Socializing

I'm still trying to get me bloggin' legs b'neath me. Yeah I know it's not Talk Like a Pirate Day, but what the hell, might as well have some fun anyway.


I spotted this pen the other day for a joint called SHEMEN Dental Group. I don't even know where this group is located and I'm sure they provide fine dental care but the name made me think of big-knuckled dentists, clad in red leather high heels telling me to run and spit as they rubbed their five-o'clock shadow.

 

 While I have been a quiet blogger I am still a pretty active Tweeter. Here is a pic I posted over there of a shoddy headline I spotted in my local paper a while back.

That wasn't very nice of them. pic.twitter.com/T3Bx0jnsWn
— TravisErwin (@TravisErwin) October 31, 2014

 And what would Twitter be without the occasional selfie?

Windblown at son's last soccer game of the season. pic.twitter.com/oZ1OUgx6U8
— TravisErwin (@TravisErwin) November 15, 2014

And then there is Instagram. I am a sporadic Instagramer.  After all, I don't even own a cat and I'm not a big believer of  posting pictures of every meal I eat. But When we have had some spectacular sunsets here in Amarillo as of late and sometimes things are just to visibly beautiful not to share.

A photo posted by Travis Erwin (@traviswriter) on Nov 11, 2014 at 4:25pm PST

The Amarillo sky beyond the parking after my son's football game.  #sunset #texas #amarillotx

A photo posted by Travis Erwin (@traviswriter) on Nov 11, 2014 at 5:17pm PST

On the beer front this one pretty much speaks for itself.

Life lesson #54 -- The fancier the bottle, the crappier the beer. pic.twitter.com/t31nYB2jCn
— TravisErwin (@TravisErwin) October 26, 2014

The obligatory book reference for this post ...

And at the end of the bag, you don't have to buy more. pic.twitter.com/4UNSQzf7lz
— TravisErwin (@TravisErwin) March 20, 2014

Never Scrimp on Beer, Toilet Paper, Or Prophylactics

The title of this post is solid advice. Words to live by if you will.

I'm known as a cheap frugal guy and while I personally only buy two of the three items above, I felt obligated to warn the rest of you since I have no idea what your state of family planning is.

Now it's no secret my employer, the United States Postal Service is going through some tough times financially. You people simply do not mail the volume of letter you used to. I get cutback and all but come on Uncle Sam. One-Ply toilet paper ain't the way to go.

And I'm not talking about soft one ply I'm talking about rough one ply with the feel of a wino's three day stubble. The texture of gift wrapping tissue paper and cliche as it sounds ... thin enough to read a book through.

Oh you don't believe me?

Now lucky for me I'm a social media whore guru. You see I belong to Klout. Klout measures a person online presence if you will and sometimes awards perks from companies based on your so-called fields of expertise.

Here is a little video about my latest Klout perk.

Now strange as this product might seem let me tell you given my employers decision to sand my ass off one breakfast burrito at a time this free sample of One Wipe Charlies has been a life saver.

And might I say that little peppermint tingle does add a jauntiness to your step.

Yeah I realize that my social media presence has obviously led the fine folks at klout and One Wipe Charlies to think I'm full of shit.

Maybe they are right, but hey, free is free. And for a cheap frugal guy like me that's A-Okay.

I Might Never Eat a Baconator Again

I am quite proud of my meat man status here in the web-o-sphere. Not a day goes by that I don't get a meat related picture, link, or product posted on my Facebook wall or Twitter stream. They never fail to make me smile and bear my carnivorous teeth.

I am every bit as devout in my Lettuce is the Devil dogma as I ever was.

So it might come as a shock when I say ... This whole bacon thing has done got out of hand.

Before I proceed I should point out if you have delicate sensibilities, are prudish, or embarrassed by sexual discussion now might be the time to click that X up in the right corner of your screen as this blog post is headed nowhere wholesome.

Of my regular meat contributors, the Jacksons, Steve and Elizabeth routinely send me the best jokes and most unique links. this morning was no different. (Don't worry Steve I won't question exactly how you discovered thee bad boys.)

Yes, those truly are bacon condoms. Bacon flavored, I read in the article though I do no see that description on the box and further investigation brought me to discover the inside packaging ...

and the actual product.

I have three words -- No! No! No!

Actually I have many more words. So many in fact, I don't really know where to start.

First he obvious pun, This gives a whole new meaning to porking.

Moving on.

Blowjobs are glorious things. I sang their praises in THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES for those who ahve read that little tome. But who the hell wants to get a blow job while wearing a condom, and furthermore who would want to suck on a chuck of latex? No doubt the Center for Disease Control recommends protection for oral sex, but let's face it, if you are ready to put another person's dick in your mouth you are probably a live for the moment, throw caution to the wind kinda of individual.

Now I get the bacon flavor is meant to cover up the latex taste so for the sake of arguing let's toss aside the blow job while wrapped up debate and move on to the next WTF moment.  

Bacon is Delicious. It is hard (no pun intended) to resist. No, I am not saying these condoma are going to turn a straight man into a cocksucker. Or even a hungry woman into one. You either are or you aren't. Makes no matter to me and if you are thank you for making the world a better, happier place. What I am saying is it takes teeth to eat bacon. The last thing you want in that glorious tender moment of bliss is teeth crunching down.

