A Farewell to Wanda

Wanda entered the clearing at the end of the path today. She was our 17 year old Maine Coon cat. Wanda was so named because her markings reminded my sister-in-law of a fish, and "A Fish Called Wanda" was out at the time. It just stood to reason to have "A Cat Called Wanda".

She fell to a degenerative spinal disease that was making it harder and harder for her to get around. When she was unable to stand this morning, I knew her time had come. She was put to rest at 1:00 p.m., and by 2:30, she was resting comfortably next to Bob Barker the dog, under a tree at the farm.

She will be missed.

Wii...Whopeee...Yahoo...etc.

Yesterday, I went to Best Buy to get a cable connection to help the wife transfer files from the old laptop to the new. Foolish me, I thought it would be a quick visit to purchase a $40 cord. That was, until I spied the wife with a death grip on a Wii game console. They only had three and the wife was convinced no more would ever be arriving. "Screw it", said I...get the damn thing, and let's take the next step towards technology damnation.

It began with Atari 2600, and Intellivision, and I see no end in sight. We now have three versions of Nintendo game systems and four versions of Game Boy. Tack onto that, the two versions of SLR film cameras, the two digital cameras and the latest addition of an SLR digital camera, and I have assured Japan's GDP will continue to grow at a pace far exceeding that of the USA. I am convinced the next round of technology will simply require you to wink at someone then crap out a 10 X 7 glossy.

As I was swirling through this sucking cesspool of technological advancement, I floated past the new, "must have" HD televisions. Now, godammit...I have already wrongly chased the Betamax rainbow...switched to VHS...bought all of the albums, 8-tracks, cassettes and CD's of my favorite bands, and actually invested in two DVD players.

Now, I understand that in 2009, the "industry" is going to require me to buy a digital TV. OK, I can live with that, but who decided we had to go with this asinine "flat screen" technology???? These damn, fancy new TV's are squashed into flat and wide formats, making everybody on the screen look like a bunch of eggheads. What's worse is...none of these TV's will fit in the previous entertainment centers.

I measured the opening in the $2500 piece of furniture I bought two years ago, and discovered a tiny 32 inch "new TV" will fit. But a reasonably viewable 37 inch TV is 1/4 inch too wide!!!! Clearly, the TV people and the furniture people conspired many years ago to force us to buy a bunch of crap we really don't need.

That's it!!! I refuse to play any more. No I-pods...no MP3 players...no skinny-ass HDTV's. Give me a giant, fat-ass TV with a clothes hangar antenna...AM radio...and two cans on a string...I'm calling my Congressman!

Have a Great Summer

Yesterday was officially the first day of summer. As the shortest day of the year passes, and the days begin to get longer, it is the first day of summer as far as I am concerned. Today was a great example.

Twenty four degrees at sunrise...worked on setting up an agility course in the back yard...cleaned up the Elm tree detritus in the front yard...had some lunch and realized what a beautiful day December 23rd had become.

Made the long 1 minute drive to the golf course and played a leisurely 18 holes in shirt sleeves. Shot a nice 85 (Yes Al, I shot a 42 on the back nine). Thanked the good Lord above for putting me in this place at this time.

Happy summer everyone...it only gets better from here on in. (Until June 21st anyway.)

Countdown From 21...

21 days till Christmas, and I don't think I will make it this time. I have armored myself to the unending Christmas music in Wal Mart beginning sometime in September. I just remind myself that the worker bees have no recourse, so it could be worse.

The U-Can Share food drive on Channel 11 news has made me resort to watching re-runs of Saved by the Bell at 10:00. Those I can adjust to.

It is the onslaught of Christmas commercials that even my vintage Betamax can't escape.

If Rudolph is sick, is the Aflac duck REALLY going to guide Santa's sleigh? How many people are actually buying these curvy looking diamond pendants that every seller seems to be pushing? And, honestly I don't give a fuck if he went to Jerod's! But the worst are these goddamn Lexus and Lincoln commercials. Who in the hell is giving someone a fucking Lexus for Christmas? And, what kind of gay man wants a goddamn Lincoln instead of power tools? How much are these dipshits spending to target the 12 people in the country that can afford to give these kind of gifts? Every time the wife looks at me after one of the ads. I dangle her keys in front of her and say..."Enjoy your minivan darlin'!"

Sweet Jesus, in defense of your birthday, please make it stop and bring back Santa riding the Norelco razor down the snowy slope.

Greetings From the Other Side

Made a little trip to death's door this weekend. Got home from Thursday Night's meeting, and things just didn't feel right. Went to bed, and at 12:30, I got the first of what would be an entire night's reminders of why things didn't feel right. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the sluices were flowing freely from both ends all night. Now, I don't remember the last time I threw up (I am sure it was alcohol induced at that time), but I now remember why I am not bulimic. I don't know about you, but I don't view the act of vomiting to be a very pleasant one.

Anyway, went ahead and got up Friday to go to work. Hoping against hope it was just something I had eaten. After sitting through a two hour video conference in a daze, the boss told me to either go home or to the morgue...my choice. I felt, and apparently looked, like death warmed over.

I went home and spent the next 36 hours in one of three places...asleep in bed...asleep on the couch...or asleep on the bathroom floor. I kinda preferred the latter, as the tile and porcelain were cool on my forehead.

I emerged from the fog Sunday, and was able to get dressed and actually do a few chores for the wife. That is two weekends in a row with no golf. Starting to piss me off. It's sad when the highlight of your weekend is a grilled chicken sandwich from Whataburger that actually stays where you put it.

What the Hell...It's Thanksgiving

Everybody seems to feel the need to write something about Thanksgiving, so why should I be any different. Norman Rockwell saw Thanksgiving as an opportunity to gather with family, Dad in coat and tie, Mom in a frilly dress, slowly basting the turkey. Dick and Jane sitting before the fire, playing checkers. Clearly, Norman never visited the home on "Maniacal Lane".

Khiva and I had planned to make our usual family avoidance trip to Gunnison, CO. However, the demands of the Clone Army at TxDOT, and the weather caused us to choose to stay home instead. We had been invited to her parents here in Lubbock for Thursday and my parents in Austin for the weekend. We chose to just tell everyone we had gone to Gunnison and burrow into our own home for the weekend.

Fine with me...I had already composed a list of self-imposed "Honey-Do's" to keep me occupied for the four days. Rake leaves, clean the porches, put up Christmas lights, hang an exterior flood light on the north end of the house, golf if possible. Then, it began to snow. Crap, now what was I to do for 4 days?

Leave it to the hillbilly freaks living to my north to solve my problem. Mr. Gopher had made a return visit to my beautiful yard. Last year, 10 chlorine tablets and the water drained from the swimming pool took care of the problem. The pool was already drained, so I found the entrance to the burrow, dropped in a dozen chlorine tablets and turned on the hose. An hour later, and no water was running out of the hole. I decided to look over the fence into "Hillbilly Land" and saw dozens of gopher mounds all over their back yard. I could have pumped the well dry and not filled the damn colony up. I turned the water off, plugged the opening, and prayed the accumulated chlorine gas would make its way through the 8 miles of tunnels in the neighbors yard.

