FREEWAY VIEW

I got my book published!

The premiere was last weekend down at Barnes and Noble.
The title, which I am still trying to figure out, was “A Room With A Freeway View”.

I sat at a table, surround by stacks of my book. A blonde haired woman with cat glasses and a huge pearl necklace in a low cut dress stood and handed out copies of “A Room With A Freeway View” as customers walked by.
But the book, it had a green and gold colored paper sleeve on it, it looked just like a  Narcotics Anonymous book “The 12 Steps Stepworking Guide”, but instead of saying that on the cover, it said “A Room With A Freeway View”.


So I asked the lady handing out my books why.
“Why does my book have this green and gold cover and look like an NA book”
“Because it is an NA book” she says.
"No, no, no, my book IS NOT an NA book!”
She bent over a little, real close like, her pearl necklace dangling next to my neck and I could see her cleavage real nice from her low cut dress, she looked a lot like that red head on "Mad Men" and she whispered kind of matter-of-factly into my ear:
“Oh yes dear, it is definitely an NA book”

And I woke up. And I kind of realized that any book I might write would be an NA book of sorts and that everything I do the rest of my life will  be grounded on the principles I try to apply to my daily life that I have learned about at NA. That without having come to NA, I would still be slugging in out in the unmanagability and insanity of my life, riding a bike everywhere I went, likely homeless and jobless and miserable.
And all I could think was one of the things we say at the group a lot;
“The only way to keep from returning to active addiction is not to take that first drug.”

follow the link above to see where I must have got the title for this "book"

CELESTIAL MEANS

"Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map.

Why, I ask myself, shouldn’t the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?
Just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. We cannot get to a star while we are alive any more than we can take the train when we are dead. So to me it seems possible that cholera, tuberculosis and cancer are the celestial means of locomotion. Just as steamboats, buses and railways are the terrestrial means.
To die quietly of old age would be to go there on foot."
Vincent van Gogh

And Anita has pointed the way to actually travel on a roller coaster called a "Euthansia Machine".
What a way to go!

ABBIE-NORMAL

An old long lost friend sent me a picture of his sister last week. Norma was a friend, and she died. Thats her in the center, with the yellow top.

It reminds me of  when Norma and I went bowling one night. She always wore big t-shirts and loose fitting oversized tops. She always “dressed down”, like a tomboy or something. But we went bowling one night with one of her girlfriends (Norma liked to bowl) and that night she wore something more “Girly” than what  she usually wore. I got to looking at the shirt, and finally I just had to blurt out:

“Norma, girl, you got to wear that shirt more often. I never knew how stacked you are. You got it going on!”
And she and her friend both spewed coke all out their mouths. We had to get a mop, and change shoes and everything.

My friend he sent me this picture, and he has been through some of the same things as I have and come out on the other side, just a little worse for the wear, but overall, we are still here. I'm glad to have him still here, and hope to see him one day soon.

Thanks, my friend, for reminding me of Norma. I always called her ""Abbie-Normal".
That was my name for her.

I put this post to draft a few weeks ago. I started to post it yesterday, but got busy with the "Bang", "Frogs" and "Mitt" posts, and figured to post this today.
I found out late yesterday it was Norma's Birthday. I just missed. That would have been sweet.

LOOKOUT MITT!

With the Republican National Convention coming up, I sense that Romney is building some steam. He likely will not have to worry about Ron Paul coming in and stealing the nomination (though I have a few friends that still think it possible).... Its doubtful that Sarah Palin, or Chris Christie or even Paul Ryan will mount a last minute surprise, and win the nomination from the floor.

I keep seeing posts about Alan West, the tough talking youngster from Florida being an excellent president, but this has mostly been because few people really wanted Romney from the git-go, and they are looking ahead to 2016.

If there is a Dark Horse for the GOP this year, it could come in the way of Ronald Reagan, whose unremitting Facebook presence is incredible, rising from the dead to save the country again.

Hell, I’d vote for him

Ronald Reagan returns from grave to enter race at the last minute and in a landslide, save the country once again!

thanks to unremittingfailure for the image

A HEARTBREAK

We have a Salvadorian restaurant around the corner. I can't go in there. The food is good, but they have the place decorated with all sizes, shapes and colors of dead stuffed frogs. Some of them are playing guitars or driving '57 chevy's. There are two that appear to be getting married, with a little frog priest and everything.

Its very sad looking to me, and the little ones playing baseball just break my heart.

"While my guitar gently weeps"

BANG

The album that inspired my 10th grade year. (see previous post)
I think sometime even after the 10th grade, I used to take the album to different people’s houses, and much to their chagrin, insist that they play it. I did the same thing with an Atomic Rooster album. Its a wonder I had any friends at all.

The image above was the cover. On the backside, the gun barrel telescopes down into a gun held by an outlaw looking fellow, and there is a row of empty graves fresh dug and ready for him to fill.

Between that and the music, it was everything a 15 year old boy needed.

MY SCIENCE PROJECT

Oh wow. When I was in the ninth grade I had this album by a band called Bang, and they had a song on it called "Future Shock". I loved that album, and the next year a book appeared on a reading list at school called "Future Shock" by a guy named Alvin Toffler. So naturally I picked this book, and did my book report on it.
I think the song was about the book, because it warned of the nightmares that our technological progress was going to create.
My friend Nita did a post about this book, and she says she didn't finish reading it, and the thing is, I don't think I really read the book. I have no recollection of it, and I think maybe I did my book report on the song, not the book.


