August 2003 Archives

We interupt this holiday weekend to bring you the following public service announcement.

If you have an e-mail account long enough, you will start to receive spam – unwanted e-mails soliciting your attention for all sorts of things. One in particular has hit me several times in the past few months ... the sad plea for money from someone saying they live in a foreign land.

Lately I've been responding to these e-mails with something along the lines of: "Ha! I've already gotten this e-mail from someone else!" or "Does anyone still fall for these scams anymore?" The last time I did this, I got a response.

I guess it's Fashion Friday here at Texas T-Bone ...

The silly buzzword metrosexual is apparently being used to describe urban men who take care of themselves as only women used to ... facials, shopping for fancy clothes and painting their toenails. Here’s why that word will never describe me:

1. The only thing I put in my hair is shampoo and water. “Conditioner” to me is that machine outside that cools the air in my house.
2. I live in the suburbs. Definitely not urban.
3. I care greatly about personal hygiene, but my soap of choice is just soap.
4. The last Italian thing I wore was a stray piece of that linguine I had for lunch the other day.
5. I exercise regularly for health reasons, not so I can oil myself up and prance around like a fancy nancy.
6. The only jewelry I regularly wear is my wedding band. Maybe a watch, and my favorite is an old beatup one that was my grandfather’s.
7. I’m unfussy about my appearance in general.
8. I’ve never had my eyebrows waxed (I admit to being tempted, but it’s just not me).
9. Never figured out how to wake up with the “perfect” amount of stubble on my face that’s the trend in some men’s fashion advertising.
10. Likewise, I got long hair out of my system as a teen.
11. I never want to wear clothes that make me feel like I’m in costume (like some featured in those men’s fashion ads).
12. My car isn’t trendy or modern. It’s a pickup truck.
13. I have invested in some nice shoes, but I don’t understand some of the trends (like the bowling look ... they look like something you can rent at Bowl-A-Rama. Ewwww). I tend to take care of my shoes and not buy new ones for years (except my running shoes, replaced every six months).
14. I’d rather spend time with my family than go to some chic, hot dance club or a sleek, trendy and overblown restaurant (with nasty food).
15. I don’t own a turtleneck sweater, which is apparently a key for any aspiring metrosexual.

Once again, have a splendid holiday weekend. Don't run over metrosexuals on Vespas wearing turtlenecks and drinking imported water!

Did you see where Britney “Pickle” Spears and Christina Aggravate-ya kissed Madonna during a performance at the MTV Video Music Awards? I don’t know what the fuss is. Who hasn’t kissed Madonna? Anyway ...

Being gay (or acting gay, see previous paragraph) is so hot right now. Controversy swirling around the subject is a perpetually hot topic. Talking about gay marriage, gay priests and gay whatever stirs some deep inner feelings on both sides of the coin. But I’ll avoid the hot-button issues and dive into the shallow water. It’s Friday before a holiday weekend, after all.

You may have seen or heard about this show. If you haven’t, it features five homosexual men who give a “culture-deprived” straight guy a life makeover. That would include rearranging the poor sap’s fashion sense, his living space and myriad other things he is apparently doing wrong. Ta-dah! Another metrosexual is born.

The five stars of the show are fashion experts, but not simply because they are gay. In fact, I think sexual orientation has little to do with hipness.

For example, there’s a little dude in our office who is gay. He’s worked here for years. His office is next to mine. Painfully nice guy. In my mind I call him the office-supply fairy – not as an insult – but because all you have to do is wish for something and he can find it.

OSF: “Oh my, T-bone, you’ve rearranged your office.”

TT: “Yep. I wanted a change. You know, though, I’m going to have to get an extension cord for my computer. The plug’s over here.”

OSF walks away, and three minutes later, I have an extension cord.

TT: “Thanks, OSF! You know, I’ve kind of been craving a lemon meringue pie, the kind my mom used to make. That sure would be good!”

OSF walks away, and an hour later, I have a fresh-baked pie. (I wish!)

I like OSF and treat him with friendliness and respect, but sometimes I wonder how some straight talk could help his life ...

Some people subscribe to the feng shui placement of objects and elements in their lives to maximize the positive energy flow – chi – and reduce the negative energy flow – toestubbingness. Well, no matter what you call it, changing things around can certainly modify your perspective.

The recent strain of rearrange-derangement was caught in our living room. The furniture was essentially in the same place for nearly two years, which was when we bought our new sofa and chair, new pillows and an ottoman. The placement allowed positive traffic flow, but we were getting tired of it.

Once we found a new and exciting way to angle our crap, several positive things did occur:

Why does ketchup come in different colors?

I think by now most of us know ketchup (or is it catsup?) is derived primarily from tomatoes – which are typically red in their most edible form. Now you can buy it in blue or green. Why? Ketchup was always red when I was growing up. What’s better about it being blue? Does that make it more fun? Frankly, it frightens me.

What is even more scary is how much money the ketchup companies probably spent to survey and conduct focus-group studies on what would make ketchup more hip to the young ones. Isn’t that usually what makes things change ... trying to appeal to a new generation? The rest of us are fine and dandy with red ketchup. I shudder when I think what could happen to salsa when red becomes passé.

The interview process continues, but not for long, dear friends. As of about 9 a.m. Texas time I will not be honoring requests for more interviews. That means Dr. D and Mr. Gimpyleg will be the last ones to be grilled by T-Bone.

As enjoyable as it has been, it's time to throw away this Internet-bound chain letter and get on with life. As the brilliant Mdme. Fishfry has said, it is becoming the Revolving Door Interview Game. I'm taking the side exit. But, before I stop the train ...

These are interview questions asked by the lovely eelnahs:

Unless you’ve been blogging from under a rock, you’ve seen at least one site affected by the Interview Virus. This one is not immune as I have succumbed to the spell of Sweet Jezebel. She was kind enough to ask me the five questions below. In turn, if you would like to be interviewed by me, leave a comment or send me an e-mail. Warning: I am a degreed/former professional newspaper journalist who isn’t afraid to ask the “tough” (see also “stupid” and “silly”) questions.

Queries posed by Jezebel to moi:

What a difference a date makes!

The Petite Filet and I had been in a rut of sorts, a common one many new parents find themselves in. However, on Saturday, we dropped off the Cutlet at the house of our good friends, Frazzled Flyboy and Blonde Tunetotler. That freed us to have a little time to ourselves.

I had a great jog Sunday morning before church. I was about half-a-mile from home when I saw her: a little gray poodle walking in the middle of the street.

Faithful readers of Texas T-Bone may recall a past entry about my status as a Pied Piper of Dogs. Most dogs like me, and strays especially latch on. Much of this can be attributed to the fact I am normally one of very few people out early in the morning. Friendly dogs tend to want human companionship. So, wah-lah!

