Tracy Farr

Got to move it, move it!

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 13:04:00 +0000

Ah, the place looks a bit dusty.

Unlived in, if you ask me.

Time to clean up, pack up, head out of town to a new life, a new way of living.

But what to do with all the junk?

Burn it?

Sell it?

Leave it where it is and let nature take its course?

Yes! Leave it for the birdies and racoons and vultures and little wormies to feast on.

Simple, easy and I don't have to hurt my back with a lot of heavy lifting.

Friends, I'm moving to a new site. A new focus. A new way of sharing what I can create.

I'll have a housewarming on June 1, 2012 at The Farr Place.

That's when all the action begins.

Nothing much there now except a newly-poured foundation and some planted grass, but it won't stay like that for long.

The Farr Place

I hope you like it.

That's not our job

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 02:37:00 +0000

It's "testing" season in Texas, again. It's a shame because there are so many more important subjects we could be discussing with our students.

(I'm starting a new project this summer. Opening date is June 1. It's about cartoons, just like this one. I'll tell you more later.)

Just Thinking Outloud

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 07:05:00 +0000

Just Thinking Outloud

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 07:03:00 +0000

Happy World Nutella Day!

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 22:20:00 +0000

Just Thinking Outloud

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 16:48:00 +0000

Lessons I've Learned from my Brother

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 07:20:00 +0000

Today is my brother’s birthday. His name is Scott. We grew up together in the suburbs of Dallas, and like most brothers, we didn't always see eye to eye – actually, we’ve NEVER seen eye to eye because he’s quite a bit taller than me. But that’s neither here nor there. We didn’t get along and it was mostly my fault. I didn’t realize it then, but I do now.

My brother and I, although raised by the same parents, are as different as night and day. I went to college, and he got a job. He joined the Army, and I enlisted in the Air Force. He plays the drums, I play the banjo. He knows how to fix a car and make it run like new. I know that if I step on the little pedal thing, it will go.

Over the years I've learned a lot from my brother – some of it amazing, some of it painful. I learned that it’s best that we don’t talk about religion or politics. I learned that just because I have an opinion doesn’t mean it was given to me by God. I learned that a 6-foot tall younger brother can slam a 5-foot 7-inch older brother into the ground and actually have fun doing it.

I’ve learned a lot of other lessons from my brother, such as the following:

Just because I'm older, doesn't mean I'm smarter. It just means I’m more likely to lose my hearing, hair and teeth before he does.

I am not the center of the universe. The heavens, planets and stars do not rotate around me. My goats may think I’m important, but that’s because I feed them and they don’t know any better.

I am not always "right," and my brother is not always "wrong." And most of the times when I think I’m right, it’s really not worth the fuss.

Never embarrass your brother in front of his girlfriend, unless you're ready to have the wind knocked out of you.

Saying "I’m sorry" does not always fix the problem. It’s best to say I’m sorry while the girlfriend is still around to hear it, but even that’s no guarantee you won’t get hit again.

Sarcasm works for Don Rickles. I am not Don Rickles.

Having a college degree does not ensure intelligence. Believing it does is certain proof of the contrary.

Studying music in college doesn’t make you a musician. The love of playing music makes you a musician. Beyond that, nothing else matters.

Sometimes it’s best to not talk about who’s more qualified to be president. It’s much better to talk about hunting, cooking, camping, fishing, NASCAR and the Dallas Cowboys (and sometimes, not even the Cowboys).

Going deer hunting alone and shooting your first buck is not near as much fun as hunting with your brother and shooting nothing.

Buying new things and watching them grow old can be depressing. Buying old things and making them like new again – now that’s something that can really lift the spirits.

Reading a book is a poor excuse for shutting yourself up in your room and not socializing with relatives who have come to visit. The books will always wait for you – the relatives won’t.

God should have elaborated more when he said, "Love thy neighbor as yourself." He should have included brothers.

I learn something new each and every day from my brother because he’s a good teacher. Some of his lessons are easy to grasp. Some have to be pounded into me year after year. And even though I know I’m not the best of students, at least I’m trying. I just hope to learn all my lessons before the final bell rings.

