Blood for Oil

Here we go again.  Gas and diesel prices at the pump are going up, up and up.  Diesel in Cowtown is going for $3.65 a gallon and that's at the least expensive pump in town.  It's being said that 4 bucks a gallon is in our not so distant future.  And that's only the beginning.  So they say.

It's unfortunate that the most unstable, whacked out portion of the world holds the greatest amount of oil. ..a product the whole world has become dependent on.   There's been constant fighting and bloodshed in those countries since Christ was a corporal.  Centuries of bloodshed.  And it's still going on. 

This month it's Egypt.  Who knows who's next come March.  Late in the last century America was hauled into this never ending squabble of tribes, religious beliefs and mayhem for the sake of mayhem.  Our intervention was about oil sugar coated with an effort to bring democracy to that part of the world.  Those efforts have been at the expense our men and women, their lives, their blood. . . all for oil.

These on the other side of the world guys don't fight with honor . . . they're chicken shit fighters.  Car, suicide and roadside bombs.  Ambushes, which are okay in the field of battle but instead of turning tail and running or surrendering, those on the opposing side hide their weapons and pretend to be civilians.  And we don't intentionally kill civilians, do we?   No fair!  No doubt the face of war has changed a lot these past few years. 

Back in the day I used to love to fight.  Hell yeah.  There was a code that went along with a street fight.  When you're getting the best of someone you'd ask, "Had enough?  Say uncle?."  If whoever it was you were fighting wanted to stop the fight it's likely he would yell out, "Enough!  I've had enough.  Uncle!"  The fighting would stop.  JUst like that.   There were also times when someone was getting the crap kicked out of him bystanders would break up the fight.  Whenthe fighting stopped there were no more punches thrown.  No guns or knives were pulled or used.  Fighting was straight up, one on one.  Everyone knew what to do and everyone followed the rules.

Street fighting today is less than that.  Get knocked down and you're likely to be kicked in the head and stomped on.  Knives.  Guns.  Pipes.  Bats.  You name it they're using it.  It's now okay for two or three guys to beat the snot out of one guy.  Dog eat dog, no holds barred.  Back in the day if the guy was bigger or stronger than you were he'd fight with one arm tied behind his back.  That was to make the fight somewhat equal . . . more often than not the bigger guys still kicked the stuffing out of the smaller guys.  Today the punkfaces shoot first and ask questions later.  No fighting.  Just shooting.  The back in the day code of street fighting is no more.

There's a lot of trouble in our world.  One solution would be to pull everything in.  No more fighting the chickenshits in foreign countries.  Isolate ourselves as much as possible  Be self sufficient, less dependent on oil, manufacture everything we could with everyone instilled with the mindset of buying American.   It would be all about taking care of ourselves and minding our own stinking business.

Sigh.

I know.  Never would, could or will happen.  It's now a world economy.  America has to play that game.  There's no going back to the good old days.  They're over.  They're done with. 

I can dream, can't I?

Ummmmm....Hamburger

That's what Homer Simpson would say, . . . ummmm, hamburger.  He also says the same thing about beer. . . ummmm, beer......

Lunch today with a friend.  The place we're meeting at cooks up great burgers.  We'll eat, drink a couple of beers, chat and then drive home hoping we're both blow well under .08 if stopped by one of Cowtown's finest.  Damn, that would be embarrasing.

I love days like this . . . not much going, taking it easy, no hassles, just living the good life.  The only thing to screw up this day is the on going task of organizing all of the 2010 tax information for our accountant.  There's a bunch.  This year it has to be perfect for I have the sense that we'll be audited.  Forget to dot one i or cross one T there's a stiff fine for those mistakes.  

Maybe I should buddy up with the local IRS guys so at least they'll know me should an audit be called for.  We could go have burgers and beer.  I'd buy.  I'd also make certain they'd drink one too many, arrange for one of my cop pals to pull the guy over.  He'd blow way over .08.  I'd see to that.  Then I'd have the goods on him.  I'd rat the guy out to his superiors but that would happen unless he totally glossed over my tax audit.  Yeah, I'd do that.

Isn't that the American way of doing business?

One More Big Brother Thing

Looks weird?  This system has just begun to replace your friendly. . . or, not so friendly meter maid.  It's called autoChalk.  It is placed in a truck or scooter and is all decked out with four cameras, two laser shooters and a global positioning system.

Inside the truck is a sophisticated computer system that enables the officer to cruise along at a comfortable 20 to 30 mph while the computer system scans parked cars and beeps when it finds one that has overstayed its limit.

Roof-mounted lasers measure the length of the car, its cameras snap photos of each vehicle and its license plate, and its computers digitally stamp the photos with a time and date. The data and photos are then stored until the enforcement truck takes a second turn down the same street.

The system will take new time-stamped photos, digitally compare the old photos with the new, consult the computer's internal data on that street's parking time limit and beep if it determines that the car has been in the same spot for too long.

And get this:  The autoChalk system is capable of reading license plates, so it can alert the enforcement officer to stolen vehicles and parking scofflaws who have five or more unpaid parking tickets and are eligible to have their vehicle towed. The parking department uploads license plate data provided by the Police Department into the truck's computer system.

This puppy runs $64,957 to purchase and about $12,000 a year to maintain.

That's a hella lot of parking tickets to break even.

File this one under GEEZE...WHAT NEXT?!

That Little Voice

That little voice speaks to me.  There is no peace.  It harangs.  It hassles.  It tries to shame me.

You need to write and post it on your blog.

That's what it says.  In whispers mostly.  When days go by and spider webs gather all around What About Bob that little voice begins to shout:  WRITE SOMETHING!  Anything.

Like I have better things to do than sit here and amuse myself by making up stuff. . . stuff that pisses the wife off because she thinks it's offensive.  Well hello, I was off the chart offensive when Wifey married me.  Why should that change now when I've had so many years to hone the art of asshole-ism?

Wifey didn't like the piece about the colonoscopy I was about to have.  Too much information, Bob.  Who wants to read about that?, she said.   