So I slow down going past the poodle, and she sees me. She is absolutely adorable, very small and obviously shouldn’t be running in the street. I stop, and she comes up to me. She’s got a collar, but the tag on it is a rabies vaccination from 2000. I scan the nearby houses and see them all closed up tightly. Can’t imagine she got far.

I scooped her up and walked home.

I just saw the cutest thing in the men's restroom!

Before you jump to conclusions, let me add that I caught a glimpse of my future that makes me even more proud to be a daddy.

Do they make a patch to thwart the cravings to blog?

So my self-imposed blogging exile came crashing down on my head by 3 p.m. I was helped by our Internet server's downtime this morning. However, after lunch, it was – much to my chagrin – up and running. Can't. Blog. Must. Get. Work. Done.

I "innocently" logged on to check my e-mail during a lull. Well, comments left on my blog are sent automatically to my e-mail inbox. Normally this is a feature I enjoy. I can do two things at once (check e-mail and blog comments) and respond to any comments directly that ask me a question or strike the appropriate nerve.

Because e-mailed comments are deleted after they are read, I didn't know the total number of comments that had been left today. So naturally, I logged on to my blog. Big mistake.

Those blogs listed at left called my name. Here's how it happened:

[fiction by Texas T-Bone]

... He realized why she looked familiar ... she looked just like her mother.

Johnson’s countenance softened, and he smiled again. He looked down at his feet, eyeing the prison moccasins he was wearing, wondering where they would end up after he was dead.

“So, are you ready?” she asked, loosening the sash on her robe.

“You know what? Why don’t we just talk for the rest of the time.” He paused, noting her relief as she resecured her garment. “Tell me about yourself.”

She let out a sigh. “I guess I can do that. Are you sure you don’t just want to f*ck?” He shook his head no. “OK then, where should I start?”

“How about the beginning?”

symbiosis – A similar relationship of mutual interdependence.

[fiction by Texas T-Bone]

Johnson stared blankly at his attorney, slowly chewing the gum in his mouth. He scooted closer to the table, metal chair legs scraping against bare concrete. The air was stale and stifling. Flies buzzed around the single, bare fluorescent fixture in the room.

“You can have anything you want to eat, within reason,” his attorney was saying. “They will bring it to you four hours before your execution.”

Johnson scratched his chin, then stared into his attorney's eyes. Suddenly, he stood up, knocking his chair backwards with a crash. With the force of a small cannon, he spat his gum at his attorney, the wintergreen projectile ricocheting off his lawyer’s bald head. Then he started to yell. “Food? What the hell do I wanna eat fer? They’s gonna stick me, dammit! I’m gonna die! Why would I care about the food? You stupid monkey!” He got right into his lawyer’s face and asked him solemnly, “What would you eat for your last meal? Tell me, what did you have fer lunch today, monkey!”

1. Our neighbors had a loud, drunken party Saturday night. Don’t know if I’m more thankful that I could sleep through it or sorry we weren’t invited. As I was coming back from walking the dog about 9:15, one of their guests was already tripping out, calling other guests names and threatening them. Sometimes I miss parties like that.

2. Braums soft-serve frozen-yogurt-custard waffle cone. Chocolate/vanilla twist. Oh yes.

3. Griff’s Hamburgers. With superb onion rings and ice cold root beer. Oh yes, again.

4. Eating healthy food most of the time, which makes the occasional junk binge all the more rewarding. See Nos. 2-3.

5. Trying new recipes, such as grilling stuffed chicken breasts filled with spinach, tomato, onion and mozzarella cheese. Delicious! Side note: cooking for two and having leftovers. Yippee!

6. The Cutlet’s health. We were reminded how blessed we are that our infant son is graced with a mostly trouble-free health record so far. A couple we know is currently in the hospital while their son, a few months older than ours, as he recovers from emergency surgery last week to drain a cyst on his hip.

7. Organized religion. (Welcome to the controversial part of our proceedings today). The couple described in No. 6 has a built-in support network for care of their other child, for meals fixed for them, many shoulders to cry on and reliance on a higher power who is in control of the situation. Many people have become “bruised fruit” through abuses of their churches, but invariably the woe is manmade. God is organized, His plan for His church is perfect, and the Bible outlines quite clearly why worshiping and studying with other believers is important. There is so much to write about this that it deserves its own post. I imagine others have a lot to say about this as well, and I look forward to sharing my thoughts and hearing yours on the matter in the near future. Amen.

8. Resolve Foaming Carpet Cleaner.

9. Homemade blueberry waffles. (Food must be on my mind today).

10. Turning 30 in 16 days, but feeling like I’m 20 with the benefits an extra decade of experience provides.

By now you’ve heard about the “worst electricity blackout in history” that unplugged the northeastern United States and a few Canadian cities. About 50 million people had to watch TV by candlelight because of it, if they reached their homes at all. But have you heard the real reasons behind the blackout?

Updating yesterday’s post on the thief.

The only transaction the identity-stealing thief got to go through was a charge for $200 ($200 even, that is bizarre) at a Sears in Independence, Missouri. An attempted charge at Home Depot (location unknown) for $354.54 was declined, and that is what alerted MasterCard’s security division. Thankful for that!

Dear Pinhead who pretended to be T-bone and spent our money without permission,

Sincerely (you are a thorn in my side and people like you make living in an open society painful),
T

There are a lot of scams out there and sneaky ways for your credit/debit card numbers to be pilfered. The woman at our bank said, “It happens all the time.” We thought we were doing all we can do to safeguard our identity, but I guess we weren’t. Here’s our new plan:

cliché (klee-SHAY) n. – an expression or idea that has become trite (worn out by constant use).
– Webster’s New World Dictionary

Do you know why clichés become well-worn? Because most of them hold truth like a shark holds a surfer. Maybe we’ve ignored some tenet of common sense and end up on the beach battered and bloody. Take heed to these words, as unexciting as the phrases may be. The parenthetical explanations are mine, but they as well are obvious and the bringers of “duh, that’s right!” moments:

1. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. (Open yourself to other possibilities and avenues toward your goal. Your dreams may be scrambled if you rely on one road to get there).

2. Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. (Putting too much emphasis on the result before it comes to fruition clouds your judgment. It can also be a one-way ticket to disappointment).

3. Look both ways before crossing the street. (A childhood command for safe pedestrian behavior, it is also good advice for most decisions we can make. Being blindsided is never pleasant).

4. A stich in time saves nine. (Don’t wait until more things become unraveled. Fix one problem to prevent others. This also relates to “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure”).

