What? No turkey leg!

“Renaissance Festival First”

Up until last Sunday afternoon, I had never been to the Texas Renaissance Festival. And you wanna know something? I didn’t feel all that bad about it.

I’ve heard the stories. A lot of oddly dressed people, a lot of weird food and a lot of silly people who shake the porta-potty while you’re in there. I don’t care for stuff like that. I don’t need stuff like that.

For years no one cared one way or the other about my snub of The Festival… not until there was Brad. Whatta goob. For whatever reason, Montgomery County food critic Brad Meyer took my non-fan Ren Fes as a challenge. He was bound and determined to drag my buns through history, all the way back to a really bad time. Said we could critique the food. That there were no porta-potties during the Renaissance, nor were there any at the Festival. They had real restrooms. He had me at no-porta.

So, Sunday afternoon I find myself entering the media office at the RF. Brad’s got his press pass and an expensive camera around his neck. All I have is Brad. He told the lady that I was there to carry his camera while he was enjoying the rides. She thought it sweet.

I got an official visitor’s pass (saved me 20 bucks) and free program. Unfortunately, I lost the program somewhere during the walk across the 53-acre theme park. I think a wench lifted it from me during an accidental head-on. One of us wasn’t watching where he was going. Entirely too much cleavage out there.

Turns out I didn’t need a program. Brad knows everything that is Renaissance. We first caught Ded Bob’s program. No typo. He’s really Ded. He’s a skeleton puppet carried and operated by a guy named Smuj who had his face covered. If you put a bag over my head, I, too, could be a ventriloquist. As long as the puppet’s mouth didn’t have to match my words. That might be tough.

Ded Bob and Smuj

Ded was crude. And, funny. Not so much to me, but to everybody else in the audience. I apparently misplaced my laugh. I sometimes do that at awkward moments. Not the audience, though. You’d think they were one of those paid infomercial audiences. Really got into the presentation. They’d laugh at everything and do anything the puppet asked ‘em to. If he told people to scream “Rubber nails!” They’d scream it. Beat all I ever saw. I’d attempt a stand-up routine if I had half as good an audience.

I don’t know how much Ded and Smuj change the routine from year to year… nor am I likely to ever know.

Midway through the puppet routine we walked over to the jousting arena. I’ve always wanted to see a joust. Two guys on horseback at full gallop, trying to dislodge one another with giant spears. How could anyone survive such a spectacle? I didn’t get to find out, because we stopped between performances. The arena was already beginning to fill, but I don’t wait well. Don’t know if you knew that about me.

If you’re not watching a show, there’s plenty to do out there. They’ve got rides galore. While I was tempted to try out Leonardo's Catapult, I was too afraid that Brad might snap a picture of me. Not too many pictures out there of me crying, and I’d like to keep it that way.

The giant swings looked like fun. They’ve got the King’s Swings and Neptune’s Swing and Friar’s Frolic. That last one might involve a swing. I’m not sure. They’ve also got Pluck-A-Duck and Drench-A-Wench. I’m telling you, women get no respect at the Ren Fes.

If you don’t care for rides or the performances, you might enjoy just watching people. There are all kinds. I saw a 9-foot tall werewolf. A bunch of vampires. The towering ogre guy was there. Big ol’ Ogre. Lord of the Rings big.

You could toss a rock in any direction and likely hit a damsel or knight. Plenty of those out there. And, it was Halloween day, so there were also a lot of non-Renaissance looking people. I saw the Super Mario brothers and a Jedi Knight and maybe Daffy Duck. It was hard to tell. Brad even got a transvestite nurse to cozy up to me while I was eating my seafood platter. Snapped a picture he did. A ton of laughs this man.

Yes, I said seafood platter. I’m an idiot. Go to the Ren Fes and order the seafood. I let the price sway me. It was $6.50 for a couple of pieces of fish and some shrimp and chips. Straight from Sam’s freezer to the heat lamp. Even the seafood damsel couldn’t believe I ordered it. She just stood and stared at me for about three seconds before snapping out of it and handing me the plate.

It was really bad. And to top it off I’m sharing it with a transvestite. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. Fortunately, I also got a roastin’ ear. You can’t mess up corn. This was some good stuff. I had it all over me. And, I wasn’t sharing.

Brad got a turkey leg. He figured one of us had to. A leg goes for seven pounds. That’s what they call their dollars. Pounds. I get it. I asked Brad how the leg was and he said, “It’s a turkey leg!” And, that’s coming from our food critic.

