Page 142: "I'll Take Loved Ones for Priceless, Alex"

The soldier was quietly sobbing, and I felt powerless to help him.

I had seen him with his wife and little baby in the line beside me at the airport gate. The little girl looked to be no more than a couple weeks old. He was rocking her car carrier, a giant smile on his face as he stared down at her sweet face and raven dark hair. Going to see family for Thanksgiving, I thought.

About an hour later, I was sitting at the bar working on my laptop when the same soldier sat down next to me. I glanced up at him and he looked pale, his hands a bit shaky. He ordered a shot of tequila. "I ordinarily don't drink like this," he explained, "just have to settle my nerves. Hi, I'm Drew."

"Drew, I'm not your mama. Nice to meet you. Do what you have to do."

"Thank you, sir," he replied. I intended to pay for his drink - these people put their lives on the line for us, and buying their lunch or even tequila shot seems like the least we civilians can do. But I was too distracted and he was too fast. "Have a good day, sir," he said as he hastily left. I wanted to tell him that "sir is my father" but thought better of it. He looked like a kid, maybe a day past 21 if that.

Taking my seat on the plane, I was surprised to see the same soldier headed to the seat beside me. He sat down quietly, and I realized he was crying. No, more than crying, he was quietly sobbing, shaking from head to foot. Oh, his family wasn't traveling with him -- they had been there to tell him goodbye.

After a few minutes, I spoke up. "You okay, buddy? Saw your little baby with you; she is beautiful."

He looked up at me, his eyes red and his face grief-stricken. "I only got to see her for 4 days. She is 17 days old, and I couldn't leave to see her be born. I'm about to be deployed to Afghanistan for a year, and I couldn't leave my training. I just love that little baby and my wife so much… but I've got to do my duty and my job to provide for them. " He put his head down and his entire body was shaking. "I'm sorry, sir…"

I patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay, son. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You're about to make me cry."

I wanted to do something to help him, but nothing seemed to be the right answer. I quietly looked out the window and thought about how I missed my kids. I hadn't seen them in 3 days. The irony was profound.

After a few minutes, he looked up and recognized me, hastily wiping his eyes. "We meet again, sir."

For the next 3 hours, I did the one thing it seemed Drew needed -- listen. He had been in the army for almost a year. He knew that Afghanistan was a dangerous place and he made sure he saw and said goodbye to all his family back in Georgia, "just in case." He was okay with all of that, he said. And his wife had a strong support network, he told me. But his baby girl. "I...I am just not handling that very well. I started to go to pieces back there and I sure didn't want them to see that. I thought that shot of tequila might steady my nerves but it didn't work."

He went on to tell me why getting to Afghanistan was so important. A lot more money. $1100 more a month in "hazard duty." And, $175 more a month because he was away from his family.

$175. So. That is what your family is worth. Oh, I understand, the country is strapped for money already. We need to cut expenses, not increase them, across the board. We are in no position to pay these brave soldiers what their families are really worth: priceless.

I had the distinct impression that Drew was a young man who had grown up in a hurry. After landing in Dallas, he became quiet, and he quickly exited the plane without a word or a handshake. It seemed clear; he had said all the goodbyes he could for the day.

Us, thankful? You better believe it. For so many things. And thank you, Private Drew. We are the luckiest people in the history of the world. On this day of thinking about thanking, we should hug our loved ones with gusto and mean it like we never have before.

Page 141: Chili Pill!

A cold wind blew in from the north, and Mrs. Kathryn had an excellent idea -- a chili cook-off with a small group at the house. "This is a contest,” she emailed. “Let's get some trash-talkin' going on!"

I was all too happy to Reply All and oblige. "Losers, let's skip the B.S. and just hand me the prize NOW. We can throw your lil' stewpots out back for the feral pigs to root around in... if they'll touch the nasty crap. My Bambi chili will RULE!" I had researched award-winning venison chili recipes to the hilt, discovering the winning secret. Shhhh. Don't tell, but here it is. You start with thick slab bacon, so fresh it's practically oinking, then throw in scraps of Bambi AND his mother. Deelish!

Imagine the horror when I discovered Aylin was also planning on some Doe a Deer Chili herself, and had already procured the meat from one of our hairy, mountain manly neighbors, who probably killed the poor creature with his bare hands, or possibly a tire iron. Rats. I was forced to choose something else.

I poured through the International Chili Cookoff Recipes and studied the Texas Terligua Pride award ingredients. The secret of winning became clear. You start with thick slab bacon, so fresh it's practically oinking, then you throw in other meats (and scraps of their mother, if possible). Deelish!

And thus is was that I concocted Fab Five Chili, with five different meat ingredients, along with a half a cup of Jim Beam, just to get the kidney beans tipsy. Oh ENOUGH of the "Texas chili DOES/DOES NOT have beans" brawls; as an eighth generation Texan and a real self-appointed Texas Colonel, if I say it can have some damn beans, matter settled. Plus, it's patently obvious that kidney beans are good for your kidneys; even a blind man could see that.

The Bad Gene acted up for a moment and I considered the novel idea of finding and adding some Viagra to my recipe to REALLY make it stand up against the competition, but decided not to… didn’t want to make the competition too hard for the judges. My friend Paul also pointed out that nobody wants to eat chili that can take 4 hours to go down.

Never underestimate Bob as a serious competitor. He one-upped the email trash talking early Saturday morning. "Five meats? Hey, just heard Chance has gone missing. Hmmm…" Chance is Rich & Christie's dog next door and our beloved Goddog (that's her laying next to the Batdesk when I was dogsitting one day)… she was clearly fine, but the evil dirty trick was done, planting the subliminal suggestion that my ingredients might not be kosher.

But the final insult came during the presentation & serving, when this sign "mysteriously" showed up attached to my pot.

