DUCK AND COVER
NEW YEAR'S EVE

Cowtown is home to a lot of idiots.
Come midnight on each and every New Year's eve many of our idiots delight in taking their favorite handgun or rifle outside and firing off a couple dozen rounds.

Our idiots have no clue or consideration of what goes up has to come down.

At midnight Wifey and I will join Zeenie under the bed (as seen here). I'm thinking under the bed is the safest place in the house with exception of crawling under the car or truck parked in the garage.

It's gonna be tough having sex tonight at exactly midnight.

ICED DOWN CHILL

This is soooo chill I need a sweater.

WHY MESS WITH PERFECTION?





Never mind what's on this idiot's sign. I don't believe any of what this guy is selling with exception of what the heading says: AMERICA REPENT! And where America needs to repent isn't even on his sign.

This time of year people think about repenting. Repenting is really all about making New Year's resolutions. Everyone wants to think about hanging up old habits and changing direction or REPENTING in order to make for a better new year.

I know who and what I am. I know what I'm all about and what I am not all about. There's a lot that's not right with Bob but there's also a lot that there is. One side balances the other (well, most of the time). In regards to change I know what's doable in my world and what's not.

With that in mind and when it comes to making New Year's resolutions it boils down to this:

Why mess with perfection?

And if you believe that please give me a call. I have some great beachfront property for sale in Florida that I'd love to sell you.

FLOATING

Sitting here contemplating New Year's resolutions and I am floating.

Peacefully floating.

It must be bursts of alpha brain waves that are making me feel weightless, worryless, carefree.

I remind myself of what's playing in the background. Spa radio, DirectTV channel 856 over speakers in most every room in the house, that's responsible for my floating, dreaming, relaxing, smiling.

Are the dogs floating, too?

I'd better check.

STILL MARRIED AFTER
ALL THESE YEARS




















Today's her wedding anniversary, at least that's what Wifey calls it. Not ours. Not mine. But hers. Never ever will I be able to figure out the female mind and how it works. Never.

We've been married for more years than I wish to admit. Interestingly, we've still married, still fight like cats and dogs, still love each other madly and actually like each other like best pals, and are still very much committed to the death do us part deal of the marriage contract.

One of our first conversations this anniversary morning:

Me: So, I'm going to ask you if you remember something about our wedding day.

Wifey: Don't even go there.

So much for sentimental value of today.

Later on this morning I bring a dog turd on a small shovel into the house as part of what we do to monitor what Zeen eats in the yard. Often there items, like rubber bands, that she has no business getting into. When that happens I check around and clean up where ever it was Zeenie was grazing.

So anyway, I bring in the dog turd to let Wifey check it.

Wifey: What is this? An anniversary present?

I have a feeling that it's not going to get any better than this today.

LIKE GROOVY, MAN



In high school I dated someone who's single parent mom worked as a professor at San Francisco State. Even though employed in the "City" she lived in what was then a small town that was less than an hours drive away.



During the several years we dated, the girl friend and I accompanied the mother on more than a few weekend outings in San Francisco's North Beach. It wasn't unusual for me to arrive home around 3 or 4 in the morning.



We'd do lots of things but the most exciting was to head to North Beach's coffee or espresso houses to check out the beatniks, listen to their poetry and groove on the scene, man.



Coffee House Beatniks kind of looked like Alfred E. Newman here: Glasses to make them look smart and a beret, usually black or blue in color.

Poetry readings were fun. Someone would read poetry and sometimes twang on a guitar or bop on the bongos in between verses. That's when someone would shout out, "Groovy, man!" or "that's sooooo bitchin!", and even "far out!" Hipsters were called "cats". He's a cool cat, man. That cat found a groove, man.

Being 15 or 16 I ate this shit up like there was no tomorrow. I wanted to be a beatnik when I grew up. Write poetry. Be a hipster. Own a couple of sets of bongos. Have a bitchin' girl friend who always wore a blue beret, glasses, a dark sweater and a tight, short skirt. Be part of the scene, man.

The girl friend's mom knew all kinds of people that we'd run into at North Beach. I met beat poets Alan Ginsberg, Gary Snyder, Lawrence Ferlinghetti and even actor Errol Flynn (actor with underage girl friend on his arm) . . .

