They're Here!

The film, Poltergeist, contained a phrase that's been used and nearly worn out: THEY'RE HEEERRRE!

For years Cowtown has prided itself in being gang free:  No thugs, no problems associated with them.  Things have changed.  Word on the street is that organized crime (gangs, Mexican mafia, prison gangs, other pieces of shit) have chosen our area as a ripe plum right for the picking.  Cowtown has been declared as open territory. 

It's the perfect place that no one group of organized thugs have claimed as theirs.    Our area has lots of open spaces and forests for marijuana plantations and meth labs.  Places to conceal whatever it is you want to hide are abundant.  Interstate 5 runs through it making for easy transporatation of legal and illegal goods.  There's not enough law enforcement to cover all of the bases.  All of the ingredients for illegal crime.

Over the past year the incidence of gangs attempting to gain a foothold here has risen.  There have been several shootings ending in deaths.  Drug related crimes are becoming common.  Our county is fast becoming the Marijuana farming capital of California. 

There's been a some tagging and graffitti by gangs attempting to claim one portion or another of Cowtown.  Just until lately it has been small in amounts and until now no big deal. 

Yesterday I'm at the marina and happen to notice Tiny's white Chevy truck parked next to mine.  Tiny is a fellow slip owner who owns a patio boat.  Seeing that Tiny had parked his truck and taken his boat out onto the lake wasn't an unusual thing.  His brother is confined to a wheelchair and Tiny regularly drives him to the lake for fishing. 

AS I walked by the hood of Tiny's truck happened to catch my eye:  WHOA!  Major tagging!!

First thought crossing my mind:  They're here!!!  meaning the presence of at least one gang that had marked their turf via the hood of Tiny's truck.  Bastards.  This incidence underscores the importance of safely parking anything on four wheels in the garage.  

It's a sad commentary on society when thugs muscle into the everyday life of a small community.  Next time you snort that line, put the needle in your arm, pop that unprescribed medication, smoke that weed or crack . . . you're the real source of this problem and not the gangs.  If American would cease its addiction to all of these things we'd rid outselves of the leeches who are permeating our country. 

Think about it.

RECORD HEAT!

Yesterday the temperature hit 107 degrees in Cowtown.  That broke the record set in 1996 of 106 degrees. 

When it gets that hot nature's creatures seek respit in cooler places.  Small finches are using the fountain in the front yard both for drinking and bathing.  Snakes look for a cool place to curl up. 

Take these two small snakes, babies no doubt, that were on their way into the garage when one of us put the down down on top of both of them.  A day or more later they were found, all shriveled up, mouths open with a crease on their backside marking where the door had come down on both of them.

People out this way are always mindful of snakes and their pets.  It's not unusual for a four legged house pet to be bitten on the face by a rattlesnake.  Depending on the size of the pet and the quality of the veterinary treatment following the bite they usually survive.  Small dogs and cats are usually not as lucky. 

It really wasn't a surprise to find the remains of these little creatures at the entrance of the garage.   It's been hot and logical they were looking for somewhere to cool off.  Unfortunately, they got more than they bargained for. 

Today promises to be another Cowtown hot one with 107 or higher in the forecast.  This snake is looking for a cool place in the shade.....like reclining in the Lazy Boy, a cold beer in one hand, a bucket of wings between my legs, and the remote control in the other hand.  Kicking back when it gets hot is the order of the day.   It's all good unless the garage door happens to come down on my head.

Chore Whore Music

Time to douche down the house.  Gotta move, groove......to the beat.  Check in at about 1:45 into this piece.  There's a change-up that makes for better music.

I'm chore whore and I love it.

Shifting From Second Into Third

The school year began last week.  Grace was so excited to get back to school that she could hardly contain herself.

Third grade marks that last year of the primary grading system. Beginning in fourth grade student progress on a report card progress is measured in letter grades A through F.  In fourth grade the reality of life starts to bite.  Yeah, life often bites, too.

While she's a very smart young lady, Grace has a tough row to hoe in school.  She's the youngest in her class.  Born in November Grace barely met the age requirement to enter kindergarten.  It was one of those things:  Not a good thing to do another year in preschool and questionable developmentally if she was ready for kindergarten.

