Baseball Season

Me: Where are you going tonight?

Daughter: To an Astros game.

Me: Oh! Who's playing?

Daughter: Well, duh! The Astros! Honestly, Dad, you are such a joker.

Me:

Elmo Shoes

I'll admit it, I'm a sucker for Cool Shoes.

Imagine my surprise and horror at discovering these!



Now, don't get me wrong, I LOVE the Sesame Street characters. My kids grew up with Big Bird and Maria (who had the hots for me, I know. Seriously.) and Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster.

But, of all the Sesame Street characters to parade across the small screen, the veritable wasteland, the only one, the single character who got on my remaining nerve, the guy who I would cheerfully set on fire, run over with a steam roller, sell on the Fuzzy Character Slave Market is ... Elmo.

Elmo's face: hate it.

Elmo's personality: hate it.

Elmo's voice: hate it. hate it. hate it.

Elmo's fur: hate it.

Elmo, in general: hate it.

Now, "hate" is a strong word but in this instance it applies to Elmo. Elmo is insipidly stupid, uses bad grammar, has a cloyingly grating voice that drives me into a muppetcidal frenzy, stupid face, floppy arms and ugly fur. There should be a law, really, against such a ghastly thing being on TV.

No jury in the world would convict me if I wrapped Elmo in barbed wire and set him on a railroad track, or sank him into the Mariana Trench, or shot him into the Sun or chopped him up in a Veg-i-matic. I'm convinced of this.

OK, so here's my take on "Elmo Shoes."

Elmo Shoes should have Elmo on the sole and every step you take causes the Elmo Shoe to emit a sound like:

Ouch!

Oh, that hurts!

Don't step on me!

Ugh!

And if you jump and down Elmo should squeal like a pig.

Yeah, I'd buy those shoes.

Devil's Dandruff

Don't ask.

Devil’s Hot Tub - Closed for Repairs

How embarrassing. We traveled all the way from the Devil’s Top Hat to the Devil’s Hot Tub only to find the hot tub was closed for repairs.

The Devil’s Hot Tub is actually a series of hot spring pools connected together, bubbling of sulfur and surrounded by distressed vegetation.

It was difficult to see what actually needed repair. More distressed plants? More sulfurous bubbles? Hotter springs?

Unfortunately, the springs were fenced off and festooned by warning signs about “unstable terrain” and “scalding water” which was interesting seeing as the attraction was a

HOT. SPRINGS.

I was hoping the Devil’s Hot Tub would have some demon babes in skimpy, dare I say it, devilish outfits excited and squealing at my arrival. (As opposed to depressed and screaming. Been there, done that.)

Tomorrow we’re heading south for the Devil’s Wet T-shirt Contest. I’ll bring my own spray bottle in case they run out of water.

Yosemite Road

Devil of a Time

Eons ago the area around Yosemite National Park formed by volcanic activity. (And, that’s all the science you’re going to get here, I promise!)

The ranger guide explained it all but I was mostly thinking about lunch. All I heard was blah, blah, blah, volcano, blah, blah, pumice, blah, blah, basalt, blah, blah, igneous, lava, hot, and blah. The lecture got considerably more interesting when Mr. Ranger talked about how the Indians thought that the Devil’s Postpile was a prison into which the Devil had been lured and the steam hissing from the ground was the Devil cursing and snarling.

The Devil Story was too good to be true because soon we were back to basalt columns, blah, hexagonal framastats, strike-slips and dip-sticks. My thoughts drifted off into fire, brimstone and the Devil in a steamy pit.

I wondered if the Devil had Wi-Fi down there. I’m staying in a nice condo, no fire, brimstone or steam and still I have to walk down the street like a cyber-zombie homeless person devouring brain-packets from unsecured transmitters. No Wi-Fi at all would be hell, indeed!

Following Mr. Ranger’s talk we were directed to a large Forest Service map of the area where we could learn where all the various volcanic attractions were located. Here’s a short list of the hot spots:

Devil’s Cauldron
Devil’s Playground
Devil’s Backbone
Devil’s Claws
Devil’s Hot Tub
Devil’s Horns
Devil’s Hoof
Devil’s Tail
Devil’s Flatscreen TV

What’s up with all this Devil stuff? Well, the answer is obvious to even the most casual observer. Devil sells! Devil is tourism! Devil is exciting!

Imagine nice alternatives and ask yourself if you would visit these places.

Bo Peep’s Punchbowl
Elmo’s Playground
Angelina Jolie’s Lower Back
Rosie’s French Fingernails
Paris Hilton’s Pool
Boston Pops Horns
Sensible Shoes
J Lo’s Trunk
Fox News Viewpoint

I might give J Lo’s Trunk a visit but I would definitely avoid Elmo’s Playground.

Obviously, tourists have a dark side and are drawn to dark attractions. Why spend your time with Elmo when you could have the Devil, cursing and steaming. Never saw Elmo curse or steam. Case closed.

So, after visiting all of the Devil’s Attractions we were ready for lunch. I’d been ready for lunch since shortly after breakfast, but now my time had come. And what better venue than El Diablo’s Mexican Cantina! Perfecto, he said diabolically.

