Greek, and the sites and smells surrounding us in the tastefully decorated eatery were all very Greek, a thoughtful study of the menu revealed that we were indeed, still in Oklahoma.

Chicken-fried steak and dolmas.
Barbeque burger and baba ganoosh.
Spanakopita and spaghetti.
Gyro platter and 12 oz. ribeye.
And on the back page of the menu, pizza, any way you want it.


The menu reflects a hodgepodge of items I'm sure Georgeo would PREFER to offer alongside items he feels COMPELLED to offer, in dedicated service to the occasionally limited palate of his customers.

Or perhaps he took this episode of Seinfeld to heart, not wanting to repeat the error of Babu's ways.

BTW, a quick phone call today revealed that Jobe's, the burger joint mainstay of El Reno's stretch of the Mother Road, is indeed still flipping, frying, and flinging burgers. Whew!

Who's that peekin' round the bend?

Like most bloggers, I enjoy a little voyeuristic peek into who is visiting my blog now and again.

Tools such as SiteMeter and other hit counter/tracker type objects make it easy to not only track where the hits are coming from, but provide a bevy of other information about the hittees as well.

Such as this bit of info I screenshot recently from my own SiteMeter logs...specifically, look at the sixth category down, "Operating System."



Yes, you can run Windoze on a Mac. And according to this Mac ad (and PC World magazine), it apparently can run faster.

Unfortunately, the Microserf excuse-for-an-OS will still be as buggy, and ugly, and nonsense ridden, and cryptic as ever, regardless of what computer it's being run on.

Like putting a Yugo motor in a Shelby Cobra. It may start, and run, and get you to the grocery store once in awhile, but you'd be constantly wondering when (not if) the sad excuse for a vehicular powerplant was going to blue screen you, leaving you stranded by the side of the road.

And yes, I too enjoyed the irony that the hittee in this particular instance was using a corporate IBM connection to browse my blog.

So, near as I can figure, this person was an IBM employee, running WindozeXP on a Mac.

Course, I could have misinterpreted the data and be totally wrong.

But if not...sweet.

Voices from the front, via down under

Back in September of last year, we sent a few packages of comfort items from home to a soldier we knew serving in Iraq.

Yesterday a package arrived from the soldiers Mom in Australia with some gift items for the girls and a nice card thanking us for the kind gesture we made toward her son last year.

I'm happy to report that the young marine is doing well and even though he didn't make it stateside for the holidays, he did make it back to his folks in Caringbah NSW where he went shopping and picked up a bunch of Aussie themed "prezzys" for the girls.

Among other items, the box of goodies contained their first glimpse of a stuffed kookaburra, platypus, echidna, and something that looks like an Aussie version of a capybara (wombat).

Along with the stuffies were a couple of Aussie flag caps, some tattoos, magnets, stickers and a bunch of sea shells which threw C into a whirlwind of emotion and commotion as she played "got it - don't got it - got it -don't got it" with each and every one.

Gonna have to find somewhere to put her vast shell collection.

And what Aussie gift pack would be complete without a jar or tube of this tasty bread spread...


Yep, our girls are going to get their first taste of the slimy brown yeast-whiz so popular with the youth of Australia.

I'll of course have their ACT fluoride rinse and toothbrushes ready and loaded to bear on hand for the inevitable American-post-Vegemite-consumption reaction. Those of us who sought out and tried the stuff after listening to the Men at Work croon about it in the classic 80's hit, "I Come from a Land Down Under," know exactly what I'm talking about.

It's an acquired taste.

We're starting to put together another package for the young Marine who is now stationed in Afghanistan, although seeing as how his home turf is the land down under, I'm not sure if our "taste of home" items we sent last time around actually gave him a true taste of his home.

Cupcake got a tongue lashing

Already having documented and demonstrated how my youngest daughter ate a sprinkled donut, removed her slippers, and snarfs down a turkey leg...

I now present to you, the proper method for consuming a homemade Valentine party cupcake with butter cream frosting.

On the left, the before.
On the right, the after.


You're most welcome.

Bada-bing...from a can?

Let me preface this blog entry by saying that the best pizza I've ever eaten, is usually the one I'm eating at the time I'm being asked, "what is the best pizza you've ever eaten."

I've walked the streets of NYC while chowing down on a locally bought folded quarter-slice wedge of cheese.

I've loosened my belt a notch after snarfing an entire deep dish masterpiece at Pizzeria Uno's in Chicago.

I've had crust so thin and crispy, a Ritz cracker would have felt overweight and dough so puffy and light that the air escaping from the crust as I bit into it sighed with pleasure.

I served pizza at my wedding, and eat pizza with my Wife for every nuptial anniversary in whatever state we happen to be in.

I'm not a pizza expert. Like any red-blooded American, I just appreciate a slice of the good stuff.

So imagine my reserved joy when I heard the radio ads for a joint in the city called Falcone's.

Encouraging signs that built my hopes up...

Online reviews were generally positive...# 9 on about.com guys list.

A craigslist posting by the restaurant is looking for experience pizza throwers, not just generic pizza cooks.

Radio ad pitchman claimed to be the owner and even though he sounded a little too authentic New York Italian to be an actor and may have been pouring on the accent to get his point across, I gave him points for pitching his own joint to the masses...with attitude.

