Fattening of small town tax coffers

S got a ticket for excessive speed yesterday in a small town just north of our small town. I'm talking, really small town - population about 350.

She was allegedly doing 51 in a 35 zone, according to the Police Chief's radar.

Yep, she was pulled over by none other than the Chief of Police, in a white, unmarked, Chevy Suburban. He was wearing a white polo shirt, painfully stretched over his two-kegger belly, not a badge, uniform, or gun belt in sight.

S was gunned at a section of the main drag where the speed limit is still 35, however a sign no more than 50 yards ahead reads 55 mph.

Since no 45 mph section is posted between the two speed zones, drivers must apparently not exceed 35 mph, until the very moment they pass the 55 mph sign. Since S was attempting to get up to speed before she reached the 55 mph zone, she was pegged as an offender.

Tickets are a part of life and I've received my share of them -- all of which, I might add, I deserved to get.

However the bail amount of S's ticket - a whopping $215.00, seems excessive considering the offense. Small town councils and the state legislature determine the fines, however it's well known that the only way small towns can keep their doors open is to overcharge any and all lawbreakers that pass through their fiefdoms.

The last speeding ticket I received in So Cal, was for doing 50 in a 35 residential zone. Fine was $91, plus $25 for traffic school. However, Pasadena is a far cry from small town rural Oklahoma, and my ticket fees were only covering the admin costs of processing the paperwork associated with the ticket, and not buying bullets and Sonic slushies for the local Chief of Police.

The COP (chief of police) told S that she could appear in front of the judge (probably his brother or uncle) and appeal to not have the ticket show up on her driving record. Since S hasn't received a ticket in over 18 years (and never one for excessive speed), she may go in front of the judge, pay her fine, and get it off her record. OK does accept traffic school certificates as well, so she may just do an online quickie and be done with it.

BTW, the fine for 1 -15 mph over the speed limit would have been $115. She was clocked at 16 mph over the speed limit -- adding another $100 to the COP's slushie fund. How convenient....?

Oh and here's another traffic fine related display of the wisdom and hypocrisy of Oklahoma's red majority voters and lawmakers -- the state mandated fine for not having a child restrained in an approved car seat...$35.

Thirty-five dollars!

Sure, Oklahoman's are pro-life, but after the fetus is born, their lives are only worth $35 once their chaw chewing parents take them home from the hospital in their rusted out Ford F150's.

Ignorance is bliss.

Now that's handy

We have a cute, little, barely-more-than-a-TG&Y WalMart store in our small town. It's old, the aisles are narrow, the employees are all local, and it's been more than handy to have on more than one occasion.

In an effort to fulfill it's corporate mandate of being a true one-stop shop, WalMart Supercenters were introduced to America, the nearest one to us being a good 45 minute drive away. Ours, like many others, has a mini-McDonald's built right into the main entry foyer -- smelling those golden fries both coming and going.

I was in line at a WalMart Supercenter the other day and noticed that you can order and pay for McDonald's food items right there in the checkout line.

There's a mini-menu board, just below the lighted checkstand number indicator, complete with pictures of Value meals, Happy Meals, drinks and desserts.

Scan your groceries, order some food, take your ticket to the mini-McD's and you've contributed to two large, great American corporations with a single swipe of your ATM/Check card.

Lost and Found

7 months ago I lost my wedding ring.

Forgetting your wife's birthday, overlooking your wedding anniversary, telling your wife those pants make her look fat -- all pale in comparison to losing one's wedding ring.

Back in January, I was helping my Father-in-law raise the house (we had some foundation issues and the house had settled on one side) using two 20-ton railroad jacks. Rooting around under the house, digging through 100+ year old dirt, shoring up timbers and welding support beams into place, I was sure that the ring slipped the slippery slope off my finger, and was lost down in the bowels of our cellar.

This afternoon, C was walking the side lawn, looking for flowers to feed her newly "captured" pet butterfly, when she saw the ring sitting in a puddle of dried mud on a patch of lawn.

A patch of lawn that I have mowed dozens of times in the last 7 months.
A patch of lawn that I have weeded dozens of times in the last 7 months.
A patch of lawn that I have walked over, ran on, drove by, and looked down upon, dozens of times in the last 7 months.

Near as I can figure, the torrential rainstorm that we had the other night sent rivers of water down our roof. The cascading waterfall must have stirred up the ground directly below the eaves just enough to unearth the ring from it's hiding place below the surface.