So amazingly, Bob's "Jived Turkey Chili" won by a single vote, edging out my Fab Five Chili by barely a dog's nose. Rich & Christie’s Green Gobblin' Chili recipe came in third.

After the rigged voting, we retired to the Batcave to watch a horror movie of grand proportions called "2010 VH1 Divas," hosted by a terrifying, plastic-skinned monster character named Paula Abdul, who prissed around the stage doing the scariest lip synching the world has ever seen. Then there were stocky women prancing about -- as a stocky person myself, as a policy I never wear anything more than 3 sizes too small – but these ladies looked like they had been poured into their dresses, “and somebody forgot to say 'when.'" The scariest part was when a hideous corpse came to life halfway through the show – they called it The Liza Minnelli – and screeched like a vulture and staggered around the stage with a giant pink zombie sash. We guys screamed like schoolgirls, and the ladies averted their eyes and just prayed. Horrid! Hey VH1, if you are going to trot out that kind of terror, at least put a warning label on the show. We finally had to turn it off when the ghost of Cindy Lauper appeared dressed like a black refrigerator, and assumed a VERY unlady-like position directly in front of the HD camera. Hey, Cindy's Ghost – nice lady ghouls sit side saddle, not all bustin’ out with their legs flung apart like Hoss Cartwright on a mule. It almost stressed us out. Almost.


You stressed? On Overload? Two words for you: CHILI PILL!!!

SECOND/JILTED PLACE
"FAB FIVE CHILI" by krs

4 slices thick slab bacon
1 pound ground beef (90%-95% lean)
1 pound COURSE ground beef (ask at the butcher counter)
1 pound ground Pork
1 pound ground Buffalo (optional but deelishush)
Sea salt & black peper
1 white onion
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup beef broth; 1/2 cup chicken broth
2 - 28 oz cans of crushed tomatoes
1 - 28 oz Rotel tomatos w/ green chili's -- Rotel is a TEXAS TRADITION!
1 - 6 oz. can tomato paste
1 tablespoon Paprika
3 tablespoons Chili Powder
1 tablespoon Ancho chili powder
2 tablespoons garlic
1/2 tablespoon ground cayenne
1/2 tablespoon cilantro
1/2 tablespoon ground comino
2 - 28 oz can kidney beans, drained
1 tablespoon chopped jalepenos (remove seeds)
1/2 cup Shiner Bock Beer
1/2 cup Jim Beam Whiskey
1 tablespoon molasses

Cook the bacon over medium heat until the oil is extracted. Remove bacon and set aside.
Add all the remaining meats into the bacon drippings along with 2 tablespoons of chili powder, 1 tablespoon of garlic, and a light dusting of sea salt and black pepper. Dice the bacon and add to meat mix as it cooks. Brown all meat thoroughly, then drain but do NOT rinse under water.

Dice onion; melt 1 tablespoon of butter in a skillet and brown onion with a small twist of sea salt.

In a large pot, add beef stock & chicken stock with onions & all tomato cans over medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon chili powder and 1 tablespoon garlic along with remaining spices (cayenne, cilantro, comino). Add beans, then add meat, and when chili comes to a boil, reduce heat to medium low and stir in Shiner Bock, Jim Beam, and molasses. Cook 3-4 hours covered, stirring occasionally, over low heat to keep at low simmering boil. Serves 8-10+.

FIRST PLACE
"JIVED TURKEY CHILI" by the Corbins

* 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
* 1 medium yellow onion, chopped
* 5 cloves garlic, chopped
* 1 tablespoon kosher salt
* 2 teaspoons chili powder
* 1 teaspoon dried oregano
* 1 tablespoon tomato paste
* 1 chipotle chile en adobo, coarsely chopped, with 1 tablespoon sauce
* 1 pound ground turkey
* 1 (12-ounce) Mexican lager-style beer
* 1 (14 1/2-ounce) can whole peeled tomatoes, with their juice
* 1 (15 1/2-ounce) can kidney beans, rinsed and drained
* Sliced scallions, cilantro sprigs, avocado, sour cream, grated Monterey jack cheese, and/or tortilla chips, for garnish, optional

Directions

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion, garlic, salt, chili powder, and oregano and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and the chipotle chile and sauce; cook 1 minute more. Add the turkey, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, and cook until the meat loses its raw color, about 3 minutes. Add the beer and simmer until reduced by about half, about 8 minutes. Add the tomatoes--crushing them through your fingers into the skillet--along with their juices and the beans; bring to a boil. Cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until thick, about 10 minutes.

Ladle the chili into bowls and serve with the garnishes of your choice.

Cook's Note: A skillet's larger surface area reduces sauces faster than simmering in a saucepan.


BRONZE MEDAL
GREEN GOBBLIN' CHILI by the Griffs
Serves 4

4 medium–size tomatilloes
2 tablespoons olive oil
1½ pounds chicken, boneless, skinless and cut into 1 inch chunks
(dark meat gives a richer flavor)
1 cup chopped onion
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 14 ounce can low sodium chicken broth
1 19 ounce can white beans (cannelloni), drained and rinsed
1 fresh jalapeño chili pepper, seeded and diced
1 cup whole green chili peppers (about 4), charred and chopped (if using canned, drain liquid)
1½ teaspoons sea salt
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Freshly grated black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 425°F. Place tomatilloes on baking pan lined with foil. Roast 10 minutes or until lightly brown and let cool. When cool, purée or mash. Set aside.
2. In a 6–quart saucepan, sauté onions and garlic over medium heat until soft. Remove from pan and set aside.
3. Add chicken to saucepan and sauté over medium–high heat until sides are lightly browned. Add cumin, oregano, onions, and garlic and stir for one minute.
4. Add chicken broth, white beans, jalapeño and green chili peppers, and roasted tomatilloes. Bring to boil and then simmer partially covered for 1 hour. Chili should have the consistency of a thick stew.
5. Stir in salt and cilantro and season to taste. Serve warm with cornbread.