Before I forget it the procedure went well.  When I came too out of their drug induced snooze, Capt. Periscope said all was just hunky dory 'cept I need to eat more stuff with fiber in it.  Chicken wings washed down with beer does not count as fiber, he said.  Damn.

Okay, back to the topic:  Take this photo.  Think that's me.  Nope.  First off I can't write upside down.  Second, no way would Wifey take her time to write that on my stomach.  It's here because I like the message in the picture.  I'd get that puppy tattooed across my chest and walk bare chested around the boat marine this summer for all to see. 

People would probably say, What's that all about?  And I'd reply, It's all about bragging rights, pal.

Or they'd say, What did you do that for?  I'd say, It's a conversation piece.

At least one guy will ask, WOW!  I want one of those.  Where do you get something like that?

I'd have to tell him, No can do.  Gotta be an asshole to get one of these.

Then I'd walk away leaving him dumbfounded.

And that's exactly what I'm going to now . . . leave all of you with whatever thoughts you might have about this post.

Dire Straits - The Bug + lyrics

Bridgestone Bachelor Party Whale Commercial Super Bowl 2010

A Long Shitty Day

Yeah, Sunday is going to be one long shitty day.  A real anus pounder.  I'm not talking Big Mac.

Preparation for Monday's colonoscopy.  That's what I'm talking about.

No veggies tonight and nothing with seeds.  I could get used to this.  Tomorrow morning just a light breakfast as in coffee and toast.  Come 1 p.m. drop four tablets of Dulcolax.  Yeah, four.  That's just to light the fuse.

Sunday at two rolls around.  I run outside to warn the neighborhood, 'LET'S GET READY TO RUUMMMMBLE!"

I'll run back inside and start downing the contents of a gallon of Coylte known to people I hang with as a weapon of mass destruction.  For those who have never sampled this fine brand of liquid, the combination of the Dulcolax and Colyte are designed to completely empty the colon.  We're not talking semi-colon either.  It won'e be a matter of whether to shit or get  off the pot.  It's a matter of not getting off the pot for a very long time.  It will feel like you've been turned inside out.

Here's the rule for mass consumption of this crap (no pun intended):  Drink one 8 ounce glass of this shit every 10 minutes.  Yes, every 10 minutes. Do this until, as the directions state, "your watery stool is clear and has no solid matter."  Watery stool?  My eyes will be watering, too!

Oh joy.  Having done this before it takes most of the gallon of Colyte before your your anus screams out:  ALL CLEAR!  NOW FOR PETE'S SAKE GIVE ME A REST!!

Ya gotta be prepared for many many many trips to the head.  There has to be lots of TP, too.  Lots.  Wifey has our guest bathroom prepared well. .. as I've been banned from using the masterbath until Mr. Anus gives the all clear signal. 

Damn, wouldn't you know that NFL playoff football is tomorrow. I will not be able to eat a single chicken wing or slice of pizza let alone a couple of beers.  No eating solids.  Only clear liquids. . . .hmmm...is beer a clear liquid?  Gotta check this one out.  There may be a bright spot tomorrow.

In case I run out of clear liquid beer or toilet paper Wifey has rented a four wheeled vehicle for me.  I'll be able to pull up to the drive in liquor store and order up any clear liquid they have.  If there are cramps, no problem!  BOOOF!  right there and then!!  The liquor store guy will likely say, "Did I hear something?"  And I'll say, "Naw, just my vehicle backfiring."

I'm thinking I've got to wear Wifey's split crotch panties if I have to drive this thing.  It's gotta be convenient. . . can't be dropping your drawers in public.  That could get me busted.

Come Monday morning it's go to the surgery center come 6:30 a.m.  At 7:30 the good doctor will look at his assistant and say like any good submarine commander:

Get ready to dive. 

ALL SAILORS:  THE SMOKING LAMP IS OUT!

Dive!  Dive Dive!!!

Okay, let's up periscope!

I'm thinking Sunday and Monday are going to be the shits.  But what the hell?  What else do I have to do?   

Dire Straits - Follow Me Home + lyrics

The Beach Boys - Don't Worry Baby

the beach boys - Little Deuce Coupe - The Platinum

When It Hits The Fan

Here's what not to do.  When it hits the fan and you don't know whether to shit or go blind. . . then what?

Buckaroo Buddies

This is me at about age 5 or 6.  I'm sitting next to my good buddy, Doug.  He lived next door.  I'm on the right, Doug on the left.

For endless hours we'd play cowboys.  I'd be Roy Rogers and Doug would be Gabby Hays.  Then we'd switch.  I was Gabby and he was Roy. 

We'd fight once in a while over who would be who.  Neither of us really wanted to be Gabby Hays.  Gabby was old, scraggly and a bad shot.  Roy could shoot, rope, sing and always got the girl. 

We'd also pretend to be the Lone Ranger and Tonto.  We would also play cowboys and indians.

After a while we'd tire of shooting imaginary bad guys.  That's when we'd play cowboys and indians.  And guess what?  We'd argue over who would be the cowboy and who would be an indian.  The indian always got play killed or was strung up by his ankles by a rope swung around the highest tree limb we could throw it around.  We were usually playing cowboy against bad guy when it came to hanging time.

Once in a while I hung Doug up by his ankles and leave him.  I'd go in the house, take a leak, get a drink, talk to mom all the while indian Doug hung upside down tethered to a rope swung around the old willow tree.  Doug would cry and I'd have to shut him up by hauling him down.

I'd generally get in hot water over hanging Doug and leaving Dodge.  Doug would always tattle either to his mom or my mom.  They'd make us stop playing for the rest of the day.  Next day we'd forget what had happened the day before and start all over again.

My family moved to Alaska for a couple of years leaving our home in the care of an aunt and uncle.  When we returned home the idea of playing cowboys and bad guys or indians didn't seem like much fun.  So Doug and I created a TV studio in his bedroom complete with a camera made out of a shoebox, a couple of bright light bulbs with out shades and so on. It was lots of fun.  Just like cowboys and indians we'd argue over who would read the news or sports and who would be the cameraman. 

