Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
A Stroll in the Woods
It’s been pre-Hurricane Ike since my bride and I strolled in the woods over at Walter L. Jenkins Park, so we leashed up the Shih Tzu, hopped in the hoopty and off we went.
Jenkins Park, as it’s more commonly known is located at 4334 Crosby Cedar Bayou Road and is 40 acres in size and Baytown’s third largest Park, but that is fixing to change, as the city has purchased 56 additional acres of land beside the existing Park. Jenkins Park also has about two miles of fantastic trails which make you feel like you are in the great outdoors.
The city is in the process of installing fences in the new addition for a giant dog park and it appears there will be two sections, one for large dogs and one for smaller dogs, which sounds good to me and I suspect our doggies will have access in the next few months. I notice the city has been very active in planting trees also, which is always a plus. The city installed some fancy doggie pick-it-up stations, so responsible pet owners can follow up on their pets. Another good idea!
Cross over Cary Bayou on one of the three bridges and you can walk through the woods to the tennis courts at J. C. Holloway Park on Raccoon Drive. It’s all very secure and safe and this morning, the trail was very active with joggers, walkers and folks with dogs on leashes. I like to hike alongside Cary Bayou also and this would be a logical place to expand the gravel trail. Our Parks Superintendent, Scott Johnson tells me they are going to replace the center bridge with a wider better bridge sometime in the near future.
On today’s hike, I couldn’t believe how air-ish and open the woods felt. The hurricane did extensive damage to the normally tree-crowded landscape. As we neared J. C. Holloway Park, heavy brush and downed trees were being removed by workers and after a short conversation with one of the operators, I learned they were cleaning all the dead wood out. All the same, it’s a spectacular view of the destructive force of a hurricane.
My bride and I sat down on one of the benches, which in my opinion are too few and attempted to “smell the roses”. Everyone knows the saying, but few of us, including me, actually make time to do it properly. We are caught up in our fast pace and getting off this roller coaster finds us jogging along side – and we tell ourselves we are relaxing. I read one time that it can take fourteen days to break out of our fast pace.
The Europeans are famous for knowing how to relax and we are just as famous for chasing the dollar. I think more benches along the trail would encourage folks to have a seat. Have a seat and do nothing, but listen, or maybe read a book. Sit and watch a bird or a squirrel. Do nothing but sit. Now that’s real living.
“True happiness is in the fulfillment of our duties” my bride quotes me as we sit on the bench after I remark that this makes me happy. I explain to her that true happiness is indeed fulfilling the things we need to do, but in the context of attempting the superficial happiness at Disneyland or a vacation cruise in the Bahamas, not trying to smell the roses. I still contend that real happiness comes when we do well or accomplish something, not in artificial places and things, which only rub the surface of real happiness.
Peace and contentment can be accomplished by sitting on a bench in the woods and letting the sun shine on our face. It’s the simplicity of it that brings deep satisfaction.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
All Things Must Pass
It's been eight dreary months since my little doggie of fourteen years took a fatal downward spin that left my family heart broken and her passing is still difficult to discuss or even write about. Her name was Muffin and she was half Shih Tzu and half Pomeranian, or what is referred to as a Shi-Pom.
She was the sweetest little dog and she knew no enemies. Everyone was her friend. She loved French fries more than anything in the world and would nip fingers when offered one and it's to my shame and her detriment that I offered her human food at all. Live and learn. Dogs should not eat human food and this time around we are making sure ours eats properly.
When she was very small and still a puppy, the boy down the street accidentally stepped on her and broke her leg. We carried her to the Vet as soon as we could and they set the injured leg. It did not heal like new and consequentially; our doggie walked splayfoot the rest of her days. She didn't seem to mind and on our walks, I would carry her a lot. It was a satisfactory arrangement.
When I went to visit friends and family, she accompanied me and sat comfortably on my lap and folks expected to see her there. She was my friend. I was known to comment that she was the best kid I ever raised. I loved that little dog like it was family and only a pet lover understands the depth of love a pet gives freely.
About seven years ago, I wrote an intimate poem about her and I want to share it with those of you who love animals and know how a wonderful pet massages our soul. I call it 'My Little Animal'.
I have a little animal that lives…in my house
licker, snorter, scratcher, sleeper, my baby.
It's hairy, furry, fluffy…soft as a mouse.
Companion, comforter, snuffer, stinker, my lady.
What would I do without it…in my life?
Player, chaser, trickster and my bestest friend.
My little animal cleanses me…of inner strife.
Eater, beggar, snorer, smiler, its benefits transcend.
Pig dog, sleeper, kitty cat…Muffin, Muffer, Looler.
Where is the kitty cat??? Get em!
Stink bait, road kill, sweetie cakes, pootie, hacker.
Do you want a bath? Chase em!
Morning arrives and I bow down to my little animal.
Descending to its level…I start my greeting.
Scratch, scratch, and scratch, for me visceral.
Rub, rub, and rub…another heavenly meeting.
As much as I miss her (her photo is still on my cell phone), we realize she lived the life of a diva and had anything she wanted, any time she wanted it. She lived a very protected and good life and against all reason, I believe she is nestled in the arms of heaven awaiting my arrival.
Needless to say, I did not take her passing very well and secreted myself away for the grieving process, which to a blessed lesser extent is still in progress. My bride was also severely hurt over our loss and vowed not to bring another doggie into our home. The pain is too deep and she wanted to protect us from a pet life to death reoccurrence.
As the months slipped by I began to voice how I needed another friend to help me in the grieving process and one night I caught my bride watching youtube.com videos of Shih Tzu's. I welcomed and encouraged this behavior and before much longer we found ourselves at a breeders in Houston and took into our arms a baby female Shih Tzu.
My daughter, Melody, much grieved by the loss of Muffin, selected the new name of Coco Bear and we began the process of housebreaking what is arguably the most difficult breed to housebreak. We wanted a Shih Tzu because Muffin was half Shih Tzu and we thought we knew what we were doing. It wasn't long before we realized our beloved Muffin acted more like a Pomeranian, than this little Ewok monkey.
The Shih Tzu pure breed is a peculiar royal lap dog of unmatched parallel; we quickly found out and began reading everything we could, to help us understand what we had welcomed into our home.
One trainer summed up this stubborn and obstinate dog as either the stupidest dog on the planet or the smartest. This breed cannot be scolded for wrongdoing, but rather rewarded to do well instead. If they want to do something, it's like they are genius learners; if they don't care to learn something, it's going to take forty or fifty concerted efforts on the owners part to get them to do it your way…maybe.
Shih Tzu's are part monkey, part cat, part rabbit and finally part dog. Ask anyone who owns one. Their bottom jaw juts out like a bulldog. Their hair feels and looks like it belongs on a cat and when they are wet; they must be blow-dried, as they can't shake the water out. They hop straight up in the air and run like a rabbit with sudden starts and stops. Their face looks like a cross between a Golden Lion Tamarin monkey and a Star Wars Ewok and they steal your heart like a funny little furry pirate.
Muffin will live on in our hearts through Coco Bear. All dogs go to heaven
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Getting Back to the Basics
I am like you; the average American and I’ve had enough hustle and bustle to last a lifetime.
We are swamped to the gills with ignoramus product advertising claims, reality-television nonsensical blah, blah, blah, end of the world doom and gloom news reporting and are in serious need of a change of pace, relaxation and just a break from it all.
Good news of any kind for us average Americans would be most welcome, especially about the economy, world peace, global warming and the future concerning American politics, the succeeding security of our investments, health care and the cost of living staying within reach.
We however are not stupid enough to think we should hold our breath and wait for the inauguration for “new air”, as we have already figured out that Washington DC politics have little to do with how we breath down here, regardless of how many times hysterical fanatics from either party say otherwise.
About ninety percent of all these invasive distractions and worries can be brought into control by simply shutting off the television and returning to the basics of just enjoying life. Most of the doom and gloom reporting is not going to affect us anyway, so why do we abuse ourselves with it, especially on a minute-by-minute basis, via TV, radio and the Internet?
Why do we keep looking for a fast-acting disposable remedy or a visual and sensory over-loading instant mini-vacation spot to make us happy, when deep down inside we know what we really need is simply a major detour from our noisy existence and a bit of old-fashioned peace and quiet?
A truly rewarding peace and quiet existence can’t be found in a rapid-fire quick airline flight get away or a hell-bent-for-leather cross-country drive to Branson, Orlando or Six Flags over Whatever regardless of how many of us attempt to find it there. What we need is a true safe haven from our hustle and bustle, which is the opposite of what we normally consider and can only be discovered by deliberate planning.
We need to get back to the basics of living folks, if we are going to live well and protect our well-being. Personally, I plan to do it by hiking and camping and in the process, I’ll be cooking meat on a stick over an open campfire, something my ancestors did and enjoyed. I want to pitch a tent and sleep on the ground and bust out of my routine before my routine destroys me.
I have to be honest with myself and make a few initial concessions though, as I am so deeply entrenched in our fast paced lifestyle that going totally primitive would probably find me sitting along a trail in a catatonic state, drooling and mumbling computer code. I’m making plans to stay at some of our fine State parks - the ones that have camping sites with running water and an electrical outlet. It’s a start and I need a jumping off place after all these years of city living. I’ll worry about going totally primitive after I get a few of these under my moccasins.
Back in my high school years I camped often. One year my brothers and I camped out for over a month straight and as an Airman in central California, I took camping/backpacking trips each weekend. Looking back it seems like it was simpler times and I yearn for that again.
Of course, I could fish or hunt again and that would bring a measure of mind-numbing repose, I’m sure, but truth be told, I want to hike and exert my aging muscles to the point of weary exhaustion and that is difficult to accomplish in a 14-foot John Boat or a deer blind.
I plan to squat on my haunches over an open fire and cook cowboy coffee for starters. I’ll crack a few eggs to go with about six thick slices of peppered bacon for breakfast and after that, I’ll ponder the trail, camera in hand. Somewhere during the day, I’ll break open my trail rations and finding a scenic overlook, I’ll savor the moment and maybe nap a bit.
As the evening rolls around, I’ll stumble back into camp, tired and at peace with the world and myself. I’ll cook my meaty provisions over an open fire, much as my ancestors of old and look at the heavens and marvel. Maybe I’ll see a few falling stars or an orbiting satellite.
