Don't Do It This Way

Chieftain Singers New York Trip

2006-02-07T09:06:00.000-06:00

I am working on the schedule and virtual tour for the Chieftain Singers New York trip. I think I will have it online by Tuesday 02/07 9:00 pm. Check back then.

In the meantime, download Google Earth. it's cool. It's fun. AND it's educational. Besides, you'll need it to view the virtual tour when I get it done.

Cool Blog: PostSecret

2005-06-21T13:25:00.000-05:00

A person can waste a lot of time looking at the PostSecret blog. In the words of the site, PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where people mail-in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard.

No matter how contrived you try to believe the postcards are, it obvious that some are the real deal. It's an experience. Check it out.

Sojourning: games adults play

2005-06-21T09:31:00.000-05:00

This poem is typical of my poetry. It does not rhyme. It has no capitals nor punctuation. It has multiple meanings.

I do not usually rhyme my poetry because I love the natural rhythms of the English language; besides, I’m not a good enough poet to rhyme my phrases and still have them read well. (Robert Frost and Edgar Allen Poe are incredible at this, by the way.)

I do not use capitals nor punctuation, because I like the way it forces the reader to slow down while reading the poem. Each word must be evaluated for its relationship to the other words. Another of my favorite poets, ee cummings, taught me that trick.

As for multiple meanings, here’s a hint: I have written a good bit of my poetry just trying to get a date. For example, this poem was sent to a young woman with this footnote ‘P.S. If you want to be kissed, no games are necessary. Just ask.’ There, the truth is out, except that is not really the whole truth at all. Ooh, multiple meanings again! I’d say more, but I’m already baring my soul here.

games adults play

today
my daughter wanted
love
yet she chose a very
strange way
of asking for it
she told me
she did not want to be
kissed

a ploy
intended to increase
my affections
so unlike the childlike way
of freely asking
and freely giving
love
she must be getting
older

Mark Hamby
June 1994

Sojourning: untitled

2005-06-21T09:28:00.000-05:00

I am constantly astounded by how much of a romantic I am. It kind of sickens me, honestly. But I have to admit that ten years after writing this poem, I still believe every word of it.

Or I was just trying to get a date. I don’t remember.

beauty
will ever astound me
the simple delicacy of wildflowers
the ardent glow of sunsets
the playful innocence of children

when
in the presence of beauty
my eyes no longer behold
my heart no longer quickens
my body no longer pauses

then
it will be time
to die

Mark Hamby
October 1994

Application To Date My Daughter

2005-06-20T16:58:00.000-05:00

The following “Eight Simple Rules” and “Application” were not written by me; but now that my daughter is sixteen, I plan on handing them out to all prospective suitors.
-- Mark

W. Bruce Cameron's
Eight Simple Rules for Dating My Daughter
Copyright 1998 W. Bruce Cameron

When I was in high school I used to be terrified of my girlfriend's father, who I believe suspected me of wanting to place my hands on his daughter's chest. He would open the door and immediately affect a good-naturedly murderous expression, holding out a handshake that, when gripped, felt like it could squeeze carbon into diamonds.

Now, years later, it is my turn to be the dad. Remembering how unfairly persecuted I felt when I would pick up my dates, I do my best to make my daughter's suitors feel even worse. My motto: wilt them in the living room and they'll stay wilted all night.

"So," I'll call out jovially. "I see you have your nose pierced. Is that because you're stupid, or did you merely want to APPEAR stupid?"

As a dad, I have some basic rules, which I have carved into two stone tablets that I have on display in my living room.

RULE ONE: If you pull into my driveway and honk you'd better be delivering a package, because you're sure not picking anything up.

RULE TWO: You do not touch my daughter in front of me. You may glance at her, so long as you do not peer at anything below her neck. If you cannot keep your eyes or hands off of my daughter's body, I will remove them.

RULE THREE: I am aware that it is considered fashionable for boys of your age to wear their trousers so loosely that they appear to be falling off their hips. Please don't take this as an insult, but you and all of your friends are complete idiots. Still, I want to be fair and open minded about this issue, so I propose this compromise: You may come to the door with your underwear showing and your pants ten sizes too big, and I will not object. However, in order to assure that your clothes do not, in fact, come off during the course of your date with my daughter, I will take my electric staple gun and fasten your trousers securely in place around your waist.

RULE FOUR: I'm sure you've been told that in today's world, sex without utilizing a "barrier method" of some kind can kill you. Let me elaborate: when it comes to sex, I am the barrier, and I WILL kill you.

RULE FIVE: In order for us to get to know each other, we should talk about sports, politics, and other issues of the day. Please do not do this. The only information I require from you is an indication of when you expect to have my daughter safely back at my house, and the only word I need from you on this subject is "early."

RULE SIX: I have no doubt you are a popular fellow, with many opportunities to date other girls. This is fine with me as long as it is okay with my daughter. Otherwise, once you have gone out with my little girl, you will continue to date no one but her until she is finished with you. If you make her cry, I will make YOU cry.

RULE SEVEN: As you stand in my front hallway, waiting for my daughter to appear, and more than an hour goes by, do not sigh and fidget. If you want to be on time for the movie, you should not be dating. My daughter is putting on her makeup, a process which can take longer than painting the Golden Gate Bridge. Instead of just standing there, why don't you do something useful, like changing the oil in my car?

