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

Expectations Are Dangerous Things

The bar is set. Picture it now ...

Shot glasses carefully arraigned. Beer chilling on ice. The hum of the margarita mixer.

No not that kind of bar. What are y'all lushes?

I meant the bar of expectation. The bar which I assume is a metaphor from the track and field world as in the high jump and pole vault where competitors must achieve a predetermined height or goal.

You've waited for months maybe even months for a certain movie and finally, All Dogs Go to Heaven Part 19 is here. But then the actual flick simply doesn't live up to your anticipation. It failed to clear the bar.

Books, movies, new seasons our favorite TV shows. Albums, return trips to favorite restaurants, a new post from one of your favorite bloggers. (Don't kid yourself you know that's why you are here) 

At one time or another we've all been disappointed by something eagerly longed for.

And sometimes it is this very pressure that creates a problem. Heck we've all been awaiting Harper Lee's next book but something tells me she never quite came to grips with the success of To Kill A Mockingbird. I dare say she even feared any follow up would follow short. J.K Rowling released a book last year under a pseudonym to escape some of the hype and pressure. And look what happened to Lucas when he finally put out a new round of Star Wars movies.

On the flip side we've all stumbled into that movie we thought would suck or that dive cafe expecting a ho hum experience only to have our expectations blown out of the water by a great viewing or taste budding pleasing extravaganza.

Let me share a recent day in my life where expectation and reality fought a hard battle in my life.

There I was in Plano, Texas. Ready to watch my son and his soccer team battle. Now we've been making the nearly 6 hour trip to Plano quite often since last September as his club team plays league play all the way down there since there is not much of a soccer culture up here in the Texas Panhandle. His team had battled hard and improved greatly while adjusting to bigger playing fields, hotter temps, higher humidity and the challenges of facing more experienced teams. Despite the improvement they were a combined 0-14-2 heading into a weekend where they were slated to play the two best teams in the league. Expectations were low yet his squad battled hard and tied the very best team in the league. it felt like a win for his team and a loss to the other guys. All because of expectation.

Post game, we dined at a place called La Hacienda Ranch. 


We'd eaten there the week before and the steak fajitas were the best I'd ever had. Week two, I'm proud to say held up. The place was just as tasty the second time.


And then I went to Whole Foods.

Y'all know me. I'm the Lettuce is the Devil guy.

Organic! Healthy! Green!

These are curse words in my vocabulary and her was an entire store not only full of that stuff but the kind of beatnik, hemp sandal-wearing, do-gooder yuppie moms people. How could I, a devote meat man enter the den of vegetarians, vegans, and various other vagabonds of the  "healthy living" lifestyle?

My expectations were below ground level. The bar was set deeper than carrot roots. 

And then I spied the beer aisle. 

I felt like a like a hungry panther upon catching sight of a juicy cottontail in a field of dandelions.

I spent the better part of an hour ogling battle of all shapes and sizes from locales all over the world. Ales, Lagers, Stouts, Pilsners ... OH MY!    

I bought one of these on one of that. A bottle of trappist from belgium. A lager from Germany. An amber from California and then I spotted the dunkel. 

I like dunkels. No I love dunkels.   

 from the German Beer Institute website ...   Dunkel — The World's First True Beer Style
German Dunkel ("dark") beer is a deep-brown, mahogany, or sepia colored all-barley lager. It is soft and elegant, with a rich, mildly vanilla, nutty-sweet palate and a dry, rounded finish that is never harsh, toasty or acrid. The beer is full-bodied, with a chewy texture and a firm, creamy, long-lasting head. Though it looks much like a British dark ale or Porter, unlike these brews, a Dunkel has a typicallly clean lager taste without any fruitiness at all, and next to no nose.

 
Except this dunkle wasn't exactly German. It was Texan, But from German ancestry according to the bottle. It was brewed jsut up the road in McKinney Texas at a place called Franconia Brewing. I was so sure I'd love this beer I bought a whole six pack versus all the other singles I'd picked up.