Then we got the idea of digging tunnels under his fence and into the neighbors field.  With spoons we dug and we dug and we dug.  Once we had tunneled under the fence we carved out a large underground area that had plenty of room for the two of us. 

The dirt must have been clay or something like clay for where ever we tunneled it never caved in.  Lucky for us. 

We were only home from Alaska for another couple of years then dad got the bug to move to Northern California.  I hated leaving my friends, my school mates, the house I loved and my good friend Doug.

Doug went on to graduate from college with a degree in communications.  He retired as news director for a large television station in San Jose.

I also spent some time in television hosting and producing programs.  And to think that interest started in Doug's bedroom with our makeshift television studio.

I pity most of the kids growing up today.  They spend most of their after school and summer time in front of a TV or in front of a computer or playing video games or texting on their I-phones.  What they're missing is a wonderful part of being a child. . . a chance to explore, use the imagination and think on their own.  They'll never dig tunnels.  Never play cowboys and indians (probably would have been replaced by good cop against the homies).  Never even think of hanging a good buddy up by the ankles.  Never create a television studio.  They'll never ever know what they're missing out on.  Never.


Doug and I remain in contact and e-mail once in a while. Our friendship is nothing like it used to be. As we write back and forth I never get the feeling that old friend Doug wants to get together. I'm thinking Doug just might be thinking I'd hang him up by the ankles and leave him there.

And he's right. I would. There's still a little bit of old west cowboy in me.

Paul Simon - You can call me Al

Something's Not Right

I know my body.  I listen to it.  I feel it.  When something's not right I'm the first to know it.  Doesn't take a physician to tell me something's up. 

I'm thinking that I need a little anal as in a colonoscopy.    It's a reminder for me to never go gay.  Most people sleep through theirs I go cold turkey:  No meds at all. 

Without medication all goes well until the scope hits the bend in the road.  Then I sweat bullets.  I'm going, easy, easy now. .. go slow, slowly... son-of-bitch!  I said slowly!  Sweat rolls down my face.  It's more than bit uncomfortable.  I wonder why it was that I decided not to be medicated for the procedure.

I think this time I'll take the meds.  If there's a problem I want to sleep through it. 

My scope doc has a long line of people waiting for the procedure.  I can't even get in to see him until February 14th. .. just in time for me to give him a big kiss, a hug and whisper in his ear, "Be mine, Valentine" right before he analizes me. 

Damn, I love being off the wall.

South of the Border

Friday night Wifey and several friends piled into the truck for a ride south of the border. . . .which was actually from our county into another.  The plan was to participate in Bulltown's monthly art walk which occurs on the first Friday of each month from 5 to 8 p.m.  Bulltown is a small burg of just 12,500  so the art walk was quick. . . between two galleries only a half block apart. 

We walked.  We talked with the artists in each of the two galleries.  Wifey and I bought two pieces for the kitchen one of which is just above this post.  The other is similar in features but of a mule.  The two pieces definitely go together.

The artists, Ana and Phil (they collaborate in painting certain pieces) are seen here holding the piece that one of our friends purchased last month.  Look closely and you'll see that it is a goat with a ciggie in its mouth.  As the story goes the goat gets into any vehicle that's open and looks for cigarettes.  What you see here is the end result of the goat's hunt for a nicotine fix.

Exhausted from our 1/2 block art walk and hungry we drove a short distance to a Thai restaurant for dinner.  Wifey had steamed chicken and veggies.  My choice was Thai grilled chicken.  Our two friends ordered curry dishes. 

To enlarge for reading click on any photo or menu.

We would have enjoyed the dinner more had the place been heated.  Wifey and the two friends took turns warming their hands around a large metal container of tea.

In spite of the heavy fog that evening, it was a pleasant drive home.  A little jazz on the satellite radio, quiet conversation interspersed with idiots exceeding the speed limit on the interstate ignoring the possibility of rear ending another vehicle hidden by the pea soup.  Idiots.

One friend called the next day to say that whatever it was that he ate that night caused a sleepless night highlighted by technicolor dreams of his experiences in post war Viet Nam.  Gads, give me some of that food!  

It's likely we'll return to Bulltown on the first Friday of next month to see the art each gallery features.  It's not likely that we'll do Thai again, at least not for a while.  Maybe something more along the lines of meat and potatoes.  After all, that is Bulltown.  Where better to find some down home, out west cooking?

Why I Want To Sail Hawaii

I've sailed Hawaii and Mexico and done stuff pretty much like what's in this video only with a smaller boat. . . a Hobie Cat . . .a 16 foot catamaran.  Would I ever love to ride the surf with a boat the sized of Sparkle Plenty.  Whoo Hoo!  Check it out. 

One Way Of Looking At It

I could ramble here on the topic of the origins of religion. . . not just Christianity but each of the other religions, too. 

Simply put, I believe that religion is personal and up to individual interpretation.  Unless you live in the Middle East.  Not much religious wiggle room there.  No gray areas. 

'Nuff said.

Tying One On

Mom stopped tying my shoes on the first day of first grade.   Bob was on his own.  No matter what I said, no matter how long I cried, mom was done tying my shoes.  Mom spent time trying to get me to get the hang of how to tie my shoes.  No go.  Bob was destined for the special ed class that specialized in tying shoes. I thought that I was doomed.

On the first day of first grade I went to the neighbors crying my eyes out . . . shoe laces dragging in the dirt.  Jeanne, the across the street first grade girl friend offered to help.  It took one shoe tying demo from Jeanne and BANG!  the light bulb went on.  First try both shoes were tied with a bow . . .and no knots. . . and me...no longer a slave to when my mom could or could not tie my shoes.  I was solo shoe string flying on my own.  Whoo hoo!   

Mom was never a good teacher when it came to things like tying shoes or advice on the meaning of life.  Mom was mom and ya just had to love her for who she was.  She did the best with what she had to work with.  And that was fine with me because I knew that it's true that we only have one mom to love . . .  and tolerate.

Funny what you remember after so much of time has passed.   

The Simpsons - Dohs

Poms in the Snow

Okay Already!

