The Fabricated Adventures of a Certain Mister Larry Feathers

Nachos and The Pope

2006-09-20T22:33:00.000-05:00

The first things I remember being happy about upon moving to Texas were nachos. We moved from Indiana in 1979, and, at the time, Indiana didn’t have nachos. Because of Mexicans, I bet Texas has always had nachos. The first Mexicans didn’t settle in Indiana until around 1990. Now they are all over the place!

People say that the Mexicans’ greatest invention is the nacho. I say nachos are practically any kind of people’s greatest invention. Here is a list of some really important inventions:
1. Earth
2. Wheels
3. Space
4. Nachos
5. Skin

I can remember sitting in elementary school when the only thing that got me through the day was the prospect of an after school snack of nachos over at BILL Harland’s house. Bill had a really deep voice. His wife was Jacque. She made the nachos and had toe surgery. The son was David and he liked planets. There was a daughter called Kathy. She listened to Men At Work all the time. Jacque knew exactly how much cheese to put on the nachos, and how long they needed to cook in the microwave. She also pronounced Target like this - /tar’ jhays/.

The other day while I was thinking about The Pope, I started thinking that he has almost certainly never had nachos. I think that’s a shame. I had a hard time coming up with things The Pope can eat. Here is a game. I’m going to list some foods, and you get to guess whether The Pope gets to eat it. If I had a way to tally all responses, I bet they’d come out pretty similar. Here are the things that The Pope may or may not eat:

Salad, Cube Steak, Popsicles, Baked Potatoes, Frosting, Nachos, Pot Roast, Eggs, Fried Chicken, Miscellaneous, Mutton, Bread, Blood, Meatloaf, Teddy Grahams, and Salt.

Here’s a clue: THE POPE GETS TO EAT NINE OF THE ITEMS ON THE LIST, AND ONE OF THEM IS NOT POPSICLES.

Here’s the solution in webdings (you’ll need to decipher it by putting it in Word and translating back into American). Salad, Cube Steak, Pot Roast, Miscellaneous, Mutton, Bread, Blood, Meatloaf, and Salt

Recently The Pope had some true things to say about the Muslims. Now some of the Muslims want to kill The Pope (which kind of proves The Pope’s point). The whole thing plus nachos gives me a solution to all of the world’s problems:

Let’s put all of the world leaders down at a table and force them to eat nachos with one another. I don’t know about you, but I can’t remember ever fighting with anyone during nachos. It might not even be possible. People like eating nachos together.

I’m tired, but I have a question. If I were to write a series of illustrated stories called “Adventures of The Pope”, would it be offensive? I wouldn’t have him doing anything immoral. Instead, I would just stick him in unPopish situations. For examples:
1. The Pope Goes to Wet ‘N Wild.
2. The Pope Gets his Pope Teeth Cleaned
3. The Pope Surfs
4. The Pope in Garland
5. The Pope Eats Gravy
6. The Pope’s Body Does Somersaults
7. The Pope Visits a Hot Dog Factory
8. The Pope Gets a Perm
9. The Pope Makes Sausage

Please let me hear your ideas now.

Eggs

2006-09-06T20:38:00.000-05:00

This morning I took the train to work. Since I live near the beginning of the line, it’s always easy to get a seat. However, by the second or third stop, the train nears standing room only. I like paying attention to how the seats fill up. In general, the trains here go four seats across with an aisle down the center. As you would expect, the pattern is for everybody to try to sit in a seat without anyone next to them. Some jackasses sit on the aisle and refuse to move to the window when the train starts getting full. The rest of us sit down at a window and wait for people to sit down beside us.

Here are descriptions of the people without seatmates as the train approaches capacity:
* Guys with cuts on face
* Jackasses who sit on the aisle and refuse to move toward the window
* Smelly people who talk to themselves
* Me

I can remember a day when I’d sit there hoping with all my might that nobody would sit next to me. Not anymore. It’s not that I want to sit by anybody. Instead, it’s that I can’t figure out why they don’t want to sit next to me. I am nice and usually don’t smell horrible.

The same thing happened this morning. Every seat was full except for two – mine and that of a man with scabbed up stub arms with open sores on face. Then a woman came on board. When she got to the section with the human infection and me, she stopped, surveyed the both of us, and with a look of complete desperation plopped down in the seat next to me.

She was wearing a name tag. It seems that her parents decided to name her “Every”. I thought, “What a nice name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before.” Then I remembered that I have heard it on account of it’s a word I use every day!

I started smelling stuff as soon as she sat down. When I sniffed her real close, I determined that her smell was eggs.

For the longest time I’ve had a love/hate relationship with eggs. On the one hand, I love the way they taste. On the other, I can’t think of anything less appealing than putting into my cakehole the reproductive cells from which a new chicken should have developed had I not become hungry.

Every’s egg smell grew and grew. The stronger the smell became, the more I wanted to smell her. I’d never smelled anyone like Every. I leaned over for an extra big smell when I realized that it wasn’t that Every smelled like eggs, but that the guy across the aisle was eating a Tupperware container full of leftover chicken.

I know it was leftover because it was 6:30 in the morning, and chicken places aren’t open that early.

At that point I was feeling sort of guilty for accusing Every of smelling like some eggs. I tapped her shoulder and said, “I’ve been thinking to myself that you smell like eggs, but it turns out that it’s just that man’s chicken. For all I know you might smell normal. By the way, is that a real name? Every.” She didn’t respond to my compliments and decided to move over next to Scabby for the rest of her ride.

I’m pretty certain I’ve never seen a man eat chicken so early. (P.S. The man eating the chicken did not have an “away-from-the-face” beard. I think this proves the latest addition to my beard theories. That is, bearded men don’t eat chicken for breakfast.)

I’m disturbed that my olfactory system confused eggs with chicken. I think it’s weird that something that came out of a chicken smelled so much like a chicken. That’s certainly not the way it works with stuff that comes out of people.

By the time my stop came, I was about to throw up from the chicken/egg smell. The weird thing about it is that when I thought it was eggs, I wanted to smell it real hard. Once I realized it was some chickens, I started getting sick.

Are other people like me? If I smell or taste something taken totally out of its normal context, it’s liable to make me kind of sick. For example, I can’t drink Coke (which I normally enjoy) out of a translucent green cup. It just doesn’t look right, and I think it tastes different.

Here’s another example…When I was in high school some of the other kids and I went to Mr. Gatti’s after final exams. While I was at the buffet re-loading my plate, my friend Brandon put a piece of spaghetti in my straw. When I sucked out the spaghetti, it nearly made me throw up. But I like spaghetti! I just wasn’t expecting it. I thought I was getting a drink, but got food instead.

I was expecting the smell this morning to be eggs. When it turned out to be chickens, I got thrown for a loop. I’m still trying to cope with what happened, and haven’t yet determined whether I’ll ever be able to eat eggs or chickens again. You can think I’m an idiot if you want, but I’m serious. Today was the first time when ordering fajitas that I didn’t either get chicken or combo. Instead, I went with the steak. Chicken was more than I could take.

P.S. I have a real niece now. Her name is Daphne and she is correctly proportioned. Evidently those sonograms distort head size on fetuses quite a bit. She came with orange hair and seems to enjoy being alive so far. The picture at the top of this is her. When she yawns, her mouth goes crooked. While I’m unwilling to tolerate much in the way of imperfections, this is one that I think gives her character.

My Sister's Baby

2005-11-30T20:35:00.000-06:00

Here’s some happy news just in time for the holiday season. My sister and Kevin are hauling off and having a baby. As much as I feel sorry for babies that they were ever made to be born, I can’t wait for this kid to come true. This is going to be a good family. I sort of feel like drawing a little picture of what I think the baby will look like when it is new. If I’m still having energy by the time I’m done typing, I might make that picture and post it for you to see!

The other day I saw a sonogram of the baby. Honestly, I’m more than a little concerned. The baby’s head is about three times as big as the rest of it’s self! It looks like somebody you would see in space. Hopefully things will become a little more proportional over the next couple weeks. People assure me that this odd shape is normal. I assure those people that my parts were the same scale as present from the get go. I was just a tinier version of how I am now.

Do you remember shrinky dinks? They were plastic shapes that you baked in the oven turning them into miniature plastic shapes. Did people-shaped shrinky dinks start out normal-shaped and end up with a colossal head compared to the rest of its body when they shrank? I didn’t think so, and I don’t see why it would be any different for regular people. When you really think about it, shrinky dinks are the exact same thing as people, but opposite. Just like the Jonathan Winters character (“Mearth”) on Mork. I hope I’m wrong about all this because if current shape holds this kid will be made fun of! Why don’t people work the same as shrinky dinks?