Well folks let me tell you, and this is painful for a prideful Texan to admit ... not everything is bigger and better in Texas. The dunkel was an awful disappointment. If you check that description up above you will not find even the slightest of mention of peas. Yes those evil little green suckers good for nothing but thumping off the dinner table. Peas. That is what this dunkel tastes like. In the bottle, poured in a mug, it doesn't matter the stuff tastes like damned peas. Peas people.Why for the love of all that is holy would anyone brew beer that smells and tastes like garden peas?

Franconia Dunkel you broke my heart with your overriding pea flavor. At least Coors Light only tastes like pee. Yes, I consider urine a slight improvement over peas in the taste scale.

To be fair it's not the worst beer in the world. I mean there are people who enjoy the falvor of peas but come on man warn a fellow. Put it right there on the bottle ... HEY, IF YOU AIN'T A VEGGIE LOVING PEA POD PARTIER! THIS ISN'T YOUR BEER!

But don't try to sneak in your evil healthy living flavors on an unsuspecting fat guy. It's not right to trod upon his expectation like that.

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.

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.

 

I Don't Know Why

AJ Swope was a friend of mine.

We met via Twitter.

He was a local guy that somehow found me and my 140 character messages to the world.

AJ appreciated my sense of humor.

He openly admired my talents as a writer.

Funny thing is it took quite a few months before I discovered he had exquisite talents of his own.

AJ was also a writer. A songwriter and singer and musician.

He had many more talents than I'll ever have.

We soon embarked on a project.

He was writing songs based on some of my short stories.

I was writing stories based on some of his songs.

I was also working on TWISTED ROADS and struggling to amend a character that just didn't feel right.

AJ and I met several times over beers.

From the first second we set down it was as if I'd known him my entire life.

An instant friendship born of common respect and admiration for he others ability to turn a phrase.

AJ inspired me.

He inspired Lucas Cahill the male protagonist, the replacement for that other character that didn't feel right in Twisted Roads.

AJ answered ten thousand questions about writing music, playing guitar, being a performer.

I promised AJ a steak and all the Shiner he could drink and if he would swing by my house to answer a few more questions.

And help me put the final tweaks on some lyrics I was working on for the book.

He said he'd be glad to but he couldn't make it until Tuesday.

He said he'd also been working on a melody to go with them.

I was driving home from work on that Tuesday with my son when my phone rang.

I didn't believe it.

I couldn't believe it.

I shed some tears just the same.

It had to been someone else.

A different AJ Swope maybe.

It wasn't.

He was a local guy that somehow found me and my 140 character messages to the world.

We met via Twitter.

AJ Swope was a friend of mine

Andrew Jared "AJ" Swope

Posted: January 17, 2013 - 1:00am

Andrew Jared "AJ" Swope: 1985-2013

 

