The Audacity of Unawareness

I'm unaware of who put this piece together, but I think it hits the mark as far as our President is concerned.

The Audacity of Unawareness<http://www.texasrainmaker..com/2009/04/15/the-audacity-of-unawareness/>



Barack Obama, through his spokesman, claimed today that he was unaware<http://www.breitbart.tv/?p19503> of the tax day tea parties.

Granted, the MSM has done a good job in suppressing any sort of coverage ahead of time (and the little coverage they did provide was derisive at best)Å but how out of touch is the Community Organizer in Chief, really?

This much?

- He was unaware<http://sweetness-light.com/archive/obama-i-never-heard-wright-say-bad-things> that he was attending a church (for 20 years) with a racist pastor who hates America .

- He was unaware<http://www.nypost.com/seven/10062008/news/nationalnews/obama__i_didnt_know_of_ayers_terrorist_p_132394.htmthat he was family friends<http://www.suntimes.com/news/politics/obama/1278532,bill-ayers-barack-obama-book-111308.article> with, and started his political career in the living room of, a domestic terrorist.

- He was unaware<http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2007/03/07/politics/p100725S46.DTL&hw=Obama&sn�1&sc00> that he had invested in two speculative companies backed by some of his top donors right after taking office in 2005.

- He was unaware<http://washingtontimes.com/news/2008/nov/02/obama-said-unaware-of-aunt/> that his own aunt was living in the US illegally.

- He was unaware<http://www.nydailynews.com/news/politics/2008/08/20/2008-08-20_barack_obamas_povertystricken_halfbrothe.html> that his own brother lives on pennies a day in a hut in Kenya .

- He was unaware<http://news.aol.com/main/obama-presidency/article/obama-leno/384280> of the AIG bonuses that he and his administration approved and signed into a bill.

- He was unaware<http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28493919/> that the man he nominated to be his Secretary of Commerce was under investigation in a bribery scandal.

- He was unaware<http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2009/01/31/MNCI15KRBO.DTL> that the man he nominated to be his Secretary of Health and Human Services was a tax cheat.

- He was unaware<http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123187503629378119.html> that the man he nominated to be his Secretary of the Treasury was a tax cheat.

- He was unaware<http://www.boston.com/news/nation/articles/2009/03/03/trade_nominee_owes_taxes/> that the man he nominated to be the U.S. Trade Representative was a tax cheat.

- He was unaware<http://www.bizjournals.com/washington/stories/2009/02/02/daily38.html> that the woman he nominated to be his Chief Performance Officer was a tax cheat.

- He was unaware<http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090325/ap_on_go_pr_wh/epa_withdrawal> that the man he nominated to be #2 at the Environmental Protection Agency was under investigation for mismanaging $25 million in EPA grants.

 For the love of God, there are people in comas that are more aware of world affairs than this guy.

I belong to no organized party. I am a Democrat.
  - Will Rogers

Colonoscopy

I'm laughing my tail off. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha....

This is a repost of one of the funniest Dave Barry columns I ever read. Bebe finally agreed, after several threats from her doctor at M.D. Anderson, to go and have a colonoscopy. Everyone who has had the procedure knows its not the procedure, but the prep, that gives one pause. After a fitful sleep with nightmares of being dropped off by me at the wrong clinic and having to wander the streets in a backless hospital gown, Bebe awoke to face the music. We found the right clinic and did the usual sign in routine. I hate waiting rooms. "The View" was airing on a television suspended from the ceiling. A large sign was attached to the set indicating we were not to attempt to change the channel. Several little children, who should have been left at home, were wandering around the room touching every formerly sanitary surface in reach. After an hour we were called back to the preparation room to wait another hour. I had planned to leave and try to find a dentist who would give me a root canal while I waited, but nooooo, I had to watch "The View." The actual procedure took about fifteen minutes. At this point I defer to the description provided by someone who is paid to create balderdash:


