Buffalo's Path

2007-08-10T12:51:00.000-06:00

The first post on Buffalo’s Path consisted of this one line, “Reading the instructions is for those who lack a sense of adventure.”

This is the last post. Buffalo’s Path has served its purpose.

Thanks for reading.

A Long Weekend in Canada

2007-08-06T15:21:00.000-06:00

It is a Long Weekend throughout Canada. I’m not sure if “Long Weekend” should be capitalized. It isn’t a holiday that celebrates anything in particular. I think they call it a “statutory holiday.” As near as I can tell, the Canadian Government decided that everyone in Canada should have a three-day weekend about every month so they made it happen. It is a civilized thing to do.

Friendly Manitoba, at least the part I am in, was covered with a canopy of gray when I more or less willingly climbed out of bed this morning. There wasn’t a whisper of wind. A couple of blue jays had diarrhea of the mouth, but that isn’t particularly noteworthy. Blue jays always have something to bitch and moan about.

I killed a blue jay once. As I recall, I was 13 or 14 years old and full of whatever boys/young men of that age are filled. I’m guessing that would be a combination of an almost lethal amount of testosterone, a dollop of arrogance, and a liberal helping of piss and vinegar. Anyway, this blue jay was sitting on a fence post about 20 yards from where I was standing. It was a fence post in name only. Any wire that had been affixed to the post was long since gone.

The blue jay wasn’t doing anything other than taking his or her ease and singing what it considered to be a tune. At least, I assume it was singing a tune. In actuality, it could have been taunting me in bird language. It could have been making disparaging remarks about my pimple farm.

I don’t know if you knew that I was a pimple farmer when I was a teenager. I did everything I knew to do to get rid of the damned things. I even scrubbed my face with lava soap and a scrub brush. It didn’t do a damn thing other than make me look as though I had a sunburn. Obviously, I didn’t want to be a pimple farmer. What I wanted was to look like Elvis Presley and have a harem of gorgeous, nubile, non-virgins at my beck and call.

Anyway, the damned bird was sitting there on the fence post that wasn’t really a fence post. Suddenly, with absolutely no forethought, I decided to see if I could hit the bird with a rock. So I bent over and picked a rock of the appropriate shape and configuration. I didn’t have anything against the bird. After all, it was just sitting there. Neither did I have any real hope of hitting said bird. There are those who can chunk a rock with amazing accuracy. If I tossed a rock at my foot, I would have missed by a mile.

So I reared back and gave the rock a sidearm toss; sort of like I was trying to skim a flat rock across a farm pond. In case you’re wondering, I was pretty darned good at skimming stones. I’d tell you my world record but I probably misremember the true amount of skips it made.

You know what happened. I hit that bird dead on the head and it fell over the same way – dead. I went running over to it and picked it up. As the warmth of life fled from its’ little body I felt like absolute shit. So I buried it.

And I’ve never tossed another rock at another bird. I have, however, gone out with a shotgun and done some serious damage to eating birds. There isn’t much in this world that tastes better than quail and homemade dumplings.

Feel free to supply your own moral to this little tale. There isn’t a prize for coming up with the best one though.

Life is sweet – because it is a cool, cloud-covered day in Friendly Manitoba.

Assault with a Deadly Look

2007-08-02T16:29:00.000-06:00

It is a good thing dirty looks aren’t lethal or I would be lying dead in the parking lot of the library. A little more accurately, I would be stretched out in the morgue waiting for the cutter to find evidence of death by look.

I was sitting in the truck minding my own business and no one else’s. The radio was tuned to the talk show I often listen to whilst waiting. They had an engineer who could barely speak Canadian talking about the state of the bridges in North America. His Canadian wasn’t all that bad, just heavily accented. I’m in a snarky mood. It makes me feel superior to take cheap pot shots at innocent targets. He spoke a lot better Canadian than I speak whatever is native to wherever in the hell he came from.

Oh, gee. What is wrong with Buffalo? He is being so politically incorrect!

Anyway, I was sitting there minding my own business. There was a young Mennonite woman swinging a wee one on a swing in the park. She was wearing sandals and one of those brilliantly colored, floral print, calf length, dresses that seem to be their trademark. Of course, she had that black thingie covering the back of her head. I idly hoped the kid she was swinging wasn’t her own. She was too damned young to be breeding. The woman hadn’t lived long enough to even be thinking about having kids. If it took living rather than years to determine when one had a child, I’m thinkin’ there would be a whole lot of this girl/woman or woman/child that would never procreate.

A man and woman, along with their seven kids that all looked to be under eight years old, climbed into a mini van. They had been picnicking. The woman had walked past the truck a few times with a vacant expression on her face. She was wearing a fairly short denim skirt, flip flops, and a dark blouse. It took them a while to get all of the kids strapped into their respective car seats.

And then along comes Miss I’m All of That and a Bag of Chips, and a two litre Pepsi. Her hair was short, white, and spiked. Unless someone had scared the living bejesus out of her, I’m sure the color was choice, not nature. Whoever gave her the haircut, and whoever told her it looked good, should be drawn and quartered by four very slow moving Belgiums.

She was going for the layered look and succeeded. Her outer shirt was black and unbuttoned. The middle shirt was a gray slipover that stopped about where her belly button should be. The undershirt was black and partway covered her butt. The skirt was significantly short washed denim. On her feet were a pair of boots with 3” heels and tops that ended just below her knee. Naturally, she had earrings on that were large enough for a reasonably slender child to use as a hula hoop. She had strong eyelashes. At least I assume they were strong. There was so much black mascara caked on them it would take some muscles to hold her lids open. Against the pallor of her face, it was an interesting contrast.

I’m not saying this gal was ugly. She didn’t need a pork chop around her neck to get someone to play with her. Her face didn’t stop the clock in the truck. It was more the face of the girl next door.

As she was coming out of the library and walking toward the truck, I smiled at her. You know the kind of smile. That one you use when you are being polite. It never reaches your eyes, you don’t flash teeth, but you do observe the nuances of polite society.

The woman went turtle on me. Her neck disappeared as her head began to retract. She kind of angled her head over in that way witches do when they are giving you the sneaky evil eye along with a low grade cackle. The look that shot out of her eyes was sheer hate. You’d have thought she had caught me dropping something smelly and nasty in the communion bowl.

I know it was terribly rude of me, folks, but I couldn’t help it. I started laughing – loudly and genuinely. Well, shucky darn. It was like someone stuck a red hot poker up her arse and she took off at a lope. I was still laughing when her Jeep Liberty laid rubber on the street in front of the library.

Life is sweet – ‘cause I survived an encounter with a kill look. Well, as kill looks go, it wasn’t much, but I have to end this somehow.

A Quiet Day

2007-08-01T16:23:00.000-06:00

It is a quiet day, which could be construed to mean boring, in Friendly Manitoba. During the wee hours of the morning, a rapidly moving front rolled across the prairie bringing with in a sprinkle of rain, high winds, a percussion section of thunder, and enough lightening to electrify the laboratory of the maddest scientist. It also brought with it cooler temperatures. The difference between temperatures in the mid to high 90s and the mid to low 80s is staggeringly comfortable.

Unfortunately, Kat’s Mom’s tomato plants didn’t fare well under the siege laid by the high winds. From the frantic call Kat received this morning, I expected to find the tiny garden in shambles when, stakes and hammer in hand, we mustered before Drill Sergeant Mom. The reality was considerably less than the expectation. The vines, thick and heavy with huge, not quite ripe tomatoes, were sagging. I’m thinkin’ they were sagging more from the weight of the fruit than the ravages of the storm.

It didn’t take long to set wrong to right once again. We had brought three or four wooden stakes. Dave had dropped by an equal number of slightly-to-seriously bent rebar. Considering Dave’s profession, blacksmith, and the number of forges, vises, and hammers the man owns I have to wonder why in the hell he didn’t straighten the rebar. Wonder about it is all I’m going to do. I’ve learned not to ask a question unless I’m totally prepared to hear the answer and, with Dave, I’m not sure I want to be prepared. I used to try reading his mind but quickly gave it up as a bad job. It reads a whole lot like a piece I wrote while tossing down shots of Captain Morgan and tokin’ on a pipe filled with some good smoke up from Mexico.

