Lost and Found

I found a kitty this morning.  If it's yours, come and pick him up

Afternoon at the Book Store

Andy hates green

lost in translation

I know. I was disappointed also

Picking Flowers in the Outfield

1971

It was a great year in baseball.  Satchel Paige was elected into the Hall of Fame.  Hank Aaron hit his 600^th home run.  Vida Blue and Ferguson Jenkins won the Cy Young Award.  Ernie Banks plays his final season.  Roberto Clemente homered as the Pittsburgh Pirates won Game Seven of the World Series over the Baltimore Orioles.  And of course, Uncle Rusty began his inadequate baseball career.

Hope sprang eternal as I rode my Schwinn Stingray over to the baseball field on Rowe Avenue.  It wasn’t really a field.  It was a backstop put up at the edge of a vacant lot.  My teammates arrived, ready to start spring training.  They included Scott Burns, Eric Cummins, Lee Patterson and Roger Perkins.  These guys would go on to great athletic careers; some becoming local legends.  I was a little outmatched. 

My Dad was a great ball player in his day.  He even got a tryout with the Cleveland Indians when he was a senior in high school.  Too bad his athletic genes didn’t pass to his male progeny.  There I was, a fat kid, uncoordinated and unmotivated.  Things were going to get ugly.

We played for the Panthers.  Our sponsor was San Juan Springs.  Their moto: “We’ll keep your wagon from saggin’”.  Eric and Darrell’s Dads were our coaches.  They were great guys, a couple of the best coaches I ever had. 

After a few practices and assessing our skills I was made the back up right fielder.  Right field, is statistically the position that receives the least action.  It is where they put kids that have the greatest chance of hurting themselves.  Back up right fielder meant that I could hurt myself coming out of the dugout.

Back in the 70s, there weren’t ball tees or pitching machines.  We faced some great eight year old fire ballers.  Since I had no skills, the best I could hope for was to draw a walk.  I was also willing to take one for the team and lean into an inside pitch.  My Louisville Slugger was as pristine at the end of the season as it was at the beginning.

I was terrified to take a swing.  I had a perfect .000 batting average for two seasons.  Finally,  in the beginning of my third season, a pitcher threw the ball at my head, I ducked and the ball accidentally hit my bat and rolled into the field of play.  I’d hit the ball!  It was a freak of nature, but I’d made contact.

That changed things.  I was never great, but did become a mediocre batter.

As bad as my batting skills were, my fielding was worse.  Right field was a fun place to spend the afternoon.  There were dandelions to pick and ant hills to kick.  I had a good view of the games in the adjacent fields.   It was my own little wonderland.

I had my Rawling’s fielders mitt.  It was incredibly stiff from lack of use.  An important feature on any little league mitt was major leaguer’s signature branded on the palm.  Roger had a Johnny Bench catcher’s mitt.  The other players had names like Brooks Robinson,  Billy Williams or Joe Torre emblazoned on their leather.  I had Carlton Molesworth from the Washington Senators.

Once or twice a game, the ball would actually be hit toward me.  It was show time.

There would be the familiar crack of the bat and the ball would come soaring, lazily toward my post.  Hopefully, I wasn’t distracted while staging a grasshopper race.  I would estimate the ball’s trajectory , calculate crosswinds and begin sprinting (waddling) toward the ball.  I’d reach my mitt towards the heavens, flinch, turn my head and close my eyes and prepare to make the catch.  Then I would hear the familiar thump of the ball landing ten feet behind me.  I’d run to the ball, pick it up and because I couldn’t throw very far, run towards the infield.  I would finally throw the ball and sometimes it would land within twenty feet my intended target.

My bad fielding skills also account for my fear of reptiles.  At one practice, the ball was hit over my head.  It rolled out of the field and disappeared over a small mound.  I ran to retrieve it.  I ran over the mound and saw the ball nestled next to a twenty foot long reticulated python. 

Okay.  It was a three foot bull snake.  But it looked like a jungle snake to me.

 

I stopped dead in my tracks, spun a 180 and didn’t stop running until I was safely behind the backstop.  What happened to the ball?  I didn’t care and still don’t care.  All I know is I narrowly escaped certain death.

