Pass Me That Twinkie ….

TwinkiesA recent study in Sweden has confirmed this.  Researchers took samples of fat cells from volunteers over the course of several years; they discovered that no matter how much the subjects’ weights changed, their number of fat cells remained the same.

So your fat cells grow and shrink in your body, but they remain the same.  You are actually “friends with your fat.”

Isn’t that repulsive.

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A New Look

As Charlie approached middle age, mid-life, he suddenly came to the eye-awakening conclusion that physically, he was a mess. Not only was he going bald, but years of sitting at the desk quoting insurance rates, eating at Denny’s, had given him a rather large pot belly.

When asked about his love life, Charlie would sigh and then sadly lament, “If it wasn’t for pick pockets, I wouldn’t have any love life at all.” Old Charlie was not having much success, no matter which approach he tried, the life of a lover was just not working out.

He appeared at his doctor’s office for his semi-annual physical, the doctor asked him, “Well, Old Timer, I see you are still kicking.” And Charlie replied, “Yeah, but I don’t seem to be stirring up much dust anymore.” While sitting in the doctor’s office Charlie had read his horoscope and it said that he needed to institute a change in his life.

Maybe this was the key he thought.

So he flipped the paper over to the Personals section. “Burned out lady, seeks the next getting to know you hour and one-half phone call, preceding over-priced restaurant dinner in which we both trot out our desperate stories and whatever rancid history we happen to have dragged along with us, knowing from the start that it’s a complete waste of time, because the only ones we would really be interested in don’t exist.  Looking for SWM (Single White Male) 35-45, hair, eyes, wallet, etc.” No that won’t work he thought, so he browsed the ads some more. The next personal ad was almost as interesting. “Dolly Parton look alike, raving beauty in her mid thirties, seeks good man with beard or without. Family, not flings, interest me. Broke and hungry, but can cook. Bring food.” Charlie thought to himself, “Hmmmm, this could be her?”

Nowhere was the word “hefty or nice personality” and any other adjectives.

This one, he mused, sounded good. So he dutifully sat down and answered the ad. But things just did not work out for Old Charlie, even tho’ he desperately wanted them to. When he showed up at the appointed hour for the date, the lady who accepted his answer to the ad, just doubled over and laughed at him. “That does it! This is the final straw!” 

Charlie shouted, “I am going to turn over a new leaf. I am going to become a totally NEW man.”

Old Charlie decided right there, that he was going to get a new look. Setting out to radically change his life, Old Charlie sat out upon his new task, his mission in life. Charlie began a totally new daily regime. He laid off the heavy salad dressing and went for the low-cal instead. He began setting his alarm clock and each morning, he danced through the living room on the “Early Morning Workout.” 

He started carrying his briefcase with a new vigor. He began to lift weights and jog at the local gym.

Old Charlie had, it seemed, definitely put some new life in his step. Charlie cleaned out the closets of his life, no shelf was left unturned. “Out with the old and in with the new!” became the war cry of this Hun. No more quick bag of chips for breakfast, forget the candy bars (with the creamy caramel centers) after lunch, it was strictly the Granola Bar for Charlie, this was after all, “serious business.” This changing his life attitude that Charlie had developed from all outward appearances was working.

Old Charlie was determined that he was going to change, to have that NEW look. Not to be detoured, he decided he would go all the way. He went about his business one hundred and ten-percent (110%) he gave it his all. Taking out a second mortgage on his house, he got a new expensive hair transplant (not the cheapie model mind you, he got the Corvette of hair transplants), a pair of new corafam wing tip shoes, patent leather no less. A bright new red PT Cruiser with a CD player and tape deck. Rings, watch, enough gold to hang around his neck it looked like a Mr. T. starter set.

In the short span of six weeks, Old Charlie was a new man, or at least, he thought so. Again he answered the ad in the paper and asked the very same woman out for a date. Pleading his case like a seasoned trial lawyer, sounding like the Ben Matlock of the dating scene, he made his case. He said, “I have changed, you owe it to yourself, to inspect the NEW me.” The Perry Mason of charm had won his case, the lady agreed to meet with him. All of his hard work, his dedication, finally had paid off.

The day for the date arrived. For the first time in a very long time, Charlie was excited as he had never been excited before (kind of like that feeling you get when you get your first bicycle or something like that, right?) almost like a schoolboy facing his first prom. All polished and shining like a Jewel of the Nile, old Charlie stood there on the threshold of the lady’s house, all dressed up for the date. Decked out to the nines, looking better than he had ever looked in his entire life!

The NEW Charlie had arrived. He stood there on the steps of romance and wondered to himself, “If perhaps tonight, he might get lucky?”

Tonight is the night Old Charlie is going to give the lady a ring. “She will be sorry for laughing at me, I am a new man, from top to bottom. Things are going to be a lot different this time around.” As he stood there on the doorstep poised to ring the woman’s doorbell, a bolt of lightning struck him and knocked him off his feet.