There's a bill in the California Legislature to change the be five before December 2nd to enter kindergarten to be five before September 1st.  It's a good thing for kids.  Being developmentally older translates into school success and fewer children at risk.  Maybe it's not a good thing for those parents with children born between September 1 and December 2....it adds up to another year of preschool.  Either way changing the age for entrance into kindergarten is a good thing.  School is about kids and their success.  Changing the age requirement will certainly add to it.

Back to Grace.  She was assigned the teacher that she had been hoping for.  Mrs. Heller seemed to be just right for Grace or at least in her mind.    A few but not all all of her friends are in her class. A week after the first day of school Grace remains all smiles.  I would hope so.

Come June and the end of third grade let's see if our girl is still smiling.  My money says that she will.

A Worthy Cause

I've been called a rebel with a cause . . . someone who fights for the underdog and personal freedoms.  I can be a big boob at heart.    Here's the next fight for freedom, the cause to pause for, the thing that needs fixing. . . . please join me in righting this wrong.

Mudpie Queens

 

Last night the "girls" activated an old game of theirs.  Take the ball.  Drop it in a mud puddle.  Fish the ball out.  Run away with ball in mouth.  Then bury the ball or drop it back in the mudpuddle.

It's a game of keep away. 

This time around one of the dogs hid the ball in an abalone shell.

Sometimes the game becomes a test of stare down.  Don't blink or you'll lose the ball.  That's one of the rules of their game.

In the end the girls have to be cleaned up before coming into the house.  Last night it was an easy clean.  Fill the wading pool with water.  Drop the ball in.  Dogs wade in to get the ball.  Bingo!  No more mud.

Kiri, at the tender age of 8 months, has already mastered major bravado when it comes going nose to nose with Zeenie.  Nothing phases or intimidates this pup.

I've got to cover the mudhole only to open it when the girls need a good run and a roll in the mud.

When was the last time you had a good roll in the mud?  Or made a mudpie?  Maybe it's time to bring out your inner child and make that pie or take that roll.

Here's Bobby!

Last Wednesday Marina Bob helped to mount two new mooring cleats on Sparkle Plenty.  Bright and early Friday morning we finished the job.

So I said to Bob as he leaned over the deck, "Look up and smile, Bob.  I want a picture so that I can forever remember this day."  Bob looked over at me and smiled a Bob smile (every Bob has a shit ass eating grin).

I remind Marina Bob that his tummy makes him look pregnant.  "I know, I know.", he saying gribbubg back at me with his Bob smile.  Being Bob means that you have to take a lot of teasing with a smile. 

I also remind Marina Bob to put on a hat because when the shine on the top of his head reflects the sun I nearly go blind.  Marina Bob tells me that he's man enough to keep the hair on his head rubbed off.  If you're thinking "huh?" think sex.

You can tell by the photo that Bob is a likeable kind of guy.  Like most other Bob's you would not want to cross Marina Bob.  He can be meaner than a junkyard dog.  Bob's are like that.  Smiling one moment and ready to punch out your lights the next.

Bob wanted to make a little more extra money and asked if he could scrub the bottom of Sparkle Plenty which I agreed to.  He makes but minimum wage, has monthly child support payments to contend with along with the daily expense of plain old living.  Helping Marina Bob just a little by paying him to help mount mooring cleats or scrub the boat's hull is a good thing.  It's also a good thing for one Bob to help Bob another out.  As they say, A Bob in need is a friend indeed.

It's Sunday. Wifey and I plan on sailing when the winds on the lake kick up a bit.  That will be early afternoon or sometime in the mid to late afternoon. 

Before that there are lawns to mow, shrubs to clip, life to enjoy.  Check.  Check.  And double check.

Maybe I should call in Marina Bob this morning to do the heavy lifting around the house and go sailing.  Ya think?

Anchors aweigh!

ANTIGUA SAILING WEEK '09 MUSIC EDIT

Tango?

If I ever were to learn to Tango it would be to this one. 

Does it still take two to Tango?

Writing More Often

I should really write more often here.  It's good for me.  Keeps the mind sharp, sometimes the tongue, too.  Not writing has been a matter of time and the weather.  Good weather means more time outside and less time doing this.  That's a good thing.  Come winter I'll be here and not there.

Like this photo?  It was taken 9 or 10 lives ago.  This is my first class in the first year of teaching.  Do I look the part?  I just noticed that there's t-shirt under the polo that I wore that day.  I never wear t-shirts under shirts.  Never.