Two things ended my baseball career.  The first was when pitchers started throwing curves.  My mediocre batting declined to miserable. 

The second event that ended my career was when my sister made All Star shortstop in softball.  I wasn’t embarrassed.  I was relieved.  Dad finally had an athlete in the family.  I was able to quietly retire from the sport that I loved, but didn’t love me.

MONDAY RANDSOMNESS

Sunday at the Track

Savannah's play time

Therapy time

I finally found a Harley I can afford

Good girls being bad

The good ol' days

Complete with radioactive material

Just because I think you're awesome

Pray that someday you'll be this cool

Love me

Obey me

Worship me

UNIVERSAL TRUTHS OF LIFE

Never ever ever wear Ed Hardy clothing.  If I have to explain, call me.  I’ll come on over and hit you with a sock full of nickels

Women lie.  They say they’re biggest turn on is a sense of humor.  Really?   Are you sure it isn’t money and a nice arse?

Condoms have an expiration date.  If you have to check, I’m sorry.

Never brag that you’re good at something.  Even if you are, it still makes you look like an ass hole.

If you’re over 25, stop blaming your parents for your problems.  Or move out of their basement already.

If you’re a racist, a homophobe, or bigot, just stop it.   Judge a person on the quality of their character.  Then you have legitimate reasons to hate them.

Love everyone, except the French.  Screw the French

I know you love your children.  But, they probably are not as special as you think.

There are only three constants in life.  Jesus, Elvis & Coca Cola.  Jesus will always be my Savior.  Elvis will always be the King.  Coke will always be “The Real Thing.”

95% of your problems can be prevented just by showing up, doing what you say you’re going to do, and if you can’t letting people know it.

Once you figure out NASCAR is a soap opera for red necks, it gets much more interesting.

Live college sports beats life professional sports any day.

Stop telling me what the Bible means.  I’ve read it, and understand it well enough to know you’re taking it out of context.

Helmets?  We survived recreating Evel Knievel’s motorcycle jump at Ceasar’s Palace.  I’m just saying.

Intelligence doesn’t guarantee anything.  There are more geniuses in convenience stores than in colleges..  Some people are too stupid to fail.

You can’t save some people.  It doesn’t matter how much you love them.

Porn isn’t the only thing on the internet.  Or, so I’ve been told.

Style beats fashion.

The Chinese are not intimidated because you put a Free Tibet bumper sticker on your Subaru

Don’t worry about what your kids listen to.  Society has survived Elvis, The Beatles, Alice Cooper, KISS, The Sex Pistols, NWA, Marilyn Manson and numerous boy bands.

When your child is maddest at you, you’re doing your job.  Go ahead and make them madder by telling them how much you love them.

PAIN KILLERS AND POLITICS

Since I’m the only registered Republican in Geiger County, I am the head of local GOP.

By default, I got an invitation to the Governor’s Inauguration Ball on New Year’s Eve.  I figured that if this didn’t get me some female attention, nothing would.

 I threw the invitation on the passenger seat of the Ramcharger and headed over to Lizard Flats to visit the lovely Miss Margarita (Maggie) Jackson.  I arrived at Maggie’s Holistic Supplies and Taxidermy. Excitedly, I showed her the invitation and asked her if she would accompany me to the gala.

“You Sonofabitch!”  I ducked at the jackalope she’s been stuffing went whizzing past my head.

 

“What makes you think I’d go up to Santa Fe and spend the evening with a bunch of obnoxious, stuffed shirt know it alls.” 

In my haste to impress the girl of my dreams by showing off my political ascension, I’d forgotten that I’d ascended with the wrong party.  I looked out in the parking lot looking at her Prius with the Green Peace and Earth Day bumper stickers,  I contemplated damage control.

“Well, how about going over to Lupe’s for tacos?”

“You ignorant, inbred, self involved, mouth breathing, trailer trash bastard, I wouldn’t go out with your fat butt if you were the last man on earth.”

“So, I’ll take that as a Maybe.”

The bottle crashed on the door jamb as I made a quick exit.

My further attempts to get a date with Maggie were equally fruitless.   I decided to take Mario to the ball.  He’d been begging to go since he found out there was going to be free food and an open bar.  He’s a fun guy and I figured he might repay by getting me a new set of ape hanger handle bars for my Honda.