As he lay there dying, he turned his eyes towards the heavens and asked, “Why? Why? I have busted my tail for this day, why now? After all I have been through, how could you do this to me?” 

From up above, there came a rumbling and a deep, bold voice said ……… Oh, sorry Charlie, didn’t recognize you.” *


* Any resemblance to anyone living or dead named Charlie, is purely coincidental and should not be construed as an actual representation of fact.

End of Romance


With the recent developments concerning General Motors, Ford and Dodge, it appears that America’s love affair with the automobile might be coming to a close.  I can still remember in High School, most people knew you not by your vibrant personality, but rather, by the type of car that you drove.

I didn’t have a car in High School, I had a motorcycle, could not afford the insurance. Come to think of it, I was a little short on the “vibrant personality back then too.”  Living on a somewhat limited income, the scooter route was my first adventure, I was scooter trash, a motorcycle rat, and to this day, a small part of me remains loyal to that calling.  However, I did have my fair share of big blocks, high horsepower, muscle cars in the late seventies, when gainful employment corrupted my life.

My first car was a 1947 model Plymouth 4-door, and it was painted bright orange.  I don’t recall what it cost, but it was considerably less than the $30K and more that they want for a car these days.  It had suicide doors and leather seats, big broad seats.  Lot’s of room, where a kid could introduce his girlfriend to the pleasures of life at the local drive-in theater late on Saturday Night.

Unbelievable as it may seem …. I saw my first James Bond, Shawn Connery movie, from the backseat of my old hoopie.

So a nation that was birthed on automobiles enters into another chapter somewhat void of them.  We are all being pushed into the Honda Civic/Prius mentality, high mileage, reliability and certainly less automobile as far as cars are concerned.  We will still have a rainbow of colors to chose from, but the choices as far as the car goes will be somewhat limited.  I understand that GM thinned down considerably is now only going to put out three models.

Our love affair with gasoline alley and Detroit truly blossomed in the 50’s and 60’s, it will be missed.  The poetry of it, the symmetry, bullet-shaped taillights and tail-fins, the chrome, the rumble of the big V-8 all of it now a thing of the past.

I had a “goat” and the “bird” (Roadrunner) my fair share the big muscle, high-horsepower, gasoline drinking ponies in my time.  I was an instant success, I didn’t have to dress for it, I just turned the key in the ignition and almost instantly, almost by magic, I was “cool.”  Such were the glory days.  Draggin Main on Saturday Night I was a hunk, you bet, windswept hair and huge magnetic smile, fill me up and then listen to me roar!

My testosterone rush fed by three carbs and Brylcreme, the ladies turned their heads and the guys, well they just wished they were me (not really, but this is MY story, so I can write it any way that I feel is correct).  It didn’t matter that it was my main conveyance to get me to and from work, it was also my turtle-waxed pig-iron pony, the best Detroit had to offer, and I was its master.

Over the years it kind of systematically morphed into some kind of tape playing, cup holding, family hoopie, but in the beginning it was nothing short of pure muscle.  When I was 17 and 18 I could go thru a set of rear tires in about two weeks, that is, until I realized that it was hard on the equipment and even worse on the checkbook.

Now days our cars have changed, the hard chargers are gone, replaced by the soccer moms and the SUVs’, the DVD’s playing Big Bird and Sesame Street, no more Stones, no more Grateful Dead.  Now we rush to and fro, we have play dates, ball games, we no longer have big bore Pontiac’s and Oldsmobile’s.

Life is changing and Obama Motors will give us a better deal, all we have to do is wait for the pointed headed busy-bodies in Washington to figure out a way to fund it and walla …. A new age.

Nothing lasts forever, it was a great ride, but it has run its course.  Unfortunately for old dinosaur’s like myself, it will produce another void in life to contend with, another sad note in the orchestra of time and I will miss it.


Mama Cave Bear

Daddy's hobby 3

Good News!  WordPress and Mozilla have found an apparent fix to thier problems and we can post photo’s again without being shut down on the browser.  This has been a monumental hassle the past several weeks and it is good to know that it is over.  I have missed the graphic’s and hated the back n forth between this and Microsoft.


This year will be our first year of “Snow Birding” we will leave Oklahoma in the fall in our coach and we will return “just in time for the tornado’s” as my friends on the Westcoast are prone to put it.  That would be around April or May, or in other words, the following spring.  Either way, we are looking forward to the lifestyle change and eagerly await it’s appointed day sometime this fall.  Most everything that I have done so far this summer or spring, is geared towards that goal.  It will be something totally new for both of us, and we are ready to take the plunge.

Two people living within the parameters of a small space could be a problem, we are not sure if we will make it or not.  Might end up killing each other in some rest area over the issue of burnt toast or something.  You ever stop to think about how different men and women are?  Well, they are.

