Purple Panties and Cleavage

I'm not a country club guy.

I have no problem admitting that.

A suit and tie? Not if I can help it. My idea of dressing up is a pair of starched jeans and a button up shirt. Which I can get away with for most functions here in Texas. Dress shoes. I'll stick to my favorite pair of double-stitched, Anderson Bean Boots thank you very much.

And golf? I have but frankly trying to whack that little white ball in a straight line just ticks me off. I'd rather smuggle in a fishing pole and cast for bass in the water hazards while my buddies debate distance and club selection. I will ride in your golf cart and drink your beer however.

Tennis? I'll leave that to Phats.

But tonight I will be at the Amarillo Country Club for a church event.

It's not my only visit to the place. I've been there before. In the very room I will be in tonight.

Only the last time I was there I was the keynote speaker for a luncheon. I stood there and told the Amarillo Rotary Club about my path to publication not long after THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES came out. I had a great time that day and met some very nice people. Yeah, I think I scared a few but when I read them a sample I stopped short of the bulldog masturbation scene.

Now tonight I will be back. Perhaps its an odd coincidence I once again have a new book out. Maybe that is the only time they will let a guy like me inside the gates.

I would be game, but I doubt the Arch Bishop wants me to read the opening of TWISTED ROADS. I got a feeling I'd be sent straight to confession when I went to describing purple panties and cleavage.

Oh well, there is always the rotary club.

 I wanted to share the back cover blurb from Twisted Roads from you ... well it will be the back cover blurb when the print book is released in a few weeks. Until then you can pick the novel up on Kindle for 6.99 if you so desire.

A tarnished name and a bitter heart.

That's all Angela Ross took when she fled Texas fifteen years ago as a teenager. Now, she's back to take care of her grandmother’s estate. But in a town like Grand, where reputation means much more than the truth, some sins are never forgotten much less forgiven.

Shelly Sampson has worked hard to cultivate her image as reigning queen of Grand, but long kept secrets mean her crown is precarious at best. And nothing could knock her tiara off faster than a chill wind from the past ... Like the return of Angela Ross.

Left with nothing but an old house and painful memories, Angela soon takes a job at the local tavern owned by Lucas Cahill hoping to earn enough to leave this town behind for good. Lucas still holds the same flame for Shelly Sampson that he had in high school and though she welcomes his attention, he can’t understand why she won’t leave her rocky marriage behind to finally give them a chance at happiness.

Once Angela, Shelly’s old arch rival, enters the picture as Lucas’ new employee Shelly’s desperation to keep her life and secrets intact starts a chain reaction whose outcome no one in Grand could have ever predicted.

 

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.

Messin' With Texas

Outlaw one day.

Law abiding citizen the next.

Yes it is possible, especially if you live here in Texas.

You see today you would get a ticket for revving up your engine and doing 85 down the highway. But tomorrow Texas raises its maximum speed limit to 85. The fastest of any state.

But the ability to put the petal to the metal isn't the only new thing a Texan can do tomorrow.

No siree. September 1st also marks the first day you can hop aboard a helicopter and legally shoot feral hogs from the air. I'm fairly ambivalent on this new law. Texas does have a hog problem, but it's not like the average Joe has the means to fly about popping a cap in Porky's ham. And I'm no fan of shooting animals and leaving them lay. Especially when we are talking about animals that contain lots of tasty bacon.

And still the new fangled fun doesn't stop because starting Mañana, a Texan can noodle without threat of fine.

Thanks to Animal Planets new show, Hillbilly Handfishing the "sport" of noodling is a bit more well known. For those in the dark noodling is the act of diving and or reaching under water to catch catfish, by hand. Now when you jab your hand into  these unseen holes you really don't know if it will contain a water moccasin, snapping turtle or what.

Now I'm not sure how many states allow noodling but the activity is most commonly associated with Oklahoma and it goes against this Texan's grain to adopt any practice that was though up by, or heavily engaged by Okies.

Besides, I can afford a fishing pole.

And I've grown quite fond of all ten of my fingers.

And if a sport wants to be considered a sport it needs a better name than noodling. Are you listening Curling?

Actually now that I think about it noodling and curling sound as if they belong together. Like twigs and berries. Or frank and beans.