Wifey:  Your blog post yesterday was disgusting.  I guess anyone who reads your blog knows that once in a while there will be something offensive posted on it.

Me:  That wasn't offensive.  It was all about what was enough.

Wifey:  That was enough offensive.

Me:  Gee, it only showed cleavage. What's offensive about a little cleavage?

Wifey:  Ah, a little cleavage?  That's the whole enchilada, Bob.

Me singing, "I gotta be me!!!  I GOTTA BE ME!!!"

Wifey:  Okay already.  Enough is enough. . . .

On another less offensive subject, here's the two Poms, Zeenie on the right, Kiri on the left, playing tug-of-war. 

There's a lot of posturing and growling . . .and a lot of stare down.

For this game Zeen came out as the winner.  It's about a 50/50 split on which dog comes away with the toy. 

Isn't it nice that this post is so clean, so wholesome and so lacking in cleavage. 

Damn, how I hate minding my manners.

HOW MUCH IS ENOUGH?

Okay, okay...get a couple of things out of your head.  I do not cruise porn sites and I did not pick this photo up on my own.  A FRIEND SENT IT TO ME!

And the friend, knowing how I think added to the e-mail:  Hey Bob!  How much is enough, buddy?!"

The poor girl.  How does she get around with a rack like this.  Heck, we're talking disability here.  If she doesn't have back problems they be just around the corner.  These puppies must weight in at least 15-20 pounds a piece.

If these boobs are enhanced just what was she thinking?  I'd love to come across this chick in Walmart.  She would no doubt be blocking the aisle.  I'd have to say, "Miss?  Your boobs are in my way.  Mind moving them to the side, please?"

When it comes to boobs how much really is enough?  Anything more than a handful is what my buds used to say......geeze, what's here is more like a wheelbarrow full.

Ya think?

The Way We Were

Dining last night at our favorite restaurant.  Me looking on purpose stupid.  I think that the waiter just brought the tab for five meals.  GULP!  Wifey looking her usual happy self. 

Wonderful evening....one of the best. 

This is the way we were.  She happy, Bob looking stupid.

Sailing Music

I'll play this one while sailing.  I can hardly wait to get Sparkle Plenty back in the water and do just that. 

Like Only Yesterday

It's our wedding anniversary today.  Seem like only yesterday when Wifey proposed.  She said, "We're getting married or else."  Wifey popped the question (made the ultimatum?) during a drive up the coast on Highway One to her parents home for Thanksgiving dinner. 

I was driving.  She was riding.  The least she could have done was get down on one knee, look deeply into my eyes, pull out a ring and say, "Oh my darling man, who's my life's project, will you marry me?"

Well, I said, since you put it that way . . . get married or else . . .that's an offer that I cannot refuse.  I definitely didn't want to suffer the consequences of "or else" meant but it seemed that no marriage equaled Bob being dumped.  Didn't want to lose my tall, long legged, bright spirited, redheaded woman.

As the story goes I said yes and the two of us were married several months later.

Marriage is not a bed of roses.  You learn to take the bitter with the sweet.  Give.  Take.  Compromise.  Grin and bare it. 

Looking back years later on that Thanksgiving day drive up the coast there's only thought in mind:  Damn good decision to accept the lady's proposition of marriage. 

Tonight it's an Italian dinner out with family and friends.  We'll speak to the memories and thoughts of what we'll do between today and our next anniversary.  Privately Wifey and I will take time to share personal thoughts on our relationship and what we mean to each other.

It's all good.  Ya think?

How I'd Spend New Year's Eve

You really didn't come here for culture and sophisticated thoughts, did you?

How's That Working' Out For Ya?

Once in a while I ask Wifey to look like Sarah Palin.  Today she did.  I'm all smiles.  It's time for games.

In an intimate moment Wifey might say, "How's that woodie working out for ya?"

And in an other intimate moment Wifey might shout out, "YEEEEEYOWWW!  I CAN SEE RUSSIA!"

Or, "Damn you McCain, wrong place!"

I love voting for Sarah Palin cause it's sooooo bitchin' when I stuff the ballot box. . ..

Just for the record, Wifey says this blog post sucks and that there's absolutely no truth to what's written here. Well hell yeah, that's exactly what this blog is all about.
Ya think?

Don't Take My Kodachrome Away!

Today's San Francisco Chronicle:

"The photography show is called "The Last Kodachrome" but the last Kodachrome images aren't in the show. They are still in Pat Willard's Nikon camera.

They will have to come out by next week because the last lab in the world that processes the famed color film, Dwayne's Photo in Parsons, Kan., is discontinuing it at the end of the year. The last rolls to be processed must be there by noon, Dec. 30. After 75 years, all that will be left of Kodachrome is the Paul Simon song, and a state park named after it in Utah.

There will still be a sister film called Ektachrome, but Willard, a fine art photographer in Redwood City, is not buying it.

"I'll probably do only black and white," he says, lowering his tone to a funereal whisper. "There's no color like Kodachrome."

When the Eastman Kodak Co announced that the last rolls were hitting the shelves, in June 2009, Willard bought 40 rolls, at $8 apiece, and stuck them in the fridge of his townhouse in Redwood Shores. Then he contacted Ann Jastrab, director of Rayko Gallery, proposing a juried exhibition for Kodachrome prints.

Fifty photographers nationwide, plus a few from Canada, northern Europe and South Africa, sent in portfolios. Twenty-one photographers were selected and 45 prints are in the show, which opened Dec. 17 and, after a Christmas break, will reopen Jan. 4. Included are four prints of Willard's abstract expressionist work.

The other day he was compelled to sit on the couch of his townhouse and describe his love affair with Kodachrome.

"The color balance is what I like," he says, after thinking it through. "It's warm and voluptuous."
High maintenance, though. Unlike other color film, Kodachrome starts as black-and-white film. Color dyes are added in the lab, like printmaking, which is why you can't develop it at home.

"It's the most complicated film there is to process," says Todd Gustavson, a curator at the George Eastman House, in Rochester, N.Y. Dwayne's in Kansas is the last licensed processor, and doing 700 rolls a day, twice its average.

