Dear Self

Coffee is strong this morning (I robbed the pot before it was actually done) it has that rich hearty flavor as they say on the commercials, robust and fine.  I must be insane or something, do they actually believe that I am supposed to accept the statement “that I search the world over, for the ingredients to make the PERFECT DORRITO CHIP?” and while I am at it, might as well set the mood for the piece right?


NOW REALLY …  A Florida man shot his girlfriend because he mistook her for a hog.  I am not making this up.  You can read about it here.  Come to think of it, I had a blind date like that once.  Come on … Give Us A Break.

LIFE IS TOUGH DEPARTMENT …  A fugitive who took a Kansas couple hostage in their home is suing them for $235K.  He claims they accepted his knifepoint offer of money to hide in their house.  But they later breached the oral contract by escaping as he slept.  He then says, “this resulted in my being shot in the back by authorities.”  And therefore the lawsuit.  Stop the world y’honor, I want off.

BRAIN TEASERS …  I will never understand this at all.  A guy locks himself out of the house, so in order to save money (by not calling a locksmith) he crawls down the chimney of his house and gets lodged and has to be rescued.  Now here is the rub, “what makes someone believe they are going to get by the damper?”  I mean it is just plain stooopid.

Here is another one.  All you people who pick your nose at the stoplight while sitting in your car?  Do you actually believe you are invisible to the rest of us?


DEAR SELF … If you were asked to write yourself a letter when you were sixteen years old, what would you write to yourself?  Now that is an interesting subject to tackle this morning, how would you formulate a response to this question …

What would you say to your 16 year old self?

Would you have warned yourself to steer clear of mind altering substances (drugs) and not to date all those trashy women who did not appreciate you.  How about the no load guys who were too lazy to get a job, and wanted to sponge off not only your good looks but also your generosity.

What would you have written in this letter?

My Dearest Teenage Don, I had a urinary tract infection … again. 

That sentence appeared in my head as I thought about this premise (idea), just as you see it above. I have no idea what it means, other than the obvious. Regardless, I thought it’d be interesting to begin a letter to my teenage self with it and just see where it goes. 

Teenage Don, I had a urinary tract infection … again.

I had to go to the family clinic.  Mom’s doctor liked to abbreviate the condition to UTI. He said that my only option non-specific-uretharitis was in this case was cranberry juice and abstinence. Thankfully, my mother, was always very understanding. How she knew about these kind of things, I will never know. 

When I asked Dad he just said, “go ask your mother.” 

Just remember this:  Life is tough when you are sixteen, and things just kind of gravitate towards that goal for the remainder of your life, and of course, stamps will cost a LOT more when YOU write yourself a letter when you are sixty and I am dead. 

So here is my advice to you this day. 

Try desperately to get young supple ladies to wrap their legs around your 27 inch waist, learn to juggle, play frisbee, always use Zig-Zag rolling papers, drink Sweet Bitch wine from Chile, that has been cooled in the surf of the Pacific Ocean by means of a long string and a beach of fine white sand.  Always avoid window-pane acid (I mean, who would want to watch their face melt in a mirror without suffering a full-blown psychotic break?) and by all means, as you age and mature, stay away from politics in any way, shape, form or manner. 

You should be okay (maybe).

Ok, there is mine, what is yours, what would you say to your sixteen year old self, if you had the chance?

See you at the water cooler



I mean really … 7,538 email messages … who needs that?


Just Sayin'

I have 7,538 messages in my email inbox on my laptop. I spent 20 minutes today deleting 572 emails from my iPhone, only to have the phone helpfully download another 500 from the archive.

A couple of weeks ago I spent several hours unsubscribing from many many email lists.

Many remain. Many from various causes I have signed petitions for; many of them in the future will probably be regarding various causes I would sign petitions for.

But does it really make any difference at all?

I would like to just unsubscribe from them all so I could stop cluttering up my life and making my days busier than they already are, but I fear that’s just, well,

and exactly why we find ourselves in the situation in which we find ourselves.

No easy answer to that one, what?

View original post

Pond Project

We have not been spending a lot of time at the keyboard here lately, as we have had other interests that were ongoing, one of which, is the pond project.  Kind of buttoned it up this week, and although it is mostly dry (only has 18″ of water in it at present) it is for the most part finished (We are giving it a little time to settle in and then it will get filled).

Pond Statistics:  100 feet long, 50 ft wide, average depth when filled is 4 foot.  The bottom end of the pond is 25 inches lower than the east end, and it is built up an additional 33 inches on top of that (51 inches).  It is fed by two sources, a 175 ft long french drain system and a 55 foot straight feed 4″ pipe.  It collects almost every available drop of rain water coming off the hill.  When it is drawn down to minimums, it is a little over 18 inches deep average, and the east-end goes to a depth of 6 feet.