Spent the rest of the afternoon cloistered in the garage, cleaning out the Tundra and repairing various pieces of broken dog equipment. One day down, and three snowy, cold days to go. Not sure how I am going to keep myself busy for that long. With any luck, there will be a chlorine gas explosion in the neighbors back yard, and their dump of a house will be swallowed into Gopher Land.

For that, I would give thanks...

Bang the Drum Slowly - Part II

Reading a post from my old friend, Shoeless,earlier got me to thinking back to days gone by, with friends gone awry. I recall a trip from the small town of Crested Butte, CO to the Village of Mt. Crested Butte, CO in a 1991 Maxima with Shoeless and "Payin' Ray", listening to Led Zeppelin. Most notably, the tune "In My Time of Dying",

This got me to thinking of one of my favorite "drummer" songs. As I have stated here previously, I think drummers are the forgotten force behind many great bands. John Bonham, of Led Zeppelin was one of the better of the bunch.

This song takes about 3 minutes to really kick off, so give it time. So, I give you Led Zeppelin

And to give you an idea of what I hear when I listen to this tune, here is a guy who shares my position Drummer's View .

And while we are at it...check out how hard Don Brewer works on this little known Grand Funk track Inside Looking Out .

Maybe It's Just Me

Have you ever found yourself out in the general retail world, wanting to just beat the shit out of people? I found myself in that all too familiar position at Sam's today. I went to get some contacts, and found myself waiting as the only worker bee was helping some asshole get some glasses. Now, this guy may have been a perfectly nice guy, but the fact that he was there, and I was in a hurry made him an "asshole".

So, I went and picked up a couple of other things, and made my way back to the Optical shop, only to find myself being told to wait while the clerk screwed up someone else's order. When I finally found myself the center of the clerk's ineptitude, I was told they only had replacements for my right lens, and they would have to order the left. As steam roiled out of my ears, I had to remind myself that you go to Sam's for price...not service. The insipid worker bee did not make matters any better as she cheerily offered an "I'm sorry" platitude. I was intent on being pissed off about the whole sordid affair.

Not being one to learn from my mistakes, I ventured out to Wal-Mart this evening with the mission being to get my left eye contacts and pick up a few grocery items. First stop was the Optical shop, only to discover that they also did not have my left lens in stock. Fuck it...I headed to the grocery aisles to find myself behind a wide load in the pasta aisle who was commenting on the fact that "...that's a lot of pasta."

"There's a lot of pasta in those Spandex pants also, honey", I thought, while trying to maneuver around her centrally located cart. "How about you haul your ass over to the produce section and shove a salad down that gaping maw?" If nothing else, the aisles are wider. After doing battle with the rest of Lubbock's cheap bastards, I realized I had to traverse all the way to the Pharmacy section to pick up some Slim Fast bars for the wife. Pharmacy, my ass. Slim Fast bars are "food", and as such should be in the "food" aisles, goddammit!

Anyway, with Slim Fast bars secured, I made my way to the check out line, where I encountered two women who had obviously bought two of everything in the fucking store. About the time I had calmed enough to settle in and wait, they uttered that phrase that only two women would dare utter in a crowded check out line. "We need to check all of this out separately".

Why, why, why do women do this? If you are going to pay separately for two massive piles of Chinese made goods, GET TWO FUCKING CARTS. That way the rest of normal society will know to just leave their cart of goods in the aisle and beat a hasty retreat to the solace of a waiting whisky bottle at the house. Feminists, yell at me if you want. But, you would never see two men at The Home Depot pull this crap.

At any rate, I finally made it home, popped another blood pressure pill, pulled the cork on the aforementioned whisky bottle, and settled in to enjoy the company of the one person who doesn't constantly piss me off. Myself.

Half Time Entertainment

This Friday, at halftime of the Ropes-New Home 6-man football game, Khiva and her doggie brethren and sistern will be the featured half time entertainment. Seems neither team has a band, so they have resorted to watching dogs performing agility activities. Could be some fun West Texas fall entertainment if you find yourself bored to death.

Going the Extra Mile

Ever found yourself in the role of first responder at an automobile accident? Ever wonder how you would respond if you did? Do you see yourself as the heroic superman...pulling victims from flaming wreckage with one hand as you direct the Interstate traffic with the other? Or do you see yourself frozen in indecision.

These question popped into my mind last week at the TxDOT conference in College Station, as the "Extra Mile" citations were handed out to a few TxDOT employees who had found themselves in that situation and responded.

As for me, I have found myself in the first responder role twice, and surprisingly have reacted without thinking. Looking back...I have to wonder how I made decisions at that time. There were fatalities in both cases, and I don't believe there was anything I could have done to prevent it in either case. I just went into a strange mode and began DOING.

In one case, I helped extract the eventual victims from the car. In the other, the fatalities were obvious, and I began to direct traffic on an Austin Freeway.

Was any of this "going the extra mile"? No...it was simply reacting...probably just as any other average Joe would have done. However, I am relieved I did not "freeze up" in either case. I think all of us have the innate ability to respond for our fellow man in an emergency situation.

I applauded our "Extra Mile" honorees along with everyone else. Yes, they did respond in an exemplary manner and a couple of people are alive today for their efforts. And yes, I am sure they feel as if they did nothing special...only reacting to their fellow man in need.

It's good to know there are plenty of folks out there who are ready and willing to react when the situation slams its way into their life. Here's hoping you never find yourself there...but rest assured, you will know what to do.

The Fall of the Great Plains

A few weeks ago I received a call from a headhunter, offering me a position that would provide about a 25% increase in salary, plus bonuses. He said they had positions currently available in all of the major Texas cities. I asked if that included Lubbock, and he said no. The cities he considered to be major included DFW, Houston, Austin and San Antonio. I thanked him for his interest and politely declined.

Crazy? I had to ask myself that question. But the past few mornings on the High Plains have made me realize I definitely made the right choice. Say what you want about Lubbock, but I defy you to show me a better place to spend the Fall. Yes, winters can be cold and blustery. Spring will tear the paint off your car with sandstorms, and Summer can be blistering hot. But Fall...it just cannot be beat.

When I was a younger man, I considered the Winter Solstice to be the first day of Summer, because the days would be getting longer, and the long party days of Summer would soon be here. Then, in late June, when the Summer Solstice would appear, I would be hit with a wave of dread, knowing the days would get shorter and all I could do was wait for late December.