The blond kid, yellow shirt in the middle...that's John Wetteland who went on to pitch for the Yankees and the Texas Rangers.  I'd play baseball with the kids during recess.  Because no one could really throw a ball straight over the plate I would usually pitch.  During each and every game John would walk over to the pitcher's mound and plead, "Mr. Watson, I can pitch better than you can.  Can I pitch?"  And he was just that.  Even at age seven John was a pretty good pitcher.

The teaching career was short as I was destined to leave the classroom and be an administrator.  Didn't plan on it.  Wasn't appealing.  But nonetheless it happened.

I posted this photo to commemorate the opening of school.  Doesn't it seem that school starts earlier and earlier every year?  Middle of August and it's school days, school days, good old golden rule days. . . .

Last night was Taco Night at the Lodge.  Once a month it's Taco Night at the Lodge.  Our first experience with that venue was last night.  

Buck fifty for a taco with all you could stuff into it. The Lodge opened its doors last night to non members meaning every sorry ass Tom, Dick and Harry came out for it.  They brought their kids and their barely walking parents, too...adding yet one more ingredient to a miserable experience.

Come time to start the line-up for tacos there was a rush to be first.  You would have thought that it was the Last Supper and first in line got to eat with Jesus.  A wide bodied granny and her two brat grandchildren were first in line.  Then it was like a herd of cows lining up to be fed and milked.  Moooo, I thought.  It felt like a cow ready to be served and serviced.  Moooo.

Help yourself tacos:  No sneeze guards over the food.  Slow ass people who seemed to be picking their butts as they slowly moved through the line.  I wanted to say loudly, "You people would never make it in a military chow line" and they wouldn't have.  Anyone having served in the military knows that you get your chow and get out.  No lolly gagging around.

For a buck fifty the tacos were fairly decent tasting.  Didn't find any foreign objects in my meal.  I liked that part.  I also loved that we had great people to share our table.

Three tacos, two beers later I was ready to go home.   If it weren't for the other idiots the experience would have been great.  Taco Night had me feeling like I was back eating in the school cafeteria with a bunch of seven year olds.

And that wasn't a good thing.

Elvis Has Left the Building

It was August 17th, 1977, a Tuesday.   Wifey and I were driving down the California coast after a weekend in our ocean cabin.  It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky.  The top on our convertible was down, music tuned to a San Francisco station, wind in our hair and most likely there was a can of cold beer between my legs (back in the day that's the only way I could balance myself while driving plus my nuts seemed to always need cooling off).

Driving home marked the end of a long weekend, a great one.  There's nothing like sleeping near the ocean.  The smell, the sounds, the stars, a cresent moon.  Spending time at the cabin was always a piece of heaven.

About halfway home the music on the radio was interrupted with the announcement that the King was dead. 

Live fast.  Die young.  Leave a good looking corpse.  That's what I was thinking.

We stopped the car at an open spot in the road that overlooked the Pacific ocean.  I slipped a tape of the King's music into the car's stereo and this song came up:

In This Economy?

Farmers Insurance owns this blimp.  It's been flying around our neck of the woods for the past few days.

Apart from selling insurance Farmers is selling rides on this beast:  $400 a person for an hour high in the sky.  Now tell me, who in their right mind has the money to joy ride in a balloon filled with gas?  And in this economy when the future is so uncertain?

The same $400 could be put to a charitable use.  For example you could probably feed a starving family in Africa for 6 months . . . maybe a year for that amount of money.

Better yet, I'll bet that same 400 bucks could do two things:

#1  Visit  the Cowtown airport.  Buy a hell of a lot of Farmers insurance.   At least $400 worth.

#2  Get a free ride in the Farmers blimp.

Ya think? 

Not the Beach Nor the Ocean

I don't know what you call it but out this way when you're heading to the ocean it's called going to the coast.  It's not the beach.  It's not the ocean.  It's the coast.

If you called it going to the beach it could be any beach on a river, lake and maybe even the ocean.  Going to the ocean is a close second to saying you're going to the coast.  Those who live close to the ocean usually say coast.

Don't ask why.  It's just one of those things.

