A most wonderful time of the year

A very blonde crime

Watched about 5 minutes of NBC's Dateline interview with the teacher who slept with the 14-year-old boy. (Otherwise known as .... eh, don't feel like going there.) She talked about how she was having a tough time in her life and described the boy as big and flirtatious. The report also talked about how she used to show off her naval in class and otherwise she spent her time hanging around the practice fields "to support" the school coaches.

What hit me as the biggest lie: Lauer asked her if she was popular with the boys in school.

"Really, I always thought it was the girls who just adored me."

Yeah. You're a junior high girl, going through the most awkward time in your life, and some blonde teacher is letting her sex thang hang out and taking away all the boys' attention.

They must have loved her!

Cowboys up and out

Somewhere in my head the past few months there has been a chemical change. I just don't like the Cowboys any more. What's to like with these people? The team is just Jerry Jones' ego brought into physical reality. It's a big ego, but one that way overestimates its knowledge of football.

I watch these games waiting for these people to die on the field.

After almost a decade of feeling the change, it's finally dawned on me who my new favorite team is: Miami. They have my two favorite players and let Ricky Williams move on to his real passion of toking it up and Doritos.

Still, this doesn't mean I'm going to stop watching Dallas. They're usually the team that's on, and habbits that go back to infancy tend to die pretty hard.

Still, who do you love*?

This?

Or this?

The question answers itself.

* Meant in the good, friendly, only a little gay sense.

Notes

First off
My Dad is finally home from the hospital, after spending three weeks there with complications from the heart surgery. These were not serious complications, they were more in line with the car making a funny noise after the engine is rebuilt.

After the first surgery, his heartbeat kept dropping into some kind of strange five-beat jazz rhythm. The surgeons just gave up and installed a pacemaker. This had to be delayed because Dad's blood was hovering at around the too-thin level.

So he's home, sore, resting and getting used to an ABC of medications he'll be on for a while. But he's otherwise healthy and will probably be running around, preventing people from throwing away his garbage, in no time.

The 4400

Started watching the USA series the 4400 with my Netflix last weekend. And I dunno.

It's an intriguing idea (4400 people abducted over 60 years suddenly return without aging and with neat-o powers). The episode after the pilot was interesting, focusing on one guy trying to make a bad neighborhood better.

Where the show goes wrong so far is in the primary story lines. It's like the network demanded the show hit it's demographic plot points at the expense in reality.

Problems:
-- We have a high school student in a blossoming romance, and a rival who tells him, "You think you can disappear for three years and just waltz back in here, freak?" Uh-huh.

-- We have a young mother whose husband doesn't even bother to come by and pick her up after she re-appears. And acts surprised when she shows up, even though he lives in the same damn house that they used to live in.

-- We have a teenager whose been in a coma for three years. He still has his own hospital room so his parents can come and brood over him alone.

-- We have a child oracle. A cute little kid who glances at adults with a smile and says disturbing things about the future. I hate child oracles.

Chance of making it through the first season: 50 percent.

Book review: 1491

Some books provide you with exactly what you want to know, and have the added advantage of being factual.

I remember, growing up, that I was proud of my Cherokee Indian heritage. I read all the books I could read on the history of the Trail of Tears, and spent a good deal of time, like any other blonde kid, gnashing my teeth over the injustice of the white man. (Yep, that one-eighth bloodline goes a long way.)

In college, I knew an art student in the dorm who was also one-eighth Cherokee (like half the population of the United States). Hew was also proud of his indian lineage. "I take more pride in my Cherokee past than in my other heritage."

He was so proud as to make his own artwork and write his own protest poem about the Trail of Tears.

The poem was nothing memorabe. The artwork? Consisted of the angry, vengeful faces -- of three Apache.

Yes, his heritage was important to him, but he hadn't spent two minutes researching Cherokee, otherwise he would have known the men of the tribe wore turbans, not freakin' headbands.

Then came "Dancing with Wolves." Sheesh.