After the tomato plants were securely staked, we were invited in for a cup of tea and some munchies. Mennonite ladies make good munchies; at least the one Mennonite lady, and one former Mennonite lady, with whom I’m acquainted. It was apricot tea and it was nasty. What twisted mind could dream up such a concoction? Still and all, if it was the admission price to get to the goodies, I don’t mind paying it.

We weren’t back home very long when Dave came lurching through the unlocked door. I’m thinkin’ he may have had an emergency as he grabbed the new Canadian Tire flyer off my desk and made a beeline for somewhere in the house. Considering the green fog that soon was clomping about in jackboots, I have a fair idea where he went.

It is a quiet day in Friendly Manitoba. Dave is using Kat’s computer. My guess, he is cruising porn sites because that is the sort of person he is. He would do well to emulate me rather than traveling on the road to perdition that he is. ‘Tis a sad thing when a good Mennonite boy goes seriously bad. Kat is puttering around doing whatever she does whilst her only brother debases himself by wallowing in sinful pornography.

And Buffalo is sitting here thinking about life, its glories and its slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that often come calling.

Life is sweet – even when the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune come calling.

Ramblin' about Manitoba

2007-07-31T14:23:00.000-06:00

When I visit a blog, I rarely check the writer’s link list. If you asked me why I don’t, I couldn’t provide you with any answer other than I don’t know. I mention this only because I have added some names to my Great Reads roster and I want to draw your attention to the additions.

Melinda, the poet who runs the shop over at Sipping the Vast Spring, has recently started a showcase for her outstanding photos. For the sake of my list, I have listed it as Photos by Melinda. She takes some excellent pictures.

Walk of the Fallen, an extremely well crafted memorial to our fallen warriors, is the skilled loving dedicated work of Labrys. She doesn’t post as frequently as I would like, but then I am a greedy S.O.B. when I like something. Stop by, take a look, and give her a read.

Akinoluna is a blog written by a young female Marine. I find her observations interesting and agree with most of her conclusions.

This is Your Captain has been on my list for a while. I believe I snuck him in without mention. I don’t know how to describe the Captain. I’m more than pretty sure he isn’t playing with a full deck of cards. He is in frequent communication with Jesus and Elvis, both of whom have quite a bit to say. If you are a trifle bent, warped, and not totally full of … yourself, you will enjoy listening to the Captain meander the outer limits of sanity.

Burnett’s Urban Etiquette is written by James Burnett, a feature writer for, I believe, the Miami Herald. The man is an excellent writer.

James Shott, of Observations fame which is listed on my sidebar, and I chose the same topic for an op/ed type essay. His essay is posted on his blog. The one I wrote is posted on Gun Toting Liberal, also listed on my sidebar. I invite you to stop by both sites and give them a read and let us know what you think. I guarantee that Shott’s piece is well done.

You know, and on an entirely different note, we have a neighbor who is driving me crazy. I’m not sure what in the hell is wrong with the guy. In case you’re wondering, this is the same guy that couldn’t keep his lawn mower running more than 45 seconds at a time; we’ll call him Mr. Mechanic, because he isn’t.

Every single Saturday morning at exactly 0805 Hours, come rain or shine or snow, this guy comes outside and makes noise for about two minutes. Some days he fires up a skill saw long enough to cut one or two small boards. On another day, he might hammer on something for a couple of minutes. Every now and again, he will fire up his lawn mower. He never works long enough to actually accomplish something. He never begins before 0805.

If I weren’t a stranger in a very strange land I would go over and visit with him.

Some of you seem to be laboring under the misconception that Kat has me wrapped around her tiny little finger. That ain’t true, neighbors. That woman is wrapped around my extremely masculine little finger. Until I came into her life, her life had no purpose. She was in stasis as she waited for my supremely wonderful self to appear and give her purpose. Her greatest happiness in life is tending to my magnificence. I am the Bull of the Woods, the Cock of the Walk.

When I say jump, she doesn’t waste time to ask how high. She starts jumping until I tell her she has reached the desired height. That is the way it is and don’t think otherwise even for a micro-second.

I hope that has cleared up those misconceptions you have been harboring.

Life is sweet – because I am the Bull of the Woods – and more full of bullshit than Ferdinand.

This Monday in Friendly Manitoba

2007-07-30T18:19:00.000-06:00

Canadian League Football is in full swing, in case anyone is interested. The BC Lions are kicking some serious ass. I didn’t watch them play the Montreal Alouettes. The outcome of that game was pretty much a given, barring divine intervention. The contest between the Lions and the Calgary Stampeders the other evening was better than okay and at the end of it, the Lions remained undefeated. I would surely enjoy watching a couple of games between the NFL and the CFL; alternating home fields and rules of course.

Kat and her Mom had carepractor (chiropractor) appointments this afternoon. I’m thinking it would be a good thing if there were “practors” that adjusted attitudes. They would probably do one hell of a business and contribute dramatically to peace, quiet, tranquility, and a massive lessening in the stress index.

As we were driving over to pick up said Mom, I turned a corner in a residential area and had to immediately slow down. Skating down the middle lane was Hans Christian Freakin’ Canuck. How did I know he was Canadian? Well, my first clue probably was that we are in freakin’ Canada. I mean, how many Americans come up here to skate down the middle of the lane? The dead give-away was the hockey stick he was carrying. Who but a Canuck is so nuts about hockey they are going to be playing the game outside, on inline skates, when the temperature is 96 degrees and the humidity is high enough to give Tarzan a bad case of jock itch.

The ride over to the little town where the chiropractor practices wasn’t too bad. The air conditioner wasn’t working worth a tinker’s damn, so I put the windows down. At 115 KPH, and a stiff wind out of the south, conversation wasn’t going to happen and that definitely wasn’t a bad thing.

We came up on a road crew busy patching the potholes and ripples in the road; an exercise in futility if there ever was one. Canadian winters hate roadways. The road crew had a full lane blocked so they put signal persons out for the sake of safety. It seems a reasonable precaution when the road is as straight as a ruler.

The ol’ boy what had charge of our lane was bedecked in a safety vest you could see from ten miles away. In his left hand was a walkie talkie and in his right hand he held aloft a sign that read ‘STOP.’ In case you’re wondering, the sign was red and was an octagon. As I slowed to a stop, he drew an imaginary line with the antennae on his walkie talkie to indicate the exact spot my stationery tires were to rest and he was damn serious about it. I figure he once worked in some Washington bureau some time or another.

Kat is so polite it sometimes amazes me. I was going to say that sometimes it drives me to distraction, but I figured I’d get some flack over that. Just before she finished fixing dinner tonight, I pulled the band off my pony tail and shook my hair loose. She calls me to dinner. I go in and sit down. She looks at me and asks, “Would you like me to brush your hair?”

“Not particularly,” I tell her. “Are you trying to tell me it looks like crap and needs brushing?”

“Oh no,” says she. “I thought you might be more comfortable if it were brushed.”

Comfortable, my aching ass. So I let her brush it and put the pony tail back in. And now I’m so much more comfortable I can’t begin to tell you.

Life is sweet – because I’m comfortable and my hair is back where it belongs.

Thursday for Friday

2007-07-26T21:44:00.001-06:00

Do you remember here while back when I told y’all there was definitely something wrong with the water in Wisconsin? At least, I think it was Wisconsin. If I recall, the remark was prompted when I read that some pendajo was arrested for having sex with a white tail deer. The deer was dead, by the way.

Well, again in Wisconsin, three hormonally and mentally unbalanced young … I don’t know what the hell to call them … were arrested for attempting to have sex with a corpse. They apparently had seen the young woman’s picture in the obituary column of the newspaper and decided they wanted to have sex with her.

According to the article, they were caught before they could complete their plan. Attempts to prosecute them failed. In Wisconsin, necrophilia, and attempted necrophilia, are not illegal.

What in the hell can I say? It isn’t often that I will say something is sick, but I gotta think this fits the bill.