RULE EIGHT: The following places are not appropriate for a date with my daughter: Places where there are beds, sofas, or anything softer than a wooden stool. Places lacking parents, policemen, or nuns. Places where there is darkness. Places where there is dancing, holding hands, or happiness. Places where the ambient temperature is warm enough to induce my daughter to wear shorts, tank tops, midriff T-shirts, or anything other than overalls, a sweater, and a goose down parka zipped up to her chin. Movies with a strong romantic or sexual theme are to be avoided; movies which feature chainsaws are okay. Hockey games are okay.

My daughter claims it embarrasses her to come downstairs and find me attempting to get her date to recite these eight simple rules from memory. I'd be embarrassed too--there are only eight of them, for crying out loud! And, for the record, I did NOT suggest to one of these cretins that I'd have these rules tattooed on his arm if he couldn't remember them. (I checked into it and the cost is prohibitive.) I merely told him that I thought writing the rules on his arm with a ball point might be inadequate--ink washes off--and that my wood burning set was probably a better alternative.

One time, when my wife caught me having one of my daughter's would-be suitors practice pulling into the driveway, get out of the car, and go up to knock on the front door (he had violated rule number one, so I figured he needed to run through the drill a few dozen times) she asked me why I was being so hard on the boy. "Don't you remember being that age?" she challenged.

Of course I remember. Why do you think I came up with the eight simple rules?

Available Nights and Weekends

2005-06-20T14:01:00.000-05:00

Ladies, I'm available most nights and weekends for personal entertainment. Reasonable rates (I'm cheap!) and satisfaction guaranteed. (Well, I'll do my best!)

I'm posting pictures of me. Why, you ask? Just in case some super-model happens to be surfing past my blog and thinks, "Damn, that's a really good-looking hunk of a man!" Yeah, not bloody likely. Still, you never know...

Okay, after a second look, I've decided that there is no way any super-model is going to immediately start emailing me for a date...

... It might take a day or two before she realizes that, while at first glance I'm a bit respulsive, I've got a certain boyish charm that she just can't forget.

If you are a super-model and you've made it this far, remember: my email address is mhamby@yahoo.com.

Hello? ... Anybody? ... You don't even have to be a super-model; just a normal really-good-looking-model would be just fine. ... Hello? ... *sigh*

Receive emails of my blog postings.

2005-06-12T22:55:00.000-05:00

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Sojourning: Truth and Hope

2005-06-12T22:18:00.000-05:00

I wrote this poem in April 1992. At the time, my children, Adam and Melissa, were living with their mother 800 miles away. My ex-wife was very insecure about my children’s love for me. She told them things about me that were…um, less than true. (I’m attempting to be diplomatic here, since she and I get along relatively well now.)

I made a decision then to never say negative things to my kids about their mother, nor even contradict the negative things she said. I lived with a horrible fear that my children, so far from me, would be turned against me; but I resolved to live in truth and hope for the best.

My hope in the truth was rewarded. My children came to recognize and learn the truth from both myself and their mother. To my surprise, their mother called me this year to sincerely apologize for some of her actions during that turbulent time, an apology for which I am enormously grateful and humbled.

The poem gained a second significance for me when my second wife left me, and I was powerless to stop it. Again I lost my children, my step-children this time. Again I am resolved to be true to myself and hope that my step-children know the love and sacrifice I gave to them. I love them like my own.

Of all my peotry, this one hangs in large print on my refrigerator; it is that important to me. I read it almost every day.

Truth and Hope

One day
my children will know
the truth.

One day
my children will know
my love.

I will not tell them
yet they will know.
The truth from their hearts
will grow
as my love for them
shows.

Lies can not last;
truth is everlasting.
Hate can not conquer;
love will conquer all.

If this is not so,
then I am a fool.
Destroy me now
for I no longer desire
to live.

Mark Hamby
April 1992

Sojourning: My Songs of Love and Loss

2005-06-12T21:10:00.000-05:00

Ten years ago, I compiled a small collection of poetry I had written over the years. I called it "Sojourning". Most of those poems were the voice of my heart working through both new love and lost love. Many were written in the two years after my first divorce.

I pulled that little book of my poetry out last month and read through them again. Strangely enough, I could have written many of them this year. My heart, it seems, gets yet another chance to work through the grief of lost love.

In an exhibitionistic moment, I have decided to “publish” my poems from "Sojourning” on this blog. I think I’ll add a little commentary as well. I am not posting the poems in the order they are in the book (for those of you who have read it). Not that it matters much, I guess.

For those of you who only know my outspoken, joking, "manly" side, you may be a little shocked that I write poetry. I'm a bit shocked myself. But I love the English language, and I do have a minor degree in English, after all. And though I hate to admit it, I'm a sucker for romance.

So go ahead, read my poetry, and comment them if you’d like. Good or bad, I’d like to hear what you think.

Mark

Old Story Retold: Bats In My...Bedroom?

2005-06-12T10:16:00.000-05:00

(Originally from 7/19/2004)

Okay, I know not a lot has happened in my bedroom lately; but really, it's hardly a crypt or anything.

I walked into my bedroom tonight carrying my usually pre-bedtime bundle of book, low-carb ice cream, and a cup of tea. (My blanket was taken from me when I was much too young.) As I reach for the light, I see this "thing" fly in front of my face.

"Holy crap!" I think, "That has gotto be the biggest moth I have ever seen in my life." As I am ducking, it flys by again. "That's a.... No, it can't be. Yes, it is. It's a bat!"