If hillbilly activities like noodling and shooting hogs from choppers (okay I admit the latter is for rich hillbillies but hillbillies none the less) catches on here in Texas I got a feeling more out-of-staters, or foreigners as we prefer to call them, will be happy to speed right through the state.

Czech Please

Blogging is like exercising. The longer you go without doing it the harder it is to get back in the groove.

But I've decided to challenge myself and post a new blog every single day in August. Can I do it? Hell if I know, but I'm gonna try and this spot is sort of my cleansing, info dump of all the things I've meant to blog in recent weeks but simply have not made the time to do so.

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

I recently took a trip to Oklahoma City and while I plan to share a few of those sights and experiences let me say that was I not a dedicated and faithful husband and father I could very well be writing this update from the Czech Republic.

You see the World Cup of softball was going on in Oklahoma wile we were there and many of the countries were staying at our hotel. The Czech girls, one in particular were strikingly beautiful and that accent, well had she asked I just might have defected.

The Japanese girls were staying on my floor and it's no wonder the USA women beat them in the final because those Japanese players stayed up half the night making all kinds of damn noise.

My 20th class reunion is this weekend. Last night I partook in the pre-party mixer and had a blast. Several of my former classmates commented that they regularly read this blog as well as anything else I have out and available, but the highlight was when my old buddy Marcos Martinez (see I told you I'd give you kudos) walked up and handed me a beer. Not any beer I might add but an ice cold Shiner Bock. Marcos, who I hadn't seen or spoken to in 20 years said, "Here man, I bought this Shiner for you because I know its your favorite from always reading your blog and Facebook posts."

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

I recently finished reading blog pal Charles Gramlich's western story collection Killing Trail on my nook. Like Charles I cut my reading teeth on Louis L'Amour and along with the great original short stories Charles included a fine essay about Mr. L'Amour and his influence. If you have an e-reader and love a good western I highly recommend you purchase Killing Trail.


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


You know how clerks at the store use that felt marker to check you money. A yellow mark is supposed to mean it's legit and a black mark means it's fake? Well, I got to wondering where those marks go? I mean I never get a fifty that has dozens of yellow marks on it, so I did a google search and while I never discovered the answer to my original question I did find out those pens are nearly worthless.

The pens check for starch in the paper and given that money is made mostly of cotton it has none so a bogus bill made from starchy paper will turn the ink of the pen black. But most counterfeiters these days take small denomination bills and bleach them and then print a larger denomination so the pen will show it as a legit bill even though it is not. Also any paper even a plain sheet of computer paper will show as legit according to the pen if you first spray it with hairspray. And real money will show as fake if you use spray starch in it so I guess the moral of this story is keep your cash away from your ironing.

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

I am sick of summer. It's been miserable hot and dry here this year. Right at 2 inches of rain since January 1st. The lakes are drying up making fishing bad, the electric and water bills are soaring, now that Game of Thrones and Treme are over there isn't a damn thing worth watching on TV.

So Fall needs to hurry the hell up. I'm excited about football. My beloved Huskers are in a new conference ready to show Phats and the Big 10 boys what real competition is all about, The Saints very well could be better than their Super Bowl season, and since I wrote something close to a jillion High School profiles for Top O' Texas football magazine I even pumped for some real Friday Night Lights action. And Boardwalk Empire.

Thank God for HBO, good, reads, Shiner Bock beer, and of course football.

Pappa Bear

Father's Day is fast approaching.

I feel somewhat obligated to point this fact out since Dad's Day doesn't garner to same hoopla or media push as Mother's Day. Of sure we get a few sales in our honor. On things like lawnmowers, power tools, and rototillers. Things to make us do more work.

Why don't they slash the price of vacuum cleaners and washing machines for Mother's Day?

I'll tell you why. Because women would get pissed if we bought them those things. No we get force fed jewelry commercials and spa packages.

Here at the post office mail picks up in the days preceding Mother's day. Thick pink and other pastel colored envelopes color the mail as sons and daughters mail off profession of their maternal love and thanks.There is no spike in mail for Father's Day.

I'm not bitter, or even fishing for a father's day present myself. Just stating the obvious.

Actually this year I am giving my wife a present. Two days of rest and relaxation as me and my boys are headed camping for the weekend. Hopefully the fish will be biting and the temps will not get to high above 100.

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

I would like to thank to two particular father who had absolutely nothing with my own entry into this world.

