Mark Hayter's Column

Not on the roof

2012-02-03T09:59:00.000-08:00

“Porchsit”

    THE PORCH – The reason we’re not sitting on the roof right now has nothing to do with the fact that the earth is currently being bombarded by an excessive amount of radiation and gamma rays likely to mess up our ATM machines and neuter a few of us. I haven’t read anything about the Neutering Threat, but I’m sure it’s there.

    No, the recent solar storm hasn’t kept us from the roof. It’s the sporadic rain. The metal roof is slicker than eel sweat. And, yes, two or three of you didn’t get the message and are at this very moment sitting on the roof waiting for us. They’ll slide down in a minute. Just hope they miss the hedge.

    One thing good about being on the porch is that I get to wear my houseshoes instead of my skid-proof roof shoes. Those things are a bit cumbersome. I got ‘em after I about cracked my tailbone up there a couple of years back. It was sprinkling about like now, and I was up there blowing leaves off the roof. Did I mention the eel secretion sensation? Hadn’t been for the gutter I would’ve bought the sod. I only wrote five articles about the mishap. Scared me a bit.

    It’s much safer here on the porch bench. We need a swing, is what we need. Unfortunately, the porch is too narrow and Kay would get upset at me constantly bumping the wall. The least little thing sets her off.

    Where is she right now? Oh, she’s watching one of her Cesar Millan Dog Whisperer episodes. She tapes all of ‘em. When a new one comes out she gets real excited. Runs around in circles sometimes. Weirdest thing.

    What makes it all the more weird is the fact that we don’t own a dog. I’ve only mentioned that about four dozen times. I may have to get one, though, ‘cause Kay needs to start applying her Dog Whisperer tricks on something other than me.

    Anytime I do anything the least bit annoying – Yell at the TV or try to catch Cheetos in my mouth – Kay points at me defiantly and goes, “Psst!” If I persist, she reaches over and pokes me in an area just below my ribs. Definitely not one of the body’s erogenous zones. Yeah, the girl needs something else to discipline, ‘cause this ol’ dog won’t hunt. Not really sure what that means, but I’ve heard it enough times.

    Wouldn’t it be neat if we were sitting here and it started snowing? I’d about go ape. Haven’t experienced enough snow to dread it. I think it’s absolutely beautiful. And, I’m going to tell you something, if you promise to keep it to yourself, ‘cause it’s bizarre. Promise? Okay, when I watch the news and they’re showing a place with a lot of snow, I envision myself being there and scooping up a handful of snow and eating it.

    I told you it was weird. When I see flaky ice, I want to eat it. It goes back to the time before self-defrosting freezers. Our freezer compartment always had a layer of fine, flaky ice on the sides. I’d go by when Mom wasn’t looking and scrape some off in my hand and eat it. In fact all the kids did. I think I even saw Dad do it once. I believe the family had a phosphorus deficiency. Something like that. Some element that made us eat ice.

    What? You have got to be kidding. We’re about to go off the air? Seems like we just got here. We didn’t accomplish much, but wasn’t the moment nice? Can’t see as well from ground level, but it’s not bad on the porch.

    Tell you what, I’ll go ahead and sign off, but if any of you care to stick around a little while longer, I’ll go make us a pot of coffee. While I’m gone keep an eye out for people sliding off the roof. I can’t believe we haven’t seen any yet. – Next time.

END

To watch Brad and Mark’s review of Dumas’s Tacos click on pick below.

2012-01-31T12:38:00.000-08:00

“Popcorn and a movie”

Last week I came close to swearing off popcorn. It was a scary time for me. I felt like I was handed a key to the city of Crazytown. I don’t want to experience anything like that again.

The cause of temporary popcorn bane was related to the fact that over the past month Kay and I have been to the movie four times. After entering a theatre I have to immediately stand in line for popcorn. It mentions that somewhere on my health card. It’s an acronym. TEPA – Theatre entrance popcorn addiction.

One reason I married Kay was because I don’t have to share much of my popcorn with her. She actually reaches her limit and then quits. That’s just silly business. You’re supposed to quit only when the bag is empty.

Each time we go to the movie I buy a large bag of popcorn and a medium drink. Once I tried to buy a medium popcorn, but the large was only about 50 cents more. The price for a medium is so high that 50 cents more is chickenfeed. I’m thinking they want you to buy the large bag. They need you to buy the large bag. I’d get the large drink, but Kay can’t carry it without handing me her purse. She tried once and the spillage was massive.

I don’t know what the price of a large popcorn would have to be before I quit buying it. All I know is they haven’t hit it yet. They’re getting pretty close, though. Testing me is what they’re doing.

Each time I buy a large bag I tell myself that I’m going to get a refill at the end of the movie and take it home with me. Unfortunately, I’m so sick of popcorn when I leave the theatre that I don’t want to think about bringing any home.

Like I said, it was after the fourth movie of the month that I swore off popcorn. The movie was “Tintin.” Before the movie came out I had never heard of a Tintin. I originally thought it was the last name of a German shepherd.

Turns out Tintin is a bright Belgium boy with a dog named Snowy. You can imagine how stupid I felt for neglecting to keep up on Belgium character portrayals.

Since it’s obvious that three of you appear more curious about the movie than you are interested in popcorn, let me say that the animation in “Tintin” is the best I’ve ever seen. And, we didn’t even see the 3-D version. While I understand the concept of the new animation, I can’t imagine how anyone is able to carry it out to such perfection.

The movie was so exciting that I only nodded off twice. It was during the chase scenes. I hate chase scenes. After awhile I just want everybody to stop. I get the point. Unless I’m watching “Bullet” or Jason Bourne, just catch ‘em or don’t, but quit the chase.

In Tintin there were car chases, boat chases, foot chases. I think an elephant was in there somewhere. Seems like it. Like I say, I nodded off a time or two. Had they trimmed down the chase scenes I might’ve given the movie a “Large Popcorn.” That’s part of my movie rating system. A four star movie would get the “Big Bucket.” Not all theatres have a big bucket. I got one at a theatre in Arkansas and woke up in the emergency room. Let me tell you, Kay took her good time hauling my buns there. I think I lost a day.

The popcorn at the Tintin movie was great. Well, it was great for about half a bag. After that it got worse… exponentially. But, I finished it. Oh, boy, did I finish it. That’s when I swore off popcorn. That was a week ago.

Now, I’m proud to say, I’m back, baby! Just waiting for a movie to come out that I care to see. I’ll wait for another week, maybe two, and then I’ll go see something I don’t wanna see. Likely a Kay movie. Sappy as all get out, but the popcorn will make it worthwhile.

END

To see Brad and Mark’s review of Pei Wei’s Asian Diner click on pic below.

A copy of a mummy

2012-01-21T07:42:00.000-08:00

“King Tut”

Last week, I took Kay to see the King Tut exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston. I didn’t really see the need to go, ‘cause I thought we’d already been. I don’t know if it was the PBS documentary or the catalog sitting in my bookcase, but something led me to believe I had seen the thing.

Kay convinced me I was wrong. Then she explained how the Egyptians are trying to collect money from the exhibit to build a museum in Cairo so they permanently house the massive display. If we didn’t go while the exhibit was in Houston, we’d never get to see it unless we traveled to Egypt. I just don’t think I could live with myself if that happened.

No question, the exhibit was worth the expense and the effort. For two tickets and two listening devices the size of a TV remote we were out $70. Kay informed me that she had purchased the tickets back in October, so I was pretty much committed. Turns out, I’m glad I went. Interesting it was.

We didn’t need the listening devices for all the exhibits. If we had, we’d still be in there listening to stuff. It was only at the fourth display that I learned where the sound was coming out of the remote. I hate it when people assume any dope can figure something out.

Another thing that confused me a bit was all the writing attached to each display. I had read four explanations at one display before realizing that each plaque said the same thing. Sometimes I have trouble comprehending what I’m reading. Especially if someone is standing next to me. Hey, I can’t even operate the Redbox movie dispenser if someone is watching me.

After getting settled with the viewing process I ended up learning a bunch. I found out that some of the Egyptian emperors after Tut tried to chip his name off all structures and statues in an attempt to keep him from going to heaven. They believed that if a king’s name wasn’t written anywhere, he would not experience life after death.

So, Tut’s reign was a secret for many centuries after his death. What’s ironic is that once his tomb was uncovered in 1922, he became the most famous of all Pharaohs. And, that’s a good thing, ‘cause somebody sure buried him with a lot of cool stuff to occupy his time in the hereafter.

Unfortunately, some of the stuff was internal organs. Four separate smaller coffins were used to store his whatsits. One small golden container fashioned in the likeness of Tut was made to hold his stomach. They dried it out before they chunked it in there, but it was his stomach all right.

The big disappointment of the exhibit for me was the fact that the Boy King’s real mummy wasn’t there. Apparently it was too valuable and too fragile to travel, so they used a 3-D copy machine to duplicate the thing. I admire their honesty, ‘cause there’s no way anyone would’ve been able to tell that the real one from the copy.

I saw a 3D copy machine on one of those “How do they make that” shows. Fascinating. Makes me wonder why they can duplicate a mummy, but they can’t make a tuna can that makes it easier to extract the tuna. I’m just saying.

Normal people generally start out real slow in a museum -- reading everything and taking their sweet time. Halfway through they’re at a trot. “Yeah, another gold cat. Great gold necklace, granite statute… Move along!”

Well, that didn’t happen to us. I was so tired I wanted to prop my feet on Tut’s baby bed, but I hung in there like grim death. Hey, tickets were $25 a pop, and I wanted to get my money’s worth. I think I did.

I wouldn’t go again if it was free and they served peanut M&Ms, but I can now say I’ve seen the Tut exhibit.

And, I must say that I’m a bit concerned about it all. I mean if the stuff in Tut’s tomb is in Houston, Texas, what on earth is King Tut using to occupy his time in the afterlife? A lot of ancient Egyptians went to a lot of trouble to give that kid a smooth transition. If they had had the luxury of a nice tomb, they’d probably be turning over in it.

END

To see Brad and Mark’s review of Chi Japanese Cuisine click on picture below.

Blouse versus shirts

2012-01-12T13:07:00.000-08:00

“Dentist visit”

    I had an interesting visit to the dentist last week. It would’ve been less interesting had I needed drilled, cleaned, or pulled. Those visits are so not interesting.

    Fortunately, I was only getting a fitting for a new tooth guard. Teeth guard? Whatever. It looks like the thing a quarterback periodically puts in and pulls out of his mouth. I need one because I grind my teeth in my sleep. No, I don’t do it on purpose. What do you think I am?

At one point, I bought an over-the-counter tooth guard, but chewed it up on the third night. I dreamed I was eating popcorn and ended up gnawing the daylights out of the thing. Dr. English was having me fitted for my second professionally made guard. I can’t wait till it comes in. I asked for industrial strength.

    The best part of the dentist visit happened after Terri finished pulling all of the solidified goo out of my mouth. It takes goo to get a guard. While I’ve seen a locksmith duplicate a key by simply looking at one setting on the seat inside a locked car, I’ve never seen or heard of a dentist making a tooth guard simply by looking at a person’s teeth. No, you’ve got to make a mold for those things or else you’ll end up biting on a slant.

    When Terri got through with me, we walked up to the front desk to get stuff sorted and I got to talk with the women. I don’t know any male dental assistants or office help, or I would’ve talked to them, too. I’m just saying.

I got to show the girls one of my favorite Christmas gifts. It was my Savvy Caddy wallet. I mentioned it to you a week or two back. It’s wider than a regular wallet, but thinner. And, it bends, so it doesn’t make you sit on a slant. Can you tell I hate slants?

While I’m on the subject, I’d like to ask you men which pocket you put your wallet in. If you’re right handed, I assume you put it in your left back pocket. That way, you grab it with your left hand and leaf through it with your right.

Brad is right handed, but puts his wallet in his right rear pocket. That means he has to change hands when he pulls it out. I tried to explain the inefficiency of this practice, and he insulted me. Stubborn he is. And, mean.

Stacie said that her husband keeps his wallet in one of his front pockets. I thought that absolutely ridiculous… and dangerous. But, I didn’t tell her that. Common sense tells you not to upset the dental staff.

    After the wallet topic played out, the conversation went in the direction of buttons on women’s blouses compared to those on men’s shirts. The buttons on shirts are on the right side and the holes on the left. If you’re right handed, it’s the only way to fly.

If you’re left handed, it’s best to be a woman, ‘cause female buttons are on the left with holes on the right. It’s crazy out there, people.

Then the women shocked the willies out of me by saying that the zipper flap on most women’s pants is on the right and folds left. I took their word, ‘cause I’ve never experimented with women’s pants. I do know that my flap is on the left and folds right. I don’t even know if I could zip my pants if someone swapped my flap. Brad probably could.

Give me a second to research this button thing. – Ah, I found a source that explains it thusly: “Well-heeled” women of the Victorian Age generally had servants dress them, so buttons and flaps were placed to accommodate the right handed servants. The well-to-do men, had servants lay out their clothes, but generally dressed themselves.

I don’t know whether or not that’s true, but it’ll give me something to share when I go back to pick up my new tooth guard. By the way, do you get a tooth guard for your uppers or lowers. I don’t think I could sleep with something on my uppers.

Did I mention how interesting my dentist visit was?

END

To see Brad and Mark’s review of Fuddruckers click on photo below.

No resolutions

2012-01-07T04:42:00.000-08:00

“Broken writing hammer”

ROOFTOP – I don’t know how many New Year rooftop articles I’ve written, but it’s been a bunch. Let’s see, this is will be the 32nd year of the column, so I just imagine there have been about that many. Again, my math skills stagger.

Before joining you up here this morning, I checked the archives to see what I wrote about at the beginning of last year. It was one of those meandering pieces, only longer. The crux of it all was that, in order to lose my double chin, I was not going to eat anything until I got down to the weight I wanted to be. One of those New Year’s Resolution things. http://markhayterscolumn.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html

Here’s a line from the article: “The good news is, in a month or two, neither of us will notice my neck. That’s ‘cause it’s gonna shrink big time. It’ll have a single layer. Like a Lorna Doone. I like Lorna Doones.”

Interestingly enough, that was the last time I wrote the words “Lorna” and “Doone” together in a sentence. I wrote ‘em separately hundreds of times.

Less interesting is the fact that I fasted for about 10 hours that day last year. Too many leftover Christmas snacks. Santa! The man’s a fiend. So, here I sit, five pounds heavier than this time last year. Resolutions, humbug.

So, this morning there will be no resolutions. None. Resolutions are the fuel of depression. Mark Twain said that about tapioca, but it also applies to resolutions. Not only that, but it provides me with a word for the New Year which will not appear in any of my writings -- tapioca. I think I can go a year without that.

I think it’s safe to say that each of us wants to do a little better in 2012 than we did in 2011. No one up here is thinking, “You know, I think I’d like to disappoint myself this year. Really smell up the corner where I live.” Is anyone thinking that? Put your hand down, Phil. Yeah, that was cute.

No, we all hope to do better. And, I’m off to a decent start, I must say. A couple of minutes before I climbed up here, Kay yelled at me from the living room: “Sweetie, I need your help moving furniture.” So, I went down there and she walked off. No explanation. I took it as a sign that I needed to move stuff… so I did. When she returned she said, “What are you doing?” -- Chasing Batman. What does it look like I’m doing?

That’s what I thought to say, but didn’t ‘cause I wanna be better this year. I said, “I’m moving stuff. You don’t like the coffee table the way it is? Here, I’ll move it at an angle. See? Is that what you want?” She said, “No, I want it in the guest room.” -- Ballistic did I go? No, I wanna be nice this year, so I moved the thing.

After I got all of that settled I hurried up here to be with you guys. Oh, and good news. We can have a bunch of nighttime roofsits this year, ‘cause Santa got me a pack of eight LED flashlights. Eight! LED stands for Lloyd E. Dapper, the guy who thought to put tiny lights all together into one really bright light. Anyway, we’ve got a bunch of flashlights to share, thanks to Santa… and Lloyd.

Second thought, we may not have many opportunities to sit on the roof or anywhere else. According to the Mayans, Armageddon occurs this year. Or something like it. Hey, I’ve seen the movie. It’s pretty powerful stuff. Truth is, the Mayans didn’t say the Apocalypse or Acropolis was coming this year. It’s just that this happens to be the last year on their projected calendar… so someone says, ‘cause I can’t read the thing. Chance is the person making up the calendar broke his writing hammer at 2012. That’s what I’m thinking.

I’m also thinking that it’s time we all climb down. We’ve accomplished about as much as we can for now. No resolutions, no tapioca, no writing hammer, but thumbs up to fleecy pants and LED flashlights. I’ve got eight of ‘em. We’ll give ‘em a workout this year. What say? – Next time.

END

To view Mark and Brad's review of La Mariposa Restaurant click on photo below.

Life after Christmas

2012-01-02T13:03:00.000-08:00

“So, what’d you get?”

Did you know that up until about a week ago, one third of China’s population was employed making remote controlled toy helicopters? I did the math on that after making several Christmas shopping excursions. I’m pretty good with numbers.

Unfortunately for our Asian owners, I didn’t purchase a helicopter. I happen to realize that the playlife of a remote controlled helicopter is about nine hours. After that it either breaks or is shelved due to an exponential decline in the operator’s attention span. Another of my calculations.

The remote controlled flying clown fish has a slightly less play life. How many of you got one of those things, or got the blimp shark? Balloon fish only have a two and a half-hour play life. You can do just so much indoors with a giant balloon fish. Too confined.

So, kids will immediately take the things outside where the inflatable air swimmers meet the same fate as a kite in the forest. Rather fragile devices. I’m waiting for Tonka Toys to make one.

I didn’t give or get one of the balloon fishes for Christmas. Nor did I get a “Swoop and Scoop” cereal bowl. I saw one at Brookstone, and told Kay to be sure not to get me one. The swoop scooper is a bowl that’s supposed to eliminate the horror of soggy breakfast cereal. It’s got a divide in it that looks much like the line across the Yin and Yang symbol. In the Yin part of the bowl you put your dry cereal, and the Yang gets the milk.

You’re supposed to put some dry cereal on your spoon and then dip it in the milk before eating. The cereal doesn’t have time to get soggy. I think it’s an example of supply with no demand. Of course, what do I know? Like I said, I didn’t get one.

In fact, I didn’t get or give much of anything for Christmas. I certainly didn’t give Kay much. In fact, I don’t remember what I got her, but I do remember wrapping the stuff. She picked her stuff out, except for a couple of items. She’ll be taking those back in a day or two. I don’t shop well. I know. Hard to believe, isn’t it?

The best thing I got for Christmas was a new wallet. It’s a Savvy Caddy. Thinner than most other wallets, yet holds a ton of stuff. I have yet to convert stuff from my old wallet to the Savvy Caddy. I’ve got to set aside a day or two to complete that task. My current wallet is the size of a Major League catcher’s mitt. I sit in a slant even when I’m in my underwear. My left cheek has become somewhat recessed. Dr. Strickland said it’s a rather common condition among men.

The wallet on the left is the Savvy Caddy. It's larger, but doesn't make you sit sideways.

It's a Christmas miracle!

Where was I? Oh, yeah, gifts. Kay and I didn’t open our gifts this morning in front of the family, because this was the first year in the history of the Hayters that we haven’t all gotten together for Christmas. If you ask me, it’s the grandkids. They’ve taken over everything. Brothers and sisters, who used to be relatively sane, become unnaturally attached to their offspring’s offspring.

If I wanted to host Christmas at my house, I’d have to include kin from a three county area. And each of them would want to show off his or her Christmas gifts. You’ve got your BB pistols, your remote controlled adult trippers, electric floor gougers… I’d be yelling so much that after one get-together all the kids would be calling me Uncle Stopit.

No, Christmas tapered off a bit this year. A bunch, actually. And, you know something? We survived. A few years ago, I would not have thought it impossible. But, life does go on… until it doesn’t.

Wow, what an unfestive thought. Let’s put that on hold for awhile. A good while. Instead let us dwell on the thought of all having a superiffic New Year. Create the beginnings of new traditions. I’m going to try that. I’m just not going to over do. Not good to start something unpleasant that might catch on. Been my experience. – Happy New Year, faithful readers… and first timers.

END

To see Brad and Mark's review of Tailgators Pub and Grill, clip on pic below.

This year's Christmas short story.

2011-12-22T10:18:00.000-08:00

Maggie's Christmas Mircacle

Up until the time my sister Maggie destroyed the baby Jesus, Mom was the one who made sure we always went to church twice on Sundays, once on Wednesday night, and a whole week in the summer. Vacation Bible School they called it. Vacation my foot.

    Daddy missed out on all this. The man had issues. I never knew what they were, and he didn’t seem to want to be asked. I didn’t fault him for it, though. Envied him.

     The church on Fern Street was the best gathering place for the sad and angry that one could find. If anything appeared the least bit enjoyable it was a sin. It was almost as if the elders were trying to scare us and bore us at the same time. The longest prayers, the driest sermons and the worst singing in the history of mankind resonated in confines of that building.

    Daddy would have nothing to do with it. He read his Bible and made sure we prayed before every meal, but he couldn’t abide church. Organized religion can draw the Spirit right out of a person. I heard him say something like that to Mom once.

    Dads slant on church seemed magically transformed after the Christmas Party at Aunt Rae and Uncle Bill’s. Aunt Rae was Daddy’s sister so he was committed to show up. Daddy liked parties about as much as he liked going to church.

Things went well at Rae and Bill’s up until the time of the accident. Could’ve happened to anybody. My sister Maggie was trying to pull a throw pillow out of my hand at the same time I let go of it. I thought it a cool trick.

As luck would have it, Maggie’s momentum landed her against Aunt Rae’s cabinet… the one that had the ceramic nativity scene on it. A fragile display it was. Sheep, camels, shepherds… every object resting atop the thick cotton base went flying.

A few of the pieces had yet to reach the floor before Maggie started bawling. All the grownups ran over to console her. Aunt Rae told her it was a cheap display that she just got it out for the party. Nothing to worry about.

Mom was slow to arrive on the scene. She sat and stared at me for about 3 hours. Fire came out her eyes. Literally. Mom’s glares could cut particleboard. All I could do was shake my head and point at Maggie. Hey, she would’ve done the same to me.

Turned out, all the figures ended up relatively unscathed. Oh, a nick here, a scratch there, but not near what one would expect. Unfortunately, one of the wisemen did get decapitated. But, it was a clean break. A little glue and he would be the picture of health… except for some serious nerve damage.

Daddy soon had all the characters resting atop cotton. All except for the baby Jesus. The figure was no where to be found. Aunt Mae ordered everyone back into the living room, but Maggie wouldn’t stop looking. I don’t know what got into her. It was like she had lost the real baby Jesus. She looked in and under everything in the dining room.

Mom finally had to take her to the hallway for a talk. I tagged along for moral support. Hey, Maggie would’ve done it for me. Mom went on and on about how the doll wasn’t really Jesus and how it was silly to get so upset. Just a little ceramic doll, and she was treating it like an idol, and that if she didn’t quit crying she would give her something to cry about.

    On the way home, Maggie was still whimpering. I even patted her on the arm a time or two, ‘cause she was beginning to scare me. Finally, Daddy said, “Maggie, did you ever stop to think that maybe you couldn’t find the baby Jesus because God took him to heaven?”

    What a load of hoo ha! I had to hold back a laugh. But, my little sister swallowed it. Feathers and all. “Really, Daddy? You think I didn’t really lose the baby Jesus, that God took him to heaven?”

    Daddy said, “Yes, I do, Maggie. I believe Jesus is in heaven.” Well, that changed everything. Maggie beamed, I snickered and Mom just shook her head.

I thought that would be the end of the whole baby Jesus story, but Maggie wouldn’t let it go. Kept telling anyone who’d listen about the miracle that happened at Aunt Rae and Uncle Bill’s. Mom told her that whatever she did she was not to mention it to anyone at church. Something about Jesus not being born on December 25th, and that people might get the wrong idea. Now it was Daddy’s time to shake his head.

On Christmas Eve something really weird happened. After supper Daddy told us all to get dressed up, that we were going to the Christmas candlelight service at the church downtown. I hated the idea, but Mom hated it worse.

Maggie was excited as all get out. “Really! What’s a candlelight service, Daddy?” Daddy told her he didn’t know, but that we were going find out.

That Christmas Eve I had the best church experience I’d ever had. And, it wasn’t even Sunday… or Wednesday night. We each got our own candle and got to light it in church. I didn’t think it possible. And then we sang some happy songs. Christmas carols even.

At one point, as we all stood holding our candles, I heard Mom whisper to Daddy, “Thank you, darling.”

After Christmas, our church life went back to normal. Change can be a hard thing. Eventually, though, the church on Fern Street split over a technicality. The whole concept was pretty fuzzy in scripture. The stuff of controversy for those in search of one.

By the time I started high school, Mom was taking us to the church downtown. And, over time, Daddy started going with us.

I don’t know what one is to gather from all this, if anything. But I do know that my sister sees God’s hand in it all.

Last July, as Maggie and I we were going through all the family stuff after Mom passed away, I opened the old box of Christmas ornaments. We had all personalized decorations over the years. Snug in one end of the box was a wadded paper towel. I pealed it back and saw a fractured ceramic baby Jesus. Daddy had apparently made a futile attempt to glue the swaddling clothes and torso together, but it was a mess. And the head was shattered and beyond the semblance of repair.

“What is it?” Maggie asked, noticing that I had been quiet for too long. I smiled and said, “Oh, just the clothespin reindeer that I made in, what, Christmas of ’73”? I gripped my hand around the wadded paper towel and returned it to its place in the box.

The discovery of the missing figurine did nothing in my mind to diminish the power of Maggie’s Christmas miracle. But, I thought it best to let her in on the finding another day. Like maybe this Christmas.

END

To view Mark and Brad's review of Tailgators Pub and Grill, click on pic below.

Claus at the mall

2011-12-17T09:50:00.000-08:00

“Real Santa”

    I’m proud to say that my countdown for Christmas can now officially begin. I had to wait for Kay and me to make our trip to the mall. Happened yesterday. I’m festive as all get out.

    Truth be told (and shouldn’t it be?) I actually enjoy visiting the mall during the Christmas Season. I act like I don’t just to keep my brothers from scorning me. The brothers do good scorn. – “So, you enjoy the crowds, decorations and Santy Clause? Okay nobody talk to him. Go ahead and hit him, Al.” – Since Mom passed away, those boys aren’t afraid of anything. It’s been open season on Mark.

    Had they seen me at the mall yesterday they would’ve really let me have it. I couldn’t help it. I saw the real Santa Clause. He even waved at me.

I don’t know how The Woodlands Mall managed to book the real Santa, but he was there all right. No mistaking. The guy on the corner in the red suit and waving the big apartment opening sign? No Santa. Not close.

At the Mall, Santa wasn’t even wearing his awkward, thick, red jacket. And, he was hatless… ‘cause he was indoors and sitting next to a fireplace! Why would the real Santa wear a coat and hat indoors?

At the Mall, Santa wore a plaid shirt and baggy pants with suspenders. His hair is really white and his beard is curly and long. Not so thick as on a Santa actor.

And, there was none of this “ho, ho, ho!” stuff. There was no acting like Santa . This guy was the real deal. The kids could tell right off. There was not a crying kid in sight. Most of ‘em were even reaching for him. I’ve never seen that before. And, they’d hug him before leaving. He was like a universal Grandpa figure.

Oh, and like I said he saw me in the crowd, and waved. At me. I didn’t know how to react, but Kay motioned at him to see if it was all right for her to take his picture with her cell phone. He nodded big and then his best Santa pose. Big smile, hand up in a wave.

I know I’m carrying on a bit much over this. At no time in my life do I ever remember believing in Santa. And, never did I even contemplate sitting on the lap of the Sears and Roebuck Santa in Pasadena. That was one scary-looking dude. And, with that deep “ho,ho,ho” voice, it was like a giant monster clown was trying to grab you. What youngster wouldn’t want that?

The real Santa is nothing like that. In fact, if the line hadn’t been so long, a framed eight by ten of Kay sitting in his lap would be hanging over our mantel.

Bottom line, take your kid or spouse to The Woodlands Mall to see Santa. I imagine the real Santa doesn’t work a complete shift, so they may have a stand-in for him. You’ll know the real one when you see him, though.

Oh, and word of warning. As you’re making your way to Santa, be very careful not to catch the eye of the salespeople at the kiosks. You know those booths of specialty stuff? If someone tries to hand you a free sample of soap or cosmetics, don’t take it. If you do, they own you.