That sounds real right to me because there was another Bang song called "Our Home" on the same album, and I used it on my science project that same year. The project was that I got an aquarium, and put some fish in it, then poured oil in it to simulate an oil spill, and recorded the results; i.e. how long it took the fish to die.
I had a cardboard exhibit set up in the lunchroom, and the centerpiece was the lyrics to Our Home, with a cassette player that played the song,  and in a small corner of my poster board backdrop, there were the results of the study:
That the fish had died painful deaths as a result of the simulated oil spill I had created.
But the teacher asked me why I had no pictures of the project, or the aquarium itself as part of the exhibit, and stuff like that and all I could do was point to the lyrics, and ask her if she wouldn't like to hear "Our Home " again..
Finally she said "You didn't really do all this, with the fish and aquarium, did you?"
and I bowed my head and said "No ma'am" and she still gave me a "D".

That's the kind of student I was in the 10th grade.

I know you guys are dying to hear a Bang song, just to see what scholarly music it was that I was listening to in the 10th grade. I'm really torn as to which one to play for you, they are both so great...haha.





Thanks Nita, for reminding me what a horrible student I truly was.

YOU MUST HAVE BEEN TALKING TO JACK RENFRO

Jack Renfro was my father.
Bruce was my fathers very best friend while I was growing up which was just fine with me because I liked Bruce maybe as much as my father did. Where my father was dry and always under control, Bruce was effusive and jolly. They never spoke curtly to each other and always had a good time together. When I was a boy, their entire relationship seemed to be centered around fishing and camping. This is the story of how their friendship began:

Bruce and Jack worked together for Hobbs Trailers. It was 1958, life was good and they were in their prime. Jack was a big time fisherman while Bruce was, well, I have no idea what Bruce was before fishing, except a really nice guy.

At some point as the friendship grew Jack took Bruce bass fishing. Jack was not a minnow and worm fisherman. No, Jack liked to use lures, wood carvings and plastic models with hooks attached, replicas of baitfish, frogs and worms, designed to fool a fish into striking the treacherous bait.

They went to Lake Benbrook. Before too long, Jack catches a fish which excites Bruce to no end.

“What did you catch him on? “ Bruce wants to know.

“A Jiitterbug” replies Jack.

“Nah, now Jack, don’t go puttin’ me on” Bruce says, thinking no way could a fishing lure be named after a 20's dance.

“Not a bit” says Jack and shows Bruce the lure with “Jitterbug” printed plainly on the lure.

“Well I’ll be” says Bruce ”I want one of those”

Jack ties the Jitterbug on for Bruce to use. Before too long Jack catches another fish. Bruce is curious.

“Whatcha catch ‘im on?”

“A Devils Horse.”

“Nah, now Jack, don’t put me on”

“Here it is written right on the lure, "Devils Horse!"” So now Bruce wants to use a Devils Horse.

Bruce is very intrigued about the names of these lures and wants to know more names so Jack begins to recite some lure names, like the classic ‘Hellbender”, “Water Dog” and "Boy Howdy", which Bruce sees in the tackle box as being for real.

My dad had crazy names for names for lures that did not actually exist. Names like “The Bottom Sratcher” “Doodlesocker” and “Gullywampus”. There was the "Rebel Yell" "Do-Diddler" and 'Who hit John" none of which were actual lures, just names my father dreamt up. He had a million or so screwball names for lures. and he recited all those to Bruce as well.

The next day at work Bruce comes in, hooked on fishing, and tells Jack that at lunch he wants to go down to Leonards Department store and buy a rod and reel, a tackle box and all those lures they had talked about the day before.

“Can you make me a list of those lures, Jack?”

“I’d be glad to, Bruce”

Bruce goes downtown at lunch and walks into the Sporting Goods Department. The salesman helps him find a rod, reel and Tackle box. Finally, Bruce says “I’ve got a list of lures here” and hands it to the salesman who studies the list for a moment, then looks up to Bruce and with a chuckle, hands the list back to him.

"Is there something wrong?" asks Bruce.

“No, no, nothing wrong really”, says the salesman “But you must have been talking to Jack Renfro!”

And that is the story of how my father and Bruce Myers got to be best friends! 

When I was growing up I must have heard this story a thousand times and never grew tired of hearing it. I'd give anything to be sitting on a camp stool by a fire, listening to the two of them go on into the night with their friendly banter.

SONGS YOU WONT HEAR ON AMERICAN IDOL

Old men crying, young men dying

World still turns as Father Time looks on

On and on

Children playing, dreamers praying

Laughter turns to tear as love has gone

Has it gone?

Oh, it's a hard road

Oh, it's a hard road

Whirlwind churning, lovers learning

On this path of life we can't back down

Is it wrong?

Widows weeping, babies sleeping

Life becomes the singer and the song

Sing along

Oh, it's a hard road

Carry your own load

Why make the hard road?

Why can't we be friends?

No need to hurry

We'll meet in the end

Why make the hard road?

Why can't we be friends?