Charles Posey and Charles Gramlich both showed my e-book Whispers some love in recent blog posts and I thank them for helping spread the word.

Should you wish to pick up your own copy of Whispers you can do so here or here for the low sum of 99 cents.

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

And speaking of Dad's, the main character in Christopher Moore's novel A Dirty Job is a hilarious one.

I'm a big fan of Moore's brand of quirky macabre humor and A Dirty Job novel only added to my fandom.

From Bookmarks Magazine

It's certainly original. Even the harshest critic can't begrudge Christopher Moore his vivid imagination, satirical plots, and humor. Like a good sleight-of-hand artist, Moore builds up a huge reserve of goodwill to pull off his most demanding trick yet: laughing at death.

So you getting your dear old pop's anything exciting. Might I suggest a book or three? There is always a starving author  out there ready to share a good tale.

Read A Dirty Job? What did you think?

Ahoy!

Readers, writers, & pirates. Stop on by Criminal Brief today and chat with me about Deadly By The Dozen, and salvaging your booty when that ship you were sailing crashes into a reef. http://criminalbrief.com/?m=20110410

Duck, Duck, Goose

Not much of a My Town Monday post but here is a Hitchcock-esque video I shot when the boys and I went fishing at a city park here in Amarillo, Texas. During the winter, the state stocks this location with rainbow trout every other week. Come summer they toss in channel catfish. the boys and I usually catch a few but sadly we had no luck this day.

Okay so those geese are not quite as frightening as Alfred's birds of terror. nevertheless, getting bombed by canadian geese crap isn't exactly a picnic in the park either.



To check out posts from other town please visit the official My Town Monday blog.

Back In the Day #3 a MTM post

A few weeks back, in one of these posts about my childhood here in Amarillo, Texas I mentioned that my neighborhood was on the far southeast corner of town. I wasn't joking and i recently captured some pictures to show y'all what I mean.


This is the view looking east from 32nd street where it dead ends into Eastern.

This is of course the sign at the intersection of 32nd and Easter.

And should you have your mind in the gutter and look down just a few few away from taht stop sign you will see this ... some of my earliest surviving writing.

 I scrawled my name in that patch of wet concrete  in the mid eighties. '85 or '86 if I had to guess. I got lucky in that we'd had a dusting of snow so the letters show up pretty good in this photo. My graffiti has not relevancy to this post other than it's location and to further prove I was a hooligan but I felt compelled to add it to the mix.

This post is actually about the only time in my life I've ever been shot at. With real lead and not paintballs or some other sort of harmless projectile.

The farmland that lay just beyond Eastern street belong to a grouchy, ill tempered man. He lived in a run down house that used to sit on this parcel of land but as you can see by this photo all that survives now is an old tin barn.

About half a mile south east of this shot, on the corner of this particular land there used to be a pond. it too is gone now, but back when this was a working farm actively growing crops the pond was what we call in this part of the world a tailwater pit.

You see farmers here have to irrigate their crops and back in the day they did this via irrigation pipe


Here are a couple of shots I borrowed from Google images to show you what I mean since the actual one of my childhood are no longer there.

The water that did not soak into the ground would run down hill and collect in the tailwater pit or pond where it could be pumped back up to the uphill side of the field and used again.

Some farmers stocked fish in these ponds.

Some Farmers do not like boys to grab a fishing pole and ride their bikes out to these ponds.

Some farmers do not like it when said boys catch the fish they stocked in their ponds.

Some farmers load up shotguns and pepper the the area to get their point across.

No I was never in any real danger given the distance the farmer would pop of shots at us, but when you are a kid that kind of logic does not enter your mind when fear kicks in.

Of course neither does the realization you really are trespassing. And even though we got "shot at" on several different occasion we kept venturing back. One it was the closest place to fish and two, the danger level added to the sense of of adventure.

So yeah, I can honestly say I've risked taking a bullet, or at least buckshot just to sink a worm.

You ever been shot at? Risked life an limb in pursuit of a hobby? Defaced communal property and had it last a quarter of a century?

For more My Town Monday posts check out the official MTM blog.

This is an old post and an even older news story, but I am busy wrapping up my seduce Chelsea Handler campaign so you get it again anyway. For the record Chelsea did finally answer one of my tweets. It read and I quote ...