I’ve got to tell you, though, there is an awful lot of food out there. Some desserts that could practically call your name. “Mark. Ooooh, Maaaark.” That was a pecan pie looking thing with a giant heap of ice cream on it. If it had come up with my last name, I would’ve bought it.

Oh, and did I mention the shops. Art, jewelry, clothing, headwear, axeware, swordfare, silverware… A million shops. Maybe a billion.

I’ll bet I only saw a tenth of what all they have out there. Too much stuff. But, all good things must come to an end. And, so did my visit to the Renaissance Festival. We checked out at the Media office where we got a couple of gifts. Brad got some kind of sandwich coupon for dancing a jig. Oh, the humanity. I only had to speak in a British accent to get my dessert coupon.

Brad's Turkey leg

We got home before dark. The experience wasn’t nearly as painful as I imagined. Were I a few decades younger, I would’ve probably had fun. But, all in all, I actually feel relieved to no longer be among the ranks of those who have never been to the Ren Fes. I recommend that those of you remaining on the list try to steer clear of Brad. What I’m sayin’?

Famous track star umpires Hayter brothers

“The Flying Tiger”

I watched two of the brothers, Larry and Dennis, play softball last week at a nice county ballpark right near where Pasadena and the city limits of Clear Lake touch.

I don’t think anyone but older people could play on the fields, because it would be too confusing. You see, there are two home plates on each field. That’s so there will never be a collision at home. Home is always a forced out. It’s genius. If the catcher touches his plate before the runner steps on the other plate, the runner is out.

I’ve watched several of the brothers’ games and don’t remember ever seeing anyone thrown out at home. You didn’t hear it from me, but the reason is that a lot teams don’t have enough players, so each supplies a catcher for the other team. That means each catcher belongs to the team at bats. That’s just wrong.

Fortunately, it’s a gentleman’s game… one where the catcher generally misses the ball on a throw to home. It doesn’t seem to bother anybody. They’re pretty much out there having fun. I like that.

When Dennis came to the plate, he sent the ball into the gap in right center. There is one extra outfielder and one extra infielder in old guys slow pitch. Hard to find a gap, but when you do, you’re going to get some extra bases. Dennis managed to make it all the way home. Wee,wee,wee.

Dennis didn’t move all that fast, but neither did the fielders. And, their throws lacked distance and accuracy. The story of my life. When Dennis touched home plate, I was cheering like all get out. It wasn’t enough that I was the only person in the stands, but I was the only one in the area who was cheering. It was just a game to everyone else. Me, I was really drawing attention.

Suddenly the umpire looked up. The guy was just as thin as the proverbial rail. He could get lost in the shade of one of the backstop posts. He shielded his eyes from the sun and gave me a squinty look. “Whoa! Another brother!” he said. “You guys look just alike! Who’s the oldest?”

A lot of people think the four Hayter boys look alike. I don’t see it, but it doesn’t bother me. What does tend to irk is when people can’t rank us by age. Larry is 10 years older than I am, and Dennis three. “Which of you is the oldest?” Give me a break.

Oh, and Big Al, who wasn’t even there, is the youngest. I’ve got seven years on him, yet people still ask who’s the older. Don’t know what that tells you, but it tells me that after a certain age we all blend. None of us look as young as we do in our mind’s eye. I just hate that.

But, back to the umpire. He was a hoot. After he recognized me as one of “The Brothers” he started commenting every time Dennis or Larry came to the plate. “Okay, look out. We got another brother at the plate. Back up!”

The man could talk some trash. I don’t mean bad language or anything. He’d get after the pitcher sometimes. -- “Hey Herb, you’re gonna bring rain with that pitch. Bring that ball down!” -- And, to a base runner -- “Bob, I think you would’ve made it had you started to second base sooner. Say, around nine… last night.”

I really enjoyed the game. A lot of laughs, some decent hits, a couple of fairly good plays and no arguing. The weather was even pleasant. It was a softball miracle. – That’s what Jill says about good stuff. There is a sale in the can goods section of the grocery store, she’ll say, “Wow, it’s a cream corn miracle!” Our kid sister is a doober.

I wish she had been at the game with me. It was so much fun. I attribute much of that to the umpire. Whatta nice guy. Hard to argue with somebody who is doing his best to make the outing enjoyable. His name was Skillet. I thought I heard it wrong, so after the game I went down and talked to him a bit.