At the end of my nature and wonder-filled day I’ll plop down in my dome tent smelling of leather, wood smoke and cooked meat with the intention of doing it all again the next day. I’ll fall fast asleep with a smile on my face.
We are swamped to the gills with ignoramus product advertising claims, reality-television nonsensical blah, blah, blah, end of the world doom and gloom news reporting and are in serious need of a change of pace, relaxation and just a break from it all.
Good news of any kind for us average Americans would be most welcome, especially about the economy, world peace, global warming and the future concerning American politics, the succeeding security of our investments, health care and the cost of living staying within reach.
We however are not stupid enough to think we should hold our breath and wait for the inauguration for “new air”, as we have already figured out that Washington DC politics have little to do with how we breath down here, regardless of how many times hysterical fanatics from either party say otherwise.
About ninety percent of all these invasive distractions and worries can be brought into control by simply shutting off the television and returning to the basics of just enjoying life. Most of the doom and gloom reporting is not going to affect us anyway, so why do we abuse ourselves with it, especially on a minute-by-minute basis, via TV, radio and the Internet?
Why do we keep looking for a fast-acting disposable remedy or a visual and sensory over-loading instant mini-vacation spot to make us happy, when deep down inside we know what we really need is simply a major detour from our noisy existence and a bit of old-fashioned peace and quiet?
A truly rewarding peace and quiet existence can’t be found in a rapid-fire quick airline flight get away or a hell-bent-for-leather cross-country drive to Branson, Orlando or Six Flags over Whatever regardless of how many of us attempt to find it there. What we need is a true safe haven from our hustle and bustle, which is the opposite of what we normally consider and can only be discovered by deliberate planning.
We need to get back to the basics of living folks, if we are going to live well and protect our well-being. Personally, I plan to do it by hiking and camping and in the process, I’ll be cooking meat on a stick over an open campfire, something my ancestors did and enjoyed. I want to pitch a tent and sleep on the ground and bust out of my routine before my routine destroys me.
I have to be honest with myself and make a few initial concessions though, as I am so deeply entrenched in our fast paced lifestyle that going totally primitive would probably find me sitting along a trail in a catatonic state, drooling and mumbling computer code. I’m making plans to stay at some of our fine State parks - the ones that have camping sites with running water and an electrical outlet. It’s a start and I need a jumping off place after all these years of city living. I’ll worry about going totally primitive after I get a few of these under my moccasins.
Back in my high school years I camped often. One year my brothers and I camped out for over a month straight and as an Airman in central California, I took camping/backpacking trips each weekend. Looking back it seems like it was simpler times and I yearn for that again.
Of course, I could fish or hunt again and that would bring a measure of mind-numbing repose, I’m sure, but truth be told, I want to hike and exert my aging muscles to the point of weary exhaustion and that is difficult to accomplish in a 14-foot John Boat or a deer blind.
I plan to squat on my haunches over an open fire and cook cowboy coffee for starters. I’ll crack a few eggs to go with about six thick slices of peppered bacon for breakfast and after that, I’ll ponder the trail, camera in hand. Somewhere during the day, I’ll break open my trail rations and finding a scenic overlook, I’ll savor the moment and maybe nap a bit.
As the evening rolls around, I’ll stumble back into camp, tired and at peace with the world and myself. I’ll cook my meaty provisions over an open fire, much as my ancestors of old and look at the heavens and marvel. Maybe I’ll see a few falling stars or an orbiting satellite.
At the end of my nature and wonder-filled day I’ll plop down in my dome tent smelling of leather, wood smoke and cooked meat with the intention of doing it all again the next day. I’ll fall fast asleep with a smile on my face.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Texas Hunters - the Good, Bad and Ugly
Our first hunter, a guy I'll call Mike-Mike, along with his son and dad represent the future of hunting in Texas, in letter, law and spirit. Our second hunter, we'll call T-Bone, although very knowledgeable and extremely field-savvy and proficient – represents past hunting philosophy. Both parties are passionate about hunting. Both can tell you anything and everything about equipment, habits of ducks, deer, turkeys, squirrels and feral hogs. Both are Texas hunters and both are actually a mixture of many people, whom many of us will recognize.
Some of my old ways are mentioned here and maybe you will see yourself also.
Mike-Mike, or MM is a .243 Winchester guy, while T-Bone goes with the .378 Weatherby Magnum. Mike is a finesse hunter, constantly honing shooting skills and in his own words has "never lost a deer" to the smaller cartridge. T-Bone is a hemi-powered raw horsepower shooter – he likes to send lead downstream and dang the torpedoes…the more the merrier. MM always acquires the proper licenses and permissions, while TB has an extensive history of violating game laws.
MM is what the Texas Hunter Education program defines as a 'True Sportsman'. T-Bone at one time was fined seventeen thousand dollars for poaching wood ducks, but ended up getting a reduced sentence for "connections and good behavior". He also shot a mute swan (along with other federal and State-restricted crawling, running, swimming and flying animals), was apprehended and released by a State Game Warden due to certain questionable extenuating circumstances.
TB, as we'll call him is in my opinion still in the adolescent development stage of hunting, the one the State Hunter Education class defines as the 'shooting stage'. He likes to fire his guns - a lot. The more he fires his weapon, the better time he has. Back when I first met him, we decided to do a handgun swap. I traded him a Ruger Blackhawk .41 Magnum revolver for a Ruger .45 ACP pistol. It was a good trade and both of us exchanged a certain amount of ammunition and I got a spare ammo clip also.
A few days passed and I asked TB if he had had time to fire the revolver and check out the box of fifty custom hand-loaded for this gun ammunition, which were quite stiff by the way. He, to my surprise, remarked that on his way home from work, shot holes in every road sign he saw, firing the large bore magnum revolver out the window of his ¾ ton 4X4 truck. In shock, I blurted out "you shot them-there hot rounds one-handed?" for lack of a better response and in my best Southern accent.
Mike-Mike and family never stop hunting something or preparing for the next hunt. They go from one season to the next planting oats and winter wheat, building and testing their deer/duck/hog stands meticulously checking for the latest sign of activity and when game is harvested, they render all of it themselves, wasting nothing usable, making sausage, steaks and ribs. It's a family affair and they very much enjoy their time together pursuing this Texas sport.
MM is also a practiced marksman and he takes pride in making sure every shot counts. One day recently a yarn was spun in the breakroom that does MM justice.
"Flicking the four-inch long and angry red scorpion off his Tony Lama alligator boot, MM takes bead on a distant 250# feral hog and fires off one well-placed custom-loaded 85 grain Sierra boattail bullet. The round makes it's way down wind, easily dispatches the hog and then successfully takes down a 12 point buck deer standing behind it, but before the deer has dropped painlessly in it's tracks, the venerable bullet turns on a rib and takes out two quail, which both drop two eggs a piece and before all energy is lost, snuffs a cottontail rabbit.
Mike-Mike waits the prescribed thirty minutes and appreciating the instant and humane dispatch of his game animals, gently places the four fertile quail eggs in a small soft bag with the intention of placing the eggs into the nest of another quail hen he has observed. MM has no trouble waiting the thirty minutes, as he is a patient man and he passes the time easily watching two yearling deer play on the other side of the fenceline of the neighboring ranch, which he has no intention of hunting".
After dressing his game and arriving back at camp, he listens as T-Bone explains that he "doe-popped" a ki-o-tee, a bobcat, 3 hawgs (which he left lay because they were probably boars and most likely a tad gamey), two jack-o-rabbits, a dirty old crow, three buzzards (he hates buzzards and likens them to women who plunder men's wallets), an egg-eatin' fox and all this after he bagged an irresistible (what he figures is) 14-point buck deer that was "a good 350-yard shot". Oh, by the way he laughs and says the .378 Weatherby Magnum flat exploded most of this smaller game, so he didn't bother to bring any of it back.
TB would have been back at the camp earlier he explains, but he had to cross two fence lines and the owner of that other property hadn't left for town yet. Did MM want to help him go look for it before the ranch owner came back? They needed to hurry so TB could restock his beer cooler and get more ammo for the evening hunt, since he had went through three boxes already.
I've personally witnessed most of this behavior over the years from numerous hunters and only a bit of this column actually relates to MM and TB, but the bottom line is this: If you love hunting, regardless of your age, seek out a Hunter Education Instructor, take the State course and learn to love the proper way to use the freedoms and resources available to us as Texans.
Some of my old ways are mentioned here and maybe you will see yourself also.
Mike-Mike, or MM is a .243 Winchester guy, while T-Bone goes with the .378 Weatherby Magnum. Mike is a finesse hunter, constantly honing shooting skills and in his own words has "never lost a deer" to the smaller cartridge. T-Bone is a hemi-powered raw horsepower shooter – he likes to send lead downstream and dang the torpedoes…the more the merrier. MM always acquires the proper licenses and permissions, while TB has an extensive history of violating game laws.
MM is what the Texas Hunter Education program defines as a 'True Sportsman'. T-Bone at one time was fined seventeen thousand dollars for poaching wood ducks, but ended up getting a reduced sentence for "connections and good behavior". He also shot a mute swan (along with other federal and State-restricted crawling, running, swimming and flying animals), was apprehended and released by a State Game Warden due to certain questionable extenuating circumstances.
TB, as we'll call him is in my opinion still in the adolescent development stage of hunting, the one the State Hunter Education class defines as the 'shooting stage'. He likes to fire his guns - a lot. The more he fires his weapon, the better time he has. Back when I first met him, we decided to do a handgun swap. I traded him a Ruger Blackhawk .41 Magnum revolver for a Ruger .45 ACP pistol. It was a good trade and both of us exchanged a certain amount of ammunition and I got a spare ammo clip also.
A few days passed and I asked TB if he had had time to fire the revolver and check out the box of fifty custom hand-loaded for this gun ammunition, which were quite stiff by the way. He, to my surprise, remarked that on his way home from work, shot holes in every road sign he saw, firing the large bore magnum revolver out the window of his ¾ ton 4X4 truck. In shock, I blurted out "you shot them-there hot rounds one-handed?" for lack of a better response and in my best Southern accent.
Mike-Mike and family never stop hunting something or preparing for the next hunt. They go from one season to the next planting oats and winter wheat, building and testing their deer/duck/hog stands meticulously checking for the latest sign of activity and when game is harvested, they render all of it themselves, wasting nothing usable, making sausage, steaks and ribs. It's a family affair and they very much enjoy their time together pursuing this Texas sport.