OK. You turned 50. You know you're supposed to get a colonoscopy. But you haven't. Here are your reasons:1. You've been busy.2. You don't have a history of cancer in your family.3. You haven't noticed any problems.4. You don't want a doctor to stick a tube 17,000 feet up your behind.Let's examine these reasons one at a time. No, wait, let's> not. Because you and I both know that the only real reason is No. 4. This is natural. The idea of having another human, even a medical human, becoming deeply involved in what is technically known as your "behindular zone" gives you the creeping willies.I know this because I am like you, except worse. I yield to nobody in the field of being a pathetic weenie medical coward. I become faint and nauseous during even very minor medical procedures, such as making an appointment by phone. It's much worse when I come into physical contact with the medical profession. More than one doctor's office has a dent in the floor caused by my forehead striking it seconds after I got a shot.In 1997, when I turned 50, everybody told me I should get a colonoscopy. I agreed that I definitely should, but not right away. By following this policy, I reached age 55 without having had a colonoscopy. Then I did something so pathetic and embarrassing that I am frankly ashamed to tell you about it.What happened was, a giant 40-foot replica of a human colon came to Miami Beach. Really. It's an educational exhibit called the Colossal Colon, and it was on a nationwide tour to promote awareness of colo-rectal cancer. The idea is, you crawl through the Colossal Colon, and you encounter various educational items in there, such as polyps, cancer and hemorrhoids the size of regulation volleyballs, and you go, "Whoa, I better find out if I contain any of these things," and you get a colonoscopy.If you are as a professional humor writer, and there is a giant colon within a 200-mile radius, you are legally obligated to go see it. So I went to Miami Beach and crawled through the Colossal Colon . I wrote a column about it, making tasteless colon jokes. But I also urged everyone to get a colonoscopy. I even, when I emerged from the Colossal Colon, signed a pledge stating that I would get one.But I didn't get one. I was a fraud, a hypocrite, a liar. I was practically a member of Congress.Five more years passed. I turned 60, and I still hadn't gotten a colonoscopy. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I got an e-mail from my brother Sam, who is 10 years younger than I am, but more mature. The e-mail was addressed to me and my middle brother, Phil. It said:"Dear Brothers,"I went in for a routine colonoscopy and got the dreaded diagnosis: cancer.We're told it's early and that there is a good prognosis that they can get it all out, so, fingers crossed, knock on wood, and all that. And of course they told me to tell my siblings to get screened. I imagine you both have."Um. Well.First I called Sam.He was hopeful, but scared. We talked for a while, and when we hung up, I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy. A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis . Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner. I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, quote, "HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!"I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called "MoviPrep," which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America's enemies.I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous.Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water.(For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons.)Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes _ and here I am being kind _ like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, "a loose watery bowel movement may result." This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but:Have you ever seen a space shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep. The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurtage. I was thinking, "What if I spurt on Andy?" How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the h*ell the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked.Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep.At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist.I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point. Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand. There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was "Dancing Queen" by Abba. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, "Dancing Queen" has to be the least appropriate."You want me to turn it up?" said Andy, from somewhere behind me."Ha ha," I said.And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade.If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, Abba was shrieking "Dancing Queen! Feel the beat from the tambourine ...".. and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood. Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that it was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.But my point is this: In addition to being a pathetic medical weenie, I was a complete moron. For more than a decade I avoided getting a procedure that was, essentially, nothing. There was no pain and, except for the MoviPrep, no discomfort. I was risking my life for nothing.If my brother Sam had been as stupid as I was _ if, when he turned 50, he had ignored all the medical advice and avoided getting screened _ he still would have had cancer. He just wouldn't have known. And by the time he did know _ by the time he felt symptoms _ his situation would have been much, much more serious. But because he was a grown-up, the doctors caught the cancer early, and they operated and took it out. Sam is now recovering and eating what he describes as "really, really boring food." His prognosis is good, and everybody is optimistic, fingers crossed, knock on wood, and all that.Which brings us to you, Mr. or Mrs. or Miss or Ms. Over-50-And-Hasn't-Had-a-Colonoscopy. Here's the deal: You either have colorectal cancer, or you don't. If you do, a colonoscopy will enable doctors to find it and do something about it. And if you don't have cancer, believe me, it's very reassuring to know you don't. There is no sane reason for you not to have it done.

Bebe came through with no problems and doesn't have to go back for ten years.

Anyone who goes to a psychiatrist ought to have his head examined. - Samuel Goldwyn

The Present

THE PRESENT


“Come on girls. Get you stuff loaded. I want to be on the road by 5:00 and it’s already 6:30.”
“Dad, why do we have to leave so early?”
“Because it’s a long drive and I want to make it before tonight.”
“Can we take our pillows?”
“You’ve got everything else in the house, why not? I just hope the tires don’t pop.”

It is our annual Christmas trip from Texas to Mississippi. Nobody from Mississippi travels, so if you leave the state, you are the one who must travel back for a visit. Many years ago my father started moving us around. We lived long distances from the Magnolia State, but we made at least one pilgrimage a year back to the old home place.

When I was a child, prior to our becoming the family gypsies, we rarely traveled more than forty miles in one day. To travel that distance in Mississippi one had to pack a bag for an overnight stay. As an adult, I chose to continue the gypsy tradition my dad started. I bought a custom van with four captain’s chairs, rear radio, TV, VCR, and a rear bench seat that made into a bed. I knew we would be traveling.

My relatives often ask, “Why’d y’all leave?”

They never consider that life in another place could be any better than it is in Mississippi. I sometimes envy their simple, uncluttered lives. I never really answer their question.

With the van loaded with traveling gear, and gifts for the family, we set out on our eastward journey. During the week prior to our leaving, I develop a dry hacking cough. It is a nuisance, but not something likely to postpone our trip.