Even liked his cojones when dealing with the Edmond Planning Commission and City Council that tried to stifle his authentic use of his ancestral flags colors when detailing the exterior of his restaurant.

Finally, I heard the owner state in a local radio interview that he "...can't actually make New York style pizza crust here or anywhere's but New York, since he'd need New York water to do it."

It's true, look it up.

I was starting to get hungry and readying a plan to take my family on a little trip to New York City via Bricktown OKC.

But then there were these...
Warning signs not to get my hopes up...

No website. What is up with that? Every business should have a website, period.

Use of the slang phrase "bada-bing" in their marketing strategy.

The take-out menu seemed to go out of its way to display more attitude than substance and did it's best to capitalize on the popularity of a certain HBO Italian crime family series that recently finished it's run. Okay, the Top 10 reasons to get Whacked kinda cracked me up.

I finally did get to sample the famous Falcone's pizza pie a few weeks back and I only have one question.

Do canned mushrooms (like pineapple and canadian bacon) have any place on an authentic pizza made and sold by a second generation Italian American, born and raised in New York who still makes his meatballs by hand?

Other than that, the pie was most definitely, "the best pizza I've ever eaten."

Hey, you asked.

Hallmark -1, Parental Sanity - 0

Due to my voluntary service last Valentine's Day of making deliveries for the local florist as a fundraiser for my eldest daughter's school PTO (Parent Teacher Organization), I was more than familiar with the overindulgent behavior displayed by many of the elementary school parents in our small town.

What may have started as an innocent and loving gesture by a long absent Grandparent or traveling salesman father who was on the road and couldn't see his kids on Valentine's Day, has become an explosion of opulence and indulgence the likes of which even Britney Spears would probably approve of.

Like in most things topical in my life, I choose to remain oblivious and non-opinionated on most matters of controversy, citing my advanced degree in clueless fatherhooding of my two daughters, as well as my status as a Stay-at-home-Dad (better known in my small town as a fish-out-of-water).

However when my Wife went to spend 30-minutes with our 2nd grader at her classes Valentine's Day party and saw the following display of V-day goodies sitting on the school office counter awaiting delivery to ankle biters...


...she came home spitting caustic vitriol all the while questioning the negative effect that "Keeping up with the Jones' " is having on our small town.

Apparently the effect was felt at the parochial school where our youngest attends Pre-K, as the Principal informed my Wife and I that the gymnasium floor was filled with V-day deliveries for the students, the most decadent display of parental affection for their kid manifesting itself as a dozen long stem roses sent to a kindergartener.

Topper of the day came when a classmate/friend of our 8-year old that is suffering from an obesity issue proudly announced that HER parents sent a giant chocolate chip cookie to her in her class.

And while it was only slightly painful explaining to our 2nd grader why she was one of a handful of her classmates NOT to have received a delivered bouquet of flowers, stuffed animals, or a mylar balloon tied to a 6 oz. can of Dr. Pepper, we were able to disseminate from her that the vast majority of her classmates who did receive an in-classroom delivery from their parents, we're bus riders and after school daycare devotees.

To which my Wife murmured almost to herself and almost under her breath, "How much guilt relief does a can of soda and helium balloon buy nowadays?"

Sometimes I think "harsh" is my Wife's middle name.

Tailgating is allowed ...and encouraged

Is there anything that regurgitates nostalgia better than the sight of two tykekins swinging their legs on the tailgate of a classic car-truck parked in a cemetery while watching their Mother ride her road bike around and around, mile after mile as she trains for her big bike ride?

Thought so.

Lay-ing on the sweet and spicy

A new item popped up in the impulse buy checkstand display at my small town's non-Walmart StupidCenter supermarket.


Overheard conversation between two insulated-coverall wearing gents while standing in the checkout line behind them ...

"Lookit here...hot wing flavored chips."
Sweet.
Yeah. Looks good, thought we should try 'em.
Get two.

He nods and does, while the other Guy takes a good long look at the picture on the chip bag.

"Says here sweet and spicy."
"Yep, sweet aaaand spicy."
"Terry-yakee. What's that?"
"What?"
"Look here, right here, says (slowly) terry-yakee."
"Yuchy? "
"Yeah, yuchy...maybe we shouldn't get these, says they're yuchy right on the front" (joking).

They chuckle and make their purchases, while I am forced to pick up a bag for a closer looksee.

One can see how one might mistake the coated drummettes in the picture for a miniscule pile of a plate of Hooter's finest hot wings...or didn't know what the heck teriyaki was.

BTW, they were sweet and spicy and quite delicious.

The view from behind is often not pretty

I am not a backing-into-a-parking-space kinda guy.

Nor am I a one-handed parallel-parking-using-only-my-mirrors kinda guy.

And the desire to own, drive, or attempt to park any vehicle that has a back end longer than the length of a typical garage, just isn't on my want/need list.

Given those last three statements, it's quite obvious that I most definitely am not a pulling-something-behind-my-vehicle kinda guy.

In my small town (and let's face it, just about anywhere in Okie-land), if you have a vehicle with a posted towing capacity in it's owners manual that doesn't have a tow hitch, ball, bar, or some other pulling attachment of some sort dangling off the back end, you are persona non-grata.