How did the ring end up in this particular spot?

As I remember, we had set up the chop saw in this area as we were cutting lumber for support beams in the cellar. I must have pulled my gloves off to cut a board, dislodging the ring from my finger and depositing it on the hallowed ground below.

Mystery solved, ring found, dog house now officially vacant.

And S, I never, ever, ever said those pants made you look fat.

Freak late summer t-storm

Thought we'd wait out this sudden thunderstorm that erupted over our town a few hours ago, by swimming at the community pool.

Got the girls ready, got my trunks on, loaded them up and made the 4 block drive over in the rain.

The sign on the pool facility stated, Pool closed due to bad weather.

Bad weather.

The pool is indoors.

Does the "getting out of the pool during a lightning storm" rule still apply to indoor pools? Should we stay out of our bathtubs as well?

Mattress toting hucksters

S has always had a sore spot for John Steinbeck's portrayal of Okies as "mattress toting hucksters" in his novel, The Grapes of Wrath. While I believe his portrayal of the Joad family to be far from anything negative, I can see how many Oklahoman's may have grown up being sensitive to the issue.

The #1 cause of accidents and death on Oklahoma's highways is due to loose items falling from moving vehicles.

Tools and hay bales from farm trucks, tack and manure from horse trailers, beer cans from drunk teenagers ridiing in the back of their pick-em-up-trucks.

Then there are these people...



I blame NASCAR for the mental giants who packed this vehicle. They watch Dale Jr's crew hold his beat up Chevy together with Duct Tape to finish a race, and they figure "if it's good enough for Dale Jr's car, it must be good enough for my car and all my worldly belongings."

Darwin Awards being handed out here, on the highways of Oklahoma.

Come and git' 'em!

Fighting the urge

On the outskirts of our small town is a beautiful corn field. I'm talking, Field of Dreams beautiful.

The stalks are currently taller than I am and you can almost smell the golden ears of sweet maize as you drive by. The prairie wind catches the entire field and the stalks sway in balletic unison, beckoning innocent passers-by to stop and sample the 7000-year old crop.

No one is around. I stop to "admire the view." Easy pickin's, so to speak.

But I fight the urge to commit vegetable vandalism and get on my way.

Just a few miles away from the corn field is an expansive melon patch, that spreads out in all directions. The fruit is at it's vine ripened peak this time of the year. Watermelons, cantalopes and honeydews blanket the red soil, tempting pickers with their sweet juice and fleshy goodness.

No one is around. Same deal as the corn. Easy, easy pickin's. But I again fight the urge to commit botany burglary and leave the melons in peace.

Recently, multitudes of Pickup trucks are popping up all over town with their beds full of luscious melons and bushels of sweet corn. Home spun cardboard signs testifying to their ripeness and inexpensive prices.

I stop at a black pickup, pick out a melon or two and pay for them, my conscious free of guilt and my mind unemcumbered by the thoughts of vegetable thievery.

I stop at a red pickup, fill a grocery sack full of field fresh corn and hand over some small bills. As I'm leaving I overhear the owner of the pickup telling an acquaintance where he got his corn from.

Yep, the same field I had been admiring.

Come to think of it, the melons I bought look awfully familiar as well.

What is the penalty for buying pilfered produce from the back of a pickup truck on a county road?

Leave her alone, already!

Posted in this weekends local paper.



Gossip and lies are what drives the rumor mill in small towns. Guess Tammie has had enough and was willing to shell out the $16 for 3 column inches to declare her independence from the perceived inaccuracies being spread about her.

Unfortunately, now I want to find out what the gossip is all about.

Censorship only succeeds in bringing attention to the very issue the censorship is being attempted upon.

Gun Show for Toddlers

Took in a car show at the OKC fairgrounds today with PK. Didn't take C, since she is at the age where looking at old muscle cars and hot rods bore her. Sigh.

The car show was held inside two large air-conditioned buildings -- which I appreciated very much as the outside temps rose to the mid-90's. PK loves car shows, enjoys the brightly painted metal and fiberglass, and even tugs at my hand to go over and see any car that is rumbling in idle.

After an hour or so, we were getting ready to head home, when I was told by the Security Guard at the exit, that I could get free admission to the Gun Show in an adjacent building, since I had bought a ticket to the car show.

Well, free is free, and since it had been 30 or so years since I had been to a gun show, I thought, what better place to take my 2.5 year old daughter.