The little guy was circling round and round my bedroom. He didn't want to fly out the door. (I can't blame him. I'm not to pretty a sight in my underwear, trust me.) He was so cute, about 2 inches long and 3-4 inches wide. I just wanted to catch him and...

Wouldn't be cool to own a bat for a pet? I mean if you could train them to land on your finger like a parakeet? And you could do some living room "falconeering" but with horseflies and your bat. Speaking of flies, I bet you could throw out your plastic swatters. Little Vampie would take care of them. But I digress.

I have not idea how the fella got in my bedroom. I mean, my house is not exactly air tight. I've had flies and bugs in there occasionally, but a bat? That's a first.

So I opened a window and let the little guy out. I'm going to miss him. I know our time was short (about 3 minutes to be exact). But I kind of liked him circling round and round and round. But maybe that's because I'm a little batty myself.

Old Story Retold: Mood Ring

2005-06-12T09:46:00.000-05:00

(Originally from 2/28/2001)
(I'm not sure if I made this up or not. The original had names in it [removed to protect the guilty]. I do remember a mood ring... Oh well, it's short and funny.)

My daughter bought a mood ring the other day.
When she's in a good mood, it turns green.
When she's in a bad mood, it leaves a red mark on my son's forehead.

Old Story Retold: A Wallpapering Adventure

2005-06-12T09:06:00.000-05:00

(Originally from 10/4/2002)

I have a wallpapering story to tell. It is long, but not as long as the living it.

Mona and I are remodeling our house. Some rooms need a lot of work, but the living room is not one of those. All it really needed was to replace some old wallpaper. A simple, weekend job, right? Not when there is a Hamby involved!

Mona and I spent 3 hours in Home Depot looking at wallpaper for the living room. We could not find anything we liked. When Home Depot kicked us out that night, we were frustrated and exhausted. However, we did decide that we wanted some sort of burgundy stripe with green and/or gold accents. And we knew the style we wanted: sort of classical European, but not too formal if possible.

I went online to a great wallpaper place called decoratetoday.com. I did a search for striped wallpaper. I got over 31,000 striped wallpapers. Ohmigod, WAY too many! So I searched for burgundy stripes. I got 2,940 wallpapers. OK, it will take a while, but I can go through these since they show thumbnails 20 at a time. After another 3 hours, I had narrowed the choices I liked down to about 20. Time for Mona to look at them.

Mona and I narrowed them down to 5 after discussing for about an hour. Hmmm, maybe our parents can help. Call them up and invite them for dinner. Amazingly, my parents are nice enough to drive one hour to look at wallpaper. Do they love me or was it just because food was involved? After printing out pictures of the 5 wallpapers (with accompanying borders and matching alternates for the hallway), we taped the pictures to the wall and further discussed them for another 2 hours. Mona’s mom, by the way, thought we were all nuts and went home shortly after dinner.

Finally we decided on the “right” wallpaper: a nice burgundy strip with a classic fig-leaf design on a light marble background. How nice! We all went to bed happy.

The next morning as I stumbled out into the living room, I looked up at the wallpaper picture still taped to the wall. Yuk! Something is just not right. But I didn’t know what. I mentioned it to Mona. After dodging her screaming lunge at my head, she looked at the wall herself. She sighed and quietly said “Whatever.”

I should now mention that Mona had employed the classic Hamby technique of scheduling a party to force remodeling to be done by a certain date. Mona, while not born a Hamby, is well on her way to being “completely assimilated” as Star Trek’s Borg race would say. Mona’s party was only one week away by this point. One little “catch” about the wallpaper was that it was out of stock until next month. Now one would think that out of 31,000+ stripped wallpapers, we would be able to choose one that we liked AND was in stock. You would think so, wouldn’t you? Nope, we liked this. So Mona decided to paint the room for the party and we could wallpaper it afterwards.

Now by this time, we had already torn off the old wallpaper and painted the room TWICE with Kilz. The living room was a nice clean white. Good enough for me to live with for a month. But I love my wife, so I said, “Sure, honey. Go buy a can of paint. The cheap kind, please.” And off she went. She came back with a paint a lovely shade of 'Dusty Rose' (to quote the paint company).

The boys were in trouble and grounded. Nothing unusual about this, I guess, but in my anger, I had added “…and I’m going to work your butts off, too!” to their punishment. So I told them to paint the room. Big mistake. If you have ever done had a teenager work on a job he did not want to, you know that they are experts in making simple jobs long and complicated. A one hour pain job, turned into an all day affair. In the process, I spend far longer teaching (read “yelling at” ) them how to paint the room than if I’d done it myself. When the boys found out that they were painting a perfectly good white room only to be wallpapered within a month, they complained non-stop. But finally they got it done.

Mona and I stood back to admire our new, if temporary, living room walls of ‘Dusty Rose’. Almost immediately and with all the clarity of the kid in ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’, one of the boys commented “It looks pink!” The trouble was, he was right. And not a nice pink, either. A nasty pink-that-is-not-supposed-to-be-pink pink. It looked like a teenage girl’s room.

So back to the hardware store, Mona went again to get some “accent” paint. Another $15 and she returned with yet another wonderful color the paint company called 'Sunset Gold' (or something like that). She pulled out her brush and began to paint on gold accents to “tone down” (her words) the bright pink.