Introduced in 1935, Kodachrome was the first commercially successful color film, says Audrey Jonckheer, manager of worldwide public relations for Kodak film. Derived from motion picture film, it has always been developed in slide form and coincided with the rise in popularity of the slide projector.

"It had a color saturation that is unmatched with any other slide film or with digital," says Lou Dematteis, a San Francisco freelance photojournalist who has 10 pictures in the Rayko show, more than any other contestant. "Kodachrome I shot in the 1970s is still as vibrant as it was when I first processed the film."

Dematteis had to switch to digital because that's what all the news agencies use. His book "A Portrait of Vietnam," published in 1996, is Kodachrome, but his follow-up on Ecuador, "Crude Reflections," 2009, is a mix of film and digital.

"I show it to people, and if they are in the know, they will look and say, 'That's not digital. That's Kodachrome.' "

The last roll Kodak manufactured was given to Steve McCurry, who shot the famous Kodachrome image of the green-eyed Afghan girl that was on the cover of National Geographic in June 1985. Last spring, he used up the roll in New York City and India, and the prints will eventually be on display in 2011 at the Eastman House museum.
Pat Willard's own last roll of Kodachrome won't be displayed anywhere. He's putting it in a glass case to display on his mantel, right next to his antique Argus C3 camera.".

I ask, what next in this life?  What next?

Fleas On My Dad!

Wifey decided to take a yoga class the other day leaving me to mind the home fires, the dogs, the soup on the stove simmering and grandchild Gracie.  She knows better than to leave me along with the kid.  When it's the two of us I always fill her mind with senseless stuff. .. you know, kind of like the things on this blog only rated G ----for grandchild. 

Me:  Hey Grace, Like Christmas music?

Grace:  Sure do.  I love Christmas music.

Me:  Then you've probably heard a song titled Fleas On My Dad.  It's a famous Christmas song.

Grace:  Fleas On My Dad is a Christmas song?

Me:  You bet.  Everyone sings it during Christmas.  All the stores that pipe music in play it.  It's on the radio and TV, too. 

Grace:  Sing it for me.

Me:  Better yet, I'll get the song on YouTube and we'll sing it together.

So here it is.  Sing along with us.  FLEAS ON MY DAD!

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Grace's First Solo

Christmas Sex

I once read that a fairly large percentage of older adults, younger, too.... have sex only on holidays or special occasions.

Like Christmas, Thanksgiving. .. maybe Fourth of July.....how about Halloween?    It's nice to know that visions of sugar plums are not the only thing that is dancing around in peoples heads this time of year.

Hohohohohoho!

Ohhh, Wifey....it's Christmas and you know what that means!!!!

Merry Christmas y'all!

Silent Monks Singing Halleluia

ISS Crew Sends Holiday Greetings to All

What Once Were Vices

What once were vices are now habits.  Think I'm kidding?  Check this out.  It's good for a laugh.

It's The Economy, Stupid!



The doorbell rang a few minutes ago.  There on the doorstep was a little girl of about seven years of age.

"Would you please help our family out for Christmas and buy this bag of oranges?"

I noticed her brother who looked like 8 or 9 was working the other side of the street. .. while dad waited in his black four door Saturn complete with bike racks on the back of it.

Lots of people fall on hard times especially in this new century we're living.  There seems to be more and more families who need both a hand out and a hand up.

I asked the little girl to wait.  It didn't take long to find five crisp one dollar bills.  I handed them to her, took the bag of oranges and wished her a Merry Christmas. 

She didn't say a word in return but dashed off to where her dad was parked to pick up another bag of orange colored fruit.

For whatever reason this family needed to sell oranges door-to-door.  I'd like to think in a small way that my five dollars helped them a little bit.  After all, 'Tis the season..............

Too Little Too Late?

This Christmas it has to be organic . .. as it was for Thanksgiving when I grilled a free range, antibiotic free turkey.  Next organic meal for the holiday season is grass fed, free range beef. ... a 6 pound NY strip roast.  Not a lot of fat just tender, tasty beef.  Expensive but well worth it if only for the taste.  Grass fed beef hands down is so delicious when compared to corn fed beef.

Lately the wife and I have attempted to buy organic, pesticide free farm products.  Vegetables, fruit. . . even prepared, canned food.  Buying locally grown food has also become a priority.   Then there's the quest to only eat low sodium, low and/or non saturated fat food. 

We probably should have been eating like this all along.   To some degree we have but it's not been one of those all out 100% efforts. 

It's likely whatever we eat in the realm of "good for you!" food is a matter of too little too late.  But setting an example for the rest of the family is probably a good thing.  Children learn what they live.

Ho ho ho!

Early Christmas Gift

Me:  Alright if I give you an early Christmas gift?

Wifey:  Is this the only gift I'm getting this year?

Me:  No, lots what that came from.

Wifey:  Bring it on.

Wifey opens the gift and then opens her mouth wide and gasps.

Wifey:  You're kidding, aren't you?

Me:  Never been more serious in my life, girl.

Wifey:  If you think I'm going to redeem a gift certificate to have my nipples pierced and you get off unpierced and scot free you've got another think coming big boy.

Me:  And your point is.......

Wifey:  You'll get pierced too . . .and I make the call where.

Me:  I'm game....name the area....nose ring?

Wifey laughing..........

Wifey:  Nope.  Scrotum or foreskin. . . make the choice.  I'd love to lead you around by your nuts or dick.  If you don't then I am not going there.

Me:  Shit.  Give me the certificate.  Maybe I can exchange it for a tattoo........just for you.

Wifey:  Gawd Bob, don't you ever learn.  It's about time that you get it.  No piercings.  No tats.  Just me.

Me:  I don't want to get it.

So much for early Christmas presents.

Spike Jones - Mommy wont you buy a baby brother 78 rpm

This and That

Today was a little of this and that.

Mostly it was that.

I'll smiling when it's 3 p.m. tomorrow.   Will have done "That" .