This recipe can be doubled.

Page 140: Dear Old Mrs. Tucker

Bob sent me this peach of a picture... straight from a Wal*Mart in Texas...

I am including many of the Facebook posts from where I posted "Mrs. Tucker" there; that's what we named her as it seems appropriate.

"This woman is out shopping…in public…with no shirt on. She has her boobs tucked into her pants. INTO HER PANTS!!! I understand that gravity was hard on her but SERIOUSLY!!!"

OH MY SIDES...

Cheryl: one word... YUK!!

Brad: That's funny on steroids!

Jennifer: Was Bob in Canton, Ohio, shopping? That is normal attire at the Walmart in Canton...lol.

Robin: and she's drooling over chicken breasts!

Christy: I can't wait for my boobs to drop like that so I don't have to worry about finding a shirt that matches my pants.

Jeannie: hahahahaha I am laughing sooooo hard. I can't stand it. This is hilarious. I keep picturing what will happen if she bends forward and reaches for a package of "breasts"...

Jonathan: Kirk, your friends had me rollling in the floor. This might start a new fashion trend--the new mini-snuggie. You can actually wear it to the store. It's convenient; you'll never have to buy underwear again.

Mike: STOP talking about my woman!!!!!!

JoLynne: Good grief! is this what i have to look forward to?!

Richard: My eyes are burning!

David Jennings: Please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys...

Todd: I'd hit that.

Eric: I think I have seen this lady at the Brownwood Wal*Mart.

Lynette: LMAO!

krs: This delightful lady finally has a name: "Mrs. Tucker!!!!" Well, in her defense... it may look funny, but it suuure do keep "Perky" and "Dimples" warm...

Page 139, in which, Mrs. Kathryn Explodes

Let's be honest, shouldn't we be? Some people were born to sing, and some were born to sit. When people get confused about which they are, there's gonna be trouble.

The young lady was in trouble, there was no doubt about that. Standing up on the pulpit, her shaky vibrato had just gone flat, and it was time for the high notes. "My… FAAATHER'S EYESSSSSSS!" she warbled. "My… FAAATHER'S EYES!!!" and with that her eyes rolled up in the back of her head as she moved up and down trying to find the right pitch. That is all is took; back in the audience, our pew started shaking violently, and Kathy put her head down with her hand over her mouth. No dice. A volcano of explosive laughter was heading to the surface, leaving my poor Mrs. Kathryn scadoodling out of the pew and out the back of the church to burst into peals of laughter in the sanctity of the parking lot, yet once again.

We were recently recounting stories at dinner of "Mom/Kathy Explosions," about the millions and millions of times she has cracked up in really inappropriate venues, frequently at church or when musical performances go sour. Don't misunderstand. It' s not that she's maybe laughing at you. She is definitely laughing at you. But in a sweet, innocent way, and she in no way wants to hurt your feelings. See?

Mrs. Three Names (let's just call her "Cindy") had been a Pageant Queen. Miss California. And Miss Universe. And a cheerleader for a professional sports team. And. And. You knew all this because she would tell you the second she met you. That is, if she could get a word in edgewise to interrupt herself talking about her gallbladder. Never in the history of gallbladderdom has anyone talked more about theirs. It was Enlarged. It was Aggravated. It was Cranky. It was Better. No, Surly again and much, much Worse! And lucky as we were to sit in a Sunday School class every week with her, she would monopolize the first fifteen minutes of every class talking about Her Gallbladder, even AFTER it was removed. Those of us with poor character (and possibly missing the point of church altogether) described this part of Sunday School as "exasperating." So it was near Easter Sunday, and time to fill out the Easter Lilly dedication form during the Sunday Service. I handed mine to Mrs. Kathryn for her to inspect as the service got quiet. "In Loving Memory of Mrs. Three Names' Gallbladder" I had written. Kathy looked at me with wide eyes, and then I mashed my leg onto hers to seal the deal. Hand over mouth. Head down, as if she was praying. A horrible suppressed gurgle noise. And suddenly, a forceful exit from the pew and Mrs. Kathryn fleeing down the aisle making a beeline for the back door, tears screaming down her face. SCORE! (I can't help it. I have "The Bad Gene.")

But the worst time, I can barely speak of -- and have changed a couple details to protect the truly innocent. One of my college jobs was Music Minister (oh, STOP laughing yourself) and one church near the University of North Texas had a VERY sweet lady with The Biggest Forehead In the Universe (BFITU). And she loved to sing, exactly one song, and that only a capella, and not so much in key. "He Could Have Called… TEN THOUSAND ANGEEEEELLLLS," she would sing. I didn't care if it wasn't good. She was a sweetheart and everybody loved her. Right after we got married back in the 1800's, I had told Mrs. Kathryn about her. Some time later, we had the occasion to visit this church. Seated in the pew during the somber service, I looked down at the bulletin to see who was doing the "Special Music." Oh. No. I tapped Mrs. Kathryn and pointed trying to warn her, but she didn't understand. For the next 20 minutes, I sat in horror waiting. Finally BFITU took the stage. "He could have called…. TEN THOUSAND ANGELS!" she crooned, a capella, and about 1/4 step flat and getting flatter. Kathy turned her head in astonishment, wild eyed, looking at me as recognition registered. No, no, no, no, I thought. If she got up to leave or Lost It, it would be the embarrassment of the century. I have blocked what happened next, but I remember the pew shaking like a '67 Plymouth, and someone, perhaps me, BEGGING Providence to please, please, give the 10,000 angels holding Kathy's mouth shut the strength of Samson. If memory serves, the prayer worked, except for muffled snorting noises, a used-up box of Kleenex, and bewildered stares as people seemed sure she was having a meltdown or in-pew epileptic seizure.