New Year’s arrived and Mario and I headed north to the People’s Republic of Santa Fe.  I warned Mario about being on his best behavior.  He promised that “HE” wouldn’t do anything to embarrass me.  Unfortunately, I didn’t know he had other plans for me.

The ball was lovely.  Good food, great music and free drinks, who could ask for anything more.  What I didn’t know was Mario was conducting a scientific experiment.  He kept bringing me Red Bulls and vodka.  But, every couple drinks, he’d throw a Percocet in for good measure.  When I started feeling funny, it was too late.  I was already on a boat  to happy island. 

Last fall, New Mexico elected the first Hispanic, female governor in history.  We’re very proud and excited.  But, truth be known, the real reason I supported her was because I thought she was cute.  She’s kinda short and perky and has a real cute butt.  I figure if we’re going to have to look at someone for the next four years, they might as well be good looking.  It’s what I call “The Sarah Palin Effect.”

About the time the meds were at their peak, the Governor and her husband arrived.  I’d seen her on television, but never in person.  Uncle Rusty was smitten.  Uncle Rusty was in trouble. 

Things were a little hazy at this point.  But Mario filled in the vast hole I have in my memory.  I started out slow.  I kept giving her my best come hither looks.  But they weren’t working, so I headed on up to her and asked her what she was doing later.  She ignored me.  Her husband didn’t, though.  Did I mention was a police officer of some sorts.  Fortunately, by the time he’d gotten security’s attention, I’d already wandered off looking for the taquito tray.

After I’d had my fill of finger foods, I wandered back to make another run at the Gov.  Before I was able to ask her if she wanted to go out to the parking lot and check out my Dodge, security picked me up and escorted me to the exit. 

After they’d tossed me through the fire exit door, I picked myself up, and yelled at them. “You big pussies!  I’ve gotten better ass kickings from hippies!”

Mario came out a few minutes later, threw me in the back and drove me home.  I slept through all the bowl games and really wasn’t coherent until the third. 

I was happy.  I’d dodged a bullet.  I’d made a world class ass out of myself, but somehow got away with it.

But, today I received a letter from the GOP requesting I change party affiliation. 

Good news Maggie.  Uncle Rusty’s gonna start hugging trees and kissing spotted owls.  I’ve already put a Greenpeace bumper sticker on the Ramcharger.  I’ll be back on your good side in no time.

DISCLAIMER: 

 I may or may not be a republican

I've never met the governor

Red Bulls and Vodkas rock!

 I don't know where these garden gnomes came from

philosophy friday

What if Hitler had taken Prozac?

WALMART HUNTER'S FIELD GUIDE

I Went to Lupe’s Tacos tonight and met Steve G. and Lyle.  After a few Corona’s and carne adovada , Steve started telling deer hunting  stories.  After a few more Corona’s the subject turned to women. 

It’s hard getting quality dates over here in Radiation Springs.  Online dating, personals, bars, church, etc. etc.  Things just hadn’t been working for Steve or me.  Lyle, has been married since he was in kindergarten.  He really couldn’t relate, but came up with a great idea.

“Why don’t you guys take your hunting skills and apply them to meeting new women.”

Genius! 

We decided we needed a large area to work.  Big Box stores would be a natural fix.

WalMart is my “Happy Hunting Ground”.   There are so many divorced women with low self esteem and relaxed moral attitudes.  It’s a target rich environment.

Preparation is key.  Setting your tree stand up on a pole  in the sporting goods department gives you a good view of the field.  It’s also good location because management thinks you’re a sales display

Make sure you’ve got a view of the housewares department.  Cosmetics, linens and electronics are also good areas to keep in your field of vision.

There is always a congregate. around the grocery department.  Putting a salt lick near the margarita mix is always a good idea. I  look for any lady with a limp.  Cut them from the herd and their all yours.

Set up cameras at the nail salon.  They are immobilized while in there.  Be careful, though, French nails will cut your worse than a raptor’s talons.

Steve like’s to follow their trail through  the different departments. 

Catching one coming out of sporting good and heading to electronics guarantees a quality hunt.  They are a little faster than you average patron, but usually have more money.