The thought has been forming in my head for a while about what the American Indian is today for most people: A shallow stereotype of a victim. A hippie with a bow, arrow, and magical powers to listen to what the earth is saying. ("White people are bad," says the earth. "Bad!")

And that image sucks. For starters, it's plain wrong. And secondly, it doesn't give American Indians their due as full participants in humanity.

If Indians are human, they will act as humans: Establish societies, make rules, exploit their environment, ponder the universe, etc.

And so I stumbled onto 1491 at the Hasting's in Stephenville.

It's a great book for amateur history buffs, written by a guy with no political aim other than to offer up what current research into early American history says. And it says some things completely different from what we learned growing up.

For one thing, the American Indian population wasn't a few roving bands with a few large tribes. It was more likely in the millions and on par with Europe.

What thinned their population is easily one of the greatest ecological disasters in history.

Some of the other revelations in the book hit close to home.

Doing a story about brush control in Abilene (wow), the guy I was interviewing noted that, before the area was settled by whites, the terrain was covered by grasslands. No mesquite, no brush in general.

I was curious enough to ask why, and was told that the plants migrated in from south Texas with cattle.

I didn't think to ask the next logical question. Why didn't it migrate in before with the buffalo? Deer? Bunnies on fire?

The answer is that Indians really liked to burn land. This kept the trees and brush back and the grass thick. This in turn kept the grass-eating animals they liked to hunt well-fed.

This type of cultivation wasn't done on a small scale either: think in terms of the entire Texas hill country. Or the entire U.S. great plains.

And I'll stop with the details there.

It's a good read, and pretty much a must for anyone who takes his American history seriously.

9/11

Was going to post something or other about some pop culture thing, but getting on-line and going through some of the headlines today killed the mood. Peace, everyone.

Of wood and nails and missing fingers

I was reading through this blog that mentioned shop class and directed me to this site called the New Atlantis. The essay in question is long, but brought an idea to my head regarding my career choice.

Here's a highlight:

"Much of the 'jobs of the future' rhetoric surrounding the eagerness to end shop class and get every warm body into college, thence into a cubicle, implicitly assumes that we are heading to a 'post-industrial' economy in which everyone will deal only in abstractions. Yet trafficking in abstractions is not the same as thinking. White collar professions, too, are subject to routinization and degradation, proceeding by the same process as befell manual fabrication a hundred years ago..."

"So what advice should one give to a young person? By all means, go to college. In fact, approach college in the spirit of craftsmanship, going deep into liberal arts and sciences. In the summers, learn a manual trade. You're likely to be less damaged, and quite possibly better paid, as an independent tradesman than as a cubicle-dwelling tender of information systems. To heed such advice would require a certain contrarian streak, as it entails rejecting a life course mapped out by others as obligatory and inevitable."

So, the question I'm left with is, "Have I wasted my adulthood trying to figure out if the councilman is dicking me around about the proposed 0.5 percent tax increase?" Or should I have been perfecting the world's greatest Oak Home Entertainment Center?

Kind of answers itself, I think.

In the 9th grade, I built a clock in the shape of Texas. It still hangs on the gameroom wall of my parents' house. I've never bothered to frame anything I've written.

On the other hand, I'm not graceful, and fingers are so useful.

Speaking of George Lucas

There are some things you absolutely must post.



Awesome is right. So very right.

Thanks to John.

Quick review: THX 1138

This film is probably well known to movie and/or George Lucas geeks, but sometimes I stumbles into stuff and has to talk about it. Sorry if I'm late to the party.

Anyway, I'd read a few articles about THX 1138, Lucas' first film, based on a project he did in college. He recently did what Lucas will do -- upgraded the special effects and re-released the sucker. My curiosity was stoked enough to put it on Netflix. I needed a break from all the MST 3K and cheerleader dance movies.

After seeing it, I can say interesting, but not good. (Jeremy once referred to a shower he took at the old Hico farm cabin -- no pressure, ice cold -- as "Interesting.")