I have declared myself in charge of the baby naming committee. Evidence shows that a person’s name is what determines their fate in life. In your own head, imagine someone named Elmer. Now imagine someone named Lance. Finally, think about someone named Wayne. Tell the truth! You think of Elmer riding farm equipment, Lance with a comb sticking out of the back pocket of his tight fittin’ jeans, and Wayne either in the electric chair or beating up his common law wife. I take this naming business serious.

And if any Waynes out there read this and decide they are “going to whoop” me for what I said about your name, I say that that’s about the reaction I’d expect from a Wayne.

The other day I was telling my sister that she should give the kid two names. One for when it acts good, and another for when it misbehaves. I told her that she should name the bad version of the kid Bunstance (assuming it’s a girl). It sounds right to scream, “Shut up Bunstunce!” Try it for fun – “Shut up Bunstunce!” She told me that the words “shut up” and “stupid” aren’t allowed. Good Lord. Those words were allowed in my house when I was little. Plus I was never held. I was poked quite a bit, but never held. And I got sat on by my own mother as a form of punishment. What’s wrong with the way I turned out? Name one thing!

Here are a few of my preferred boy names: Plaul (it’s just like Paul only with a spare ‘L’), Crayon, Blarn, Kayo, and Robert. My friend Brandon said that they should name it La Jennifer if it comes out to be a girl. How good is that? If it’s a girl, I think just about anything is okay as long as it ends in “stunce” (e.g., Karnstunce). Stunce just sounds pretty to me. If you want to offer up a name by leaving a comment, it’s okay with me. I’ll run all suggestions past my sister and Kevin.

I hope my dog is nice to the baby. It would be horrible to have to give it away.

The SPCA Needs Foster Homes

2005-09-02T09:07:00.000-05:00

Good morning individuals. Here is something from somebody in charge of SPCA volunteers. If you can't foster an animal, perhaps you can donate food or blankets or whatever.

Dear SPCA Volunteers,

As you know, the SPCA is stepping in to help with the animals rescued fromLousiana. As of right now, we are at full capacity with our shelters. To continue helping these families, we will be holding foster trainings begining tonight through the weekend for anyone who can foster. If you are interested, you will need to RSVP. Keep in mind you may have these animals from 30-60 days. The classes are as follows:
Sept 1 at 7:30pm Mckinney
Sept 2 at 9am Mckinney
Sept 2 at 9am Dallas
Sept 2 at 12noon McKinney
Sept 2 at 2noon Dallas
Sept 3 at 5pm McKinney
Sept 4 at 11am Dallas
Sept 4 at 5pm McKinney
Sept 4 at 6pm McKinney

In addition, any of you who do TLC in McKinney can ask the adoptionsupervisors manager about helping them with animals housed on site from therescue. They will need to get out and be socialized also. If you or anyone you know can donate items for the animals, that would be great! Donations can be dropped off at any our of shelter locations.Examples of items are towels, blankets, food, etc..Last- I am waiting on confirmation from the shelter managers regarding the Labor day holiday. Our dept will get this to you today! Thank you all for being patient with me. If you need anything, call my cell214.507.9881~

Please Let's Help the Nice People of New Orleans

2005-09-01T21:11:00.000-05:00

I’ve already told you about a guy I met in the French Quarter named Daniel. He shines shoes for a living. Most nights he makes the two mile walk from his home in the Ninth Ward to his spot on Decatur Street where he gives the most thorough (and expensive) shoe shine you’ve ever had. His shoe shines last at least 10 minutes. The whole time he talks about the value of proper shoe care. When he’s not talking about shining shoes he talks about his mother who he takes care of with his shoe shine money. Daniel is a good man who makes the most of what little he has. He told me that his mother is proud of him.

New Orleans is full of Popeye’s Chicken and Biscuits. One night when I wanted some chickens, we went over to one of the Popeye’s stores on Esplanade in Metairie. There worked Patricia Robinson and another woman whose name I can’t remember. Never have you met anyone who enjoys her work more than Patricia Robinson. I live in a town where you can scarcely get a fast food worker to grunt at you. This Patricia Robinson treated us like she couldn’t wait until we came back for more chickens and biscuits or corns. Her staff was equally friendly. I’d eat a lot more Popeye’s if Patricia Robinson worked at the one in Garland.

The second to last time I went to New Orleans, we stayed at the Renaissance Pere Marquette hotel down by the French Quarter. One night I wanted some dessert, so I ordered it from room service. I think it was pie. The woman that brought my pie or whatever it was up to my room on the Dave Brubeck floor told me all about how proud she was of her daughter who had earlier that day been accepted to a very prestigious prep school in the area. The room service woman never graduated from high school and told me she was determined to see that her daughter gets the best education she could possibly get.

This has been about three of the people I remember from New Orleans. I don’t recall anyone who was unfriendly or threatening or cruel. For the life of me, I don’t get the mentality of the people creating havoc in that fine city’s most desperate time. Then again, I can’t remember the last time I was really hungry or desperate. Why should I understand why they do what they do? All I’m saying – to those of you who haven’t been there – is that the people of New Orleans are good people. I hope you’ll do whatever you can do to help.

Hodgepodge

2005-08-10T20:55:00.000-05:00

I’ve been meaning to write, but I just can’t think of anything else to say. There’s only so much stuff to put.

Put <-- I think that’s a funny word. Say this: "put put put put put put". Now that’s fun! "Put put put". Swing!

When I was too small to defend myself, my sister used to drive me through construction zones. She made me play a game called “Barrel”. The rule was that if I didn’t say “barrel” each time we passed a barrel (and there are numerous barrels in construction zones), she’d haul off and punch me right on the fat.

When I got big enough to drive, I put my sister in the car and told her we were going out for a game of “Weed”.

Speaking of relatives who did mean things to me when I was little…

Sometimes my cousin Tony reads this blog. I wonder if he remembers the time he put Preparation H on my toothbrush when we were spending the night at my grandma’s house. It’s weird to think that my grandma must have had some hemorrhoids. In the bathroom with the Preparation H, she also had some goopity goop goop called Dippity Do. People used Dippity Do in their hairdos. After I finished brushing my teeth with hemorrhoid cream, Tony and I took turns playing the Card Sharks bonus round. I had fun back then. But not anymore!

Does the H in Preparation H stands for “hemorrhoid”? Of all the things to prepare, I can’t imagine why you’d ever need to prepare a hemorrhoid. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

I know a guy named Chet. He recently had several surgeries including adult tonsil removal. I bet he’s also had hemorrhoids. It seems Chet set the world’s record for biggest tonsils. According to Chet they weighed four pounds! Some midgets don’t even weigh that much.

The other day, my friend (who is quite brilliant) – let’s call her Gertie - issued the following two statements:
1. “Fat’s what makes everything good.”
2. “Bulls are big.”
Who could argue? The best part is that she wasn’t even trying to be funny.

I really must work to perfect the technology for the customized See N Say. As you may recall from childhood, this is the toy with a dial in the middle and barnyard animals around the circumference. You put the dial on the pig (for example), pulled the string, and the machine went “Pigs say, ‘Oink, oink, oink’.” I’d make a See N Say with Gertie's head on the dial. It would go, “Gertie says, ‘(insert funny statement)’”.

Tomorrow is my sister’s birthday. She’s going to be 37! I can’t believe she’s that old. Way to go, Tara! You did it!

I guess I need to figure out what to give her. It seems like she’s constantly asking for “a good cookie sheet”. Either we are bad at buying good cookie sheets or she is bad at cookies because my parents and I have made gift-giving careers out of supplying her with good cookie sheets.

From what I understand from people, the secret to good cookies may be something called “parchment paper”. They say you can put parchment paper on even a crummy cookie sheet (crummy meaning bad; not crummy meaning crumby), and the cookies will come out perfect (that is, they would be neither crummy nor crumby)!

Apparently parchment paper is on the same aisle as wax paper and plastic wrap. The other day I found out that plastic wrap let’s off cancer and you shouldn’t use it to cover up your leftovers.

What fun would it be if I made origami out of parchment paper? I could rub dough on the origami and turn it into a swan cookie (or something). These would be some fancy cookies. It would be neat to have a store called “Fancy Cookies by Larry”. I’d also offer fondue. Others would like me and wonder if I’m gay.

As this is clearly going nowhere, I’m going to go away until I get some better material. This has been crap.

I Sat on Some Urine

2005-07-14T08:05:00.000-05:00

Hello from the Quail Springs Holiday Inn Express in Oklahoma City.