Now, the Autumnal Equinox is the day I look forward to every year. Soon, the mowing I started out loving, but grew to hate would finally end. The golf course would be empty of fair weather golfers, leaving its pristine beauty for me and my fellow dew-busters. Strolling out into the back yard, late at night to move the water, I am struck by the sheer wonder of Fall on the High Plains. Crystal clear skies, cool temperatures and the feeling of how truly blessed I am to be where I am, when I am.

Keep your money headhunter...I sincerely love wading about in the mediocre pond that is Lubbock. Yes Virginia, there truly is more to life than money.

The N-Word Revisited

As I said I would, I was finally able to visit with one of my Black friends about this topic. I used the word "nigger" several times in public with him in discussing why or why not we should be able to use it in context. In fact, I started the conversation with the statement..."Earl, I remember talking with you at my home many years ago about how I was always telling Nigger jokes..." He did not flinch, nor act affronted.

In fact, he agreed with me that if we continue to hide the word, how will we ever get beyond it. Surprisingly, he pointed out to me that the wanton usage of the word by kids today, both Black and White, has diminished what the word originally meant, and has made it seem more acceptable. I had not thought about the idea that today's generation might not equate the same racist derogatory nature to the word.

At any rate, I thanked him for setting me straight 20+ years ago in a mature and non-confrontational way. And even though I am not sure he remembers that night as well as I, he said he appreciated the comments, and was glad we were able to discuss it.

I think it may be time for our generation to move on to more important matters and lay Nigger to rest. Or, as Rodney King said, "Can't we all just get along?"

The Oddity of the Odyssey

And...just like that, I am in the oldest car in the family again. Bought a new 2007 Honda Odyssey for the wife today.

Last Friday, Khiva mentioned it might be time to look at a new Odyssey. After all, the "old" one had been with us 22 months, and racked up an awe inspiring 44,000 miles. Surely the thing must be ready for the scrap heap. In her defense, she indicated a friend in Amarillo had just got one for a very good price, and if we could make a similar deal, we would be able to reduce the payments, while moving into a new vehicle.

Sure, said I, knowing it was probably not possible, but I would give it a try anyway. After all, if I could not make a deal, she was happy with the one she had. Lo and behold, Frank Brown Honda matched the price from Amarillo...$1000 below invoice. Unheard of in a Honda. OK...OK...but I am sure they will make up for it with a royal screwing in the trade in department.

Pessimistically, I drove to the Honda house this afternoon, prepared for a ridiculous offer of $15 or $16 thousand for a used van which I had pegged at $19,500. I was all prepared with my condescending chuckle, and a quick retort of, "Guys, we are waaaayyy apart." Imagine my surprise, when their first offer was $21,500. I stood there, stunned. Never in my life has a trade value come back higher than I thought it would be. Blue Book had it at $19,800. I continued to stand there, stupidly, trying to think of what to say next. The world was spinning off its axis. Finally, I blurted out, "If you will throw in the XM Radio, you have a deal." I needed desperately for them to say "No", so the world would be right again. Damned if the response wasn't, "Sure, I think we can throw that in."

"Where am I...what's happening?", I spluttered. Finally, my brain kicked back in and advised me to get the paperwork done, and get out, before the real dealers came back from lunch.

Bottom line...payed less than invoice for a new Honda...got $2000 above Blue Book for a trade, moved the wife into a new Odyssey...no cash out of pocket...payments reduced by $60/ month.

22 months from now, I can only hope for as much luck.

With Winning in Mind

After my embarrassing performance in August at the Dos Rios Open, I decided it was time to either become like Pratas, and not give a shit...or by God, get better at golf. I chose the latter. Took my first lesson from Leon Van Rensburg a couple of weeks ago. He videoed the whole lesson, then commenced to tearing my swing apart from the ground up. The bastard nearly killed me, by contorting me into a more "athletic" stance and making me hit what seemed like 10,000 balls. When he showed me the tape, and the difference in the two swings, I had to admit, I had a horrible swing. I looked a lot like Gumby.

Not only am I taking lessons, I have begun reading Lanny Bassham's book "With Winning in Mind" to work on the mental aspect. Lot's of stuff that should be common sense, but there is a lot of emphasis on focusing on the good things you are doing, and forgetting the bad.

I went to the course this morning for my first round since the lesson. A weekend at PK and a trip to Denver had prevented me from picking up a club since the lesson. I arrived 45 minutes before my tee time, and proceeded to knock the crap out of a large bucket of balls.

What with me hitting balls before the round, and my incessant references to good shots, and thinking positively, my playing partners were looking desperately for what had become of Batman. At one point, Shane actually indicated he wanted the old Batman back, because the new one was too annoying.

At any rate, I managed to stumble my way to a dismal 96...however, I did hit a lot of good shots, and my misses were fairly straight. I think the problem lies in the fact that I wore myself out hitting too many balls before the round, and that I had eaten nothing but Slim Jims and Doritos since Thursday evening supper.

I am going out again in the morning, after eating a good meal tonight, and I will only hit 7 or 8 balls before we start. I am POSITIVE I will be able to improve. Let the re-building of Batman continue.

PK Weekend - The Sweet Smell of Survival

In August of 1978, as I prepared to return for my sophomore year at Texas A&M, I had an idea. As my buddies and I would soon be falling back into the strictly regimented life of "Pissheads" in the Corps, why not get together for one last carefree weekend at Possum Kingdom? My parents had a rundown, two room "cabin" and I could haul the Glassmaster behind the '77 Pontiac Grand Prix. Let's do some skiing, drinking, farting, belching and smoking (tobacco for all you deviant potheads out there) before we returned. After all, once back in the Corps dorms...skiing would be a thing of the past. The other activities would continue unabated of course.

I called my buddies on the rotary phone and told them of my idea. It resonated with a couple of them, and as a result, I was joined by Ray Hengst, Jaime Anderson and Kevin Hendrick for what would become the "First Annual Big, Bad,Bodacious Bonfire and Cheap Wine Party". As I recall, there was no wine that year. In fact, the name would not come into usage for several years. The only true and lasting tradition that began on that weekend 30 years ago, was fire and the singing of the song "Over There". On Saturday night, for reasons only John Barleycorn can explain, Ray and I sat on the front steps, burned a Coors beer carton, and sang "Over There".

As the years passed, a new challenge and tradition emerged. Who could bring the nastiest wine? It had to be domestic, and had to have a screw top. You only think "Mad Dog" and "Thunderbird" are bad. My buddies set new standards for crap. It culminated in the year known infamously as "The Year of the Purple Haze". I broke the domestic rule, because I had found the craziest bottles of "Dago Red" I had ever seen. Each bottle held three liters of awful Italian Red wine. One (which I still have in my home collecting loose change) was in the shape of an elephant, sitting on its haunches with it's trunk in the air. The trunk formed the neck of the bottle, and extended approximately three feet from the floor. The other (which was mercifully broken before it could be uncorked) was a snail, with it's antennae rising into the air to form the neck. Ray was the unfortunate consumer of most of the first bottle, and proceeded to pave the dirt road in front of the cabin with purple bile. Hence..The Year of The Purple Haze.

