Yes, He's Alive . . . .

Hey Guys,

I'm still here, just busy.

I thought I'd give you an update on my life and frame of mind. (Mostly in random thoughts and bullet points.) Of course, I am also on Facebook. More about that later.

First and foremost, in early June, I flew to Miami where the lovely Xena was waiting for me at the airport. We then proceeded to drive from Miami to Texas with all of her worldly goods.. Yes, she is here and all is well. As a matter of fact, she has my dream job! She is the Theatre Arts teacher at our old high school.

We have another dog - Titus Andronicus Barnes. I suppose he will be the subject of several posts all on his own.

My brother continues his struggle to regain function in his body and brain after his accident of a couple of years ago. He is better, much better actually, but will most likely never walk again or be able to live unassisted. Again - several post to cover that.

On the same sad note, my Mom died last month. She was 71, and it came very unexpectedly. That post is definitely coming soon to a blog near you.

Work is picking up, after an extended period of reduced hours. I am very grateful for that. Things were looking pretty bleak around the office, there were a number of layoffs, but thankfully, I wasn't one of them.

I'm sure I'll have something to say about the dismal election and the stupidity of giving the keys back to the guys who crashed the car.

What I mean to say is . . . . . can I come back and play?

k

Oh yes, and Zoe is still as beautiful as ever.

Remembrance Of Cookies Past

Do you have a favorite holiday memory? Or, even a memory, favorite or not, that just means the Holidays to you? I was forced to think about that last year. It was just over a month past the end of my ill-fated love affair, and I was facing Christmas without the kids. I needed a shot of holiday cheer, and I needed it fast. What to do?

I remembered a cookie my Mom used to make, back when I was a kid.

A bit about my Mom, Christmas at our home, and these cookies.

As I've told you before, my Mom wasn't really a great cook. She wasn't horrible, but she wasn't especially adventurous. Pretty much everything was fried, at least until my Dad's heart attack. After that, everything was shoved under the broiler.

She was, however, a proficient baker. She made great pastry, and I still can't match her biscuits. Every Holiday, be it Christmas, Easter, or Thanksgiving, she would bake, and bake, and bake. I can't say whether or not she enjoyed it, but she did have a sweet tooth, and spared no effort to fill the dessert table at each opportunity.

Christmas baking meant pies, of course; pumpkin, mince, and chocolate for sure, sometimes apple, and usually a sweet potato in later years. Every year she made fudge, pralines, divinity, a non bake fruitcake abomination that consisted of crushed vanilla wafers and, something else, I'm not quite sure what, and lots and lots of cookies.

The usual cut-out cookies were there, iced with powdered sugar icing tinted a garish red and green, some kind of spiced date bar that I wish I had the recipe for, spritz cookies in the same shade as the icing, and fruit cake cookies.

The fruitcake cookies were ubiquitous to my childhood Christmases. We had them at home, if I went to a friend's house, they were pretty much guaranteed to be sitting on the counter there as well. My grandmother always had them, and I can remember eating them at church get-togethers.

The funny thing is, I didn't really like those cookies. They were white and bland, and filled with artificial, chemical tasting candied fruit. That was it. The cookie was just an innocuous vehicle for candied fruit and citron, along with a small amount of nuts. I didn't like fruitcake, well, not the one's I'd been exposed to at this point in my life, and I didn't like the overly sweet, artificial taste of candied fruit. Yet, every year, I looked forward to those cookies, and I anticipated their appearance on the kitchen counter.

The only time I ever saw those cookies was at Christmas time. One taste of that chemical, bitter citron and I knew that Christmas was really almost here. When you're 10 years old, that's a pretty big deal.

I thought about those cookies as I tried to jump start my holiday spirit, so I set out to make them. There was a problem; nobody but me remembered them. I guess they must have been some 70's fad from a women's magazine or something, because I couldn't remember the last time I had them, and I couldn't find anyone who even knew what I was talking about.

I started pouring through my collection of Holiday cooking magazines. I finally found a recipe that I thought might be close, so I made them, along with toffee and pecan tassies and far, far more sweets that we could ever hope to eat in three Christmases. I played Christmas music the whole time I baked, and by the time I had the counter filled with goodies, I had made it through the whole day without thinking of you know who.

