The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
“And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make” Lennon/McCartney
I ambled into Pappa’s and glanced around. Andy and Bob were seated in their usual spot, and obviously having a great time. They didn’t see me enter, because I have at long last learned something about stealth and the wisdom of keeping a low profile.
“I’m back guys.”
Bob looked up at me and smiled. “It’s about time Steve. We were just getting your picture put on the side of the milk cartons. So how did it go? Did you get hit by lightning yet? Did you win the lottery? Are you taking your medicine and vitamins? Did you ever find Flint, and if you did were there any cute women there?”
“One thing at a time man.” I replied. “The last time we spoke I told you about getting side tracked to Buffalo.”
“Yeah, what happened after that?” Bob asked.
“Well, I got in the wrong lane again.”
“And?????”
“I ended up on the bridge to Canada. Must be my homing instinct or something.”
“So what happened?” questioned Andy. He loves all things relating to history and must have been talking with Bob about the Spanish Inquisition or something, when I arrived.
“Well I didn’t want to go that far north, but you can’t turn around on the bridge once you’ve begun to cross it. So I continued to the tollbooth, and there was an angelic young lady there to take my money. Angelic ladies do stuff like that all the time, but it doesn’t normally happen in a tollbooth. So I flirted with her, paid her and pulled up to the Canadian Customs booth.”
“What happened next?”
“The lady in the booth asked me more bloody questions than you did when I walked in here. Like citizenship, where are you going? How long are you staying? Do you have any guns, bombs, or drugs? Are you a terrorist? … You know, all the standard stuff.”
“What did you tell her Steve?”
“Well, I told her no, to all of the above, but I asked her if anyone had ever admitted to the terrorist question.”
“Not a good move Steve.”
“So then I smiled my innocent smile and asked her if she thought I looked like one of those terrorist guys.” She looked at me for a moment and said “Well, you might. I’ve never met one yet. So you may look like one. You’d be my first.”
“I’ve always wanted to be someone’s first.” I told her
“Yes, but you don’t look mean, or ugly enough.” She said. “Well, not mean enough, anyway. Have a good visit.”
“They have really crappy direction signs on both sides of the border. So continuing on my directionally challenged path, I ended up in the wrong lane again.”
“Where did that take you?” asked Andy.
“Back onto the bridge, and U.S. Customs. The Customs Agent asked me how long I had been in Canada. So I looked at my clock and told him, for about three minutes. I got in the wrong lane. Twice!”
“He must have been impressed, huh?”
“Don’t know. He looked at me. He looked at the Texas plates on my car. Then he shook his head and told me to try it again. So I did, even though I didn’t want to. But you don’t screw with Customs and Immigration, so I turned around at the barrels and made my second coming.”
Andy and Bob both chuckled at me.
“Well anyway, I figured that there was a silver lining to this cloud and I’d at least see the angelic toll bridge chick again. But when I pulled up she had transformed into an ugly old guy with bad teeth. So I just paid the toll, skipped the flirting part and proceeded back to see my Canadian Customs friend. As I pulled up she looked at me and asked all the same damned questions. Well all of them except the terrorist one, so I asked her why she had omitted that one and she told me she knew I was through a few minutes before and that she knew I couldn’t have had enough training in that time to be certified as a terrorist,”
Bob had tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Don’t cry man. It all went well. So, at any rate I visited Canada for long enough to realize that it’s too danged cold for my thin blood and that maybe I really should have gone to Flint, Michigan like I had planned. Always follow your gut instincts.”
“But your roots are up there, aren’t they?” Alton had arrived for the last part of the conversation.
“Yeah, my roots are up there, but my heart is in Texas. I think that I’ve developed root rot, over the years, or something.”
“So then what happened?” Bob asked.
“I went to Flint.”
“Aaah, finally!” said Andy. “Did you win the lottery?”
“Nope. They have a lottery, but not enough thunder and lightning storms to make it a shrewd investment. And to make matters worse, I got there after eight o’clock at night.”
“Why does that make it worse?”
“ Because the city closes at seven-thirty. I couldn’t even find a place to eat at that was still open. So I pulled into a gas station and asked the guy if there were any good looking women in Flint.”
“What are you looking for? Any particular type?” he asked.
“I’m looking for a BMW.” I told him.
He screwed up his face and said, “A BMW? This is a gas station, not a car dealership. And this is a GM town, pal.”
“Not the car, sir. I’m looking for a Beautiful Michigan Woman. Well that and a lightning strike.”
“How long have you been ill buddy? There‘s no such thing as a beautiful Michigan woman. All of them left for Texas years ago. We only have Big Michigan Women now!”
“Then his eyes went kind of weird and he chased me out of the place, cussing in Arabic or something. So I jumped into the car and headed back here.”
“And that’s it, huh?”
“No. It was strange, but when I got in here it got even stranger. I went into the store and started talking with a good looking woman named Andy, but it must be spelled differently than the way you spell yours, cause you don’t look anything like her at all. I told her it was nice to be home in Texas, because the women are so beautiful and sweet here She said she wasn’t from Texas, but she knew she was really cute, …. and humble too.”
“Well where are you from then? “ I asked her.
“I’ve been here for twelve years or so, but I’m originally from Flint, Michigan.” She told me.
“So what did you say to her?”
“I told her that I’ve been in Flint before, and that the guy in the gas station was right.”
“And ????????”
“She smiled at me, turned and walked away. I stood at the cash, dumbfounded, with a big tear rolling down my cheek, as I watched her walk out and get into her BMW.”
“That’s quite the story Steve.” The other Andy said to me.
“Yeah. I suppose it is. So I paid for my stuff and walked out the door to my car as she drove away.”
“In this storm? Are you crazy? There’s thunder and lightning everywhere, man.” Bob tossed in.
“I know. When I got to the car, the guy parked beside me was getting out of his and a bolt of lightning hit the ground and knocked him right off his feet. Stunned the living beejesus out of the guy. It even scared me!”
“Is he okay?” the three of them asked me.
“Yeah. He was just really dazed and shook up. So I helped him get back onto his feet and checked him over. I think he’s going to be just fine.” I smiled as I spoke.
“Why are you smiling Steve? He could have been killed! You both could have been killed!”
I continued smiling. Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the lottery ticket. “He thanked me for helping him and gave this to me. I think my luck is changing, guys!”
“Why so Steve?”
“He had Michigan plates on his car.”
“I think it’s a sign, or something.”
Friday, December 7, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
The Accidental Tourist - Part III
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
Hey Bob, sorry I've been out of touch for a while.
I've been kind of worried about you Steve. He replied. What the heck happened? How is Flint? Or how was Flint?
I'm not really sure man. Never got there … yet.
You've been gone for weeks Steve. What have you been doing?
Do you believe in God, Bob?
Well yeah. I guess I do. Why?
Well do you believe in miracles too?
I don't know, why are you asking me all of this Steve?
Well how about Cincinnati, Bob? Do you believe in Cincinnati?
You're losing it Steve. You need to come back to Texas. We have really good doctors here in Houston, and they all could use more business. They'll help you. C'mon home boy!
Just answer the question Bob. Do you believe in Cincinnati or not?
I believe in Pete Rose, so I suppose I have to believe in Cincinnati. What's the point Steve.
Well Bob, I have to tell you. …… I think it's a holy place!
A holy place? … Cincinnati? … Find a doctor Steve. Find a doctor really fast. I'll send a rescue team to get you back here. Keep the faith Steve.
Yeah, I am keeping the faith. I think I was inspired by Cincinnati. Probably the holiest place in all of Ohio! And maybe the entire northeast sector of America, come to think of it.
I'm afraid to ask Steve, but I have to. How on God's green earth did you come up with that conclusion? … Oh no!! Don't tell me you got hit by lightning in Cincinnati?!!
Nope, not yet. But while there is still life, there is hope.
Even in Cincinnati?
Especially in Cincinnati, Bob. Hope. That's the biggest thing they have.
But I thought that you said lotto heaven was in Flint. What's the deal?
Well I left Memphis, after the visitation of Elvis, and tore through the rest of Tennessee, like a hot knife through butter. I checked out Kentucky for a while, but then I found that there are no Kentucky Fried Chicken joints there. It's false advertising or something. Anyway, I was a trifle upset about the chicken thing, so I turned north in Covington, Kentucky.
I think that's the only direction you can go in Covington, isn't it?
No Bob, you could go south, but I was in the wrong lane. That's when I got to the bridge leading to Cincinnati.
And then what?
I crossed that bridge when I got to it. And that was when the realization struck me.
Oh, that's what happened, huh?
Yeah man. I saw a vision!
You saw a vision? In Cincinnati? You sure it wasn't pollution or something?
Yeah, I'm sure man. There wasn't any acid rain or anything like that. It was a cloudless afternoon. It was a bloody vision, Bob.
Ok Steve. So what did it look like?
It looked like three rivers.
Were they clean?
Doesn't matter Bob. There were three of them. I swear it.
You sure you weren't in Pittsburgh, huh?
Yeah, Pittsburgh is nowhere near Kentucky, and I had just left Kentucky, so it had to be Cincinnati. Quit trying to confuse me.
I'd be too late I think, Steve. So, anyway, tell me about the vision. Did you see Lonnie Anderson or something?
No. I saw …. rush hour.
That's not a vision Steve. I hate to break it to you.
No, but I guess I must have gotten into another wrong lane when I was watching the rivers. Three rivers, the God thing. You know, like three people, one God. A sign, I figured.
Well what the heck did the sign show you?
It showed me that not all roads lead to Flint, Michigan. Which might be a good thing.
How's that?
Cause this one that I got pushed onto led to Buffalo. Freaking Buffalo! The North American equivalent of where the elephants go to die in Africa.
Hey Steve, I used to live near Buffalo, years ago. It's not that bad.
It is now, Bob! Ya gotta trust me on this. Fire city. Year round blizzards. Ugly chicks with weird accents. And a damn bridge that leads out of America, if you get on it by mistake.
Well it's okay if you stay in the right lane isn't it?
Yeah but I've been directionally challenged lately. It's kind of a left-right problem. You know, directly responsible for the miracle of Cincinnati. Stuff like that.
So what are you saying?
I got in the wrong damned lane again.
And?
Well, there's a really good looking girl working in the toll booth at the bridge. You ought to see her! I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
She was that beautiful?
I think so, … but I had just been in Buffalo, so I couldn't swear to it.
I've got to go Steve. I have to get my daughter. Call me later, okay?
Okay bud. Talk to you soon.
To Be Continued... We think...
Hey Bob, sorry I've been out of touch for a while.
I've been kind of worried about you Steve. He replied. What the heck happened? How is Flint? Or how was Flint?
I'm not really sure man. Never got there … yet.
You've been gone for weeks Steve. What have you been doing?
Do you believe in God, Bob?
Well yeah. I guess I do. Why?
Well do you believe in miracles too?
I don't know, why are you asking me all of this Steve?
Well how about Cincinnati, Bob? Do you believe in Cincinnati?
You're losing it Steve. You need to come back to Texas. We have really good doctors here in Houston, and they all could use more business. They'll help you. C'mon home boy!
Just answer the question Bob. Do you believe in Cincinnati or not?
I believe in Pete Rose, so I suppose I have to believe in Cincinnati. What's the point Steve.
Well Bob, I have to tell you. …… I think it's a holy place!
A holy place? … Cincinnati? … Find a doctor Steve. Find a doctor really fast. I'll send a rescue team to get you back here. Keep the faith Steve.
Yeah, I am keeping the faith. I think I was inspired by Cincinnati. Probably the holiest place in all of Ohio! And maybe the entire northeast sector of America, come to think of it.
I'm afraid to ask Steve, but I have to. How on God's green earth did you come up with that conclusion? … Oh no!! Don't tell me you got hit by lightning in Cincinnati?!!
Nope, not yet. But while there is still life, there is hope.
Even in Cincinnati?
Especially in Cincinnati, Bob. Hope. That's the biggest thing they have.
But I thought that you said lotto heaven was in Flint. What's the deal?
Well I left Memphis, after the visitation of Elvis, and tore through the rest of Tennessee, like a hot knife through butter. I checked out Kentucky for a while, but then I found that there are no Kentucky Fried Chicken joints there. It's false advertising or something. Anyway, I was a trifle upset about the chicken thing, so I turned north in Covington, Kentucky.
I think that's the only direction you can go in Covington, isn't it?
No Bob, you could go south, but I was in the wrong lane. That's when I got to the bridge leading to Cincinnati.
And then what?
I crossed that bridge when I got to it. And that was when the realization struck me.
Oh, that's what happened, huh?
Yeah man. I saw a vision!
You saw a vision? In Cincinnati? You sure it wasn't pollution or something?
Yeah, I'm sure man. There wasn't any acid rain or anything like that. It was a cloudless afternoon. It was a bloody vision, Bob.
Ok Steve. So what did it look like?
It looked like three rivers.
Were they clean?
Doesn't matter Bob. There were three of them. I swear it.
You sure you weren't in Pittsburgh, huh?
Yeah, Pittsburgh is nowhere near Kentucky, and I had just left Kentucky, so it had to be Cincinnati. Quit trying to confuse me.
I'd be too late I think, Steve. So, anyway, tell me about the vision. Did you see Lonnie Anderson or something?
No. I saw …. rush hour.
That's not a vision Steve. I hate to break it to you.
No, but I guess I must have gotten into another wrong lane when I was watching the rivers. Three rivers, the God thing. You know, like three people, one God. A sign, I figured.
Well what the heck did the sign show you?
It showed me that not all roads lead to Flint, Michigan. Which might be a good thing.
How's that?
Cause this one that I got pushed onto led to Buffalo. Freaking Buffalo! The North American equivalent of where the elephants go to die in Africa.
Hey Steve, I used to live near Buffalo, years ago. It's not that bad.
It is now, Bob! Ya gotta trust me on this. Fire city. Year round blizzards. Ugly chicks with weird accents. And a damn bridge that leads out of America, if you get on it by mistake.
Well it's okay if you stay in the right lane isn't it?
Yeah but I've been directionally challenged lately. It's kind of a left-right problem. You know, directly responsible for the miracle of Cincinnati. Stuff like that.
So what are you saying?
I got in the wrong damned lane again.
And?
Well, there's a really good looking girl working in the toll booth at the bridge. You ought to see her! I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.
She was that beautiful?
I think so, … but I had just been in Buffalo, so I couldn't swear to it.
I've got to go Steve. I have to get my daughter. Call me later, okay?
Okay bud. Talk to you soon.
To Be Continued... We think...
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The Accidental Tourist - Part II
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
Memphis is a wonderful city. Graceland, Bar-B-Q ribs, delta blues, and now the accidental tourist. It may get better than that, but I doubt it.
I've never visited Graceland before, so it seemed like a good idea. So in the middle of the night I wandered around the grounds, soaking in the ambiance of everything. I started hearing strange sounds, which was a little disconcerting for an accidental tourist, who was probably trespassing on sacred ground.
I felt the hand on my shoulder and shrieked in terror. Turning to my left, (hey, NASCAR is big there), I looked at the stone faced security guard. "What do you think you're doing here pal?" he asked me. "Well, I saw the place as I was driving, so I thought it was a rest stop. Y'all have the nicest rest stops this side of Texas."
"This isn't a rest stop bozo. This is "Graceland." The home of The King."
"Yeah, I heard that somewhere. But the King is dead. Long live the Queen."
"There aren't any Queens in Graceland buddy!" he replied.
"Thank God for that. But this place is still pretty freaky, to tell you the truth."
"What are you so shook up about? Other than being a trespasser?" he continued.
"Well, for one thing, you snuck up on me."
"Well, you snuck in here yourself, pal. So don't point fingers."
"Well, then, there's the weird noises I've been hearing too."
His face contorted in the moonlight. "What weird noises?" he asked. And he stepped back, tentatively.
"You mean you don't hear it?" I asked
"Hear what?"
"I don't know. It's kinda like when you played the Beatles song backward. But it sounds like, Hound Dog, in a strange sort of way. But like it's playing backwards or something."
The guard smiled. He put his arm around my shoulder and turned me back toward my car.
Then he pointed over toward the grave site, and said softly, "Oh, don't worry about that son. That's just Elvis." And he smiled knowingly.
"No kidding?" I said.
He started walking me back towards my car.
"Yeah. He's decomposing now."
"Well, pardon me." I said, "I think I'd better find a place to get some sleep."
"Be safe son." He said to me.
And off I drove, to find a place to sleep for the night.
After I found a room, I got onto the computer. Bob was there, so I recounted the whole "Graceland" thing to him. "Did you see Elvis" he questioned.
"Nope, but I heard him." "What did he sound like?" Bob wanted to know. "Muffled, I guess. Kind of down to earth though." I replied. "Rare earth, huh?" he said. "Yup, down and dirty."
"So what's next?" Bob wanted to know.
"Not sure, been thinking about Flint, Michigan for some danged reason."
"What's in Flint, Michigan?"
"I don't know. So I'm going to find out." I said.
"Well you know what the difference between Flint, Michigan and blue cheese is dontcha?" Bob kept on.
"Nope. What's the difference. I mean they both smell, I know that." I countered.
"Blue cheese has culture Steve."
"Look Bob, that's not a very nice thing to say about a place you've never even seen before. Besides, I'm not looking for culture."
"Well then, what exactly are you looking for Steve?"
"Don't know. But I will when I find it, I think."
"I sure hope so Steve. Otherwise you'll be lost forever. What the heck prompted all of this?"
"I'm not really sure. The lottery I think. Or maybe the sixties."
"Forget the lottery Steve. Just c'mon back to Texas."
"I can't do that yet Bob. Gotta find what I'm looking for, first. Then I'll be back. Priorities, Bob."
"So Flint, Michigan is a priority? … You may want to rethink that one buddy."
"Maybe so." I replied. I'll let you know."
"Well watch out for lightning Steve."
"You know I will, Bob. What's the Mega Millions worth on Tuesday?"
"More than you'd ever be able to spend in Flint, Michigan."
"Well, that's a start, anyway."
"Are there any cute women in Flint, Michigan Steve."
"Not sure, I'll let you know, Bob. But I have to go. Need to get some sleep."
"Ok, Steve. I really believe that. And I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."
"Thanks, Bob. I'll let you know, but I kind of have a strange feeling it might end up being the road out of Flint, Michigan."