5. Put your ducks in a row. (Organize what you’re working on and your task will be “like shooting ducks in a pond”).

6. If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, then it’s probably a duck. (Sometimes you can “judge a book by its cover.” While appearances can be deceiving, taking something at “face value” is not always wrong).

7. All that glitters is not gold. (Contrary to No. 6, sometimes looks can be deceiving. Make sure you know what or whom you are dealing with before launching yourself “head first” into a situation).

8. You reap what you sow. (You get what you give. Also “do unto others as you’d have them do unto you”).

9. Give a man a fish, he’ll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime. (This is a perfect testimony for the value of education ... or possibly of what’s wrong with the welfare system. You can satisfy someone’s immediate desires, but isn’t it more worthwhile to teach him how to satisfy his own?)

10. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. (This goes along with “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.” Not to be confused with “If you love something, set it free. If it returns, run!”)

You may have noticed many of the ones I’ve listed mention fowl. Does that mean clichés are for the birds? I don’t know, maybe poultry looks both ways before traversing the street (why did that chicken cross the road anyway??). I think using clichés in everyday conversation makes listeners begin to ignore you. So homespun, this wisdom! But the sentiments behind them hold weight. Ignore them at your peril.

What’s your favorite cliché and what does it mean to you? I won’t deny you the pleasure, because that would be like the pot calling the kettle black.

See also two great cliché resources here and here.

I'M OUTTA HERE!

Have no fear, Internet friends. I'm simply moving. Check me out! Not a whole lot to look at just yet, but my generous hostess will get me on track soon.

Please update your Texas T-Bone links to read http://www.tbone.redeaglespirit.com. I'll be keeping this blog, at least until my archives can be transferred, but I don't plan to post anything here after this. May also decide to keep it as a safety net in case the wonderful T loses patience with my lack of blogging savvy.

Sorry for any inconvenience this change my cause. See you on the other side!

The lovely and talented T has generously offered me a place on Red Eagle Spirit with which to offer my words to you. I haven't been too fed up with Blogger or Blogspot lately, but my comments providers have continued to let me down.

While blogging isn't only about the comments, having the two-way street makes it more interesting to me. This isn't a popularity contest. When we have a dialogue – for better or worse – we all win. Or I guess it's possible we all lose. Depends on how full or empty your glass is.

Anyhow, please update any links out there to this address. I will likely hang on to the texastbone.blogspot.com just for kicks. Or until T decides she's fed up with me and I am relegated, once again, to live among the blogging proles.

Thanks for reading!

This should be wholesome enough to cancel out that racey post from Sunday! If you missed it, I've left it up for now.

CASA DEL T-BONE

Our house is haunted. Not by ethereal spirits who inhabit the world of the living. However, decisions previous inhabitants made about our house make their presence known every day. Their ghosts are being painted over, scraped off, replaced or simply ignored on the road to home improvement.

I have several examples, but most-recent case in point: the ceiling fan in the master bedroom. Our house was built in 1964, which must have been the Year of Bad Taste when it came to home decor. The ceiling fan was most definitely the height of ugly the moment it was put in place. The blades are white with a gawdy gold-painted design. The metal finish is brasslike, but faded in splotches – time hasn’t been kind to the thing. I kept wondering, “When did this ever look good?” The answer – never!

Upon trying to remove and replace said disgusting fixture, I discovered that I could not figure out how to take it down. Modern fans have an easy way to remove them that offers security (you can’t knock ‘em down easily by accident) and simplicity (to hang them you don’t have to be a rocket scientist). After unscrewing all the screws on the old fan, it still hung there in defiance. I finally had to grab my hacksaw and cut the fan down. To my chagrin, I still couldn’t figure how it was originally installed. I imagine it took four people, two in the attic and two below. Made me feel better at any rate to think that.

The old air-circulation device will be offered curbside to the Garbage Gypsies, who frequent our neighborhood looking for scrap metal and buried treasure among trash. The suburban equivalent of Pirates, to be sure.

Because most, if any, of you will not cast your shadows upon the doorway of Casa del T-Bone, I thought I’d give you a tour. No photos for this tour, I’m afraid, because I’d hate to cloud your perceptions of my abode with reality. At least not yet. Follow me (in list form for clarity)!

1. Mind the door. An overly gung-ho buddy who figured it couldn’t be too hard to replace a front door helped me install it. Was harder than we thought. Like the color? Yeah, it’s Chinese red. Looks good from the street as long as the hinges don’t pop out. It’s on The List of things to be fixed. Most homeowners have a List.

2. To your left is our office/study/music room. That’s our antique piano, circa 1915. Plays fairly well. Needs tuning. There’s our new computer. Cute, ain’t she? That desk is the heart of Texas T-Bone. Our maybe I’m the heart of Texas T-Bone. Anyway, right this way ...

3. There’s the brick fireplace I painted tan, and then painted the nasty oaklike mantle white. We put in the brushed-nickel glass doors this year. I painted the vaulted ceiling green two years ago, right before we bought the new furniture. Two weeks on a ladder. Felt like years. Mind the carpet, there. It’s coming out real soon. Nasty stuff! There’s the Ugliest La-Z-Boy recliner in the world. It’s also the most comfortable. Don’t be scared. Try it out. Wait! Don’t fall asleep!

4. Here’s our kitchen. The Petite Filet always wanted a bright yellow kitchen. She makes fun of me for painting it in my underwear (a story for another time, friends). The white curtains with blue gingham trim are made from sheets. Yes, that’s the original wall oven. The temperature fluctuates occasionally, but the P.F. makes a mean cookie. We like the challenge. We bought the new gas stovetop. You should have seen the old one. *shudder*

5. There’s the back yard. Big for the neighborhood. It’s a lot plus a 1/3. The 18-foot by 30-foot shed has my grandfather’s old wooden boat in it. That and the essentials of suburban yardwork! Dat’s where I keep mah hoes.

6. Come this way. This is our hall bathroom. We have grand plans for it. Try to ignore the green tile backsplash and toxic smell. We’re going to gut it as soon as the other bathroom is done. Dual pedestal sinks and new toilet. Garden tub. New sheetrock and floor. Better lighting. All of it will be new.

7. Straight in here is our master bedroom. I ripped out the carpet in there and installed that fake-wood-stuff. Laminate, that’s what you call it. We really like it. Looks nice. Easy to clean. We found the antique wardrobe at a store up the road. The bed was a wedding gift. That stool is an antique oak barstool we use for a nightstand. Helps reduce clutter because only an alarm clock will fit on it. I painted that picture for the P.F. one Valentine’s Day. It’s a portrait of the flowers I gave her that year. She was surprised! No, you don’t want to see the bathroom. Still a disaster. I’ve put in new floor and hung new drywall. It’s got lavender walls like the bedroom. I call the color Appalachian Trail in an attempt to rescue my manhood from the girly hue. I think it’s actually called lavender lace.