Since then, the rundown shack has been replaced by the nice 3 bedroom, air conditioned home across Purple Haze Road. We have gotten older, gotten mortgages, taken more prescription drugs, sent our kids to A&M and generally become more responsible. However, the weekend continues. Sure, it has been moved to early September, instead of early August. We found the heat was hard to take, and who needs to be back in school in September anymore?

Tomorrow, I depart for the 30th Annual Big, Bad Bodacious Bonfire and Cheap Wine Party. So what, that the ever growing bonfires we used to burn with purloined lumber have regressed back to the original burning of a beer carton. (My setting myself on fire led to that change). Yes, the consumption of huge amounts of stinky feet wine has been replaced by cigars and Single Malt. But, we will gather again...as we have done for the 29 previous years to catch up and insult each other...and yes, probably drink, fart, belch and smoke together. Ahhh, the good life!

Funeral for a Friend

Just returned last night from a quick trip to Somerville to see Sam Woods put in the ground. Sam was the Director of the Lubbock Metropolitan Planning Organization, and as such, he and I worked together for the past 5 or 6 years. Sam would irritate the hell out of me at times, and occasionally just piss me off.

But when he died suddenly last Monday, a strange feeling fell over me. I don't know if it was the unexpectedness of his death, or the sudden realization that I would never hear his goofy laugh again. Whatever it was, when the word came out Thursday morning that he would be buried 450 miles away at 2:00 p.m. the next day, I knew I had to go...as much for me, as for him. I guess I feared Sam would exit this world with nobody but his family to see him out.

When I arrived at the small chapel, I was relieved to see a gathering of 30 or so friends and family. I was pleasantly surprised to see my boss, three TxDOT'ers from the Austin Planning Division and two researchers from Texas Transportation Institute. Apparently Sam had gotten into their heads as well.

The biggest surprise came when the pastor asked if anyone would like to step forward and say a few words about Sam. Without really understanding why, I walked to the podium. I just felt that Sam's family needed to know what Sam had done in Lubbock, and how much he was appreciated and would be missed. Dammit, I even choked up a little bit. I was followed by Bill Frawley from TTI, who told a great story about Sam's love of food and eating (Sam was a large man), and even better, his ability to find a free meal here and there.

That was it...no one else stood up. That was OK though...Bill and I had our say, and the family expressed their appreciation after the service. The strange feeling was lifted, and I could turn my attention to the 7 1/2 hour drive home.

Farewell Sam...Shine on, you big, fat crazy diamond.

Eureka...I Found It!!!!

As I drove home from the bowling alley last night at 9:15 p.m., I discovered the one true route. The route Jere Hart tells everyone about. I left the bowling alley at 30th and Slide and drove north along Slide to Loop 289, thence NW along Loop 289 to University Avenue, thence North on University to Kent Street and thusly, home to the place on Manioca Rd. All lights green...none red. Yes, God...there is one route in Lubbock that is not all red.

Mr. Hart...my heartfelt apologies.

The "N-Word"

Nigger...there, I said it, and I have no qualms about it. I am at a loss as to why we cannot have a discussion in this country about this word without falling back on the 6th Grade-esque use of "N-word". I brought this up at Thursday night's meeting, and you would have thought I had publicly lynched Bill Cosby. There was a shocked gasp from my otherwise intelligent friends, when I asked what was wrong with saying the word "Nigger" in the context of "I believe the word Nigger is very offensive."

Just for the record, I do find the word "Nigger" very offensive. I used this word extensively when I was younger, and even made a habit of passing on jokes relating to this word. It was while hanging out with a black friend of mine in Littlefield in 1985, that it was made clear to me what this word meant to Black people. I ceased using the word in that context at that point and have not done it since. I promised one of the TNT members, I would have this discussion with that same Black friend to get his take on it, and I intend to follow up on that.

I am not interested in discussing the strange fact that it seems to be okay for Blacks to use that word, but not Whites. That is not the point. It is a word in the English language, and in the proper context, should be used. I mean...what the "F-word" is wrong with us?

Little League World Series

I must admit, I began watching the Western All Stars in the LLWS with some trepidation. These kiddos had waltzed through the regionals with very little competition. Then, with all of the hype from the hometown still buzzing in their ears, I was afraid they would show up in Williamsport, overconfident and a little too cocky, and get their butts handed to them.

What a pleasant surprise to see them play solid ball, as a team and win handily. (An 80 mph fastball doesn't hurt.) These guys are conducting themselves wonderfully, and graciously. Listening to, and watching the coaches helps me see why. These coaches are nothing like the stereotypical Little League coaches I have heard so much about. As I watched the Georgia team get beat the other night, I saw a coach criticizing and ripping his players, who, in turn played right up to his expectations. The Lubbock coaches (and in fairness, the coaches from Minnesota and Arizona) continually encouraged their young charges, imploring them to relax and have fun.

When asked in interviews about a stellar pitching performance or a couple of home runs, these players constantly refer to the teamwork, and shy away from relishing the credit which is fairly deserved.

My fears assuaged, I will watch this team to the bitter end, and hope they can win it all. They have proven to be a better team than I imagined...both on the field and off.

Impending Doom - Lifted

It struck me this weekend that my recent feeling of impending doom had lifted. Maybe it was the trip to Colorado...I don't know. But it is gone for now.

I was mowing the yard twice on Saturday. I had to mow it twice to clean up the mess my nephew made of it while we were in Colorado. I think he had the mower in road gear and just mowed in random patterns. There were gouges and burned spots all over and several bales of loose grass left in piles all over the yard.

But it was during the second mowing of the back that I suddenly realized how good I felt, and how much I enjoyed recovering my yard from its butchering. God, I really love this house.

Well...back to living for a while until the next feeling sets in, as I know it will.

Summary of a Bad Tournament Outing

For those who do not know, in match play if your opponent fails to show up, you still have to play 10 holes in an 18 hole match and 5 holes in a 9 hole match. At that point you have won enough holes to win the match even if your opponent shows up late.

What that means is, if I had failed to even go to the golf course, my opponents would have had to play a total of 15 holes. As it turned out, I did show up, and my opponents only had to play 21 holes. That is about as bad as one can play in a match play tournament.

And no, I did not win an umbrella. I finished the tournament as badly as I started.

Maybe next year...

Well, That Was a Lot of Fucking Fun

Began my first 9 hole match at 8:50 this morning. After tying the first two holes, he won four straight. And just like that, at 10:20, my tournament was over. This guy hit one bogey and five pars, and pretty much made me look foolish.

Tomorrow, I play in the "Umbrella Flight" with all the other losers. It is simply nine holes, stroke play. The low score in each flight wins...you guessed it...an umbrella. Woo hoo.

