To all of you, parents and grandparents, who are totally paying for or supplementing your children’s and grandchildren’s college education, In case you haven’t heard, many universities in the Northeast and Washington State are offering accredited classes on “Taylor Swift.” yes, that one. There is no planned curriculum or testing, just hysterical discussions and listening to her screeching music. Students must bring their own auto-tune devices so the rest of the class can understand the coded “swift-ease” language. As for the folks paying for the little darlings’ education? Well, your daughter is a moron and will likely be living at home in her childhood bedroom until you pass on and leave her the house and your 1996 Buick. At least the Dixie Chicks and Alanis Morrisette could actually sing.
The Knee Of Christmas Cheer
After many years of anguish and hand-wringing pain, the day came last Thursday; MoMo got her new carbon, Kryptonite, and stainless knee. Not just a few parts, but the entire show, socket and all. The surgeon sawed the leg bone in two places, glued in the replacement part stapled up the meat and muscle, and there ya go, she’ll be up and running in a few weeks. She is a miserable mess and whacked out on pain meds, but improving.
The old knee and tendon bones will be placed in a beautiful crystal jar and shipped to us before Christmas. A bottom-lit display with color-changing LED lights will make it the focal point of our Holiday decor and will delight our party guests for what few years we have left. Her surgeon said it’s the newest thing in replacement surgery, “it’s sick”, or so he says. I have the perfect place on our kitchen prep counter. Imagine when the grandchildren get to watch their grandmother’s old knee light up in 20 rotating colors. Wow. I haven’t told MoMo about this little gift, but will get around to it soon.
“This Is Going To Be A Little Uncomfortable”
The Day Of “The Procedure” Arrives
I’ve gone through three-quarters of my life not dwelling on or talking about medical conditions. Since I’ve become an old fart, well, it comes with the aging process. As a small child, I was perplexed when the older relatives sat around and compared ailments. My grandmother was the queen bee of that circle and the biggest hypochondriac that ever breathed. I’m not sure how she lived with all the terminal diseases and crippling conditions she harbored in that small body. So, here is her grandson, now 74 years old, taking the family medical Olympic torch from the old gal and not carrying it too well.
I comically wrote a few days ago about the injection procedure my spine surgeon booked for me in lieu of more surgery, which will be on down the road. Thursday night, I was wound up like a “Nickle Rat.” anticipating the 6:10 to Yuma at the surgery center. So I did what any modern male would do: I went for the drugs. 600 mg of Gabapentin, a big old Hydrocodone tablet, an 8 oz glass of Zquill, five cups of hot Ovaltine, and topped it all off with a Willie Nelson Sleep Gummy I picked up in New Mexico. Nothing…I lay in my Barcolounger and buzzed like a five-year-old after eating a full bag of Halloween candy; I was as crazed as an old Hippie at a Lynard Skynard concert and begging for merciful sleep. Any mortal human would have been in the emergency room after all that. I guess I’m more than mortal, possibly a Viking or Indian Spirit Animal.
MoMo found me in my lounger at 4 AM, slobbering and mumbling incoherently, eyes wide open. I Showered and dressed in sweats, no coffee, no water, no nothing; she slurped her delicious morning cup of Java while I had a bad case of the cotton mouth and eyes as bloodshot red as Dracula.
The kind and caring Pre-Op nurse at the surgery center got me in my hospital bed, gown on, shower cap, booties, and a warm fuzzy blanket, along with a nice little IV in my hand. I was ready. MoMo worked there for six years, so it was like the old home week for a while. Everyone was yakking and hugging and giving their secret “Nurse” handshake. I felt a bit left out, but I knew her friends would treat me better than well. Being married to a big-time Nurse has its perks.
My CRNA asked me if I had been through this procedure before, ” Nope, I’m a newbie here,” I replied.
“Well,” he says, ” these days, it’s all done by a doctor-guided robot, so there are fewer missed shots.” The term missed shots caught my attention.