"Oh shoot, honey. I forgot I was giving you a hummer. My mind went blank and I thought I was at Denny's having a Grand Slam."

"How many stitches you think that's going to take?"

Now let's forget all about blowjobs. (Y'all have no idea how hard it is for a man to type that sentence) 

Let's say a fella is wearing one of those bacon flavored condoms, complete with bacon scented lube. Yep, it says that right there on the box. And let's say that fella is going to town like Peter Cottontail on crack. Friction comes into play and that lube gets warm. Like bacon grease in the frying pan.

Now the last thing you need is the distraction of a growling stomach just as you are hitting your stride.

And what happens when that delectable scent of hot bacon grease drifts out of the room. I happen to have to hungry growing boys. If that scent were to reach their bacon grubbing nostrils they would be bounding down the stairs shouting "BACON!" at the top of their lungs.

Try explaining that to the kiddos.

"Sorry son, but I don't have any bacon."
 "I don't care what you smell." 
"No, we didn't sneak off my McGriddles." 
"That is the smell of me and your mom preventing more of you hungry little heathens."

And God forbid they find the discarded aftermath of your porky poke.

Therapy for sure.

And let's say you don't have kids. You are a fun loving single out our for the  prowl. Why limit your quarry. What if that person you pick up is Muslim? Jewish?

No siree. I can't see one positive benefit.

If you want to wrap you wiener in bacon, might I suggest this ...

 



     

No Joke

Happy April Fool's Day. Today marks this blog's 7th 6th birthday. (Leave to a mathematician to correct me. Sir Stephen Parrish has pointed out I've only been blogging 6 years. Well it feels like 7 to me). Seven Six years. Given that internet time is much like dog years I think that makes this particular blog rather old. So much has happened these last seven years that in many ways it seems like a lifetime ago I started this journey.

Not as many people stop by as once did but I want think each of you who take time to read and comment whether it be every post for only occasionally.

This is going to be one of those rambling, a bit of everything posts that has no great them, message or even direction.

##################

So the other day our supervisors calls us into the break room and informs us that someone has apparently been masturbating in the bathroom stalls because the custodians have been complaining about suspicious stains on the walls.

No, I am not kidding.

All I got to say is somebody is WAY more excited about coming to work than I am.

#################

Now that I start typing I realize I might have a theme after all.

I've wnated to share this story despite the fact my son will be appalled if he finds out I did.

Zalen is 10 now.  Here he is taking a flying leap into about a foot of water at Palo Duro Canyon.

His is my quiet, deep-thinking child. As well as a budding soccer star. He doesn't talk a lot but when he does you better watch out because you never know what is coming because just as in the picture he lets his true thoughts fly.

A kid in his class got stitches so on the way from school he begins grilling me about stitches. As with most conversations with 10 year old boys the chat took a bathroom humor direction when he said, "What if someone had to get stitches in their wiener?"

I said, "Most boys do get stitches in their wiener when they are circumcised."

We ride a  few miles down the road in silence before he says, "Why do boys get circumcised?"

I explained that not all boys do but that it is a cultural thing done for both religious reasons as well as hygiene.

A few more miles of silence.

"Why don't they circumcise dogs."

I kind of chuckled and said there is no need. Dogs take care of their business and keep things cleaned themselves.

Again silence until Zalen states matter of fact, "Well, they should at least circumcise show dogs."

I'll never watch Westminster the same.

###################

Following those two stories is probably not the best introduction, but still I want to share the cover of my next book with y'all.

 

TWISTED ROADS will be released in May though my publisher still has not determined the exact date.  I'm excited to share the story. Even more excited than I was THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES. I think because this story is pure fiction. A creation purely of my mind rather than a creative retelling of events. Long before I starting this blog I had the dream of seeing my name on the cover of a novel. This book fulfills that dream.

Satisfaction without staining the walls, or painful surgery. 

Thank y'all for traveling the twisted road with me these past 7  6 years.

Life Always Has Its Lumps

Lots of things transpired during my 6 month blog hiatus. Turns out, life rolls on whether you blog about it or not. The high, lows and everything in between. Once upon a time I shared them all with y'all because that is how friends are. And frankly doing so helped hone my writing skills and turn me into a better writer. 

Today I'd like to share some of my writing that also happens to tie into perhaps the most significant event that happened during my blogging hiatus.

I was raised by a single mother that had to work full-time to support me and my brother. I was lucky enough to have a great set of grandparents that also were heavily involved in my life. Many of y'all have read the memoir I wrote about my grandfather's passing in conjunction with the birth and subsequent heart surgery of my oldest son.  Sadly back in December my grandmother joined my grandfather in the everafter. 
  
My Granny Howery shaped who I am as she was second only to my mom in influence in my life. As many of you know I've been working on a comedic memoir/cookbook/manifesto title Lettuce Is The Devil. Until my grandmother's passing I'd never shared one scrap of that project, but Chapter 3 showcased much of how I felt and was influenced by my grandmother so I shared it on Facebook and today I want to share it with those of you who do not follow me there. Today I've added a few photos to enhance the story.