Disaster at The Dos

First round...I won the first four holes and we tied the 5th. For the first time in my life, I began a match by getting way out ahead. I never won another hole, as my opponent rattled of 5 pars and a bogey to win six straight. Basically, my putter abandoned me again. During the six hole stretch, I three putted three times and missed two putts inside 2 feet.

In the end, he won 9 of the last 10 holes, and I lost on the 15th hole...down five.

Now, to get a chance at third place, all I have to do is win three 9 hole matches tomorrow, and another 9 hole match Sunday morning. That would get me into the Consolation 18 hole match Sunday afternoon. Damn, I hate uphill climbs.

More tomorrow...

Thursday - Oh Calcutta

My quiet round by myself at 8:10 this morning was not to be. I was paired up with the official worst golfer in the tournament. This guy (Bob Carey), with a 30 handicap was listed as the highest handicap of all 144 players in the tournament. In short, I had to play with Pratas this morning. To make matters worse, he was from Queens, was 70 years old, and did not stop talking for the entire round. Needless to say, today's practice round began as bad as yesterday's. All hope was fading.

I hit the driver like a real golfer. Bombing 280 yard drives square down the middle of the fairway. I would then proceed to butcher the remaining 100 yards to the green to convert a nice drive into a bogey or double bogey. Then came the 9th hole. Bombed a drive, and only had 245 yards to the green on a par five. I turned to Bob and said, "I may as well hit, I can't get it that far." I then hit my old "wooden" wood straight on a line to the green, directly into the group putting out in front of us. Found my ball on the back of the green with a 25' putt for eagle. Yes, I three putted for par. Took a 46 to the back nine.

Continued to butcher perfect drives as I worked my way to 6 over with the three hardest holes to play. Finished with three straight pars (damn near birdie on the last two) to shoot a "42 on the back". Final score - 88...but glimmers of hope for the way I finished.

Now to the title of the post...The Calcutta was held tonight. For non-golfers, a Calcutta is where people bid on the competitors in a tournament, auction style, in an attempt to buy the golfer's chances of winning their flight. It is gambling. All of the money bid on the 16 golfers in my flight goes into a pot, and is paid out proportionally to the 4 top finishers. Last year, my second place finish paid out over $800.

Well, I was auctioned off for $270...the second highest amount in my flight. Somebody apparently thinks I have the ability to win this damn thing.

We begin to find out tomorrow at 8:08 a.m. A perfect tee time as far as I am concerned. More tomorrow...

Wednesday Practice Round

Well hell...I have no confidence now. I shot a 92 today with only three pars. I play again tomorrow at 8:10 by myself. I will take the opportunity to concentrate and focus on what needs to be done.

More tomorrow...

How Easily We Get Spoiled

Made it to Gunnison last night at 6:30 p.m. Of course the first thing we have to do is reconnect to the world through the laptop. Gaaaaa...dial-up connection. Khiva and I both had a birthday waiting for the damn thing to download. To make matters worse, both Windows and Macafee were doing their automatic update thing. I could not get this site to finish loading, so I gave up.

This morning, I am sitting in the parking lot of the Alpine Inn, taking advantage of the wireless connection. I have got the virus updates complete and am currently working through the Windows updates.

Thought I would take advantage of the time and make a quick post.

12:10 today, I get to hit the Dos Rios course with a couple of the Old Fart Gang to get reacquainted with the course. Tomorrow at 8:10 is my official practice round. Tomorrow night I attend the Calcutta player auction. Wonder how much I will go for this year. I drew about $175 last year, and I am prepared to invest up to $200 in myself this year. But, the mafia consortium's up here pool their money and buy everybody, so I will probably end up splitting my purchase price with them, and splitting whatever money I happen to win.

Friday begins the match play. The prize for winning your first 18 hole match? You get to turn around and play another 18 hole match immediately. Lose your first match, and you are faced with having to win three 9 hole matches on Saturday to get back into the consolation bracket.

I hope Friday proves to be a long day.

I'll let you know...Al, Damian was wanting updates, as he invested $20 in me himself. Could you forward this link to him again, as this is probably the only place I will be posting results.

Gunnison - The Annual Pilgramage

I head out tomorrow morning for Gunnison...my future hometown. Khiva and I have made the trip every one of our 16 years together, except for two that I can recall. She did not miss the trip on those occasions, but I did. I missed in '93 as I was finishing the research for my thesis at A&M. The one I still don't understand is when I missed in '01, as I readied our house on 79th Street for sale. Why again was I busily scrubbing a house while my wife was relaxing in Colorado? Dunno...and I guess it doesn't matter now.

Anyway, I will be competing in the Dos Rios Open for the fourth consecutive year. My three finishes to date have been 2nd, stink it up, and 2nd. Let's hope this is not a continuing trend.

I will try and post the occasional update as I find time.

Tiny Music...It Just Ain't Right

Ipods, MP3 players,satellite radio. I am dumbstruck by the fact that more music can be squeezed into a credit card sized device than on all of the albums stuffed away in innumerable dusty boxes in my closet. Goobers everywhere walking around with little tiny earphones listening to what I can only assume is amazingly clear sound.

But, it just ain't right, dammit. As an undergrad at A&M in the late 70's, big was better. The guy with the biggest array of receivers, amplifiers, equalizers, tape decks, turntables and tower sized speakers was the go to guy whenever a dorm party broke out. Speaker cable and power cords were stretched from room to room, and windows had to be opened to keep them from blowing out as the massive bass speakers compressed the air in the room. Hell, even headphones resembled something the Apollo astronauts might have worn.

I began to put together my component stereo system in 1978, with the purchase of a Pioneer AM/FM stereo receiver, and a couple of speakers. This receiver was to replace the one I had with the built in 8-track player. Damn thing cost $185, and I had to put it on layaway. When I made that last payment and took that beauty home, I sat and watched the various gauges and meters dance, as I cranked out KLOL-FM 101 out of Houston. I eventually, little by little, year after year, added components, eventually culminating in the purchase of some new fangled device to play CD's. I had run out of jacks on the back of the thing, and to decide what to give up. I finally settled on the equalizer, because, after all, who can live without cassettes and albums?

Believe it or not, I still have every piece of this amazing system...packed in boxes next to the albums. I am going to find a place for it some day. Then I am going to put it all together, crank that puppy up and blast out those huge speakers. With any luck, I will blow those pussy little headphones off the kid across the street.

If Women Acted Like Men - "Hit the Ball, Bitch"

Ever wonder what the world would be like if women acted like men? I would love to be the bird in the tree watching a group of women playing golf, and acting like men. Betsy would be standing over her shot, thinking about her kids, as she cleaned her new Foot-Joy's of the loose grass and sand. Lucy would finally lose it and yell..."Just hit the ball, bitch."