Our first obstacle is to make it safely out of Houston. No racing driver ever needed more skill. Driving a full sized Chevy Van at 70 plus miles per hour in six lanes of traffic bounded by concrete barriers is a test for even the most seasoned driver. My stress level is at a peak. Several times I yell, “Prepare my bazooka!” as other drivers enter my personal driving space. My girls, who once laughed at my antics, just roll their eyes and give me that “oh please dad” look.

After we clear the sprawl of the megaplex and cross into the Bayou State, I settle down and put my mind on cruise control for the long quiet stretches of highway through the swampland of south Louisiana. I recall the trips we made as children with my father at the wheel of our big Buick. He was less animated than I, but not one to be trifled with. My sister and I often fought it out in the back seat as we traveled, but not so loud as to disturb dad. While in my driving dream state, I also remember the day long walks through the woods with my grandfather as he searched for the perfect Christmas tree. If he couldn’t find a tree with the proper shape, he created it. He cut limbs off of other trees and strategically placed them in holes he drilled in the trunk of the one he had selected. The tree was then trimmed with bubbling tube lights, big multi-colored strings of bulbs, candy canes, tinsel, metallic ornaments, and silver icicles. The house was full of delicious smells. There were apples, oranges, Brazil nuts, Hazel nuts, and colorful hard candies. The old side board was loaded with fruit cake, German chocolate cake, coconut cake, and pecan pie. The best place to visit with my grandmother was in the kitchen. Christmas was a magical time.

Our final destination on this trip is my sister’s house. Since my grandparents died, we meet there. She is the only one of my siblings who still lives in Mississippi. The rest of us are continuing the gypsy tradition. We broke our trip up in segments with short coffee stops at the homes of a few old college buddies who settled in south Louisiana. Frequent stops are a given when traveling with girls.

As the sun descends behind the van, we pass the Mississippi welcome center, and drive into the unchanging time warp of the “state lost in time”. The tall pine trees shade everything with their green shadows even in the winter months. We soon arrive at the winding driveway to my sister’s house. She has outdone herself again. Tradition is important to those who choose to remain in the slower paced world of the Deep South. Her house is filled with colorful markers of the season, the big Christmas tree, a Christmas card display, nativity scenes, wreaths, and a side board filled with culinary delights. It is the eve of the big day, and everyone joins in for food and fellowship.

I, however, am out of gas. I excuse myself and go to bed early. The cough is unrelenting. I can hear the others talking and laughing deep into the night as I try to get to sleep. I awake to the smells of coffee, and breakfast cooking. Christmas morning – the kids were up early. My brow is hot. My head pounds and spins when I try to lift it from the pillow. I feel like sand has been poured into my eye sockets during the night. My appetite is gone – possibly the clearest indicator that my condition is worsening. I hear the gift wrap tearing, followed by squeals of delight, as the kids open their presents. I lie perfectly still, not wanting to move. Finally, after everyone else has finished, I stumble down the hall and into the den to open my presents. I want to die. I acknowledge with gratitude the gift givers, but quietly lean over and tell my wife to load the van. If I’m going meet my maker, I want to do so in my own bed. The girls are understandably disappointed when their mother tells them we are leaving. They hate these long trips, and we just arrived.

I labor to put on enough clothing to keep from being an embarrassment to them when we make our travel stops. I push the button at the back of the van lowering the rear seat into a bed. I throw in two pillows and a blanket, and give my wife the “Forward Ho!” with my last ounce of energy. She drives through the quiet little downtown and onto the interstate highway nosing the big van into the westbound lane. It is Christmas morning and traffic is light. I shiver underneath my blanket as chills highlight every hair follicle on my body. The aft seat is right above the rear axle and after we cross into Louisiana my pounding head is buffeted with the steady “Plop – Plop” of the tires as they roll over the oversized expansion joints in the highway. Even when you’re feeling good, a road trip on a Louisiana interstate is rougher than a Conestoga wagon rumbling down the Santa Fe Trail. This trip seems to last for ever.

I spend several days recovering after I get home. As soon as I am able to sit up and take nourishment, the telephone starts to ring. Call after call comes in commenting on my present to family and friends. They refer to it as the gift that never stops giving. The dry hacking cough punctuating their conversation gives away their meaning. I infected almost the entire population of south Louisiana and Mississippi with the flu.

Now invitations to family gatherings are made by telephone shortly before the event takes place, and always include a question as to whether or not I have a cough or any other symptoms of illness.

Dennis Price

I've been trying for some time to develop a lifestyle that doesn't require my presence. - Garry Trudeau

Eclectic Wisdom

At thirteen feet above sea level, the Pappy Lama sits and ponders the wisdom of the ages. He shares his collected sayings with those seeking a higher plane of consciousness. I hope your life is enriched by this sage advice.

Politics is perhaps the only profession for which no preparation is thought necessary. - Robert Louis Stevenson

The man who says he is willing to meet you halfway is usually a poor judge of distance. - Laurence J. Peter

"The Piper Cub is the safest airplane in the world; it can just barely kill you." - Attributed to Max Stanley (Northrop test pilot)

"Any ship can be a minesweeper. Once."