Most, if not all, of the beauty product salespeople are French or East European. Maybe Norwegian. Hard for me to tell. The girls are beautiful as all get out, and they speak fast and quiet in broken English. They’re sirens with soap. If you take a sample you’ll feel like a real chump if you don’t buy something. There is one Slovakian lovely who thinks I’m the mayor of Chumpville.

Santa loves me, though. Waved at me, he did. I think he could tell that I had been nice all year. Most of the year. Maybe a week or two in May.

NOTE: Kay's phone photo of Santa didn't take. Spooky. Further proof that this guy is the real deal.

END

Click on pic below to view review of Mi Cocina restaurant in The Woodlands.

Already got my gift

2011-12-11T10:32:00.000-08:00

“Chair prints”

I already got my Christmas gift for the year. See if you can tell what it is. – No, not Scotch Tape. Look, Ernie, if you’re not going to be serious, we’re quitting this game right now. – It’s the chair! See? New desk chair.

Boy, did I need a new chair. Several of you complained about how much the old one creaked. I oiled it, tightened the bolts and adjusted the big knob on the bottom. The mystery knob. Nothing. Over a period of 15 years it evolved into a creakazoid.

A Creakazoid lookalike

The relic is over there in the corner. What do you do with an old, noisy desk chair that’s got your seat print branded on it? If I could convince someone that it was JFK’s seat print, I could sell it for a bunch of bucks. But, that would be wrong. Would that be wrong?

    Speaking of which, the new chair has touched the rear ends of others. I don’t know how many. Sixty-three maybe. It was a display model at Office Depot. We visited O D to find a desk lamp for Kay. I’m not good at looking for Kay stuff. Whatever I pick out is always wrong. Not sometimes wrong. I can’t even pick stuff out for me.

    Back at Office Depot, Kay told me to quit playing with the LED curly necked lamp, so I decided to get out of her space and go look at the desk chairs. Told her I wouldn’t mind if Santa got me one for Christmas.

    Do you know how many desk chairs they’ve got at Office Depot? It looks like the layout of the interior of a 747 with all different seats. I sat in half of ‘em. Some chairs you can tell without sitting that they’re all wrong. The expensive ones were all comfy. I don’t know how that works.

    Kay joined me just I was trying out the center section, aisle eight. “Did you sit in this one? How ‘bout this one? Oh, look over here.” Kay was all over the place. Had no idea that I had developed a system.

She settled on the $80 chair. It was reduced from $170. That’s a technique Grant’s Five and Dime started back in 1953. Did it with a set of stick horses that weren’t selling. Put up a sign that read -- “Fifty cents! Reduced from $4.75.” It was the most expensive stick horse I ever owned. A little skittish at first, but fast.

Kay wanted to buy the chair right then and there. I thought we should wait for Christmas, but she feared the sale would be over. Talked me into it. I was going to wheel the chair out, but Kay said we needed to get one in a box. It cost more to get it assembled. She said the chair would be easy for me to put together. I knew she was mistaken ‘cause I’m the one who assembled the creakazoid.

Kay has an exaggerated view of my mechanical aptitude. If you don’t believe me, go look at the toilet in there. Just needed a new flapper. New flapper, my hairy toes! I may have it back in running order by Christmas.

Back at Office Depot, it turned out that luck jumped on my back and road me like a five-year-old on a four wheeler. The Home Depot girl said that the demo model was the only cheap chair they had left. The things had been selling like, uh… reduced from $170 chairs.

Then she told me that since it was the floor model I’d get $10 off the price. Do you know what that means? Any idea? No, be quiet, Ernie. It means that they paid me $10 to assemble my chair for me. You can’t beat a deal like that.

So, here it is. Santa came early this year. Not for Kay. I’ve still got to find something for her. She says she wants a bicycle. Wants one for me too, so we can race away from neighborhood dogs together.

The bicycles she wants for us are at Academy. She thinks I should get ‘em and assemble ‘em between now and Christmas. Christmas 2011. What a joker girl.

END
To view Brad and Mark’s review of Yucatan Taco Stand, click on pic below.

Rough Night

2011-12-06T14:14:00.000-08:00

“Try not to think about this”

How well did you sleep last night? Feel invigorated, do you? Or did you have a bad night? A research team at Loyola University recently reported that 93 percent of those polled don’t care to hear about your night’s sleep.

I wish Virginia had read their findings. This morning she tried to tell me all about her bad night. I didn’t want to hear it. I decided to interrupt and tell her the story of my bad night. One-upped her is what I did.

It’s hard to one-up Virginia, but it can be done. On this occasion, I didn’t even have to exaggerate. By the time I was through, she forgot all about her lack of snooze time.

Begs the question, on the nights you can’t sleep, how long do you usually stay in bed fighting it? Minutes? Hours? The whole night? -- No, not all at once. Sheesh, I actually came up with a relevant topic --- insomnia. I occasionally amaze even me.

Okay, here’s the deal. For just today I need you to pretend that you’re among the seven percent who care to hear about the bad nights of others. Got it?

All right, now let’s return to my bed at 11:30 last night. -- Yes, you can keep your shoes on. Cute. -- I tossed and turned for three hours. Actually, I was just turning. I don’t remember ever tossing. Kay says I toss, but she makes up stuff. A lot of stuff.

Bottom line, I couldn’t sleep. Around midnight I decided to try the universal cure for insomnia. I relaxed my face and tried to make my mind go blank. I’m sure you realize that thinking of nothing will make you pass out. -- Maxine? Maxine! Well, we lost her.

Unless you have the thought pattern of, say, Maxine, it’s not easy to put everything out of your mind. I can lose worry, dread and anger. Those are three major sleep stealers. Not the worst. But, major. Unfortunately, last night I was in the grip of sleeps worst enemy—stupid stuff.

Right before we hit the sack, Kay and I watched a taped episode of “Body of Proof,” a who-done-it with Dana Delany playing a medical examiner who wears really tight clothes, six-inch heels and has really long hair. Hair that falls all over any dead body she examines. That alone is enough to keep me awake for 40 minutes.

Here’s what happened in the episode we watched: A bartender/oyster-shucker at an airport bar was upset because he had a crush on a cute pharmaceutical rep who started talking about a doctor she was having an affair with. The bartender oyster guy got jealous, so he stole an African Gaboon Viper that had been confiscated by airport security and stuck it in a bag of oysters that he gave to the girl. She ended up sticking her hand in the bag while at a beach house with the doctor she was sleeping with. After that things got silly.

I defy you to extricate something that convoluted from your brain in under two hours. And, I saw the entire episode.

Once I stomped out that ludicrous thought, an equally ludicrous one surfaced. It was something I read in the “Ask Doctor K” column. In explaining how to treat a nosebleed, Dr. K writes that you should pinch the front of your nose and hold it for five minutes. “And remember,” he says, “To breathe through your mouth.”

One can only imagine how many lawsuits were averted by that warning. – “I’m holding my nose like he said, only something’s not right. I can’t breathe! Help meeeee! Somebody heeel--” Plop.

That’s the kind of stuff I was trying not to think of. At 3:30 I went downstairs and started reading on my Ken Follett novel. The real thick one that I was reading at the auto dealership when Troy the service supervisor guy told me I had a squirrel nesting under my dashboard.

Oh, what a night. And, I doubt tonight will be much better. Tonight I’ll probably do some actual tossing. And, I don’t even know what that means.

END

Watch Brad and Mark’s restaurant review of Montgomery’s Pizza Shack by clicking on pic.

The ol' pet tree

2011-11-22T12:42:00.000-08:00

“Feeling Fall”

    ROOFTOP – All right, now it feels like fall. You know when it feels like fall? Now. I think I just said that.

    I can understand why you had trouble hearing me, ‘cause it’s so breezy. Breezy and cool. And, clear. In fact, to see a bluer sky you’d have to travel to Oel in the galaxy Trifore. They’ve got an unnaturally blue sky there. Scary blue. Take my word.

    Another fall sign is the one tree we have with some red leaves. It’s the Chinese Tallow at the edge of the porch. The one I usually climb to get up here. Unlike the oaks out there, the tallow leaves do turn a lovely red.

Kay was out a few minutes ago with the camera. Mumbled something about the light being all wrong and went back inside. I guess the light would be better were the tree on the north side of the house. I’m not moving it though.

I don’t know if you knew, but my first pet was a tallow tree. The one on Camille Street. We weren’t allowed animal pets, ‘cause you had to feed ‘em and they made a mess in the yard. That was back when kids played outdoors and rolled around in the grass and stuff. Dogs and cats were not welcome at the Hayter house.

So, one day I asked Mom if I could have the tree in the backyard. She said, “I don’t know. Which one do you want?” I took her to the kitchen window and showed her the forked Chinese Tallow.

"Well do you think you can take care of it?” Can you believe that Mom never took a parenting course? She honed her skills on the first four Hayter kids. By the time she got to Al, she forgot all she learned. Anyway, she gave me the tree, and I befriended the thing. Even talked to it. “How was your day? You need more water? Oh, I got my report card and Ol’ Ms. Smith gave me a ‘C’ in conduct. Dad’s gonna kill me. I’m scared to go inside. What should I do?”

When Dennis found out that Mom gave me a pet tree, he laughed big time. And, when he heard me talking to the thing, he told the world about his idiot brother. He’d swing around on the thing just to tick me off. “Is this its elbow right here? Do you think it hurts when I do—this!”

I suppose I should’ve thanked my big brother for trying to humiliate the weirdness out of me. Unfortunately, I wore humiliation well. Always seemed to fit. I was a mess. I’m so much better now.— Beg pardon?

And, who wouldn’t feel better on such a lovely day? After all, it’s fall! I’ve been so anxious about its arrival that Thanksgiving snuck up on me. Sneaked? What’s bizarro is the fact that none of the Hayters have stepped up to the plate to host the family get-together. They all have families and have apparently made other arrangements. It can sure happen.

So, Kay and I are staying home and preparing something we wouldn’t ordinarily prepare. The ol’ surf and turf. Lobster and steak. The two times we bought lobster tails they were frozen and we tried to steam ‘em. They were rubber tails. Kay read where you’re either supposed to grill or sauté a frozen lobster tails. I’m grilling.

Thanksgiving morning, we’re going to eat breakfast, read the paper, watch about ten minutes of the parade and then play some one-on-one football. With only one person per team you pretty much have to play tackle. Touch would just be stupid. “Okay, hike.” Touch. “That’s not fair.

No we’ll have to play tackle football. As soon as one of us gets hurt, I’ll do the fireman’s carry and get her inside and then fire up the grill. It’ll be different, but good. You know what it will be? Different, but good. Just seeing if you were listening.

Hey, Happy Thanksgiving from the Hayters. And, befriend a tree.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Dimassi’s Mediterranean Buffet click below.

Mark can be reached at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Too much information

2011-11-14T09:04:00.000-08:00

“THE Procedure”

    I’m pretty much the head of the household. Have been for right at 40 years now. I’m the man in charge. Nothing occurs without my tacit approval. That’s how I approve stuff. With tacit.

    I say that to say this. I’m losing it. And, I’m beginning to wonder if I ever had it. Sometimes I sense that I’m a pawn in a game of String-Mark-Along. And that Kay is pulling all the strings. I fear I may have married into the Corleone family.

I had a procedure done last week. THE procedure. Upper GI with a colonoscopy twist. If you haven’t had that, get ready… unless you have no insurance, in which case you’ll have to wait till you find yourself carrying your colon around in a suitcase. Health Care System? Where’s that?

Anyway, before the event, I fasted while going through the entire gut flushing episode. Wasn’t fun or pretty. Photos at six. After a long, riotous night, Kay took me to the hospital the next day for THE procedure. She helped me fill out all the forms. She had to. I don’t know stuff?

Sooner than I expected, the nurse shouted my name into the waiting room. As I headed for the door I could hear people mumbling. “Oh, poor guy.” – “He’s gonna have a little lighter step when he comes outta there.” – Waiting rooms.

When I got to the door, the nurse asked if I’d like my wife to accompany me. I thought Kay was right behind me. I turn around and saw her reading National Geographic. Something about the Lost Penguins of the Maldives.

“Kay!” I gave her my “This way” head gesture. It’s served me well. As she walked passed me, she gave me a swat on the rear with the National G. I’m sure nobody noticed.

I needed Kay there for the questions. Oh, the questions. “Mr. Hayter, was your prep successful?” I looked at Kay and she nodded. “Yes, ma’am the prep was a gas.”

“Mr. Hayter, do you have esophageal protuberance lucidity? Kay looks up from her penguin article and nods. “Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

I won’t tease you with further details of the demoralizing, humiliating and shamefully puzzling procedure. But when it was over and I surfaced from the deep funk of anesthesia, Dr. Pearce came in and gave me the good news. A kind man who left no turn unstoned. I may have still been a little groggy.

I stopped listening after he said there was nothing to worry about. I did hear something about a clip inside me that will… I don’t remember. Disintegrate? Pass? Make its way out my left nostril? Who can remember? Kay can… and did.

Later that evening, Kay was giving a family member the lowdown on THE procedure. She rattled off a whole list of details. A polyp, cauterization, something in the esophagus. Nothing to worry about. Need to do this again in five years. Then she started talking about the misplaced penguins. The girl loves penguins.

When Brad Meyer asked me about the results, I said, “Uh, I’ve got a clip in my stomach. I think.” It was more than he cared to know.

I don’t know how Kay remembers all the boring stuff of life. Stuff that eventually resurfaces as important. Me? I remember nothing. Yet, I’m the one in charge of the household.

On the way home from the hospital, I was really hungry… from “the prep.” I asked Kay to stop somewhere so I could get a burger and onions rings. She said, “No. You don’t want that.”

Wow. She knows what I want and don’t want even before I do. You can see what’s happening here, can’t you? Well, I wish you’d let me in on it, ‘cause after 40 years with Tricker Girl, I don’t know which end’s up… metaphorically speaking. I speak metaphoricals sometimes.

END

Tune in to www.waymorefm.com at 5 to 6 p.m. Monday through Thursday to catch Brad and Mark’s “You’re telling me” live program. You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com.

Missing lunch on the roof

2011-11-05T08:59:00.000-07:00

“Lightening up”

   ROOFTOP – I dragged you up here this morning in search of happy thoughts. Kay thinks I need to lighten up. She picks up on every little signal. Drives me nuts.

   Anyway, I decided to placate her by sitting on the roof till I lighten up a bit. First thing I notice from up here is all the mole mounds below. Kidney bean shaped things. And, look at the tunnel protrusions in the grass. Irritating as all get out.

   Do you have any idea how many cats there are in my yard? I don’t either. A lot of ‘em. Might even be some up here with us. They’ve been known to climb.

How many of the cats belong to me? None. Zip, zilch, nada. Yet, I tolerate their activity ‘cause I figure they’ll keep varmints out. Moles, snakes, Gila monsters… the usual. Well, they’ve done wonders with the Gila monster population, but not so good with other stuff.

Cats are curious aren’t they? Supposed to be. I’ve read books about curious cats. Not recently, but I’ve read some. Yet, the cats that congregate around my place don’t give a ripe fig for anything but birds. These stupid cats hear burrowing underground, and what do they do? They stalk birds. “Ah, the ground is vibrating. Time to catch a bird.”

Last week there was a two-foot coral snake by the back door. The red and yella kill a fella kind. I about lost my breakfast over the sighting. I appeared so shook that Kay asked if I wanted her to kill the snake. My entire feminine side was screaming, “Yes! Of course I do! What are you waiting for?”

But that one extra Y chromosome spoke up. “Nah. It’s a job for a guy. Let me get the shovel.” I didn’t enjoy dispatching the demon serpent. I’ve never seen a snake die easy. I’m only glad God didn’t give ‘em vocal cords. A snake scream would pretty much do me in.

That being said, the chance of a coral snake biting me on the ankle is slim. They’ve got small mouths. It’d have to bite me between the toes. I don’t go outside barefoot. Regardless, I couldn’t run the risk of losing one of my neighbors’ cats. I couldn’t live with that.

Okay, what else do we see down there? Yes, the old Jungle Gym is still there. I’ll dismantle it this winter. Yes, I’ve been saying that for six years, but this time I really mean it. Probably mean it. Regardless, give it a rest will ya? I assure you, we’ll all miss the wooden contraption after it’s gone. It’s the way of things.

Whoa! Did you hear that? You’re right. It’s a rooster. Not much of one by the sound of it. The thing lives closeby. I don’t know if it’s a young rooster or a really old one. Either way, it needs some serious work on its crowing. It’s got the Cocka doodle down pretty well. But, the “do” part is so lacking.

“Cocka doodle squak.” Just pathetic. Isn’t that something? An embarrassment to fowldom. Seems to crow only when I step outside. Regardless of the time of day. A real loony.

I’m the luckiest man in the world. I’ve got moles, snakes, bird-chasing cats and an emasculated rooster. The world is not looking all that well from up here.

Except for that. Did you see it? Just flitted past us. Yep, a monarch butterfly. How do they do it? Fragile as a daydream, yet it will keep plugging away until it ends up somewhere in Mexico. Maybe not that particular butterfly, but one of its kids or grandkids. I don’t know what you call butterfly offspring, but you get the point.

What say we leave on the Monarch sighting. I’ll walk into the kitchen and show Kay that I’m chipper as a… cat trying to attack a cardinal. – “Scat! Leave the birds alone! Go eat a mole!” Doesn’t that beat all?

Well, I guess this minor tirade of mine means that we’ll have to stay up here a little longer. Back to work. We’re all on the lookout for happy stuff. Let’s all spreadout. Report your findings. And work fast, ‘cause I’m not missing lunch. Not this time. – Yes, I’ve been through this before.

END

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Kay cooks for Cindy of Signing with Cindy Fame

2011-10-29T17:18:00.000-07:00

“Kay's cooking episode”

Kay and I are going to do a cooking show together tomorrow. If that doesn’t scare you, it should.

One reason our marriage has lasted so long is ‘cause we know not to prepare meals together. We’ve also learned not to wash the car together, but that’s a whole different thing.

There was a time much earlier in our marriage when we could cook together, but that was back when I didn’t know how to cook. Kay would have to tell me what to chop or skin or stir. Now, I know all that stuff. And, when push comes to shove – which it usually does – I think I’m the better cook.

That’s because Kay doesn’t put enough stuff in what she cooks. She doesn’t put enough butter or oil; enough sugar, salt or cinnamon; or enough chocolate chips or icing. I always put just the right amount. That’s who I am.

The person producing our cooking segment is a good friend of ours Cindy Cochran. Do you remember a show that was on PBS several years back called “Signing with Cindy”? Well, Cindy is that Cindy.

I may have watched every segment of “Signing With Cindy.” I learned to sign the entire song “Sunshine on My Shoulder.” That may not impress you, but it astonished my students back when I was teaching. -- “Mr. Hayter, do you know anything by Journey?” I’d break into “Just a small town girl, living in a lonely woooorld…” – That’s a lie, I only knew the sunshine song, and it began to grate on my classes. – “Somebody stop him! He’s killin’ us!”

I don’t know where Cindy lived when she was SWC, but right now she lives in Montgomery County, and along with a bunch of other stuff, she’s starting a cooking show project and she wants Kay and me to participate. A foolish experiment for sure, but I’m just proud she’s coming to our kitchen.

Where was I. Oh, yeah, Cindy asked Kay and me to each cook something that has a little history behind it. Something we got from a good friend or family member. We’re supposed to tell the history of the dish and then cook it in front of the camera. That part doesn’t worry me so much, but I don’t know how Kay’s gonna handle it. I do know that whatever she does, she’ll be cute doing it. She’ll likely yell at me a few times, but she’ll look cute doing it. Always does.

Kay’s going to show viewers how to prepare Penoche-coated walnuts. It got it’s name from the Disney character Penocheo. Can you see how much I’m going to add to Kay’s cooking segment? I’m going to help her prepare stuff while acting like I know nothing about cooking. I’ll be acting my buns off, ‘cause you know how much I know. A little test for you. Who’s the better cook? Just checking. -- And, yes, Irma. I know. Who’s on first. Cute.

After Kay’s walnut coating fiasco, I’m going to prepare Uncle Ray’s beans, a dish ripe with history… and beans. Lots of beans. By the way some of you may remember that Uncle Ray was Kay’s dad. My father-in-law.

I called him Uncle Ray as a joke once. It was a joke that took root. One of the greatest guys I’ve ever known. Wish you could’ve known him. While that’s no longer possible, you will get to know his beans. They’re quick, they’re easy and they were created at a roadside park in Utah. That’s part of the history.

If you wish to see Cindy’s family recipes show -- and who wouldn’t – you can locate it on www.youtube.com/instantifame. If it’s not there now, be patient. Cindy probably had to do more editing than she had planned. I could see that happening.

Click on Kay to see show

END

Click on photo below to see Brad and Mark's review of Chuy's.

And, you can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Somebody's messin' with me.

2011-10-19T09:16:00.000-07:00

“Return of the spoon”

    Something around this house is messing with me and I want it to stop. Are you hearing me?

    Half the time I’m walking around with one houseshoe on ‘cause somebody… or someTHING stole the other. Reading glasses mysteriously leave the room I’m in and go to where I’m not. And, the remote? Do I look like a guy who would toss the remote control behind the couch? Who does that?

    The latest wonderment is the real bat buster. A good while back Kay bought a set of four spoons. There were other eating implements in the box, but I only cared about the spoons. They were perfect, Jerry.

    The part that goes in your mouth was rounded, not pointy. I like that. A pointy spoon makes the milk dribble down the side of your mouth when you’re eating cereal. Newton proved that even before spoons were invented. Did people listen?

    The new spoons were the perfect size, too. Oh, the set included larger mouthed spoons, but I couldn’t handle ‘em. The smaller ones were perfect. And, they’ve got long stems, good for stirring coffee in my tall, narrow coffee cup with the state-of-the-art lid.

    So the four spoons became my friends. Kay intended to get some more, but the Big Lots people never found another set in the dropped crates down at the docks. Apparently.

I treasured my four spoons for, oh, a couple of years when one of them went missing. You might think the dishwasher ate it, but I stopped using the dishwasher. When you have only four favorite spoons, one favorite cereal bowl, the perfect spatula and my futuristic coffee cup, well, you can’t have ‘em sittin’ in a dishwasher waiting for a full load. Know what I mean, Vern?

So, I was down to three favorite spoons. If one more went missing, there’d be a pattern. I was scared. I took an entire Saturday looking for the missing/stolen spoon. Oh, I took a break to take Kay to see “Sleepless in Seattle.” They only meet in the last five minutes? Give me a break.

Anyway, no luck. I even looked behind the stove. When is the last time you pulled your stove out? It’s scary. I found a tennis ball, Kay’s catcher’s mitt, Big Al’s hairbrush and one of Jimmy Hoffa’s socks. Looked about his size. No spoon.

I had to give up. I’ve been nursing the remaining three spoons for years now. During commercials I’ll even run to the drawer and check up on ‘em.

Well, this morning something freaky happened. As I was arranging a fisted-bundle of silverware into the drawer, I chunked in all the forks and knives and the pointy spoons and then I put four special spoons into the appropriate slot. Did you catch that? FOUR. The prodigal spoon had returned.

“Where have you been?” I asked. It wasn’t talkin’. I ran to find Kay. “Kay, the spoon is back!” You know what she said? She said, “Oh, good.”

Oh, good? A missing cat would get more of a welcome. So, I ran to the kitchen and prepared my cocktail mix of Oatmeal Crisp, Wheat Chex and Nutty Nuggets, and I grabbed hold of my prodigal spoon. I had to take a bite with each of the four, ‘cause I wasn’t sure which one was the missing one. I should’ve labeled ‘em.

I’m still left with the why, what and where” of the spoon. The “how” would be good to know, too. I’ve got the “when” down. This morning.

Yep, either I’m goin’ nuts or something is messing with me. I’m pretty sure I’m not nuts. Would a crazy person continue to wear one houseshoe so he doesn’t have to look for it when the other one appears? Or, would he protect his favorite spoons by hiding them inside an empty box of Wheat Chex? I think not.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Wang's Asian Fusion Restaurant, click on pic below.

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Babysitting the Shaner

2011-10-14T13:11:00.000-07:00

"Birds, bubbles and Shane"

ROOFTOP – I think we may be rushing this autumn thing a bit. It’s still too hot to be up here. We’re looking at 84 degrees with a hot breeze. And, if that’s not a line in a Country Western song, it oughtta be.

I’m just surprised you followed me up here. Figured you for more sense. Loyal, that’s what you are. Loyal with a touch of odd.

At least you didn’t bring coffee with you. Can you believe this? This is my second cup of the morning. Sweating like a Lebanese sumo wrestler, and drinking coffee. Jill has been trying to get me interested in iced coffee. It makes no sense to me. If coffee were meant to be consumed cold, they would have called it Java-ade.

I thought we’d face the front yard this morning. Hope you don’t mind. It was a little shadier on this portion of the roof. The big oak will likely obscure us from any passing motorists. Let’s hope.

Speaking of all the birds, someone told me the other day that hummingbirds will eventually settle down and share the feeder. I can’t see hummingbirds sharing anything. One will sit down and just dare another to sit on one of the three vacant stoops. Chases off anything that attempts to hover. I just wanna slap ‘em.

When the oriole wants to visit, the hummingbirds don’t pester it. I’m fairly sure it’s from Maryland. I thought it odd the first time I saw the bird balance on the tiny hummingbird feeder. I seldom see any orioles around here. I had no idea they liked sugar water. We’ve got the birdbath down there, but they occasionally like to hit the sweet stuff. Reminds me of me.

Oh, and speaking of Kay reminds me that we had to baby sit Virginia and Freeman’s great grandson last week. Shane is, what… almost a year old? He can’t walk, he’s not crazy about crawling, but he likes to bounce. When you stand him up, he bounces like Tigger on speed.

If you lay him on his back, he kicks and punches the air like he wants to bounce in space. It’s best not to try to tummy-gum an air-bouncer. Look at my nose. I think he broke it. Strange lad. Grins and giggles like a Ukrainian drunk. (I don’t know where that came from.)

Other than the facial breakage threat, the other aggravating thing about the kid is that he doesn’t like to nap even when he’s half asleep. And, he always likes to be with someone. He even enjoys MY company. What an idiot. But, he much prefers his Aunt Kay. She threw a blanket in the backyard, put Shane down on it and started playing with one of her many bubble making mixtures. Kay’s pretty much a bubble freak. I had no idea when I married her.

So, she blew bubbles at Shane and the kid would giggle and try to focus on one while dozens of ‘em were popping on his noggin. Kids are just nuts.

I don’t care to spread this around, but I halfway enjoyed Shane’s stay. The first couple of hours anyway. And, I do think it was a little too hot for me to be outside with him. Fortunately, Kay put some water in a spray bottle and sprayed us with it. I think I giggled as much as the kid did. I even started bouncing.

I wish I had thought to bring the spray bottle to the roof. I’m melting. Just look at me. Tell you what, let’s get off this metal furnace, get in the house, lose the coffee and hit the Dr Pepper. The ol’ sugar water. I think I’ve got some oriole in me.

Oh, and watch your step, people. When it gets cooler we’re gonna want to do this again. So, if you fall and break something, I’m sure not hauling your rear up here next time. Loyalty counts for just so much.

END

Watch Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant review clicking on photo below.

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

36 days until completion

2011-10-03T09:38:00.000-07:00

Dad and Mom on left. Uncle A.B. and Aunt Bertha on right

“Favorite age”

    How old would you like to be? Would you care to go back to the puberty? Was that a lot of fun for you? How about the mid-twenties? How would that work?

    That’s what Brad asked me the other day. Brad is the local restaurant critic and reporter. Brad Meyer? Big guy? Mean? By the way, I want to thank those of you who commented on Facebook and by e-mail asking Brad to be nicer to me. It didn’t help a bit, but I appreciate the support.

    Anyway, I was driving us back from our latest restaurant experience when Brad asked what age I wanted to be. His question made me think about how much time I spend with the guy. Next to Kay, I talk to Brad Meyer more than anybody else in the realm of Mark. That just scares the willies out of me.

    The Plilers don’t have as much time for us anymore, ‘cause they’re with grandkids. You can never really assess the true value of one’s friendship until they have grandkids. I think William James said that. Or William Tell. One of the Williams.

    Point is, I’ve been spending a lot of time with Brad. Way too much time. Fortunately, he seldom says anything to me that requires a great deal of thought. So, you can see why I was genuinely surprised when he asked what my favorite age would be.

    Unfortunately, I spent too long thinking of my response. A nanosecond after asking the question, Brad started telling me his favorite age. Seems like it was 27. I wasn’t listening all that much.