On our way home from North Beach one evening we stopped at San Quentin prison to join a midnight vigil for convicted rapist/killer Caryl Chessman. He was to be gassed around midnight. We sat on a hillside, sang songs, carried signs and even met Marlon Brando who stopped by for a few minutes as a showing of his support. What we did must have worked because at the last moment old Caryl was given a reprieve. A few years later the reprieves ran out and old Caryl got what he probably should have gotten years before.


There were and still are lots of coffee houses and cafes around North Beach. The food in the cafes is to die for. It's that great.
And then there's the architecture of North Beach. You can get a neck krink from constantly admiring the beauty of the buildings.

There was a time when Wifey and I thought long and hard about moving to San Francisco, a city that we've always loved and enjoyed so very much. Long story short, practicality won out and put cold water on the leap of faith we were about to take.

I still think it would have worked out.
Back in the day there were lots of stories about what Beatniks would do behind closed doors. Pot. Sex. Reciting poetry naked in tune with someone beating on bongo drums. When I heard about "that!" I wanted to be a Beatnik more than ever. Bring on the Beatnik parties!

Unfortunately a bunch of things got in the way of becoming a Beatnik after high school. Uncle Sam sent one of those letters that begin with "Greetings!" and I was off to support the war in Viet Nam by supervising the maintenance of B-52 bombers and KC-135 airborne tankers.

Fresh out of the military I found that the beatniks of San Francisco were being overrun by the Love Generation/Hippies. Exercising good sense the hippies took up residence in the Haight Ashbury and left North Beach alone.

Not that there would have been a turf war or anything but there were only so many chicks and crash pads to go around in North Beach. As they say, necessity is the mother of invention which is why the hippies moved to the other side of San Francisco.

I'll just bet there's more than a couple of old Beatniks who still recite their poetry in one of North Beach's cafes or coffee houses. I've got a set of conga's and still can turn out anti-establishment poetry. It's never too late to buy that North Beach flat and become part of the scene.

LET THE BEATNIK PARTIES BEGIN!

THIS JUST IN!

CRABBY CHRISTMAS EVE

It's crab on French bread and a large green salad for dinner tonight. Gotta eat light if we're to consume a prime rib dinner Christmas Day.

This time of year seems to be about mass consumption . . . you know, the Conehead thing on Saturday Night Live. Coneheads were always into MASS CONSUMPTION!

Mass consumption shopping.

Mass consumption drinking.

Mass consumption eating.

Mass consumption credit card bills. . . . hmmmm.

Speaking of mass consumption we're gone to all cash, no credit cards. We either got it or we don't got it when it comes to buying something. No more mass consumption via the plastic highway.

Using nothing but cash is working for Wifey and I. No more overspending. No more headaches when it came time to pay credit card bills. No drawing money from the nest egg. It took a while to get used to not using a credit card for every Tom, Dick and Harry purchase. Cash only is here to stay.

The dinner tonight for Wifey and I will look something like this. Crab on French bread with cheese, maybe a few green onions, a little mayo and garlic. Bake in the oven until all is melted and hot, hot, hot!

Sometimes it's just crab and cheese on French bread. Make it simple.

Max? Is your mouth watering? :)

It's Like This

PAN-A-CAKE TIME

Grace spent last night with us. Nagging her mother for days on end finally worked.

5:30 a.m. there's a beam of light bouncing off the walls and ceiling of the master bedroom.

Me: What the hell's that?

Gracie: Hi Papa. I can't get the flashlight to go off.

Grace had come into our room from hers. Guess she either got scared or was cold.

Me: Come on kid, get in bed alongside Grammy. It's too early to get up.

So Grace crawls into bed alongside Grammy and we all attempt to go back to sleep.

BONG! I'm no longer sleepy so I start singing Christmas tunes like a chicken. You know how they go, "buck, buck, buck" like a chicken. . . kind of like that. Silent Night is my favorite chicken tune to cluck out. I should put it on YouTube.

Sleeping is now out of the question so I get up, start the coffee as the ladies remain in bed to chatter and watch cartoons.

Now it's 90 minutes later . . . Wifey and Grace are getting ready to join me for breakfast out. We'll probably hit I-HOP. Grace wants to have pan-a-cakes this morning (her term for pancakes).

Actually, that sounds good: Pancakes, a couple of poached eggs, bacon and orange juice. That will really hit the spot.

Then Wifey wants to hit the Dollar Store for gift bags. Later in the day, Wifey and Grace are signed up wrap gifts at B&N. It's in benefit for the pet therapy group Wifey, Zoe and Zeenie belong to.