"Ya think?"
"Yeah, they had a contest on the radio, and first prize was a weekend in Flint, Michigan."
"Really? What was the second prize?" Bob wondered.
"Two weekends in Flint, Michigan."
"Be afraid Steve. Be very, very afraid! .. Oh, and if you're driving, … don't forget your vehicle."
Memphis is a wonderful city. Graceland, Bar-B-Q ribs, delta blues, and now the accidental tourist. It may get better than that, but I doubt it.
I've never visited Graceland before, so it seemed like a good idea. So in the middle of the night I wandered around the grounds, soaking in the ambiance of everything. I started hearing strange sounds, which was a little disconcerting for an accidental tourist, who was probably trespassing on sacred ground.
I felt the hand on my shoulder and shrieked in terror. Turning to my left, (hey, NASCAR is big there), I looked at the stone faced security guard. "What do you think you're doing here pal?" he asked me. "Well, I saw the place as I was driving, so I thought it was a rest stop. Y'all have the nicest rest stops this side of Texas."
"This isn't a rest stop bozo. This is "Graceland." The home of The King."
"Yeah, I heard that somewhere. But the King is dead. Long live the Queen."
"There aren't any Queens in Graceland buddy!" he replied.
"Thank God for that. But this place is still pretty freaky, to tell you the truth."
"What are you so shook up about? Other than being a trespasser?" he continued.
"Well, for one thing, you snuck up on me."
"Well, you snuck in here yourself, pal. So don't point fingers."
"Well, then, there's the weird noises I've been hearing too."
His face contorted in the moonlight. "What weird noises?" he asked. And he stepped back, tentatively.
"You mean you don't hear it?" I asked
"Hear what?"
"I don't know. It's kinda like when you played the Beatles song backward. But it sounds like, Hound Dog, in a strange sort of way. But like it's playing backwards or something."
The guard smiled. He put his arm around my shoulder and turned me back toward my car.
Then he pointed over toward the grave site, and said softly, "Oh, don't worry about that son. That's just Elvis." And he smiled knowingly.
"No kidding?" I said.
He started walking me back towards my car.
"Yeah. He's decomposing now."
"Well, pardon me." I said, "I think I'd better find a place to get some sleep."
"Be safe son." He said to me.
And off I drove, to find a place to sleep for the night.
After I found a room, I got onto the computer. Bob was there, so I recounted the whole "Graceland" thing to him. "Did you see Elvis" he questioned.
"Nope, but I heard him." "What did he sound like?" Bob wanted to know. "Muffled, I guess. Kind of down to earth though." I replied. "Rare earth, huh?" he said. "Yup, down and dirty."
"So what's next?" Bob wanted to know.
"Not sure, been thinking about Flint, Michigan for some danged reason."
"What's in Flint, Michigan?"
"I don't know. So I'm going to find out." I said.
"Well you know what the difference between Flint, Michigan and blue cheese is dontcha?" Bob kept on.
"Nope. What's the difference. I mean they both smell, I know that." I countered.
"Blue cheese has culture Steve."
"Look Bob, that's not a very nice thing to say about a place you've never even seen before. Besides, I'm not looking for culture."
"Well then, what exactly are you looking for Steve?"
"Don't know. But I will when I find it, I think."
"I sure hope so Steve. Otherwise you'll be lost forever. What the heck prompted all of this?"
"I'm not really sure. The lottery I think. Or maybe the sixties."
"Forget the lottery Steve. Just c'mon back to Texas."
"I can't do that yet Bob. Gotta find what I'm looking for, first. Then I'll be back. Priorities, Bob."
"So Flint, Michigan is a priority? … You may want to rethink that one buddy."
"Maybe so." I replied. I'll let you know."
"Well watch out for lightning Steve."
"You know I will, Bob. What's the Mega Millions worth on Tuesday?"
"More than you'd ever be able to spend in Flint, Michigan."
"Well, that's a start, anyway."
"Are there any cute women in Flint, Michigan Steve."
"Not sure, I'll let you know, Bob. But I have to go. Need to get some sleep."
"Ok, Steve. I really believe that. And I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for."
"Thanks, Bob. I'll let you know, but I kind of have a strange feeling it might end up being the road out of Flint, Michigan."
"Ya think?"
"Yeah, they had a contest on the radio, and first prize was a weekend in Flint, Michigan."
"Really? What was the second prize?" Bob wondered.
"Two weekends in Flint, Michigan."
"Be afraid Steve. Be very, very afraid! .. Oh, and if you're driving, … don't forget your vehicle."
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
The Accidental Tourist – Part 1
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
Shortly after leaving Bob and Andy at the icehouse, I thought about Rich, my Soul Brother. He had walked over to me a few days previous to the entire Flux thing, and said, "Hey, you got your hair cut, Steve." "Yup, I got a lot of them cut." I replied.
Rich is a very sensitive type of guy, so he smiled and asked me if they gave me a lollipop when it was done. "No, they just asked me to leave and tell anyone who asked that I got it cut across the street."
Rich is a great guy, but he still hasn't learned the most important secret in life is that the difference between a good haircut and a bad one is about 3 weeks, 12 beers or a baseball cap like Bob sports. It's tough enough trying to educate your kids in this world, but when you have to assist the proprietor of your favorite watering hole, life begins to become overwhelming.
I was under enough stress, trying to get hit by lightning, thereby increasing my odds of the big, elusive lottery win. Having to attempt to explain the deepest mysteries of life on this wildly careening orb to your soul brother, who has become the self proclaimed sultan of hair style, was something I didn't need to pile on top of all the other problems in my life.
I've seen Rich without his hat on and I thought of the number 3.With a number 2 on the side. That was when I realized I had two of the numbers I needed for the lottery. Now I only needed to find four more, and a favorable electrical storm. I was in like Flint.
Which made me think of Flint, Michigan.
Flint, Michigan, is north of Texas, as are an awful lot of other places in North America, which are not really worth visiting. No matter how much beer you have consumed.
Then I started thinking more.
I thought about a lot of things as I drove homeward that evening.
I thought about my haircut. I thought about my kids. I even thought about Bob and Andy, which was frightening enough in it's own right.
As I drove, a bolt of lightning streaked across the black sky, giving the luster of midday to objects below.
The bolt of lightning streaked across the northern sky. Which made me think of Flint, Michigan, again.
Which made me think of winning the lottery, a staple of life in Flint.
Then I thought about the lightning thing again, which made me think of magnets. It probably had something to do with Flint, which is in the general direction of the magnetic North Pole.
The magnetic North Pole is always moving. Somebody told me that once.
So I figured that this was all a sign, of some type.
I am not superstitious by nature, but hey, I know enough to not mess with a sign.
Opposites attract, which is why so many marriages are doomed to failure from the get go. People change and inadvertently become like one another. Once that little detail is completed, they are no longer opposite, and the magnetic attraction is flushed down the old commode. It is the natural death of love, and you don't ever mess with nature.
This opposition thing, would make most normal people turn their thoughts to politics, but hey, I ain't normal. Alton has told me that more times than I care to dwell upon.
It was somewhere around that time that I realized that natural laws should never be transgressed, even by a leftie.
"Time to analyze the situation, Steve." I told myself. So I grabbed a bottle of water and sat back to do it. Lightning was the key. Lightning, like magnets, is attracted to an opposite force. Being a southern kind of guy these days, I came to the conclusion that since I was unable to attract the big strike in the south, perhaps a move, at least temporarily, to the north, might be the missing link. The magnetic North Pole is in the North, (go figure, huh?), so it came to me out of the blue, or maybe from Flint, go north in search of the lucky strike.
I slept like a baby that night. Which isn't to say that I wet my bed or anything distasteful like that. When I awakened in the morning, I grabbed a cup of coffee, threw some stuff into a bag, got into the car, and headed up I-45, in the general direction of either Flint, Michigan, the magnetic North Pole, or Lotto Heaven.
It's tough leaving Texas, especially if Flint is as good as it gets, but sometimes you've got to just suck it up and take one for the team.
I got to Arkansas in very good time for someone with only a general direction in mind. When I got to Little Rock, I faced my first big decision. Do I stop and see how little the rock is? Or do I continue on the quest for gold.
I never did see the rock, so I have no idea how little it actually is. But I had to make a turn there. I'm not into NASCAR, so I decided to turn right, and found myself speeding toward Memphis. It looked like there was an excellent chance I would make it to Memphis by ten o'clock. Well it looked that way until traffic stopped dead on I-40 for about 2 hours.
I had never been to a fertilizer truck Bar-B-Q before, but they apparently have different customs in Arkansas. They are also very intelligent there and when the firefighters came to the realization that a pumper, with 500 gallons of water was not sufficient to douse the raging trailer inferno, they decided that they should just let it burn out on its own. Besides, having major traffic congestion on one of their highways at 10 pm, gave the appearance of a thriving metropolis.
So the trucker who was stuck beside me, and I, got out of our vehicles, smoked cigarettes, and watched the Arkansas Light Show.
"Where are you headed?" he asked me. "Kinda sorta towards Flint, Michigan." I replied.
"What the heck is in Flint?" he asked. "You going to build cars or something?"
"Nope." I replied. "I'm going to try for the lottery win. Well either that or a lightning strike." I replied. "But first I've got to get to Memphis. This Bar-B-Q isn't my style. And I need some sleep."
"When you told me about Flint, I figured that much." He replied.
Vehicles started to move, at long last. "Have a good trip buddy." He said to me.
"You too man." I answered.
I got into the car, put it into drive and continued the drive to Memphis.
I thought to myself, that I had never been asphyxiated standing in the middle of a highway before.
The mighty Mississippi lay ahead of me. I had never before realized that it was in actuality, the gateway to Flint, Michigan, before.
"Lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice" played the song on my radio.
"Another sign." I thought to myself.
"The world according to Fleetwood Mac."
And the next thing I knew, I was walking in Memphis.
(To Be Continued...)
Shortly after leaving Bob and Andy at the icehouse, I thought about Rich, my Soul Brother. He had walked over to me a few days previous to the entire Flux thing, and said, "Hey, you got your hair cut, Steve." "Yup, I got a lot of them cut." I replied.
Rich is a very sensitive type of guy, so he smiled and asked me if they gave me a lollipop when it was done. "No, they just asked me to leave and tell anyone who asked that I got it cut across the street."
Rich is a great guy, but he still hasn't learned the most important secret in life is that the difference between a good haircut and a bad one is about 3 weeks, 12 beers or a baseball cap like Bob sports. It's tough enough trying to educate your kids in this world, but when you have to assist the proprietor of your favorite watering hole, life begins to become overwhelming.
I was under enough stress, trying to get hit by lightning, thereby increasing my odds of the big, elusive lottery win. Having to attempt to explain the deepest mysteries of life on this wildly careening orb to your soul brother, who has become the self proclaimed sultan of hair style, was something I didn't need to pile on top of all the other problems in my life.
I've seen Rich without his hat on and I thought of the number 3.With a number 2 on the side. That was when I realized I had two of the numbers I needed for the lottery. Now I only needed to find four more, and a favorable electrical storm. I was in like Flint.
Which made me think of Flint, Michigan.
Flint, Michigan, is north of Texas, as are an awful lot of other places in North America, which are not really worth visiting. No matter how much beer you have consumed.
Then I started thinking more.
I thought about a lot of things as I drove homeward that evening.
I thought about my haircut. I thought about my kids. I even thought about Bob and Andy, which was frightening enough in it's own right.
As I drove, a bolt of lightning streaked across the black sky, giving the luster of midday to objects below.
The bolt of lightning streaked across the northern sky. Which made me think of Flint, Michigan, again.
Which made me think of winning the lottery, a staple of life in Flint.
Then I thought about the lightning thing again, which made me think of magnets. It probably had something to do with Flint, which is in the general direction of the magnetic North Pole.
The magnetic North Pole is always moving. Somebody told me that once.
So I figured that this was all a sign, of some type.
I am not superstitious by nature, but hey, I know enough to not mess with a sign.
Opposites attract, which is why so many marriages are doomed to failure from the get go. People change and inadvertently become like one another. Once that little detail is completed, they are no longer opposite, and the magnetic attraction is flushed down the old commode. It is the natural death of love, and you don't ever mess with nature.
This opposition thing, would make most normal people turn their thoughts to politics, but hey, I ain't normal. Alton has told me that more times than I care to dwell upon.
It was somewhere around that time that I realized that natural laws should never be transgressed, even by a leftie.
"Time to analyze the situation, Steve." I told myself. So I grabbed a bottle of water and sat back to do it. Lightning was the key. Lightning, like magnets, is attracted to an opposite force. Being a southern kind of guy these days, I came to the conclusion that since I was unable to attract the big strike in the south, perhaps a move, at least temporarily, to the north, might be the missing link. The magnetic North Pole is in the North, (go figure, huh?), so it came to me out of the blue, or maybe from Flint, go north in search of the lucky strike.
I slept like a baby that night. Which isn't to say that I wet my bed or anything distasteful like that. When I awakened in the morning, I grabbed a cup of coffee, threw some stuff into a bag, got into the car, and headed up I-45, in the general direction of either Flint, Michigan, the magnetic North Pole, or Lotto Heaven.
It's tough leaving Texas, especially if Flint is as good as it gets, but sometimes you've got to just suck it up and take one for the team.
I got to Arkansas in very good time for someone with only a general direction in mind. When I got to Little Rock, I faced my first big decision. Do I stop and see how little the rock is? Or do I continue on the quest for gold.
I never did see the rock, so I have no idea how little it actually is. But I had to make a turn there. I'm not into NASCAR, so I decided to turn right, and found myself speeding toward Memphis. It looked like there was an excellent chance I would make it to Memphis by ten o'clock. Well it looked that way until traffic stopped dead on I-40 for about 2 hours.
I had never been to a fertilizer truck Bar-B-Q before, but they apparently have different customs in Arkansas. They are also very intelligent there and when the firefighters came to the realization that a pumper, with 500 gallons of water was not sufficient to douse the raging trailer inferno, they decided that they should just let it burn out on its own. Besides, having major traffic congestion on one of their highways at 10 pm, gave the appearance of a thriving metropolis.
So the trucker who was stuck beside me, and I, got out of our vehicles, smoked cigarettes, and watched the Arkansas Light Show.
"Where are you headed?" he asked me. "Kinda sorta towards Flint, Michigan." I replied.
"What the heck is in Flint?" he asked. "You going to build cars or something?"
"Nope." I replied. "I'm going to try for the lottery win. Well either that or a lightning strike." I replied. "But first I've got to get to Memphis. This Bar-B-Q isn't my style. And I need some sleep."
"When you told me about Flint, I figured that much." He replied.
Vehicles started to move, at long last. "Have a good trip buddy." He said to me.
"You too man." I answered.
I got into the car, put it into drive and continued the drive to Memphis.
I thought to myself, that I had never been asphyxiated standing in the middle of a highway before.
The mighty Mississippi lay ahead of me. I had never before realized that it was in actuality, the gateway to Flint, Michigan, before.
"Lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice" played the song on my radio.
"Another sign." I thought to myself.
"The world according to Fleetwood Mac."
And the next thing I knew, I was walking in Memphis.
(To Be Continued...)
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
CURSES, …FLUXED AGAIN
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I’ve been hiding recently, because there are times in your life when that just seems like the safest thing to do.
I’ve heard the old adage that there is safety in numbers, so I tried the lottery. Don’t believe everything you hear.
The numbers say that I am more likely to be hit by lightning than to ever win the lottery. I tried to get hit by lightning, but so far I haven’t had any more luck at it than I have at winning the lottery. … Any of the lotteries.
I saw Publisher Bob recently, and he asked me if I was ever going to write anything again.
I told him I didn’t know the answer to that question for sure. “I’ve been really busy lately.” I told him.
That answer piqued his curiosity. “Busy doing what?” he asked.
“Hang on for a minute Bob. I have to go outside. I’ll be back soon.”
Bob picked up his disgustingly muddy colored beer and told me not to go outside because there was a thunderstorm.
“I know that.” I replied. “I’ll be right back.”
“What are you going to do out there Steve?”
“I’ll explain everything if I get back.” I replied, turning my back, (which apparently is my good side), to Bob and Andy, who had come in.
I walked outside and stood in the deluge for a few minutes.
Well after a while, that got boring, and wet, so I walked back into Papa’s, sat down with Andy and Bob, and ordered a beer.
Andy looked at me, smiled and told me that he knew that I’m a single guy, but there are places that are called dry cleaners and that if I simply took my clothes to one of them, they would clean them, press them and even put them on hangers, and that the risk of contracting pneumonia is thereby decreased immensely.
Andy is as smart as Bob is “Redneck”. “Thanks Andy. I’ll take it under advisement.” I told him.
That was when I spied Kim at the south end of Papa’s.
Kim is the cutest roofer I know, and a very sweet woman, most of the time. Her husband is a good guy too. So I walked over to say hello.
“Hi guys.” I said to them.
Kim looked at me disapprovingly and said “I’m not talking to you until you write a story.”
She looked back and continued, “You haven’t written anything for a long time. You need to write something. What’s going on anyway?”
“You just lied to me Kim, you’re talking to me right now.”
“Answer the question Steve.”
“I’m going through a lot of changes right now, Kim.”
“Oh, flux huh?”
I looked at her quizzically. “Flux?”
“Yeah, you know what flux is, don’t you?
“Yeah I sure do. It’s the coating they put on welding rods.”
“What?” she asked, or stated or whatever it was, that’s what she said.
“It’s the coating they put on welding rods. I used to make it years ago, in my mad scientist days. Bad stuff in it too. Asbestos, fluorite, all kinds of crap that’ll kill you, if you breathe too much of it.”
“What does it do?” Kim asked.
“It changes the properties of the metal. Why?”
“Exactly.” She said. “Flux is change. Jeez you’re the writer. You should know that. Your life is in a state of flux Steve.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” I told her. “My life is really fluxed these days.”
“So just stop fluxing around. Go home and write something. Then we’ll talk again.”
“Okay, I’ll try.” Then I turned and walked back over to Bob and Andy.
“So what’s the story on the standing in the rain, turkey?” Bob asked. “You trying to cleanse your soul or something?”
“Nope. I’m trying to win the damned lottery.”
