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.