MM is also a practiced marksman and he takes pride in making sure every shot counts. One day recently a yarn was spun in the breakroom that does MM justice.
"Flicking the four-inch long and angry red scorpion off his Tony Lama alligator boot, MM takes bead on a distant 250# feral hog and fires off one well-placed custom-loaded 85 grain Sierra boattail bullet. The round makes it's way down wind, easily dispatches the hog and then successfully takes down a 12 point buck deer standing behind it, but before the deer has dropped painlessly in it's tracks, the venerable bullet turns on a rib and takes out two quail, which both drop two eggs a piece and before all energy is lost, snuffs a cottontail rabbit.
Mike-Mike waits the prescribed thirty minutes and appreciating the instant and humane dispatch of his game animals, gently places the four fertile quail eggs in a small soft bag with the intention of placing the eggs into the nest of another quail hen he has observed. MM has no trouble waiting the thirty minutes, as he is a patient man and he passes the time easily watching two yearling deer play on the other side of the fenceline of the neighboring ranch, which he has no intention of hunting".
After dressing his game and arriving back at camp, he listens as T-Bone explains that he "doe-popped" a ki-o-tee, a bobcat, 3 hawgs (which he left lay because they were probably boars and most likely a tad gamey), two jack-o-rabbits, a dirty old crow, three buzzards (he hates buzzards and likens them to women who plunder men's wallets), an egg-eatin' fox and all this after he bagged an irresistible (what he figures is) 14-point buck deer that was "a good 350-yard shot". Oh, by the way he laughs and says the .378 Weatherby Magnum flat exploded most of this smaller game, so he didn't bother to bring any of it back.
TB would have been back at the camp earlier he explains, but he had to cross two fence lines and the owner of that other property hadn't left for town yet. Did MM want to help him go look for it before the ranch owner came back? They needed to hurry so TB could restock his beer cooler and get more ammo for the evening hunt, since he had went through three boxes already.
I've personally witnessed most of this behavior over the years from numerous hunters and only a bit of this column actually relates to MM and TB, but the bottom line is this: If you love hunting, regardless of your age, seek out a Hunter Education Instructor, take the State course and learn to love the proper way to use the freedoms and resources available to us as Texans.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Discovering Baytown or How I learned to Love This City
My Dad is the consummate machinist, a Tool and Die Maker and for many years this profession caused him to uproot his family and move…and move we did. For us five kids, this usually equated to an adventure and we would hurriedly inform our friends that we were moving; sometimes with a one-day notice and then we were gone.
Just for your pleasure, I'll define what this skill entails. Tool and die makers make jigs, fixtures, dies, molds, machine tools, cutting tools (such as milling cutters and form tools), gauges, and other tools used in the manufacturing world. My Dad would routinely tender his résumé and off we would go.
These days Dad spends most of his "off" time working in wood in his home shop and at 80 years, he is still active with his machines. I say off time, because anytime we have a family function, he always remarks that he's "off" that day.
Anyway, all this traveling made us nomads of sorts, moving from California, Michigan, Utah, Georgia, Missouri and Ohio with numerous cities in numerous states and all the different schools associated with each place. Sometime in the fall of 1970 we lived in St. Louis and industry in Texas was beginning to blossom so we naturally headed south.
My dad and siblings moved into the construction industry and I enlisted into the Air Force. Exiting the service in 1974, I moved to Baytown where my parents and brother Terry were living at the time, not expecting to still be here thirty-four years later. My Dad and brothers were all employed at Mobay Chemical for Brown and Root, so I naturally joined them in the pipe department. Mobay eventually became Bayer Material Science and Terry has been with them for over thirty years.
My youngest brother Bruce was hired by Liquid Air/Burdett Oxygen as an operator and when it finally shutdown, he joined Aristech Chemicals off of SH-225, which is now Sunoco. He has over 30 years in the industry also. My brother Gordon, known back then as "Flash" stayed on with B&R in the rigging department and after surviving the ARCO ethylene pipeline explosion on Sheldon Road in 1976, was severely burned in the explosion on East Baker Road at the Chemical Exchange Plant.
After recovering somewhat, he moved to the Missouri Ozarks to get as far away from Chemical Plants as possible. The day the ARCO explosion barely missed my brother who was operating a Cherry picker near the eruption, I was also close by, but on the other side of the tree line working on the Oxyrane/ARCO project.
My sister Connie, who also worked at Bayer for Brown and Root, now works for Fluor on the Total Deep Conversion Project in Port Arthur, but lives just off of SH-146 close to Dayton, as do my parents.
Me? I joined ARCO Chemical in 1977 and transferred to ARCO Polymers in 1982 under Ronald's Reaganomics and have been there ever since. Today it's called TOTAL Petrochemicals though.
Basically, we came here and stayed here. Having lived all over the country and some of it quite beautiful…why? Why Baytown of all places? First off, it's because home is where you make it, but more than that, it's Texas and the way Texans look at life. It works and it makes sense. We like the way things are done here in Baytown, the many fine folks who are settled here and we have adopted the city as our own, not to mention we all married "Texan" and our kiddos are dyed-in-the-wool Texans.
My bride Sandra is straight-up Pelly Rat stock with Jackson's, Barber's and Barrow's. Annie, Henry, Augusta E., Martha, Amanda Ruby and Rubin were progeny of Joseph Barber and Emmeline Jackson and her kin line, as were the Fishers and the Winfrees.
Her Dad was "Reno" of Reno's Barbershop out on SH-146, even though his real name was Willard Reneau and a humbler man I've never met. He called the place Reno's, because he didn't want folks to have to figure out how to pronounce Reneau.
My bride's great aunts were also Barrows, who were longtime citizens of this area. Amanda Ruby married Daniel Barrow and from them came Edith Nettie, Ora V., Lily, Rosemond "Mollie", Hazel Olive, Daniel G., Ethel L, and my favorite – Dimple Darling Barrow. Now, who could move away from an area with people named like that?
Just for your pleasure, I'll define what this skill entails. Tool and die makers make jigs, fixtures, dies, molds, machine tools, cutting tools (such as milling cutters and form tools), gauges, and other tools used in the manufacturing world. My Dad would routinely tender his résumé and off we would go.
These days Dad spends most of his "off" time working in wood in his home shop and at 80 years, he is still active with his machines. I say off time, because anytime we have a family function, he always remarks that he's "off" that day.
Anyway, all this traveling made us nomads of sorts, moving from California, Michigan, Utah, Georgia, Missouri and Ohio with numerous cities in numerous states and all the different schools associated with each place. Sometime in the fall of 1970 we lived in St. Louis and industry in Texas was beginning to blossom so we naturally headed south.
My dad and siblings moved into the construction industry and I enlisted into the Air Force. Exiting the service in 1974, I moved to Baytown where my parents and brother Terry were living at the time, not expecting to still be here thirty-four years later. My Dad and brothers were all employed at Mobay Chemical for Brown and Root, so I naturally joined them in the pipe department. Mobay eventually became Bayer Material Science and Terry has been with them for over thirty years.
My youngest brother Bruce was hired by Liquid Air/Burdett Oxygen as an operator and when it finally shutdown, he joined Aristech Chemicals off of SH-225, which is now Sunoco. He has over 30 years in the industry also. My brother Gordon, known back then as "Flash" stayed on with B&R in the rigging department and after surviving the ARCO ethylene pipeline explosion on Sheldon Road in 1976, was severely burned in the explosion on East Baker Road at the Chemical Exchange Plant.
After recovering somewhat, he moved to the Missouri Ozarks to get as far away from Chemical Plants as possible. The day the ARCO explosion barely missed my brother who was operating a Cherry picker near the eruption, I was also close by, but on the other side of the tree line working on the Oxyrane/ARCO project.
My sister Connie, who also worked at Bayer for Brown and Root, now works for Fluor on the Total Deep Conversion Project in Port Arthur, but lives just off of SH-146 close to Dayton, as do my parents.
Me? I joined ARCO Chemical in 1977 and transferred to ARCO Polymers in 1982 under Ronald's Reaganomics and have been there ever since. Today it's called TOTAL Petrochemicals though.
Basically, we came here and stayed here. Having lived all over the country and some of it quite beautiful…why? Why Baytown of all places? First off, it's because home is where you make it, but more than that, it's Texas and the way Texans look at life. It works and it makes sense. We like the way things are done here in Baytown, the many fine folks who are settled here and we have adopted the city as our own, not to mention we all married "Texan" and our kiddos are dyed-in-the-wool Texans.
My bride Sandra is straight-up Pelly Rat stock with Jackson's, Barber's and Barrow's. Annie, Henry, Augusta E., Martha, Amanda Ruby and Rubin were progeny of Joseph Barber and Emmeline Jackson and her kin line, as were the Fishers and the Winfrees.
Her Dad was "Reno" of Reno's Barbershop out on SH-146, even though his real name was Willard Reneau and a humbler man I've never met. He called the place Reno's, because he didn't want folks to have to figure out how to pronounce Reneau.
My bride's great aunts were also Barrows, who were longtime citizens of this area. Amanda Ruby married Daniel Barrow and from them came Edith Nettie, Ora V., Lily, Rosemond "Mollie", Hazel Olive, Daniel G., Ethel L, and my favorite – Dimple Darling Barrow. Now, who could move away from an area with people named like that?
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Baytown's Best Kept Secret?
I've been itching to get out of my work/eat/sleep routine and git walkin' and what better time than the present? Over the years I've learned waiting for the perfect time to do something is nothing short of a case of excused procrastination and that perfect time will arrive when I am too busy to take advantage of it. I must make time work for me, not against me.
This past Thursday was wet and foggy – typical Baytown, Texas winter weather and if I was going to git walkin, I had to do it and do it now, so trusty camera in hand, I did.
Grabbing up my usual accouterments, I drug my hocks out the door (I always get sluggish when the sun is hidden from view) and plopped heavily down into the cockpit of my hoopty for a trip to Baytown's best kept secret – the Baytown Nature Center, or BNC for short.
The Baytown Nature Center is hidden away off of Bayway Drive and has taken the place of the Brownwood Subdivision, which was fatally flooded in 1983 by Hurricane Alicia. Driving from East Baker Road towards the Center, I was saddened to see how rough my old neighborhood had become. My old house on Ashby Street is long gone, but this section of Bayway Drive definitely needs a facelift.