Sure enough, he was Skillet. He said his best friend gave him the name when he was growing up. Didn’t mention why. His friend died at the age of 14, so Lee thought he’d just keep the name. That was his real name, Lee Smith. He used to run track for Texas Southern University. He ran on the 440 and 880 relay teams back when Americans were still running yards instead of meters. He said that his team once held the record in the 440 relay. I was flabbergasted.

Larry and Dennis knew nothing about Lee Smith. I doubt any of the players did. They only knew Skillet. When I got home I Googled the guy. Son of gun. Lee Smith ran the third leg of the 440, handing the baton off to Jim Hines, a sprinter who was at one time considered the world’s fastest human. In the record-breaking relay, Lee matched Hines time. In 1967 they were called the TSU Flying Tigers. They were famous in the day. “Sports Illustrated” mentioned that Lee Smith was considered the team leader. I could see that.

Yet, the one time I got to see a Flying Tiger, he was umpiring a softball game for old guys. He was clowning around and enjoying the moment.

Don’t you treasure the times when you stumble onto true humility? Yes, Smith has some glory days, and he’ll tell you about ‘em if you ask. But, they don’t rule his life. Right now he appears content being known simply as a rather outgoing umpire. He sure made the game I watched a blast.

Oh, and you may be interested to know that in the bottom of the last inning with two outs, two men on and the score 14 to 12 against the brothers’ team, Larry stepped to the plate and hit one over the centerfielder’s head. I had no doubt he was going to round the bases. It was a pretty close play at the home. So close that if the catcher hadn’t bobbled the ball for a second, I’m pretty sure Larry would’ve been called out.

Final score 15-14. I was the only one who seemed to care. Well, me and the catcher.

END

There's always a "Better not!"

MARK’S ARTICLE -- October 30, 2010
“Becoming one with chocolate”

Life is crammed full of “better nots.” Have you noticed that? From the time I was in diapers up till today, it’s been, “You better not do that.” and “You better not eat that.”

And, there’s little doubt that the better-not trend will continue up through the time I again find myself in diapers. Probably mid 2011.

When I was a kid, Mom always bought the worst cereal in the world. Not the second worst -- Okra Chex. But, the very worst -- Grape Nut Flakes. I’ve mentioned that a time or two, and I may continue until someone else remembers the horrors of that cereal. The second milk hit the flakes you had a bowl of gray sludge. School wasn’t bad enough; we had to eat that stuff before we caught the bus.

Mom wouldn’t get Sugar Pops or Frosted Flakes. Or any other of the four good cereals. The good cereals generally came with a prize, as if a kid needed any more incentive. But, it didn’t matter to Mom. She usually bought the same thing. “Ask the people in the Soviet Union if they would like some Grape Nut Flakes! They’re eating Okra Chex over there!”

Oh, occasionally Mom might get a box of Puffed Rice. Puffed Rice? Some genius figured out how to turn rice into air. You get hungry just eating the stuff. Mom never saw that.

There was no reasoning with moms. The old moms. Not, today’s moms. If one of today’s Moms had raised me, I would’ve turned out so much better. Every morning would’ve been a sugary, crunchy delight. But, noooo. Today’s kids don’t deserve their moms. The little weasels.

When I was a kid, every other waking thought involved something along the lines of “Boy, when I grow up, things will be so much better. I’ll eat what I want and I’ll do what I want.”

Well, I’m pretty close to grown up now, and I still can’t get, eat or do what I want. You know what kind of cereal I eat? Well, two of you do, ‘cause I’ve mentioned it. I mix Wheat Chex with Grape Nuts. Not Grape Nut Flakes! The flakes were banned in the Helsinki Treaty of ’72. Mom cried for a week.

My Chex-Nut combo isn’t bad. In fact, they’re supposed to be good for me. Not like all the sugary cereals that I prefer. But, I can’t get those ‘cause doctors say that kind of stuff is really bad for you. Nobody even knows what a grape nut is, but it’s supposed to be better for you than a Cocoa Puff! Doctors are really messin’ with us.

And, chocolate? Let’s talk chocolate. There have been only a hand full of times when I came close to eating all the chocolate I wanted. One was about six Christmas’ ago. Kay and I were in Sam’s and she let me buy one of those giant Hershey Bars. It was huge. About an inch thick, a foot wide and two or three feet long. I think they’ve been outlawed.

I didn’t eat the chocolate plank in one setting, but I came close. An inch of chocolate is hard. I don’t know if you knew that. I about broke my teeth on that thing. There for a day or two I thought I might O.D. -- “Mrs. Hayter, I’ve never seen anything like it. He was chocolated to death. Didn’t look like he suffered much, though.”