No need to worry

Let's sing it again

Brother's sharing, mother's caring

Nightime falling victim to the dawn

Shadows small

Days are crawling, time is calling

To the Earth another life is gone

Love line drawn

Oh, it's a hard road
Carry your own load

Oh, it's a hard road

Oh, it's a hard road...

Forget all your sorrow, don't live in the past

And look to the future, `cause life goes too fast,
 you know

Forget all your sorrow, don't live in the past

And look to the future, `cause life goes too fast,
 you know

Forget all your sorrow, don't live in the past

And look to the future, `cause life goes too fast,
 you know...

I’m posting this mostly because it hardly sounds like Black Sabbath.
It is on one of their later albums, an album I didn’t really care for, even after being a HUGE Sabbath fan when I was in my teens. It severely lacks those wickedly strange riffs, and musical theme changes  typically done by Sabbath.


But I found this live version, and it sounds better than the album version, which had a bunch of orchestration included in it. It was the only song I liked on the album at the time, but I do like this live version better.

I like it a lot, I just can’t stop listening to it and humming it as I drive home in the afternoon.
I’m going to go out on a limb and say that even if you don’t like Black Sabbath, and don’t care for Ozzy, that you might still like this just the same.
Because to me, it sounds like a pop song.
Just because you won’t likely hear it on American idol, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be there.

PSYCHO'S

One of my favorite blogs to go to is Sous Girl. She is a Chef up in British Columbia. She's not an experienced Chef, and neither is she a Baby Chef. She is what I would call a Teenage Chef.
She has all the angst and sturm and drang of a teenager. She has also recently won a victory over cancer.
It is a very uncomfortable place on the learning curve, just like it is a very uncomfortable age to be.
This is probably why I like her blog so much, it really takes me back to read some of the things she is going through. She has inspired more than one Bulletholes story, and I am adding her to my sidebar today.

Recently she has posted about employees meals
Long time ago I had a major grudge against employees meals as well. I think most chefs do at some point. Things get busy as snot in the kitchen, and you tend to run on heat.
You run on heat big-time. You sweat paper chef hats right off your head.
That can make you a real asshole about your third hat for the day, and you don't realise how unnecessary it is at the time to be an asshole.

But I remember sending some real crap down to Cycles, a lot of real crap some days. “Cycles” was the given name for the employees dining room. Some bright bastard from Human Resources had thunk it up during some kind of meth induced psychosis I’m sure. I think it was short for “Recycle” but I don't think that’s what the author had had in mind. Me, I changed it up slightly and called it “Psychos”. Sounds like cycles, but total different meaning.

One day I sent some real crap down there, probably chicken bones and carrot peels, and the next thing I knew I was in the GM’s office, and he was explaining to me that it was the most important meal I would prepare that day.
I didn’t believe him one bit. But what I did come to understand was that if I wanted to win the respect of every manager in the hotel, and the undying love of all the employees, all I had to do was take good care of their free meal for the day. And do it as happily as if it was for a paying customer.

I would come to find out many years and tears later that it might be the only meal they got that day.

"HER SMOKE ROSE UP FOREVER"

With apologies to thisisnthappiness, I have stolen his tagline.

 He has the best taglines.
Image gathered @ carabaas

BEST OVERSEAS ARTIST/ STAY IN SCHOOL

A few times a year I do posts about my good pal Buddy Whittington, who has never had any job his whole life but being a musician. He and I went through puberty, and High School together, and after 15 years of touring as John Mayall's lead guitarist, he spends most of his time back here in Fort Worth with his wife and kids. He plays gigs all around town and has a good following, and at any given show there will be up to 100 of us regular Fort Worth fans, most of us being friends to one degree or another.

But several times a year Buddy sets out to play for all the crowned heads of Europe, touring with Peter Green's old band, through Italy, and Luxembourg and Germany,  steams his way to the pubs of England and Ireland, and then back to Holland again before coming back home with all his dirty laundry. Buddy says he loves the European blues fans, that there is a huge appreciation over there for blues beyond  what you find here in the states.
It seems that Buddy has been nominated for a British Blues Award in the category of Best Overseas Artist. He faces some pretty good competition, with Joe Bonnamassa and Walter Trout also in his category.

I would ask all my Bulletholes peeps a favor,  to maybe go to the site BRITISH BLUES AWARDS and vote for Buddy just because I said so.
Or you can go to YouTube and check him out, and the other nominees too, and make up your own mind.
 Or you can take a look at some of my past posts about Buddy.
Or you can just sit there, whatever.

Here's one you shouldn't miss; Buddy and Mouse Mayes* doing an old Fleetwood Mac tune. I swear they do tear it up @ the 1:30 mark.



*Mouse Mayes is no slouch either. Thats him on the right.  He plays every bit as well as Buddy, his notes seem to start down in his toes, like a Mike Tyson punch, and Mouse has the best Rock Star shirts you've ever seen. Mouse has done what he calls "three tours of duty" with Black Oak Arkansas.


My son asked Mouse if he had any advice for young guitarists.
"Stay in school" Mouse says.
Good advice

THE FUTURE IS IN URNS

Some small towns are funny. The rest are just plain scary. I remember being in Batesville Arkansas once; they manufacture caskets there. As you pass by the town square, there are a dozen grizzled old men, retired casket-makers, that give you the hairy eyeball. There is a stop sign there, but its best just to roll right through it. I stopped off at the diner, where the owner needed more information about me than what I would have expected before he could serve me.