Turning into the Nature Center, I was greeted by the window attendant and paid my three bucks for a day permit. The next time I go, I'm buying a season pass, which is only twenty dollars, or fifty for a family pass. Exiting my car in the Center's parking lot, I was immediately reminded that I had forgotten something very important – mosquito spray!
Swinging back to the entrance window, the attendant let me use a can of spray, plus two handouts showing the trails and I was ready to start walking. Hikers beware, the BNC is swampy and you WILL need repellant. I knew this and in my enthusiasm to git walkin, I flew out of the house repellant-less. Never again. Nothing short of a lightning storm or accident can ruin a good time on the trail, as mosquitoes and this place breeds the pesky varmints by the pound.
The first thing I noticed was a new trail through the woods that was under construction, so I walked it until I came to the construction crew, then I crossed over to old Brownwood Drive and headed into the fog for the Egret Tidal Flats. I want to make another note here. I believe in walking around town to truly see it, but much of the BNC can be seen from your car, so don't think that you must walk to enjoy bird watching here. Now after saying that, if you intend to see all of it, you must walk, so come prepared.
Due to the fog and the absence of other humans, I was able to get very close to a large number of wildlife. Ducks of many sizes and numbers, egrets, great egrets, herons, rosette spoonbills in their pink glory, hawks and cormorants were everywhere. I looked and looked for an alligator, but did not see one. I did see some really fat squirrels and if I could have spotted a bald eagle, I would have been especially fulfilled.
Not wanting to end my two hour hike without making a wide loop through the BNC, I turned off of old S. Bayshore Drive and hiked down what's left of Katherine Street, then Cabaniss Avenue, followed the fence line to Crow Road, back to Mapleton Avenue and finally arrived to see the Wooster Pavilion on Bayshore Drive. It's nice. Now, none of these street names exist anymore, having been replaced with trail names like the Arkokisa Loop Trail and park identifiers as the Crystal Bay Butterfly Garden. Incidentally, the Arkokisa were "a people formerly living in villages chiefly along lower Trinity river, Texas" according to www.accessgenealogy.com.
A must see is the view from the hill which elevates the Brownwood Educational Pavilion. On a normal day, a person can easily see the Fred Hartman Bridge and surrounding area. Today it was foggy and that was just as well, as it gave the area a feel of a misty elven forest. And that made my hike worth every step.
You may visit the Friends of BNC online and the photos I took by following the links on www.OurBaytown.com
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Detroit Unions, CEO’s and Illinois Politics
Right off the bat, I want to go on record and admit I am not an accountant and I most certainly am not a lawyer, so I have no experience, training, management school book-learning or desire to run our government or be the CEO of a large company. To put it bluntly, I don’t know squat about highfalutin management of other peoples lives and I am amazed at how other people feel self-righteous enough to do just that and do it wrong. However, I do have common sense enough to know a stinker when I see one.
Greedy Union leaders, CEO’s and politicians not only do it wrong, but flaunt what they do and then expect the tax-paying and hard-working public to accept their actions and post bail when they get their tail in the wringer. Now if anyone is unsure what getting your appendage in a wringer is, or means, I’ll break it down for you with something from my own past.
When I was in about the fifth grade I made the decision to run a wet towel through my mother’s wringer washing machine. A wringer washing machine had an open tub with two opposing wooden rollers above it. After the clothes were washed, the adult operator (read Mother) fed the clothes between the two moving rollers and it squeezed the water out and back into the tub. She then hung the clothes on a clothesline to finish drying them.
If you were fortunate enough to own an electric wringer that is. Otherwise, you hand cranked the rollers with one hand and fed the wringer with the other. With the technology upgrade of the electric rollers, came the safety device of popping the rollers open if the adult operator accidentally held the clothes item too long and fed their fingers, hand and arm through the ringer – you get the picture.
Well, in my direct disobedience, I decided I knew enough about all this to do it anyway dang the advice to the contrary and sure enough, my grubby little fingers and hand fed right through the wringers. Just about one nanosecond later, I was up to my armpit, totally helpless and about this time, the wringer safety device activated and popped open releasing me. I got what I deserved. In fact, if I would have really got what I deserved, I would have been fed right on through to the other side of the tub.
I was guilty on a couple of levels in this scenario. First, I thought I knew what I was doing, but didn’t. Second, I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but did it anyway. Third, I was going to do what I wanted regardless. Fourth, I thought I could get away with it.
This past week our country has been embroiled in the quandary about the Detroit automaker bail-out and now the governor of Illinois has caught his hand in the wringer also. The list of wrong decision making and wrong doing just keeps growing and I find one to be stupid and the other criminal. I’m not for excusing either one though. Both parties are guilty and should face the consequences.
Governor Rod Blagojevich of Illinois has been arrested by the FBI and charged with conspiracy to commit mail and wire fraud as well as solicitation of bribery. One news commentator stated that if there is a state government more corrupt than Illinois’, he wasn’t aware of it. What? Didn’t we just elect a President from that state? Isn’t Rahm Emanuel, Obama’s Chief of Staff also from Illinois? This particular governor is so out-spoken and arrogant that he has been labeled America’s least popular governor and now he has been arraigned. What’s going on here folks? How is this possible in the year 2008?
Greedy Detroit fatcat moguls act like this economic disaster in their industry snuck up on them. What? Are they serious? According to StarTribune.com, General Motors “says its total hourly labor costs are now $69, including wages, pensions and health care for active workers, plus the pension and health care costs of more than 432,000 retirees and spouses. Toyota says its total costs are around $48”. The United Auto Workers Union will not agree to a cut in wages for four more years to allow the stimulus package to go through to boot. If this wasn’t so sad of a situation, I would fall down on the ground and laugh until my brogans flew off.
Michigan residents are facing the bleakest American dream we here on the golden Gulf Coast can’t comprehend and I have relatives living there, but as I’ve stated many times before, this is not something that developed overnight. In fact, Detroit decision makers have had over thirty years to hedge against this day. They have beaten that horse to death. Sixty-nine dollars an hour? Pa-leeese!
The bottom line on the automobile industry debacle is to hold fatcat CEO’s and the outdated and money bloated UAW accountable for thirty years of greed-induced decisions. If you or I open a business and it fails, we sink with it and they should figure out how to survive without our tax dollars.
Greedy Union leaders, CEO’s and politicians not only do it wrong, but flaunt what they do and then expect the tax-paying and hard-working public to accept their actions and post bail when they get their tail in the wringer. Now if anyone is unsure what getting your appendage in a wringer is, or means, I’ll break it down for you with something from my own past.
When I was in about the fifth grade I made the decision to run a wet towel through my mother’s wringer washing machine. A wringer washing machine had an open tub with two opposing wooden rollers above it. After the clothes were washed, the adult operator (read Mother) fed the clothes between the two moving rollers and it squeezed the water out and back into the tub. She then hung the clothes on a clothesline to finish drying them.
If you were fortunate enough to own an electric wringer that is. Otherwise, you hand cranked the rollers with one hand and fed the wringer with the other. With the technology upgrade of the electric rollers, came the safety device of popping the rollers open if the adult operator accidentally held the clothes item too long and fed their fingers, hand and arm through the ringer – you get the picture.
Well, in my direct disobedience, I decided I knew enough about all this to do it anyway dang the advice to the contrary and sure enough, my grubby little fingers and hand fed right through the wringers. Just about one nanosecond later, I was up to my armpit, totally helpless and about this time, the wringer safety device activated and popped open releasing me. I got what I deserved. In fact, if I would have really got what I deserved, I would have been fed right on through to the other side of the tub.
I was guilty on a couple of levels in this scenario. First, I thought I knew what I was doing, but didn’t. Second, I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, but did it anyway. Third, I was going to do what I wanted regardless. Fourth, I thought I could get away with it.
This past week our country has been embroiled in the quandary about the Detroit automaker bail-out and now the governor of Illinois has caught his hand in the wringer also. The list of wrong decision making and wrong doing just keeps growing and I find one to be stupid and the other criminal. I’m not for excusing either one though. Both parties are guilty and should face the consequences.
Governor Rod Blagojevich of Illinois has been arrested by the FBI and charged with conspiracy to commit mail and wire fraud as well as solicitation of bribery. One news commentator stated that if there is a state government more corrupt than Illinois’, he wasn’t aware of it. What? Didn’t we just elect a President from that state? Isn’t Rahm Emanuel, Obama’s Chief of Staff also from Illinois? This particular governor is so out-spoken and arrogant that he has been labeled America’s least popular governor and now he has been arraigned. What’s going on here folks? How is this possible in the year 2008?
Greedy Detroit fatcat moguls act like this economic disaster in their industry snuck up on them. What? Are they serious? According to StarTribune.com, General Motors “says its total hourly labor costs are now $69, including wages, pensions and health care for active workers, plus the pension and health care costs of more than 432,000 retirees and spouses. Toyota says its total costs are around $48”. The United Auto Workers Union will not agree to a cut in wages for four more years to allow the stimulus package to go through to boot. If this wasn’t so sad of a situation, I would fall down on the ground and laugh until my brogans flew off.
Michigan residents are facing the bleakest American dream we here on the golden Gulf Coast can’t comprehend and I have relatives living there, but as I’ve stated many times before, this is not something that developed overnight. In fact, Detroit decision makers have had over thirty years to hedge against this day. They have beaten that horse to death. Sixty-nine dollars an hour? Pa-leeese!
The bottom line on the automobile industry debacle is to hold fatcat CEO’s and the outdated and money bloated UAW accountable for thirty years of greed-induced decisions. If you or I open a business and it fails, we sink with it and they should figure out how to survive without our tax dollars.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
There's That Old Man Smell Again!
Sitting comfortably at my desk at work, contemplating my day's activities and minding my own business, I reach into a side drawer and pull out my trusty plastic container of Williams Lectric Shave, Electric Razor Pre-Shave with soothing Green Tea Complex…liquidy stuff.
With semi-sleepy eyes on my computer screen and still minding my own business, I might add, I casually unscrew the black plastic lid and dribble a small puddle of the pleasant smelling pre-shave into the palm of my left hand and then liberally rub it onto my chin and ample jowls and that my friends is when the action starts here in the prairie-dog cubicle office.