And the only reason I have such a contraption on the back of the Elky, was because it came that way from the little old Cajun dude in Louisiana whom I bought it from some 3 years ago.

As such, and since the Elky does have the little steel ball of pulling power and enough oomph to pull a trailer, my F-i-L thinks nothing of asking me to haul a load of our house restoration leavin's to the dump via his little 4-walled 12-foot trailer.

And every time he comes 'round with his little trailer and we have a big day of demolition ahead of us, I get that anxious rattling at the end of my keychain, knowing that my trailer pulling and backing up skills (or lack thereof) will yet again be put to the test.

Well, our 10'x17' mudroom is coming along nicely, and will be soon be resplendent with a deep doggie washing capable laundry sink, an industrial size slide out laundry folding table, four open lockers (NFL style...the NBA style just didn't suit S for some reason) complete shoe puttin'ontakin'off seats, upper storage for sports equipment, and lower storage for shoes, acres of cabinet space for linens, towels, and seasonal clothing, a sleeping area for Franny, a fold down hand-wash delicates hang drying rack, three overhead light fixtures, broom closet, hidden ironing board, and a gift wrapping area.

Oh, and a little art space corner for the girls to get their painting faces on.

But all this construction comes at a price, and that total was paid in full with my recent trip to haul away the lathe-plaster-sheetrock-lumber-nails, dust and dirt that we removed to make way for the new and improved mudroom.

Let's just say that it probably took me longer to back that trailer up the 50 foot, 13 degree inclined ramp leading to the open maw of the dumpster pit, than it did for my F-i-L and I to load the old mudroom lathe and plaster offal into that darn little trailer in the first place.

Luckily only one fella was waiting - with the patience of a Farmer watching his wheat grow - to dump his load after me.

I was too preoccupied with the sweat-inducing goings-ons out my rear and side view mirrors to notice how smirky, surprised, or self-satisfied the Farmer was (and deservedly so) as he watched me struggle with and against my Sisyphusian 2-wheeled boulder.

A good friend of mine in LA, after he bought his boat, took his trailer to a large empty parking lot to practice, practice, practice pulling and towing and parking his boat trailer.

Very soon after, he became a pulling-something-behind-his-vehicle kinda guy.

Maybe there's hope for me yet.

Ron makes a good burger

One night last week S and I had to make a Tulsa run to attend an event for which my wife is seriously considering participating in this coming June...the Oklahoma Freewheel Cross State Bicycle Tour.

After securing our kids snugly with my In-Laws, Wife and I bombed up the turnpike and made it to T-town with about 40 minutes to spare.

Famished and needing some sustenance to carry us through the evening, we hunted around downtown Tulsa in the very industrial area surrounding the venue for the seminar -- OSU's College of Osteopathic Medicine (who knew OSU had a med school?).

Other than a neon glaring Coney Island greasy spoon of questionable safety and sanitary standards (the downtown bus depot location might have been a giveaway), our only other option in sight was a Golden Arches and several pubs.

Flipping over to a side street in desperation, with the clock ticking and our gullets in shut down mode, I was desperately hoping we wouldn't have to result to a QuikTrip Fast-Feast-o-Death, when along to our wondrous eyes did appear but a hovel of fine hamburger hideaways...Ron's

A Tulsa institution since the heady days of disco fever, we had both heard of Ron's famous chili and burgers for awhile, but never had the time or wherewithal to partake of this burger joint wonder.

As our time frame neared it's temporal horizon, we opted to share an arterial sclerosis inducing concoction known as the Sausage Cheeseburger (Oklahoma's best burger!.....$5.25)."1/3 lb. Cheeseburger made with 1/2 beef and 1/2 Owens sausage. Topped with hot pepper and American cheese. Dressed with mustard, pickles, fried onions, lettuce, and tomato." Sadly, after shaking our heads to clear the haze and glaze that had covered our eyes after consuming the big burger, we had no time for dessert or even a palate and vein cleansing cup of joe.

We paid our bill, left a few bucks for our friendlier than friendly waitress and grabbed a ToGo menu on our way out the door.

Now, considering the remainder of the evening was spent listening to a health professional tell my Wife and the gathered FreeWheel faithful how to get in shape and prepare for the cross state bicycle ride a mere 5-months away, every burger-infused belch I shared with the cosmos during that time not only stopped my heart, but provided an ironic sweetness that almost...almost, made up for our dessert-less meal.

As I was writing up this blog entry, a quick trip around the Googlesphere revealed that the Coney Island joint may not have warranted such ire from our hunger panged decision making process as revealed in this article.

Ah well, livin' and learnin' in T-town.

My daughter, the back alley candy dealer

"I'll sell door-to-door, but not on Main Street!"

Confused and seeking an explanation for such a statement, I launched into a futile and exasperation laden explanation that there is no difference between wearing her emblem encrusted red vest to school, at meetings, and in front of WalMart hawking boxes of candy for her Campfire cause, and wearing that same vest while she pulls her Radio Flyer full of chocolates and nuts up and down the sidewalks of the busy 4-lane that runs through our town.

