BLOGGER POST 400!

Gee, 400 posts on this blog. And they said it wouldn't last.

Saturday night is pizza night. Always. The wife makes hers, I make mine.

Pepperoni. Tomatoes. Mushrooms. Anchovies (yes, anchovies). Mozzarella cheese. Marinara sauce.

And that's why the wife chooses to make her own pizza.

The trailer is packed. I'll be on my way late this morning bound for the middle of nowhere.

During the drive I'll be singing, "On the Road Again" or "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" Take your pick.

Farmtown, here I come!

YOU ARE HERE

Ahhh, that would be Bob and this is where Bob will be until the end of June 2008 . . . with some time off at home for good behavior on the weekends. . . . right here.

I took the job. The money is better than good. All of the expenses are paid. I'm in the middle of nowhere. But nowhere in this case means you're in the middle of God's country. It does not get any more beautiful (or isolated) than this.

Farming. Ranching. Logging. People of the earth. Real people. Real morals and values. I gotta come up with a name for the middle of nowhere. I also have to be careful of what I say. . . .

HEADLINES: Old Fart Bob Tarred and Feathered After Stupid Response to Trivial Question in Local Saloon

I'll drive here and park the fifth wheel in an RV park tomorrow. Get settled. Report to work Tuesday.

The RV park has Wi Fi via satellite. Computer on satellite will no doubt do the slo-kee pokey. Will I be able to blog and upload pictures? I'm hoping. The next post will be number 400. What better place to celebrate than in the middle of nowhere.


So, what's up with this picture? After the last interview this is what it looked liked heading home to Cow Town on a late Friday afternoon.

Snow in September? Thirty-three degrees at 4:30 p.m.? There it is out the windshield of the truck. Damn that global warming!

Navigating up and then down a steep grade as I left the valley made it necessary to pull the truck into four wheel drive. No sweat.

Thank God, I'm a country boy.

Stay tuned for fun and games in the middle of nowhere.

NO ONE KNOWS IT'S ME!

There are times when I don't want anyone to recognize me.

Like when I visit the adult book store.

Or at the local topless bar.

When I buy wine and beer at the supermarket. People think people like me don't drink.

Or have vices.

Or have ghosts in the closet.

When I don't want to be recognized so I become Mr. Cheesehead. I put on my cheesehead, the Raybans and VOILA - who is that guy? No one knows who Mr. Cheesehead is.

Right when I walk in the topless bar everyone shouts, "HEY, give us some head! Give us Mr. Cheesehead!!" And then the guys buy me a drink.

In the adult book store everyone keeps their head down and tries not to be recognized. Once I saw a man who works in high places there (no, not me . . . someone else!). He immediately recognized Mr. Cheesehead and hightailed it out of the adult book store . . for Mr. Cheesehead knows all and tells all.

I only go into the adult bookstore to buy toys and not for the porno. People who need porno have no sex life. Now Mr. Cheesehead is the most virile man you'd ever want to meet.

Look, up in the sky.... it's a bird, it's a plane, it's Mr. Cheesehead. Yes people, after a few drinks, Mr. Cheesehead can fly.

Sometimes I am Mr. Cheesehead in bed. That's all I can say because the wife gets soooo very angry when I write about that. She says, "What happens in bed stays in bed!" That's the name of that tune and I can hum it very well, thank you very much.

I'm meeting with some very important people this afternoon. They want to get to know me. They want me to work for them. And I want to put my best foot forward. Yes, Mr. Cheesehead will be appearing before this group of people. I want them to know the real me and yes, I will sing for them, "I Gotta Be Me!" After all, the first impression is a lasting impression.

They might as well know I'm a bit freaking nuts before they hire me . . . I mean, before they consider hiring someone who thinks of himself as Mr. Cheesehead.

I kind of like having two or more personalities. . . what's that called?

RINGLING BROS CIRCUS

Last Sunday was Grace's second visit to the circus. On her arrival she knew exactly where to head . . . right to the novelties.