As a rule, (as I have observed it) women are much more civil to one another than men. At least to each others faces. A couple gets together after having not seen each other in several months. The two ladies immediately begin to praise one another on their respective weight loss and new hair styles. The two men would immediately revert back to the last thing they were giving each other shit about the last time they saw each other. "Hey, fatass, hope you aren't thinking about heading to the shitter when the check comes like you did last time." "No, I might as well pay for dinner, after all I am still paying room and board for your no-good son in prison.", his buddy replies.

For some reason, men cannot seem to say anything nice about or to another man. Probably out of fear of being called gay by the other man. Women, on the other hand, seem to be predisposed to putting on the nice face to other women, until they leave the room. For example, two men driving by a sewage treatment plant. Bob looks at Jim and asks, "Is that you, or did we just hit a dead cow?" Two women driving by the same sewage treatment plant. Jill looks at Betty, and comments on what a cute purse she has. Jill drops Betty off, and immediately gets on the phone to call Rachel and talk about the funk the came out when Betty uncrossed her legs.

Now, some may say men are just hiding deep resentment toward each other by immediately making jokes about one another and not discussing issues. To those people, I say, "Grow a pair, and quit being a woman." Most men know they are with true friends when they are being insulted mercilessly. Nothing makes me more nervous than a friend being nice to me. Makes me wonder if he is sleeping with my wife. No, on second thought, I still smell the sewage treatment plant...he must be sleeping with his own wife.

Impending Doom

Ever get that feeling that your next drive home will be your last? That your job will be gone tomorrow? That the next 9-11 is looming on the horizon? I get in these funky places every now and then, and I am currently buried deep in one.

I am never able to explain what leads me there, and as yet, nothing has ever come from one of these feelings. Thank God. The story this week of the retired Air Force colonel being stabbed to death while unloading the SUV in his garage would be an example of a feared impending doom. Sounds crazy, but damned if things like that do happen every now and then.

I recall a couple of years ago, driving back from Levelland at night, after a public meeting. I was suddenly struck with the feeling that, before I could make it home, a car would come careening across the median and run head on into me. I was nearly unable to complete the trip home. The feeling was that strong. (Cosmic, Tammy, I know...I know).

I have found it very hard to concentrate at work this week because of one of these doomsday feelings. Retirement even entered my mind on two separate occasions today. Gotta get out of the funk, and back to reality. As Morgan Freeman said in Shawshank Redemption..."Get busy living, or get busy dying."

I know, as in my golfing slumps, this too shall pass. Just hope if I do die in a fiery crash, it is on the way to work, and not on the way home.

At any rate, I should be back to my usual cheery disposition before you know it. In the meantime, stay away from me during lightning storms.

Why I Hate Golf - The Final Word

Have you ever "whiffed" a chip shot? For the non-golfers, to whiff is to completely miss the ball when you have every intention of hitting it. It usually happens with the Driver as you are rarin' back to knock that sumbitch into the next county. Then you completely miss the ball and nearly break your back in the process. To add insult to injury, the whiff counts as a stroke, as if you had actually hit the ball. This morning, I whiffed a chip shot. On the first hole, less than 15 feet from the green. I was going to hit a nice gentle chip to the pin, one putt for par and win the hole. Instead, the club jammed into the ground directly behind the ball and came to a complete stop. The ball never moved. My hopes for par rapidly degenerated into a triple bogey.

Today's match was a four way match with the other members of my flight who had one win and one loss. You basically play a match against the other three. For each person you beat on a hole you get 1 point. For each person you tie, you get 1/2 point. After 18 holes, he with the most points essentially wins third place in the flight.

I should have walked away with this damn thing. I don't hit the ball far, but I was outdriving the other three by 50 yards a hole. I was hitting good irons and (after the initial whiff) chipping very well. Unfortunately, I might as well have been putting with the club up my ass. I couldn't have done any worse. I missed 2 and 3 foot putts all day. I even managed to three putt from 4' on the 11th hole. There I was, one point away from going into the lead, with a 4 footer for par, and a win. The putter exploded in my hands and left me a six footer coming back. Missed that one too. Instead of a win, I lost to all three guys and got zero points on the hole.

As bad as all that sounds, I was still only 1 1/2 points out of the lead as we teed up on number 15. The first hole of the infamous "Go to Hell Corner" Plunked my drive into the lake, and it was all over but the crying. Got beat by a couple of fat, old, bald headed men.

In the distance, I swear I heard a 24 year old laughing his ass off.

Why I Hate Golf - Part II

Day two of the Club Championship began at 9:37 a.m. on a muggy July day. Damned if I wasn't sweating my ass off before the second hole. Part of that was because I missed a three foot putt for par on the first hole that would have put me one up on the first hole.

Missed another three footer to go one down on the second hole. Where the hell is my putter? I know I put it in my bag. I was seriously thinking about calling Pratas and asking him to bring out his hickory shaft putter, the ol' Billy Barue!

Traded holes back and forth for a spell. I was playing well, but so was the 24 year old kid I was playing against. We came to the eighth, even. He had hacked his way to a double bogey. There I sat on the green, 6 feet from the hole, putting for par. Just lag it close and go one up. It was a sure thing in my mind and his.

Evil putter took over and ran the ball eight feet past the hole. I missed the follow up back, and took a double bogey myself. Damn, we were still even.

Off to number nine, where I blister a drive straight down the fairway to 145 yards from the green. He hits his tee shot into the trees on the left. Great...sweet redemption. God is allowing me to make up for the previous screw up on eight. I pull my next shot left of the green onto a hillside lie. Dammit! He hits a great shot out of the trees to the same place. He hits a crappy short shot onto the green, leaving himself 20-25 feet for par. I hit a nice chip shot to 10 feet. Then evil putter promptly three putts again, to lose the hole. Evil putter takes a flight to the first tee from the ninth green.

We go to the back nine with me down one. Luckily for me, we have to wait on the group in front of us, and I am able to calm down and collect myself. He tees off into the trees on the left, and is dead. Ha ha. Just hit it down the middle and get back even. Breathe deep...find your center...concentrate...smack...hit the ball a whopping 50 yards, barely past the Ladies tees. Fuck!!!!!

Hit it again...50 more yards in the deep rough. Only 225 yards to go to get to the green. I am stomping up to my ball, driver in hand and murder on my mind. Thank God, the group in front of us was still on the green, giving me time to re-think my strategy. My opponent had chipped out of the trees to 150 yards from the green. He lying 2, me 3. Wait Batman...don't make a foolish attempt for the green from 225 yards. Back off and lay up. Let the kid fuck up. I hit a nice hybrid to 15 yards in front of the green. He shanks his into the sand trap. OK...that's step one. Now convert the safe shot. I hit a perfect chip to within one foot of the hole and make bogey. He manages double bogey out of the sand, and we are even again. I can almost hear his 25 year old psyche cracking. Got him...now just play solid from here in and win.

This kid has either been even with me, or one up all day. It is his first Club Championship, and my ninth. I am a sweaty old geezer trying to stay up with this young flat belly. I can feel his young enthusiasm as the holes fall aside, one by one.