    Instead, I started thinking about my current age. It’s been on my mind quite a bit since my last birthday.. My 23rd, 33rd, 53rd and 62nd birthdays hit me hard. When I was a kid I thought that at the age of 23 I’d have everything figured out. I’d be smart, wise and on top of stuff. Instead, I was as confused as ever.

    At 33 I realized I had to get a move on, ‘cause time was really running out on me. At 53, time had run out on me. And, at my last birthday, 62, I realized that in late November I’d be as old as my dad was when he died.

    Dad died one year after taking disability retirement from Crown Refinery. I think it was the happiest year of his life. He and Mom did a little traveling, went out on dates, and spent a lot of time with their kids.

    We thought Dad just had minor heart trouble, and would be with us for many more years. One day in late March, while most of my siblings were visiting Big Al and me in Conroe, we got a call from Mom telling us to come to the hospital in Pasadena. Dad was gone by the time we got there.

    That’s what I was thinking of when Brad was telling me his favorite age to be. I never told him how old I wanted to be, but I’m still glad he asked the question. It reminded of one of my goals. It was just over 15 months ago that I began writing a book about my life with Dad. Originally, my goal was to finish it by Christmas. Last Christmas. But, my lack of writing discipline forced me to move the deadline up to late November. November 18th, to be exact. That’s the day I’ll be exactly Dad’s age when he died. I had to do some serious math.

    I’ve completed 19 chapters of the book and have about six to go. I haven’t written on it for three weeks now. I’ve gotta get busy. Thanks to Brad’s unintentional prodding, I am now going to build a fire under my rear and finish the thing.

    I guess at some point I’ll get Brad to repeat his story about his favorite age. I’m not sure if he was telling me he liked being 27, or just wanted to go back and change some stuff he did at 27. While being 27 didn’t do much for Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison , Amy Winehouse and a host of others, it was probably a real gas for Brad. Just a guess.

    By the by, you can find the work in progress by logging onto www.rooftopwriter.com. Or you can wait till November 18, and read the entire thing. Unless Brad does something to really discourage me, I plan to be finished by then.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s latest review of Guadalajara Hacienda and Grill click on picture.

Fix your taillight for heaven's sake!

2011-09-22T17:34:00.000-07:00

Strange Coincidence

Do you wanna know what the biggest coincidence in the world is? Pretend you do.

No, it’s not that your keys are always in the opposite pocket of your freehand. That’s ceased being a coincidence. The Society for Correctness in Word Usage has now labeled that occurrence as customary. (By the way, the SCWU is having a fundraiser Tuesday evening at The Ice House.)

No, the biggest coincidence in the world has to do with defective taillights. A study at Dartmouth University found that 97.4 percent of all cars with defective taillights are driven by people soon to be arrested for something.

Just odd as it can be. Last week I read about a guy who wasn’t even driving the single tail-lit car. He was just a passenger. Yet, come to find out, there was a felony warrant out on him. Police would not have known to arrest him had he not been in a car with a defective taillight.

I don’t know what that tells you, but it tells me that if you’re gonna do the crime, you’d better check your taillights. It also tells me that the law that prevents felons from keeping company with other felons and from owning firearms should be expanded to include driving a car with more than one taillight operational. We wouldn’t even have to have probation officers. The police would constantly be stopping P.I.s and seeing what they’re up to. – What? Oh, It stands for “Previously Incarcerated.” According to the SCWU, “ex-con” is no longer acceptable.

What makes the defective taillight/criminal ratio all the more bizarro is the fact that I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw a car with a defective taillight. I’d come closer to seeing a whopping crane perched on my satellite dish. That must mean that crime is down. Way down.

Used to, it was common as could be to see cars with only one operational taillight… or headlight for that matter. We had a ’54 Ford pickup that came with only one taillight. The left side had a reflector, but no light.

It also had no blinker lights and no power steering. The truck was impossible to steer with one hand, yet, by law, I was supposed to give a hand signal while going into my turn. Couldn’t be done.

Fortunately, I had no police record, or as fate would have it, I would’ve been pulled over every day. – “Mr. Hayter, do you know why I pulled you over?” – “Well, I haven’t checked my taillights, but I assume I must’ve robbed the Sinclair station back yonder. I can’t buy a break.”

So, where am I going with all this, you ask? Well, somebody’s bound to have. The recent article about the defective taillight arrest got me to thinking. When I was young rambunctious teen, Tommy Cromeens and I were pulled over one night at about 1:30. We were out looking to rumble. Or, looking for a 24 hour Shipley’s Donuts. I can’t remember.

Anyway, the officer pulled us over, put the ol’ light in our faces, studied us for a few seconds and then said, “We were looking for two guys in a car like this. We think they robbed a, uh, a 7/11 on, uh, Burke. Or, Red Bluff. One of those.” He then suggested we call it a night.”

I didn’t mind the experience at all. Gave me the false impression that I looked tough. We were all the talk at school on Monday. “Hey, they yanked Tommy through the window. Me? I wasn’t going down without a fight.” Our friends wouldn’t have laughed so much had our reputations been just a little tarnished. Turned out to be a big embarrassment.

The weird thing is, had Tommy and I been tokin’ on reefer, or bootin’ the ol’ gong (work with me here), we wouldn’t have been stopped for driving in a car the same model as one involved in a robbery. No, we would’ve been pulled over because we had a defective taillight.

For the life of me, I don’t see how that happens. I imagine any day now the ol’ SCWU is going to change the defective taillight/criminal-pullover occurrence from “coincidence” to “customary.” And, I’m not even sure what that means.

END

You can view Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant by clicking on photo.

Ten years later

2011-09-16T15:38:00.000-07:00

“Sunrise”

ROOFTOP -- Anybody know what time sunrise is this morning? Anybody? Oh well, no worry. Li’l Orphan Annie assures us that the sun will come out… come what may. That little 87 year-old girl is just as perky as can be. We need perky.

I might’ve researched the timing of sunrise, but the decision to climb up here was one of those spur of the moment things. I’m just shocked that a few of you were awake and alert enough to join me. Shows fortitude. Shows something.

    I dragged our buns up here ‘cause I just couldn’t sleep. I was stewing over my article. Not this one. I haven’t written this one yet. No, it was the one I wrote a few hours ago. I thought it best to write something about 9/11, this being tenth anniversary of the horrid event.

    Since so many others were writing about it, I figured I should. Didn’t think it proper to write my usual humor piece, so I got serious. Took me three stabs at it, but I finally ended up with something. Something I really didn’t like. I sounded like a guy who needed direction. I was all over the place. Got into history, politics and social values.

    And, were it not for Kay, I would’ve sent it in to my boss. You can only imagine the amount of bad stuff that girl has kept from you.

    Like I say, I was in need of direction, so I dragged my rear out of bed and headed to the roof. I heard a wise man once say that if you can’t sleep, don’t fight it. Perhaps God is trying to get your attention about something.

So, here I am. And, here you are. Looking for direction? Well, from up here we’ve got direction in spades. Any minute now we could even get a glimmer of guidance.

Speaking of glimmer, I can see a faint glow right over yonder. I don’t know what time it is, but the sun is definitely on the rise. No, it’s over there in the east. See? No, Peggy, the other east. There you go. Looks like it will be joining us in just a few minutes. I need to assign one of you to keep an eye on it. No, Peggy, let’s let Claudia. Okay, both of you! Sheesh.

What? Oh, before I got the ladder out, I noticed the thermometer read 63 degrees. Almost wish I had thought to bring a long-sleeved shirt. And, Scott, I wish you had thought to throw some pants over your pajamas. Who sleeps in pajamas? Hey, it was rhetorical!

Doesn’t it feel absolutely great up here? I wonder how long we’ll remember this moment. What is the half-life of a memorable moment? Again, rhetorical.

Last night’s article had a part in it about remembering where I was when 9/11 happened. I thought it an interesting story. Interesting to me. But, who cares where I was? Phil, rhetorical.

We were all somewhere? And, we each have our thoughts of that day. I absolutely hate it when someone describes something as being “surreal.” Just so overdone. But, let’s face it, that was pretty much the sense of the day.

Ten years ago. What’s happened since then? Have things gotten better? Worse? Seems we’re a little less patriotic than we once were. I bought two new flags and some flag decals after the disaster. I still fly those same flags on celebratory days. They’re a bit faded, but I can’t see me replacing them. Maybe when things settle down a bit.

And, yes, Peggy, here comes the sun. Annie was right, again. Just look at that orange glow cutting through the pines. In lieu of the fire season, I’m so glad I’ve still got my pines. They could catch fire and burn the house tomorrow, but right now they’re providing quite the spectacle.

And, yes, it’s a cool 60+ degrees right now, and it will be in the 90s later in the day. But, now, it feels all right. We’re quietly sitting, looking, listening. Right now is good.

This moment reminds me of one of my favorite passages. “Be still and know that I am God.” -- He just got my attention.

END

To view Mark and Brad's latest restaurant review click on pic below.

Not good a waiting

2011-09-08T15:32:00.000-07:00

“The DPS Adventure”

Did you know that the Texas Department of Public Safety does not inform all residents when their licenses need renewed? I didn’t know that till Kay told me a couple of weeks before my birthday.

The DPS apparently doesn’t have a budget large enough to send out mailers to everyone. Nor does it have enough money to maintain all its offices. They’ve been closing ‘em right and left. That’s what’s been making the experience at the Montgomery County DPS office purgatorial.

Unless you’re incarcerated or deemed a road hazard, you will eventually need to make that trip. All roads lead to the DPS. Add just a tad of heat, and you’ll think you died and went to the bad place.

    I made it to the DPS in Conroe at about 2:00 in the p,m. I read somewhere that it didn’t matter how early you got there, you would still have to wait till your nose bled. I don’t know if that’s true or not, ‘cause I left when I saw the crowd. I couldn’t find a place to park. There were cars circling the parking lot and lined along the railroad track.

    A conundrum is what I had. Had it by the knees. I needed to do one of two things. I could go home, and come back in a better mood. Or, I could go to Huntsville. After 20 minutes of pondering, I headed to Huntsville. That’s what the Plilers had done a couple of weeks before. Said it was faster in Walker County.

    In Huntsville I didn’t have to wait outside. I made it just inside the door, and stood with about 20 other poor saps that were waiting for a chance to make it inside the room with the chairs.

“Hey, what are you here for?” the loud talker said. Every line has one. “Uh, renewal.” I said. – “Don’t you know you can do that on-line?” the know-it-all lady said. Exhibited one of those superior airs.

“I’m gonna bust you up, lady.” That’s the first thing that came to mind. The fourth thing was what actually came out of my mouth. “If your driver license photo was taken back when Nixon was President they want you to show up for a new one. That’s what I found out ON-LINE.”

It was the loud talker’s turn. “Hey, where you from? You know we’re gonna be here five hours don’t you?” -- “Uh, Conroe.” – “Oh, man, that’s the worst. My nephew tried to—“ That went on for about 30 minutes. During the harangue I found out I was standing in line with people from Magnolia, Spring, Montgomery, Hempstead, Willis and Iowa.

The Corn State (sometimes called “Hawkeye State”) couple were newly weds who just moved down. They had no idea what they’d stepped in. “In my hometown we just go to the Courthouse walk up to a window and they take care of us in a matter of minutes.”

“Well, you’re in Texas now. Don’t mess with us, Little Missy.” I was waiting for the know-it-all lady to say that, but she didn’t. I guess even she had her limits.

When I finally got inside the big room I noticed that there were only two clerks. One nice and one not so. Isn’t that the way it is? I wonder if there’s a place in the world where both clerks are nice.

I was so pleased when the nice lady called me over. She didn’t make me fill out another form or anything. Did some computer stuff and then told me to stand in the square so she could take my picture.

I stood for, oh, 30 seconds. Nothing. Then I looked up for a second, closed my eyes and flinched. Snap! – The nice lady was a ringer. They coax you in with politeness and then catch you off guard with the camera. Oh, they’re good. -- By the way I was in and out in two hours.

Matters not anymore. I’ve got my temporary license, The new one is in the mail. Next time I have to do this again, I’ll be a road hazard. Or, incarcerated. Always a chance of that.

END

You can find Brad and Mark’s review of Hyden’s Sport’s Pub by clicking below.

I did my duty

2011-09-03T16:04:00.000-07:00

“The voir dire experience”

    Did you know that something is more certain if you believe it “beyond a reasonable doubt” than if you are “clear and confident of it?” Hey, I was shocked, too.

    That’s what I learned on jury duty last week. The prosecutor explained stuff like that to me and the other 32 prospective jurors. I was number 29. It was a misdemeanor case and they were only looking for six jurors. Being 29 when they’re looking for six is good. (You just read a sentence that has never been written before. I’m clear and confident of that.)

    Anyone selected for the jury would have to serve for about two days. That’s what the judge said, and he’d been around long enough to know. I’m patriotic as all get out, but I really didn’t wanna show back up on Tuesday.

    Did you know that some people make weird comments during the voir dire phase of a trial? “Voir dire?”That’s the technical term for the process of selecting a jury. The judge mentioned that, but I already knew.

     I wanted to raise my hand and tell him I knew, but one of the clerks already gave me a questioning look when I stood up to see if I could steal a better pen. I don’t think you’re supposed to stand without permission.

    Where was I? Oh, weird comments. The prosecutor asked if anyone would have to be 100 percent certain before finding a person guilty. In other words, did we all agree to the “beyond a reasonable doubt” criterion?

    A few raised their hands and said they’d have to be 100 percent sure. Good grief! Witnesses can’t even be 100 percent sure. Witnesses are lousy witnesses. (Another invented sentence.) If I had to draw a composite picture of Brad Meyer, the restaurant critic goober I eat with, I couldn’t tell you if he had hair or not. I’m around him at least two times a week. Does he have a beard? Not sure. Do you know? Well, see there? We’d both be lousy witnesses.

    The only person who can be 100 percent sure of who did what is the person charged with doing it. He knows if he did it or not. Anyone who might’ve seen him can only know “beyond a reasonable doubt.” An extraterrestrial could’ve taken the guy’s place and committed the crime. That’s possible, but not reasonable.

    I wanted to raise my hand and explain all of that to the prosecutor, because I didn’t think he was explaining as well as I could. But, I didn’t. Low profile. That’s the course of action I chose. I was number 29. Didn’t wanna stand out. If it were a big highfalutin famous person trial, I might’ve said stuff to get on the news.

But, I was keeping it low-key... which was a popular name for boys born in 2008. I didn’t even want to stand out in the lobby when we were waiting to be called in. Get there at 9:00 the jury summons said. I came 15 minutes early and couldn’t find a place to park. Impossible to park where the summons instructed. Billions of cars. I ended up parking in the Baptist Church parking lot. Been my experience Baptists seldom tow your car.

    I did get there just in time to wait 40 minutes to be called into the courtroom. I imagine the lawyers were trying to strike a deal and avert a trial. They do that a lot. Bring things right down to the wire to see if one side caves. No caving.

    The trial is over by now. I didn’t serve, but I did my duty. I showed up, I spoke when directly spoken to (which was not at all) and I returned the pen I stole. I participated in the process called voir dire, and was judged to be unwanted, unneeded, and marginally well behaved. It was a rather successful Monday for me.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant click on photo.

I feel a sick coming on

2011-08-24T09:52:00.000-07:00

“D.O.A.”

I’m going to have to make this quick. I don’t have much time before I’ll be unreadable. Several of you have accused me of that in the past, but this time I have an excuse.

It started with Kay. She was up most of the night with nausea. That means I was up most of the night switching out garbage cans. Kay had the worst of it; I realize that. But, boy, did I not have fun.

Right now I’ve got one of those headaches that lets you know you’re getting ready to be sick. You know the one. I could take something for it, but it’s not going to work. I’ve got what Kay’s got. Close to it anyway.

The headache is associated with the ol’ the rumbly in my tumbly sensation. It’s coming, and it’s gonna be a bear. (By the way, the new Winnie the Pooh movie got great reviews. I’m planning to rent it, ‘cause I don’t wanna pay big bucks to watch a movie that’s just a little over an hour long. You wanna know the real reason, it’s ‘cause I’m afraid I will embarrass myself during the movie by trying to give that stupid Pooh Bear advice. “No, Pooh! Don’t listen to Tigger. The guy’s redick-orous!” I can do that at home, and it’s not big deal. In the theatre?

Where was—Oh, yeah. A few hours ago I went to Sonic to get Kay a large limeade. Kay likes Sonic limeades over Sonic ice. Try to get ‘em to put their limeade over Whataburger ice and they won’t do it. They just draw the line on that.

I was so proud of myself for getting Kay something she didn’t ask for. I just looked at her lying there all sad-faced, and I said, “Hey, I’m goin’ to Sonic to get you a limeade. What else you want? She said she wouldn’t mind a strawberry sundae for later when she might could keep it down.

So, I pulled into Sonic, pushed the button and told the girl, “I would like a large limeade, a strawberry sundae and a-- And, a— And, that’s all.” I was trying to say “and a coffee flavored Java Chiller.” I love just plain Java Chillers. But I couldn’t get the words out without heaving. The only way I can now write the words is by thinking of a blue Magic Marker. I’m writing “Java Chiller” but I’ve got Magic Marker on my brain. You try to do that. It’s not easy.

It was there at the Sonic speaker I first realized I was soon to be sick. I didn’t tell the Sonic girl, ‘cause she didn’t care. The girl who brought my stuff acted like she cared, but I think she just wanted a tip. That’s the only reason I’d walk to somebody’s car in 102 degree heat.

So, I came home, put the sundae in the freezer, the limeade on the end table by the couch, and then escorted Kay down the stairs. She’s now sitting there with her eyes shut but not asleep. I know that, ‘cause anytime I walk by she mumbles something to me. I can’t understand her. I just say, “I know, Sweetie.” Seems to placate her.

Before meeting you here I, uh, took/applied one of those phenergan anti-nauseating things. I don’t care to say much more about application, but I will tell you that along with eliminating the nausea, that thing will knock me out for, oh, an entire day. Maybe two. I’ll end up looking and acting like Kay.

Did any of you ever see the movie “D.O.A.” where the guy is poisoned and knows he’s going to die, so he spends his last moments trying to figure out who poisoned him? That doesn’t have anything to do with my situation, but the thought just came to me.

I think that’s one of the symptoms of whatever I’m getting. During one of Kay’s mumblings she said “I guess it’s not West Nile because…” Her comment just trailed off. Happens a lot.

I never thought of West Nile. Kay’s pretty smart even when she’s out of her mind. Not me. I make little sense when I’m sick. Become unreadable. Fortunately, I was able to spend this time with you before my mind shutdown. It got close there a time or two, but I made it. – What?

END

To see Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant review CLICK ON PIC:

Didn't know what hit 'em.

2011-08-12T15:13:00.000-07:00

“Incredible Pizza”

Until things cool down, our family get-togethers will be held at eating establishments somewhere in neutral territory. We’ve got family in Pasadena, La Porte, The Woodlands, Willis and Conroe.

Of course, our sister Sue lives in Washington State, so we’ve been excluding her from our gatherings. I’m not apologizing for that, either. If you choose to move a couple thousand miles away from family, you’re gonna get left out.

Last month’s gathering was held at Incredible Pizza in Conroe. Jill picked the place. She lives in a La Porte, and apparently likes to be on the road. I was good with the idea, ‘cause it’s only a 15 minute drive for me, and ‘cause it’s buffet. I don’t understand buffet. Do they realize you can eat all you want? Just makes no sense to me.

The only drawback to the Incredible Pizza had to do with the timing. Timing is so important in life. Whether you’re telling a joke, cooking a roast or approaching an amber light, timing is crucial.

Unfortunately, Jill timed our confab for Saturday evening. I don’t care if it’s Incredible Pizza, Chuck E Cheese or a trip to Wal-Mart, Saturday evening is not a good time for grownups… unless you want to rumble.

Though Kay and I were not the first to arrive at I P, it was obvious that I was going to have to be the one to take charge. You have no idea the hurt that comes from being the one to take charge. But, who’s gonna do it? “You, Kaffee? The truth is, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall!” – Whoa. What was that?

Anyway, Hayters were filling plates and then wandering all over the place. -- Where do we sit? Where are the bigger plates? Why would I want a salad? – People were getting testy. Dennis got into a fight with two nine-year-olds. He could’ve probably handled one. I kept telling him they’d bring more pizza.

I finally told Kay to gather up the mavericks, while I found a place for us to camp.
I went to a boss-looking person and asked if we could take over one of the special birthday rooms. “No, they’re all taken,” she lied. Hey, I don’t blame her. I’m pretty sure the manager at the Chinese buffet in Deer Park called her. She acted like she had heard of the Hayters.

I ended up leading everyone to the giant theatre room. They were airing a weird Japanese animated feature. Wait a minute. That’s redundant. We decided against watching the feature. None of the other losers in the room cared to watch, either. We just ate. It was way dark in that theatre, which made it so easy to steal off one another’s plates.

The biggest thief was Levi. That’s my nephew Clint’s youngest. From his high chair he had a grab range radius of 4 feet. By the way, Clint and Joanna named their kids Jasmine, Cash, Violet and Levi. I think Clint was looking to make a TV series called “Bonanza: The Next Generation”

After realizing the food would never run out, most of us slowed our eating pace. Once finished, we ran to the game area, a massive place with bumper cars, an iceless iceskating rink, putt putt golf and 179 other games. The brothers and Clint played Putt Putt. I lost bad. The game looks so much easier than it is.

The kids played with… well, everything. It didn’t cost all that much for the youngest to play. Seems the boat, car, spaceship games show the vehicles racing on the screens even when you don’t put tokens in. The kids would sit there and turn the steering wheel back and forth thinking they were actually directing the thing. I even caught myself doing it. Kids are dopes.

Probably won’t surprise you to know that we were among the last to leave. Yeah, we pretty well closed down Incredible Pizza. We even got cheers from the staff as we left. Some of those people are good actors.

I have no idea where we’re meeting this month. If I get to pick, it’ll be 10:45 at Luby’s. Those people won’t know what hit ‘em.

END

For the latest Whine and Dine review click on pic.

Made a pancake lover outta me.

2011-08-06T13:34:00.000-07:00

“They're the best, Jerry”

     I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m half of the restaurant review team of Brad and Mark. Professional critique Brad Meyer is the brains and I… well, I just go along for the free food. Our video segment is called “Whine and Dine.” One of us thought that cute.

    From some of the comments received about our segments, it’s apparent that at least one county resident considers me somewhat of a doofus. Brad can be so mean.

    Well, this “doofus” is getting ready to do something that’s only been done once in the history of mankind. I believe it was in Wisconsin back in ’47. I’m going to review a pancake. So, grab a cup of joe and listen up. Read up.

Last Tuesday, I wanted breakfast for supper, so I gathered Kay up and we went to IHOP. I think I missed her left shoe.

IHOP is big on pancakes. Why else would they put ‘em in their name. Take the pancakes out of IHOP and they’re IHO. Say that twice and you’ve got the first two words in a song by seven little people. Work with me here, would ya?

    Truth is I didn’t want pancakes ‘cause they weigh on me. “Sluggish” thy name is Tall Stack. That’s in the Old Testament somewhere. Fairly sure.

However, after the waitress went to get my coffee (a whole pot) I noticed a picture in the menu insert. The mini-men’. The picture was that of a plate of pancakes covered with a thick cinnamon goo. Atop this layer of brown ambrosia was a squiggly pattern of thin white icing. And on top of that was a splot of whipped cream. Splot? Somebody look that up.

I was about to jump up and run for the waitress, but Kay gave me her don’t-embarrass-me look. It’ll paralyze. I think she was still mad about her shoe. She told me to wait for the waitress. After all, that’s how they got their name.

The waitress promptly returned with my coffee and poured the first cup. After that you get to pour your own. And, get this, if you empty the carafe, they bring you another. I’m not making this stuff up.

But, forget the coffee. I told the waitress I wanted the breakfast with the cinnamon pancakes. She seemed pleased with my selection. I like it when the waitress commends me for my order. So, I ended up with two eggs (over medium), two sausages, hashbrowns and two pancakes. I had to place a separate order for toast, ‘cause I wasn’t about to trade my pancakes for toast. They shouldn’t even make it an option.

Kay ordered… something else. Who remembers? I wolfed down most of my eggs and stuff, and then sank my fork into the pancake concoction. I instantly noticed that a glob of cinnamon also covered the bottom pancake. It was genius! And, it was one of the few times where the picture of the food looked just like the actual food. Nobody has figured out how to do that with hamburgers, but IHOP managed it with their cinnamon pancakes.

Unfortunately, I got too full too fast. I decided it a good time to let Kay have a taste. She took a bite… then another. She thought for a second and said, “You know, this tastes like the best part of a real gooey cinnamon roll, the middle. Only with a cakey texture.” Kay makes up words sometimes.

But she was right. The waitress even gave us the senior discount, and we didn’t even ask. She might’ve just felt sorry for Kay. Anyway, we got one meal for free.

What a great eating experience. Some days you just step into something good. Had Brad been with me instead of Kay I would’ve stepped into something less good. Brad is so mean. I suggested we call our program “Mark and Big Stinker.” One of us thought that cute.

END

You can view Mark and B Stinker’s latest review on YouTube click on picture.

An eye for fashion?

2011-07-30T13:54:00.000-07:00

And I woulda been in style, too.

    I hadn’t been to the mall since before Christmas. I only went last week because Kay wanted to look for a “special kind” of denim shorts. I didn’t know what she meant at the time, nor do I now, even after she bought the shorts. I couldn’t tell you the specialness of ‘em if you stuck a gun to my head.

    By the way, I went to the mall with Kay because I didn’t answer the “What else have you got to do?” question seriously. “Drive a roofing nail in my foot” was not an acceptable answer.

    There was no way I was going to be of help to Kay in her lengthy short search, so when we got to the mall I just sat down on one of those torturous benches and watched people walk by. I hate to see people who sit and watch people walk by, so I managed to look like I wasn’t looking. I have a knack. It’s really more of a gift.

    One thing I picked up on was a current fashion trend for young ladies. It may have been going on for a couple of years, but I just picked up on it. What they’re doing is wearing these really short denim shorts. Not like Kay bought. Shorter than that. Way shorter. So short that in some cases, the inside of the pockets extend beyond the hem. It looks tacky as all get out. Bound to be why it’s so popular.

    I also saw one girl wearing a pair of jeans that had gaping rips from the top of the thigh down to her knees. The inside of her pockets were also visible. I’ve seen torn jeans before, but none quite as revealing. Again, no one could tell that I was even looking.

    Speaking of socks, I saw this junior high aged kid walk by wearing black socks with tennis shoes. Black socks. I don’t know if you’re aware, but guys can now wear black socks with shorts and athletic shoes. First time I saw anyone under the age of 50 wearing black socks was when I picked up Virginia’s grandson after spring training football practice.

    Ryan was wearing black socks with his Nikes. I asked him how long that had been going on and he said, “I don’t know. Probably over a year.” I had no idea. No one keeps me up to date on stuff like that. I’ve had a pair of black athletic socks for a couple of years now. One of the brothers got ‘em for me for Christmas. I thought it was a joke. I could’ve been wearing ‘em all along and no one would’ve laughed. No, they would still laugh.

    Back at the mall I saw a three-year-old with both his shirt and shorts inside out. His parents acted like they didn’t even notice. I don’t know if the kid dressed himself wrong or the parents were embracing the new “inside out” trend for kids. If you scratch this thing, you’ll probably find Justin Bieber behind it.

I did see a lady wearing a shirt that I really liked. I was sitting over by the giant talking tree area. I’m not sure the tree talks anymore, ‘cause they took its face off. Hard to talk without a face. I don’t know why I felt I had to tell you that, but it seemed important.

Anyway, the young mother was wearing a tight green Tee shirt that had big eyeballs on the front. The protruding eyes made it appear that immediately below her neck was a giant frog face. I thought it cute as it could be.

Kay didn’t think the look all that cute. I pointed the lady out when Kay walked up with her short’s purchase. She wanted to know why I felt I had to stare at women at the talking tree. I told her I didn’t think the tree talked anymore. She gave me ol’ eye roll.

Just irks me no end. I get in trouble when all along I didn’t even want to be there. Why is it you can never find a roofing nail when you need one?

END

To view Mark and Brad’s latest restaurant review click on pic.

Just about missed Nat'l Ice Cream Month!

2011-07-23T13:58:00.000-07:00

“Ice Cream”

    Did you know that July is National Ice Cream Month? I just found out about it last week. Had I known sooner I could’ve done more to honor the frozen treat named after a man with a musical truck.

    At this late date, I figured the least I could do is research something about ice cream. I hate research. It takes too much time. My Blue Bell Blackberry Cobbler will melt by the time I finish this. It’ll still be good, but sheesh. So, let’s make this fast.

