Nice Haircut Dude!

I cut my own hair.

Yesterday I cut it badly. Badly, I tell ya.

Look over on the left at the picture of NY Yankees, Alex Rodriquez and Derek Jeter. Alex and Derek make millions per year playing baseball. They can afford a really good barber I presume. That cut however is worn by a lot of the Yankees players. In fact I call it the ‘Yankees cut.’

How many of you idjits saw the movies ‘Barber Shop’ and ‘Barber Shop II’? Remember all the banter among the barbers and clients in the movie?. I used to get my hair cut at an ‘almost the same kind of place’ barber shop in downtown Fort Worth. All the barbers were African-American like in the movie, except my barbershop barbers were all ancient men. It didn’t stop the constant ‘booolshit’ that went down though. It’s an environment where any one-up comment you might luck out with is soon in second place. I miss the downtown barber shop. But I quit going because it was inconvenient trying to find a parking place downtown and if I didn’t have any meetings downtown I would have to make a special trip.

And….I learned to cut my own hair. I’m not gonna tell you how I learned just because I am probably fortunate if you are still reading at this point. The cliff notes go like this; if you want your hair short like a Yankees cut you can do it yourself with clippers and guards. I’m really good enough at it. In fact you are the first people I have told and several have asked where I get my hair cut. I lie and say “downtown.” Oops I think I just admitted to lying. Deal with it.

The first time I ever cut it I was really nervous. I carefully put the guards on and checked the depth of the cut, followed by close looks in the mirror. Repeat the scene again and again and 14 hours later I had done it! After three years I have reached the point of great confidence and dexterity. I can do it in five minutes now, just like the ol sex life.

Until yesterday. Bear in mind that my ‘make a living’ work involves a lot of numbers, equations, calculations and meticulous detail.

I left my work station and went into the back, taking a break from the work to cut my hair.

It went like this:

Got out the clippers.

Thought about the numbers and calculations on my computer screen.

Stood in the bathtub looking into the mirror, clippers in hand.

Thought about the numbers and calculations on my computer screen.

Raised the clippers to the side of my head with the ease of confidence I had earned over the past three years.

Thought about ‘girls on top sex’ with Reese Witherspoon. Imagined her breasts bobbing up and down and the smile on her face.

Started the clippers and ran them over the right side of my head.

Noticed a large white patch of scalp in the mirror on the right side of my head.

Quit thinking about Reese and her twins.

Cursed a nasty blue streak that would embarrass the actors on Deadwood.

No guard on the clippers.

It’s not supposed to look like that.

That’s not a Yankees cut.

Pondering what to do now.

The suggestion to grow a brain will be considered rude. Across Dallas-Fort Worth friends that know me well and refer to me as the ‘absent minded professor’ are laughing their asses off reading this.

That’s OK my friends, your day will come too.

Any suggestions?

Maybe a Yankees cap?

Next best thing I suppose.

3 Days Gone

A short story inspired by a F.A.T.T.Y. post. If you are having a happy go lucky Disney morning you may want to just skip it.

_____________________________________________________

The sound of his keys entering the front door lock caused her stomach to tighten into bundles of knots. She knew it was her father because she had memorized the sound of his entry. She had also seen enough years to memorize the look of hate and rage etched across her mother’s face as she waited for him to appear.

Her brothers were gone. They knew the rage too well. She wanted to be gone too but she also hoped she could help it be different this time.

His large shoulder banged against the outside surface of the door, opening it wide enough for him to walk through. She could see his profile backlit by the porch light, but not his face or expression. The keys had fallen from the lock as the door opened and the metallic clanking of the keys hitting the floor was the only sound in the fear filled interior of the house. His large frame stumbled across the threshold, falling almost to a knee before he regained his balance and slammed the door shut with a stomach churning force.

She knew he was wearing his dark blue work shirt. She could see the familiar white patch with red embroidery reading “Gulf Refinery – Edward” standing out from the dark blue fabric. His heavy work boots made their way across the hard wooden floors in a halting manner, lightly banging against each side of the wall as he felt his way along the hallway to the bedroom. He had been gone 3 days.

From her spot in the small cramped living room she prayed for him to go to sleep, to fall across the bed in his blue work clothes and boots and just lie there quietly. "Please God", she prayed, with her fingers forming a steeple in front of her face.

She saw her mother rise to her feet and follow the drunken footsteps down the hall. “No mother, please God leave him alone and let him sleep”, she prayed. Palms now tight together and fingers intertwined, she prayed for the knot in her stomach to disappear and the fear to be left for another night.

The high pitched voice of her mother cascaded down the hall in a sickening crescendo of anger and rage. Her fathers voice, just as angry, bellowed back at her in the familiar drunken slurring that made her wonder why her father had to come home at all.

“Please God”, she prayed, “Please.”

The sounds of the thrown objects interrupted what she already knew was another useless prayer. She ran quickly down the hallway just as she had done so many times before hoping to get between the two of them. The naked light bulb above the bed highlighted the stark features of each parents’ face. The hard stucco walls of the room were spinning in front of her eyes as she assessed how best to help. Her father was standing no more than 4 feet from where her diminutive mother stood, but she was throwing any and everything she could find at his face and chest while she screamed in an incoherent rage about where he had been for the last 3 days.

She moved between them hoping to stop what her prayers could not. His large hands grabbed her by the shoulders and with no effort at all he slung her across the tiny bedroom to the base of the doorway where her nose crashed into the hard wooden jamb at the base of the door. Her head spun and her fear made her lie motionless while the war around her raged in fits of thrown objects and screamed obscenities. She felt the warm flow of blood at the base of her nose shortly before she began to taste it, but she didn’t move. She knew it had to be quiet before she moved again.

Her mother stormed down the hallway in screaming retreat. Her father fell across the bed onto his back, staring in a dead man’s trance at the light bulb above. She waited for the quiet. And she did not dare move.

When the quiet finally came, she pulled herself up from the base of the door and wiped the blood from her nose, spreading it across the sleeve of her pink cotton pajamas.

She knew her mother would be locked in the bathroom fearing the resurrection of the man in the blue work shirt. The man in the 3 day old alcohol saturated work shirt was snoring on his back, eyes closed, but still facing the naked light bulb. A hard stubble of black beard glistened under the harsh light. Sweat rolled off his forehead, down his cheek and dropped silently onto the bed as she stared at him.

She walked down the hall hoping to find some comfort in her bed. She knew how to clean up the blood and get her things ready for the school bus in the morning. She had learned to do lots of things.

After all, she was 7 years old. Tomorrow was her birthday and she would be 8. She hoped it was why her dad had come home.

7 Riddle; sounds cool doesn't it?

I thought I had seen every episode of Seinfeld. But last night I saw one I had never seen before.
The thinking behind this post comes from the fact that in this episode George Costanza wanted to name his first child Seven. That’s right, the number 7. He thought of it as a tribute to Mickey Mantle who wore the number 7 on his Yankees jersey.
I am fond of the number seven. In fact I am even a little superstitious about the numbers 7 and 3.
The premise in the Seinfeld episode is that George is being as strange as usual and having the number 7 as your name is completely ridiculous.
But, as Kramer might say, “Hey just hold on there a minute, I think you’re on to something big.”

I like the name. I want Seven to be my new name. Seven Riddle. Or even better, 7 Riddle
As it turns out this fits in perfectly with the history of my mother’s side of the family. My uncle Johnny, my favorite relative of all time had three children, my first cousins. My folks had three children including this blog’s writer, the middle child.
My mother and my uncle had a running argument about which of them had the oddest children. I didn’t get a vote of course as a result of being one of the ballot nominees, however I was known to try and influence the vote from time to time creating greater 'odds' for my side.

Where am I going with this? Simple. The number 7 is an odd number. If I can get my older brother to change his name to ‘9', and my younger sister to take on the name ‘5', that makes me the middle child ‘7' don’t you see. It also immediately qualifies my mother’s children as the odd children. Victory is ours. Much to my mother’s chagrin and my Uncle Johnny’s delight.