It's like where we used to live there's a river close by.  If we were headed there to go swimming, partying, or just fooling around we'd say that we're going to the River.  Everyone knew where we were headed.  To the River.  Now if we said that we were going to the beach no one would really know where we were going.

Me:  Going to the River, Mom.

Mom:  Don't you drink beer and come home shit faced.

Me:  (With both fingers crossed behind my back)  Yes, Mom.  I learned by lesson last time.

Here are some more shots of the trip last weekend to . . . . to, . . . go ahead and say it....RIGHT!  To the coast.

Top photo:  Grace and her dad cruising the coastline looking for shells.

Everyone things California is shoulder to shoulder people regardless of what you're doing or where you go.  Hells, bells.  In Northern California a beach that looks like this in the middle of the day is not uncommon.

The property the family owns is close to where this photo is shot.  It's maybe a hundred yards away.  There's ocean access for the homeowners in the area which most use to either fish or dive for Abalone.

Dawn and Grace are pictured here making their way down the hill to the ocean.

Most of the way down the hill is by rope.  Grace, in her white hooded jacket, has no fear of doing this or many other things involving heights or sharp cliffs.  Her dad is at the bottom all ready for some heavy duty dive for ocean snails (Abalone). Click on the photo to take a closer look.

Not many have access to this beach.  It's only for the residents or owners of property in this tiny subdivision.  Many of the owners are older and too frail to make it down the rope and making it doubly difficult to pull themselves back up the hill.  This means there's snails galore that make for easy picking.

I just love going to the coast.  It's a lot better than going to the beach and to the ocean.

All Chick Luncheon

Friday is was an all chick Mexican luncheon for members of the Elks Lodge Chicks Only club.  All chicks.  But there's one man member.  Go figure.  Grace sat with friend Katherine.  She's just had to dress especially for the occasion.  She fit right in with all of the gray headed ladies.

 Wifey sat and talked with everybody.  She likes people.  I hate people.  Opposites attract.

Judging by Wifey's photo don't you think she needs a tattoo on her arm.  Something that reads in big red letters right down her arm like, "Bob Has A Big Dick".  That has a ring to it, ya think?  I'm sure she would rather have something else tattooed like, "Bob Needs Viagra."  Ha.  In her dreams.

Dawn ate with friend Robin.  Dawn has taken time off from work for lunch but still manages to suck down at least on Mexican slushy drink before heading back .  There's a chip off the old block for ya.

Dawn is having a chicken Mexican salad.  For me, chicken does not go on salad.  If you want salad eat salad.  If you want chicken it does not go on anything green.  On potatoes, rice, bread, pasta...you name it but anything but on salad.  Chicken on salad almost seems sacrilegious.  After picking up the 10 Commandments I don't think Moses would have been in the mood to eat a salad with chicken on it, do you?

And this lady.......the club chicks helped her to celebrate her 91st birthday with good cheer, food and gifts.  We should all be so lucky to have lived 91 years and look so very grand, so well preserved.

Are beer and chicken wings considered to be preservatives?

Down the Aisle

A friend is getting married this coming March.  I'm thinking he needs to learn some walk down the aisle get your dance on moves. 

So Russell, here's a video full of moves.   This ones for you!

Nothing like old Soul Train videos to moving first thing in the morning. 

Can't Have It Her Way

Classify this video as being Chicks Gone Nuts.  This is a must see. 

There's no original sound to the video as it was taken from a security cam.  What you hear is after the fact dubbing which does help to explain what the fuss was all about. 

Plain and simple:  Ya can't get chicken nuggets when it's breakfast time at McDonald's.  No way, Jose.  Don't even think about going there.

Fru-Fru Dinner

Last night's was an easy dinner.  Chicken tenders, sage leaves and asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, baked at 425 on parchment paper for 15 - 20 minutes (until the prosciutto is baked to your liking).  Served with rice.

A piece of heaven.  And there's no flatuence!

Two Syllable Flatulence

I was reading several other blogs this morning whose proprietors  bragged about earning money through their blog.  An attorney guy and his wife quit their day jobs to stay home to blog and make a living that way.  Believe it or not they're making more off the blog than they were from their day jobs.  Hard to believe but true.  Making blog money is all about the ads and the number of clicks on the blog which in turn generate income.  Like hundreds visit certain popular blogs every day and which generate a lot of cash.