” You mean the robot has made a few mistakes?” said I. I began looking for an exit door in case I needed to bolt.
” Only a few here and there, it’s no big deal; it’s usually caused by user error or a bad controller unit; the robot is very good at what he does.” The CRNA is sold on this bot.
Wide awake and scared, I’m rolled into the OR. There, standing beside the stainless table is a six-foot robot holding an enormous syringe full of white liquid in each metal hand. He is a spot-on copy of “Robby The Robot” from the 1950s movie ” The Forbidden Planet.” My doctor sits on a stool staring at a large LED screen, holding a Nintendo Game controller and drinking a Red Bull. I am rolled onto the table, face down. The CRNA says I will receive a little Propofol in my IV and will have a sweet little nap. I ask if that is the same stuff Michael Jackson took; he says yes. We all know how that turned out. The robot gives me a reassuring pat on my behind and makes a few bleeps and whirly sounds; the nurse says count to ten; I’m out by three. I see Michael Jackson riding on a golden cloud, waving at me to follow him. No way, dude. Then Elvis stops in a cherry 55 drop-top Caddie. In the backseat are Jimi Hendrix, George Harrison, Robert Johnson, Roy Orbison, and Ertha Kitt. Sitting next to Elvis is a radiant Ann Margret. I hop in and take shotgun. Ann winks at me and says, “I’m not really dead, you know, but I have a special arrangement to come and visit E a few times a month, don’t tell anyone you saw me here.” Nope, your secret is safe with me, darlin’. She hands me a bottled Coke and a peanut butter and nanna samwich.
I open my eyes, and there is MoMo, giving me her reassuring attention. My Post-Op nurse is making sure I wake up and don’t freak out. I ask her about Elvis and Ann Margret, and I want some of that sleepy stuff to take home with me. She laughs and says that’s one of the best dreams yet. I’m dressed, wheelchair to the car, MoMo helps me in the passenger side, and the nurse hands us a card from the staff and an 8×10 glossy photo of “Robert,” the medical robot. He’s standing in front of a Western building wearing a flat-brim black hat and a Mexican sarape. Two holsters hold a handful of large syringes instead of a 45 Colt. In a weird shaky signature, it reads, ” Come back and see me, pardner; I never miss a shot.”
The Final Gasp Of Hallows Eve
Tis almost over, the night of ghouls, Ravens, and goblins, beggers of sweets, impersonators of the great, the terrible, and the incorrigible loose souls. I have made it through another Halloween and haven’t seen or heard anything about Taylor Swift. Thank the Lord she didn’t show up at the Rangers versus the Diamondbacks game.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Until next year, I bid you adieu.
The Boys and Girls of Summer
On the third day of summer vacation, the euphoria of no school for three months had lost its sparkle. Our gang of sweaty-smelly boys spent most of the day sitting under our neighbor, the Mister’s Mimosa tree, drinking grape Kool-Aid and eating home-baked oatmeal cookies baked by our mom-mentor, Mrs. Mister. Saturday couldn’t get here fast enough; that was the first day of official practice for our second-year little league team, “The Jets.”
This year, as a group, by a special vote in Skipper’s garage, we decided to let Cheryl and Ann play on the team, putting Freckeled Face Bean and Georgey on the bench for a few innings. Mr. and Mrs. Mister were in agreement; the girls were better at catching fly balls. In 1957, teams didn’t award participation trophies; it was all about winning the game. Cheryl played some last season, and we put Ann through the try-out wringer at recess. and she passed every test, so we will be the first and only team in the Fort Worth Little League system to have two girls on a boy’s team. We “broke on through to the other side” and didn’t know what we had done. I believe our assistant coach, Mrs. Mister, was secretly proud, being a former Air Force officer and ball player herself.