One of the interesting things in the photo’s is the change of seasons, first no leaves on the trees, all the grass is dead.  Then spring arrives, the pond fills, the green explodes and life begins anew.  That is kind of cool.  There are huge piles of dirt visible and then they slowly disappear.  At one time, there were as many as 12 to 14 piles of dirt on the property but most of it has been fixed now, one pile remains, and that will eventually be used as fill material for a waterfall on the far end.

All in all, it has been worth the effort and the time, it is nice to go out in the shank of the evening, about the time the Purple Martins start to feed, and watch them make their lazy circles in the Oklahoma Sky in the cool shade as the sun slowly sets in the west.  My own little slice of heaven here on the plains.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

It has been a chore.

Have a great weekend …. I will see all of you on Monday.


Page Arizona …

Take a minute or two from your busy day to read this and enjoy the beauty of it. Well laid out and informative, this is what blogging is all about. A job well done. 


Another Header

Page Arizona does not rank as a cultural destination.  This small town on the northern edge of Arizona was established in 1957 to support the construction of the nearby Glen Canyon Dam.  Page’s history is

View original post 888 more words

Driveway Queen

Tom Turner, our reader on the left-coast of America wanted some bus porn, so here is a little to whet his whistle.
Groom Texas is the site of the cross, largest cross on the North American Continent, or so it is said.

I wake up and my pillow is full of slobber, man, I hate that!  Forming a mental picture of my head on this pillow and my tongue hanging outside my mouth, sort of like those old blood hounds in the movie, Cool Hand Luke, and it just strikes me as revolting.

Deftly reaching up with my left hand, I wipe my face in a masculine manner (meaning with a bare hand because I do not have a handkerchief handy) and quickly look around (to see if anyone observes me doing this repulsive thing I have unconsciously done) and I quickly sit up in bed.  What is it that triggers a dream such as this?  Where you are prone to consume your own pillow.

Only in the mind of man, does something as bizarre as this occur.

Reaching out as if I almost in a state of disbelief, I touch the pillow and it is soaked to the bone as my grandmother used to exclaim.  What about the dream?  I am thinking hard, and I remember some people, a plate full of honey-covered brisket (if there is such a thing?) and vaguely, some off-color conversation, a handful of good-looking beautiful, robust, round shaped women.

I am mystified, “a plate full of honey-covered brisket?”

Coming from a long line of finger lickin’ chicken eaters kind of people (Donnie, don’t let the dawg get into them bones!), honey soaked brisket seems awfully foreign to me.  Meat and tators in our neck of the woods, flies in the butter, no brisket anything in this part of “Ameri-Kuh” as George Dubya used to say.

Same with touch football games and well manicured lawns, why I dream of these things, truly escapes me at the moment. I live in Oklahoma, where a large percentage of the population actually believes that wrestling on television is real, and in the southeastern corner of the state, the idea of gun control is to “hold it with both hands Earl.”  Where your first born child has three names … Billy Raye Littler.  Where people generally say, “Whadya mean you got a bus?  Did-ja mean a reel bus?  You mean like one of them Greyhound things, Oakridge Boys star buses, one of them?  Well, I’ll be.”

So you can readily understand why dreams of idyllic New England and front yards full of leaves of many colors, touch football just do not resonate with my country soul. Sweaters tied loosely around the neck and women with names like Buffy and Tiffany just do not register, nor induce slobber.

The absolute worst dream I ever had was the first night I spent in my Eagle in Alabama.  Our bus has an overhead mirrored ceiling that runs the entire length of the coach.  The first night I ever slept in it was in a rest area in Good Hope, Alabama (just a tad north of Birmingham) where I woke up abruptly and looked up for a moment “and actually thought I was being attacked by a naked skydiver!”

Now that … that … was a scary dream, but I digress, we are talking about this dream, sorry

In my latest dream, Big Jim lites up a cigarette and everyone in the waiting room at the tireshop is horrified, this must be a terrible thing, but I fail to see where it would induce slobber on the pillow.  Now if it were a beautifully painted up Detroit or Big Cam 600 Cummings, with chrome plated rocker covers and un-rusted exhaust pipes, steam cleaned and shining brightly, that would be a different story altogether.  Fresh paint on the body of the beast, new Armor-all on all the hoses, no grease … Ah, the dreams of man.  This would be enough to induce slobber or at best, provide that deer in the headlight look on most men.

Unfortunately most dreams are not of that pleasant nature.

Not that long ago, the wife, in the middle of the night, shook me awake rather violently.  I was, to say the least, rather startled and I might add, a bit confused.  I did not smell smoke, I did not hear the thunder, the wind was not howling, nor did I see any lightning.  In other words, all around me seemed, despite her apparent sense of urgency, rather normal for four in the morning.

I said to her, “What?  What?