I chose the El Diablo Plate of Fire and was not disappointed. Succulent bits of dead animal covered in cheese and sauce and about a ton of chilies. I forked it down chased by a gallon or so of iced water and my mouth was still on fire an hour later.

El Diablo’s was infinitely more satisfying than Elmo’s Oatmeal, I assure you.

Unfortunately, for the drive home, all of us cooped up in one car, my fellow passengers had to endure the Sulfurs of Beelzebub.

If El Diablo is anything to go by it’s no wonder the Indians confined the Devil to the Postpile.

Quickie

Just a quickie.

I'm out here in California outside of Yosemite National Park following the wedding of my eldest daughter, Sarah, the rocket scientist, which went well.

More and pictures later.

Meanwhile, it's catch as catch can getting Internet access, and right now I'm sitting outside of a condo leeching off of a connection named "linksys." Oh, linksys! Who knew!

Austin Food Scene

I never pass up a chance to drive up to Austin, Texas, especially if it involves food. Now, Houston has over 16,000 restaurants and even the McDonald's are a cut above those in the rest of the world, but Austin has that eclectic mix of satisfying Bar-B-Que, Tex-Mex, Southwestern fusion and elegant dining all within the city limits.

For breakfast you can't beat Trudy's. There are two locations but my favorite is the ramshackle house on 30th Street. This morning, (YEAH, THIS MORNING!), I had the Migas Enchiladas which are corn tortillas wrapped around a generous portion of migas, covered in cheese and chipotle red sauce and baked. Served with refried beans and hash browns and a margarita. OK, the margarita is extra but what's a Sunday morning without a margarita?

This trip we were able to try out two restaurants new to us: Ironworks and Gumbos.

First, Ironworks. Ironworks BBQ is on the site of an old ironworks established in 1913 in the center of Austin. It's a rustic kind of joint. You pull your beer out of tubs of ice and take your food on trays lined with paper. Potato salad and cole slaw are served in giant cups. You're encouraged to clean up after yourself when you're done eating just like at home. The waitstaff are kinda scarce. The food, however, is unsurpassed. Delicately smoked ribs and brisket, and flavorful sausage links are hands-down favorites. Although open to the elements, the dining area was cool and breezy even in late July and somehow the fresh air made the food (and beer) taste all that much better.

Good Food, Good Company



Nothing complements a good restaurant more than good company and at Ironworks I found that in spades. Here in Austin attending the Netroots Nation convention were my good friends and fellow bloggers Josh Rosenau from the National Center for Science Education in California and author and writer Ed Brayton from Michigan. It was good to see Josh again, and although I had never met Ed in person it was a double treat for me at Ironworks BBQ.

Ed commented expertly that Ironworks BBQ was the best of three BBQ restaurants he had visited in Austin this weekend. Judging from the chomping and gnashing noises, I would agree with Ed's assessment.



On to Gumbo's

To complete my gastronomic visit to Austin we had a meal at Gumbo's Louisiana Style Cafe near the state capitol. If ever a restaurant was misnamed it was this one.

Louisiana Style Cafe. Not.

Expensive, upscale, classy restaurant. Yep.

Don't expect to get out of this 4-star "cafe" without dropping a few bills or burning a large hole in your credit card. That said, the food was as outstanding as the service was lacking. By 4-star I mean that if you take a typical bottle of wine that you can buy at your local Kroger's and multiply the price by 4, you're at Gumbo's! I must say, however, that the wine list was extensive and our selection, a Pinot Noir from Oregon was exceptional, even at the inflated price.

Gumbo's is like the Home of Wine Reductions. So many of the selections involved wine reductions that I could envision huge vats of wine being reduced by slaving sous-chefs wielding large paddles. I picked Blackened Shrimp with Crawfish Etoufee and was not disappointed. The shrimp were generous and the crawfish supportive. Spiced with precision I hesitated to add a touch of Louisiana Hot Sauce, and reserved my abomination to a small portion. Additional hot sauce neither improved nor augmented the flavor I learned.

On the way home I snapped this lame picture of the Texas State Capitol at night through the windshield of the car. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to drive in traffic AND do photography? It's insane!

Yeah, those are Green Lights in the distance. It means, "Hey, go ahead and take a picture while dodging 18-wheelers! It's Texas!"

Ridiculous Stupid Omelette

“How’s the omelette?”

“It’s ridiculous!”

“Say again?”

“It’s totally stupid!”

“What?”

“It’s so stupid it’s ridiculous stupid.”

“OK, glad you like it.”

Ridiculous stupid is high praise, indeed.

It’s a good thing as Martha would say.
Yum-O according to Rachael.
Delightful would say Julia if she weren’t dead.
Bam, it’s that simple, chimes Emeril.
You’re gonna like the way you look. No, that’s George Zimmer of the Men’s Warehouse. Wrong thread.

Over the years my omelette might have been described as great, groovy, radical, boss, tubular or sweet, although it’s not sweet-sweet.

Today it’s ridiculous. Or it’s stupid. Or, totally radical tubular praise, it’s ridiculous stupid.

Here’s the blueprint.

Like most things ridiculous stupid, necessity is the mother of invention.

“What would you like for breakfast?” A simple question.

“How about a cheese omelette?” A deceptively simple answer.