Saturday arrived, and our practice time on the diamonds was at noon, right when it was cooking like a griddle at a balmy 98 degrees. Mr. Mister worked with our two pitchers, and Mrs. Mister took the rest of us heathens to the field, hitting flys and grounders and yelling at us when we messed up. Ann and Cheryl caught every fly ball, and me, at shortstop, only missed two grounders and tosses to first. It was going to be a good season. Georgy and Bean sat on the bench, sulking. I guess I would, too, if I lost my spot to a girl. We were kids, but back then, even boys were a bit manly men, only smaller.
After practice, Mr. Mister told us that the coach from the Trimble Tech area team had been spying on us, hiding behind the concession stand and taking notes. It was a known fact that any team from that area of Fort Worth would be known as ” the hard guys.” We figured he was scouting out whose legs to break if they caught any of us out of our neighborhood and alone.
Our first game was a week later, and damn if it wasn’t the “hard guys” team. We watched from our dugout as they warmed up, fearing the worst. The pitcher had a five-o’clock shadow and arms so long that he left knuckle furrows in the infield dirt. Most of their team was a head taller than us and had to be old enough to drive. These guys can’t be Little League? Many had likely spent time at the Dope Farm or jail; they had all the markings of experienced delinquents. Their coach was a walking mugshot. We were doomed and knew it.
Bottom of the seventh, and we were down by two runs. Skipper was throwing his hardest and slipping in some calculated peppered pitches Mr. Mister had taught him. The “hard guys” weren’t even swinging hard, and all their balls went to the fence line and a few over it.
Our coach, Mr. Mister, suspected something for some reason and asked the umpire to examine their bats. The umpire was equally suspicious, so he grabbed a few of their bats, pulled a pen knife from his pocket, dug out a wad of wood filler, and emptied four large ball bearings into his hand. The little mobsters were using fixed bats. He then checked their cleats and found all of them to have been filed to a sharp edge. He confiscated their bats and shoes, making them play in sneakers or barefoot. He gave them a beat-up Rawlings bat to use. They were caught, and the crowd of parents booed them into the next county. After that, they couldn’t buy a ball past second base, and we scored three runs and beat them. Strike one up for the good guys. Mrs. Mister informed us that their team had been dissolved a few days later, and the players were suspended. Their coach was likely on his way back to Sing-Sing.
The rest of our season was memorable. Our two girls got a write-up in the paper, along with a cute picture. Skipper got bonked in the forehead and missed four games, and Freckled Face Bean caught a case of Polio and was out for the season but expected to make a full recovery. We missed the championship by two games, but hey, it was a great season.
The Misters gave the team a backyard cookout a few days before school started. Parents, siblings, dogs, and the whole shebang crowded into their backyard. At the end of the party, with fireflies drifting around us in the summer evening, our team gathered in a circle for a moment of recollection. We had been so wrapped up in months of baseball no one noticed that we all had changed. The school fat was gone, replaced with dark suntans and sinewy arms and legs. Baseball was our game, America’s game. At that brief moment, as we stood in the dark, silent, we were the boys and girls of summer.
Bwana of The San Saba
A good friend is an avid hunter of deer and other edible wildlife. His domain is Texas, so this story is about him. The names have been changed to protect the guilty.
The San Saba, Texas plains and rocky hills are as rough and desolate as any place in the state. The Great White Hunter prefers them that way. This harsh country is home to the skittish and elusive Texas white-tail deer, his favored game. He has taken many in the twenty years he has hunted this land, and the best are mounted on the walls of his private trophy room. Four walls of antlered Deer, all with a startled look on their faces.
A hot November day of hunting in the rocks and brush has yielded no Deer, but The Great White Hunter did bag three Squirrels, a Chipmunk, a Cottontail Rabbit, a large Rattlesnake, and four Blue Catfish from a sparkling creek. Supper tonight will be tasty. Maurice, his faithful guide, armorer, and camp cook, knows how to prepare wild game perfectly. Squirrel on a Mesquite stick is his signature dish. Add some fire-grilled Catfish, corn on the cob, pan-fried taters, and cold Lone Star beer, and it’s a campsite dish that would make Martha Stewart’s mouth water.