I used to have an insane barber. When I was very young, he was an amateur boxer. He used to challenge me to matches. As I grew larger and larger, he stopped boxing and started manufacturing homemade shotguns. He liked pointing them at me during my haircuts (these days I get my hair “styled” by a beautician). His name was John Merrick. So was the elephant man’s.

I remember a time when I first got my dog, Albert. Albert liked eating Robert’s poop (Robert was also a dog). I tried and tried to get him not to eat the poop, but he kept eating it anyhow. One day I asked the Barber John Merrick if he had any ideas for keeping Albert from eating up all of the poop. He said I shouldn’t worry about it on account of poop is just “changed food”. I thought to myself that John Merrick is right! Robert died and Albert stopped eating poop. Nowadays, Albert is fresh. I guess every cloud has a silver lining.

Anyway, upon checking into this Holiday Inn Express, I did something a little out of the ordinary by laying down on the bed without first removing the comforter. After laying around for about an hour and forty-five minutes, I decided to remove the comforter. Then I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute. Suddenly, I started feeling soggy in my pants. I reached down to where my body met the bed and it was soaked. I smelled my hand and I’ll be damned if I wasn’t sitting in a pile of somebody else’s urine!

I stood up and thought about things for a while. Then I started to almost throw up. Then I remembered that if poop is changed food, then all I’d sat in was changed drink. For a second, I almost stopped starting to throw up. Then I realized that John Merrick’s poop theory was way off. Sitting in urine is disgusting.

So I picked up the phone to call the front desk. Then I hung it up. I was afraid they’d think I was the guy who made the adult butt-sized pool of urine in the bed. I kept thinking about everything. I knew I couldn’t sleep in a toilet. I decided to call the desk…

Worker: Front desk.
Me: Hello. You probably aren’t going to believe this, and, anyway, it didn’t come out of me, but I was just relaxing on your bed when I realized I was sitting on a very large amount of urine.
Worker: (silence)
Me: It’s really gross. Somebody who isn’t me went in the bed!
Worker: You can’t be serious.
Me: I’m serious. I don’t make up stories about sitting in waste. I really don’t think I can sleep in this bed.
Worker: (silence)
Me: Do you think I could possibly move to a different room?
Worker: Yes. Come to the front desk.

I hung up and decided to account for how wet I was. When I sat in it, I was wearing my work shirt, shorts, and underpants. My shirttail was soaked through, as were my shorts and underpants. I felt my butt. It was moist. It occurred to me that, in my adult life, I’ve never had a wet butt in bed. Have you?

I went to the front desk and the lady apologized. I told her that it was okay for she was neither the one who did the urinating or the one who failed to change the sheets. I recommended that whoever “cleaned” the room be fired immediately. They moved me to a new room where I kept imagining that the new bed also had wet spots. Finally, I settled down enough to sleep albeit poorly.

What diseases can I catch from sitting in that stuff? Who would do something like that? I figure it was an old, a sicko, or the person who cleaned the room. But why would anyone leave the bed in such a mess? I think it’s pretty weird.

People wonder whether I’m going to ask for compensation. I tell people that I don’t yet want anything. If they give me my room for free, they’re really giving the government (who pays for my room) the room for free. But the government didn’t sit on the urine. I did! I’m going to write a letter to the Holiday Inn once I go home. What do you think they should give me?

Hitting Rock Bottom

2005-07-14T08:02:00.000-05:00

Over the next week or so I’m going to try to document all of the things that have happened in the last six weeks or so. I’ll also stick in current stuff if it’s any good. We’re going to have fun!

Back before I could drive, I used to go up to Richardson Square Mall on the DART bus. The beauty of the Richardson Square Mall DART bus stop is that it’s within eyeshot of a Long John Silver’s.

The Long John Silver’s people didn’t like me. I would time my return to the bus stop so that I could stop in LJS for a box of crumbs, a cup of water, and an “I Sailed With Long John Silver’s Crew” pirate hat. Total cost - $0. Then I’d sit there eating crumbs and looking at my latest heavy metal purchase until the bus showed up. To this day, it’s easy to identify the LJS grease stains smearing the cover of my Deep Purple “Deepest Purple” record. From time to time you’ll catch me licking that album cover.

I still can’t get enough of them crumbs. They’re the batter particles that fall off all of the fried crap that Long John Silver’s serves. Six Thursday nights ago or so, I decided to stop at LJS on my way home from work. I got three chickens, hush puppies, fries, and a box of crumbs. Then I went home and ate the box of fried lard…while lying down…in bed.

As you’ll learn as I continue to update you on all of the different things that have happened to me during this blogging hiatus, I am a changed person. And it all began that night when I ate the crumbs in my bed. My mom often says that sometimes people have to hit their low point before they can make their lives better. That night with the crumbs was my rock bottom. Rest assured that despite lung cancer and heart attack scares, things are really starting to go my way! I’ll tell you about what happened next later. But first, get a load of what happened this week…

Doctor Shoeshine and the Arm Smeller

2005-05-10T21:31:00.000-05:00

Two times ago when I was in New Orleans, Vickie and I went to a place called Deanie’s. They’re the ones who serve a bowl of spicy new potatoes as an appetizer. This time Donna and I went back to Deanie’s. It wasn’t too hot.

First, I asked the grumpy old waitress (who Donna said looked like a Bertha) if there was a dinner equivalent of some chicken pasta thing they offered on the lunch menu. Bertha told me no. I asked if there was anything with chicken I could have. She offered me a salad with chicken. I asked if there was anything on the dinner menu with pasta. Bertha said there is some sort of a shrimp and pasta situation. I asked if I could either get the salad with chicken substitute pasta for salad or the shrimp pasta thing substitute chicken for shrimp. She said no. I think it’s crazy that all of the ingredients to make what I wanted were available, yet they were unwilling to combine them as I pleased. So I ordered a steak medium well. It came out raw. I sent it back. It came back tough.

This Deanie’s is a weird place. It looks like places where I used to go to dinner as a baby. Very seventies. From the time she took our order until the time the food came out, Bertha pretty much just sat there at another table doing nothing. Meanwhile – and this was my favorite part of tonight at Deanie’s - there was a bearded waiter who looked almost exactly like Popeye’s Bluto (or is it Brutus? Are they the same guy?). Blutus didn’t do much except walk around the restaurant smelling his arms real hard. He just kept smelling and smelling his arms. What would cause anybody to do that? I don’t even think he had any tables. Some restaurants have people who will come around and serenade you. Deanie’s has a guy who walks around smelling his own arms.

When I was a little kid, there was another little kid down the street called Robbie Tylicki. Robbie Tylicki had a bad habit. Actually he had two bad habits. First, he didn’t know the word ‘I’. Instead he said “me”.
“Me is going to go home now.”
“Why are you going home Robbie Tylicki?”
“Because me wants to.”
His second bad habit was that he sucked the heck out of his arms. He’d suck them until they bruised.

You may be thinking, “Gee, it seems a little mean of you to make fun of Robbie Tylicki.” Well, let me tell you that Robbie Tylicki was a little creep! I would always go over to Robbie’s house to ask if he wanted to play, and he’d literally slam the door in my face. My Dad is about as peaceful a man as you’d ever meet. He’s Popish. But he hated the Tylickis. Once when Robbie Tylicki slammed the door in my face, my Dad suggested that I go over there and swipe his big wheel. I asked him where I could put it. My Dad said we could hide it in our garage. So we did.

We’re staying at the Renaissance hotel in downtown New Orleans. We are literally a stone’s throw away from Sodom and, I think, just a couple of blocks from Gomorrah. If I wanted to see “World Famous Live Love Acts” (whatever they are!) all I’d have to do is step outside and walk about the length of a football field. This is a really great hotel, but I’m certain I’m going to catch some pants-related disease just from breathing the air.

I just don’t get peoples’ fascination with the French Quarter. If you haven’t been there, it’s true that lots of it smells like throw up. There are a ton of interesting things here in New Orleans without subjecting yourself to that French Quarter. For example, I saw a copper door today with Ben Franklin’s and other American heroes’ heads carved in it.

I love Ben Franklin! Did I ever tell you about the time when, as a small boy, he got in Boston Harbor with his kite? The wind pulled him and his kite right across the harbor! What a great idea! I wish I wasn’t afraid of water. I’d re-create floating across some water or other with my kite. Thanks a lot Assistant Den Leader Walt McElroy for trying to drown me as a Cub Scout. You are responsible for how I’ve turned out!

Speaking of throw up, did you know that Jelly Bellys are available in the flavors of vomit, dirt, grass, and anchovy? I’m not sure if I think that’s funny or just kind of gross.