8. Don’t open that door. That’s the spare bedroom. Aka, the junk room until our master closet is finished. Yeah, it’s a mess. If you were staying the night, we would’ve cleaned it out for you.

9. Here’s the Cutlet’s room! I put laminate flooring in here, too. The upper wall is a light peachy orange, the bottom is sand. The ceiling is an off-white. The jungle-themed border in the middle matches the valances over the windows. Neat, huh? That’s my old crib and dresser. If we have another kiddo, we’re going to get new furniture. The side doesn’t lower very well. I painted the zebra, giraffe and elephant portraits. The Cutlet really likes the giraffe for some reason. You didn’t know I was so artistic, did you?

10. Oh yeah! I forgot to show you the upstairs room. You won’t believe the carpet. It is lowpile that looks like cartoony wood planks. A riot! Oh yeah, we’ll replace it someday. We’ve got antique stained-glass windows hanging in each of the three windows up there. It’s sort of a junk room, but we have big plans for it. A game room, maybe. My parents have a Ping Pong table they want to get rid of. And I’ve got my childhood train set. Maybe I’ll let the Cutlet play up here sometime, too.

Not much to see in the garage. The washer and dryer are in there, which is somewhat of a pain. We keep the Family Truckster in there, too, along with my collection of wooden kayaks (a guy can dream) and our bicycles. My pickup won’t fit in there, but it’s OK. Big ol’ pickups aren’t meant to be garaged. Only sissy pickups.

So there you have it, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a loft, office, kitchen and living room, two-car garage and a decent-size yard. About 1750 square feet of a work in progress. Lots of work left to do. We have some landscaping issues I’m going to tackle this fall when the weather cools. More walls to be painted, floor to be replaced, new windows, whatever.

Really, though, a home isn’t about the building. It’s the environment inside that counts. Is it one of love? Of patience? Of understanding? Of laughter? Of time spent together as a family? These are things that can’t be bought at a home-improvement store. They are the most important aspects of a house and the ones I hope the Cutlet remembers. I hope he never realizes how gross the hall bathroom was. Not that our house is always happy, but our foundation is solid.

He’s starting to crawl. I think I’d better go shut that bathroom door.

NEW KID ON MY BLOCK

I'm horrible about making a grand announcement when I add links to the ol' blog here. Only two people usually care, me and whomever I link to (if they care. Usually it's just me).

But because I joked that I would on her site – which now has comments – go check out her wit, wisdom and wonderful writing. For all the other people with a place on my Choice Cuts, being listed here doesn't make you special. You are special no matter what. Now go out there and have a great time! Get some work done, too. Somebody's gotta get this economy rolling!

Per a few requests, here’s my tale from the meat freezer. A little graphic, so hold on to your hats or stop reading right here. It's not really material for a "family" blog, so I may delete it in a day or so.

COLD AS ICE

“No, the pickles aren’t supposed to touch.”

“The pickles aren’t supposed to touch? Won’t they get lonely?”

“Ha! That’s funny.” Just then, we heard a beep announcing a customer at the drive-through. She scurried back to her register at the first window to take the order. I placed the Big Macs we’d just made in their brown styrofoam boxes.

For some reason, many of the girls at the store were fascinated by the grill area. Was it the shiny prep tables? The intense heat wafting off the grills? Or was it merely an easy way to McFlirt with someone a girl found attractive? All of the above, but like many hormone-infused teen workplaces, flirting was part of the workday. And it often led to more.

I taught her how to make all kinds of things on the menu. And then we started making things that simply weren’t for sale. Lips and tongues entwined briefly on coed trips to the stockroom. Hanging out on our days off, wandering around town drunk on each other’s presence. There was tequila smuggled from somebody’s parents’ liquor cabinet. Time spent in the woods getting close to danger, put pulling away – suspending emotions and regrettable actions in time.

But not forever.

It was almost closing time on a hot summer Friday night. Nothing special was going on in town. In fact, few people seemed to be home that time of the year, having chased their boredom away by going elsewhere. We hadn’t had a customer in almost an hour.

Her friend agreed to cover the drive-through for a little while. My friend was working on cleaning half the kitchen. I gave him the headset I’d been wearing to hear orders ahead of time. Our manager had gone to make a bank run, but he told us not to expect him back for about an hour. I had a feeling he’d met a girl he was going to go talk up. Good luck in your uniform, Pancho.

We walked back to the breakroom and started to fool around. It began as kissing, but our hands started to explore each other in direct, suggestive ways. Our excitement was rising to a point it had never reached before. Her left hand was around my waist. Her right hand toyed with the zipper on the front of my pants. Both of my hands rested loosely below her breasts, making gentle random circles all over them.

“Not here,” she whispered into my ear, gently nibbling on my earlobe. She kissed my neck, pulled away and smiled. “Let’s go to the refrigerator.”

I didn’t say a word as she grabbed me by the hand. I unlatched the door and pulled it open. It was cold. Very cold. But that was just the refrigerator, where we kept lettuce, Special Sauce and things like that. We entered, and she pointed at the freezer door. “How about in there?”

I opened the door to the freezer, and a draft of chilled air hit us in the face. The even colder air “smoked” around us. She went in quickly, pulling me behind her. I flipped the light on and shut the door.

We started to kiss with more urgency. My pants became unzipped, and her now-cold hand was fondling my hardness. I had unbuttoned her shirt just enough to be able to reach in and unhook the front of her bra. My fingers felt her nipples, which were harder than glass because of her growing arousal and the bone-chilling temperature.

I sat down on a box of meat and pulled all I was wearing to my ankles. It was VERY cold, but mainly where I was sitting. Ice crystals had formed on the box and didn’t make a good seat. She pulled her pants completely off, and I helped her slide her light-blue panties down to the tops of her black grease-resistant shoes.

I fumbled with the wrapper, my fingers growing numb, but got situated. She straddled me, and we started to rock back and forth. In one herculean motion, we both stood up, and we braced against the wall for balance. My hands supported her thighs as we continued. She bit my lower lip gently as I thrust into her. We got a little clumsy, so I set her down on a box as we continued to rock. It. Was. Amazing.

After we were finished, we disconnected and stood dazed for a few seconds. Our breathing was hard and labored, but the cold air made it hard to get enough air. We dressed as quickly as we could, trying to help each other but being focused on getting out of the freezer completely clothed.

“Ready?” She nodded and exited first. She headed to the bathroom to clean up a bit. I waited in the refrigerator a few minutes before going back into the kitchen.