    By the way, I pulled all my ice cream facts from the Internet. I tell you that, to tell you this: There’s a good chance none of ‘em would hold up in court.

The first “fact” is that America and New Zealand take turns leading the world in per capita consumption of ice cream. I can understand the U.S. But, New Zealand? Fourteen universities have received grants to study that phenomenon. None have come up with a good answer.

Each American was supposed to have eaten 12 gallons of ice cream last year. I didn’t come close. Don’t get me wrong, I really like ice cream, but it makes me sweat. Something makes me sweat. Lone Star College is trying to get a grant to study me.

Kay doesn’t eat enough ice cream, either. Together we may eat ten gallons. I usually eat my five in early June. That means that someone out there is eating what Kay and I don’t. That person is consuming 26 gallons a year. Should be easy to find.

The State that produces the most ice cream is California. Their favorite flavor is Avocado. I didn’t look that up, because it seemed obvious. Texas is the second largest producer. If you take Blue Bell out of the equation we rank 42nd, just behind Delaware. Again, I didn’t have to look that one up.

The first ice cream cone was invented at the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis. Another source came up with the 1896 World’s Fair in Berlin, but that can’t be because Judy Garland never sang “Meet me in Berlin, Louie.”

The day of the week that most ice cream is sold is Sunday. Speaking of Sunday, the first ice cream sundae was made in Two Rivers, Wisconsin in 1871. At least that’s what the town claims.

Two Rivers didn’t know the name of what it invented until 1890, when the city fathers of Evanston, Illinois, banned the sale of ice cream sodas on Sunday. It was a loose translation of Deuteronomy 24:20.

To get around the blue law, a confectioner put some ice cream in a dish, threw in some syrup and left out the soda. Instead of calling it a “Soda-less Soda,” he called it a “Sundae Soda.” I assume he misspelled “Sunday” for religious reasons.

People’s favorite ice cream flavors, in order of most ordered: Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, banana, coconut, butter pecan, mint chocolate chip, coffee, honey and green tea. I read that, but I don’t believe it. Might be true in New Zealand but not here.

By the by, Ronald Reagan is the one who instituted National Ice Cream month back in 1984. I doubt it was his idea, ‘cause he was into jellybeans. Oh, and ice cream was invented by the Chinese. Big surprise. They also invented ice, fire and sponge darts.

That’s all entirely too interesting. Before I leave you with your ice cream flavor thoughts, let me say that ice cream has been known to stop migraines. Not mine, but maybe yours. Mine hate the cold, but some people’s migraines love it. Give it a try.

So, let’s all show our pride and grab some Blue Bell Blackberry Cobbler. Anything but green tea. – Green tea? Hey, I researched it.

END

To find Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant review click on pic.

Hey, there's less to us than you think.

2011-07-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

“Disappearing monster”

    I no longer believe in Spiderman, but I do believe in spidey sense. When I see in the comics that Peter Parker’s “spidey sense” is tingling, I realize that it’s a true phenomenon.

    I know ‘cause I witnessed spider sense just before you showed up. I was staring out the window here in the study, waiting to see if rain was going to come from the overcast sky. While focusing on the sky, I noticed a giant spider walk into view and just stand there. A big spider… about the size of a cat’s paw.

    The creature was on the screen outside the window, apparently looking for something to do. The thing started walking back and forth for about 10 minutes. Then it stayed in place and started alternately raising its legs off the screen like it was pretend-playing a round piano.

At that point, I noticed that the monster arachnid was actually inside the window screen. I noticed it ‘cause its legs began bumping against the glass. I didn’t mind the spider so much when I thought it was outside. Figured it might catch a bat or something at night. But, realizing it was practically inside my house, changed my whole attitude. I didn’t scream out loud, but inside my head I let out a real sissy-scream. That’s when I ran downstairs for some roach spray.

I’m not sure spiders fear roach spray, but it’s all I had. Turns out I didn’t even have it. I could only find a can of ant spray I bought when LBJ was President. Ants name for “ant spray” is “candy.” I don’t know what spiders call it, but I was going to find out.

So, I grabbed the spray and ran back to the study. When I arrived, the spider was gone. Hiding somewhere in the window’s periphery. Deep in one of those periphery things. To find out where it was, I’d hafta open the window. Did I mention the thing was big? Big as a Frisbee.

I have no doubt that the demon arachnid heard my mental girl-scream and realized that I was coming back with some kick-posterior bug spray. There is no other explanation. None that goes along with what I’m trying to say here… which is that spiders are very astute. Just like horses. – Stay with me here.

Last week Kay and I went to the Market Street theatre in The Woodlands to see “Buck,” the documentary about Buck Brannaman, the man that Robert Redford’s “Horse Whisperer” movie was loosely based on. I don’t like to see a movie about real life. I go to the movies to get away from real life…. and eat popcorn. I only went this time ‘cause Kay asked me. I suppose if she asked me to jump off a cliff I’d do it… but only if there was popcorn at the bottom.

As it turned out, the movie was the best I’ve seen in a good while. The popcorn was great, too.

The reason the movie reminded me of “spidey sense” has to do with something Brannanman said about horses. He said that horses sense when you’re scared, angry, happy or just out of sorts. And, they react accordingly. Not sure exactly what that means for a horse, but for me, I just shut down around somebody who is outta sorts.

Watching “Buck” I learned a lot about horses and people. Buck said that if you ever have trouble with your horse, it’s generally your fault. The person riding the horse is the one with the problem. Buck trains people more than he trains horses. I think Caesar Milan, the Dog Whisperer, does pretty much the same thing.

Bottom line, horses are somewhat like spiders. They can sense stuff about you that no one else can. Leading one to believe that animals and bugs are keener than humans. How else can you explain that after 40 years of marriage, Kay has yet to react to one of my mental sissy-screams. Yet, after only a few minutes of being in my proximity, a gigantic spider not only heard my silent scream, but knew what was coming next.

Spidey sense. I could use me some of that.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Beck’s Prime click on pic.

Night time on the roof

2011-07-11T12:48:00.000-07:00

“On a hot metal roof”

   ROOFTOP – Did any of you collide with a junebug on your way up? Two of those critters got me. Both of ‘em hit my face. I haven’t even noticed a junebug all year, and while I’m walking the ladder around to the launch point, two of those bubbas hit me. What’s that all about?

   They must love the dry and the heat. I came up here tonight figuring it would be almost bearable. Daytime roofsits have been called off till late autumn. At least at my house. You do what you want.

   Here it is 10 in the P.M. and it’s 87 degrees. The air has a feel of a drive-in theatre outing. Strange attraction the drive-in. It was always a blast going, but such a dismal time getting home and piling out of the car. I hated it when I got too old for Dad to carry me inside. I don’t remember a Li’l Al ever entering the house conscious after a drive-in outing. – “Hey, Daddy, after you get Alan in, how ‘bout coming back for me?” Never happened.

   Listen to those neeker breekers. Those things simply cannot harmonize. Each one seems oblivious to the other. Sounds like a neighborhood awash in creaking door sounds. There may be a frog among ‘em. If so, it’s bound to be sitting in one of Kay’s flowerpots. Nothing else is wet enough to coax a croak out of a frog.

   You know what would go good about now? No, that’s too obvious. I was thinking of a smoothie. The last time Jill was here she brought along some smoothie makings. Included pomegranate juice, frozen bananas, berries and whey. I don’t understand whey. I don’t even think Miss Muffet knew what she was eating.

   The smoothies Jill made were really good. If you switch the pomegranate juice for a citrus or grape concoction, you’d really have something. After Jill’s visit, Kay and I just had to get us some smoothie makings. A small jar of whey cost ten bucks, by the whey. In a year or two, we may use it for driveway filler. Smoothie making is to much trouble.

You’ve really got to be serious about a project if the outcome involves washing a blender. Too many parts, and the ugliest blade in the world. I’d just as soon clean a shark’s teeth as mess with a set of blender blades.

Fortunately, Kay found a use for the smoothie berries. She boils the things and adds ‘em to her hummingbird sugar and water mixture. Brian’s grandson taught her that. The six-year-old came to help his grandpa with a remodeling job. Most of the time he sat and talked to Kay about birds and stuff. Smart kid.

Kay added the berry mixture to one of her two feeders. The berry mixture was gone before the other even took more than a hit or two. Ryan’s a bright kid. I think he learned a lot from listening to his grandma. What I think.

Before we all leave, which we’re gonna hafta do in a couple of minutes, I want us to congregate at ground-level so I can give you each a tomato. We got a few from the Plilers and Catherine. I wouldn’t be so generous with my tomatoes, but they all turned ripe at once. Two days ago. Now they’re walking a tight line between ripe and rot.

Kay and I have been trying to eat a few tomatoes with each meal. To tell the truth I’m about ‘matered out. A week from now I’ll be begging for tomatoes, but they’ll all be gone. I’ll be back to paying big bucks for ‘em. Tomatoes are way tricky. That’s why they call ‘em tomatoes.

Okay, no pushing, slipping or jumping. And, no playing with the satellite dish. I’m talking to you, Lanny! Everybody just just climb down and lineup for your tomato. And, yes, you have to take one. – Next time.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Pallotta's Mexican Grill click on pic.

We used the Hope it Pops brand

2011-07-01T18:22:00.000-07:00

“Popcorn Fever”

Have you ever had new car fever? Scary isn’t it? You start noticing every little thing wrong with your current vehicle. Too few cupholders, worn mats and cluttered glove compartment or pullout. Whichever. And, naturally, you begin focusing big time on the new models.

If you establish a preference for one particular model, you’re either gonna take out a loan or feel sorry for yourself for the rest of your miserable life.

Car fever is especially a nightmare if your spouse has it and you don’t. I’ve got to believe the devil smiles when that happens.

Unfortunately, that’s what’s happening right now in the Hayter household. I’ve got the fever and Kay’s 98.6. Maybe a little lower. It’s not car fever I have, though. What I’ve got is popcorn popper fever. A couple of you probably guessed that.

The popcorn popper I want sells for $474. It’s like the one in the theatre only not as big. A lot not as big. The popper pot holds only six ounces of kernels. For $600 I can get one with an eight-ounce pot. I see no need to push for an extra two ounces.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, when is the zombie craze going to end? I beg you to not let your mind drift. This is serious. Some of you don’t care about my dilemma because you don’t fully appreciate popcorn.

I was raised on popcorn. My first memory is of me trying to get a fistful of popcorn away from Dennis. Hard to do much damage with only one tooth. Mom used to pop corn in our old burned up pot. Nobody remembered what it looked like new. Not sure where it even came from.

Mom would stick that pot an open flame and shake it till her teeth rattled. Throw it in a bowl and set it in the middle of the floor. To this day, I can’t eat popcorn slowly. I shove it in my mouth like I’m one of nine pigs at a six-pig trough.

Scary thing was, Mom’s popcorn wasn’t all that good. Only every third kernel popped. Dad bought a cheap kind called Hope-it-Pops.

Theatres don’t buy cheap popcorn. They buy the best corn and butter. They sell the stuff only to theatres… and people who own theatre popcorn poppers. There’s some kind of guild.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I go to the movie mostly for the popcorn. I can rent a movie, but I can’t rent popcorn. I’ve tried.

Yes, I realize that microwave popcorn is good. It’s just not movie popcorn. Orville Red invented microwave “Movie Popcorn.” And, were he still alive, I would slap him. Calling a moccasin a boot does not make it one. (Chief Red Cloud said that. Probably.)

The best thing about movie popcorn is that Kay doesn’t eat much of it. She thinks it’s not good for her. Too much salt and butter. Plus, when it hits your colon, it has an 18 year half-life.

I refuse to dissuade Kay from her silly concerns about popcorn. I might’ve been born at night, but it wasn’t last night. (Can’t believe I worked that in.)

No, the only way I’m getting my mini corn popper is by showing Kay the math. I could probably buy over a dozen poppers for the cost of one Tempur-Pedic mattress. That’s the fever Kay has. She apparently wants to put wine glasses on the bed and jump up and down.

Only people who have ‘em, now how much a Tempu-Pedic cost, and they’re keeping quiet. One ad announces that it’ll sell Kay a mattress at a savings of $1500. That scares the daylights out of me.

It all has to do with priorities. What’s more important, a good night’s sleep or all the movie popcorn you can eat anytime you want? Yet, Kay still can’t see the logic. Oh yeah, the devil is grinning bigtime.

END

To see Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant review, click on pic.

The last time I saw him, he was laughing and joking

2011-06-25T13:45:00.000-07:00

“More of a jokefest”

Big Al and I drove down to Clear Lake last week to watch the other two brothers play in the next to the last game of the season. It’s a slow-pitch softball league for Old Timers. I don’t believe they call it “Old Timers League” but they might as well.

Dennis and Larry’s team is four wins ahead in league play. That means the outcome of their last two games means squat. They played like it, too. Dennis probably has the highest batting average in the league, but it sure didn’t show this time. He hit nothing but slow grounders. Larry didn’t fare any better.

They didn’t look too good in the field, either. Larry had one good play when the ball hit his foot and rolled to the guy covering second base for a force out. The crowd went wild. Big Al and I were the crowd.

Old Timer softball is not that big a draw… even for the wives. Especially for the wives. Plus, it was way hot out there. I’m thinking 120 degrees. It was so hot that the umpire ordered Al and me to get out of the heat and go sit in the dugout. Never heard of an umpire benching spectators. We put up little fight.

In the dugout I struck up a conversation with guy from another team. No idea why he was there. Anyway, je pointed to one of the players in the infield. “You see that shortstop out there?” he said. “That guy can hit. He’s knocked three over the fence.”

The shortstop was Dennis. He has never knocked a ball over the fence in his life. None of the brothers have. But, apparently, someone saw Dennis hit a long fly once, and embellished a bit. He told a friend who told a friend… Low and behold, Dennis is now a Long Knocker. That’s what they call homerun hitters in the Old Timers League. “Long Knockers.” I’m not making that up.

After the pathetic loss, we all went for barbecue at the Chop Block in Pasadena. Restaurant reviewer Brad Meyer wasn’t with me, so I got to enjoy the meal.

At some point during the chowdown, I asked the brothers if they knew of any plans for their Fathers Day. I’m the only childless brother, so I didn’t really care. Just making conversation. Turns out, they didn’t care either. Not a one of ‘em was even aware of Fathers Day.

The only good thing that came from my question was the fact that it started up stories about Dad. The last time I ever saw my dad, the four brothers were playing in a softball tournament at Memorial Park. The Hayter boys were the infield. Last inning of the game; we’re in the field. One out and runners on first and third. We’re up by one run.

The batter smashed a grounded to third. I scooped it up, threw it to Dennis at second who relayed it to Larry at first. Double play. We win!

After all the glad handing, I called Dad to tell him about it. He and Mom decided to drive out and watch our next game… a game we lost badly.

At the time, I really regretted calling Dad. I hated that he and Mom drove all the way out to watch us get trounced. But, Dad didn’t mind. After the game he laughed and joked with us. That was the last memory I have of my Dad. He died of a heart attack just a few weeks later. But, my last memory of him was of him laughing and cutting up with my brothers and me. I’ve long since considered the moment a true blessing.

Same with Al calling me to go to the ballpark to watch Dennis and Larry. On this occasion I was glad that Dad wasn’t alive to see his sons really stink up the place. Big Al really let ‘em have it, too. He almost had Dennis and Larry in tears. -- I may be exaggerating a bit. It was more of a jokefest with the brothers. Another blessing.

END

To watch Brad and Mark's recent restaurant review click on pic.

James Arness

2011-06-18T13:57:00.000-07:00

Arness WAS Dillon

     If I had lived in the Old West, there would have been only one gunman I wouldn’t be afraid to face. The Lone Ranger. The guy never killed anybody. He was so good that he only shot the gun out of the bad guy’s hand. I don’t care if the gun was right in front of the outlaw’s chest, the bullet would go no farther than his hand.

Granted, it probably hurts to have a gun shot out of your hand. Probably like a firecracker going off just as you rear back to throw it. Happened to me once. I thought I lost my thumb. But I digress. (Speaking of which, in case you’re wondering, I’ve been requested to cut back on my article length due to, uh… they’re just too long. That has killed so much rambling that it’s scary. For me. It’s gotta be a blessing for you.)

    Where was I? Oh, yeah, The Lone Ranger. I would face him. The worst of it would be a numb thumb… which happens to be a game played in Papua New Guinea. The one gunman I would least like to face would’ve been none other than Matt Dillon, a character played by the recently deceased James Arness. Who didn’t know that?

    I might’ve been able to outdraw Dillon, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Even if I had gotten off a half dozen shots and hit him with two of ‘em, he would’ve killed me. The man could take a hit.

I read a recent tribute to Arness in which the writer said that Dillon was shot 30 times during his 20-year stint as Marshal of Dodge. That is so not right. It’s closer to 130. Both legs, arms, shoulders, all over his back, and an area a half-inch away from his heart bore the mark’s of multiple wounds. That guy wore more lead than a Russian Nuclear Power Plant.

What I most liked about Dillon, apart from his ability to survive massive wounds, was the fact that he didn’t mince words. Mince words? Anyway, if he thought you were a bad guy, he’d just tell you get out of town. – “Hey, you can’t do that,” the bad guy would say. – “You’ve got one hour” is what Dillon would say. He didn’t care to argue.

One thing I didn’t like about him was the way he would let people threaten him. Today, if you threaten a law officer it’s the same as an assault. An aggravated assault even. But, you could threaten Dillon all day and night. “I’m gonna kill you, Marshall. Shoot you in the back? I don’t care. I’m gonna kill you.”

Dillon did not arrest bad guys for that. He might tell ‘em to get out of town, but he wouldn’t throw ‘em in jail. That’s why he got shot in the back so many times.

A man of few words, who was incorruptible, and able to really take a shot. That was Matt Dillon. Why he never saddled up with Kitty is beyond me. Especially since the dancehall girls at the Long Branch only danced and drank. Nothing else.

Oh, the memories of “Gunsmoke.” I never met any of the original cast, but it still hurts to know that, with the passing of James Arness, the last of them is gone.

So, let’s all mosey up to the bar and lift our glasses for a toast to Milburn Stone, Dennis Weaver, Amanda Blake, and, of course, James Arness. Many have paid tribute to his acting ability. Me? I don’t really think he was all that good of an actor. Not in “Gunsmoke.” That’s because he wasn’t acting. Arness was Dillon.

Hey, The Lone Ranger wouldn’t even want to go against him. A shot to the hand with a silver bullet? Dillon wouldn’t even have noticed.

END

To view Mark and Brad’s latest restaurant of “Spring Creek Barbecue in The Woodlands” click on pic.

Pants on fire!

2011-06-10T08:33:00.000-07:00

"Promise breaker"

Seventeen years ago I made a promise that I’m soon going to break. I don’t want to, but it’s gonna happen. Oh, it’s gonna happen.

Just to set the record straight, it’s Kay’s fault. And, you wanna know something scary? She knows it’s her fault, and I don’t think she cares. Reminds me of a song by Roy Orbison. But, I’ll not go off on one of my tangents. This is too important.

It was back in February of ’94. We just moved in. The two back bedrooms had some wall issues. Two teenage boys had lived in the rooms and their ucky blue walls were loaded with staples. I’m assuming there were posters. We didn’t have posters when I was growing up. (Oops, another tangent trigger.)

After a day of pulling staples, we ended up with an ucky blue wall with thousands of tiny white-chalky holes in it. If you made a tiny telescope with your thumb and pointer finger, and you squinted real hard, it looked like the night sky during a Latvian smog alert.

To tell the truth, the wall didn’t bother me all that much. I’ve always had a fondness for Latvia. But, Kay would have none of it. She wanted to paint the walls. More than that, she wanted me to help! Devil woman, let go of me.

So we laid down a tarp and prepped the walls. I don’t remember much of what all that involved, but it was bad. Dr. Rex told me to try to put it all out of my mind. He said that people with peculiar personalities should never delve into the past. Peculiar personalities? He was the only psychologist on our insurance plan who would see me. That’s just weird.

Anyway, the prep -- what little I recall of it -- was almost as bad as the actual painting. The entire job was… I’m sorry. I don’t care to go back there. It’s enough to say that I was covered with paint and Kay only had one spot on the back of her left hand. I threatened to get in the car and drive to Montana, and, again, she didn’t seem to care.

At some point during the agony I made a promise -- THE promise. With the paint roller stuck in my hand, and one of those cheep little sponge daubers attached to my rear, I said, “If any part of this house ever gets painted again, it’ll be by someone other than me.” Or, I. I’m pretty sure I said “me.”

Flash forward 17 years. I’ll be painting the same two bedrooms next week. Seems Kay got our remodeler guy, Brian Shelley, to turn two closets in the adjoining rooms into one closet. I didn’t see the possibility, nor the need for such a job. Kay had a vision. She had something.

The job required some wall removal, which pleased the daylights out of Kay. She says that now we can paint the walls another color. Sunrise Coral Island Sand. Looks a lot like peachy tangerine to me, but I assume that name was taken.

Brian Shelley marrying two closets

While I do remember the promise I made about painting, I have obviously forgotten much of the torment of the job… thanks to Dr. Rex. It seems that when I try to recall the worst of the experience, my brain sees a platter of waffles. I went through some serious therapy.

And soon I will break my promise. A promise breaker I be. I don’t do that often, ‘cause I generally attach qualifiers to my promises. “If all goes well, I’ll…” or “Unless I change my mind, I promise to…” That kind of stuff.

But there was no qualifier on my promise not to paint. I was so sure I wouldn’t need one. Turn two closets into one? I never saw it coming. Takes a special person to see something like that. Apparently one without my “peculiar personality.” I still don’t know what he meant by that.

END

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Two biggest exaggerations

2011-06-03T14:07:00.000-07:00

“Can’t make this up.”

   Last week I told you about a word used in 63 percent of all lies. Or, 72 percent. When I make up numbers it’s hard for me to remember what I said.

   This week I’m gonna give you the two biggest exaggerations in the history of Western civilization. Hey, I’ve been doing a lot of research.

   Ready? The second biggest exaggeration is “You can’t make up something like that.” That is soooo not true. Name something you can’t make up? It’s impossible. At least on planet Earth.

   What brought this to my mind was one of those murder documentary shows. Dateline, True Crime, 48 Hours, The New Detectives, On the Case… I watch a bunch of ‘em. I don’t know why. They’re like watching the first part of one of those revenge movies. Makes me way angry. I must like angry.

   Anyway, I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the narrator or some police officer being interviewed say “You can’t make up something like this.” What he’s saying is that the motive and/or method of murder is just beyond belief.

   You’ve gotta be kidding. CSI, NCIS, Law and Order, Criminal Minds… they make up stuff like that every week. The cases get so convoluted that three minutes after the show I can’t tell you who killed who and why.

   Each program follows a formula. Right off the bat you’re introduced to the most obvious suspect. You can scratch him off immediately. Then they introduce you to five or six others who may have had motive. It ends up being the apartment manager who had an affair with the lady’s niece.

You call that motive? It’s stupid as all get out. That’s why each episode is so forgettable. Yet, I still watch. All except CSI. Don’t ever show me a bullet as it goes through somebody’s pancreas and expect me to keep watching.

   Can’t make stuff like this up? Sheesh. But, forget that. The most exaggerated statement in the history of mankind is – Are you ready? -- “Hey, anybody can do it.”

   You need to just slap somebody that tells you that. There is nothing that anybody can do. Wait a minute. That sounds wrong. Uh, nobody can do anything.

   Look. Let me just tell you what got me to thinking about this. It was Kay’s brother Tracy. A few weeks back I mentioned to the little twit that Big Al and I had put to rest our From the Rooftop TV venture. The country wasn’t ready for it. So, I was now in need of my own Rooftop Writer Website. I expected Tracy to volunteer to make me one.

   He gave no hint of volunteering. Instead, he said that anybody can do it. He told me there are places all over the Internet that will make the job super easy. And, he made me believe I could do it. I should’ve atomic wedged him right on the spot.

I’ve spent the last several days on my new Website – www.rooftopwriter.com. At one point I completely lost it. Spent hours trying to relocate it. Literally, hours. Kay finely came upstairs and said, “Get out of here for 15 minutes. I’ll take care of it.”

Sure enough she found the Rooftop Writer. Of course, now I don’t know how to put a blog into it. Neither does Kay. She just knows how to find stuff. Me? I can’t do anything. That makes me dumber than anybody.

No, it’s gonna take Tracy to get me out of this. And, believe me, he’s gonna do it. You can’t make up what I’m gonna do to him if he doesn’t step up to the plate. And, that’s no exaggeration.

END

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Just take a second.

2011-05-31T11:46:00.000-07:00

“Bookless”

PARKING LOT -- Don’t look at me, it wasn’t my idea to be here. I’ve got to remember to bring a book when I go to town with Kay. She’s a tricky girl, this one.

Each time Kay and I head for town I’ve got our itinerary mapped out perfectly in my mind. Yet, somewhere along the way I hear, “Oh, can we stop at the office for a second? I need to drop something off.” Or “Oh, would you pull into Hobby Lobby? I’ll just be a second.”

Fifty-three percent of all lies have the word “second” in ‘em. Or, minute. They’re one in the same. They can mean anywhere from 20 minutes to a couple of hours. “Just be a second.” Some lies have both. “Oh, just a second. Do you have a minute?”

Look, just tell me. Don’t ask and don’t try to flower it up for me. -- “Hey, Sweetpea, I need to go to the office to see the girls. You do what you do. I’ll be 40 minutes.” If you tell me something like that I don’t feel quite so violated.

The worst place is Hobby Lobby. That parking lot is about 16 acres of heat reflective concrete. You’ll have to go to Willis before you find any shade.

Of course, I could go into Hobby Lobby with Kay, but after I’ve fingered all the balsa wood rockets and model airplanes, I’m ready to leave. Kay can graze in that place for hours. Do you know how many beads and buttons there are to touch in Hobby Lobby? Nobody does.

That’s why I was so disappointed about not bringing a book. And then a thought hit me. Bonk! Why don’t I get you involved? No use suffering alone. Hey, I’ve dragged you to a lot worse places.

Besides, I’ve got something for us to do. I call it noticing-how-people walk. No, don’t you dare get out of the car. This will be fun or else I wouldn’t have asked. Well, that last part was a lie, but still stick around.

Let’s all focus our attention on the bank entrance just across that grassy area over there. We’re minutes away from noon and that place is hopping. Right now we’re just focusing on men. We’re going to profile men by their walk. I don’t think anyone has ever done that. Probably because it’s stupid.

But, who are we? Right, we’re the trapped ones. Okay, look at the guy who just stepped up to the sidewalk. He looks near death. Slouched over; he’s got short, foot-dragging steps. He’s barely alive and hating every minute of the time that remains.

But, wait! The lady isn’t going to hold the door for him. It’s about to close and—Look at him! Perked up and almost ran to catch the door. But, then… He’s back to his slouch. How sad.

You don’t want to start a conversation with this guy. He’ll suck the joy right out of you. Take my word. I’ve used that walk. Two days ago, in fact.

And, here comes mister fast walker guy. Get out of his way, lady! Oh, my word, that was close. He walks with his arms away from his side. Like a weight lifter or uh, what? Gorilla. He walks with a purpose, but he doesn’t really have one. He has no reason to hurry, but you can’t tell him that. You don’t wanna be around the guy when he’s driving. Especially on a two lane road. If he can’t go around you, he’ll go through you.

I’ve pretty well summed up his life. I’ve used that guy’s walk a time or two, also. Something in the ol’ brain just says, “Hurry up! I just wanna get this over. Out of my way, people!”

You know, this game isn’t as fun as I hoped. Don’t know why you thought of it. Let’s do something else. Tell you what, let’s play what-book-would-you-read-if-you-had-one. I’ll go first. No, I don’t wanna hear another word from the backseat. I’m going first.

At the moment I’m reading two books. I hate it when I do that. I start one and somebody comes along and tells me I “must” read something else… immediately. I was almost at an interesting part of a book suggested by Tracy. That’s the lady from “A Novel Idea” bookstore out on 105 West. They sell used and new books. Mostly used. Those are the kind I like best.

Tracie suggested “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.” She said that after the first 100 pages, it supposed to get really good. At least that’s what her customers have told her. She’s yet to try it.

What agent or editor, picks up a manuscript and sticks with it through 100 pages of bad beginning? They wouldn’t do it for me, but they’ll sure do it for Stieg Larsson.

So, I was almost up to the interesting part of the Dragon book when Kay comes to me in tears and hands me “Same Kind of Different as Me.” You’ve got to read this book. Did I mention she was crying?