We went to the House of Blues for dinner last night. That was a pretty good place. King Diamond is playing there May 20. Heavy metal’s Tesla played there last week. Also, Dallas’ own Reverend Horton Heat and Bowling For Soup are playing there in the next month or so.

Reverend Horton Heat has been around for a long long time. Back in the day, I had a Reverend Horton Heat t-shirt. On it was a picture of the fat version of Elvis. Under Elvis' picture was a list of all the planets and what Elvis would've weighed on each. That's one of my all time favorite t-shirts.

On the way back to the hotel, we met a guy called Daniel (the self-proclaimed Dr. Shoeshine). Daniel sits on Decatur near Canal every night with his shoe polishing equipment. I asked Daniel how much for a shoeshine. He said, “Not much.” So I hired the Doctor to polish my shoes. He did a really fine job. When he finished he informed me that he typically gets $20 plus a “bonus tip”. I ended up paying that character $30 to shine my shoes. Doctor Shoeshine bills out at about $180 per hour. What a racket! Or maybe I’m the only sucker in town. Anyway, I liked him and don’t feel bad about getting ripped off. I hope you’ll let him shine your shoes sometimes.

Denton has a good jazz radio station (FM 88.1). The problem is that it has a weak signal and can't be heard very well from most parts of Dallas. New Orleans has a great jazz station (FM 90.7). Would it be too much to ask for Dallas to get rid of KPLX or Young Country or The freaking Wolf or one of the other All Kenny Chesney All The Time radio stations and replace it with a good jazz station? I haven't even felt the need to turn on the TV tonight because I'm enjoying the radio so much.

I guess that’s just about it for now. So long.

Bearded Theories

2005-05-07T13:11:00.000-05:00

If you are an old time reader of this blog or if you have had to be around me in person for too long, you probably already know my following two bearded adult theories:

* Beard Theories
1. Good luck ever finding a bearded adult riding in the back seat of a car.
2. You'll rarely see a bearded jogger.

I'd like to qualify my theories as follows:
* Qualifications
a. The beard can't belong to a person who looks like they listen to Soundgarden or similar.
b. A qualifying beard must have beard/sideburn connection. GOATEES DO NOT COUNT!
c. There is an inverse relationship between the degree of cheek coverage and the probability of finding an example of either 1. or 2.. (e.g., the more cheek the beard takes up the less likely the adult has ever ridden in the back seat of a car or jogged.)
d. The further a beard comes away from the head the less likely the bearded one has ridden in the back seat of a car or jogged.
e. Beards in the back seat of mass transportation do not count!
f. Beards playing softball or some other sport do not count for the jogging theory. Jogging is the sport where you won't see the beard.
g. Beards on black people don't count for the jogging theory. Black men are willing to jog in their beards.

I am offering surprises to anyone who can provide photographic evidence of exceptions to my theories. However, you may not orchestrate an episode of bearded jogging or riding in the back seat.

While in New Orleans, we (Donna, Gina, and I) went over to the piano bar at Pat O'Brien's. There were two examples of classic beards in there. One of them came on a guy who was roundish, bald, and professor-looking. The other belonged to a poofey 50 something called Don.

Both of the bearded men said that they either currently or formerly jogged in their beards and that they actively ride in the back of cars. Gina said that my theories are blown. I said that my theory was that you never SEE examples of bearded jogging/riding in the back of cars, and that any bearded person who jogs or rides in the back of a car does so either in disguise or under the cloak of darkness. My theories are good!

Gina took my picture with the bearded Don. He was an awfully good sport about all of our beard questions. He even acquiesced when I asked, "May I touch your beard?"

Would people watch a television show called "May I Touch Your Beard?"? It would have me interviewing beardeds and finishing up with, "May I touch your beard?". Half the time the segments would end with me feeling beards. Half the time it would end with me having my ass kicked.

What about this - a TV show called "The Bearded Swimmer"? He (I) would shave all of his (my)body hair ala a swimmer. However, he (I) would have a fantastic beard! He (I) would do all of the things you've ever wanted to see a massively bearded guy do (including swimming), but can't since it doesn't happen. The Bearded Swimmer would swim, jog, ride around in the back seat of the car, tap dance, eat salad, tie his shoes, drink milk, cry, make sandwiches, and whisper.

What does anyone else have to say about all of this beard business?

Meyer the Hatter

2005-05-03T21:28:00.000-05:00

In New Orleans, there’s a place just off Canal on St. Charles called Meyer the Hatter. They sell hats. It’s been family owned and operated for around 111 years. I think that’s nice and interesting. Tonight after work we went over there so I could look at some hats. Of all times, Meyer the Hatter closes at 5:45. We weren’t at Meyer the Hatter until 6 twenty something. However, there was a Meyer inside so I mouthed through the glass, “Would you please let me inside? I want to buy some hats.” He let me in and could not have been any nicer. I bought two hats and Meyer gave me a free Meyer the Hatter ink pen as a souvenir. My Mom told me that customer service like that is probably what’s kept them in the hat selling business all these years. I think she’s right!

One of the two hats is a captain’s hat. Others tell me that it makes me look like a genuine captain! From now on I shall only respond to The Captain.

I wonder why I mouthed through the glass, “Would you please let me inside? I want to buy some hats.” It’s nonsense. After all, I never mouth stuff to people on the same side of the glass as me. Why would I be at my most quiet when the person trying to hear me is all the way behind a hunk of glass?

Plus, sometimes I’ll pull up to a four way stop at practically the same time as another guy. Every now and then the other guy waves me through at which point I typically mouth, “Thank you.” Why is that? I should roll down my window and scream the thank you.

The other day I was at the Rangers game and there was a guy on a cell phone standing up waving his arms like mad at someone on the other side of the park (and I would assume on the other end of the phone call). I’m sure the guy knew whomever it was he was waving to. He might even see that person every day. But there’s something about seeing somebody from across a baseball stadium that people find amusing. Those same two people probably saw each other at work the day prior scarcely mustering up the energy to mumble hello to each other as they passed in the hallway. Oh, but how we’ll roll out the barrel if something as hilarious as seeing someone you know from a distance happens.

Tonight I had my first baked beans encounter. I don’t know about those things. I need someone to offer me some baked beans with the guarantee that no mustard’s been added.

Here’s some stuff to think about. Is a bean the same thing as a seed? What is a nut? Also, what would happen if I planted a kernel of popcorn? Would it give me a corn? Could I pop beans? If not, what other stuff besides corn can be popped? Lots of stuff melts, so you couldn’t pop that stuff. But if stuff doesn’t melt, shouldn’t it pop? Are pop and melt opposites? Do chickens melt? I know they have popcorn chicken, but I’ve never noticed any corn in them so I think it must be kind of like chicken fried steak. Popcorn describes how the chicken is prepared. Popcorn-popped chicken. Since chicken pops, shouldn’t other meats pop? I mean, meat is meat. Why would one meat pop any better than another?

I bought my dog a duck the other day. My parents take care of my dog while I’m out of town. After my Dad dropped me off at the airport, he stopped by my house to pick up Albert’s duck. According to my sister and my Mom, the duck and my Dad have been going around quacking non-stop at Albert. Finally my Mom got sick of it and started yelling at my Dad. My dog likes his duck, my Dad likes to quack, and my Mom likes to yell. I guess everybody’s happy.

Being Rocky Dennis

2005-05-01T20:23:00.000-05:00

I have giant thighs. Also, I have an enormous neck and extremely long arms. Plus I have a really massive head. My self is a physical improbability.

Pants are either too tight in the legs but just right around the waist or too large in the waist and just right in the legs. I CAN’T STRIKE A PROPER PANTS BALANCE. Most shirts that fit my torso don’t allow for buttoning the top button. So I’m left with a choice. I either leave the top button unbuttoned or I buy a shirt whose top button I can button but that has lots of bonus torso material. Yesterday at Dillard’s I bought the latter.

So tomorrow I’m getting on a plane to New Orleans in my new shirt with proper neck but too much material otherwise. I’ll be uncomfortable the whole trip. All of the extra material will keep creeping up from out of my pants and blousing up around my stomach and chest areas. I’ll look extra bloated. The airline will probably try to make me buy an extra seat to accommodate all of my shirt material. Would it help if I tucked the parts of my shirt that I don’t need into my underpants? I don’t know.

The rest of my family isn’t disproportionate. Why me? I am taller from the waist up than I am from the waist down. Do you think I may have been dropped or beat as a youth and that that could’ve stunted my growth? I wonder how tall I’m really supposed to be. Once when I was about two years old my aunt fed me a whole pot of chili. Could that have anything to do with this?