"There's that old man smell again!" chirps the witty youngish female Engineer/Intern from the obviously shallow depths of her inexperience in these matters. I blame her response on the fact that I have a small fan on the floor, which blows the pungent (and yes – youthful) aromatic green tea-smelling facial panacea over to her desk behind me. This probably makes it smell like "old people" to her.
Doesn't she realize that as a Chemical Plant operator, it is my duty to be clean-shaven at all times in the event that I have to don a respirator or a self-contained breathing apparatus to possibly rescue her and other less skilled coworkers from imminent disaster? Throwing my head back in an obnoxious silent and self-righteous guffaw I think to myself "I guess not", as she looks like a little kid in comparison to us seasoned veterans and how could she possibly have lived long enough to recognize what should be obvious? Whippersnapper!
Never mind. I ignore her weak humorous attempt at senior citizen verbal abuse and crank up my Norelco Speed-XL triple-head electric razor and start burning off the tonic laden and offensive whiskers from my jawbones. I like to stay on top of the game and no amount of prattle from the ignorant will stop me from getting and staying there. I'm a smooth Operator, so to speak.
About this time, my partner in labor and beloved Crosby, Texas denizen Charles Kelm begins his daily expostulation of all that needs adjusting inside our limited domain. He does this by slapping his hand down hard on his desk and yelling "HEY", which makes the entire office staff jump. He then sits down with no apparent point to be made.
Charles is my friend and I dubbed him a Ronin Engineer when he first made the transition to this section of the Plant. A ronin is a term for a samurai warrior without a master and I say that facetiously, but it fits him well and he has come to enjoy the title. He's a "Mech-E" in a "Chem-E" world. In other words, he's a Mechanical Engineer working as a Chemical Engineer and he has adapted like a true warrior and he performs his duties with determined and vigorous flair.
Numerous times each day he stumps a tirade about some injustice and standing up behind his desk, he will snatch up a dry marker and draw something on the Board on the wall. Try as I might, I have no idea what correlation this drawing has to do with the subject being discussed. He usually ends up with a loud "HEY" and suddenly extends both arms straight up in the air and between this and the "shout", most everyone is startled from their semiconsciousness, as he reseats himself, justified in every way.
Not long ago, he launched into an seemingly cryptic dissertation about the inefficiency of separating clothes into numerous piles and washing multiple small loads, when by utilizing a "superload washing machine"; all the clothes could be washed simultaneously using cold water and only one big load was actually necessary; thus saving time, water, soap and utility costs. "Everything is washed in one load" was his battle cry and he repeated it at least six times, in case we would forget.
Leaping to his feet – chair flying and dry marker open and ready, he began drawing a series of circles and lines, which in his mind explained everything. Honest to goodness, this was simply a general variation of most all of his artwork, but I was ready and had my trusty camera ready to record this particular expression and I did. Opening the photo in Photoshop, I added some text, had it printed on two coffee cups and sent them to his house (one for him and one for his dear patient wife of 34 years) so she can benefit from his wisdom and efficiency and have a daily reminder to boot.
Today, both my Ronin friend and our intern prodigy are on vacation, so I have peace as I smile and spread extra crunchy peanut butter onto my Nature Valley Oats 'N Honey crunchy granola bar.
With semi-sleepy eyes on my computer screen and still minding my own business, I might add, I casually unscrew the black plastic lid and dribble a small puddle of the pleasant smelling pre-shave into the palm of my left hand and then liberally rub it onto my chin and ample jowls and that my friends is when the action starts here in the prairie-dog cubicle office.
"There's that old man smell again!" chirps the witty youngish female Engineer/Intern from the obviously shallow depths of her inexperience in these matters. I blame her response on the fact that I have a small fan on the floor, which blows the pungent (and yes – youthful) aromatic green tea-smelling facial panacea over to her desk behind me. This probably makes it smell like "old people" to her.
Doesn't she realize that as a Chemical Plant operator, it is my duty to be clean-shaven at all times in the event that I have to don a respirator or a self-contained breathing apparatus to possibly rescue her and other less skilled coworkers from imminent disaster? Throwing my head back in an obnoxious silent and self-righteous guffaw I think to myself "I guess not", as she looks like a little kid in comparison to us seasoned veterans and how could she possibly have lived long enough to recognize what should be obvious? Whippersnapper!
Never mind. I ignore her weak humorous attempt at senior citizen verbal abuse and crank up my Norelco Speed-XL triple-head electric razor and start burning off the tonic laden and offensive whiskers from my jawbones. I like to stay on top of the game and no amount of prattle from the ignorant will stop me from getting and staying there. I'm a smooth Operator, so to speak.
About this time, my partner in labor and beloved Crosby, Texas denizen Charles Kelm begins his daily expostulation of all that needs adjusting inside our limited domain. He does this by slapping his hand down hard on his desk and yelling "HEY", which makes the entire office staff jump. He then sits down with no apparent point to be made.
Charles is my friend and I dubbed him a Ronin Engineer when he first made the transition to this section of the Plant. A ronin is a term for a samurai warrior without a master and I say that facetiously, but it fits him well and he has come to enjoy the title. He's a "Mech-E" in a "Chem-E" world. In other words, he's a Mechanical Engineer working as a Chemical Engineer and he has adapted like a true warrior and he performs his duties with determined and vigorous flair.
Numerous times each day he stumps a tirade about some injustice and standing up behind his desk, he will snatch up a dry marker and draw something on the Board on the wall. Try as I might, I have no idea what correlation this drawing has to do with the subject being discussed. He usually ends up with a loud "HEY" and suddenly extends both arms straight up in the air and between this and the "shout", most everyone is startled from their semiconsciousness, as he reseats himself, justified in every way.
Not long ago, he launched into an seemingly cryptic dissertation about the inefficiency of separating clothes into numerous piles and washing multiple small loads, when by utilizing a "superload washing machine"; all the clothes could be washed simultaneously using cold water and only one big load was actually necessary; thus saving time, water, soap and utility costs. "Everything is washed in one load" was his battle cry and he repeated it at least six times, in case we would forget.
Leaping to his feet – chair flying and dry marker open and ready, he began drawing a series of circles and lines, which in his mind explained everything. Honest to goodness, this was simply a general variation of most all of his artwork, but I was ready and had my trusty camera ready to record this particular expression and I did. Opening the photo in Photoshop, I added some text, had it printed on two coffee cups and sent them to his house (one for him and one for his dear patient wife of 34 years) so she can benefit from his wisdom and efficiency and have a daily reminder to boot.
Today, both my Ronin friend and our intern prodigy are on vacation, so I have peace as I smile and spread extra crunchy peanut butter onto my Nature Valley Oats 'N Honey crunchy granola bar.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Six I Got Are Awesome!
Like literally millions of other Baytonians, I was at Wal-Mart this past Friday morning to get the deal of the century. It is our duty and right as good citizens to spend credit cards like there never will be a reckoning and spend we did. I have to tell you, it was a madhouse at the electronics counter and I came away bruised, but successful…and grinning. I only lost two teeth.
You see, I was after the much coveted XBOX 360 Arcade Console with bonus Guitar Hero game and guitar for the droolingly low price of only $199.00. Knowing I was going to face another Black Friday shopping frenzy, I envisioned Johnny Weissmuller preparing for one of his famous Tarzan challenges; only my bride wouldn't let me attempt it in a loincloth, so I adapted. I knew I had the skills to easily beat everyone with the exception of another commando shopper. I must train.
Donning my urban camo hoodie, bright red Steve Zissou beanie, neon green Spandex XXXL cycling shorts and twenty-two dollar Payless brand sneakers, I sprayed WD-40 liberally onto my corpulent lower frame in anticipation of the rush to the counter (it paid off big time too). Friction can be a major problem when you shop in the manner I was planning.
I contrived to be first at the game counter and if it got rowdy, I planned on showing them rowdy in the true spirit of gritty Capitalism. In other words, I had on the standard knee and elbow pads and the gloves with the fingers exposed. I thought about wearing my old Karate headgear, but it would give me away (that and the smell of the WD-40 are standard ploys which alert other savvy commando shoppers). I planned on using a Ninja approach, as of yet untested here in B-Town and I NEEDED the WD-40.
Thursday afternoon my bride taped Wal-Mart's Black Friday flyer on the garage wall (after she had pulled the Sonata out so I could train) with the XBOX 360 motivational Ad in plain view. I began an exhaustive regimen consisting of multiple sets of squat-thrusts, elbow-swinging, low-tackles and clothesline arm swings. I would need all of these strategic athletic moves simply to get from the parking lot to the front door, but there is more, so read on.
The more I thought about the tricky parking lot, the more I realized I was going to need a drop-off driver and I couldn't think of anyone more unwilling to do this task than my bride of thirty-one years. So come 0hhhh-455 military time, my fellow urban commando clothed lady drove past the entrance doors and I rolled out in much the same fashion as John Goodman in "The Big Lebowski". My extra rotund bell-bottomed mass helped out considerably as I only flipped twice and coming to rest on my kneepads (a gravitational advantage to being heavy-ended), I low-crawled past the shopping carts and by many of my fellow (and less Black Friday sale-knowledgeable) shoppers.
This is when the squat-thrust exercises paid off like a bacon breakfast. Since I didn't use them to cross the parking lot, I launched into a series of squatting and leaping towards the electronics counter that was so exhausting and distracting that those shoppers who were also after an XBOX 360 simply froze in their tracks. I'm telling you I was pulling out all the stops.
Hanging from my neck was a turkey call and if an added distraction was needed, I was going to use it with vigor. Thank the heavens I didn't have to, as while hopping; I deployed my patented clothesline arm swings I had diligently practiced.
Incidentally, this combination of arm swings, squats and thrusts works best after downing three Redbull energy drinks and four MoonPies. The MoonPies keep the Redbull from eating a hole in your stomach and actually act as a sugar catalyst to increase the distance each thrust takes you in the store. I figure I was moving about thirty miles per hour.
With one final noisy effort, sweat flying, I bounced into the Electronics counter and my G-force landing blew out the heel on right Payless sneaker. The only thing that kept me from injuring myself was I ninja-rolled and crashed squarely onto the well-padded midriff of another urban commando Black Friday shopper and knocked her square out, thus allowing me to rapidly recover and plop six, yes six XBOX 360's on the counter.