Then I'm gonna get shit faced happy and get on with my life however imperfect it is (was or will be).

Samantha James - Waves Of Change (Richard Grey Remix)

TOO MANY SMART PEOPLE!!!

That's what is wrong with the world today.  There's too smart people and they're who are causing all of the problems.  The economy.  Pollution.  War.  You name it, the smart people made it happen.

It's all contained in this video:

Good, Bad or Irritating

Is it a good day or is a bad one...or is the day just chock full of irriations?  As anyone how their day is going and it's likely that they'll say it's good knowing that if their response is anything other than that an explanation will be in order.

How ya doing?

Oh, fine.

or,

Good.

A really good day for me is usually hitting every green light at the dozen or more intersections that need crossing to get from point A to B.  Damn I love that feeling.

The frosting to an irritating day would be to hit a fricking red light at each of those intersections.  That happens more often than I wish to admit.  Why do I hate to stop and go.

I think calling a day as being a bad one should be reserved for the terrible, the unfortunate, the OMG happenings in life.  I've had several of those this week and it's not been good.

Tuesday:  A close teacher friend succumbed to cancer at age 60. 

Thursday:  The father of another close teacher friend succumbed to cancer.

The family of my teacher friend has asked me to eulogize their loved one.  This is going to be a tough one . . . I wonder if I can hold it together long enough to deliver a 20 minute eulogy.  I'll do my best.

There have been good days this week and ones that have been irritating sprinkled with lot of bad in between each of them. 

There's still two days left in the week.  Fingers crossed.

Shots With Bob?

Well, if you don't mind a grown mind doing this then sign me up to do shots with ya....

It's one of my favorite stupid things to do in public.

Who's Standing By You?

A video worth watching . . . multiple musicians in multiple locations. 

I wanna be Chaz playing the washboard.  One of my life's ambitions just added to the bucket list.

Okay Okay!! I Like Christmas!

Do You Yelp?

Have you heard of the Yelp internet service? 

Here's a description straight from Yelp:


Yelp is an online urban city guide that helps people find cool places to eat, shop, drink, relax and play, based on the informed opinions of a vibrant and active community of locals in the know. Yelp is the fun and easy way to find, review and talk about what's great — and not so great — in your world.

Is Yelp free?
Yes! Other than certain advertising features, you can use the site for free.

Who uses Yelp?
You'll find a wide range of people on Yelp, including locals who are "in the know" about what's cool and happening in their city, visitors who want to get an insider's local perspective, and anyone trying to find a great local business.

Anyone can write a review or add on a review to existing reviews. 

Yelp even has ratings for places in Cowtown like this place called the Tropics. . . a dive bar located in a not so pretty (or safe) part of town.  You gotta love their neon stuff.  So retro.

I write reviews that I post on Yelp.  Surprise, surprise!  In case you're interested here's the link to the reviews I've written.  It's all Bob if you get my drift.

Check it out.

http://www.yelp.com/user_details_reviews_self?userid=9xOYCvhGh-e4kEXLjyZkRg

You Are Cleaning That Up!

People who don't clean up after their dogs are on my shit list.  Yeah, how about that . . .anyone who doesn't pick up their dogs poop should be on everyones shit list.  How very appropriate.

There's one freaking person in our neighborhood who walks their dog every day.  And every day their dog poops on the sidewalk and it is not cleaned up.  It's like this dog doesn't poop one pile . . . there's about a half dozen or more large poop balls all along a 150 foot or more stretch of sidewalk.  We're not talking a small pup. .. it takes a large canine to poop these babies.  And this dog can't just take one poop.    Would I ever love to catch that idiot leaving piles of of his dog's poop on the sidewalk.  So would a lot of our neighbors. 

So yesterday I'm at the computer.  I can see the front lawn from where I sit.  Along comes a couple with a little Chee Wow Wa.  They stop in front of our house.  The dog strolls onto our front yard grass and casually takes a major small dog crap like it's on its own turf.  At that very moment I'm thinking about Clint Eastwood growling, "Get Off My Lawn!" and want so badly to open the window and shout just that.  But I sit in my chair at the computer and wait for the owners to pick up the poop off of my lawn.  I think, they will clean up after their dog, won't they?

So the small dog who craps like a St. Bernard finishes what seems like an endless poop.  I'm thinking how can one little dog poop so much.  What the hell do its owners feed it anyway? 

Finally the dog moves off the lawn and the owners start to walk away.  The Clint Eastwood in me comes on strong as I head to the front door.  Damn, I'm seeing red and boy am I pissed.  The nerve of some people to allow their dog to shit on my lawn and then walk away.....   Before the dog and its owners can get very far I fling open the front door with major authority and yell out with major MAJOR authority, "YOU ARE GOING TO CLEAN THIS UP, AREN'T YOU?!"

They look and meekly reply, "We were going to do that but don't have anything to clean it up with.  We'll be back."

Yeah, right you were, you worthless SOB's.

Me:  "You bet you'll be back.  I'll be waiting." 

Slam!

I know where these idiots live.  If they didn't return to clean up their dog's shit I was prepared to eat major Mexican, 3 Polish sausages, 7 hardboiled eggs that evening and accumulate one nasty bowel movement.  Next day before dawn Bob was going to crap major Bob crap on their lawn and leave another pile right by their front door.  That would fix them big time.  A Bob calling card would be the gift that keeps on giving.  Hohohohohoho!  'Tis the season, don't ya know?

Lucky for these clowns they returned shortly and cleaned every speck of poop off of the lawn.  They're no fools for they surely know that hell hath no fury than Bob's lawn pooped on and left.

Grrrrrrr.

Dog owners who take their dogs for walks without a poop bag should be shot on sight.  And I'm just the guy to lock, load and pull the trigger.

You bet your sweet ass.

After the two idiots cleaned up the poop wife looks at me and smiles, "They're lucky they cleaned it up, aren't they?"

To which I replied, "Wifey, you know me too well."

And that's the name of that tune.

Perfect Gift?

Always stumped when it comes to buying something for your boss or loved one who has everything?  Or how about an office gift for your secret pal or even your BFF? 