The plot: Humanity has sunk into a corporate-owned dystopia that forces people to take sedatives and not have sex. Our hero falls in love and tries to get out.

It's the kind of movie only a beginning director would be allowed to make. The studios, in the search for someone hip, give money to someone who shows promise. They don't notice the film is attempting to marry the aesthetics of Stanley Kubrick with "Speed Racer."

And it can be an ugly marriage. It's often a dull film that doesn't bother with making a great deal of sense. Only Lucas could figure out a world that makes everyone a poor slave, yet allows for the existence of awesome rocket cars.

The most interesting thing to do in the movie is notice the stylings that later show up in Star Wars. Lucas really likes his shots of button pressing. And the bad guys in THX wear masks and wield these long baton things that sting.

Here are three reasons to watch:
-- Robert Duval stars.
-- The Turbo Spankamonkey 2000.
-- They use the word "Wookiee". (If you don't have subtitles on, you'll miss it.)

And that's it. Watch if you feel a jones to be mildly diverted.

Feelin' Nealon

Several people have come forth to defend Kevin Nealon, a comedic actor whom I described a couple of posts down as non-comedic. I'll make this addendum to the first post:

I think the guy is a capable straight man, who has plenty of success when people are acting off of him. But every time I've seen him try to carry the load, he trips onto Suck Street.

He only raised my ire with the recent TV publicity push he's made (I guess for "Weeds"). He's always introduced as the "Hillarious Kevin Nealon". He then comes out in a funny-colored suit and proceeds to prance around like an anemic Robin Williams before sitting down to go through his schtick, which isn't funny.

Yes, I realize this is in the eye of the beholder, but anybody who knows me knows it doesn't take much to make me laugh. Seriously, a 5 year old can have me rolling on the floor with a joke about Spider Man.

Diff'rent

Enjoyed a little garbage television last night, "Behind the Camera: The Unauthorized Story of Diff'rent Strokes."

I'm not going to guess how this was "unauthorized." Maybe the dead cast members were unable to give their permission.

Anyway, I don't watch this stuff because I usually don't care enough about it to sit through some lame movie. It inevitably ends in a bitter-sweet moment where some washed-up actor talks about how he misses being mega-famous but will somehow find a way to go on like all of us non-famous people who couldn't have afforded a decent coke habbit in the first place.

I had to watch Diff'rent Strokes, though, because it's one of the first shows I remember. (Outside of Zoom!, at least).

I can recall laughing hysterically every show. This was before puberty hit. Afterwards, watching reruns made me realize just how crappy the writing was.

During the Monday movie, Gary Coleman emphasized how much he hated the line. Said it ruined his life. And the one thought I took away was how the line had also ruined the lives of Gary Colemans everywhere.

I knew a Gary Coleman at North Texas University. He was, of course, tall and white. Wrote his name as "G.C. Coleman" just to avoid the attention. Still, everywhere he went, people begged him to say the line. He staunchly refused.

At least I never heard him say it. According to journalism department mythology, he did become drunk enough once to say "Watch-yoo talkin' bout, Willis?" I can't imagine what led him to lose control. Gary was a man who enjoyed his beer.

Speaking of ole UNT:
Read an article in the Star-Telegram about the impending destruction of some old buildings on Fry Street. Some Houston developer is going to come in and put up a drugstore and Starbucks and the usual stuff. A group has started a petition to stop it.

Fry Street is the U. of North Texas party center. It's the closest the university can come to Sixth Street in Austin or the Broadway/University intersection in Lubbock.

I had some good times in those old places, but I can't really make myself care much. My memories are kinda mixed:

-- You could usually tell the bar someone had been to just by their odor. "Whew, Opie smells like the State Club!"

-- Watching cockroaches skitter across the walls and floor was part of the entertainment at Cool Beans.

-- The Flying Tomato charged too much for beer and closed early.