Moving right along as we head south to Ft. Lauderdale, FL, we find a man arrested and sentenced for masturbating in his cell. The guy was in jail awaiting sentencing on an armed robbery beef. The cells are monitored by camera. The young lady doing the monitoring was offended by the sight of the con choking his chicken so she filed a complaint. It took 45 minutes for the jury to convict him. They added the time to the 10 year sentence he received on the other beef.

The sheriff's office encourages deputies to file criminal charges to discourage masturbating in the county's jails, said Elliot Cohen, an agency spokesman. He said privacy is one of the rights inmatse give up in jail.

You didn’t ask, but I think this is some pretty ate up crap.

Did you know that in Readington, New Jersey they have a festival that requires the presence and participation of a virgin to ensure success? Given that it is New Jersey, and the year is 2007, one would think the festival doomed to failure. Enter Victoria Brumfield to the rescue.

Brumfield, 28, has worked with Freeman in the past and is a devout Mormon, proud of her adherence to the church's rules, including not drinking, smoking, gambling or cursing - and no sex before marriage.

Ms Brumfield became the virgin in residence last year after her younger sister, the former duty virgin, moved to California.

A virgin in New Jersey. Just think. It may yet be possible to find an honest politician.

In Painesville, Ohio there is a judge with an interesting bent on dispensing justice. I’m not sure where in Ohio Painesville is located, but it must be large enough to have working girls.

Two hormonally charged, (and ain’t they always?) young men decided to seek the services of a lady of the evening. Unfortunately for them, they had the bad luck of propositioning an undercover police officer. They were arrested and taken to court.

A judge known for giving unusual sentences has ordered three men who pleaded guilty to soliciting sex to take turns dressing in a bright yellow chicken costume.
Painesville Municipal Judge Michael Cicconetti agreed to suspend a 30-day jail sentence if they wear the costume between 4 and 7 p.m. Friday outside the court while carrying a sign that reads "No Chicken Ranch in Painesville."
According to the article, this isn’t the first time His Honor has come up with an unique sentence. Give the article a read.

We’re headed for Winnipeg in the morning at a totally uncivilized hour. Kat’s Mom has some medical tests scheduled. For some reason, the doctors thought their schedules were more important than our sleeping schedules.

Y’all have a good day and a better weekend.

Scribblin' on Thrusday

2007-07-26T16:34:00.000-06:00

I ran out of cigarettes and reading material yesterday afternoon, both disasters of gargantuan proportion. We could have waited until the setting sun had dragged some of the oppressive heat to somewhere, anywhere, west of here to make a book run. There are all manner of cans and packages in the pantry that could have taken the edge off my jones for the printed word. I suppose, in a pinch, I could have found something on the Internet to occupy my attention. Since Kat needed to go to the bank, we swam our way to the truck and climbed inside the broiler of the cab. It was 1615 Hours when I backed out of the drive. That would make it about a quarter after four in the afternoon.

It took less than a minute to retrieve the mail from the community mail box thingie they use up here instead of door to door delivery as they do in civilized areas. A little blond headed girl and her mother were sitting on their bicycles in front of the boxes. I would tell you that I thought for a moment about running them over just to see the look on their faces. If I told you that, you would think I’m a sociopath or psychopath. I can’t bear the thought of y’all thinking badly of me so I will remain mute.

“What time does the bank close?” I asked Kat at 1626 Hours when I stopped for a red light. My window was partly down so the smoke from my next to last cigarette would pollute the clean Canadian air rather than the cab. The air conditioning was churning at Warp Five.

She glanced at the clock. “Ah, four thirty,” she said.

That wasn’t quite the truth. The bank closed at four. I circled the block and headed for the library. As Kat was getting out of the truck, the head librarian was leaving for wherever she goes when she isn’t playing library. She and Kat exchanged pleasantries; after all, Canadians are a polite people. Besides, Kat used to spend a goodly number of volunteer hours at the library. I’m not sure she was being altruistic. I think she liked being able to snag onto new books before anyone else got their hands on them.

For those of you that think I’m not environmentally conscious, you are wrong. I rolled down the windows and turned off the engine. You may wonder why I didn’t go in with her. After all, it was hot and I needed the reading material.

For you curious few, I have an answer. First, I was shoeless. After a few decades, I decided I was tired of shoes and decided to go barefoot as much as possible. There is a second, but I think I’ll leave you wondering about that.

Twenty minutes sitting in a truck when the outside temperature is 96 degrees is a lot longer than sitting in an air conditioned blues bar listening to some kick-ass blues. Being that I was barefooted, I probably wouldn’t have been welcome in the bar either. I’d pitched my last cigarette when Kat emerged with a bulging bag of books.

For once, there was a parking place in front of the store. Kat ran in to pick up my smokes. Why didn’t I run my lazy ass in to get them since I am the one that smokes them? It really isn’t any of your business but I’ll tell you anyway since I either love you, like you, am grateful to you for reading my scribbles, or I simply want to increase the word count. We put our money in the bank up here. It is Kat’s account and I don’t have an ATM card or the pin number. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t trust me enough to give me access to all of our millions.

About two minutes later, she was coming out of the store empty handed and with a look of panic on her face. That didn’t bode well.

“Where’s my card?” she asked when she got in the truck. “It is always right here in my purse.” She was frantically going through everything in her purse and there wasn’t much in there to go through. “All I have is Mom’s card.”

“And why do you have Mom’s card?”

“From the other day when we picked up some things for her. I must have forgotten to give it back.”

“Is it possible that you gave her your card?” I asked. “Seems to me, I remember you walking in with the receipt and card in one hand and the sack in the other.”

What would women do without us clear thinking and level headed men in a time of crisis and emotional upheaval? Off we went to make the card exchange and then back to the store. All was well once again in Friendly Manitoba – at least as well as it is likely to get.

I pointed the truck west which was the appropriate direction if we wanted to go home and home is where we were headed. I caught a red light. There was one car in front of me and two cars in the lane to my right.

I looked at the rearview mirror. A black Dodge Dakota driven by a woman was charging toward us. I thought, “Oh shit. This isn’t good.” There came the butt-puckering sound of screaming brakes. I tried to relax my back because I knew it was going to hurt like a bitch. I wondered if I would be given a ticket for bumping into the car in front of me. I thought about the fact that I have never been in a wreck.

A silk scarf could not have been passed between our rear bumper and the front bumper of that Dodge. The woman’s eyes were as big as saucers and her mouth was open in a silent scream. I realized my pulse wasn’t elevated in any way and I wasn’t pissed. When you drive around here, you are pretty much courting disaster.

Considering the distance the young lady left between us when the light changed to green, and the expression that was still frozen on her face, she probably needed to go home and change thongs. Or flour sack scanties; whatever in the hell they wear up here. I’d tell you what Kat wears but you have no burning need to know.

So we reach the end of this little whatever it is. You will make note that nowhere did I drool over a woman, talk about the color of the sky or the song of a bird. As a matter of fact, there is damned little description in this whole thing. There’s no mention of politics either. Not one complaint about the weather.

Life is sweet and that is all I have to say.

Musing, Not Amusing

2007-07-25T15:10:00.000-06:00

Pardon me for saying so; it is hotter than a half fucked fox in a forest fire and humid enough to steam the wrinkles out of an elephant’s ass. If anywhere in that last sentence you are able to conjure a portrait of me smiling happily, you are more delusional than a one legged man entering an ass kicking contest with the idea he is going to win.

Back when I was a kid, most businesses didn’t have air conditioning and even fewer homes were blessed with this most wondrous of inventions. We relied on open windows and prayer – prayer for even a whisper of a breeze. During late July and on through August, most of those prayers were answered with a thunderous, “SUFFER, YOU UNGRATEFUL SINFUL WRETCHES.”

I’ve heard it called “Pentecostal” weather. Summertime meant revival time. Revival time meant huge canvas tents, hard-assed benches, and a holy -roller preacher sweating as though Satan’s Hounds were nipping at his rotund ass whilst he was doing his utmost to scare the hell out of you. He, and it always was a he, was quick to remind us poor sinners that those summer nights were air conditioned compared to the heat the UNREPENTANT SINNER suffered as Saint … Ton’s Dee muns jobbed them in the ass with pitchforks. Hallelujah! And all the brothers and sisters said “Amen.”