Just cheese and egg? Seldom is the case. The key to taking a cheese omelette to the ridiculous or stupid level is the element of surprise. Cheese is the teaser, but it implies something else. A special spice, bit of meat, something unexpected that transforms breakfast into BreAkFasT!! Yum-O! Thanks, Rachel, uh, chop some mushrooms for me, ‘K? Thx.

At the very least the cheese omelette maker should forage through the refrigerator (new!) and pantry for scraps of this and that that need eating up.

Green onions? Yes.
Mushrooms? Definitely.
Swollen can of pinto beans circa 2002? Pass.
Tomatoes? Possibly.
Cheese? Duh.
Ham slices? Yes.
Red bell pepper? Interesting.

And, thus, was born the ridiculous stupid omelette.

First, I chopped up everything and got some grits cooking. Hey, this is Texas. Kiss my grits if you don’t like them, or maybe fry up some leftover potatoes or do toast or a side of bacon or fruit. Knock yourself out. Thanks, Emeril.

This was a 4-egg omelette so I used a tablespoon of butter to grease the skillet. In went the chopped onion, bell pepper and mushrooms. After they softened a bit I tossed in the sliced ham, chopped into small pieces.

I beat the eggs in a measuring cup and added about a quarter cup of milk to thin it out a bit, then I added the egg mixture to the pan, mixed it up a little and turned down the heat to low.

Don’t molest the omelette. I always say that. Just let it sit on low doing its omelette thing.

When it started to dry along the edge and bubble in the middle I grated some Mexican quesadilla melting cheese on top and added some fresh tomato wedges. I figured I could use the tomato somewhere. Then I grated more cheese on top and put the entire pan in the oven under the broiler to cook the top and get the cheese bubbling.

I didn’t use any salt or pepper or any other spice during the cooking, although I could have been inventive. Turns out extra spicing wasn’t needed.

If I had to pick the special ingredient it would be a tie between red bell pepper and the Mexican melting cheese. The cheese is very mild but has a great melted texture, smoother than Colby or Longhorn which I normally use.

This was an unplanned, great breakfast which is totally stupid, and it turned out to have great flavor which is totally ridiculous!

And that’s a good thing!

Pardon Me While I Smoke

The Fourth of July.

Picnics, bar-b-que, swimming, sunburn and fireworks. Oh, sorry, I forgot to mention cubic miles of cold beer and acres of hot dogs.

The Fourth of July. Summer is here. It’s hot, but not too hot to eat outside. It’s exciting with anticipation. Waiting for the hot dogs to cook, waiting for the hand-cranked ice cream to freeze, waiting for nightfall and the fireworks display.

There are bands and celebrations of all kinds. Fun runs, and I must say, running on the Fourth of July in Houston is fun, fun, FUN! (Not.)

Nothing typifies Americana more than the Fourth of July.

Here at Chez Fondue we are planning to go with the flow and produce an All-American feast of delights.

We started this morning with a Red, White and Blue breakfast: blueberry pancakes and bacon. The salty, red bacon complimented the savory-sweet blueberry pancakes perfectly, accompanied by Starbucks Somalia dark brew. Kink the cat nosed ever closer to my bacon only to snag a piece of pancake. Clever boy!

On the menu tonight we are having:

Smoked hamburgers
Grilled corn-on-the-cob
Bacon potato salad
Surprised greens

Raspberries and blueberries on Blue Bell Vanilla ice cream

Here’s the blueprint.

Grilled Corn-on-the-Cob

Corn is a very forgiving vegetable. You can cook it to extinction and it’s still good. You can do grilled corn-on-the-cob a variety of ways.

Typically, I strip the husk from the ear of corn, remove the silk and wash it. Then I wrap the ear in a piece of aluminum foil. I place the wrapped ear on the bar-b-que as I’m bring it up to temperature.

It doesn’t matter if you have a gas grill, charcoal or no grill at all. Just place the ears on the fire and let them cook for 30-45 minutes. You can even do this in a 350-degree oven. Turn the ears once about half-way through cooking. I threw some wood chips on the grill to give the burgers that outdoors taste.

Unwrapping the corn, some of the kernels will be a toasty brown and very nutty in flavor.

In fact, you don’t even need to wrap the ears in foil. With fresh corn, carefully peal back the husk, remove the silk, restore the husk and drop on the fire. The water in the husk will steam the corn and protect it from burning. A little browning to the corn adds to the flavor.

Cowboy Beans are very easy to make. Simply add a few tablespoons of your favorite bar-b-que sauce to a can of beans and heat. Magic!

Smoked Hamburgers

I think the key to a good hamburger is to cook it well, but not too well. Hamburger is tricky because you don't know where it's been unless you make your own. So, you have to get the internal temperature to at least 160 to cook out any bacteria that may be lurking inside.

With a gas grill you have some flexibility in cooking hamburgers. You can use a high heat to sear the outside, then use a lower heat to cook the interior while adding things like BBQ sauce or smoke. For today's menu I used smoke from mesquite wood smoldering on the back grate. I got the wood chips going early so I'd have a lot of smoke by the time I put the burgers on the grill.

I didn't do anything "funny" with the hamburger patties. I just mashed them into shape and sprinkled a little salt and pepper on both sides. Really, you don't need more than that.