So many other stories could be told. They say laughter is the best medicine -- so that makes my Mrs. Kathryn a world class physician. So if you're up on stage and you see Kathy out in the audience with her head down and pew shaking, remember, it's only medicinal and she's a professional.

Page 138: Hell Hath No FURY Like A Sister...

...Scorned. Especially a Twin Sister.

I found the handwritten letter on Pappy's old desk. Apparently, there had been "drama" around the old Scott place the night before. "Keaton, I take it Kristin was trying to mess with your hair last night?"

He nodded, exasperated. "Uh huh."

"Let me guess -- she wanted to make it look ridiculous, then laugh herself silly at you?"

"Uh huh."

My wish for each of you is that you have a set of Twins, at least one of which is "high spirited." Well, "then again, I wish for alot of things."



"Lord, hear our prayer."

Page 137: Miracles in the Mirror

I try to keep blogs short, under 800 words. I apologize that I have struggled to write this for 2 years and cannot get it under 800 words. Hopefully the heartfelt sincerity of this story will atone for its lack of brevity.

The Age of Miracles is Over.

So says conventional wisdom. But that January in 2008, the Reverend Steve Bolen had a different perspective.

"My goal… my dream, is that each one of you will experience a miracle in 2008," he said, his voice steady and resolute. I sat in the pew, listening. Steve Bolen is no sideshow charlatan; he is the über-discerning overseer of a large flock of thoughtful people. What? Miracles? I listened and tried to tune into his frequency. He said many things, but the way it came home for me was this: to accomplish a miracle, you must allow -- more than allow, truly enable -- a thing to happen that you think is literally impossible.

Immediately, I knew what Kathy's "Miracle" was. To be reconciled with her father, with whom she has not spoken or seen since she was 11 years old.

Thirty five years is a long time without your father. There was a bitter divorce. A mother who remarried and moved her far away from her life in Kentucky down south to Texas. A heart-stricken father who felt that his youngest was slipping away forever. Terrible words were exchanged -- "you will never see me again." Difficult for a child, but also impossibly difficult for a father in pain. When I first met her as student in Denton many years ago she was 22 and had spent half of her life without her father. She is one of the strongest people you will ever meet, but the hole in her heart over her father was palpable. After being married some years, she sought counseling to "get over it. "I’m going to have to let him go, without regrets," she said. Any notion of a reconciliation became a dim memory of lost hope.

But Steve Bolen's inspiration suddenly opened the possibilities wide. Reconciling with her father? Impossible, wasn't it? When we got back home I asked her what she thought of Steve's sermon.

"I thought it was intriguing," she replied.

"I know what your 'Miracle' is," I said quietly. "We are going to Kentucky in September for your grandfather's 95th birthday. Your dad will only be a few hours away. Let’s -- just show up at his door. This is your business and it's up to you, but I have to tell you, it seems like the right thing to do. Well, if we are going to believe in a Miracle."

She stared at me, speechless. The conversation was short. I didn’t bring it up again, but she did about a month before we left for Kentucky. "I think we should do it," she said. She spoke to her sister, who had maintained a relationship with their father, and who agreed. What we didn’t know was that there would be an angel in the middle of this exercise to help bring this Miracle to life -- her father's girlfriend, Karen, a delightful soul who would be let in on this secret and help set the stage.

It’s a great idea to surprise him, she conveyed through Kathy’s sister, putting us all more at ease. She cooked up a feast beforehand and even had the piano tuned so that the Scott kids could show off just a little. And as Karma would have it, the weekend we planned to arrive, her dad’s siblings were visiting, a sort of mini-family reunion setting the table for a much more dramatic one.

It was a long drive there, and when we rolled up the hilly driveway to Ken's house that day, I felt somewhat sick. I can only imagine how Kathy felt. Thirty five years of absence and hurt sets the stage for grand drama and a real case of butterflies. I will never forget walking up to the door and knocking, or the look on Ken's face when he saw the daughter he had not seen in so many years.

Kathy had always said of her father, "we loved each other so much. He was so funny and full of life." The man I met that day, the father-in-law I had never met, was a delight. Keenly intelligent. Funny as hell. And, most importantly, immediately accepting of a long lost daughter and her family. Whatever had caused years of hurt and pain melted away like the cold ice of winter into the green leaves of spring. It was a moment bright with love and redemption, and it was an utter miracle -- for neither Kathy, nor me, nor anyone in her family, probably including Ken -- thought it even remotely possible. Thank you, Steve Bolen. I write with moist eyes to tell you that from your words sprang the realization of an impossible dream. Had we not been there to hear your words that day, this amazing Life Moment would never have happened.


Kathy and her father have stayed in close touch since. There is no dwelling on the past, for as the jazz musician Babatunde Olatunji said, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today? Today is a gift. That's why we call it the ‘present.’” The joy of living in the midst of a Miracle is that it evaporates old painful memories, leaving the old nostalgic ones in their place as a backdrop to the happiness of a new Today.

"The sun never says to the earth,
'You owe me.'
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights up the whole sky."
-- the Sufi mystic Hafiz

And even I would not be shortchanged in this year of Miracles. That January day “my” impossible miracle popped into my head, but I quickly dismissed it. My brother Dan, lost to me so many years, far over a decade. Not literally a brother, but more literally a brother than most brothers. We had lost touch, both moved around the country, and I couldn’t find him. I am good at finding people -- I spent years tracking down my Ohio family -- but I could not find Dan despite many, many hours of trying. Finding him seemed impossible, although listening to Steve that day, I thought "I'll find him, eventually." Somewhere in some distant place there was a "click," because sometimes The Universe -- God by any other name -- has surprises in store for us.