From Chapter 3 of Lettuce Is the Devil : The Culinary Dogma of a Devout Meat Man

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve proclaimed the words, “Lettuce is the Devil,” I’d have enough money to purchase a lush mountain valley, complete with a herd of well-marbled Bonsmara beef cattle and a gurgling stream, teaming with fat and hungry trout and meandering by a nice spacious log cabin, containing two huge copper beer vats -- full to the brim of dark malty ale. Yes, my friends I would be in Meat Man utopia. 

But alas, spreading the gospel has not brought me that kind of fame or fortune to this point, which is why I thank you for purchasing this tomè and helping to remedy that gross injustice. Furthermore, now seems like a fine time for me to point out that this book would make a fine gift to all your friends, family and fellow countrymen, whether they happen to already be a righteous member of the meat loving brethren in need of fellowship, or a sinful, veggie-phyte in dire need of enlightenment.

Now let’s get back to my personal motto, “Lettuce is the Devil.” Upon utterance of these ever-so-truthful words I am met with a wide variety of responses. 

A fellow Meat Man is likely to offer an immediate high-five, or perhaps a military salute, whereas a vegetarian is apt to give a nervous chuckle. Vegans often swoon and faint on the spot, but given their frail and anemic dispositions that is no rare occurrence. 

The vast majority of omnivores respond with a question. “Okay, I’ll bite,” they say. “If lettuce is the devil, what is God?”

God.

The All-Mighty. 

Lord Of All Creation.

No food can live up to such lofty titles, so it is at this point I have to explain that when I say … “Lettuce is the Devil,” I don’t mean in the physical, forked tail and gleaming red eyes kind of way, so much as I mean the ultimate evil -- the epitome of the joy-sapping darkness draining all happiness and color from this world.

Therefore, the Anti-Devil, the divine, the most heavenly edible on this earth is not to be thought of as creator or even as the All-Knowing deity that people the world over turn to in times of need. No, the culinary king of peace, the messiah of mealtime is more of a savory savior. A righteous symbol of all that is good and right in the universe. It makes the dinner place a better place to sit. It heals, soothes, nourishes, and brings hope to even the most horrendous of slop. 

So what is this virtuous vittle? 

Steak -- perhaps, a nicely marinated rib-eye, or maybe even a porterhouse?

Nope. 

I concede steak is a worthy and wholesome meal, as well as a palate pleasing source of nutrition, but not even a perfectly cooked piece of beef can heal everything it touches. Steak does not make everything it comes in contact with taste better.

Bacon then you say? Surely it must the God of meats. After all, it makes everything it touches taste better. People even sprinkles bits of it on salad to improve the taste.

You are correct. Lettuce munchers do use bacon, and let me add what a terrible waste of pig flesh. Bacon, the candy of the meat world can and will help to cover the vile taste of the evil green one, but despite its tasty crunch and satisfying flavor, bacon is not The One, for it lacks the soothing tranquility necessary to bring about change. And the pure and holy food would never allow itself to be associated with bits of salad.

I hear the rumblings of the congregations, the impatience of the doubting Thomases. Not steak. Not Bacon.

They are the dynamic duo. The superheroes of the butcher shop. What meat could possibly be more righteous than either steak or bacon?

Hold onto your cleaver my friends, but the Yahweh of Yummy is not technically even a meat.

The Anti-Devil, The Supreme Culinary Comfort, the Dietary Deity is … Brown Gravy.

Do not be fooled its viscous nature, Brown Gravy's classification as food is steadfast and solid. Beverages are served in glasses, mugs, bottles, cans, and a variety of stemware. Dipping sauces come in dainty little bowls and ramekins. But like the very forefathers that forged this nation, Brown Gravy arrives in a boat.

Brown Gravy is forged from the juice of meat. Its base, the savory fluid, is the very essence of meat. But in a display of tolerance, love, and harmony Brown Gravy combines this delectable nectar with flour, the powdery essence of the wheat plant and transforms into the most holy of foods. Thick and meaty of flavor, and capable of supper time salvation, Brown Gravy can turn a plain ground beef patty into a hamburger steak. Let me say that again. Ground beef into a steak. Remind you of someone famous that once turned water into wine? 

Let me hear an AMEN!

And along those same lines it is said Jesus fed the masses with but a few loaves and a couple of fish. My mother used to do the same thing, only on a smaller scale, by feeding her two hungry teenage boys with half a pound of round steak and a boatload of Brown Gravy. No one knows how to stretch the budget better than a single mom.

But Brown Gravy’s miraculous ability to save does not end there. Picture this … you have a grill full of burgers going when that hot neighbor next door decides to mow her lawn. In a string bikini. Distracted you fail to notice the flare-ups. In a matter of minutes your tasty burgers shrivel and die. You could feed the dry, hockey puck like patties to the dog, but the game is about to start so you don’t have to time to cook yourself more. What is a Meat Man to do? Easy, whip up a quick batch of brown gravy, pour the ambrosia over the burgers and all is well for everyone but Fido.

Or your time of crisis could come as a result of your wife’s hysterectomy, when taking pity on you, your mother-in-law brings over her “World Famous” meatloaf to help feed the family. Until that moment in time you never realized “World Famous” was a synonym for bland, tasteless, and dry, but as your starving kids gaze upon you with those sad, do-we-really-have-to-eat-this eyes you remember that packet of brown gravy just sitting up there in the cupboard waiting to embrace a bad meal and turn it into something good.