Miscellaneous

Today at Kroger there was a dad who verbally assaulted the cashier for being out of Copenhagen. I’m ready for the End Times. The good news is that there was olfactory evidence in the bathroom at my work last Friday that they may be just around the corner!

This week I get to go back to Voodoo Barbecue!

Is broth and blood the same thing? If not, why?

Did you know that two words to describe hot dogs are “semi-solid” and “chubby”? Gross.

The new book called The Simple Faith of Mister Rogers is really good – unless you’re against Jesus.

The Fantastic John Wesley Harding’s (AKA Wesley Stace) debut novel Misfortune is impressive and long.

Sirius Radio on Dish Network is awesome.

When my dog Robert died, I stood a metal cross on his grave. I’ve never seen anything like this before, but the ground where he's buried has all but swallowed the cross. There’s about a half inch left sticking out of the ground. We’ll meet again.

When I used to work for my Dad, Robert came to work with me. I had a computer on my desk and it plugged in behind my chair. One day I was eating a bagel that I refused to share with Robert. Robert ran in back of my chair and unplugged the computer from the wall. I turned around to plug it back in. The next thing I know Robert grabs the bagel off my desk and runs over to my Dad’s office. I’d say that’s pretty good thinking!

Well I need to go pack my stuff. So long.

Hair Update

2005-05-01T19:37:00.000-05:00

Frequent readers may recall my February 22 trip to Style America. I was having my hair fixed. It was then that Beautician Lisa Dang informed me that I (a) am going bald, (b) have an unusual hair that’s growing from my otherwise bald forehead, and (c) have gray hair. What I didn’t tell you before about that day is that I told BLD of a work trip I had scheduled to Oklahoma City that made it necessary for me to have even prettier hair than normal. I thought she’d try to do a better job than usual if she thought I needed some really good hair for a business trip. She had lots of questions about my trip. Among other things, I ended up telling her that I was going to OKC to work, that I was staying at a Bed & Breakfast with a person from San Antonio (Vickie W.), and that my Mom yells at me all the time.

I went back for another hairdo yesterday. I was shocked when she asked me about my trip to Oklahoma City and my co-worker from San Antonio. I was shocked again when she asked if my Mom’s been yelling at me lately. “This Beautician remembers everything!” I thought. Then she said, “I don’t remember you having gray hair. You really have a lot of gray hair.” I asked how she couldn’t remember my gray hair, but could remember all of that other stuff not having to do with hair. After all, I told her, her whole job is to remember about my hair.

Clearly she is more concerned about things none of her business than she is about my hair. And you should see how she annihilated me this time! First, she cut the perimeter of my bald area shorter than the rest of my head. It’s the kind of short that makes it want to stand straight up. It really looks silly. Plus, if you will imagine that the area extending from the southern edge of my dual crowns down to where my neck hair ceases to naturally grow is a football field, she cut my hair clear up to the 50 yard line. So my hair bottom (sorry to use such technical hair terminology) stops just about midway up my ear. Tomorrow I’m going to New Orleans where I will look plain stupid.

Next time I go in there I predict she’ll ask me how American Airlines flight 2238 to New Orleans went, but will be appalled to learn that I am losing my hair.

It occurs to me that 90% of the crap I write about has to do with hair, meat, cheese, death, or pants. One day I'm going to write an entry that combines all five. Meanwhile, shouldn't there be more to life than this?

A Rough Fortnight for Jesus

2005-04-10T09:18:00.000-05:00

Well, whatever momentum Jesus had going during the Easter season came to a grinding halt over the last two weeks. I think the cases of Terry Schiavo and The Pope left Him with some explaining to do.

Let’s face it. Terry Schiavo got a pretty rotten deal. It would suck to starve to death. It would suck even more to starve to death with your husband and your husband’s attorney lurking around like vultures constantly asking “Aren’t you dead yet?” while, for some reason unknown to you, your real family isn’t around much while you’re laying there suffering, and your husband’s soon-to-be new wife is standing there at a makeshift alter hastily erected next to your death bed waiting to get married to that s.o.b. if only you would just expire. Starving to death should only happen when you’re lost in the desert or in some similarly barren locale. It shouldn’t come at the hands of the people who are supposed to like you the best. That must’ve been a pretty miserable couple of weeks.

I’m not saying that Jesus was punishing Terry Schiavo. I don’t think that’s how He operates. There is always some sort of a purpose for stuff. However, I think she was owed an explanation for all that suffering. Jesus could tell her about how many people are writing living wills because of her. Maybe He could tell her that He was pretty sure Michael Schiavo belonged in hell, but needed a little more evidence. I don’t know. The whole thing made me feel kind of sick.

My sister wrote a living will on her blog. I thought it was funny but it’s probably just the way she’d really want things (www.housepants.blogspot.com). One part of it says that her therapy should include being placed in front of a window so she can look at birds. I told her that I’m gonna be her Michael Schiavo. If any birds dare come near her nursing home, I’ll be sitting outside of her window with a shotgun ready to blow them to smithereens. And if one of those blasted American Kestrels that she likes so much gets within her eye shot, things are really going to get grisly. I’ll also have Ministry’s “Stigmata” constantly playing in the background. The only time Ministry will stop is when it’s time for Rush Limbaugh. I’ll set up her room like that one in Elvis’ house with all the TV sets. One set will show videos of glaciers melting. Another will have looped coverage of the Exxon Valdez disaster. A third will be a live video feed of traffic on 635. Maybe I can get those ATF agents who flashed strobe lights and played bad noises at the Branch Davidians to help. Plus I’m going to pay someone to come in and poke her every few seconds. She’d like that. I just want her to die in peace and with dignity.

That Michael Schiavo is a sick bastard.

Then there’s The Pope. He seemed like a pretty neat guy. From the way he helped end communism to the way he was kind to all to his wardrobe, I say The Pope was first rate! But I’m afraid that he may have been in for a little bit of shock when he went into Heaven. The guy Poped as hard as he could for twenty something years! I can see how he might have been under the false impression that he would get some sort of preferential treatment when he got up there. Hopefully The Pope always kept in mind that Jesus likes us all the same and that there is no special treatment in Heaven. Having said all that, I’m sure Jesus cut him a little bit of slack if he came up there with kind of a bad attitude about the lack of fanfare.

It’s going to be weird to look at The new Pope. I hope he doesn’t seem like a phony when he puts on all of The Pope’s clothes. Let’s come together and give this new guy a chance!

Bimbo Bakeries

2005-04-09T22:51:00.000-05:00

There is a Mexican bread company called Bimbo Bakeries that is building its corporate headquarters in the field next to my office. According to its website, the company is called Bimbo on account of Bimbo is the shortened version of the Italian “bambino” which means “small child”. I’m not sure what bread has to do with small children except, perhaps, that small children like bread. But who doesn’t? They could’ve just as well called the place the shortened version of whatever the Italian word for middle-aged man is. Anyway, why are they naming it something Italian when there are plenty of Mexican things to call it? They could’ve named it after whatever the shortened version of the Spanish word for old people is. They like bread. Plus they’re real Mexicans!

Bimbo’s mascot is a playful bear. The bear, according to the Bimbo website, is a symbol of freshness, quality, and service. I’ve never met a bear, but I bet there are a lot better ways to describe them than “fresh”. Bears can’t smell very good with all of the goopity goop goop they’re bound to eat. (Did you know that bears like eating pine nuts? So do I! But nobody can say I’m not fresh.)

The whole thing made me wonder, “Does Mexico even have bears?” so I went to Google and typed “Does Mexico even have bears?”. The first thing that popped up was a link called “Mexico Doesn’t Even Have Any Bears”. Further research showed that there are a few black bears in the northern part of Mexico, but certainly not enough to name a whole bread company after.

The corporate office has been under construction for a couple months now. For about the first three weeks all there was were three guys with what appeared to be shovels. They dug and dug without making much progress. Then out of nowhere, and without the aid of heavy machinery (except for a large crane that sat in the field without moving for about 30 minutes one day), a concrete slab was in place. Still there were just the three guys with their shovels. Then steel pillars went up. Today the thing is really starting to look like something, but there’s never been anybody out there working except for the three shovelers. I don’t know how they’re doing it, but these guys are magic. What these guys have accomplished makes a mockery of crap like Stonehenge and the Great Pyramid.

I can’t wait until they finish making the bread offices. I’m gonna go over there and get my eat on.

Tilapia

2005-02-22T20:59:00.000-06:00

Have you ever read a word in a book that is new to you and, suddenly, you start reading and hearing that word everywhere you go? It happens to me all the time. About a year ago I learned from a menu that there is a fish called tilapia. I’d never heard of it before. Now it’s all anyone wants to talk about! “Have you had the tilapia in a bag at Red Lobster?” “You should try tilapia. It’s good.” “I like tilapia.” “Three cheers for tilapia! Hip hip…” “Tilapia of the mornin’ to ya!”