Satisfied with my day's work, I made a pot of coffee and sat down with one of my cookies. It was a pale, golden white and had a very faint vanilla smell. I bit in. The moment that tang of candied citron hit my tongue, I could see my Mom's old kitchen. I could imagine the little Santa shaped cocoa mugs that lined the bar, and I could smell the Christmas tree. (Flocked, with a color wheel on it) It worked. Make no mistake, this cookie is a far cry from Proust's madeleine, but it accomplished it's goal.

Later, when the kids came home, they surprised me by liking those cookies. I made several more batches, and experimented a bit. I tried substituting first some, and then all of the candied fruit for dried. I used apricots and dried cranberries, even dried cherries. While the dried fruit may have made a better cookie, it was not the Christmas cookie of my memory, for that, it needs the candied citron.

This year, I needed the same boost, so last Friday, I put on the Christmas CD's, I made a pot of Earl Grey, and I baked these cookies. Maybe someday my kids will fondly remember me in the kitchen baking these, and always associate that memory with Christmas.

I hope so.

Fruitcake Cookies

1/2 cup butter
1 1/2 cups AP flour
2/3 cup sugar
1/2 cup cottage cheese (small curd, creamy - don't use low fat)
1 egg
2 Tab milk
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp. vanilla
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1 cup mixed candied fruit with citron * see note below
1/2 cup chopped pecans

Beat the butter in a large bowl until soft. Lightly mix in half of the flour. Add the next 7 ingredients, mix until well combined, stopping to scrape the sides occasionally. Stir in the remainder of the flour, and the fruit and nuts.

Bake at 375 F for 10-12 minutes on parchment paper. Cool on a rack. This recipe makes about 30 cookies for me.

* The fruit should be chopped much finer than it comes out of the container. To accomplish this, I lightly oil my knife with vegetable oil. It makes the job much, much easier.

Scooped out and ready to bake.

Out of the oven - They don't get very brown or crisp, you want them soft.

Cooling on the rack.

A final note -

The title of this post is an obvious reference to Proust's great work. In recent years, it has become de rigueur to refer to this work as In Search Of Lost Time. I thought the earlier title better served my purpose, but after re-reading this post, I'm not so sure. Searching for lost time is a fair description of my blog, n'est-ce pas?

The One Where I Need To Relax

Brave Sir Robin is a little tense.

Just a tad.

My life has been a dime store novel (though, not a particularly compelling one) for pretty much forever it seems.

That, it appears, is changing!

The events of the past few days have made it clear that my life is indeed now a Christmas movie. Not a beloved one, that you can't wait to see every year because it doesn't feel like Christmas without it. Not one that TBS will run marathons of, and families will gather around the TV in Christmas Eve pajamas to watch, holiday libations in hand.

No, Brave Sir Robin is living one of those Christmas movies that plays on the other channels. The ones with "C" list stars from the 80's. The ones that play on channels opposite football games.

you know the plot -

Stressed out, type "A" person plans the perfect Christmas, works like the devil to make everyone's Christmas wish come true, only to see it turn into disaster after disaster through no fault of their own, and then wrap up neatly with a "that's what Christmas is really about" ending?

I hate those movies.

I will, however take the cheesy happy ending if I can get it.

I'm trying to schedule a carpenter, (no, not that one), an electrician, furniture delivery, and the cable (satellite) guys.

Everything depends on the cable guys.

Guess who didn't show up as scheduled yesterday?

Still, as problems go it's a better one to have than what most of the last year delivered.

I just need to relax.

I think Cappuccino has the answer. Doesn't he look sweet? Don't be fooled. He's playing nice the last two weeks before Christmas. He's hoping for some catnip in his stocking. Or a small child, I'm not sure which.

Oh - I did manage to make cookies Friday.


Recipe to follow.

Happy Holidays from my castle to yours.

This Is A Bailout I Can Get Behind!

It seems the family farms that produce the most heavenly, delectable, irreplaceable item on this earth are in financial trouble.

Of course, I'm talking about Parmigiano , of course, what did you think I was talking about?

Who knew?

The Italian Government has purchased 100,000 wheels of cheese in an effort to prop up the failing industry.

Damn. They could send me a wheel.

Have you priced the real stuff lately?

I can no longer buy it here locally, but I bought some in Houston Saturday.