“Which lottery?”
“Any of them. I ain’t real picky.”
Andy looked across the table at me. “You’re a pretty smart guy Steve. How is standing in a thunder storm going to help you accomplish that?”
“It’s all about getting hit by lightning. It’s a numbers thing.”
“Uhuh!?”
“I’ve been playing the lottery for years… off and on. And I read somewhere that I have a better chance of being struck by lightning than of winning the lottery, … according to the numbers. So I thought about it and figured I have no chance of winning until I get hit by lightning first. So I’m doing my best to help that happen.”
“So how is that working for you Steve?”
“Well so far, about as well as the lottery is. But it makes real sense. Like in baseball or football, if you want to achieve greatness, you have to sacrifice your body. You can learn a lot about life through sports”
“You can learn a lot about life by staying away from lightning too, Steve.” Bob tossed in.
“Maybe so, but I have to go. Got to get to bed early because there’s a really big storm front that’s supposed to come through around 3:00 a.m. or so. I need to get some rest before the big moment.”
“Boy, you’ve really changed lately Steve.” Bob said.
“Well everything changes over time guys. It’s called flux.”
I turned and was walking out the door when Kim came by the table to say hello to Andy and Bob. “Where’d Steve go?” I heard her ask them.
“Home” Bob replied.
“Yeah, he just fluxed off.”
And I heard the sound of Andy chuckling as I opened the car door.
I’ve been hiding recently, because there are times in your life when that just seems like the safest thing to do.
I’ve heard the old adage that there is safety in numbers, so I tried the lottery. Don’t believe everything you hear.
The numbers say that I am more likely to be hit by lightning than to ever win the lottery. I tried to get hit by lightning, but so far I haven’t had any more luck at it than I have at winning the lottery. … Any of the lotteries.
I saw Publisher Bob recently, and he asked me if I was ever going to write anything again.
I told him I didn’t know the answer to that question for sure. “I’ve been really busy lately.” I told him.
That answer piqued his curiosity. “Busy doing what?” he asked.
“Hang on for a minute Bob. I have to go outside. I’ll be back soon.”
Bob picked up his disgustingly muddy colored beer and told me not to go outside because there was a thunderstorm.
“I know that.” I replied. “I’ll be right back.”
“What are you going to do out there Steve?”
“I’ll explain everything if I get back.” I replied, turning my back, (which apparently is my good side), to Bob and Andy, who had come in.
I walked outside and stood in the deluge for a few minutes.
Well after a while, that got boring, and wet, so I walked back into Papa’s, sat down with Andy and Bob, and ordered a beer.
Andy looked at me, smiled and told me that he knew that I’m a single guy, but there are places that are called dry cleaners and that if I simply took my clothes to one of them, they would clean them, press them and even put them on hangers, and that the risk of contracting pneumonia is thereby decreased immensely.
Andy is as smart as Bob is “Redneck”. “Thanks Andy. I’ll take it under advisement.” I told him.
That was when I spied Kim at the south end of Papa’s.
Kim is the cutest roofer I know, and a very sweet woman, most of the time. Her husband is a good guy too. So I walked over to say hello.
“Hi guys.” I said to them.
Kim looked at me disapprovingly and said “I’m not talking to you until you write a story.”
She looked back and continued, “You haven’t written anything for a long time. You need to write something. What’s going on anyway?”
“You just lied to me Kim, you’re talking to me right now.”
“Answer the question Steve.”
“I’m going through a lot of changes right now, Kim.”
“Oh, flux huh?”
I looked at her quizzically. “Flux?”
“Yeah, you know what flux is, don’t you?
“Yeah I sure do. It’s the coating they put on welding rods.”
“What?” she asked, or stated or whatever it was, that’s what she said.
“It’s the coating they put on welding rods. I used to make it years ago, in my mad scientist days. Bad stuff in it too. Asbestos, fluorite, all kinds of crap that’ll kill you, if you breathe too much of it.”
“What does it do?” Kim asked.
“It changes the properties of the metal. Why?”
“Exactly.” She said. “Flux is change. Jeez you’re the writer. You should know that. Your life is in a state of flux Steve.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” I told her. “My life is really fluxed these days.”
“So just stop fluxing around. Go home and write something. Then we’ll talk again.”
“Okay, I’ll try.” Then I turned and walked back over to Bob and Andy.
“So what’s the story on the standing in the rain, turkey?” Bob asked. “You trying to cleanse your soul or something?”
“Nope. I’m trying to win the damned lottery.”
“Which lottery?”
“Any of them. I ain’t real picky.”
Andy looked across the table at me. “You’re a pretty smart guy Steve. How is standing in a thunder storm going to help you accomplish that?”
“It’s all about getting hit by lightning. It’s a numbers thing.”
“Uhuh!?”
“I’ve been playing the lottery for years… off and on. And I read somewhere that I have a better chance of being struck by lightning than of winning the lottery, … according to the numbers. So I thought about it and figured I have no chance of winning until I get hit by lightning first. So I’m doing my best to help that happen.”
“So how is that working for you Steve?”
“Well so far, about as well as the lottery is. But it makes real sense. Like in baseball or football, if you want to achieve greatness, you have to sacrifice your body. You can learn a lot about life through sports”
“You can learn a lot about life by staying away from lightning too, Steve.” Bob tossed in.
“Maybe so, but I have to go. Got to get to bed early because there’s a really big storm front that’s supposed to come through around 3:00 a.m. or so. I need to get some rest before the big moment.”
“Boy, you’ve really changed lately Steve.” Bob said.
“Well everything changes over time guys. It’s called flux.”
I turned and was walking out the door when Kim came by the table to say hello to Andy and Bob. “Where’d Steve go?” I heard her ask them.
“Home” Bob replied.
“Yeah, he just fluxed off.”
And I heard the sound of Andy chuckling as I opened the car door.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
I Am Curious ... Yellow?
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
It was horrible! It was terrifying! It was probably very distasteful as well. I'll let you know for certain, when I recover.
I recently found myself walking around the Super Wal-Mart. I normally avoid those types of places, because as Yogi Berra said about a restaurant, "Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded."
You could have fun in a place like that, if you liked playing catch the javelin in your youth.
They have almost as much stuff in that store as I have in my garage. They have food of all types. They have clothing for all three sexes. They have entertainment devices.
Gee whiz, the list goes on forever. I mean heck, you can get a haircut there. You can get your nails done, with three quarters of the population of Texas watching you.
Books, jewelry, garbage cans, (to dispose of the old worn out jewelry), dog food.
Yeah, dog food. Which made me think about the tainted dog food that came from China. Not the dishes, I checked and most of them are made in Britain. I think they called the dinnerware "China", to see if any of us noticed.
I read that the fellow who was in charge of the people responsible for killing people cats and dogs, was executed for his part in an international embarrassment to his homeland.
Well, I thought that perhaps that punishment may have been a touch severe. I mean I've seen Marvin Zindler, and it seems that there have been more than a few Chinese Restaurants which have been closed down for "kitty control", in the past.
It was somewhere around this point in time that I started really looking around in the super Wal-Mart. They have all of this merchandise, (excluding the food), and I began looking at the labels.
Almost all of it was manufactured outside of good ole U.S.A.
That was when I realized the symmetry of the world.
You can, thanks to the visionaries who run this gargantuan conglomerate, toss your old, used old jewelry, clothing, electronic accessories, and just about everything else from that store, into a trash bin, manufactured in China.
It's sort of a fitting homecoming for all of that stuff. There is something, which gently touches my heart, as I think of the funeral arrangements.
Heck, it almost makes me want to drape the trash can with a Chinese Flag, and play the Chinese National Anthem, and, as a sign of respect for their demise.
It was then that I had, what I figured was a brilliant idea. (uh huh, Steve).
We have a garbage problem here in the U.S.A., of immense magnitude.
Everybody seems to be shipping their garbage out of state, for landfill.
We could try getting the Chinese to take it, (or better still, buy it), but they only seem to want our scrap metal these days.
Homeland Security!
China has The Great Wall!
We don't have that, but we have something just as good!
We have ……….. GARBAGE!!! Which judging from Wal-Mart's sales numbers, is predominantly of Chinese origin.
That is when I thought about the illegal immigration problem.
We could take all of this Chinese garbage, and build our own, (some assembly required), Great Wall.
All that we need to do is pile the landfill trash about 40 feet high along the border. Keep the walls at an extreme angle, and pile dirt on top.
If the steep climb didn't stop the illegals, the smell alone would kill them.
Just imagine all of the tourists that would flock here to see it!
And then we could sell them garbage to take home as a momento! (Not like uno momento)!
And think of the message it sends to terrorists. "Don't trash America!"
The more I think of it, the more positives I can see!
If we build it, they will come. ….. Or not.
And then each state it covers could decorate it, whichever way they'd like. Just think about it! Bluebonnets in the Texas portion. Cacti in the Arizona sector. Dead, yet golden and sensitive, caring grass in the California section!
I don't know what they'd use in the New Mexico part, but perhaps they could try something with a Roswell flavor. Kind of the alien, native thing.
It would bring this country together.
Facilitate Homeland Security.
Help solve the illegal immigration problem.
Jeez, we could even put a huge statue of Sam Walton on top of it!
Yup! It'd be a Great Wall!
It was horrible! It was terrifying! It was probably very distasteful as well. I'll let you know for certain, when I recover.
I recently found myself walking around the Super Wal-Mart. I normally avoid those types of places, because as Yogi Berra said about a restaurant, "Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded."
You could have fun in a place like that, if you liked playing catch the javelin in your youth.
They have almost as much stuff in that store as I have in my garage. They have food of all types. They have clothing for all three sexes. They have entertainment devices.
Gee whiz, the list goes on forever. I mean heck, you can get a haircut there. You can get your nails done, with three quarters of the population of Texas watching you.
Books, jewelry, garbage cans, (to dispose of the old worn out jewelry), dog food.
Yeah, dog food. Which made me think about the tainted dog food that came from China. Not the dishes, I checked and most of them are made in Britain. I think they called the dinnerware "China", to see if any of us noticed.
I read that the fellow who was in charge of the people responsible for killing people cats and dogs, was executed for his part in an international embarrassment to his homeland.
Well, I thought that perhaps that punishment may have been a touch severe. I mean I've seen Marvin Zindler, and it seems that there have been more than a few Chinese Restaurants which have been closed down for "kitty control", in the past.
It was somewhere around this point in time that I started really looking around in the super Wal-Mart. They have all of this merchandise, (excluding the food), and I began looking at the labels.
Almost all of it was manufactured outside of good ole U.S.A.
That was when I realized the symmetry of the world.
You can, thanks to the visionaries who run this gargantuan conglomerate, toss your old, used old jewelry, clothing, electronic accessories, and just about everything else from that store, into a trash bin, manufactured in China.
It's sort of a fitting homecoming for all of that stuff. There is something, which gently touches my heart, as I think of the funeral arrangements.
Heck, it almost makes me want to drape the trash can with a Chinese Flag, and play the Chinese National Anthem, and, as a sign of respect for their demise.
It was then that I had, what I figured was a brilliant idea. (uh huh, Steve).
We have a garbage problem here in the U.S.A., of immense magnitude.
Everybody seems to be shipping their garbage out of state, for landfill.
We could try getting the Chinese to take it, (or better still, buy it), but they only seem to want our scrap metal these days.
Homeland Security!
China has The Great Wall!
We don't have that, but we have something just as good!
We have ……….. GARBAGE!!! Which judging from Wal-Mart's sales numbers, is predominantly of Chinese origin.
That is when I thought about the illegal immigration problem.
We could take all of this Chinese garbage, and build our own, (some assembly required), Great Wall.
All that we need to do is pile the landfill trash about 40 feet high along the border. Keep the walls at an extreme angle, and pile dirt on top.
If the steep climb didn't stop the illegals, the smell alone would kill them.
Just imagine all of the tourists that would flock here to see it!
And then we could sell them garbage to take home as a momento! (Not like uno momento)!
And think of the message it sends to terrorists. "Don't trash America!"
The more I think of it, the more positives I can see!
If we build it, they will come. ….. Or not.
And then each state it covers could decorate it, whichever way they'd like. Just think about it! Bluebonnets in the Texas portion. Cacti in the Arizona sector. Dead, yet golden and sensitive, caring grass in the California section!
I don't know what they'd use in the New Mexico part, but perhaps they could try something with a Roswell flavor. Kind of the alien, native thing.
It would bring this country together.
Facilitate Homeland Security.
Help solve the illegal immigration problem.
Jeez, we could even put a huge statue of Sam Walton on top of it!
Yup! It'd be a Great Wall!
The Scent Of A Woman
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I have always tried, with varying degrees of success, or unsuccess, to keep a relatively low profile in public places. I'm making a valiant effort to do so at this very moment. But I don't think it's working very well. The eyes of Alton and Dan are upon me, trying to figure out what the heck I am up to here.
They keep looking over and smiling as they are talking. They're probably working on a way to rag on me when I get done with this.
I sure am glad that I don't have any paranoid tendencies, because they scare the heck out of me!
Boyd and Holly like to rag on me too. I think it's because they are from western Canada and they talk funny. Boyd told me he has a friend named Clifford who hates my column. "Clifford says there are idiots everywhere Steve."
"So he reads my column?"
"Yeah, every week. .. He hates it." Holly said.
"Jeez, that hurts Holly" I replied.
I never got the opportunity to meet Clifford when he was in town recently. I am truly sorry about that. I like people from Saskatchewan. I even cheered for the Roughriders for years. So I just wanted to tell Clifford howdy!
Somehow thinking about all of this Saskatchewan stuff made me think of the hometown of the Roughriders, Regina.
Regina is the Latin word for Queen.
Which reminds me of Clark, and the thong flyswatter,
which reminds me of sports,
which reminds me of football,
which reminds me of the Roughriders,
which reminds me that according to Toronto sport writers the Canadian Football League was dead in the seventies,
which reminds me of Latin, which is a dead language,
which reminds me once again, that Regina is the Latin word for Queen,
which reminds me that The Queen of England is a woman, (unlike some of the other queens of this planet).
And then, thinking of women, reminded me of One Draft Phil.
Which reminded me of Rick the Homeland Security guy, who is a friend of ours.
The three of us were having a beer and a great conversation one night recently, when the waitress approached the table to inquire how we were doing. Well to make a long story even longer, we succumbed to her charms and ordered another round.
I think it's one's patriotic duty, to keep the economy chugging away, so that was my reason for placing the order.
I guess chugging begets chugging.
When Heather returned with our order, Rick paid the bill. Then he looked up like a deer caught in headlights of his own BMW.
"Heather. May I ask you a question?" he asked.
"Sure." she replied. "What is it?"
Now before I say anymore, it's very important that everyone knows that Rick is a very happily married man.
"That perfume you're wearing smells very nice. What is it?"
Rick was thinking that if he got the name of it, he'd stop by the store to get some for his wife. A special gift, from the man who adores her. Very romantic.
Well Heather started to giggle, and began to walk away from our table.
Rick called her back. "I'm serious, what is it? It smells really nice. I want to get some for my wife."
Heather smiled sweetly and said, "I was gardening in the yard before I came in. The only thing I have on is bug spray."
It was at that very moment that One Draft Phil morphed into Two Draft Phil. I think the second one filled Phil, because he left.
"Yes, but it smells beautiful," Rick continued, "Which one is it?"
"It's called Off Active." She replied.
"Very apropos, don't you think?" I asked Rick.
He left shortly thereafter, and we haven't seen him since.
Go figure!
I have always tried, with varying degrees of success, or unsuccess, to keep a relatively low profile in public places. I'm making a valiant effort to do so at this very moment. But I don't think it's working very well. The eyes of Alton and Dan are upon me, trying to figure out what the heck I am up to here.
They keep looking over and smiling as they are talking. They're probably working on a way to rag on me when I get done with this.
I sure am glad that I don't have any paranoid tendencies, because they scare the heck out of me!
Boyd and Holly like to rag on me too. I think it's because they are from western Canada and they talk funny. Boyd told me he has a friend named Clifford who hates my column. "Clifford says there are idiots everywhere Steve."
"So he reads my column?"
"Yeah, every week. .. He hates it." Holly said.
"Jeez, that hurts Holly" I replied.
I never got the opportunity to meet Clifford when he was in town recently. I am truly sorry about that. I like people from Saskatchewan. I even cheered for the Roughriders for years. So I just wanted to tell Clifford howdy!
Somehow thinking about all of this Saskatchewan stuff made me think of the hometown of the Roughriders, Regina.
Regina is the Latin word for Queen.
Which reminds me of Clark, and the thong flyswatter,
which reminds me of sports,
which reminds me of football,
which reminds me of the Roughriders,
which reminds me that according to Toronto sport writers the Canadian Football League was dead in the seventies,
which reminds me of Latin, which is a dead language,
which reminds me once again, that Regina is the Latin word for Queen,
which reminds me that The Queen of England is a woman, (unlike some of the other queens of this planet).
And then, thinking of women, reminded me of One Draft Phil.
Which reminded me of Rick the Homeland Security guy, who is a friend of ours.
The three of us were having a beer and a great conversation one night recently, when the waitress approached the table to inquire how we were doing. Well to make a long story even longer, we succumbed to her charms and ordered another round.
I think it's one's patriotic duty, to keep the economy chugging away, so that was my reason for placing the order.
I guess chugging begets chugging.
When Heather returned with our order, Rick paid the bill. Then he looked up like a deer caught in headlights of his own BMW.
"Heather. May I ask you a question?" he asked.
"Sure." she replied. "What is it?"
Now before I say anymore, it's very important that everyone knows that Rick is a very happily married man.
"That perfume you're wearing smells very nice. What is it?"
Rick was thinking that if he got the name of it, he'd stop by the store to get some for his wife. A special gift, from the man who adores her. Very romantic.
Well Heather started to giggle, and began to walk away from our table.
Rick called her back. "I'm serious, what is it? It smells really nice. I want to get some for my wife."
Heather smiled sweetly and said, "I was gardening in the yard before I came in. The only thing I have on is bug spray."
It was at that very moment that One Draft Phil morphed into Two Draft Phil. I think the second one filled Phil, because he left.
"Yes, but it smells beautiful," Rick continued, "Which one is it?"
"It's called Off Active." She replied.
