Here's to Hoody's

my new favorite article of sartorial splendor... the WalMart hoody. Preferably gray; the one I got most recently has parts of an Irish Pub Crawling Championship logo on it.

What did she say?

I was watching TV yesterday afternoon and a commercial came on for a new female birth control product, some kind of ring that you replace once a month... it actualy sounded like quite an improvement. Anyway, they were rolling through all of the disclaimers, "women who are allergic to anything, have failed hearts, yada yada"... and I'm ignoring them sort of when all of a sudden she said '...are pregnant, or could become pregnant'. What did she say?!?

How 'Bout Them Spurs

The Sarge received this letter recently:

Dear Sarge,

I have only recently moved to San Antonio and I’m really a Spurs fan even though I haven’t been able to go to a game in person. These guys are tremendously successful, very involved in the community and are visible and so in touch with San Antonians that it makes your heart pump silver and black just to be in their community.

I have learned a lot about the Spurs without ever doing any research at all. I just listen to folks talk about them at flea markets and during weather reports and read about them on bathroom walls and such. You can learn a lot just by being a little bit observant, I’ll tell you that.

Here are a few items of more personal interest I have learned about the Spurs:

Tim Duncan is the big, big star on the Spurs. One might surmise from his name that he is probably Scot and of the extremely large male category. From what I could piece together, he was the winner of the American Virgin competition which was probably a less popular version of American Idol or something. (I would think so! “let’s see, competitive virginity or singing…hmmm…LaLaLaaaa!”) He also was an excellent swimmer in his youth which could be how he escaped the Scottish Isles. Arriving just inland a bit from Wilmington NC he settled down in the Wake Forest area for longer than anyone would have thought prudent (appears he’s a little slow to get moving). I think he was or is a very religious man because people like that Irish-name enormous guy from Miami talk about his fundamentalism a lot. Here’s where it all gets slightly confusing to me… apparently Mr. Holt, who is either the owner/operator of the Spurs or the guy the real owner/operators hired to go to games and impersonate them, won Mr. Duncan’s performance rights in a lottery. I personally have played the lottery and I always check the box for lump sum money payout. Imagine Mr. Holt’s surprise when he forgot to check the box and won a competitive virgin Scot who was fundamental and pretty darned happy living in Winston-Salem. But they both seem to have made the relationship work nicely; in fact I think right now it appears to be Mr. Duncan’s turn to own Mr. Holt but I’m not sure how that works in the NBA.

Bruce Bowen is a man who works hard in the community, chasing fat kids from schoolrooms and down the street. He has a wonderful family, is admired by teammates and fans, recognized and badgered for autographs wherever he goes and apparently is meaner than a snake. The way I understand what’s written is that the NBA is made up of very athletic and tall men who have perfected graceful and often exciting moves that they use to score points on the court and after they score they graciously let the athletic, tall, graceful and exciting guys from the other team do their moves before starting all over again. Mr. Bowen apparently cannot, will not, and I mean refuses to work and play well with others during these activities. He places his body about 3 cm from theirs and moves at the exact time and in the precise direction they do, blocking them from their graceful exciting blah blah blah. I bet he mocks them too… “Goldurn it!” “Goldurn it!” “Stop repeating what I say!” “Stop repeating what I say!”. He reportedly even stands still on the floor when other players leap high into the air towards him. Good thing he isn’t allowed on international teams, or we’d be at war!!

Robert Horry looks like he may be Japanese. He acts a little inscrutable, I think. (this kind of rests on the premise that most folks are scrutable and I just don’t want to get into that right now). You watch and watch and watch and wait for Rob-san to do the wonderful thing. When you whisper “when is he going to do it?” the answer is “soon. Just watch.” And you keep watching and asking and sniveling and finally they tell you the truth. “June, okay!! He’ll do it in June now shut up!” and when you ask why we’re watching him now you’re told “sometimes he gets confused and thinks it’s June”.

Tony Parker is the greatest point guard I’ve seen since middle school in Alaska. Mr. Parker is reported to be French, but his accent is pretty hokey and I think he is from Seguin. He gets together with the other s’posed to be French guy in Arizona and talks that language; to me, it could very well be pig-Latin with a Seguin accent. But he is a great man – he drives a convertible just in front of police car chases and he dates beautiful actresses who actually believe that he is French and therefore can’t understand our credit card system. He has this shot called the teardrop that he throws way the hell up in the air, right over the real tall guys and down thru the basket. If they jump up and swat it away they are chastised for goal tending which is apparently only allowed indoors when wearing a fierce mask and ice skates. This would limit one’s jumping ability to about one jump I think but would be a hoot on a date when the Batman costume gets boring. Anyway Mr. Parker probably learned the teardrop shot from Brent Barry’s dad, who was even more effective in that he made everyone stand still while he did it. But Tony will learn if he just listens to the Barry guys.

Manu Ginobili is the Captain Bill of the NBA. His signature move from the fans perspective is to race down the floor and hurl his body into the thickest group of players he can find. Arms and legs extended he frisbee’s across the court bouncing off players, fans, Coyote, floor, ceiling, walls, sometimes the backboard and once the shot clock. And when he has the ball he really goes overboard. His other signature move from his opponent’s perspective is a dramatic performance whenever they get within 8 – 12 meters of Manu. He clutches his chest, staggers backwards then staggers back forward, begins weeping out loud, and falls down on the floor calling for religious, family, and marketing representative support. Mr. Ginobili also teaches short game golf to airplane mechanics and many of the Spurs, specializing in the flop shot.

I haven’t learned much about the rest of the players; I’ll update this report when I do.

Coach Gregg Popovich is a genius. He has asked his slightly famous assistant coaches to say that out loud many times - so there you go, it’s true. He originally tried to make a career in the Air Force but in one of the earliest and most effective utilizations of the ejection seat he is a civilian. Reportedly the Coach at times gets frustrated with the play of his team or activities in his subdivision and yanks various sized pieces of hair from his head. He then has Brent Barry trim him up with a weed-whacker and they share head bands to hide the stitches. He speaks Russian but nobody has the slightest idea why. Maybe he and Tony Parker sit around in a Seguin hide-a-way, make up new words and just laugh their butts off. Coach Pop is also renowned as a connoisseur of spirits. Judging from his team make up I suspect he specializes in foreign spirits which are then Americanized. That would mean light beer from a European or Latin country I think, or perhaps an American light beer with a note on the can that says it uses fine Bavarian hops grown in Argentina or something. Anyway, when Coach Pop’s team does really good we all should send him some light beer because hey – he’s an expert on that too!

See what you can learn and absorb about your San Antonio Spurs just from flea markets, bathroom walls and weather reports? It is breath-taking in so many ways.

A Friend's Share

A friend of my family lost a young son a few days ago.
Completely and Totally Beloved Barbara and I are still reeling after her only son killed himself early this year. I know just a bit about the pain, remorse, and heavy guilt that lingers after the immediate shock and first-stage grief wears off.
I have a son in the Air Force who did a tour in Turkey last year and is now deployable with a day or two’s notice. My daughter is married to a newly graduated West Point 2LT who is doing his first real tour in the Army, and his OJT site is Iraq, right now in a rear area support role but possibly soon as a platoon leader walking the pointy edge. My worst nightmares are about losing one or both or all of them.
So anyway – right after my friend’s son died I woke up one morning with this in my head:

A Friend’s Share

A life created through love; my friend’s.
Traveled a different path,
Now gone from our view.