Can anyone explain what’s going on with tilapia? Was I just not paying attention, or are tilapia some new sort of fish? Should I eat any? I only like the mildest tasting fish.

Hey, why don’t any of you who tease me for not liking moist meat put gravy on your fish? Hypocrites!

I’m told tilapia work well in aquaria. They’re native to South America and Africa, but were recently exported to parts of Texas and Florida. Is that why we’re just starting to hear about them? Or is it only me?

Style America

2005-02-22T20:36:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I returned to Style America to get my hair done. This time the beautician was Lisa Dang. She was horrible at English, but managed to make the following conversation.

Dang: “You have gray hair.”
Feathers: “Yes, I know. It isn’t so bad.”
Dang: “How long have you been balding?”
Feathers: “It’s been a while. I have dual crowns.”
Dang: “You have very thick hair right here.” She pointed to my head sides. “Too bad you can’t put some of it where you are balding.”
Feathers: “Yeah, too bad.”
Dang: “Have you ever thought about Rogaine?”
Feathers: “No. I’ve come to accept my baldness as part of Jesus’ plan for me.”
Dang: “Well I think hair is very important and you should do something.”
Feathers: “Isn’t it what’s on my insides that counts?”
Dang: (Noticing a stray strand of hair sprouting from my otherwise bald forehead) “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
Feathers: “Do you think it can be permed?”
(At that point she took a straight edge razor across my forehead to cut off the hair.)
Feathers: “This has been a horrible trip to the beauty parlor. Why are you so mean about hair?”
Dang: “I think hair is very important.”

The whole Style America was laughing at me and my head. I hate getting haircuts.

Halibut

2005-02-15T06:23:00.000-06:00

Good morning. I have some pretty good news.

According to an informant, the basic difference between flounder and halibut is that the halibut's left eye migrates to the right side of its head. Flounder and halibut are opposites! Maybe flounder (halibut) sit around looking at the other halibut (flounder) and that probably makes them happy. I wonder if they taste the same. Long live Mother Nature!

In music news, my sister and brother-in-law's band is really climbing the www.nowhereradio.com charts. "Otra Parte" is #2 on the Latin chart and "The Chipmunk Song" is #2 on the Childrens chart. That's good. They are Heroes of Rock! You can listen to their songs by going to that website and searching "pphphb". Their "VH1: Behind the Music" is going to be really lame. It will be 30 minutes of my sister looking at birds, getting upset when the numbskulls fly into her window, and Kevin being quiet followed by 30 minutes of someone talking about current events while my sister closes her eyes in an attempt to mentally transport herself into The Neighborhood of Make Believe. That part will be kind of funny.

I remember when my sister was in high school and was a freak (somewhere I have her old Krokus concert jersey to prove it!). Her friends were John Q Morris, Jelly Jellison, and quite possibly the Prince of Darkness. Some weekends she wouldn't speak to any of us (my Mom, Dad, and me) for no apparent reason. Sometimes I wonder how you get from that point to the point where mostly you like global warming, Emeril, and birds.

Time for my bath! Vickie's coming to town.

Flounder

2005-02-13T08:55:00.000-06:00

Last week I got to go back to Oklahoma City. Once again, the week was chockfull of good food. Highlights this time included Ted’s (Mexican food) and Anne’s Chicken Fried (i.e., “the chicken fried of Anne” not “Anne is chicken fried”). Ted’s has fantastic tortillas and Anne’s has great KISS memorabilia. Thanks to the OKC field office for inviting me to the tradition that is Friday Lunch. We went to Red Lobster. I had fun!

Red Lobster’s waiting area walls are full of fish portraits. I find it a little unsettling to have to look at pre-mortem representations of what I’m about to eat. I also don’t like going to steakhouses where they mount the head (perhaps the very head) of what I am eating in the dining room. Who, except maybe the most sick among us, garner additional eating pleasure from viewing the carcass of whatever’s on their plate? Can you imagine sitting in a dentist’s office surrounded by paintings of impacted molars and gum disease? That would never happen! But, for some reason, restaurants (of all places!) bend over backward to make the event as unappetizing as possible. Plus, Red Lobster has an aquarium of bound lobster sitting right out in the middle of the lobby. It’s quite pathetic. The last thing I need before gorging myself with meat is a guilt trip.

One of the fish pictures at Red Lobster is the profile of a flounder. The picture made me confused inside because both of its eyes were situated on one side of its fish head! Others tried to convince me that that’s just the way flounders are made. But it doesn’t make sense to have two eyes on the same side. What possible good is it to have all of your vision springing from the same basic part of your face? It would be better (but not ideal!) to have one gigantic eye. A flounder’s two eyes are only a centimeter or two apart and on the same side of its body! How much additional seeing could this arrangement possibly provide? I left Red Lobster paralyzed in disbelief.

So I started back to Dallas. On route, I called one of our audit managers to see what she knew about flounder. Unbeknownst to me, she grew up with flounder. She told me that she remembered one, in particular, called Freddy. She assured me that he had symmetrically situated eyes. My relief that flounder are normal was quickly replaced by an upset feeling that my “friends” in the OKC office would make me the victim of a practical joke (about fish). It felt like betrayal. That’s when I got a text message from someone I still trusted from the OKC field office. Here is what it said: “Flounder start out with normal eyes and then right eye migrates to left side of head.” Now the feeling of betrayal was once again replaced with confusion about fish! But I trust this source, and had to tell the audit manager (Sylvie) that what she had could not have been flounder. She would’ve noticed its weird eyes. I could tell she was mad that I didn’t believe her. I promised to confirm the information I’d received via text message. Here’s what I found:

“Adult southern flounder leave the bays during the fall for spawning in the Gulf of Mexico. They spawn for the first time when two years old at depths of 50 to 100 feet. The eggs are buoyant.
After hatching, the larval fish swim in an upright position and the eyes are located on opposite sides of the head. As the young fish grows, the right eye begins to "migrate" to the left side of the head. When body length of about one-half inch has been attained, the eye migration is complete and the fish assumes its left-side-up position for life.” (Source: http://www.tpwd.state.tx.us/fish/specinfo/flounder/flounbro.htm)

So it’s true. Flounder have two eyes on the same side of its head. And, to make matters worse, the fish assumes its left-side-up position for life! This means adult flounder (1) can never look at each other (they are all looking up!), and (2) must always think they are on the very bottom of the ocean (they can’t see what’s below). I think this is sad. Can you imagine a lonelier existence than to feel like you’re always at the bottom of the heap and none of the others like you will even look your way? It’s just terrible.

Flounder is one of just a few varieties of fish I’ll eat. At first I was a little grossed out about eating something whose right eye had “migrated”, but they say “everything happens for a reason”. It must be depressing to be a flounder. Maybe the reason I like flounder to the exclusion of most other fishes is to put as many of them out of their misery as possible by eating them up. Jesus works in mysterious ways. I am the Flounder’s Jack Kevorkian.

Next time I go swimming I’m taking my mirror with me. I’m going to swim above the flounder facing my mirror down toward them. For once, they’ll be able to see each other. I wonder if fish can smile. If so, I bet they will when I go down there with my mirror.

P.S. My friend Erik told me that he works with a man called “Grady Bacon”.

Monkeys

2005-01-30T20:10:00.000-06:00

My Dad’s birthday was January 25. He is 59 years old. I’d say that’s pretty good! Anyway, his having the flu last weekend caused us to put off the celebrating until today. We had fun because of darts, chickens, an accordion, a Turkish spike fiddle, salad, the guy who urinated his way out of an avalanche, and stories from my parents about the olden times.

When a guy gets to be a certain age, he assumes he knows at least the important things that ever happened to his parents. So you can imagine my surprise when my Mom laid this one on us. Out of no place, she started talking about when she spent the night with one of her friends when she was a little girl. She said it was pretty gross because the house smelled kind of funny and everything – including her bedding – seemed a little bit damp. And, oh yes, there were a lot of monkeys living there, un-caged. Maybe that’s the kind of childhood experience that keeps her from touching all but certain very limited parts of my dog, Albert. She’ll gladly touch him on the top and back of the head. In other words, she’ll touch him where his tongue can’t reach. My Mom’s a little freaked out by moisture that comes out of animals. I’m freaked out by gravy. I guess that’s why we’re related.