You might find this difficult to believe, but I don’t miss those nights even one little bit. I wonder if Stephen King was reared Pentecostal? It would sure explain the nightmares that spawned some of his tales.

It would be kind of amusing if I was actually dead and my ring of hell was Friendly Manitoba.

Life is sweet – because there ain’t none of it that’s a thang.

Irritation

2007-07-24T17:57:00.000-06:00

I’m irritable today. If I put my mind to it, I could probably figure out why I’m irritated. Trying to figure out the cause seems non-productive because I don’t really give a damn. It is what it is and it ain’t a thang. As long as I’m in a pissy mood, I figure I may as well do my best to enjoy it. In that spirit, malicious though that spirit be, I offer you but a few of the things that irritate the hell out of me.

1. Food servers who carry drink glasses by the tops. It is rude, incorrect, unsanitary, and plain nasty. If they can’t carry the glasses by the bottom, they need to put them on a tray.

2. People who snap and/or pop their damned chewing gum. Put the gum in your mouth, shut your mouth and then chew if you must. Offenders should be horsewhipped – and that means you if you’re one of the offenders.

3. Virtually every person who drives a motor vehicle in a certain city in Friendly Manitoba. They are blind, ignorant, or feel empowered by their god to cut you off, go any direction other than the direction indicated by their turn signal. I don’t know how in the hell they passed the skill part of their driver’s test. I would rather drive in LA rush hour traffic. It is a hell of a lot safer and less aggravating.

4. People who will tell you they are going to do something and then don’t produce. For Zeus’s sake, if you don’t want to do something, all you have to do is open your freakin’ mouth and refuse – or better yet, don’t volunteer. It isn’t all that difficult. Not following through makes you out to be a bigger asshole than refusing.

5. The word “your” when it should be “you’re.” Ditto for “alot.” It is “a lot” or “allot,” usually the former. Once is a typo. Consistently makes you … a pain in the ass.

6. Making bunny ears. That’s those air quotation marks that drive Lili up the wall. They only mildly irritate me but I thought I would mention it for her.

7. Sean Hannity. It will be my luck that a deity with a truly warped sense of humor will condemn me to sharing a cell for eternity with the … whatever he is.

8. Kids. Especially ugly kids that cry, scream, and enter my space.

9. Parents. Especially parents who think their aforementioned kids are cute and adorable.

10. Fred Phelps. (He’s more than an irritant.)

11. David Letterman.

12. Benny Hinn.

13. People that have either not met me, or barely have a nodding acquaintance with me, who think they know me and then have the audacity and unmitigated gall to put words in my mouth.

14. Publishers that publish books whose pages aren’t fit to use as bird cage liners while superbly gifted writers go unpublished. Just for the record, I am not placing myself in either category.

15. Me.

Okay. That’s my partial list. What irritates the hell out of you other than me? I’d like to know.

The Prodigal Stops By

2007-07-23T17:57:00.000-06:00

You may have noticed that I haven’t mentioned Dave, the brother-in-law, of late. There is a reason for that and the reason isn’t that I haven’t written scarce a lick in a couple of weeks. I suppose that may be part of the reason. Okay, it is part of the reason, but not all of the reason. A better reason is that he hasn’t been around. He has been doing black smithy things over at the museum. I’m thinkin’ his wife may have him on a tight rein too. I’d never tell anyone that for fear of embarrassing his macho manly self.

Somewhere along the line, and a long line it is, I heard tell that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I don’t know if that is true. I am fair to middlin’ sure absence does dull the memory more than just a tad. Here a few days ago, I asked Kat if she’d talked to him and, maybe, made mention that I kind of missed seeing the lad. I missed him in a manly-man way, of course. Sort of in the way you miss scratching itchy toes after you cure the athlete’s foot.

As sure as no good deed is left unpunished, I made mention of the devil and he showed up at the door. The summer, and all that standing over a hot forge, isn’t doing the boy any harm. He’s lost enough weight that he should oughta write a diet book. I hate like hell to admit the pendajo is looking – as not bad as someone with his challenges can look.

We were all sitting around in the desk room, Kat call’s it the office, shooting the breeze. Somehow or another, the subject turned to movies. Kat made mention of the first movie she can remember seeing. I can’t recall what it was. I recall it wasn’t much of a movie and that it was a new release not all that long ago. She does that crap a lot, you know; deliberately and maliciously to make me feel old. Not that I need any help feeling old. All I have to do is get up in the morning.

I joined the conversation by telling them the first movie I remember was “Black Jack Ketchum, Desperado.” It turned out that was a lie because it was filmed in 1956 and I do remember earlier movies. I had the facts a little misfiled. That happens when your file cabinets are damned near full and you can’t alphabetize worth a tinker’s damn.

Dave rears back in Kat’s desk chair, looks me dead in …

Damn! I hate being interrupted like that. Kat just called me into the kitchen, pointed at a crawling insect and demanded, “Deal with that. You have more experience with them than I do.” It was a honey bee crawling across the counter.

Anyway, Dave was reared back in the chair, looking me dead in the eye, when he asks, “Buffalo, was that a talkie?”

Punk assed bitch!

Life is sweet – and now I’m going out in the 100 degree heat, smoke a cigarette, and try to figure out why.

The Sting

2007-07-22T19:23:00.000-06:00

The afternoon sun, a blazing ball of blinding brightness, inched its way down the azure meadow that was the sky. The thermometer in the truck claimed it was 29 degrees. The talking head on the golden oldie station that we were listening to announced that it was 30 degrees and the humidex was 63. With gas at a buck 13 nine a litre, we were cooling the truck the old fashioned way; windows down, drive like hell, don’t try to talk because the roar of the wind is too loud to hear anyway and that ain’t a bad thing when you don’t have anything to say, and hope there isn’t a cop trying to make his or her quota somewhere along the way.

The speedometer read 119, which isn’t that fast considering they were kilometers rather than miles per hour. “Puppy Love” was the song blasting from the radio. Since I was feeling a little constipated, I didn’t switch stations. I noticed that whatever the green stuff they were growing in the two endless fields that bracketed the highway seemed to be recovering from all the rain. A skinny guy, sans shirt, was jogging westward with a smile on his face. I assumed he either had gas or was living in an alternate reality.

I felt something strike me by the corner of my left eye. It felt as though someone had rammed a red hot needle in me. I bellowed a few words that, if heard, possibly soured the milk in the herd of Mennonite cows that were grazing in the field. I brushed at my face and saw a small object falling toward the floor of the truck. With my thumb and forefinger, I tweezed a stinger that was long enough to be a fencing foil from just short of my eye.

Kat looked wide eyed at me as though I had just spat out the last marble I have been holding in my mouth all these years. “Is something wrong, baby?” she asked over the roar of the wind.

“Fuck no, Kat. I always scream and swat at my head to entertain you. Are you entertained?” Okay. That isn’t what I said, but I could have been thinking it.

“I think a bee flew his little ass in here and stung me,” is pretty close to what I actually said as I handed her the damned bee harpoon.

“Are you okay?” she asked with a liberal dose of concern in her voice.

“Yes, I’m okay. Screaming is a signal that all is well in my fucking world.”

There was that little moment of hurt silence. Any man reading this knows exactly what I mean. Of course, I immediately apologized. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. Okay. I may be stupid, but not that stupid.

We pulled into the driveway and I shut off the engine. When I got out of the truck, I looked down at the floor mat. The little bastard was laying there with his legs kicking in a death throe. “Suffer, you muthafucha,” I chortled with glee. Notice that I chortled, not giggled. Buffalos do not freakin’ giggle.

Kat looked down at god’s little creation, took off her sandal and beat it to death. In fact, she pureed the poor little thing. She was muttering something about not ever stinging her baby. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they had only one sting in them and that one sting meant they were headed for wherever in the hell they go.