Pain of a child lost is weight,
A burden to make light of mountains
Not for embrace but by those
Who loved the life into being

I cannot ‘compass that weight,
Nor ken that great pain
Though my dreams often
Darkened from that fear

Tho’ I might carry a friend's share
Just that loan of soul to soul
A sliver of pain transferred and eased
The lightest load lifted

Raise your face, then:
Feel the soul of a friend,
Who asks only
For a friend's share

Thinking about expensive houses

I had an experience today; I was sitting on my porch, which I do for long parts of the day to smoke and watch the thousands of birds we have in our area. Anyway, I’m on the porch and two women in what must be termed summer dresses walk by. Not only did they have tea party dresses on, they wore hats. In my usual way I said hey…”Good afternoon, ladies” and one of they women turned to me in her pastel blue hat and suit and said “we’re just walking along looking at all of these adorable tiny houses!” She was pretty excited. And I was thinking, okay – we moved from a big (4,000 sq ft) house that was just too big to a smaller home (about 2200 sq ft) but in my experience that’s not necessarily a little house. It is however cute as hell.

But all this made me think about the time I went to a Parade of Homes in a very exclusive neighborhood in the San Antonio area and was wandering into the master bedroom suite… we had a guide who was talking like we were actually interested in buying a $2M home… they had this wonderful bathroom with a little commode room like many homes have.. it had great wallpaper, an upscale (I guess) toilet, and a towel rack. So I axed the guide..” what’s the towel rack for?”. She looked at me like an idiot (okay, I am an idiot, but still…) and said “it’s for a towel to dry your hands”. So I tracked this bit of insanity a little further. “After you wash them where, exactly?” She looked at me and thought for a minute then said “no one has ever axed me that before”. Because I’m thinking that if anyone washes their hands in my toilet I really, really don’t want them using my towels. Just thinking.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Be An Idiot

My good friend and neighbor, West, got teased unmercifully by his wife and me yesterday for doing something that I do all the time.. he was speaking to a Hispanic gentleman about some construction work and although he was speaking English, he did so with a Hispanic accent.

Kendra laughed at him, and I jumped right in…”Heyyyyzuss amigo, chu peek up my air-condichtener??” To which the other guy says in (objectively, Texan) unaccented English “Why yes, I happened by this morning and took possession as agreed.” West has the delightful ability to laugh at himself, so we all enjoyed it to varying degrees.

I’ve lived in a lot of countries, and I find myself not only trying to make locals understand me by speaking English to them with their accent, but speaking their language with the accent of wherever I was last. I can speak pretty good German with an Italian accent. I speak Thai, with a Lao accent. I speak Italian with an idiots accent that even as I speak it I wonder what the hell I’m doing that for.

It’s like my brain works against itself – the language kernel takes over and does what it wants to, while my logic and embarrassment kernels complain.. “that is not proper enunciation!  And it is mortifying personally!” The language kernel apparently resides in that brain community shaped and trained to be a senior NCO, because it says “Shut your pie-hole, college boy” and does whatever it wishes. One’s only possible defense is to laugh at yourself, because you be one verifiable idiot of the first rank. This position is one I’m so used to that I guess we should just give me the sobriquet of “Planet Idiot”, as opposed to lesser ranks.

Sarge's Non-Diner

My neighbor, West, forgot his lunch cooler yesterday when he was at my house, so I did the good neighbor thing and froze his freezer-pack thingies, made him a sandwich, and even threw in some grapes and an apple fritter. When he came by to thank me of course the wiseass put in his order for tomorrow. I grinned but after he left I wrote up the menu below and taped it to his door.


Sarge's Non-Diner and Book Emporium

Special Lunch MENU

Mon. Smoked Air (Come stand by our beautiful, rustic porch! Breathe in that second-hand smoke! America like it used to be! Don’t come on the porch, it pisses Bob off.)
$8.00

Tue. Air Sandwich (in which one mimes the eating of a sandwich which ain’t there)
$11,00

Wed. Crumble-bum onna stick (Ask Bob for some crumbs, and he’ll come after you with a stick, shouting “Crumble-bum! Crumble-bum!”
$3.00

Thu. Thursdays we got nothin’. Don’ bother me
$3.00

Fri. Pig-inna-blanket Memories (just lean back and remember the gas you got from pigs-inna-blanket you got down the street)
$6.50

Sat. Ice Cube
$2.25

Sun. Sunday Buffet – you just buffet your skinny ass offa my proppity.

Open 9:00 a.m. – 11:00 p.m. Closed every third week, plus the odd and even weeks in between.

Thoughts of May 8th

!!  You know, smart and strong women are incredibly sexy. Good looks get invisible sooner or later, but the smart-strong combo never fades.

!!  I don’t like politicians. I sincerely believe that politicians of every affiliation would happily sell or ‘leak’ data critically important to the common good if they were assured a 2% increase in votes. I believe that. So stay away from my daughters and my granddaughter, you sumbitches.

!!  Here’s a thought. People who cannot possibly hunt or forage for their families will and should always vote for a government which will do that for them. Them what can, won’t.

!!  People ask me if Alaska is as weird as that old TV show ‘Northern Exposure’…… actually those people would be considered pretty normal in Homer.

!!  What if every 8 blocks on a street had to select a resident for Congress (I spelled it with a small “c” at first, then laughed at myself) for every annual Congress? Betcha it would work out better. Oh, and fuck a bunch of Senators.

!!  I just chatted with my friend JT.. he retired last Thursday, but I didn’t call him until Monday ‘cause I figured he’d be drunk. He swore he wasn’t, but he didn’t remember all that much about the last few days.
There ain’t much better feeling in the world than wandering out in your robe on your second day of retirement with a cup of coffee and watching all of the non-retired folks streaming out of the subdivision to work. I lifted my cup and grinned at each of them, but I think that was a little weak… I encouraged JT to wave his wienie at them, but he prob’ly won’t.

Excuses for my absence

It has been a truly weak month for blogging. But I wasn’t totally idle. Wrote a book for my granddaughter, and this time in my style. Then I gave in to crass commercialism and prepped the whole thing for sale – new parents or grandparents can submit their pictures and names and an anecdote or two and I’ll turn them out a handmade, hand-bound custom book for only a gazillion dollars (actually, $299 for the really nice one, and $400 for the leather bound super-duty paper, drool-proof (yet to be tested) instant heirloom). Got the website construction started (sofiabook.com) and should be ready for production by June 1. By the way, learning to do a web page is super simple. Learning to do a website with interactivity, credit forms, database synchronicity, and a small blinky thing that hovers about 8” over my desk has been intellectually…what’s the phrase… a booger.

Here’s the deal. I wrote a 30 page book, which has some graphics on every page, is mildly funny, no big deal right? I fretted and worried and rewrote and sniveled (yea, sniveled – it shames me to my core) until finally I said “Brisk this book, I declare it done”. It took me 4 full days of writing and many more webbing and graphic-ing and Aunt-ing and Uncle-ing. Good story, what’s your point?

So now I have even more respect for good writers, except for those whom I am sure are idiot savant’s.

Sofi's Book - Draft

I just finished the draft of Sofi's Book. The writing part was easy, but I'm arguably the worst website designer in history, so it took me awhile. Anyway, you can see it too. It's at www.rwhiteside.net - you'll probably have to wait a few seconds for the pictures to come up; I did. It's still rough, with some grammatical and positioning errors, but it's a start. My daughter Sonja liked it, which is what counts. I'll keep the updates posted over on the website.

A No Rabbit Easter

We had a great Easter Sunday, without rabbit. I checked; we had some pig, some cow, some chicken, maybe a little turkey, beans, potato salad, coleslaw, onion rings, nachos, pickles, onions and sauce. Wore it out, is what we done. But there was no rabbit.