I’ll grant you that fresh, totally homemade Brown Gravy, the kind grandma used to make is the best, but part of the beauty of Brown Gravy is that even emergency rations, such as the powder-filled, ready-made packets, offer hope and peace in times of need.

Legend has it that as a small child I’d eat anything. Whirled peas, spinach, purred carrots. My family tells me this was the case until just after my fourth birthday when I got deathly sick, and ran a high temperature for days,. They say I laid there sweating and shivering in that hospital bed. They say I nearly died. They say, the day my fever broke was the last day I was willing to eat vegetables.



Now I suppose there are several ways to explain this change. Perhaps I saw a light and realized life is too damned short to spend eating crap that tastes like weeds and lawn clippings. Perhaps I figured out eating all that “nutritious” stuff damn near killed me. Perhaps a carnivorous angel watched over me and whispered meaty lullabies in my ear while my body fought to survive. Truthfully, I don’t really care what brought about the change, I’m just mighty glad the truth found me, and at such an early age that my body, mind, and taste buds were not tainted beyond repair. 

Not that my family didn't try to perpetuate the damage. As the saying goes, misery loves company so my kinfolk, especially my mom, tried to turn me back to vegetables. For years, I battled my mom and others at mealtime.

You can’t go outside and play until you eat EVERYTHING on your plate.
How are you ever going to grow up big and tall if you don’t eat your veggies?
I don’t care if we have to sit here all night neither one of us is getting up from the table until you’ve eaten those three green beans. 
 
Yep, we had some battles.

My mom won her share, but this book is evidence that in the end, she lost the war.

Lucky for me, I could count on one steady and constant ally. – my Grandmother, or Granny Howery as I called her. 

Granny Howery not only told everyone else to leave me alone, but fearing my stubborn streak would lead to starvation, she went out of her way to make the few things I was willing to eat. Like Brown Gravy. And no one, made Brown Gravy like my Granny Howery.

It didn’t matter what else she cooked my grandmother ALWAYS made a batch of Brown Gravy, special for me. Many a time the family ate casserole, or goulash, or stew while I dipped fresh, hot buttery dinner rolls in Brown Gravy.

“Oh, leave him alone,” my grandmother would say to my mom, aunts, and uncles. “At least he’s eating something.”

Granny Howery steadfastly defended me to others, but in private she’d sometimes whisper, “You really should eat some vegetables. You don’t wanna get rickets.”

To this day I’m not sure what rickets actually is, but I do know I never got them, and at six-foot five, and nearly three-hundred pounds I’m kind of glad I didn’t eat all that stuff, for I do believe I’m as big and strong as anybody needs to be.

Not all Brown Gravy is as good or smooth as Granny Howery’s Brown Gravy, sometimes there are even a few lumps in it, but you know what? Life ain’t always fair, or easy. A Meat Man, however, knows how to deal with the trouble. A Meat Man embraces all situations. A Meat man follows Covenant #3 ...

DON’T LET THE LUMPS SLOW YOU DOWN

Like I said, me and my mom waged many a battle over my Meat Man or in those days, Meat Boy, diet. My dad was even worse, but given the fact he only showed up every six months or so those conflicts were sporadic at best. 

By the time I was seven or eight my mom had begun to realize the cause was lost. She'd mostly given up the fight, except when others were around. I suppose she feared criticism of her parenting skills for allowing me to eat only meat and bread. Maybe she worried they would call CPS and turn her in for not providing proper nutrition. Heck, maybe they all whispered in her ear, “That boy is gonna get rickets if you don’t start making him eat his vegetables.” All I know is the last real skirmish of our war occurred at a family function up in Denver, Colorado. Had we been boxers, it would've been dubbed – The Mile High Melee.

I believe it was a funeral, but I suppose it could’ve been a wedding. Whatever the reason we'd made the six hour trek north and were staying with some cousins. There was lots of extended family around. So many that we kids were not allowed in the kitchen to make our own plates. Given that we were nearly four hundred miles from Granny Howery’s kitchen the chances were slim to none that Brown Gravy would be served, so I was already dreading the meal, even before my mom handed over my plate.

A slice of ham, a dinner roll, some kind of nasty pink marshmallowy casserole stuff, and three green beans. Staring down in horror, I didn’t realize those three green beans were about to be the stuff of legend. Sorry Jack, but no tale of beans, yes even those of Fee-Fi-Fo fame, has spawned as much grief for their owner as that trio of legumes did me.

I ate the ham.
I ate the biscuit.
I fed the pink marshmallow goo to my cousins' Afghan hound, but the big hairy bastard wouldn’t eat so much as one of the green beans.

Man’s best friend my ass. A few years later that same Afghan sunk its teeth into my hand and I have no doubt the bite was retaliation for my repeated attempts to poke those beans down its throat. Never before, or after, did the pooch show even the slightest sign of aggression.

After a while my mom wandered over to the kids table. “You’re not going to go play with the other kids until you eat those green beans.”

I stared at her.
She stared back.

“Hurry up, Travis,” said my cousin Keith. “So we can go outside and play hide and seek.”

I shot him a look.

“Fine, I’ll eat them for you,” he said.