Andrew Jared “AJ” Swope, 27, of Amarillo died Tuesday, Jan. 15, 2013.
Memorial services will be at 4 p.m. Friday, Jan. 18, at First Presbyterian Church, with Dr. Murry Gossett and Dr. Roger Hubbard officiating, arrangements are by Schooler Funeral Home 4100 South Georgia St.
AJ was born January 29, 1985 in Amarillo, TX, to Rick and Leslie Swope of Pampa. He graduated from Pampa High School in 2003. AJ was a 2007 graduate of West Texas A&M University where he majored in Broadcast Journalism. While there, he was very active in the broadcast program. After graduation, he was employed by KVII-TV as an on-air reporter, anchor, and assignments editor. AJ then went on to become the Executive Director for Class 4 Winds. He was known for his intense love for his family and his passion for music and song writing. He showcased his musical talents throughout the panhandle with his band AJ Swope and The Last Train Home. AJ most cherished his wife, Wendi, his family and friends and his dog Simon the Dog.
AJ was the perfect husband and devoted son and brother. The love he had for his wife and family was indescribable. Regardless of what AJ did – whether work or play - he was passionate. He was also famous for his adventurous demeanor and his quick sense of humor. His love of life included learning how to surf, sail, snorkel and kayak. He loved the outdoors and spent hours biking in Palo Duro Canyon and riding around the neighborhood with Simon the Dog in a cart behind him. In his abbreviated 27 years, AJ affected the lives of so many through various speaking and musical events. Teaching himself to play the guitar, mandolin, harp and harmonica, AJ believed in chasing his dreams. He leaves a hole in the heart of all those who love and admire him.
He was preceded in death by a very special uncle, Dirk Wright.
Survivors include his beloved wife, Wendi of Amarillo; his proud parents Rick and Leslie Swope of Pampa; a brother, Dirk Swope, wife Valeria and niece, Peyton of Amarillo; Simon the Dog and Buster; Jud and Jan Finney of Amarillo; Renita and Mark Mitchell of Lubbock. Grandparents: Bob and Joyce Swope of Pampa; Carl and Linda Johnson of Pampa, Virginia Freeman of Lubbock, John and Jettie Spotts of New Caney, TX. Aunts & Uncles: David and Susan Boothe of Tuttle and cousins Mandie Boothe Ollinger and Emily Boothe; Kenneth and Jana Ford of Midland and cousins Mackenzie and Madison; Larry and Carol Johnson of Mena, AR; Ann and Guerry Wright of Follett, TX; Randy and LauraLee Swope of Whitewater, CO; Gale and Stacy Brewer of Amarillo; Cindy Barnard of Amarillo; Leroy and Patty Freeman of New Deal, TX and countless friends who loved him dearly.
In lieu of flowers, the family suggests donations be made to the AJ Swope Memorial Scholarship in care of the WTAMU Foundation-WTAMU, Box 60766, Canyon, TX 79016.
Please sign the online guestbook at www.schoolerfuneral.com.
Amarillo Globe-News, Jan. 17, 2013

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.

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.

Mother Nature's Mud Slushy

A few nights ago a freak thunderstorm developed just north of my hometown of Amarillo, Texas. Along with the usual rain, wind and lightening, this storm dumped 4 FEET of hail. The individual hail stones were not super large but freakishly plentiful. Here is some footage of mother natures mud slushy. Highways were forced to close and snow plows were brought in to clear the roads. 

Here is some video footage ...

Mauled -- Bar Story #3

In December of 1988 I turned 16. For those of you who have read THE FEEDSTORE CHRONICLES you know my first kiss was with a girl named Anna Ochoa (least that is the name I gave her int he book). That kiss was a result of a game of spin the bottle.

The first kiss I ever received of a completely free will nature came from a
girl
no that's not right woman no that too is wrong old lady I got it wrinkly cougar at one of those dive Amarillo Boulevard joints I described in the last installment of bar stories.

It was New Year's Eve. We were saying goodbye to 1988 and hello to 1989. Brandon's mom had set him up with this new bartender at a joint called The Corral. She was only 19. Brandon was 17. It was a private New Year's party for the regulars. No one questioned either Brandon or me or our friend David who was either 17 or 18 at the time. The bartender was the only girl any where close to our age but we didn't care. We were spending New Year's in a honest to God bar. Drinking honest to God booze. 

Frankly I had no idea about the whole kissing at midnight tradition. I was happily buzzed as midnight approached and sure both Brandon and David had teased me all night about the "old lady" that had bought me a rum and coke and pinched me on the rosy cheek saying, "Ain't you a big ol' cute teddy bear."

But I was ill-prepared when the clock struck twelve and the woman grabbed me by the back of the head and laid a lip lock on me. 

These days the term cougar is common place back then there was no term. But there was chock ... fear ... and yes, revulsion. Becasue sadly the cougar that attacked me looked nothing like this ...

And a whole lot like this ...

Scootin' Along

There is nothing classy, refined, or even decent about this post ... and yet once again my first thought upon experiencing this incident was ... I gotta write about this on the blog.

There we were, grocery shopping at United Supermarkets.