I took a moment to channel the energy that spawns from the popularity of The Prairie Home Companion, Norman Rockwell's artwork, pharmacy soda fountains and a two-tone red 1957 Chevy BelAir convertible (although I'm partial to the '58 Chevy), as I explained to my 8-year old the significant impact she may have on passers-by as she takes her stock of Campfire candy down the sidewalks of Main Street.

My diatribe began with a summary definition of nostalgia, followed by a flowery explanation of the importance of preserving the past so we don't make the same mistakes over and over again.

Next we discussed the positive effects that the triggering of the neural connections that stimulate long-term memory have on both physical and mental well-being.

Finally, with a flourish of wild gesticulations, I launched into a passionate speech relaying the positive impact on the world she could have by making just one person smile, by helping them rekindle an image of a time long past, and traditions not yet forgotten.

All this by simply walking down the sidewalk of Main Street, ringing doorbells, and saying with enthusiastic authority, "Would you like to buy some Campfire candy or send a box to the Troops?"

To which I finally received my answer..."I don't want to do it because people will be honking and waving and seeing us selling candy...that's so embarrassing, Daddy."

Will I ever understand girls...even the two who spawned from my very own seed?

Not likely.

Backyard bovine excision

Well, it took almost 3 years, but finally an X-Files has arrived in my small town.

"Mulder!?"

"Moo?"

That's Pulitzer, with a capital "P"

Thus far, having just scratched the surface of my net-excavation into my Wife's maternal genealogy, I've had the rare occasion to utter "Eureka!" but once.

So far.

I mean c'mon, her Mother's maiden name is the most common family name in the country - not to mention the UK, Australia, and New Zealand.

Verified by only two sources (more coming, if people would only check their email more often), it seems my Wife's Great Grandfather's sister (Great Great Aunt) married a fella named James W. Faulkner, making Uncle Jim, her Great Great Uncle.

Now this J.W. cat shared a Great Great Great Great Great Grandfather with two-time Pulitzer Prize winning author, recipient of the Nobel Prize for literature, and one of America's finest novelists, poets and storytellers, William Faulkner.

Faulkner. C'mon, you gotta get excited about this guy. He hung out with Bogie and Bacall and wrote screenplays for Howard Hawks. I personally recall reading "The Sound and the Fury" in high school Sophomore English class, then again in Grad school when I was studying Kurosawa's "Rashomon."

Never read Faulkner?
Shame on you.
I have in the past and will again in the future.
Another thing to thank Mr. Hooper for.

A long circus soliloquy...but you can listen if you want

I've sat in bewildered childhood awe to "The Greatest Show on Earth" at the Ringling Brother and Barnam and Bailey Circus.

I've marveled at the unique combination of traditional and modern circus acts in the very Eastern European heavy Circus Vargas.

The family and I took in both the Carson and Barnes and Culperpper & Merriweather big top extravaganzas when they traversed our state in years past.

Heck, we even took the girls to see the Shrine "Shriner's" Circus when it came to OKC last year.

Finally, I've even fallen asleep while acrobats zoomed around, above, and behind me at Cirque de Solei...in Cirque's defense, I was going on little sleep, working 20 hour days on a 6-day a week low-budget production at the time, so anywhere dark was an excuse for a quick nap.

But none of those big circus venues will ever make it to my small town. It's merely a matter of economics and a limited # of available show dates during the circus season (yes, like Football and all the other organize sports, there is a circus season as well).

Instead, we get little, family run circuses like the one which pulled into town yesterday afternoon, setup in the all purpose building at the fairgrounds, and were packed up and history before I checked my email for the final time of the night.

The Latin-American flavor and vibe of the entire performance rekindled memories of a little film I worked on quite awhile ago, La Carpa.

Back in the 20's and 30's, there was a tradition amongst the American Southwest Latin community of vaudeville troupes and their "tent theaters," which rolled into town, setup up shop, sold as many tickets, food items, and penny trinkets they could, then moved on to the next town before being chased out by the local non-Latin constabulary.

While the "La Carpas" of old and their programs of comedy, song and dance were catered to Mexican farm workers and their families, the little tent-less circus that we were presented with was definitely a family run operation, with each performer wearing multiple hats; ie. the Juggler was also the Cotton Candy man, and the Hula Hoop lady was making snow cones.

Back to the big top...er, the all-purpose building and a few observations...

Hula hoop girls. Every small family circus that has come to town (and we've seen...let's see, this would be our third since moving to our small town) begins with a bevy of hooping hula ladies o' the swing.

Never guys, they're always sequined costumed young ladies with big hair, big smiles, and hoops galore. From the seat of a person whose never been able to get one of those Whamo! plastic rings to circle his rotund little body, I'll always be amazed at anyone who can get not just one, but dozens of these hoopies to do the round-de-round on their own ankles, knees, waists, chests, necks, and foreheads.

Even more so when they're made of highly polished aluminum and must weigh in at a few lbs. a piece.

Even, even more so when they're circling around sequined costumed young ladies with big hair, big smiles and big....earrings (ahem).

Then there's the Juggler. This guy did the standard juggling fare - pins (4), rings (6) and flaming sticks (4). Then he donned a belt that had three billiard table net pockets attached - one at each side and a third at his back.