Potato Salad

When it comes to potato salad I'm all over the map, in that I like most kinds of potato salad. That is not the case for the rest of my family, so over the years I've adapted a rough recipe that seems to please everybody. It's a variation on warm German potato salad.

I use white, waxy potatoes because they hold up best after being boiled. I use bacon, some herbs, celery, egg and that's about it. I cook the potatoes until you can pierce them easily with a knife and cool them rapidly in an ice bath to prevent further cooking. I think this is key to ending up with a chunky, rather than a mushy, potato salad.

Once the potatoes are cooled, chopped and in the bowl, then Fun Time begins! What to do next depends on what you have in stock. Red bell pepper? Sounds great! Celery? Definitely! Chives or green onions? Bring it on!

I toss in the kinds of things I think my family will eat in a potato salad, mix the concoction and let it sit for an hour or so.

The finishing of a potato salad is the dressing and I've tried all sorts. My favorites are mayonnaise and either sour cream or plain yogurt. For this potato salad I used a Greek yogurt which turned out to be thicker than the Danon brand I normally use, but was very flavorful.

It's hard to quantify what I actually do with mayo and yogurt or sour cream. I just add a bit of this and that until the mixture looks moist and creamy. Then I let it sit for an hour or so for the flavors to mingle.

This potato salad can be served slightly warm, if the potatoes aren't totally cooled, or cold or in between. You can also serve it with a Ridiculous Stupid Omelette the day after.

Potato salad, it's what you want it to be.

Nice Salad
I made this nice salad which we didn't have an appetite to eat! It was grape tomatoes, arugula, mache and goat cheese. Looked nice, but we were stuffed!




Red, White and Blue Ice Cream

This was a simple dish. Using Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream, I simply placed blueberries and raspberries to suggest an American flag.


Happy Fourth of July!

Mid-Course Report

New Year’s Resolutions.

The year is half over. How are you doing?

Lost that 20 pounds? Taken up that new hobby? Learned to play the guitar? Speak Spanish? Work out at least three days a week? Stop smoking? Trim your nose hairs at least once a month?

Face it, your resolutions are dead. Kaput. All you have at this point is guilt. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

Fail. That is you. Total loser.

You haven’t lost an ounce. You’re still the dull, miserable recluse you were last year. You don’t even own a guitar, much less play one. Hola? You’re clueless. You’re a lazy, smoking sloth with a mustache, oh, sorry, those are your Nose Hairs.

Well, welcome to the New Year’s Resolutions Club. Membership: You.

I’ll cut to the chase. The reason you have FAILED in your resolutions is that you set the wrong resolutions. Unachievable. Lofty, yes, we are proud, but unachievable. Face it, in 20 years of announcing New Year’s Resolutions how many have you actually fulfilled?

Right, just as I thought: ZERO.

That’s because you’re going about it all wrong in setting resolutions. You’re thinking Grand Strides when you should be thinking bABY sTEPS. Little resolutions. Things you could actually achieve.

So, let’s have a look at my New Year’s Resolutions for 2008 and see how I’m doing.

1. Gain 20 pounds. Check.
2. Spend at least six days a week on the couch. Check.
3. Stop reading non-fiction. Check.
4. The garage is fine, it doesn’t need cleaning. Ever. Check.
5. Drink more beer than in 2007. Check and double Check.
6. Take care of Barky Dog. In Progress.
7. Stop using turn signals. Check.
8. Be more opinionated and less tolerant. Check.
9. Do not learn Spanish. Check.
10. Don’t worry, be happy. Check.

Now, isn’t that a better way to go? I’m well on my way to achieving all my goals for 2008 and it’s just over half-way through the year.

Well, I gotta run. Checking out a new Rent-a-Snake site I found on the Internet. Free shipping! I just might be able to take care of Resolution #6 if all goes well.

Meanwhile, it’s back to the couch. The new People just came out. Can you believe what’s going on with Lindsey Lohan? So illuminating.

Later.

Civic Lesson

Here in the United States we are taught from an early age that we enjoy a number of civic rights.

We have the right to assemble, that is, to meet in groups without being harassed by the authorities.

We have the right to free speech, that is, to complain against the government without being harassed by the authorities.

We have the right to vote without being harassed or threatened or restricted.

And we have the right to a trial by a jury of our peers, that is, the judge of our fate is not a judge person, but, rather, people who live in our community, fellow taxpayers, our peers. A peer doesn’t mean the same socio-economic level, or same educational level, or same political leaning or even same tastes in music. It means people among whom one lives.

So, with that preamble, I was summoned to Jury Duty.

Now, how should one react to receiving a summons for jury duty? After all, it’s a random selection and you might be called once in a decade, or never in your whole life. Most people, including myself, think as their first thought upon receiving the summons, “Oh, what a pain in the ass. I’ve got to go down to the courthouse and hang around all day, probably for nothing.”

That was my thought. And I’m retired. What else do I have to do, besides my personal interests and part-time job? Still, I thought, “Why me?”

I have only been called to jury duty once in my entire life. There were about 400 of us in the pool. Two trials were coming up and they needed a total of 24, twelve for each trial. I spent long hours calculating the odds of being selected, however, odds have little to do with it. Getting selected has all to do with the attorneys for each side of the case and how they try to get the best fit to give them an advantage.