Frankly, if I had to depend on making a living through this rinky dink rag if a blog there wouldn't be enough income to put a can of beer and a bucket of chicken wings on the table once a year.  Ever.

That's because this place generates few visitors as I post stupid, juvenile shit that pleases only me.  But for you who are here every day, thank yew, thank yew, thank yew ever so much.  I love an audience. 

Posting naked Wifey photos and elaborating on our monkey sex love life would draw visitors by the thousands.  I'd win the AARP Nobel Douche Bag Blogger Prize.  The bank account would grow by thousands every week. 

If I changed up here the blog would be so very great and popular that Wifey and I would be regular guests on Dr. Phil, Oprah, George Lopez (on TBS Mon-Fri nights at 8 ...he's soooo funny!), Rush Limbaugh (speaking to the rednecked, far right side of sex), IMUS in the Mornings, 60 Minutes.....you name it, we'd be there.

But no, oh no, I've got to write other things, keep the sex life and photos of Wifey out of here, and concentrate on what's important to me:  Juvenile thinking.  Besides, I'd only live a day, maybe two after Wifey found that I was posting butt ass nekked photos of her.  She's a good shot and it would be right between Bob's eyes.  Bang.

Here's a good example of juvenile thinking creates juvenile actions that translates into juvenile posts.

Shopping at Rite Aid yesterday for a new razor (damn!  they're 10 bucks or more), shampoo, floss and toothpaste.  On comes the song, Gypsy Woman.  The Impressions were first to sing the song making it popular and then came a lot of other versions.

Right before the song played it did feel like there was a lot of gas in me...that full feeling... all due to a wonderful dinner last evening that came with a side of beans, salad with beans, and soup with beans.  Add a couple of beers to the menu and by golly it's a case of , "Houston, We Have Ignition".  BLASTOFF!

As I shopped and the more that I shopped right there in the middle of Rite Aid I knew something had to give.  What goes up must come down?  Well,  what goes in Bob has to come out sooner or later and one way or another.

So then I'm listening to the song playing, Gypsy Woman.  The light bulb goes on.  I'll toot along with the music.  I'll bop down the aisles.  It will make me feel so much better.

When the time came for the chorus, She was a Gypsy Woman, I'll sing She was a Gypsy and then toot woman. 

It went like this:  She was a Gypsy Toot Toot, A Gypsy Toot Toot.

I tried, She was a Toot-toot Toot-Toot but there wasn't enough steam for two, two syllable words in a row.

Man, that was fun (doesn't take a lot to float my boat).  I was definitely good, even professional sounding at two syllable flatulent tooting to the music. 

Next time I'll have to try three syllable tooting to the music, like that song from Westside Story, Maria.  "Toot-toot-toot, I just met a girl named Toot-toot-toot!  Three syllable tooting would be an accomplishment requiring lots of beans, chicken wings, sausages and gallons of beer the night before. 

It was fortunate that Rite Aid was nearly empty for the sight of a card carrying AARP member happily pushing a cart down the aisles a dancing, a singing and a tooting would have created a cry for MANAGER!  MANAGER!  CODE 50 IN THE TOOTHPASTE AISLE!!!  MANAGER!!!

When the manager came to glare at me I'd still be singing, Gypsy Toot Toot, she was a Gypsy Toot Toot.  Sir, would you like to toot-too along with me?

All said, it was a fun way to get rid of that awful full feeling of too many beans and way too much gas to contend.  Sure, I could have hit the toilet but where's the fun in that? 

I have to say, shopping and tooting is one hell of a lot of fun.  I can hardly wait until the next bean laden meal and discovering there's a necessity to shop at Rite Aid.

I'd like Wifey to come check out this master piece, "Ohhh Toot Toot?  Toot, Toot?"

Wifey:  "Bob, quiting farting.  What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Indeed, a juvenile mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Kit's Ocean Visit

This is Gracie's American Girl doll, Kit Kitridge.  This last weekend she traveled to the ocean.  It was her first and probably not the last visit to the Pacific ocean.

Grace and Kit walked the beach and collected driftwood and shells.

Kit got tired of walking.  So Gracie had to piggy back Kit up and down the beach.  Somewhere along the line she started singing, "She Ain't Heavy, She's My Sister."  That's a new century girl who knows 20th century lyrics.