 This is an old post and an even older news story, but I am busy wrapping up my seduce Chelsea Handler campaign so you get it again anyway. For the record Chelsea did finally answer one of my tweets. It read and I quote ...

 "@TravisErwin I've succumbed."

Nut Very Smart

Do you read FailBlog.org? If not you should. It is hilarious. Until now I've resisted the urge to copy and past things from failblog to share with y'all but this one begs to be commented upon.


Where o' where shall I start?

Maybe with his decision to skinny dip in big blue. Mario. Dude. Have you never seen all the stuff that lives in the ocean?

Crabs and lobsters with big claws just made for grabbing a hold of your junk.


Eels, jellyfish, and sting rays are lurking below the surface all too eager to zap Mr. Squid. Haven't you ever heard of the Crocodile Hunter?


Sharks, barracudas, and a myriad of other toothy fish are swimming about and everyone of them would like a worm to snack on.


Yep, Mario swimming in the ocean while freeing willie was mistake number one. Oh, but you weren't punished for it, so you hop out of the chilly water and despite being the victim of shrinkage you don't feel the need to don clothes. I'll applaud you for the self-confidence as most dudes prefer to only be seen at their best, but Mario wasn't content to simply let little Luigi go about pale and shriveled. No he decided to camp out on a slatted deckchair. In the warm sun.

Now I've had a few nasty sunburns in my day so no way am I going to dangle my bits about and risk becoming the subject for a new version of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Not to mention the long term chance of skin cancer. A bit of melanoma on the ol' Manitoba would not be a pretty sight.

And then he dozed off. I know lots of people sleep in the nude, but doing it in the safety and confines of your own bedroom is one thing. Hanging it all out at the beach while you are unconscious is another. Ants, bees, biting flies, stray dogs, kids with a Frisbee, the list of hazards are endless. As Mario's fate proves it's simply not healthy to let things roll around unattended.

And man oh man would I have hated to be on that maintenance crew who had to come saw the chair in half. I'm pretty sure that was not in their official job description. And poor, poor Mario. No one since Bill Buckner, has done as poor a ball handling job, but I do feel a bit of sympathy for Mario. Any man with a set of his own would have to. Having your guys hanging about in the presence of a whirling saw blade is far from a situation any man wants to find himself in.

Top 10 Pictures I Posted To Get Out Of Creating a Real Top 10 List

Day 9 ... of ten straight days of Top Ten lists in anticipation of the arrival of October 10th, 2010. Why do I care so much about 10/10/10? Hell if I know, but a guy's gotta blog about something right. Feel free to join in any or all of the days with your own lists or expand on any of mine.

What a day Friday was. For a while it seemed everything was going to hell in a hurry. I posted a message to both Facebook and Twitter which read ...  This day is going into the crapper faster than e-coli tainted sushi. 


I'm proud to say the day improved but I failed to conjure up anything resembling a witty top ten list so here are ten pictures for your visual amusement. All involve me somehow. Clicking on the pics should enlarge them.


Top 10 Pictures of Me Being Goofy



10. Pirate Travis Halloween (2007)

9. Snowman Architect January (2010)

8. Santa Travis (2000)

7. Good Time Travis alongside side Good Time Charlie (seriously that dude's name is Charlie and no those are not adult beverages in the fancy red cups. Okay maybe they are.) Homer's Backyard Ball (May 2008)

6. Travis and his favorite Work Shirt (June 2010) 

 5. A Boy and His Pig (February 1991) Yes, that rosy cheeked boy is really me.

4. Thermal Travis (June 2008)

3. Travis's Roll Around Tool Box at Work.

2. 2nd Grader Travis (Circa 1981) Can you ID me?

1. Fishing and Writing (May 2009) ... If only I could get spend every day doing these two activities.

Get Hooked

Father's Day is almost upon us and I know we fellas are not always the easiest to buy for, so in the spirit of promoting both literacy and hilarity I'd like to make a recommendation on a great gift for the man in your life.



Reel LIVIN' by Warren McClenagan

Yes, the book is about fishing, but even if you've never drowned a single worm in your life this book will make you laugh. Angling, fly fishing in particular is the backdrop for the stories, but at it's heart this collection of stories is about father's and son's, men and their childlike obsession of their pastimes, and of course the pitfalls of pursuing those obsessions.

The humor contained in the pages will appeal to anyone who reads and enjoys this blogs. Here are a few excerpts to prove my point.

