Page 122: "That's Hot!"

Howdy, new neighbors! Yeah, we're from a few houses down. Congrats on moving into the neighborhood and we'd like to give you a big rousing WELCOME to Texas. Glad you're here. Say, is your icemaker hooked up and running back there? It is? Good. NOW EMPTY YOUR ICE BUCKET into this here ice chest, real nice and slow like, and nobody will get hurt. Yes, this is a real BB gun. Have you ever spent a weekend picking shiny copper BB's out of your rear end? No? Oh, this would be a terrible time to find out what it's like. Enough small talk. Trigger finger is so sweaty, it could go slip-n-slide on this boomstick any second. YOUR ICE. NOW! YES, THROW IN THOSE FROZEN PEAS, TOO. Oh, and welcome to the cul-de-sac!

The events in the preceding story are fictional. Well, for the moment. But heat has a way of making people sweat, and when people sweat, they get angry. And when they get angry, bad things happen. It's gonna turn ugly, folks. If this "high pressure zone" and 106 degree temps continue, even our saintly grandmothers are going to go vigilante for some refrigerated air and a bucket of ice cubes.

I was sitting in the Batcave, drenched with sweat. I called down to Engineering. "Nunzilla, this is the bridge! Set A/C to MAX! We need cold air in 3 minutes or we're all dead!"

"That's all I can give ya', Capt'n!" Nunzilla yelled. "The A/C can't take much more o' this!"

Lord. That's what I get for having an Irish nun for the head of engineering. I should have sprung for a full blooded Scotsman. Why, Scotty could have produced cold air with a kleenex, a transistor, and a fingernail clipping. What do I have? Three A/C units gasping for air like Rush Limbaugh on a mountain bike. I was beside myself. "Nun! Jettison the warp core or something. Just frikkin' figure it OUT. Kirk out!"

Through the heat and on a completely unrelated note, my mind vaguely recalls my favorite Scotsman joke -- of course, Scottish jokes always involve the renowned cheapness, frugality, and drinking of the Scots.

A tipsy Scotsman was in the outhouse when he accidentally dropped a dollar into the loo. "Oh dere," Angus said. "It aren't worth a wee dollar to go ahfter it!" So he pulled out a ten and threw it in. "But it's cert'ly worth goin' ahfter eleven dawlarhs!"

Yes, folks, it's hot. Clearly, The Landlord is determined to keep the thermostat set to INFERNO IN JUNE for yet another week over Texas. If it keeps up, I suggest we all move to the Wal*Mart, right over near the dairy aisle... there is always a February breeze blowing over the milk and cheeses.

How hot is it? Mrs. Kathryn reports that the eggs at the grocery store can only be bought pre-poached now.

It's so hot that my elderly Great Aunty Murle reports she saw the squirrel in her backyard "panting and fanning his nuts, trying to keep 'em cool..."

"Now, that's hot!"

Page 121: Mind Tricks

Our minds -- so powerful, so full of possibilities. And occasionally, so misleading. Open minds are the best minds, because sometimes you have to take a really close look to really understand what is going on...

No, nothing is actually moving in the picture; it's an illusion. Enjoy!

Page 120: Got Squabbles?

"Daddy, name something you really do not like," Kristin said.

"I don't like it when people don't get along," I instantly replied. Anyone who has worked with or for me knows that I insist that people get along. I especially dislike friend and family squabbles. I hate it when friends bicker or talk behind each other's backs. I don't do that. If you're my friend, I have your back; I don't talk behind it. Period.

Family squabbles. Maddening, but every family has them. It seems like the normal irritants are always (1) old sibling rivalries and (2) new sibling-in-law rivalries, where the spouse of a sibling isn't liked by some in the core family. In my own family, there is a ridiculous situation that has gone on for over 50 years where an aunt, my dad's youngest sister, does not like my mother. It started in the 1950's -- a comment my mother made when she was 16 or 17 and my aunt was 13 -- became a tiny old wound that never healed. It turned into a bigger and bigger wound, and then yielded deep scars that abscessed over the decades. Later, my aunt assembled and maintained a book documenting my mother's "transgressions" over the years. Obviously not a healthy thing, but to my aunt, a major life issue.

In my youth, this aunt and her husband were golden and special to me. I spent a great deal of time with them and we had many fun adventures. My uncle helped me run the concession stand for the men's baseball league. I took trips with them. They let me drive their car, a zesty 1973 Ford Maverick, all around the country backroads at the age of 12. I never intended to get involved in "the squabble."

My family situation is complex. There is the family I grew up with in the Central Texas ranchlands, and the other family I never knew up in Canton, Ohio. After finding the Ohio clan, there was a period of years where, for good reasons, I didn't want my parents to know. Oh, I planned to tell them, when the time was right. But some years later, this uncle took it upon himself to tell my parents about the Ohio family, and I am certain that his motives were not pure. He intended hurt and injury in the telling.