Other than the Hershey bar episode I had a run-in with one of those Sam-sized bags of M&Ms. Peanut M&Ms. Is there any other kind? That night I became one with that bag. Kay found me the next morning lying in the backyard on the Jungle Gym. I had not idea how I got there.

That’s the way it’s been. Instead of buying a little bit of chocolate and keeping it on hand. I buy a bunch about once a year and go on a binge. Hey, it’s how I cope.

Take Pie in the Sky. The time Brad Meyer and I visited, I actually ordered dessert. I wasn’t going to, but we were in a PIE PLACE. I thought I mentioned that. So much to choose from. I chose Chocolate Peanut Butter pie. It was so good I wept. If there is pie in heaven – and I can’t imagine heaven without pie – I want the chocolate peanut butter just like at Pie in the Sky. If you end up in purgatory, I think they only have mincemeat. No crust. I’m just guessing here.

I haven’t had any chocolate since the Sky Pie visit. Sure, I could get it if I wanted, but I better not. See? Even as an adult, there are so many restrictions. And, not just in food.

Last weekend Kay took me to Penney’s to get me some clothes. She does that now again. We get ready to go somewhere and she takes one look at me and says, “We’ve gotta get you some new clothes.” It’s weird.

So, we’re in JC’s where we walk past a whole array of neat men toys. One was a ping-pong set. It had a net, paddles… and I don’t remember what else. I just remember that it said you could hook the net up to any table. ANY table. I’ve got an any table! A big one in the dining room.

I caught up with Kay and dragged her buns back to the ping-pong set. It was only $10, maybe $15. Price was not the deal buster. When I explained that we could play ping-pong on the dining room table, Kay told me she had two words for me. “China cabinet.” Oh, and she added two more. “No way.”

So, there you have it. I’m grown. In fact, I’m past grown. I’m in the state of negative growth. Yet, during the entire growing process, I’ve been unable to do, buy or eat whatever I want.

And, here’s the rub. It’s not a matter of someone forcibly keeping me from doing or getting what I want. It’s me trying to be responsible. I’ve met the enemy and it be me. Oh, and Kay. I forgot to count her. It’s not fair. Nothing fair about it.

Life? There’s always something. And, then you’re in diapers… again. I’m thinking mid-July.
END

October 24, 2010 Hayter Hints

“A tip on pens and pencils”

I’ve had some Glad Wrap in the freezer now for a couple of hours. Kathy, a helpful hint friend of ours, said that you should keep your Saran Wrap in the freezer. I use Glad Wrap, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same thing. A see-through wrap that marries everything but what you’re trying to wrap?

Sticking it in the freezer is supposed to make it come off the roll so much better. It won’t fight you or anything. Kathy read that somewhere. Near the end of this I’ll go check.

I hope it works ‘cause Saran Wrap is the number three cause of profanity by people who don’t usually curse. Not sure you knew that. Some university did a study. Bucknell. If you don’t believe it, go wet a dishcloth, throw it in a pie pan and then try to wrap it. I’ll give you a few minutes. – Let’s go on. They’re not coming back.

Kathy thought up the freezer idea after it was mentioned that I was going to write a helpful hint article, along the lines of Heloise. Heloise and I are old friends. Well that’s a lie. Yes, we’ve exchanged e-mails twice and talked on the phone once. Other than that, she couldn’t pick me out of a lineup. I could pick her out. Unless she colored her hair.

I’ve written a couple of Heloisesque articles before. I started them off with some super obvious hints that fans have shared with her. Stuff like check your shopping cart to make sure you didn’t leave anything in it. It’s genius. I usually close my eyes and guess how many bags I’ve got.

Anyway, I was going to mention a few obvious hints, and then give some of my own. But, Kathy had to share a legitimate hint with me. Well, a little later we’ll see how legitimate. Right now I need to give you a few of my hints. Stuff Heloise probably wouldn’t care to share. Again, we’re not really that close.

I’ll start with my second most valuable hint. Do you ever get upset because you can’t find a pen or pencil while talking on the phone, or making a grocery list? Are you thinking of purchasing a few dozen of something that writes? Well don’t.

Here’s what do. Take a large coffee mug and set it on a cabinet somewhere. Put in one pen and one pencil, and then walk away. Don’t pay any attention to it for, oh, about a month. Then go over there and check it out. That mug is going to be full of pens and pencils. They’ll be wedged so tight you’ll need to wear eye protection to grab one.