"Very apropos, don't you think?" I asked Rick.
He left shortly thereafter, and we haven't seen him since.
Go figure!
Accentuate The Positive
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
"You've got to accentuate the positive, Eliminate the negative, Latch on to the affirmative, Don't mess with Mister In Between." Lyrics from an old song written by Johnny Mercer and Howard Arlen.
I discovered recently that I, apparently, have an accent.
Real Texans have an accent too, … they just aren't aware of it I guess.
When some of my more frugal compadres feel the need for an inexpensive vacation, they just ask me to say "Out and about", "Oil", and "Ouch".
Then they lean their heads back and smile.
So what's that all about, eh?
I recently returned home for a vacation, secure in my mind that I would finally be free, temporarily at least, from the linguistic derision I face on an almost daily basis.
I was wrong of course.
You shouldn't go to a place populated with French speaking guys, with that type of unrealistic expectation, even if you did attend high school in the sixties.
The Customs and Immigration Gentleman, wearing the turban, asked me "And what exactly is your citizenship, little Texas guy?" I thought I looked pretty good in burnt orange.
I know I'm a bit naïve, but I thought my accent might have given it away.
I was wrong again. And his accent was even funnier than mine.
So I told him that I'm Canadian, … for now. He looked confused and I suppose, decided a test was in order.
He handed me a pen and told me to spell Quebec. So I asked him if he wanted me to spell it in English or French.
"It is spelled thee same in both of these official languages, Mr.Texas smart guy."
"Yeah but it's got an accent over the "e" in one of them, kinda sorta like you have an accent sir." I replied with a smile.
The RCMP have very nice offices in the airport in Montreal. But they don't seem to have a very refined sense of humor, (which is spelled humour, there), in at least one of those, aforementioned, official languages.
There are times when I am a fairly quick study, so this being, what I figured was one of the times I needed to be that, I became one. As quickly as I could.
After my release from custody, by an absolutely gorgeous, French accented, RCMP chick, I wasted no time in getting out of the building.
Then I went to the car where my sweetie was waiting. She loves my accent.
We met a couple of my siblings for a drink. When I talked, they chuckled. (They don't realize it, but they have accents. Even when they laugh at me.)
To make a long story short, they tell me I have a drawl now, like that is humorous or something.
God, it was good to come back home to Texas after that verbal abuse.
I much prefer the verbal abuse I get here, because I get that in pretty much one accent.
Then I thought about "Fabulous Frank."
When I first met him he told me he was originally from "New Yoke, New Yoke." I told him I didn't want him to feel nervous and he needn't stutter.
If you are the only person in The Woodlands who doesn't know and love Fabulous Frank, he arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke after a 50 year layover in Joejah, where I'd be willing to wager, everybody knew him. He's shy like me.
But he talks even funnier than the guy at the airport in Montreal who needs a radical turbanectomy.
I know several other people who arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke. They all talk funny if you ask me. It doesn't matter how long ago they left there.
I mean, it's the only accent on the planet that makes a visit to the pawn shop sound like they were buying dirty movies or something.
They're fun people, but hey guys, lose the accent already. Y'all sound like you're from "Flaarida" for crying out loud.
When I start thinking of all these places that all of these folk are from, I start thinking about all the different, great food you can only get there.
But you can get spaghetti anywhere, and it's always good.
So I'm going to the grocery store to get the ingredients I need to make it, like beef, sausage, tomato sauce, garlic etc.
But I need one more ingredient that draws out the flavor.
Accent™.
Cause I figured out what has been lacking in my sauce.
It was the song that inspired me.
So everybody reading this, put everything else you are doing on hold for just a minute, and join me in the song.
Bing Crosby did it.
Willie Nelson did it too.
Now we all can do it, I unison.
So everybody sing along!
"You've got to, Ac-cent-uate the pasta dish."
"Elim-in-ate the empty dish"
"De-odor-ize the curry dish"
"And sip a little vino in between"
Y'all sound just beautiful!
"You've got to accentuate the positive, Eliminate the negative, Latch on to the affirmative, Don't mess with Mister In Between." Lyrics from an old song written by Johnny Mercer and Howard Arlen.
I discovered recently that I, apparently, have an accent.
Real Texans have an accent too, … they just aren't aware of it I guess.
When some of my more frugal compadres feel the need for an inexpensive vacation, they just ask me to say "Out and about", "Oil", and "Ouch".
Then they lean their heads back and smile.
So what's that all about, eh?
I recently returned home for a vacation, secure in my mind that I would finally be free, temporarily at least, from the linguistic derision I face on an almost daily basis.
I was wrong of course.
You shouldn't go to a place populated with French speaking guys, with that type of unrealistic expectation, even if you did attend high school in the sixties.
The Customs and Immigration Gentleman, wearing the turban, asked me "And what exactly is your citizenship, little Texas guy?" I thought I looked pretty good in burnt orange.
I know I'm a bit naïve, but I thought my accent might have given it away.
I was wrong again. And his accent was even funnier than mine.
So I told him that I'm Canadian, … for now. He looked confused and I suppose, decided a test was in order.
He handed me a pen and told me to spell Quebec. So I asked him if he wanted me to spell it in English or French.
"It is spelled thee same in both of these official languages, Mr.Texas smart guy."
"Yeah but it's got an accent over the "e" in one of them, kinda sorta like you have an accent sir." I replied with a smile.
The RCMP have very nice offices in the airport in Montreal. But they don't seem to have a very refined sense of humor, (which is spelled humour, there), in at least one of those, aforementioned, official languages.
There are times when I am a fairly quick study, so this being, what I figured was one of the times I needed to be that, I became one. As quickly as I could.
After my release from custody, by an absolutely gorgeous, French accented, RCMP chick, I wasted no time in getting out of the building.
Then I went to the car where my sweetie was waiting. She loves my accent.
We met a couple of my siblings for a drink. When I talked, they chuckled. (They don't realize it, but they have accents. Even when they laugh at me.)
To make a long story short, they tell me I have a drawl now, like that is humorous or something.
God, it was good to come back home to Texas after that verbal abuse.
I much prefer the verbal abuse I get here, because I get that in pretty much one accent.
Then I thought about "Fabulous Frank."
When I first met him he told me he was originally from "New Yoke, New Yoke." I told him I didn't want him to feel nervous and he needn't stutter.
If you are the only person in The Woodlands who doesn't know and love Fabulous Frank, he arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke after a 50 year layover in Joejah, where I'd be willing to wager, everybody knew him. He's shy like me.
But he talks even funnier than the guy at the airport in Montreal who needs a radical turbanectomy.
I know several other people who arrived here from New Yoke, New Yoke. They all talk funny if you ask me. It doesn't matter how long ago they left there.
I mean, it's the only accent on the planet that makes a visit to the pawn shop sound like they were buying dirty movies or something.
They're fun people, but hey guys, lose the accent already. Y'all sound like you're from "Flaarida" for crying out loud.
When I start thinking of all these places that all of these folk are from, I start thinking about all the different, great food you can only get there.
But you can get spaghetti anywhere, and it's always good.
So I'm going to the grocery store to get the ingredients I need to make it, like beef, sausage, tomato sauce, garlic etc.
But I need one more ingredient that draws out the flavor.
Accent™.
Cause I figured out what has been lacking in my sauce.
It was the song that inspired me.
So everybody reading this, put everything else you are doing on hold for just a minute, and join me in the song.
Bing Crosby did it.
Willie Nelson did it too.
Now we all can do it, I unison.
So everybody sing along!
"You've got to, Ac-cent-uate the pasta dish."
"Elim-in-ate the empty dish"
"De-odor-ize the curry dish"
"And sip a little vino in between"
Y'all sound just beautiful!
Fiddling On The Roof
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
Bob, (y'all remember Bob don't you?), and I were chatting recently and he recounted his weekend experiences.
It was his daughter's birthday recently, so he decided, being the "Super Dad" that he is, he would take her and a friend to the Mall for some "Birthday Bonding."
Bob's a really great guy and father, but sometimes I think he's riding a bike with no chain.
Under no circumstance I am able to think of, is it advisable to enter the mall with teenaged girls, unless you are armed with someone else's American Express card, and even then I don't think it's a wise idea. Actually, I don't think it's wise to enter the Mall period, but that may just be the old "agoraphobia" thing kicking in.
He survived the trip, even though his daughter kept telling him that it would be a lot more fun being with her mother. Of course her mother would be armed with someone else's, (Bob's), American Express card, and that would have been fun for all of them, … well unless you were Bob, maybe.
Needless to say, teenaged girls, being the type of animals that they are, they got hungry. So Bob took them to get a bite at one of the restaurants. As he recounted this joyous little adventure, he told me his daughter's friend ordered this "Cattle-ameria" thing. "You know what Cattle-amaria is don't you?", he asked me.
"It's Calamari, Bob." I replied, "Yeah, it's deep fried squid." I wanted to show him what a cosmopolitan type of person he was dealing with. "Yeah, that's it." he said, "You ever tried it?"
"Yeah," I replied. "I tried it once. I didn't like it. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. I think it must have been those suction cup things or something."
Then I recalled the story about the giant squid that recently washed up on the shore in New Zealand, or was it New York? Or New Mexico? Anyway I think it was one of those "New" places. I bet the "Cattle-amaria" from that bad boy would be the size of one of the tires you see on those Monster Trucks.
It would probably suck your brain from the roof of your mouth, after it attached itself.
The "sticking to the roof of your mouth" talk, reminded me that one of the big stores announced recently that they had , unknowingly, sold tainted peanut butter.
Hey, it was an accident, apparently.
I wonder what ever happened to quality control? They must have farmed it out to Ethiopia, or one of those other "wanna be" American countries.
I imagine that after one of the quality control inspectors was found writhing on the floor in agony, someone up the food service chain, decided that there was a distinct possibility that something he was testing might , possibly, have been responsible for his painful floor exercises. This of course would have been after discounting the possibility that he may have contracted some type of romantic sounding tropical virus.
Naturally, they would have to work their way down the list of what this poor fellow had ingested, and after dismissing the Cattle-amaria, they arrived at their final answer.
If you throw enough peanut butter at the wall, some of it is bound to stick. Somewhere.
Growing up in a large family, I learned at a very young age that peanut butter is a distinct food group. Just like pizza.
As I previously mentioned, Mr. Bob has a penchant for devouring things which have only recently been added to the food chain list. But he does that after work.
During work hours, he is fond of munching on crackers.
Peanut butter laced crackers!
Bob's a complete mess now!
He is paranoid that his "peanut butter crackers" may be filled with the dreaded, tainted P.B., from that vast chain of stores.
As I mentioned, Bob is riding a bike with no chain to begin with, so now he is terrified that that, self-same, bike with no chain, may have been carrying a basket of poison peanut butter crackers.
Don't take them to grandma's Bob.
Take her some of that Cattle-amaria stuff instead.
Heck, she's old and won't know the difference.
Her taste buds probably left this, wildly careening orb, years ago. But being the sweet, intelligent lady that she is, she has learned to rely on all of her other senses to fill in the gaps.
If it sticks to the roof of her mouth, she knows it can't be her teeth.
So, ergo, it must be peanut butter.
Back in her day, Cattle-ameria probably didn't even exist.
Or if it did, they called it bait. People were a lot brighter back then. They didn't even need calculators as they did their grocery shopping. If you had to think about it, you couldn't afford it.
Old age delivers wisdom to he who waits.
And I'd be willing to wager that right at this very moment, she's probably standing by the door, waiting for her darling grandson, riding the bike with no chain, to come wheeling up her driveway with a basketful of "Polligrip", … which works almost as well as peanut butter, … which tastes nothing like Cattle-ameria, … with baited breath.
Bob, (y'all remember Bob don't you?), and I were chatting recently and he recounted his weekend experiences.
It was his daughter's birthday recently, so he decided, being the "Super Dad" that he is, he would take her and a friend to the Mall for some "Birthday Bonding."
Bob's a really great guy and father, but sometimes I think he's riding a bike with no chain.
Under no circumstance I am able to think of, is it advisable to enter the mall with teenaged girls, unless you are armed with someone else's American Express card, and even then I don't think it's a wise idea. Actually, I don't think it's wise to enter the Mall period, but that may just be the old "agoraphobia" thing kicking in.
He survived the trip, even though his daughter kept telling him that it would be a lot more fun being with her mother. Of course her mother would be armed with someone else's, (Bob's), American Express card, and that would have been fun for all of them, … well unless you were Bob, maybe.
Needless to say, teenaged girls, being the type of animals that they are, they got hungry. So Bob took them to get a bite at one of the restaurants. As he recounted this joyous little adventure, he told me his daughter's friend ordered this "Cattle-ameria" thing. "You know what Cattle-amaria is don't you?", he asked me.
"It's Calamari, Bob." I replied, "Yeah, it's deep fried squid." I wanted to show him what a cosmopolitan type of person he was dealing with. "Yeah, that's it." he said, "You ever tried it?"
"Yeah," I replied. "I tried it once. I didn't like it. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. I think it must have been those suction cup things or something."
Then I recalled the story about the giant squid that recently washed up on the shore in New Zealand, or was it New York? Or New Mexico? Anyway I think it was one of those "New" places. I bet the "Cattle-amaria" from that bad boy would be the size of one of the tires you see on those Monster Trucks.
It would probably suck your brain from the roof of your mouth, after it attached itself.
The "sticking to the roof of your mouth" talk, reminded me that one of the big stores announced recently that they had , unknowingly, sold tainted peanut butter.
Hey, it was an accident, apparently.
I wonder what ever happened to quality control? They must have farmed it out to Ethiopia, or one of those other "wanna be" American countries.
I imagine that after one of the quality control inspectors was found writhing on the floor in agony, someone up the food service chain, decided that there was a distinct possibility that something he was testing might , possibly, have been responsible for his painful floor exercises. This of course would have been after discounting the possibility that he may have contracted some type of romantic sounding tropical virus.
Naturally, they would have to work their way down the list of what this poor fellow had ingested, and after dismissing the Cattle-amaria, they arrived at their final answer.
If you throw enough peanut butter at the wall, some of it is bound to stick. Somewhere.
Growing up in a large family, I learned at a very young age that peanut butter is a distinct food group. Just like pizza.
As I previously mentioned, Mr. Bob has a penchant for devouring things which have only recently been added to the food chain list. But he does that after work.
During work hours, he is fond of munching on crackers.
Peanut butter laced crackers!
Bob's a complete mess now!
He is paranoid that his "peanut butter crackers" may be filled with the dreaded, tainted P.B., from that vast chain of stores.
As I mentioned, Bob is riding a bike with no chain to begin with, so now he is terrified that that, self-same, bike with no chain, may have been carrying a basket of poison peanut butter crackers.
Don't take them to grandma's Bob.
Take her some of that Cattle-amaria stuff instead.
Heck, she's old and won't know the difference.
Her taste buds probably left this, wildly careening orb, years ago. But being the sweet, intelligent lady that she is, she has learned to rely on all of her other senses to fill in the gaps.
If it sticks to the roof of her mouth, she knows it can't be her teeth.
So, ergo, it must be peanut butter.
Back in her day, Cattle-ameria probably didn't even exist.
Or if it did, they called it bait. People were a lot brighter back then. They didn't even need calculators as they did their grocery shopping. If you had to think about it, you couldn't afford it.
Old age delivers wisdom to he who waits.
And I'd be willing to wager that right at this very moment, she's probably standing by the door, waiting for her darling grandson, riding the bike with no chain, to come wheeling up her driveway with a basketful of "Polligrip", … which works almost as well as peanut butter, … which tastes nothing like Cattle-ameria, … with baited breath.
THE G-MEN
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I have a really good buddy that, for arguments sake, I'll call Alton.
I think he'd like that name, because, oddly enough, his mother picked the same one for him. This was long before I ever met him, so apparently she and I have the same taste in names.
Alton is a great guy, and he makes, absolutely, the very best jerky in Texas, which is the same as saying, in the world.
Alton is very picky about the people he hangs out with, but he lets me hang out with him anyway. I think it's a sympathy thing for the immigrant.
If I ever grow up, I think I'd like to be like Alton, someday.
He has, (with all due respects to Boz), absolutely the finest garage in Texas, which, as I noted earlier, is the same thing as saying, in the entire world.
Boz, to give credit where it's due, has a really fine garage too, with surround sound. This is something which gives him additional "style points", and has him a really close number two in the great garage contest.
Alton even shared his jerky recipe with Boz, who is admittedly a novice in the "jerky world" of Texas. I haven't noticed anyone writhing in agony in his driveway, so I can only surmise that the recipe is working out for him. This has an added side benefit of helping keep the neighborhood "litter free", (unless you count the cats, … and there are too many cats.).
Alton has probably got the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met, but Boz makes awesome chicken wings, so there's a wash there, somewhere.
In the place from whence I have been exiled, garage parties did not exist. One would have to serve frozen entrees for the greater part of the year.
Back home, we parked the vehicle in the garage in the hopes that it would start in the morning. I'm pretty sure that I like this set up better.
Boz, deep fries his wings in oil. I'm not certain as yet whether this is a Texas petroleum thing, or if he was inspired by one of his old Harley's.
Alton doesn't deep fry anything, so far as I know, but he can cook up a storm on his smoker.
They both have beer fridges in their garages, so again it's a sister kisser.
Alton has some really amazing old toys and the like in his garage. Boz has a Harley in his, which kind of gets in the way of the football game, but it looks nice. And the ladies like it too.
Sometimes I think I should get one of those "Harley" things for my garage too. I wouldn't attempt to ride the thing, so it wouldn't even need an engine that runs. That might save me some money, perhaps. But none the less, my garage would look a lot better than it does currently.
Who knows, I might make the front cover of "Better Garages and Gardens" or something.
I'm not so big a fool that I wouldn't realize it was likely because of the "Harley" thing, with the non functional, infernal combustion engine, but it would be good for my currently bruised ego.
Bob, (we spoke about him in the last column), has a garage as well, … but I've never actually seen the inside of it. My guess is that it's probably full of cats though. Bob loves his cats, hence the title of his company, "Fat Cat Productions", (just one of the 1,843 projects we had on the go last week.")
As I also mentioned in the last column, Bob likes to cook "weird" things.