In the house, I sit down at the computer to see if I had in mail. I didn’t, not that I would have been able to read it. Kat was all over me checking the damage and asking me questions. Apparently, she thought the recent spider bite may have caused me to become allergic to stinging critters.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “I’m just a little light headed and my pulse is kind of elevated and I’m having a little trouble catching my breath. It will pass in a moment.”

“Oh My God. We have to get you to the emergency room,” she panicked.

“Why?” I asked.

“You may be going into anaphylactic shock. Come on!”

“I’ll be okay.”

“This isn’t one of those wait and see things. Get off your ass and in the truck.” Damn, that sounded a whole lot like unfriendly and a whole lot like authoritative.

“I was just bull shitting you. I’m fine. My pulse is slow and steady. My breathing is fine. I’m only light headed because you are near me.”

She said something in low German and it is probably a good thing because I don’t think she was calling me sweetheart.

Life is sweet – even though it is obvious Canada hates me.

See You When I See You

2007-07-08T10:46:00.001-06:00

Over the course of the last several weeks I have become increasingly dissatisfied with the quality of my writing. Rarely do I offer anything for your perusal that I am even remotely proud of writing. My words are forced, lack flavor and texture, and are discordant to my ears. Rather than flow, my words stumble and limp their way across the pages.

I don’t know why the quality has decreased so badly. Is it because there is a lack of visual stimulation? There are only so many times I can get by filling an essay with the visuals from the back porch. It could be because I think there are no more tales from my past that I’m willing to put out there for all to read. And it is possible I have simply run out of words.

Rather than continue to post pieces that shame me, I have decided to take a break. I don’t have any idea if it will be a few days or forever. Perhaps if I free myself from the self imposed obligation of producing copy for this blog, I will be able to discover if I still have words and tales left to write.

Thanks for reading. I’ll see you when I see you.

Hate the News

2007-07-05T14:56:00.000-06:00

I wish to hell I hadn’t read the news today. I ran across a news item out of Massachusetts about a sick son of a bitch who bit a chunk out the upper lip of his girlfriend’s three year old daughter. He also all bit off the child’s ear and bit her less severely over her body. The ear was so severely mangled it can’t be put right.

Do you care if he has mental problems, or “anger management control issues?” I sure as the hell don’t. It seems to me a likely end for the bastard would be to dump him in a pit with a large experienced pissed-off pit bull and then let nature takes it course. There is absolutely no profit or gain in feeding and housing a piece of crap like this guy.

I don’t know about where you are, but here in Friendly Manitoba it is a shinin’ day. The temperature is in the low 80s. The sky is either partly sunny or partly cloudy. I was sitting on the back porch watching the elm trees dance in the brisk breeze. As the passing clouds obscured the sun, the leaves would change from a shining and dazzling shade of green to almost black. The hummingbirds have returned from wherever they winter. Three of them were hovering by the now bloomless lilac bushes, their little wings flapping 90 to nothing as they tried to maintain their position. Sitting in the hedge was a wren looking for lunch or a resting place.

A seriously white young woman with frizzy blonde hair and wearing knee lengths shorts walked by on her way to the mail box. She was walking as though there was a hundred pound weight on her skinny back. On her way back, I noticed she was wearing a pair of those freakin’ butt ugly cat type plastic glasses that were popular 30 or 40 years ago. It made me shudder.

It may come as a shock to some of you, some but not all, I can be an aggravating son of a bitch without trying very hard or going out of my way at all. Kat is probably the calmest and most even tempered woman I have ever met. I have to work hard to disturb her calm. She doesn’t get perturbed with me. I may have heard her speak harshly to one person, not me, in the last year.

Today, she showed me that she does indeed have a temper, a quite expressive temper, and I’m damned happy it wasn’t directed to me. Apparently, the satellite TV provider managed to royally screw up the billing. I don’t know the how of it all and I’m smart enough not to ask any questions, at least right now.

She started out being nice. After all, she is Canadian and Canadians are the masters of nice and polite. Undoubtedly nice was not resolving the problem so she went to firm. When firm didn’t seem to communicate the situation adequately, she forgot about nice and firm and went into chew them up one side, down the other, and sweep them in the dust pan. It was a work of art. I sat here and thought, “You go, girl.” all the while being grateful I wasn’t the recipient.

We’ve been watching at a TV show called Canadian Idol. It is the Canadian version of American Idol, or vice versa. The current crop of contestants is incredibly talented. They are so talented there is virtually no way a judge could easily declare one better than another. I suppose that is why the public renders the verdicts by their votes.

Jaydee Bixby is one of the contestants. This 16 year old kid has it all going for him. He’s a helluva good looking boy with enough charisma to charm his way in and out of damn near everything. He owns the stage and can this guy ever sing. He has a voice that reminds me somewhat of Elvis’s voice before he discovered Twinkies and drugs and that he was all of that. The kid does rockabilly and he does it the way it is meant to be done. I haven’t been so impressed by a young singer since Leanne Rhymes cut her Blue album. She didn’t quite fulfill her destiny. I don’t think there is any doubt Jaydee is going to be a major talent.

The day is wearing on and so am I.

Life is sweet – maybe because I learned Kat has a temper.

4th July, 2007

2007-07-04T17:15:00.000-06:00

I’m fair to middlin’ sure Independence Day has virtually nothing to do with telephones. If you have your mouth set for a patriotic, or maybe not so patriotic, essay about independence, liberty, and the American way you are going to be disappointed. Try not to hold it against me. I don’t mean to be bad.

I have always been fascinated with telephones. The concept of picking up a piece of plastic, punching a few buttons, and then be visiting with someone in another part of the world flat boggles my dinosaur brain. It’s nothing short of magic.

When I was a yonker, which is an archaic western word meaning young’un, making a phone call was quite different than it is today. We were well passed the crank phone days but in rural America, operator assistance was necessary to place a call. We didn’t have to dial any numbers. Picking up the phone alerted the operator. She, and it always was a she, would come on the line to ask the number of whom you were calling. Generally you didn’t have to give her a number, only a name. Everyone knew everyone. I’d tell her I wanted to speak to Daddy. She knew who Daddy was and where he happened to be at that moment.

Long distance calls required time and patience. After giving the operator the name and the number, you hung up the phone and waited while the call was being routed across the country. Once the operator at the callee’s locale got them on the line, the call was routed back across country. Back in those days, an operator announcing “long distance calling” brought people on the run.

When I rented my first apartment, which was after I got out of the service, I had a phone put in every room, including the bathroom. That gave me four phones. I didn’t know anyone to call at the time but, by damn, I was ready to talk should the occasion arise. When the phone rang, I ran the few steps it took to grab the phone. For a while, it was usually either a wrong number or a phone solicitor.

Back in the day, you couldn’t own a phone. You had to lease one from the phone company. They were the only phone company in town and they damn well acted like it. You paid extra for every extension line you had too and they were know to watch the meter to catch “phone pirates.”

During the early ‘70s, after an extended period of unemployment, I went to work as a debt collector – a telephone debt collector. After a few months working the phones, my fascination with the phone waned just a bit. It was still magical, but having a phone stuck to your left ear for eight plus hours a day put a bit of a patina on the shine. I wasn’t so eager to talk on the phone during the evening. Yet, in those days before caller ID and answering machines, when it rang - I ran. You never know. It could be important. It never was, but it could have been.

I bought an answering machine in the mid ‘80s after my boss called me on Memorial Day to tell me to repossess a car for his church’s credit union. For some reason, they felt it had to be done on a holiday and he felt his down time was more valuable than mine. I didn’t agree. I was already working 90 hours a week. My disagreement didn’t stop me from going after the car. He trumped my answering machine by grafting a damned pager onto my life. I finally trumped the pager by going into business for myself. That meant I suddenly acquired a whole lot of bosses.

I quit giving my home phone number to clients when one of them called at 0400 one morning to tell me they had spotted a car we were looking for at some bar. Try being polite at that hour when you haven’t made the transition from drunk to hung-over. In case you’re wondering, I didn’t get up and go hunting.