On the 14th hole, I take the lead for the first time with a miraculous shot out of the trees, onto the green...10' feet from the hole. I win the 15th with a solid 10' par putt. On 16, I close him out with another solid par. He has lead all day, and I win three straight holes to take the match, with time running out.

You may ask..."Batman, given everything you have written, why have you titled this piece 'Why I Hate Golf-Part II'?" The look on that kids face, as his hopes were dashed by a 48 year old hacker, were hard to handle. He was strutting along, confident in his ability to outlast a bald headed, fat man, and suddenly, his world turned upside down. I had been where he was many times, as grizzled old veterans cranked out miraculous shots down the stretch to beat me. As the latest in a long line of "grizzled old veterans", it really made me feel bad for the kid.

You know what? Fuck him!!! I won!!!

Why I Hate Golf

Today was the first round of the Club Championship. Imagine my surprise when I found myself in the sixth of seven flights. God, has my game gotten so bad that I am nearly in the bottom flight again? It's all good though, because I should be able to compete.

I show up at the golf course, finding my center. Live in the moment...accept the mental challenge...play one shot at a time...you can par any hole. After two holes, I am looking at the other players in my flight and thinking, "I can beat any of these guys, any day. They really suck." This really should be the year for me to win my flight. Why then am I down two after two holes? To his credit, my opponent had managed to make two pretty spectacular pars to win the first two holes. I par the third, and somehow manage to win the fourth with a double bogey.

Ah, good, I am back to even. Then the wheels really come of. A triple bogey, followed by another double bogey puts me back down 2. I will never get any closer. He wins the eighth to go up 3. I then proceed to alternate pars with double bogeys to oscillate back and forth between 2 down and 3 down, until sadly I am down three with three holes to play.

Defeat creeps in, but I say, "Bullshit, I'm not beat yet. Just win the next three holes and force a playoff!" I win the next one. Down two with two to go. The next to the last hole is a par 3, and I have to hit to the green to assure a par, and hope he screws up. I DO NOT hit to the fucking green. I hit to the fucking sand trap. He tees off and pulls it horribly left. Hope springs back in.

I get to my ball, and discover it in an impossible to hit location in the sand trap. Hope fades. He dinks his second shot into the sand trap. Hope leaps forward. I take a mighty swing at my hopelessly buried ball, and barely get out of the trap. Hope fades. I hit a perfect pitch to within three feet of the pin. Hope arises again. He hits out of the sand trap to 20' from the hole. We are both lying three. He with 20' to putt, me with 3'. If I make mine and he misses his, I win the hole and we go the last hole with me only down one. Hope and elation are battling each other for the front seat in my mind.

Then he putts...straight into the fucking hole from 20' to win the match. Abandon hope.

And that, my friends, is why I hate golf..

The Fourth Up North

Another highly successful 4th of July party at the BatCave last night. Good attendance (60 or 70 folks, counting kids). I started prep work on Saturday, continued on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday morning, I drew up my "list" of things to complete, to make sure I could get it all done.

Had it all worked out, even offered to do a few of the indoor activities to lessen the burden on the spousal unit. Got the yard cleaned up, cleaned off all four porches, washed the new windows, went to Sam's. Went to United. Went to the Strip. Painted the gates and armoire. Prepared the veggie trays. Cooked the beans. Managed to get everything done on time except slice the tomatoes and onions for the burgers. Two relatively minor items.

As the burgers went on the grill, it came to my attention the spousal unit had decided to go on strike. Now, in fairness, she had cleaned the house. But, that was to be it. She apparently decided she was going to enjoy the evening, and nothing else.

Luckily for me, I have some good friends. Don stepped in to cook the burgers, so I could get the table ready and the veggies sliced. The Pillers' offered to help, and Don's wife Cray also jumped in and essentially evicted me from my own kitchen to get things ready. I think Lucy also pitched in, but in my confused dashing about, I am unsure. Many thanks to all of them just the same.

Many thanks also to Cousin Eddie for the very popular grilled corn. As always, Kristi's jalapeno poppers were a hit.

Bottom line, I was thrown a curve yesterday, but this party will go on. Dammit, I enjoy it, and I have been told by many that they not only enjoy it, but look forward to it every year. So rest easy Lubbock. As long as Bat lives on Manioca Rd. and the Langston's live across the street, the Fourth Up North will continue.

The most fulfilling moment of the evening came around 10:00 p.m., when one of the Pantoya rugrats came to me and asked, "Batman, when are you gonna start the fireworks?" Unknown to him, I have nothing to do with the fireworks, as they are provided by the Country Club across the road. I told him, "Let me make a phone call and see if I can get them going." About 90 seconds later the show began. That kid will think for years that his "Uncle Batman" puts on the greatest fireworks show in town.

In the end, that is all that matters.

"Post" Traumatic Stress Disorder

OK. I don't post very often. I will be the first to admit that. Generally, it is because I seldom feel I have anything to say that anyone would give a shit about. On top of that, after coming home from work, working on getting the undone done, doing the nightly chores and just basically running out of gas, I just don't have a lot of inspiration left. I read others' posts, enjoy them, and occasionally respond to them. Just don't fell like expressing most nights.

Doesn't make me a bad person.

Hopefully, on those rare occasions when I do post something, it is relatively meaningful and/or humorous. Bear with me...but trust me, the last thing I need is another responsibility. When something hits me, I will write about it.

Bang the Drum Slowly

Gotta give tribute to all of the great drummers down through the history of rock and roll. Time goes by, but their basic function never changes. Keep the beat. However, some have moved the drums into a contributing instrument. Yet, they are overlooked, or never truly listened to.

Many times, I find myself physically tuning out the guitars, singing and keyboards and focusing on the drum track. I encourage you to try it with your favorite bands, and get a new respect for what these amazing people do.

Ron Bushy - Iron Butterfly
Nick Mason - Pink Floyd
John Bonham - Led Zeppelin
Danny Carey - Tool

Play these albums and tune out everything but the drums. Listen hard, but you will be amazed and have a new respect for what these guys contribute.

Juneteenth

How was your day off? What, you don't get a day off on Juneteenth? Us lucky folk at TxDOT do. It is one of those weird holidays that were bestowed upon us in the 70's in lieu of a pay raise.

I spent the day in Andrews, battling the evil hordes of Odessa TxDOT-ers in the annual Lubbock-Odessa Golf Challenge. All I can say is the folks in Odessa play golf too much and work too little, as they bested us for the third straight year. Didn't matter, as I got to play golf at Chad Campbell's home course and had a great day.

Meanwhile, back at the home front, the chore list is a little smaller. Got the armoire painted, and planted 105 new Vinca plants in the dusty dry dirt 'neath the towering elms near the driveway. Just 40 more to go, and then vigilant watering. Thinking about attacking those unpainted adobe walls this weekend.