It is frowned upon to shop in the liquor of pharmacy departments.  It’s not very sporting.  However, it’s late Friday night,  and you’re also drunk.  Go ahead.

Never hunt women with fawns in tow.  You bag a woman like that, you will end up having to take care of their progeny indefinitely.

Hunting in the liquor department is frowned upon.  It’s almost like poaching.  The hunting is way too easy and not considered good sport.  If you’re drunk  and/or  desperate exceptions can be made. 

There is no need for a license needed.  There is not limit.  Get out there boys.  It’s huntin’  season!

Special thanks to Lyle Kennedy and Steve Garcia

The Great White Hunters

THE JUXTAPOSED BEAUTY OF NEW MEXICO

THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

March 29, 1979.  The day the earth stood still.  It was two days after my ninth birthday.  I had received the greatest present any boy could ever receive.  It was a Daisy Trail Boss air rifle.  I had such plans for that beautiful utilitarian weapon,

After school, I ran home, grabbed my gun and began reenacting Campaign of Guadalcanal.  I set up a bunch of old Tastee Freez cup to reenact the Japanese Army.  I waged many battles all afternoon.  I had won many skirmishes that day.  I had moved the offensive into the garden.  The old corn stocks work well for my jungle campaign.  The sun was going down.  Light was fading.  But there was a machine gun nest I had to destroy.  

I worked my way through the mangroves and began my assault.  I fired volley after volley, using my keen sharpshooting skills to take them out one by one.  

I was about to seize victory when a horrible accident occurred.  My pumpkin headed little sister came riding around the house on her tricycle.  In the smoke and confusion of battle, I did not see her.  I had one more enemy to take out.  I took aim.  Fired.  And watched as my adversary fell, mortally wounded.  

My joy was short lived.  I heard a scream of pain.  The BB had passed through the cup and hit Susan dead solid perfect on the crown of her head.  I ran over to her.  She wasn't mortally wounded, but she had suffered a minor head wound.  The BB had broken the skin and there was a spot of blood.  Before I could calm her down or threaten her to keep quiet, she ran into the house crying.

Out came my Dad.  I had never and have never seen him madder.  I tried to stammer that she was a victim of friendly fire.  But there was no convincing him that it was an accident.  

The court marshal proceeded instantly.  I was relieved of my weapon and stripped of my first sergeant rank and immediately thrown into the stockade.  I was grounded indefinitely.  My gun was taken away indefinitely.

I suffered through a week of hard labor getting the yard ready for the summer.  After my punishment, I was still not deemed fit for battle.  My restriction to base had lasted three months.  The was was going on without me.  

My saviors came in the most unlikely of sources.  I have two older cousins, Troy and Randy, who had tortured me since I was in my crib.  They would show up to my house early Saturday mornings and wake me up by throwing water on me or flipping my mattress.  I was given so many wedgies, I am surprised I was ever able to father children.

Troy and Randy were visiting on afternoon and asked me what had happened to my BB gun.  I told them my story.  Somewhere in their dark hearts, they took pity on a young boy.  They went to my father and told them that they would take me out into the woods and teach me gun safety.  Dad agreed and off we went.

I should have been afraid.  These guys had never been nice to me.  Why did they show this great kindness to me now?  It didn't matter.  There was an opportunity to get my gun back and any pain I was about to endure would be worth it.

 They showed me how to carry the gun safely.  I learned how to be aware of my surroundings before firing.  I began honing my skills slowly but surely.  After about an hour, they got bored.  Troy took the gun from me, took aim and shot Randy in the leg.  I stepped back and tried to make myself invisible.  

When Randy was in high school, he held the state wrestling title.  He was a warrior.  He was vicious.  But he wasn't in high school yet.  He was in middle school.  He was a pudgy, nerdy kid who was so uncoordinated, he couldn't get out of his own way.  Troy, on the other hand was tall, athletic and fast.

Randy tried to grab the gun from Troy.  He couldn't get it.  Troy danced around him and taunted him.  Randy got shot in the butt, the arm, the foot.  He was doing his angry dance.  His face was red with rage and his eyes were bugging out.  Troy tripped and Randy got the gun.  He took a few swings at Troy's head.  Luckily he missed.