I was putting the headset back on when I saw the taillights from the manager’s car through the window. I was helping break down the next-to-last grill when he walked toward the back office.

“Any problems?” he asked me.

“None at all.”

Light and fluffy reading for your Friday distraction ...

McINNOVATIONS

Despite rarely eating there, McDonald’s remains close to my heart. My first minimum-wage job there in high school as a freshly scrubbed idiot 15-year-old was as a McWorker. It is with that history, and the fact that any news about something as ubiquitous and influential as the Golden Arches is prominent, that I read an article about technologies being tested to bring Micky D’s into the 21st century.

Even back in 1988, there was talk about automatic french fry cookers. They were to monitor the time (for regularly peak traffic) and customer orders to cook the right amounts of the greasy goodies. Didn’t realize the automation was being tested to cook the meat without any human assistance, from freezer to grill to bun to hungry mouth. Customer Service was always central to our McTraining, so it was even with greater awe that I heard about the self-service kiosks. Would the kiosks say “Welcome to McDonald’s?”

Most of this is to reduce the cost of employing a large and lazy, revolving-door workforce and bolster the company’s image. McDonald’s has usually been cutting-edge, with waste-reducing procedures and time-saving policies that lead the restaurant industry. It has also always been a place that any teen-ager or ne’er-do-well could find a job. I started there at $3.35 an hour. I bet it would cost a lot more initially to operate a robot each hour than it did to get me to McMop.

A cool development is a separate project to have those wireless Internet portals that will soon pop up in airports, hotels and other public venues. That’s a definite Jetsonsesque plus in my book. Although I do not live a constantly connected life, nor do I want to. Just cool to think about if the need arose. Would you like Web with that?

We all know fast food is bad for you, but you’d be hard-pressed to find an American who hasn’t partaken of something a la Ronald-with-the-red-shoes. It’s familiar. It’s generally an easy place to find a clean restroom. They are everywhere. I’ve been dreaming of a McGriddle, because so far everybody whose mentioned them said they are tasty. Weird, but tasty.

I was shocked and pleasantly amazed when a few of our nearby McDonald’s got rid of their drive-through speaker boxes. You actually pull up to a window and talk to a real person to place your order. How cool and personal. I’ll hate to see that go.

On the other hand, when I was a kid in Virginia there was a Roy Rogers restaurant in town. For whatever reason, the drive-through went the wrong way, so that drivers could not access the window. When it was time to take your money, or time to get your food, an electric tray would travel through a glass tube out the building, over your car and down to the driver’s window. It was the coolest thing in the world, even if it did take an extra 5 minutes to get your burger.

Here are some bad things about adding technology at McDonald’s:
1. Nobody to yell at when your order is wrong.
2. Nobody to give you a free apple or cherry pie when your order is wrong.
3. It’s so impersonal. We should have known that ATMs were a slippery slope. Computers are gonna take over the world!
4. Fewer employees to make fun of in their goofy uniforms.
5. Will robots, rather than cute drive-through girls, also throw kiddie McBirthday parties? Yikes! We’ll have to take the Cutlet to Chuck E. Cheese.

Here are some good things about more technology:
1. The robots won’t spit on your burger if you cuss at them.
2. Automated machines won’t pee in the pickle bucket to get back at the manager.
3. Robots won’t be talking to their friends while you’re trying to order a No. 2 with a Coke and end up with a Happy Meal and a carton of milk.
4. You’ll probably receive correct change from a robot.
5. Robots don’t get hair in your McNuggets. Or have zits. Or practice shoddy hygiene. Or sass you when you ask for ketchup.

I could tell you about some of the oddball characters I worked with back then, but I’ve forgotten half of them. Maybe I’ll share with you someday how meat freezers can be quite special places. Or spill the great “secret” of the Special Sauce. Or talk about how I bought my first car with my McSavings. In the end, it’s ancient history that many of you probably lived in similar ways. Or it’s fairly boring stuff (except about the freezer).

Mmmm. If you go to McDonald’s today, pick me up a McGriddle, will ya? You can keep the free apple pie they’ll give you when they get the order wrong.

GIVE ME SWELTER

Yesterday at Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport, the officially recorded high temperature was 109 degrees. It broke the record of 108 set in 1952. Thankfully, the air is so dry that the heat index (how hot it feels) was only 104. Lucky for me, I don’t live at the airport. Unlucky for me, it was that hot within several hundred miles of the airport.

For some reason, it just didn’t feel that hot to me yesterday. Warm, yes, but 109? Nah. It’s a dry heat. And although saying that is a bit cliché, it’s the truth. Just like in Lubbock, the thermometer would skyrocket but my comfort level never sunk to unbearable lows. That feeling is usually reserved for early summer, when the 90s are the norm and I’m not used to it yet. Of course, I don’t work outdoors. If I did, I imagine I'd be writing this from a hospital bed while recovering from heat stroke.

Here’s a list of reasons I’ve compiled to explain why it’s so hot in Texas:

1. At about 1:14 p.m. yesterday, the entire population of Dallas burped at the same time.

2. The state of Arizona has started importing bottled hot, dry air to Texas.

3. All the dogs in the state are panting. This also explains why the air smells like dog breath.

4. The corny dog factory across the street from my office is trying to break into the Guiness Record book by cooking a 300-foot corny dog. It will take a month to cool off enough for King Kong to eat it.

5. Createafart.com has an experimental lab in Austin.

6. There are a lot of cows in Texas. They don’t have much discretion when it comes to bodily functions.

7. A few school districts have already started classes for the year, and all that teen angst and pubescent energy in a single place is forcing meteorological changes.

8. Texas is closer to the sun than other states.

9. Everyone is getting the urge to bake and forgetting to turn their ovens off.

10. Nobody is willing to air condition the outdoors.

Stay cool, people!

THREE IS A MAGIC NUMBER

Last night, I drove to Love Field (the airport closest to downtown Big D) to pick up the Petite Filet and Cutlet. Heat waves eminated off the highway, creating circus-mirror mirages. I noticed several poor souls who were driving with their windows down, probably because of broken air conditioning. Been there, done that, worn the sweat-soaked T-shirt. Made me take my cool environment a little less for granted, at least for a few miles. Then I pretty much forgot others’ suffering. Cold air in your face can do that. Bad, bad T-Bone.

Their plane had landed early, so they were waiting for me at baggage claim. The Cutlet lit up with a gigantic smile (even with a mouthful of pacifier) when he saw me. So did the Petite Filet (she didn’t have a pacifier). I’d been smiling since I left home. The P.F. hadn’t eaten and was starving, so we grabbed some food for her. The Cutlet fell asleep on the way home. And things will start to get back to normal at Casa del T-Bone, as they should. At least this time I joined them for a couple of days in Oklahoma, so we three had been apart only three days. That helped a little.