Ouch.

But, the trip wasn't a total loss. I went to the downtown Spec's. (My annual Christmas pilgrimage), and look what I found!


Yes, Moxie!

The nectar of the Gods. They only had two left. I bought them both. I drank one that night, and I'm saving the last one for . . . . I don't know. A day I really need it.

Laugh, Think, Cry

I noticed this morning that by 2010, cancer will replace heart disease as the world's number one killer. I was a little surprised that it wasn't already. It's hard to imagine that there isn't a person or family that you know that hasn't been affected by this disease.

It was a nice little bit of synchronicity that I saw that article this morning. I was mulling this post over in my head all night. I don't often go overly sentimental in this space, but today I want to make an exception.

We watch a lot of sports in our household. With two teenage boys and myself, if the TV is on in the evening, it is usually sports. Last night was no exception. The Longhorns were scheduled to play Villanova in the Jimmy V Classic last night in Madison Square Garden. Of course, we tuned in.

Do you know the story of Jim Valvono? Jim Valvano (Jimmy V), was a college basketball coach. He is best known as the coach of the North Carolina State team that defeated the heavily favored, high flying, Phi Slamma Jamma team of the University of Houston in 1983. That was the Houston team with future NBA hall of famers Hakeen Olajuwon and Clyde Drexler. I never forgave him for that, but I digress.

Jimmy left coaching in the early 90's and turned to broadcasting. It was then that he began to earn my respect. He was an excellent basketball analyst. He knew the game, he was bright and engaging, but mostly, he just inspired me. He was always positive and upbeat, he could always find something good to say about the players or their coach. It is no surprise that he became a highly sought after motivational speaker. His motto, which is now the motto of the foundation that bears his name is Don't give up, don't ever give up.

In 1993 Jimmy was awarded the first ever Authur Ashe Courage award. His acceptance speech that night was one of the truly most inspiring moments I've ever witnessed. In his speech, he gives the audience a recipe for fulfilment:

To me, there are three things we all should do every day. We should do this every day of our lives. Number one is laugh. You should laugh every day. Number two is think. You should spend some time in thought. And Number three is, you should have your emotions moved to tears, could be happiness or joy. But think about it. If you laugh, you think, and you cry, that's a full day. That's a heck of a day. You do that seven days a week, you're going to have something special.

Not bad advice, is it?

So think about that today, would you? Life is so short, why not squeeze every little bit out of it? Times can be hard sometimes, but face them with enthusiasm. Life is precious, make the most of it.

In case you haven't figured it out, yes, Jimmy V died of cancer. Less than two months after his speech, he was gone. He may be gone, but his fight lives on in his foundation. To date the Jimmy V foundation has raised over $80,000,000 to fund cancer research.

This year, if there is a person on your Christmas list who has everything, a person you never know what to get, why not make a donation in their name to the Jimmy V foundation? As Jimmy said,

We need money for research. It may not save my life. It may save my children's lives. It may save someone you love.

The speech is 11:15 long. I know you're busy, but it just may be the best 11 minutes you spend today. My favorite part may be around the 7:10 mark, but please, for me, watch it all.




This speech was given on March 4, 1993. Jimmy died on April 28, the same year.

I'm Too Tired To Write, So I'll Post Pictures Edition . . . .

It's true, I am tired.

Tonight is #2 son, Dylan's 16th birthday party. It is somewhat calmer than his younger brother's 14th was.

No less work for the grocer and chef, I'm afraid, but its a calmer crowd.

I'm glad for that. I've been up since about 12:45 AM, and I'm afraid to sit for too long, because I'll probably fall asleep.

Anyway, here are a few random photos which have been sitting in my camera, some from tonight, some from a month or two ago, and some in between. These are unedited, so be kind. As always, they have clickable goodness.

Clinton and friends tonight, going to yet another Quincineria

Speaking of Clinton, this was so not his costume, really.
(What do you think? He could go as Tavi)

Pork with Green Chili and Potatoes, in the pan
(make sure and click this one)

And ready to eat

Tailgating at last year's Texas Bowl. Sorry Pido, we all wore Cougar Red.
(But we sat on the TCU side)

Sending Out an S.O.S.