Guess which object in the display case Grace just had to have.
PETA picketed outside of the arena. On one hand I understand their point of view on the other there seems to be an effort on the part of Ringling Bros to be part of the save an endangered species.
I remember my first visit to the a Ringling Bros circus at age 4 or 5. It was exciting to see the workers unload the train and travel a short distance to set up the circus tent.

Running away from home to be a circus clown seemed so viable just had to be so very fun.
Does she go home at night to her husband and say, "Not tonight, honey. I have a headache."

LEARNING TO TRAIN MEN JUST DOESN'T HAPPEN

Did you ever check out how little girls train their pets? Like dogs or cats. Then they work on their friends and train them. Little girls play school together and learn control.

Then they start on the little boys in the neighborhood. It might be a lemonade stand venture. Or it could be something like playing house. You played house, didn't you? All staging grounds for control.

I have a theory - women training men to be what they want their man to be instead of letting the man be what he already is? It all starts at an early age. Control doesn't happen overnight.

Here you see Grace. She's learning how to dangle something in front of an animal and makes the animal do what she wants. Once that happens the dog gets what it wants: The ball.

This sort of behavior Grace is learning will be translated one day to her relationship with men. Dangle something out in front that the men want and when they do what you want . . . they get whatever is dangling out there.

It's almost as if women want to feminize men. Like, don't act like a man, act like a women and be civilized, you clod!. At least that's the messages I've gotten in my life from the women who once dotted the landscape.

Some women "get it" later in later. They figure out that there's no controlling their man. Men are going to do what men are going to do. There's no stopping it.

The wife got that message a long time ago. When she stopped trying to reform Old Bob the wife got happier. I gotta be me. There's no going back to the drawing board for old Bob. The mold is cast.

Why mess with perfection, poetry in motion and a son-of-a-bitch disposition.

Oh, that dangling thing? It still works on me.

So ends my Male Pig message of the day.

Oink!

Next I need to write about how men learn at an early age to control, manipulate, break hearts and how to fart silently in public . . . looking all innocent when others look around to figure out who would have the nerve to do something like that?

BOB'S ANSWERS TO TMI TUESDAY

I've attempted to participate in TMI Tuesday for a couple of weeks now. The questions this week seem to be a bit more challenging than before. It's going to be a stretch. Nonetheless, here goes nothing . . .

1. Who did you think you would marry in elementary school?

I never wanted to marry anyone during my elementary school years. The goal was to be good looking with lots of money and the man about town. At this tender age I viewed marriage as an institution which looked pretty sorry. I wanted no part of being married.

2. Which muppet is your favorite? Why?

That would have to be the Cookie Monster. KOOOK - KEEEE!

3. Which politician would you most like to screw? [For pleasure or revenge]

I'd love to strap on something large and put it to George Bush. He's screwed everyone else. I figure it's time he gets some of his own medicine. It would be just like in the film Deliverance.

Come on George - you're mine now! Squeal like a pig!

4. How did you first find the g-spot?

The only spots I've found are: A good parking spot, spots on my shirt after eating pasta with meat sauce, Spot the dog, the phrase "Out, damned spot!", rain spots on the windshield, sun spots, playing poker and responding to "I'll spot you a hundred bucks" and when the wife spot me eyeing that good looking blonde across the room (can you spot the bruises on my shins from being kicked?).

5. What is the best costume you've ever worn?

Dressing professionally . . . working in a job and acting like I know what I'm doing.

Bonus (as in optional):Does pornography liberate or deteriorate society?

In case you haven't noticed with or without pornography modern society is going to hell in a hand basket. And if you haven't noticed it's time that you did.

GRANDPARENTS DAY

Last Thursday was Grandparent's Day in Grace's kindergarten class. All of the grandparents were invited.

Before the festivities began I looked around the classroom and said to myself, "Who are these old farts?"

For a moment I thought I was in Florida attending an AARP convention. I caught myself about to say, "Where's the damn Bloody Marys?!"

Here's Grace sitting quietly and looking at the wife, Old Bob, her mother and her mother's mother.