About a month later, I received a message on my Batcave site. "Guess who?" it said. No idea. An email came in the next day... “Que Pasa?” from sender “Dan Endres.” I sat staring at the screen. In the midst of my impossibility, it seems that Dan had been looking for me for quite some time. When I started Blogging some years ago, leaving a crumb-trail to be found was definitely one of my reasons why. And as it turned out, this was a critical piece of making it happen. Seeing him and his daughter Alie in Austin that summer was my highlight of the year.

What should you make of all this, Gentle Browser? Perhaps it means that whether you are a hymn-singing Baptist, a loyal Catholic, a mystical possibilities-oriented Unity practitioner, or a confirmed Agnostic, there is a Principle which can affect and change your life. “I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you,” Jesus said. Part of such Faith is the very active act of putting-your-actions-where-your-thoughts are. The Buddha echoes this sentiment: “However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act on upon them?"

Miracles come to those who Believe. And even more so to those who make it so. Blessings.

With much love and gratitude for my friend Rev. Steve Bolen, a true and sincere light illuminating the path...


Steve on a recent local Fox News 7 segment:

Page 136: TERRY-FIED!!!

It was kiddie's bedtime minus ten, which is a little later than most in our house, and Keaton and I were laying on the batcouch watching a Dave Matthews concert. Suddenly, Kristin piped up from down the hall.

"DAD! There is a big spider in Keaton's room!"
"Well, then step on it or smack it with a shoe," I replied, half-asleep. I could hear some kind of commotion.
"DAD!!! DAD!!!"
"Kristin. You are the bravest girl I know. You catch bugs and lizards. Just smack it."
"DAD! It's… I think it's a TARANTULA! PLEASE come here."

Muttering under my breath, I got off the couch and went into Keaton's room, where all three kids were now assembled, pie-eyed. They looked like they had seen a ghost. I took a look by Keaton's desk.

"Nice try, Kristin. That's fake."
"DAD! It's not fake! It's MOVING its legs!"

She was right.

There was some debate about what to do -- "do NOT step on that" I said, and probably shouldn't have mentioned that tarantulas can jump about 8 feet, which immediately cast a macabre, spooky atmosphere in the room. Kellen argued for trapping it in a "big pot from the kitchen," but we finally decided on a Tupperware cereal container, and when Kellen brought both up from the kitchen, the cereal container was helpfully still full of Strawberry Mini-Wheats.

"Unless you have some Grasshopper Sugar Pops in there, I don't think the tarantula is interested in breakfast right now," I said. "Pour the cereal into the pot." I took a deep breath and used BBQ tongs to coax the tarantula into his new plastic digs, slipping on the cover. The boys stared in wonder at the giant, hairy creature. It was about 5 inches across.

Kristin was gone. "She probably went to tell Mom," Keaton said.

"Mom!!!" Kellen beamed, an evil grin spreading from one side of his face to the other. "Let's go show her!"

"Kellen, behave. We're not going to scare your mom. But I do want her to see it."

We arrived downstairs just as Kristin was trying to lock the master bedroom door. For the record, Kristin is the bravest kid around, but fiercely protective of her mom. But as for her mom, Kathy is probably the most squeamish person in Texas around anything with four or more legs. When it's Kathy vs. the Insect Kingdom, the insects will win every time, even if it's a battle with a lone cricket. To her, they are all vicious, venom dripping, blood-sucking, flesh chomping man-eaters.

We managed to get into the room before Kristin locked the door.
"Kathy, look at this," I said. She looked at the container and immediately screamed like a B horror Movie starlet.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

"Honey, honey, it's okay," I said. And suddenly Kellen was behind me, trying to push me closer to her. "Kellen, stop that." Poor thing, but I really had no intention of getting it close to her. I didn't realize it would freak her out this badly. "Kathy, it's okay. It is in this container and it's not getting out. "

"Get it out of here," she yelled. "Now!"

"Kathy! We will -- just wanted you to see it. We're not trying to scare you. Maybe we should keep it as a pet… name it… Terry?" Terry, apparently delighted with his new name, started crawling up the side of the cereal container. "Omigosh -- look at that. It can crawl up the side!"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

Now the boys were giggling like maniacs, and Kristin picked up a pillow. "Get any closer..." she threatened.

"Bad choice, my dear. The tarantula will go flying and then be in the room somewhere, maybe on your mom's-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!!!"

"Okay boys, I don't think your mother wants us in here. Let's go out." But now Kellen was pushing at full force. He leaned to whisper in my ear, "Dad -- let's just act like we're going to -"

"No, no, we're leaving." But my laughing was weakening me, and he was pushing all the harder. I looked up at Kathy. "Just remember he's misbehaving, not me -- oh dear, I ...I don't think I can hold-"

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAK!" she yelled. Mental Note: she could always do voice scream-overs for the movies if times get tight for us. Luckily, her last scream of terror weakened Kellen's stance, so I shoved back with just enough force to get us out without dropping Terry.

So, how did he get in the house? Only thing we can figure is he crawled up a 20 foot rock wall and came in an upstairs balcony door near Keaton's room.

In the meantime, I really wasn't pleased with my oldest son. "Kellen, what you did in there -- that was just terrible. Seriously. Are you happy with yourself? Really, that was just plain wrong. I thought I taught you better than that. So next time, DON'T forget the video camera!"

Page 135: A Boy and His Robot

Not every 10 year boy has a life-size robot at their disposal like Keaton, but not every boy is growing up in my house. In this case, the DaddyBot --pictured at right -- looks quite a bit like his actual Daddy, except for the robot-like movements and the booming voice that is unmistakable -- the voice of The Robot from Lost in Space.