My cousins, if they are satisfied in having lost, and yet seeming to have won by not being the odd children, can adopt the even numbers as their new names. This could give new meaning to the phrase ‘High Five’. It could also create some temporary confusions. Asking “Where is One?”, could elicit the response “One what?” but those are just details to be worked out.

It also offers intriguing opportunities for tracking the genealogy of a family. If a 7 mates with a 2 then the first child is ‘9.1' or ‘nine one’ if text is preferred. The second child is 9.2 and so on down the line. This quickly reveals birth order and narrows the possibilities of the names of the parents. Obviously this is much easier in the days of Adam and Eve, but computers should be able to sort out the bigger numbers as we go along.

Many of you mathematicians will try to shoot holes in this design. That’s OK if it doesn’t work out. My chances of getting everyone to call me Seven the rest of the way are pretty remote.
My chances of mating with someone named '2' might be even more remote.

Anybody want 69?

Just wondering.

Psychics Have No Idea What To Expect Next

Ricks Satire Report News
Psychics Conventions - 2006

Reports from the smoky backrooms of the National Convention of the British Psychics Business Association paint a picture of turmoil.

For many years the British psychics have held their convention in a location undisclosed to members. Members have historically been told to use their powers to determine the time and place for the meeting.

Apparently this years meeting was not attended by anyone other than convention organizers.

According to spokesperson I.C. Minithings, the underground phone network used in past years was foiled by a telephone company labor strike. “We weren’t able to get the word out to our members about what to think hard about,” lamented Minithings.

On the heels of the British association’s dilemma comes word from America that trouble is in the works as well for the American Society of Psychic Power Practitioners.

According to my sources the American group is at odds over whether or not to allow members to play state lottery games.

The ASOPPP is divided into two distinct camps of thought with neither side holding a clearly dominant position. The older founding members of the group believe there is great risk in playing the lottery since all members would clearly know the winning numbers before they are drawn. They envision a great deal of inner turmoil being set up among members as to how to split the winnings. Member John Visions proposed that the Society itself benefit from all proceeds, but the governing board shot the idea down saying they already know the Society would never need that much money.

The younger members of the rapidly growing society hold a conflicting view. The group is promoting a secret conspiracy where members share the proceeds based on a complicated formula of seniority and need. According to the younger faction, the winning numbers will be submitted by a well paid non-member leading to a lowering of suspicions among the general public.

The president of ASOPPP Joanna Fullnoggin said she already knows where, when and how the dispute will resolve, but cannot spread the word due to the Society’s by-laws that foresaw such an occurrence and were written to protect members with lesser paranormal skills.

Younger members are less confident saying their fellow psychics have no idea what to expect next.

Founding member ‘Hippie’ Trip Taker said, “These troubles stem from the fact that the Society had no premonition that its membership would skyrocket so quickly. Well, er, I mean we did know of course, but we also knew we would have to go through this to get to what it is we already know will happen…err…never mind…its all over your head I think, err, dammit, I mean I know. I can see it there above your head right now, it's in the shape of your long ago deceased Border Collie. Does this mean anything to you?”

I ended the interview following Mr. Takers vision.

Pushing Science

Everyone who believes in telekinesis raise my hand - James Randi 2002

On a more serious note, why don't we invest more time and science in the study of telekinesis? This could dramatically lower sales of erectile dysfunction drugs while raising the spirits of men across the nation.
It's all in your hands girls

.
And if you are really good at telekinesis will you please raise these old eyelids a little? Its getting harder and harder to see out of them!

To Be Like Water

A couple of days ago Silent One posted a well written post about the effect that rain has on her. I immediately thought about water and the Taoist teachings about water. So, I commented to her, and is often our ‘selfish blogging comment’ way I talked about my feelings not hers.

Maybe she will forgive my self absorption.

Her post reminded me of the ancient teachings about water and my own feelings about rain. The old sages held forth that each of us should emulate water in our own lives.

Water is the great sustainer of life. It is also the most powerful force on earth. It carves Grand Canyons. It sustains veritable oceans of life. We harness its incredible power for a thousand uses.

At rest however, water embodies humility. Watch following a rain and you will see it roll into the lowest places on the terrain. It is always seeking the humblest spot on earth to take its rest.

In this way the ancients tried to teach us to be ‘like water’. When the negative forces of life become too large, or we witness injustice, we are to use our immense reserves of personal power and might to triumph; just as water does.

When we are unthreatened by life we should seek the ‘home of humility’ and express our peacefulness and serenity to the rest of the world.

And of course at all times, whether in powerful acts or peaceful resting, we should sustain the life around us with benevolence and kindness.

That is what I think about when it rains. To be like water.

Are U Like Your Mother? Is That OK?

One of the gems of wisdom that men pass to their sons:
"If you begin to get serious about a girl be sure to get to know her mother. If you don't like her mom then with the passage of time you will not like the girl either. If her Mom is as fat as a State Fair grand champion, then so will be your teenage girlfriend someday; usually one year after marrying her. If mom screams at her husband, you will be screamed at too. Conversely, if you like the mom and she is sweet and kind and forgiving and all things sugar and spice, then you might just be alright."

Yes, in a grand fit of upholding 'man-laws and observances' (don't you love those commercials?) I passed this on to my son. He has had a lot of laughs with it because he has now witnessed it first hand on his own among his girl friends. And, of course, he will pass this wisdom to his sons.

I'm like my dad in many ways. OK, a helluva lot of ways. And my son is a whole lot like me in personality, temperment and general thinking about the world.

So girls, are you like your mom? Is that OK with you? Or did you break the mold? Maybe you are more like your dad?

Guys, is your wife just like your mom-in-law? Or the girlfriend just like her mom?

Overworked and perspiring minds in Texas want to know.

My Crotch Feels Weird

Ever wanted to know why baseball players spit all the time?

My wife wants to know. Every time we watch a game together.

“EEEWWWW” she will say “Why do they do that all the time?”

“EEEWWWW”, did you see that?

She’s asking me because I spent the first 19 years of my life playing the game. When I turned 36, I took it up again in the Senior Baseball League.

I don’t know why we they spit so much. I really don’t. I’ll do some research and get back to you on that one. I wasn’t a spitter.

Most women that watch baseball want to know something else.

Why are they always adjusting their crotches? They do this regularly on national TV. There is even a Saturday Night Live skit about this cultural oddity.

I know the answer to this. No kidding. I do.

I should say this; I know why I adjusted my crotch on the baseball field.
Look at this, especially you girls. It’s called a cup. Yes, I know it doesn’t have a handle.
This has nothing to do with bondage and discipline. Unless you want it to. Hold on Discipline Girl…don’t even go there. You stuff this cup inside an athletic supporter, aka ‘jock strap’, and you wear it. Down there.

Well it is actually a form of bondage I suppose. I don’t know about the discipline part. The question at play here is do I want to put my gentlemen parts into this container, or do I want my gentlemen parts to be smacked by a very hard baseball. If you are wondering, all three members of the family are incarcerated together. Same cell....err....cup.

My baseball position was catcher. For those of you who are strangers to the game, the catcher is the one dressed funny in all the protective gear. He squats behind the hitter. He catches the ball if the hitter fails to actually hit it. We are a peculiar, but hardy species. We rarely spit, due to the mask on our face.

Catchers wear cups. We’re smarter than we look. Well, not in all cases actually.

There is no way to place your gentlemen parts in one of these plastic hells and keep them happy. Your parts will protest. They will fight with your cup. Never any telling which side is winning; it’s a never ending war. It's an evening with Tony and Carmella Soprano down there.

This is where the adjusting comes in. The player wearing the cup is the referee of this struggle. The combatants need constant attention. Think of him as a counselor to a bad marriage. He's trying to help both parties understand the others needs.

Close your eyes girls. NOT YET. WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED READING THE INSTRUCTIONS. Imagine a rigid unyielding plastic bra. Imagine that it comes in two sizes. Choose one of the sizes. Put your plastic bra around your breasts and strap it on tight enough (yes even if it doesn't fit) that you can sprint around, swing a bat and spit a lot. See what I mean?