Just Thinking Outloud

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 16:37:00 +0000

Pine Cones and Flame

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 01:35:00 +0000

The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled. -- Plutarch

Moon and Fire

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 14:44:00 +0000

Happy New Year

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 08:10:00 +0000

With the beginning of a new year, it's time for me to go in search of something new, something different. Time to burn down the old, to make room for a better me.

I'm sure we'll meet again somewhere down the trail, but for now, I'm gone a roaming.

Mistaken Identity

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 08:57:00 +0000

People today. It's so hard to tell who's who, what's what, where are you going, and how ya' going to get there.

But then again, it's always been that way.

Mistaken Identity

By Tracy Farr

Sometimes I'm not so sure
If she's a him, or he's a her.

My Five Shopping 'Rules of Engagement'

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 15:07:00 +0000

Christmas is just days away, and that means it’s time to brave the wild indoor shopping centers with the hope of getting some serious Christmas shopping done without being crushed to death in Aisle No. 9 during a Blue Light Special. But do you think I’m worried? Nosirree! I’ve got a plan, and as long as I stick to it, I will not die!

My plan is to do all my shopping on Christmas Eve, hitting the stores with military-like precision: attack, attack, attack, take no prisoners, and don’t charge anything until you see the whites of their eyes.

In my opinion, the best time for shopping maneuvers at the local Mega Store is at 11 p.m., when there are only four people in the building – me, Barbara at the cash register, and the two stock boys in the back who always seem to be asleep. At any other time, those two would follow me around, making me “hit the dirt” every time they lob a bag of potato chips or toilet paper over my head. But, even that’s preferable to being surrounded by a horde of mothers, their screaming children and Zombie-like Husbands.

BEWARE: Zombie Men are everywhere! They gather at supermarkets and malls this time of year, and, given half a chance, they will suck the life right out of you.

Zombie Men are easy to spot: They hunch over their shopping carts, their eyes downcast to avoid eye contact with strangers. Their feet shuffle as they walk, and if you listen closely, you can hear them mumble things like, “Yes dear,” “Whatever you say, dear,” “I don’t give a rip, dear,” and “I mean, they look fresh to me, dear.”

Zombie Men used to be regular guys. They went to the feed store, tore engines apart for fun, they always had venison in the freezer. But somewhere along the way, they started pushing shopping carts for their wives – wives who are always agitated, jittery, looking for the best bargain, picking up this can of soup, comparing it with that can of soup, finally putting both cans of soup in the cart, telling her Zombie Husband to speed up, slow down, grab that box of cake mix, “No! Not that one! The store brand because it's cheaper.”

“Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear.”

Sometimes the Zombie Men accidentally look up. That’s when I see in their faces a wish for me to put a bullet right between their eyes, just to end their suffering. But I have to look away. There is nothing I can do for them. When I go shopping, I leave my pistol at home.

So, to make sure that I never have to endure crowds, bargain-hunting wives, yelling children, and Zombie Men, I adhere to the following Five Christmas Shopping “Rules of Engagement.” If you can benefit from it, fine. If not, don’t blame me:

1. Make a list of items you need to procure (military term that means “acquire”). Do not leave your Fort without a list. To do so, and be stuck trying to decide between the George Forman Grill or a baby Rat Terrier, would mean certain “death by indecision.”

2. Before you make your list, scout out (another military term that means “reconnoiter”) what size your honey wears, because to buy a 20 when she really needs a 10 means certain “death by fuming.”

3. With list in hand, attack at dawn, or as soon as the front door is open. If the store is having a “50 Percent Off Everything Starting at Dawn” sale, then Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!.

4. Once safely inside the store, quickly commandeer a cart. If someone else is using it at the time – well, spoils of war. With acquired cart, head to the ADM (Area of Desired Merchandise), probe the area, acquire your target, lock and load your cart, then head to the extraction zone (somewhere around Cashier No. 4) making no contact with the general population.

5. The only time you can breathe a sigh of relief is when you are safely out of the Combat Zone and back at your Fort. Count your acquisitions (a military word for “booty” which is a pirate word for “loot”), then conceal it under the bed or some other safe place that nobody would dare clean for fear of “death by dust.”