I don’t know how that works, but one pen and one pencil attract stuff like you wouldn’t believe. You’ll have paperclips at the bottom and pennies and screws that don’t go to anything. You’ll have so much stuff that you’ll have to seed another mug in another part of the house. This year, I’ve grown three mugs full of pens and whatsits.

The only drawback is that any time you need a pen every one that you grab is terrible. And, every pencil has a broken lead. The house nymphs that put ‘em there really like to mess with you. Speaking of which, while you can grow pens and pencils, you cannot grow reading glasses. I’ve bought about 30 pair in the last two years. I can now find only two. If I put those two in a giant coffee mug, then leave the room and return an hour later, they’ll both be gone. It’s spooky.

Another almost as valuable hint has to do with putting a wastebasket in the corner of the dining room… or wherever you eat. Kay and I have started eating in the dining room. We used to eat in the living room while watching the news. Now we sit at the table and talk while eating. Quality time it’s called. Quality time without a remote control? It’s a paradox. Para-something.

In order to better appreciate the “quality” time, I placed a wastebasket directly behind Kay. This way I can wad up my napkins and s hoot ‘em at basket from where I’m seated. I go through a lot of napkins during a meal.

If I sink a shot, I make the basket sign like the ref does in a game. Two fingers pointing down from a raised hand. I’ve made mealtime – funtime.

Since I’ve been doing this, I’ve found that my food has been digesting so much better. A study at Bucknell revealed that tossing stuff at the garbage will add 26 minutes to the average adult’s life. It will, unfortunately, sap 6 hours from a spouse’s life span. I don’t think they know what they’re talking about. Bucknell Bisons, my buns.

My best hint involves something you shouldn’t do. So, just stop it. It involves hiding stuff from company. It’s necessary to do that, but you need to give it less thought. If I’ve got family coming over for the weekend, I find a place to hide the good stuff. You know, can of cashews, peanut M&Ms, Cheetos... My valuables.

I think up a bizarre place where no one would think to look. I come from a tricky family. I think there’s a double agent or two in there. Problem is, two days after everyone has left, I can’t find my stash. Don’t remember the bizarre place. It was too bizarre. Let me tell you that there are some serious snacks hidden in some funky places around this house. And, one day, they’re gonna show.

Oops, I see it’s time for me to reveal the frozen Glad Wrap findings. This is for you, Kathy. Wait here and I’ll be right back. Seriously, I’ll return. Hum something. No not that. – All right, are you seated. Frozen Glad Wrap rolls out great. But, like body temperature Glad Wrap, it doesn’t like to tear off.

By the time, I got my frozen sheet torn, it had thawed and fought me like a bad dog. I almost became a potty mouth. Almost. I think it will actually work, but only if you climb into the freezer with the roll and shut the door. We’ll save that for another time.

Right now, I’m going on a treasure hunt. And, if successful, I’m coming back with cashew breath. It oughtta be a cologne.

END

“Cornell vs Bucknell… why?”

ROOFTOP – “Memory. All alone in the moonlight, I can smile at the old days,
I was—“ Oops, sorry about that. There’s not a moon out tonight and I’m not cat, but that just seems like a song for now.

I can sing louder, but it’ll wake up the dogs in the neighborhood. The least little thing. My voice isn’t all that bad, is it? I say my singing voice isn’t—Thank you. That seemed forced, but I’ll take it, Brenda.

I was asked to take choir in elementary school. Did you know that? Yes, Mrs. Page recognized that I could sing. She wanted me bad. But, I never took choir at any time in school. For one reason, I knew I’d have to learn to read music. I couldn’t do that. Makes no sense. You’ve got your flats and eighth notes and treble clefs. “Class, we’ll do this one in C sharp!” Give me a break.

The main reason I have an untrained voice is because I didn’t want to have to wear a sissy choir robe. The choir always sang at the Christmas assembly, and I hated the thought of standing out there in a robe. And, the teacher would make me do a solo ‘cause my voice is so great and – What? One of you keeps mumbling and it’s most irritating.

I would look like the poor sap on the left.

Anyway, it would’ve been embarrassing for the guys on the football team to see me. They would’ve made fun. If you ever watch “Glee” you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Isn’t it weird how just one thing… or one fear in life can keep you from taking a chance. If I could go back, I would join the choir and become the singing defensive safety. – “Coach, that defensive back over there keeps singing ‘Who’ll stop the rain?’ He’s freaking me out.” – “Oh, Number 11? He’s the singing safety. Next time you’re out there, see if he’ll sing some John Denver.”