Getting the undone done a little at a time.

Getting the Undone Done

I have been in the house on Manioca Road for nearly six years now. You would think I would have the place pretty much finished at this point. After all, it feels like all I have done is work on it constantly. I added on a master bed and bath, put in a new front door and back door, built the flagstone patio, insulated the attic, built the dog runs, built the garden, renovated the garage and painted the damn place to name a few.

Last weekend, the wife mentioned that the elm trees needed to be trimmed up. I told her I was planning to get to that. To which she replied..."the only way you are going to get to that is by picking up the phone, and calling someone who knows what they are doing." Of course my first feeling was one of indignation. What the hell does she mean by that? I can trim fucking trees for crying out loud. A few more glances up into the upper branches of these massive trees, and I had to admit she was right. Well, I can sure as hell cut down that ailing Arizona Cypress by myself. Khiva's response? "How about you finish up some of these other things you have been meaning to get to before you start on something else?"

Again...massive indignation. I have worked my ass off on this house for six years. What could possibly be started, but not finished. I challenged her..."Like what?", I sneered. Bad move...bad move, indeed. Women have much better memories than men. Never challenge them with something, unless you absolutely know the answer.

The short list includes:

1. Fix the brick wall that has been on the ground since we moved in.
2. Paint the adobe walls you were supposed to paint two years ago when you painted the house.
3. Work on the landscaping in the front yard we have been talking about for three years
4. Finish the armoire.
5. Strip and re-finish the Adirondack chairs.
6. Paint the gates.
7. Pour the concrete behind the garden you said needed to wait til the winter (this was said last summer...Oooops).

Anyway, I told Khiva I would begin to attack these things, and ,By God, get 'em done. So far, I have finished the Adirondack chairs, and started on the landscaping. Oh yeah...I almost forgot...I also made that phone call to get someone who knows what they are doing to take care of the trees. They came out today and did one hell of a job. They even managed to get that Cypress down without my help. On the flip side, I put in a bunch of yard lights without their damn help.

The View From the Tundra

What the hell got into me? What am I doing driving a brand new 2007 Toyota Tundra? I have always been the grumpy, somewhat odd, bald headed guy in the old clunker. I have not bought a new car for myself since the 1984 Pontiac Fiero. That might explain my hesitance to try another new car. While I thought that was the hottest chick magnet to ever roll out of Detroit when I bought it, it turned out to be a sheep in wolf's clothing. Traded that one for a 1973 Mercedes 450 SL. Great car till it broke. Then my bank account followed suit.

Since then, I have driven the following:

1985 Nissan pick up - 208,000 miles when sold
1991 Nissan Maxima - 250,000 miles when sold
1992 Nissan Maxima - 145,000 miles when wrecked
2000 Nissan Maxima - 113,000 miles when sacrificed to the God's of Consumption.

I had gotten used to driving cars I didn't have to care about. Oddly, the less I cared about them, the better care they took of me.

Now I find myself in this great truck, and I am having a hard time getting comfortable with the idea. I think it is a combination of buyers remorse and the strange feeling that yet another part of me has sold out in my quest to join the Clone Army. Can't get ahead at work if you don't drive the right vehicle. I know this is crazy, but it still nags at my core.

Well, I better get comfortable with the idea, because Toyota Finance Corp says I have about 60 months to enjoy it. Who knows...maybe 10 years from now I will be adding this entry to the previous list...

2007 Toyota Tundra - 249,000 miles when owner was incinerated in a fiery crash.

Memorial Day

Aaahhh, Memorial Day weekend. Three day holiday that comes around every year in the last week of May. Get the pool set up, mow the yard, play golf. But, wait...why do I get three days off? I did nothing unusual or spectacular to deserve it. But somebody did.

Thank you, from the depths of my soul, brave soldiers. You suffered through the mud, the bitter cold, the oppressive heat and the fear of death to give me the freedom to enjoy golf, and mowing and just screwing off for three days. I can't even imagine the terror coursing through your veins, as you hunkered down in your foxhole, or stormed the beaches. But, you did it. You did it for your God, your family and your fellow countrymen. You did it without question, because you believed in the goodness that is this country. And I say thank you.

Mere words cannot express the gratitude we all owe these fine men. A heartfelt thanks is all I can offer. Consider it offered...and rest easy.

The Reality of Oy

I have been reading the Dark Tower series by Stephen King for 15 plus years. I am amazed as to how he can drag me off into a wonderful place, where a Clint Eastwood-esque character trods relentlessly towards his destiny, bodies of friends and enemies strewn about in his endless quest. The Gunslinger, Roland, plods on through endless landscapes in unending worlds towards his goal, the Dark Tower. One by one, foes and friends fall, and I read on...disturbed, but not surprised, nor even moved.

Then there was Oy.

If anyone out there in computin' land is reading this, and is reading the series, but not into the final book, please leave now, as I will be giving away an element of the story that you should experience on your own.

To the best of my recollection, Oy came into the Ka-tet in Book 3 (The Wastelands). He is what is known in mid-world as a Billybumbler. King's desciption of him is, from the beginning, clearly that of a Pembroke Welsh Corgi. It is probably because of my own close relationship with Corgi's, that I make this connection. Then, I find out in the final book, that King actually has Corgi's of his own. There is no question in my mind that Sai King is writing from his own experiences with his Corgi.

Oy acquired his unusal name through his rudimentary understanding of the spoken word. His first master is the boy Jake Chambers, referred to by the Gunslinger as "The Boy". Oy can only enunciate the word 'Oy, when referring to Jake, and is therefore so named.

Oy is an integral part of the Ka-tet, or family of Tower seekers. There is the Gunslinger, Roland of Gilead. He is joined twice by Jake Chambers, then by the drug addict Eddie Dean of New York, and by Susannah, the brave black woman, who lost her legs to a subway train in her version of New York.

From Book 2 to Book 7, these travellers braved horrible odds and unimaginable beings in their quest for the Dark Tower.` Halfway through the final volume, it became terribly clear to me what must unfold. In Book 1, the Gunslinger began his quest alone...and Ka dictated he must finish it alone. One by one, Eddie, Jake and Susannah exited the tale. In the end, only Oy and the Gunslinger remained. I held out hope that the little Billybumbler would see the tale completed. My hopes were futile.

Oy died today, and I cried. Me, the grumpy, heartless, 48 year old engineer, who could give a damn about most things in this world. Oy died, and I put the tale aside, and cried. I will finish it another time. It hit too close to home. It reminded me of Trifle, the first of our Cogis to go. It reminded me of Tom, the current Corgi, who so closely resembles who I imagine Oy to be. But mostly, it made me think of Katie, our first Corgi, and the one who has become closest to me. She is 12 years old, and I know her time is being marked. (Thank God, she doesn't know it or show it).

Travel well Oy..we were well met. I will see you in the clearing at the end of the path.