Feel free to explain this to your girlfriends. Knowledge is power.

Now Do You Get It…….maybe?















As far as what these two good friends might be doing; well I'm not going there.

Anybody Know All the Words?

I have finally had it up to here!

I am going to say it out loud where everybody can hear me. The Star Spangled Banner is a really truly ugly song for a national anthem. I mean, look at Francis Key’s credentials. He was an amateur poet. Hmmm….just like you and me!

Now do not start thinking I’m one of those light shoed demo state liberals like Ward Churchill that doesn’t even like the country that grants him enormous privilege.

In fact, if I wasn’t past what the military views as ‘prime-time’ I would go to Afghanistan and find Osama ‘what’s his name’ and drag his diseased kidney ass down the mountainside single-handedly and go back for another one in the same day. In fact I think George Bush is a bit of a pacifist.

I love my country and the freedom it represents.

Now that the disclaimer is out of the way………..I listened to yet another rendition of the anthem last night before the NBA finals and cringed I tell you, I cringed.

I mean it seems like this torture is 10 minutes long. It has to be the ugliest song I have ever heard. I’m not a singer but it has got to be impossible to sing unless you are Whitney ‘freakin’ Houston or Ray Charles! And Ray is gone!

“Bombs bursting in air” “The rockets red glare” That’s all ancient technology!

If I see one more performer get that “oh shit” look in their eyes when they suddenly can’t remember the weird lyrics…………can’t we just have an “I love my nation pretty song with memorable lyrics” that doesn’t take 10 minutes to sing; that is if you can actually remember the lyrics?

Imagine Ray Charles singing ‘America the Beautiful’.

Now don’t imagine the next odd attempt by some celebrity at making the Star Spangled Banner sound new and improved.

Keep Ray’s sound in your head.

Can’t we at least circulate a petition to send to Congress?

Can we just fess up to the rest of the world that we have a weird and musically ugly national anthem?

And since Al Gore invented the internet, we could give him first shot at the new song…………wait a minute though, I’m not too sure about a ‘global warming warning being part of the new song. Scratch that idea.

Somebody with long distance skills contact Ray………please?

Right Again!

I wrote a couple of days ago about working backward. The central premise being that so much of the purity of what we come into the world with can be ‘dirtied up” by the predators that bring us shame and guilt in pursuit of their own agenda.

In my mind this means that if we practice ‘rediscovering’ our inherent goodness, we develop the ability to see past the shame and guilt barrage that assaults us each day.

All of your comments seemed bulls-eye to me in the interpretation of that idea, and I thank you for sharing your thoughts.

That post also reminded me of something I have meant to write about for a while. Early in my life I was very typical ‘male’ in that I analyzed everything around me and made decisions based on that analysis. I still am often teased about my penchant for placing information into spreadsheets and analyzing certain aspects of finances or other numerically driven data as though the numbers were all that actually mattered.

However, later in my life I have managed to work my way backward to ‘re-discover’ a new skill. I should say for me it is a re-discovered skill, because I know many of you have had this tool in your tool belt for all of your life. My wife says it is the discovery of some of my feminine side. I don’t like the sound of that, but whatever.

I have learned to trust my instincts and intuition. I’m talking about that moment when every siren is sounding in your head about some particular decision or understanding and you actually stop and think, “I don’t have any idea why sirens are sounding in my head. It’s not logical to abandon this action or decision if I can’t rationally explain why, but well….I’m going to listen this time…….and I am going to act on intuition and not analysis.” This process has been going on for me for a while in a positive manner.

Recently I read a book called “Blink” and it gave me some additional peace about the process. Inside the book, the author Malcolm Gladwell explores the phenomena of intuitive reasoning and offers some concise and scientific proof that our intuition is actually operating on real information. (According to the author) The information we are using for intuition processes so quickly that the analytical part of our brain works too slowly to piece it together into ‘logic’ but does understand the information as real. Hence, what we assume is intuition is actually the assimilation of real information that occurs too quickly for us to understand it as ‘reason or analysis.’

And so you see, my initial intuitive assessment that analyzing all things is the way to go has been proven to be accurate. I have been RIGHT all along! LOL

Excuse Me, I'm Working Backward

There is a thread of religious philosophy that argues we must seek a goodness that comes from outside ourselves. Our bookstores are filled with self-help books intent on resolving and making correct all that we find inside ourselves to be wrong.

Evangelists on television implore us to ‘change’ and accept the correct way to walk. Muslim fanatics will kill children for no reason other than being told it will make Allah pleased if they do so.

We rush forward to buy the books that will set us on a correct path. We embrace the truth of the evangelist and he accepts our money, as we look for the secret of how we are to find our happiness. Muslim extremist blow their bodies into small bits taking other souls with them as they work toward their personal nirvana.

Place your forward looking thinking on pause for a minute and let’s surf backward through our lives. Are we looking for what went wrong on this search? Are we looking for what went right? Are we examining where we failed to equal the measure of the book's lesson or the evangelist’s message?

Move backward more until you reach your initial day on earth. Is the innocence of our childhood corruptible? Many would argue yes, and I think I might stand on the side of those that do so. But, is the original purity of soul forever gone?

The Christian evangelist and the Muslim extremist tell us that humans are evil and filled with greed. They declare even the children to be corrupted in this sea of unrighteous ignorance, doomed to an unmentionable fate. We are told every day, if we chose to listen, that we are evil, our hearts and minds diseased by all that is wrong with us.

Go with me now to a different way of thinking; a way that declares there has never been anything to correct. I want to give you a new understanding that we have been delivered whole and that the unnatural focus on correction has corrupted the innocence and correctness of our lives.

I am reminded of my father. With perfectly good intentions he would install television antennas on our black and white 1960’s version television in attempts at receiving a better picture. By the end of the day what had begun as a viewable quality picture became fuzzy and fuzzier throughout the day as the antenna grew taller and its direction was aligned and then realigned repeatedly. He was searching for ever more clarity rather than accepting the clarity as it originally existed.

We are all too often trapped in the far more serious task of seeking a better way than the way that was divined into us at our birth.

I offer to you that the process of addition undertaken by the applied application of the ‘lessons’ might actually be the reverse of what we actually require. Can we make more progress by removing false beliefs rather than adding more false beliefs?

A proud Baptist preacher once told me that without accepting the exact teachings under which I was raised, I was surely destined for hell. He told me life is about constantly correcting all that we do wrong until we find salvation and forgiveness for all that we have, in fact, done wrong.

I asked him if that meant we were sinners when we were born. He said “Yes, certainly!”

I asked him if he took two rocks and worked and worked by rubbing them together could he produce a diamond.

Smiling because he thought there was a trick in my question, he answered “Not unless the rocks were diamonds to begin with.”

Unwittingly, he spoiled his own argument.

We are all diamonds and we come from God to earth in that fashion. Life may create the need to wash the dirt off of our brilliance from time to time, but no more rubbing is required.

Work backward.

Remove the false beliefs, and embrace the paradox.

Keep An Eye Out For Pirates

For those of you who are female (most of my readers) you may want to skip this one….I’m making fun of you a little with this one; or plunge ahead. Just please don’t flame me, it’s only satire from my silly side.

Tattoos for women are now old news. Ladies, the newest thing is eye patches.

For many years now we have experienced women emulating World War II American sailors. Tattoos have popped up everywhere on our previously delicate women. Across the nation our lovely ladies have been stained with God knows what kind of images, unlike sailors that stuck with basic anchors and snakes. It is virtually impossible today to find a lady less than 35 years of age that does not have a genuine WW II inspired ‘sailor-like’, cussing and spitting, Harley riding genuine tattoo.

But, as I say….it’s now officially over.

The fashion industry, the genuine barometer of women’s actions and feelings has decided that beginning in summer 2006 (that’s now girls!) the newest look will be eye patches.

Yes indeed, from WW II sailor to Pirate in one easy accessory!