I've always considered song lyrics to be a particularly difficult type of poetry. If I could be a poet, I think I'd want to be a troubadour in the vein of Lyle Lovett or Townes Van Zandt. Yes, poets, both of them, to be sure. With song writing, not only does the poem have to speak to the audience, it has to fit within the frame work of the melody, not to mention the bridge. It is a skill I stand in awe of. That is not to say that only the singer/songwriter model of a lyricist is a poet, on the contrary, poetry can be found in every genre of music no matter whether it is to one's taste or not.

Hmm, funny how these blog posts work - that paragraph really didn't have anything to do with what I sat down to write about, but as I always tend to say - "that's another post", and then never get back to it, I think I'll expand a bit on that idea.

Yes, I suck at this stream of consciousness thing - So sue me.

Take Eminem for example. though you may revile his music, or him personally, and though his lyrics may be misogynistic and homophobic, the man is truly a wordsmith. Do I aspire to write his kind of poetry? Certainly not, but he is a poet.

It was through a song lyric that I first heard of Aphrodite. I looked her up in the library (no Internet back in those days), so I could better understand a particular song that was a favorite in my hard rocking adolescent days. I still look back amazed at how naive I was at 13. I can assure you, my children are far more worldly than I ever was.

So where am I going with this? I sat down to write about how this blog and blogging are a life line to me, and I suspect to many others, connecting isolated souls to like minded people. What made me think of this, was a song that came on while I was doing housework. More on that in a moment.

It may appear that I'm changing the subject again, but bear with me, someday I hope to have an amazing skill at tying seemingly disconnected ideas together into a beautiful post, but sadly, I am not there yet.

Do you remember a radio show called In The Studio With Redbeard? It apparently still comes on but I haven't heard it in years. The song I heard a while ago reminded me vividly of an episode of that show I heard many, many years ago. If you're unfamiliar with the show, Redbeard, the host takes the audience behind the scenes of a famous album and talks about when and how it was made, and interviews the artists, producers, etc... Great show, btw.

This particular episode was on The Police's 3rd studio album, Zenyatta Mondatta. During the interview portion, Steward Copeland called Sting the king of the three minute pop ditty, and noted that Sting considered it a high calling indeed. I think I'd agree with that sentiment on both counts. Yes, Sting can be pompous, and even pretentious, but come on - who else is going to work Nabokov into a pop song? A funny aside - during the same interview, Copeland said of Sting:

Sting is probably the person whom fame has changed the least, he was swaggering and cocky when he didn't have a dime to his name.

I love that.

So, back to the original post. As I'm cleaning house with the Satellite radio going, I'm thinking that I've really been neglecting my blog, and at the same time, not spending much time on other sites either. Most of my comments of late have been quick little one liners. I miss the ongoing conversations that comment strings can become. I was thinking to myself that it has been ages since I've sat down and just started writing whatever's on my mind. I miss it. I miss all of you, both here, and at your own little corner of the web.

As I'm think that, the live acoustic version of Message In A Bottle came on. As the final verse came on, I stopped folding the towel, and I just marveled at Sting's words. It gave me a little chill as he sang:

Walked out this morning, don't believe what I saw
Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore
Seems I'm not alone at being alone
Hundred billion castaways, looking for a home
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world
Ill send an s.o.s. to the world . . . . . . .

I thought to myself, that is exactly what blogging is, little messages, floating out on the vast ocean of the Internet, hoping to be plucked out of the water and to find a home. Who says pop music can't be poetry? Not me.

Here is a video of the same version of the song, it is most likely the exact same performance. It is from the Secret Policeman's Other Ball, and yes, I have the LP. Oh, and can one help but notice how young and beautiful he was back then?


Yeah, that's poetry.

Seriously, WTF????

OK, trust me. Just trust me. I can't get this to embed, so go see it. Then come back and read my comments. The video is about 2:18.

It is here.

OK

W.
T.
F.
??????


Does Eric Cartman know about this shit?

Hello?

Earth calling.

It would be one thing if it were in a controlled environment, like a salt water tank, or hell, even a netted-off cove or something with trained dolphins, but FSM on a pogo stick, these people are giving birth IN THE FREAKING OCEAN WITH WILD ANIMALS. I love that this father of the year candidate is assured that, if something does go wrong, he's sure the dolphins will take care of it.