Now I am no artist, but something tells me that if you take a pink wall and paint yellow marks on it, it will get brighter, not “toned down”. After Mona finished her hand-brushed “accents” (which are foot-long sweep marks across the wall), the room no longer looked like a teenage girl’s room. It now looked like a toddler girl’s room.

Every marriage needs a bit of diplomacy occasionally. And just then, mine needed plenty. “What do you think?” asked Mona. What was I supposed to say? “It looks great”, I said. “…if everyone at your party is under five years old!”, I thought. I would have pulled it off, too, if my face had not given me away! (The traitor!) You all know how the rest of the conversation went…. “You don’t like it.”...“It’s not that I don’t like it; it’s just that…” …and so on. The scenario played out as expected; and in the end, Mona was outside pissed off and I was feeling really like a dirt-bag.

The pink had to go. I called the boys in and told them to repaint the room with the gold paint. Ever told two teenage boys that they had to redo a job that they did not think should be done in the first place? I do not advise trying it. Now their complaints of “You are going to wallpaper it in a month!” and “What was the matter with white?” were louder and more obnoxious. Two high points, though: they painted the room in less than an hour the second time, and it looked much better in gold.

The next day, online wallpaper store sent me an email. (This is a story about wallpapering, remember?) It said essentially that the hallway wallpaper has become available, although the living room wallpaper was still out of stock. And, by the way, a 24-hour wallpaper sale with free shipping was going on and wouldn’t I like to order my wallpaper today to take advantage of it? (I am such a sucker!)

I sat down to order the wallpaper which everyone agreed was the prettiest. But something about it….. Hmmm, here is the same wallpaper in blue with red and gold accents. Isn’t that pretty…. “MONA! COULD YOU COME DOWN HERE FOR A SECOND?” In the end, after looking at over 3,000 wallpapers and spending 8-10 hours, we ordered the blue one within 15 minutes of seeing it. But it was in stock!

We moved all the furniture into the living room. The gold paint looked good…really good. In fact, a little too good. I knew I was in trouble again when Mona pressed up against me, caressing my arm, smiling so sweet, and saying “Honey, I really like the gold. Do you think we could cancel the wallpaper?” Well, fine, except that she waited 2-3 days before deciding that.

This morning some really pretty blue-stripped wallpaper arrived in the mail. Anyone thinking about wallpapering their living room? I hear it’s really easy.

My Missy

2003-10-30T17:12:00.000-06:00

Everybody knows that our children “inherit” parts of us. All the time my son hears “You have your father’s eyes.” (Or worse, "…his nose.”). Adam looks, thinks, and acts very much like me. My parents laugh at me whenever he exasperates me.

But part of me, only my daughter shares. We both love a good story. A good book is always much better than a great movie. We will both stare up at a rainbow and wonder about that pot of gold. A sunset will often stop us while we watch its colors fade. We love beauty and goodness, for no other reason than they are beautiful and good.

My son may have my body and mind, but my heart belongs to my Missy. I hope she knows this.

Postnote:
"Just great, Dad," my son tells me sarcastically after reading the above. "That's corny."

"I know you think so, but your sister will understand."

"'Cause you're both so lame."

Now Don't Move!

2003-10-24T17:30:00.000-05:00

Can I just say right here and now that I am a true coward? I hate shots! There, I said it. No more macho-macho man. Call me Captain Sissy; I don’t care.

Even though I got through my first eye surgery with dry pants and most of my dignity, within minutes of hearing that I needed a second surgery, I was on the phone whimpering to my Dad, “Where’s my Mommy?”

If any of you manly men out there (or manly women, whatever) are thinking “Wuss! It’s just a little out-patient surgery”, I invite you to sit in my doctor’s office and watch an entertaining video he has called We’re Going To Shove Things Into Your Eyeball.

When they put my wife, my son, and myself in front if the TV to watch it, two people ran out of the waiting room mumbling “Oh, no, not that again.” Todd turned the nicest shade of green and decided right there to become a politician instead of a doctor.

I managed to find enough gonads to get through the eye surgery once more; although the doctor had to put up with repeated “Now why do I have to be awake during this?” That’s when I learned I had to lay face down for up to a month. (Aaagggh!)

For those of you that don’t know, doctors coined the term A-D-D sometime during my childhood. The only reason they didn’t call it M-A-R-K was to save my parents further embarrassment.

A month lying still and staring into my pillow? Let’s give it an hour and see if I’m still sane. (Hmmm, fourty-seven-minutes. I almost made it.) Only a laptop, a stack of DVD’s, and a nifty little torture device that holds your head over the edge of the bed saved me.

Why lay on my stomach, you ask? Let me explain. They call my eye surgery a pneumatic retinopexy, which is Latin for “suck out your eyeball and replace it with a dry martini”. Half my eye is filled with a gas bubble. Apparently, the gas bubble needs to stay over the repaired area of my eye. Why this is, I don’t know, despite three different explanations by three different doctors.

Now the first tear was at the top of my eye, so no problem because gas likes to go up. The second tear, however, was at the bottom of my eye. So the doctor required me to lay face down. It could have been worse, but wasn’t because he did not think a 250-pound man could maintain a headstand for a whole month.

I have this firm belief that any injury should take no more than a week to heal. And after spending that week on my face, nothing, not even an eye that still looks like a meatball, is going to convince me otherwise. So on Friday morning, instead of quietly lying in my torture device like a good boy, I was out scrapping old paint off my mother-in-law’s porch. (Hey, I still held my head down.)