The completely and totally beloved Barbara went to church with some good friends and enjoyed herself immensely (I’m looking forward to going when I won’t feel like an Easter church meeting hypocrite). I met them all at the Blue Cactus restaurant afterwards for the BBQ, fellowship, and some phenomenally good bluegrass music. First, the restaurant review:

The Blue Cactus used to be a honky-tonk bar of the old school, which I visited often. Beer drinkin’ was required, floor-spittin’ allowed if you could find a clean spot, and of a Friday there was the usual country crowd; dressed up cowgirls and a few fellows with ironed jeans accompanied by lots of fellows with raggedy jeans and a beer-given certainty in their dancing skills. If you didn’t have some kind of a hat the folks would wide-eye you.
Today it’s a family kind of BBQ place, in the daytime at least. And the BBQ is good. The brisket needed a couple more hours in a moist smoker, but the ribs and chicken were outstanding. Sausage is sausage and that’s all I’m saying about that. The chicken fried steak was reported to be okay, but the gravy needed some work, mostly in the form of some cookin’ debris mixed in for flavor. You know, the Burnt Crunchy Bits, or BCB’s. A good gravy needs some BCB’s. The onion rings were good, but the grease should have been a little cooler to cook the onions more. Nachos were excellent.
The iced tea was adequate, and the water with lemon was real good. It had a bouquet of coyote, or maybe big dog off his leash and I think I detected just a hint of mesquite. The taste was pure recycled RiverWalk, and the lemon was tart with them big old brown spots on the skin. Matured lemons are the best. In the Sarge’s rating book, the Blue Cactus is a 3-visit Keeper just for the food and water. But the music made it an 8-visit Keeper.

I had never heard bluegrass music before. I was an over-50 world traveling been there done that bluegrass virgin. I loved it! When I was a kid in Alaska music was a serious hobby for me, even a potential vocation until I saw how hard it was to make a living and how rough that living could be. But I met some good guitar pickers of the 60’s hard rock variety. Saw Hendrix, the Kay brothers, saw that blind kid from Bethel, heard them all. And the Tennessee Valley Authority, five guys who were jamming bluegrass style yesterday were pretty much as good as any of them. Two of the best guitar pickers I ever heard in my life, a banjo player of world-class skill, and a great mandolin player. The bass-player was a young college fellow they had just called that day to fill in and who had never played the music before and he hung right in there, grinnin’ and fakin’ and doing it good. His Dad, Mom, and sister were sitting with us and were unmercifully hilarious, hootin’ and laughing and directing him like white-tails conductors when he sang backup on songs he’d never sung before. In my first hearing of bluegrass I believe I was real lucky to hear some experts. One of the visiting guitar players was a local doc, a chest-cutter who also happened to be the certified best guitar picker in Texas, and the normal guitar lead was just as good with a different style, more slides and minors, wandering off the page then walking everyone right back in. I heard about 8 layers to the music the first time I heard it. I’m going to listen to a lot more; I’m sure I missed a lot. Great, great music by the Tennessee Valley Authority.

I didn’t find a single egg, ‘cause nobody laid any. Close friends, good food, and great music. It was a day I’ll remember.

Horse Racing vs Cockroach Racing

The differrence between horse racing and cockroach racing is publicists.
That's it.
Update: and the size of the stands. maybe the jockeys, but i 'm not sure. And I guess whips are a little out of place when you're riding a carapace.

Sports Media Hurts Sports

The World Champion San Antonio Spurs have three games to play, and need three wins to have their best season ever. This achievement is in spite of the fact that Duncan and Ginobili have been hobbled the entire year with foot injuries. The other offensive superstar, Tony Parker, has stepped up with his best year ever, both on the court and off (dating an extremely good-looking lady from Desperate Housewives). Bruce Bowen, the defensive wizard, is as good as or better than the championship years. Unfortunately, he spent most of his time working towards his Masters degree and helping local schoolchildren, instead of in a courtroom or sniveling about another player. Yawn.

Aren’t you getting tired of reading about them and hearing about them? You’re not? Oh right, they’re only the 37th largest media market. The only thing you hear about the Spurs or San Antonio is when Phil Jackson or (pick a name from) ESPN radio bemoan the fact that the playoff finals might occur by the River Walk or in Detroit instead of South Beach and LA.

Surprisingly, this post isn’t about the Spurs or even San Antonio. It’s about sports media as we know it today. Media is business, and business is money. Money is generated by ratings, and ratings are generated from the most populous areas. Yada yada yada. It’s a pretty linear relationship, and it applies to news, sports, weather, and traffic. The only difference between Pardon The Interruption and QVC are the products they pitch. One yaps about handmade Amish pot holders and one yaps about Kobe Bryant or Barry Bonds.

So, bouncing straight past the next comparison between whores and sports media celebrities, let’s finally get to the question:

Are today’s sports media good for sports?

If you live in one of the crowded coastal areas, you’ll hear a lot of regional sports news. If you live in a crowded but otherwise isolated area such as Seattle or San Antonio, it’s local coverage only. If you live in the Heartland, you may not be able to tune in any kind of news about your team. So what’s a good sports fan to do? Well, how many Cowboys fans live hundreds or thousands of miles away from Dallas? The answer is: very, very many. How about LA Lakers fans? Same same. How many Seattle Mariners fans live in Baltimore? Eleven.

Small market teams find it almost impossible to attract good players on their way up, because players get paid as much on marketing power as athletic skill. No ratings, no huge bonus. Athletes in the very small prime-time career window want ratings of any kind whatsoever, be it sports highlights or gossip columns or courtrooms or commercials. Only when their “q-factor” starts to slide due to eroding skills, over-the-top behavior, over-hyping or any combination thereof will you see them moving to the smaller market teams who are desperate for star power to put butts in seats.

The argument that national sports media helps the big-market teams become more competitive than the small market teams is compelling. But is it bad for sports? I argue that the answer is a resounding Yes! I believe that the real problem is the influence of marketing power over athletic skills. Is Kobe Bryant the best player in the NBA? Athletically you have to rank him at the top but he’s only recently regained that status after the PR disaster of Colorado. Two years in the hinterlands is a long time for an innocent man. His skills weren’t dramatically lessened following knee surgery, but his marketing power was.

Matt Hasselbeck is a huge marketing power, and got gazillions in signing bonus, right? Well, no. The man works in Seattle. Tony Parker is a PR powerhouse, isn’t he? Well, no. The man works in San Antonio. Ugly people shouldn’t apply either. Remember all of Bill Walton’s national commercials? You don’t? How about Michael Jordan’s? You do?

When flash outweighs skills, the sporting aspect loses. Period. When TV sports celebrities hump an athlete’s leg because of his shoe deal while his team misses the playoffs, then my friends we are watching the Home Shopping Channel in baggy shorts.

If the Spurs win another championship and Gregg Popovich and Phil Jackson are in the same room at the same time, get ready to hear from the “Zen Master” my peeps. Coach Pop works in San Antonio. Screw winning, look at that Q! Look at the ratings!

Lisa, from Texas

I have a Texan friend, Lisa. I don’t have a lot of friends, but the few I have, I treasure. Anyway - Lisa.

First, she is gorgeous. Slim, blonde, blue-eyed, with a smile that just stops you cold. She was young when I met her, and she is slightly less young now (older than shit, Lisa), but still gets that second and third look when she’s walking around. And she’s tougher than your Grandma’s elbow. Many times I have seen her smile that big smile at men and tell them to urinate vertically onto a braided hemp product used to knot and secure, or when she’s had three more beers tell them to attempt an aeronautical intercourse activity with a motivated piece of cylindrical pastry. {for you non-military types that translates to “piss up a rope” or “take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut”} and they grin and bob their heads and just lap it up. I always sat back and laughed.

I’ve often thought that the best way to describe Lisa is “a two-fisted thinker”. She doesn’t suffer fools at all, not even for the moment of political correctness. She might not speak up immediately, but those of us who let the fool stroll out on our tongue know that at some time soon, Lisa will puncture our ego balloon.

Lisa worked with me a couple of times. I have had mature and successful men come into my office in tears because “Lisa was mean to me!” Either Lisa or I fired every one of them, or they quit real soon after that painful interview. Conversely, I sincerely believe that she is the best team builder I ever saw. For a mean-assed woman, I mean. When she has formed a team, they out-work and out-perform anyone around, and they love doing it. Lisa feeds them, cares for them, teases them, laughs with them, and they give it right back to her. Customers love her, and so does her team after the straphangers are gone.