The tent is indeed quite portable…the first time you use
it. But only blind optimism can explain the naïveté that led us to
overlook the mystery of how 50 square yards of fabric, 90 feet of
tubing, and half a dozen 8-inch stakes could be compressed into
such a small sack. Some crafty combination of vacuum packing and
shrink-wrapping must be at work. The result is that the tent is not
easily dislodged from its nylon cocoon, and, once out, can never be
completely stuffed back in.

This fact dawned rudely upon me years ago as I watched my
dad dance spastically about a gravel tent pad, cursing like a well-seasoned
sailor, and failing to dislodge even one piece of his new
tent from the iron clutches of its bag. This happened as we were
setting up camp on the shores of Taylor Lake, near the headwaters
of the Gunnison River during the first “You Bear! Shoo! Fall Fishing
Extravaganza,” as our annual trips came to be known. It should be
noted that the term “extravaganza,” is a reference to the production
that went into our effort, not necessarily the result. If we gave our
experiences a subtitle, it might be, “The 10 Most Beautiful Places
to Lose Your Temper,” as this was but the first of many valuable,
if not altogether pleasant, lessons we would learn during our yearly
adventures in the Rocky Mountains of New Mexico and Colorado
over the next several years.

Dad finally erupted in anger and performed a Caesarean on
the tent bag. The dance and accompanying stream of cursing became
known as the “Son-of-a-Bitch Shuffle” and was regularly employed
in a wide variety of situations at the McClenagan camp thereafter.
Dad was quite pleased when, with a little effort, we were able
to jam the tent back into the sack, and, by his expression, I knew he
was about to rub it in my face. It fell to me, at that moment, to point
out the pile of aluminum pipes lying behind him. I noticed that my
name was sprinkled throughout the lyrics of the subsequent SOB
shuffle. After he caught his breath, we began trying to work each
joint in one at a time. We managed to get the first two in by hand. On
the third, we had to use our stake mallet. The fourth ripped a gaping
hole in the side of the bag. By this time, the tent and its sack were
no longer inanimate objects to Dad, but evil entities who must be
beaten into submission—creatures from the dark side. I took cover
beneath a concrete picnic table as he donated the tent, piece by piece,
to the wilderness around us, in a ceremony of unbridled emotion and
intensity that did not end until the last mangled length of aluminum
tubing sank peacefully beneath the surface of the lake.

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

To make matters worse, I noticed that Dad was already
showing signs of the early stages of “raw ass.” This is a debilitating
condition that results from some kind of chemical reaction between
the aluminum seat of a boat and the cotton underpants of the
fisherman. Apparently, these two otherwise stable compounds, in
the presence of even a small amount of heat and sweat, combine to
form some kind of some kind of corrosive irritant. It begins with
a tingling sensation in the buttocks, and quickly progresses to the
point where one’s underwear, which seemed soft and comfortable
just moments before, feels like 60-grit sandpaper. The natural reaction
is to scratch, which only serves to invigorate the blood supply to
the affected region, and catalyzes the reaction. Before long, it feels
as if your underwear is full of sand burs. Passing boaters should
remember that their time is coming, and are expected to look away
politely if they notice someone dipping his butt cheeks into the cool
waters for relief. This is the type of etiquette you will not see in
“Hints from Heloise.”

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

To Dad’s credit, I should mention that he once purchased
mace as a safer, more camper-friendly means of protection. He was
quite proud of this high-tech addition to his arsenal, and insisted
on treating me to a demonstration. He began with an explanation
of how, according to an article he had read, one was to lay a fog of
pepper spray in the air between himself and the charging enemy, be
it a bear, or another disgruntled camper. He must have bought the
spray at the close of the previous season, because, when he backed
off and pressed the trigger, nothing more than a couple of drops
of the irritant dribbled out of the nozzle and down onto his hand.
Knowing that this was the kind of thing that really irritated Dad, I
tried to lighten the mood.

“Am I supposed to hold the bear down while you dribble that
into his eye?” I joked. He failed to see the humor in my response,
and, while winding up to bean me with the would-be dispenser,
slung a couple of drops into his eye. He added a few new moves and
some fresh lyrics to the SOB shuffle that day.


If your dad is a fisherman, a camper, an outdoorsman of any kind. Or simply a fan of hilarious, well-written true to life stories buy him this book for Father's Day. Heck buy it for yourself. It is a fast read that will have you laughing out loud and possibly even shedding a tear or two.