In this world there is always something for everyone and here's one fine example:

Yup, here it is.  Penis boxers for chicks and "dicks" who have everything.  Sold by David Shorts on line for about 20 bucks.  Damn, talk about a gift that keeps on giving.

I'm buying this one to wear around the Elks Lodge pool this summer.  This is certain to get the 85 year old widow chicks going.

I'll go up to a group of them and ask, "Know much about real estate?"  And of course they'll look dumb founded.

Then I'll point to my David Shorts penis and ask, "Is this a 'lot'?"

Get it?  Get it?  Huh, do ya get it?

Looks like they're a hit with the college set.  Kind of makes ys wanna go RAH! RAH! RAHHH!

There's a penis for everyone at David Shorts.  Like this stubby model.

This girl seems to think that size doesn't matter.  She's loving those stubby dick shorts.   RAH! RAH!

If you're interested here's the link.  Better get it on if you're buying 'cause there's only 24 shopping days left until Christmas.

https://davidshorts.com/Products.html

RAHHHH!

Life in Sixth Gear

So you're wondering where I've been since November 11th.  Are you?  Or are you of the opinion, "Frankly Scarlet, I don't give a damn."  1,477 posts here and I temporarily ran out of things to write about.  Really, I did.  Just didn't care to write about anything.  For once Bob was speechless.

You should know that life on this end is like driving a fine tuned Italian sports car down Interstate 5 in the middle of nowhere in 6th gear.  Low rpm's.  Only the sound of the clock ticking.  Beautiful scenery.  A beer in one hand, a burger in the other . . . all the while steering with my knees.  That would be a Bob trick, don't you know?    I can do that very well.  Tacos are hard to manage at 80 plus mph but a burger is definitely no big thing.

Life on this end is low if any stress.  Great scenery.  Lots of fun.  Lots of experiences.  Stuff like that.  Life is nothing like it used to be . . . life was used to be much like the Freddy Fender song, Wasted Days and Wasted Nights (which was about love lost but my version is about happily losing a vocation).  Work is such a waste given the alternative.

Now my time is spent gardening, repairing/upgrading Sparkle Plenty, dinner with friends and family, spending time with grand daughter Grace, walking the dogs/playing fetch/running around the yard chasing each of them, reading (lots of that), reflecting (never had any time for that), cooking (a favorite of mine), shopping, cleaning or re-arranging the garage (a never ending task), some time on the computer (I limit that as it would be easy to spend all of my time in front of a keyboard and screen), doing a little photography (note to self...print and frame some of the outstanding photos I've taken), scheming how to rid our property of the rats who travel from the neighboring ranch to our backyard and patio, ....

You get the picture.  Bob's in sixth gear without a care or worry in the world.

In synch with this post is the photo of Gracie and her voice coach Mr. Jimmy.  Wifey and Grace drive to Mr. Jimmy's studio every Thursday for a half hour voice lesson.  They've been doing that for 18 months.  Jimmy wants to enter Grace in talent contests but I'm thinking that's too much too soon.  Give the girl time, let her gain confidence, let her sing to small audiences of friends and family, allow Grace to get her feet firmly planted in the world of music first.  Stage fright is a horrible thing to experience.  Why risk exposing our girl to that possibility so very early in the game? 

Love this photo, don't you?

So I'm back . . . at least for this post.  I had to shift from sixth gear to second or third to write this.  That said, life is all about shifting or changing up when it's called for.

Don't you think?

Wifey Loves Black Dresses

She's 5'9"....

Great guitar solo around 2:52 into the video.

I Served

The photo was taken on my selection as Airman of the Quarter for the aircraft base I was assigned to.   The selection was made due to my duties in the administration of a combat aircraft unit.   Serious guy then.  Serious guy now.  Some things never change.

I don't want recognition on Veteran's Day or any other day that honors veteran's of our armed forces.  Mine was a non combat position in support of combat aircraft.  No war stories.   No Purple Heart.  No Post Combat Distress Disorder.  Just honorable service.

Any recogition should go to veteran's who saw combat and lived to tell about it.  The rest of us quietly did what we were told, did our time and got out.  It was a job.  Each of us did it.  My heart breaks for the others who were not so lucky and still suffer from the time they spent in the armed forces.  Those should be celebrated and thanked.  Those should always be honored.

Thank you to those who fought and lived to tell about it.

Double Dip Police

Round Table is heavily advertising their latest connoction:  Pizza Dippers.  For the last month of more ads touting this new treat" have been inserted every Wednesday into newspapers and mailboxes.

This morning, right on time, this ad appeared.  For a moment I thought that I'd try one.  We're taking care of a friend's two girls Friday night ages 6 and 10.  What a great thing to serve them.  Then I thought again. 

Look at the photo.  Think of yourself dipping that first slice of pizza into the sauce. You think, OH YUM!.  Then you think again, you definitely need to dip the pizza into the sauce before taking another bite.

WRONG!!!!!  If you did dip again you'd be guilty of one of the biggest social sins of all time:  DOUBLE DIPPING!

It really seems that Round Table is condoning big time the double dipping of their new Pizza Dippers menu item.  Do you want to support that by purchasing a Pizza Dipper (which really should have been named the Double Dipper Pizza).

There oughta be a law against double dipping.  The police would be made to haul away double dip offenders.  No trial.  No jury.  Just punishment.  Offenders would be made to crawl on all fours through the pig pen mud to a slop filled trough and dine with the hogs.  There the offenders would double dip a slices of a large 6 week old pizza into the slop....and eat every bite.  That will teach 'em to never ever double dip again. 

Second time double dip offenders would have to sleep with the hogs for a week eating only double dipped 6 week old pizza dipped in slop.  If that doesn't learn 'em I don't know what will.

If you have kids my advice would be to (A) Teach them never ever to double dip (do they even know what that means?) and (B) For you to never ever buy a Pizza Dippers Round Table special as you'd just be supporting a very bad social habit.

Double Dippers never go to Heaven.  This I know.

