Just take a second.

“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

To watch Mark and Brad's review of Shmo's restaurant, click on pic. 

 

Too wise for your own good

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

To see Mark and Brad’s review of Brio Tuscan Grille, click below.

Don't assume... uh, sometimes.

“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!

“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

To View Mark and Brad's latest restaurant review, click below.

Rambling on the rooftop

“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

“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

“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.