You guessed it, after juggling 6 white pool balls for a few flourishing minutes, he tossed them one at a time high into the air, did a Michael Jackson "Billie Jean foot spin" and sunk two balls into each and every pocket - nothing but net. Most impressive.

Later C asked me if I ever learned how to juggle. I told her juggling is done is two parts, the tossing/catching of the balls and the dropping of the balls, and that so far I've only learned how to do the second part. Got an 8-year old eye roll for that one, thank you very much.

The clown act was long and scary, but the presence of a 3-year old clown was a novelty in and of itself, making the entire act somewhat tolerable. Kids today don't have the love (or tolerance) for clowns that my generation did, since they don't have Bozo the Clown to greet them on a bright and early Saturday morning.

Then there's Jargo the Giraffe....but we'll come back to him later.

Rounding out the performance were several opportunities to buy overpriced bags of popcorn that may contain a coupon for a free gift, toy or balloon ("Not every bag of popcorn has a coupon, but MOST of them do..."), overpriced Circus-themed coloring books ("Not every coloring book has a coupon for a free gift, toy or ballon, but MOST of them do..."), or a $5 polaroid picture with the 3-year old clown dressed in a Chinese-made knock off (and un-licensed, I'm sure) Sponge Bob costume.


Speaking of unlicensed costumes, a post-intermission break was broken up by the entrance of the dancing characters from Madagascar. They scared as many little kids in the audience as they thrilled, and I smiled knowing that at least my girls were old enough to not let the furry, need-a-good-laundering costumed characters give them nightmares tonight.

The featured act of the circus was a family of Argentinean performers led by a scary Father with a wild frock of jet black hair styled somewhere between Don King and every Russian-mobster you've seen in low budget made-for-cable movies.

The Mother was in a sequined-black leotard and seemed content to stand back with her arms raised in an ever-present taa-daa position, sacrificing her own attention to maintain the focus of the sparse crowd to her three, amazing offspring.

Jordan, the 13-year old ("Direct for Las Vegas, Nevada!") opened with her balancing-on-a-board-on-a-pipe act.


This kid was on fire and had all the bells and whistles when it came time to milk the audience for applause and adoration...which in my opinion, she deserved in spades.

For a person who has trouble balancing on the same two feet I've had my entire life, anyone who can balance on a foot-long length of 6" pvc drain pipe atop several boards, in front of an audience of rural Okies stuffing their faces with cotton candy, snow cones (yes it was 18 degrees and icy outside, but a snow cone is a snow cone), pickles, and nachos, deserves and gets a big rousing round of applause from me and my brood.

The Argentinean family finished the show with their gaucho boleadoras performance, where they donned sequined and flaming versions of the traditional Argentinean cowboy garb, stomped their feet into big, loud boots, and swung their bolos around with the fervor and gusto of a pre-K class that's had their sugar-rush mid-day snack and has been let out for recess for the first time in a cold, winter month.

Like everything I do and everywhere I go with the girls, I miss half of what is going on due to the fact that I'm watching them watch whatever we're all there to watch. You parents know what I mean.

Argentinean bolo performers aside, nothing is better than watching your kids "diggin' the ride."

Okay, this circus soliloquy has gone on long enough, but before closing I need to get back to Jargo the Giraffe.

Even though my 8-year old preferred the loud and raucous acts over all, the performance that had my 4-year old glued and transfixed (as well as her pre-K classmate sitting next to her) was Jargo the Giraffe, "The Original Joker of the Jungle."

A little online research revealed that the origin of Jargo goes back a ways into circus tradition and history. In circ-slang, Jargo translates to "why pay for a real animal, when two guys dressed up as one will do."


This particular incarnation of Jargo looked to have originated circa 1940's or so, as he was looking a little early Looney Tune. Jargo, the act, was basically a naughty giraffe, who wasn't as respondent to his trainer as he should have been. While it successfully tapped into the "oh man, this is cheesy" section of the adolescent and adult brain, a quick glance over to the pre-K peanut gallery revealed that Jargo was a hit.

Later that night at tuck-in time, PK stated unequivocally that Jargo was her favorite act of the evening, relating his entire act verbatim in 4-year old speak.

As I settled back onto her headboard, stroked her hair and anticipated the deep breaths and periodic snorts of my baby girl entering REM-slumbertown, I took nostalgic comfort knowing that in this day and age when just about any form of entertainment is available at the turn of a mouse wheel or wave of the tv remote, two guys dressed up in a giraffe costume doing slapstick comedy under the fluorescent lights of my small town's fairgrounds all-purpose building, can give a little girl something to smile and dream about.

Flossing her way to a brand new Corvette

Dental floss has apparently been around since 1815, but I'll have to ask my Mom when it was she started my brother and I on a daily dental flossing routine since apparently it should start sometime before your 4th birthday.

Case in point, my youngest daughter's latest acquisition...


The tooth had been irritating her for awhile and even though she was very good about twice daily brushings, she only flossed when she caught her big sister doing it and wanted to copy.

Seeing as how our youngest was only 4-years old, my Wife and I never pressed the floss point on her too vigorously. Surmising that since our 8-year old is a twice daily brusher but only flosses when she remembers - which isn't all that often - and she has been cavity free thus far, we set the same lofty oral hygiene goals for our second daughter as well.