I really think it would be a lot better if I never do see the interior of his garage, given that scenario. The name "Fat Cat", frankly, worries me, although Bob doesn't look Chinese any more than I look "Texan" in my ten gallon touque. (that's a French Canadian version of a "garcon vache" hat, as a matter of clarification. Kinda sorta like a ski hat for the linguistically limited.)
There is a reason that the Frenchie folks escorted me out of Quebec years ago. ("AAAAY Henglish, go dat way han see hif you can discover someplace 'ot.") It was only a few years ago I realized where they were really telling me to just leave quietly.
Well off I wandered, and I missed Lowsyanna by a few miles, but I discovered "Alton's Garage" and Boz's, "Garage Party World Headquarters."
Next I'm going to begin my search for the disabled Harley thing.
I'd search out the garage sales, but I can't due to the fact that they are legal everywhere in the world except in The Woodlands, it would definitely increase my "degree of difficulty" to an un bearable level.
I think they're illegal because it would be too difficult to police the food sales and Marvin Zindler might show up in town. If he were born in Montreal like me, his snippets on garage sales and Harley things would have been renamed "Ice on the slime Machine".
Over the Christmas Season, I drove around several neighborhoods to look at the decorations. Then I had an idea.
Now that Spring is fast approaching, I think I'm going to drive through the same neighborhoods and check out garages, … and garage parties, …. and food, … and disabled Harley things.
And maybe, just maybe, I might find one even better than Alton's.
But I doubt it.
That's why I'll start from his garage and leave a trail of bread crumbs behind me as I go.
Then I'll legally change my name to Hansel.
But then again …
I have a really good buddy that, for arguments sake, I'll call Alton.
I think he'd like that name, because, oddly enough, his mother picked the same one for him. This was long before I ever met him, so apparently she and I have the same taste in names.
Alton is a great guy, and he makes, absolutely, the very best jerky in Texas, which is the same as saying, in the world.
Alton is very picky about the people he hangs out with, but he lets me hang out with him anyway. I think it's a sympathy thing for the immigrant.
If I ever grow up, I think I'd like to be like Alton, someday.
He has, (with all due respects to Boz), absolutely the finest garage in Texas, which, as I noted earlier, is the same thing as saying, in the entire world.
Boz, to give credit where it's due, has a really fine garage too, with surround sound. This is something which gives him additional "style points", and has him a really close number two in the great garage contest.
Alton even shared his jerky recipe with Boz, who is admittedly a novice in the "jerky world" of Texas. I haven't noticed anyone writhing in agony in his driveway, so I can only surmise that the recipe is working out for him. This has an added side benefit of helping keep the neighborhood "litter free", (unless you count the cats, … and there are too many cats.).
Alton has probably got the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met, but Boz makes awesome chicken wings, so there's a wash there, somewhere.
In the place from whence I have been exiled, garage parties did not exist. One would have to serve frozen entrees for the greater part of the year.
Back home, we parked the vehicle in the garage in the hopes that it would start in the morning. I'm pretty sure that I like this set up better.
Boz, deep fries his wings in oil. I'm not certain as yet whether this is a Texas petroleum thing, or if he was inspired by one of his old Harley's.
Alton doesn't deep fry anything, so far as I know, but he can cook up a storm on his smoker.
They both have beer fridges in their garages, so again it's a sister kisser.
Alton has some really amazing old toys and the like in his garage. Boz has a Harley in his, which kind of gets in the way of the football game, but it looks nice. And the ladies like it too.
Sometimes I think I should get one of those "Harley" things for my garage too. I wouldn't attempt to ride the thing, so it wouldn't even need an engine that runs. That might save me some money, perhaps. But none the less, my garage would look a lot better than it does currently.
Who knows, I might make the front cover of "Better Garages and Gardens" or something.
I'm not so big a fool that I wouldn't realize it was likely because of the "Harley" thing, with the non functional, infernal combustion engine, but it would be good for my currently bruised ego.
Bob, (we spoke about him in the last column), has a garage as well, … but I've never actually seen the inside of it. My guess is that it's probably full of cats though. Bob loves his cats, hence the title of his company, "Fat Cat Productions", (just one of the 1,843 projects we had on the go last week.")
As I also mentioned in the last column, Bob likes to cook "weird" things.
I really think it would be a lot better if I never do see the interior of his garage, given that scenario. The name "Fat Cat", frankly, worries me, although Bob doesn't look Chinese any more than I look "Texan" in my ten gallon touque. (that's a French Canadian version of a "garcon vache" hat, as a matter of clarification. Kinda sorta like a ski hat for the linguistically limited.)
There is a reason that the Frenchie folks escorted me out of Quebec years ago. ("AAAAY Henglish, go dat way han see hif you can discover someplace 'ot.") It was only a few years ago I realized where they were really telling me to just leave quietly.
Well off I wandered, and I missed Lowsyanna by a few miles, but I discovered "Alton's Garage" and Boz's, "Garage Party World Headquarters."
Next I'm going to begin my search for the disabled Harley thing.
I'd search out the garage sales, but I can't due to the fact that they are legal everywhere in the world except in The Woodlands, it would definitely increase my "degree of difficulty" to an un bearable level.
I think they're illegal because it would be too difficult to police the food sales and Marvin Zindler might show up in town. If he were born in Montreal like me, his snippets on garage sales and Harley things would have been renamed "Ice on the slime Machine".
Over the Christmas Season, I drove around several neighborhoods to look at the decorations. Then I had an idea.
Now that Spring is fast approaching, I think I'm going to drive through the same neighborhoods and check out garages, … and garage parties, …. and food, … and disabled Harley things.
And maybe, just maybe, I might find one even better than Alton's.
But I doubt it.
That's why I'll start from his garage and leave a trail of bread crumbs behind me as I go.
Then I'll legally change my name to Hansel.
But then again …
WHEN ELECTRICITY CAME TO TEXAS
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
In the year 1600 AD, an English scientist by the name of William Gilbert, first coined the term "Electricity", from the Greek word for Amber. It really wasn't anything new, as Westerners had known, as early as 600 BC, that amber becomes charged, when rubbed. But Willie figured " What the heck, I'll give it a name.", thereby making a name for himself, somewhere in the annals of history.
In the Texas of 1830 something, very few, if any Texans, had ever heard of this William Gilbert fellow. Not yet having the luxury of indoor plumbing, they were still in the process of catching up to the Roman Empire, much less the damned British one. Real cowboys drank coffee on the range, and whiskey at the bar. Tea, as all cowboys knew, was for sissies who rode side saddle, (on saddles with no horns, ... how danged ridiculous!) and went "Tch, tch, instead of giddyup".
In the Texas of 1830 something, our old friend, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, with a wife, a young child, (God only knew how many more were to come), and a mortgage, was back in the saddle, herding cows, to make ends meet. Jose had never heard of Luigi Galvani, who had discovered, in 1786, that the discharge of static electricity, (presumably during a thunder storm in France), would make a frog's leg jerk. And, even if Jose had known of the existence of Alessandro Volta and his battery, it would have mattered little, as he needed a battery for his horse, just about as badly as he needed a block heater for it.
In the summer of 1830 something, Texas was suffering in the midst of a mild drought, which made herding cattle, (which required regular watering), somewhat of a pain in the backside.
Every so often, the wind would pick up, blowing dust across the plain, making it rather difficult to keep track of all the cattle. Jose and his fellow cowboys, soldiered on, and were doing a darn fine job of keeping the cattle drive on schedule, under trying circumstances.
One particularly windy summer evening, Jose was dispatched to cover the western edge of the herd, ensuring that there were no cattle straying away and getting lost. The trail boss knew that given the drought conditions, and the inevitable loss of cattle due to the effects of dehydration, the price per head would rise dramatically. So there was extra pressure placed on the cowhands, to limit the loss of cattle which wandered off into the unknown on every cattle drive.
As the wind picked up in strength, dust was flying everywhere that evening, and visibility was diminished to practically nothing. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first tried his level best to control the cattle on his side of the herd, but given the conditions, it was getting to be a powerful tough job to do.
Herding cattle can be an awfully lonely job at times, Jose knew. To fight the loneliness, (as well as the boredom), he had, over the years, picked up the habit of talking to the cattle, while tending to them. To further alleviate the boredom, and to help build stronger personal relationships with them, he had also given each one its own name. Although cattle have a tendency to look remarkably similar, as any cowhand worth his whiskey knows, they each have
some trait, unique unto themselves. So this practice of giving each a name, also helped Jose to keep his mind sharp.
Jose's cattle were given such names as Bessy, Dottie, Belle and Elma. Sometimes after a barmaid somewhere, others for characters from the Bible, and still others from towns he had either been through or heard of from other cowhands.
As the wind continued to howl that evening, one of the cows, "Elma", was sidling away from the herd. Jose, somehow caught sight of her as she was wandering off, and turning his horse, took off to retrieve her. Jose was pretty certain that she was nearby, but the dust storm was picking up strength, and the sun was just about over the horizon. Jose, who by this time had built a solid relationship with Elma, was distraught. He swivelled his head from side to side, but he could see nothing. Just as he was about to give up, he saw a glow through the dust and dark. With great trepidation, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, turned his steed, and rode, cautiously, toward the light. As he neared, Jose saw Elma, bathed in a light, emanating from her horns.
Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, as religious as he was, (having followed several of his forefathers' many and varied religions, at various times in his life), and knowing nothing of static electricity, leapt from his horse and dropped to his knees on the ground by Elma. There was no doubt, in the mind of Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, that he was privy to "A Miracle"!
"Holy Cow!", he exclaimed, bowing his head before all the many and varied God(s) of his forefathers.
Slowly, the glow faded, and Jose, summoning all the courage he could, remounted his horse and escorted the cow he now called, "St. Elma", (in view of his recent religious experience), back to the herd.
Back in camp, Jose, still shaking, recounted his religious experience to the other cowhands, who were certain that Jose must have been eating peyote buttons out there. " Sure Jose, a burning cow, huh?", they laughed. That night, as the dust storm continued to rage, several of the other cowboys, (seeing the exact same apparition Jose had described), discovered that he had not. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, (although he was not aware of it at the time), had discovered "electricity" in Texas, ... in what cowboys, would come to call, "St. Elma's Fire".
And, as a historical footnote, it also gave birth to the famous line in the Christmas Carol that goes, " The cattle are glowing, the poor baby lays.".....
In the year 1600 AD, an English scientist by the name of William Gilbert, first coined the term "Electricity", from the Greek word for Amber. It really wasn't anything new, as Westerners had known, as early as 600 BC, that amber becomes charged, when rubbed. But Willie figured " What the heck, I'll give it a name.", thereby making a name for himself, somewhere in the annals of history.
In the Texas of 1830 something, very few, if any Texans, had ever heard of this William Gilbert fellow. Not yet having the luxury of indoor plumbing, they were still in the process of catching up to the Roman Empire, much less the damned British one. Real cowboys drank coffee on the range, and whiskey at the bar. Tea, as all cowboys knew, was for sissies who rode side saddle, (on saddles with no horns, ... how danged ridiculous!) and went "Tch, tch, instead of giddyup".
In the Texas of 1830 something, our old friend, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, with a wife, a young child, (God only knew how many more were to come), and a mortgage, was back in the saddle, herding cows, to make ends meet. Jose had never heard of Luigi Galvani, who had discovered, in 1786, that the discharge of static electricity, (presumably during a thunder storm in France), would make a frog's leg jerk. And, even if Jose had known of the existence of Alessandro Volta and his battery, it would have mattered little, as he needed a battery for his horse, just about as badly as he needed a block heater for it.
In the summer of 1830 something, Texas was suffering in the midst of a mild drought, which made herding cattle, (which required regular watering), somewhat of a pain in the backside.
Every so often, the wind would pick up, blowing dust across the plain, making it rather difficult to keep track of all the cattle. Jose and his fellow cowboys, soldiered on, and were doing a darn fine job of keeping the cattle drive on schedule, under trying circumstances.
One particularly windy summer evening, Jose was dispatched to cover the western edge of the herd, ensuring that there were no cattle straying away and getting lost. The trail boss knew that given the drought conditions, and the inevitable loss of cattle due to the effects of dehydration, the price per head would rise dramatically. So there was extra pressure placed on the cowhands, to limit the loss of cattle which wandered off into the unknown on every cattle drive.
As the wind picked up in strength, dust was flying everywhere that evening, and visibility was diminished to practically nothing. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first tried his level best to control the cattle on his side of the herd, but given the conditions, it was getting to be a powerful tough job to do.
Herding cattle can be an awfully lonely job at times, Jose knew. To fight the loneliness, (as well as the boredom), he had, over the years, picked up the habit of talking to the cattle, while tending to them. To further alleviate the boredom, and to help build stronger personal relationships with them, he had also given each one its own name. Although cattle have a tendency to look remarkably similar, as any cowhand worth his whiskey knows, they each have
some trait, unique unto themselves. So this practice of giving each a name, also helped Jose to keep his mind sharp.
Jose's cattle were given such names as Bessy, Dottie, Belle and Elma. Sometimes after a barmaid somewhere, others for characters from the Bible, and still others from towns he had either been through or heard of from other cowhands.
As the wind continued to howl that evening, one of the cows, "Elma", was sidling away from the herd. Jose, somehow caught sight of her as she was wandering off, and turning his horse, took off to retrieve her. Jose was pretty certain that she was nearby, but the dust storm was picking up strength, and the sun was just about over the horizon. Jose, who by this time had built a solid relationship with Elma, was distraught. He swivelled his head from side to side, but he could see nothing. Just as he was about to give up, he saw a glow through the dust and dark. With great trepidation, Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, turned his steed, and rode, cautiously, toward the light. As he neared, Jose saw Elma, bathed in a light, emanating from her horns.
Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, as religious as he was, (having followed several of his forefathers' many and varied religions, at various times in his life), and knowing nothing of static electricity, leapt from his horse and dropped to his knees on the ground by Elma. There was no doubt, in the mind of Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, that he was privy to "A Miracle"!
"Holy Cow!", he exclaimed, bowing his head before all the many and varied God(s) of his forefathers.
Slowly, the glow faded, and Jose, summoning all the courage he could, remounted his horse and escorted the cow he now called, "St. Elma", (in view of his recent religious experience), back to the herd.
Back in camp, Jose, still shaking, recounted his religious experience to the other cowhands, who were certain that Jose must have been eating peyote buttons out there. " Sure Jose, a burning cow, huh?", they laughed. That night, as the dust storm continued to rage, several of the other cowboys, (seeing the exact same apparition Jose had described), discovered that he had not. Jose Igor Sean Washington the first, (although he was not aware of it at the time), had discovered "electricity" in Texas, ... in what cowboys, would come to call, "St. Elma's Fire".
And, as a historical footnote, it also gave birth to the famous line in the Christmas Carol that goes, " The cattle are glowing, the poor baby lays.".....
Andy Walks With Me … Andy Talks With Me
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I had the opportunity to sit with my good friend Andy, recently.
Andy is very likely, the most intelligent person I know. I have absolutely no idea why he likes to sit around and pass the time with me, but apparently he does, and I'm grateful for that little blessing in my otherwise turbulent existence.
When I first saw Andy, he was sitting by himself, enjoying a cold draft beer and some overpriced, exotically flavored, potato chips, while valiantly attempting to make some kind of sense out of Judge Judy. Haute cuisine at it's finest, enhanced by entertainment directed lethally, at the lowest common denominator.
I think he does this to rest his brain and rejuvenate himself. It's his version of intellectual yoga or something of that nature.
Andy is on the cutting edge of a lot of things, but to be truthful, fashion isn't one of them. I love the way he dresses, but it is, admittedly, a little off the runway. Oh heck, …. it isn't anywhere even approaching the "Area Code" of the airport.
Just like Bob, Andy has "ideas". But unlike Bob, Andy's ideas actually turn a profit, which to the best of my knowledge, is a good thing.
He's made a lot of money with his ideas over the years. Money he apparently has spent wisely, rather than wasting it on frivolous items such as fashionable clothing.
One time, way back when gas prices were still within the means of us "poor people", Andy saw something on the news that planted a seed in his mind.
Andy only watches the news after his "Judge Judy", intelligence stretching exercises. Mental calisthenics, designed to insure that you don't strain your brain, or tear a mental muscle, while digesting CNN's daily, blue plate special.
Andy had completed his mental warm up routine, when he saw something on the blue plate special which caught his attention. "Steve" he said to me, "do you have any money?" "Enough for a couple of the one dollar draft specials." I replied. "Why? Are you planning on going to The Shop For Men or something?"
Andy laughed with me, .. or maybe at me, I'm not really sure which. "No.' he replied, "But there's trouble percolating in the Middle East sand, and I think if you bought a couple of tankers full of gas and parked them for a few weeks, you could sell them back and turn a tidy little profit."
I have absolutely no idea how he clairvoyantly sees these things, but I figured, a couple of weeks later, that had I been astute enough to take him seriously, I would have been sitting pretty, in the finance department.
Ever since that time, I pay attention to everything he says.
Well, almost everything. I am still hanging on to my own fashion sense, which after watching "Judge Judy" the other day, has me questioning that decision.
Being the halcyon days of Crawfish Season, (or would that be Seasoned Crawfish?), we discussed in depth, the sanity of paying three dollars a pound for a commodity that yields about 2 ounces of edible tissue as a return on investment. And those suckers are growing everywhere.
You don't even have to feed them, unlike the goldfish I used to buy for my daughter when she was young. Those babies would last about a week, which would be followed by our burial at sea service, at which time we would place our hands over our hearts, drop the fish, (which I told her was sleeping and dreaming of going back home because it missed its mom), into the commode, say goodbye, and reverently pull the handle, sending it home to mama. Very touching!
So Andy and I decided that it might be a financially prudent move, to go into the "Crawfish Business". But we're going to do it better. Crawfish are messy eating, due to all the guts and stuff that go flying about during the dining phase of the season. So we devised, what we are certain is a better idea.
At first we thought that perhaps, a "Crawfish Fondue", would be kind of cool, until we remembered that they have to be cooked "live", and the stabbing with the fondue fork, and the ensuing, deafening screams of pain they would surely emit, might be construed as cruelty to animals, and we'd have those PETA folks after us. So we placed that idea on the back burner.
But then we arrived at a better idea. A big "thank you", to Judge Judy and all our friends at CNN.