With a quick glance at the Pepto-Bismol pink sweat suit-clad and semi-conscious form of my fellow commando shopper (I noticed she had deployed the less than successful rolling offense ploy and had actually knocked her own self out on the corner display. She should have remembered the WD-40), grabbing a cart, I rolled my way past the less gifted shoppers, heading for the entrance.
Now the good folks at Wal-Mart know a possibly hostile situation when they see one (but reward shopping skill when they see it) and before I had reached the front doors, I had the entire Deli-Section lined up in front of me performing the classic football "Flying Wedge" and we blasted through the front doors knocking over everything with the exception of a pregnant woman eating a donut. Dang the torpedoes –we are shopping!
Tossing my major haul into the Sonata, we sped away like Bonnie and Clyde – except legal. I've never felt such a spirit of victory in all my shopping days. Note: When I saw all the people and the full parking lot, I bought an XBOX 360 online.
You see, I was after the much coveted XBOX 360 Arcade Console with bonus Guitar Hero game and guitar for the droolingly low price of only $199.00. Knowing I was going to face another Black Friday shopping frenzy, I envisioned Johnny Weissmuller preparing for one of his famous Tarzan challenges; only my bride wouldn't let me attempt it in a loincloth, so I adapted. I knew I had the skills to easily beat everyone with the exception of another commando shopper. I must train.
Donning my urban camo hoodie, bright red Steve Zissou beanie, neon green Spandex XXXL cycling shorts and twenty-two dollar Payless brand sneakers, I sprayed WD-40 liberally onto my corpulent lower frame in anticipation of the rush to the counter (it paid off big time too). Friction can be a major problem when you shop in the manner I was planning.
I contrived to be first at the game counter and if it got rowdy, I planned on showing them rowdy in the true spirit of gritty Capitalism. In other words, I had on the standard knee and elbow pads and the gloves with the fingers exposed. I thought about wearing my old Karate headgear, but it would give me away (that and the smell of the WD-40 are standard ploys which alert other savvy commando shoppers). I planned on using a Ninja approach, as of yet untested here in B-Town and I NEEDED the WD-40.
Thursday afternoon my bride taped Wal-Mart's Black Friday flyer on the garage wall (after she had pulled the Sonata out so I could train) with the XBOX 360 motivational Ad in plain view. I began an exhaustive regimen consisting of multiple sets of squat-thrusts, elbow-swinging, low-tackles and clothesline arm swings. I would need all of these strategic athletic moves simply to get from the parking lot to the front door, but there is more, so read on.
The more I thought about the tricky parking lot, the more I realized I was going to need a drop-off driver and I couldn't think of anyone more unwilling to do this task than my bride of thirty-one years. So come 0hhhh-455 military time, my fellow urban commando clothed lady drove past the entrance doors and I rolled out in much the same fashion as John Goodman in "The Big Lebowski". My extra rotund bell-bottomed mass helped out considerably as I only flipped twice and coming to rest on my kneepads (a gravitational advantage to being heavy-ended), I low-crawled past the shopping carts and by many of my fellow (and less Black Friday sale-knowledgeable) shoppers.
This is when the squat-thrust exercises paid off like a bacon breakfast. Since I didn't use them to cross the parking lot, I launched into a series of squatting and leaping towards the electronics counter that was so exhausting and distracting that those shoppers who were also after an XBOX 360 simply froze in their tracks. I'm telling you I was pulling out all the stops.
Hanging from my neck was a turkey call and if an added distraction was needed, I was going to use it with vigor. Thank the heavens I didn't have to, as while hopping; I deployed my patented clothesline arm swings I had diligently practiced.
Incidentally, this combination of arm swings, squats and thrusts works best after downing three Redbull energy drinks and four MoonPies. The MoonPies keep the Redbull from eating a hole in your stomach and actually act as a sugar catalyst to increase the distance each thrust takes you in the store. I figure I was moving about thirty miles per hour.
With one final noisy effort, sweat flying, I bounced into the Electronics counter and my G-force landing blew out the heel on right Payless sneaker. The only thing that kept me from injuring myself was I ninja-rolled and crashed squarely onto the well-padded midriff of another urban commando Black Friday shopper and knocked her square out, thus allowing me to rapidly recover and plop six, yes six XBOX 360's on the counter.
With a quick glance at the Pepto-Bismol pink sweat suit-clad and semi-conscious form of my fellow commando shopper (I noticed she had deployed the less than successful rolling offense ploy and had actually knocked her own self out on the corner display. She should have remembered the WD-40), grabbing a cart, I rolled my way past the less gifted shoppers, heading for the entrance.
Now the good folks at Wal-Mart know a possibly hostile situation when they see one (but reward shopping skill when they see it) and before I had reached the front doors, I had the entire Deli-Section lined up in front of me performing the classic football "Flying Wedge" and we blasted through the front doors knocking over everything with the exception of a pregnant woman eating a donut. Dang the torpedoes –we are shopping!
Tossing my major haul into the Sonata, we sped away like Bonnie and Clyde – except legal. I've never felt such a spirit of victory in all my shopping days. Note: When I saw all the people and the full parking lot, I bought an XBOX 360 online.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
A Husk of Grain
Simply put, the oft used word crap is defined as a husk of grain, chaff; something of poor quality; something that is rubbish; nonsense and in that context, I want to use the word to describe a post-election phenomenon that I find alarming, deeply disturbing and confess I did not expect from my cohorts and acquaintances. Call me a fool and blind.
Under the auspices of being strong Republicans, numerous friends and acquaintances have fallen into the crap cesspool, the vulgar version I don't want to use. On almost a daily basis my Inbox is receiving anti-Barack Obama letters from friends who think racist humor is, well, funny, or at the very least it is being passed off as pro-Republican thought. I hope it's not and it's not good for our country and it's not something I find amusing or agree with.
I've openly stated I wanted John McCain to gain the presidency and even Ron Paul before I voted Democratic, but if Barack Obama would have been the candidate proposing a conservative agenda, as most Republicans did, I would have punched the button with his name on it. To me it's all about the politics of the Party's involved.
I am first an American, second a patriot, third a conservative, fourth a Capitalist and these blatant racial email messages posing as humor disturb and sadden me. The messages justify everything angry black people claim about redneck white America. I want to apologize to my friends whom I might have led to believe I am a racist. I want the best possible person in the White House, who will represent this country and its interests regardless of their color or racial heritage. In plain English, I do not care one bit that our next president is black, brown, red, yellow, white or gasp – female! I care about their politics though.
I want America to be strong. I want us to prosper. I want us to be proud. I want a president who loves this country and loves what America stands for – life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, which ultimately means they put us first and protect our interests and us.
One particularly disturbing email I received showed "the new Presidential limo" with 22-inch spinner wheels. A video Snoop Dog made about hip-hop airlines has become the new Air Force One. George Bush is depicted in pimped-out purple in anticipation of the inauguration. I respect the sender of these emails, but don't share their sense of humor. I find it counter-productive to the future of America and makes we wonder why they really voted against Barack Obama.
Dennis Miller said it best the other day when he said that four years from now he hopes he "is salivating" to push the button to reelect Barack Obama and I share his sentiments. I am praying for the man to succeed, not plotting his destruction. How in the world can all this division be good for us as Americans? I don't want our country to go down in history as the civilization that should have succeeded, but self-destructed.
One writer shared the joke that Sarah Palin could grace the cover of Playboy magazine, but Michelle Obama would be lucky to land on the cover of National Geographic. That joke belongs in a manure/crap spreader, but it would probably foul whatever crop it landed on. Just partisan politics? Nope, blatant racism.
There's a bigger picture here folks, de facto the future of our Country. Barack Obama is as far from the hip-hop persona as I am, which is absolute and it's a gross misrepresentation to depict him as such. His pick as Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel is proof that he is doing some deep thinking. Time will tell if his choice of a Jewish Chief of Staff will dispel the myth that he is pro-radical Islamist or no, but to me it is proof positive. And only time will tell if he is the Anti-Christ, as some assert, or a terrible president, but don't you think we ought to at least wait and see what he actually does before we try to slander his presidency?
I received an email from a longtime and trusted friend with an admonition to sign a petition to oust Barack Obama on ethical and religious grounds. My friend sited a number of sources that were behind this and I simply shook my head and deleted the message. Once again I have to side with Dennis Miller when he stated that under no circumstances was he going to do to Barack Obama, what so many anti-Bush people did to George W. Bush and that was rabidly obstruct everything he did. It was pitiful politics and frankly, has deeply hurt our country.
Defaming and lampooning our president, although funny at times, when done in a malicious manner is destructive and ruins respect for our leaders in the eyes of the world and the less issue-educated, including and especially children.
Here's a compromise. Send me email messages lampooning or criticizing the next administrations politics and we can both agree… maybe and then do the right thing and take time to separate what is right for this country and if this new president is doing it.
Under the auspices of being strong Republicans, numerous friends and acquaintances have fallen into the crap cesspool, the vulgar version I don't want to use. On almost a daily basis my Inbox is receiving anti-Barack Obama letters from friends who think racist humor is, well, funny, or at the very least it is being passed off as pro-Republican thought. I hope it's not and it's not good for our country and it's not something I find amusing or agree with.
I've openly stated I wanted John McCain to gain the presidency and even Ron Paul before I voted Democratic, but if Barack Obama would have been the candidate proposing a conservative agenda, as most Republicans did, I would have punched the button with his name on it. To me it's all about the politics of the Party's involved.
I am first an American, second a patriot, third a conservative, fourth a Capitalist and these blatant racial email messages posing as humor disturb and sadden me. The messages justify everything angry black people claim about redneck white America. I want to apologize to my friends whom I might have led to believe I am a racist. I want the best possible person in the White House, who will represent this country and its interests regardless of their color or racial heritage. In plain English, I do not care one bit that our next president is black, brown, red, yellow, white or gasp – female! I care about their politics though.
I want America to be strong. I want us to prosper. I want us to be proud. I want a president who loves this country and loves what America stands for – life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, which ultimately means they put us first and protect our interests and us.
One particularly disturbing email I received showed "the new Presidential limo" with 22-inch spinner wheels. A video Snoop Dog made about hip-hop airlines has become the new Air Force One. George Bush is depicted in pimped-out purple in anticipation of the inauguration. I respect the sender of these emails, but don't share their sense of humor. I find it counter-productive to the future of America and makes we wonder why they really voted against Barack Obama.