I think I'll just honor the old places by doing what the majority of North Texas students have always done: Drive to another city and drink in another bar.

Kevin Nealon -- Not funny

Kevin Nealon:

Not funny.

Kevin Nealon:

Easily the worst news anchor Saturday Night Live ever had.

Kevin Nealon, SNL anchor:

Stumbled his way through newscast like a junior high illiterate. Half of his jokes were bits just thrown into some lame social commentary he was making. Punchlines would hit audience like a jello balloon into a brick wall and splatter into awkward silence.

Kevin Nealon:

My theory is he's trying to pull off the Fred Williard "funny-because-he's-so-unfunny" bit, but fails because he isn't aware he is.

Kevin Nealon:

His best character was "Mr. Subliminal," which shows just how lame his career has been. (Hans and Frans were funny because of Dana Carvey.)

Kevin Nealon:

Appearing on "Weeds." Won't be funny.

Longhorns I have known

Saw the news this weekend that Mack Brown has picked Colt McCoy over Jevan Snead to QB the Longhorns this season. Or at least the first game. Mack tends to have a difficulty keeping his mind made up in these situations.

Anyway, considering that I only care about what UT is doing for 1/12th of the season, this story caught my notice. I saw both McCoy and Snead play in high school.

In both instances I was stringing for the Reporter-News. I watched McCoy play as a sophomore and Snead play as a senior. And, not to throw in an "I knew it" kind of post, but I guessed McCoy would get the job (first).

McCoy played more with his head, and already had a great throwing form three years ago. Snead, taller, tends to play more reactionary. But I'm not declaring myself an expert. They played completely different offensive schemes.

What really made me pick McCoy, though, was Snead's overwhelming blondness. I'm thinking UT might still be a little gunshy on that.

The Nuptials: Overheard, said or thought

*

Agreed! We're getting married in Bermuda.

Do you have anything more Lords of the Ringish?

Towels are much better than knives!

Let me, once again, point out the importance of beer.

YESYESYESYES! LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE! Now jump, again.

You could go to a gay bar with that look. And they wouldn't think you were gay.

No, I can't tell you why I love Santa Fe.

Because I don't want to think about Bill Clinton naked.

It's OK sweetheart, they already think I'm an idiot.

We don't have the logistics to bring a stripper to Hico.

Townes Van Zandt and ABBA on the same playlist ... wow.

Well ... we're not dead.

I can't believe you don't know them. She was one of my best friends in high school. (circa 1956)

It's 9 p.m. on our honeymoon. Time to sleep.

I suppose they'll come and get me. They can't start without the groom.

Wow, the big moment ... The bride looks great. We've got a big crowd. And here I am wearing a flaming pink tie. Such is love. Such is love.

*Sorry for the generic photo, I've been having trouble getting actual shots.

And (yawn, scratch, sigh) We're Back!

And that was fun. Just wanted to start by thanking everybody who came to the wedding, and say we missed you to those who couldn't make it. We understand the celebration went on for several hours after we left, which gave us both a feeling of satisfaction. Me and Meredith spent our honeymoon in New Mexico, primarily soaking in a natural hot tub, so it's going to be a vacation I need time to recover from.

I'll be posting pictures and writing about the wedding later, but for right now I'll just say that I can't decide which was my favorite part: Making the grand exit while carrying a black trash bag for luggage, or jumping up and down like fools while the photographer screamed "YES! YES! LOVE! LOVE! LOVE!"

Yep, that's what we wanted: A wedding that was understated, but classy.

Also, on a serious note: My Dad had a heart test on Thursday, which gave doctors enough concern that they went ahead with a triple bypass operation the same day. It was shocking and the most serious surgery my Dad has ever been through.

It went well, though, and the whole family was there for support. He's recovering well. I was able to talk to him briefly on Friday morning and his personality is already coming back. If anything, the operation was a blessing because it fixed some things that could have caused fatal problems at any moment. Please keep him in your thoughts, if you will.