There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."

Men are like fine wine. They start out as grapes, and it's up to the women to stomp the crap out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.


I hope you have a wonderful weekend. Remember, "Barking dogs never bite twice in the same place."

Alarms

It is three fifteen A.M. when I first notice I'm awake. The ambient temperature in the bedroom is cool and I pull the blanket higher and snuggle deeper into my big foam pillow. I lift my head to catch a glimpse of the lighted clock dial on my bedside radio. Nothing biological is giving me any warning signals. Then I hear it, a single high pitched electronic beep. It is a familiar sound. Another thirty seconds passes and there it is again. Somewhere in the darkness a tiny alarm is sounding. I push back my warm nesting material and climb out of the hole I've pressed in the space age Swedish foam covering the top of my mattress. I teeter in my half sleep and move through the darkness to try and find my flip-flops. Two possibilities, Bebe's cell phone, or the low battery signal of one of several smoke alarms. My brain boots up and I stand in the darkness trying to use my bat senses to locate the needy unit. My deductive reasoning starts into auto mode. The beep is too loud for Bebe's phone. That's good. Her phone is usually buried deep in the recesses of her purse and once you locate the purse your real job begins, finding the dying phone amongst all the necessary items she has there. So it must be the smoke alarm. I stand in the hallway and close the bedroom door so Bebe won't awaken. I don't know why because to my memory she has never heard one of these early morning beeps. My first instinct is to go to the junk drawer and see if we have any nine volt batteries. If not, perhaps a well placed shot from my nine millimeter will quiet the incessant irritation. Aha, one battery left. Now to the garage to retrieve the six foot Aluminum step ladder. It is an older vintage ladder, light weight but with the strength of a modern beer can. A little red light blinks periodically on the smoke detection alarm located just outside my bedroom door. The ceiling in this part of the house is twelve feet. I push my brain into math mode and figure if I stand on the rung next to the top one and stretch back with my extended right arm I should be able to grip the plastic case. I set up the ladder on the slippery polished tile of the hallway and begin my ascent. As my right leg pushes the remaining two hundred and thirty pounds of my accumulated mass skyward my thigh reminds me of the leg workout I did yesterday afternoon, I wince with each successive push. The ladder twists ever so slightly with my every move. Only my shins are pressed against the top rung. I attempt a backwards reach with my right hand, my left hand is in firm contact with the top rung of the ladder. I am short. I stand full height and pretend there is a net below the ladder of sufficient strength to catch me if I go into an uncontrollable wobble. I manage to twist the plastic case with my right hand and reach back with my left and unplug the electrical wires from the unit. I'm now ready to replace the battery. I open the plastic hatch and see a yellow nine volt battery. It is the cheap kind you get at the dollar store. I replace it with its cheap cousin I found in the junk drawer. I manage the task in reverse this time and slowly descend the ladder. I'm once again on Terra Firma. I wonder as I put away the tools and discard the old battery why the batteries never go out during the day? I always change them in the wee hours of the morning. I'm sure it's some government mandated regulation having to do with productivity and not having to stop tasks to change batteries. I might as well post now, I'm up.

October

October is the month for Halloween celebrations. My grand offspring have picked a Star Wars theme for their costumes this year. Here we see Princess Leia Organa, and Sith lord, Darth Vader, sitting on my couch. My two year old grandson was practicing his best bass voice while saying, "Luke, I am your father." I understand from my daughter that it changed a little when he got home. He altered his lines to say, "Pappy, I am your father - and you too Luke." He now has a light saber - I hope it is soft plastic. Pappy takes a beating when toys are introduced and not approved for use on grandparents.

Princess Leia can't talk yet, but she gave us a piece of her mind/mouth when we asked her to leave the headdress on for one more picture. Pappy was born in October. It is my favorite month. I'm ordering my costume from AARP. I am going to check on their offer of guaranteed low rates on grand parenting insurance. Have a wonderful weekend. Pappy

People that are really very weird can get into sensitive positions and have a tremendous impact on history. - Dan Quayle

Last Day as a Carpenter

As we get a little older, sometimes, as men, we don't think things through. Bebe and I are both determined to tone up and lose a little weight. I am way ahead of her in the "need to" department, but when she asks questions and makes comments during this period, I need to consider carefully my answers.

The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight, because by then your body and your fat have gotten to be really good friends.

When I was just a youngster, I often visited with my mother's parents. I don't know how old they were, but all their children were grown and gone. They lived in rural Mississippi in a Sears Kit house. By the time I remember anything of significance, they had moved the plumbing inside off the back porch. The back porch was enclosed and screened all around. It had a bed, washing machine, game cleaning table and a variety of other little shelves and pegs for hanging outer garments before entering the house. Just to the right as you entered the porch from the outside was an add on room that contained a sink, a commode, and a bathtub. I do recall years earlier having to wash at a standpipe outside, and using an outhouse, but progress was made and things were changing.