Dennis Miller said it best the other day when he said that four years from now he hopes he "is salivating" to push the button to reelect Barack Obama and I share his sentiments. I am praying for the man to succeed, not plotting his destruction. How in the world can all this division be good for us as Americans? I don't want our country to go down in history as the civilization that should have succeeded, but self-destructed.
One writer shared the joke that Sarah Palin could grace the cover of Playboy magazine, but Michelle Obama would be lucky to land on the cover of National Geographic. That joke belongs in a manure/crap spreader, but it would probably foul whatever crop it landed on. Just partisan politics? Nope, blatant racism.
There's a bigger picture here folks, de facto the future of our Country. Barack Obama is as far from the hip-hop persona as I am, which is absolute and it's a gross misrepresentation to depict him as such. His pick as Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel is proof that he is doing some deep thinking. Time will tell if his choice of a Jewish Chief of Staff will dispel the myth that he is pro-radical Islamist or no, but to me it is proof positive. And only time will tell if he is the Anti-Christ, as some assert, or a terrible president, but don't you think we ought to at least wait and see what he actually does before we try to slander his presidency?
I received an email from a longtime and trusted friend with an admonition to sign a petition to oust Barack Obama on ethical and religious grounds. My friend sited a number of sources that were behind this and I simply shook my head and deleted the message. Once again I have to side with Dennis Miller when he stated that under no circumstances was he going to do to Barack Obama, what so many anti-Bush people did to George W. Bush and that was rabidly obstruct everything he did. It was pitiful politics and frankly, has deeply hurt our country.
Defaming and lampooning our president, although funny at times, when done in a malicious manner is destructive and ruins respect for our leaders in the eyes of the world and the less issue-educated, including and especially children.
Here's a compromise. Send me email messages lampooning or criticizing the next administrations politics and we can both agree… maybe and then do the right thing and take time to separate what is right for this country and if this new president is doing it.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Tree-Riding and the Art of Bicycle Maintenance
I'm a fifty-six year old soon to be geezer (or dirty old man if I can swing it) and I do not wish to return to my youth, although I rode it hard and put it up wet every chance I got. I still have my moments though, albeit in fantasy only.
My beautiful and entertaining mother used to occupy the five of us kids around Halloween by smiling with a pair of the then popular sweet-liquid filled paraffin teeth, reshaped to look like buck-teeth and she would drive us to town proudly grinning at passer-bys and we would howl like the Comanches we saw on TV.
I have a pair of Bubba teeth that I bought in Houston a number of years ago when they first became available. These are the real deal made by the ex-Dentist Jason Frankel and used in Hollywood movies and they are fantastically awful looking – and real cool and fit perfectly, as they came with a dental gel that allowed me to fit them to my personal teeth print. I need to find me a realistic looking mullet wig and start wearing this combination when I drive home from work, so I can get my childhood mojo working again. I have a history to live up to, you know. Maybe someone will wave at me thinking I'm Jim Finley.
Being the oldest boy with 3 stair-step younger brothers, I led a ready made team of fun-seekers and living all over the country, we found ways to amuse ourselves in the absence of long time friends, plus we garnered new methods from wherever we happened to live.
One favorite activity was tree climbing and on occasion, tree-riding. Tree-riding was the act of climbing a limber sapling of say, twenty-feet and when the top was reached, holding on as it toppled over. The trick was to remain attached and dropping off as it's top came close to the ground and then letting go as the tree whipped back up. Sometimes it worked well and other times, not so well, bruises and all. I think our tree-riding skills were perfected in the piney woods of North Georgia.
We had a chicken coup in Dundee Michigan in the early 1960's that was nothing more than a two-story barn with an open hay door on the second floor. A sycamore tree had been allowed to grow up beside the front of the building and in the evenings, the guinea fowl would roost in it. A long leap from the window to the closest strong branch could be attained and the prospect of missing made it all the more tempting a pastime.
I remember owning two bicycles before I bought my first used ten-speed at the age of seventeen, using my work money. I can't really recollect the first, but the second one I got for Christmas while living in Morgan, Utah and if I remember correctly, I was in about the third grade. It was used of course, but had new paint and I loved that shiny bike. I rode it through my Junior High years in Toledo, Ohio and really became a polished bike mechanic about this time.
My beloved two-wheel mode of transportation was of standard configuration and the super cool "stingray" bikes had hit the market, with their banana seats and high handlebars. Well, I just had to have some those handlebars and I figured if I sold back enough "pop" bottles (I lived in Ohio, not Texas remember), I could eventually swing the $2.80 the new bars cost.
This was a tremendous amount of money back then with a fat candy bar costing five cents and since the banana seat was over twelve dollars and out of reach, the cost of the bars were a noble challenge. So, the day came, cool high bars installed with much grunting and sweat and I began my career of doing my own maintenance, which I have retained in adulthood, albeit now, I actually follow through and make sure it is done properly.
I painted and repainted my bike so many times, which basically amounted to spraying over dirt and all and at this time it was flat black. The fenders were gone and I had raised the seat post to its limit. The chain guard and Bendix-brand brakes were completely gone and I had disconnected them, using my PF Flyer brakes when needed instead. Now, on the front axles, the threads were boogered up a bit from my sloppy attempts to reattach the wheel after patching the front tube many times and I had become lax in actually tightening the front nuts. I was always in a hurry - a hurry to play outside somewhere.
Never mind, I was in a rush to play sandlot baseball with my chums and off I went in a clanging high-speed wobble. Now, I was about thirteen and the first vestiges of testosterone were beginning to course through my adolescent loins and as I came upon the street corner, low and behold, two budding felines, books under their arms were right there in my crosshairs, so doing the only thing I knew I could do to impress them, I attempted my first and last "wheelie".
To my shock and yes, awe, the front tire catapulted off into the ionosphere and as gravity is wont to do, it pulled my forks earthward at something akin to "six-hun-ert miles an hour", flipping me over the bars and onto my back. The last thing I recollect as my boyishly lean hips went skyward was the tire rolling down the street and the humiliating sound of raucous girl laughter.
My beautiful and entertaining mother used to occupy the five of us kids around Halloween by smiling with a pair of the then popular sweet-liquid filled paraffin teeth, reshaped to look like buck-teeth and she would drive us to town proudly grinning at passer-bys and we would howl like the Comanches we saw on TV.
I have a pair of Bubba teeth that I bought in Houston a number of years ago when they first became available. These are the real deal made by the ex-Dentist Jason Frankel and used in Hollywood movies and they are fantastically awful looking – and real cool and fit perfectly, as they came with a dental gel that allowed me to fit them to my personal teeth print. I need to find me a realistic looking mullet wig and start wearing this combination when I drive home from work, so I can get my childhood mojo working again. I have a history to live up to, you know. Maybe someone will wave at me thinking I'm Jim Finley.
Being the oldest boy with 3 stair-step younger brothers, I led a ready made team of fun-seekers and living all over the country, we found ways to amuse ourselves in the absence of long time friends, plus we garnered new methods from wherever we happened to live.
One favorite activity was tree climbing and on occasion, tree-riding. Tree-riding was the act of climbing a limber sapling of say, twenty-feet and when the top was reached, holding on as it toppled over. The trick was to remain attached and dropping off as it's top came close to the ground and then letting go as the tree whipped back up. Sometimes it worked well and other times, not so well, bruises and all. I think our tree-riding skills were perfected in the piney woods of North Georgia.
We had a chicken coup in Dundee Michigan in the early 1960's that was nothing more than a two-story barn with an open hay door on the second floor. A sycamore tree had been allowed to grow up beside the front of the building and in the evenings, the guinea fowl would roost in it. A long leap from the window to the closest strong branch could be attained and the prospect of missing made it all the more tempting a pastime.
I remember owning two bicycles before I bought my first used ten-speed at the age of seventeen, using my work money. I can't really recollect the first, but the second one I got for Christmas while living in Morgan, Utah and if I remember correctly, I was in about the third grade. It was used of course, but had new paint and I loved that shiny bike. I rode it through my Junior High years in Toledo, Ohio and really became a polished bike mechanic about this time.
My beloved two-wheel mode of transportation was of standard configuration and the super cool "stingray" bikes had hit the market, with their banana seats and high handlebars. Well, I just had to have some those handlebars and I figured if I sold back enough "pop" bottles (I lived in Ohio, not Texas remember), I could eventually swing the $2.80 the new bars cost.
This was a tremendous amount of money back then with a fat candy bar costing five cents and since the banana seat was over twelve dollars and out of reach, the cost of the bars were a noble challenge. So, the day came, cool high bars installed with much grunting and sweat and I began my career of doing my own maintenance, which I have retained in adulthood, albeit now, I actually follow through and make sure it is done properly.
I painted and repainted my bike so many times, which basically amounted to spraying over dirt and all and at this time it was flat black. The fenders were gone and I had raised the seat post to its limit. The chain guard and Bendix-brand brakes were completely gone and I had disconnected them, using my PF Flyer brakes when needed instead. Now, on the front axles, the threads were boogered up a bit from my sloppy attempts to reattach the wheel after patching the front tube many times and I had become lax in actually tightening the front nuts. I was always in a hurry - a hurry to play outside somewhere.
Never mind, I was in a rush to play sandlot baseball with my chums and off I went in a clanging high-speed wobble. Now, I was about thirteen and the first vestiges of testosterone were beginning to course through my adolescent loins and as I came upon the street corner, low and behold, two budding felines, books under their arms were right there in my crosshairs, so doing the only thing I knew I could do to impress them, I attempted my first and last "wheelie".
To my shock and yes, awe, the front tire catapulted off into the ionosphere and as gravity is wont to do, it pulled my forks earthward at something akin to "six-hun-ert miles an hour", flipping me over the bars and onto my back. The last thing I recollect as my boyishly lean hips went skyward was the tire rolling down the street and the humiliating sound of raucous girl laughter.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Picking up the Pieces
I was perplexed to say the least, a bit angry and frankly disappointed last Wednesday morning when I arose for work at 2:45AM, checked my G-News web site and learned John McCain was not elected to the highest office this country offers.
I guess, as Stan Smith, a friend of mine explained when we brought up the election at work Wednesday morning "folks were just ready for change" and they felt John's politic was coarse and unsophisticated in comparison to Barack's velvet smooth delivery. For sure. I would hit my knees at the altar or buy an expensive car I didn't need at Barack's admonition, if I was the kind of person who is swayed by a smooth sales pitch, but I'm not.