Now I know this is screwed up thinking, but my reasoning went like this:

Hey, I’ve got a doctor appointment this afternoon. I’m sure my eye has healed by now. And if I did pop another hole in my eye, I’ll be there in just a bit so he can fix it right up …which isn’t really going to happen, because it’s been a week, and I’m all healed, right?

Afternoon comes, and I go to my eye doctor’s office. While he examines me eye, I dutifully look up, … now left, … now up and left, … now left and not so much up, … now up and… That’s when I hear the doctor make that sigh/grunt combination that almost always means bad news.

“You have a hole in your eye that’s not healing properly.”

My stomach flips over, and my heart reaches up and starts gagging me. “Um, okay. Do I need another surgery?” (Please no please no please no please no)

“No, …” (That’s good. That’s so good. Thank you.) “…but I’m going to have to put more gas into your eye.” (Oh, that’s bad. That’s gotta’ be bad. Damn you.) “Don’t worry. We’ll just numb your eye and inject the gas right here.” (Did anyone else count two shots in the eyeball in what he just said? ‘Cause I sure did.)

About now is when I go into my Buddhist-heavy-breathing-try-to-stay-calm routine. (In through the nose, hold it, release, and relax.) It doesn’t work. But the doctor wants to give me plenty of time to practice, because he says, “Be right back” and disappears for 15 minutes.

When he comes back, he says, “Ready?”

Now I know how I must look at this point. I’ve got that deer in the headlights look. My face is white, because all the blood has run off to protect my vital organs. I am breathing heavily. (Hell, no, I’m not ready!) I hear myself say, “Yep, lets go.”

You’ve been to the dentist. You know how the Novocain shot works. The dentist pulls out this mondo-huge needle, and then he starts his distraction technique. “How about those Chiefs? They’re doing pretty well this year. Huh?” (Does he really think if we talk about football, I’m going to forget that he’s shoving a needle into my eye? I don’t think so.)

“Uh, huh,” I answer nervously. And perhaps this illustrates the purpose behind the sports conversation, because what I really want to say is “Mommy!”

“Hold perfectly still.” That sounds like an unfinished sentence that ends with “so I don’t miss and jam this needle deep into your eyeball causing excruciating pain.” I hold my head very, very still. Meanwhile, my legs are flailing around like the arms of the Lost In Space robot. (Warning, Will Robinson! Warning!)

The doctor finishes and tells me “All done. You did just fine.” (Did I hear a snicker in his voice?) He leaves to let the eye numb (and to tell the rest of the office about the 6’6” baby in room 3).

Fifteen more minutes of breathing, meditating, and relaxing. It’s still not working. (However, on a side note, I do start to see this light…)

I keep touching my eyelid to see if it is numb yet. Nope, feels just like normal (with emphasis on feel). “Did the doctor give me enough anesthetic?" I wonder. Parts of the eye video begin replaying in my head.

The doctor returns. “Uh, Doc,” I say, “I’m not sure that I’m numb. I can still feel my eyelid.”

“That’s normal,” he reassures. “It’s your eye we numbed. The eyelid still has feeling.”

I’m not buying it. I’ve been to the dentist. When he numbs my teeth, the whole side of my face goes plastic. But I say. “I guess I’m a little nervous. Something about getting a shot in your eye… I mean, you could cut off my pinkie, and it wouldn’t bother me, but my eye…”

“Well, we could cut off your pinkie if it would distract you.” He’s not smiling. And this is the first time he’s ever cracked a joke. (Is he really joking?) Panic meter starts to waver wildly.

“I need you to lay over on your side. We have to drain the fluid that’s in your eye while we insert gas into it.” I am actively trying to shut down my brain. I don’t want to see the images it comes up with based on his description.

Needle approaches my eye slowly. (This is going to hurt. Oh crap oh crap oh crap.)

“Now don’t move.” (Oh crap oh crap oh crap!) Panic meter fully pegged to the right.

And my eye starts to bubble like a fish tank. I feel needle against my eyelash and the coldness of it, but it does not hurt. I would breath a sigh of relief, but I’m not about to move.

Before I know it, it’s over. I try to give that no big deal look; but once again, I’m just grateful that my pants are still dry.

So now I’m back home in my torture device. My wife just came in to give me a kiss and hug, but I’m not doing it. Nosiree, I’m not moving from this spot for the next two weeks. There’s nothing like a shot in the eyeball to get you to follow doctor’s orders.

Wha'd that say?

2003-10-04T20:12:00.000-05:00

Congradulations, Chieftains, for winning the Homecoming football game on Friday. I hear it was a good game, but I did not get to see much of it. Oh, I was at the game, but was distracted most of the time by the parade of teenagers adorned with signs, phrases, and pictures on various parts of their persons.

When did the crazy, 500-pound, painted belly guy from Monday Night Football become a high school fashion leader? I swear to you: there were more words written on teenage bodies Friday night than were written in that day's English class. I would tell you what some of them said, but every time I tried hard to read them, my wife hit me. ("Stop looking at those girls." "Why are they putting words on their .... if they don't want people reading them?")

I was able to clearly read the red sweat pants worn by one somewhat large girl. It said "Chieftains" across her butt. Well, when she bent down, it said "Chieftains". When she stood up, all it said was "Chins".