One of the new additions was an electric refrigerator. It was delivered in a large wooden crate. My granddad, having lived through the great depression was never one to throw anything away. I mentioned the outdoor faucet where we used to wash up, it had a 4' X 4' cement slab on the ground just in front of the standpipe to stand on when the water was in use. My granddad decided to make a shower stall using the wooden crate. He built it around the cement slab and configured a modesty offset at the entrance. He ran a water hose from the standpipe over the back side of the stall with a shower head attached. The back steps to the porch were fairly tall with a landing at the top. My grandad was a short Irishman and my grandmother was taller than he and weighed more. He stood outside and called to my grandmother to come out and see his handiwork. She came out and stood on the landing and looked to her left at the new edifice.
She said, "What is it Lonnie?"
He answered, "It's a shower stall Ida Mae."
She replied, "I don't think I'll be able to fit in that thing."
He snorted, "Well Ida Mae, the refrigerator came in it."

I was too young to know what, if anything, occurred later during their private moments together, but when I saw the cartoon posted above, I was reminded of that scene.

Lord, Keep your arm around my shoulder and your hand over my mouth...AMEN..!!

Thanks

Just had to hop on the old John Deere to come by and say thanks to all of you who prayed for me and expressed concern for my health. I am making good progress and hope to be plowing before too long. I think as my legs get longer, I shouldn't have as much problem keeping my balance. I'll have my own blog as soon as I learn how to type. I hope you all have a great Sunday. Pray for my Pappy, he says he to old for something or other. I didn't really understand because he mumbles sometimes.

Some mornings it just doesn't seem worth it to gnaw through the leather straps. - Emo Phillips

Missing in Action

Pappy is still a little sleepy this morning. I have been away from the computer for two days on a grandfatherly mission. On Wednesday evening past, I was taking my evening nap before retiring when the phone rang. Bebe had to answer as I was having trouble getting the couch to let me go. I couldn't make out the caller from her responses, but she told me we need to go to the hospital and meet the kids. I pressed her for details and she said that my grandson had fallen and cut himself. I managed to muster enough steam to get dressed and make it to the local hospital. When we arrived, we got more details from my son-in-law who by this time had gotten himself thrown out of the emergency room. They were visiting friends for dinner when my grandson (2 years plus) backed across the floor stumbled, knocked over a water glass, and fell on the broken pieces cutting his wrist. They rushed him to our local hospital emergency room while trying to stem the blood flow from an arterial bleeder. As they sat in the ante room with the admitting person, she slowly went through her routine questions: Do you have your insurance card? What is your name? Last name first, first name last - all the while little arterial spurts were covering everyone in blood. My son-in-law lost it and security was called to escort him out. The line in front of the admitting area glass all joined in and tried to admonish the single purposed clerk to hurry and get some help. This was over by the time Pappy arrived. Fortunate for those who work in our so called emergency room. I could have shown them how a real emergency is to be handled. By the time I arrived, the bleeding had been stopped and doctors were assessing the situation. Because of my grandson's age, the local doctors decided to have him transferred to a pediatric hospital two hours north. An ambulance was notified and within a short two hours we were almost ready to start our journey. By now it was approaching midnight and my son-in-law had used up his rational reserves, so I volunteered to drive him as we followed the ambulance with my grandson and daughter aboard to the specialty hospital. We arrived on Thursday at 2:00 AM and got checked in. The pediatric surgeon was to see him very early and determine what if anything needed to be done. By 3:30 AM I had secured a room and managed to melt into bed. I awoke early and returned to the hospital. The doctor reported that my grandson had cut a tendon and severed one artery. Most people have two arteries going to the hand, but God had given my grandson three. The doctor just capped the extra artery, repaired the tendon, determined there was no nerve damage, and sewed him up. He came through like a champ. Of course getting out of the hospital is almost as complicated as getting in, so we didn't get to leave until after 4:00 PM. I drove the kids back. We arrived home at 6:30 PM. Bebe had a nice dinner waiting. I ate and made ready to hit the sack. I was sleeping like a baby until 4:00 AM when a cramp in my left calf tried to roll my foot up to my knee backwards. I managed finally to get the affected foot to the floor and stretch it out. The rest is history. Coffee was made, blog comments read, and here I am again doing what I do.

I didn't really say everything I said. - Yogi Berra

Speak No Evil

I wish people who have trouble communicating would just shut up. - Tom Lehrer

In my many years I have come to a conclusion that one useless man is a shame, two is a law firm, and three or more is a congress. - John Adams

Lessons From the Past

As I sit here today and watch hurricane Ike whip its way across Cuba, I am reminded of other hurricanes in the past. Our most recent was Dolly; just a little over a month ago it brought us all the hurricane we wanted for a while. Now it looks like Ike may give us another shot. I went to Academy Sporting Goods store this morning and bought two battery operated lanterns. Bebe said she liked the candles, but they weren't much good for anything except looking pretty. I did remember to get batteries. I went back through some of the photos that came out of New Orleans and found one with a list attached. I offer it as a guide to those of you who may be in the path of the storm.