We could "purge" them prior to cooking, thereby getting rid of that yucky yellow stuff, and enhancing the entire dining experience. "Yeah, but we'd need to buy one of those jewler's eyepiece things to do the enema. It'll be tough to get the hose up there, and it might be kind of labor intensive. We'd need to get about fifty bucks a pound, which is a little on the "dear" side, even for Cajuns." I said.
So we placed that idea toward he back burner, (right next to the fondue), until we had what, (if I do say so myself), may conceivably, evolve into the idea of the millennium.) ("Lord it truly is, hard to be humble.)
I looked at Andy. "Hey, they usually boil the buggers. Why don't we just put them in water full of Ex-Lax prior to the big boil, … and let'em purge themselves!"
As I mentioned at the beginning of all of this, Andy is brilliant, so not much gets by him, even on a bad day (and this had been looking like one of those bad days, prior to the idea of the millennium thing.)
Andy's eyes lit up, and he smiled sagely at me. "Great idea Steve!" he said, and then added,
"Then we could rinse them off before boiling them, so people don't end up getting loose bowels from the purging solution."
As I said, Andy is a brilliant man, but even "brilliant men", miss something once in a while.
"Why bother rinsing them?" I asked. "Cook them like that. The purging water would be like the Cajun equivalent of "Picante Sauce." "Besides, look at the spicy crap they put in the water normally. Everyone who eats them is gonna end up with a mild case of diarrhea anyway, so what's the big deal?"
That was when he stood up, and grabbed his 4 pounds of crawfish from the table, straightened his straw fedora, smiled and said, "I like it!"
Then he started to walk away with a smile on his face.
A few steps removed from the table, he turned back toward me.
"Well we need to be careful Steve. We don't want to get sued for copyright infringement or something."
"What copyright infringement?" I asked.
"Well I was at the seafood store last week."
"They already sell something they call Crappie."
Hearing someone call my name, I turned away for a mere second and when I turned back toward Andy, he was gone.
"Who was that?" my friend asked, as he pulled up a chair.
"That was Andy." I replied.
"Well he sure disappeared in a hurry. … but he left something on the table."
"What?" I asked.
"It's just a lone, silver fondue fork."
I had the opportunity to sit with my good friend Andy, recently.
Andy is very likely, the most intelligent person I know. I have absolutely no idea why he likes to sit around and pass the time with me, but apparently he does, and I'm grateful for that little blessing in my otherwise turbulent existence.
When I first saw Andy, he was sitting by himself, enjoying a cold draft beer and some overpriced, exotically flavored, potato chips, while valiantly attempting to make some kind of sense out of Judge Judy. Haute cuisine at it's finest, enhanced by entertainment directed lethally, at the lowest common denominator.
I think he does this to rest his brain and rejuvenate himself. It's his version of intellectual yoga or something of that nature.
Andy is on the cutting edge of a lot of things, but to be truthful, fashion isn't one of them. I love the way he dresses, but it is, admittedly, a little off the runway. Oh heck, …. it isn't anywhere even approaching the "Area Code" of the airport.
Just like Bob, Andy has "ideas". But unlike Bob, Andy's ideas actually turn a profit, which to the best of my knowledge, is a good thing.
He's made a lot of money with his ideas over the years. Money he apparently has spent wisely, rather than wasting it on frivolous items such as fashionable clothing.
One time, way back when gas prices were still within the means of us "poor people", Andy saw something on the news that planted a seed in his mind.
Andy only watches the news after his "Judge Judy", intelligence stretching exercises. Mental calisthenics, designed to insure that you don't strain your brain, or tear a mental muscle, while digesting CNN's daily, blue plate special.
Andy had completed his mental warm up routine, when he saw something on the blue plate special which caught his attention. "Steve" he said to me, "do you have any money?" "Enough for a couple of the one dollar draft specials." I replied. "Why? Are you planning on going to The Shop For Men or something?"
Andy laughed with me, .. or maybe at me, I'm not really sure which. "No.' he replied, "But there's trouble percolating in the Middle East sand, and I think if you bought a couple of tankers full of gas and parked them for a few weeks, you could sell them back and turn a tidy little profit."
I have absolutely no idea how he clairvoyantly sees these things, but I figured, a couple of weeks later, that had I been astute enough to take him seriously, I would have been sitting pretty, in the finance department.
Ever since that time, I pay attention to everything he says.
Well, almost everything. I am still hanging on to my own fashion sense, which after watching "Judge Judy" the other day, has me questioning that decision.
Being the halcyon days of Crawfish Season, (or would that be Seasoned Crawfish?), we discussed in depth, the sanity of paying three dollars a pound for a commodity that yields about 2 ounces of edible tissue as a return on investment. And those suckers are growing everywhere.
You don't even have to feed them, unlike the goldfish I used to buy for my daughter when she was young. Those babies would last about a week, which would be followed by our burial at sea service, at which time we would place our hands over our hearts, drop the fish, (which I told her was sleeping and dreaming of going back home because it missed its mom), into the commode, say goodbye, and reverently pull the handle, sending it home to mama. Very touching!
So Andy and I decided that it might be a financially prudent move, to go into the "Crawfish Business". But we're going to do it better. Crawfish are messy eating, due to all the guts and stuff that go flying about during the dining phase of the season. So we devised, what we are certain is a better idea.
At first we thought that perhaps, a "Crawfish Fondue", would be kind of cool, until we remembered that they have to be cooked "live", and the stabbing with the fondue fork, and the ensuing, deafening screams of pain they would surely emit, might be construed as cruelty to animals, and we'd have those PETA folks after us. So we placed that idea on the back burner.
But then we arrived at a better idea. A big "thank you", to Judge Judy and all our friends at CNN.
We could "purge" them prior to cooking, thereby getting rid of that yucky yellow stuff, and enhancing the entire dining experience. "Yeah, but we'd need to buy one of those jewler's eyepiece things to do the enema. It'll be tough to get the hose up there, and it might be kind of labor intensive. We'd need to get about fifty bucks a pound, which is a little on the "dear" side, even for Cajuns." I said.
So we placed that idea toward he back burner, (right next to the fondue), until we had what, (if I do say so myself), may conceivably, evolve into the idea of the millennium.) ("Lord it truly is, hard to be humble.)
I looked at Andy. "Hey, they usually boil the buggers. Why don't we just put them in water full of Ex-Lax prior to the big boil, … and let'em purge themselves!"
As I mentioned at the beginning of all of this, Andy is brilliant, so not much gets by him, even on a bad day (and this had been looking like one of those bad days, prior to the idea of the millennium thing.)
Andy's eyes lit up, and he smiled sagely at me. "Great idea Steve!" he said, and then added,
"Then we could rinse them off before boiling them, so people don't end up getting loose bowels from the purging solution."
As I said, Andy is a brilliant man, but even "brilliant men", miss something once in a while.
"Why bother rinsing them?" I asked. "Cook them like that. The purging water would be like the Cajun equivalent of "Picante Sauce." "Besides, look at the spicy crap they put in the water normally. Everyone who eats them is gonna end up with a mild case of diarrhea anyway, so what's the big deal?"
That was when he stood up, and grabbed his 4 pounds of crawfish from the table, straightened his straw fedora, smiled and said, "I like it!"
Then he started to walk away with a smile on his face.
A few steps removed from the table, he turned back toward me.
"Well we need to be careful Steve. We don't want to get sued for copyright infringement or something."
"What copyright infringement?" I asked.
"Well I was at the seafood store last week."
"They already sell something they call Crappie."
Hearing someone call my name, I turned away for a mere second and when I turned back toward Andy, he was gone.
"Who was that?" my friend asked, as he pulled up a chair.
"That was Andy." I replied.
"Well he sure disappeared in a hurry. … but he left something on the table."
"What?" I asked.
"It's just a lone, silver fondue fork."
Sole Man
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
A few weeks ago, The College Park High School PTA held a fundraiser at Papa's Icehouse, which featured "The Grateful Geezers", a fabulously entertaining band, that plays all the music we old (?) folks got into trouble to, in our own high school days.
Revisiting the scene of the crime, in my mind's eye, brings back a flood of memories, which for a product of the sixties, is no easy task. Come to think of it, it was no easy task in the sixties either.
Looking around these days, I don't think I'd like to be in high school now, possibly due to one of those "flashback" things I hear and read about, because truthfully, I didn't particularly want to be in high school then, either. You wouldn't have known that from my grades, because a recent review of them indicates to me now, that I was seriously attempting to get another year or two in.
I was by Papa's recently, and visited with a few of my more astute friends, who are able to solve all the problems of the world, in a matter of mere minutes.
We were having a wonderful time of it, and had pretty much saved the free world, as well as a vast portion of the un-free world, and I can only surmise that we must have been feeling a little smug about how talented we were. That was when Rich shook his head sadly, looked down at his foot and declared he had suffered a blowout and was going to head over to Academy to upgrade his decrepit "plimsoles".
He held his foot up, for the viewing, and sure enough, he had run right out of one ply of rubber, leaving the bottom looking like a racing slick.
Upon closer inspection, I thought to myself that perhaps he ought to head over to see Tim, at Discount Tire instead. I didn't know they made shoes that were that big, unless they painted USS on the sides of them.
When I was younger, I thought I had big feet, but fortunately, they stopped growing by the time I was twelve, to let the rest of my body catch up. It never did, and apparently my brain and my feet were marching lockstep in the growth department.
That, in a nutshell, would completely explain my immaturity. I sleep well at night now, thanks to that revelation.
Rich lowered his foot, right after the "viewing', and someone who shall remain anonymous, (in the best interests of his own longevity), smiled cunningly, and spoke up. "Hey, Rich must have had a date last night, … too bad he had to sell his sole for it."
I have read Heloise in the newspaper, and you can remove blood stains by washing them off with cold water.
Heloise was in the newspaper, (and old looking), way back when I was in high school. So I figure she's probably even older now, and she must know a lot of stuff. I wonder if she was married to Moses once upon a time, back when she was a "cub" columnist.
I would write and ask her, but you need to send a self-addressed, stamped envelope with your question. But if I did that, she'd know where I live, and she could track me down, hurt me REAL BAD, and I know she knows how to remove the blood stains. So I think I won't bother asking.
"Hey Rich", someone else piped up, "you selling "sole food" in the kitchen now?"
Being bright enough to figure out not to write Heloise with a roadmap enclosed, I thought to myself, (knowing full well that I was myself), I wouldn't take a chance teasing a guy, who can apparently run right out of the soles of his shoes.
I would never have believed it possible, but the conversation actually deteriorated after that.
"The Beatles had an album named after those Nicaraguan Gunboats Rich." "What was that?" came his reply.
"Rubber Sole"! "Number One … with a rubber bullet!"
Then the entire Moron Tabernacle Chorus, began singing, "I'm a Sole Man", in several keys, including one or two which had never been known to mankind previously.
Some people should not be permitted to sing in public. If you don't believe me, just show up for a Karaoke Night.
I thought that we should have won some kind of award for our sparkling rendition, … but the entire place emptied out for some reason.
It couldn't have been because of Alton's dancing. Fred Astaire would've turned green with envy.
I think they probably went over to Academy.
To get dancing shoes like Alton's.
Or maybe to get running shoes like Rich's.
Or horse shoes, (we were, after all, a little off pitch.)
So I thought about it a little longer, and it came to me!
They sell ear plugs for hunters in that place.
Really good ear plugs! The kind that muffle gunshots.
Gunshots from guns which may be loaded with rubber bullets!!
"I'm a Sole Man!"
"Go dig a hole, man!"
……… Jeez! Everybody's a critic these days.
A few weeks ago, The College Park High School PTA held a fundraiser at Papa's Icehouse, which featured "The Grateful Geezers", a fabulously entertaining band, that plays all the music we old (?) folks got into trouble to, in our own high school days.
Revisiting the scene of the crime, in my mind's eye, brings back a flood of memories, which for a product of the sixties, is no easy task. Come to think of it, it was no easy task in the sixties either.
Looking around these days, I don't think I'd like to be in high school now, possibly due to one of those "flashback" things I hear and read about, because truthfully, I didn't particularly want to be in high school then, either. You wouldn't have known that from my grades, because a recent review of them indicates to me now, that I was seriously attempting to get another year or two in.
I was by Papa's recently, and visited with a few of my more astute friends, who are able to solve all the problems of the world, in a matter of mere minutes.
We were having a wonderful time of it, and had pretty much saved the free world, as well as a vast portion of the un-free world, and I can only surmise that we must have been feeling a little smug about how talented we were. That was when Rich shook his head sadly, looked down at his foot and declared he had suffered a blowout and was going to head over to Academy to upgrade his decrepit "plimsoles".
He held his foot up, for the viewing, and sure enough, he had run right out of one ply of rubber, leaving the bottom looking like a racing slick.
Upon closer inspection, I thought to myself that perhaps he ought to head over to see Tim, at Discount Tire instead. I didn't know they made shoes that were that big, unless they painted USS on the sides of them.
When I was younger, I thought I had big feet, but fortunately, they stopped growing by the time I was twelve, to let the rest of my body catch up. It never did, and apparently my brain and my feet were marching lockstep in the growth department.
That, in a nutshell, would completely explain my immaturity. I sleep well at night now, thanks to that revelation.
Rich lowered his foot, right after the "viewing', and someone who shall remain anonymous, (in the best interests of his own longevity), smiled cunningly, and spoke up. "Hey, Rich must have had a date last night, … too bad he had to sell his sole for it."
I have read Heloise in the newspaper, and you can remove blood stains by washing them off with cold water.
Heloise was in the newspaper, (and old looking), way back when I was in high school. So I figure she's probably even older now, and she must know a lot of stuff. I wonder if she was married to Moses once upon a time, back when she was a "cub" columnist.
I would write and ask her, but you need to send a self-addressed, stamped envelope with your question. But if I did that, she'd know where I live, and she could track me down, hurt me REAL BAD, and I know she knows how to remove the blood stains. So I think I won't bother asking.
"Hey Rich", someone else piped up, "you selling "sole food" in the kitchen now?"
Being bright enough to figure out not to write Heloise with a roadmap enclosed, I thought to myself, (knowing full well that I was myself), I wouldn't take a chance teasing a guy, who can apparently run right out of the soles of his shoes.
I would never have believed it possible, but the conversation actually deteriorated after that.
"The Beatles had an album named after those Nicaraguan Gunboats Rich." "What was that?" came his reply.
"Rubber Sole"! "Number One … with a rubber bullet!"
Then the entire Moron Tabernacle Chorus, began singing, "I'm a Sole Man", in several keys, including one or two which had never been known to mankind previously.
Some people should not be permitted to sing in public. If you don't believe me, just show up for a Karaoke Night.
I thought that we should have won some kind of award for our sparkling rendition, … but the entire place emptied out for some reason.
It couldn't have been because of Alton's dancing. Fred Astaire would've turned green with envy.
I think they probably went over to Academy.
To get dancing shoes like Alton's.
Or maybe to get running shoes like Rich's.
Or horse shoes, (we were, after all, a little off pitch.)
So I thought about it a little longer, and it came to me!
They sell ear plugs for hunters in that place.
Really good ear plugs! The kind that muffle gunshots.
Gunshots from guns which may be loaded with rubber bullets!!
"I'm a Sole Man!"
"Go dig a hole, man!"
……… Jeez! Everybody's a critic these days.
Oh No, I’ve Been “Googled”
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I received an e-mail from an old friend recently. I hadn't heard from him this millennium, and had wondered where he was these days.
So I e-mailed back, to catch up on what had transpired in his life since we last communicated.
To make a long story short, he's still as boring as he ever was, and as a result, absolutely nothing has happened in his life, …. for a very long time.
He has no idea of how fortunate he is!
So I asked how he had located me.
"I Googled you." he replied.
Well to be absolutely honest, I was taken aback. Hey, I'm a guy! I don't think guys don't like getting Googled! It's unnatural or something.
He told me that I was at the top of the list, so he knew I'd been "Googled" a lot lately. "You've been hit on a bunch, judging from what I can see." He told me.
For some strange reason I felt violated!
(But kind of exciting, in a perverse sort of way.)
Well after regaining my composure I made an executive decision.
I headed to "Papa's" for a beer.
Jeez, I was shook up. I'm a single guy, who survived the sixties and seventies, but knowing you've been "Googled" would probably shake up anyone I know.
I mean, I've been to the Doctor for the prostate thing, (which wasn't a lot of fun really) but being "Googled!" Man, that was upsetting, even to an unbalanced individual like myself.
So I got into the car, damp hands shaking, turned the key in the ignition, shoved the car into "Drive", and got the heck out of the neighborhood as quickly as my Firestones would take me.
It's not easy driving when your heart is beating out of control, and your feet are shaking nearly as badly as your hands.
Somehow I made it in one piece, shut off the engine and got out of my vehicle. I took a veeeery deep breath, and proceeded to the entrance, vainly attempting to look as nonchalant as possible.
As I entered "Papa's", it felt as though every eye in the place was staring at me.
So I looked at the assembled throng and smiled confidently.
"Give me a Bud Light please." I said to the barmaid, who smiled broadly at me in response. She deftly reached down and plopped an icy bottle on the bar. And she smiled some more.
I picked the bottle up with one of my sweaty shaking hands and took a sip.
"God, ….she knows!" I thought to myself.
I turned around and it seemed like everyone was smiling at me.
"What are y'all smiling about?" I asked defensively. "It's Saturday Steve. What's your problem?"
I hesitated for a second, and then figure it was time to be honest. "I just got "Googled" by a friend of mine."
"No kidding? How's it feel?" Alton asked me.
Alton doesn't "Do" computers, so I immediately felt a whole lot worse than I did when I walked in the door. Everybody sitting at the table giggled at his comment, because they can be like children, and children can be cruel.
Alton called the waitress over, "Hey, have you ever Googled Steve? Apparently he's been getting a lot of Google lately." She smiled and blurted out, "Not yet," and she kind of blushed, " .. but I don't have anything going on tonight." She continued. "Maybe I'll just stay in and Google him at home."
Apparently some people found this funny, although I don't know why. Carl came over to the table and tossed in his two cents worth. "Have you ever Googled yourself Steve?"