Phones are still magic to me. My mind reels at the complexity of the system. I have, however, realized the phone is there for my convenience. If I don’t answer, it may mean I’m away or it may mean I didn’t feel like talking to a particular someone at that moment. It is virtually impossible for something so catastrophic to happen that it demands my personal and immediate attention.

Someone is in the hospital dying? Okay. I’m not a doctor. If they’re that close to death, I can assure you they will be dead by the time I get there. Someone died? I can’t bring them back to life. They’ll still be dead when I get around to calling back. Someone needs blood? Call Red Cross. I don’t do blood.

So give me a call. I might answer. Kat will definitely answer. She runs when the phone rings. She is a lot friendlier to talk to, so just call her.

I’m nearly at 900 words. The way they’re arranged isn’t funny or particularly interesting. There isn’t a moral. There isn’t a message. There surely isn’t anything about red, white, and blue. It is what it is and it ain’t a thang, that’s for sure.

It’s the 4th of July. Happy Birthday, America.

Life is sweet – sometimes because I plain and simple don’t give a rat’s ass.

What a Load

2007-07-03T19:49:00.001-06:00

It seems as though it was only yesterday, probably because it was, when I said, “Buffalo,” (I always call myself Buffalo when I’m talking to myself rather than the little voices in my head). In case you’re wondering, I was sitting at my computer whilst having this conversation. “Buffalo, this has been a damned good computer. It is a tough little bastard. You should oughta write a letter to Gateway telling them about it.”

It has been a good computer. It survived all the bumps and temperature extremes of the ride-a-bout. It’s been rained on, sunned on, dusted on, and used for a pillow once or twice. It’s been bounced and abused and taken care of in a way that would make a geek scream like an opera diva with his jewels in a vise. And it has never given me more than two cents worth of trouble.

You know what’s coming next, don’t you?

I got up this morning, fired the little dude up and it locked up tighter than … supply your own descriptor on this one. I ain’t going where I was headed. I don’t know the technical term for what was wrong with it. If you’re really curious, ask Kat. Whatever it was couldn’t be fixed with soft words, not that it heard any from me, or a swift kick – and I was sorely tempted. Kat went looking for whatever the stuff we needed is called.

Do you have any idea how freakin’ much crap I had on this poor little guy? There were thousands of pictures, reams and reams of documents, and tons of music.

Do you have any idea how long it takes to transfer all that stuff to a memory thingie, put it on another computer, and then fill the stick thing up again?

I know the answer. A long damned time.

Then I had to shove this disk into the CD drive and then sit here and watch over a year’s worth of data being ground to shreds. After that, I watched as the little dude was reborn.

I was foolish enough to think that was the end of it. All I needed to do was reload my crap and get on down the virtual highway. That wasn’t quite the way it worked. Apparently, there were a fairly significant number of programs to download before I could do what I wanted to do.

It is pretty much a rip to spend bucks on a computer and then not be able to use it until you spend more bucks buying the software that will actually make it do the things it is supposed to do. In case you’re wondering, it takes a whole lot of time to install all that crap.

So, here we are. Nigh onto 2100 hours and I’m just now up and running.

Life is sweet – but damnit to hell, I want sympathy!

I'm Back

2007-07-02T18:44:00.000-06:00

Who would have thought such a tiny little critter could put such a hurting on me? It, or them, nailed me several times on the forehead as I slept. It took a few days for the effects of the spider spit to begin to tell, but tell it did.

First came the lethargy and a general feeling of malaise. A temperature of 104 closely followed it; that would be American degrees. I sat around with a blanket wrapped around me whilst my body shivered and shuddered as though I had wandered outside in a 35 below temperature to have a smoke and then couldn’t find my way back in. I tried to pretend that I was awake and alert. The only one fooled was me and then only because I was sick.

Kat tried to cram some aspirin in me to reduce the fever. I figured raising the temperature is how your body fights off invaders. My body seemed to be fighting the good fight. I didn’t want to interfere.

Sound enough logic, I guess. It would have been sound logic if the invader had been a bug instead of spider spit. I guess the General knew only of the invasion, but hadn’t identified the invader so he was going with what he knew.

Late Saturday, the fever broke. I can’t say I felt chipper, but I sure felt a whole lot better than I had. For some reason, maybe the fever or maybe the toxin, my forehead was a solid livid swollen welt. By Sunday afternoon, the swelling started to subside and began itching like sunburn.

Now it is late on Monday. I’m a bit shy of 100% and am not about to kick. I lost seven pounds and I’m surely not going to kick about that.

Just for the record, I know when to go to the doctor. Folk have accused me of being crazy, but damned few of them have accused me of being stupid. If there had been the slightest reason to go to the doctor, I would have done so without hesitation. There was absolutely nothing a doctor could have done for me.

I knew it was a spider bite. I knew it was a nasty bitch of a spider, but not a deadly one. There aren’t any really bad spiders in this part of Manitoba. Some things in life you have to cowboy up and do what you have to do to get through.

I was not a whining patient. The only thing I wanted was to be left the hell alone. While I may whine and cry like a little girly-boy when I have a cold – damn, I hate them – when I’m sick, I don’t bother anyone for anything.

Thank you one and all for your kind, and not so kind, comments. I appreciate them.

Come into My Parlour

2007-06-29T14:39:00.000-06:00

I have always maintained a "live and let live" attitude ... except when it comes to bugs. They either stay out of my space or they die.

This would be why. Buffalo has apparently suffered a spider bite. He's been running a fever for two days now. Although he is improving, the bite area still looks raised and red, hot to the touch. Bugs must die!

It has made it nigh on impossible for him to focus enough to write anything. He is getting in a goodly number of naps and that's helping.

He, of course, refuses to see a doctor, so I am nursing him through this, best I can. Life is just one adventure after another, ain't it? More soup, baby?

He shall return soon as he's recovered.

Kat

Checkered Past

2007-06-28T10:23:00.000-06:00

I’m not sure what in the hell to rant about today. I’m not sure I have the energy to rant about anything. If I figure out exactly what I want to rant about, and I have the strength to do it, I doubt anyone will give me an iota of sympathy. That flat out ain’t right.

Bush Baby is in town to visit with friends and family. Bush Baby isn’t the name on her birth certificate. No good Mennonite would so name their child. Yes, there is a story behind it and I’m not giving it up unless the price is right. Click on the Pay Pal icon there on the right side of the window. You’ll know the price is right when I tell the dark tale.

B.B. is Kat’s first cousin. She dropped by this afternoon so she and her cuz could do the social thing and catch up with what was happening. I wisely withdrew from the field to allow them to talk about whatever they talked about. So whilst I was absent from the field, I was idly messing around with my computer. That is when I discovered that I have Internet Checkers.

That I’m a checker playing fool may come as a bit of a shock to you. It kind of conjures up visions of old farts, dressed in denim overalls, sitting all hunched over a checkerboard near a pot-bellied stove and a brass spittoon in a general store.

The second sentence was a mouthful and written without one punctuation mark ‘cept at the end. It is going to be interesting to see how Kat punctuates that one. I do things like that every once in a while. It keeps her on her toes and makes her know that not only am I thinking of her but I also need her.

I’m not much into the general store scene and it has been a while since I felt the need to wear overalls. I haven’t had a good plug of Redman to chew on for quite a spell and more’s the pity.

Checkers. My Daddy and I played about a bazillion games of checkers. We were playing before I was old enough to remember. The day I finally beat him I was damned sure I had become a man. After my Mom remarried, and I got enough over being pissed at her that I would go around her, I played checkers with her husband. I never beat him. He could spot me eight checkers and still humiliate me. You might think that makes me a bad checker player and you would be wrong for so thinking. Dad was damned good and Frank was a freakin’ genius.

It’s been a while since I played so I was kind of grinning to myself, if you remember I had removed myself from the field, as I called up the first game. We played to a draw. The second game, with a new opponent, I won easily. The rust was falling off the ol’ Buffalo.

Then I went up against someone in Germany. Did I tell you that I don’t have much liking for Germans? They’re an arrogant lot. He or she, whichever, cleaned my plow so quickly I fell off the tractor and it nearly ran over my head.