The class sang songs which is what they're doing here.
And then each child recited a nursery rhyme. Grace did Little Bo Peep.
Like most five year old kids (Grace won't be five until November - she's the youngest kid in her class), they pick and wipe their noses like there's no tomorrow.

Here's Grace a pickin' and a wiping'. The wife finally leaned over and passed a tissue to Grace.

When it comes to picking and wiping, isn't that what noses are for?

The Older Woman? I Think Her Name Was Gloria!!

Last nights dream. . . G.L.O.R.I.A!!!

I DREAM ABOUT OLD WOMEN

Usually I wake up laughing but early this morning I woke up in a cold sweat yelling "ARRRGUH! ARRRRRRGGAAA!" I was having a sex dream about an old lady. So I pole vaulted out of bed, hit the can and then back to the sack to sleep it off.

Dreaming about "older women" is not all bad, I said to myself as I pulled the covers back over my head. I'm older. Why not dream about older women? And the dream I just had . . . it was about an older woman so somewhere in the back of my subconscious there's something going on with that subject.

And you know, a lot of the older women today really do look mighty fine - and it's not me that's saying it. Women at 60 are proclaiming that their age is now the new 40. Plastic surgery. Exercise. Diet. Etc. That will do it. We're not talking Geritol junkies.

I always thought I'd be forever attracted to young women. And for a long while I was. Then I learned via the school of hard knocks that young women equal high maintenance. No thank you. Been there. Heard the whining and bitching. Young women think that they can change you from who you are into what they think you should be. Ohhh, no you don't. Not going there again.

There's a certain aire about older women. Sophistication. Experience. Even keeled - no every 28 days, shit hits the fan emotions. Older women mean what they say and say what they mean: There's nothing like an honest, upfront woman who knows exactly what she wants and goes for it.

Unlike their younger counterparts, older women have money. . . need I say more, gentlemen?

Sophia Loren at age 73 in this recent photograph.

Morgan Fairchild, a mere child pictured here at age 57. Whatta babe.
Goldie Hawn seen here with her seemingly pregnant long time boyfriend Kurt Russell . . . Goldie's a stone fox at age 62.

Kurt's probably saying here, "I should have had a V-8". . .

HIDE YOUR DAUGHTERS!

We're turned a corner. The night air has become crisp, cotton sheets on the bed will soon be changed to flannel and there will be no comfort in sleeping butt naked.

As a sign that the times, they are a changing, the leaves on the ornamental pear tree outside of out kitchen window have started to turn colors. And what a nice barometer of change in seasons it is.
It takes all winter for the ornamental pear tree to lose it's leaves. No sooner does the tree become barren it leafs out as yet another sign that spring has sprung.
Summer flowers in the yard still prevail for a while longer. The first frost of the winter will put them to sleep for the winter.
Mothers with daughters - attention! Your precious little girl comes home and says, "Mom, I'd like you to meet E.D. We're going out on a date tonight."

If you watched Big Brother this season you know that E.D. stands for Evil Dick. What kind of name is that?!

If this guy came to your door to date your daughter, what would you do?

CASH CAB

My new found cult television program is Cash Cab. It's on the Discovery Channel.

It's simple: Taxi full of hidden cameras pick up unsuspecting NY City people who are only looking for transportation from one place to another.

Here's what the Discovery Channel says about Cash Cab:

"Unassuming people enter the "Cash Cab" as simple passengers taking a normal taxi ride, only to be shocked when they discover that they’re instant contestants on Discovery Channel's innovative game show!

Ben Bailey, the host and driver of Cash Cab, then offers them the following proposition:
The Cash Cab will drive you all the way to your destination and ask you general knowledge questions along the way. The questions start out on the easy side, then get harder along the way – the harder the question, the more money it’s worth. The first four questions are worth $25 for each correct answer. The next four are worth $50 and then every question after that is worth $100.

A correct answer is awarded the cash, an incorrect answer means the contestant gets a strike. The contestants can earn cash all the way to their destination. But the second they miss their third question (i.e., earn their third strike), Ben pulls the Cash Cab over and ejects them onto the sidewalk, no matter where they are!