What in the name of GOD ALMIGHTY is wrong woman!”

She said to me, “I have a dream.  We are in Wikiup, Arizona, in our bus, you drive off and leave me there!  Why do you do that?”  I sigh, a sigh I have learned to do almost habitually over the years, and I say to her, “This?  For this I am shook into a rather strange version of reality at this time of the morning?  You had a dream and I left you in Arizona?”

She looks at me, very much relieved and says, “Yes, yes that is it.  You drive off and leave me!”

At that point in time, I slowly lower my head onto my pillow (which has not been slobbered on here lately) and I mutter under my breath just loud enough to be heard, “go back to sleep woman, I will drive back and pick you up.”

“Life isn’t about how you survive the storm, but how you dance in the rain…”

You can travel east and west, but in the end, well, y’know the rest, dontcha?

(As my friend Bernice would put it … Life Is Good)



Opt Me Out Too …

Special Interest … Islamist’s in Australia are resorting to ever more “thuggish” tactics.  A 46 year old mother of seven wore a full black niqab that shows only her eyes, falsely and maliciously accused a police officer of trying to tear off her veil during a traffic stop for a random breath test.  Fortunately the officer’s in-car video recorded the stop and showed that he behaved in a utmost courteous manner and showed the lady respect.  Which kind of threw a wrench into the Islamic woman’s “screeching provocation” as she refused to comply with the law and show her identity.

These are those wonderful people who come here to live in peace and of course update their Facebook page daily with such diatribes as “death to the American pig savages and other infidels.”  Now if that doesn’t make you all warm and fuzzy inside, well, I just don’t know what to tell you?

While we are on the subject?

Please, no more emails on Muslims being opted out of the Obamacare proposals or how they do not blend in, and are receiving all of this special attention.  I would put a filter on it, but I am not all that sure how you do that (or how it is that “I” do that) but for right now, I am deep-sixing it into the round file (trash) and paying no more attention to it.

Really, it is all in the manner with which you look at things.  Not long ago, I  was sitting at a stoplight, minding my own business, waiting on it to turn green.  A carload of bearded, young, loud Muslims, shouting anti-American slogans, with a half- burned American Flag duct taped on the trunk of their car and a “Remember 9-11” slogan spray painted on the side, stopped next to me.

The light changed, the Muslims praised Allah, shook their fists, hit the gas & darted off ahead of me.

Suddenly an 18-wheeler came speeding thru the intersection & ran directly over their car, crushing it completely, killing everyone in the car.

For several minutes I sat in my car thinking to myself, “Man… that could have been me!”  So today after considerable thought, I have decided;  Today, bright and early, right after breakfast, I am going to apply for a job as a truck driver.

Face it.  There is just one minority left in this country, and that is a white-anglo-saxon-tax-payer, all the rest are special interest.  They get it all, most of it free, because we allow them to have it (our government gives it to them and of course, denies you when you ask).  Turn off the tap, cut off the honey, and they will migrate back to where it is they came from.  Personally, I think Arizona has the right idea,  you can read about it here.

It must be true, I read it on the Internet … A Canadian dog who went missing about a year ago has been found, on the opposite side of the country.  This would place the dog about 2,000 miles from where she actually lived.  The dog was initially found drinking from a river by authorities and it was found to be lost by means of a micro-chip implanted just below her skin.  Man, that is a long, long ways to amble on in life.

Walk Towards The Light … Two sisters are suing a cemetery in New Jersey for $25 million dollars because their mother was buried in the wrong grave.  They were distressed to learn that their mother was not in the grave assigned to her, #103, which they have steadfast visited for the past 20 years.  Now they are seeking damages to ensure that the cemetery “would not be inclined to do that again.”  It is good to know that our precious court time in this country, is not being taken up with frivolous pursuits and that justice (in the tune of $25 Million) will be served.  And everyone always wonders why the legal profession is tagged with “ambulance chasers.”

Storage Wars On The Home Front …  It sure would be nice to kind of get caught up on some of this stuff around here.  May be sit back in the cool shank of the evening and read a good book, a little “me time” to kill off the doldrums of every day life.

The Secret Lives Of Hoarders (Perigree $15) is a pretty good read.  We have been watching a lot of this show Storage Wars, and it kind of goes hand and hand with it.  When you read this book, in the back of your mind is a small voice that whispers “there but for the grace of God … “  Anyway it is a good read about a man who runs a profitable home cleanup business.  Most folks that know us, know that I am the heaver and she is the stuffer, we go thru it all the time.

You cannot win, why?

Because it is not about the stuff, it is about the emotion.  Pick up a copy this week and check it out.

One more and then I am outta here.

Now that is my kind of neighbor!

Middle of the week for a min-wage slave in Oklahoma, hang in there, you almost have it made!



Cartoon courtesy of American Progress Online