One person that we followed into the foyer (we weren't even IN the gun show building yet) had a rifle slung over his shoulder as casually as if it were a backpack. I thought to myself, is he a Seller or a returning buyer -- or perhaps he's a disgruntled buyer about to "return" his purchase with extreme prejudice?
Hmm.

The geriatric security guard put my mind at ease as he carefully checked my hand for the required car show stamp.
HE was unarmed.
Check.

Several feet down the first aisle, a man was showing his pre-pubescent son how to dissasemble a semi-automatic handgun of some sort. The wife/mother stood nearby, fondling a Sonic drink in one hand while eyeing my daughter with a raised eyebrow.
Family values.

Next aisle over, I had to maneuver the stroller around and past a group of fellas having concession stand beers from flimsy plastic cups. They were discussing a recent hunting trip they had taken and from the sounds of it, were on their umpteenth gun show sponsored brewski.
Drink your Bud and show me the exit doors, please.

We left with no regrets of not having cruised up the down the remaining aisles of rifles, handguns, ammo, stocks, grips, hunting gear, camping gear, instructional videos, knives, and other gun related hardware.

Back at my car, I noticed that a brand new red GTO was parked to my right and a '69 yellow/black Z-28 Camaro was parked to my left.

I asked PK which one she liked better. She took a moment and said, "I want Daddy's car."

She's only 2 and a half...give her a break.

Meep-meep

Today while I was out back in the garage, using a sabre saw to cut some L-shaped pieces of plywood to fix our side storm door (don't ask), I noticed a medium sized, bird-like creature with a long tail, spindly legs, and crested head piece darting down my driveway.

It stopped to look at me momentarily, then darted off down the alley.

"I'll be darned," muttered my father-in-law, who was cutting trim pieces on the radial arm saw to finish off the kitchen cabinets he was building for us.

"That is one lost roadrunner."

Indeed, a roadrunner braved the 4-lane highway in front of my house, crossed in midday traffic and ran down my driveway.

And not a Wile E. Coyote in site.

Super Genius.

Why did the turkeys cross the road?

To freak ME out, that's why.

Two, count them, one, two, full grown, full blown, brown plummaged female turkeys (what is a female turkey called...a hen?), were attempting to cross the road in front of me.

The two wild turkeys were clipping along at a good rate as they approached the roadside.

I was doing 65 mph down a two-lane highway out in the countryside just west of town.

These two wild turkeys were fast buggers, and were entering my lane before my brain could process the fact that there were actually two wild turkeys crossing the country road in front of me.

I didn't brake. The only thing that was anti-lock in my old Chevy were my bowels, which I was currently in danger of "anti-locking" all over myself.

Besides, I was, after all in a 4000 lb. solidly built American muscle car/truck from the early 70's. What could happen?

Umm, hitting a 30 lb. fleshy/feathered object at 65 mph...I could die, that's what could happen.

I didn't swerve. Impulsive steering at high speeds in these old beasts don't reveal Indy car reaction times, so attempting a dodge maneuver wasn't at the top of my quickly shrinking list of turkey avoidance procedures.

Instead, I did what any red-blooded American male with a high-horsepower classic muscle car would do.
I floored it -- hoping that I might outrun the future Thanksgiving day feasts on four feet.

The g-forces were instant and exhilerating as my Edelbrock carb greedily enjoyed every bit of the 650 cfm alloted to it, sucking dino juice and air into it's bowels, to be turned into instant horsepower for my aging Bowtie beast.

With aplogies to Clement C. Moore...I glanced to my right for I knew the birds were near,
when what do my wandering eyes did appear,
but two turkeys flying over (yes over) my rear!
The turkeys used their little brains and decided they didn't want to tangle with a 4000 lb. moving object. Instead, I was treated to a prime rear view mirror seat of their flights of fancy, up and over the tailgate of my car.

If only I could be as graceful as a turkey.

Bet if they were male turkeys, they would have most definitely played "chicken" with me and have "gone for it."

Acres and acres of free parking

I just realized that it had been some time since I looked for a parking space.

That includes curb parking in front of local businesses, lot parking at a mall or shopping center, ATM parking at my bank, angled curb parking at our doctor's office, street parking in front of my house - or anyone else's house, come to think of it.

I used to take pride and actually find some joy and self-worth in being able to cruise a parking lot and through no other skills than my will to succeed, find an open spot, or someone just leaving.

Sad to say, I actually kinda miss that.

