He Writes Books and Stuff

Last month I blogged about my son getting to vote for the Bluebonnet award. If you missed that post the gist of it was I tried to coerce him into voting for THE Feedstore Chronicles. I of course was joking but he was serious when he replied, "No Dad, the award is for GOOD books."

No respect for Dad the author that day but this last week I was redeemed.

There we were riding in the car. The subject of Gold came up. As in digging for gold as a euphemism for nose picking. With 10 and 12 year old boys conversations with subjects like nose picking are sadly the norm.

Anyway my wife chimes in and says "You don't want people calling you a Miner 49er."

"A what?" my son asks.

She again says, "Miner 49er. That's what they called gold miners back in the day."

"Who called them that?" I asked no perplexed myself.

Jennifer shrugged. "That's just what they are called. That's why the football team is called 49ers."

I said, "They are called that because the California Gold Rush occurred in 1849, but I've never heard the term Miner 49er."

"Well I have my," wife said, "And I'm telling yout hat is what they were called."

I shook my head and said, "I think you dreamed that up."

It was a this point my son chimed in with, "YOU BETTER LISTEN TO DAD. HE WRITES BOOKS AND STUFF."

Now you better believe. I gave an AMEN! to that statement. And don't think I haven;t used it many times since. Every time my wife even give me a doubtful look I remind her, "Hey, I write books and stuff." I'm thinking about getting a batch of shirts made with the slogan.

By the way I googled Miner 49er and guess what, I did find a reference to the term. Miner Forty-Niner was a two bit villain in a Scooby Doo episode. 

So my wife gleaned her info from the most time honored of History sources --Scooby Doo. And guess what? She would have gotten away with it, if it wasn't for those meddling kids.
 

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.

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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.

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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?

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.

Tiki the Turtle

I'm going to take a brief respite from the bar stories to introduce you to Tiki.

Tiki is but one of 5 pets that resides here in the Erwin household but he by far has the coolest external feature. A feature which earned him his name.

Now how about the face on that guy. Pretty cool huh?

Tiki doesn't make an appearance but you can read and learn more about my family in one of the three stories included in the short collection Whispers which for a short time is available as a free download on your kindle or kindle for PC apps. Even if you do not have a Kindle you can download free kindle apps for your computer, smart phone or tablet so I hope you'll check out the stories.

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. 

Tintin

I have my friend Alex Keto to thank for introducing Tintin to my family. Like so many of you Alex mailed my boys books after our house burned and the books he sent were some of the many Adventures of Tintin.




Right away my boys took to the the books and over the last several years they have read each one countless times. If I'm honest the books didn't do a whole lot for me. Sure they were amusing tales but I've never been a huge comic book or graphic novel kind of guy so I read them only so as to discuss them with my boys.

But any book or series that gets them to read is top notch on my eyes so when we heard there was a movie coming out I pledged to take them on opening night.

 


Our adventure to see Tintin the movie turned into quite the caravan as along with my wife and I and our two boys (age 9 and 11) we had my niece (10) and nephew (5), a young seminarian poet (23), and a young lady (18). Before I go on in detail about the movie let me say ALL 8 of us enjoyed the movie.

A month or so back I read an article that some religious group (twas either Southern Baptists or a Evangelical Christian group but despite internet searches I can not find the article) was urging a boycott of the film. The group claimed that the Tintin works were both racist and promoted alcoholism. The article explained that the issue wasn't with the movie but the collection of books.

Given that I am a contrary sort of guy the protests did nothing more than make me more eager to see the film. I hate being told not to do something based on the personal opinions of someone else.

The animation in the movie was stunning. As good as I've ever seen.

And I found the rum loving sea captain quite entertaining. He is kind of the anti-Popeye and I admire a fella who gets a bit of life saving strength from a good stiff drink rather than a can of evil green spinach.But I suppose of you are a teetotaling fun-hater Captain Haddocks drinking might bother you. Then again if you are a fun-hater you probably are not going to like the high speed chases, the gun battles, the sword fighting, treasure hunting adventure that makes up the movie.

The writers of the movie did a great job of capturing the spirit of the characters literary persona and yes the hijinks are outlandish in an Indiana Jones sort of way but my entire gang, found the film to me a very entertaining family adventure worthy of  the price of admission.

Now where did I put that bottle of rum?