Then I found out that my Dad was chased by a bumblebee around a baseball park ten years after he’d been stung six times in the eyelid by the same bumblebee. To me, that’s incredible! But he insists it’s true, and I’ve never known my Dad to make stuff up. Getting stung in the eyelid caused him to holler, “Son of a bitch!” His mother made him eat a soap, and my Dad has cursed seldom since.

The mother who made him eat a soap turned out to be my grandma. Once, when I was spending the week with her and my grandpa in West Virginia (my grandpa went to work in a pants factory there), Elvis died. That night I wanted to sleep in my socks, but wasn’t allowed on account of “We don’t sleep in our socks here.” I got mad and took off all my clothes. That’s the last time I appeared naked in front of people who aren’t me (and even when it’s just me I try to quickly put on my briefs).

I remember when I was a kid. My parents weren’t much for grounding me, and I can’t recall getting slugged or anything. The only discipline I can remember was my Dad saying, “Damnit!” He cursed so infrequently that all he had to do was say that word and I knew that I’d just about had it. My Mom, on the other hand, likes using curse words. Her problem is that she thinks it’s funny to cuss, and she’s one to laugh at her own jokes. Once I did something to really make her mad and she called me “Shit Head”. If my Dad had called me that, I would’ve started crying. But when my Mom called me it we both started laughing.

Oh! There was a guy last week that was driving along when an avalanche landed on his car. Fortunately for the guy, he had beers in tow. He started drinking the beers while he was stuck there, and then he thought to roll down his window enough to urinate on the avalanche. Sixty beers later, he managed to urinate the avalanche away. Authorities found him walking around the side of the road in a drunken stupor. This has been a story about how a man used his urine to defeat Mother Nature.

Musical Pants

2005-01-28T19:53:00.000-06:00

Man, if there are two things I have they are A) a never ending supply of fabulous ideas and 2) the inability to capitalize on any of them. Because this is a problem that I haven't been able to correct in 32 years, I guess I might as well start telling you about some of my ideas so that you can use them to get rich.

From the one who thought of but didn’t do anything about such products and services as The Smell Recorder, Pi Restaurant, the Dallas Light Rail Shopper, Magnetize My Ashes & Stick Me In An Etch-A-Sketch Cremation Services, Risk Consultant / Insurance Company, "People You Hate" Urinal Accessories, and the Personalized See & Say (just to name a few!) here is my latest concept that will inevitably go to and around waste and your waist, respectively - MUSICAL PANTS!

Here’s the idea. Whenever you get up and start walking this way and that, the back and forth walking motion of your human legs sets off some sort of a thing that causes your theme song to start playing. All that from right inside your pants! Think of how happy you will feel when all of a sudden you get up to walk someplace and "Forever In Blue Jeans" or "She’s Like the Wind" or other starts playing. Hey! Nothing can be better than Larry Feathers’ Musical Pants.

Now pretend you’re a baby. Let’s say that you are trying to learn how to walk. For lots of babies walking is hard. But for you it is not hard to start walking when you know that you’re wearing my Musical Pants. I guarantee that you’ll start walking a little bit earlier than the rest of the babies as long as you promise to wear some of these pants.

My sister and her husband think the pants will be even more fun if the music speeds up as you speed up. I think they’re right. They support my pants.

Oklahoma! Part I: The Grandison at Maney Park

2005-01-23T21:00:00.000-06:00

I wish I hadn’t left my notes at work because I’m bound to leave something out that I shouldn’t. Anyway, I had the pleasure of going to Oklahoma City for work on January 10 – 14. I was accompanied this time by Auditor Vickie Warfield. Here’s all about it…

I like traveling with Vickie. Either she kind of likes the same kinds of stuff as me or she is most willing to tolerate me. In fact, I can’t recall a time when we’ve been on the road that she’s nixed one of my eating, sleeping, or shopping ideas. I appreciate her tolerance because I’m admittedly not the easiest character in the world to be around – especially for long uninterrupted periods of time. Indeed Vickie got a small taste of what it would be like to be married to me, and, between you and me, I think she rather enjoyed that aspect of the trip.

Anyway, we needed to find a place to stay in OKC. When I go out of town I like trying to find lodging that is out of the ordinary. One drawback to Oklahoma City is that there isn’t much in the way of out of the ordinary lodging. However, I found a bed and breakfast called The Grandison at Maney Park that agreed to give us the $65/night government rate. What a deal! I was going to get a big ol’ breakfast in the morning and leisurely walks through beautiful Maney Park at night! And Vickie was going to get to live the dream of being married to me (The Grandison is ranked by some publication or other as one of the Top 15 Bed and Breakfasts in American for honeymoons and anniversaries).

Before telling you about our stay at the Grandison, let me just make it perfectly clear that I liked the house and the people who own it. I would stay there again.

Before we checked in at the Grandison, we went to our OKC field office to take care of some business. At lunch time our co-worker Gina said she’d drive us past the house where we were staying so that we could see how to get over there. (That’s just the beginning of how nice Gina treated us while we were in town. She is the best!) Another guy called Warren came with us which made me glad because Warren is nice. On the way over I was telling Warren how I intended to stroll through Maney Park later that night. Warren warned against any such stroll because the Grandison is very near “the ‘hood”. Oh well. At least I was going to get to eat a big ol’ breakfast!

Let me quickly tell you about Maney Park. There is no such thing. The house would more properly be called The Grandison Next to Another Old but Less Well Taken Care of House at the ‘Hood. I couldn’t even tell where a park might used to have been. Still, I would stay there again.

That evening we went to check in. We were greeted by a dog in the foyer who growls at people. Welcome to the Grandison! After a couple of minutes one of the daughters of the man and woman who own the house came out, checked us in, and showed us to our rooms. On the way, we stopped at a hall closet just at the top of the stairs. The daughter showed us that the closet contained a dorm-size refrigerator, a coffee pot, and a couple boxes of cereal. She said (I promise she said this), “This is where you will have breakfast.” Then she took us further down the hall to our rooms. Our rooms were in the back of the house and upstairs. Next to our rooms was a back exit to the house where you can take an outside set of stairs down to the Grandison parking lot. The daughter said (I promise!), “You can take that back door if you want. You don’t even need to come through the front part of the house.”

I went in my room, removed the comforter (as is my custom), and lied down on the bed. I noticed a small spiral notebook on the night stand. When Judge Judy went off the air, I picked it up and started reading. “What a delicious breakfast!” “Loved the breakfast.” “Keep up the good breakfasts.” “That’s the best breakfast I’ve ever had!” “Your breakfast is da shiznit!” What?!?! I was reading a spiral full of past guests’ comments about their stays, and either these people were A) the most sarcastic people ever, B) the biggest fans of Wheaties ever, or C) we were getting the government rate breakfast. I kept reading…."Loved the Jacuzzi bathtub. The rose petals in the bath tub really set the mood.” Set the mood? So much for taking a bath.

The next morning I was relieved to determine that no lewd activity could’ve gone on in the shower as it had in the bath tub. (Still, I wore my protective briefs as I showered.) The reason I know that the shower hadn’t been soiled is that it could only accommodate one very small person. (To turn around in the shower I literally had to step out into the rest of the bathroom, rotate, and re-enter.) As is often the case in other peoples’ showers, the water pressure left much to be desired. I went to work every day with a head full of shampoo residue. My sensitive scalp rebelled against Oklahoma City shower water.

By now you’re probably thinking that I didn’t like Oklahoma City. Well you couldn’t be more wrong. Tomorrow or some other time soon when I'm more awake, I’ll tell you all about the rest of our trip. You’ll learn why I consider Oklahoma City the best city in America. I’ll tell you all about the places they have to eat, how nice the people are, how good of a job they did with Bricktown, and how tastefully done the Oklahoma City Memorial is. And then I’ll tell you all about my return to Texas and how it makes me long for Oklahoma.

Note to self: Tell them about 1) Oklahoma: restaurants, people, Homeland, traffic, downtown, etc… 2) Texas: Pizza Hut, Sprint stores, backed up plumbing, the cat getting hit by a car, Super Target, shopping carts, etc…

Feelings

2004-12-19T20:32:00.000-06:00

Don’t you think that one of the fun things about getting to be alive is experiencing all of the different feelings? We have happy, sad, melancholy, tall, mad, glad, bloated, medium, and bad – just to name a few. I’m lucky because on just about a daily basis I get to experience many of the different feelings. That’s because of conversations I often have with a couple of co-workers who I will refer to as Auditors L. Last week I experienced misery, dismay, confusion, etc… Here are parts of conversations from last week.