Guess I just have to find something else to replace that mad-rush feeling and espresso ego boost.

I don't know, maybe I just need to kill more flies.

On a related note, we all know how great it feels to finally get to the front of a long line -- one which you've been standing in long enough to appreciate the invention of the padded shoe sole.

Now wait...I'm not talking about the relief you feel when you are actually "up to bat." No sir, I'm talking about being NEXT up to bat. First in line, baby. Ready to git and go, doggie. Numero Uno, top of the heap, king of the hill, A numba 1.
You've made it through the roughest part of the line and now stand at the threshold of completing your mission. There's a genuine rush that develops from the sense of accomplishment you feel for doggedly sticking it out.

Not to mention the sense of self-worth you experience in knowing all those behind you are envying your position of power, demonstrated by the straightened posture, jutted out chest, chin up position your body assumes while being admired by all those inferior folk behind you.

Sigh.

I haven't stood in a long line since I moved here.

Not at the bank, not at the post office, not at the WalMart, not at the movie theatre. One people, maybe two deep on a bad day. Lines that short don't even give you a chance to gather your thoughts, let alone have your money ready, or ponder the front pages of the Weekly World News and National Enquirer.

Okay, I was 3 cars back at a Sonic Drive-Up window, but it was 102 degrees at 10 in the morning, and everyone in town was getting a cherry-limeade slush that day.

Lines and parking. Parking and lines. No matter what order you put them in, they CAN be missed.

Low water pressure

Our small town is fortunate enough to have an excellent swimming facility.

Completed several years ago, the aquatic center features an 8 lane, 25-meter lap pool, a corkscrew water slide into a separate 4-foot deep pool, a separate diving pool with both low and high diving boards, and a 25-meter long wading pool complete with beach-type shoreline and a 15-foot mushroom water fountain centerpiece.


The locker rooms are clean, the showers are hot and staff are small town Oklahoma friendly. Open year round, we've been enjoying the facility very much and very often.

With the exception of two days last week, that is.

One day we were turned away due to a baby ruth incident that caused them to shut down the pool to introduce what I can only imagine to be industrial strength E coli killing chemicals. They didn't drain the pool, however.

This type of accident seems to be more common than us public pool patrons would care to know about since the staff didn't seem all that concerned and were following what appeared to be a well-practiced set of procedures for chemical application.

The next day (no kidding), they closed the pool again due to some 10-year old doofus kid attempting a back flip off the side of the diving pool. He split his head open and the resulting flow of blood from his still-growing skull polluted the water beyond salvageability.

They had to drain, bleach, and refill the pool, retreat and reshock the water before allowing people back in some 24-hours after treatment. 10-year olds suck.

On a side note, the day they refilled the pool, we had low water pressure at our house. Here in my small town we have two water towers - one old and one new.

Wonder what would happen if everyone in town flushed at the same time?

On a personal note, Rest In Peace, Scotty.

Watermelon seeds

It's watermelon season here in my small town, as I'm sure it is in many points north, south, east and west of us.

I was preparing our latest watermelon for consumption the way my mother always did -- cutting it into little bite-sized chunks, removing as many seeds as possible.
Labor intensive, yes. Tastes better, perhaps. Easier to consume in mass quantities, absolutely.

The girls, however, at this stage in their young lives, prefer to eat it "hippo-style." Right off the "bone." Just slice a piece off and hand it down, man.

This can get messy, however, and at this stage in my old "doing-laundry-every-day" life, I prefer they eat it with a napkin on their lap, and a fork in hand.

While de-seeding the slices of ruby red melon, C noticed the abundance of both black and white seeds. I commented how one can safely eat them, but it's probably better not too (holding back the temptation to retell the "watermelon plant growing out of your stomach tale" from my youth).

She then told me, "the black and white seeds are the same, just like black and white people."

Innocent, until corrupted by the outside world.

Noodling

Here in Oklahoma, we have fishermen who like to catch catfish using nothing more than their bare hands.

Dogging, stumping, graveling, hogging, tickling -- the practice goes by many names.

Here in Oklahoma, they call it noodling.

Wikipedia has a pretty good description.
"To begin, a noodler goes underwater to depths ranging from only a few feet to up to twenty feet. Placing his hand inside a discovered catfish hole, a noodler uses his arm as bait to entice the fish. If all goes as planned, the catfish will swim forward and latch onto the fisherman's hand and arm."
According to Wikipedia, the origin of the term noodling, is the word noodle, which is slang for a foolish person.