In my first experience with jury duty I was excused after two days into the selection process.

“You are excused. See the clerk on your way out for compensation.”

I earned $24 for two days hanging around the courthouse.

This time around things proceeded quickly and I found myself empaneled on a jury. It happened fast and it was moments between when I was in the gallery looking at the judge, and in the jury box looking at the judge. I suddenly had eleven new friends and a new job.

I had not been trained for this, never taken a course, never read up on the subject, and there I was on a jury for a case of aggravated assault: a guy was accused of shooting someone.

To cut to the chase, we convicted the accused and sent him to prison for a long time. The victim will live with her injuries for the rest of her life.

Although I was keen to duck my civic responsibility and be excused, I am proud that was able to work with a jury of my peers to render justice, but that is not to say that it was easy. I feel that I am a better, more informed person, to have gone through the criminal trial process than to base my opinions on what I have seen on TV or read in the papers.

And, finally, I am fortunate to live in a country where a jury process exists because it does work, not always to the liking of either the prosecutors or defense, but it does work.

Did we have all the forensic evidence we needed? No. We had what we had.

Did the defense have an air-tight story? No, it had lots of holes.

In the end we did what juries are instructed to do. We weighed the evidence, ignored what was not in evidence and thought long and hard about what to conclude.

Try taking twelve people you don’t know and having them all agree on a pizza. Let’s just get The Works. No, I’m allergic to mushrooms. OK, The Works, minus mushrooms. No, a pizza is not a pizza without mushrooms. I’ve GOT to have mushrooms.

You get the picture.

It was not a happy occasion in the end. We were united in our decision, but it was a harsh decision. We convicted the accused and sentenced him to prison time.

After it was all over we chatted with the judge and the attorneys on both sides but mostly we wanted to get out of there and resume our lives.

Did we render a just verdict? Yes, I think we did. We didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle but we had enough to get a clear picture of what happened.

Was our punishment just? Who knows. We wanted this dude off the streets and whether he gets out early on good behavior in prison when he’s eligible for parole is up to him.

I’m satisfied that this person is off the streets for a while and won’t shoot anyone else either on purpose or by accident for many years to come.

I’m exhausted from this week. I slept 14 hours on Friday and another 12 on Saturday and Sunday. I was wiped out.

Civic duty. Nobody told us how much effort it would take. We worked for hours to be fair. It was by no means a “slam dunk” decision. We worked hard to reach a consensus and nobody was frivolous in the outcome. It was deadly serous every day and we were all wiped out when allowed to go home.

In the end I can say that justice was served. We the jurors came to a consensus of opinion and stood by that opinion in court when polled individually. As jurors we came together as a team and were able to focus on the facts at hand wiping away our clouded individual feelings. Collectively we took our charge seriously and rendered a verdict.

On the one hand I’m glad I got a chance to participate in the process, and on the other hand I’m doubly glad that I won’t be eligible for jury duty for some years to come.

You can learn civics in school, but the practice comes in life. I’ve had enough practice for the time being. But, when I read in the paper about a jury trial I’ll be able to sympathize with the work they have ahead of them and think, been there, done that.

The Light is On

Q: How many blondes does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Five. One to hold the bulb and four to turn the ladder.

(Hey, while I’m an honorary blonde I can tell jokes like this.)

Q: How many Vulcans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Approximately 1.000000000000000000.

Q: How many people would offer unsolicited advice to a person planning on changing out his light fixtures?
A: Everybody on the planet minus one.

My week went sort of like this.

Yo, dude, whatcha plannin’ to do this weekend?

Hey, I’m changing out some light fixtures.

Yo, dude, don’t forget to turn the power off at the breaker.

Yeah, thanks for the advice.



Yo, dude, whatcha plannin’ to do this weekend?

Hey, I’m changing out some light fixtures.

Yo, dude, don’t stand on the top of the ladder. Get a bigger ladder.

Yeah, thanks for the advice.



Yo, dude, whatcha plannin’ to do this weekend?

Hey, I’m changing out some light fixtures.

Yo, dude, buy some extra parts because, you know, the box will be short something.

Yeah, thanks for the advice.



Yo, dude, whatcha plannin’ to do this weekend?

Hey, I’m changing out some light fixtures.

Yo, dude, remember the belt buckle rule. Don’t lean out farther than your belt buckle.

Yeah, thanks for the advice.



And that’s the way it went all freaking week! Finally, I just decided to make stuff up.

Yo, dude, whatcha plannin’ to do this weekend?

Hey, I’m robbing a bank.

Yo, dude, wear one of those big hats so the cameras can’t see your face.


I mean there was no relief!

Yo, dudes, it’s light fixtures not the Space Shuttle. I’m going to take down the old light fixtures that used those itty bitty 15-Watt bulbs and replace them with fixtures that use Manly 200-Watt Bulbs. Yes, we are going to Light This Place Up!

Turns out that no amount of advice can prepare you for taking out a ceiling light fixture and replacing it with another. I changed out six fixtures and they were all different.

Amazing.

I only didn’t get the power turned off to one fixture and soon discovered the hard way that it was “hot.”