Rooster's Got A Blog

2003-09-10T13:38:00.000-05:00

My brother, whom I fondly refer to as Rooster (much to his chagrin), has started his own blog. If you thought only I was crazy, then you haven't been paying attention closely. Wierdness is hereditary, at least in my family. He promises to out-do my still-to-come eye surgery saga with a tale of how he shoved a screwdriver throught his eye. Sounds hilarious to me.

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My Yard Hates Me

2003-09-09T13:43:00.000-05:00

It's September again. It's time to get out there and fertilize the old grass, plant new grass, and work on the yard. When I bought my house four years ago, it had a pretty nice yard; but I soon fixed that. You see, I can’t just fertilize in the fall like most people. No, Hamby has to go all the way.

“Hand me that home-improvement/gardening/cooking book, Honey.” (Scan, scan, scan) “Okay, now I’m an expert. I’m ready to really fix up this yard. Says here that you can’t grow new grass if there are faster-growing weeds competing, and you can’t use weed-killer if you want to grow grass seed. Seems like to me we need to wipe it all out and start with a clean slate. I’m off to get some Round-Up.”

My wife, the de-facto Voice of Reason (seeing as how she wasn’t actually born a Hamby), tries to talk me out of it. “Uh, Mark, do you really think we need to kill everything? Most of the yard looks pretty good. We just have a couple of small areas where…”

“You’re right, Honey. A job this size needs machinery. This is going to take some real research. I’m going downstairs to have a look on the Internet.” The thing about me is, I am unwavering in my belief that all human knowledge has been compiled and posted on a web page somewhere. You just have to Google long enough, ad you’ll eventually find it.

Have you any idea how many machines you can bring to bear on your yard? According to the home/garden/cookbook I have, you first have to till your yard (You could use a garden tiller, but you really need a tractor with a pull tiller.); then level your yard (Gonna need a front-loader for this. A power rake comes in useful here somewhere; but for the life of me, I can’t figure out where.); then aerate your yard (Maybe that nifty plug aerator is overkill if you’ve already tilled it, but you want your yard to be perfect.); then verticut it (Huh? What’s a verticutter? Oh well, if the book says I gotta have one…); then fertilize it (Can’t beat a broadcast feeder for this job.); and finally lay grass seed (A drop feeder is really the only way to get even distribution). The rental guy really likes me.

Of course, all this takes time. The research alone took 2-3 weeks. And it took at least a week to call all of those rental outfits to find one that rented the verticutter for $38 per day instead of $40. By the time, I sowed my grass seed, I had to work around the costumed kids who kept saying “Trick or treat!” But that’s okay; because the weatherman assured me we were going to have a warm Indian Summer.

Weatherman don’t know crap. I swear to you it was 75 degrees right up until the day after I planted grass. It snowed within the week. Well, maybe not “snow” snow, but there was definitely white, frozen stuff on my lawn. Frost, snow, what’s the difference? It still killed the grass.

So now it’s September again. I've waited all year for this. “I know the yard looks bad,” I told myself, “but I can’t really do anything about it until fall. Come September, I’m going to fix that. I’ll get it right this year, yessiree.” In failed attempt to forestall me, Mona hired Scott’s Lawn Service to “help you since you’re so busy with everything else.” Nice try, Mona.

I can’t plant grass this week, though; I am in the middle of buying a motorcycle. And last week was too hot. Next week, I will be laid up after my eye surgery. October will still be okay, though. It’s supposed to be warm this year, a real Indian Summer. I’ve got time.

Well, got to go now. The rental guy called me about a new power rake he got in this year.

Star Wars Kid

2003-09-03T11:50:00.000-05:00

This is old news to many, but I just discovered it.

A kid filmed himself doing Star Wars Jedi Knight antics. The private video was eventually discovered and put on the Internet. Within weeks it was downloaded hundreds of millions of times around the world. People (with way too much free time) started adding music and special effects to it. Now there is a website with 80+ variations on the video (including T-shirts and caps) and a petition to get the kid an appearance on Star Wars III.

Nose Update

2003-08-30T07:08:00.000-05:00

I want everyone to know my son's nose is okay....really. I did not realize so many other people had concerns about their nose. Since my story below, several people have told us all about their noses, the operations they've had, and the drugs they take (for their noses, I mean). Apparently, he's not the only one who's been snorting into his hand.

Someone suggested he needs surgery to chip out part of his nostril bone. I bet that's an enjoyable operation. What kind of cast do you have to wear afterwards? If I have that operation, I'm going to get one of those multi-colored casts like kids get, put on a costume and a cape, and call myself "Snot Man".

People who normally don't use words with more than 2 syllables were talking to us about a "deviated septum". Deviated septum? Who uses that kind of language? I willing to bet that people wait years to use that in a sentence. And do you know why? 'Cause it's fun to say! I'm serious. Try it a few times. Deviated septum...Deviated septum...

I suppose we should look into it. I would hate to learn I let my son walk around with a deformed nosebone. On the othe hand, lots of things are deviated about my son; I'm not sure I'm worried about his septum.

Google Is Cool

2003-08-27T00:12:00.000-05:00

Google is the coolest search engine. I can't say enough about what a great site it is. If Google isn't your main web search page, then you're nuts. Many Internet experts, gurus, and know-it-alls (including myself) owe most of their apparent knowledge and skill to being able to use Google well. Here are some things about Google that you might not know.