When I discovered this betrayal, I wasn't angry. I have never used this word in this forum nor will I ever likely again, but I will use it now, and I also invoked it when discussing my uncle with my parents shortly afterward. No, I wasn't angry. I was fucking furious. My uncle had no right to tell my parents anything, and to this day he probably doesn't know how lucky he was that I lived 1300 miles away in Philadelphia at the time. With steam billowing out of my ears, I called my parents to assure them that I loved them as much as always and just didn't want to hurt their feelings in regard to the Ohio family.

I've studied the teachings of Jesus, Zen, New Thought, and psychology far too long to carry around anger. It's destructive -- so, I dealt with the anger toward this uncle and let it go. But in the process, both this aunt and uncle died to me. Not physically, but to me, it was as if they were dead. I didn't feel any anger toward them. I felt nothing toward them, and I resolved in my mind that if I didn't see them again in this lifetime, that was fine with me. I should mention that their two sons, Rody & Cousin Ricky, are like brothers to me and we've never (and will never) speak a cross word. We didn't discuss this matter.

Ten years passed.

At Cousin Ricky's wedding reception a few weeks ago, this aunt and uncle were there. They looked very aged to me. I took a deep breath and spoke to both of them. Later that evening, I reflected on the many old memories of old good times and their kindness in my youth. The irony was not lost to me that even though they really do not like my parents, they still were always quite fantastic to me.

So I wasn't harboring anger, but the net effect was I got caught up in the whole thing as well. The thing I dislike the most: a squabble. Perhaps true forgiveness isn't a mechanical matter, and doesn't really happen until you are willing to be at a point where you were before the transgression.

As I write, my grandmother Mama is in the hospital with recurring blackouts, and I sent Cousin Ricky a message to let him know. We exchanged a few messages. "I think we should all go to Brownwood and be together for Christmas again," Ricky said. "For Mama. It's time."

Hmmm. A part of me is really quite fine never having a "Brownwood Big Family Christmas" ever again. It was my favorite time of year as a child, but now, seeing people gathered together with canyon sized wounds and bad opinions of each other, it seems to have lost its luster. But Ricky makes a great point. "For Mama." Perhaps the gift to an 88 year woman of her drifted factions together once again would be a very nice thing. Oh, everyone will be civil -- this is not a bunch that wears feelings on sleeves. Yes, Ricky, a bigger part of me knows that you are absolutely right. A gift for Mama. But could it be -- a gift for me as well?

Looks like it will be a white Christmas in Brownwood this year. And of course, I'll give my aunt and uncle a big hug and it will be good old times once again… and as in old times, when we pack up to leave and I throw out "Love You Guys!" as I've always done, once again, I'll mean it.

Page 119: Ninety Years Old and Still Going...

While in Vegas on a business meeting this week (yes, Vegas twice in a couple months), had the privilege of hearing Dr. Rick Rigsby, motivational speaker, uncommon minister, explosion of energy, funny man, & story teller extraordinaire. His "Lessons from a Third Grade Dropout" -- lessons from his father -- are moving. But his sense of humor is right up my alley... let's tune in to his story:

I was talking to Mr. Robert Jenkins, a 92 year old man in my neighborhood I know who is the picture of absolute health. This man has the stamina of a 40 year old! Stands tall, rosy cheeks, and he jogs. One day I took him aside, and I said, "Mr. Jenkins, there is something I must ask, and you must share, because we young-uns have to know the truth. When you've lived a fine and full life for a long 90 years, you gotta tell us -- c'mon Mr. Jenkins, share -- is it BOXERS or BRIEFS at 90 years of age?

And Mr. Jenkins looked at me, and he said, "Boxers or Briefs? Dr. Rick -- DEPENDS!"

Page 118: Hello, Google Blogger

Well, after 116 pages of doing my own blog web pages, I've officially moved over to "Google Blogger." Eric Evans and Donna Posey convinced me... the benefits are full text searching capability along with automated RSS feeds -- what is RSS, you say? Silly wabbit, it's the 21st century. Time to get widdit. RSS Readers allow you to easily view all the blogs, stories, and news you like in one convenient browser window. Personally, I like Google Reader (Google it to set it up). But the upside is that your Reader automatically knows when your favorite sources have new material, and they display it for you...

Page 117: Snow Daze in Vegas

WARNING TO MY OLD BAPTIST PALS: this Vegas story includes lots of gratuitous drinking, gambling, cussing, and probably some dancing in there somewhere. (I have to give them this warning so that they rush down directly to the good stuff.) My pastor buddy Dr. Stephen J. Lucas once told this story: "the little lady walked up to her minister and said, 'Preacher, can Baptists dance?' to which he answered, 'To tell you the truth, ma'am -- some can, and some can't…'"

In late April, Airman, Rich, and I did a jaunt to Vegas -- where our other neighborhood buddies were, who knows -- but as you probably realize, Vegas to men is like catnip to Mr. Bigglesworth. It makes us a lil' cuuuuh-razy. One minute we're calm as nitroglycerin filled water balloons, and the next thing you know, we're slobbery, pie-eyed savages intent on overeating and losing our hard-earned money. But hey -- when your ticket gets punched on the Silly Train, it's time to hop on board.