It was somewhere between the beer section and the aisle that supports my wife's unhealthy addiction to Trappey's pickled jalapenos when a powerful stomach pain hit me.

So I made my way to the restroom. Now there I was, minding my own business, taking care of that urgent pain when in walks a man wearing fancy leather dress shoes. That is all I can give you for physical description as that was all that was visible from my throne as the man strode up and stood before the adjacent urinal.

It was at this point that Mr. Fancy Shoes first spoke these words, "Come on, Scooter."

At first it was sort of a whisper. But the both the volume and intensity increased with his second, third and fourth --  "Come on, Scooter." 

Now  I might have assumed the man had one of those fancy bluetooths or was otherwise on the phone if he had left it at --  "Come on, Scooter." 

But no, after only a few seconds Mr. Fancy Shoes let out a relieved sort of sigh and a "Oh yeah, Scooter." 

Then with a zip and a flush both he and Scooter were gone. Without washing up I might add.

Now if I was a guessing man, I'd say Mr. Fancy Shoes has prostate issues, and while I'm a fan of motivational speech I hate to break it to the Zig Ziggler of Urinals, but those things to the left and right of Scooter are not ears, so your cheerleader chants of  "Come on, Scooter," do nothing more than make you sound ... NUTS.

'cause The Sandman Wants To Know

Not long ago I left a comment of this guy's post about dreams. I trotted out the theory that we writers tend to have more graphic dreams and later recall those dreams than non-writers. I say this because after years of reading blogs and talking to writers I hear them report strange, weird and extremely graphic dreams way more often than I do from my non writing friends.

Today I offer up a trio of my recent nocturnal illusions as further proof of my theory.

Dream #1 Mary Lou Retton, resplendent in her patriotic leotard was teaching me how to pole vault. I stood there listening intently as she gave me instructions on how to do pole vault and I distinctly remember her saying, "I still have lots of contacts on the Olympic committee so you are a shoo-in to make the team.



Dream #2 My wife woke me up to inform me I was whistling a tune in my sleep. It was at that point I realized I'd been dreaming about a clay animation form of myself standing on the stage of the Jerry Springer show singing a song. I only wish I could recall the tune I was singing.

Dream #3 This was the most graphic and vivid dream of the three. I had a raw, festered splinter in either my hand or arm. I had a pocketknife and was trying to remove said splinter but with each attempt I cut a huge chuck of my flesh away. i remember the quarter sized pieces falling away and me nonchalantly going back to work on the splinter which remained untouched at the center of an ever growing and bloody crevice in my body.

I am lucky to have an eclectic group of readers so I'm going to take an informal poll. Please weigh in with your answer.

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. 

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. 

Hard To Swallow

Here are a couple of strange news stories I have gathered in recent weeks.

Swallowed pen still works 25 years later

The gist of this story is a woman was poking at her sore tonsils with a felt tip marker when she lsot her balance and fell, swallowing the pen in the process. Doctors spotted it in a recent when she was having some unrelated trouble. They decided to remove the pen and despite having spent all that time in her gut the think still had usable ink and could write. I've written a few gut wrneching stories but this tale trumps me by a long shot.

LINCOLN, Neb. -- Officials at the Bennett Martin Library in Lincoln have removed and destroyed about 150 books after someone urinated on the biographies bookshelf.
The Lincoln Journal Star says Monday that officials don't know when it happened, why it happened or who did it, but the smell left no question. A police report puts the loss at $3,900.
Tammy Teasley of Lincoln City Libraries says she was removing older, outdated books from circulation on Nov. 28 when she detected the odor on the shelves on the second floor in a corner of the building.

Teasley says the person was likely intoxicated and found a secluded spot in the library. She says the remaining books on those shelves will be moved elsewhere.

Read more: http://www.azcentral.com/offbeat/articles/2011/12/06/20111206nebraska-books-urinate.html#ixzz1ibBZyhbh

What kind of fiend pisses on books? Especially biographies. And who gets drunk and goes to library?

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.