PRIMARY COLORS

It's nearly 1:00 in the afternoon, 93 degrees (a dry heat all due to 19% humidity) in the shade, the grandchild and wife sit under the awning, sipping cold drinks, and talk while the youngest concentrates on her art.

She's only four but Grace knows what the primary colors are.

It's going to be close to 100 in Cow Town today. Perfect summer weather.





















It's been a busy day:

Patching holes on the rental roof (a satellite dish was removed by the tenant last week but didn't bother to patch where it had been).

Returning a couple of things to Lowe's.

Checking on the painters who are covering the inside of our rental in something in between several primary colors.

Lunch with Grace and Candace at Round Table.

Speaking to our plumber about the water that continues to flow around the foundation of our home.

Throw the ball for Jilli (always throw the ball for Jilli).






















Sunflowers in full bloom. It's 90 plus degrees. This is what sunflowers do best.





















The tomatoes are beginning to ripen. We ate the first of our summer's crop last night. Marinated in olive oil, basil and spices they were scrumptious.

I can hardly wait to sink my teeth into a BLT containing slices of tomatoes from our garden.

There's nothing like a real tomato - one that's not from a hot house, not from Latin America and not picked green with the fate of ripening in a crate that's on it's way to a supermarket.

Real tomatoes? They're hard to come by. Eat and enjoy 'em if you got 'em.

IF YOU WANNA ARGUE ABOUT THIS THEN LET'S ARGUE NAKED

I heard that the other day. "If you want to argue about this then let's argue naked".

For couples an approach like this may be just perfect. Defuse the situation. Getting naked could be funny. Getting naked could be revealing.

Wife: "You're getting wrinkles in your butt."

Or, it could be reality. There are wrinkles in my butt that I won't acknowledge.

George Bush ought to take an approach like this in resolving Middle East problems. I can heard old George now.

"Ahhh, hah haha (the way George laughs), seems to me that we are not on the path to peace. All we do is argue and nothing is resolved. From now on if you wanna argue about this, then let's argue naked!"

What a solution for peace - get naked, talk about it, no more war. Now that would be one for the history books.

Major league baseball could follow the example. If it's worth arguing - the major league baseball rule would be for the arguing player to get naked first followed by the umpire. This certainly would add a twist to Take Me Out to the Ball Game - don't ya think ladies?!

There would not be many major league guys willing to get naked in front of 30,000 fans to prove a point. They'd want dollars to strip down naked and they're already making to much money. With no one willing to take on a naked argument we'd have a much shorter game.

Next time you're in an argument with your boss, significant other, friend of the family or who ever don't forget those fighting words, 'IF YOU WANNA ARGUE ABOUT THIS, THEN LET'S ARGUE NAKED! If you don't, then shutup about it!"

NEVER MIND THE LYRICS

There's a lot of songs that I like. Lived with me. Ate with them. Did all kinds of things while they were playing. Lyrics get in the way of the music. Dick Clark would interview members of his teen audience and ask if they liked a particular song. More than a few would say, "I'd give it a 10 because I liked the beat." Never mind the lyrics, love that beat. I do.

Get it on? Bang a gong? Have you taken time to read the lyrics? Play the song posted from YOU Tube on the previous entry then sing along, dance along with me:

GET IT ON - BANG A GONG

Well, you're dirty and sweet
Clad in black, don't look back, and I love you
You're dirty and sweet, oh yeah
Well, you're slim and you're weak
You got the teeth of the hydra upon you
You're dirty, sweet and you're my girl

Get it on, bang a gong, get it on
Get it on, bang a gong, get it on

Well, you're built like a car
You got a hubcap diamond star halo
You're built like a car, oh yeah
Well, you're an untamed youth
That's the truth, with your cloak full of eagles
You're dirty, sweet and you're my girl

Well, you're windy and wild
You got the blues in your shoes and your stockings
You're windy and wild, oh yeah
Well, you're built like a car
You got a hubcap diamond star halo
You're dirty, sweet and you're my girl

Well, you're dirty and sweet
Clad in black, don't look back, and I love you
You're dirty and sweet, oh yeah

Well you dance when you walk
So let's dance, take a chance, understand me
You're dirty, sweet and you're my girl

Get it on, bang a gong, get it on
Get it on

WHEN YOU'RE BUILT LIKE A CAR, WHAT'S THAT LIKE? Just wondering . . ..