Ophthalmologists across the nation are issuing alerts about the ladies apparent willingness to have one of their eyes removed. According to spokesperson John Magoo, the practice means that the women would then have only one eye remaining.

Undeterred by the warnings, 24 year old Linzy Caprice squealed with delight while looking in the new ‘eye patch’ boutique “Pirate by Design.” Said Ms. Caprice, “These are so darling! Look at the pink one with the blue sequins, it’s fabulous! I have an appointment to have my eye removed next week. But, I’m like stuck, you know, on like which one I don’t like actually need, you know?”

Ms. Caprice hopped up and down with anticipation at her recovery from the surgery, because it would allow her to be an authentic eye patch wearer. According to Caprice, “If you just wear the patch, but don’t have your eye taken out, then it’s just fake and like, I mean, everyone would like know it, you know? I mean like how lame is that, you know?”

I asked Linzy where she had gathered the information about the lameness of wearing the patch with both eyes intact. She rolled her eyes heavenward as though to express, “Duuuuh”, then advised me all of the eye patch manufacturers had declared this to be the case.

According to eye patch spokesperson Max Manipulate, the central idea is that since the majority of women in the US now have tattoos and pierced ears, the eye patch movement will solidify the overall Pirate, tough girl look, leading to the eventual marketing of wooden legs and parrots.

First Ants, Then Babies

Rick's Satire Report News
Charleston, South Carolina

The Home Depot in Charleston, South Carolina had it hands full yesterday with anti-abortion protestors. Marchers from the ‘Right to Life Marching Brigade’, based in South Carolina, were up in arms about Home Depot’s sale of “All-Purpose Fire Ant Killer”.

Henry Myway was carrying a sign depicting a box of the fire ant killer with the image of a dead fire ant larvae below the box. A marcher behind him, Harriett Duzennlissen, was wearing a t-shirt proclaiming Home Depot employees to be murderers. On the back of her shirt, which she gleefully showed this reporter, was the slogan “Home Depot supports the use of products that encourage the evil mandate of pro-choice supporters across America and other parts of the world, and the Home Depot board of directors deserves to burn in hell or rot in a Vietnamese prison until Satan decides to charcoal roast them for the rest of eternity.’ The words were very small in order to fit on the shirt and disappeared into the large pants of Duzenlissen, however she pulled the shirt un-tucked so I could record the whole message.

Dozens of other members of the ‘Brigade’ shouted slogans designed to additionally shame the Home Depot alleged killers.

Myway warned that his Church of Christ based organization would picket until Home Depot came to its senses about the wanton killing of fire ant fetuses. According to Myway, the offensive box of fire ant killer in question actually makes the claim that the product kills the ant larvae before it has a chance to become a fire ant.

Home Depot spokesperson Mindy Talkinalot, said she was mystified that the protestors had confused the anti-abortion issue concerning human fetuses with the ‘All Purpose Fire Ant Killer’ sold by Home Depot. “My goodness”, drawled the South Carolina native, “we’re just a’tryin to help folks keep fire ants from a’bitin on their babies and making big whelps on them and it seems like a good and kind thing for us to be doing to me.”

Myway however was not buying Talkinalot’s response for one minute. According to Myway, the killing of fire ants is just the first step on the path to killing human babies. Myway went on to explain, “This is just like that stuff where they start drinking beer and pretty soon the next step is they get hooked on heroin and start in to robbing stores. We just kain’t afford to let this kinda thinking get a foothold here in South Carolina, cause we fear the Lord.”

I suggested to Mr. Myway that actually fearing the Lord might be a failure in his belief system in the first instance, but he quickly asked if I’d like a knuckle sandwich and I declined.

The Pause Button

I spent a major part of one day last week in a meeting where there was a good bit of blame tossing going on. In reality the problems that surrounded the design and construction of the building under discussion had many sources. The architects wanted to blame the contractors. The contractors claimed it was an architect driven problem. When that didn’t work out they turned on the owner and on and on it went. I was a neutral third party and could see the blame ball being batted back and forth even though the subject under discussion had resulted from the complexity of the issue and everyone in the room needed to be involved in the solution instead of arguing irresolvable questions of fault.

Some words were heated. Many of the words were poorly chosen and completely unproductive.

I have read in Taoist writings that in ancient times people so revered words on paper that they tried never to throw the paper away. When they could no longer write on a piece of paper, they would very carefully gather it up and burned it reverently, so that the words in the paper would be recycled into the great process of life. That was the great respect that the ancient Taoist had for words.

Before the ancient sages spoke they paused to carefully consider what they were about to say. During speaking they often paused again for more contemplation. For them, the words they spoke were sacred. Their words represented their depth of wisdom and knowledge. Their words and the thoughts expressed by the words were not to be devalued by gossip or thoughtlessness.

The writer of Toltec philosophy Don Miguel Ruiz teaches that we should use our speech in a similar method. He speaks against gossip and ‘black language’ cautioning us about the power of our words.

Reflecting on this past meeting I could not help but think about these things. Words used to hurt or blame, when they could have been used to problem solve instead. Words used in fear of the judgment of others; judgment that surely was being thrown around willfully.

Here is what I think I re-learned. I say re-learned because all of us inherently know these things in the beginning. Our fear of judgment by others springs us into the inappropriate use of the power of our words. Other things might do this as well; but the cause will always have fear at its base.

The logical conclusion might be that if we strive to drop our judgment, simultaneously learning to not fear the judgment of others, then perhaps we become able to once again elevate our words to their appropriate sacredness?

Dachsund with a "Glue-On"

Our dog Harrison has followed me around all weekend. I feel like a prisoner in a maximum security prison while Harrison plays the role of the prison guard.

It doesn’t seem that I can make a move without being observed. He is a canine version of George Orwell’s Big Brother.

My wife is in Saint Louis visiting our grandson. That has completely discombobulated Harrison and he clearly doesn’t know where she is and he’s freaked out.

He has decided he will express his concern for her whereabouts by sticking like glue to me and being certain that he knows where I am. He’s been to pee with me. He’s been to the pool with me. He’s been into the kitchen with me. He patiently sat at my feet while I made a sandwich.

I can't figure out how to ditch him. He's right under my feet every time I look down.

He lay by the edge of the pool while I sunned. He barked his Dachsund ass off at two squirrels, which appeared to shoot the finger at him; or at least the squirrel equivalent of the same. He barked at the neighbor’s dog. The neighbor’s dog in a fit of vast dog intelligence barked back with great passion. When I went inside he followed me, seeming to surrender in the war with the squirrels and neighbor dog.

When I went into the living room he followed. He wanted to sit in my lap.

No thanks.

He smells bad because he’s been lying in the sun. I smell bad too, but then I can take a shower and I’m too lazy to wash his ‘clinging to me’ furry dog butt.

I don’t think he cares if he stinks anyway.

Dear wife, please come home before I kill the guard…err…I mean your dog.

Die-Stamped

I watched from the on-deck circle as the new pitcher warmed up to face me. I swung two bats around in the warmup area showing off my muscled arms for the high school girls in the stands. I was a high school junior playing second base, 16 years old, with a love and talent for baseball. I was also a cock-sure peacock of a male, driving a 1964 Mustang, wearing Aqua Velva after shave just like Joe Namath, and strutting down the school halls like Joe would do it, enjoying 1968 to its fullest.

I scanned the crowd, trying my best to be nonchalant about the fans chanting my name and imploring me to bring home more runs with my bat. The fans consisted of the usual high school baseball crowd. They had nicknamed me ‘birdman’ because of my fleet feet and chants of ‘birdman – birdman - birdman’ filtered across my consciousness as I stared out at the pitcher warming up. There were more fans than usual spilling completely out of the stands, many standing two and three deep along the walkways.

She was sitting in the stands with a girl friend when I first saw her. Dark long hair parted down the middle in the popular 1968 style. She had dark brown eyes, and a multitude of freckles splashed across her face. Across the freckled face played a smile that was radiant, highlighted by a very slightly chipped front tooth that gave her a down to earth cuteness that seemed to comfortably marry itself with her remarkable beauty.