Once we landed, we could not wait to get to the tables. We waited in line, we tapped our feet impatiently, we rolled our eyes, but finally, there we were. "SHOW ME THE… BUFFET!" we yelled, in our best Cuba Gooding Junior voice. Oh boy, did we play the tables big. "HIT ME AGAIN!" Rich yelled at the Prime Rib station. The hatted attendant spun his tongs and yet another giant rib landed on Rich's plate. "Woooo HOOOOOO!" I doubled down at the Sushi Table, and Airman tried a little of everything, or should I say a lot of everything, and he reportedly scored big with a Royal Flush immediately afterward.

Airman and I looked for a likker store (we Texans spell it that way and pronounce it that way, thank you very much) when we got to town, in search of some fine spirits for our suite. We found a glitzy store right by the Mandalay Bay, and when we walked in, I heard a THUMP as Airman hit the floor in a dead faint. "The prices here," he moaned. I revived him waving a $20 under his nose. But he was right. Nobody has ever been more proud of their bottles of hootch; the joint was a royal rip-off. So twenty minutes later we found ourselves in a store called "Vann's," the Scariest Place I've Ever Shopped. I was holding onto my teeth for dear life, because we were the only people in the place that had any, and I didn't like the looks we were getting. "Airman, hide your teeth!" I hissed. "Suck in your lips and pretend your gums are rotten and hurting! We need to fit in." We were shocked that they did NOT have the fine bourbon Richard was hoping for, but they did have plenty of other, much less expensive choices on the "Skid Row Aisle." And ever the gent and lady's man, Airman was kind enough to help a lady pushing around her rusty oxygen machine reach a carton of cigarettes off the top shelf.

I'm going to skip the part about our accommodations, but we had five flat panel TV's in our 1500 square feet X3 suite, and that's no joke. It was like the suite in Rain Man, except for the smarts and the winnings. But we only paid peanuts due to the economic meltdown there.

We went to the mountains one day, which I highly recommend. It's 45 minutes to the northwest, and it's beautiful. And yes, there was SNOW -- SNOW in Las Vegas a mere 25 miles away. As a bonus, we got to meet Billy the Serial Murderer Park Attendant. Well, that was our guess. He was a young guy, and the crazed, scary grin on his face when we paid to get into the hike park suggested that his favorite hobby was "Crystal Meth." We talked to him for a few minutes. "These trees are old!" he asserted, grinning. "They're older than you. Some of them are even older than me!" Right, Billy. Right. Aaron pointed out that the real park attendant was probably laying on the floor of the little hut, bound and gagged. Billy leered at us, his Meth teeth a nice pale shade of Park Foliage Green (how ironic). Well. Been fun. Time to run, for our lives.


The evil plot was hatched on Tuesday night. "Airman, let's get Rich on top of the Stratosphere, have a few drinks, and talk him in one of those rides on top of the thing." If you've never heard of it, the Stratosphere is the 1100 foot tower that reaches into the heavens, and on top -- the very top -- are 3 thrill rides that are not for the faint of heart. I've been on the one that shoots you up the tower, pictured here -- keep in mind YOU ARE ON TOP OF AN 1100 FOOT BUILDING, and they shoot you another 200 feet into the air... but they have new rides that look even more terrifying.

Long story short, the plan came off, and suddenly we found ourselves strapped into dinky seats on a giant contraption 1100 feet in the air called the "INSANITY," with a mechanical arm moving us off the side of the tower dangling in the air, and spinning us like crazy.

I'll be honest -- my legs were shaking and I could barely open my eyes. Airman was just laughing. And I think the word to best describe Richard was "terrified." Pretty sure he had a poopy diaper. Luckily, he didn't kill us. Whew. Billy, Insanity, and Rich's potential Revenge. Three brushes with certain death in the first 2 days...

We did other things. I remember some gambling, and I better remember the old proverb "Gambling is a sport for people who are BAD at MATH." I usually just play a little at the slots and Blackjack, but Rich is a Super-Gambler. He knows all the games. "Hey, can you teach us how to play craps?" I asked. Rich assured us it was a piece of cake. We were down at the table later that evening.

"Now, what you do it, you put money on the 7, but you don't want to shortfall, so keep it in The Zone. If the dice go into the circle, you might get a touchback. I'm going to pick BLACK -- now watch the triangle! WATCH IT!!!" I nodded excitedly, pie-eyed. Right. RIIIGHT!!! I get it! I get it now. I get that I will never, ever understand this damn game, that it involves some sort of alien technology and brain genes I don't have. "Go RED! RED! Move it to 11! Lock transporter onto the thampallulizer! Energize!" Rich barked. Twenties moved on and off the table. Space and time warped a little, and "I think there was a robot." My eyesight got blurry. It had seemed like hours, but in fact, only 6 minutes had transpired. "We're outta here!" Rich said. I asked him how much we won. "I lost $200. I mean, just broke even," Rich replied.

Everybody always "just breaks even" in Vegas. This is code talk for "lost my rumpus."

Well, there is much more to tell, but we'll have to save those stories for the campfire, kids. But it was quite some great daze in Vegas. Next year, we may have to tone down the guys' trip and go somewhere a little less crazy. 'Nawlins, anyone?