Her friend Linda -- somewhere in the office building behind us -- loaned her the book. Kay cried practically all the way through it. Handed it to me and said she wanted to pass it on to Virginia, but that I had to read it first.”

So, I’m between books at the moment. I haven’t cried yet during “Same kind of different” but I’ve been on a roller coaster ride of joy and depression. How can people be so mean to other people? Pre judging. That’s what it is. It’s kind of like categorizing people by the way they walk. Which one of you came up with that lousy idea?

So, if I had a book right now, I’d want it to be “Some kind of Different”, so I could get through it and get back to the Dragon tattoo. Of course, by the time I get there, I will have forgotten all the Swedish character’s vowel-free names and I’ll have to start over. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to do that.

Okay, that’s it, people. I can see in the side mirror that Kay is now leaving the building. Everybody out! No shoving and don’t leave anything in here. -- “What? No, Sweetie. They’re just fellow roofsitters that I called on to help me pass the time. A couple of ‘em said that you have a nice walk.

“Okay, where to now? Oh. Hold on. – Hey, everybody! Meet me at Hobby Lobby! We’ll only be a second!”

END

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Too wise for your own good

2011-05-27T08:05:00.000-07:00

Wisdom can be a pain

You wanna know the truth, a little bit wisdom can make your life miserable. Too much of it can be excruciating. Me, I’ve got just enough to make me cranky.

This morning I was drinking my coffee while reading the newspaper. Next to bedtime it’s the best part of my day. So, all’s right with my corner of the world until Kay gets up from the table and announces that she’s going to make some Creamy Italian salad dressing.

I have no idea where that came from. She could’ve said “I’m going to go dig for grubs” and it would’ve made as much sense to me. But, I didn’t comment. Not immediately. I thought things over for a few seconds. It’s the wise thing to do.

While pondering, I remembered how upset Kay was when we first learned that Seven Seas quit making Creamy Italian dressing. Kay always used Seven Seas brand for her much heralded cole slaw. She had many heralders of that stuff.

When Seven Seas baled on Creamy Italian, Kay tried every other brand on the market. Her cole slaw (pronounced “ cold slaw”) just never turned out right. After about three seconds I had landed on the why of her impractical, doomed-to-fail attempt at making salad dressing at 8:30 in the morning. It was now safe to comment.

Ease into it, my voice of wisdom suggested. “So, you’re planning to make some cole slaw?” I said. Kay said, No. She just wanted to make some Creamy Italian. That info weighed in heavy. Kay only used Creamy Italian for “ cold” slaw, yet she wasn’t planning to make any. She just had a lark to make Creamy Italian.

“Keep your mouth shut!” That’s what the wise part of my brain screamed. It’s no big deal. The Mississippi River is flooding, the price of gasoline is obscene, and there are riots in Syria. Don’t mess with the salad dressing bomb. “Pick your fights. This is a little thing.” I said nothing.

The first batch came out too sweet. I could discern no sugar at all in the Seven Seas brand. “Do you think I should try again?” she asked. “Yes! Of course!” Is what I should’ve said. But I didn’t. Wisdom was elbowed aside by the testy part of my brain. “I don’t think you should’ve tried the first batch,” is what came out of my mouth.

The kitchen got silent. Negative sound coming from there. “Quick, regroup! Regroup!” wisdom screamed. “Uh, you know, what I’d do?” I said. “I’d make another batch, and put no sugar in this one and then mix the two together.” I thought it Solomonesque.

Kay thought it a good idea. Brilliant, even. So she did as I suggested and ended up with a dressing that was still too sweet. “So, what do you think?” Before my brain could scream anything, my mouth immediately shot out, “Hokey Smokes, woman! Cut your loses and stop the madness!” Then I started shaking and wheezing. After about two minutes, Kay handed me a paper bag to breathe in.

I just hate episodes like that. The moment Kay mentioned the salad dressing, I knew it was wrong. I can just see things that other people don’t. Yet, what does it get me? Heartache! When I see somebody doing something stup—uh, unwise, I feel bad if I don’t say anything and bad if I do. By the way, I thought she took way too much time handing me the paper bag.

Life would be so much easier for me if my wisdom index was just a whole lot lower. But, no, I’m stuck with what I’ve got. And, what I’ve got has upset not only Kay, but most of my friends and all of my family members. “I wouldn’t do it that way.“ or “You know you’re opening that jar wrong, don’t you?” Or “By all means, if you want to wait in line for a couple hours, let’s go eat there.”

People have very little patience with the wise. One can only imagine what Solomon had to put up with. For those of you who attended Sunday school at one time or other, you may remember that it was mentioned that there was no one before nor would there be anyone after Solomon who would be as wise.

It must’ve been terrible for him. And, to make it worse, do you know how many wives he had? He had 700 wives and 300 concubines. I imagine that after your fortieth or so wife, the line between a wife and concubine becomes somewhat blurred.

Here’s the wisest man there ever was or ever will be, and he’s got 700 to 1000 wives. Oh, the horror.

“My Lord, Barinna would like to see you.” -- “Barinna?’ – “She’s one of your wives.” – “You’re gonna hafta do better than that. – “She’s one of your 38 Hittite wives. Green hair, tattoo on her left shoulder, gripes all the time…” – “Oh, yeah. Tell her to go ahead and make the salad dressing. Make a pool full of salad dressing. But, she’s sadly mistaken if she thinks it will match the Queen of Sheba’s vinaigrette. Oh, and don’t tell her the last part. What else?”

“Let’s see, Orpah, your 468th child would like to date Noadite the Edomite.” – “Seriously? Has she even heard the jokes going around about the Edomites? Forget it. Tell her I’m cool with it, and don’t ever bring stuff like this to me again. Next?”

See what I’m sayin’? Wisdom can be a real pain. So much so that many people would just as soon you not share yours. They want you to share your love, time, money… But, wisdom? Pretty much keep it to yourself. I’m just saying.

END

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Don't assume... uh, sometimes.

2011-05-26T11:20:00.000-07:00

“The risk in assuming”

Do you have any idea how many assumptions you make in a day? It’s a lot. In the millions. I checked.

When you’re on the highway, you’re assuming the silver Hyundai Sonata coming your way isn't going to swerve at the last minute and hit you. Could happen, but you’re assuming it won’t or else you’d pull over on the shoulder of the road.

When I order a hamburger, I’m assuming the 14 year-old fry-cook didn’t stick the meat patty under his arm while picking his spatula up off the floor. I’m fairly sure it happens, but I like to assume that it didn’t. Helps me digest better.

Each night I assume that Kay is not going to sneak out of bed, grab the cast iron skillet and crack my skull as I sleep. The girl has elbowed me, kneed me and stole my covers, but in 39 years, five months and 11 days, she’s yet to crack my skull with a skillet.

So, I’m assuming she won’t. Obviously she could’ve spent four decades making me feel safe enough to drop my defenses, so some nights I climb into bed with just a smidgen of reasonable doubt. What husband doesn’t?

But, let’s not go off on the how-to-protect-yourself-while-sleeping tangent. We’ll never get back to the topic at hand, which is the assumption that your spare has air.

That’s right. That’s what I’ve been leading up to. Spare tires. I got the idea, yesterday, while vacuuming the back of my Highlander. I wash and vacuum Kay’s car about four times a year. Religiously. Usually, I vacuum first and then wash. This time, I washed and then vacuumed. I don’t know what got into me.

After vacuuming the hatchback part of the car, I decided to lift up the carpet. I hadn’t done that since we bought the thing back in 2002. Beneath the carpet was a hidden compartment. I looked around to make sure no one was spying on me, and then raised the lid on that bubba.

Hokey smokes! It was the spare tire. A nine-year-old brand new tire. To the right of it was another compartment that housed the jack. I had never even seen the jack. I assumed I had one, but never took time to search for it.

There was also a compartment near the taillight. I hoped it would contain some bottle caps or loose spoons. There’s a rattle in the back of the Highlander that bothers only me. Kay doesn’t mind, nor does our mechanic.

Unfortunately, the compartment was empty. I was thinking of putting a couple of candy bars back there for when I get in a really bad traffic jam, but they wouldn’t make it past the second stop light.

Anyway, before closing the hatch, I mashed on the spare. Another of my wild and crazy moments. That thing was flat. Void of air. It didn’t even make a pssst sound when I pressed on the valve stem. How long had it been flat? I don’t know. May have come that way. When I take the thing in for it’s oil change and 173 point check, I always assumed one of the points is to check the spare. I can now assume it’s not.

We’ve driven the thing for 108,000 miles, give or take, and during a chunk of those miles we might as well have been spareless. All the while, I assumed I was not.

We’ve been in the middle of nowhere in that car. Before we owned a cell phone, even! We’ve driven over hill and dale with the Plilers sitting in the backseat. And, no spare! (Dale is located just north of Scooberton.)

Say we had a flat. “Hey, Kay, get the owners manual out of the glove compartment and find out where the jack is. Freeman why don’t you get back there and find the spare?” Freeman would’ve killed me when he found the spareless air. I mean the—You know what I mean. Virginia has come close to killing me for a lot less than making her walk 47 miles.

This airless spare condition is testimony to the quality of tires that are out there. Back in the day, we got a flat about once a month. Each time we got into our old truck, we’d check the oil and then the spare. A broken bottle could give you a flat tire back then. It might still do it, but I don’t get a chance to run over that much glass anymore.

I ran over a dead bird once and got a flat tire. I’m not making this up. I didn’t intentionally hit it, but boy did I get it just right. The guy who fixed the flat said it wasn’t uncommon. I think he was lying just to make it sound like he had seen it all. “Yeah, you’ve got a warbler flat there. Yellow-rumped looks like to me.

Tires are so much better now. Aren’t they better? As you’ve no doubt discerned, we’ve yet to have a flat in the Highlander. And, that’s a good thing, or else I would’ve written this article years ago and it would’ve been so much more interesting.

Especially if the Plilers had been with us. They would’ve killed me. Assuming Freeman could find the tire iron. I’m assuming it’s hidden under the jack.

END

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And, here we have a weener dog!

2011-05-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

“Pet Parade”

Do you have any idea who emceed the 2011 Montgomery County Fair Pet Parade? No, I didn’t ask if you cared. I asked if you… Oh, just forget it.

I was the emcee. Okay? Are you happy? All it takes is just two rude people to really pooh pooh my parade.

I take that back. It wasn’t my parade. It was instigated by Lisa Hightower. Lisa, is one of those people who work their buns off doing volunteer work, and then stand in the background whenever there’s any praise to go around. Just makes me sick.

Lisa is a wise and wonderful lady, except when it comes to selection emcees for Pet Parades. Before asking me to emcee, she didn’t even check to see if I was a responsible pet owner. Had she, she would’ve found out that while I’m responsible as all get out, I’m not a pet owner. Never have been.

Oh, there were the two gold fish that someone in the family claimed. Seems like it was Larry. I say that, because the fishes were named Larry and Harry. I never got real close to ‘em… emotionally. I took the news of their demise pretty well. “Hey, Mom, where’s Harry and Larry?” – “They died. I flushed ‘em.” -- “Ah, well, uh, can I have a Fig Newton?”

There were also some dyed Easter chicks we got on Valentines. I mean Easter. Mine was dyed yellow. Can you believe that? Why bother? There was a blue, pink, and green one, too. I think Big Al got the pink one. Anyway the chicks didn’t stick around very long. When they got big enough to cluck, they left us. We came home from school and Dad said the chickens flew the coop. It’s weird how all the bad stuff happened while we were at school.

Other than that, I’ve not been responsible for a single animal… other than bugs. Yet, Lisa still asked me to help out with the pet parade. And, I’m so glad she did. It was a blast.

The pet escorts had to be eight years-old and younger. Their pets were placed into three categories. There were large dogs, small dogs and miscellaneous. The last category sounded way scary to me.

Oh, and you need to know that this was not a professional pet show. My involvement should’ve told you that.

There were two judges, though. James Hemphill owner of Tractor Supply Co. in Conroe, and local Veterinarian Dr. Michael Brown. They were judging pets based on looks and manners. If the animal didn’t spit on or bite the emcee, that was a plus. The children were also judged on… uh, cuteness. I just made that up. That’s how I would’ve judged ‘em. I don’t know what James and Michael were looking at. If a kid was afraid of his pet that would likely work against him.

Turns out the only thing that scared any of the pet owners was the emcee. When Li’l John took one look at me he must’ve thought I was Santa Claus, ‘cause he started bawling. Li’l John is 18! That’s a joke.

Oddly enough, none of the pets acted the least bit leery of me. In fact, one or two might’ve liked me. The hermit crab even smiled. I think. It did something weird that looked like a crab smile.

Bottom line, I have never been around that many well-adjusted animals. That may be because there were no cats. I blame the absence of cats on the prominence of dogs. Hey, I’ve seen the cartoons.

The most well adjusted animal was one of the five gold fish. (I think that’s a rock group.) Four of the fish seemed bored, but one of ‘em was a real cut up. Doing the shark impersonation and playing dead. Hard for the audience to see all that, but up close it was cool.

Oh, and dogs. There were plenty. One of my favorites was Lady Bug. Lady Bug is a Teacup Yorkie. Had she been an Oil Drum Yorkie, she would’ve been much larger. She was just a little thing. Looked like Toto. I think that’s why Mackenzie, Lady Bug’s owner, dressed like Dorothy. By the way Lady Bug got first place in the Small Dog Category. Now, it’s on to Kansas.

Sprite, a black and white Border Collie won the Best Large Dog award. Smart dog. Would’ve tied your shoe had you asked. And, get this, Sprite is a rescued pet. Brooke is the dog’s proud owner. Brooke is a doll.

Back to the miscellaneous entries. I feared there might be a snake or a spitting llama or maybe a big lizard. None of that. There was a spider dog. I had never seen one before. Looked a little like a toy poodle with four extra legs strapped to it. I couldn’t be sure, ‘cause I kept my distance. The Spider Dog’s owner was dressed like Li’l Miss Muffet. Get it? The dog was the spider that sat down beside her. Imaginative as can be.

I did get to hold that crab I mentioned before. Princess was its name. I didn’t want to hold Princess, but Lesa West, Hightower’s friend and assistant, made me. Lisa with an “e”. She was invaluable when it came time to announce the winners. She had to sort through a load of entry forms, while Helper-out Girl Madison handed over the ribbons and trophies. Do you know what color a tenth place ribbon is? Taupe… I think. So many ribbons.

Chester won first place in the miscellaneous category. The longest legged and skinniest rooster I’ve ever seen. Chester wore a leash and walked out on stage leading owner Colton. Roosters don’t follow. The only other time I saw anything like that was in a Seinfeld episode. Chester wasn’t really all that personable, but Colton was a prize. He’s one bright kid.

Can’t say that for the emcee. I didn’t know breeds of dogs and in some cases specie of animal. When there’s just fur it’s sometimes hard to tell.

Obviously, those of you who missed this year’s event will want to show up next year about this time. In fact, you youngsters need to start grooming your pet for the big event. No spitting or biting animals, though. Or, cats. – Hey, that’s a joke! Dogs, fish and cats. Oughtta be interesting.

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Princess, the hermit crab

END

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Rambling on the rooftop

2011-04-20T04:16:00.000-07:00

“Don’t touch the hat”

ROOFTOP – I’m pretty sure that this is the last day till late fall that we’ll be able to sit up here midday and feel this comfortable. Just as cool as it can be with a breeze that sets the trees off in a loud whisper. Doesn’t that sound great?

I just don’t think our retinas could take in a bluer sky. Looks like we’re in an airbrushed scene of an Avatar sequel. And, all of it is right here in our own backyard… St. Louis.

I’m sorry. The ghost of Judy Garland made me say that. Speaking of “Meet me in St. Louis,” I wonder what happened to World Fairs? I guess most Americans only notice ‘em when they happen over here. Doesn’t do me much good to put one in Brunei.

I can’t help but notice that some of you are staring at my farmer’s hat. Don’t blame you. It’s a dandy. I bought this thing right before I auditioned for a commercial. For a tractor.

I didn’t get the part, because the casting director pulled a fast one on me. I was supposed to make up some things to say about a farmer’s new tractor. I was supposed to come across as reluctantly impressed.

I can do reluctantly impressed. So, I made up a bunch of cute stuff. When I showed up at the studio, the director said she changed her mind. “Here’s what I want you to say.” It was all different. And, it was stupid. I can’t say different and stupid as convincingly as I can original and silly.

All I came away with was my new hat. Cool. I brought it over to Kay’s little brother’s house to do some yard work. Tracy slapped it on his head and wouldn’t take it off. The little twit was wheeling around the house, married to MY hat! When Kay stepped outside for a minute, I decided to trade Tracy one of his guitars for my hat. Hey, I don’t like to resort to stuff like that, but he shouldn’t have messed with my hat.

Those of you staring up from ground level, can’t see the hat that well, but the brim bends down in the front and back, curls up on both sides and has a loosely woven lattice near the top. That breeze is skimming off the top of massive bald spot. Feels great. And, no, you can’t try it on. You’ll pull a Tracy on me.

I’ve named bad behavior after my brother-in-law. Yesterday, Kay tracied my last piece of banana nut bread. See how well the word works?

Speaking of Kay reminds me of Shakira. No, let me finish. This morning I was showing Kay the “Waka Waka” music video of Shakira. I found it on YouTube while looking at one of the restaurant reviews Brad and I did. For some reason one of our reviews was linked to the Latin dancer, singer, philanthropist and staggeringly gorgeous girl. Did I mention that she can dance?

Anyway, I had never heard the Waka Waka song, so I played it and enjoyed it so much that I tried to share it with Kay. Shakira made the song during the World Soccer Tournament in South Africa. The song has a good beat and, uh, made me want to play soccer.

Unfortunately, Kay was less impressed. We are soooo different. When I see something I like, I want to share it. If I can do anything to make life just a little nicer for others, I won’t hold back… within reason.

Take boiled eggs. Not mine. I was boiling three eggs day before yesterday. After the 15 minute stove time, I poured the steeping water out of the pan and replaced it with tap water, and then threw in some ice cubes. The sudden temperature change is supposed to make the eggs easier to peel. I read that somewhere. I’ve been doing boiled eggs that way for years. Kay has watched me do it.

Well, this time the ice didn’t help. The shell fought me like popcorn hull in the throat. I asked Kay why the ice trick didn’t work. She said, “Because the egg was too fresh. Fresh eggs don’t peel well.” Then she went on to explain why. Got into biology and chemistry, so I didn’t listen. Sometimes she makes her explanations up. She got that from me.

Regardless, her revelation really ticked me off. For years she’s been watching me pour off the hot water and add ice cubes. Does she share her fresh egg theory? Oh, no. She watches me do my thing. What kind of person would do that? And, get this. She doesn’t even like Shakira!

And, while I’m talking eggs, yesterday morning Kay and I found ourselves at Whataburger munching on our Breakfast on a Bun. I don’t really know how to pluralize that sandwich. Breakfasts on a bun? Breakfast on a buns? I think they ought to rename it.

After breakfast I decided to take the long way home. Freeman taught me that. Sometimes after we eat out with the Plilers, Freeman takes the long way home. I think once we drove past Toronto.

This time I drove the backroads to the place where we used to lease a house near Lake Conroe. I really liked the backyard of that house. It had a raised deck where we’d sit out and look over a hill to the lake. A great view. That was about 18 years ago. Now there’s another house behind our old house. You climb on the patio and look across into the neighbor’s kitchen window. Watch her boil eggs.

Fortunately, our view is much better up here. And, it’s clear and cool. Likely, the last clear and cool day of the season. Glad we didn’t let it get away.

Oh, well, everybody watch your step. And, a couple of you at ground level, how about holdin’ the ladder for us? I’ll show you my hat when I get down there. And, no, you can’t try it on. – Next time.

END

To watch Mark and Brad’s latest restaurant review, click below. Oh, and to watch Waka Waka, click on Shakira... assuming you haven't already.

Lookin' bad

2011-04-08T17:38:00.000-07:00

“Fashion sense”

I have no fashion sense. I know you think I’m just messing with you, but it’s true. I’ve got remarkable common sense, a fair sense of smell and a decent sense of humor. Sense of fashion? Zero… teetering on negative-sense.

My fashion frailty is particularly noticeable… well, now. See my picture over yonder? If you could see more than my nose and eyes, you would notice that what I’m wearing is not working for me. I can get away with it in the winter, because I throw on a jacket and cover up stuff. Winter is good.

But, now, I’m out there. Nothing to hide behind. My shorts look stupid, my shirt is all wrong, and I don’t care for you to even look at my feet.

I keep telling myself to notice what other guys are wearing. But, when I’m out in public I can’t remember to notice. That may be healthy, but it’s not helpful. I don’t even notice what Kay is wearing when we’re out somewhere.

If we got separated I not only wouldn’t know what color of blouse to look for, I’d have trouble recognizing her hair style. It irks me no end to watch one of those police shows where a guy spends 30 minutes with an artist and nails the look of a perpetrator after seeing the guy for two seconds.

It’d take me at least four hours to come up with a composite of one of my brothers. If a guy who robbed a bank, stared at me for ten seconds and then ran off? Forget about it. – “Mr. Hayter, besides being a white guy, what else can you tell us? What about his nose?” – “Nose? Yes, I’m pretty sure he had one. Fairly sure.”

Since I can’t remember to study what other guys are wearing, I’ve been forced to use the Internet. Some of what I found is conflicting. One article recommended I get a real tight fitting pair of jeans. Something like Dwight Yoakam wears. I don’t know how he pulls that off. Literally. I don’t know how Dwight gets out of his pants. No matter, according to a couple of sources, that’s the recommended style. One of ‘em, anyway.

Another fashion designer person says that flared pant legs are coming back. It looked okay on the guys in the pictures, but the style would be laughable on me. Not the tight jeans, though. I’d rock in those.

The good news is that guys wearing pants down around their knees is out. No longer in fashion. I’m not sure everyone has gotten the news. I think it’ll take me to put the nail in that coffin. Take a picture of me wearing baggy jeans around my knees and put it on the Internet. That oughtta do it. – “Okay, everybody get a load of this guy. You know what that means? It means it’s time to end this nonsense. Let’s go buy some belts.”

Truth is, I don’t wear jeans all that much in the spring and summer. I’m into shorts. The wrong kind of shorts. The guys in the fashion magazines wear baggy shorts, with huge puffy pockets and long drawsrtings… and they look cool. Baggy, tight, long, short… None of those are my look. So, I’ve been told.

Mostly Brad is the one telling me. You know, Brad Meyer the restaurant critic? We’ve been hanging out ‘cause we do video reviews together. And practically every time we shoot a review he finds something wrong with what I’m wearing. “The Red Skelton look? Not working. Please tell me you brought something else.”

You’d think that somebody who knows so much about fashion would look better than he does. It’s akin to a football coach who never played football. I don’t know how he does it.

By the way, black is in. I really don’t remember it ever going out, but it’s in big now. From what I’ve seen, the best thing a guy can do is just get a picture of Justin Bieber and try to match it. The kid is, what, eight-years-old, and he establishes the fashion trend. Who lets him do that?

Oh, and do you know what they’ve done with men’s suits this year? Nothing. Nothing I can tell. The only difference is in the ties. My tie either needs to be a solid color or striped. Anything else is old hat. Which, by the way, is in.

Oh, and it’s okay to wear a sports jacket with shorts. And, go ahead and push the sleeves up to your elbow. Unless you’re Mark, you’ll look cool as all get out.

And shirts? All I know is don’t tuck it in. Oh, and don’t wear a V-neck T-shirt. V-necks are a sign of something. I don’t know what, but it’s something you don’t want. If you wear a V-neck T-shirt and tuck it in, people will throw things.

And shoes? I’m lost here. I realize that socks were condemned as early as ’94. Socks may be comfortable and prevent chaffing, but they’re all wrong. Don’t wear ‘em. Wear sandals. I don’t care where you’re going or what you’re doing, sandals are your footwear of preference. A Pittsburgh molten metal pourer? Sandals.

I bought a pair of sandals last year. Expensive they were. The first thing Big Al said when he saw me wearing ‘em was, “Those look really good on you, Alice.” I can’t even buy the right sandals. And, yes, without socks they rub a blister on the side of my right foot. Fashion is a bear.

What I did discover during my research is the look for the less young. That’d be me. I should wear no bright colors, and nothing with patterns. Just keep it simple. If no one notices me, I’m lookin’ good. I got that from a helpful, but hurtful article.

No matter what I do, I sense people will notice that I’m a fashion ninny. Did you know that you’re supposed to wear your pants two-finger widths below your belly button? Well, you are. That’s where my pants are in the front. In the back, they ride about a hand-width higher. I have no idea what they’re riding on. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one with this problem.

Nothing I can do. Just live for winter. That’s when I just bundle. I like winter.

END
To view Mark and Brad’s latest video review, click below.

Looking to make an emotional recovery

2011-04-01T09:01:00.000-07:00

“On the road to contentment?”

Okay, don’t any of you get too close to me today. If you see my eyes turn green and emit a light, you’d best go out and play somewhere, ‘cause I’m about to turn into the incredible hunk.

And, let me tell you, my pants aren’t near stretchy enough to handle the transition. That’s why I recommend you leave.

The few times I’ve succumbed to hunkness are pretty much a blur for me. Kay tells me what I did after the fact. “Hey, what happened back there?” she’ll ask. “So the lady was taking up the entire aisle. That was no call for you to try to put those egg noodles in her cart?” – “Did I do that? I have no recollection.”

Yes, I must confess, calm I’m not. It’s just a messed up day. Change back it will. It usually does. As soon as I lose my Yoda-speak, better you’ll know I am.

I have every hope for a near immediate attitude improvement, thanks to local author and columnist Cathy Messecar. I’ve been reading her latest book “A Still Quiet Soul: Embracing Contentment” from Leafwood Publishers. Just reading the title is encouraging as all get out. Contentment, still and quiet. You throw “nap” in there and you’ve got four of the best words in the world.

Right now I’m on page 82 of Messecar’s book. I skimmed over the testimonial I wrote for the book. Cathy asked a few local writers to offer some comments, and I was one of the asked. Hey, I can’t believe it either. Fortunately Messecar doesn’t follow me to the grocery store or wait with me in lines. Still and quiet? Foreign words they be. At times.

In defense of me and my bad mood, let me tell you what’s been goin’ on around here. Remember my golf clubs? You know the green bag? You don’t? Well, that’s because I haven’t swung a club in over five years.

So, what does Kay do? She gives my clubs away, bag and all, for a garage sale fundraiser. “Hey, Kay, what happened to my clubs?” – “Oh, did you still want those?”

I can't take a picture of the actual golfbag... Kay gave it away. Remember?

She didn’t even check the pockets. Do you know what people leave in the pockets of their golf bags? I sure don’t! Mine are gone! Didn’t I just tell you that?

I doubt I would have ever had occasion to play another round of golf, but I enjoyed the thought that I could if I wanted. Now I can’t. It’s similar to when Richard Boone died. I doubted they’d ever shoot another “Have Gun Will Travel” episode, but I was content with the notion that there was a possibility. That possibility died back in ’81. I’m still in mourning.

But, forget Paladin. Paladin? Have Gun Will-- Sheesh! Anyway, Jill called today to ask me what her phone number at work was. (Long story. I even got lost in it.) I told Jill that the phone number was not a priority with me. Told her that Kay gave away my golf clubs.

Jill asked if I was talking about the clubs in the corner of the guestroom. She said she thought they were for a girl. Thought they were Kay’s clubs. They didn’t look manly at all. Said it right to my right ear. Insinuated effeminate I was.

I gave Jill her phone number and then told her I couldn’t talk anymore. My own sister.

I instantly ran upstairs to tell you the horror of the missing golf clubs, and discovered that my computer had died. I’ve got the important stuff backed up, but I don’t know how to get the backup to feed my computer and make it well.

Kay says she can do it, but it’ll take her awhile. She told me to go ahead and use her computer for my article. That’s what I’m doing right now. I’m using a different computer with different icons and keys that I’m not used to. They don’t even sound normal. No pluck, pluck with these things. Listen to this. -- Blop, blop, blop. Does that sound right to you?

Life is messing with me. Earlier this morning I went to get my eyeglass frames adjusted, and asked Charity, the eye lady, to look at my recent prescription to see how much it’d changed.

She compared my last two test results and said, “Wow.” That’s usually not good. She asked if I had been pushing my glasses up to see better at a distance. Told me she imagined I couldn’t see the computer screen as well either. “You have to use readers now for the screen don’t you?” Charity is physique.

She said a bunch of other stuff that resulted in me handing her a credit card for new lenses. My current glasses are only 15 months old. Cost me over $500 with all the bells and whistles. So, I go in to have my frames adjusted for free and end having to spend a 300+ bucks for new lenses.