“Oh no you won’t,” chimed in my mom from across the room. “Earlier she hadn’t been paying a damned bit of attention, but now she was in heat seeking missile mode. Maybe she’d seen the Afghan licking his pink lips and realized I’d do anything to avoid eating the undesirable elements on my plate.

I sat there.
I begged.
I pleaded.
I cried.
I pouted.
And eventually got my way --sort of.

I was forced to go to bed extra early, while my cousins ran and played. But, I didn’t eat those three green beans.

The funeral, wedding or whatever it was had been the day before so the next morning the family loaded up a Winnebago and headed into the snowy mountains. This was the late seventies, so the RV was one of those huge, tin-boxes on wheels. Our clan was headed up near Winter Park to go tubing. We kids sat in the back, staring out the Winnebago’s rear window while making rude gestures at the unlucky motorists behind us. All the way up the mountain pass, my cousins teased me about having to go to bed early ... all because I wouldn’t eat three stupid green beans.

Bean boy.
Sprout.
Jolly Green Crybaby.

I took the taunts of my older cousins with all the grace, dignity, and unassuming gusto as any eight-year-old boy would. By whining, crying and complaining to any adult that would listen. But I didn't find so much as a single sympathetic ear as they all too thought I should've eaten those three green beans. Granny Howery had stayed back in Denver with the other senior set.

Things settled down when we reached out destination and we’d been tubing the better part of the day when it happened.

For those who have never gone tubing let me explain this rather simple activity. You take a inflatable inner tube, flop yourself down on it and slide down the mountain.

The laidback tuber prefers the butt in the hole position, as if they were simply floating along a gentle river, whereas the more daring folk assumed a belly down deployment so as to hurdle down the mountainside head first. Either way, getting from point A, at the top of the hill, to point B, several hundred yards down the hill, was relatively easy. Gravity did all the work.

However, getting from point B, back to Point A, was not nearly as convenient. In those days the process involved laying supine on the tube and holding onto a handle which was attached to a cable which pulled you back up. Sounds rather innocent, but after a long day of fun my eight-year-old arms began to tire.

There I was, getting hauled back to the top for the umpteenth time when I simply gave out and let go.

Gravity took over.

I plunged downward.

Sliding feet-first, I went no more than seven or eight feet before I collided with my mom. In a domino case of cause and effect, my snow boots impacted the side of her head, bringing about the release of her tenuous grip. With two tubers hurling down it wasn't long until a slew of folks were gathered up in an avalanche of flesh and rubber heading the wrong direction. Most happened to be related to me, but there were a few unsuspecting and innocent strangers among the disgruntled and battered bodies at the bottom of the hill.

Some were groaning, a few were cussing and most were trying to assess their various bumps, scrapes and bruises when Keith piped up and said, “Dang, it Travis. You should’ve eaten those three green beans.”

Three decades have passed since then. One for each of those green beans and yet, to this day I am known as the-kid-who-wouldn’t-eat-his-veggies. The family still talks about their minor injuries that day as if they lost limbs and shed copious amounts of blood, but they have never found a empathetic listener in me. For I know, had they fed me Brown Gravy rather than a trio of legumes, they could have easily avoided their lumps.

School Daze

School starts tomorrow in many places. My youngest still attends the private elementary where my wife teaches started last Wednesday. Here is a shot of him look oh-so-excited.

My oldest begins anew tomorrow morning. Not only is he making the leap from private school to public but he is also moving up to the ever dreaded ... Middle School.

No, my son will not be attending the middle school they named after me here in Amarillo. Okay fine, so it's namesake is actually William B Travis formerly of the Alamo but still it's a cool name. ;)


My son isn't fully aware of it ... but he is leaving behind bathroom stalls with doors on them and nice soft toilet paper for a world where a boy can;t take a dump in private and is forced to wipe with funky little squares of tissue paper that are too flimsy to remove poop but tough enough to chap your ass.

he is going from class sizes of fifteen and halls where everyone knew his name and his mom was right downstairs to jam packed hallways full of kids that think the only way to make themselves look good is to make the next guy look bad. Tarek is a big kid. A strong kid. So I'm not worried about him physically in any way but I fear that is too-trusting nature and every-one-is-my-friend/or-soon -will-be mentality will take a hit.

But it's gotta come sometime and what is middle school for if not for teaching painful life lesson and unabashed humility?

All this school thought has me recalling my school days and the stuff I thought was dumb then and in retrospect ... I still find asinine.

Like door-less stalls in the boys room. Come on it is school not prison. And how much trouble is a kid gonna get into behind a stall door that he isn't going to find someplace else anyway? Life is full of intrusions and every parent will tell you there are times when that brief respite atop the porcelain throne is the only peace and quiet to be found. Let kids shit in private.

And how many of you remember those pathetic paper straw they used to make you use in school. I'm pretty sure they were created from the same crappy (pun intended) paper as the toilet paper. Halfway through your carton of milk the damn things collapsed and clogged up like a fat man's arteries.

And the soap? Remember that white chunk of calcified perfume? you had to turn a little handle which ground up the block of soap and dribbled white powder into your hand. It was more of a workout to get a handful of soap than it was to climb that frigging rope in PE. And the stuff never produced any lather and yet you could skin a dead skunk and still smell the scent on your hand afterward.

