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.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, July 16, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
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!!!
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!!!
Friday, July 6, 2007
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..
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..
Thursday, July 5, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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