Lisa is a Marine, but out of the Corps, in the same sense that I'm a soldier but out of the Army and it’s a good thing the Marines are tough sons-a-bitches or they woulda’ had to learn when Lisa got there.

She rides her motorcycle, disdains folks weaker than she is, gets rid of less than productive workers, pisses off politically correct corporate bureaucrats, and prefers cats to dogs. If she works for you, she will test you just about every day. Flinging her shit right back at her is pretty much the only way I ever learned to stand her. One time I told her “Lisa, you should never miss the opportunity to shut the fuck up”. She didn’t shut up, but she remembered that command, ‘cause now that I’m feeble and retired she quotes it to me.

And I love her. I love the strength, the passion, the “Fuck you, you aren’t Texan” attitude. She is funny, profane, caring, and won’t return phone calls worth a shit. Just a good damned friend. I wish you all the same luck.

A Plan

So hey, you’re dying, huh?

Yeah, and so are you mudbone. I might get there a nanosecond before you do on the galactic scale, but we’re all headed there. I had a little stroke. The enormous medical book says that odds are I’ll have another one within the next year, and it will be a bigger one. I don’t have any money left after the disability czars at SAIC and Cigna threw me on the trash heap, but I’ve got a lot going for me that they can’t take away.

My left arm doesn’t work, but I’m right handed
I can’t walk some days, but both my feet still reach the ground, and I’ve seen a lot of people who don’t have feet, or legs either.
I can’t eat much, but I’m overweight and it’ll do me good.
I have a lot of pain, but I also have a lot of drugs, and military healthcare.
I lost the hearing in my left ear, but that means I can just lay on my right ear when the completely and totally beloved Barbara is watching one of those dumbass shows she loves, and we can enjoy being close.
I get to sleep with the most wonderful woman I ever met, the C&TB Barbara.

Here’s my plan:

I’m going to listen to the birds sing, every day while I still can.
I’m going to write what’s in my heart, with no worries about what I say.
I’m going to sue the shit out of my disability antagonists
When I save a little money, I’m taking my sweetie to the coast and watch the ocean, drink in its power.
I’m going to sit in the sun, and smile when I see snow on Channel 5.
I’m going to enjoy my family, from my Mom to my sisters to my kids and my granddaughter. Really, really enjoy them.
I’m going to love the holy bejesus out of my wife Barbara. She is the power source of my soul, and I dunno’ what I did to deserve her, but I ain’t giving her back.

That’s my plan. I think I’ll go work on it a bit.

The Cause of my Stroke

I think I figured out what caused me to have a stroke. A couple of weeks ago, completely and totally beloved Barbara, my Mom and I went over to Gruene, which is a little touristy town close to New Braunfels. It has a lot of character, and a dancehall that every local loves. It’s not air conditioned, it looks like it might fall down, and there’s always good music in the evenings of the Texas country persuasion. It’s also the place a young feller named George Strait got some stage time before he went off to Tennessee to impress the poohbahs there.

Anyway, Mom was in one of those shops where they sell all the tourist junk and C&TB Barbara and I were sitting on a bench outside. There was a little girl coming down the street who was just cuter than a bug. It was Sunday and she had on a white dress with lacey stuff at the bottom with red ribbons pulled through it, and her hair was tied up like puppy-dog ears and tied with red ribbons too. She was holding a leash with one of those Westy terriers attached and his hair was tied up the same way. Although C&TB Barbara doesn’t like Westies, she loves dogs in general so she asked the little girl what her name was. She said “Petal” and my sweetie asked her how she got that name. “When I was in my Mommy’s tummy she and Daddy were sitting in that park over there and some flowers from the tree fell on her, so they decided to name me Petal”. C&TB asked her what her doggies name was. “Porky” she said. So Barbara asked her why his name was Porky. The sweet little girl said “Because he likes to fuck pigs.”

And I laughed so hard I bet I busted something loose in that dried up walnut I call a brain. That’s why I had a stroke, I’m betting you.

Chasing the Geniuses from Way Behind

Writing is a funny business. I read the work of good writers, and I’m both awestricken and envious. In my opinion good writers are able to move their ideas around a palette of possibilities while keeping the points of their tale clean, clear, and easy to follow. Some of the great ones, Peggy Noonan for example, can make it look so easy that I just had to try for myself. I’m smart, if disabled and I love the act of creating an idea for others to see. But I’m also smart enough to know that I’m not a good writer yet. I’m a dabbler, an idea source without the discipline to convert it to crisp prose. I think I’m like the person who can envision or even design a beautiful set of cabinets, but can’t take the wood and create the product. Mmmmh, no, I am exactly that person.
How do they do that? Where do artists find both the creativity to form a piece of art mentally and the discipline to work through the hours, days, and months needed to produce a work that lasts in the memory of people exposed to it? Maybe they just keep doing it until they’ve built up enough mental muscle to keep themselves working on one idea until it’s formed, baked, and cooled before haring off on another idea that excites them. Or maybe they’re just geniuses who have better skills than me. Or both (.
I’m going to continue to dive into their work and wade into my own until I get it right. The first part will be wonderful and the second will surely be a lifetime mission.

Oh, by the way, you had a stroke

The nurse from my doctor's office called today with the results of my Echo-cardiogram and MRI and said my heart looked pretty good, and Oh by the way, you did have a stroke.
So I thought about it, then re-checked my insurance, then considered my lifestyle. I've always been of the philosophy that while I live, I will live. That's easy to do when you're young. But when you're 54 and retired and feelin' safe, you reconsider.

I guess I'll continue the bull riding, but stop the smoking. Maybe have extra lettuce and tomato on my cheeseburgers. Cut down on the vino. Mmmmh, did I say bull riding? I meant bullshitting. Ah well, such is li...SH..Thud.

OH SH..Thud

Well I was driving down the road one day
Tryin’ to sing a little higher
An 18-wheeler just up the road
Pitched a rock between its tires
And as I watched it float

I said them two words
what sum up The situation most

“OH SH..thud” shattered glass and brakes
That’s 300 bucks that I don’t own
And glass all o’er the seat
I stopped my truck and sat there
Thinkin’ about my luck

I guess them two words can best describe
Why it just ain’t worth a (fuck) darn

OH SH..thud – that mortar in Iraq
That blew my birthday iPod up and
Put steel in my (ass) back
And how the fellows laughed at me
When I got my Purple Heart
‘cause I ain’t sat down for three long weeks
Maybe it will help me start

I came home to find my girlfriend
Sleeping with my bud
I got my butt up on my shoulders
And then it was SH..Thud
He broke my nose and cracked two ribs
Without even getting up
But when I came back with the 2x4
All he said was “OH SH..Thud”

So I spent three months on the county farm
Never saw that girl again
My assignment to the States was gone
Not for someone from the pen

They busted me down to PFC
And sent my ass straight back
I’ve lost my birthday iPod
But I damn sure found Iraq

And so it goes, my buddy drove
The Humvee back to base
He drove over an old garbage sack
And it blew us into space
As I was goin’ out I heard my buddy holler
‘Look out Oh Mom hang on there, bud'
Then the biggest noise I ever heard
and me -
'OH SH..Thud’

No buddy, no left leg
No money comin up
Just two words sing my life today
OH SH..Thud
copyright April 2006 RM Whiteside

Update: The totally and completely beloved Barbara didn't like this poem/song. She said it's depressing, and she thinks it was a cathartic outpouring from my combat days. I think it's an oldfartic outpouring from a gimpy old soldier. We're probl'y both right.

Sharing Sneezewhackle for Sofia

Sneezewhackle, Sneezewhackle munchity munch

I have candy in my lunch
Sean wants some, that’s my hunch
Should I keep it or should I share?
It tastes so good but what is fair?

“Pleease Sofia, may I have a bite?”
Sean my friend you certainly might.
How about this red one, what a great sight

“Oooh that’s so good, thanks that’s great
My mouth is watering, I can hardly wait!
I told my Mom how much you share,
So she sent you some chips
And this big juicy pear.”