'Its not me, " he explained, "its the darn Chamber of Commerce. They don't want no tourists or college kids classin' up the place."
He told me that it was for that reason he couldn't get anything but frozen peas to serve with his Chicken Fried Steak.
"No fresh vegetables" they had told him, "Too delicious, people might come back"
None of it made any sense, even when he asked if I would like to buy his restaurant so he could get out of Batesvlle Arkansas.

It reminded me of a movie I saw long ago, "Outback" with Donald Pleasance. He played a schoolteacher who was stranded in a funny scary small town where they drank every night and everybody played a game with dice and no one could leave until they won the stupid game. Of course Pleasance never won, the movie ends with him sitting in the scorching sun, sucking on the barrel of a rifle and a single bullet in the chamber.

I just got back from passing through a town like this, where the cashiers at the grocery look at you funny and say "From out of town aren't you?" and its not a question at all. As you pass through the town square there are grizzled old men that don't bother to look up from playing domino's, they know you are there, they knew you were there since before you left the grocery store. You wave at the one who does look up, but he just stares right through you as you pass. Later at the lake there is an eerie quiet and there are no fish, or fisherman, its just you on the lake and you feel a million eyes watching you.

The lady at the grocery store said there had been gators in the lake, and they called in a gator hunter and he pulled 23 out of there and thinks he got them all, but none of the locals will go near it. You start to imagine that somewhere someone is building an altar of straw in the shape of and alligator, like the one in the movie "Hook" and you fight back the feeling you and that altar will have a lot in common around midnight.
It doesn't surprise you one bit when you find your car battery doesn't work, or when the local deputy shows up at dusk with a bottle of whiskey and a set of dice.

The next time you pass by a big 18 wheeler full of coffins, take a look at the tags.
I bet its from Batesville.


NOTE:
This story is inspired by my visit to Tommy and Tammy Rutledge's back about 6 weeks ago. It isn't at all what I intended to write, but every single part of it is 100% true. In fact it is so true that the only thing not true about it is that I took the unbelieveable parts out.

NOTE #2- this was originally posted a year ago under the name "Batesville Casket Company". I've added a bit to it after reposting @ FB.
I've also changed the title, inspired by Soubriquet comments.



.

LIQUID NIGHT

"I felt that I was leaving part of myself behind, and that wherever I went afterwards I should feel the lack of it, and search for it hopelessly, as ghosts are said to do, frequenting the spots where they buried material treasures without which they cannot pay their way to the nether world."

— Evelyn Waugh, Brideshead Revisited

gathered at liquidnight

SO WHAT

‘Sometimes people let the same problem make them miserable for years when they could just say, “So what.” That’s one of my favorite things to say. “So what.” My mother didn’t love me. So what. My husband won’t ball me. So what. I’m a success but I’m still alone. So what. I don’t know how I made it through all the years before I learned how to do that trick. It took a long time for me to learn it, but once you do, you never forget.’

–Andy Warhol

GOOD WORDS

These are the words I’ve learned to say that help me a great deal:

"OK."
"You’re right."
"I’m sorry."
"So what."

And I’m getting a lot of mileage out of something a Chef told me a long time ago:
“The more you explain now, the more you will have to explain later.”

And a friend of mine, he wrote a poem about clouds, and asked what do clouds hang on to, and he's going through some kind of shit, he has been going through it for a long time, and in all kindness I want to tell him, I did tell him, that only half of life is about hanging on, and the other half is letting go.

But he's gripping too tight to know what I'm talking about, and I didnt want to tell him that its ALL about letting go. Its all about surrender.
So I'll just say "OK."

CRACK THE SKY

westtexasinsomniac

WEEBLES WOBBLE

TRAINING UPDATE


Things are going well down at the gym.
After 4 weeks, I have only missed 2 days! Instead of 12 days of training, that would be 10 days complete. That’s like an 85 out of 100. I’ll take it.
My first day there I stepped on the scale. It read 278.
Since then when I stepped on the scale, it just read ERROR.
But the goal has not been so much to lose weight, but to get in shape and FEEL better. To be able to dance more than a couple few times a night when I go out. To be able to come home in the afternoon and not jjust die in front of the TV, mouth open, fast asleep and drooling on myself. To have the energy to go sing Karoke with my daughter.

I’m pleased to report that I have met two milestones.
My first few workouts when I got on the treadmill to do 30 minutes of cardio, I couldn't make it more than 20 without getting really gassed, and having to step off. I told my trainer this on my way out one day.
“That’s no good. You have to stay on for 30 minutes. Are you slowing the speed down after you reach your Target Heart Rate?” he said.
“No, I didn’t know that was legal.” I said.
He looked at me like I was nuts.
“Of course it is. Just bump the speed down after you reach your target, and you’ll be fine. Can you do that? He said.
“I’ll try.”
He looked at me like I was completely incompetent.
When I went back in two days later and trained for 30 minutes on weights, and went to the treadmill, I was relieved to know I could lower the speed if I needed to. But you know what?
I did all 30 minutes at the original speed!
That’s progress.