I attended a large high school and as astounding as it may seem I had never seen this girl. When I did finally discover her my eyes would not leave her. I stared at her the rest of the game. She would smile demurely but look away out of embarrassment. Years later she would confess that she secretly followed me from one of her classes to my next class that year hoping to be noticed. A cock-sure peacock of a male moves quickly when he sees something he wants. I had completely noticed her for about two solid hours of mouth open staring. She was a senior bound for college, 1-1/2 years older than me which can be a huge difference when an 18 year old girl is assessing a punk 16 year old boy. My friends told me I had no chance with such a gorgeous senior. She was wiser and more careful than me, but I had passion and confidence and on the first date I left her at her door with the promise that one day I would marry her. She smiled slightly, not quite sure what to make of me.

On a mid April Saturday in 1972 the girl with the gorgeous freckled face said “I Do” to the dark haired baseball playing peacock of a boy that was quickly becoming a man.

She has watched me grow up for the past 34 years. In fact she sometimes has made me grow up. We have survived ovarian cancer. We have survived my stupidity and selfishness. We have survived all the things that a couple is required to survive and maybe a little more.

We have adopted and raised two successful children and we have a grandson.

As we work our way into our fifties it feels as if we have ascended a mountain in many respects. Often it seemed the mountain trail was scaled in the darkness, her hand in mine, and perhaps there is more mountain trail to climb. But we will keep doing it the way we always have, her hand in mine.

The women in my lady’s family live long lives. I will reach the top of the mountain before her. But that magic in her face and the love that seems now die-stamped in her heart will stay with me wherever I go, and I will wait patiently for the source of my memories to come home to me.

Baseball has always played a pivotal role in my life. And now I sit here 34 years later thinking about that long ago baseball game in 1968. It was the day I found something I loved more than baseball, and the memory of that remarkable paradox remains as fresh in my mind as the day it happened.

I’m tempted to write something like ‘after 34 years it seems so far, so good’, but I know I should backspace through it and write instead “so far and so good.”

Below is the face I became enchanted with in 1968. She is 19 in the photo. Now really, can you fault me?

Consider me blessed; kinda like Forrest Gump.

Morning Dove

Sunday when I awoke the sunshine was streaming through the blinds of my bedroom window. It was making that distinctive striped pattern of sunlight and shadow that blinds make, its play of light and dark spread across the quilt that still covered me. I wasn’t working today so it was possible to actually be in bed as the sun made its appearance in my room. The window was slightly open for fresh air overnight and I could hear the swimming pool’s fountains splashing into the water outside. Near the window a morning dove emitted its soft ‘cooo’ sound. The air in the room was fresh, the sunlight warming and persistent.

If Walt Disney were alive to design a day, one full of zippity-doo-dahs and bluebirds on your shoulder, he would have given me this morning.

Most of our Sunday was spent at the Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth. Although Fort Worth carries the nickname “Cowtown’ the museums of Fort Worth are world famous and the Kimbell Museum houses one of the world’s finest collections.

That in turn caused me to think about the creative potential in each of us. Some of us write blogs, others like my wife capture the world through photography. Some paint, some run and lift weights sculpting the physique, mother’s read creatively to their children, some make music, but everywhere you look, if you look carefully and with a discerning eye, you will see creativity at work in virtually all individuals around you.
All of us carry the potential to create. Many of your friends or family might claim otherwise, declaring “I can’t paint, draw or do anything creative”. But its not true.
God blessed us all with the power to create. The power to create love, art, food, friends, music, words, happiness and even sadness if that is what we want.
All of us are like the flower you have seen on the Discovery Channel, unfolding in time lapse video. We get a chance to show the world what beauty we can lend when each new day begins.

That is an important point in my mind, the idea that we lend our creativity to the world. In doing so we create beauty within the world. Many people in the arts want to be recognized for their contribution. That is only human and not in itself a negative thing, but it misses a larger point.
If we view our creativity in a different way, by understanding that what we have to give is being shared, even if we are not hoisted on to another’s shoulders to be celebrated, then we gain insight into the creative process life intends for us.

It is the wisest of persons that understands his or her contribution is being absorbed and appreciated by others even when the appreciation is not immediately known. I re-introduce you to the idea of a musician inspiring millions while unable to meet them all and learn that he or she has inspired them.
How many of us have discovered an incredible photograph, piece of art, music or literature and had it inspire our lives without a clue as to whom the creator might have been? Still, the creator exists, though they will never experience your praise or satisfaction.

It is enough to create. It is enough to lend and share yourself. Create and move forward, never looking around for applause. Often the applause will circle around and surprise you from the front. Sometimes it will be applause so distant that you never hear it all; and that is alright because the measure of your gift has been fully received.

I got out of bed and stood in the sunshine, observing it splatter across my chest in its distinctive pattern, enjoying its warmth. My wife walked through the room on the way to another room. She smiled at me. She was barefoot, wearing a bright blue Japanese silk robe. She was as pretty as the day I first saw her. Her slight and graceful robed image bounced around in my head happily and energetically even though she never said a word to me as she walked away into another part of the house. It remained long after she left.

She was creating art, and to her credit, I think she knew it.

Embrace The Paradox

There have been many times that I wished I could go back in my life and try parts of it again. That thought is locked into a parallel thought that all of us have had, “If I knew then what I know now.” It would all be done differently for all of us I’m confident. It would make it all so much easier would it not?

Or would it?

If we had known then what we know now, then we would have known all of the future in front of us as well. We would know that those thrilling moments we once knew would pass and not be nearly as important as they seemed at the time. We would know which of our triumphs were meaningful and which ones hardly mattered. We might know the joy we felt in a relationship was only temporary. That level of knowledge would quite literally suck the joy out of our existence.

Similarly we wish sometimes that we knew what was in front of us. I say we wish this on ourselves simply because we so often fear what we do not know about our future. Will I be able to keep my job? Will I be able to afford a better house? What type life will my children have? Where is this relationship going? All of these thoughts are fears. It is our ever present fear of not knowing what lies in front of us.

If we knew would it be better? What if we knew the tragedies awaiting our children? Would it improve our life? What if we knew the joys awaiting our children? Would it not merely dampen the joy at their happy moment just because we already knew this would happen? If we knew what lay in front of us then we could fold up tent and just die because life would hold no more anticipation or wonder.

You see it is our very ignorance that keeps us sane and living each day. I think it is the creator’s plan, and by figuring this out and accepting our ignorance, even welcoming it, we grant ourselves permission to revel in each day, living it to our fullest capability.

In our rush to know all things, even the future, we reject this remarkable truth, accepting our ignorance of the future as something to fear. This phenomenon I refer to as ‘fearing our own fear.’

To accept our ignorance of tomorrow is to embrace the art of living each day at its intended peak. We only need to accept peacefully that our ignorance protects us and keeps us sane.

Embrace the paradox and hold it tight.

Monkeys Love Blogging

Rick's Satire Report News
St. Louis, Missouri

Maverick researcher Fred Jones has determined that monkeys can become quickly addicted to blogging. Jones initial research conducted at the St. Louis Zoo consisted of installing PC’s in the zoo’s chimpanzee exhibit area.

According to Jones the PC’s were equipped with special chimpanzee keyboards. The keyboards contained graphic symbols previously developed in prior research on monkey language. The keys included, for example, a monkey throwing his own waste to express a feeling of anger. Number keys utilized bananas, one banana meaning the number one and so forth. An embedded program in the PC’s then converted the symbols into English.

Each chimp was assigned a blog template and blogger name and given addresses of human bloggers.

According to Jones the majority of the chimps became glued to their monitors ignoring the environment surrounding them. Swinging from branch to branch was down by 73%. The previous occupation of sitting motionless while staring into the distance decreased by 81%. The younger monkeys chasing one another around the cage and from tire swing to tire swing while the elders watched went down markedly as the older chimps were no longer interested in watching the youngster’s games. Jones said the obvious ‘marker’ to blogging addiction came when mom chimpanzees quit picking whatever it is they pick from the little chimps heads.