Oh Sean, whoopee! How great is that!?
I gave you some candy but I got more back
I share with you, you share with me
And that’s how friendship ought to be

Sneezewhackle, Sneezewhackle juwhappity flair
My day is better because we shared

A Priest, A Nun, and a Lawyer

So a priest, a nun, and a lawyer walked into a bar.
The bartender reached under the bar and pulled out a short shotgun with nylon grips and no choke at all. “I’ve had it with you guys! Get the hell out of my bar! I don’t want to be a joke anymore!”

So they were hustled out by a tattoo marketing rep and stood on the sidewalk.

“I just wanted a beer!” said the priest. And the streets ran with the finest beer.

“I just wanted for women to be free to express themselves however they wished!” said the nun. And women all over the city flung off various uncomfortable pieces of foundation garment architecture, took over every single job of importance, and began running a logical but very strict city, ‘cause they are smarter, meaner, and tougher than men.

{There was rejoicing in the streets, until 9:45 p.m., and nobody was upset except for the owners of airport bars who had never sold much wine or booze before. Everyone had to be home by 10:00.}

“I want a franchise!” said the lawyer, and convinced the last male judge to impose a writ of Eminent Domain to take over the bar.

And the beer stopped flowing, the women climbed back into clothes meant to impress other women, but they stayed in charge because, mmmhh they were still tougher, meaner, and smarter.

And the world sucked, thanks to that sumbitch lawyer.

From The Mailbag

“Dear Philosopher Sarge,

I’ve often heard the phrase “it’s like explaining a color to a blind man”. Can a color really be explained?

Your Friend Joe”


Dear Friend Joe,

Sure! Sergeants can do anything. How about this;

Blue; is the color of calm, of logic, and of peaceful reflection
Red: is the color of passion and blood
Green: good green is the color of the ocean’s power, while bad green is the scent of court buildings, hospitals, and police stations; the kind of buildings that people don’t want to be in.
Purple: is the color of awe, and tremendous power held by an individual
Yellow: is the color of warmth, and the scent of nature
White: is the color of cold
Black: is the color of nighttime, and the color of nighttime fun
Orange: is the color of the scent of citrus
Brown: is the color of the scent of dirt
--------------------

“Dear Philosopher Sarge,

Can you explain why men become lustful at the sight of a woman’s breast, even when they don’t know the woman, or why women tend to melt when they see a baby, even when they don’t know the family?

Thanks,
Marcia”


Dear Marcia,

No.

Hunter/Killer of the Hands-On Type

When I was 12 or 13 I went moose hunting for the first time with my Dad and our neighbor. We lived in Alaska, we were cash-poor, and we hunted and fished and crabbed and grew vegetables in order to survive. I had (finally) graduated from garden-drudge to hunter/killer with responsibility for the family larder. It was a clear step toward manhood, increased status in the eyes of the community, and as it was the November season it was an excellent opportunity to freeze my hodingus’es off.

Anyway, Dad and Mr. Danby figured that there were probably moose hiding in a thick stand of alders, so they would circle around and make some noise, and when the moose came out I would shoot them. We set up firing lanes (so as not to shoot the noise making men) and I hunkered down in the snow {Hunker: to lower your redneck ass in preparation for a burst of activity} to wait. Damned if they weren’t right. Four moose came ambling out of the alders and I shot them all. Five shots, four moose down. At $.11 per round, that made the winter red meat supply for two families cost about $.40 a ton. The problem was that there were only three of us, and I had shot four moose. Dad had to whip back into town to get Mom’s moose tag so that all four were legal kills. Mr. Danby supervised me in gutting and skinning and quartering the moose while Dad was gone, then we started the first of many trips pulling a toboggan-load of meat up to the truck.

I hunted every season until I joined the Army and usually got a moose for the table. I also caught halibut on trot lines (although the damned crabs got more of them than I did), salmon and trout, and I worked in a crab cannery so I got to bring king crab home. I ate so much crab that I got sick of it and have never eaten it again. And graduation to hunter/killer didn’t get me out of garden-drudge duty. We had a brutally short growing season but we put up potatoes, carrots, cabbage, beets, broccoli, cauliflower, turnips, and greens every year. And we grew flowers that were gorgeous.

So; good story but what’s the point? Well, my wife, the totally and completely beloved Barbara, was born and raised in Washington, D.C. and knows for a fact that food comes from the supermarket. She fully recognizes that there is a work-for-food requirement in life, but the proper type of working for your supper is assisting the flow of money (while skimming a bit for the effort), or information, the forcible management of other peoples lives via judicial activity, or the manufacturing of one product out of another and the transportation of said product to someone willing to trade work units for it. This life view is common in our society, but to me it makes her functionally a Communist [from each what they can (or what I can take), to each what they need (pretty much), and please stay in your lane]. Of course when I mention this to her she disagrees somewhat forcefully. About 350 MPH forcefully. But it should not surprise you to know that my beloved is a Democrat.

So; good story, but what’s the point? Well, if the government was disrupted to the degree that made it useless to the common family (stop that. We are not already there) and the freeways were unusable due to traffic, lack of maintenance, or because they were free-fire zones (stop that. We are not already there), could you survive? If the supermarkets are burned out or closed or there is no fresh food, can you grow/hunt/kill well enough to feed your family? If you can, you probably vote for the most limited government possible because you don’t need it and it’s damned expensive. Over the past 30 years, that has been the Republican Party, although that principle appears to be in transition right now with an unknown destination. If you cannot, then you probably vote for a more comprehensive government that may not give you the best of items, but does guarantee a basic subsistence level for most folks, in return for a significant portion of individually earned work units from fewer folks. That has been and remains the bailiwick of the Democratic Party, although quite a few Republicans are kicking at the Enormous Goddamned Government door.

So, good story, but what’s the point? Well, if you live in the coastal areas of the United States, there is very limited land in which to hunt or grow enough food to feed even a small minority of the people living there. More useable land is available as you travel inland from the coastal areas, increasing in availability as the population decreases. So you have coastal populations who depend on government to maintain the flow of fresh food and vote mostly Democrat. And you have the interior populations who provide the food and depend on the government to interfere with the growth, preparation, and transportation of that food while taking money from them to give to poor but active voters in the coastal regions, and these hunter/killer/grower folks vote mainly Republican.  There is a basic survival lesson there. Think about it, because when it comes time for the quiz, it’s gonna be a mother bear.

The Penis Whisperer

The other day I was muttering to myself and the totally and completely beloved Barbara asked me “What?” so I said “I came over here for something and I forgot what and now I’m standing here with my dick in my hand” which is a crudity commonly used in the Army to describe a failed effort to obtain something. She burst out laughing and asked me if men always thought about their penises. I said “no, not after finding a soul mate who completes them, opens multiple new channels of communication and becomes the other half of their soul. But before that, sure.” So she’s laughing and says that women don’t think about their vagina, at least to the point where they bring it up in casual conversation. So I had to try one more time to ‘splain to her how it works:

A man of hormonal years (11 – 95) who has not completed his search for the perfect mate can be doing something totally innocuous, such as building a bird house to hang on the front yard tree. He’s whistling and building and enjoying pastoral life when his penis will say “hey. A woman just came out of her house 3 blocks away and is headed for her mailbox. Go stand by that tree at the curb”. Some guys will just stand up and go over by the tree and flex for a moment. More mature men will argue; “she’s three blocks away and that’s Mrs. Jones. Why should I stand by that tree?” and their penis will answer “you’re right, that won’t work for Mrs. Jones. Lift the tree out of the ground and put it in the street.” And the guy will say “I can’t lift that tree out of the ground!” and the penis will say “Oh. How about now?” and the Prepare To Launch alarms will sound and chemicals will flood the man’s system and he’ll go lift the goddamned tree. It probably won’t come out of the ground, but I guarantee the roots will be jiggled a bit. And Mrs. Jones won’t notice at all.