I’m becoming such a family man. Don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to either one of them. And I hope I never find out.

HUNGRY MAN DINNER

I can tell I’m getting old.

There are a lot of reasons this is becoming apparent. One of the most fascinating to me, though, are the women I find attractive. I guess it’s natural to relate to women my own age, but it’s a bit disconcerting. For example, when I’m shopping at the grocery store my head is more often turned by the hot young mothers rather than the nubile girls in their teens and early 20s. What’s wrong with me?

Issues of Family Circle just started showing up at the house without us subscribing to it. Another sure sign I’m getting old, to be sure. Gads! I mean, this is a magazine my mother and grandmother used to read all the time. What’s it doing here? And why do I find the models they use so freakin’ hot?

My 30th birthday is in less than a month. Seems so much younger than it used to. You know, when I was in junior high and calculated the year I’d turn 30 ... Wow! 2003! That’s a whole other century! Seemed so distant. So futuristic. So ... mature. Responsible. Would I even make it to 30? What would I be doing with my life?

Today more than lives up to the yardstick of my expectations. Couldn’t fail because I didn’t really have a plan. My career goals were formulated in high school (journalism) and college (newspaper journalism) and have morphed into a similar field (advertising). I had no preconceived notions about marriage, other than the fact I had great role models in my parents (37 years and counting). It was certainly something I was open to if I found the right girl. That didn't happen until I was 24.

The Petite Filet and I met while working at the same newspaper. We became good friends – best friends even – for several months before dipping our toes into the pool of romance. Before we knew it, we were overtaken by a tidal wave. It was different and intensely special for both of us. Exciting. A thrill ride. Soon became apparent it was for keeps.

That was six years ago; we’ve been married more than four years. We have a 7-month-old son. A continued close relationship that begs for time spent together. Love and its wonderful trappings. And we’re still best friends, which, if there’s a key to a joyful union, I think it’s to marry your best friend. Helps break down a lot of the inevitable male-female misunderstandings if you can hash it out like the closest of buddies. Well, buddies who have sex with each other.

I don’t need a fancy car, gigantic house, CEO-size salary or anything material to make my life count. My family makes it mean more every day. My beatup pickup truck, medium-size ‘60s home and enough-to-get-by paycheck are absolutely nothing compared to them. My 30th year holds the promise of great things to come, and I am seriously looking forward to it. Besides, it’s not the years, it’s the mileage. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.

Am I gloating? Please don’t take it that way. I am blessed for reasons I don’t understand. I’m no more special than anyone else. And I know I’m lucky. I’m just a dorky white boy (I have the pictures to prove it), and if I can find happiness, there is hope for anyone.

So while my family’s been out of town until Wednesday night, I’ve been thinking about how lonely and empty the house feels with just me and the dog. I was up in Oklahoma during the weekend with them, but that seems like a long time ago. I’m so ready to hug them both. I’m even looking forward to changing a diaper (don’t tell the P.F.).

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things on Monday night. It was strange to not have to venture onto the baby aisle to load up on supplies. I wandered over to the frozen-food section and threw a couple of Hungry Man dinners into my cart. I noticed many beautiful women shopping that day, but for some reason they seemed less attractive than usual. Just not the same as the woman I love, who, by the way, turns 30 in January.

MOMENTUM

So, my dear old Squawkbox comments went belly-up. Well, more accurately, Squawky went palm up and demanded money for my service to continue. I was shocked at first, but then I was at peace with the fact that it costs money to maintain and update a server. It just won’t be my money. Call me selfish if you will. I paid for my decision in a way by losing all the incredible comments left here during the past few months via Squawky. That was a big price. I am now using Haloscan.

I savored each comment left here, but now the old ones are all gone. Pushing comment nostalgia aside, it was time to move on. If I was blogging for posterity, I’d carve my writings into stone. However, the Internet is fleeting and always in constant motion. At times, it’s in turmoil. Other times, it’s merely a constantly flowing river. The World Wide Web is for today and tomorrow, not yesterday (well, I do have archives ...).

Move along with the tide. Go with that flow. Thank you for comments you’ve left before, and any you feel moved to leave from this point on.

I couldn’t sleep this morning, so what did I do? This!

BENT REALITY TV

Calling the spate of shows clogging the TV schedule “reality” is a misnomer. I know that my reality doesn’t include living in a house with a dozen whiney hardheads and several cameras pointed in our faces. Like anything geared for public consumption, the latest greatest thing just seems to be wackier and farther out than the previous versions. What’s next?

1. Survivor: South Pole
2. Fear Factor: Sharp and Pointy Things That Kill
3. Family Feud with host Jerry Springer (more of a reality game show)
4. Little Brother
5. The Amazing Race Inside an Active Volcano
6. The Real World: Federal Prison
7. So You Want To Marry a Polygamist Third-World Dictator
8. Road Rules Iraq
9. The Death Row Bachelor
10. The Mafia Mole
11. Legally Blind Date
12. American Idol: When Sharks Attack!
13. Star Search: Looking For The Next Really Annoying Celebrity
14. Extremely Frightening Makeovers: Nursing Home Edition
15. Paradise Hotel: Naked People Having Sex and Yelling At Each Other

Can you think of more/better ones? Hope your Tuesday, in reality, is a happy one!

Bear with the comments service, folks. I'm doing something wrong. Don't know what it is, but it's definitely wrong.

PARALLAX
The apparent change in the position of an object resulting from the change in direction or position from which it is viewed. (Webster’s New World Dictionary)

It’s the way you look at something that helps shape your perceptions of it. Two people standing next to each other can see the same thing, but their lines of sight, and the experiences they bring with them, can produce two strikingly different conclusions. This is nothing new. It’s not even that profound. We’re all individuals. We all see things differently, even if only slightly differently. Woop-de-doo.

One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure.

Our beliefs in what is attractive, pleasant, necessary, useful, stupid, brilliant and acceptable are our own. Another cliché affected by parallax is walking a mile in another’s shoes. You never get the full effect of who that person really is because 1) you are walking in borrowed shoes, they were not. 2) you bring a different outlook to the journey.

Varied opinions are valid because they are based on what we perceive as truth: our perceptions. That doesn't mean you're right, but you have a right to your opinion.

In most cases, there is only one right amid a sea of wrongs. No matter what answer you give, 2+2=4. It doesn’t add up to anything else. In more complicated matters, there may be some gray areas. But it takes black and white to make gray.