Think anyone eating at IHOP would like to hear my rendition of Silent Night?

Baby It's Cold Outside

Chicane - Offshore (Ambient Mix)

BOB'S CHILI ON A CHILLY DAY

Normally it's pizza for dinner Saturday night. Chili seemed like a much better choice.

While Wifey was out hopping and shopping the town, Bob was in the kitchen slaving over a hot stove top creating his signature dish: Bob's Chili. Compared to the hassles of shopping this time of year, I'd much rather be home cooking.

Just as I was putting the finishing touches on Bob's Chili Wifey came home with lots of stuff including an eight pound prime rib roast from the local butcher shop for Christmas day dinner.

On Christmas Day we'll have six for dinner, maybe more. To add to our six guests I might cruise the Cowtown's "skid row" with the pickup bed tailgate and windows down yelling, "Christmas dinner! Who's wants it?!! Come and get it! Hop in the pickup bed for a Christmas dinner!!" And then I'd load up the pickup with people, come home and surprise Wifey with all of our newly invited guests.

A holiday meal with a truckload of down and out homeless Cowtowners would make for interesting dinner conversation for the already invited six guests.

MR. COFFEE

The Cuisinart carafe was chipped, leaking and certainly not of use. Finding a replacement pot was like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. And when I did find a replacement on the Internet it was selling for $30 plus $10 shipping. For that money I went out and brought Mr. Coffee home for the holidays.

At first Wifey loved Mr. Coffee. In fact, the new maker perked better coffee than the Cuisinart and the Krupps makers that we've owned over the years.

Then one day this week:

Wifey: That G-damned Mr. Coffee! There's coffee and coffee grounds all over the floor. Nothing is going into the carafe.

Me: Really? That's interesting. New system, it should be working okay. Are you sure it's not "pilot error" that's causing this problem?

Wifey: ###!@#&!!!@ %% ****!

Me: Okay, fine. It wasn't your fault. Sorry about the mess. (I'm thinking that this is one hell of a way to start a new day)

Determined to find out the problem, Wifey cleans up the mess and starts reading a section in the directions for Mr. Coffee labeled "problems".

Later on:

Wifey with great humility: Well, I took Mr. Coffee apart, read the directions and found the problem. I didn't put in the coffee grounds basket which controls the flow of coffee into the carafe. Some went into the carafe but most went onto the counter and onto the floor. You can't put coffee grounds into the system without the basket and if you do, well, there's a mess.

Moral of this story? It's never too late in life to learn lessons the hard way.

BODY SPRAY BY

BURGER KING

Burger King has marketed a body spray that smells like their flame broiled burgers. I'm not kidding. This is a real deal.

Check it out:

http://www.firemeetsdesire.com/


or this:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/28284679/

What's posted here is what you'll find on the Fire Meets Desire website.

The premise of this product is that chicks like hicks that smell like burgers. Flame broiled burgers. Or maybe it's the other way around . . . guys like chicks that smell like burgers?

Does a whiff of a burger with lettuce, onions, pickle and mayo turn you on? Oh baby, talk to me!

During high school I dated a girl who worked Saturdays at the local fish stick factory. You might remember Four Fisherman Fish sticks? Yup, that's where Jane worked.

So, we'd go out Saturday night and Jane would still be stinking like a fish stick. Now tell me, with a good looking lady by your side, come time for some "spooning", would the smell of fish sticks ruin the mood?

That said, how about the smell of flame broiled burgers? Hmmmm. Fish sticks or burgers. Fish sticks or burgers.

The smell of fish every Saturday night did have something to do with the demise of the relationship of Bob and Jane. I just could not get around that smell.

Shortly after our breakup Jane began dating a guy that I knew well. Their dating lasted for the remainder of high school and soon after they married. In checking Classmates dot com, they're still married.

I wonder what the key is to the success of their marriage. Must have been those damn fish sticks.


Anyway, Flame Meets Desire is on sale for $3.99 a package. I was going to order two dozen for stocking stuffers but they're sold out.

Damn!

KEEP ON TRUCKIN'

I can't believe that a year ago I "shot" this big rig during the year long assignment in Big Valley. It was parked next door to the little house I had rented.

Seems like only yesterday that I took this picture while rolling down the road on my way to work (yup, it's dark and it's 5:30 a.m.), window down and hoping I didn't hit anything.

When passages 365 days old feel like just yesterday I remember that time passes so quickly.