“And you must understand,” I said to the completely and totally beloved Barbara, “this will happen to any man regardless of education, social position, profession, or golf handicap. We each of us have a penis whisperer built in that controls a significant portion of our lives until we find someone upon whom we can bestow the title of “Completely and Totally Beloved”. And then we live happily ever after."

Well, my friends, she hugged me and gave me a little kiss and said “Bullshit” and went to finish the bird house.

Its cascarone time!

It’s cascarone time in Texas, and what a wonderful time that is. Cascarones are colorfully painted eggs filled with confetti, or candy, or sometimes even egg. The tradition is to holler gaily “Cascarone!!” and crack one over your head. This is the moment when you find out what’s inside your cascarone.

Cascarone time is the traditional Texan celebration of the fertility of the Cascarone family, which as we all know is the ancient Mayan predecessor of all great crime families, such as the Corleone family of Long Island. Or something like that. I think I left out the rabbit.

Who Dat I Say, Who Dat?

I had what might be termed a personal medical adventure yesterday. I woke up at my usual time (‘bout 0330), made a pot of coffee and was just sitting down with the first cup when I heard sounds. Inside my head.

I wasn’t hearing voices, or receiving rays from the aliens of Gamma Beta IXV, but I was hearing bursts of static in the top left quadrant of my skull. It sounded like 8 gourd shakers were in perfect pitch and rhythm, and it would come and go, not fade in and out. At about the same time, something happened to my vision, and I got disoriented. I was having slight problems with my balance, and I was more than slightly anxious. I had no idea what was going on, but I thought ‘this is weird’. Then I felt my brain just stop; I have no idea how to describe that feeling, but I knew instantly that this was not a good thing. It kicked back in after an instants hesitation, and then the static started up again. My brain stopped again, and then restarted. This went on for about an hour, and I was feeling a bit peak’ish so I took my meds about 0700. The totally and completely beloved Barbara woke up and I told her about it. She says I was agitated and I know that somewhere in the four hours between my awakening and hers I had dug up some weeds in the yard, took a wire brush to some crud that was building up on the deck, and updated a couple of recipes I have been thinking about. I have a fuzzy recollection of all that, but the evidence is that I did indeed do them.

Anyway, she made me eat something, but told me to first check my blood sugar. The first check came back at 307. I knew that was wrong so I checked the coding on my test strips and sure enough I had it wrong. I corrected that and re-checked my sugar about 20 minutes later. Now it was 342. I ate but was still feeling like I was moving underwater, so I laid down for a bit. I told Barbara that if I passed out she needed to call 911 and let them handle me. She was silent so I asked her if she could deal with all this; she was still quiet. I told her it might be a good thing to call my Mom, so she called over to my sister’s house where Mom is staying while her house is updated. I called my doctor’s office right after they opened and explained what was going on to the nurse-practitioner who told me to get over there. Mom drove us, and they hustled me into a room and did all of the usual tests. By this time it was 0945, and my blood sugar was down to around 145, and the fog was starting to lift from my mind. The doctor came in to see me at 1100, and I was feeling much better. She checked me out, listened to what had happened, and recorded her diagnosis as ‘one damned weird morning’. And next I’m getting an MRI and some echo testing to find out what’s really going on.

I suspect that I had what’s called a TIA, which is either a blood clot in the brain or carotid or a small aneurysm that burst up there. For some reason my mother’s family is blessed by a lack of pain generators in our heads, so I’ve never had a headache. I think the noises I heard were the equivalent of what in normal people would be pain receptors firing off. Or it coulda’ been gas. Who knows. What was really heartwarming was when I came out of the examining room and saw my beloved Barbara, Mom, and my sister Kim all sitting there with worried looks on their faces. I told them that I actually had not learned how to fly, in spite of what I had told them earlier, and that they would just have to live with the disappointment. I felt okay, but I was exhausted, so I came home and slept. I was delighted to wake up in the same mortal dimension I had left, and am still soldiering on. But last night I updated my “Just In Case” letter so that if something happens to me Barbara will know who to call for what, and have a reminder of just how much I love her. And I included a pretty good joke. Hope she doesn’t get to open it for years and years and years.

All Snarl, No Whine

It’s been awhile for blogging; I’ve been a bit under the weather, and fighting insurance and corporate disability battles every day. I’m in an (objectively) interesting position; omniscient Cigna says that according to their test results I can occasionally use my left arm and occasionally walk. Ergo, I am not totally disabled and deserve nothing from their ‘profit pool’.  {My concept is that their profit pool is that big-assed chunk of money they receive through corporate and/or individual contributions as insurance premiums. If they can deny disbursement, it becomes profit for some more deserving group, like, well, them!}

So, I’m not disabled. My parent corporation of whom I am a very, very small owner requires one to receive a doctor’s release prior to coming back to work. So I got one, citing the exact limitations that omniscient Cigna listed on the denial letter they sent me. SAIC, my most pragmatic corporate brethren, told me that I was way too medically limited to do any work, and would I please “give them a call when I was fully recovered, and accept their heartfelt appreciation for the hundreds of millions of dollars that my efforts added to the revenue stream.” Full recovery just ain’t gonna’ happen unless the believers in reincarnation are right. And I don’t think SAIC is going to look favorably on the parents of a newborn infant knocking on their door and saying ‘look! He’s back! Isn’t that great? Give me money!’ assuming of course that I came back as a human, and not a bedbug or something.

So, I’m too dented and dinged to work, and too darned (occasionally) functional to receive disability benefits. Now my options are

1. Go away and Die; or


2. Sue the shit out of everybody; or


3. Combine the two previous options in a fashion that at least garners enough for my wife to live after I die.

We’re loading our ruck, buckling our shoulder harnesses, girding our loins (we need a small course of instruction for loin-girding, but it’s on our checklist), and cleaning our litigation-based virtual weapons. If G_d really is on the side with the most battalions then we’re screwed, but we can at least go down with a snarl on our face rather than a whine.

My Friend Holly Returns Fire

My Friend Holly’s riposte’ to my snideness regarding her snideness or something. Anyway, this is brilliant.


Bob sat beside the swimming ool. "No p in it yet," he mused happily to himself. He was alone for once, most of his primary characters having made appointments with eye specialists in every major city in the country. Someone nearby was stitching a bodice, another was writing in a forest somewhere. A hazmat recovery unit was shuffling through the snow in one of the northern states, preparing to clean up a bit of bloodshed.

The ool was a lovely shade of blue. "Everyone knows blue and yellow make green; no green so far," Bob whispered, glad he had learned everything he needed to know in kindergarten. Someone had moved Bob's cheese years ago. He had learned to live without it.

Maybe he had erred with Blaine, who preferred his martinis stirred. There's no bonding with a guy like that. But all in all, Bob is a happy man. Having a purpose driven life does the trick, he assures people. But, when anyone drops by in their swimming suit, he shoots their eye out. (He doesn't want them near his whirlool sa, either.)