Some debates aren’t worth the time, energy and trouble if victory is the intended destination. Some topics that possibly fit this mold are politics, religion, abortion, gay marriage, PCs vs. Macs, Chevy vs. Ford, Bud vs. Miller et. al. If you’re riding a fence on any one of these, you’re in the minority. Discussion of at least three of these topics can make blood boil in seconds. Is there right or wrong in these cases? There is, but strong leanings tell us that we are right, whether we are or not. And that means it’s hard to sway opinion, even in the face of glaring facts. Those facts can also be distorted to support either point of view.

Take a deep breath the next time you are in an argument, debate or quandary over something in particular. Step back a minute. Look both ways before crossing the street. Ponder how the person or people you’re sparring with are unique and have seen things you never have and never will. Likewise, your life is equally important and unique. Certainly in situations that are important to you, I don’t advocate backing down to be rolled over. Just cut some slack when tempers flare.

Where we are standing is intrinsic to how we see something. You can’t change your past. And on certain subjects, you can’t change a mind. That’s not a battle lost or won, it’s a fact. So why bother? Is debate worthwhile when the end result is merely more debate? Sure. Sparring is often its own reward.

You may think this entire post was a waste of your time and mine. You may sit back and think, “Yeah! That’s right!” Just depends on what you felt like reading. My writing depends on what I felt like writing. Walk a mile in my shoes. Take stock of my garbage. Debate the fine points of debate.

If you want to see things on my level you’ll probably have to dig a hole: I’m kind of short. But it won’t be the same, because I’m standing on solid ground and you’re knee-deep in dirt.

Where do you stand? Like Dumbo, I’m all ears.

There is also a photo illustration to this story here.

If you are having trouble leaving a comment today, it’s apparently because my free service provider has been well-used by you, beloved readers of Texas T-Bone. If I don’t have it ironed out by the time you have something to say, by all means, please e-mail me (“send me prime ribbings” button above). I love e-mail, and nearly always return the favor. Have a pleasant day, and read about my ...

TRAVELS WITH GYPSY

Sleep. I slept, right? I remember sleeping. Why am I so tired?

I’d been driving on the Turner Turnpike between Oklahoma City and Tulsa for about three miles when those questions hit me like an exam I’d forgotten to study for. A restless night caused by or at least compounded by allergies. But there I was, humming along at 80 miles per, my dog Gypsy resting contentedly in the back seat. I guess I passed the test by getting to my in-laws’ house in Broken Arrow without incident.

The trip to the Sooner State on Saturday afternoon was pleasantly boring. I dropped off the Petite Filet and Cutlet at the airport, as they will be staying through Wednesday. Then I returned home, loaded the car and pointed north. Saw a hitchhiker on the side of the road. At the time I thought to myself, “I’m going to mention him when I write about this.” He was a faded-blue blur, but I couldn’t help wondering what it is like to walk toward one’s destination, holding out the thumb of hope to procure a lift. A dangerous way to travel, for sure.

Also saw a couple towing a small wooden sailboat named “True Course.” If you’re going to have a course, it might as well be true. Smiled as I zoomed by, knowing firsthand the rigors of towing a wooden boat and the rewards of strangers who smile as they pass.

Five hours later, I arrived. My in-laws’ cat was properly introduced to Gypsy, who in turn tried to eat the beleagured feline. No harm done and the cat survived unscathed and was removed to the sunnier side of the fence. Gypsy was scolded and then forgot about the whole thing.

An hour after that, I was in the house of the P.F.’s grandmother to celebrate the old gal’s 82nd birthday. The house is small. It was crowded. Stuffy. I’d had a long day. The Cutlet was similarly tired, despite having a much shorter trip by air. Only to be expected. It’s tough on the little guy. At least there were fajitas. And cake. And homemade ice cream that I didn’t eat, but heard it was good.

I remember sleeping for a little bit Saturday night, but morning came once again too soon. Note to self: move somewhere hypoallergenic or apply to become first recipient of bionic sinus cavity. Dragged my sleepy keister out of bed, ate some breakfast, showered and motored with my family and the in-laws to check out their recently acquired lake house.

They’ve had it for six months, but I’d never made it up there to see the place. It is in the middle of nowhere, a retreat you’d definitely have to know about to find. And it’s awesome. New everything. Right on the shores of Hudson Lake (or is it Lake Hudson?). Note to self: get yourself a lake house (where there are no allergies. Or do the bionic sinus thing). Apparently we can borrow the house when we’d like to take a cheap-and-easy vacation. Note to self: bring bread crumbs because if you find the house at first, you’ll never find your way back to the highway. Would have to simply stay out there and find work. Back to the interstate, Ben Stone!

We left the lake house to hunt down some noonday nourishment. A nearby town called Peyton (“a town for all seasons” as heralded by the welcome sign) held the promise of a lunch we wouldn’t have to fix ourselves. We found appetite redemption at Goldie’s Hamburgers – an Oklahoma chain that features an all-you-can-eat pickle bar. How could that be anything but good?

Went back at the in-laws’ main residence, where I switched vehicles. My father-in-law (see also “Saint on Earth”) made an offer on our car, and then gave us a deal on his old soon-to-be-replaced pickup truck. It was an offer we couldn’t refuse, having exhausted all legal means of ditching our anti-family sports car. He removed his vehicular flotsam, and I replaced it with items-from-mom-in-law jetsam that would have been hard for the P.F. to transport via airplane. I loaded the dog, and pointed west and then south.

Stopped a few times to empty bladders and stretch legs (human and canine), and also feed the truck. One such break was in Atoka, Oklahoma, a wide spot in the road masquerading as a wide spot in the road. I pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot (an often occurrence on trips like this). Gypsy instantly made a new friend.

“Oh, look at the pretty dog,” a woman exclaimed. “Oh you’re so pretty. Is she a Sheltie?”
“Border collie.”
“Well, she sure is pretty!”
“She makes friends wherever she goes.” And it’s true. Note to self: when I need more friends, take the dog out in public.

The Tulsa area had been the winner of a It’s Gonna Rain Real Hard For A Few Days Contest, the grand prize being lots of preciptiation in liquid form. Encountered this off and on during my journey home. Sadly, our lawn in Fort Worth did not win any of the consulation prizes, namely in the Any Rain At All – Please Oh Please game. Bummer, old dry sod!

The sun was shining in Gainesville, a small north Texas border town along the Red River abuot an hour from home. I lived there and worked my first post-college job at the daily newspaper. I enjoyed wearing many hats in that journalistic microcosm as a small fish in a small pond (do fish wear hats?). When I think back on that time, I remember it fondly for the freedom I had to be me only for me, all the things I learned about so many different things, and gaining the confidence that I can live solely off my writing and photography talents. More or less.