OK, this next take is a bit graphic in nature. I'm a Dad. I've witnessed the birth of all four of my children. There are a lot of fluids and, yes, blood that is part of the process. So let's think for just a minute. Is there any reason you wouldn't want to put a bunch of blood into warm coastal waters??? Hmm, . . . what might that possibly attract? Hmm?

I Miss 8 Tracks

I know, I know.

I'm dating myself with this one.

Do you remember 8-tracks? If you're over the age of 40, you should. If you're over 44, you probably had some, or at least your parents or siblings did.

I loved 8-tracks. I loved vinyl as well, and I had both, but there was something so appealing about putting in a tape and letting it play on and on and on. Those of you who have only had music on CD or ipod can't understand the thrill of that concept. During the heyday of the 8-track, cassette decks weren't self repeating, which meant you had to turn the tape over to hear the other side. Same thing with an LP. 8-tracks on the other hand, would play all night long without any attention. Of course, sometimes the tape would start to squeal a little (over tensioned - goes with the technology of the mobius strip), and you would have to pull it out and slap it on your leg a few times to loosen it up. How many of you had a little book of matches in your car to wedge under the tape when it started to drag? (If you smiled at that memory you are old btw.)

I'm listening to my ipod right now, and I'm listening to an album I first owned on 8-track. To this day, I still expect to hear the click in the middle of La Fiesta when it changes tracks.

Are there albums you still remember as strictly an "8-track album? Along with the previously mentioned Maynard Ferguson, there are several I remember from high school that were constant companions in the car; Journey : Evolution comes to mind. Remember how there was no break between Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin' and City Of The Angels? It's not the same hearing it on CD. REO Speedwagon's High Infidelity is another one I remember as an 8-track.

Supposedly, Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits (1988) was the last major label release on 8-track. I had let them go by then and moved on to CD's. I pretty much skipped cassettes altogether. I kept buying vinyl until CD's came out, and taped them myself for the car. The last 8-track I ever bought was Bob Dylan's Slow Train Coming.

My kids have never owned a tape or an LP of any kind. They look at my LP collection as something from the dinosaur age. I wonder, will their kids look at today's ipods with the same bemusement?

Yeah, probably.

I Don't Get It

Is there something you don't "get"? I don't mean quantum physics, or the meaning of life - I mean is there something the rest of the world just goes nuts over, that you just don't get.

Of course there are the obvious things like taste in music and such, but that isn't necessarily what I mean. I'm not a fan of Hip Hop, or most of what I call chuga-chuga-chuga music, but I can see how some of it has a catchy tune or hook line, and I understand that one generation will rarely enjoy the music of the next generation.

That being said, I am going to talk about a musician.

I don't get Justin Timberlake.

I don't think he's attractive. I mean, even as a straight guy, I can see that Brad Pitt is attractive. I get it. I even get why some girls dig Matthew McConaughey. Well, girls who don't care about hygiene anyway. But I just don't see that whole Justin thing. Talent? Musical taste aside, the dude can't sing. I mean, really, he can't sing.

I don't get it.

While I'm ranting about musicians. . . .

Marilyn Manson -

Musical abilities (or not) aside. This dude pulls some serious A-list talent for girl friends. WTF?? I understand that some girls are groupies. Fine. I don't get that either, but that's another post. Look at this list:

Dita Von Teese

Rose McGowen

Evan Rachel Wood (That hurts my feelings, seriously!)


But these girls could probably have any rock star they wanted if that's what they are into. Seriously - Ewww. I don't get that.

Just To Let You Know . . . . . .

Yes, I'm still here. No, I'm not doing that.

My 4th of July was very, very nice. D&L had a party at the bayhouse and it couldn't have been any nicer. We had a much needed thunderstorm roll through that morning, and it remained cloudy most of the day. The weather was substantially cooler than normal for this time of year, and the clouds rolled away just in time for sunset and fireworks. There were upwards of about 70 people or so by my count and there was BBQ, boating, fireworks and a wonderfully diverse group of people. I had a chance to see a few people I haven't seen in a long time. It was nice.

Saturday and Sunday, I was a bit under the weather. Sunday, I did manage to watch that epic Wimbledon battle. I was pulling for Federer, but my hat is off to Nadal. To be that good on clay and on grass is beyond impressive.