I remember the first time I heard Barack Obama and it was on the Internet web site www.youtube.com. I thought to myself and expressed on our family mailing list that this was a dynamic and charismatic politician and I thought he would make an excellent VP for most likely Hillary Clinton. In comparison to George W. Bush's ability to convey thought, Barack Obama is Elmer Gantry and George Bush is Ernest P. Worrell. In all fairness to GWB, being a great speaker is a major plus in the appearance of having the answers, but does not necessarily mean you do and that is a major consideration in my book. Time will tell if Barack Obama does indeed have the correct answers and I sincerely hope he does. Our Country's future depends on it.
My main complaint with the Democratic platform is not their desire for an American Utopia, as it is all the liberal baggage they embrace. From assorted gun control, cancerous growth government, higher taxation to pay for socialistic programs and a view that regardless of motivation everyone should get a chunk of the cake. I have cake I paid for with long hours on the job, working many holidays, years of overtime and thousands of night shifts and if it is going to be shared with the less motivated, then I want to be the one who decides the sharing, not the government telling me to "hand it over buddy".
If the government wants to really make a difference in this country, they will start programs that train people "to fish" rather than bleeding free-swimming fish. Then, these freshly trained fishermen (and women) can do like the rest of us and swim for their own meals.
I am the first to admit I did okay economically under Bill Clinton, as I work in the Petrochemical industry (no thanks to the government for getting me into this line of work), but when Bill finished his eight years of placating everyone from Tikrit to Shinola, our country was left militarily defenseless and that is one area as a voter, I do not want to see compromised. The moment we cannot back up our policies with muscle, we will cease to be a world leader – take Russia's fall from glory under Ronald Reagan for a prime example. The very second the new president starts whacking the military budget, he is going to turn into a dirty Commie rat to me.
I want to see the government under Barack Obama succeed and like Clinton's administration, I will attempt to support it. It's imperative that America maintains it's superpower status regardless of political differences and I certainly want to be cognizant of good politics, even if the person I voted for didn't win the election. If the rest of the world, whom I support with my tax dollars doesn't like it, then tough noogies and that is another disturbing thing about the election of this man as president; the world is cheering and many hate America or compete against us. Do the math folks.
Barack Obama's first selection as Chief of Staff, Rep. Rahm Emanuel, initially surprised me and since he is an Orthodox Jew, I thought this was a good choice, as it would dispel the rumor he was in the pocket of radical Islam. Then I read the man has a vicious temper and his favorite method of expression is replete with the F-word.
Once again speaking frankly, I could not work for a leader with this explosive personality conjoined with socially offensive language no matter how well intentioned or qualified and this does not bode well for a Chief of Staff choice for me. Richard Nixon shocked the nation with his vulgar speech and I hope times haven't changed so much that this language is acceptable by our leaders and citizens.
I also recognize the historical significance of a black person attaining the highest office this country affords, but wasn't color touted as a non-issue? It sure doesn't sound like it now. I have a nagging feeling that most pro-Democratic voting lower income Americans are going to awaken to the fact that Barack Obama is going to be big business as usual and their personal plight, whatever that may be, is going to continue on until they take personal responsibility for their future – the same as me and I am a Capitalistic American who happens to be a semi-conservative Republican.
Other than in times of emergency, I do not want to see or even think about the US government interfering in my life and sure as heckfire do not want more taxes, so President–Elect Obama, put your money where your mouth is and for the sake of America's future, may God guide you.
I guess, as Stan Smith, a friend of mine explained when we brought up the election at work Wednesday morning "folks were just ready for change" and they felt John's politic was coarse and unsophisticated in comparison to Barack's velvet smooth delivery. For sure. I would hit my knees at the altar or buy an expensive car I didn't need at Barack's admonition, if I was the kind of person who is swayed by a smooth sales pitch, but I'm not.
I remember the first time I heard Barack Obama and it was on the Internet web site www.youtube.com. I thought to myself and expressed on our family mailing list that this was a dynamic and charismatic politician and I thought he would make an excellent VP for most likely Hillary Clinton. In comparison to George W. Bush's ability to convey thought, Barack Obama is Elmer Gantry and George Bush is Ernest P. Worrell. In all fairness to GWB, being a great speaker is a major plus in the appearance of having the answers, but does not necessarily mean you do and that is a major consideration in my book. Time will tell if Barack Obama does indeed have the correct answers and I sincerely hope he does. Our Country's future depends on it.
My main complaint with the Democratic platform is not their desire for an American Utopia, as it is all the liberal baggage they embrace. From assorted gun control, cancerous growth government, higher taxation to pay for socialistic programs and a view that regardless of motivation everyone should get a chunk of the cake. I have cake I paid for with long hours on the job, working many holidays, years of overtime and thousands of night shifts and if it is going to be shared with the less motivated, then I want to be the one who decides the sharing, not the government telling me to "hand it over buddy".
If the government wants to really make a difference in this country, they will start programs that train people "to fish" rather than bleeding free-swimming fish. Then, these freshly trained fishermen (and women) can do like the rest of us and swim for their own meals.
I am the first to admit I did okay economically under Bill Clinton, as I work in the Petrochemical industry (no thanks to the government for getting me into this line of work), but when Bill finished his eight years of placating everyone from Tikrit to Shinola, our country was left militarily defenseless and that is one area as a voter, I do not want to see compromised. The moment we cannot back up our policies with muscle, we will cease to be a world leader – take Russia's fall from glory under Ronald Reagan for a prime example. The very second the new president starts whacking the military budget, he is going to turn into a dirty Commie rat to me.
I want to see the government under Barack Obama succeed and like Clinton's administration, I will attempt to support it. It's imperative that America maintains it's superpower status regardless of political differences and I certainly want to be cognizant of good politics, even if the person I voted for didn't win the election. If the rest of the world, whom I support with my tax dollars doesn't like it, then tough noogies and that is another disturbing thing about the election of this man as president; the world is cheering and many hate America or compete against us. Do the math folks.
Barack Obama's first selection as Chief of Staff, Rep. Rahm Emanuel, initially surprised me and since he is an Orthodox Jew, I thought this was a good choice, as it would dispel the rumor he was in the pocket of radical Islam. Then I read the man has a vicious temper and his favorite method of expression is replete with the F-word.
Once again speaking frankly, I could not work for a leader with this explosive personality conjoined with socially offensive language no matter how well intentioned or qualified and this does not bode well for a Chief of Staff choice for me. Richard Nixon shocked the nation with his vulgar speech and I hope times haven't changed so much that this language is acceptable by our leaders and citizens.
I also recognize the historical significance of a black person attaining the highest office this country affords, but wasn't color touted as a non-issue? It sure doesn't sound like it now. I have a nagging feeling that most pro-Democratic voting lower income Americans are going to awaken to the fact that Barack Obama is going to be big business as usual and their personal plight, whatever that may be, is going to continue on until they take personal responsibility for their future – the same as me and I am a Capitalistic American who happens to be a semi-conservative Republican.
Other than in times of emergency, I do not want to see or even think about the US government interfering in my life and sure as heckfire do not want more taxes, so President–Elect Obama, put your money where your mouth is and for the sake of America's future, may God guide you.
Friday, November 07, 2008
The Rosetta Stone for BB's Obama Presidency Predictions
1. People with jobs want to keep the money they make. The Democratic platform is wealth redistribution and this appeals to those who are on welfare.
2. The tongue-in-cheek reference to people committing suicide is in reference to one woman who voted for Obama because under his administration she "wouldn't have to pay rent or her grocery bill" once he is elected. This woman actually voted and shows how crazy some of his followers have became.
3. The Democrats always cut military budgets to balance the federal deficit. That and raise taxes. Under Bill Clinton, we lost our military superpower status.
4. It beats anything I can figure out why rich Hollywood and New York millionaires scream in delight to elect someone who is going to take from their wallet and give it to whom they please. This is the Democratic Party's stance.
5. The Black Panther “civilian Security Force” stood guard over a polling place in the city of brotherly love this election and my reference is they will be severely irked when they find out that Barack Obama is just another self-serving Washington politician and not the end all to black problems in this country. Think about it – how much oil company stock do you think the man owns? Plenty.
6. Self-explanatory
7. My reference to Barack selling stuff could have just as easily been he becomes the number one Tele-Evangelist in the country, as he is one smooth salesman, whether it is toothbrushes or Chevy's.
8. Self-explanatory
9. Self-explanatory, but promises are promises and when you promise "change" almost anything will work, right?
10. "And for Blacks in their late teens to early 20s, the biggest danger is homicide-often at the hands of another African-American". Ebony, March, 1998 by Kelly Starling
The bottom line is this. I did not vote for the man any more than I voted for Bill Clinton, but I WILL support him as my President. I just hope and pray that he does the right thing.
2. The tongue-in-cheek reference to people committing suicide is in reference to one woman who voted for Obama because under his administration she "wouldn't have to pay rent or her grocery bill" once he is elected. This woman actually voted and shows how crazy some of his followers have became.
3. The Democrats always cut military budgets to balance the federal deficit. That and raise taxes. Under Bill Clinton, we lost our military superpower status.
4. It beats anything I can figure out why rich Hollywood and New York millionaires scream in delight to elect someone who is going to take from their wallet and give it to whom they please. This is the Democratic Party's stance.
5. The Black Panther “civilian Security Force” stood guard over a polling place in the city of brotherly love this election and my reference is they will be severely irked when they find out that Barack Obama is just another self-serving Washington politician and not the end all to black problems in this country. Think about it – how much oil company stock do you think the man owns? Plenty.
6. Self-explanatory
7. My reference to Barack selling stuff could have just as easily been he becomes the number one Tele-Evangelist in the country, as he is one smooth salesman, whether it is toothbrushes or Chevy's.
8. Self-explanatory
9. Self-explanatory, but promises are promises and when you promise "change" almost anything will work, right?
10. "And for Blacks in their late teens to early 20s, the biggest danger is homicide-often at the hands of another African-American". Ebony, March, 1998 by Kelly Starling
The bottom line is this. I did not vote for the man any more than I voted for Bill Clinton, but I WILL support him as my President. I just hope and pray that he does the right thing.
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