Make your dad happy now, by ordering your copy here.

The Bobber Doesn't Fall Far From The Pole

Until I posted the picture that now serves as the header of this blog, most of y'all had never seen me without a fish in my hand.

For several years my only online image was me holding up this 5 1/2 pound largemouth bass


Then there was this shot of me holding this 6 pound striper.


And last but not least there was the 20 inch rainbow trout which I pulled out of a tiny New Mexico stream.


The best thing about that last shot is that I was about 3o pounds lighter than the other shots thanks to my weight loss bet. Yeah I've since gained most of it back, but at least I've eaten well.

Now I was proud of all those fish and I certainly enjoyed catching them but once you have kids pride begins to take another form. So while the fish in these next two shots are not as big I am even more proud to share them.


My 9 year old, holding a nice largemouth he fooled with a white jig.

You can tell by his expression that he's still got issues with sticking his fingers inside a fish's mouth.

And here is my 7 year old hoisting a sunfish he caught.


Not he is quite pleased with himself and had absolutely no reservations about handling the fish.

Both of these fish were caught near on a friend's land near Shamrock, Texas. About 90 miles east of Amarillo.


Now my youngest son loves nothing more than tormenting his older brother so immediately upon releasing his catch back into the water he stuck his finger up to his brothers nose and said, "Sniff my finger, it has fish smell on it."

Fishin' & Wishin'

As promised, here are a few shots from my recent fishing trip to Lake Buchanan down in the Texas Hill Country.

The Bluebonnets were in full bloom.

At 2 miles, Lake Buchanan's dam is the longest multi-arch dam in the United States.

Fishing was tough this year. Matter of fact I did not catch a single striper that met the required 18 inch minimum length. I caught a few white bass or sand bass as we call them in my area and several undersized stripers and largemouth bass.

I've made this same trek three years in a row now and while this was the worst year for fishing, I had never seen so many wildflowers in bloom.

I could identify the bluebonnets and Indian Paints ...



but others I'm not sure of. Like these ...


No doubt some of you can name it.

And for those who emailed or left comments asking about the Amazon contest, I'm sad to report my entry got sacked like yesterday's groceries. I'll share my Publishers Weekly review once it is released in a few days. I'm proud to have made it as far as I did, yet bummed to be ousted. Now I've got to get on the ball and try to find a home for the novel as I truly do believe in the story.

Rim Shot

My post yesterday has aroused a lot on questions.

First off Kielbasa is sausage. Meaty goodness that is a staple of my diet.

Often times I toss a few links on the grill and then when they are finished cooking I wrap them in a flour tortilla and call that supper. Kielbasa is particularly washed down with a cold beer.

And you are correct Hilary. I have no qualms eating with a bit of worm dirt still on my fingers. Matter of fact I'd rather eat the worms dirt and all that to taint my taste beds with a single shred of lettuce.

Avery however is wrong. I was not trying to steal my lunch so I did not have the package of kielbasa stuffed inside my pants. That was a worthy theory but apparently;y the milk maid like me despite my shortcomings.

Now for the question you all wanted to know. How did I respond the her comment?

You probably expect something witty, but sadly that is not the case. Instead I reached inside one of the drink coolers and said, "Guess I'll have to settle for Dr. Pepper."

She offered milk at her place I opted for soda. A friend of mine read yesterdays blog and sent this picture asking if the milk gal was wearing this ...

I'm happy to report she was not.

Onto to other absurdity. I always enjoy checking my account at statcounter to see what Google searches have led people to my blog. yesterday I discovered this gem of a search ...

a woman's father has hairy ear rims. what is the chance that she will pass on the gene to one of her

Being weird I'm somewhat proud that such a topic leads to my blog, but what I find truly interesting is the questions this search makes me ask.

First off, who was looking ...

A) A pregnant woman concerned her soon to be arriving child is gonna come out looking like the Wolfman?

B) A smitten dude who is madly in love with his girlfriend and wants to pop the question, but fears the gene pool of his beloved?

C) Or is the hairy-eared father himself, trying to decide if he has forever cursed his family with his fuzzy Auricles.