A week or two later, I went back to the scale, and it registered “Error” again. It was frustrating a little, not being able to see my weight, but there was a cute trainer at the desk, and I went and asked her what was wrong with the scale.
‘Nothing.” She says “I just used it”
“Every time I get on it I get an ERROR” I said. “Maybe I’m about to break it or something”

She follows me to the scale and I get on it, and it shows error again.
“Try it again” she says “And this time, try not to wobble”
“Am I wobbling?” I ask.
“Yes. Don't wobble.”
I step on it again, and I try to stand there straight and not wobble, but I can tell now I have reached a shape that makes it impossible to stand and not wobble.
The scale says “ERROR”.
She looks at me, sorrily, and says “You wobble too much, Mr. Bulletholes”
“Yes Ma’am, I will have to work on that”

I don't know how you are supposed to work on that, it seems kind of stupid. doesnt every body wobble a little?
Maybe, maybe not , but I stepped up to the scale yesterday and you know what it said?
278!
Same as 4 weeks ago!
But I didn't wobble!
I call that a victory!
Weebels wobble but they don’t fall down!

"RED TOUCH YELLOW, KILL A FELLOW"

Trouble at the "Four-Elevens" Banquet Subcommittee:

"No, in European cuisine, the salad should be served AFTER the entree."

WRITE EVERYTHING DOWN

You never know where your next million might come from.

FAMOUS TRAINS, WORST POLITICIANS

I don't get over to The Throwaway Blog as often as I should, but I stopped by today and he has a post up, looking for your suggestions for Famous Fictional Trains and Sorry Ass Politicians. Throwaway, aka Dmarks., always does some interesting stuff with his topics, so go by and give him a visit.
Be sure to tell him I sent cha!

ROUGH SEX & WELFARE CHECKS

Linda, I remember the night I came to see you after work. It was 1 or 2 in the morning, and I got to your apartment door and started to knock. But before my fist hit the wood, I heard a “Yelp” come from the other side of the door.

I paused.
Then came another “Yelp” only louder, and another and another. It sounded like you. And then you started in with the “Ohs”. Like “Oh-Oh-Ohhhh!”
Then comes a “Yelp-Whoo-Oh-oh-OOHHH!” and I thought to myself “Linda is in there having some kind of sex” and I started to leave.
But then the slapping started.
“SLAP! SLAP!SLAP!” then “Oh-Oh-oh” back to “SLAP” then “YELP” “SLAP” “Ohhh-Oh-Oh”

And I thought, “OK Linda is either getting beat up or she is having some kind of rough sex” and there was really only one thing to do.
I knocked on the door.
And the slapping and moaning stopped, but just for a minute.
“SLAP! SLAP!SLAP!”
“Oh-Oh-oh-YELP-“Oh-Oh-oh”
SLAP “YELP” SLAP “Oh-Oh-Ohhh”

And I thought to myself "Someone is in there making mad violent love to Linda", but there was still the possibility that she might be in trouble.
So I knocked again, a little louder.
A moment of silence, and again:
“SLAP! SLAP!SLAP!”
“Oh-Oh-oh-YELP-“Oh-Oh-oh”
SLAP “YELP” SLAP “Oh-Oh-Ohhh”
And then it sounded like a table got knocked over, and the sound of breaking glass,and there was more slapping and moaning and I really didnt have a choice now.

I went to a pay phone and called the cops, who came to your apartment and beat on your door with flashlights until you answered, only to find out you had headphones on, listening to Billy Idol or something, and you were dancing and clapping and whooping it up all by yourself in your apartment at 2 O’clock in the morning!

I'll never forget, as I waited at the pay phone for the cops to report to me, and when they came they said everything is OK, and Linda says you can come up if you want.



Happy Birthday Linda!

NICE DAY FOR A WHITE WEDDING

This dog I live with~ I’ve tried really hard to like her~ but its like impossible.
She’s a Boston Terrier names Cuddles, and she is twitchy like hell. She runs circles around the house, and likes to get in your face, and she has no boundaries or good sense and specializes in running into closed doors.
I think she’s part squirrel. She can be standing there, facing the kitchen and suddenly leap 10 feet sideways to land ass first in your face, then she spins around like a washing machine, clawing your chest with her paws, and licking you on the mouth with every pass, only to suddenly dart away to the trash can, which she knocks over and strews chicken fat and coffee grounds all over the house.

We have to keep her in a cage all day long, but even that is not enough. She thrashes around so violently in the cage as to knock over vases 10 feet away.

Her master, Angela, says that Cuddles is “not all there” and that " maybe smokes crack", but its more than that. I have renamed her “Devil-Dog”, and fully believe Devil Dog is possessed by unclean spirits, I expect to see her vomit pea soup and spin her head around like Regan in The Exorcist any day now. I suspect she may be Satans concubine.
I have determined her cage is actually a Portal to Hell. I come home in the afternoons, pick up the lamp that has mysteriously fallen from the end table, straighten paintings that have hung themselves upside down on the wall, close the windows flung open by an unknown force and look to see where she has managed to transport her cage to, and what carnage may lay in her wake.
Its pure Lovecraft.
Sometimes she will have thumped her way to the utility room; two days ago I followed a trail of broken ceramic Angels to find that Devil Dog had her cage upside down between the bathtub and the toilet, and the toilet was over flowing, the carpet soaked all down the hall.