PLAYDOG CENTERFOLD

If there were such a thing as a dog's version of Playboy, Jilli would make the centerfold. WOOF!
Something homeowners whose homes are on a slab don't want to see: Water pooling around the foundation line. Broken pipe in the slab? Irrigation line gone renagade?

Stay tuned for another episode of "It's Only Money, People! You Can't Take it With You!"
My eighth grade girl friend and I still stay in touch. You can say that we've remained really good friends over the years. That's another story that I'll share some another time.

Joanie wrote a while back asking what kind of dinner plates were used in our household. Here's one of our plates - all ready for Old Bob's afternoon snack of chips and mustard.

I've got to do something about the camera strap that keeps appearing in many of my photos.

BON APPETIT!

Candace and Gracie had the bug to cook it up yesterday.

First came blueberry pie. The berries were straight off of our tree just outside of the kitchen. Grace picked every berry.

Grace is checking the pie to see if it is too hot to eat.


Yesterday it was a matter of having potato salad or go nuts. I found a wonderful recipe.

On their cooking rampage this is what the two ladies of the house produced. Normally I'd be preparing something like this. Cooking, from time to time, is my thing.

In the interest of not putting too many cooks in the kitchen I stayed out of the way of our two Betty Crocker maniacs.

If you're interested, here's what they put together:

POTATO SALAD WITH OLIVES, TOMATOES AND CAPERS

A popular salad on the island of Pantelleria.

2 1/2 pounds medium red-skinned potatoes, scrubbed

5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 12-ounce cucumber, peeled, halved lengthwise, seeded, cubed

4 large plum tomatoes, quartered

1 red onion, very thinly sliced

24 black oil-cured olives, pitted, halved

1/4 cup very thinly sliced fresh basil

2 tablespoons drained capers

3 tablespoons white wine vinegar

1/2 teaspoon dried oregano

3 hard-boiled eggs, peeled, quartered

Cook potatoes in boiling salted water until tender, about 30 minutes. Drain; cool. Peel potatoes, cut into 1-inch pieces and place in bowl. Add oil; toss to coat. Add cucumber, tomatoes, onion, olives, basil, and capers. Whisk vinegar and oregano in bowl; mix into salad. Season with salt and pepper. Garnish with eggs and serve.

Makes 6 servings.

Now, if I can only mash all of this stuff down and make myself a potato salad sandwich . . .

POTATO SALAD ON THE BRAIN

I'm craving potato salad. Eggs, relish, onions, potatoes - everything potato salad.

Found a new recipe that includes anchovies. Now there's an interesting twist on potato salad.

I worked my way through college. Being a clerk in supermarket used to be good money with benefits.

Every Sunday morning the whole crew would always have hangovers. We'd gather about 8 or 9 in the meat department for breakfast. Some Sunday's it would be sausage (patty style) sandwiches. On the other Sunday mornings it would be potato salad sandwiches. We'd wash both down with tomato juice. As close to hair of the dog as we could get and still keep our jobs.

Two pieces of bread. A couple of scoops of potato salad taken from the display inside the meat case. Viola! Sunday breakfast.

Potato salad sandwiches have been my mind for a week now and I have to do something about it. It's either forget it or make it.

I'll be making potato salad this week. When I'm finished there will be sandwiches. A couple of them.

I shared my potato salad thoughts with Grace yesterday.

Grace: "And Papa, you can even use potato chips to make a sandwich!"

Oh Lord, what have I done: A lovely, innocent four year old with Old Bob's thoughts of what's right in the sandwich world.






















Potato salad sandwiches look disgusting. But they're sooo good. Don't look at them - just eat 'em!

And you don't have to have a hangover to enjoy one!!

BLOGGING 4 PICTURES AT A TIME

That's the limit. 4 pictures via Google's Picassa site to Blogger. No more. Less if you want. Cramps my style.

I like pictures. Any book that I pick up to read has to have pictures. Blogs that I read? No pictures. I'm not interested.

ASHLAND WISCONSIN. Right on Lake Superior. Love that place. Great people. Wonderful homes on the lake. Great steak house.

And the murals here taken by yours truly? There are 8 buildings with murals along the streets of Ashland. Aren't they great?

You don't often see towns/villages/cities covered in as much mural art as they have in the very small burg of Ashland. I love art. I love art around me. Ashland, to have this amount of mural art packed into a few tiny village blocks just be one special place to live.