Maurice comes from East Africa, and it’s common to refer to a white man hunter as “Bwana,” a term for a boss or an important fellow. The hunter cringes when Maurice uses this address; it reminds him of a Bob Hope and Bing Crosby movie. He prefers “The Great White Hunter.” His fellow members of The Sons of The Alamo Lodge gave him this name decades ago because of the hundreds of pounds of venison he donated to the lodge’s food bank.
After the scrumptious supper, The Great White Hunter takes a constitutional stroll away from camp. Dressed in a tee shirt, safari shorts, and ankle boots, he walks a narrow, dry wash, enjoying the serenity of the Texas dusk. His rifle is left at the campsite, leaning against a Mesquite tree; his Colt pistol rests on a backpack near the fire; he has a Barlow pocket knife in his pant pocket for whittling and cleaning his fingernails. He is, for once, unarmed.
He rounds a bend and comes to a halt. Standing ten feet away is a feral boar. He estimates the size of the porker to be around three- hundred pounds. His tusks are formidable and likely razor-sharp. The pig is in a foul mood and looking for a scrap. There is an Oak tree close enough to climb, but making it to the tree before the pig is doubtful. He pulls the pocket knife from his pants, opens the two-inch blade, and waits for the attack. He stares the porcine monster straight in the eyes; the unafraid boar meets his star, doesn’t flinch, and scrapes the rocky ground with its hind feet. Slobber drips from its mouth; the stench of the animal is overwhelming and smells of death.
The hunter has been in perilous predicaments, but never a scrap as one-sided as this. The pig has a natural advantage; he knows the loser will probably be him and hopes the injuries will be minimal and Maurice can get him to the hospital in San Saba in time. It will be a fight to the death. He chastises himself for leaving his weapon at the camp, which is too far away to call for help.
The peccary makes its move and charges the hunter, but the hunter is swift, jumps straight up, and uses the back of the porker as a springboard to propel himself into a forward somersault, landing behind the pig. The boar turns, gravel and dirt flying as it makes a second frontal assault. The hunter jumps on the back of the hog and rides it like a pony, stabbing it with his pocket knife as the hog runs for the brush. The pig makes it to the brush, and the hunter is dismounted by a low limb. The hog races to the safety of its companions before it expires. The bloodied and torn hunter walks into the camp, where Maurice patches his wounds and offers praise for his bravery. Three shots of George Dickel whiskey help ease the pain. Sitting around the campfire late into the night, Maurice grins and says, ” Bwana did well today, very brave fellow.”
“There Goe’s The Sun..And I Say”
My son, Wes, lives on Padre Island on the Texas coast. He took this picture of the solar eclipse on Saturday. I couldn’t see it that well from this part of Texas, but as you see, it was perfect viewing at the beach. Gotta love George Harrison.
Tuesday, October 3rd Update On The Future Saint Swift
Not In My Lifetime, Kiddo!
The Question Everyone Wants To Know…
Doe’s Taylor Swift use Autotune when she talks?
Opinen’s And Duct Tape Around My Head
The NFL Has Lost What Credibility It Had
There she is, folks, standing with her girlie friends, cheering on her soon-to-be next breakup song inspiration: Travis Kelce, who doesn’t have a clue what he’s latched onto, but now that he has spent serious time with her, he’s fresh meat for the lithe blonde succubus. Who is it I’m taunting? Why it’s that semi-country music, man-hating gal, Saint Taylor Swift. I read on some sort of reliable website that there were ten- thousand of her “Swifty” lemmings praying and lighting religious candles outside the stadium in hopes of a miracle-induced glimpse of the Swift One as she and her entourage of movie brats left the venue. She brought in better ratings than the game, so you can bet that Jerry Jones is calling her for an appearance at his Dallas Plowboys game next week. If there are any more Taylor Swift sightings in the news, I may go into hibernation for the winter.