And speaking of powder, remember the titty pink puke powder they used to spread atop the pile anytime some poor kid vomited int he hall. you could smell the stuff three wings over and why did they just sprinkle he stuff atop the upchuck rather than cleaning up the mess right away. I can recall times when the pile of powder topped puke sat there for hours before it was removed. WHY?

And here in the Texas panhandle we used to have tornado drills. Which consisted of all the classes gathering in the hall or a bathroom and bending forward so that our faces were between our legs.

If I'm going to die in a whirlwind of flying debris Id just as soon my last sight not be my own hairy ass. Of course in those days my backside was still follicly free but you get my drift.

The photo above is of my 6th grade year. Back then we stayed in elementary for 6th grade. I'll leave you to guess which one of these kids is me, but trust me when I say those days were far from my best image wise.

The good ol' days?

More like good ol' daze?

Feeling Nutty

I've been trying really hard to blog at least once a week so here are some random thoughts from the past seven days.

You have probably heard that a private company SpaceX launched a rocket into space this week.

But did you hear that along with the cargo on board headed to the space station there was also a number of people. okay not really people, at least in the living sense, but their remains -- their ashes? For the sum of three grand Space X along with partner Celestis will release the remains of the dearly departed while in orbit.

Who says you can't buy your way into heaven?

James Doohan the actor who played Scotty on Star Trek was beamed up for the last time in this recent flight. Actually this was his remains second attempt as a failed mission dumped him into the Pacific ocean back in 2008.

Talk about Star Trek : The Next Generation

In other news I created this short video for my own, and hopefully your, entertainment.

And last but not least I have to share this with y'all. I write for a Texas football magazine and by far the largest part of the job is creating the profiles for the MANY high school teams here in the state. Some of these are really out of the way places. Tiny little towns that play 6 man football and almost no one except those from there have ever heard of. One such town's high school is nicknamed the steers.

Now for the uneducated a steer is a castrated bull. If you are really uneducated let me explain more. Castrated means the animals testicles have been removed.

Now in light of that fact having a football team called the steers seems rather asinine to me but as I was writing the profile and recapping their last season I noticed they had lost one game by two points. I couldn't resist writing this brilliant (if I do say so myself) line ... And in the final non-district tune-up, the Steers came up a pair short in a (56-54) loss to Silverton.

And Down The Stretch I Come

I believe in Karma. As I pointed out in THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES the word karma is too new age for some folks but whether you describe it as "you reap what you sow," "an eye for an eye," or "you get what you give," I think most of us believe in the principal.

This past weekend I felt as if my karma was being tested.

It started Friday night. My son had soccer practice for his traveling team and we had a few other errands to run so it was nearing 9 PM by the time I pulled into our neighborhood Sonic Drive-In to feed my family.

Yeah I know, great parenting but just wait it gets worse. As I am ordering burgers and tots and foot long conies for my clan, a new Trans-am or Firebird or some other such car pulls up next to our minivan.

The vehicle is driven by a young, 17 or so, boy. His radio is thumping loudly with base. So much so that I cannot hear when the sonic guy asks me a question. I shoot the kid in the thumping car a look. he flashes a cocky grin and if anything turns up the radio even louder.

The Sonic guy repeats my order but all I hear is the last line. "Is your order correct?"

Casting an eye over at the Based Out Buffoon next to me, I say loudly, "I have no idea if that is correct because the kid next to me has his radio turned up way too loud!"

At this point the kid's buddies join him and feeling cocky he is bragging while grinning at me. "Hey guys come check out my stereo. Apparently it is really loud. I didn't know it was so loud. have you guys ever heard a radio this loud?

I heard enough so I backed the minivan up a few feet and stepped out of my vehicle. I had a few things I wanted to toss int he trash anyway and I wanted to let the mouthy little punk get a good long look at all 6 foot 5 inches and 290 pounds of me. Just to let him know it wasn't advantageous for him to continue flapping his gums.

Suddenly quiet the punk gave me a curt little nod as I passed by and according to my wife his buddy said, "Man that is a big dude once I strolled by on the way to dump my trash."

All I know is both they and their radios were silent from then on.

Then after soccer games Saturday morning and a bit of cinematography Saturday afternoon I stopped in Wal-Mart for a few items. Now I despise Wal-Mart but my wife loves Lime Salt for her beer that is only sold at Wal-Mart so like a dutiful husband I stopped there.

I carried my purchases which included a case of Shiner Bock and an 18 pack of Corona up the the counter.

The lady took one look and asked, "Do you live in a house or an apartment?"

Slightly taken aback I said," A house."

"Good," she said. " because I live in an apartment and I hate people like you who stay up all night drinking and being loud while I'm trying to sleep."

This impromptu rant rendered me speechless. A damn rare event I might add.

 So I drove away from the store pondering her anger and bitterness. For a little bit I even wondered if I had done something to deserve her scorn.

But only an hour or so later I was sipping one of those cold Shiner Bocks and watching the Kentucky Derby.

I was still pondering my karma's state when the horse I"LL HAVE ANOTHER galloped across the finish line. I'll HAVE ANOTHER for the win shouted the announcer and it was at that point I realized the bottle in my hand was now empty -- a sign if I've ever seen one. Yep, that gal at Wal-Mart was just plain crazy. Had she been right ROUSING SERMON would've taken the win rather than finishing 8th.