And that's all for now, will write more later, if my wife gives me permission.

On vacation

Folks:
I'm now dropping any pretense of trying to post anything for the next week. It's unfortunate, because I have important things to say about Bon Jovi. Anyway, I need the time away for right now, so please come back next weekend. I love you all.

Diary melancholia

When I first moved out here I posted this picture with a lot of cheerleader-like enthusiasm:

This was going to be my big project, turning a junked house into a sweet state of the art bachelor pad with plumbing.

And since then, just about nothing has happened to it.

A couple of weekends ago, the family took junk we're cleaning out from another house for the wedding and put it what was to be my sweet bachelor pad. A picture of this house today looks basically the same, only the landscape is more brown from the heat. It's kind of a bookend to my time here in Hico.

And it's depressing.

Don't get me wrong, I'm looking forward to matrimony and stuff and it's still pretty unbelievable who I ended up with. Since my mind went into "Go" mode on marriage, there haven't been any second guesses as to where the time and money have to be spent.

But I hate seeing this project going to the end of a to-do list that now stretches way over the horizon, behind "get more dress shirts" and "put kids through college." I suppose I'll get back around to it sometime in my 60s. It'll still be sweet though.

Notes:

Camera: My buddy Todd has sent me a digital camera in the hopes that I'll use it to record the goings-on around here and make the blog a more vibrant, easy-to-read kind of place. He has done this by hacking into one of those "disposable" digital cameras you can buy at a store for $15. I'll have to add a cable or something. The hacking is the kind of project Todd enjoys. I recall this conversation when we were roommates in college:

Todd: I think I'm going to install hooks in the ceiling to hang my bike up.

Me: The ceiling is solid concrete.

Todd: So?

I'll add that Todd was not happy when I told him my first picture-taking goal would be to get a lot of photos of "all the bunnies." But they are so damned cute.

Mint?: I spent much of my awake time today going through the Cabela's catalog, looking for something that'd make a good gift for my wedding party dudes (I prefer "dudes" to "groomsmen and ushers", and it's damn sure going in the program as such). And I found nada. Sure, I could buy everyone the cheapest pocketknife they make, but I think I got a cheap pocketknife at a previous wedding, and I don't wanna do repeats.

I did however, find this:

This is a dish that keeps your dog's food warm. I was instantly reminded of the Will Farrell skit, "Teaching your dog obedience through the use of irony and angry sarcasm."

Farrell: Oh, is the food not warm enough for you? I'll be sure to tell the head waiter and lodge a complaint to the chef. Or maybe you can just eat it BECAUSE YOU'RE A F***ING DOG!

Oddly enough, they didn't have a dog water fountain that cools water. That's a freakin' necessity in Texas.

Horseshoes: The most dangerous game

Hmmmm... reminds me to get that horseshoe set for the farm. Didn't know I'd need disinfectant.

From the AP:

Man's Buttocks Impaled By Horseshoe Stake
NORTHAMPTON, Pa. -- Enjoying a relaxing 54th birthday in the yard, Mike Colwell went to move the sprinkler, backing up momentarily to avoid the spray, toward a horseshoe pit with a 1-inch-thick rusty steel stake.

“My two heels hit the back wall of the pit. The next thing I know, this thing just tore through me,” Colwell said. ...

Ghost stories

During the interview and later training session for my job at the home, I was warned, “This is a big building. It can make some weird noises at night.”

This went into a discussion about some of the things that could make weird noises: The air conditioner, the ice machine, foxes outside trying to get their grove on.

I didn’t think too much of it. The job is creepy enough: I see dementia. A medical industry that shoves as many pills down these people’s throats as possible. Old men eating pudding.

I didn’t need to add spectral beings to the list. I don’t believe in ghosts so much, but it’d be cool to see one, I’ve thought. So long as it wasn’t the ghost of a clown. That’d freak me out.