Dirty Water - The Standells (Original Album Version)

California Dreaming

Leaves on the backyard fence.  Autumn is passing and it's beginning to feel like winter.  Cloudy.  Cold.  Wet.  Northern California is a lot different than the California portrayed in many films.  Our weather is much like what's found in Oregon.  Apart from the cloudy, cold and wet weather there's a bit of snow, too.  Not of that stuff falls in Cowtown but it can be easily found 20 minutes east, west or north.

I'm a Californian who is guilty of California dreaming.  San Diego would be the choice of relocation.  Fairly warm in the winter.  Very little rain.  Sailing year 'round.  That's my kind of California dreaming. 

Today I'll bundle up.  Rake some leaves.  Take the dogs on a long walk. Complete a few repairs on the sailboat.  Try to figure out why we still have rats in the stacks of wood.  Warm some split pea soup for dinner.  Relax by the fire.

If that sounds good I'd say you're definitely Northern California Dreaming  . . . .   

Food Truck Boogie

 I love food truck grunts.  A food truck with yummy grunts is a tough commodity in Cowtown.  There's only a couple and probably only one worth patronizing.  For my money that would be Romo's Tacos.

Romo's truck sits from 11-5 six days a week in a parking lot in a not so savory part of Cowtown (right next to a motel that caters to meth heads).  Tasty Mexican cooked up by Romo and his wife.  Quick service.  El Cheap-o prices.   Two tacos, a canned soda runs ya three fifty.  Deal.   Right up my alley.  I could eat Mexican 7 days a week and still come back for more.

Last Friday I thought it would be a good idea to share my little dining secret with Wifey and several friends.  We met at 11:30 at Romo's place.  There's only one table and four chairs so I loaded the truck with a table and chairs from home.  Our friends thought it was a riot that I brought along table and chairs but I said, "Hey, beats the hell out of sitting the bed of the truck."   Wifey said that this is what Bob does.  And she's right.

Then I opened the doors of the pickup truck, tuned the radio to a Latino music station, and cranked up the sound for everyone to hear.  Wifey and the three friends thought this touch was over the top Bob for ya.  Yeah, Bob can still be over the top once in a while.

Our friend writes for the local paper and decided on the spot to write a restaurant review on Romo's complete with photos.  It will be interesting to read what he has to say especially with his dining buddies.  I think he got a photo of Bob scarfing down a burrito.    Bet Romo's gets a bit more business from his review.  When you're a little guy in business for youself there's nothing like free advertising.

We ate.  We talked.  We laughed.  We struck up conversations with other customers.  They were mostly blue collar dudes on lunch break looking to eat on the cheap.  Good group.  No druggies were up and at 'em at noon to eat at Romo's.  I liked that part. 

When we finished eating we walked next door to one of those stores that stocks grow lights, grow trays, fertilizer, tubs, trays, 8 foot stalks of bamboo, trimming machines, plastic bag . . .. everything one would need to grow pot at home. 

More than a few people entered the store while we were there to buy their shit to grow dope.  Unlike buying a taco from Romo this stuff doesn't come cheap.  In spite of the pricing people were buying stuff like it was no big deal and that it was legal not only to grow marijuana but to sell it, too.  And I'm talking about buying enought equipment to grow a little of the stuff.  People were buying to grow dozens and dozens of plants.  In board daylight.  In a public place.  With no fear of being busted.

As singer/song writer Bob Dylan once wrote, "The times. . . .they are a changin'...."

Anyway, in the dope growers store I found a neat bottle of organic fertilizer called Wet Betty.  Just had to take a photo for you guys.  Ain't she cute?

It was a fun outing.  Good food.  Educational.  Good company.  We'll have to do it again.

Bach at Eight

It was the 1950's.  Anchorage Alaska.  Mom and dad often left 8 year old me home while they did whatever they did away from home.  During the time in Alaska our family was poor as church mice.  After everything was bought and paid for there was little left for entertainment, clothing. . . . the so called extras in life.  If you have a shirt on your back buying another is an extra . . . at least so I was taught at an early age.

Salmon was a cheap commodity.  Caught locally.  Lots of it.  It was what's for dinner 5 or 6 nights a week.  Salmon burgers.  Salmon meatloaf.  Salmon spaghetti.  Salmon sandwiches.  You name it mom put salmon in it.  For some a steady diet of salmon would be wonderful.  For the rest of us . . . bleck!   

Even though money was tight Mom and dad bought a tall wooden framed a radio.   I was ususally playing throughout the day and into the night especially during the times I was home alone.  The radio was actually nice company.    Usually I'd be outside playing with friends but during stormy weather or in the evening it was best to be inside.  Reading, listening to the a.m.radio (there were like 2 stations---FM had not yet been invented), playing with toys . .. building stuff out of scrap wood and cardboard. . . all occupied my time alone. 

It was during one of these Bob All Alone At Eight Years of Age times that a classical piece of music was played that struck my fancy.  I thought it was the most beautiful music I had ever heard.....something that I would always enjoy hearing regardless of how old I was.

It goes like this:

My City Was Gone

It wasn't long ago that time was taken to visit my old hometown in Nebraska.  Lord, how it had changed. 

My city was gone.  There was no train station.  There was no downtown.  How did it disappear? The small town I loved and knew so well had melted into shopping malls and urban sprawl.  I was stunned.

Sensing my mood Wifey put a Pretender's CD in the trucks sound system.  I pulled over at a nearby park, opened up all of the doors on the truck, cranked up the sound, played this tune and danced on the freshly cut grass with Wifey.

It was one of those Kodak moments...........

DUUUUDE!  It's Back!

Yeah, it's back.  McDonald's McRib sammy.  They rarely place the McRib on the menu for each franchise. Like it's been since 2006 since every Mac restaurant has carried this sandwich.  So here it is for a very short period of time.  Mystery meat at its finest.  Enjoy.  Years from now it will be something to tell your children or your grandchildren about.




Then there's the KFC Double Down Sammy.  Just could not resist posting this review.  

The New Gold Rush!

There's gold in California.  What's here might surprise you. 

The NewBeats-Bread And Butter