The “hard way” is standing on the top of a ladder, trying not to dive off head first as amperes, volts and coulombs are coursing down your body at the speed of light giving you that tingling feeling and making sparks shoot out of your eyeballs.

“Uh, no problem, Honey, just as soon as I get the feeling back in my right leg. It’s sort of twitching, now.”

I hobbled into the garage, tempted to throw the main breaker, but, rather, spent a few minutes looking for the “upstairs hall lights” which was breaker 19 and I had turned off breaker 17.

Missed it by THAT much.

The most difficult fixture was in the stairway leading to the home office room. Positioned above the stair landing it required me to violate all the “advice” I had received.

“Don’t stand on the top step of the ladder.” Violate.

“Don’t lean out farther than your belt buckle.” Violate.

“Don’t stand on one foot.” Violate.

“Carry extra hardware because you’ll drop something.” Violate.

“Don’t do this alone.” Violate.

“Make sure you have the right tools.” Violate.

“Swearing doesn’t help.” Violate. Violate. Violate. Violate. Violate.

In truth, five of the six lighting fixtures went in with little problem. Yeah, there were some improvisations but that’s to be expected.

However, the stairway fixture was a challenge. For a start it violated all the safety rules. I could barely reach the old fitting by standing on the top of the ladder on one foot, on tiptoe, stretching.

Nobody gave me the advice of standing on one foot and holding my arms over my head for 20 minutes. Lack of strength training was nearly my undoing.

The first screw I dropped fell in slow motion, bouncing off step after step as it made it’s way from my hand to the floor about 20 feet below.

Twenty feet. What’s that?

An advisor of mine said that a fall of 30 feet will kill you. Twenty feet will just maim you.

Comforting.

I visualized myself falling as did the screw and it was not comforting at all. However, I had a job to do and as I teetered on the top of the ladder I made sure all my motions were careful and direct. No funny business way up here because one slip could be, well, not worth the effort.

With a final twist the last screw was in and I made the careful descent down.

Whew!

In the end it was all my advisors who made this difficult job a safe job. I tied the ladder to the bannister so it wouldn’t fall down the stairs. I held on to a rail with one hand while I worked the fixture with the other. I carried several screws, connectors, pieces and parts in case I dropped them. And, I took my time.

I’m looking forward to meeting someone who is changing out his light fixtures so I can give him all my advice.

Yeah, I’d like to do that.

I Love This Woman

Thirty years ago, yes, 30, like Three Decades, I stumbled across this woman and thought...

“she could be my wife.”

I remember the thought and I remember thinking it and I remember the time I thought it.

However, “she could be my wife” was not an easy thought to put into action. It took time and dedication, but, eventually it happened.

During our time together we have supported each other in writing our PhD theses, moving from job to job, raising children and surviving the slings and arrows that Life throws.

I love this woman.

We have lived with each other more than apart from each other. We have laughed more than cried and celebrated more than commiserated.

In short, it’s been a grand 30 years and I couldn’t imagine having spent it with anyone else,

Yeah, I’m an idiot but I love you for supporting my idiocy, my foibles and nuttiness all these years.

Here’s to you, Helen, Light of my Life, the Voice and all the characters of reason on my blog and in my life.

I would still be on the Shelf without you, but, then again, you know that.

Hair Today, Blonde Tomorrow

“Ewww, what’s that on the side of your face? You didn’t fall asleep in a puddle of urine again, did you?”

You know, you can live an exemplary life full of joy and good deeds and it just doesn’t matter how many joys or good deeds one has done if somewhere, somewhere in the dim, dim past, many years ago, one perhaps overdid it with a bottle of tequila or two and failed to be persnickety about where one passed out.

“No, I did not sleep in a puddle of urine, unless Sandy peed on my pillow which he has been known to do, but, then I’d exchange it with one of yours, so the short answer is no.”

Poor Sandy, the old cat. He gets blamed for all sorts of stuff, although lately I’ve been thinking about investing in a company who manufactures a feline Depends. Incontinent cats: don’t let it be a stain on YOUR cat’s reputation.

The non-sequitur of the subject, however, grabbed my interest like a rabid ferret in my trousers. “What brings up the subject of sleeping in urine, Light of my Life, been sniffing camphor again?”

“No, it’s just that the side of your face is all yellow.”

Instinctively, I rubbed the left side of my face and smelled my palm, relieved that Essence du Cat was absent. I turned and headed down the hall to the bathroom to find a mirror.

It was subtle, to be sure, but definite. My beard was definitely yellow. Also my eyebrows and part of my hair. Not exactly yellow yellow, but more like light tan or blonde.

Oh my God, I’m going blonde! I thought of all the blonde jokes I’ve told over the years and I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.

Granted, I’ll have more fun but at what price? I had to think but nothing was happening. It’s twue! It’s twue! I’m blonde!

Then I took a deep breath, calmed down, counted to ten (by threes) and looked around the bathroom. The answer had to be here somewhere. But where?

There lying by my sink was the answer in the form of a plastic tube. I grabbed it and ran back to the kitchen.

“It’s this!” I shouted, “Here’s the culprit!”

Triumphantly, I held up a tube of (expensive) skin cream with “Tanning Action.”