Chicken Feed

My wife and friends had feed store shirts made for the release party and a dozen or so wanted shirts so she had ordered a second batch. 

There are a few left in a variety of sizes so I'm going to hold a contest. Anyone who posts a blog or Facebook post with a direct link to THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES on either Amazon or Barnes & Noble is eligible to win one of these shirts. Say what you want about the book or me but tag me (if on facebook) or email or leave a comment (if on blog) so I'll know you posted.

Drawing will be December 26th and winner can choose from available sizes ranging XXL to Medium.

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.

Oh My Gawd ... Did You see That Fat Hairy Soccer Dad

A person must possess many different traits to be a writer.

Imagination -- without it you can't think up a good story.
Patience -- writing, especially a novel is not an easy or quick process
Stubborness -- a wannabee writer hears no more often than a two year old at Toys' R Us.
Ego -- it takes a certain mindset to wanna play God with characters and worlds.

There are of course more attributes but for the sake of getting tot he point let me add nosiness to the list as it is one of my favorites as well as one trait in which I excel.

Some people call it eavesdropping. I call it research. But if I am honest it is just out and out nosiness.

A few years back I sat on the concrete base of a pillar outside the Golden  Nugget on Vegas's Freemont street next to a young man in his early twenties.

The young man was too drunk to pay me much attention as he slurred  into his cell phone. He alternated between begging for forgiveness and professing of undying love. It was obvious the fellow was only minutes away from either passing our or puking. Perhaps even both. My wife was tried her best to persuade me to move along but I couldn't. Despite having had a drink or three myself I was fixated on this guys conversation. My writerly mind began to picture the young, way too patient woman on the other end.

For the record the girl hung up after fifteen or twenty minutes. The kid puked, luckily his vomit missed my shoes, but sadly that luck didn't carry over to the gaming tables. Last I saw that guy was curled on the ground in the fetal position but my eavesdropping gave birth to a story I've yet to write it. I do, however, have ten pages of notes for what will someday find their way onto the page.

Yesterday the scene was much different. I was at a city park here in Amarillo. Watching my nearly 9 yo son try out for a select traveling soccer team. I sat in a lawn chair surrounded by women as apparently, soccer dads are an oddity.

These women mostly knew each other as their kids have played in this particular organization since they were 5. The soccer mom's hung about in small clusters of three or four whispering, talking sideways from their mouth and smiling while venom dripped from their gleaming white fangs.

To be fair let me say not every cluster operate this way. The two women to my left were quit pleasant and talked about family, friends and kids. The group behind me and the two to the right however dissed upon every other woman at the park. When they got down picking apart the bones of their peers they started in on the kids, husbands and even coaches within the soccer organization. Then when they ran out of specific people they started talking about cultures and get this ... people who eat and serve red meat to their kids.

The bastards.

Chicken or fish once or twice a week is okay they surmised but how do you expect your kid to be healthy of you feed them steak and hamburgers every other day?

I'm gonna sneak in my own tacky comment here and say my meat chomping kid made the team. At least one of Vego-mom's lettuce chompers will not be traveling with the squad when they head off, get it HEAD off to tournaments.

But really this post isn't about me defending my meat loving ways or my kid being better than her kid at soccer. Really,it isn't but that was fun to type.  

No, this post is a thank you to those women, for I know have a great idea for a hilarious novel. Characters are already starting to take shape and while it may change right now I'm calling it ...Vegan Soccer Moms From Hell

JoJo The Dancing Bear

I've got a reputation for being somewhat quick witted. Some might prefer the term smart-ass. I credit my days working for Doyle at the Feedstore for this skill for there it was fire back, fire hard, or forever be fodder. So whether it be in the maintenance shop at work, having drinks with friends, or sitting around the dinner table with my family I am prone to let loose a verbal jab. To me it's just a natural reflex.

So I have only myself to blame for my boys jackassery streak. My youngest is especially adept and he LOVES to push my buttons.

"Dad, know why I still believe in Santa Claus?" He is 8 almost 9.
"Because you are too lazy to get up in the middle of the night and pout out all those toys."

And there is no place my boys like to jack with me more than in the car. They will fake fight, though Lord knows there is also plenty of authentic fighting also, just to get me excited. They will repeat the same word ten thousand and eighty-nine times just to get me twitchy. They will snort, snot, hack, wheeze, couch, stutter, stammer, poke, prod, hoot, hollar, scream, shout, bawl, belly-ache, snicker and sneeze just to drive me bat shit crazy while I am behind the wheel.