My route took me by the first apartment I rented in town. Having the freedom (sans tired wife or cranky baby) to stop and smell the faded roses of memory, I turned off the main road to follow my old commute to that long-ago job. None of the houses I passed rang a bell. I had even forgot the large cemetary I had passed (twice) each day. Turned left on California Street, the town’s main drag, and marveled out how little had changed.

Had anything changed? The newspaper building’s facade was the exact same, as were those of the surrounding buildings. Nothing but small, quaint Texas hamlet, preserved under the dust of continuity. Closer to the interstate and almost back to the heading-homeness of my drive, I stopped at Burger King (formerly the Dilly Dip Drive-In hamburger stand/ice cream shop) to answer the dual call of mother nature (mine on call waiting until the dog’s urge was sufficed).

Several years ago, I wrote a story about the last few hours the Dilly Dip was open for business. It was always a family affair behind the counter. When it was time for the family’s patriarch to hang up his spatula, his offspring wanted nothing to do with the floundering little diner. McDonald’s, Braum’s and Wendy’s had prime off-highway real estate across the street, and offered a safety, familiarity and the tasteless vanilla of ubiquity so many road trippers seek ( including me. Better safe than sorry).

Anyway, a high school student placed the last order at the Dilly Dip that fateful night. She paid for it, waited for her food, and then changed her mind. I snapped a photo of the owner’s wife handing over the bag, her mouth dropping upon hearing the girl wanted a refund. That photo was published on the front page to accompany my story. I don’t know if that burger found its way to the trash, or if the family took it home. Maybe I should have bought it, but my ethics told me not to become part of the story. So many reporters thrust themselves in the limelight. I was living a dream and never would have done something intentional to tarnish it. Plus, I’d already said my farewell to the establishment by way of lunch a few days prior by way of a gut-grenade special. Didn’t want to pay the piper a second time in gastronomic revulsion (a currency known as the “Pepto” in Europe).

Toll roads and lunch on Saturday had squeezed my cashflow down to a trickle (see also “Price of a Big Mac and large fries”). I made my order more healthy by sticking with the water I already owned. Note to self: thank me later for only eating fast food when taking rapid-fire road trips. Doing this all the time would be an all-out gastronomic sunami. I’ll spare you the details. Note to you: thank me later.

Replenished, for what it’s worth, me and Gypsy pointed south once again, via NAFTA Superhighway Interstate 35. I throw in the NAFTA part so you’ll get the hint of just how many 18-wheel trucks I had to deal with, as well has others like me who needed to get home in time to go to work Monday. Free trade is good when you don’t get stuck behind its physical realities.

The end of the trip was equally uneventful. The mailman was kind enough to leave a stack of bills in our mailbox. The house looked just as I had left it. The dog was happy to be home, and so was I. Will be made even more joy-filled when my family flies back home on Wednesday. Note to self: get one of them to give me a back rub.

I celebrated the waning hours of the Texas Tax-Free holiday by buying a pair of much-needed running shoes. The holiday is meant to help parents shop for back-to-school apparel for their kiddos by forgiving state sales taxes. This year, all local taxing entities opted to join along as well. I found a great pair of New Balance sleds (I can call them “sleds” because I have biiiiiiig feet) on sale, didn’t pay any tax on them and got a free 3-pack of socks. Note to adolescent self: the young salesladies at Academy Sports & Outdoors are hott. Why didn’t you hang out there as a teen, you idiot!

And that, my Internet friends, was me rambling about my weekend (Lawd I wuz bo’n a ramblin’ ma-han. Trine ta make a livin’ an’ dooin’ the best I can ... and so on). I hope yours was a great one, filled with the quasi-orgasmic joys of bladder release and the thrill of traffic hockey. Or if not, there’s always next weekend. Have a pleasant Monday, all.

So what will it be today, T-Bone? Something thoughtful and perceptive, relevant to today's modern world? No, I don't think so. Maybe next week. In the meantime, here's a double-shot of Friday fluff for your pre-weekend time wasting ...

L0W-TECH ESSENTIALS

We bought a new computer the other day because we considered it necessary. The Petite Filet does freelance work that, plain as day, can’t be done practically any other way. Likewise, I’m surrounded by technology at work (albeit mixed. I’ve got a snappy Macintosh G4 with 22'' color monitor that’s a few years old, and then I have a dingey beige telephone that’s been on call for 20 years. We have a digital photo studio, but pieces of it are obsolete or broken). Here in Texas everything is so spread out that one feels the NEED to own a car. I envy those who can live here without them, until I need to go somewhere NOW and can zoom away in a flash. And how about that TV? It feels good to turn it off, but it seems to pop back on by itself.

However, much of my day is spent using decidedly low-tech things that require no electricity. These items took some thought to create, and certainly technology has perfected some of them. But these simple things remain utterly reliable because of their simple construction, ease of use and availability. Have you gone an entire day without using at least one of these?

1. Sticky notes.
2. Ballpoint pens.
3. Pencils.
4. Paper clips.
5. Staples.
6. Paper.
7. Scissors.
8. Keys.
9. Plastic water bottles.
10. Buttons.
11. Zippers.
12. Hairbrush/comb.
13. Shoelaces.
14. Facial tissue/toilet paper.
15. Razor.
16. Eyeglasses.
17. Knife, fork & spoon.
18. Books.
19. Cup/coffee mug.
20. Chair.

What things do you find important in your life, simple or otherwise? Could you survive an entire day without the hum of electricity or the vroom-vroom of motorized transport? I’m not sure that I could, and that’s pretty sad. I’d love to try, though.

Have a great weekend. Let all your tomorrows become today before they fade into yesterdays that never come. Oh, whatever. Just take care of each other out there! I'm headed up to the waving wheat of Oooooo-klahoma until Sunday afternoon. Leave the light on for me, will ya?

OLD SPICE

It smells so good.

Sure, you can make fun of me for saying that. Laugh until your stomach hurts, if you will. But here’s some reasons why Old Spice is THE ULTIMATE men’s fragrance:

1. You can buy it nearly everywhere. I think I saw some on aisle 11 at Home Depot the other day.

2. It’s cheap.

3. It’s classic.

4. Fresh-smelling in an unpretentious way. Also readily available in deodorant form to fight the pit-stinkies.

5. The stuff lasts forever. In fact, one bottle is nearly a lifetime supply.

6. The bracing scent you’re turning your nose up at right now changes when mixed with machismo to smell even better. Shut up! Yes it does!

7. The logo is a sailing ship. I love sailing ships.

8. If pirates wore aftershave, Old Spice would be it.

9. You can use it to remove adhesive residue from almost any surface.

10. It reminds me of my grandfather.