Cataracts. That’s what the doctor told me. Not serious enough for surgery, but enough to mess with my vision. Cataracts at my young age. Improbable it be.

There are a few other things messing with me, but I’m outta patience and outta time. I’d best get back to reading about embracing contentment.

Just a few minutes ago I was this close to being the Incredible Hunk. This close. (You can’t see, but my fingers are almost touching.) I need to read more about being still and quiet.

By the way, I sense that several of you could really use Messecar’s book. Some of you already threw your paper down. You need to chill, like me. See?

Oh, and if you can’t find Messecar’s book in the bookstore, you need to ask ‘em to order it for you or for your Bible class. Or, you can Google Cathy Messecar and she’ll let you know where you can lay your hands on one… or 20.

By the way, one thing you won’t find on Cathy’s webpage is any mention that she’s probably, next to Kay, the sweetest person in the county. Had any of her acquaintances had a part in constructing her Website that would’ve been mentioned.

Not the Kay part. I threw that in. Kay is sweet as she can be. Just sometimes uses poor judgement on Mark things. Away throws golf clubs, she does.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Mama Juanita's click below.

2011-03-26T11:21:00.000-07:00

“Adventure on the rooftop’

ROOFTOP – Quick, sit down! Everybody sit! There’s safety in numbers. I read that somewhere.

You just missed a couple of hawks. Big ol’ bubbas. Might’ve been eagles. Hugemongous. And, yes, I know the difference between a buzzard and an eagle hawk.

They sat in the big oak over there. Made all kinds of noise, and then flew over to the pine tree. No, don’t look! Don’t wanna attract attention. Did I mention they were big? I’d duplicate their call, but one of ‘em might come over here and do the eagle hawk mating dance on my head. No way could that come out good.

Some of you move in a little closer, would ya? That’s better. That’s what mullets do before the dolphins come. Hey, I’ve seen ‘em.

Okay, we didn’t come up here to be bullied by Rodan and his sister, so let’s talk about my lip. Look at the inside of my lip. Just a second. See? It’s a blister. I burned it on my first sip of coffee this morning.

I’ve burned my tongue, my nose, my neck and ear lobe, just not on coffee and not in the same incident. But, this is the first time I scorched my lip. I was too impatient. You’re not supposed to pour boiling water into your French Press. It said so in the instructions. It also said you’re supposed to wait four minutes before pressing the plunger down.

Well, I boiled the water and waited two minutes. See what I got? You over there by the edge of the roof! Harold? Hey, wanna see this? Well, I’ll show you later. No, I don’t mind. Really.

Anyway, now my lip is burned and I’ve got a couple of Pterodactyls waiting to pounce. The good news is I bought a new weedeater. Uh, a new grass trimmer. That’s what you’re supposed to call it. “Weed Eater” is a brand of grass trimmer. I believe it was the first, so everything after that pretty much caught the name. ]

Same thing happened with Coke, Popsicle, Band-Aid and Jungle Gym. Did you ever hear anyone say, “Hey, let’s go play on the menagerie of wood and/or metal that you climb on thing?” Jungle Gym, so much easier.

Speaking of which, I can’t believe my wooden Jungle Gym is still standing. I fully intended to dismantle it this winter. I’m always afraid Kay is gonna hurt herself on it.

But, I hated to call on the brothers for help. They get here and immediately want to eat. After they’re fed, we sit around and gab for a couple of hours, then throw the Nerf football around, take a nap and then eat supper. After that, all they want to do is go home. Didn’t used to be that way. They’re just getting old, you ask me.

But, let’s forget about the brothers. They’re always getting me off the subject. I was talking about my new grass trimmer. It’s battery powered. I got it because my gas powered one won’t start. Well, it probably will start, just not for me.

My battery-powered trimmer doesn’t cut very well, but it’s easy to start. Just wish it had more muscle. It purrs like a cell phone on vibrate. The dainty fish line slaps at the grass. I can do the whole yard in about 20 minutes. It’d take me longer if I actually waited for the line to slap the grass in two. As it is I just kind of rough it up. Leave the weeds laughing at me.

But, the thing starts. Did I mention that? By the way, does anyone want my old trimmer? Anybody? It still looks great. Just has a cracked rubber bulb thing that you’re supposed to push before you try to start it. I suppose it cracked from over mashing. I did a lot mashing.

If a few of you walk down to the edge of the roof behind us and look down, you’ll see where Kay and I mulched in front of the hedge. Kay’s got this wild idea to plant flowers in front of the yaupon hedge next fall. She wants the mulch to kill the grass, so she can more easily plant.

If I could get the neighbor’s cats organized, they could kill the grass for us. But, you can’t organize cats. The Soviet Union tried it back in ’87. Look where it got them.

Have you ever picked out mulch with your spouse? You need to do that. They’ve got all kinds of mulch. Cypress, pine, cedar… Even rubber. They also have “red mulch.” That’s the name of it. Red. What kind of material is red? Is somebody too scared to tell you what it really is? “Oh, you need the red mulch. It’s over there. It’s made from, uh… red.”

Kay decided on cedar because it was the only kind I’d load into the Highlander. All the others had a smell that didn’t agree with car interiors. The cedar smelled great. If I still had my pickup, I would’ve bought any kind of mulch Kay wanted. Within reason. I think they injected some platinum into the rubber mulch. Way too expensive.

The cedar wasn’t cheap, but it did give the car a nice cedar smell. When I roll down the windows, the moths stay clear.

And, I can now call an “all clear” for us. Seems the raptors have left their roost and it’s time for us to leave ours. It’s been a super outing. Full of adventure and, uh, other stuff. Oh, and my lip!

Harold, before you climb down, I’ve got to show you where I burned my lip. No, get over here! The coffee was boiling, I’m telling you! Like sippin’ on a hot coal. Most men would’ve cried. Not me. Not all that much, anyway.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s restaurant review of Kobe's Japanese Steakhouse and Sushi, click below.

Kay's comin' up with stuff

2011-03-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

“Dr. Phil and Bulgaria”

I don’t know about you, but springtime is hitting me hard. And, it hasn’t even arrived yet. By the time it gets here I’m going to be in full swing loony. I’ve been there. Not pleasant.

It’s Kay. You wanna know the truth, that’s who it is. She’s outside right now taking pictures of the house. Says she wants to frame pictures of the house and hang ‘em IN the house. Bring the outside inside. It’s either genius or the subject of an upcoming Dr. Phil episode.

If she did make it to Dr. Phil, the guy would end up hammering me. “And, Mr. Hayter, -- May I call you Mark? -- Why do you wish to stifle your wife’s creativity?”

“Uh, Dr. Phil, -- May I call you Dr. Troublestarterguy? – She’s bringing the outside of the house inside the house. What’s next? Hanging pictures of our bedroom on trees? That’d be like getting a picture of your spleen and sticking it on the seat of your pants. The world is not yet ready for such creativity. Due respect.”

I know where Kay’s coming up with this stuff. She gets it off those decorating shows. There are billions of ‘em. A lot of times I say “billions” as a massive exaggeration. Not this time. There are literally billions of decorating shows.

I walked over to the loveseat to give Kay a kiss yesterday, and during that two-second smooch heard the word Bulgaria coming from the TV. I can go two, three years without hearing anyone say “Bulgaria.” Not that there’s anything wrong with it.

Kay told me the program involved going to other countries and helping people pick out places to live. Find a place that suits their needs, that has designing potential and meets their budget. Kay said that house prices in Bulgaria are quite reasonable. Just slightly above those in Chernobyl.

I threw in the “Chernobyl” part. It was a cruel attempt at humor aimed at Bulgaria. Not the people of Bulgaria. I love Bulgarians. Many of my friends come from Bulgaria. -- Wait a minute. That’s a lie. None of my friends come from Bulgaria. Willis. That’s it. I’ve got some friends from Willis.

Point is, someone imagined that people would enjoy watching a camera crew follow a couple around Bulgaria in search of a place to live. And, get this, the guy was right!

If series has already broadcast from Pazardshik, Bulgaria, one can only imagine where they’ll go next. Ukarumpa, New Guinea. That’s just a guess. I think I’m close, though.

Matters not. Not to me, anyway. What does matter is that Kay is picking up some serious stuff from her design, house hunting, build a patio, redo a living room programs. Wouldn’t bother me, but her application of the shows is seeping into my realm… into my living space. I don’t like seepage in my living space.

Remember that loveseat I mentioned back there? Well I did. We bought it last week. Kay decided we should give away the twin bed in the guestroom and replace it with a loveseat, and then replace the old red recliner in the room with something new. I loved that recliner. I took many a nap in that recliner. It’d put my left leg to sleep, but that chair was a friend of mine. Might’ve been from Bulgaria, even.
The Loveseat... oh, and me.

Right now, it’s in the mudroom. You enter the back door and you’re met with a recliner. We can’t give it away. But we have replaced it with a brand new green recliner. Looks good. Feels… oh, it’s okay. I can force a nap in it. I’ve been known to nap on a ladder.

Kay asked me help her pick out the loveseat and recliner. I don’t know why. She saw the loveseat she wanted right off. I thought it was okay. I particularly liked the price.

While I agreed that the loveseat was nice, I suggested we look at another one over in the next display. Kay glanced at it and said, “No, we’re getting this one.” Put me in my place right there in the furniture store. Right in front of God and the couple over there by hide-a-bed.

I wanted to tell the couple by the hide-a-bed that I was in charge of our TV remote, but they wouldn’t have believed me.

I had to borrow Freeman’s truck to get the two pieces home. The price of the furniture didn’t include shipping, but I’ve got a friend born in Willis who has a truck. When Kay and I unloaded the loveseat and recliner, phase two of the fun began.

Kay decided she wanted to put the new recliner in the living room and haul a living room chair back to the guestroom. I don’t know how she sees stuff like that. The girl has vision. Vision born of a billion or so designer shows.

Kay's recliner... oh, and Kay.

I don’t ask why anymore. I’m just the swapper-out guy. Tomorrow we’re going to swap out a table from the master bedroom for two end tables in the guestroom. Why? Why are lizards always doing pushups? I don’t even think they know.

Yesterday, we had to clean out the study. Had to. I’d tell you more about it, but the hurt is still with me. I lost some serious stuff during that clean out. Serious stuff. But, I deserve it for the grief I brought my Bulgarian reader. I was way too calous about his homeland. Sorry, Stanislaus, but I’m under a lot of pressure here.

It’s Kay. It’s spring. It’s what spring is doing to Kay. And, it hasn’t even started yet.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s restaurant review of Jasper’s in The Woodlands, click below:

2011-03-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

“Cats, cookies and coffee”

ROOFTOP -- A nicer day we’d be hard pressed to find. Even the birds are excited about it. Excited about something. Listen to those bubbas. They’re going nuts.

I can’t really tell by their chirps if this melting pot of birdom is happy or upset. Crows I can tell. When crows aren’t saying anything, they’re happy. They only caw when they’re ticked about something. I read that somewhere. Or made it up. I can’t remember.

Of course the birds at the feeder may be upset at one of the neighbor’s couple dozen cats. Outdoor cats have no idea where they live. Most of us realize that home is where we do most of our eating. Outdoor cats? Home is where they happen to be at any given moment. You’d think I had a sign nailed to a tree, “Please, come stalk the birds, kill the lizards and defecate somewhere in the perimeter.”

By the way, I’m just talking about the cats around my house. Your cats are tops. Loveable, well mannered, giving and thoughtful. The ones around here? They don’t care. I don’t even think their mother loves ‘em. – “Hey, get out of here, the bunch of you! Go next door and irritate that idiot on the roof.”

Speaking of Dennis, he and Dardon Ann visited yesterday. I transitioned from cats to Dennis because of what we talked about when he got here. The girls were upstairs doing… I don’t know. Giggling and talking about us. Whatever they do. Dennis and I sat at the dining room table and drank coffee and ate cookies. Sam’s has this weird coconut pecan cookie that’s so good you’ll wanna slap your mom.

I don’t really know how slapping your mom relates to something tasting good, but I did hear it once. “Make you want to slap your Mom.” Wait a minute. Now I remember. “He was so ugly it made you want to slap his mom.” That’s what it was. It has nothing to do with cookies. So, go back to being nice to your moms.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, cats, cookies and coffee. By the way, Dennis drinks decaf. Absolutely ridiculous. It’s like someone who really loves Hershey Bars trying to duplicate the flavor by sucking on a galvanized nail. Anyway, I made Dennis a separate pot of decaf just because I’m one super host.

At some point during our coffee, cookie laced conversation, Dennis mentioned Neapolitan Squares. You know, from the bakery? Layers of light wafer and whip cream toped by a cherry? – What? Well no. They’re in no way related to the cat story, so let’s put Neapolitan Squares out of our minds and get back to cats. Sheesh, Li’l Mr. Bossybritches.

Unfortunately, before we return to cats, we’ve got to take a detour to coyotes. You see, Dennis said that last week he was gazing across the field next to his house in Pasadena and he saw a coyote looking at him. I asked him if perhaps what he was seeing was actually a chupacabra. Dennis thought for a moment and then told me he was pretty sure it was a chupacabra. Right there in Pasadena. Just odd as it could be.

I then asked Dennis what chupacabras eat. He said, “I don’t know, but I hope it’s cats.” Turns out Dennis, too, has a cat problem. No pets of his own, but plenty of cats. Can’t stir ‘em with a stick… like anybody could stir a cat with a stick. The only time a cat will stir is when you don’t want it to.

After saying all that, let me clarify that I’m not the one who wished a chupacabra on cats. I think the notion is absolutely deplorable. It was Dennis. He’s my brother. Lives in Pasadena. Direct all hate mail to him. Call him for all I care.

By the way, I doubt you caught it, but I lied back there. It just hit me. I said that Dennis has no pets. Truth is he has a rooster. He didn’t ask for a rooster, it just showed up after a storm? Ike? Is that too old for a rooster? Regardless, I’m assuming the creature blew in from Apalachicola.

Anyway, the rooster ended up in Dennis’ backyard and won’t leave. He’s not sticking around for the affection. Dennis doesn’t do affection. He’ll do attention, but he doesn’t do affection. He doesn’t feed the rooster, pet the rooster or in any way encourage the rooster. Dardon Ann may, but not Dennis. Still the rooster stays. Right in the backyard.

The rooster lives in the hot tub. I thought one of you might be interested. Not Bill Bossybritches. I asked Dennis about the hot tub arrangement, and he started going into detail about the position of his hot tub cover. I tuned him out after the third sentence. I seldom give a rooster-house story more than a three-sentence listen. Life’s too short.

Don’t feel bad for Dennis, ‘cause, I assure you, he wouldn’t even care enough to ask where my rooster lived.

Tell you what, forget the rooster and the cats and coyotes. And, what else? Oh, yeah, the Neapolitan Squares. Let’s talk lawn mowing. If you stick around long enough, you’ll get to witness this year’s very fist lawn mow.

See those weeds down there? And, the fallen leaves. I’m sure you know that I don’t rake. Or even floss all that much. But, I do mow. Those leaves and weeds need a mow. And, if you’re still sitting up here tomorrow afternoon, say 3:00, 3:30 you’ll get to watch me mow. Or, at least, attempt to start my lawnmower. That’s closer to the truth. Stay through April and you can watch me try to start my weedeater.

The year’s first small engine start is always a challenge. I could actually use some of you here. So, stay planted. Me? I’m heading groundward. I may show up later tonight with some coffee for you. No decaf, though. And, no Neapolitan Squares. You need to get those out of your mind.

END

To see Mark and Brad’s wild and crazy review of Siegelman's of Chicago, click below.
Siegelman's of Chicago

Vick's VapoRub on your feet. Try it.

2011-03-07T13:03:00.000-08:00

“How ‘bout a cookie?”

I just dodged a bullet. Kay was snuggled in the recliner in front of the TV; she had the thermometer in her mouth and a warm cloth on her forehead. I was getting ready to run up here to the study to talk to you guys, but stopped long enough to ask if I could get her anything. I actually used the word “anything.” What a gamble!

A wise person once said that if you’re afraid of an answer, don’t ask. That proverb has served me well over the years. I don’t apply it to Kay all that much, ‘cause, hey, what husband would not suffer a bit of inconvenience for his wife? – It was rhetorical. Men, put your hands down, and women, quit pointing.

Fortunately, like I said, Kay needed for nothing. I came off looking thoughtful and loving without having to go to the store, reposition the TV or buy her a dog. Sometimes stuff just works out.

This is only Kay’s second day of sick. I started mine two weeks ago, and am just now over the cough. Whatever the sickness is starts with a runny nose; progresses onto a headache, conjures up a sensitivity at the top of my head, develops into a fear of being touched, scales up the runny nose a tad and then goes straight to a cough. A long, lingering, aggravating cough. Kay hasn’t reached the cough phase yet. I’m not sure she’ll get there.

Kay is turning out to be a much better sick person than me. Or even I. Anytime she asked what she could do for me, I came up with something. “Uh, maybe a Dr Pepper.” -- “Would you turn on the fan?” -- “Cashews! I need cashews!” – “Could you shut that door over yonder?”

I can’t watch TV with the door to the utility room open. Just can’t. Has more to do with mental illness than physical. Just one of the 817 quirks of being me. Kay thinks I’m a heck of a catch. Tells me that a lot.

Fortunately, Kay knows how to handle a sick me. She’s sweet as can be. Unfortunately, she’s now the sick one. That means I have to make-believe I’m sweet. “Oooh, who wants a cookie? Does Li’l Sweetpea wanna cookie? How ‘bout milk? Want some milk with that big ol’ cookie?” I wouldn’t say stuff like that to Kay if she wasn’t sick, ‘cause she’d kick me right in the terminals.

I really don’t think Kay handle being as sick as I was. Near the end, my cough got so bad that I was drinking olive oil at bedtime. I read somewhere that olive oil helps lubricate the, uh, coughing place in your throat. Not corn oil or motor oil. Just olive.

Oddly enough, the olive oil did work… for about 30 minutes. Then I woke myself coughing.

A couple of nights ago, Virginia called and recommended that I try Vicks VapoRub. On the bottoms of my feet. I’m not joking. She said she read that if you generously coat the bottom of your feet before bedtime and then put on some socks, it’ll kill your night coughs.

I told Virginia that the closest thing I had to Vicks VapoRub was sweet pickle relish. Fifteen minutes later, Freeman was knocking at the door with a two-ounce jar of Vicks. I didn’t know they made it that small. He probably paid $10 for it at the Quick Stop.

Freeman and Virginia. If I could sell ‘em for what they’re worth, I’d be like a zillionaire. Then I could buy all the friends I wanted. You’ve gotta think of stuff like that.

Three years ago, I would’ve made fun of Virginia for suggesting I put Vicks or pickle relish or anything other than an inner-sole on the bottom of my feet. But, the girl made a believer out of me after she suggested that Kay and I stick a bar of soap at the foot of the bed to prevent leg cramps. Kay and I had both were having periodic leg cramps. The only thing worse is a big toe cramp. I don’t care to talk about it.

So, Virgina tells us to go to bed with a bar of soap. I did laugh at her about the soap. Made fun of her, too. “Why soap, and not an ear of corn?” But, one night Kay stuck a bar of soap at the foot of our bed, and no more cramps. Like I say, that was about three years ago. Of course we periodically switch out the soap. A bar of Irish Spring loses its anti-cramp power after a couple of months. Any more than two months and I’ll get the twinge of a cramp as I’m getting out of bed. Change out the soap and I’m good to go.

Unlike Irish Spring, Vicks VapoRub was not an instant cure. While I did cough less, I still coughed. I’m not so sure it wasn’t the smell of Vicks on my hands that did the trick. That stuff does not wash off easily. Don’t know if you knew that. Anytime my hand came near my face I could smell the smell of sick. That’s what I always associate the smell of VapoRub with. Same thing with Pepto Bismol. .

Last night was the last night of my Vapofoot application. And, the last of my cough. I don’t know if it was the Vicks or the shot in the rear the nurse gave me, or the inhaler, or the antibiotics. I doubt it was the inhaler, because one of the side effects was “coughing.” I kid you not. Never read the side effects of a medication. It introduces an anti-placebo factor to your brain.

Speaking of something entirely different, I’ve never taken a medication, the side effects of which did not read “may cause the Big C, the Big D, or both.” Don’t make me spell it out.

Like I say, I’m pretty sure Kay’s illness will end without a cough. She’s just too sweet. However, if she does end up coughing, she’ll be wearing my socks to bed, ‘cause no way will she get Vicks on her own socks. That’s pretty much where she draws the line. That and when I speak baby talk to her. Ask her real sweet if she wants a cookie or something. When she gets her strength back, she’s going to hurt me for that. Oh, yeah, she’s hurting me big time.

END

To watch Mark and Brad’s review of Hubbell and Hudson in The Woodlands click here: Hubbell and Hudson

2011-02-28T10:18:00.000-08:00

“Grab a hankie.”

Do you have any friends who never tell you the truth about how they’re feeling? “Oh, just great. Couldn’t be better.” All the while their gallbladder is like a bag of marbles. Do you have any friends like that?

I have one or two. They may be having a kidney removed at this very moment, and I wouldn’t know. Some friends, huh?

I would never do that to anybody. If you call me and ask how I’m doin’, I’m going to tell you if sick. May even tell you I am when I’m not. Just depends.

I don’t know how many times I’ve picked up the phone and heard, “Hey, Mark, how you doin’?” I’ll say I’m fine. Next thing I know I’m being asked to haul a hide-a-bed to the dump. – “Oh, I didn’t mean to say I’m ‘fine.’ I meant say that I’m not fine.” Yeah, right.

When someone asks “How ya doin’?” you really need to take pause. I have a couple of acquaintances who have never called what I wasn’t feeling poorly. Just as weird as it can be.

Right now, I don’t even have to feign sickness. I’m there. I’ve been embracing it for the last four days. Today is the first day that I’ve been able to grin. See? I think that’s a good sign. Kay’s not sure.

I haven’t been out of the house since I got whatever I got. From my bald spot to the base of my neck, is a bodily region that is in bad shape. I take antihistamines sometimes and other times I take decongestants. One clogs you and the other is supposed to drain you. There’s about a 30-minute gap between medications where you might catch me in one of those grins.

The most affective medication has proved to be something called “Mucus Relief.” I don’t think it’s brand name, but it says Mucus in big letters right there on the bottle. The label maker is as callous as whoever invented those green creatures on the commercial. Somebody thought that creating snot creatures would make us want to buy whatever they’re selling. I’ve never see the commercial all the way through, so I don’t really know which drug they’re hyping. I don’t pay Dish to show me mucus dancing around.

There is only one medication that has no side effects. It’s called “Placebo.” Everything else will mess with you. My body is so pure that anytime I introduce a medication to my system it becomes a stupid pill and/or an hallucinogen. Oh, and it will constipate me. I don’t care what it is it’ll do the big C on me.

This morning Kay got pretty fed up with me being sick. Tired of seeing me walk around, groan and swat at things. So, she suggested we get out of the house. Made me a deal, even. She said that if I’d go to Home Depot with her to get some mulch, she’d buy me a Breakfast on a Bun at Whataburger. I like a Bacon Breakfast on a Bun. It’s the best breakfast sandwich in the U.S. and Estonia.

I also like Whataburger because they’re nice to the old and the nearly old. I’m pretty close to being nearly old. So, close that when I ordered our Breakfast on a couple of buns, Carol asked if she could give me the senior discount. I asked how old I had to be and she asked how old I was. Took me about 20 seconds to guess right. It’s the drugs. Mostly.

So, our breakfast went from $8.83 down to $6.20. You can’t beat a deal like that. Plus they play the best music at Whataburger. Buddy Holly, Peter and Gordon, Del Shannon… It’s the best, Jerry! Oh, and did I mention that Carol was sweet?

There is no picture anywhere
of the Bacon Brk on a bun.
Here's the sausage.

After breakfast, which I ended up paying for, we went to Home Depot. While Kay was studying mulch, I went shopping for some Minwax Wood Hardener. Johnnie Chuoke, the Happy Handyman, said it would save rotten wood. He know stuff. I hope.

When I was checking out at the self-checking place, a clerk walked up and asked for my driver’s license. I handed it to her and she walked to her cash register and typed in stuff. I didn’t ask why, because nothing was making a great deal of sense to me.

Right after I loaded Kay’s mulch, I told her about the driver’s license check. She suggested that I find out why I was carded. So, I went back and stuck my head inside the manager’s office and startled this lady. She was apparently not used to customers being in the non-store part of the store.

When I asked her about the driver’s license thing, she told me that I either bought something I could make a bomb out of or something I could inhale. She studied me pretty hard after mentioning inhalation.

I said, “What? Minwax.” She nodded. I stood there awhile and mumbled some stuff. I have no idea. She waved me out with her head.

When we got home, Kay started working outside with the mulch. I came up here to tell you about being sick. I’m sick. Too sick to help Kay with the mulching. I tried to explain that to her, but she just waved me off with her head. I’ve been getting that a lot.

I had a weird day, haven’t I? I not only got a senior discount on my breakfast, but I also got carded at Home Depot to make sure I’m old enough to buy Minwax.

Right now it’s time for me to take another pill from the Mucus bottle. It’s been six hours since my last one and I can take one every four hours. So, I’m gonna leave you now and, uh, go take something. Next time, I’ll feel so much better. Unless you’re thinking of using me to move stuff. I won’t be 100 percent for a long time. For two people I know it’ll be like forever.

END

To see Mark and Brad's review of Sticky Ribs BBQ click here: Sticky Ribs

2011-02-21T20:24:00.000-08:00

"We can dance"

Kay finally retired. Don’t know if you knew that. Yep, she’s now home with me, and lovin’ every minute of it.

Me? Well, I like it. It doesn’t pay much, but we can go where and when we want. Oh, and we can dance if we want to. "We can leave our friends behind, ‘cause your friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance, well…" I’m sorry. That song is now stuck in my brain. I hope you’re happy.

While I may have symptoms of retirement, I’m not. It’s just Kay. My schedule is as flexible as all get out, but I’ve got responsibilities. Don’t think I don’t.

For one thing, it’s my job to sit, drink coffee and talk to you guys once a week. I have to pick the topic and do most of the talking. It’s not easy, what I do. You don’t notice so much, but we have one or two whiners among us. Oh, yes we do. See? You’ve started already.

Then I’ve got some other writing stuff to complete. I write all the time, unless something comes up. Like maybe I notice Paladin’s picture is crooked on the wall, or some celery needs deveined, or Spider Solitaire suddenly appears on the screen. Other than stuff like that, I’m a writing fool. -- What?

Oh, and once a week I have to eat out with restaurant critic Brad Meyer, and then go to his studio to video the review. Brad is no joy, let me tell you. He called the house the other day and Kay answered. Bradford says, "Hey, is fat and ugly in?" I’ll buy ugly. In fact, ugly is paid for. But fat? Portly is so much less hurtful.

Getting past that, let me say that I do a bunch of other low paying things. A lot. So, I’m not completely retired.

And, to be honest, neither is Kay. The girl makes jewelry. Necklaces and earrings and toe studs. I made up the toe studs. Kay even has her own company name. Kay’s Creations. Isn’t that neat? It’d be hard to put the word "creation" next to my name without getting tickled. Brad would laugh his big rear off. (Hey, I give as good as I get.)

The only problem with Kay’s jewelry-making involves where she does it. She works in the study right behind me. I’m facing the window, she’s facing the back of my head. Doesn’t bither me a bot. (What movie is that from? Gig Young delivered the line.)

When you make jewelry you have to talk to yourself a lot. I had no idea. I’m sitting there trying to come up with a transition to take us from ice cream sandwiches to a noisy ceiling fan, and I hear, "Crimpers. Where are my crimpers? I’ve got to… wait a minute. I’ll just…" I defy you to keep your train of thought on track when somebody’s talking crimpers behind your back.

So now you know why I flit all over the place in my writings? -- No, that’s not right. I flitted long before Kay started making jewelry in front of my back. You knew that. Some of you mentioned it back in the Twentieth Century.

Regardless, retirement takes some adjustment. How long the adjustment period lasts is hard to figure. Some adjustments take till death. If your husband has been dead for five years, and you still get upset at him being in the kitchen with you, well, you need that "Medium" lady. Patricia Arquette? I think that’s her.

Speaking of which, the kitchen is one area that has caused tension in our household. I used to cook every meal. I got good at it, too. Now Kay’s shoving me out of the way and taking command of the kitchen. Her kitchen.