We parked our RV in Ashland a while back. What started out to be a one night stay ended up being four nights. Ashland was that special.

I wanna go back to Ashland. Live there. Be part of the culture. Act like a local. Be a local. Like all things practical, it's not going to happen. Damn.

ONE SPINNAKER = 5,200 SQUARE FEET

The Louis Vuitton Cup races are in progress at Valencia Spain. It's the precursor to the American Cup races this summer.

Flying a spinnaker is a quite a chore. The trick is to be able to fly it in the shortest amount of time without letting it douse into the water before it is hoisted.

Worse yet would be to allow the spinnaker be sliced by a sharp edge somewhere on the deck which renders the spinnaker worthless.

Spinnakers on America's Cup boats measure 5,200 square feet - equal to three or four homes in area.

A square yard of spinnaker weighs in at a half of an ounce.

Direct TV is broadcasting the Louis Vuitton races on channel 608 - the VS network. If you love sailing, it's quite the sight.

If you're not into sailing, watching these races is similar to sitting in the backyard and watching the grass grow.

WE ARE REMEMBERED BY THE TRACKS LEFT BEHIND

Yesterday Grace graduation from preschool and what a day it was.

Following the ceremony in the Watson Gym everyone walked over to the home right next to the school that I bought and converted to a preschool nearly ten years ago.

There preschool staff had setup a blowup jump house that kids jump in and another blowup thing that is a water slide. Burgers, hot dogs, all types of side dishes were served. I assisted with the cremation of hot dogs and burgers on a large propane grill.

Gathered in the gym were well over a hundred preschool children. The bleachers were filled with parents, relatives and friends of the children.

It was quite a sight.

Ten years ago there wasn't the gymnasium you see in the pictures.

Ten years ago a preschool that was a part of the school was just a dream.

I thought about those things while I sat watching the boys and girls sing their hearts out with the songs they had learned this school year. The buttons on my shirt were about to pop - I was that proud.

Look a them. . . aren't they just the cutest kids you ever did see?

Grace is in the middle of the group. Being the youngest to go on to kindergarten, she's also the shortest, too!

At the end of the program, Dawn carried Grace around. She was tuckered out.

As I walked out of the gymnasium an old Lakota Indian saying came to mind: "We are remembered by the tracks left behind".

As I continued my walk to the preschool building I looked behind me and then looked in front of where I was heading. Most of what I saw in front and behind me occured during my tenure as superintendent.

I've left some pretty big tracks. It feels good to have been able to make such a difference.

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON

You've heard the phrase, "Once in a blue moon". Know what that means?

The moon doesn't really turn blue.

Tonight, the Western Hemisphere will experience the second full moon of the month, call a blue moon.

Blue moons happen every two to three years, on average every 32 months. The last blue moon was July 31, 2004.

Blue moons historically were considered unlucky, partly because a blue moon is most the 13th moon of a calendar year. As such, it caused problems for church festival scheduling. Thirteen, as we've come to believe, isn't the luckiest of numbers.

Way too complicated to me. I'll stick to half moons out the car window. Cow Town loves half or full moons on Main Street.

Unlike a blue moon that comes every 32 months, my half moons come anytime that I feel like it. Like after 12 tequilla slammers. Did I just throw down a full moon or a half moon?

Yaaahoooo!

ANALOG IN A DIGITAL WORLD

I have a theory that one can only put so much into their brain. There's room for the right amount of information. Try to cram anything more into it and it's a lesson in futility.

That's why I shun reading directions and road maps. My analog brain in this digital world holds only so much. There need to be room left in it for the important things and not trying to decipher a map or the directions to build or repair something.

I like flying by the seat of my pants - to hell with directions, to hell with road maps. I don't need those stinking things. My analog brain can do it on its own.

You see, way back when Old Bob hit the maternity room floor running, the Good Lord was only issuing analog brains. They're only good for so many mega bites of memory. Overload these old analog brains and everything freezes up - a Fatal Error message is issued on the windows of my eyeballs. Nothing works until I reset the analog brain - a shot of tequila, a beer with and an egg in it. Then it takes a beer bloody Mary to boot the analog system up again. That's how these old brains work.