Troy realized he had gone to far.  This kid was crazy.  He cocked, fired and Troy took a round in the thigh.  Troy though quick and took off running through the woods.  Randy was in hot pursuit.  He fired round after round.  I'd lost sight of them, but I could hear the screams of pain echoing through the river valley.

After about five minutes, they returned.  I was threatened to keep my mouth shut.  There was no witness protection from these guys.  I agreed to keep quiet.  

We trudged home in silence.  We got home and they both told my Dad how much I had learned and how impressed they both were with me.  

My Dad gave me my gun back with a small lecture.  

I had my gun back.  My cousins had been decent to me.  And most importantly, I had enough information to extort them for years.

Saw this sign north of Espanola.

Yleana, what are you guys up too?

A TYPICAL THURSDAY UP IN SANTA FE

Where was he coming from?  

and

Where's he going?

It must be tourist season

EXISTENTIALISM AND KAWASAKIS

Being a freelance philosopher is a very rewarding endeavor.  I spend most nights on the porch discussing Kierkegarrd's objective uncertainty of religious truths with Harry and Mario from The Jackalope Machine Shop. Mario loves his Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance arguments.  He's never read the book, but no one knows valve spring tension variances of a 1992 Kawasaki better.


Discussions are usually academic and civil unless that butt hole Jaime Romero shows up and starts his nihilistic horse crap.  His rebuttals are always, "How do you know?" or, "You can't prove any of this even exists."


Harry usually presents his counterpoint by cracking Jaime across the skull with a Craftsman 3/4 inch flex head ratchet.  "Did that exist, you squirrel turd?"


College basketball point spreads based on Aristotle's Theory of Universals is a popular topic.  We wile away most evenings sitting on the bench seats I recycled from the Gremlin.  We discuss our place in the universe, God's purpose and miracles along with the advantages of the nickel defense versus the 3-4.  


The evening drifts by watching mosquitoes wage an aerial assault on the bug light.  The Cambridge Debating Society has nothing on us.

A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

IT'S MY WORLD AND YOU'RE WELCOME TO IT

I live in Radiation Valley, New Mexico.  It’s the municipal seat of Geiger County.  We are proud to be the Alien Abduction Capital of the Southwest.  We couldn’t be prouder.  Let Roswell have its crash site.  Our little green men don’t have accidents and drive up the insurance rates.

As you’ve probably figured out, there is no more Mrs. Uncle Rusty.  She packed her bags, stole my dog and left for Reno years ago.  Last I heard she was the Keno Caller at Slot of Fun.  If you’re ever up there stop in and tell her, “Hi.” 

 I reside at the Happy Acres Mobile Home Resort located right off Exit 147 on Route 66.  I’ve got the Double wide Fleetwood Imperial Grand Deluxe parked in slot number 47. It has all the amenities.  There’s genuine white oak wood paneling, and a sunken great room.  The chandelier has 2500 faceted plastic crystals that beautifully reflect the glow of the truck stop sign.  As the light bounces off my Georgia O’Keefe prints, I feel swept up in Santa Fe style. The Kokopellis sit on the bookshelf and stand guard over my Tony Hillerman paperback collection.

Of course, the piece de resistance is my master bedroom.  The walls are decorated with every Jimmy Buffett tour poster from 1974 to 1987.  All are framed and signed by Gregg “Fingers” Taylor.  Jimmy’s own harmonica player.    Mike Utley signed the 1982 poster.  He played keyboards on “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

The Dos Equis sign provides the correct ambiance for the those “special” evenings at Uncle Rusty’s.  


Keeping with the antique theme of the room,  I have a Blue Magic Evolution III water bed.  The zebra sheets contrast so nicely with the cherry bomb red shag carpeting.  It was hard to find.  I had to have it imported all the way from Dalton, Georgia.

The AMC Gremlin on the side of the house doesn’t run.  Since I’m a self proclaimed hipster, I keep it around to be ironical.  Also, it’s a great home for Ferrell cats.  I drive the Black Dodge Ramcharger with the winged skull on the hood. 

I own Rusty’s TV and VCR Repair.  Business has been a little slow so I’ve branched out and am a freelance philosopher and soldier of fortune.  Of course I still maintain my Hero to American Youth moniker.

 

6th Birthday: What I really really really wanted. And what I got

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