I’ll probably dream something like that tonight. If it’s weird enough, I’ll dream it. Speaking of weird has nothing to do with Jill’s visit last weekend. My kid sister was a bit down. One of those, -- “Are you, okay, Sis?” – “Yeah, I’m just… I don’t know.” -- You ever get like that? Can’t explain why, but you’re seeing things through a fog of the blues.

Jill and I usually experience the same stuff. Except kidney stones. She’s never had ‘em. And, I’ve never had a child. But, I’ve been one. -- Beg pardon? More mumbling.

Anyway, Jill was feeling down, so it was my job to perk her up. It’s what I do. I should’ve dragged her buns up here, but didn’t think of it. No, I decided to use football to cheer her up. Saturdays during football season are the best, Jerry. Unfortunately, Jill hates to watch football, but that’s because she seldom watches it with me.

I tape all the games with my DVR and fast forward through the parts where no one is running. I can watch a three-hour game in 20 minutes. Yes, I know the game clock runs for about an hour, but a lot of that time is spent in the huddle or getting up off the ground. I don’t care to watch stuff like that.

Watching the games in fast-fast motion wasn’t doing it for Jill, so I tried something else. I thought I’d create some competition between us. Hayters love to compete. I hit the guide button on the remote and looked for games in progress. I was looking for teams that were unfamiliar to me. Found one right off the bat. Cornell was playing Bucknell. I don’t know why. But, more of a mystery was why did a network exec think that the game should be nationally televised?

I told Jill the school names and told her that we were both to guess the school colors of each team. Doesn’t that sound exciting? I said, doesn’t—Thanks, again, Brenda. Jill guessed that Cornell’s colors were blue and yellow. I was freaked, ‘cause I guessed the same thing. We’re not even twins.

Jill guessed that Bucknell’s colors were brown. When I told her that she only came up with one color, she said that’s all Bucknell has. She was really taking a gamble on this one. I guessed red and black. Had a vision.

So, I then turned to the game. You could’ve knocked me over with an I-beam. Cornell’s colors are red and white. We weren’t even close. Bucknell has more than one color and it sure isn’t brown. They’re navy blue and orange. All the good colors were taken.

I intended for us to also guess the mascots and the location of each college, but Jill just wasn’t into it. I can tell stuff like that. We watched the game for only a few minutes, because it wasn’t taped. The stadium was small and the crowd was no bigger than what you’d expect to turn out for a game between The Woodlands and Conroe. A decent crowd for a high school game, but surely not for college.

After a minute or two, I turned the TV off and we talked. I don’t think I cheered her up much at all. -- “I’m okay, Moke.” -- Jill calls me Moke. I asked her if it had anything to do with Lynda? Our big sister passed away with Alzheimer’s a few years ago almost to the day. Jill said it had nothing to do with that, but thanked me for bringing it to her attention. I ended up giving myself the glums. Jill helped, though.

To tell the truth, that’s really why I climbed up here tonight. Wanted to see if the night sky would perk me up. And, the first thing I do is start singing one of the saddest songs around. “Memory.” You know the part of the song I was coming to? It’s “I remember the time I knew what happiness was…”

And, I do. Thing is, we could never know happiness unless we experienced the down moments. Might say that the glums are a gift. I didn’t mention that to Jill, because I just now thought of it. That’s the beauty of coming to the rooftop.

On that note, I will now finish the “Memory” song for you. -- Hey, wait! No running on the roof! -- Well, that’s just rude.

“Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me, all alone with…“

END

To catch Mark and Brad’s Vietnamese restaurant review, go to YouTube and type in Mark Hayter Van Thong. - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qcTTLtxPelI

“Venting at an oil change”

Doesn’t it feel good after you get your oil changed? There is a sense that your car feels better and is happy and is eager to go. I like my car to feel that way.

Of course, most of the sense of joy comes from the realization that I won’t have to do that again for a few months. I hate to take care of car stuff. Unfortunately, somebody’s got to do it. Car maintenance didn’t make it onto Kay’s job description. I got all the car stuff. She got ironing clothes and sewing on buttons. Fair tradeoff? I don’t think so.

I used to change the oil myself, but now I let the dealership do it. I’ve mentioned to you that one of my ex-students is a service rep at the dealership. One honest kid, that Troy. He’s even talked me out of doing stuff to the car. “It’s still got a couple years wear, Mr. Hayter.” If the guy told me I needed to change my dweetbottle gage, I’d do it. It’s so nice to trust your service department.