Life is like sand through my fingers . . . can't hold onto it, it moves quickly and then it's gone. Or so they say.

So, we keep on trucking through this life praying that there will always be lots of sand and that we'll never run out.

Now where did I put the little tin shovel that belongs in Gracie's sandbox?

BUTT SKIDDING ZOE

Last week there wasn't a cloud in the sky and mostly 70 degrees. That's 21 Celsius for those who live anywhere but the USA.

Today we'll see a high of 37 degrees Fahrenheit or 2.78 Celsius.

It snowed last night. This is what greeted our day in Cowtown: A light sprinkling of snow. There's more to come.

This global warming stuff has me all confused. Shouldn't we be wearing bathing suits and hitting the beach this time of the year?


Plants that had the look of autumn yesterday took on their winter coat today.

It doesn't often snow in Cowtown. Maybe once or twice a year we'll get a little snow. It's fun to watch California drivers who have no clue how to drive on snowy or icy streets.


This morning Zoe is wrapped in a blanket and hunkered down for the day. She'll get up to eat, take a drink and then skid her butt up one side of the carpet and down the other.

Zoe is an expert at butt skidding. If there was an Olympic butt skidding competition Zoe would gold medal with no sweat at all.

There's a fire in the wood stove. It's a fine day to pickup a book and read.

Now where did I put my favorite book, Green Eggs and Ham?

OOMPH! THERE IT IS!!

SAME TIME NEXT YEAR

It will be the same time next year - - - October or November, that we'll have professional photographs taken of our Gracie to commemorate her birthday.

We've done this each year starting when Grace was but one year old.

This set, taken from a group of 135 pictures, was taken in October just before Gracie's sixth birthday.

It's an expense but something I think Grace is certain to treasure and appreciate when she's older.

This year we had Robin, our photographer, mount a series of 27 photos into a 16x20 glass picture frame. I'll have to post what that looks like here in the next day or so. The series of pictures are just outstanding.

As depicted here, Grace is quite the kid. What you see is what you get.

BICYCLES FROM FIRST GRADE




















The three first grade classes at Grace's school earned money at home and around their neighborhoods to pay for bicycles for less fortunate children.

Every kid should have a bike. And if a kid doesn't have a bike what better time to gift one than to do it at Christmas.

The children in first grade earned enough to purchase twenty-eight bikes.

Gracie earned her money by exercising the dogs, washing her mom's van and selling hot chocolate and cookies at a church bazaar. We put in a little extra to see that at least two bikes were purchased on our behalf.

Yesterday the Mission came to Grace's school to pickup the bikes. How very proud they were.

One of Grace's teachers was quoted in today's paper (which also carried a picture of the bikes being picked up by the Mission) as saying, "We've taught our children that its better to give than to receive."

Knowing this teacher very well I'm making it a point to go to school today and see if she practices what she preaches. I'm going to say, "Ahh Joanie, if it's better to give than to receive how about giving me 10 bucks."

And then watch her squirm.

CHALK UP ANOTHER FOR MAX

Yesterday was Max's birthday. He was born when I was 12 years old. It was an early sexual beginning for Bob.

Max lives in Seoul South Korea. There were no parties only e-cards and gift certificates to span the miles and celebrate his birthday.



















Max was the apple of his great grandmother's eye.





















Max loved chocolate messes. He still does.

On his first birthday Max was allowed to let 'er rip on a chocolate cake. And he did as seen here.

And the reason Max continues to live in Seoul?

Drum roll, please!

She's pictured here with Max during a vacation in Thailand.

Like his father, Max has an eye for good looking women.

The apple never falls far from the tree, does it son?

If You Didn't Know This About Santa You're Missing Out

WORTH WOOFING!

SMOKE 'EM!

Obama was interviewed by Tom Brokaw yesterday on Meet the Depressed. The subject of smoking came up.

Obama says he no longer smokes but has fallen "off the wagon" three times in his attempts to stop. Come on Brokaw, don't you have anything better to ask the President Elect?!

Another group of so called Americans are attempting to discredit Obama's election by attempting to prove that he was not born in the USA. Obama was indeed brought into this world in Hawaii. There's hardcore proof.

Come on people! We have problems. We need focus on solving the problems. Let's get on track towards that end and not hunt for dirt on Obama that's not there. Not.
All the dude needs is a martini in hand and this would be picture perfect proof that he's HUMAN!