I personally have had two cavities in my entire lifetime (in the same tooth) and even they both arrived during my let's-neglect-our-dental-and-physical-well-being Grad school days. S is a consummate brusher and has only two anxiety-filled amalgam procedures filling the lines on her dental chart.

So as a family, we have relatively strong teeth, and by the precedent being set by our eldest offspring, that tradition would hopefully continue on down the genetic line.

At the dentist, PK's itty-bitty little mouth was too small a fit for our family practitioner to get a good set of x-rays. So off we went to follow the unearthly path of the Delta Dental referral slip.

A very short time later, PK ended up sitting in the comfy chair of a pediatric dentist, happily watching Scooby Doo on the flat screen monitor strategically hanging from the ceiling above her head and getting the first complete set of dental x-rays in her life.

What started out as an irritant became a cavity, that became a probable filling, that eventually became an extraction and ended with some sort of placeholder apparatus in the crater hole where her baby tooth once sat.

So now were on a 3-a-day tooth brushing routine, ACT bubble-gum flavored fluoride rinse in the evening, Dentek Fun Flossers with fluoride after meals, and a space being made on the bathroom counter for our next purchase, a Water Pic.

Oh, and Wifey and I were harangued pretty decently by the cute and perky, twenty-something Asian pediatric dentist for not putting our 4-year old on the Hogwarts Express floss train earlier in life.

So, what you ask did Tooth Fairie have to cough up for this whopper of a deciduous enameled wonder?

Not a thing.

PK refused to hand it over to the flittering trader of enameled goods for trinkets and coins. This one, she wanted to keep, and show off, and possibly use to torment her parents in the future in a guilt vs. consumable goods exchange.

What color did you want your Corvette in PK...dental floss white...haha, very funny.

C and PK joining the American Revolution

The rumor on my Wife's maternal side had always been that somewhere in their ancestry, they were related to Mary Todd Lincoln -- Abe's beloved wife.

On our anniversary trip to Kentucky some years ago, we traveled across the southern border to the scary town of Jellico, TN to root out some family roots and dig up some long dead relatives...figuratively of course.

We also stumbled upon a wonderful Tennessee History Center about an hours drive south in Knoxville that had an impressive collection of genealogical material related to the area. We dug, we read, we printed and spent the better part of a day piecing together the puzzle pieces of her long dead ancestors.

We ended up at back at the Jellico cemetery taking gravestone etchings with crayons and paper we picked up at the local Dollar store, feeling pretty confident that we knew even less about the origins of the age old family relationship to our 16th President's wife.

Fast forward to a few days ago when my Wife noticed that the local chapter of the Daughter's of the American Revolution(DAR) were holding a meeting to discuss, among other things, possible candidates for year end scholarships.

Now, my Wife was one of those over-achieving scholarship queens at her high school and walked away with considerable spending cash to see her through her first semester of college and the ever important Rush Week.

To me, the whole idea of researching, applying for, and smiling for the local papers photographer as you are handed checks on your way out of town is relatively foreign to me. So with the knowledge that my Wife's pre-college strategy to let her good grades do the talking and donated funds do the walking, it wasn't all that much of a surprise when she shoved the article concerning our local DAR group meeting into my face and said, "our daughter's need to join the American Revolution."

More than a decade away from their first day of Rush Week, I pondered why my beloved was suddenly concerned with our offspring's college funds.
She wasn't.
All that much.

But like a 75% off After Christmas Sale banner can draw my Wife's attention from several miles away, through the thickest fog and the haze of millions of swarming locusts, so does the prospect of free money for our daughter's future

Fortunately, our research back in the green hills of her maternal family's stomping grounds did indeed reveal that somewhere back in her patriotic gene pool, she had Grandfathers and assorted relatives (8 generations back - yep, they've been here that long!) that donned the red,white,and blue and raised their muskets in defense of our new nation.

So with a little more research and verification, DAR membership should be in our daughter's future, and their chances for yet another scholarship solidified.

A by-product of all this interest in her Mom's family history rekindled a desire to discover whether or not the Mary Todd Lincoln connection was true or not.

Onto the net I went and what I found...will have to wait for yet another blog posting.

Hazards of spending too much time on the adult playground

There are times when the disparities between my childhood and that of my Wife's, make story time for the girls a surprisingly twisted bedtime ritual.

While I spent countless hours learning the intricacies of visual storytelling in 22 and 46 minute increments (no wonder Gilligan never got off the island...he only had 22 minutes to do so each week!), Wifey was out in the boondocks, catching crawdads with bits of bacon on a string and painting her initials on their backs with nail polish.

While my friends and I were traversing the outlying communities from the safety(?) of the RTD busline, Wifey and her brother were taking the canoe out exploring the hidden coves of Lake Eufaula.

While I was reading every book my Mom would bring home from the library that had a fantasy theme to it and a dragon, elf, or other mysterious figure on the cover, Wifey was plinking on her guitar and writing sorrowful songs of youthful angst and wistful preteen wisdom.