I save the memory in my brain for all things important, like storing information where I can always buy beer at a discount price. Or who's ahead in the NASCAR Cup points. And maybe even for keeping track of how many times Pamela Anderson has been married. Things like that mean a lot to Old Bob. Saving analog brain space for these things is near and dear to my heart.

Listening to Rush on the radio once was important as part of my plan to keep my analog system healthy. Then Rush did some stupid things, said some stupid things and then checked into rehab. What a wuss. Rehab is for quitters. That's when I stopped listening to Rush.

When I was younger there were many hero's we could hook up to, admire and try to pattern out life after. Who are today's hero's? Are there any? Think about? Who's on your list of hero's. My list is blank. I'm think that there aren't.

Back in the day everyone used to admire every President of the United States. He's lots of things but a hero George Bush is not. I'm thinking George has neither an analog or a digital brain. According to a friend, George Bush has shit for brains. Hmmmm. That explains a lot.

Maybe all of our hero's were issued analog brains that don't cut it in a digital world - and they just faded away or lost all of their ability to function due to a fatal analog error and crashed for good.

Dear Lord: Please stop issuing analog brains. They don't work very well, they're short of memory and they often freeze up. And about issuing shit for brains for our Presidents? That has to stop. Thank you.

THE IRONY OF IT ALL

There I was yesterday, at my desk, thinking about Hawaii in the midst of finishing off a speech I'm giving tonight.

In comes Grace, grass skirt and halter top in hand purchased months ago by her grandmother. How ironic. Me thinking Hawaii. Grace thinking grass skirt and dancing the hula around the house.

Grace: "Papa, would you tie this for me?"

Me without looking up: "Tie what, Grace?"

Grace: "This." - pushing into my hands a pile of folded grass and cloth.

I undo the knots in the strings for both the top and the skirt both left over from the last time she worn them. Smiling at Grace, I put each one around her and tied them off.

Me: "There you go, kid. Now you really look like a girl from Hawaii." And off she ran to do her Hawaii thing by herself. Grace does not always like an audience.

At the age of four I would have never thought of wearing a grass skirt and a halter top - as well I shouldn't have. Life for a young boy at age 4, 5, 6, 7 or more was all about pretending to be a cowboy interspersed with imagining I was a WWII foot soldier.

When we played cowboys we always hung the bad guys. My friend Doug and I would throw a rope around a high branch of a tree. Then we'd tie the rope around the ankles of the bad guys. Together, Doug and I would pull the rope until the horse thief was a couple of feet above the ground - and of course, upside down. We'd tie off the rope to the bottom of the tree, run away and leave the other kid hanging upside down for 15-20 minutes.

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? It was always lots of fun for Doug and I.

Oh, the things we used to do as kids . . .

NAKED BACKYARD BEAUTIES

Whenever I post the word "naked" I get a ga-zillion hits on the blog. Like yesterday's posting. Near naked lady. Naked headline. Bingo. Hello visitors!

Today I thought that I'd continue that line of thinking and put the word naked once again on the headline of this post. Maybe I'll do that everyday.

Let's try this and see what happens:

BOB RUNS NAKED AND BESERK THROUGH THE STREETS OF COW TOWN!

That should be worth a few hits.

Hydrangeas bring back childhood memories of Fresno California. They were planted in the front yard of our 1942 constructed 2 bedroom, 1 bath 800 square foot house.

Loved the house. Hated Fresno. If you have ever lived in Fresno you're catching my drift.

Things to do today. The wife is off for her 6 week exam at UC Med Center. It's a 168 mile drive south. This means I have grandchild pick-up duty following Grace's morning in preschool.

Then there's the matter of a cracked sprinkler and the more serious issue of water puddling in a planting area. Where the water is coming from is any one's best guess. I'll dig more holes today to figure this one out. Water pooling in an area like this is not the good news but more like news of a broken pipe somewhere in the concrete foundation of the house.

Later on I'll pick up a new gazebo at Target. They're on sale for a hundred bucks off. Can't pass that up as the old gazebo needs replacing.

I've been asked to speak or M.C. at a retirement dinner for a former employee on Wednesday night. There's a speech that I've worked on for a week now that needs cleaning up in terms of making sense, grammatical correctness, and "flow". Add this to the list for today and tomorrow.

Grace graduates preschool Thursday. After the ceremony there's a barbecue for which I've volunteered to manhandle the job of grilling burgers and dogs.