Yesterday after work, I went to the grocery store, and I felt really, really old. The in-store music was early-mid eighties new wave.

In the grocery store.

I was out of high school when those songs were popular and now they are deemed unobtrusive enough to be background music in a grocery store. The Clash, the Police, the Motels, the Romantics, the Talking Heads for Christ's sake!! I enjoyed the music, so I guess I'm officially in their target demographic.

I wish I could remember all of the songs they played, but I remember this one was playing as I walked out of the door. It was always a favorite, but I'm not sure I'd call it New Wave. I know he wouldn't.


Is he really rocking a mullet? Shit, I am old. I remember thinking how cool his hair looked in that video.

Have a great humpday.

Little Girls Grow Up

Friday was the Summer Solstice. Summer has started and Autumn will follow and before we have time to blink, the holiday season will upon us and a new year will come.

I know this is ridiculously close to a cliche', but the older I get, the faster those seasons seem to pass. Children that were little kids what seems like yesterday are driving cars and discussing college plans.

The passing of time can't be held back.

I've been a single Dad for 5 years. Dylan and Clinton were both in grade school when we started this thing, next year they will both be in high school. Zoe was 2 years old. She will turn 8 in just a couple of months.

I wish there was a way to bottle up these years and keep them safe on a shelf, to be taken out and treasured from time to time. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be able to pull out these years later, when we have the time to sit and savor them? Instead, I rush from project to project, weekend to weekend, trying to squeeze out a bit of relaxation and enjoyment between dinners and laundry, and track practices.

I need to remember that life isn't about the destination, it's about the journey.

I took this picture of Zoe and Molly this weekend.


When I downloaded it, my mind immediately flashed back to a picture of these same two girls that was taken 5 years ago. I wasn't sure where it was, but I found it on a back up disk this morning. When I compared the two pictures, I wept.

It goes so fast.




Enjoy everyday dear readers. Savor the moment. I'm going to try and take my own advice.

They're Back!

Just when you think it's safe to go into the backyard again. . . . .

They're back.

Yes, the dreaded puss caterpillar, AKA - asp, has made a reappearance at the castle grounds. I had these last year on my loquat tree. I noticed one this evening, and closer inspection revealed 7 of them. They were much tinier than last year's, but the fact that I have them two years in a row worries me. I obviously didn't get them all last year.

Ugh!

It's funny how all roads seem to lead back to Rene'. It was right after I made that post last year that she called me with hopes of reconciliation. I tried. God how I tried. We made it all the way to October.

I don't see that happening this year.

Summer Basketball

Did I tell you about the summer basketball league?

Well, how about I do?

#3 son, Clinton eats, sleeps and breathes basketball.

Everyday.

He comes home from football, or track practice and shoots baskets in the driveway. I've seen him do it in the rain, in the dark, in the heat and in the cold.

So this year, he wants to be in a summer league. Most of his friends are doing it. Particularly, from my point of view, the desirable friends, are doing it. It didn't cost a lot of money, and they only practice on Sunday.

OK, we'll do it.

Well it turns out the team practices in Seadrift.

Seadrift is a little coasting fishing town about 2o miles from here. Practice is from 6:00 to 8:00 every Sunday.

I drive him there, drive back home, wait about an hour then turn around and go get him. Not really a very efficient way to do things. Week before last, practice was canceled. This week, I decided to stay in Seadrift while they practiced, so I could save the gas. Good thing I did. The coach never bothered to show up. He didn't call, didn't bother to let anyone know. Most of the kids on the team are from Port Lavaca. Everyone showed up except the coach. Lots of unhappy parents.

We are no longer in Summer League. Maybe next year.

But I did get a few pictures I like.

A little lagoon by the harbor.

Catamarans on the shore

Shrimp nets

Crab Traps

All fishing villages need a few resident artists

I've been trying to get this post up for a week, but blogger didn't like the pictures. Anyway, The coach was a flake, and driving all that way for nothing more than a couple of times is out of the question.

Especially on Sunday afternoon.

Ugh!

Exhaustingly busy today. I'm trying to get a little ahead so I can take off this weekend and enjoy the Holiday.

I will definitely have to work tomorrow, depending on where I am after tomorrow, Saturday remains in question.

Either way I expect to take Sunday and Monday off, which in and of itself is a holiday!