If they get stumped on a question, contestants can "shout out" for help, either by calling someone on our mobile phone (a "Mobile Shout-Out"), or by asking someone on the street for help (a "Street Shout-Out"). Each contestant only has one Mobile and one Street Shout-Out during the course of each game.

If the contestant has won at least $200 and the cab hits a red light, a "Red Light Challenge" is offered, which is a single question with multiple part answers. The passenger has 30 seconds to get all answers (e.g., name all seven of Snow White’s dwarfs). If the contestant gets each part of the answer correct, they win $200; if time expires, they move on without receiving any strikes against them.

Finally, if the contestant arrives at their destination having earned cash, they can opt to bet it all – double or nothing – on a "Video Bonus Question." The question is a based on a clip from Discovery’s library."

I like the part where contestants are dumped on the street before their destination if they "strike out".

As far as game shows go, this one is entertaining and often very funny.

Check it out.

RIGHT SHOE ON THE LEFT FOOT KIND OF DAY

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! The first attempt to get a rolling start on Wednesday resulted in yours truly attempting to put his shoes on the wrong foot. In a round about way I discovered that no matter how hard you try it won't work.

It was apparent that Wednesday was going to be a right shoe on the left foot kind of day.

Then there's the Internet. A dozen attempts to connect this Wednesday morning yielded zero, nada, zilch.

Okay. Run Spybot. No, that didn't work. Still no connection. Okay, run the virus program. Nope, still no connection. Let's try cleaning up files. Internet connect still a no go. I know, how about a foot through the CPU? Nope, too expensive.

One of the constants in the world of computers: When all else fails initiate a system restore. Bingo. Viola! I'm back in business.

The day is relatively young. Here's hoping a right shoe on the left foot kind of day stops here.

We're shopping for furniture. New stuff goes with any remodel. What used to be okay in the living room has been banished to the family room.

Shopping for furniture is like shopping for a used car: Over zealous sales persons make it impossible to get into the Zen of shopping.

"Can I help you?" "Have you been helped" Crap! 8 times that question was asked by 8 different sales persons. I wanted to say, "For crying out loud, can we just shop in peace and quiet?!"

Okay, everybody has to make a buck in this world. But when you're Bob there's no tolerance for people who get in your face.


"The next time you get in my face - gargle!"

The set that you see here is one of the finalists in our search for new furniture for the living room.

I like this chair. When I get a fat ass I'll have somewhere to plop it.

Why I'm Not Allowed to do Shots in Public

I do this. The wife says "no way, you jackass!"

TMI TUESDAY: MIGHT AS WELL DO IT

1. What is one thing your significant other could do to you to rock your world?

Clean up her home office. Funny thing, the older you get the more stupid answers given for questions like this.

2. Which super power (ability to turn invisible, ability to read people's thoughts, or invulnerability) would you take and why?

I'd love to read people's thoughts. There would be a big trip to Vegas for Poker and Black Jack. Yes, I'd be reading the minds of not only the dealer but the players, too. I'd win big time and buy that desert island.

3. Would you rather be tied up or tie someone else up? Why?

Neither. When you're Bob neither one of these things appeal to you.

4. What is your best physical and non physical asset?

Best physical: My boobs (ha! fooled ya - but they are kind of cute).

Non physical: Generosity to a fault. I'd give most anyone the shirt off of my back.

5. If they were naming new Dwarves beyond the seven what would your name be and why?

OJ. I'd love seeing OJ trudge off to the mine everyday singing, "Hi Ho, Hi Ho . . . "

Bonus: What's the most embarrassing thing you ever bought?

A 1974 green Fiat. What was I thinking?

THAT'S MY BOY!

If Maxwell isn't a chip off the old block, I don't what is. Near spitting image of his old dad at an earlier age.

Out of our three boys, Max is our Don Juan studmaster.

Like his dad and as you can see, Max has great taste in women.

BTW: The tattoos are fake.