"Well, yeah I have." I admitted sheepishly. "everybody does it. But you have to be careful, because it can be addictive." "How'd it feel?" Carl asked, and everybody started to chuckle.
I would have gotten a lot more upset, but I know Rhonda will fix him for it.
Then Rich, my "Sole Brother" from a previous column, asked how often I Googled myself, and he smiled too.
"You trying to tell me you've never ever Googled yourself? Not even when you were home alone?" I countered. "Nope! I don't need to. I have a girlfriend." (I think he was bragging.)
"I let her Google me. She likes doing that."
"Well what's the result when she does?" I asked. "Oh, it's a mess. I show up way down the list." He fired back. "Well I guess you don't get Googled enough." I relied.
All of this Google talk was getting out of hand.
"Look! I don't want to talk about it anymore." I said. "It's a very personal thing!"
I looked over towards Alton, "It's really nort funny ya know. You meet people at a bar, they get your name, then they go home and Google you! And you don't even realize it's happening sometimes."
"Don't get so worked up about it Steve." he said.
"You're right, Alton." I answered. "But I'm getting out of here and heading back to the house. And since you think it's so danged funny, I think I'm gonna Google you when I get there!"
The chuckling stopped right then and there!
Until Alton smiled and said, "You can try, ….. but I'll tell you now, I ain't that kind of guy!"
So if you're reading this, I dare you to go home tonight and try it. Try "Googling" yourself tonight.
But I bet you'll like it so much that you do it more than once!!!
I received an e-mail from an old friend recently. I hadn't heard from him this millennium, and had wondered where he was these days.
So I e-mailed back, to catch up on what had transpired in his life since we last communicated.
To make a long story short, he's still as boring as he ever was, and as a result, absolutely nothing has happened in his life, …. for a very long time.
He has no idea of how fortunate he is!
So I asked how he had located me.
"I Googled you." he replied.
Well to be absolutely honest, I was taken aback. Hey, I'm a guy! I don't think guys don't like getting Googled! It's unnatural or something.
He told me that I was at the top of the list, so he knew I'd been "Googled" a lot lately. "You've been hit on a bunch, judging from what I can see." He told me.
For some strange reason I felt violated!
(But kind of exciting, in a perverse sort of way.)
Well after regaining my composure I made an executive decision.
I headed to "Papa's" for a beer.
Jeez, I was shook up. I'm a single guy, who survived the sixties and seventies, but knowing you've been "Googled" would probably shake up anyone I know.
I mean, I've been to the Doctor for the prostate thing, (which wasn't a lot of fun really) but being "Googled!" Man, that was upsetting, even to an unbalanced individual like myself.
So I got into the car, damp hands shaking, turned the key in the ignition, shoved the car into "Drive", and got the heck out of the neighborhood as quickly as my Firestones would take me.
It's not easy driving when your heart is beating out of control, and your feet are shaking nearly as badly as your hands.
Somehow I made it in one piece, shut off the engine and got out of my vehicle. I took a veeeery deep breath, and proceeded to the entrance, vainly attempting to look as nonchalant as possible.
As I entered "Papa's", it felt as though every eye in the place was staring at me.
So I looked at the assembled throng and smiled confidently.
"Give me a Bud Light please." I said to the barmaid, who smiled broadly at me in response. She deftly reached down and plopped an icy bottle on the bar. And she smiled some more.
I picked the bottle up with one of my sweaty shaking hands and took a sip.
"God, ….she knows!" I thought to myself.
I turned around and it seemed like everyone was smiling at me.
"What are y'all smiling about?" I asked defensively. "It's Saturday Steve. What's your problem?"
I hesitated for a second, and then figure it was time to be honest. "I just got "Googled" by a friend of mine."
"No kidding? How's it feel?" Alton asked me.
Alton doesn't "Do" computers, so I immediately felt a whole lot worse than I did when I walked in the door. Everybody sitting at the table giggled at his comment, because they can be like children, and children can be cruel.
Alton called the waitress over, "Hey, have you ever Googled Steve? Apparently he's been getting a lot of Google lately." She smiled and blurted out, "Not yet," and she kind of blushed, " .. but I don't have anything going on tonight." She continued. "Maybe I'll just stay in and Google him at home."
Apparently some people found this funny, although I don't know why. Carl came over to the table and tossed in his two cents worth. "Have you ever Googled yourself Steve?"
"Well, yeah I have." I admitted sheepishly. "everybody does it. But you have to be careful, because it can be addictive." "How'd it feel?" Carl asked, and everybody started to chuckle.
I would have gotten a lot more upset, but I know Rhonda will fix him for it.
Then Rich, my "Sole Brother" from a previous column, asked how often I Googled myself, and he smiled too.
"You trying to tell me you've never ever Googled yourself? Not even when you were home alone?" I countered. "Nope! I don't need to. I have a girlfriend." (I think he was bragging.)
"I let her Google me. She likes doing that."
"Well what's the result when she does?" I asked. "Oh, it's a mess. I show up way down the list." He fired back. "Well I guess you don't get Googled enough." I relied.
All of this Google talk was getting out of hand.
"Look! I don't want to talk about it anymore." I said. "It's a very personal thing!"
I looked over towards Alton, "It's really nort funny ya know. You meet people at a bar, they get your name, then they go home and Google you! And you don't even realize it's happening sometimes."
"Don't get so worked up about it Steve." he said.
"You're right, Alton." I answered. "But I'm getting out of here and heading back to the house. And since you think it's so danged funny, I think I'm gonna Google you when I get there!"
The chuckling stopped right then and there!
Until Alton smiled and said, "You can try, ….. but I'll tell you now, I ain't that kind of guy!"
So if you're reading this, I dare you to go home tonight and try it. Try "Googling" yourself tonight.
But I bet you'll like it so much that you do it more than once!!!
What Else Is There To Say?
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
The good Lord works in mysterious ways sometimes.
I've heard it said many times, but I just had an epiphany as I stood at the urinal, of all the unlikely places in the world to have one of those things.
As I stood there, I thought about my dad.
I'm still not certain as to why I thought about him, because there were several scenarios which come to mind, none of them more likely or credible than the others.
It may have been the recollection that the report cards I brought home in high school would get him p---d off with my seeming lack of effort.
Or it may have been that when he came to visit, I know he stood at the very same spot and did what nature makes beer drinkers do.
In the grand scheme of things, it is of no major importance why I thought about him at that very moment, it was just something that happened.
I remembered as well, how when I was a teenager, heading out the door on the weekend, he would look me in the eye and give me those instructions of his, "Try and stay out of trouble!"
I think I scared him because I was the eldest son, and every time I screwed up, it was the first time he had to deal with something one of his kids had done wrong, because the girls never did anything bad. My younger brothers would watch my every adventure carefully, cataloguing my misdeeds in their minds for future reference.
They teach you a lot of useful information in our school system, but they don't teach you how to be a good parent, a fact that I discovered for myself when I became one.
I was fortunate, because my dad was a quick learner, so by the time one of my brothers would make a bad decision, dad would just shake his head and say, "It's nothing to worry about, Steve did that 5 years ago."
It always amazed me, (and does so to this day), how he matured so quickly.
Dad used to come here and visit my family and me sometimes. My dad loved Texas, and all of my friends down here. He'd sit and have a beer and regale all of my buddies with tales of the long past misadventures of his eldest son.
I guess it was payback of sorts, for those infamous report cards. They didn't seem to p---s him off any longer. I knew back then that he would get over them someday.
I recall once he told me he thanked God, every day for putting me in his life. I had taught him all about patience and understanding. I still like to believe that it was a compliment of some type.
He once told me that he was happy that I live here. "You have really good friends Steve, and they like you." He didn't say it, but I think he liked the fact that I was far enough away that I wouldn't embarrass him in a public place from that big a distance.
I also remembered that one time, that he discovered a poem I had written. He took it and went to work, so I thought to myself, "Oh God, I did it again."
He was a super athlete and was as distraught about his eldest boy's skinny legs as his eldest son was. And now he thought I was a writer. Definitely not a "jock" kind of thing to be.
I was shocked when he came home that evening, armed with my poem, which had been typed up by his secretary, and about ten other copies of it.
He handed me the neatly typed copy, and held onto the other ten. "What about the others?" I asked him. He looked at me sternly and replied, "They're for me. I'm going to show them off to my friends."
I drew a deep, relieved breath, walked to the door and said, "See ya later dad, I'm heading out to meet my friends."
He kind of smiled, gave me a hug and said to me, "Have fun. … try and stay out of trouble."
He really enjoyed this column, and bragged about it to all his buddies in Vancouver apparently. Just like I bragged about him to all of my buddies in Houston.
I/We lost him last night.
He's in a better place now. And I like to think that that better place is better because he's there.
I talked to him Sunday. He sounded really weak and told me he had to lie down. "Thanks for calling Steve."
"I love you dad." I told him.
I'll never get to do that again, so with your permission, I'd like to say it again, … one last time."
"I love you dad."
"I miss you."
"Thanks for everything you did for me."
… "Try and stay out of trouble if you can."
The good Lord works in mysterious ways sometimes.
I've heard it said many times, but I just had an epiphany as I stood at the urinal, of all the unlikely places in the world to have one of those things.
As I stood there, I thought about my dad.
I'm still not certain as to why I thought about him, because there were several scenarios which come to mind, none of them more likely or credible than the others.
It may have been the recollection that the report cards I brought home in high school would get him p---d off with my seeming lack of effort.
Or it may have been that when he came to visit, I know he stood at the very same spot and did what nature makes beer drinkers do.
In the grand scheme of things, it is of no major importance why I thought about him at that very moment, it was just something that happened.
I remembered as well, how when I was a teenager, heading out the door on the weekend, he would look me in the eye and give me those instructions of his, "Try and stay out of trouble!"
I think I scared him because I was the eldest son, and every time I screwed up, it was the first time he had to deal with something one of his kids had done wrong, because the girls never did anything bad. My younger brothers would watch my every adventure carefully, cataloguing my misdeeds in their minds for future reference.
They teach you a lot of useful information in our school system, but they don't teach you how to be a good parent, a fact that I discovered for myself when I became one.
I was fortunate, because my dad was a quick learner, so by the time one of my brothers would make a bad decision, dad would just shake his head and say, "It's nothing to worry about, Steve did that 5 years ago."
It always amazed me, (and does so to this day), how he matured so quickly.
Dad used to come here and visit my family and me sometimes. My dad loved Texas, and all of my friends down here. He'd sit and have a beer and regale all of my buddies with tales of the long past misadventures of his eldest son.
I guess it was payback of sorts, for those infamous report cards. They didn't seem to p---s him off any longer. I knew back then that he would get over them someday.
I recall once he told me he thanked God, every day for putting me in his life. I had taught him all about patience and understanding. I still like to believe that it was a compliment of some type.
He once told me that he was happy that I live here. "You have really good friends Steve, and they like you." He didn't say it, but I think he liked the fact that I was far enough away that I wouldn't embarrass him in a public place from that big a distance.
I also remembered that one time, that he discovered a poem I had written. He took it and went to work, so I thought to myself, "Oh God, I did it again."
He was a super athlete and was as distraught about his eldest boy's skinny legs as his eldest son was. And now he thought I was a writer. Definitely not a "jock" kind of thing to be.
I was shocked when he came home that evening, armed with my poem, which had been typed up by his secretary, and about ten other copies of it.
He handed me the neatly typed copy, and held onto the other ten. "What about the others?" I asked him. He looked at me sternly and replied, "They're for me. I'm going to show them off to my friends."
I drew a deep, relieved breath, walked to the door and said, "See ya later dad, I'm heading out to meet my friends."
He kind of smiled, gave me a hug and said to me, "Have fun. … try and stay out of trouble."
He really enjoyed this column, and bragged about it to all his buddies in Vancouver apparently. Just like I bragged about him to all of my buddies in Houston.
I/We lost him last night.
He's in a better place now. And I like to think that that better place is better because he's there.
I talked to him Sunday. He sounded really weak and told me he had to lie down. "Thanks for calling Steve."
"I love you dad." I told him.
I'll never get to do that again, so with your permission, I'd like to say it again, … one last time."
"I love you dad."
"I miss you."
"Thanks for everything you did for me."
… "Try and stay out of trouble if you can."
Fairy Tales Can Come True
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
"Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young woman."
Jeez, that should have been warning enough right there, but I wasn't paying attention again!
Heck, as though it wasn't bad enough that I have to enter the pharmacy to buy those "female" type products for my daughter, but it actually got even worse than that recently.
Yes Virginia, there is a sanity clause. I've seen it. It was sneaked into my contract by Bob, when I wasn't paying attention.
The last time I wasn't paying attention.
I'm fairly certain that Bob has "an out" this time, but he just doesn't realize it, because he's my publisher and doesn't bother reading anything that I write.
I think he must have spell check, as well as a "sanity clause" in his own contract as well, and is simply protecting his family.
I've never asked him before, but I'd be willing to bet that his daughter sends him to the pharmacy for "female" type products as well. (I think it's some kind of a "daughter thing", their mother's teach them.)
It's pointless to speculate, but a lot of what I do is pointless anyway, so bear with me on this one.
Recently, my sweetie was coming to visit. "Can I ask you a big favor?" she said.
Well, as I said, I guess I wasn't paying attention again. "Sure thing sweetie! Just name it."
I may have said something dumber than that at some point in my past, … but I'll never admit it publicly.
"Well since I'll only be there for a few days, and since I won't be there long enough to do any shopping, would you be a darling and pick something up for me at the store?"
Now, given my earlier statement regarding "dumber statements", I have no alternative other than to admit that my reply came really close, but I consider it a tie at best.
I buy the groceries every week, so no big deal. "Ok, what do you want me to get? Those "Chili Peanuts?"
"No." (pregnant pause), "I was thinking more along the lines of that "secret" place you have down there."
"Aaaaaaaargh!"
I screamed in terror, as visions of "doing the mall" assaulted my mind.
But I took a deep breath, calmed myself down, stopped shaking and answered timidly, "Ok sweetie."
Tentatively, I stepped out the door, got into the car and headed off to visit "Miss Vickie's".
I think I'm going to go into the lingerie business. They get a lot of money, for very little material, in that particular store. I think it's because they have to buy micro needles and surgical thread to stitch that stuff together.
Victoria's Secret is sort of like "Six Flags Over Testosterone" for us old guys. It's actually a really good place to meet women if you're a single guy, but it costs a lot of money.
So I entered the store and started looking around, trying to appear like I knew what I was doing. Yeah suuuure!
I looked so danged healthy with that red flush to my cheeks. As quickly as possible I chose a couple of items I thought she would like, wandered sheepishly to the cash, and was asked by the sensitive young lady if I wanted an "Angel Card." That would entitle me to be a member of the free panty of the month club or something. At least I think that's what she said. I was having a lot of trouble concentrating on anything other than getting out as quickly and inconspicuously as humanly possible. "Besides" I thought to myself, "what do I need an Angel Card for? I think I'm in heaven already."
And then I thought to myself, "What if I meet one of my neighbors? Or one of the guys I coached baseball with. Or even worse, one of my kids, or one of their friends."
Well, to make a long story even longer, that was when I discovered just what Victoria's Secret is.
At one point in my life, I thought it was that you would probably have to be about 16 to fit into any of that stuff, but I was wrong.
Victoria's Secret is that they only have bright, florescent pink bags that scream out to everyone in the mall, just where exactly you have been.
There are no secrets in the mall, a fact that was becoming blatently obvious to me by the minute.
I strode quickly towards the exit when a sudden realization struck me, right between my "Shirley Temple" baby blues.
All the women were smiling at me!
"Damn. Maybe they think I was shopping for me!!!"
"Maybe they think I'm a little light in the Tony Lama's!"
Well, for the sake of historical accuracy, (as well as truth in journalism), I set a personal best time, and quite conceivably a land speed record for exiting the mall.
I started up the car and headed directly for the hospital, where I was treated for third degree wind burn.
I'm going to be all right.
They told me so at the hospital.
But I still get the shakes now, every time I hear that old Beatles song.
You probably remember it. If you're old enough.
I never want to hear it again.
"Listen"
"Do you want to know a secret"
"Do you promise not to tell."
Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young lady."
Thank God.
So all you lovely ladies who may have seen me at the mall, I just want you to know that this is NOT a Fairy Tale!
Y'all got that?
"Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young woman."
Jeez, that should have been warning enough right there, but I wasn't paying attention again!
Heck, as though it wasn't bad enough that I have to enter the pharmacy to buy those "female" type products for my daughter, but it actually got even worse than that recently.
Yes Virginia, there is a sanity clause. I've seen it. It was sneaked into my contract by Bob, when I wasn't paying attention.
The last time I wasn't paying attention.
I'm fairly certain that Bob has "an out" this time, but he just doesn't realize it, because he's my publisher and doesn't bother reading anything that I write.
I think he must have spell check, as well as a "sanity clause" in his own contract as well, and is simply protecting his family.
I've never asked him before, but I'd be willing to bet that his daughter sends him to the pharmacy for "female" type products as well. (I think it's some kind of a "daughter thing", their mother's teach them.)
It's pointless to speculate, but a lot of what I do is pointless anyway, so bear with me on this one.
Recently, my sweetie was coming to visit. "Can I ask you a big favor?" she said.
Well, as I said, I guess I wasn't paying attention again. "Sure thing sweetie! Just name it."
I may have said something dumber than that at some point in my past, … but I'll never admit it publicly.
"Well since I'll only be there for a few days, and since I won't be there long enough to do any shopping, would you be a darling and pick something up for me at the store?"
Now, given my earlier statement regarding "dumber statements", I have no alternative other than to admit that my reply came really close, but I consider it a tie at best.
I buy the groceries every week, so no big deal. "Ok, what do you want me to get? Those "Chili Peanuts?"
"No." (pregnant pause), "I was thinking more along the lines of that "secret" place you have down there."
"Aaaaaaaargh!"
I screamed in terror, as visions of "doing the mall" assaulted my mind.
But I took a deep breath, calmed myself down, stopped shaking and answered timidly, "Ok sweetie."
Tentatively, I stepped out the door, got into the car and headed off to visit "Miss Vickie's".
I think I'm going to go into the lingerie business. They get a lot of money, for very little material, in that particular store. I think it's because they have to buy micro needles and surgical thread to stitch that stuff together.