So we took three cinder blocks and put them on top of her cage to try to slow her down some. I am afraid to go home today. It won’t surprise me one bit to open the door, and find smoke and steam hissing from her cage, and flames issuing forth, and from somewhere deep in the bowels of that portal to hell, there will be Korn music blaring, and Cuddles will look at me wild-eyed and bark out like Billy Idol in that heavy metal death chant:

“FEED ME CHEW TOY FEED ME HUMAN
FEED ME CHEW TOY FEED ME HUMAN
FEED ME CHEW TOY FEED ME HUMAN
FEED ME CHEW TOY FEED ME HUMAN
FEED ME CHEW TOY FEED ME HUMAN
FEED ME CHEW TOY FEED ME HUMAN
LICKMELICKMELICKME~
AAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGH!”

"You may kiss the Bride of Satan"

Painting courtesy of Donald Roller Wilson

BRING IN THE HIGH PRESSURE HOSE

I didn’t think to take pictures of my 1975 Chevy Cheyenne as it burned like Chernobyl right down to the ground last night on Precinct Line Road. But here are the “After” pictures.

There are parts of my truck melted right into the asphalt that will be there for many years. It took 3 Fire Trucks, 4 Patrol cars, 6 Fire extinguishers and the high pressure hose to put her out.

The worse part about the experience is the dirty looks you get from people who have been delayed and have to pass single file past your smoldering livelihood. You can see them mutter "How dare you hold up traffic!" as they idle by in their shiny BMW's
But the best part was the first cop to arrive on the scene. He did a quick U-turn, said he had the Fire Department on the way and emptied his little carry-on extinguisher into the engine compartment. The fire just got bigger, and he scratched his head.
I said "What do we do now, officer??"
He hollered "GET AWAY FROM IT!"
 and we hauled ass as fast as we could it to the side of the road and waited

Anyway, I'm allright. I bailed way before the cab filled with too much smoke and the windshield blew.

I wish I had taken a picture while it burned.

 I had suspected a gas leak for a couple of weeks. I couldnt see one, but my mileage had dropped by 30% overnight. I should have known better, and taken it to a pro to find.
The engine compartment, where the fire started, doesn't look that bad.

But the cab burned burned burned. You cant tell from the pic, but the seat upholtery burned to where there are only wires and springs Everything is melted right down to the bones.

SUNBURNED

Too long in the sun yesterday, and my shoulders are toast. My friend Robin at the Subway Sandwich shop suggested I rub sliced tomatoes on them.
Subway and their tomatoes!

NEXT STOP 50 MILES

gathered at westtexasinsomniac

Makes me think of this...
"Taxi, Taxi, Hotel, Hotel
I got the whiskey baby,
I got the whiskey baby
I got the cigarettes...."

FAN LETTER TO BOB DYLAN

Back some time around 1985 or so, I was listening to a whole lot of Dylan all the time. I’d been a fan for years, I went to the “Rolling Thunder Review” at Tarrant County Convention center in 1976, and the horrible music from the early 80’s had sent me running back to Dylan. I was just a huge fan.

And one day I sat down and wrote the Bobster a letter. It went something like this

Dear Bob Dylan:
I am huge fan of yours. I know all your songs by heart. All I listen to anymore is Bob Dylan, and Bob Dylan, and more Bob Dylan. I never listen to Duran-Duran, or Van Halen; all this “Guys like you Micky” these days is flat killin' me, and  you won’t catch me listening to any Men at Work. I think Christopher Cross is an OK guy, but he can’t hold a candle to you, Bob.
So what I would like to do, Bob, is to invite you down to Texas, where I have a nice little campground on Toledo Bend Lake, and we can do a little bass fishing and sit up at night, poking the fire and singing your songs. In the morning I’ll fix you a nice breakfast with bacon and eggs and coffee and pancakes if you like. Then we can go run the trotlines and have catfish for supper. I think you would enjoy that very much.
So once again, I would like to say how much I like your work, and how much we seem to have in common, and just let me know what day you will be coming down and I’ll have the boat and groceries all ready to go.
May you stay Forever Young,
Bulletholes in the Mailbox


Well, ol' Bob never wrote me back. I never got to go camping and fishing with him.
But a few years later I saw an interview with him, and he said that he got letters all the time from people that thought they knew something about him, and that wanted to do some gardening with him, or take him to a show, or to sit around and help him write a song.
And he said he got letters from people that wanted to take him fishing, or go jogging with him, like he could relate to any of that, but that these people didn’t know him, and that he could prove they didn’t know him in any court of law.

And I thought to myself “Is he talking about me?”
Do you think he was talking about me?
I got to tell you, I never did like him so much after that.

Here's Bob, getting ready to go run the Trot lines.
Happy Birthday, 71 years old today!

ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DEGREES

I have had occasion to use a line from a very old post today. Twice.

“Are we not all Psychic, with our brains operating like Time Machines, where information from the future influences events of the past?”

And then I ran into this poem. Something about it seemed to connect at first, but now I don’t know. But I will mark it just the same, and see if there is an event in the future that made this necessarily so…


Have you considered the possibility
that everything you believe is wrong,
not merely off a bit, but totally wrong,
nothing like things as they really are?


If you've done this, you know how durably fragile
those phantoms we hold in our heads are,
those wisps of thought that people die and kill for,
betray lovers for, give up lifelong friendships for.


If you've not done this, you probably don't understand this poem,
or think it's not even a poem, but a bit of opaque nonsense,
occupying too much of your day's time,
so you probably should stop reading it here, now.