Chick Filet Is Costing Me A Butt-Load Of Money
Yesterday, while watching the tube, I enjoyed a chicken lettuce wrap from Chickie Filet. I bit down on the supposedly soft morsel and felt a piece of my proper back molar break off. After a visit with my dentist today, I will pay around two grand for a crown made from some new wonder material called Kryptontonium that will be good for at least a century. I asked my dentist why he couldn’t use the cheap stuff since my parking meter is about up. He said I’d have sound molars if I needed to eat in Heaven. He’s about half right.
Craftsman vs. Aftermarket Hardware
When I had my major back surgery over a year ago, my surgeon said he used only Craftsman tools and materials. I was comforted knowing that a brand that has been around for a hundred-plus years would be used on my spine. Screws, plates, cages, and other mysterious materials take to support my spine at L4 and L5. Good ole’ American-made stainless materials. Right? I hope my surgeon didn’t cheap out and use aftermarket materials, but how would I know? A few weeks ago, while attempting to catch a plane, I tripped on DFW’s uneven sidewalks and went down hard. I’m talking bone-jarring, falling like a tree hard. That, and another fall at the Houston airport and then a bone-jarring fishing trip in the Gulf, did my carcass in. Now my hardware has shifted, sprung a screw, or some other failure, and I am looking forward to another cut-and-paste spine surgery. I’m beginning to feel like Dr. Frankenstein’s creation. It’s only Monday, so I’ve got the rest of this week to see what else can go to hell.
Flying The Un-Friendly Skies
I haven’t flown on a commercial airline in five years or so, and I don’t miss it for one minute. I recently flew to Corpus Christi to visit my son and his family for five days while my wife, MoMo, flew to Colorado Springs for the same reasons. United Airlines, ” Fly The Friendly Sky’s of United,” yes, those friendly folks had the best fare, so bang, I’m in. What could go wrong with a brief layover in Houston, then a commuter jet to Corpus? Plenty can and did go south.
My wife dropped me off at Terminal C at DFW Airport. Once inside, I discovered I was in the wrong terminal; United changed it at the last minute. I called MoMo to haul me to the new and improved Terminal E. Coming out of the old terminal, I tripped on an uneven sidewalk, went down hard on my left knee, and sprawled out like a Squirrel lying in the shade, my laptop case went flying, little roller suitcase goes too, sunglasses ejected from my face. I’m lying on a filthy sidewalk, bleeding, cursing, and feeling like an old fool. I look up, and this foreign guy is yapping on a cell phone, staring at me with a stupid grin; he gives me a little wave, and I wave back with my one-finger wave. He keeps smiling, not understanding the traditional American one-finger salute. No one is there to help me, so I belly crawl to a trash bin, haul my injured carcass up, collect my stuff, and wait for MoMo to collect me. Blood and other major fluids are running down my leg, my back hurts, both legs hurt, and I somehow banged my head. My once-clean flying clothes are covered in dirt and grime from the disgusting sidewalks. I’m pretty sure every known disease to man is lurking on their surface, and now I’m covered with the deadly germs.
MoMo collects me at the curb, patches me up the best she can with handi-wipes and one bandaid, and drops me off at terminal E.
A sympathetic young lady, a United employee, helps me check in and sends me on my way to security. I wait in line for a while, arrive at the roller belt, remove shoes, wallet, laptop, coins, glasses, and walking cane. I pass through the radar detector, and it goes off. I tell the officer I have metal in my back. He gave me the wand treatment and had me collect my belongings. As I reach for my walking cane, an agent grabs it and says,
” Not so fast, buddy-boy, we don’t like canes here at the TSA. There could be explosives, Cartel money, or Fentenayl in that hollow stick.” Holy crap, I hadn’t thought about any of those things, it’s an old man walking stick. “We’re going to let Cujo, our security dog, have a sniff of this cane.”