Seems about right to me.

P.S. - I don't think these Thai fellas caught their catfish with their bare hands, do you?

Bowling

Took C for her first every foray into the universe of the recreational bowler.

She has a hard foam rubber bowling set at home that she loves to play with and wanted to try the real deal.

I found a cool old 24-lane alley on old Route 66 that was still in business to take her to.

Here is her scorecard:



Not too shabby, I think. But I was never a bowler. Didn't have things like gutter bumpers and 4-legged chrome rail rollers when I was a kid bowler. For the second and third games she pushed the rail roller aside and "toilet bowled."

Her scores reflect this, but she felt better knowing it was just her and the gutter bumpers making the points.

Favorite comment that she made that day was, "if only I could have three balls instead of two, I could get them all down."

How many bowlers have thought the exact same thing? Plenty, I think.

I'll have mine with soy sauce, please

My small town is fortunate enough to have a combo KFC/Taco Bell.

I consider this the PB&J of fast food franchises. They do okay separately, but together they create a taste sensation.

Anyhow, spotted this sign for Tuesday's special.


I can't and won't comment since I eat a lot of stuff that S tells me smells like an aquarium.

Besides, that's a lot of culinary joy for a buck ninety-nine.

Roadkill of another kind

Driving home tonight from dinner with the in-laws, I noticed that the light showers the weather prognosticators had been predicting was actually commencing.

What keyed me into this was the familiar sound of raindrops hitting my car. Or were they?

Imagine my horror when after a second or two, I realized the sound my "cityfied senses" mistakenly perceived to be droplets of water from above, turned out to be swarms of bugs splattering against every inch of my poor defenseless cars turtle wax shine.

The onslaught of biblical proportions lasted several horrid miles, wherein my windshield wipers became nothing more than bulldozers of bug blood and guts.

Tomorrow, in the peaceful morning daylight, I'll survey the Sodom and Gomorrah that is my front grill, and may post a picture of it, if it can sneak by with an NC-17 rating. I doubt it will.

Which is why every small town in Oklahoma has a self-service car wash. Where, for only $.75 you can jet spray the carcasses of millions (yes, millions...may even be billions) of insectoidal creatures off of your cars violated finish.

Can't go home again?

Today were entertaining visitors from So Cal. We met them while C attended a progressive/bohemian cooperative nursery school in the Glassel Park area.

Hubby and wifey are both from Oklahoma. Kids are all born and bred Los Angelenos. Oldest in 9, youngest is 3.

They tried to move back here last year. Rented a house and everything.

He's a freelance artist. She's a freelance writer. Young, progressive, liberal, semi-hippie.

They lasted one month.

Inspired by our grand excursion eastward, away from the bustling hustle of the big city, they requested a visit to our small town abode to discuss how we did it, how were doing it, and how we going to keep doing it.

Wonder how our lifestyle will hold up under the scrutiny?

Fly hunting

Back in So Cal, we had flies.

But not like here.

I moved our trash cans far away from the house, and try to keep our trash cans inside emptied as often as possible. The windows are double-paned, so no getting in there, and I am ever vigilent when anyone leaves the house via front or side door.

Still, the little buggers make it inside the hallowed grounds of the inner sanctum of my home. May be getting in through one of many little cracks and holes that populate our 100-year old home.

Yesterday I killed 5 of them.

5.

I think I may have killed 5 flies in an entire year back in So Cal.

Daily total here.

After much experience, I've decided that my previous technique of waiting for the fly to land and get settled, while I take my time to set up the perfectly aimed killing swat is not effective on my small town's fly population.

Basically, I've seen more success in just whacking away whever the winged menaces come close to landing. They don't seem to wait around very long and are quick decision makers on where their next landig point wil be.

So, when killing flies here, you snooze, you lose. Swat with abandon.

I won't complain too loud however, since my friend in Chandler, AZ is having issues with scorpions.

A proud Daddy moment

Hanging out in the yard the other day, I spied C making skidmarks on our driveway with her Radio Flyer bicycle.

Skidmarks.
You remember how this works. Pedal as fast as you can, get the bike going at a good clip, jam on the foot brake and slide the rear wheel out to the side. Then step back and view your skidmark with pride.

I didn't teach her this. She either saw some other kids doing it, or figured it out herself.

Skid marks usually lead to burnouts, which are not all that easy to do on a bicycle. I'm confident she'll figure those out as well.

Color me proud.