But if you've arrived at this line,
maybe, just maybe, you're open to that possibility,
the possibility of being absolutely completely wrong,
about everything that matters.


How different the world seems then:
everyone who was your enemy is your friend,
everything you hated, you now love,
and everything you love slips through your fingers like sand.
ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY DEGREES

by Federico Moramarco

FAT BOY BLUES

My baby said so sweetly
"You're still my all in all-
but either part of you got bigger baby
or part of you got small"
I looked down in consternation
couldn't even see my shoes
Houston we have a situation
me I got the fatboy blues


well my friends they treat me kindly
My friends they treat me great
They're just so quick to remind me
I've put on even more little weight
And then they add too quickly
"It sure looks good on you"
Then they try to slide on past me
and leave me with the fatboy blues


I don't know how it happened
I ain't no Elvis P.
but one day I just woke up
just as fat as I could be
Now I stumble out to the kitchen
for another chicken or two
Well yeah I did it my way
and now I got the fatboy blues


Well my pants keep getting tighter
But it ain't cause I'm aroused
I can't reach in to get my lighter
or keys or loose change now
guess I'll get a fanny pack
if they come in size fifty two
Yes I am the walrus
and man I got the fat boy blues


I was a tush like Belushi
when he was living large
gonna make like Cleopatra
sail the river on a barge
down to New Orleans
where they know a thing or two
about rice and beans and sausage and garlic
and the fat boy blues


If I ever do slender
I bet I'll miss myself
eating fruit out of a blender
snow peas and kelp
Well you know I never was good looking
but now I'm in the ugly who's who
but you can take your stair stepper up to heaven honey
cuz I'm down here with my fat boy blues

Ok, I know,  I have inundated ya'll with Greg Brown lately. I went to the show Friday with half a dozen friends that had never heard of him, and we had a great time. They loved his music, his deep grovel voice, and his excellent lyrics about love and loss, good morning coffee, sleeping all night by your lover, fishing, home-made preserves, tall grass, gravel roads and sweet garden loam.
And the Fat Boy Blues.

There were only about 50 people at the show. There was a woman there, that after the show when we all  got to meet Greg, the woman shook Gregs hand, and then she began to sob, and then she just hugged him, weeping with her head on his shoulder, and he held her as she broke down completely. My friends, they commented on this later, but they aren't as familiar with Greg as I am, and he couldnt do all his songs, but I know exactly how that woman feels.
I feel the same way about Gregs music.

NATIONAL SECURITY

I'm relieved to know that Obama is up on his pop culture, as evidenced in his appearance on THE VIEW, and that now he can take the appropriate action to protect the country from the horrors of the Kardshians, like maybe Seal Team 5, or a Drone strike. I don't think Kim Kardashian has much of a missile defence.

THE TRAINER

“You need to do 30 minutes of weight training when you come in.”
“OK.”
“Then you do 30 minutes of cardio.”
“Got it.”
“Lay down here, on your stomach. Raise up on your elbows then rock up on your knees and hold it”
(grunting)
“Try to stay under 3000 calories a day. Eat a big breakfast, and smaller meals as the day goes on. No carbs after 6:00. Can you do that?”
(grunt)"I'll try"
“Still holding? Good, get your butt down a little. That’s good. Think of us here as a college course in getting healthy. I want you to do different exercises every time you come in, to work different muscles, and different parts of muscles every time. I believe in exercise. I believe in weight training. I believe in pushing yourself. But just three days a week to start.  How you doing down there?”
(grunting)”I…believe…in…exercise”
“Good. Don’t try to train every day. Come in 3 times a week. Any more than that and you’ll hurt yourself. You have to do the weight training. For every pound of muscle you add, you will burn an extra 500 calories a day when you are at rest. People think they can come in here and run it off. It doesn't work that way. Get your butt down again. Good. This that you are doing is called a “Plank”. After a while you will do it from your toes, not your knees. That’s good. Your breathing is good. Are you OK?”
“I..(grunt)believe..(grunt)..in..(grunt)exer...cise”
“Hahaha! You are a funny guy Mr. Bullets! You can come down now”
(swoosh)

"CEPT FOR YOU AND ME"

"half the people you see these days are talking on cell phones
driving off the road and bumping into doors
people used to spend quite a bit of time alone
i guess nobody's lonely anymore
'cept you & me babe 'cept you & me


it's raining sheets of rain everything is cold and wet
nobody's going out of doors
they're all at home living it up on the internet
so i guess nobody's lonely any more
'cept you and me babe 'cept you and me


people meet somebody new & they leave the rest behind
we can have it all even though our lives are short
the kids they'll get used to it it happens all the time
no one is even surprised any more
'cept you and me babe 'cept you and me


i take my coffee black or with a little cream
i wake up every morning with the sun
i wanted to be your man that was nothing but a sweet dream
i always tell the truth to everyone
'cept you and me babe 'cept you and me"

Greg Brown, from his 2000 release "Covenant".
I'm going to see Greg on Friday night. He has been on my short list of singer/songwriters I would like to see for almost 20 years. Greg plays about 3 or 4 shows a year, and I really didn't expect to ever see him.
He has been mentioned in this blog several times over the years (click here)

AWESOME

"Shadow and light always go in pairs..."