When I have the car serviced, I always bring a book along to read. This time I brought a book written by Robert Parker, one of my favorite Western writers. The book is about Wyatt Earp. I didn’t realize that when I picked it up at the used bookstore. I like Wyatt Earp. He’s like a friend of mine. But enough is enough. There are millions of characters in print I’ve yet to read about. I need to quit Earp.

So, I closed the book, picked up my assigned service beeper and went to look at the new cars in the showroom. If you carry a service beeper with you onto the showroom floor, most salesmen leave you alone. I held mine in front of my chest as I roamed the room.

While studying the window sticker of a Corolla I was a bit startled by a guy who crawled out of the front seat of one of those Toyota Jeep looking things. They call ‘em FJ Cruisers. Probably stands for something.

I was tempted to say something cute like, “That’s one quiet vehicle. I barely heard you drive up.” But the guy looked almost sophisticated. He was a little older than me and looked a whole lot wiser. Some people just carry themselves that way.

I ended up saying, “Looks like a formidable vehicle.” He smiled back. He knew someone who owned an FJ. The only thing bad he had to say about it was the gas mileage. Something to do with it being a heavy, four-wheel drive vehicle.

At this point I was ready to walk over and inspect the Camry, but the gentleman took the conversation up a notch. We were both killing time, so what the hey.

He started discussing fuel efficiency. He doesn’t think electric cars are the answer to the Country’s fuel problems. Not enough power. And, not enough electrical power plants to keep the things recharged.

No, we need to start taking advantage of natural gas. We’ve got more of the stuff in Alaska than we know what to do with. We keep pumping it out and then pumping it back in. I had no idea what that meant, but I smiled like I did.

And it’s safe, too. Not many people realize that when natural gas is liquefied it’s one of the safest of all fuels. You’ve gotta get it real cold to keep it liquid. Once you get it there, it’s safe as can be.

I was gonna let that go, but I just had to mention that most things are safe when they’re cold and contained. It’s when they have a leak that all heck breaks loose. The man didn’t argue or take a swing at me. He just nodded and said, “Yes, that’s true.” I like it when people don’t get mad when I question something.

After that he moved the conversation on to The Economy. The man recently sold a business that employed thousands of workers. He obviously knew about the workings of The Economy. Concerning the nation’s financial situation, he said that Ronald Reagan was our last great President.

When I’m standing in a car dealership in Conroe, I’m not stupid enough to question the greatness of Ronald Reagan. “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”

Truth is, every president we ever had was responsible for some good stuff happening as well as some bad stuff. And, each had good stuff happen IN SPITE of his efforts as well as bad stuff.

I didn’t say any of that to the man. I just thought it. The man went on to say that the problem with this country is that there are no term limits. Nobody should serve more than two terms. And, we need to elect people who have no political experience. We don’t need politicians making our political decisions for us. He put it in smarter sounding words, but that’s what it meant.

While I was smiling, I was thinking “Elect people with no knowledge of politics to run a political institution. And, get ‘em out of office quick so they don’t have time to really mess things up.” Ingenious? Or lunacy? There’s a fine line sometimes.

The man then said that—“Excuse me, sir, but we need to talk.” That’s what the service manager said to the guy before he could say what he was gonna say. Completely ended the discourse.

But, the man was polite as could be. He smiled and thanked me for the discussion (the listen) and then walked off with the manager.

During the visit, I heard no easy answers to anything. And, I shared few thoughts of my own. The only thing I accomplished was letting someone vent. I’ve found that if you can do that, you’ve pretty well done all you can do.

Everyone just needs to vent. It won’t change the economic, political or ecological landscape, but it’ll make you feel good. Make you think that at least one person has the answers. That’s a great feeling.

Me? All it takes is an oil change. Life is good when I get that thing behind me.


END

To view Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant review, click on the photo of the two goobers.

Love that fall

October 3, 2010

“How about a topic change?”

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I like fall. Oh, I don’t go around blabbing about it, but if you asked which season I liked best I’d hafta say that I’m a fan of the autumnal. I like to say it, too. “ Fan of the autumnal.” Cool.

If I felt better, I’d be sitting in my canvas lawn chair, atop the roof, looking down on the beginning of fall. Of course, the entire world isn’t experiencing fall right now. You understand that, don’t you? Down south they’re springing forward. I’m not crazy about spring. Especially spring in Papua New Guinea. That’s another one of those words that is fun to say. Papua. I don’t care to go there, but I like to say it.