That my friends is the key to safe holiday shopping. I wish you the best of luck, and if you remember to follow these rules, you WILL survive!

Harvesting Cats

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 08:26:00 +0000

I just so happened to be thinking about cats and "hyperbole" the other day, but couldn't quite remember what hyperbole was. So, I searched deep into Wikipedia and discovered "hyperbole" is a fantastical exaggeration that has nothing to do with cats, except for the following example:

"It was raining cats and dogs."

Another example which DOESN'T include cats would be: "She weighed a ton," unless of course we're talking about your mamma, then she probably does.

Now, if we apply hyperbole and light verse to cats, we might come up with something like:

Harvesting Cats

By Tracy Farr

"I harvest my cats from a cat-bearing tree"
Is a feline example of hyfurballe.

Just thinking outloud

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 08:27:00 +0000

She said, He said

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 08:18:00 +0000

Upon My Death

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 08:20:00 +0000

Using light verse to talk about death seems so wildly inappropriate -- but what do I care?

Upon My Death

By Tracy Farr

Skip the prayers,
Skip the songs,
Drink a pint,
Then move along.

Just thinking outloud

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 08:24:00 +0000

People Are

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 18:20:00 +0000

"Serious" poets always come up with "serious" poems that show just how deep their thinking can be. As you will see by my attempt at seriousfulness (new word I just came up with), as you will see, I'm not much deeper than a deep pan pizza.

People Are

By Tracy Farr

People are starving
while others are carving
their Thanksgiving turkey or holiday ham.

People are dying
while others are crying
'bout missing the biggest tax sale in the land.

People are hurting
while others are blurting
out promises, promises, they'll never keep.

People are lonely
while others are only
just bored 'cause there's nothing to watch on TV.

People, people,
millions of people,
watching and waiting to see a new day.

People, people,
billions of people,
living their lives come what may.

She said, He said

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 08:13:00 +0000

If Cows Had Wings

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 08:14:00 +0000

I've seen a lot of lonely cows in my time and thought each and every one of them could probably use a pick-me-up.

If Cows Had Wings

By Tracy Farr

If cows had wings
Instead of those udder things,
They'd stop their mooing
And all go flewing.

Just thinking outloud

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 09:01:00 +0000

Canine Companionship

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 08:30:00 +0000

I've been reading some poetry by Ogden Nash and really like the way he sometimes didn't write in a strict meter. So, I thought I'd give it a try:

Canine Companionship

By Tracy Farr

They say a man's best friend is a little bitty doggy
that chases him, pees on the floor, licks the newspaper until it's downright soggy,
where you can't read the obits, the comics or even the sports
which would put me dearly, not merely, but quite clearly out of sorts.

A dog requires a leash, a collar, a bone, a house of his own, and a ball,
and to be walked halfway around the planet, but the gall of it all
is that he demands to be rubbed every night on his tummy;
which to me, if he's supposed to be my best friend,
                        sounds a little bit too chummy.

I had a best friend once, and he never slobbered on me (that I knew),
and if I had tried to put a collar on him, and walk him, he'd beat me
                       until I was entirely black and blue.
He never begged for special treats or chased cars that were just passing by,
and he never barked at little old ladies, or young ones -- he was kind of shy.

No, a dog is not my best friend, and never will one be.
I'd rather have a goat or two, maybe a llama, a ferret, a hamster,
                or some fish from down under the sea.
A raccoon would be fun to have, or maybe a vampire bat.
But I'll never befriend a dog, or for that matter ... a stinkin' cat.

She said, He said

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 08:48:00 +0000

My Doctor's Bedside Financial Management Plan

noreply@blogger.com (Tracy Farr) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 08:05:00 +0000

Back in the old days, if you paid your doctor with a chicken he'd be mighty grateful.

Today, you'd be plucked by the repo man.

My Doctor's Bedside Financial Management Plan

By Tracy Farr

The end of a doctor's hospitality
Begins the moment you don't pay his fee.