Breathlessly, I read aloud the label. “Expensive Skin Cream with Tanning Action. Get months of tan overnight. Simply rub into skin to moisturize and get the added benefit of a glowing tan!”

Better living through chemistry. I always say that. Why lay outside basting like a rotisserie chicken when you could slather on Expensive Skin Cream with Tanning Action and wake up perfectly tanned, and with moisturized skin in the comfort of your air-conditioned house? Seemed like a simple choice to me.

Let’s go for Tanning in Air-Conditioning for 500, Alex.

So, last night I went for Tanning Option A and slathered on the Expensive Skin Cream. What the heck, let’s moisturize the beard and eyebrows. Oops, a little in the hair. Not to worry. Hair doesn’t tan, does it?

Ah. The key thought.

Hair. Doesn’t. Tan. Does. It?

That is true. Hair doesn’t tan.

Hair dyes.

I stared at my face in the mirror. Obviously, I was not even-handed with the application of Expensive Skin Cream with Tanning Action because the left side of my face was definitely light brown, hair and all, while the right side of my face was not. Ironically, my beard picked up all the color; my skin looked cadaver pale as usual.

“Uh, if you get breakfast ready I’ll join you soon. I’m going to take a couple of showers.” I trotted off to the bathroom to wash the mess out of my beard.

Later, I returned to the kitchen for breakfast.

“Looks the same.”

“Thanks for the observation. Pass the cherry preserves.”

“You going to spread that on your toast or your beard?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You revel in the afflictions of others. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Why, because you rubbed dye into your beard. I think your only option is to rub that stuff all over your head so you at least have a consistent color. Right now you look like a blonde zebra.”

“Oh, thanks for the support. In fact, I have a plan. I’m going to get one of those whitening shampoos and just bleach it out.”

“You mean a blue rinse?”

“You have a low opinion of me ever since that urine thing. No, not blue, white. See you in a while, I’m going up to the store.”

“If you get lost, call me!”

Geeze, I’ve been blonde for one day and already I hate the World. Memo to self: start a blonde support group asap.’

Later I returned with a very expensive shampoo designed expressly for “seniors.” Of course, the marketing department would have prevented a full description of their product, “for seniors or the blonde afflicted” but I’ll give them credit.

The label proclaimed “guaranteed to wash out yellow, faded, hair and restore luxurious silver luster.”

Yep, just what the doctor ordered.

“This is a blue rinse.”

“No it is not. It’s a senior shampoo specially formulated to fix yellowed hair. I have yellowed hair. This is going to fix it. How difficult is that to understand?”

You know, being blonde gives you a different perspective on the world and, like, the people in it. I mean people are so, you know, to blondes. Like, you know? I am happy with myself and everybody else is just jealous. That’s why I’m, like, getting all this hassle about shampoo. It’s shampoo, people, not rocket science. If it was rocket science it would be all fire and stuff, but this is with, like, water. Get real!

I grabbed my senior shampoo and headed to the shower. Finally, we’ll take care of this once and for all and life will go on.

I turned on the shower, bathroom fan and got ready to end this charade. Hopping into the shower with my senior shampoo I was, I’ll admit, unprepared for what squirted into my hand when I opened up the stuff.

Blue.

Bright blue shampoo.

Most shampoo is white or, occasionally, golden, but never blue.

This stuff was blue.

Through the steam I read the side of the bottle again.

“Wash out that dull yellow with our shampoo especially formulated for seniors. Brighten that dull grey hair and say good-bye to yellow.”

Well, I certainly wanted to say good-bye to yellow so I lathered up.

Rinse and repeat.

I did that several times. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Finally the water started to cool and I got out of the shower and toweled off. Checking out the mirror I could see that the yellow beard was definitely whiter. Maybe not so much white as different. It will probably look a whole lot better when it dries.

It didn’t.

After blow drying and combing, it was no better.

“Well, at least your beard isn’t yellow any more. I warned you about the blue rinse but, no, you didn’t listen. Blue and yellow make what, Mr. Scientist?”

“Green?” I croaked.

“Yes, green, like the side of your face. So, instead of blonde thoughts you’ll be having Kermit thoughts. Is it not easy being green?”

My hair was blue and my beard was green. I was like the Incredible Hulk without all the muscles. I looked like a Picasso after a bad night. I was like all those old ladies who invade casinos in Vegas, but if they were Leprechauns. Suddenly I had a hankering for Lucky Charms and an AARP membership. Wayne Newton, did I miss the show?

“You could always shave it off, including the eyebrows,” was the only advice I got, “There’s a razor in the drawer.”

Yes, that was the only solution at this point. My hair was blue, my beard green and my eyebrows yellow and my complexion pale. I’m not even sure there’s a country flag with those colors, certainly not one with a soccer team. I was well and truly stuck.

“I’ll tell them at work that I had a Bad Tequila Night. They’ll understand. I’ll tell them I visited a nuclear reactor, or swam in the bayou or it’s drugs. They’ll understand drugs. Lots of people have blue hair.”

I looked for support but there was none. “Where are you going?” I asked.

“Outside. I need to work on my tan.”

Love

Unhh!

Ahhhhhh!

UNHHH!

Arrrrrg!

Mmmff!

Uh!

UnnnnnnHHHH!

Ooooff!