Truth is, I don’t care to go anywhere right now. I don’t feel well. Did I not say that earlier? If you wanna know why, you’ll need to flip your hamster to the side and pull out last week’s article. Buckles won’t care. He only reads the headlines. Those face-up.

If you find the article, you will see that last week I mentioned kidney stones. That’s what’s keeping me down on the ground at the moment. I had the stones crushed last week, but I don’t think they were crushed enough. You could resurface a logging road with some of the stuff I’ve been passing. Puts me in a bad mood.

I didn’t feel real bad when I left the hospital. The nurse asked how much pain I was experiencing, from one to ten. I hate that question. Pain is so relative. Compared to a thumb under a sledgehammer, I was a one. I told her three. I thought it more of a five, but didn’t want her to think I was a wimp.

That’s the problem with giving a number for pain. If you were in the hospital waiting for a pain pill, you’d tell anybody who asked that you were a 10. But, nurses expect you to exaggerate pain, so it means little to them. That punishes the honest among us. -- “Oh, I’m in agony here, so I’d say I’m a eight.” If you say something like that to a nurse, you’re not getting a pill till two hours after the Jello crawls off. No, we’re conditioned to lie about pain.

Right now, I really am a three. I have nothing to lie about. I’m not in pain as much as I’m uncomfortable. Can’t sit still. One discomfort is the sense that I have to, uh… make water. That’s what Morgan Freeman called it in “Driving Miss Daisy.” For some reason kidney stones make you feel as if you always have to go to the restroom, only you don’t. Well, not a lot.

You wanna know what’s weird? I’m gonna tell you anyway. The doctor actually gave me a pill to make me feel less like I have to go to the restroom. Hey, I can’t make this stuff up! Some scientist somewhere – I’m thinking in Wisconsin – decided to spend his life finding a drug that would make people feel like they don’t need to go when they actually might.

Does the pill work? I don’t know. I’m too scared to find out. There’s just something wrong about tricking your body into thinking it doesn’t have to go to the restroom. Just is.

Right now I need somebody to change the subject. In fact, I wish you had done it a couple of minutes ago. I never wanted to talk about kidney stones, but you kept dragging me back in. So, stop it. I started out talking about fall, and that’s where we’re returning. Oh, yes we are.

Fall. Autumn. Autumnal time. I like it. Why you ask? Well for one thing, I like the feel of it. It can be hot as everything, but you can tell there’s some weird sensation lurking around, making you less miserable. Maybe even making you a tad hopeful.

For me, part of the hope comes from the realization that football is here, basketball is gone and baseball will eventually end. It just has to.

Okay, who mentioned lawn mowing? I thought I heard one of you. Well, mowing is another reason to favor fall. My yard has about two more mows in it before I put the mower into hibernation. The contraption has been anticipating hibernation since late July. That’s when it started making a whining sound after the first couple of pulls. Maybe it was me.

Oh, and don’t forget the leaves. They’ll all be turning brown and letting loose some time in late January. Up north the trees actually turn colors before they drop. A few of you may remember that Kay and I took a trip to New England last year about this time to see the fall foliage. Well, one of you remembers. Kay and I visited New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine.

And, you wanna know something? All three of those states want us back. Mostly New Hampshire -- pronounced New Hampshuh. We get about three e-mails a day from businesses in the Granite State. I get five from Dardon Ann, but she just sends stupid stuff. These New Hampshire people are sending neat pretty stuff meant to encourage us to retrip.

That’s not happening. Been my experience return trips are disappointments. Kay and I went to Epcot a bunch of years back. Had a great time. We returned 10 years later, and were really disappointed. The shock and awe was gone. There’s something to say for shock and awe. The good kind. Hard to win back that first time feeling.

Of course, right now, it’d be hard to win any kind of good feeling back for me. Just don’t feel well. I’m beginning to feel like a four. Yep, there it is. I’m now a four. I’ve got the discomfort working for me with a hint of pain. Maybe a 4.2. – Tell you what, next time let’s talk about something else. In fact, if I bring up kidney stones, one of you has to change the subject. I don’t care who. Whom. Just do it. Do it! – I’m sorry, I get a little testy when I’m a four.

END
To watch Brad and Mark’s latest restaurant review go to YouTube and type in Mark Hayter Grotto. You can contact Mark at mark@fromtherooftop.net