The elder female chimp, ‘Franny’ became fond of posting about her husband “Grins’. Her posts regularly bashed Grins for his failures in communication and romance.

Her elder husband ‘Grins’ posts were often rants about the fact that the young chimps didn’t understand how hard life was in the ‘old-style’ zoos.

The young chimps blogged randomly and virtually unintelligibly about apparently nothing at all.

In all cases according to Jones the chimps appeared hopelessly addicted to blogging, sitting in front of the PC’s all day and into the night.

Human researchers that I interviewed say this research has important implications for assessing human blogging behavior but that one should not jump to conclusions. Joan Liberal, a Princeton researcher with the ‘Acceptable Behavior of Humans Enforcement League’ said “After all, these are monkeys we are talking about, not that there is anything wrong with monkeys of course.” She said the monkeys needed to be placed into a rehab group, hopefully funded under an affirmative action clause of Zoo legislation. She also expressed concern that the handicapped chimps did not have special handicapped accessibility keyboards. When informed that none of the champs were handicapped, Ms. Liberal said “Well, of course not, they did not properly provide for them.” She then broke into tears, made unintelligible comments about ‘bastard zoo-owning Republicans’, and then dismissed herself from additional questioning.

According to Jones the research has been hampered by the removal of the PC’s by zoo officials. They were removed when chimps from a Mexican zoo showed up unexpectedly in the cage one morning. Zoo officials did not know how the Mexican chimps had made their way to St. Louis but arrangements are being made to either deport them back to the Nuevo Laredo Zoo or make them St. Louis zoo citizens. Apparently the Mexican chimps were drawn to a better way of life in the St. Louis Zoo.

Meanwhile it was deemed detrimental to the Mexican chimps integration process since the existing PC resources were not plentiful enough to go around.

Regular zoo visitor Irene Smith said she missed the good old days when the monkeys threw their crap at unruly teenagers. "Maybe now that the PC's are gone they can get back to just being monkeys", she said.

Creative Yet Ugly

Once a year I give a guest lecture at my college alma mater to students of architecture. The subject matter can be wide ranging, but the students always want to talk 'design'.
During the Q&A after the talk a couple of years ago a student asked the very intriguing question..."Is it possible for a work of art to lack aesthetic yet be filled with creative thought at the same time." Perhaps a more clear way to ask this is "can a man-made element be very creative, and yet ugly."
I told him I certainly thought so and that the idea is solidly illustrated by practically every work involving Frank Gehry.
Understand that architect Frank Gehry is an icon and hero to most of these students. I believe he is very creative and that his architecture is manipulative and ugly. So it goes.

Recently a friend sent me a silly picture. I found some extra meaning in it because it also tells the truth about the possibility of 'creativity' being married to 'not so pretty'. (Marriage jokes are allowed in the comments area.)

The Professor's Grade:
Creativity: A+
Aesthetic Achievement: F-

The Noose Around Their Necks

Grant mentioned recently that he would like to see some of my police experiences written about in this space.
So much is remembered and could be discussed. Most of it is interesting to me, but also often scary or even grim for the casual reader.
In order to make such a recounting meaningful it is helpful (I think) to draw a parallel between a story and a cultural or social situation. In that way maybe the story has some thought value beyond “hey, here is a police story.”
The story below will attempt to draw a line between the story and the current illegal immigrant discussion, though the line may wave and weave along the way. In fact it may actually disappear, though I will focus on keeping it visible.

I was on patrol when the dispatcher radioed to me that she needed help back at the station. Her explanation was that an inmate in our municipal jail was trying to kill himself. Her job duty meant never going outside her control room and certainly never entering the jail block under any circumstance. However, one of our incarcerated was banging on his cell door and yelling at her to have someone stop this suicide attempt.
I drew the black bean on this one simply because I happened to be the senior statesman out on the streets at that moment.
I tried to calm her down and told her I would be back there to the jail in a jiffy. When I arrived she explained the situation and buzzed the cell block door open for me. Going into a cell block, particularly alone, can be dangerous and all weapons are removed and secured before entering. This is done so that any fighting or struggling does not result in having your weapon used against you. So, you go in with the playing field leveled between you and prisoner.
When I came to the cell in question I had dispatch buzz the door open. The doors were solid steel doors with a small window at around five foot high. I went inside.
The man in front of me was wearing a noose around his neck and had tears in his eyes. Contrary to what this image might present to you I honestly had to suppress a feeling to laugh. The prisoner had removed the plastic mattress edging in long strands. Imagine a bare mattress and the nylon chord that goes around the edges, holding the mattress covers together. That material was his hanging weapon.
He had tied this nylon chord around his neck and was jumping from the top of a double bunk attempting to end his life. On each attempt the chord would break under the load of his body. He would remove more chord and try again. He eventually ran out of ‘hanging material.’ The sight in front of me consisted of a man wearing a handmade noose of nylon chord insufficient to do the job. The chord extending from the noose portion stuck up above his head in a rigid vertical line, its failure clearly evident. In the odd way that things can strike us it was actually a little funny to me. Funny, I guess, because of the complete irrationality of the entire situation.
This man was in our jail waiting transfer to the county jail system because we had arrested him for passing bad checks at grocery stores. He would write rubber checks and get cash for them. He had been ‘handled’ many times before and this was a repeat felony, now of sufficient quantity to land him in the Texas prison system for a long stretch.
I could tell you the whole story of my conversation with him. I will not do that for fear of an extraordinarily long post. I worked my way toward understanding his desire for leaving earth.
What he told me was unsettling in its blindness and in its confusion. He told me that yes indeed he does write phony ID checks. He said the problem in his life was that the police continued to arrest him for doing this.
He told me I was responsible for his wanting to kill himself. He said he had a wife and four children and needed to feed them. He told me if we would just stop arresting him he could get ahead and would no longer need to break the law. If he passed enough bad checks and we just left him alone, then soon he would be able to get a regular job and become a good citizen. But, now we had arrested him enough times that he would not be able to take care of his family at all. Why, he asked, didn’t we understand this?
I tried to help him understand that writing bad checks was the same as stealing because when all was accounted for he had in fact actually stolen the money from another human. He reasoned that he was stealing the money from a grocery store not a human. For him this reasoning led to the belief that he had not harmed anyone at all.
His working philosophy appeared to be “Let me break the law so that I can become solvent enough to not need to break the law. I’m not really hurting anyone.”

This sounds familiar maybe? Waves of immigrants that are telling us ‘let me break the law until I become solvent enough to not break the law. And just as in the prisoner’s situation it is reckoned that there are no victims of the action. They believe it is the US government that is paying the way not individual American citizens via taxation.

Now I think there are multiple ways to run with this discussion and each of us can choose which way we want to go.

These are authentic human compassion issues to wrestle with; illegals hurting to provide for their families. There are U.S. citizen victims of this crime.

For the record my position is that the problem is not a U.S. problem at its genesis. If we look deep into the nucleus of the situation this is a Mexican government and cultural crisis. There is a long-standing problem of government and business corruption in Mexico. The U.S. difficulty with illegal immigration is merely a symptom of this corruption malignancy deeply embeddded in Mexico. Until the Mexican people are given the opportunities in Mexico that they find in the U.S. we will continue to wrestle with the ‘noose around their necks’.

Perhaps this protest energy might be better applied a little farther south? Yes, I know citizens of Mexico will die in protests in Mexico. Yes, I know it will not be easy to reform decades of power abuse and corruption. Still all journeys begin with the first step and I think the first steps become more necessary as the steps into America become more difficult, or at least more legal.

Consistency

I don’t know the reason, but consistency is on my mind today. Consistency matters to me. It is a trait I admire.

I think about my blogging friends Stacy and Patti that are consistent in the support of their husbands and their visits to my humble site. I think about Stormy who visits me every day just to see what silliness I have here. There is my blog friend Reach and his allegiance to country, duty and his unfailing support and positive attitude.