So naturally, my bedtime stories usually involve a fantastical array of creatures of various shapes, types, and forms (unicorns and pegasus ponies are a favorite), a journey of epic scale in search for magical items of great power ("...without the cylindrical power cells, the odd-shaped radiowave device wouldn't work"), and plot lines that any fan of 70's American television would vaguely recognize ("Here's a story, of a lovely dragon lady, who was busy with 3 little dragon ladies of her own...")

The other night I overhead my lovely Wife telling our girls the tale of "Gibble the Hamster.""When your Mama was little, I had a hamster that I named Gibble. I loved Gibble and saved up enough money to get him a deluxe four room Habitrail setup.

He was the only pet I ever owned, since our dog was a family dog, and really belonged to my Dad, since he used her for hunting.

One day, we were going to leave for a week long stay at the lake house, so I gave Gibble plenty of food and filled up his water bottle to the top, thinking that it would get him through the week we were gone.

When we got back, I found Gibble having a seizure on the floor of the feeding room in his Habitrail condo.

When I reached in to pick him up to see what was wrong, he instinctively bit me so hard that my defensive impulses took over and I flicked my hand away, sending the still convulsing Gibble across the room, smashing into a wall, and hitting the floor with a loud thud.

Moments later, he died.

After a tearful burial in the backyard, further investigation of Gibble's now vacant habitat revealed that in my rush to get out the door and into the lake-bound Travelall, I failed to properly insert the water bottle into the steel retaining sleeve, thus placing the nipple that was to provide Gibble with the life preserving liquid, ever so slightly out of his reach.

I had killed my beloved Gibble."Our 8-year olds response after hearing this tale of pet hamster woe was, "Cool, can we go dig him up and see what his skeleton looks like?"

Our 4-year old simple frowned, shook her head and said, ""Not a story like that Mama."

Mangers, monster truck and muzak

The Oklahoma wind has less respect for the ceramic statuary depicting the nativity scenes than a rowdy group of Atheist skater dater teenagers.

Thus, my nightly walk duties have of late included upending and repositioning various livestock, Shepherds and gift-bearing Kings in one or both of the yet-to-be-put-away-for-the-season manger displays in front of two of the churches on my downtown dog walk route.

Is there a statute (or should that be statue?) of limitations on manger display time?

Tonight, after placing a myrrh bearing Magi from the East back into his upright position, I heard, no felt was more like it, the unmistakable sounds of a domestic internal combustion engine with a freer than free flowing exhaust, rumble and stop in the adjacent intersection.

Turning to see what was causing the audible ruckus, I found myself staring side out with what my 4-year old would label (screaming out loud) "a MONSTER TRUCK!"

From inside I could see the red/orange embers of a Marlboro being puffed on, while in the next instant, the driver rolled down his window to expel a healthful dose of air from his tar and nicotine depleted lungs.

Sunglasses at night. Sure.
Trucker cap with camo design. Course.
Lift kit from h*ll, 4" deep treaded tires, a pair of blue testicular-looking gizmos hanging from the bumper hitch. Classy.
OU stickers plastered on the liftgate. Typical.
Flicking ashes onto the street when there was a perfectly good ashtray inside the cab. Naturally.
Delilah's theme music pouring forth from the am/fm in-dash stereo in the Truck driving man's passenger cabin? Whoa...huh?

For those not in the easy-listening-Delilah-radio-show know, here is a link to the syndicated radio show hostess who "...Each night shares your requests, dedications and stories over the airwaves and she always picks out the perfect song."

Some find her-it-them-whatever, nauseating beyond compare. My Wife however digs Delilah, especially on a long drive home from having dinner at her folks house, the girls conked out in the back seat, the darkness of the Oklahoma night surrounding her little import gas miser, and nothing but the sounds of schmaltzy thoughts and dedications to ease her down the road.

But then, my Wife isn't a Keystone Light swigging, ciggy ash flicking, Sooner for life swearing, camo clad monster truck jockey either.

Delilah beware, the edgier Okie crowd may be taking a liking to your brand of radio.

Showing their softer side, no doubt.

Reason #4922 to live in OK...low pressure sales

Spotted this ad in a local Penny Saver-Free Ads type of circular.

The line at the bottom cracked me up.

All I can say to this business owner is, "shaka brah."

Getting Pop'd

Leaving Tulsa proper we hesitantly bypassed Ollie's Station Restaurant, knowing full well that we would someday make this unique and train filled family eatery a destination on a future sojourn up north.

Even caught myself dipping down below the posted speed limit as we buzzed by the realm of Red Fork Hippie Chick . The art gallery appeared well lit and open for business, but we didn't slow down to look around since we were on a mission to keep on keepin' on.

The drive down 66 between Tulsa and Sapulpa was an uneventful stretch which, unless you like the view of dozens of derelict cars in dark and dusty driveways, it's best to keep your head in the game and eyes on the road.

Unfortunately (for my family), I do enjoy the view of dozens of derelict cars in dark and dusty driveways as I'm constantly on the lookout for a discount diamond in the rough.

Apologies to the guy in the pickup behind me who must have thought I was searching for a particular address on a particular mail box at the end of a particular driveway, since I would drop a few ticks below 45 m.p.h. whenever I spotted a pile of metal and chrome that may or may not have been a nose to a '58 Impala - never mind the ''63 Riviera, or '57 bowtie pickup, or '70 Cutlass, or '73 Satellite, or '49 Ford that I also spotted on this stretch of road.