17 year old Kellen was sitting on Keaton, tickling him senseless, amidst screams and peals of forced, painful laughter. Finally, Keaton was able to yell the magic words. "DaddyBot!"

"DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Save me, DaddyBot!" Keaton howled.

"COMMAND ACCEPTED," DaddyBot boomed. "PROTECT MODE ACTIVATED. DESTROY! DESTROY ATTACKER!!!" And with that, he went into action, grabbing Kellen off Keaton like a ragdoll, pinning him down to the floor, and then robo-tickling him until he was screaming like a little schoolgirl. Except Kellen’s not a little schoolgirl at all (except when he screams like one). Finally, DaddyBot released the hoodlum and he ran for the hills. Keaton lay breathless on the couch.

"DaddyBot, thank you, thank you!"

"YOU ARE WELCOME, KEATON SCOTT."

Yep, it’s swell to be a 10 year old boy with your own personal DaddyBot. Sometimes, however, DaddyBots can malfunction. For example, there Keaton and DaddyBot were in the ginormous pool late at night at Port Royal on the Texas Coast. "The Redneck Riviera," they call it, but it's our coast and our rednecks, and we loves 'em. The beaches are exactly like the beaches in Destin, Florida, except the sand and water are brown and every hotel, motel, and rental house on the beach is a rusted out filthy dump that rents for ridiculous prices. But it's our brown sand, brown water, rusted out dumps, and ridiculous prices, and we loves 'em.

Keaton was cruising around on his dad's back around the pool. Suddenly, the Bad Gene / Mischevious Circuit was activated. "DADDYBOT ONLINE."

"Wha?" Keaton asked.

"ATTACK MODE ENGAGED. SCANNING FOR TARGETS… SCANNING FOR TARGETS...!"

"Oh nooooo," Keaton gulped, but DaddyBot's docking clamps held his legs tight -- Keaton wasn't going anywhere, except exactly where DaddyBot wanted him to go. A middle aged lady in a nice dry flowery muumuu was walking along the edge of the pool. "Oh no, no, no," Keaton moaned.

"ATTACK SEQUENCE COMMENCING...DESTROY!" DaddyBot whispered, perched in the water by the side of the pool, gazing in the opposite direction. Just as Granny Flabs passed by, DaddyBot went into quick action, using his robotic cyberarm to summon an ENORMOUS tidal wave of water -- a pool tsunami -- right over the edge and up through the air. DaddyBot was already underwater and traveling at high speed with Keaton in tow by splashdown time, leaving a Muumuu with a Boo Boo and a bewildered woman looking angrily at all the kids in the vicinity.

"SCANNING FOR TARGETS!" DaddyBot repeated, and his onboard sensors locked onto a group of very dry teenage kids sitting at the table by the edge of the pool, oblivious on their very own Planet Yack & Snack.

“No no no no, DaddyBot, NO!!!” Keaton pleaded, giggling. “Cancel attack sequence and power down!”

“COMMAND *NOT* ACCEPTED,” DaddyBot replied. “VOICE COMMAND INTERFACE *OFFLINE*!!!” Approaching the unsuspecting, dry victims, DaddyBot hovered. “ACTIVATING AQUA CANNON,” he intoned, and a gigantic wall of water went hurling over the edge of the pool, bringing April showers but little in the way of May flowers to the entire table. “DADDY VOICE SIMULATION ENABLED,” DadyBot whispered.

The dripping wet table sat, stunned, looking around to see who dunnit.

“Keaton! What have I told you about splashing people? I mean it. Sorry folks, this boy is a real prankster. Now, young man...I think a good old fashioned spankin’ might just be in your future,” and then the drenched, bewildered table stared as the father headed off down the pool, dragging a red-faced Keaton in hysterics along behind him.

Keaton could not stop giggling, a sort of terrified giggle -- what does one do when one’s DaddyBot goes so beserk? “DaddyBot....oh DaddyBot...”

“TO QUOTE A FAMOUS RABBIT... AIN’T I A STINKUH?” DaddyBot quipped. That was when the stern looking woman in the pantsuit came marching into the pool area.“TARGET ACQUIRED!” DaddyBot purred. And Keaton knew it was going to be long, splashy night.

Keaton & Kristin -- picture by "DaddyBot"

Page 134: "Good Times"

In the first century, a Jewish family lived in a small stone house. The time had come to move the wife's elderly parents in, but the husband was vexed. He went to his rabbi. "We will be too crowded. Our house is too small. What should I do, master?"

"You should do the right thing and take in your family," the rabbi advised. "And in helping in this way you will have abundant blessings. Do this and come back in one week."

The father promptly moved in his in-laws, and within a week everyone in the home was miserable. He hurried back to the rabbi. "I followed your advice, teacher, and now I have never known such misery! What have you done to us?"

"Patience, my son," the rabbi replied. "Do you have chickens?" The man nodded. "Do you have sheep?" The man again nodded yes. "And a donkey? Good. Now, you must move your chickens, sheep, and donkey into the house also. Come back to see me in two weeks."

The father was bewildered, but he went back and followed the rabbi's instructions. Two weeks later he returned with disheveled hair, dirty clothes, and a wild look on this face. "Oh teacher," he moaned, "I have followed your advice. I have done everything you said. Now my in-laws have no place to sleep because the chickens are laying eggs in their bed. The goats are baa-ing and butting their heads, and the sheep are breaking things. The animals have made my house a wreck, and it smells worse than a barn!"

The rabbi frowned. He closed his eyes and thought for a long time. Finally he said, “This is what you do. Take the sheep back to the barn. Take the chickens back to their coop, and put your donkey back in its pen. Come back in one month.”

The farmer ran home and did exactly as the rabbi had told him. A month later, he came back to see the rabbi, smiling from ear to ear.