Even a blind boar finds an acorn every now and then. I pulled myself to my feet, dusted off my jeans, put my pride in my back pocket, and climbed right back up on that old Massey Ferguson.

The first game was the long one. This time they flat bitch slapped me off the tractor. It kind of reminded me of the time Captain Morgan made me his bitch just before I left KC. I was lying there in the mud, feeling all weak and dizzy and queasey. I wanted to go at it again but he, or she, left in front of a wake of cyber laughter.

No, forget it. I don’t want to hear your cackles of glee and I don’t want your fake patronizing expressions of sympathy. Okay. Maybe a little sympathy.

Life is sweet – or it will be … when I take my revenge.

I'm Out of Titles

2007-06-27T16:10:00.000-06:00

It is a sleepy lazy Wednesday afternoon in Friendly Manitoba. East of here, the sun is gifting lucky Canucks with a clear sky, and temperatures in the high 80s and low 90s. Here, there are storms building and the temperature is in the upper 40s. A couple of hours ago, we made a run to the library and to pick up some smokes. It is cool enough that all the mosquitoes are in hiding and that surely ain’t a bad thing.

Over the months I’ve been in Friendly Manitoba, I haven’t missed too many opportunities to take a potshot at the unfriendly stiff-necked Mennonites who are as thick around here as ticks on an Ozark hound in July. Every now and again, I may have taken a little literary license and exaggerated just a tad bit, but it was only a tad bit.

Although my rants may be amusing to some, including me every now and then, and they do afford me some stress relief, they are lopsided as all get out.

I met a fellow the other day, I’m not going to bother naming him because a name really doesn’t matter, who is anything but an unfriendly stiff-necked Mennonite. I’m not saying he isn’t a Mennonite; just that he isn’t unfriendly and stiff-necked.

He is a tall slender fellow, not a bad looking guy if you’re into guys and I’m not, with short graying hair, an engaging smile, and well modulated voice with more than a touch of Canadian in his speech. He was wearing slacks and one of those pullover shirts that often have an alligator above the pocket only this one didn’t.

We sat out on the back porch and visited as kamikaze mosquitoes hurled themselves against the screen in vain attempts to reach the tempting targets of opportunity they thought us to be. They managed to dent the screen but were unable to bull their way past it.

There weren’t any world problems solved even though we discussed politics. Since neither of us has a stake in the politics of the other’s country, there was no need for passions to be aroused and there weren’t. We talked of farm work and how he still likes enjoys it and how I’d rather go back to Nam for two more tours than pick up one bale of hay.

We didn’t talk about religion. Instead, we talked about morality, honor, respect, and dealing fairly with others. His hard working farmer parents have to be proud of the son they reared and the values they helped him learn. I’m safe in saying that he is helping his children learn those same values and that is a good thing. I’m certain that sealing a contract with him by shaking hands is a stronger seal than a signature on a piece of paper.

The world really is full of good people. They aren’t confined to one place, one philosophy, one political party, or one way of life. It’s unfortunate that, when we look around, we too often see only the other kind of folk and they really are a minority.

Life is sweet – when you can spend some time with a person of honor.

Destiny

2007-06-26T12:06:00.000-06:00

Destiny’s Master;

Maybe not so much.

The road behind

Is long,

The road ahead

Not so long.

The light,

With a pall of gray;

The darkness,

With a light dimming.

Laughter,

With a tear.

Sorrow,

With a smile.

Possibilities,

There are a few.

Possibilities,

Not so many.

Destiny’s Master?

Yes.

Storms Never Last

2007-06-25T14:42:00.000-06:00

A breeze from the south lacks the strength to stir the sodden, tall enough to bale, grass. A lone bird’s plaintive attempt to sing sounds more like a gargle than an aria. Unbroken armies of clouds, slowly building into towering thunderheads, march across the sky. Except for the too often, ear splitting, roar of the defective muffler on a car driven by a testosterone charged idiot who deludes himself into believing the cacophony is the sound of a super-charged engine, it is unnaturally quiet. It is almost as though the world is holding its breath.

A year ago May, we were camping at a KOA campground in Hot Springs, Arkansaw. In case you’re wondering, Arkansas is spelled phonetically on the off chance a reader is from the pronunciation challenged State of Kansas. They can’t seem to pronounce the word any more properly than I can pronounce aluminum. But I digress. We were sleeping soundly in our Cabelo’s tent when up came one hell of a storm. The rain came down in washtubs and the wind was clocked at 75 mph. A right fair storm it was.

I would have slept right through it had not Kat started poking me in the back. She has a right sharp finger. Apparently, she had some concern the tent, and the two of us, were in imminent danger of being blown into a nearby crick. I listened to the wind for a moment and told her to go back to sleep. With my fat butt weighing down the tent, we weren’t going anywhere and, of course, I was correct. The tent survived the storm quite well.

At the time, actually the next morning when I was awake enough to think about it, I figured her jitters were caused by a lack of familiarity with tent sleeping. Well, maybe not so much. The last few days she has been as nervous as a kitty in a room full of rocking chairs. When the last gully washer hit about 0330, we were suddenly a whole lot closer than conjoined twins. It kind of reminded me of a very old joke – “How do you separate the men from the boys in Laguna Beach?” “With a crow bar.” I think it would have taken more than a crowbar to loosen her from my back last night. Maybe some C 4 would have done the trick.

George M. Cohen wrote a number entitled “Yankee Doodle Dandy” for one of his many Broadway productions. I have never seen it performed on stage, but I have watched the incredibly talented James Cagney perform it in the movie, “The George M. Cohen Story.” It’s one of my all time favorite movies. Until the other night, I had never seen it performed by a Canadian wearing my black fedora, a smile, and carrying a cane. It was one hell of a performance and that is all I’m going to say about it, which is probably more than I should have said – but what the hell.

Life is sweet – if you’re wondering why, reread the last paragraph.

Summertime

2007-06-21T14:03:00.000-06:00

A lot of days were like today when I was a kid: hot, humid, a blue sky dotted with fat clouds that meant nothing at all, and nary a breeze stirring. Maybe they weren’t humid. I was too young to know how to pronounce humid, let alone what it meant. Summers were often dry dusty affairs so it could have been arid as easily as it could have been humid and I did know how to pronounce it.

Those were poor days. No one seemed to have much money to spare and those who did pretty much kept it to themselves. Back then, folk kept a lot of things to themselves and I’m not sure it was a bad thing. There were a few things we had in abundance. Things like sandburs, grasshoppers, seemingly endless days and a never-ending series of adventures to fill the hours of those endless days. If we ran short of imagination, Mom was always close at hand to help us. I can assure you her help was unwanted and not appreciated in the least. So little appreciated we quickly learned to keep moments of boredom a closely guarded secret.

I remember one hot summer day a small group of buddies and I were playing army on a vacant lot strategically placed and situated for our maneuvers. As we were marching back and forth with our stick rifles on our shoulders and helmet liners on our heads, Mrs. Post, the third grade teacher, passed by and stopped to watch. She was almost ancient. Ancient meant anyone who had made it past his or her early 20s. The age thing didn’t include parents. Parents were in a classification where age and looks wouldn’t exist for a few more years. She seemed a rather dour individual; stocky and always dressed in nondescript personality-washing gray. At least, that is the way I remember her.

She watched us for a while and then remarked, “That is good, boys. It is good that you practice. Someday, you will have to go fight for your country and you will be ready.”

Odd how that chance remark from a teacher I can barely remember has stuck with me all these years. She was right, you know – at least the part about being called upon to fight at our country’s behest. I wish I could remember my buddies’ names from that day so I could see how many of them made it to Vietnam and how many of them came home to resume their lives.

That was the summer I went into the Kool-Aid business and sold the Grit. If I wanted to be truthful, I would say that Mom and I went into the Kool-Aid business. She supplied the beverage as well as made it. She helped me build the stand. I inherited Dad’s building and mechanical talent, which means I inherited the ability to screw things up more quickly than the law should allow. Mom is the one who came up with a pair of white pants, ironed the white shirt, and made me a white pillbox soda-jerk type hat.