A good time to keep your mouth shut is when you're in deep water.

Eatin' Out

Now who thinks they could eat a half chicken? Well apparently Bebe and I had a delusional thought when we went to Bell's Barbecue Barn tonight. I read the menu and stayed with the one meat plate with one side and a cup of cowboy beans. I remembered in my youth I could eat several plates of chicken, however now I know better. I am as big as a small NFL interior lineman and must look at the weight limit on canvas folding chairs, and attic ladders before taking the plunge, but it looked like a small plate on the menu. Needless to say we had to get a to go box and it took both of us to carry it to the car. We were in the Jeep and I thought I would need to give Bebe a boost after we left the place, but she managed the slightly higher step up after two tries. I was holding the six pound to go box and was not much help. We had to get home in a hurry because the tea glasses were the size of small wash tubs and I had mine refilled. We keep saying we are going to order one entree and split it, but we don't like to look like old people. The truth is I will need an iron lung to breathe if I don't lower my caloric intake. I keep thinking I'll start any day and then someone says, "Hey we're cooking out tonight, can y'all come over?" It never takes me long to answer. I try to pause slightly just to sound like I have a life, but the "yes" is always out before I know it. My daughter brought in a cake because it was too hot to leave in her car this afternoon. She left it in my refrigerator. Even though I am still uncomfortable, I hear the cake calling me. I keep thinking maybe someone will realize I have a problem and do an intervention.

When a person can no longer laugh at himself, it is time for others to laugh at him. - Thomas Szasz

Labor Day

Today while I was out taking the bull for a ride in my convertible, I thought about the irony of Labor Day. People are off on labor day, so in many cases no labor is done. I on the other hand thought I would do some today just to be different. The vehicle inspection station was closed, so I will need to wait until tomorrow to take care of that chore. My barbecue pit bit the dust and had to be replaced, so I went to Target and bought one on clearance sale. The box had to weigh in excess of seventy five pounds and some assembly was required. I sat in the hot garage for about two and one half hours trying to read the 60 page instruction manual and keep up with sixty or seventy tiny self tapping screws. I finally finished, got a full bottle of propane, and cooked burgers for the family. I am running on empty. Oh, I forgot. This morning I bought a new propane mosquito fogger and fogged the neighborhood in the immediate vicinity of my house. We are probably fairly toxic, but the mosquitoes are gone. I think I'll buy some more fog and go for the flies tomorrow. I'll give it a break after that to see if any other small animals have been affected. I kept thinking it was Saturday today. It's hard enough to keep up with the days of the week when you are retired, but add an extra day off and I need my pocket calendar. The grocery store here is where God sends me when he wants to see if he can make me cuss. I rarely disappoint him. I only wanted two items today, hamburgers and buns. When I arrived a woman was parking her shopping cart in the parking place where I wanted to park. I guess she read my face and felt it necessary to explain that it wasn't hers, she was just moving it. I told her that was a good idea, but she didn't take it far enough to be counted as a good deed. You actually need to put it in the cart corral in order to qualify. I also glared at the folks who drive the wrong way on one way parking aisles. At the check-out stand a woman put her groceries on the belt and then went to finish her shopping. I don't know how I manage to get in line with these people. When I zipped through my check-out (two items), I was slowed at the EXIT by people who can't seem to read, and insist on coming into the store against the flow of outgoing patrons. I started out with words like Idgit, and Igmo for brevity, and graduated to the hard stuff once I was on the highway home. God was laughing because I fall for the same stuff every time.


You probably wouldn't worry about what people think of you if you could know how seldom they do. - Olin Miller

The Great Experiment

I'm baaaack! We survived Houston traffic one more time. For eleven years of my life, on almost every day of the week and some weekends, I drove in Houston traffic. Each year I tempt fate by driving back into the fray for some noble reason. I forget during the interim what it was like and am always in shock for the first few miles of the vortex. The vortex actually starts about sixty miles out in any direction from the core. Drivers who are being courteous, and sensible start to show aggression. Everyone increases their margin of speed over the limit by at least ten miles per hour, with some going totally out of control. Then the weaving and lane adjustments get more complex and the margin for error decreases. I had the opportunity to be alone in the car on several side trips during the weekend. During these trips I resurrected some of the highway terminology I thought had been purged from my vocabulary. I did avoid any road rage incidents by remembering that almost all the drivers in Houston are armed, and I was not. When we got out of Houston yesterday, I stopped the car and let Bebe drive for a while. I took a nap. I am rested this morning and ready to make comment. The old bear in the picture is watching the Democrats at their convention and waiting for some government official to bring him his lunch.