I wouldn’t mind so much, but she does so many things wrong. Doesn’t put nearly enough butter and oil into stuff. And, cheese? Don’t get me started. She gets these zero calorie cheese sticks and tries to melt ‘em into some of her dishes. What a funky taste and texture. It’s like putting a golf ball in a skillet and melting it into your noodles.

Oh, and cleaning up? I used to take care of the cleaning. I’d vacuum and mop and wash clothes. Stuff like that. Well, Kay told me that tomorrow we’re cleaning out my closet. She already cleaned hers, and figured it was my turn.

My closet is not like hers. It’s a lot smaller and has fewer shoes. But, it’s got stuff in there that hasn’t seen light in forever. Valuable stuff. Kay wants me to get rid of all my teaching materials. Boxes of notes and tests and overheads and seating charts. She says that after five years, I might as well accept the fact that I’m not going back to the classroom.

I know she’s right, but I’ve got a lot of important stuff in those boxes. Took me ages to compile it all. I thought Kay would at least wait until I died before tossing them. She’s not only NOT going to wait for me to kick the proverbial pail, but she’s going to make me do the tossing. That’s not tough love. That’s savage love, you ask me.

Before I married her, there was no sign of any of this. I had to wait 39 years to find this stuff out. She’s a tricker girl, this one. Oh, and -- forget the transition -- we’re going to start exercising. Get this, we’re going to start doing Zumba dancing. Jill told Kay how much fun it is. My own sister encouraging Savage Woman!

I hope you realize I’m exaggerating a bit about my frustration. Truth is, I’m adjusting quite well to Kay’s retirement. She got adjusted two minutes into her first day.

I’m sure this is going to be great. Did I mention that we can go where we want to? Oh, yeah. "A place where they’ll never find. And we can act like we come from out of this world, leave the real one far behind. And we can dance…" Men Without Hats. They’re killin’ me. I’ll be cleaning out my closet to that song.

END

To watch Brad and Mark’s recent restaurant review below.

Wahoo's Fish Taco

(

Record cold roofsit

2011-02-11T19:40:00.000-08:00

“Turning blue on the roof”

Do you want to know why we’re sitting on this frigid roof today? You look like you wanna know. We’re up here because I wanted to establish the coldest roofsitting experience.

Before today it would be just a wild out-your-ear guess. Forty-one degrees? Thirty-nine? Nope, we can now say with all certainty that the coldest roofsit is 27 degrees. And that it’s happening right now. Feel it?

Like I say, that’s the reason we’re here right now, to establish a record. Wasn’t for that, we’d be inside talking about how to replace a vacuum cleaner belt. I can now save that topic for when I need somethig interesting to write about.

Do you happen to know what the wind chill is? No, I don’t mean what the definition of wind chill is. Nobody knows that. I’m talking about the number. What is it right now? The real temperature is 27 degrees and the wind is blowing. So, how cold does it feel?

Frieda, I can see where you’d guess 50 below. Look what you’re wearing! You came up here, sat down and acted like you had good sense. One word – layer. Two words -- you didn’t.

Speaking of which. Do you know how much heat you lose through your neck? A bunch. That’s why I’ve got Kay’s scarf wrapped around my neck. See? Cute, huh? This scarf is keeping me reasonably warm right now. Were I to take it off and give it to, say, Frieda, I’d be unreasonably cold. Can’t have that. Scarfs. I don’t think most men have taken enough advantage of them. This man hasn’t.

By the way, the wind chill is currently 14 degrees. Probably. Who can know? Oh, and Larry calls it “windshield.” He’ll say, “Hey, Mark, the windshield is 22 right now.” He may be joking, but with Larry, you can’t always be sure.

For those of you doing the whining, let me say that we won’t be up here that long. As soon as my coffee is gone, we’ll get off this frozen metallic incline. Oh, and yes, Calvin, it’s perfectly safe to stick your tongue to the roof. Nincompoop.

There is one thing we need not worry about during the cold spell. Water pipes. I wrapped those bubbas yesterday. Waited till the last minute because I didn’t want to wrap them in anticipation of cold weather that never came. So, when the cold arrived, I wrapped. About froze my posterior.

Which reminds me, have you ever wrapped a faucet with a pair of your underwear? Me neither, but I have used mine. They worked pretty well. Briefs, not boxers. I’ve never tried boxers, because I have none to spare. I’ve been wearing boxers ever since I started buying my own underwear. When I turned 40. Don’t know what came over me.

I don’t like the look nor the feel of briefs. And, no, I don’t care to argue the matter. However, I do want to mention another use (a better use) for briefs. Like I said, wrapping faucets. I put three of them in the rag pile. Briefs not faucets.

I wasn’t able to use underwear til now. Kay won’t let me use ‘em for cleaning and dusting. Says it’s just doesn’t sit right with her. So, when I came up with the idea to use ‘em to wrap the faucets, I chose not to tell her. Didn’t want her to obsess.

During my wrapping, I threw a pair on the hood of the car under the carport, thinking I’d use ‘em on the side of the house. Decided against it. Used a big tarp instead. That evening, Kay came out and found the briefs on the car. So, she grabs ‘em, walks up to me and says, “How many times do I have to tell you to keep your underwear off the car?” Isn’t she a hoot? If she wasn’t married, I’d— wait a minute. Never mind.

When I finished wrapping the pipes, I called Freeman to tell him the news. I occasionally like to brag on myself. Turned out, Freeman wasn’t all that impressed. He told me that he’s had his pipes wrapped for four years. He’s always topping me.

While that is weird, this may be weirder. Last night, Kay and I were snuggled on the couch watching one of those detective CSI, NCIS, Cold Case things. You know, where two hours after it’s over, you can’t remember who did the killing or why. At the end, they just throw in something about the baker being the accountant’s step daughter, and she killed him to keep him quiet about stealing the dog from the neighbor. You knew nothing about this till the last five minutes. How mysterious.

Anyway, all I remember is that it was cold and we finally went up stairs to bed. So, I’m coming down for breakfast and what do I see? Right there on the coffee table is a houseshoe and an exercise bra. I have no idea.

I did know the houseshoe was mine, because it was the mirror image of the one on my right foot. I knew the exercise bra wasn’t mine, because I don’t exercise.

I didn’t know whether to put on the shoe and hide the bra, or just take off my other shoe and start exercising. Since Kay was right behind me on the steps, I did neither. “There was a time when I would remember how those got there. But, right now, I have no recollection.” That’s what I said.

Kay couldn’t remember how they got there, either. But, as long as the bra fit one of us, she wasn’t all that worried.

And, speaking of long johns, I couldn’t find mine. Last time I ran across ‘em was back in mid-August. Won’t find ‘em again till— Whoa! My coffee is gone. We’ll have to take up the long johns another day. Maybe during the vacuum cleaner article.

Right now we need to get off this frozen peak. Frieda first. The poor girl has turned a shade of blue that just doesn’t look good. Anybody have a scarf for Frieda? Anybody? -- Next time.

END

To watch Brad and Mark’s review of Smokey Mo’s BBQ click on: Smokey Mo's

You can reach Mark at mark@fromtherooftop.net.

People all over the world hit this one.

2011-02-05T08:58:00.001-08:00

“Widely read article”

Do you know which of my articles in the last couple of years was the most widely read? No, I didn’t ask if you cared. And, yes, that was rude, Celia. You cut me deep. --Honk! I’m okay now.

Truth is, like most of you, I can’t remember what I wrote last week. Maybe like all of you. -- Whoa! True Grit! It just came to me.

But, forget True Grit. Well, try. While last week’s piece could conceivably end up being the most widely read, it certainly isn’t to date. No, the article that wins that distinction was one that appeared in The Villager on March 25, 2010. It was one of my Rooftop pieces.

If I had a copy of the old article, I’d tell you the title. All I know is the name I stuck on it when it appeared on the Rooftop Website. I called it “Happy Day.” I assure you The Boss gave it a better name before it went to press.

Anyway, Big Al set up our Rooftop Website, www.fromtherooftop.net, years ago. It has pictures and videos of some of the productions we’ve been involved with. And, it also has a place where you can view my past articles. Not future ones. Big Al’s working on that as we speak. If he’s successful, it’s gonna be so much easier for me to write stuff.

I generally stick a new article on our Website about a week after it appears in the newspaper. I do that in case you go on vacation and get a week behind. Not a weak behind. That’s something all together different.

Right now there are only two years worth of articles on the site. If you haven’t seen it, get your buns over there… just not now.

So, temporarily forget this shameless promotion. Let’s get to the article that people from all over the world looked at. I can’t be sure they read it, but I can assure you they clicked on it. – Uh, for the two of you who know less about the Internet than I do, “click on it” means that somebody Googled me or some item that appeared in the article and clicked their mouse on one of their findings. When they do that, the article gets what is called a hit.

Okay, Sarah and Mitch have that glazed-over look, so lets get past my poor explanation skills.

I will tell you that I can determine how many “hits” the site gets, and from what countries they come from. Fortunately, I can’t determine who hit me. I don’t want to know who hit me, nor do I want the people I hit to know that I hit ‘em. – Can we get past this?

First off, a few people in the U.S. of A. logged onto the “Happy Day” article. But, and it’s a big BUT, we also got hits from Britain, The Netherlands, Turkey, Australia, Estonia, China and a few other lesser-known areas. Did you know that there’s a Ukwhatistan? There must be a “Country-Naming for Idiots” publication.

But forget that. The question we all need answered is why has no one invented the chocolate covered Cheeto? But, more to the point, why would someone living overseas want to find one of my articles.

Well, I zipped over to the article and did some research. I found the article by zipping over to the Rooftop Website and clicking on “Mark’s Column” and then-- Oh, forget it. Sarah and Mitch are just coming out of their coma. No need to hit ‘em again.

Bottom line, I found the article and instantly noticed a couple of pictures that I had included with the piece. The first is of a cute, little red/orange-chested bird. I put the photo in, ‘cause the article had to do with a conversation I was having with you on the roof. A one-sided conversation.

I was talking about the different birds in the yard and mentioned how Kay has a knack for naming birds. If she doesn’t know the official name, she makes up something sappy like, “Little Sweet Birds” or “Peep Peep” birds.

In the article, I went on to say -- “I think that’s why God let a man name all the animals. ‘Blue-footed Booby.’ That’s a man’s name for a gull-like bird. Genius!” -- I then inserted a photo of a Booby. A Blue-Footed one.

And, that is where we find the attraction for the article. It had nothing to do with me or my article. No, people wanted to see the photo of The Booby.

The realization of this just disappointed the daylights out of me. And, it obviously upset a few of those who landed on the article. One person commented, “This is the stupidest ocker I ever read. This guy’s a real drongo dunny budge.” I’m pretty sure it was one of the Australians. I’m just glad he’s on the far side of the globe.

Yes, the comments really hurt, but I can see where people may have been just a bit disappointed in their search results. I would assure them that I did not intentionally entice them to the Website, but they’ll never know ‘cause they’ll never be back. I’m now an outcast in the Outback.

Unless… Okay, this may bring ‘em back. Bear with me here. – “Everyone on the planet is born in the nuddy.”

“Nuddy” is Australian for “starkers”, which is British for “gzbldak” which is Ukwhatistan for “naked.” If I knew the word for “naked” in all the other languages, the people might come back to see that my use of “Blue-Footed Booby” was not a trick to lure them in. Of course, the nuddy thing is intentional, but it’s for a good cause.

The big problem I now face has to do with what picture to include with this article when it appears on the Rooftop Website. What photo can I insert for “nuddy?”

Whatever it is will certainly disappoint. Hopefully, the Australian stinker isn’t a real dolly whopper, or he just might buy a plane ticket. Then I’ll really be in deep frazzle caddie. – Uh, someone wakeup Sarah and Mitch. Somebody? -- Next time.

To view Brad and Mark's latest restaurant review click on -- El Bosque's

Fill your fist, you son of a gun!

2011-01-29T10:19:00.000-08:00

“Why a True Grit remake?”

I just got off the phone with my kid sister. We only talked for about 30 minutes, ‘cause I had to come up here to kick off our discussion. Y’all don’t wait well. I told Jill as much. She said she’d finish griping to me later. The girl has some issues.

One thing that was majorly upsetting her was “True Grit.” The new one. Kay and I saw it a week after it came out. I told Jill that it wasn’t nearly as good as the John Wayne version, but she still oughtta see it.

I told her that the dialog was pretty much the same, but the Coen Brothers version supposedly stuck closer to the book. I’d have to read the book to know if that’s true, and that’s not gonna happen.

The John Wayne “True Grit” was one of my favorite movies. You take Glen Campbell out of the thing and it’s one of the greatest Westerns ever made. Which begs the question: Why make another?

One would think it best to remake something that came out really bad. “The Beast of Yucca Flats” or “Plan 9 From Outer Space.” Those could only get better. But True Grit?

My Dad once told me, “Mark, I warned you not to stick that to your face. Now, you’re just gonna hafta go to church like that.” But, on another occasion he actually said something almost pertinent. He said, “Mark, try not to make good bad or bad worse.”

At the time, I wish he had given an example, ‘cause it just hung there. Later, I learned to appreciate his words. Haven’t been able to do a thing with ‘em, but I appreciate ‘em.

Had Dad been able to pass his sage advice on to the Coen brothers, I’m sure they would’ve still made “True Grit.” So, I don’t know why I even brought it up.

My over all view of the new Grit movie contains no malice towards anyone. Jill’s view, on the other hand, was ripe with that malice stuff. Jeff Bridges was a terrible Rooster. Delivered a deep snarl through the entire shoot. “I can’t help ya, son.” If Jill hears that fake Southern drawl one more time, she’s gonna punch something really hard. I’d steer clear of her till all the commercials are off the air.

“Well, Baby Sister, come see a fat old man.” The line wasn’t even in the new movie. And, Rooster didn’t jump his horse over a four rail fence. In fact the entire scene at the end of the original movie was replaced with something just a whole lot less satisfying. I’m sure it went hand in hand with the book, but who cares? Jill sure doesn’t.

And, Strother Martin? Nobody will ever be able to deliver a line like that guy. – “I will pay a total of two hundred dollars to your father's estate when I have in my hand a letter absolving me of all liability from the beginning of the world to date!”

In the remake, the actor playing Martin’s role did a fair job, but he certainly did not come close to matching Martin’s delivery. In fact, Jill doesn’t think any of the actors were an improvement over the original cast. Oh, except for Matt Damon. Damon didn’t erase the image of Glen Campbell from my mind, but did blur it a bit.

Granted, Campbell’s character, Ranger LaBoeuf, had some tough dialog -- “A little earlier I gave some thought to stealin' a kiss from you, although you are very young...” – but Damon managed to pull it off. I had to close my eyes during Campbell’s scenes. Don’t care to talk further about it.

I told Jill that the dialog for “True Grit” was supposed to be very close to the way people talked and wrote back then. I read/heard that back in the “olden” days, most people learned how to read from the King James Version of the Bible. So, they were naturally influenced by old English speech, as is evidence from some of the letters written during the period of the Old West. I don’t think Jill believed that any more than I did, but it sounds feasible as all get out.

Some of the toughest dialog in “True Grit” belonged to Mattie Ross. Jill thought that Kim Darby did a far superior job than Hailee Steinfeld, the younger Mattie. I don’t agree with that, but I didn’t tell Jill.

To bluntly sum up, I’d have to say that Jill believes that the newer Grit movie had poorer acting, more horrible and bleak scenery, and a stinking ending. Oh, and some of the best parts were left out.

During a lull in Jill’s venting, I asked how the popcorn was. The big reason I go to the movie is for the popcorn. If I could pop corn like the theatres, I’d watch all movies in my living room.

Jill said she didn’t get any popcorn this time, ‘cause she’s trying to cut down. Didn’t get any popcorn? “Never trust a review from a critic who didn’t get any popcorn.” My dad was a real sayer of sooths.

Of course, I saw the movie, and do agree with many of Jill’s assessments. Oh, and so does Dennis. My big brother called yesterday to ask me the name of the deputy in the old TV series “The Lawman.” The thoughts that capture Dennis have no parameters.

That bit of trivia sparked a discussion of other Westerns, which eventually brought us around to the topic of “True Grit.” Dennis didn’t like the remake one bit. And, get this, he not only got the large popcorn, but he got a refill. His review should definitely hold up.

So, if you haven’t seen the new “True Grit” you need to go, just so we can meet on the roof some day and compare notes. We’ll have to settle for microwave popcorn. Orville can call it “Movie Popcorn” all he wants, but it’s not even close… and yes, I know he’s dead.

I don’t know what slight of hand the theatre corn popping people perform, but I sure wish I did. Whatever they do has cost me a small fortune. – Oh and I almost forgot. The deputy was Peter Brown. Hey, I know my Westerns.

END

To see Mark and Brad’s restaurant review of Russo’s in The Woodlands, click here: Russo's

You can reach Mark at mark@fromtherooftop.net.

A little help?

2011-01-21T15:20:00.000-08:00

“Okay, pick one”

HODGE PODGE LODGE – I need you all to take a seat in here… somewhere. Most of you will be sitting on the floor. I vacuumed it a couple of weeks back, so it’s more than sanitized. You could eat popcorn off that floor. Literally. There’s some over there in the corner. Well, it’s gone now. Harold is quick. Isn’t he quick?

Did you have any trouble finding this place? I’m sure you realize there are 915 Hodge Podge Lodges in the lower 48. This one just happens to be at my house. There is no listing in any directory that I’m aware of.

No, I just opened my HP Lodge about three minutes before I started the first paragraph up there. Somewhat ingenious, you ask me. Anyone asking? Anybody?

Well, here’s the deal. I’ve got several topics I’d like to discuss today. Somewhat of a hodge podge of stuff. Get it? Unfortunately, I can’t settle on any one topic. So, I decided to make use of your collective wisdom and let y’all pick the topic for me… for us.

No, I don’t care to explain it again. I’m just going to go ahead and describe the different ideas and let you choose the one you like the most… or hate the least. – Oh, and for a snack you’ll find a big bowl of peanuts over there by the—Yeah, I see you found it.

Okay, if everyone is lucid, here’s your first topic up for vote. “Supreme.” Do you know what that word means? A lot of people don’t. SUPREME refers to the best you can get. By definition it’s “the highest in degree or quality.” Unfortunately, the word has been messed with over the years.

I was at a popular Mexican Food restaurant today with my short-tempered friend Brad. I had looked over the multi-page menu for about ten minutes when the waiter came by for the third time to ask if we were ready to order.

I answered his question with a question. I hated to, but it needed done? I asked him the difference between a Supreme Tostado and an Ultra Tostado (a tostado being a flat crispy tortilla with meat and/or beans on top.) The waiter kindly pressed down hard on Brad’s shoulders to keep him from coming across the table and strangling me. The Bradford was ready to order.

Anyway, as Brad swore at me, the waiter explained that an Ultra Tostado has meat on it and a Supreme doesn’t… thus making the Ultra better than the Supreme. Better than the highest degree or quality.

That revelation made me curious as all get out as to what a “regular” tostado would be. Lettuce and cheese? SUPREME my foot! There oughtta be a menu law.

See? Now that’s a pretty good discussion topic, isn’t it? Well, don’t vote on it yet. Here’s another. “Exercise.” We all know we should, but only 18 people in Montgomery County actually do it. That said, let me ask you this. Do you think that “Boot Camp” is a good name for an exercise program? Do the two words, when placed together, entice you to pay money and drive miles, or do they scare the willies out of you? – “Somebody make me exercise? It’s genius!”

When dragged into an event kicking and screaming, you’re more likely to participate. It’s part of the Wo-Tang Principle first taught by Zhaka Zulu.

Unfortunately, there’s a big flaw in the concept. I just can’t see anybody making me show up for Boot Camp. Unless the camp is in my living room and the instructor has a key to the front door, it’s not happening.

I can go into depth about the Boot Camp if I have to. Might upset some drill sergeants, but I could go on. For now, though, let’s move on to another possible topic. “Meat smokers.” Last month, Big Al smoked a big ol’ pork roast for our Christmas meal. The meal was the best thing I got for Christmas. I did some serious clawing and biting for leftovers, too. I’m so glad Mom wasn’t around to witness what we’ve become.

So, ever since Christmas I’ve wanted a smoker. I don’t want one like Big Al’s, though. He’s got the giant metal monster with a wood box and chimney and all that. I don’t want anything big and heavy, unless it’s in a Hershey’s wrapper.

Big Al had to tend his smoker all day. I don’t have the wood or the discipline to do something like that. I’ve got just enough patience to apply direct flame. Burn it good. I’ve been known to char some pretty gnarly things and get away with it. But play with a rack of ribs for hours? The words “slow” and “cook,” when put together, become bad words, do they not?.

No, I want something that I can throw on a grill when I’m not even hungry, and then walk away and forget about. Eight hours later an alarm goes off and I say, “Whoa! The meat! I forgot all about it.” I go outside, fork a slab of something onto a platter and walk it into the house. That’s what I want.

They call something like that an electric smoker. A lot of people say that an electric smoker not only doesn’t give meat a smoky enough flavor, but it’s also only meant for sissies to use. Hey, I’ve read the reviews.

Anyway, I don’t want to get into all of that unless I’m forced. When you start talking about BBQ grills and smokers you can really stir the proverbial pot of nasty. So, I urge you not to vote on that topic.

The next topic is bicycles. Yesterday, Kay and I were in Academy. I’m over there looking at smokers and she grabs me by the belt loop and drags me over to the-- Yes? Oh my goodness. You’re right. Time. We have no more.

So, we… what? We vote? No, that’d be stupid, wouldn’t it. We’re out of space and time and peanuts. Speaking of which, I just wish you’d look at this floor. Kay is gonna raise a fit. And, do you think my vacuum will pick all of that up? Pathetic.

No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have tried such a bizarre experiment in topic selection. I’m not saying I’ll never do it again, but the next Hodge Podge Lodge activity will be held outdoors. This in-the-study thing is over as of now. Some of you guys can’t be trusted. – Harold, don’t you give me that look! I know a boot camp with your name on it, Li’l Mister.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Schilleci’s New Orleans Kitchen click here: Pizza! You can reach Mark at mark@fromtherooftop.net

Gettin' swimmy headed here

2011-01-14T10:59:00.000-08:00

“Last Step”

ROOFTOP -- On your way up here did any of you notice what was stamped on the top of the stepladder? I’ve owned the ladder since it’s infancy, and I never noticed. The message reads “Not a step.”

I had no idea. The top of a stepladder is not for stepping. It’s just a place for ending the ladder. The manufacturer adds the warning to cover its posterior. They know that everybody steps on the last step. It’s in the human genome. It’s right across from the section of DNA that tells you to lie when someone calls and asks if they woke you.

The thing about the ladder, though, is that when one of you steps on the top step, and you fall and shatter your fourth metatarsal, you won’t be able to sue because they warned you not to step there. And, you can’t sue me, ‘cause I made you all sign that waver. Remember? It’s on file somewhere.

But, forget that. Let’s get around to enjoying our beautiful, clear and breezy perch. The rooftop is the best, isn’t it? Do you think you’d be able to see that woodpecker over yonder if you were at ground level? No way! You’d hear it banging its head on the oak, but you couldn’t see it.

It really hurts me to watch a woodpecker at work. No way could I move my head back and forth like that without getting a migraine. I think it’s because of all the twirling around I did as a kid. You know, when we twirled around till we got so dizzy that we fell over? I used to do that a lot. Mom would say, “Mark, you’re 19 for goodness sakes! When are you gonna stop that?”

Speaking of which, you wanna know what’s odd? I’ll tell you what’s odd… coincidental, even. I’m getting just a little dizzy right now. It’s this cigar. And, yes that’s the reason I’m sitting downwind of you.

This is the first cigar I’ve smoked in about six months. Big Al gave it to me during the holidays. Practically forced it on me. Told me to smoke it New Years Eve. I might’ve done that, but I went to bed at 10:30. Al phoned at 12:10 to wish me a Happy New Year. I suppose. I don’t remember a great deal about the conversation. I do remember telling him I wasn’t asleep, though.

This certainly is an expensive cigar. That’s the only kind Al gets. If this thing is not a Cuban it’s pretty close to being one. Al knows his smokes. He’s even got a humidor. I’m not kidding. Not only am I not kidding, but I’m not feeling all that well, either. I think I’ll save the rest of this cigar for next year. Maybe stick it in the freezer.

Don’t tell Big Al about this. He already thinks I’m a sissy. I don’t take a punch well, I get headaches when my head bobs around, and I can’t smoke a cigar without getting sick. Not only that, but I don’t like action movies all that much anymore. I’m beginning to scare myself.

Yesterday, I took Kay to see “The King’s Speech.” I’m probably the third nicest husband in the world. The movie is about a British King trying to overcome stuttering so he can talk to “his people” without coming across as a rube. I went for the popcorn.

Turns out I thoroughly enjoyed the movie. I didn’t cry or anything, but I sure got anxious a time or two. The movie was so much better than Stalone’s “The Expendables.” That’s another thing not to tell Big Al.

Uh, Lucy, what are you staring at in the front yard? Are you going to make me turn to see it? Okay. – Oh, that’s the spot where we had our tomato garden. It’s now just a mowed over weed patch. I had hoped it would be our last garden. Not so.

This morning Kay went to town to get some seeds and some tiny growing pots. She told me that instead of buying plants this spring, she’s going to start growing her own. We’re having bell peppers and straight-necked squash.

I asked her what the difference was between crook-necked squash and straight-necked. If I had been just a little slower, her pinch would’ve caught me in a really bad place.

Kay did tell me that straight-necked squash is easier to pollinate than crook-necked, because the crook can hinder the pollen from getting where it needs to be. Sometimes I don’t know if she’s making stuff up or really knows what she’s talking about. After the near miss on the pinch, I acted like she was a gardening genius.

So, if any of you spot a good place for me to stick our next garden, speak up. The last site needs to lay fallow for a couple of years until the saint augustine reclaims it. Then Kay will have me dig it up again, so she can plant radishes and chickpeas.

All of this is making me think I need to have a long talk with Big Al. He’s nowhere near the nicest husband in the world, yet he’s happy as a woodpecker on hard bark.

Speaking of which, just look at that bird. It’s still beating the daylights out of that tree. My head hurts just watching it. Whop, whop, whop! Okay, now I’m getting swimmy headed.

Right, maybe we should climb down. I’ll be last. Maybe I’ll start to feeling better. Oh, and be sure not to step on the top step of the ladder. And, yes I’m just saying that for the couple of you who didn’t sign the waver. Hey, I’ll get you to sign… next time.

END

To watch Mark and Brad’s latest restaurant review go to YouTube click on: BBQ Cafe

Neck shrinking process

2011-01-10T11:24:00.000-08:00

Too much neck

I don’t know about you, but I ate way too much during the holidays… and I was lying about not knowing about you. I know what you ate. We should be ashamed.

You more than me, ‘cause I’m getting ready to do something revolutionary. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Perhaps because I wasn’t shocked enough. Some of our more brilliant ideas come from a drastic jolt. Did you know that?

Take the steel-toed boot. People were getting their toes smashed right and left. Abstinence from dropping stuff didn’t seem to help. Sometimes you just have to drop something. Nobody could figure it out what to do. Profanity was getting way out of hand. Fortunately, a real smart person (Marvin Chafeton 1932) dropped something on his toe. A five-gallon bucket of paint. Mojave Grey.

After a brief screaming and cursing spell, Chafeton dissected a section of three and half-inch steel pipe and inserted it into the toe of his boot. His name is now synonymous with things that rub. (I think I read that on Wikipedia.)

The jolt that shocked me into my eating revolution had nothing to do with my toes. It was my neck. For decades I’ve been able to sit-down and watch TV without ever thinking about my neck. Nor my earlobes for that matter.

Then over the holidays, I was sitting in the ol’ recliner watching the history of spackle when I felt something right below my chin. What on earth? I raised my head just a bit and it was gone. Had me goin’ there for a minute.

Next thing I know it was back. Whoa! I put the program on pause and went to find Kay. She said she didn’t see anything weird below my chin. She was right, because it was gone again. So, I went straight to the restroom. The second thing I did was look in the mirror. What I saw shocked me.

My neck! What on earth had happened to my neck? It looked layered. It looked like so many other necks that I had made fun of. Somewhere in the distance of my cranials I could hear the faint singing of the “Ninny ninny noo noo” song. And, like me, the singers only knew the first verse.

I had become one of them. You know… them? Maybe one or two of you. Nothing personal, mind you. It’s just that… well, it’s not how I wanted my neck to look. If you care to see my neck, don’t look at my picture up there. All you can see there is my nose. The Newspaper photo boss is into accenting one’s most unpleasant feature. If I had a newer picture taken, they’d hone in on my neck. Look at that bubba. Just makes me sick.