We set the stand up across from the drugstore. I doubt they felt much of a drop in business when I started pushing Kool at three cents a shot. In case you’re wondering, back then a proper drug store included a proper soda fountain and a proper soda fountain was a wonder to behold and experience. The stand didn’t last long. It was too damned boring and no one is going to retire young at three cents a shot in small town America.

Life is sweet – and those memories are one of the reasons.

Picture

2007-06-20T13:46:00.000-06:00

Picture, if you will, an almost summer morning after a middle of the night, torrential rainstorm. Listen, if you will, to the joyful sound of songbirds singing a song of life. Hear, if you can, the whoosh of a semi speeding over the still damp surface of a not far away highway. Look up, if you will see, at the tops of the trees swaying before a westerly wind as puffy white clouds drift silently across an azure sky. Witness, if you will, a bearded man sitting on a porch, before a computer resting atop a round, glass-topped table. A cigarette, smoke spiraling where it will, sits on the lip of a green butt-filled metal ashtray. There is a black mug with a few swallows of now tepid coffee to the right of the computer.

You have just stepped through the door that opens onto Buffalo’s path.

Over the years, circumstance has often forced me to adjust my life to conform to the ebbs and flows of the so-called normal world. For some reason I can’t begin to fathom, the normal world, the business world, believes maximum productivity can be achieved only during the time when the sun is at least trying to shine. My body tells me they are sadly mistaken in their belief. The early bird may get the worm, but I have never been able to cultivate a taste for worms.

An immense raven just landed on the top of a tall poplar tree that lives across the back lane. I’m reasonably sure it is the same damn raven that decided last year, while we were at the Grand Canyon, to dedicate his life to aggravating the hell out of me. He has been following us every since.

Given the choice, and I have been of late, I will start my day somewhere around noonish. Roughly translated that means I go to bed somewhere around 0200 or 0300. That doesn’t mean I’m sleeping nine or ten hours a day. It would be lovely were that true. The day, by the way, starts when I am awake and alert enough to carry on a conversation without restraining myself from choking the crap out of whoever initiates a conversation before its time.

There are many things I don’t want to hear while I am trying to converse with, that means having social interaction with, Morpheus. The list includes, but certainly isn’t limited to, noisy birds, lawn mowers, chain saws, weed eaters, leaf blowers, vehicles with loud engines, screaming children, assholes that honk their horns, knocks at the door, and the cacophony of a telephone.

Though renowned far and wide for my sweet disposition and genteel deportment, there are times when I do become sorely vexed by a particularly egregious incursion into my personal space. For the purpose of clarity, I define my personal space as the range in which I am capable of hearing, seeing, feeling, or smelling. Whatever lies beyond those boundaries is none of my business. Depending on the severity of my vexation, it is extremely possible that I may react with less decorum than is socially acceptable.

In another time and place, I had the misfortune to live in a city that contained no less than three major bible colleges. About 0900, one disgustingly bright and shining summer morning, a pounding at the door awakened me. It wasn’t your normal salesman rap. It was cop rap. You know what I mean. Three hard whaps with the bottom of a fist. I pulled on my Levi’s and staggered to the door. My hair was standing straight up and twisted into shapes and patterns that would make an abstract artist proud. The red in my eyes resembled a map of rural Arkansas roads. I threw open the door.

Standing there, on my damn porch at 0900 on a freakin’ Saturday morning, was an ever so neatly dressed young couple with a bible in their hands and a Colgate smile on their faces. Sitting just down the street was a yellow school bus, not one of those short ones either. Standing on doorsteps, walking down the sidewalks, were hordes of the shining-faced pure-hearted invaders.

I drew in a deep breath of air, opened my mouth widely, and roared, “What the fuck do you want?” The fetid foul green fog that emanated from my maw enveloped them. Wrinkles appeared on their unlined faces. The Colgate smile dissolved and they ran – never more to return.

Nothing should happen before its time and the time for me to awaken is when I decide that I’m finished sleeping. That is probably why Kat doesn’t allow me to answer the phone when in rings at an inadvisable time. She doesn’t consider “This had better be fucking important,” the appropriate manner in which to answer the phone. She has a lot to learn.

Now the sun has advanced a few degrees further along its journey to wherever in the hell it is going. If I weren’t a flat earther, I would have figured out how to mention the passage of time by the movement of the earth since mistaken science tells us the sun doesn’t move.

During a part of aforementioned few degrees advancement of the sun, Kat came out carrying the phone and telling me I would never guess who was on the phone. She was correct. I could have guessed until the trumpet of the lamb sounded and time was no more without ever guessing correctly. That isn’t quite true. If she had made me guess, I would have called out two or three names and then told her what to do with the guessing game.

Turns out it was Steve, who goes by Whitesnake in the blog world, and his long-suffering wife, Shaz. An enjoyable visit it was. He’s one of the good guys. For an Aussie, he speaks English well enough to be understood and has an excellent sense of humor once you get passed the kangaroo slang that begs definition. How in the hell was I supposed to know the term “fanny” denoted a woman’s tender bits? You may wonder how that particular item came up in the conversation. Feel free to wonder while I continue to sit on my fanny, which is an entirely different part of anatomy than it is down there where it is winter instead of summer as it should properly be.

Life is sweet – an unexpected call from a mate made it so.

It was a Dark and Stormy Night

2007-06-19T13:34:00.000-06:00

It was a dark and stormy night. The lightening flashed and the thunder roared. Trees assailed by a fierce south wind swayed to and fro as though trying to break loose from their roots so they could flee. Rain fell from the black sky in torrents. I lay upon my comfortless bier; arms folded across my chest, and began to sing my death chant.

The faceless black-cloaked boatman ignored my song and poled on by to give transport to another; one perhaps more worthy and deserving of the sweet solace of eternal nothingness. Death is often unfair.

Today is much like yesterday. The sun quietly rose from behind the eastern horizon to find the sky still obscured by angry clouds eager to make certain that any darkening of skin in Manitoba is the result of rust, not the rays of the sun. From beneath the thick layer of rich fertile loam come the pitiful cries of drowning ants and earthworms. Mushrooms are growing on the carpet of needles that lay beneath the branches of the spruce trees.

I get the idea that Canada didn’t have the Indian Wars, the concept of manifest destiny that was so prevalent in 19th century America. The Canadians bought much of the land from the aboriginal, as they call the original inhabitants of the land up here, and they were eager to sell. I can believe that. The four seasons appear to be different, one from the other, but they have great commonality. As far as I can tell, they all suck.

Somehow or another, we were able to sleep in this morning. It was damned near noon when I managed to unglue my eyes and order the various necessary body parts to begin functioning well enough to catapult me into another adventure. After my nicotine and caffeine levels had been elevated from the red zone to the green zone, thus making it safe to talk to me, Kat asked if I was hungry. I admitted that I was feeling maybe a tad bit gaunt. After we decided on sandwiches, she disappeared off to the kitchen and soon there were all the noises that accompany food preparation. You know; pots rattling, things being chopped, cabinet doors opening and closing.

Those aren’t the sounds of sandwiches being made. Sandwiches are quiet little things. You grab the bread, slop mayo on one of the slices, slap something more substantial on it, and then toss the other slice of bread on top of it. Voila! That is a sandwich. Apparently not.

I have a stat counter thingie embedded in my blog. It isn’t all that much, but I do get a kick out of reading the searches that bring people, no matter how briefly, to my house. “Bullhead clap” seems to be the most common search term. Apparently it is a subject of some curiosity or concern. Every now and again, there will be a query that makes me say, “What da fu …” There are some truly strange and wondrous folk in this world. It is kind of scary. What boggles my mind is how in the hell did some of those searches lead them to my door? I know I haven’t written anything that resembles what they’re asking about.

This one crossed my portal yesterday. It is jaw dropping only in its construction; it does make me wonder what was going on in this particular searcher’s mind.

“she beautiful hair go everywhere dogs lives alone my stomach hurts then she would know so strong”

Life is sweet – I suppose because I had laryngitis and the boatman couldn’t hear my death song.