"Oh master! Our home is the most spacious, peaceful, and comfortable in the land. Thank you for your wise advise -- our family is the happiest it has ever been!"

And the rabbi smiled.

With thanks to Rev. Steve Bolen

Page 133: My Wife is HOT!

So it turns out that me, the kid from the blazing hot Texas hills who baked his entire childhood with parents who didn't believe in air conditioning, ended up marrying a beautiful woman who runs only frozen liquid nitrogen in her veins at Absolute Zero. This means that she freezes to death year round, especially in the 100 degree summer when "all that cold air is blowing."

What are the odds?

In contrast, I don't wear a jacket outside unless it's below 26 degrees. I sleep with the windows open in 40 degree weather. My idea of a good thermostat is a thermostat with icicles hanging off it. I need cold air blowing on me 7x24. See the problem?

For Mrs. Kathryn, it's a bit different. She travels around with a jacket in the summer, "in case it's cold in the restaurant/movie theater/mall/car/church/sidewalk/oven/park/anywhere." If there is a breeze, she is shivering like Scooby Doo in the Haunted Mansion. For this past Valentine's Day, I bought her a full-body flannel PajamaGram complete with footies, because she had only spoken the words "I'm Freezing" for weeks when the temperatures here in Austin dipped below 60. She took one look at the plush pink footie pajama suit and loved it! I have a picture of her wearing it, but am unable to post it on account that she might punch my head in like a cheeseball.

We were headed to the restaurant. "Kristin and Keaton, put on your coats!" Kathy insisted.

"But Mom -- it's 90 degrees outside," Kristin protested.

"If you want to catch your death of a cold out there, young lady, you just go right ahead."

Sigh.

"Would you like to sit outside, sir?" the hostess asked.

"Uh -- yes please. I guess. Can you bring me a cold rag, a sack of ice, a sweat bucket and a stack of towels? Yes? Okay, and a propane heater and electric blanket for my wife? Thanks." As luck would have it, a fan was blowing on the patio, trying to keep the patrons comfortable. Kathy gave the fan a horrified look and shot me a look of misery. Perhaps if I ask for an ax and chop off the corners of the table and start a fire, she'll feel better, I thought. And then I can jump over the rail and hit the concrete head first, and then I'll feel better too.

No, no! Do not get the wrong idea. As we approach our 24th wedding anniversary, I would not want you to think that Her Hotness's cold nature ever gets on my nerves. The answer is never, ever, ever. She is, after all, My Sweet Baboo, and when thawed out, an utter delight.

"Is that coooold AIR blowing?" she asked recently at Tres Amigos.

"Yes maam, it is. It's called the 'air conditioning'," the waiter patiently explained. "We use that here in Texas." I barely noticed, too busy fanning myself with the menu in the 80 degree dining room.

We all have these little things we have to work through in our relationships, don't we? Well, luckily for me, it's not too difficult. After all, there is one thing you cannot deny about my wife -- she's HOT! Really.

Page 132, in which krs Finally Makes Scents

Dear God,
Why do I have to live one third of my life in the Twilight Zone? I keep having bizarre experiences no one else seems to have. Or, so they don't say.
Love,
krs
P.S. Is it scary in Heaven? It looks like it might be. I know it's not supposed to be. I'm just sayin'.

There I was at work, minding my own business, working against a deadline that involved El Presidente. I am not speaking of the hotel in Cancun, nor the tequila or much maligned Mr. Obama. I'm talking about someone at work, an amazing man with an air about him that exudes charisma and energy. Not only would you follow him up the hill, you'd shovel dirt to build the hill for him. Meeting at 4p.

I was sitting in the conference room at 3:40p getting ready when I noticed something. Sniff. Something not quiiiite right. Sniff sniff. Wha? That almost smells like… oh my Sweet Dear Lord. Apparently, today I have an air about me too.

I quickly pushed "rewind" on the dusty old BetaMax VCR in my head -- remember Beta? Uh huh, well that is what my brain is like -- and finally backed up the tape to my morning ritual. Shower, yes (oh man I have to get back to the gym), then mid-shower the phone rang, talking to my boss about the 4p meeting, yes and now I'm getting dressed… AND HOUSTON, we have a problem. In my mad rush of the morning in tornado mode, it seems Mr. Mitchum the Unscented Deodorant and I neglected to chat.

I wonder when the last time I forgot was. Seventh grade?

Now I was in a seriously dill pickle, with no time to get to the corner Walgreens. There was only one option, so I dashed down to the men's room, which as luck would have it, was completely empty. Goody, this is no time for explanations and wisecracks from the Peanut Gallery. I extracted 3 large paper towels from the dispenser, 1 for soaping, 1 for rinsing, and 1 for drying. Of course, we use only the finest, cheapest, least expensive, most disgusting, and foamiest hand soap on the planet at work. I squirted mounds of foam onto my "soaping" towel, and sprinted back to the Large Stall, carefully removing my shirt while not spilling superfoam on anything. Seconds later, I was scrubbing away, scrubbing, scrubbing, and that was when I dropped both Mr. Rinse Towel and Mr. Drying Towel on the filthy floor.

If you know anything about me, you know I am a germaphobe of vast proportions. The chances of me picking up and using paper towels off a bathroom stall floor are Slim and None, and Slim's on vacation. It was 3:50p, El Presidente minus ten, and as I heard an entire slew of guys enter the men's room, I realized I was trapped in a handicapped stall with the foamiest pits east of the Pecos. You have no idea how much foam we're talking about.

I laughed. I cried. I cussed. I prayed. I watched foam falling from pits to floor. Some oaf shuffled loudly into the stall next to me, rustling around with his pants. Oh no. I have got to get the hell outta here. But how?