And about a week ago during the midst of one such episode I lost my cool and in VOLUMIZED manner told them one of these days they were going to make me wreck.

Flash forward a few days. My youngest spotted a billboards for a local Donut store that read CHIPPY DIPPY DOO. I wasn't in the car at the time but my Jennifer said both boys immediately started laughing and said, "I bet if we say that over and over and over Dad will freak out and tell us we're gonna make him wreck."

So all three of them decide to do it, and the next time I'm serving in my chauffeur capacity the trio begins to sing out CHIPPY DIPPY DOOO in singsong. Between fits of laughter they kept up their barrage until the next stoplight.

But that's when I struck back.

With the band Lemonade Mouth singing away on Disney Radio I quickly peeled off my shirt and began dancing wildly while sitting at the stop light. Let me tell you the site of their dear old shirtless dad gyrating away in a minivan with untainted windows more than puckered their spirit.

And to those unfortunate souls, sitting at the stop light at 34th and Bell streets, no that was not a bloated dancing Sasquatch you spotted behind the wheel.

I've already threatened to reenact the scene when I drop them off at school.

Suddenly the car is a much more peaceful place.

For 3 Easy Payments

I hate QVC.

Now before my wife chimes in her and rats on me yes, I did once buy something from QVC. A large electric fryer. And yes, I love that fryer as it has produced many a fine and tasty meal, but despite that fact I stand by my original statement -- I hate QVC.

My wife loves the shopping channel and she will sit there with it on, not really watching per-say, but keeping a wary eye for any titillating bargains that might pop up. She likes to read while the Barbie-fied or Ken-efied "hosts" peddle their wares. Hosts my ass. These people are modern day hucksters. Snake oil salesmen. They draw their readers in with polyester charm, and plastic smiles. 

I cannot read with the "hosts" tittering on about Ionic Air Purifier 3000. Used to be every space age technological advancement had 200 at the end of it, but I suppose now that we have moved beyond that year things have to be referred to 3000 to be cutting edge. When I create my great invention I'm gonna call it the Lettuce Obliviator 1952 and appeal to nostalgia to help me sell it.

Back to QVC.

The only thing worse is the callers who phone in to eagerly give their testimonial. They all sound like Waffle House waitresses, or Junior League rejects. If their voice hasn't been ravaged by cigarette smoke it's dripping with honey. I wish I could ignore most of it as my wife does but I can't. There I was not long ago trying to read while the QVC snake peddler droned on about he Ionic Air Purifier 3000. A bar fly of what sounded like considerable age called in to rave about the product.

Thad the QVC host : Phyllis in Tallahassee. Is it true you have already purchased the Ionic 3000?
Phyllis in Tallahassee : I did and I just love it. I'm a smoker Thad.
Travis, trying to read from the comfort of his couch : No shit

Sadly, much like football referees, neither QVC hosts or QVC callers can hear my commentary.

Phyllis in Tallahassee : And being a smoker, my house used to smell like cigarettes.
Thad the QVC host : You said used to Phyllis. Are you telling me the Air Purifier 3000 changed that?
Phyllis in Tallahassee : I sure am Thad. The second I plugged it in smoke poured right into my unit. Even though I didn't have a cigarette lit at the time.
Travis on Couch : (says nothing, but arches right eyebrow)
Thad the QVC host : That;s incredible Say that again Phyllis.
Phyllis in Tallahassee : It's true Thad. The smoke in the air flowed straight into my unit.
Thad the QVC host : So your unit pulled in Toxins you didn't even know was there.

Travis's wife who raises here eyes for the first time : Where are your going?
Travis, no longer sitting on couch : Outside. I can't stand to hear anymore about Phyllis and her toxic sucking unit.

Yep, I hate QVC.

A Special, My Town Monday -- Tip Of The Hat To Some Local Heroes

Of all the gifts my mother bestowed upon me, I count the love of reading as the greatest.

I went out of my way to instill this same love in my boys, but as any parent knows wanting your child to do something is not anywhere close to the same thing as having them do it.