So I hoisted myself off the couch and proudly said, "Yep, I'll HAVE ANOTHER."

Too Old For Jersey Shore, Too Young to Crochet

Taking a look at my recent output it's hard to imagine I once was a prolific blogger. And truth of the matter is I've had plenty of things I wanted to share with you but sadly I'm not allowed to. Not yet anyway, so I've been going with the philosophy it's better to say nothing at all than to risk saying too much. But I miss you guys so I'm going to try and be a bit more present in the blog world not only here, but at the various blogs I miss reading as well.

Life was hectic last month, not only writing wise but everyday life as well. My wife had knee surgery to replace her ACL after attempting a daring, one-legged stop of a soccer ball during my son's practice. Okay it wasn't all that daring, but it did prove to be dangerous. She now has a cadaver ligament and I can only hope someone like Pele was the donor so that next time Jennifer can boot that ball back with style.

The recovery period nearly drove my wife insane. I came home one day at lunch to check on her only to find her watching Jersey Shore. The next day she dispatched me to Hobby Lobby to purchase her yarn and crochet needles. On day three she delivered the best line of the whole ordeal when she said, "I'm too old to watch Jersey Shore and too young to crochet.

Now some dating advice from me in the form of some random photos from my phone. Why? Because I can't really talk about what I want to. 

Begin your date by freshening your breath with some of these ...

 

 because what gal doesn't love the smell of patted meat?


And when dinner is served don't forget to wash it down with some of this fine Texas beer.

And last but not least folks, if your speed date goes particularly well ... you can expect one of these.

Lucky Number 13

Luck.

I believe in it.

Sure we often manufacture our own luck by being prepared. Knowledgeable. Smart in how we approach matters.

But sometimes luck shines upon us. Even when we are unprepared. Stupid. Ignorant in our actions.

Today I'm going to share a story of great luck.

Now most stories that involve trips to the Emergency Room are not about luck at all.

I'm proud to say this is not most stories.

Thy River Runs Red

There are rights in this world ...

and there are wrongs ...

And we can't fix everything, so sometimes we remain silent despite our inclination to speak up.

But some issues arises that force us the speak up. The climb to the highest peak around and shout at the top of our lungs.

Here is one such issue ...

Come on Man. The words PHILLY CHEESE STEAK should never I repeat NEVER follow the word chicken.

Chickens have breasts, legs, thighs, gizzards, feet, necks, and even giblets, but there ain't a single steak anywhere to be found anywhere on a yard bird my friends. Don't let this happen. Don't let the health nuts muddy the blood red waters of Steak River.

Stand with me on this and boycott anything called a chicken steak. If you ask me this so called Philly is nothing but a glorified panini and in case you wonder how I feel about that horrendous moniker check out this post.

Will Work For Food

My buddy Alex Keto sent me this story along with a note that it reminded him of my feeding the chickens story in THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES.

A Los Angeles woman was arrested after she offered sexual favors in exchange for chicken McNuggets, Burbank police said.
Khadijah Baseer of Los Angeles reportedly opened customers’ car doors in the drive-thru of McDonald’s on the 1700 block of Olive Avenue about 11 p.m. Wednesday, asking for free chicken McNuggets in exchange for sexual favors, Officer Joshua Kendrick said.

 A man told police Baseer approached him but he refused the offer.

 Baseer was arrested Wednesday on suspicion of prostitution.
I've seen enough crazy things to realize there are a lot of folks with shaky morals in this world but MgNuggets? Really? Sexual favors for mechanically separated chicken bits? Come on Khadijah, at least sell yourself for a Big Mac.

*****************************

Yes, my beloved New Orleans Saints went down in a turnover filled thriller, but I'll have all of y'all know my 9 year old son has avenged that defeat by repeatedly beating those damn Forty-Niners on EA Sports Madden Football game. So take that San Francisco.

*****************************

Anybody else heard that Rihanna song ... We Found Love? You know the one where she goes on and on about finding love in a homeless place. My wife swears she says hopeless place but my ears hear homeless place and if Ms. Baseer can find love in a Micky D's drive-thru than I reckon Rihanna can find it down at the Salvation Army. 

Holy Pigskins

It all started with a pinky toe.

You see I am frugal, or as my wife likes to call me a tightwad.

My old pair of athletic shoes were just fine. Yes the pinky toe of my right foot was visible but so what? like 98% of the shoe was still intact. But no, my wife made me go buy a new pair last week.

Like I said I;m frugal so when I spotted these bad boys on sale for half price I jumped.

I don't usually go for such flashy footwear but at half price I couldn't go wrong. Or so I thought.

As any longtime reader of this blog knows I am a diehard New Orleans saints fan. Last night the saints battled the Detroit Lions in the wildcard round of the NFC playoffs.

You might notice the colors on that Lion helmet nearly match those on my footwear.

Call me superstitious if you will but when the score was 14-7 Lions I ripped those damn blue shoes off my feet and flung them across the room. From that point on my beloved Saints dominated and eventually came away with a 45-28 victory.