Christmas Story 2005

Did you see the movie “A Christmas Story” again this year? The one where Ralphie was warned again and again that he would put his eye out, and darned if he didn’t think he had? Well, what if that story premise was written, say, in the style of military action books, or even bodice ripper? Here’s a try:


Chesney grimaced as the Land Rover jolted over yet another boulder. He had been tracking the Afghani warlord who had kidnapped Marissa Varda from the ladies room during their dinner at Les Chivalier in Kabul for days. Endless hours driving through the rough Afghan countryside, sleeping when exhaustion overcame him or at the villages where he squatted by the open fires, searching for hints of his prey. Now he sensed that he was close. The hair on his arms was standing, which always happened when action was near.
Parking the Land Rover, he checked his weapon to insure the action was working smoothly and a full magazine was inserted. He crawled over the rocks and looked down onto the campsite of the kidnappers. He saw two men on sentry duty, while another was watching Marissa as she tried to cook their breakfast in the firepit. He leopard-walked around the rugged ridge to the first sentry. Grabbing a handful of pebbles, he tossed them into the sentries lap. The man’s head jerked up in surprise as he looked wildly around for the source of the rocks. Chesney let his breath out with a sigh and gently squeezed the trigger, putting the sentries eye out. Quickly he got to his feet and walked nonchalantly toward the second sentry, hoping to be mistaken for the first guard. The sentry glanced at him, then did a double-take and looked harder. “Harzi?” he asked. A snap shot quickly put his eye out. As he fell, his AK-47 clattered to the ground and the third kidnapper leaped to his feet. “Freeze!” shouted Chesney. “I’ll put your eye out!” Babbling in Afghan, the kidnapper said “Take what you want, just don’t shoot”. “My lighter”, said Chesney. “Wha-what?” stuttered the thug. “My lighter!” Chesney shouted “she borrowed my lighter to have a quick smoke in the ladies room!” Reaching into his pocket, the kidnapper extended a trembling hand with a purple Bic lighter. “Here, mister, it’s yours” Taking the lighter, Chesney clicked it and a small flame erupted. “Good. It’s hard to get purple ones.” He turned and strode back to his Land Rover. Within minutes a dust trail was the only sign of his departure; a happy man. It was Christmas.

Bodice ripper:

Elena spun to escape the grasp of her attacker. As she moved toward the safety of the forest, Blaine’s grasping fingers closed on the sleeve of her blouse, ripping it from shoulder to elbow. The sight of her flesh inflamed him even more, and he shouted “get… you vixen!” as he leapt to tackle her. Scooping up a twig, she spun to her former lover and put his eye out. Screaming, he fell to the ground, clutching his head. Elena quickly moved to the berry-gathering bag she had dropped when attacked and removed a small penknife. Slicing Blaine’s right ear off, she smiled in delight as she lifted her dripping trophy into a Ziploc© bag she carried for times like this. Exaggerating the sway of her hips as she walked away, she left Blaine writing in the forest. It was Christmas.

For those of you sadly lacking in imagination (for anything not Italian, Holly) who snidely ask “Well, what did Blaine write in the forest, hmmm?” the following transcript is provided (yes, it was supposed to say ‘writhing’, not writing):

“That bitch put my eye out! Somebody call my publicist! I want a black eyepatch and maybe a tobacco and forest green one. Both with a teardrop diamond in the lower corner. This could be a book, hell a movie. Is no one listening to me!?!?” Since Blaine was writing this with a bloody twig on the forest floor in large letters (his eye had been recently put out), a group of Seattle environmental activists who also critique emails for common typo’s quickly filed a lawsuit for destruction of more than one half acre of pristine (well, not pristine there was blood all over. Horror!) forest land. Although they won the lawsuit, the rigidly conservative asshole judge only granted them critical rights to the upcoming movie, which used the bodice ripping scene as a trailer to entice millions of people to watch this overly violent piece of trash. Blaine went on to play James Bond in “84 Bond Movies Are Not Enough”. Everyone agreed it was the eyepatch that got him the part. He was so overjoyed with his film success that he had his other eye put out, which turned out to be a stupid career move.

The End


Copyright 2005 Sneezewhackle Inc.

Sneezewhackle Giving

Sneezewhackle, Sneezewhackle piggety-pen,
What’s that behind your back, Ben my friend?

It’s a gift for you, I made it myself
Just think of me as your own little elf!

Oh my! An airplane, and the propeller even spins
How did you do this, and how did I win?

I bought a model kit, and painted and glued
And while I was making it, I thought “it’s for you!”

But you should keep it, Ben friend of mine
After all of that work, you would like it just fine!

But I like giving gifts; and here’s my own plan
Give as much as you get, or more when you can

You’re right, when you give it gives back a glow
And for the rest of the day you feel happy, I know!
Say, why don’t we go to that orphanage place
And give this to an orphan, put a smile on his face?

But I gave it to you, that is your model plane!

Give as much as I get, that’s your plan and your fame!
So more than one child gets a prize of a plane!

Giving is good, and I like it too.
Give as much as you get, Sneezewhackle-do!

Purple Dragon poem for Sofi

Sneezewhackle sneezewhackle rippity-rap
I fell out of a tree and landed on my hat

While I was laying there what did I see
But a big purple dragon coming right at me!

I jumped off the ground and got ready to fight
But the big purple dragon vanished from sight

Instead I saw a bright yellow mouse
Looking at me, it was big as a house!

It started to come, but a cat then appeared
Two times as big and colored all weird
Big blue spots on a lime green coat
I shook my head, what bad fashion sense!
But the cat took a swipe, his paw big as a tent.

I rolled over backwards and started to run
But the cat disappeared straight into the sun
I blinked once or twice in the dusty air
And saw a huge grasshopper, just sitting there

It chewed and chewed and looked at me,
Then jumped straight up and over the tree
Well I just stood with my mouth open wide,
When a two-foot mosquito flew right inside

I spit and rolled and fell to the ground,
The sat up straight and looked all around
There was no dragon, and no big cat
No big grasshopper, no mouse and no rat

I had bumped my head and dreamed all that stuff
But the mosquito in my mouth was real, sure enough!

Poem for Sofia

‘Sneezewhackle sneezewhackle humpty dump.
I don’t like camels ‘cause they have humps.’

‘so I shouldn’t like things that are different than me?’
‘that’s right, you’ve got it as plain as can be!’

‘But I like you and we’re not the same!’
‘Hey, I heard it from my Dad, so I’m not to blame!’

‘Well I think you’re wrong, that’s just not right.
I like birds, because they have flight.
I like fuzzy caterpillars that bump on the ground,
And I like turtles because they’re slow and round.

I like Sally Perkins with her pretty red hair
And Billy Mohammed because he knows how to share
And Miss Two Feathers who teaches us math
And I love my kitty who purrs in my lap.

I don’t like camels, not ‘cause of their hump
That’s a place to ride or we could fall with a thump.
No, I don’t like camels and the hump is not it,
I don’t like camels because they like to spit.’

‘Well I’ll tell my Daddy that we think he’s wrong,
Rick-a-rack Pick-a-pack zingety zong
Just because things are different doesn’t mean they aren’t cool
It’s not how we look, it’s about what we do!’

FCE from hell

Man, the past few days have been a bugger. I had to go to San Antonio
Monday and Tuesday for all day physical tests on my capabilities,
demanded by the insurance company so they could have more evidence
that I am a fraud. Unfortunately for them I proved beyond doubt that
I'm not; it's going to be interesting to see what happens now. I won't
hear anything until February, but at least I've now done every
possible test they can think of. Walking, stooping, crawling, lifting,
nose-picking, ear-waggling, cross-eying and flatulence measurements.
Fairly detailed exam, if I may say so.

10 Things to Grab on the Rollercoaster of Love

10 ITEMS TO GRAB ONTO ON THE ROLLER COASTER OF LOVE

SUBMITTED BY THE BOERNE HAPPY TIME THERAPY GROUP AND HOT OIL EMPORIUM


10. Well, your hat

9.  Some tissues, to deal with the awkward results of # 2.

8.  His knee. For some silly reason, men love it when women grab their knee during moments of high tension, even though it can leave lasting marks.

7.  A knish. You just cannot get enough knishes and if you see one, grab on.

6.  Your ear and your date’s ear simultaneously. This is a bonding exercise highly respected by the remote Bolango tribe political caste. When they say “lend me your ear…”

5.  The hair of the person in front of you. If it comes off in your hand tradition requires that you stand up in the car and wave it while screaming hysterically. Your date must fight off the ensuing attack.

4.  The moral high ground. I have no idea where it is or why we want it, but apparently we do. Write me with the details. Take your time.

3.  A steaming bottle of Boerne Happy Time Hot Oil, spiced or plain.

2. Grabbing the bottle, artfully spill it into your date’s lap. When he starts screaming, whisper in his ear “just rub it in for the full medicinal value, and stand back!”