Great Home Page. Google is a great browser home page. It loads almost as fast as a blank page and much faster than the MSN home page that IE comes with. Go to Tools-->Internet Options to set your home page to Google.

Find Addresses. If you enter an address or city (such as 'Kansas City, KS') in the Google search line, Google will give you a link to that location at Yahoo Maps or MapQuest.

Find People. If you enter a person or business followed by an city or state (such as 'Mark Hamby, Texas' [not me BTW]), it will give you that person's address, phone number, and map to this house or business. Kind of scary, isn't it.

Best News Source. Google News is great for browsing or searching news stories. You get new stories from newspapers around the world. It's a great way to get full and balanced coverage of the news.

Search For Images. Google provides a image search engine for pictures and images. Pretty handy when you need it. Check out the advanced image search for a particular size of image.

Translate Languages. Google will translate foreign web pages or text. Very handy if you bought goulash mix in Germany, but can't decode the instructions. (Who, me?)

Mail-Order Catalogs. I don't use this much, but it's really cool. Google will search its selection of mail-order catalogs and show you the page in the catalogs that match your search. (How do they do that?)

The Google Toolbar. The Google Toolbar is a great add-on for Internet Explorer. It allows you to search and turn on colored highlights for the words you searched for in the page. It also stops pop-ups, fills out forms for you, and has a "Blog This" feature (in case you wanted to start your own blog). Unfortunately, it will not work with NetCaptor.

More Google Tools. If you're interested, check out all the Google tools. Have fun.

I Nose What I's Talking 'Bout

2003-08-21T10:56:00.000-05:00

A few people expressed some doubt about the authenticity of my stories. (I have send a few through email before.) I assure you that, save for a few minor changes to help the stories flow a little better, they are completely true. And yes, my family is really that wierd. In fact, I have to omit events, because no one who has not lived with us would ever believe them. Trust me, I don't have the imagination to make this stuff up.

The following normal...I mean, typical conversation in the Hamby living room took place (practically verbatim) just this evenng.

"I kept getting calls today. People thought my story was pretty funny. I had to do the hair modelling thing several times and..." I look over at my son (a different one this time) sitting next to me. His thumb is shoved up his nose, and he is snorting. "What are you doing?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing."

I stare at him a moment before deciding that I am better off not knowing. "So what's for dinner? I'm..."

"I only breath out of one of my nostrils."

"What?"

"One of my nostrils is useless. It wouldn't matter if it wasn't even there at all, because I don't use it. I wonder why that is? Maybe one nostril is smaller than the other."

I'm staring again. "What are you talking about? It's probably just clogged because of allergies or boogers or something."

By this time, he is alternating thumbs and snorting repeatedly into his hand held in front of his face. "No, it's not really clogged. But I definately get more air pressure out of the left side. Here, give me your hand. I'll show you."

"Uh, I don't think so. I think I'll skip the experience and take your word for it."

"Maybe," suggests my wife, Mona, "it's just stuffed up since it so dry in this house."

Thinking it couldn't get any more bizarre, my son looks at me, still with his thumb up his nose, and says in perfect seriousness, "You think I should squirt water up my nose?"

Highlights and Haircuts

2003-08-20T11:11:00.000-05:00

My son started back to school yesterday. He says that he's going to do much better this year. He's going to set goals. He's going to do what he needs to do when he needs to do it. He's going to be diligent and hardworking. He's not going to be discouraged by minor setbacks. I told him that I was proud of him and would support him in his efforts. I just wish he were so committed about his grades. Confused? Then you have little idea what school is all about for the average teenager. You see, my son's objective is to get a girlfriend this year, maybe even a few.

He has his strategies all laid out: the clothes, the looks, the lines. He is ready...except, I mentioned yesterday, for the fairly popular blonde-tipped hair style that a lot of guys are wearing. You've seen the style, I'm sure. It's the one that looks like the guy just saw a ghost, and then dipped the top of his head in a toilet bowl full of bleach water. I suggested that, perhaps, he go for "the look".

My son, being a terrible procrastinator, waited until late yesterday night to say, "Dad, I want to get my hair highlighted for school tomorrow." I laughed, because there was no way. "There is one way," my son enlightened me. Being also the adventurous type (and a little crazy), he said, "You could highlight my hair." Now normally I would welcome the opportunity to dunk my son's head in a toilet, but my concern for his social standing overcame my need for parental revenge. So instead we went to Wally World (i.e. Wal-Mart) to get a hair highlighting product.

Can I just say I have no idea what the hell I'm doing in the hair color section of Wally World? Just to get to that section, you have to go deep into the "no man's land" part of the store. Any man who is comfortable standing there among face creams, makeups, scented lotions, and unmentionable hygiene products needs to have his masculinity examined. Granted, it's not as bad as roaming through the women's underwear department, but it's close. For those men who have never visited the hair color section (and are damn proud of it), you would be amazed at the size of the place. It takes up a whole aisle! Do you know how many shades of "blonde" there are? No, you don't. Trust me.

My son and I tried several approaches to selecting the correct hair product. We looked for boxes with pictures of guys on the front. No luck there; except for this one with a guy who was supposed to be cool, but looked more like kind that you don't stand too close to. (wink wink nudge nudge) We looked for boxes that said "highlight". Apparently, all hair dyes, even the dark brunette ones, are intended to "put highlights in your hair" or "highlight your natural color" or do something highlight-ish. Finally, we settled on a tried-and-true method when faced with this type of dilemma: choose the most expensive.