I think of my masters track friend Wayne Bennett who has taught me so much and shared his wealth of track knowledge consistently and willingly.

Grant visits here frequently and adds his considerable observation and interesting take on life in a consistent fashion.

I am particularly impressed with fellow blogger Robert Shapiro who labors in benevolence day after day with admirable focus to task, never complaining and always encouraging.

There is Jenn who shows consistency in her devotion to her daughter’s welfare and visits here regularly.

This is a wonderful and underestimated trait. The ability to be consistent in our devotion to duty and friends transforms us from the ordinary to the extraordinary. Yet we often de-value this trait. We think of spouses as boring or unoriginal despite their remarkable devotion and consistency. We complain about mothers or fathers despite their unfailing devotion and consistency. We wish our friends were more consistent despite any evidence that they have ever failed us.

Here is a ‘shout-out’ of positive feeling for all of you that consistently shine your multi-colored and consistent light my way.

My hat is off to your consistency.

It is a trait to be treasured and admired. Even cherished.

And I do.

Yep

I’ve got a feeling all you idjits have probably seen this before. I plucked it off the Photobucket.com deleted area so I just imagine lots of bloggers have had it up before. I don’t care cuz it made me laugh, and it was new to me. And I am all that matters after all.

I have a somewhat unorthodox view about clothes and nudity. I just don’t think clothes or lack of same matters a lot despite our society’s obvious fascination with the subject. All you girls can go naked around me any time you want. I don’t care. Really.

Unless you are under 4’-11” and weigh more than 200 lbs and you are the same person.

Anyway, this cartoon just makes me laugh. Out loud.

Have a great HN Thursday!

Brain Research Raises Questions

Rick Satire Report News
Dallas, Texas

New studies conducted in Dallas,Texas indicate that the onset of Alzheimer’s in men has a previously undiscovered and remarkable source. After extensive testing and surveying of principal life styles in male Alzheimer’s victims a causal factor has been isolated.

According to researchers the disease in men is likely produced by brain damage resulting from men having to answer successive multiple questions posed by women.

The idea that brain cells can actually be altered by a series of questions unbroken by direct statements was first postulated by a thrice divorced scientist in Texas. He noticed that his daughters had begun to end statements with the characteristic inflection of a question. For example the statement “Dad, I am going to the mall.” Had been repackaged as “Dad I am, like, going to the mall, you know?” This was confusing to the scientist in that he had no ready answer for what sounded like a question, but appeared upon additional examination to be a statement.

According to the research presented by the scientist, the breaking point appears to be 7 successive questions. After engaging the brain in answering 7 questions in a row the male brain cellular material undergoes a negative alteration. The researchers stress that the number of questions can exceed 7 or actual alteration of cells can occur prior to 7 depending on the emotional complexity of the question and the irritation level of the women asking the question. The researchers stressed that 7 straight questions represent the mean figure.

According to behavioral experts the new studies are loaded with cultural implications. Professor Cynthia Johnson of the Institute for Brain Function said that women can accelerate the onset of Alzheimer’s in their mate by simply asking successive questions, in excess of 7 in a row on a daily basis, as is already their custom. On the other hand, they can prevent this horrible disease by being careful to insert a statement between their normal patterns of multiple questions. She added that the study raises many, many questions that require answers.

Professor John Runoff at the Southern Strategic Command Center of the U.S. Air Force is currently trying to determine if the research will help explain why males traditionally run faster than females. Runoff postulates, in the absence of research, that it is possible that men are able to run faster in order to ‘outrun the persistent questioning’ of the female gender. In Runoff’s thinking this would represent an evolutionary refinement necessary in saving brain tissue. He added his research is being bogged down by the questions posed by Professor Johnson of the Institute for Brain Function.

Dr. Philip Hearmore of the American Academy for Hearing Research indicated that the new findings have repercussions for his work. According to Hearmore, the incidence of deafness among his male patients may be a faked impairment. “These men may be engaging in a defensive behavior designed to slow the death of their brains” he said.

Dr. Hearmore declined to answer additional questions.

Nancy Reagan, when contacted, asked why I was calling, and would it require any travel or social arrangements on her part. She also asked about fees and if her caregivers could also respond and if the phone call was on a cell phone or a land line. When informed it was a cell phone she asked which service provider I was using and if I was happy with their service. I began to feel confused and I confessed to her that I had forgotten why I called.

After proofreading this post my wife asked, "Why do you make this stuff up, aren't you afraid you will offend someone, or get them confused?"

That counts as three questions!

Gotta run! Maybe fast. See ya.

Satin Halo and the Margaritas

A friend of mine took me to the horse races this past week. He’s a big racing fan and I have a less passionate interest. We sat behind two married couples.

The two men in front were rigorously analyzing the race forms, comparing the prior race data of the horses. They were looking at previous race times, furlong splits, recent training times, the weights of the jockeys and entering the data into a laptop one of the men had with him. When they were satisfied they decided ‘Appealing Air’ was the horse to place the money on in race 5. They marched off to the betting windows having completely researched the issue. I was impressed.

Meanwhile the two wives chatted happily about their grandchildren. When the horses came through for the pre-race walk-around, they turned their attention to the horses. Both of them were particularly partial to “Satin Halo’, a brilliantly colored black 3 year old. He was a grand animal. Sitting atop “Satin Halo” was a female jockey with baby blue silks trimmed in yellow and black checks.

The ladies declared her to be strikingly elegant in the baby blue and they were thoroughly won over by the combination of the blackness of the animal and the attire of the jockey.

Following the example of their men, the women also skee-daddled for the betting windows before the race. I was not impressed. I even laughed at them.

Satin Halo won the race in a breeze. It was no contest. Appealing Air limped home in fifth.

The men were disgruntled and frustrated. The ladies? They missed the race. They were inside buying a margarita in a lovely etched souvenir glass.

Good and Not Good

You know how every family has one or more members that are shall we say 'not so bright'? But we keep them around because they are family after all.
Ours is my cousin Taylor. Taylor phoned me after the last post because he isn't smart enough to figure out the comment thingy. He asked what did I mean by a 'milk cow hiney'. Well Taylor, just for you I have gone to the trouble to create an illustration. See below. If you are still confused do not call me again! Call your father or something, cuz I am very busy being an economically productive member of the family.

Somebody 'splain' it to me

From time to time poor ol Rick just needs to have some things explained to him. I'm hoping my girl readers can help me understand a particular cultural phenomena of the past 3-4 years. The guys will surely know what I am asking too, and if they know the answer, please chime in.

I keep seeing girls that have low cut jeans and thong underwear and when they sit down their underwear shows or their hiney crack shows. I'm not complaining about this. Girls showing hiney is all good by me so long as they are not milk cow hineys.

But here is what I notice. Most of the girls are tugging incessantly on their pants so that their underwear does not show. Tug, tug, tug, tug, looking around to see if anyone is looking.

I went to a baseball game last week and a young girl sat in front of me in the bleachers. When she sat down her pants rode down and her thong top was more than a little exposed. Yes, I noticed.

Then, she turned around and looked at me, tugged up her pants and gave ME a DIRTY LOOK!!!!

OK....table is set. Here is my question. If they want to show their underwear and hiney cracks why don't they just get into the spirit and do it. I promise most of us guys don't care a bit.

If they don't, well its obvious the clothes selection should be different.
But on behalf of all guys out here....if you are going to do this for God's sake just do it and don't be giving MEN a dirty 'what a pervert' look!

Can you help me with this? What gives?

Nuts To You

All of you know how I sometimes go off into some weird post about sunshine on my wings and such stuff. Believing that a world outside what we can see exists. If you have scoffed at this I say 'nuts to you'. And this pic supports my thought perfectly. On top is a store dealing in nuts, I guess. And on the bottom is a PSYCHIC. And its not Photoshop. This is in downtown Philly and it is as real as your car payment.



Ever heard the phrase 'bullshit is flying'? This is where it is coming from. From the flying bull in Philly!