The good news is, in a month or two neither of us will notice my neck. That’s ‘cause it’s gonna shrink big time. It’ll have a single layer. Like a Lorna Doone. I like Lorna Doones.

The awareness of my inflated neck inspired me to try a revolutionary approach to neck-thinning. I mentioned that way up there. In fact, I am currently involved in the process at this very moment. I waited till after the Holidays to immerse myself in this foolproof method of weight loss.

Here it is. Are you ready? I’m not going to eat again until I get down to my perfect weight. I don’t know what weight the perfect weight is, but I’ll know it when I can’t feel my neck while watching TV.

A lot of you probably think this method a bit drastic. Well, d’uh! You’ve gotta break some eggs, people. The good thing about this diet is that it only lasts a month, maybe two. I went without a nap once for a month and a half.

Obviously, I don’t thing you should jump into the two-month fast without some preparation. And, I know mean consult with your doctor. Doctors pooh pooh everything. No, what you need to do first is eat up all the snacks in the house.

I started with the cashews. Santa brought me some. I don’t know how he keeps up with stuff. For most of my life I thought it impossible to improve on the cashew. So, what does Santa do? He sends me some honey-roasted cashews. They’re… well, they’re gone. They had a sugary, salty mixture that coated the flavorful wonder that is cashew.

After that, I downed a can of popcorn that Jill got me. One of those big tin buckets. I finished off all except the caramel part of it. Caramel-bucket popcorn is not to be confused with Cracker Jacks. If it could be confused, I would’ve finished off the entire bucket.
Then I killed off the leftover Marie Callender’s Razzleberry Pie. Next to the chocolate peanut butter pie at Pie in the Sky, Razzleberry is the best pie in the world. I’ve got another Raz in the freezer to celebrate when I lose my neck.

What else? I can’t remember. I just ate every snack thing there was in the house, so I wouldn’t be tempted during my massive fast. I’m on Hour Four. Did I mention that? Four hours and six minutes.

I’m beginning to get a little swimmy-headed. Swimmy-headed is good. Each swimmy-headed experience is a sign that you’ve lost another pound. I found that fact on the Internet same place I found the history of the steel-toed boot.

I figure at this rate, I’ll be back to eating in about six weeks. Ten tops. You may not recognize the change ‘cause I doubt it will in any way affect my nose. That’s about all you can see in the photo.

Which reminds me of Tombstone. (Whoa! Where’s he goin’?) I’ve had about a dozen people -- maybe a billion -- ask to see the Hayter Brothers’ Tombstone picture that Brad did for me. It was mentioned in the last article? Anyway, I’m going to go ahead and stick it on the Rooftop webpage, ‘cause my boss is probably mad at me for griping about extremely tight photos. To see the Hayter brothers at the OK Corral go to www.fromtherooftop.net and click on “Mark’s column.” It should be there by the time you read this. – Next time… I’ll be the one that’s really swimmy-headed.

END

To see Brad and Mark’s video restaurant review of BJ’s. Click here: BJ's

Tombstone picture

2010-12-31T00:01:00.001-08:00

“The Slow Motion Walk”

In which camp do you find yourself? Are you one of the ones who are glad that Christmas is over, or do you feel just a bit sad that it’s past?

I have never found myself in the former camp. That’s the one I mentioned first. I have to think a bit before I can distinguish between “latter” and “former.” It’s the same way with “stratosphere” and “mesosphere.” I can’t remember which is furthest. Or farthest. I also get those two confused. Farthest? That doesn’t sound right. Can we get past this?

Some of you may be sad about Christmas because you got lousy stuff. Hey, I feel your pain. I’ve experienced your pain. Can’t say that for my brothers. They loved what I got ‘em. They don’t appreciate all the trouble I went through to create their gift, though. About wore me out.

Let me tell you what I came up with. I know you’re eager to know. I got this great idea to find a photo from the movie “Tombstone” -- the picture of the Earp brothers and Doc Holiday walking toward the OK Corral -- and superimposing the faces of my brothers and me over the characters. Is that not cool?

I’m sure you realize that I was once in a movie where I walked in slow motion with Big Al and some others on our way to a showdown. You remember that, don’t you? “Asylum of the Scorpion” one of the Walker-Cable productions? Al and I were walking in slow motion with a bunch of other residents of an insane asylum. We were armed with garden implements on our way to a showdown with an armed gang of outlaws. As cool as that sounds, it was not nearly as epic as the scene in “Tombstone.”

That’s what I was after, the coveted Doc Holiday, Virgil Earp, Wyatt Earp and Morgan Earp photo. Only with Larry, Dennis, Al and me. Of course two of you are thinking that changing faces on a movie photo is illegal. That’s just silly thinking. As long as you don’t make money off of the photo tampering, it’s somewhat legal. Bound to be.

The major problem with the Tombstone project had to do with doing it. I can’t do superimposing stuff and cutting and pasting and all of that computer artwork. But, I know somebody who can.

Do you know Brad Meyer? He’s the county restaurant review guy that I hang around with occasionally. Mostly for meals. Y’all know him? The man is techno-literate. That’s why I asked him to do the Tombstone picture. He stumbled at the chance.

Brad told me to find the appropriate pictures of the brothers, figure out whose head I wanted on which Earp, and he would take it from there. Turns out I had the more difficult job. Do you know how many decent photos I have of Dennis and Larry without their glasses on? Those goobers were born with glasses. They’ve worn glasses longer than Clark Kent.

I found two pictures that I thought would do. Unfortunately, Brad told me that the heads weren’t positioned right. Your body can’t be heading straight while your head is leaning hard to the left. You’d look like Tim Roth.

Larry’s facial position best fit Virgil Earp, so that’s where Brad put him. Al’s head fit the Wyatt’s walk, so my kid brother got the coveted Kurt Russell role. Dennis ended up being on the far right. That made him Morgan Earp. Me? My head didn’t fit any of ‘em. Of course, Brad had to make me Doc Holliday ‘cause he was the only one left. There were only four guys walking, and he couldn’t just add a fifth figure to match my head. I even asked him. Made him say a bad word, I did.

So I ended up being a tough fit. Brad swapped out 10 photos of me before finding the one that looked decent. They all looked decent to him, but that’s ‘cause he wanted out of the project. -- “Look, Nimrod, I’m not doing this again. You can take it or leave it!” – He said that about eight times. Said it mean, too.

It was just too hard for my face to act like I had a Doc Holiday body. The picture of me that he finally used was one taken about 25 years ago. He had to do the same thing for Dennis and Larry. He used older pictures with younger faces. Kind of like “latter and former.” Turns out Big Al, the youngest brother, ended up looking the oldest. Since he got to be Wyatt, he didn’t mind so much.

Yep, the brothers really liked what I got ‘em. Jill? Not so much. Susan? She lives in Washington. I have no idea what to get a Washatonian. Kay? She might as well live in Washington. Bottom line, I have trouble with women. Can’t buy good gifts for ‘em, either.

So, the girls ended up in the happy-Christmas-is-over camp. Oh, and Brad did too. He was in no way happy before Christmas. And, after Christmas? Well, I’m supposed to stay away from him for a couple of weeks into the New Year. Says he needs “No Mark” time. Hey, I feel his pain.

END

You can view Brad and Mark’s restaurant review of Little Tokyo Restaurant by clicking below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQX0c4ZHv00

Christmas Short Story

2010-12-23T18:39:00.000-08:00

It’s Christmas short story time. This one I call “Christmas at the Tastee Freeze”

People weren’t exactly beating the door down to get into Frank’s Tastee Freeze. The entire lunch crowd consisted of the Pomeroy family and Arnold Bounder. The Pomeroys were going to Jack’s sister’s house in Maypole for supper, and Jack thought they’d get some burgers for lunch before heading out.

Four combo meals. One foot long chilidog, two Big Frank burgers and four tacos. Not much of a Christmas fare, but the four Pomeroys seemed pleased. So pleased that both Pomeroy girls squeezed the bicycle horn before leaving. The horn was mounted near the door just below a sign that read, “Honk if you enjoyed your Tastee Freeze experience.”

At the sound of the horn, Ray yelled an enthusiastic, “Yeehah! Y’all come back!”

“Would you pleeeease not do that today?” Kate said. “The Boss is not even here.”

“Do you think I enjoy acting like an idiot? Look, Frank told us to yell when we hear the horn. I don’t ask why. I just do what the boss says. Wouldn’t hurt you to do it now and again.”

“No, your ‘Yeehaw’ can stand on its own.” Kate said.

Ray gave her his raised eyebrow look, and then imitated a detective he once saw in an old black and white movie. “Why, I oughtta pounnnnd you!”

Kate couldn’t hold back the laugh. She never could with Ray. Just didn’t understand why that was. “Look Dilbert,” she said, “One more time, tell me why you let The Boss pressure you into working on Christmas?”

Ray ignored the comment and walked over to the booth where Arnold was staring into his coffee cup. Ray plopped himself down in the seat across from Arnold and looked hard at the guy. “Look, Mr. Bounder. Mr. Bounder, look at me. Please. Here’s what do. Let us get you one of the Santa ice cream cakes from the freezer, you take it home to Mrs. Bounder and the kids and you tell ‘em you’re sorry. That you just had one of those sinking spells, but now you’re all better.”

Mr. Bounder slowly looked up from his coffee cup and gave Ray a smirk. “Ray, you’re a swell kid, but you have no idea.”

“No, idea? Have you ever tasted a Santa ice cream cake? It’s… well it’s gonna change your life. Once you take a bite of that cake you can do nothing but smile. I’m not lying. It’s a group hug magnet! And, best of all, it’s 50 percent off”

Ray yelled across the room. “Kate, grab the Santa cake and ring up $8! No, make it five!” He turned back to Mr. Bounder. “I’m pretty sure Frank plans to let it go for five tomorrow.”

Arnold Bounder climbed out of the booth, handed Ray $5 and then hugged him. “You are absolutely nuts, Raymond. Merry Christmas.”

Kate ran up with the cake. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Bounder. Remember, you’re not alone. Things will get better. Starting with the cake. The beard and the white part of Santa’s hat are vanilla. Everything else is chocolate.”

Ray added, “And if there is any leftover, you know where I live.” Ray walked back to the counter with Kate following close. “So, why did you agree to work today? What could possibly--”

Mr. Bounder grabbed hold of the bicycle horn. “Honk! Honk!” – Ray let out with “Yeehaw! Y’all come back!” Arnold waved as the door closed behind him.

There was the briefest of pauses before Kate gave Ray a slap to the shoulder. “Would you please not do that? Now look, answer my question.”

Ray tossed his dishrag across the counter where it landed in the sink. He gave the universal two-fingers-down sign for two points. He then opened the register and put in the $5 and added 15 of his own.

Why did he volunteer to work on Christmas? Truth is, he told Frank that he’d work, but only if Frank could persuade Kate to help out. He saw it as an opportunity to be alone with the one girl whose company he most enjoyed. A girl who would never see him as more than a hometown friend. At least he could make a memory of the one Christmas they both shared.

Ray was not aware if Frank had grasped the implication of his request, and, for once, he didn’t care. It was indeed a step toward boldness. It was boldness born of desperation. He knew he would soon be headed for Angelo State to start the Spring Semester. He had just finished his Sophomore year at the community college in Childress, and he had only raised enough money for the Spring Semester at San Angelo. He’d figure out the rest later.

“Look, Katy-did, I’ve got no life. I live with my parents, who are, incidentally, at this moment headed to Vernon to visit Aunt Mary in the home. I love my aunt, but can’t take the home. Working Christmas gave me an excuse to miss out this year.”

Suddenly the door of a ’92 gray Buick slammed outside. Slammed twice. A nanosecond after the slams, two boys, eight and six, rushed in and headed straight for the restrooms in the back. The Mom caught the door and meekly smiled as she entered. “Do you know how hard it is to find a restroom on Christmas Day?” she said. “I think you may be it between here and Dallas.”

“You’re just about right,” Ray said. “Can I get you anything?” The lady shook her head. “I’m sorry. Just the restroom.” She sat down at the table nearest the restroom to wait.

Ray wrestled with the notion of pressing just a little. “So, you’ve got family in Dallas? That place is booming.”

She smiled and said, “Uh, no. We’re headed to Longview. I’ve got a brother there who is going to let us stay, till… uh, till things get sorted. I would’ve left earlier, but I had to work last night at the mall in Abilene. Wasn’t that much business on Christmas Eve, but it was good to get the work.”

About that time, the two boys rushed out of the bathroom. “Mommy can we get something?” The mom got up and told them to sit and wait for her while she went to the restroom. “Don’t move. And, don’t bother anyone.”

As soon as she left, the boys obediently sat and stared at the ice in the field beyond the parking lot. Ray yelled over to them. “Hey, do you guys mind giving us a hand back here?” Ray and Kate were standing behind the counter waving them on. The two kids exchanged glances and then ran to help.

Minutes later, Mom exited the restroom to see her boys sitting on the counter trying to fill a napkin holder. Kate was giving instructions while Ray was making the burgers. “I am so sorry,” Mom said. “Come on Thad and Will. We’ve gotta go, kids.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Ray said. “I’m afraid the boys already placed an order. Not to worry, they’re working it off right now.”

The mom found herself somewhere between humiliation and extreme gratefulness. It’s a thin line, sometimes. Kate sensed the dilemma, and handed her towel to Ray. “Finish up, Big Guy,” she said. She led Mom to a booth and the two sat and chatted.

It was a good visit. Ray moved two tables together and they all sat and ate burgers, onion rings and fries. And, washed it all down with malts and Cokes. Ray and Kate weren’t really all that hungry, but Ray thought the moment would be less awkward for Deanna, the mom, if they all shared a meal.

Before leaving, Ray lifted Thad and Will up and let them each honk the horn. They all had to say, “Yeehaw! Y’all come back!” after each honking. Even Kate joined in. She never looked lovelier to Ray.

As the Buick headed Dallasward, Ray walked over to the cash register, rang up the tab and paid for the meal. Kate, walked over and shook her head. “You’re a real wonder, Ray Palmer. You know that? And, how much did you slip into Deanna’s purse?”

“Hey, my folks and I agreed not to exchange gifts. So, I had to do something. But forget that. Now, it’s your turn to tell me why you decided to work on Christmas."

“Oh, that’s easy,” Kate said. “I’m saving for college. Dad said he’d match whatever I can raise. Oh, and I knew he was paying double time, so I jumped at the chance.”

“You’re kidding.” Ray said. “He sure didn’t make that deal with me.” Kate shot back, “He did too. He told me we were both getting double.” Ray smiled. Yeah, Frank had him figured out.

“I’m going to Angelo State next fall,” Kate continued. “You know, I might even get a scholarship.”

“I’m sure you will. Every volleyball coach is looking for a good setter. I’ve noticed that you’re pretty good. And, I must say, you look strangely attractive in your volleyball outfit.”

“Strangely attractive? What do you mean by that?”

Too bold. He was headed for Rejection City. Probably be elected mayor. So, he ignored the question. “Look, kid. I doubt we get many more customers. Why don’t you head over to your boyfriend’s house? I’ll fill out the time-sheet for you. I doubt your Dad will fire either one of us for it.”

“My boyfriend? You mean Cory?” Her laugh came out as more of a snort. “Really? You don’t need me here?”

Ray tried to sound persuasive. “Look at this place. We’re a restroom with a kitchen.” Kate nodded, walked behind the counter to get her purse, gave Ray a quick peck on the cheek and then headed for the door. “Merry Christmas Raymond Palmer.” She squeezed on the horn before leaving. There was no response from Ray, so she turned and gave him a questioning look.

Ray smiled and quietly said, “Yeehaw. You come back.” Kate shook her head and then got into her Dad’s old pickup and drove off.

Ray walked over to the booth nearest the counter and plopped himself down. He rested his legs across the bench seat and leaned his back against the wall. Looking out the window across the room, he sat and stared… at nothing in particular. He wasn’t in his trance long before the sound of the opening door startled him out of his deep think. He looked up to see an exasperated-looking, Kate.

The girl walked briskly to the counter and tossed her purse behind it. She then picked up her apron and strapped it on. With her hands on her hips and her weight shifted slightly to the right, she said, “Okay, Mr. Palmer. Tell me exactly what you meant by ‘strangely attractive?’”

There were no more customers at Frank’s Tastee Freeze for the remainder of the shift. Oh, Emily Bounder did bring over a deep plate of ice cream Santa cake for them. It was delivered with a hug. “It’s the bestest cake we ever had,” she said. Then added, “Oh, and the hug was from Mommy.”

Kate and Ray sat across from one another in the booth and just talked. They took only a couple of bites of the cake, sharing the same spoon. At one point, Kate, pushed the bowl to the side and reached over and took hold of Ray’s hand. Ray was pretty sure his heart might explode. The conversation never lagged. And, the time sped by like a meteor. But, then, that’s to be expected when two people share the best Christmas ever.

Merry Christmas to you and your family, from the Hayters.

END
You can contact Mark at mark@fromtherooftop.net

2010-12-20T13:36:00.000-08:00

O’ Christmas Tree

The following is an excerpt from Chapter 15 of my on going book about Dad.

When I was a kid, we never got our Christmas tree until about two weeks before Christmas. Dad always waited till the price went down a bit. Back then you could pick up something with bark and sparse needles for about $2.50. The day before Christmas you could get one for even less than that, but even Dad wasn’t that cheap.

Dad always got a live tree. I don’t know if it was because he really wanted one or he realized it would break our hearts if he got an artificial one. Back then artificial trees looked more like silver tapered bottle cleaners. Sweatshop workers with metal poles, wire-cutters and very little imagination assembled ‘em. Only childless old people bought ‘em.

That being said, Dad was the worst tree picker-outer in the world. Hey, it’s recorded somewhere. Every tree is supposed to have one good side to it. Not the ones Dad bought. Each year he brought home a Frankenstein tree. Some of us hid in the closet.

The people who bought the good trees always displayed them in front of the biggest window in the house. Mom put our tree in the corner away from the window.

We usually helped Mom decorate the tree. We only did the icicles. She wouldn’t trust us with some of the more sacred ornaments. That’s a joke. We had no sacred ornaments. We had some old ones, but that was back when “old” was nothing to be treasured.

Dad never helped with the tree. Oh, he’d saw off a piece of the trunk and attach the heavy metal holder thing. After that, he left it alone. Dad wouldn’t decorate trees. You couldn’t make him.

He did string lights on the house. Once. I don’t know where he got the lights. I imagine he got ‘em at the airport. They were those lights with the giant bulbs attached to frayed wire that was strong enough to pull a dump truck out of a sinkhole. They don’t make Christmas lights like that anymore. Not even in China. That should tell you something.

Dad put a strand of those bubbas across the front of the house and the door. The paint on the bulbs was chipped off in places, so you couldn’t tell what color the light was supposed to be. I would’ve just as soon he not put ‘em up.

Oh, and the whole thing sagged like… well, like something saggy. Probably because there was no one to help him. Dad didn’t want anyone helping him. The job involved ladders, wires and glass bulbs. Enough said.

Dad’s lights looked particularly bad when compared to all the ones we saw on our way to church. People in other neighborhoods really knew how to put up lights. They had good ones, too. And sleds and reindeer and lit candles under lunch sacks. I never understood that.

Sometimes Dad would take us across town to see the lights. Those were the good times. Mostly. I say that because there were four or five of us in the backseat. Someone would say, “Hey, look over there!” All of a sudden the car would tilt to the right. – “Mom, Jill elbowed my neck!” – “Oh, yeah? Well, Dennis frogged my arm!”

“I’m gonna wring your necks if you kids don’t shut-up!” The Christmas season did little to temper Mom’s threats. “I’ll beat you with that fake candy cane over there! Honey, make ‘em shut-up!”

Dad would say, “Quiet.” That’s all it took. Mom was upset with us all the time, ‘cause she was with us all the time. Dad? Well, Dad seldom witnessed misbehavior. His tolerance level was way down there. While Mom might have a half dozen threats in her, Dad had none. You never knew when he was going to strike, so you took no chances. “Yes, sir.” – “Won’t hear another word out of us.” – “We’re not even here anymore.” –“Uh, where are we Dennis?” – “Shut up, Mark.”

After we got home, we’d run to the living room and sit around the TV, eat popcorn and watch Perry Como’s Christmas show. This was back when variety shows were popular. They were corny as all get out, but a load of fun.

When all was said and done, Christmas was the best of times for our family. Today, not so much. I don’t put up outdoor lights, ‘cause I’m my father’s son. The house would be an embarrassment.

And, our tree? Kay, gets it out of a large flat box and pulls it up like an accordion. The lights are already on it.

I still thoroughly enjoy the season, but I do so miss Dad and Mom. And, I miss the arguments and fights we used to have in the backseat. Didn’t care all that much for ‘em back then, but I love the thought of ‘em now. Weird how that works.

You can find this and other chapters of Mark’s Dad book by clicking on the Mark's book blog icon. Also, you can find Mark and Brad’s latest restaurant review by clicking below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qOaoVWRg_U

Rooftop December 11

2010-12-11T09:20:00.000-08:00

“Cold up here”

ROOFTOP -- Forty-seven degrees is a lot colder than I thought it’d be. This metal roof is beginning to numb my feet. If you hadn’t waited so long to get your buns up here, I’d still have more feeling in ‘em.

But, you’re here, and it was well worth the climb, was it not? Just think how many people wish they could be us tonight. No, it’d be more than four. Look, Barbara, I wasn’t asking you to GUESS how many people. You’re really ruining the moment. -- No, sit back down. I’m just messing with you.

Reminds me. Saturday morning I went out real early to get the newspaper. I usually peek out the door first to make sure nobody is in the vicinity. I just hate to start up a conversation early in the morning. Kay will back me up on that.

Anyway, the new neighbors (a mother and two teenage kids) were across the street sitting on the driveway like waiting for something, or someone. I didn’t know how long they were going to wait, but I couldn’t wait to find out. I needed my newspaper.

So, I just took the bear by the horns and walked right out to the street, knowing that I would have to say something. I’ve threatened to do that before, but an appropriate time never showed itself. This would be a new neighbor icebreaker. (Sounds like a song.)

Well, you want to know what I said? Keep in mind they don’t know me. I don’t know them. I said, “Howdy neighbors! You do know the Popsicle man doesn’t come till Wednesday, don’t you?”

Yep, that’s what I said. And, do you know what I got back? Heartache. I got the “What an idiot” look. I invented the “What an idiot” look, and now one was being delivered to me. -- “Popsicle man? What? He thinks we’re waiting for a Popsicle man this early in the morning? Okay, everyone stay away from the neighbor.”

After a time-stopping pause, the lady said, “What?” That meant I had to repeat the stupid line. “It was levity,” I said. “You’re waiting out here, and I say, ‘The Popsicle man doesn’t come till Wednesday.’” It didn’t sound any better the second time. I knew it wouldn’t.

Then I had to turn around and make the long walk back to the house. I imagine the girl was doing the weird twirling finger thing around her ears. I’m not sure people still do that. I was tempted to turn around real quick to see, but I didn’t. How do you recover from something like that? Can’t be done.

Sometimes it works when I say silly stuff, and sometimes it bombs. That’s pretty much why Kay hates it when I talk to strangers. She can see it coming a mile away. Sometimes she walks away in anticipation of the encounter. She’s really missed a lot of cool moments doing that.

Some people enjoy it when you say something silly to them. Like you guys. Hey, you wouldn’t be up here if you weren’t somewhat silly. Uh, Barbara, you do need to work just a bit on your silliness, though.

Speaking of Kay, she had to go to singing practice tonight. The girl has never been to singing practice before. I thought it odd when she told me she was going. Seems a group of friends from church are having a Christmas party next week, and the ladies want to do some kind of singing skit. So, they have to practice.

I enjoy stuff like that about as much as I enjoy a bunch of waiters in a restaurant singing happy birthday to me. It’s what separates the men from the women. One of a bunch of things.

Along with their skit, the girls will probably have the men do one of those 12 Days of Christmas things where you have to act like you’re a maid milking a cow. I see humor in a “waiting for the Popsicle man” comment. But, milking an imaginary cow is just not funny. Could be worse. I could be a goose a laying. That’s just sick.

Oh, there is one scary thing about Kay not being here. It means that if the last person up happened to knock over the ladder, we’re in for a two-hour sit till she comes home. Everybody is going to have numb feet and rears.

Barbara, you weren’t the last person up, were you? – It’s a joke! I joke. -- Oh, my goodness. I just thought. What if the new neighbors see us up here? There will be a Mayflower truck in their driveway tomorrow.

Oh, well, I’ll loosen ‘em up. I’ll come up with a better line. “Howdy, neighbors! Did you have to milk any imaginary cows over the Holiday?” Yeah, that’ll work.

END

You can contact Mark at mark@fromtherooftop.net

Dec 3 Tossing stuff

2010-12-03T11:45:00.000-08:00

“Oldest thing in the house”

Do you have an item in your house that has pretty much overstayed its welcome? Yes, that’s a rather personal question, but “Work with me, people!” (Read that in your Al Pacino voice.)

You might want to call this an intervention type moment. Hey, we’ve all had ‘em. My first involved the habit I have of wearing only one shoe around the house. Kay had to accept the fact that it’s incurable. She ended up going to a counselor. Intervene that!

Today’s intervention is for all of us. The six of us. No, now don’t look like that Fess up. You’ve got some old stuff around the house that has no business being there. Don’t believe me? Let’s play a game. You like games.

We’re going to have a contest to see who can locate the oldest consumable in the house. No, not my house, you goob— Uh, sorry, Luke. I mean we will each search our own individual house. And, then we’ll meet back here in, what? Thirty minutes. I’m pretty sure we’ll tire of the game by then.

Before we head out, we must get the rules straight. We’re looking for something consumable. By consumable I mean that it’s not a chair, a piece of jewelry or a photograph. We consider those untossable. No, we’re looking for something you brought home with the intention of eventually using it up. A box of Kleenex, pack of gum, wedge of cheese… Stuff like that.

You must know that something once edible carries more weight than, say, a Bic pen. It just has to. After all, it takes a really special person to hold onto a 20 year-old jar of pickle relish. Having fun just thinking about it, aren’t you?

Okay, let’s get started. You’re gonna lay the paper down and not pick it for 30 minutes. Got it? On ‘mark, set, go!

Is anybody back yet? I said, is—Well, I’m a few minutes early. I got tired at the 20 minute mark. I’ll wait a bit. “It’s knowin’ that your door is always open and your path is free to walk…”

Okay, that’s enough. Settle down, people! All right I’ll go first. I went to the freezer compartment and found something prehistoric. Not sure what it is, but it’s old. I’d have to thaw it to find out what it is. It’s either meatloaf or soup. I’m not in the mood for either.

About three years ago I started labeling and dating the stuff I put in the freezer. The gray bag predates the labeling and the dating. Since I can’t determine the exact year, I’ll have to disqualify it. Don’t even know why I brought it up.

In the kitchen cabinet I found a three-year old box of noodles. That’s just the expiration date. No telling how long I’ve had it. We’ve eaten a lot of noodles since buying the box. I don’t know what troubled me about this one. I’ll have Kay ask her counselor next week.

The French onions is the only thing that didn't get tossed. Oh, and the PEZ dispenser. However, somebody broke in and stole the thing. Must have. I can't find the thing now. Isn't that just the way...?

When I was headed downstairs, I found an old shopping receipt on the floor. It was from a Winn-Dixie in Commerce, Texas. On August 4, 1997, somebody bought two PRT/CUP for $1.19 each. I’m sure it’s not the oldest receipt in the house, but the oldest that was laying on the floor by the computer. By the way, Kay was looking through a box of old photos about an hour ago. I think the receipt came from one of the boxes. Either that are we’ve still got a poltergeist problem.

There is a can of French’s French Fried Onions that has a 1995 expiration date branded on the metal bottom. We don’t make that many green bean casseroles. Sad.

I’ve got a 12-year-old smiley face PEZ dispenser on my bookcase. It’s not consumable, but the original PEZ candy in it is. It was a gift, and while I’m not crazy about the dispenser, I don’t throw away candy.

I could go on and on, but I think I’ll cut to the chase? Whatever that means. The oldest thing I found during my 20-minute search was a 32-year old jar of Bayer Aspirin. I don’t like to throw away medicine any more than candy. I may have some pain pills that predate that, but like I say, I grew tired of looking.

So, what’d you come up with? -- Stop! We’re outta time here. Tell you what, do. See the e-mail address at the bottom? Well, look again. See? E-mail me your most interesting old item(s) and I’ll put include it in an upcoming article. If I never bring this up again, it means most of you never returned from the search. That’s what I’m thinking. – Next time.

END

You can contact Mark at mark@fromtherooftop.net