Conversation #1
Larry: I’m not feeling so well.
A.L.: You are sickly.
Larry: Yeah, have I ever told you that when I was a little kid I averaged missing over 30 days a year of school? I used to get even more ill than I do now. Once I had mono and hepatitis at the same time. I nearly passed away.
A.L.: I had perfect attendance.
Larry: (dumbstruck)
A.L.: I was All-Defensive player of the year in softball.
Larry: (mouth agape, but silent)
A.L.: I was also All-State.
Larry: (walks away, defeated)

Conversation #2
A.L.: Hey, do you know how to make a double layer cake?
Larry: Yeah, you just make two cakes and put them one on top of the other with icing in between.
A.L.: Yeah, bet there is some kind of a cake pan you can buy that makes the whole thing together at once, right?
Larry: Not really. (stunned, walks away in disbelief)

Conversation #3
A.L.: Do you think a diamond necklace is a good gift?
Larry: I don’t know. It seems like an expensive gift.
A.L.: Well, it’s not about how much it costs. It’s about what it signififies.
Larry: Good lord. (walks away, defeated)

Conversation #4
Larry: My dog got hit by a car this morning.
A.L.: I could really use a smoothie.
Larry: I think my appendix is about to rupture. Will you please give me a lift to the hospital?
A.L.: No, I just had my car washed.
Larry: Well, could you at least call the ambulance?
A.L.: I might crack a nail on the dial pad.
Larry: Would you like me to go to the store and buy you some Nerd Ropes and Swedish Fish?
A.L.: Yes. Will you go now?
Larry: I would, but I’m internally bleeding to death.
A.L.: Did I tell you about saving 10% at Foley’s?
Larry: Yes, several times.
A.L.: They were giving 10% off to the first five people at the store at 2:30 in the morning. I am so tired.
Larry: (gasping for breath) Seriously, will you please take me over to the hospital?
A.L.’s cell phone: (ring a ling a ling)
A.L.: Hi Chris. What’s that? Really?
(hang up)
A.L.: I’ll see you later. They are raffling off tickets at Parks Mall.
Larry: Tickets for what?
A.L.: I don’t know. I think pre-season Cowboys tickets for 2007. See you later. Don’t die.
Larry: (laying in the fetal position, defeated)

Christmas Party

2004-12-19T17:59:00.000-06:00

So last night was my annual Christmas party. For those of you who weren’t invited, I must say that you really missed out on fun. We had music, dancing (one of my lawyer friends brought his old Alfonso’s Breakin’ Board), cookies, a Chinese gift exchange, plus some other stuff. We took makin’ the Yuletide gay to a whole new level!

You should’ve seen me dancing! My white pants and green plastic shirt plastered with white Christmas trees glistened under the light of my green and red disco ball as I moved in perfect sync to the “Footloose” soundtrack. As I looked around I noticed everybody getting jiggy with “Let’s Hear it for the Boy”. Everybody, that is, except for my dog Albert.

Later, as I was eating figgie pudding with some of my doctor friends, my mind’s eye flashed back to that image of Albert laying there completely flat and oblivious to the beat of the music. Why, I wondered out loud to my successful friends, don’t dogs snap their fingers or tap their feet to the beat of music? Fortunately Dwight Yoders (my friend who happens to be a veterinarian to the stars) chimed in and explained that dogs can’t snap because their fingers aren’t long enough. Still, none of us could figure out why dogs don’t tap their feet to the beat of the music. The only theory was put forth by Connie (a super model). She said that my dog probably doesn’t tap his paws because he is “just a mutt”. She was pretty sure that her pure bred Shih-Tzu can dance.

Do any of you know why animals like dogs and cows don’t tap to the beat? Even the most uncoordinated people I know can clap or snap to the beat of a song.

Here’s something else. How come when people tell you about conversations they’ve had with other people, they always say things like:
“Yesterday I was talking to my rich friend Alan, and he said…”
or
“I saw my lawyer friend Merle the other day, and he was saying that…”
or
“You’ll never guess who I had lunch with today. My proctologist friend, Clive.”

Am I supposed to believe that none of you have friends who work at a junk yard or some place? Just once I wish somebody would say, “Gee Larry I’d really like to have dinner with you tonight, but my friend Thad just got out of prison and we’re celebrating his new job as Luby’s janitor.” I wonder if some people are really impressed when their friends who really haven’t accomplished much in the grand scheme of things talk about their friends who allegedly have. I just don’t get it sometimes.

My sister and her husband just released their second CD – “The Palo Pinto House Pants House Band – Volume II”. I think it’s really good, and I’m most impressed by the singing of Julie Ohman and Rob Rhoden. If you’re interested, I’m selling copies of it for $10 without their permission. All proceeds will be donated to the SPCA of Texas.

Finally, for those of you who insist on buying me Christmas gifts, here is a list of what I’ve already received: an Albert calendar, a Fat Albert book, a Doc Watson CD, brown socks, a red tie, a white shirt that doesn’t have long enough arms, a leaf blower/mulcher/bagger, a book about the wicked wit of Winston Churchill, a book of America’s most boring post cards, a couple of framed arts, a jar of almonds, a whistlin’ tea kettle, a book of “Baseball’s Firsts”, a book about how statistics can lie, a book by Peter Drucker, and cash. I AM STILL ACCEPTING CASH. If you haven’t shopped for me yet, it’s time to get on the stick. And if you don’t feel like buying me something, you’re welcome to get over here and mulch and bag my leaves. Let me know you’re coming by and I’ll leave the blower/mulcher/bagger out on the front porch.

Dr. L. Feathers – “On Nutrition”

2004-12-17T23:38:00.000-06:00

Season’s greetings. Because it’s Friday night and Friday night is the night when I like to really let it all hang out, I just partook in a box of Pasta Roni. What better way to bring in the weekend than with a dinner of boxed pasta and butter sauce?

Before I began preparing dinner I noticed something odd in the “Nutritional Facts” section of the Pasta Roni box. It’s something I’ve noticed in the past on other foods, but for some reason it really got me thinking this evening. They provide two sets of nutritional info – one “as prepared” and another “as packaged”. Now who, pray tell, is the intended audience of the “as packaged” data? Are there people among us who like to eat uncooked pasta with a little packet of herbs and dehydrated butter?

Here’s another question: If I so choose to eat the “as packaged” version of the Pasta Roni do I get to eat the cardboard box? You’re probably thinking that it’s a ridiculous proposal to eat a cardboard box, but here’s why I brought it up. According to the nutritional information, the “as packaged” version of Pasta Roni has 210 calories per serving versus 320 calories if I bother to cook it. You should also know that the only thing you must add to the “as prepared” Pasta Roni is water – which, I am told by scientists, has no calories at all. My conclusion is that for every 320 calories you consume, you can reduce the caloric intake by nearly one third by simply eating an appetizer of cardboard box. Move over Dr. Atkins and make way for the Larry Feathers Cardboard Diet.

Now I’m looking at the Nutritional Facts on a bag of Fritos. Here are some lowlights: a serving of Fritos has 160 calories (90 of which are from fat), there are 170 milligrams of salt, 15 grams of carbohydrates, no Vitamin A, no Vitamin C, no Iron, and little anything else. Is it proper to put “Nutritional Facts” on what amounts to a bag of crap? Something should have to have nutritional value in order for it to have nutritional facts. Do cigarettes have Nutritional Facts? I know for sure that they come with a Surgeon General’s Warning, and I dare say that a similar warning about the potential effects of corn chips would be good information for consumers. And I am certain that it’s more honest than trying to trick people into thinking that corn deep fried in lard has some redeeming nutritional quality.

As a public service I’ve prepared a sticker to stick over the Nutritional Facts on bags of chips: “SURGEON GENERAL’S WARNING: Merely being in the same room with this product will probably make you fat. Consumption is guaranteed to make your heart explode.”

Seriously though - have I ever told you the secret to good heart health? The heart is a muscle. To prevent atrophy your heart muscle must be exercised. Now all of these “medical professionals” will try to fool you into thinking that artery plaque is a bad thing. That is utter nonsense! Arteries without plaque allow blood to flow unfettered to and fro. Such easy blood flow makes your heart weak. What you should really be shooting for are plaque-caked arteries. As long as the blood has a little bit of room to get through there, you’ll be okay. Friends, think of plaque-ridden arteries as the heart’s workout partner. It figures that the harder your heart has to work to pump blood through your self, the stronger it will be and the longer you will live!

Just in time for Christmas and especially for you, here is some holiday heart healthy advice. Mount two IV bags next to your bed. Fill one of the bags with squeeze butter and the other with nacho cheese. Each night before you fall asleep, hook up the IV bags and allow them to clog your arteries as you rest. You too can have a strong and healthy heart. Merry Christmas!