Anyway, I had heard that people had quit the graveyard shift before because the place can get scary. The building is full of antiques, there are some dark corners when you turn the lights off, and you never know when a resident is going to go stalking down the halls at 3 a.m. I did my best to get used to this, and it took about three months. The worst part at first was the combination of exhaustion and caffeine. Your brain gets jumpy and can’t focus well.

Still, after some time, I got to a point where I wasn’t really affected. Then people started telling stories. I guess they figured I wasn’t going to quit.

Maybe it’s just something I’m missing, but it seems that just about everyone around Hico says they’ve had an experience with a ghost. And, I’ve come to find out, most people who work with me have seen something on-the-job, usually while working my shift.

Everybody also has an opinion on the sightings: While the ghosts seem to be here, they don't last long as they don't want to stay.

Here’s a quick list of what I’ve heard:

The girl: The ghost of small child who reportedly runs up and down the halls playing. While several people have told me about this, I find it to be the most unbelievable. What would the ghost of girl be doing here? Was she just so hacked at mom and dad that she decided to haunt Memaw?

The whistler: Recently, while two employees where talking in the dining room, they heard someone whistle behind them. When they turned around, no one was there. They looked at each other, one went to look outside, saw nothing, while the other said that it had definitely come from inside. They shrugged this off as run of the mill and went back to work.

The guardian angel: While doing rounds one night, a staffer glanced out a window and then did a double take. Standing (or floating) outside of a resident’s room was some kind of figure, white and translucent. She said that it could only be described as an angel. It stood there for a bit and slowly faded away. It was discovered next morning that the resident in the room had passed during the night.

The reverend: A man who had been a preacher died quietly in his room one night, and the death was so gentle that he probably wasn’t aware of it, said the attendant who told me this story. For several weeks, his door would be open after being shut, lights would be on after being turned off. The staffer who told me about this said she eventually went to the old room and announced that it was time to go. She felt a breeze on her face and the incidents stopped.

The screamer: I can’t call this a ghost, but it is my experience, so I’m putting it in. After about a week of working, I was getting close to finishing my nightly setup in the dining room when I heard something out in the hall, I went outside and had just reached an intersection of two halls, when I heard this ungodly, full-throated scream of terror. I froze, looking down the hallway where I thought the sound came from. Nothing. I walked down the hall, listening at doorways to see if whoever had yelled was still making noise. Silence. I eventually gave up and went back to work. When the morning staff arrived, I told them about the experience. They reacted with, “Uh-huh, that’s interesting”, and let it go.

I’ve since learned that people in the early phases of Alzheimer’s can have horrific nightmares, and they often wake up unable to tell reality from their dream. On the other hand, people in the building who supposedly were suffering from the ailment were in a different location. I’ve heard the scream about two more times. I think it’s a resident, but it’s unnerving as hell.

Stupid lyrics I

Say that you are dating a sweet young thang who is also a budding musician in the Amarillo area. Say that your sweet young thang has decided that you can't connect with her because of your troubled past.

Now, say that she comes to this conclusion at the same time she has decided to go west and take a shot at a serious music career.

So she breaks up with you. Your response?

Well, according to Miranda Lambert's "New Strings," it's:

"You'll never get too far with a tank of gas and an empty heart!"

Really? What the hell kind of artsy cowboy poofball was this girl dating in Amarillo? Bitch breaks his heart and he starts talking about her gas tank?

Plenty of women have broken up with me to go "find themselves"*, and I've reacted with anger, befuddlement, or a pathetic playing of the nice guy. But I've never broken out with an incoherent metaphor about the impending failure of her career choice.

Stupid lyrics.

*As in, "I done found myself a taller man with a huuuge wallet."

NOTE:
Some of you may have noticed that I haven't been adding much lately. That'll probably go on for a while, as I'm getting close to zero hour on the wedding, and I'm spending most of my spare time attempting to get into decent shape. And get a better score on EA NCAA Football. God I miss football. Regardless, I will be adding some more stuff soon, as some ideas are sucking up headspace.