ARRRR!

Unnnnnnnnhhhhhhhhhhh!

Honey, are you watching porn again?

No, tennis.

You sure?

The Shining

Book signings are fun. I think I'll do them more often.

The fine people at Barnes and Noble made sure I was comfortable with a padded folding chair. Note "padded." I'm sure not everybody gets a "padded" chair. Some of the more rude customers suggested that a padded room might be more appropriate and I made a point to misspell their names when signing their books. Oopsie!

I provided chocolate treats as an enticement but refrained from hawking the book to get a free chocolate. I only made a few kids cry when I asked them for a credit card before I'd let them have a piece of chocolate.

Dove Dark, too. Nothing but the best.

One customer bought me a coffee and told me my hair looked nice. It's a real boost when your stylist shows up for a book signing. Memo to self: double tip for stylist.

Another customer came into the store and asked me if I worked there. Sure, I said, how can I help you? She was looking for a Father's Day gift and I said "Look no further, or is it farther. Your gift is here. Furthermore or farthermore I'll sign it at no additional charge. Sell it on eBay in a year and buy yourself a yacht."

She bought two. I guess she needs a couple of boats.

After the signing was over I managed to snag one of the posters. Kink settled himself on the poster and asked me how my day was.

"Well, it was interesting," I replied.

"How so," Kink inquired?

"Well, I met a lot of people who were interested in the book and many of them bought it for various reasons. In fact, one person laughed at the chapter titled "Conversations with a Cat" but became thoughtful as she read further. It's a thoughtful piece, you know."

Kink stretched out and yawned widely.

"Yeah, I was there when you wrote it and glad I could help."

"Don't mention it, my little friend." I scratched Kink's back. He closed his eyes, purring.

The Neighborly Thing to Do

We have problems with our neighbors.

Nothing major that would call for more than, say, one police car, just a bunch of minor stuff.

For a while I thought it was something we were doing, as if that were possible, model citizens we are, but I reasoned it out and we’re definitely not the problem. For a start, we’re still here and all of our neighbors have moved away. Several times. No family has lived next to us for longer than two years. It can’t be because of anything we’ve said to them because we don’t talk to our neighbors; we just watch them through the windows.

On two occasions I tried to be “nice” to the new neighbors. I even went so far as to read up on How to Be Nice to New Neighbors in old Miss Manners columns and she gave me great tips like “look presentable, not creepy,” “bring a housewarming gift,” and “smile.”

So, I did that.

I showered, blow-dryed my hair and slathered on some Insta-Tan from Wal-Mart. I think that stuff makes me look like Ricardo Mondeblan , put on new Argyle socks and my best, dress sandals, Hawaiian shirt and my aviator’s Blu-Ray shades. Is it hot in here or is it me? I was good to go.

As a housewarming gift I picked up a bag of Fire Ant Bait since that’s a problem in our neighborhood, at least on our side of the street. Actually, sort of confined to our house and the neighbors on either side. Fire ants have been known to devour entire cows; I saw that on the Discovery Channel. I figured I could work that into the conversation so they’d appreciate the magnitude of my housewarming gift. Subtlety is my middle name.

I rang the bell and presently Neighbor Lady and I were peeking at each other through her partially cracked doorway. Judging from her stare she might have been hitting on me, which was highly inappropriate since we had just met. I noted that she was security conscious, though, and kept the safety chain hooked on her door, a wise precaution in this day and age.

In retrospect, I think the conversation went well. I told her in graphic detail about the fate of the cow on the Discovery Channel and when I told her I was her neighbor she exclaimed, “Oh, my!”


She was obviously impressed at having such a well-educated naturalist living right next door. To clear up any confusion I emphasized that I was a naturalist, one who studies nature, rather than a naturist, one who practices nudism and certainly never in the front yard.

I also told her that I thought the theory that rabid possums were responsible for the rash of Bichon Frise deaths in the neighborhood was highly overrated. No, it was definitely the work of raccoons or maybe large snakes, possibly rented.

Finally, I was able to slip the bag of Fire Ant Bait to Neighbor Lady without making her unchain the door. She really appreciated the gift because I heard her say as she closed the door, “Oh. My. God!”

Nothing like a first impression. I always say that.

UT Graduates

The Next Generation Longhorns.

These young women represent the next generation of educators, scientists, technicians, writers and journalists, business and legal representatives, government officials, doctors and so much more.

I am very proud that my daughter has grown into such a self-possessed, confident and capable adult ready to take on the Real World and make her mark. She has been a student, a landlord and a volunteer for charities. She completed her degree in four years earning A's and B's. No C's. (That's considerably better than my academic record having been grateful to receive a "D" in Protozoology rather than failing!)

She and her friends have already demonstrated the ability to succeed by surviving four years at one of the nation's top universities. Over seven thousand graduates earned bachelors or advanced degrees this year from UT.

I wish them all the best of luck and fortune.

Insanely Small

This is the Canon FS 11 solid state camcorder. It's insanely small and insanely lightweight. It's insane.

It comes with 16 Gb of internal memory which will hold many hours of video and a slot for even more memory.

It weighs just over half a pound which is less than a cup of coffee. Totally silent, no moving parts.

I'll be filming my Star Wars movie in the morning.