My oldest took off reading as soon as he learned how, but my youngest was reluctant. You see he hates to fail and expects to be perfect at everything he attempts so when he couldn't read every word he came across he simply refused to read. Especially out loud, for he feared he would come to a word he didn't know and would look dumb. Of course we didn't figure all of this out at the snap of a finger. He would tell us he couldn't read and we would work with him, but he'd resist and I was beginning to think her perhaps had a learning disability.

And then an event changed everything.

Members from The Crown of Texas Arabian Horse Club here in Amarillo, Texas brought the Black Stallion Literacy Foundation  to my son's school.

The Black Stallion Literacy Foundation currently with programs in nine states, motivates 1st and 4th grade children to become better readers through the gift of books and interaction with horses.  

The first grade program begins with children receiving the hardcover book Little Black, a Pony during a visit at school from the book's characters, Little Black and Big Red. The program completes with a field trip to the Will Rogers Range Riders Arena for a special hands-on learning experience which includes learning stations and a second book, Little Black Goes to the Circus. The learning stations, about horses and horse care, reinforce vocabulary from the book and most importantly, each child has an opportunity to read their favorite page of Little Black, a Pony, to a horse. 

For some kids this program is about the opportunity to own a book of their own. For my son it was the chance to read OUT LOUD to something that couldn't and wouldn't criticize, laugh, snicker, or think him stupid if he struggled over a word. He came home from the first event absolutely beaming. He read that first book and told us all about how great his day was. When he received his second book  and actually read to that horse he describes it as the best day of his life. No I am not exaggerating or using hyperbole here, but keep in mind, six-year-olds are free with their praise and exuberance.

What is undeniable, however, is that this program turned him from a reluctance almost closet reader into a bold confidant one. He owned dozens of books already and has acquired hundreds more in the nearly two years since, but his Little Black books are still cherished by both he and myself for I love them for giving him the gift of a love of books. I wish i could scan in the picture they took of my son reading to the horse but it is taped inside his book and I fear taking it out to scan it would damage the photo.

The local group hopes to add a fourth grade program in the near future, but for now they are struggling to gather the funds to continue bringing it to as many 1st grade entry level readers as possible. 

 

In the Amarillo area, our BSLF experience with first graders as shown us that the program promotes success by motivating children to read books. Many of the children who were significantly behind at the beginning of our program became avid readers, ready to advance with their class to the next grade level.

In the second program, fourth grade children are given a copy of Walter Farley’s timeless classic The Black Stallion.  It has been found that these children are truly motivated to read such a wonderful book. At the end of the fourth grade curriculum the students are treated to the “Arabian Nights Show” starring the Black Stallion that will travel from Florida to Amarillo for these successful readers.

Last year six schools participated in the BSLF first grade program. We are looking forward to increasing our number of first grade schools and including fourth graders in the future.Your contribution can make it possible for us continue to touch the lives of Amarillo area students. This is our fourth year bringing the program to Amarillo area first graders and we assure your donation will make a significant difference in the lives of these children.

  

The first grade program requires $10.00 per student and a donation of $300.00 will allow an entire class to participate. The BSLF is a 501(c)3 non-profit organization, your donation is 100% tax deductable.

Donate to our local area Black Stallion Literacy Foundation through the Crown of Texas Arabian Horse Club

If you have more questions about the program or their needs visit their website or to provide a cash donation to help spread the program you can do so via PayPal using the club's email address cotahc@aol.com

Rise and Shine

There we were. me, my wife and our two boys watching Great White Sharks breach for whales. Shark week on Discover is a big thing in our household since Zalen, our 8year old considers himself the second coming of Jacques Cousteau.

A commercial for another show, Auction Wars I think, comes on. A husband complains that his wife spent 4 grand for a book and she retaliates by saying her husband spent 200 on a stripper pole.

Ten or fifteen minutes go by before Zalen says, "Mom, what is a stripper pole?"

His question certainly flustered my wife but not nearly as much as when our 10 year old piped up and said, "It's a pole naked women hold onto when they dance on for money."

My wife immediately shot me a glance. She didn't say a word but the question was there in her eyes. Did you tell him about stripper poles.

In self defense I turned to Tarek. "Where did you learn about stripper poles?"

"In a magazine," he answered.

My wife's brows arched higher.

"What magazine? I inquired.

"One of those fishing ones," Tarek answered. "In the back they have an ad for a stripper pole alarm clock."

So what did I do? I googled it and found this.

At least it doesn't spray glitter too.