Once back home, my son happily submitted to letting me grab little strands of his hair and pull them quite forcefully through tiny holes in a goofy little cap he wore. A suggestion for fathers who want to beat their teenage sons: Just convince them to let you highlight their hair. Loads of fun, this is, and quite a frustration reliever. At the end of an hour, I was in a great mood. My son, meanwhile, was wincing in pain with little tuffs of his hair stinking up through the plastic cap and looking like one of those light-fiber lamps.

On went the hair color goop. Caution: when you mix this stuff up, do not breath. The instructions warn you repeatedly about wearing the plastic gloves (sized for a 12-year-old girl, by the way). Nowhere does it warn not to breath in the powder than you are supposed to mix into a bottle, most of which flies into the air headed straight for your lungs. I don't think I've ever sucked in anything that my body tried to reject more than this hair dye stuff. So as the instructions stated, I thoroughly soaked my son's head with it. When I was finished, we still had 2/3 of a bottle left. Geez, no wonder this stuff is so expensive. I tossed the bottle, but still had the goop all over my hands (glove-covered, of course). And here is where I made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Laughing at my son about all the trouble and pain he had gone through, (hee hee...oh, sorry) I said, "See, all you have to do is run the stuff through the ends with your fingers like this." And I proceeded to wipe my gloves off in my own hair. Now before you say I'm an idiot, I had quickly thought this action through. I reasoned that there was very little of the goop actually left on my hands. And my hair, fairly dark, would probably only redden a bit (which might be quite attractive). And finally, I wouldn't really leave it on that long, so it won't do much anyhow.

Okay, now you can call me an idiot.

To pass the time while the dye "worked", my son and I sat down to watch a movie. But I told him quite firmly, "Now it's your job to make sure that you don't leave that stuff on too long. You could ruin your hair and go bald." On with the movie. Another important suggestion: Never ever rely on a teenager to be on time about anything. Somewhere during the movie, I look over at my son. He has white califlower-like sprouts popping out of the top his head. I rush into the bathroom. (Forget my son, what the hell have I done to my hair.)

We both washed out our hair. Amazingly enough, my son's hair looked pretty cool. More like some wierd porcupine-head than hair with highlighted tips, but cool nonetheless. Meanwhile, I looked seriously goofy. When you run bleach-covered fingers through your hair, do you know what you get? White finger prints on your head. Enough said. You can call me an idiot again if you'd like.

This morning, my hair is cut very short. I had to razor-cut the sides in an attempt to make the big blond spot on the side of my head look like I just "sat too close to the barber". To make matter worse, my hair is so fine that, when short, it puffs straight out like (to quote my wife) "some kind of giant Q-Tip." So I had to put hair mousse on it. It still won't stay down. It now sticks up in spikes.

So if you see me in the next few days, don't be surprised that a 43-year-old man is sporting a spiked hair style with blonde tips. I'm hip. I'm cool. You can stop calling me an idiot now.

Perry Boating Accident

2003-08-19T17:13:00.000-05:00

Last weekend, this tragic, but amazing, boating accident occurred on Perry Lake. There's not much I can say, since I don't know a lot of details. And I genuinely regret the death of the woman involved in the accident...

But isn't that an amazing photo?

How To Be a Blogger

2003-08-19T13:22:00.000-05:00

Several people have asked me, "What is a blog?" A blog or weblog is on online journal. Here is blogger.com's description:

What is a weblog/blog?

A blog is a web page made up of usually short, frequently updated posts that are arranged chronologically—like a what's new page or a journal. The content and purposes of blogs varies greatly—from links and commentary about other web sites, to news about a company/person/idea, to diaries, photos, poetry, mini-essays, project updates, even fiction.

You can read a more in-depth introduction or surf over to a list of the most popular blogs on the 'Net.

To start your own blog, you can use Blogger (or other blog-authoring software) to post a blog to your own web site or www.blogspot.com. Email me for information on how to add reader comments or email update notifications to your blog.

Harry Potter Is the Devil

2003-08-18T23:16:00.000-05:00

What is it about Harry Potter that has so many of the "Religious Right" up in arms? Wake up, people. It's just a book series, and a darn good one at that. Will the Christian cattle of the world please read the books before unquestionably accepting misconceptions and misleading statements about them?

Please do not misunderstand me. I do not equate all Christians with cattle. However, there do seem to be a good many who blindly repeat opinions they heard from others who blindly repeat opinions they heard from others who...

If the Harry Potter books are evil because magic is involved, how come we never hear protests about these other magical books?

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (by C.S. Lewis, renown Christian author)
The Lord of the Rings
The Wizard of Oz
Cinderella (and that you thought only her step-mother was evil.)
The Cat In the Hat by Dr. Suess (Now there's an evil book! The cat talks!)

Here's a clue: The magic in Harry Potter is not real, and neither is Harry Potter. Read my lips, it's FAN-TA-SY. Get it? Imagination. Nine and ten year old children know the difference between a fantasy story and real life. Why can't some adults? (Perhaps because they don't have one? [Whoops, sorry, it just slipped out.])

Guess what? There is evil in the Harry Potter books. Duh! It's a story about good versus evil. Ever heard of a technique called "allegory"? Jesus used it all the time. You should look it up.

So next time someone starts mooing about Harry Potter's evil wand, he had better be prepared to ban Dorothy's slippers and that damned cat's hat.