Sunday we ate at a famous Philly Cheesesteak place called Pat's Steaks. Up rolled a long black limo. Out came TV cameras and reporters followed by the Philadelphia Eagles No.1 draft pick from the day before. Guess which one is him! He is a defensive tackle from Florida State. Hear that PQ?
Typical first round signing bonuses are around 6 million. That right, six million. He's 22 years old. Not bad for a kid.



This is inside Franklin Field on the day we ran.



This is the ouside of Franklin Field.



This is a part of the Univ of Pennsylvania campus adjacent to Franklin Field.



Here is my 4x100 team. The coach is third from the left. He set a new 100 meter World Record later in the day following the relay.
L to R:
Yours truly, Mark Hastings, Bill Collins, Charlie Allie



And finally, since I have masters track folks that read here I am showing them what the Penn gold medal looks like below. I find it a little peculiar. It appears to be Ben Franklin passing out laurel wreaths to 4 naked men. I'm the third guy in line. A little weird huh?



If you got this far you are truly my friend!

Rick's Home Pics of Philadelphia

As promised, some photos from Philadelphia, one of the oldest and most historic cities in America.

Independence Hall - The first U.S seat of government. The Declaration of Independence and The Constitution were deliberated and signed here.


Below is the room where the US Constitution was signed. You have probaly seen drawings of this room in history text books?



This is the City Hall.



Three guesses what this is! That's right PQ it's the Libery Bell! By the way, the bell is housed in an architectural masterpiece of a building.



Pic of me with a track groupie. No idea who she is but she insisted on a picture with me!



A runner behind me foolishly expends energy trying to catch up. (Me in front)

Sunshine On Our Wings

I’m composing this by hand as I ride American Airlines flight 1883 back to Dallas. I’m writing in a small notebook that I keep inside my running backpack. Inside the pages of the notebook are details of workouts; timed runs across various distances with specified rest periods of duration dependent on the intent of the workout.

The written information represents the details. A timed chronology of the planned preparation to run fast.

The flight tonight is only 2/3 full, a rarity these days. Outside the plane’s window the clouds that exist at 33,000 feet are being placed behind us at 550 miles per hour. It could be 30 miles per hour for all I am able to gauge by casual observation.

This marvel of transportation was also planned by reason and the calculation of numbers, just as the workouts have been planned. Before you think I am on task to discuss mechanical engineering let me assure I am headed another direction altogether.

As I told you in the comments section of the last post, my track team enjoyed the great feeling this weekend that comes with a first place finish at Penn Relays.

Success comes in many forms. How we define success is often the only true measure that can quantify its presence or absence in our individual lives.

More mystifying to me are the non-reasoned and unexpected signals that can precede our happiness and success. Numbers and reason are exceptional predictors of and foreshadowers of the truth in individual performance. But I have also known for a handful of years that non-reasoned forces can also foreshadow an event.

A case in point in my life came 3 years ago in the Denver Airport. I was catching a connecting flight to Boise, Idaho for the indoor national championships track meet.

As I passed under a skylight a warm beam of sunlight seared through the glass overhead, spreading across my chest and face in a veritable warm hug of good omen. It was powerful enough to make me smile and mentally record the circumstances. I performed at a personal best level in Boise that weekend.

Six months later I was in the Denver Airport once again catching a connecting flight, this time to Edmonton, Canada to compete in the World Masters Games. Without remembering the previous Denver incident I hurried down one of the moving walkways late for the flight to Edmonton. The same quick sun from above the skylight interrupted my thoughts with an identical penetrating warm bright light. This time I took it for a signal. I packed the memory and confidence of its reappearance in my pocket and hustled toward the airplane. Once again I established personal best times during the meet in Edmonton.

This past Thursday, as those of you that read here regularly know, I boarded a plane to Philadelphia concerned about performing my job with a relay team and wrestling with a bit of anxiety. We moved down the runway and eventually left the surface in that familiar high speed rush into the sky.

The nose of the plane was trained on its ascent, pushing passengers backward into their seats. I frowned and worried. Philadelphia and pressure awaited me on the other end of the flight. Ten minutes into the flight on a mid-afternoon over North Texas the pilot banked the wings on my side toward the sky as he maneuvered into his intended course.

I leaned left with the tilt and looked out the window at the plane’s uplifted wing. In the same quick instant it has taken each time, the wing caught the sun and flashed it into my eyes. I closed them at the blinding light. When I reopened them the sun was across my face and chest, the same warm omen. In another moment it was gone again. I smiled a very large smile. My mind became calm. My anxiety was ushered into the sunset.

This was the external signal I knew; an old friend paying another visit. It’s a friend as real as the numbers and reason inside this notebook. To me it is as real as the aerospace engineering of an airplane. It always comes when I am not searching for it or expecting it. And I have learned it means good things for me. And yes, there are times it does not come at all.

I don’t really understand it. Perhaps I never will.

Nevertheless I will continue to hope and trust for my non-reasoned truth to come again.

We all need a little sunshine on our wings, do we not?

Penn Relays at Franklin Field, Philadelphia - 2006

I'll post some other photos of Philadelphia and the trip this week. For now, I'm going to bed!

Old Wisdom Twisted To Suit Me

Have you ever felt positive power within yourself so remarkably that you have willed a significant change in your life’s outcome? I’m attempting to describe the ‘top of the world’ triumph that comes in our lives when we truly believe in ourselves, our dreams and one another.

I know many of you know what I am talking about. Some of you may not.

I wanted to write a satire today about an author of self-help motivational ‘power of positive’ thinking books. In my satire he would be too depressed to write anything positive. I may get to that satire and humor before long, but I got derailed thinking along a different line.

Part of my mental wandering is being brought about by the fact that I am going to compete in the famous Penn Relays this Friday. I am going to run on a 4x100 meter relay team with my Houston Elite teammates. Normally when I compete I am not nervous at all; but in a prestigious relay like Penn a mistake or failure on my end will have an impact on three other people. There are high speed baton exchanges, take-off zones, drop dead zones, hand positions and enough other details to make what appears like a simple endeavor seem quite difficult.

And so I have been mentally working on staying positive and quite frankly there have been moments when my anxiety wrestles the positive thinking to the ground and gets in a few good punches. From that process developed a thought I don’t often see discussed.

The positive thinking evangelists take us to the doorstep, but once we are there we often wander astray at the smallest sighting of the negative or a failure from our ‘positive thinking’ to bring a suitable result.

How then do we distinguish between the fanciful ‘Pollyana’ type positive thinking as opposed to true belief in ourselves and the power of belief in a positive outcome?

How do we find the silver lining of the darkest cloud and cling tenaciously to it as if we were blind to any darkness?

Maybe our weakness is that we seek the improbable rather than the positive? With intent I did not use the word impossible in the previous sentence. Someone always corrects me that there is nothing impossible to us.

When I expect the improbable, do I concentrate so hard on the ultimate goal of my positive thinking that I might miss the alternate positive that knocks on my door? Is our vision of positive too narrow?

Maybe it’s only a larger Faith that we need. Faith that by believing in the ultimate good that awaits us all, we run in the proper direction, and find the world more palatable than if we embraced the negative; but knowing we should keep keen our senses on all things positive and good, not merely the good we have outlined in a static exogenous fashion.

The true test of our ability to seek the good comes when times are toughest; the most negative of all our experience. We all know that and I assure you I didn’t come up with that thought by having a genius philosopher pass me a note.

We all know this phenomenon, yet we still let failure to reach our preconceived notion of ‘the ultimate positive’ derail us.

I’m full circle here to understanding the old wisdom about silver linings on dark clouds. And I’m hoping to add a twist to the old adage. Hoping and working on the Faith to hold on to the slimmest of silver linings that surround the darkest of clouds; defining what Faith in all things good actually means when measured by the strong and determined.

Remembering to define the good not by what I might believe is good, but instead by what the universe offers to me in a positive spirit.

Please wish me well. I will find the good in Philadelphia around noon on Friday.

I know you will find the strength to hold tight to your silver linings too; and expect the best of all things by any and all definitions.