1. Relinquishing the moral high ground (you have sufficient experience by now), grasp your date’s other ear (the one you aren’t already holding) and do whatever comes naturally, disregarding the screaming and smell of burnt flesh. If you have had a good time, kiss him. If not just bring your forehead smartly down on his nose and then use him for an ottoman for the rest of the ride.

Blessed be the Normal

Pain and medication put me to bed at about 7:30 last night. I awoke at 0230, not to pain or discomfort but from the sheer wonder of sleeping 7 hours. And when I woke up and did my usual body check for pain, I felt… normal.

You know how you wake up and you don’t feel great, but nothing is bothering you and you just stumble through the start of another day? That to me is like getting 50-yard line tickets to the Superbowl and watching my team win. As in, it just doesn’t happen. Did this morning, tho’.

Nothing hurt. I could walk without limping (that does happen some days, but only because it’s impossible to limp with both feet. Try it sometime. You look like you’re rolling along a deck in heavy seas.) I could move my right arm completely and my left arm about half way. My feet didn’t even burn for awhile. I just strolled around the house, marveling at the wonderful feeling. Of course, it soon passed, and I had to take the morning drug fix, but I am blessed to have had that much. When I go to the prosthetics place for my Eddie Munster shoes I see people who have no legs, no feet, no hands or arms, and I know how lucky I really am, me who just has legs that don’t work well, feet that burn all the time, and hips that lock up after a few meters. Well, and I’ve lost most of the use of my left arm. But hey, I have legs, I have feet, and I’m right handed. I know that I have a disease that’s gonna kill me, but I’m allowed most of the original issue still, and lots of people aren’t.

Thank you, God. This is the Sarge and I really, really mean it. I have a wonderful wife and great kids. I have a 1-year old granddaughter who occasionally calls me while gnawing on her mom’s cell phone. I am doing better than I deserve.

Pain Blogging

I’ve been away for awhile, dealing with medical issues. I have a couple of problems that cause me to deal with permanent pain, of varying degrees. I’m diabetic and because I didn’t know about it for a few years, I developed a mmmuuuvvver of a case of neuropathy, which means damaged nerves that send signals of pain that have no other source. I also had arterial blockage in my femoral arteries so bad that they have replaced both of them with artificial ones. I think there is still some blockage and clotting but it’s much better than it was! Now my legs don’t cramp after five steps, and my hips don’t lock up until I’ve walked almost 100 yards. Better! My feet feel as though they had bad chemical burns, and they do it all the time. Sort of like how you would feel if you soaked your feet in bleach half the time and in gasoline the other half. They have a pill that helps with this, of which I take the maximum dosage. That does help, but it fogs your mind as though a sheet of glass had been slid between your ability to work and your ability to think. And dealing with pain every day all day long for 7 years has ground me down. I worked at defeating it every day for years and years, but it took first one edge then another then another until I realized I was not able to do the job I was taking good money for. Or any job, due to the physical requirements of dealing with pain. Today is the first day since late August that I can write, and now I’ve taken my meds and the fogbank is settling in. Now I’ll sleep, knowing that I’ll wake in 2 – 3 hours because of the pain.

My body reacts strongly to the pain when it spikes; every bit of moisture that it can eject it ejects; sweating, vomiting, diarrhea followed by shivering and freezing, and usually a sugar crash into the 30’s or 40’s. I have this mental image of a quasi-military unit in there, with the Field First bellowing “Okay, all of you non-essential liquid based personnel are being tossed out of the airlock right now! Move it people!! Oh yes, don’t forget to color yourself green before you leave at high speed.”  Cigna does the long term disability for my former company and they don’t think I’m disabled. All of my doctors do, and I suspect that Cigna’s medical report says I probably am, but the manager of disability claims folks, a guy called Person (might be a label so others can tell he’s human, or it could be his name) doesn’t believe. So in addition to dying in a lot of discomfort, I haven’t been ‘granted’ the income I earned for the past six months. Wouldn’t it be great if Person’s disbelief could take away the pain? I would hate to work in a place like that, especially if Karmic justice is a reality.

Sarges Grilled - Baked - Fruited Pork Tenderloin

3 lb. pork tenderloin use size that fits your feasters
4 Tbsp. mandarin oranges
4 Tbsp. cherry preserves
2 Tbsp. Barbeque Sauce I prefer a sweet and smokey sauce
½ Cup water

Slice tenderloin in the center, the long way, about ¾ of the way through. Put mandarin oranges in center and drizzle barbeque sauce on oranges. Fasten together with toothpicks.
Rub tenderloin with your favorite red meat/pork rub.
Grill for 10 minutes a side on medium high
Transfer to baking dish. Spoon cherry preserves on top of tenderloin
Add water to baking dish. Cover and bake at 350 deg until tenderloin reaches 150 deg in the uncut center.

12 Servings

No Bias Here

Is it just me or do the most successful bloggers act more and more like the commercial side of the MSM? Are they spending more and more of their time quoting each other and humping their own and each others latest book/appearance/personal exposure event? Good thing I’m not jealous. –grin-

Huge, huge, enormous difference is that there are literally hundreds of thousands of energetic bloggers yapping at their heels and one or two get elevated every single day, and often by the 'newMSM' folks. And if the MSM acted more like Michelle - Glenn - Hugh - Ed - and the Powerline menage and less like the NYT we would all be so much more informed. Aggressive is fine, cocky is fine, passion is both fine and encouraged, undiluted arrogance and self-promotion wears on one.

NYT Public Editor: “I can’t see any bias here.”
Public: “Mmmm buddy, it’s tattooed on your forehead.”
NYT Public Editor: “And can I see my forehead?! I cannot. Ergo, ipso facto, I can’t see any bias here.”

Famous Blogger1: "I will be appearing at 6:17:26 tonight on one of those networks I routinely blast. Filling in for me will be Hugh, whose book is an enormous hit as long as blog ponderers keep reading it. Filling in for Hugh will be Ann who oddly enough also has a book that you can buy here //link//, and guess what? Glenn will be on the show too, speaking about his other web site so guest blogging for Glenn will be Ed who is such a gifted speaker (sign him up here //link//) and Ed's blog often highlights the skills of Bryan who does such wonderful work with Michelle, buy their books here //link//."

But I guess pub is where you find it, buy it, or can put it, and blogging sure don't pay the Sarge nuttin', so God bless them. I'll just start skipping through their commercials too.

Anti-Aging: It Ain't All Wunnerful

“Approach with caution!”

Okay, I’ll be the adverse advocate (the Sarge ain’t the Devils pal) on anti-aging and it’s benefits.

First, let me state that I agree with Glenn Reynolds that anti-aging resources are rapidly approaching, probably faster than most of us can imagine. And yes, I want myself, my wife, and my kids to live long and prosper (HT Cdr. Spock). But somebody needs to ring a little bell about what that brings with it.

Family: are you ready to live close to a family with 11 living generations? Consider any problems that exist in your family circle and multiply them by 4 or 6.

Retirement: if you were lucky or unfortunate enough to retire in your 50’s, and the great leaps in anti-aging treatment that are now being quietly discussed actually do come to pass in the next 10 – 15 years, whatcha’ going to do? Can you stretch your savings? More importantly, will your employer have second thoughts on how long they are willing to pay? How tough will it be to get a job when you’re 106?

Employment: if you are the heir apparent for a promotion, to take over the family business, or just hoping for a merit raise, do you expect everything to remain the same when people work for 85 – 100 years? John Ringo writes an exceptional military SF series about humans who need to regenerate veterans to help fight an almost unstoppable enemy, and the humorous but tragic need to deal with multiple returning generals and admirals. What will you do with 6 generations of previous senior managers claiming the only cubicle with a window view?

Birth control: no matter what your thoughts or religious convictions are regarding population management in the micro or macro perspectives, rethink them.

Actuarially supported industries: they’re gone, bruddah. Got stock in any insurance companies?

There are plenty more issues that will be analyzed by much smarter folks than the Sarge. But kick the lid off this mental trash can, it’s starting to smell like reality, troop.