I expect we might hit the Bay House again, but I don't know for sure. Clinton is going to Garner State Park with his friends. He will love it! I'll keep you guys posted as to my plans, but what about yours?

Tell how you plan to spend the holiday.

Well? I'm waiting . . . . .

So It's Been a while . . . .

I know, I know . . . . .

If I'm not mistaken, this is the longest I've gone without a post all year. The weather's been fantastic, the kids are great, work's OK, and I'm going to be fine.

No, I haven't gone back to you know who. I'm just feeling very, very ordinary, and not like I have anything to say you'd be interested in.

So - to remedy that, I'm going to take the advice of a wise blogger and just sit down and write. When I first started this blog, I was worried that I wouldn't have anything to say that anyone would care about. Whether or not that's true, I haven't seemed to have much trouble filling these pages.

I thought maybe a few photos might be in order. (As always, you may click to enlarge)

This evening, after work, I harvested the first two tomatoes out of my garden. Two tiny little yellow pear tomatoes. By the time you read this, they will have been eaten.



This past weekend, I worked late Friday, and I worked until 5:00 Saturday, then, I picked up the kiddos, and we went to the bay house. We took the boys tubing, we ate fresh dewberries, and played 42. We didn't come home until Sunday evening. Here is a shot of the dewberries.

Dylan had a good time tubing, you can see he got some sun.

This one of me was taken on Flo's last night in town, we had a little going away dinner. This was April 4th, and yes I look OLD!!!

Speaking of Flo, remember when I went to Austin a few weeks ago? (All of the rest of these were taken March 29th. ) Here are some shots of Flo on 6th street.

Flo meets Leslie, an Austin tradition, Lisa looks on.

Flo loves the ladies, and the ladies love Flo, I think it's the accent.

Dylan enjoyed the actress at Esther's Follies.

The gang, stopped in Luling for a bathroom break.

Before we left I took this shot in David and Lisa's backyard. This is called an Orchid tree.

A close up. (Yes, this was a month ago, these blooms are all gone)

Things You Can Learn From 14 year Olds . .

There are a couple of things that can be learned from hosting a sleepover for teenage boys.

#1 An Air Zooka can be used to launch a fart completely across the room.


#2 If you are the 14 year old host of the party, and you fall asleep before some of your guests, they will probably draw a penis on the bottom of your foot.


Now you know.

I'm Tired

I went to #2 Son's OAP contest last night. They didn't advance, but the competition was very, very tough.

I didn't get home until 1:00 AM.

I'm tired.

But I had fun. . . . . . . . Maybe I'll tell you about it someday.

:)

Meet Marv

I'd like to introduce my friend Marv, he's the guy on the left. His actual name is Marvin Zesch , but to his friends, he's Marv. Marv is my friend Tee's Dad. I hadn't seen Marv in quite some time before this last weekend when Tee had her apartment warming.

I love Marv.

Marv is old school.

Marv is a veritable walking history book.

Marv was born and raised in Denver, but Marv spent a lot of time in Vegas in the early years. Marv knows Wayne Newton, Marv has dined with the Rat Pack, Marv thinks Joey Bishop was underrated. Marv can tell you about Vegas back before it became Disneyland, and Denver when it was still pre Oil-Boom.

And he will.

Often.

Really, he will.

Marv is explaining to Crystal how the Coors family is really the Colorado Mafia.

Marv is a Mason. Don't ever make the mistake of asking how it is that a Jew can be a Mason. Well, unless you have a few hours and a bottle of good tequila. If you should ever find yourself in that position, don't bother mentioning that you really don't believe in God. He won't believe you.

Marv is explaining to David the intricacies of his Mason ring.

Today is Marv's birthday. Marv is 75 years old today and still has erections that could be used as traffic bumps. Ok, I don't know if that last part is true, but when I'm 75, it would be nice if somebody wrote that about me, so Karma . . . ya know?

Happy birthday Marv. I hope there are many, many, many more.

Shitty, Shitty Day

Shitty Day.

I have been humping my ass off for weeks to get this project done.

I have given up track meets, plays, weekends, and holidays.

Much of that work is now pretty much junk because the contractor built the tank wrong.

Apparently the mathematic principles of the circle are no longer understood by the people who build round things for a living.