Did I mention our tenants will be out of our rental on Thursday? That's when the cleaning, the fixing and the cussin' begins. New tenants will move in on the 15th.

This week is busy. I'm going to be stressed.

I'm not going to forget to stop and smell the hydrangeas.

SHALL IT BE NAKED NIGHT OR TACO NIGHT?

Christina Aguilera and her husband, according to an interview, spend every Sunday naked. Garden, cook, watch TV, do the laundry, bathe the dog - all done naked.

So I said to the wife:

Me: "It's Sunday. What will it be? Taco Night or Naked Night?"

She: "Naked Night? What's Naked Night?"

Me: "Let me check."

So I got on the Net and dialed in Naked Night. The first picture on this post? That's what came up for Naked Night.

First glance at this picture I thought hmm, good thing for the pasties because otherwise those puppies would be looking like raisins on a string.

Me: "Here's what you do on Naked Nights. Come check it out on the computer."

Wife after looking: 'What are you . . . nuts?! There will be no Naked Night in this house on Sunday or any other night of the week especially if it involved a balloon and me wearing pasties."

Me: "Okay, no pasties. How about just the balloon?"

She: "Not funny, Bob. No balloons. No pasties. No me looking like an idiot with the balloon. End of conversation. I have better things to do. How about tacos for dinner tonight?"

I figured a taco dinner was a poor consolation for not being able to have Naked Night but nonetheless I said:

Me: "Sure, let's do tacos. Can we call it Taco Night?"

She: "Sure, call it anything you want as long as it's not called Naked Night."



There's nothing like a taco, freshly fried crisp corn tortilla, sliced or chopped tomatoes, beef or chicken that's been marinated in lime juice and cooked to perfection, crunchy onions, chopped cilantro topped with more than warm to the taste hot sauce.

Don't forget the sliced green or red bell peppers. They add another dimension to any taco.

Yum.


There's not a lot to say about store bought tomatoes when it comes to taste. They're all bland and lack that tomato taste.

Next time you're in the store pick up a tomato and smell it. Chances are good if there's no smell that's exactly the kind of taste you're going to get when you take it home and eat it.


You can't beat a bell pepper stuffed with a combination of ground beef, cheese, rice, tomato sauce and chili power.

A taco or fajitas without bell peppers is something less than they should be. We always use bell peppers in the Mexican food we prepare at home.

It's surprising at how many really don't like the taste of bell peppers. We're talking not kids but adults. They don't know what they're missing.

When it comes to Naked Night I don't know what I'm missing either.

ARE YOU "FINE"?

Know what FINE stands for? Until a few moments ago, neither did I.

Please pardon my French: "Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional."

There you have it, F.I.N.E.

If you're any of those, get a grip.

Do you read other blogs like I do. Many of them are just that, F.I.N.E. Their authors use the blog as an outlet, to whine, to vent, to slander and yes, for therapy.

I don't read the blogs that are penned by those with a bad case of FINE. Not worth the time. Not worth bending my Karma in the wrong direction.

If you haven't noticed, life is short. Blink and you're 16. Blink again and your friends are singing happy birthday around a cake anointed with 40 candles. Three or four more blinks and this life for you is over. Done. Finished.

So you see, there's no time for being FINE. There's only time for living life footloose and fancy free.

Who said, "People are about as happy as they make up their minds to be."? That would be Old Honest Abe - Abraham Lincoln. Whatta guy. Full of all kinds of advice and wisdom that's pertinent even to this day.

Make up your mind. Don't worry. Be Happy! Life is too short for anything else.

Okay, off of the Sunday soap box and onto the pictures. Top picture - the front planting area with fountain. Looking bare but starting to look good. A little fertilizer. A little sun. A little time. VIOLA! It will soon be covered with flowers.

Yesterday was the annual Strawberry Festival in Happy Valley. No one is ever happy in Happy Valley but nonetheless the name remains.

Grace rode a pony at the Festival.


Then she rode the shuttle with her dad.

Everyone ate strawberries.


The day was topped off with a visit to a watershed exhibit in the Cow Town Park. Apparently, goats have something to do with assisting the dynamics of a watershed. Instead of chopping it down they chew it up. Makes sense to me.

It's the end of Saturday's outing. It's plain to see that Grace is beginning to crap out. It's definitely nap time if not for Grace then for the adults.