My apologies to Drew Brees and the other members of the Saints organization for letting my frugality damage the cosmic Karma of the WHO DAT universe. And don't worry I will not wear so much as a single red item this week as you prepare to take down the San Francisco 49ers next weekend.

GEAUX SAINTS!

Come Show Me What You Got

A thought occurred to me today while telling a story to the guys at work. I've lived but three places in my adult life. And despite the fact I consider myself an okay guy, a sociable sort of fellow who is easy to get along, in every single place I've ever lived one of my neighbors has hated me.

Funny thing is it's never been my fault. At least not directly.

Let me explain.

House #1 was a dumpy joint out in the country. despite being out of the city limits I lived in a cluster of other houses. Some on wheels. Some not.

I owned a red-ticked coonhound named Rufus.

Rufus was a wandering soul that simply could not be penned. He was also a kleptomaniac. Inn the years i owned him he brought me an assortment of pilfered goods that I had no idea where he stole. A pocketknife, opened up. My guess is someone flung it at him trying to carve out his pillaging eye. Numerous articles of clothing, including lingerie which I presume he plucked off other people's clothes line. Lots of beer bottles, newspapers, doormats, water sprinklers, and anything else left outside.

But the worst was the day my neighbor across the road called to tell me Rufus had jumped up and stolen the shoe right off his granddaughters shoe as he was carrying her inside. He claimed Rufus had absconded with he baby shoe and was now hiding beneath my house. And he was sure enough correct. It sure was embarrassing to crawl under there and back out while my neighbor stood and huffed in my yard. Later the man never would talk to me much.


House #2 was was farther out in the country. it was the place Jennifer and I bought when we got married. We lived there until the joint burned down to the ground three years ago. Again my neighbor trouble stemmed from a canine.

When I said I do I not only said I do to Jennifer I said it to an ancient and grouchy Siamese cat and a slobbering, 100 pound bloodhound, named Bart.

 Bart was good and stayed home unless he caught sent of a female in heat and then he was off to have him some fun. Not long after Jennifer and i settled in a friend got divorced and decided to move down to Corpus Christi. Somehow I got possession of his Chesapeake Bay Retriever Rosey in the deal and man did she love the water. Especially the warm water of my closest neighbor's hot tub. Bart didn't care for the water much but he got excited to see Rosey swim around. And when he got excited he drooled even more.


My neighbor quit talking to me before I had the chance to ask him what bothered him more. A fat Chessie taking laps in the hot tub, or Bart dripping slobber into the water while he watched.





That brings us to House #3 my current abode. These days I live int he city. I have neighbors all around me and mostly they like me just fine, except the one across the street. And nope, this time a dog is not to blame. nor any animal. it's all Nacho Libre's fault.

Let's take a look at Halloween 2009.

Here is one of my buddies in his costume that year.

As tends to happen at parties the house grew warm so Mr. Nacho-for-a-night stepped outside to cool down. I live on a somewhat busy street so 3,4, maybe 5 cars spotted Nacho and honked. My neighbor across the street came outside, yelled at Nacho and another guy dressed as a beer keg and then went back in his own house.

I wandered outside to cool off just after this event and met Nacho and Keg boy on their way inside. They told me about the neighbor and how he yelled at them for keeping his kids awake. Now mind you this was a Friday night and this guys kids were a freshman in college and a high school junior. I doubted seriously either was in bed and as I explained this to my friends another car, or maybe two drove by and honked at the three of us. I was dressed as a magician.

My neighbor came outside at this point and yelled, "Be warned! I know Judo!"
Without skipping a beet Nacho leaped forward about six feet and assumed a wrestling posture as he said, "Well come show me what you got big boy."

My neighbor disappeared into his house and has not spoken to me since. 

Pearls

I'm always taking pictures on my phone of things that at the time I think ... that will make a funny or at least interesting tidbit for the blog. Then I forget what I was going to say or I simply never figure out a way to build a post around the image.

So today I'm going to toss out a few of these ...

I have no idea why taking a shot of my oldest son dangling beneath a bronze gorilla's bung seemed like a good idea, but here it is.

From an Ape's ass to a pig's. The segue makes sense here but again not sure why I've save this photo in my phone. 

What is it like to live here in the Texas Panhandle? ...

Some days it's hot ...

Others it is cold ...

 I believe I was bothered that they actually had to print instruction on how to pull a paper towel from this apparatus.

Rub and Buff? You think there is a warning on the back of this product about going blind after prolonged use?

This product sounds more like a venereal disease than anything I want spread on my sandwich.

This is the logo from a  local  Christian school. I know many fine people who send their kids there and I'm sure the staff is excellent as well as the education received there but every time I see this logo I ask why they chose sperm as their mascot.

Should I be offended that despite being under 40 they did not card me?

If you are a weight loss franchise do you really want your name associated with big rotund items like hot air balloons?

Deck the halls. Beer halls that is.

And last, but certainly not least, I offer photographic proof that I have the greatest wife in the world.

Those who have not read THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES might not get the reference but those that have have to appreciate the fact my wife had these shorts made for herself and a few other friends at the release party last week where they were so popular that she ended up taking orders from others who wanted one. The front reads Pearls Feed and Seed and they are quite fetching along with vulgar in a very subtle way.

And yes, that is a Pearl Necklace she was wearing in honor of the book and my twisted sense of humor.