And I like the word choices. They didn't merely say hairy ears. Not they elaborated and typed hairy ear rims. I for one have never thought of my ears as having rims though I suppose they do. Some people spend lots of money on fancy rims for their cars that shine, keep spinning, and or add that touch of class only gold plated metal can bring.

Maybe ear rims are the next big thing. Maybe people starting to add some bling to their ears in the way they have their jewelry, teeth and automobiles. In that case the google searcher may have been ahead of the game looking for a fuzzy family to insure their offspring a good chance to stand out without resorting to ear hair weaves to enhance their rims. Laugh it up, but the hairy ear rim movement has already started, and this guy is the guru.

I've Got The Dairy, If You Wanna Make Merry

Tall, dark and handsome. We've all heard women say that was what they are looking for.

Well I'm tall -- 6'5" to be exact.

My hair is mostly black. Yeah the percentage of gray ones increases every day, but at least for a few more years I'll still qualify as being dark.

That only leaves handsome. Given the fact I've never had to beat the ladies off with a stick this must me the category I fall short in. Nevertheless, I did get hit on at Wal-Mart this weekend.

Let me set the scene.

My buddy Rob and I are headed out to his tract of land for a bit of fishing, hiking, and gun shooting. My two boys are along to get their dose of outdoorsy adventure. We head out a little after 7:30 but we decide to stop at Wal-Mart to pick up fishing worms, tortillas and kielbasa.

My boys stay out in the truck with Rob while I run in. At that time of morning the store was nearly empty so I grab the worms to feed the fish and the meat to feed us. But then I decide o buy the boys some donuts. And nothing goes better with a donut than milk so sitting my purchases on the counter I look in the cool drink cases between the registers to see of they have any milk in them.

The clerk is busy ringing up the only other customer in line but she sees me looking and asks if I need help.

"Is there milk in any of these drink coolers?" I ask.

The Wal-Mart lade shakes her head. "No, I don't think so."

It was at this point that the customer in front of me, a somewhat plain, but decent enough looking lady in her early thirties , sized me up by letting her eyes roam up and down my body. Apparently deciding she liked me she lowered her voice and in a sultry tone, said, "I have some milk at my house."

Now let me stop here and analyze this.

I'm not the kind of guy who gets hit on often so that alone was a bit surprising. But to get hit on before 8 AM from a gal that seemed totally sober was a real shocker. Maybe she liked my worms. Maybe it was the phallic shape of the kielbasa that suddenly got her in the mood. Maybe my Irish Spring soap made her feel lucky enough to go after a pot of gold. Maybe she just digs big hairy dudes. I don't know, but I applaud her for originality. it ain't often you can use something as wholesome as a milk as the basis of a pickup line.

Maybe this particular gal simply has a different set of criteria ... Tall, dark, and not lactose intolerant.

So now I must ask the question. What's the strangest pickup situation you've ever experienced?

Return From The Far Blue Mountains

I'm back. I went through a stage in my teenage years where I must have read a 100 Louis L'Amour books. One of my favorites was in the Sackett series and was titled To The Far Blue Mountains.

I think of it every time I head to the mountains in New Mexico and greeted with this view as I'm approaching.


Of course things look different close up. All of the following shots were taken in Cimarron Canyon between Cimarron, new Mexico and Eagles Nest, NM. The canyon is home to Philmont Scout Ranch, a 200 square mile property owned by the Boys Scouts of America. There is also plenty of state park land for public use.


For this trip we stayed in a cabin in the tourist town of Red River, New Mexico. We did a lot of hiking and fishing and it was nice to get away for a few days while enjoying the finest nature has to offer.


This mule deer doe did a bit of wading as we were fishing nearby.

Red River is a ski town and in the summer the chair lift offers a scenic ride.


A ticket enables the rider two way transportation but my family decided to walk down the mountain rather than ride. We'd already done a fair amount of hiking but the boys really wanted to walk. It took us nearly two hours to traverse the steep slopes on foot.



At the end of our long hike back down the mountain and to our cabin my seven-year-old flopped down in a chair, took off his shoes and sighing said, "Man, nature really hurts."


More vacation adventures to come, but for now I'll leave you with one last shot ...






For you fellow fisherman that is a 17 1/2 inch rainbow trout. I caught it on a blue and yellow Panther Martin spinner while flipping beneath some overhanging trees in the stream.

Come on now, you didn't really think you'd escape without seeing me in another fish pose, did you?