Man is a clever animal who behaves like an imbecile. - Albert Schweitzer

Psychotherapy

I quit therapy because my analyst was trying to help me behind my back. - Richard Lewis

The more I consider the blogging world, the more I consider psychotherapy. When I was working on my MS in Psychology, the professors told me I should enroll in therapy. They said I lacked empathy. I had been in law enforcement for a number of years by then and had a different standard of what constituted a crisis. My curt responses caused many of the not so seasoned students to cry, and this was of concern to the faculty. I did enroll, finished the program, got my degree, and after a short stint sharing my new found empathy with clients, I quit and went back into law enforcement. When I returned to the streets, I applied the things I learned. For example, when I gave the Miranda warning to arrested suspects, I would say; "You have the right to remain silent. (pause) How do you feel about that?" It drove my partners crazy. Now that you know me, can you imagine me ever not having empathy? Well, I am a little worried about all of us in the blogging world. What would you tell a therapist about the people you've met? (I use the term 'met', in the loose definition of cyber chatter.) I almost feel compelled to write something everyday. I tried to back off just a little with the Miser post just to see how you would react. I posted a picture with a quote below it - not one of you said how weird that was. Most of you left very nice comments. I think some of you probably thought I had a minor brain injury after my fall and just wanted to be kind. Actually I hit my arm and my knee, so no excuse available there. I guess I've been brainwashed. Perhaps I've been programed to allow suggestion from outside sources to be fed into my brain when I'm on line. Anyway, I thought I would post late today to give everyone ample time to respond to Misers. Hope your week was a great one.

I often quote myself. It adds spice to my conversation. - George Bernard Shaw

Misers

Every man serves a useful purpose: A miser, for example, makes a wonderful ancestor. - Laurence J. Peter

The Bigger They Are....

The movie, nor the picture, have anything to do with this post. I was going strictly for the title. Do you remember the saying; "The bigger they are, the harder they...."? How did you finish that saying? "Fall?" Well, at different times in life I have modified the ending to fit the situation, but yesterday I finished it in the traditional fashion. I was recovering nicely from the little effects of the viral or bacterial malady that kept me inside for most of the weekend and decided to do a little work on my motorcycle. I took the windshield off and cleaned it of the stickers the previous owner had attached, and I rode for a while without the windshield just to prove I still could. I decided to lower the level of the windshield one notch before I re-installed it, and I used a rubber mallet to move the flexible insert into position. After I finished, I laid the rubber mallet down and rode to the mall to meet Bebe for lunch. I loved the results of my adjustments. After lunch, I decided to ride home and clean up before Bebe got back. It was HOT. I was fine as long as the bike was moving, but when I stopped, the heat and humidity combined with the heat off the motorcycle engine and caused me to leak. I pulled the bike into the garage and turned it off. I removed my helmet and gloves and retrieved my cell phone from the saddle bags. I was intent on making a fast break for the coolness of the air conditioned house, but I spotted the rubber mallet I used to adjust the windshield. Now in way of explanation, I have one side of my garage free of clutter to accommodate our family car. The other side is a maze of assorted tools, bikes, chemicals, exercise equipment, and other junk. I know how to carefully navigate the little spaces between all this stuff to get to whatever I need next. The key words here are "carefully navigate". I had on my big motorcycle boots, and my sunglasses. I was carrying my cell phone, and the rubber mallet I intended to hang on my peg board against the wall. As I carelessly weaved between our bicycles and my fertilizer spreader, I somehow lost my balance. It was like the slow-mo segment on the Wide World of Sports agony of defeat footage where the ski jumper looses it at the bottom of the jump and tumbles to the bottom of the hill. I instinctively dropped everything I could to make some vain attempt to use my hands to try and slow the progress of the 245 lbs. of jello as it jiggled its way toward the concrete floor. As my eyes scanned the landing area, I realized to my horror that an air compressor was occupying that very spot. I locked my feeble landing gear in place and tried to guide them to either side of the compressor. The inside of my left forearm failed to clear completely and provided some useless friction. The evidence can be clearly seen and felt this morning. My frame proved to be of sufficient strength to not only stop me, but allow me to hobble into the house afterward. The smell of Tiger Balm fills the air of my office today. I am thinking I should probably weigh around 145 lbs. to maintain the proper weight to stopping power ratio. All systems are functional, but tender, today and I will probably avoid strenuous activity for another day or two.

The Truth in Cartooning

You'll have to listen closely today, I have a sore throat and can't talk very loud. My grandchildren bring me little microscopic bugs and leave them around my house. I don't particularly like the bugs, but they seem to like me. Thanks to all of you who commented on the SWF post, many of you had very thoughtful comments. If you haven't read the comments on that post you might want to. I think almost everyone stayed long enough to read the poem. I know an old cranky man who thinks very little of anyone other than himself. He wears those one size fits all jump suits. His Sunday jump suit is a hounds tooth plaid with fewer paint smears than his work-a-day selection. He has had the suits for as long as I can remember, and if I am not mistaken, he has not replaced any of the three during that time. He likes to sit in his well worn recliner and hike one leg up over the armrest. All three suits are missing the crotch and to my recollection he doesn't wear underwear. When I visit this person, I generally think to myself, I hope I never become what he is. But, like the words in the second stanza of the John Denver song, Some days are diamonds - Some days are stone, "...the face that I see in the mirror, more and more is a stranger to me. More and more I can see there's a danger of becoming what I never thought I'd be", I realize the possibility exists. I have been careful not to buy any of those jump suits yet. As we age we think more of what life will be like for us as the years go by and I hope we try to think of how we can make others lives more pleasant as they interact with us.

Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away. - Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The Prohibited Zone

Many venues, (poetry contests, writing contests, etc.) ask you to submit items that have no political or religious reference. I would say if you are interested in people saying they like you, this is a safe way to go. However, if you like your eggs with a little salt, pepper, and hot sauce this formula will not be satisfying for very long. I don't like to stay on any one subject for too long, but I do like stirring the pot occasionally to let people feel the passion trapped inside. Many have been suppressed at work and home for so long, they bubble over when given the opportunity, and write long and many times entertaining commentary. Blogging is a fairly safe venue. This blog is open to views from the opposition. I don't guarantee they will pass without rebuttal, but I do not base my relationship with my readers (whatever that is in this shadow world of blogging) on their opinions. I do make one caveat here; If your religious beliefs or political stance threatens the life or well being of my family or country all bets are off. Otherwise, as I read the U.S. Constitution, you are free to form your own opinions and should not feel any obligation to apologize to me or anyone else for having them. I post all commentary if it is presented in a civilized tone. If I see we are falling into a lull of interest, I try and find topics I know people have expressed strong opinions on in daily conversation. I then try to present them with some humor and with enough explanation to cement the point I'm trying to make. Judging by the comment numbers and interaction of commenters with each other, I would say the practice has been successful. I know many people who read blogs and don't make comment. Sometimes I get e-mails from those who don't want their opinions aired in the global forum. I usually have to do some type of exercise akin to getting into an acting role to re-create some passionate feeling I had when things were in the now. I am very much an, action at the time of occurrence, individual. Once the impetus is gone, I get over things quickly. I do laugh at your rebuttal on occasion, and occasionally I moan when I know you missed the point, but I enjoy the interaction. I am firm in most opinions I've formed over long years of experience, but I am not closed to solid information on any subject. I have made changes in stances when I've been shown that I erred in my original conclusions (very rare). So, thank you for your patience and your participation when I wander into the prohibited zones. All of you enrich my life. Pappy (aka Cranky Pants)

Men, it has been well said, think in herds; it will be seen that they go mad in herds, while they only recover their senses slowly, and one by one. - Charles Mackay

Bug Collecting

Yesterday, Kathie of Sycamore Canyon posted a piece on a visit from Doug Taron, the bug guy. In one segment they were stretching a sheet at the mouth of a wash and back lighting it to attract insects. This reminded me of a pleasant/not too pleasant memory from my early high school days. My dad was an entomologist ( a bug guy). He worked for a variety of private Pest Control Companies after graduation from college and later became a Plant Quarantine Inspector for the U. S. Department of Agriculture. I was fifteen years old and was taking Biology in high school. I chose an insect collection as my project for the semester. But, as usual, I put off collecting any insects until the last minute. By the last minute I mean the day before the project was due. I had several glass jars with lids with a screen in the bottom covering a piece of cotton soaked in alcohol I used as killing jars. I had a cigar box for a presentation case. A variety of live insects still moved around in the killing jars when my dad came in from work. Of course part of the project was to identify and classify the insects I collected. My dad saw what I was doing, and since it was in his scientific field, he asked me about the project and when it was due. When I told him tomorrow morning, he had some choice words of wisdom for me, but he did formulate a plan. I gave him the paper with the criteria for the project and he suggested we set up a sheet in the carport in front of the light after dark. He also got out some carbon tetrachloride to use in the killing jars. It was much faster than the alcohol I was using. We were successful in collecting the required number of insects from the various families and my dad identified them from memory and provided me with the scientific names needed to properly present them. We worked late into the night mounting our specimens, and carefully printing the correct name on the labels. After telling me what would happen to me if I ever waited that long to do any school project, he went to bed. I did too. I was relieved to have the project completed in spite of my procrastination. I learned when I arrived at school that I was not the only one who had waited until the final hour to begin. You could hear the pinned beetles and other large insects scratching around in several of the presentation boxes lining the table in front of the class. Mine however received very high marks. My dad died of Leukemia the day before my sixteenth birthday, and I'm not sure if I ever thanked him properly for pulling my feet out of the fire. It was a life saver to have a highly trained bug man for a father when insect collections were needed in a hurry. Thank you Kathie and Doug for reminding me. I was later involved in several critical school projects with my girls. I was making up for time I wasted in high school. I could hardly wait until they got home from school to find out what grade "we" made on the project.

The squeaking wheel doesn't always get the grease. Sometimes it gets replaced. - Vic Gold