In Sapulpa we passed by a promising burger haven called the Happy Burger, it's bright and garish road sign boasting over 50 years of greasy spoon dive existence. Cute historic downtown district here as well. Definitely worth a second look in the future.

Made our way back to the Turnpike (44) right about where the 66 and 33 say sayonara to each other and part ways, then bombed our way to the section of the Mother Road off the Wellston exit.

Wellston came up relatively fast since it had turned dark outside and the girls had fired up the dvd player and were headphone-zoned out to Ratatouille (from which C learned a new vocab word...critic, as in food critic).

Fourteen miles down a dark and roller-coastery section of old 66 between Wellston and Arcadia, I found myself playing a dozen or so games of high-beam/low-beam with approaching cars, as we all tried to make our way in the dense night air.

Taking my eyes off the road only long enough to calculate how much more of the promised 14 miles we had to go, S finally announced our arrival in Arcadia as our headlights provided just enough ambient light for her to trace the outline of the famous Round Barn out her side window, it's unique profile and shape as welcoming a landmark as the smile on the Blue Whale or the smell of an onion burger frying up at Robert's Grill in El Reno.

As we curved around yet another bend in the road we were soon greeted with the high pitched squeals of the girls jumping in their seats, faces aglow from the holiday inspired red and green neon emitting from the monstrous Pop's bottle looming on the horizon.

It was a Friday night, so the crowds were plentiful and mooing up a storm. However, the staff was hopping and our suggested "45 minute wait" turned out to be just shy of 25 minutes -- enough time for us mosey on over to the Soda Ranch to pick out a bottle of, what else, pop -- no small feat here since Pop's carries over 500 different types of soda pop.

Both girls glommed onto bottles of Sioux City Sarsaparilla (the preferred drink of their favorite cowboy friend, Stormy Lane). Wifey selected an orange flavored egg cream concoction called Jeff's Orange Dream Egg Cream soda, while I went with a bottle of No-Cal Vanilla Cream

The service was decent and cheerful and the joint was clean and well maintained. Of the food I can only add that the chicken fried steak was not up to Okie standards - bland gravy, and they may need to change their deep fry oil more often. However the signature OKC burger I had was more than edible, as were the onion rings and chili. The fresh cut pineapple and cantaloupe offered on the kiddies platters were a welcome change and the girls happily ate right down to the juice at the bottom of the bowl.

By now the inevitable drive home was looming in the not so near future, and at this point we were anxious to just be home. So onto the turnpike we went, the familiar beeps of our Pike Pass beckoning us to points well known.

Thus endeth yet another family truckster trip to yet another small town on yet another section of Oklahoma's portion of the Mother Road.

Take me home, Mother R.

Heading east out of town via Lynn Riggs Blvd (what Route 66 is lovingly called in Claremore), S spied this wonder of roadside accommodations called the Elms Motel. The place looked about inviting as a restored and fully operating Mother Road motel could be, ensuring any future stay in C-town would surely be had here. Even found a pic.

Once outside the hometown of crooner Patti Page (yep, she's from Claremore as well), we trekked across the steel truss bridges in Verdigris. While crossing , my eldest asked me "why they had to make the bridges that way, with all the metal and stuff?" To which I replied, "the question I have is why don't they anymore?"

Found a neat photo here.

Then there's the Blue Whale of Catoosa.

After a lifetime of knowing that this road icon existed but having never seen it up close and personal, my wife actually squealed with delight as we caught a glimpse of it's royal roadside blueness rounding the bend just inside Catoosa's city limits

While my developing paranoid eldest daughter whinnied and complained that we were "tresspassing" and that we shouldn't be on "these people's property," we took the open gate as a sign that lookee-loos were welcomed and had ourselves a picturefest while conducting self-guided tours of the blue cement beastie -- finding more than one loose wooden plank in it's belly.

A search on flickr revealed over 200 images of the Blue Whale in Catoosa, but this photo was spot on in terms of the wintry background surrounding us as we gazed at this so-tacky-it's-cool testament of one man's love for his wife.

Had to exit 66 outside of Catoosa, but after a few exits on the interstate, we managed to find our way back on before reaching Tulsa proper.

Entering Tulsa from the East, we found ourselves in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles County, as my neck was snapping left and right at the Latino named used car lots populating a good portion of the real estate along the highway. Strange how "at home" I felt in this section of town that had a very barrio vibe to it...right down to what looked like a few all night taco stands.

Cruisin' 66 through downtown Tulsa we managed one stop at the Lyons Indian Store in what was apparently a historic market place. The art deco exterior was a dead giveaway that the building had nods to Tulsa's decorative architectural past. Other neck snapping "ooh, that looks like a cool place to stop" opportunities along the road included:

Tally's Good Food Diner looked promising. Goes on the list.

Wonder Bread Factory. No time to stop and smell this trip. Bet if they did give tours, they'd be wonderful. Wonder if. Have to call and see.

Bama Pies Factory. Bobby Hill said it best when he uttered the chubby-Texan-kid phrase for the ages, "they got fruit pies in there..."

Next up, T-town in our rearview mirror.

Whoops, gotta go wake up the girl's and tell them 2008 is here.