Women and men just think differently, a woman will limp into the room and the man will say, “What’s a matter with your foot Marge?” and the woman will reply, “I hit my big toe on a chair when I was crossing the livingroom.”

Now a man, he will come limping in and when asked the very same question will reply, “Some idiot left a chair in the livingroom!”

Women …They’re sitting there during Ugly Betty or Dancin’ With The Stars and they are simpering, wiping tears from the corner of their eye.  The hubby is sitting right alongside his woman, and he is thinking, “might as well run two more strands of wire back there at the same time, a red & black, #14, just in case I got to hook something else up later on.”

Then there is reality.

A voice yells out “C’mon get in here, three minutes to American Idol” and the guy is thinking “shoot me, shoot me, take me out in a field like an old dog and put one between my ears.”  She often has scared me in the past, she said “she always wanted a big Prevo with LOTS OF STAINLESS STEEL” which we all know, takes a mountain of elbow grease just to keep up.  Having observed her services or help at maintenance on a Koi Pond one long hot summer, I thank God for my dull, clean, low-maint Eagle 10-S.

She can never understand why it takes so long to get from point A to point B, will offer up the Atlas and say, “Look it is only this far on the map” pointing to three or four inches.  But then again, the male by the same standard is most likely the only person on the face of the planet that can relate to “one inch equals a mile” and actually get away with it.

So the saga continues …Testosterone is what I am after.

Ice Road Truckers, American Loggers, NASCAR I want to implode something in Minneapolis or some other place back east.  I don’t want to listen to Paula Deen explain how she found this old dead armadillo on the highway, and soaked it in a secret sauce for the last nine hours, and when we’re done girls “it will taste just like chicken!”  When was the last time you heard anyone male or female for that matter say something like:  “I just love the rich hearty beefy flavor.”  Give me a break.

Face it, we is different.

Take buses for instance, men form a close personal relationship with their coach, they fawn over it, they brush it, they stroke it, feed it, maintain it, they have the most fun you can have in this world with your clothes on, and their respective mates, they hardly even notice.  Men take a great deal of pride in their accomplishments, like a barnyard cock, they strut around the bus, they notice ever ding, every dent, pulling a rag from in their pocket, they knock off the unwanted.

For the most part, I am the same way, the very same way.

Now I refer to it as my hobby, “Daddy’s Hobby,” but others have called it an obsession.  I certainly do not qualify to assume the rank of Certified Bus Nut or Qualified Bus Lover, but there are people whom I come in contact with here lately, that are clearly over the edge.  Stainless Steel Fever has hit with a vengeance on some of these folks, they are carrying a new strain of The Ebola She Don’t Wanna Turn Ovah Virus of which I am sure there is no known cure.

Here is the problem, another bus lover comes over, he admires my coach, we start to bond, and things go swimmingly well.  With all good experiences in life, there is give and there is taking, relationships form, things previously not known are now known.  It is called The Rumsfield Principle I believe, “we have known knowns and we have unknown knowns, and there are the unknown knowns that are still not known at this time.” And as long as all this stays on the exterior of the coach or in the storage bays located along each side, all is well, but the minute I open the door and offer a “stranger” as she refers to them access to HER coach, I am in hot water.

Like a Mama Bear protective of her new cubs, I am put on warning.

I had an old man at Camping World who just insisted on seeing the inside of yore rigg as he put it, so I opened up the door.  There she sat at the table, playing a game of solitaire a game she devotes hours too, and I told the old man, “Step up there pard, and check it out.”   Then I got the look, you know what I am talking about here, “the” look. (Sort of like being THE only male standing in Victoria’s Secret store on Wednesday …. What is HE doing in HERE kind of look)

Later on, afterwards, the look will be replaced with the finger, which she deftly points at me, and when the discussion is particularly heated, the finger starts moving slowly at first, from side to side, the finger will emphasize by moving rapidly from side to side in order to clarify.  Often this is followed by lift off!  (providing all launch code provisions have been met and adhered to)

I just hate that when it happens.

Ceste Le Vive which is French for “that is life,” south of the border it translates La Vita Loca, “this crazy life.”  Thus ends today’s tale of woe, it is often, “not easy to be me.’  A tough grueling act, balancing several balls in the air at a given time working on a need to know basis.  A tough job but what the hey …. Someone has to do it.

Now if you will excuse me, I need to find a spot at the back of the lot and see if I can pull up some local channels and Ophra this afternoon.  She is supposed to have this six foot four-inch Georgia Lumberjack weighing in at 245lbs., his main complaint seems to be he cannot figure out a way to keep his 98 lb., four foot seven inch wife from beating him up.

I don’t want to miss that, no sir, I want to see this one for sure.  Might even be some good ol’ down south finger wiggling in there too.