The agent walks over to a humongous dog crate and opens the door. A tiny Chihuahua wearing a camo vest trots out. The agent bends down, gives him a dog treat, and holds the cane for inspection. Cujo sniffs it from top to bottom, steps back, barks once, and trots back into his carriers. The agent handed me my cane and said, ” Cujo says you’re good to go, but remember, we don’t like canes.” I get it.
Seated on the plane, a less-than-perky flight attendant stops by,
” Sir, I can put that cane in the overhead for you.”
“No thanks, I need it to get up and out of this tiny-assed, kid-sized seat.” She wasn’t amused, and by this time, neither was I.
“Sir, here at United, we don’t like canes. There could be explosives, drugs, or a laser weapon in the handle that you could use to kill the attendants and then laser through the cockpit door and take over the plane.” Her tone is snarky at best.
I give her my cane and am thinking about a cold beer to calm my nerves.
An attendant speaks over the intercom, ” We hope you enjoy the 59-minute flight to Houston. Since the flight is under one hour, no beverage service will be available.” You could hear the “tough-shit Sherlock” tone in her voice. Son-of-a-bitch, one minute shy of an hour, and they don’t serve beverages. I’m parched and dying here. The guy next to me is sucking on a Big Gulp and eating a sub sandwich full of onions and garlic.
The plane jumps into the sky. The ride is a bit bouncy, but I’ve had worse. I noticed the lady across the aisle had a huge, gnarly red pimple on her cheek and was messing with it. This is not the place to work on her facial outbreaks. One good squeeze and that pimple juice could land on me; I’m within squirting range. She gets up, heads to the bathroom, and comes back with a bandaid on her face.
Once in Houston, I asked a gate attendant how to get to my connecting flight.
She points down the terminal and says,
” Well, you go about three miles that way, turn left, go another mile or so, then take the SkyTrain to Terminal A, gate 2. These are big terminals, so it will take you at least an hour or so to get there.” She’s damn dead serious. I find a skycap with one of those nice rolling riding invalid chairs, and she takes me to the SkyTrain entrance; I tip her five bucks. Then she says,
“The elevator is broken, so you’ll need to take the escalator up to the SkyTrain, then to Terminal A.” Take the escalator, no kidding?
The “Up” escalator is on the left. You have to make your way through the passengers coming down the “Down” escalator, and they are moving fast; everyone is late and about to miss their flight, so it’s every person for themselves; herd mentality takes over. I see a break in the stampede and dart through. I’m not fast enough; a Wildabeast in a pink tracksuit sideswipes me, and I go flying and land on my back; she keeps running with the herd. Lying prone on the carpet, the passengers are leaping over me like Axis Deer escaping from a pride of Lions. I feel someone grab me under my arms and drag me back. I look up into the eyes of a teenage girl. She helped me up and collected my cane and laptop case.
” Are you sure you are alright, Sir?” I say yes and thank her for saving my life. ” Oh, it was nothing, Sir; I have a Grandpa, and you remind me of him.”
I make it to Terminal A and find a skycap to give me a wheelchair ride to the gate, which is another two miles away. I notice a Marine Corps ring on his finger and a Masonic Lodge medallion around his neck. I am impressed.
” I say, ” You served in the Marine Corps and are a Mason, dang young man, I am impressed.”
“Thank you, Sir; yes, Marines for eight years, and a Mason, now for three years. Married my high school sweetie, and we have two kids; life is good.” He drops me at my gate; I tip him generously and shake his hand in thanks.
Sitting at the small airport bar, I drink my $ 14.00 beer and munch on a $12.00 dry Tuna sandwich. I want to rant about the prices, but it’s a useless cause, so I reflect on meeting two generous young folks today and think if there are more of them out there, then maybe I won’t feel so afraid about handing off the baton to their generation. The flight to Corpus was good, and the visit was great. We went deep-sea fishing in my beloved Gulf, and I spent some quality time with my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. Sometimes, life can be good.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 