Seconds later, like a trapped animal, I was clawing at the toilet paper dispenser, rolling it like a rabid hamster on a turbo wheel. I was a TP-to-pit wiping machine, bionic-like, and within a mere 2 minutes, I had wiped off at least ten percent of the foam.

The Betamax tape goes blank at this point, but somehow somewhere, I suppose with the help of my Guardian Angel and possibly all his Angel buddies, at precisely 4p I was sitting back in the conference room to greet El Presidente, and there was only the faintest scent of handsoapy antiseptic in the air. Fully de-foamed through angelic intervention, I smelled cleaner than a whistle. The meeting went swimmingly, and halfway through it, El Presidente actually uttered these exact words, which gave me the inspiration for this blog.

"krs, you make a lot of sense."

Scents? Oh Mister El Presidente, you have no idea.

Dear God… P.S. Do Guardian Angels wear deodorant?

Page 131: "Got Perspective?"

Page 131 @ the Batcave

Page 130: Confessions of a Crazed Car Maniac

My beloved Miss Sparks, after more than five faithful years of service, was just decommissioned. She was an awesome car with amazing technology and gadgets, and a faithful companion. In her final weeks, she was with me side by side in an epic battle to rescue Bill the Cat (yes, THAT Bill the Cat - story forthcoming). Ah, Miss Sparks…okay, I confess I don't miss her one damn bit.

I confess that I am non-materialistic but have a serious car fetish.

I confess that I love cars more than certain family members.

I confess that I've spent more hours staring at, reading about, and polishing cars than I've ever spent doing charitable good deeds to help the world (most shameful).

I confess that given the choice between a large scratch on my car and having Bruno the hairy 300 pound bouncer punch my Chiclets out, I would probably let Bruno go to town. You don't need teeth to live, but you don't need a scratch on your car even more.

I confess that if I was the jealous type, I would be crazy jealous of Bob, who gets to run a company in the automotive arena. Working in the car bid'ness? As my excitable old Aunt June used to say, "I think I just peed a little."

I confess that I've "stolen" approximately $43,238 in my life by standing and reading, cover to cover, car magazines out of the racks of stores all over the world without buying them. Sometimes, I've read car magazines in languages I didn't even know existed.

I confess that I am NOT a car snob, but I find almost all American cars uglier than roadkill... although I think the current line of Buicks has a grace and beauty unseen in American jalopies for over 30 years. Okay, who has taken up defending Buicks anytime recently? Clearly I am not a car snob. Quit laughing, Chucklehead -- go take a look at the Buick LaCrosse and see what I mean. On the other hand, the Ford Fusion is the 2010 Motor Trend Car of the Year? Good Lord, Honey. The Ford Fusion is good for one thing: being hauled off to the cemetery, beaten with sledge hammers, and rammed into a giant crater. Fill that hole up with dirt, boys; nobody should have to look at something like that.

These are the confessions of a car crazed maniac. I was on the wagon for almost 6 years, but I fell off with a vengeance.


Please meet my new assistant, Number Six. He's quite a piece of work… German efficiency and all that. Gently used but nary a scratch, he is ready for a new life in Austin and a new set of Starship adventures in the Batcave. Number Six, set a course for the car wash and prepare to set wheels to "polish."

Return to Batcave Home

Page 129: Favorite Prank Memories: Eye Can't Take the Pressure!

"Come on in and sit down," Patsy said, and six of us filed into her office for a meeting. I had known Patsy for years; we worked together in the 1990's in Philadelphia and she had recently moved down to Austin to join us.

I was wincing in pain with my hand up to my right eye. "Is your eye still bothering you?" she asked. I had been walking around with my hand to my eye all morning.

"Yes, it's worse. Hurts like the dickens. It's all swollen -- awful. Never mind me, let's get started," I replied, wincing again, and moving my hand away to peer at her through a Popeye-esque, painful squint.

"Well, I think we should start with these new accounts," Patsy began. "Because they-"

My low moan interrupted her. I rubbed my eye, in increasing agony. "Oh, man. Man, oh, man. It feels like so much pressure -- killin' me!" I groaned.

"I've got some Tylenol, will that help?" Patsy asked, concerned. The other people around the table were staring at me.

"No, no, I'm fine...I think….OH…oh man… can't take this PRESSURE. Seriously, never mind me, let's just get through this," I said.

"Well. Okay. So if we start with this first set of accounts -- hey, can I get you a wet rag?" Patsy asked worriedly. I was clutching my eye intensely, my face contorted.

"I… I… my…eye…feels…like…it's gonna…explode…pressure..." I answered. I stood up, still clutching my hand over my eye. "AWWWWWRRRGGG!" I gurgled, and that was when I smashed the liquid Mr. Coffee Creamer I had been hiding in my fist next to my eye, sending evilish, white gooey liquid exploding all over the conference table.

"OH MY GAWHHHD!!!"Patsy thundered, the table scattering as she lunged backwards against the wall with the most horrified expression I have ever seen. She stood staring,her mouth hanging literally open, at the remains of my what had once been my eyeball, splattered all over her table.

There was a brief moment of absolute silence… and then, unable to stand it any more, I broke down into laughter. Hysterical laughter, the kind that can kill you if you aren't careful. The people at the table, most of whom were in on the joke, were laughing their heads off. I was laughing so hard I thought I was going to pass out from lack of oxygen, and had to lay down on the floor. After a shocked moment, Patsy stomped out of the room, uttering a series of expletives that might have been targeted in my direction.

Mission Accomplished.


PRANK INGREDIENTS

• One long tenured unsuspecting friend
• One plastic container of "Vanilla" or Regular liquid Coffee Creamer
• Overacting Skills
• Ability to Hold in Laughter during Prank
• Ability to Stay Conscious After Prank
• Ability to outrun your Prey (if needed)