Victoria's Secret is sort of like "Six Flags Over Testosterone" for us old guys. It's actually a really good place to meet women if you're a single guy, but it costs a lot of money.
So I entered the store and started looking around, trying to appear like I knew what I was doing. Yeah suuuure!
I looked so danged healthy with that red flush to my cheeks. As quickly as possible I chose a couple of items I thought she would like, wandered sheepishly to the cash, and was asked by the sensitive young lady if I wanted an "Angel Card." That would entitle me to be a member of the free panty of the month club or something. At least I think that's what she said. I was having a lot of trouble concentrating on anything other than getting out as quickly and inconspicuously as humanly possible. "Besides" I thought to myself, "what do I need an Angel Card for? I think I'm in heaven already."
And then I thought to myself, "What if I meet one of my neighbors? Or one of the guys I coached baseball with. Or even worse, one of my kids, or one of their friends."
Well, to make a long story even longer, that was when I discovered just what Victoria's Secret is.
At one point in my life, I thought it was that you would probably have to be about 16 to fit into any of that stuff, but I was wrong.
Victoria's Secret is that they only have bright, florescent pink bags that scream out to everyone in the mall, just where exactly you have been.
There are no secrets in the mall, a fact that was becoming blatently obvious to me by the minute.
I strode quickly towards the exit when a sudden realization struck me, right between my "Shirley Temple" baby blues.
All the women were smiling at me!
"Damn. Maybe they think I was shopping for me!!!"
"Maybe they think I'm a little light in the Tony Lama's!"
Well, for the sake of historical accuracy, (as well as truth in journalism), I set a personal best time, and quite conceivably a land speed record for exiting the mall.
I started up the car and headed directly for the hospital, where I was treated for third degree wind burn.
I'm going to be all right.
They told me so at the hospital.
But I still get the shakes now, every time I hear that old Beatles song.
You probably remember it. If you're old enough.
I never want to hear it again.
"Listen"
"Do you want to know a secret"
"Do you promise not to tell."
Once upon a time, long, long ago and far away, there was a beautiful young lady."
Thank God.
So all you lovely ladies who may have seen me at the mall, I just want you to know that this is NOT a Fairy Tale!
Y'all got that?
Life Is A Carnival
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby,
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby"
"Won't you let me take you on a sea cruise"
Sort of close to the words of an old song I haven't heard for a long time.
I stood at the dock at Galveston and stared at the bright, white, "Carnival" cruise ship, pinching myself.
I went through my mental checklist, ticking things off.
Passport ... Check.
Green Card, (which is yellow, probably because of the French surname as near as I can guess) ... Check.
Immodium ... Check.
Duct Tape. (In the event the Immodium doesn't kick in quickly enough, you can tape the cheeks together.) ... Damn!!!! (Forgot the duct tape.)
Rosary. (For the rapid effectiveness of the Immodium.) ... Check.
Girlfriend ...... Check. (Would have been at the top of the list, but I had to let the Immodium take top billing cause without it there might not be a girlfriend to worry about.)
Drawing a deep breath, I strode confidently up the gangplank, double checking my pockets for the Immodium.
After setting the baggage into the cabin, it was time to explore my temporary, new home. I discovered very quickly that it sure is easy to get lost on one of those things. The announcement came over the P.A. system that we all needed to head back to our cabins to get our life preservers and head to the lounge for the mandatory Life Boat Drill.
Somebody told me where to go, and I thought to myself that this was pretty much a normal state of affairs in my life.
Now I've never been on a cruise before, so as we headed for our Life Boat Station, (that's where you go in the event that you hit an iceberg in The Gulf Of Mexico and the ship decides to do it's impersonation of a submarine with screen doors), I thought that the people sitting at the restaurant by the pier, viewing 2,000 people in ugly orange life jackets, wouldn't have been too inspired to go on the next cruise.
As we headed out into the gulf, I made a mental note to drop a line to the marketing department of Carnival, in the event we made it back home. I realize that they have to do the drill, but perhaps they might consider doing it after leaving the port.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Well, we all survived the lifeboat drill, and were more than happy to shed the orange life jackets, especially the Aggies on board. I guess Aggies weren't meant to take cruises or something. Or at least not for the sinking part.
There are a lot of bars on a cruise ship. After the confidence inspiring lifeboat drill, I understood just why that is.
Yup, we were underway! The left-handed, French Canadian/Irish crossbreed, immigrant guy was set to invade Mexico. But I figured out that before a fellow such as myself does one of those friendly invasion things, it is necessary to arm oneself.
The weapon of choice was the terrifying, not to mention inspiring, "Umbrella Drink".
They are very fine people at Carnival Cruise Lines, and they change the ammunition every day. All of it, very effective.
I sat by the pool each day, insuring that I was well armed for the invasion of Mexico, with Bob. (not Bob my publisher Bob), but Bob from San Marcos, as well as his wonderful wife Jean, and of course, my sweetie.
I have to mention that the staff on the "Ecstasy, took very good care of each and every one of the invasion party. (And what a party it was!)
I worked diligently on my tan, because if you are a Mexican National, there is probably nothing more insulting than being invaded by an army of people led by a guy in a bathing suit, with really skinny legs, the color of Edam cheese. It's a respect thing.
I had checked all over the ship and discovered that someone must have stolen the Crow's Nest, because it was gone. But they left the pool and the poolside bar in its place, so it seemed to be a good trade to me. And there was food everywhere! All day and all night!
But then I discovered the best part, I didn't have too clean the table or do the dishes.
And then there was the formal dinner, designed especially so I could spill stuff all over my tie at someplace other than a wedding or a funeral.
Well I was now completely sated. I was well loaded with umbrella drink ammo. No need to clean the room, because they have people who do that for you, kind of like my kids have at home.
The bed was so comfortable I slept like a baby, and dreamt of Mayans and the forthcoming Invasion of Mexico.
And I still had the entire pack of Immodium!
Oh yeah, …. Where's the girlfriend?
There she is!!!
I gazed from the bow of the ship, early the next morning, armed with a cup of coffee, and spied the Island of Cozumel.
I was gonna be a jeep commando!
The invasion was imminent!
The pilot boat pulled along side the ship to guide us in safely to the dock.
A calmness enveloped my entire body, including the now tanned if still skinny legs.
"Sergio! Bring me a damned umbrella drink! Destiny awaits! The invasion is on!"
Sergio wasn't anywhere to be seen.
The bar hadn't opened yet.
The best planned invasion in my life was starting to go awry before it even began.
I placed my hand in my pocket.
I felt the Immodium still there.
A confident smile spread across my face.
The bar opened.
"Por favor senor, pour some more!"
"Viva Stevie!"
We have seen the enemy! And he is us!!!!!!!
TO BE CONTINUED...
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby,
"Ooh wee, Ooh wee baby"
"Won't you let me take you on a sea cruise"
Sort of close to the words of an old song I haven't heard for a long time.
I stood at the dock at Galveston and stared at the bright, white, "Carnival" cruise ship, pinching myself.
I went through my mental checklist, ticking things off.
Passport ... Check.
Green Card, (which is yellow, probably because of the French surname as near as I can guess) ... Check.
Immodium ... Check.
Duct Tape. (In the event the Immodium doesn't kick in quickly enough, you can tape the cheeks together.) ... Damn!!!! (Forgot the duct tape.)
Rosary. (For the rapid effectiveness of the Immodium.) ... Check.
Girlfriend ...... Check. (Would have been at the top of the list, but I had to let the Immodium take top billing cause without it there might not be a girlfriend to worry about.)
Drawing a deep breath, I strode confidently up the gangplank, double checking my pockets for the Immodium.
After setting the baggage into the cabin, it was time to explore my temporary, new home. I discovered very quickly that it sure is easy to get lost on one of those things. The announcement came over the P.A. system that we all needed to head back to our cabins to get our life preservers and head to the lounge for the mandatory Life Boat Drill.
Somebody told me where to go, and I thought to myself that this was pretty much a normal state of affairs in my life.
Now I've never been on a cruise before, so as we headed for our Life Boat Station, (that's where you go in the event that you hit an iceberg in The Gulf Of Mexico and the ship decides to do it's impersonation of a submarine with screen doors), I thought that the people sitting at the restaurant by the pier, viewing 2,000 people in ugly orange life jackets, wouldn't have been too inspired to go on the next cruise.
As we headed out into the gulf, I made a mental note to drop a line to the marketing department of Carnival, in the event we made it back home. I realize that they have to do the drill, but perhaps they might consider doing it after leaving the port.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Well, we all survived the lifeboat drill, and were more than happy to shed the orange life jackets, especially the Aggies on board. I guess Aggies weren't meant to take cruises or something. Or at least not for the sinking part.
There are a lot of bars on a cruise ship. After the confidence inspiring lifeboat drill, I understood just why that is.
Yup, we were underway! The left-handed, French Canadian/Irish crossbreed, immigrant guy was set to invade Mexico. But I figured out that before a fellow such as myself does one of those friendly invasion things, it is necessary to arm oneself.
The weapon of choice was the terrifying, not to mention inspiring, "Umbrella Drink".
They are very fine people at Carnival Cruise Lines, and they change the ammunition every day. All of it, very effective.
I sat by the pool each day, insuring that I was well armed for the invasion of Mexico, with Bob. (not Bob my publisher Bob), but Bob from San Marcos, as well as his wonderful wife Jean, and of course, my sweetie.
I have to mention that the staff on the "Ecstasy, took very good care of each and every one of the invasion party. (And what a party it was!)
I worked diligently on my tan, because if you are a Mexican National, there is probably nothing more insulting than being invaded by an army of people led by a guy in a bathing suit, with really skinny legs, the color of Edam cheese. It's a respect thing.
I had checked all over the ship and discovered that someone must have stolen the Crow's Nest, because it was gone. But they left the pool and the poolside bar in its place, so it seemed to be a good trade to me. And there was food everywhere! All day and all night!
But then I discovered the best part, I didn't have too clean the table or do the dishes.
And then there was the formal dinner, designed especially so I could spill stuff all over my tie at someplace other than a wedding or a funeral.
Well I was now completely sated. I was well loaded with umbrella drink ammo. No need to clean the room, because they have people who do that for you, kind of like my kids have at home.
The bed was so comfortable I slept like a baby, and dreamt of Mayans and the forthcoming Invasion of Mexico.
And I still had the entire pack of Immodium!
Oh yeah, …. Where's the girlfriend?
There she is!!!
I gazed from the bow of the ship, early the next morning, armed with a cup of coffee, and spied the Island of Cozumel.
I was gonna be a jeep commando!
The invasion was imminent!
The pilot boat pulled along side the ship to guide us in safely to the dock.
A calmness enveloped my entire body, including the now tanned if still skinny legs.
"Sergio! Bring me a damned umbrella drink! Destiny awaits! The invasion is on!"
Sergio wasn't anywhere to be seen.
The bar hadn't opened yet.
The best planned invasion in my life was starting to go awry before it even began.
I placed my hand in my pocket.
I felt the Immodium still there.
A confident smile spread across my face.
The bar opened.
"Por favor senor, pour some more!"
"Viva Stevie!"
We have seen the enemy! And he is us!!!!!!!
TO BE CONTINUED...
Shake Your Booty
The "Un" Real Texas By Steve Bussiere, humorist
I was sitting in the rear of Papa's, when Rich walked over to me.
"Whazzup?" he asked.
"Trying to write my column." I replied.
"Trying?" he asked.
"Very." I responded.
Rich shook his head. "What's it about?". I told him it was about my cruise, "You know, the Invasion of Mexico."
"Well, pardon me for saying it, but you look kind of stressed. Must be the ice water you're drinking."
Rich is a good guy, but he knows nothing about the stress of an invasion.
"It's supposed to be a humorous column, but I'm depressed." I told him. "You look it." he said. "But you looked pretty relaxed when you came back. You had a nice tan too."
"It was the umbrella drinks, and my cell phone didn't work."
"Well what happened between then and now?" he asked me.
"Life."
"Huh?"
"You know. Kids, bills, …no more umbrella drinks, … all that kind of thing."
"Well the umbrella thing I can see, but the other stuff is normal life Steve. Don't let it get you down."
"Yeah right. But then there's the fact the invasion didn't go down very well."
"What do you mean? You looked pretty happy when you got back. I saw you."
"I had a Jeep and drove all around the Island trying to find people to conquer."
"Well, didn't you find any?" He looked at me quizzickly.
"Yeah, bunches of them."
"Well what happened?"
"I tried to get them to surrender."
"And?"
"They didn't."
"Why not?"
"Guess I'm a lousy invader or something. Might have been the damned skinny legs. May have been the fact I shaved before I got off the bloody ship."
"The fact you shaved?!!!"
"Yeah, I think invader types usually have beards or something. It adds to the intimidation factor. And I think they have better legs or something."
"Yeah, you might be onto something there." He smiled, (or stifled a laugh). "You know you could go to the doctor and talk to him. They have happy pills for depressed people."
"Happy people make even lousier conquerors than I was."
"Well what did you do or say to get them to surrender anyway?"
"Well, the only people I met who spoke English were the tourists on the beach. So there wasn't any sense in conquering tourists as near as I could tell."
"And?"
"Well my Spanish is close to non existent. So I yelled at them."
"What did you yell?"
"I forgot my spanish/English dictionary at home so I yelled the only thing I could think of in Spanish."
"What was that?"
"Cerveza!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Then what happened?"
"Well, at least I scared them I think."
"Why's that Steve?"
"Cause they all started to try and suck up to me. They brought me beer! I think they were trying to make friends with me or something. It kind of worked I guess. You lose your ferocity after a few beers, …so we made friends instead, which really sucks when you're trying to be a conqueror. I read that somewhere."
"You know what Cerveza means in Spanish, right Steve?"
"Yeah it means surrender I think."
"Only if you're a chick." he replied.
"And what about your sweetie? What did she think of it?"
"I don't think she was real impressed. Not even one bloody person surrendered."
"What else did you do?"
"Oh, I wanted to see where the Mayan's lived. So we looked around, avoiding lizards and stuff for a while."
"How was that?"
"It sucked too. All I saw was a bunch of messed up rocks. I think I know why they left now. The place was ruined. I could have just gone to that Houston Gardens place and looked at the gravel pile. Would have saved a lot of money too."
"So you didn't bring back any treasure I guess, huh?"
"Nope. They have a casino on the ship and I tried to win a bunch so I could fool everybody."
"No luck"
"Oh yeah. All kinds of luck. …..But it was the bad kind. So I'm depressed."
"Hey, what's that picture there?"
"They take one of you and your sweetie before the formal dinner night. We were on our way to the dining room."
"Nice picture."
"Thanks."
"Looks like a treasure to me."
"Yeah, it really is." I replied.
"It's all I've got now. I lost my booty in the casino."
I was sitting in the rear of Papa's, when Rich walked over to me.
"Whazzup?" he asked.
"Trying to write my column." I replied.
"Trying?" he asked.
"Very." I responded.
Rich shook his head. "What's it about?". I told him it was about my cruise, "You know, the Invasion of Mexico."
"Well, pardon me for saying it, but you look kind of stressed. Must be the ice water you're drinking."
Rich is a good guy, but he knows nothing about the stress of an invasion.
"It's supposed to be a humorous column, but I'm depressed." I told him. "You look it." he said. "But you looked pretty relaxed when you came back. You had a nice tan too."
"It was the umbrella drinks, and my cell phone didn't work."
"Well what happened between then and now?" he asked me.
"Life."
"Huh?"
"You know. Kids, bills, …no more umbrella drinks, … all that kind of thing."
"Well the umbrella thing I can see, but the other stuff is normal life Steve. Don't let it get you down."
"Yeah right. But then there's the fact the invasion didn't go down very well."
"What do you mean? You looked pretty happy when you got back. I saw you."
"I had a Jeep and drove all around the Island trying to find people to conquer."
"Well, didn't you find any?" He looked at me quizzickly.
"Yeah, bunches of them."
"Well what happened?"
"I tried to get them to surrender."
"And?"
"They didn't."
"Why not?"
"Guess I'm a lousy invader or something. Might have been the damned skinny legs. May have been the fact I shaved before I got off the bloody ship."
"The fact you shaved?!!!"
"Yeah, I think invader types usually have beards or something. It adds to the intimidation factor. And I think they have better legs or something."
"Yeah, you might be onto something there." He smiled, (or stifled a laugh). "You know you could go to the doctor and talk to him. They have happy pills for depressed people."
"Happy people make even lousier conquerors than I was."
"Well what did you do or say to get them to surrender anyway?"
"Well, the only people I met who spoke English were the tourists on the beach. So there wasn't any sense in conquering tourists as near as I could tell."
"And?"
"Well my Spanish is close to non existent. So I yelled at them."
"What did you yell?"
"I forgot my spanish/English dictionary at home so I yelled the only thing I could think of in Spanish."
"What was that?"
"Cerveza!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"Then what happened?"
"Well, at least I scared them I think."
"Why's that Steve?"
"Cause they all started to try and suck up to me. They brought me beer! I think they were trying to make friends with me or something. It kind of worked I guess. You lose your ferocity after a few beers, …so we made friends instead, which really sucks when you're trying to be a conqueror. I read that somewhere."
"You know what Cerveza means in Spanish, right Steve?"
"Yeah it means surrender I think."
"Only if you're a chick." he replied.
"And what about your sweetie? What did she think of it?"
"I don't think she was real impressed. Not even one bloody person surrendered."
"What else did you do?"
"Oh, I wanted to see where the Mayan's lived. So we looked around, avoiding lizards and stuff for a while."
"How was that?"
"It sucked too. All I saw was a bunch of messed up rocks. I think I know why they left now. The place was ruined. I could have just gone to that Houston Gardens place and looked at the gravel pile. Would have saved a lot of money too."
"So you didn't bring back any treasure I guess, huh?"
"Nope. They have a casino on the ship and I tried to win a bunch so I could fool everybody."
"No luck"
"Oh yeah. All kinds of luck. …..But it was the bad kind. So I'm depressed."
"Hey, what's that picture there?"
"They take one of you and your sweetie before the formal dinner night. We were on our way to the dining room."
"Nice picture."
"Thanks."
"Looks like a treasure to me."
"Yeah, it really is." I replied.
"It's all I've got now. I lost my booty in the casino."
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