This week we attempted to plan a last minute trip to meet Max and his lady in Thailand. For the two of us it came down to a mere 60,000 of our frequent flier miles plus the expense of flying from Hong Kong (sister to King Kong) to Samai Thailand.

Unfortunately, I had already taken a job as lead consultant in an investigation on behalf of a school district. If the matter the district had presented me with had not been so pressing we'd be off this Sunday for Sumai. Damn!

Max, his lady and the two of us attempted to share a vacation last year . . . at about this time, to Hawaii. That didn't work out either.

Well Max, maybe next time . . .

IF IT DOESN'T FIT YOU MUST ACQUIT

This slug is in the news again. This time he's been arrested for being a participant in an armed robbery in Vegas. OJ doesn't have an alibi but he has offered an explanation.

Dear Lord,
Please turn OJ into Pinocchio. I want to see his nose grow and grow and grow!

Oh, Orenthal . . . about that nose of yours...

Last week each of us remembered where we were on the 11th day of September in the year 2001. Today I remembered where I was at about 6:45 p.m., June 17th, 1994. That's when LAPD spotted a white Ford Bronco driven by OJ pal Al Cowlings on the 405 freeway. We all know who was riding shotgun (no pun intended).

On June 17th, 1994 I was completely pissed off at the world. Completely. I don't believe that I've ever been that mad nor have I been that angry since.

At that stage in my life it was better to be alone. I was not fit to be around anyone. So, for 10 days I retreated to the family cabin built on an 80 acre parcel overlooking the Pacific ocean.

At 6:45 p.m. on that particular day I had the radio on - jazz on KKSF from San Francisco, content with gazing out on the ocean, loving the smell of the grove of Redwoods around the cabin and starting the barbecue in preparation of cooking a one pound beauty of a New York steak. I was thinking this was a pretty good way to get over being mad.

The music was interrupted with news of the OJ chase on the LA 405 freeway. It was interesting. It was amusing. It was curious that someone like OJ had put himself in such a predicament.

The rest, as they say is history. OJ got away with murder.

I got over being mad. No one probably remembers why Bob was soooo pissed off in 1994 and that's a good thing. I'd just as soon forget it, too.

I DON'T GET IT

Last week I ordered two Cd's online. One of them was to take the place of a vinyl LP which just sits in a crate for lack of a turntable: Joan Baez's Diamond and Rust.

If you're a fan, Diamonds and Rust is a must have album.

More than a few Pat Metheny albums grace the shelves of Bob's 1,000 plus CD collection. Last week was the time to add yet another Metheny CD to the collection so added one to the order which was not yet on my shelves.

This week both Cd's arrive. It was a nice surprise for usually it takes more than a week for merchandise to get from there to here. You know what it's like to get from there to here. It's often a chore.

Opened the package . . . okay, there's the Diamond and Rust CD. Next CD . . . what's this? It's a CD covered with all kinds of symbols and pictures - - - no writing whatsoever to identify who did what and what it's title is. Hmmmmm.

Being Bob means you automatically come with the luxury of having a selective memory. When you're of the male species elective memory comes in handy when you're married. If you're reading this and are not married or female, you have no appreciation for what I'm talking about.

But then there are times when Bob's memory just craps out. Blank. Zero. The mother drive is frozen. Brain cramp. And that was the case with the CD with lots of pictures but no writing. At this place in time I have no idea of what I've ordered and what this Cd is with all of the strange markings.

So I go to the files to retrieve the online receipt for the CD transaction. Whoa! It's a Pat Metheny album! Imaginary Day.

What kind of marketing technique is that? Am I missing something here? What if more than a few Cd's came that way? That would pretty much mess up the order of the universe. We'd select Cd's to play and have no freaking idea of what we're doing.

No freaking idea of what we're doing? That's why it's fun being Bob.

PAINT

After five months of debate the wife and I finally agreed on a color for the interior of the house.

The photos don't accurately portray the color we picked. I'll have to take more once the painting is complete and the furniture, pictures and other "stuff" is back in place.

Brown walls are a first for us. It's striking. It's bold. It looks so totally nice.