“If you discover a very thick and deep shadow, be sure that there is, somewhere within you, a great light. You must learn to use one to reach the other.
In the East, this theme is well known: at the center of all our darkness there is a sun; at the heart of our ills there is an opposite mystery. Each element, however obscure it may be, even the most grotesque mistake, contains “depths of truth.” We must pass from one to the other.
In Christianity, this passage, this “easter” takes the shape of the cross, but—as we have too often forgot in the West—it is a transfigured cross. The free acceptance of death opens onto resurrection, the two are indivisible.

Alphonse Goetmann, Dialogue on The Path of Initiation

ASK ME ABOUT MY TESTOSTERONE

Normal is 500.
Low is considered 300 or less.
Last year mine was at 150.
That explained why I felt like crap all the time. No energy, no stamina, walking around the block seemed impossible. I stopped playing tennis because it had turned into a torture.
I got medicine for it, and they checked it again back in January.
Still at only 170.
“Doc, you got to do something. I got zero energy these days. They tell me when I am dancing, I am not as flamboyant as I used to be. I get out there, wiggle a little and I’m exhausted. I have a reputation to protect here”
“OK Bullets, we are going to double your dosage and check again in three months”

So after three months at double dose still feel like crap. I certain that it has not helped. I go in to my appointment after giving blood.
“So Doc, what does it say about my testosterone level? Still low right?”
He looks at the numbers, smiles and says:
“No, Bullets, you have the testosterone level of a 20 year old! Seven-Hundred and Seventy-Seven!”

JACKPOT!

“Well then, why do I feel so bad all the time?” I said.
“Bullets , you have some other things working against you. Diabetes, High Blood pressure, Cardio-Vascular Pulmonary Disease. You HAVE TO lose some weight. You won’t feel better until you do.”
My doctor and I we joke a lot. I crack him up, I really do.
But I can tell he is dead serious.

So Mothers Day (Happy Mothers Day to all you ladies) was my birthday. I spent the weekend bored. I laid around, nothing on TV, I thought about driving to Oklahoma and spending 100 bucks gambling. Went to eat with my daughter Saturday night, then declined going to Karaoke with her.
Just too tired, just too lazy, just too bored.

But I got up Sunday morning, went to two NA meetings and breakfast, and on my way home I decided to buy myself a birthday present.
I stopped in and joined a gym.
I need a change, I need to do something different and I need to…no…I HAVE TO lose weight.
I’ll keep ya’ll posted.

"GOOD ADVICE FOR SOMEONE LIKE ME"

behind the pain

someone is rejoicing

behind the torture

there is love

who's going to buy

this bullshit

if you don't become the ocean

you'll be seasick

every day

leonard cohen

GETTIN' DOWN AND DIRTY

"You're a character George --- a pillow fight on our honeymoon!"

for RDG and Soubriquet

FRACKING CHICKENS and ANT ACID

I love going to grandma's. Last year the county sheriff moved in across the street so we really don't have to worry about her being taken care of, it’s a sleepy little town anyway. Sometimes I get stuck on that old road east of town while I’m dove hunting, but an old family friend usually comes by in a truck, a really rusty old truck, and soon I'm on the road again, lemonade down my chin and fish in the ice chest. So.


The hardest part of the trip is that sometimes I keep going back and forth from home to grandmas’, and back home again, and again and again sometimes there are many stops on the way, like two weeks ago when they had the road closed for fracking for pecan pie down around Corsicana, the Pecan Capital of the World. Lots of that going on, and they say that just when you think the pie is gone all you have to do is bring out the dynamite and frack some up. Its really worth the stop after all. So.

And when we put grandma in the nursing home I think it was a mistake, but there was nothing we could do about it, like the tornado that seems to always be in the garden right next to the house. Thus far its done no real damage, and it is nice to look at. It’s like grandmas friend Lila, at the nursing home, she seems real nice just don't look too long. So.

Last night when I went down grandma had new carpet going in to the old homestead, and the fishing was good in her living room. She had one of those lights on a pulley that you could pull up and down to get them closer to the water or the book or the newspaper if you needed. She always told me not to eat the grapes from the vine, the vine out there in back where the chicken pens were. They are always green, and sour, and I never could stay out of them, because there they sit just for the picking. I get up there on the cage, and eat away, my mouth all puckered and my lips raw and you know there got to be snakes here somewhere in these vines and all this old wood and I hear one now its ringing its fool head off and now I got to wake up and get some ant-acid (ant acid, now there’s something to make you wanna be an ant) and get in the shower and get my ass to work.

I have dreams all the time about being with mom and dad, and then dad dies and it’s just me and mum, and we are talking about how much we miss him, and then at some point I realize I'm just dreaming, and mums already gone too; that they are both gone.

It sounds real sad, but its really a good feeling--bittersweet--- but good.

The kind of good where you can't wait to have another dream like that.

At the Jack-in-the-Box...

At the Jack-in-the Box on lunch break with your 3 very stoned friends, 1975…


Jack: “Can I take your order?”
Driver: “Ummm, yeah man, what did you want?”
Backseat #1:“A coke a taco and some fries”
Backseat # 2 “ Lemme have a Whataburger with no pickles and a shake and onion rings”
Driver “Dude we are at jack in the Box”
Backseat #2 “Huh?”
(muffled laughter)
Driver: “Dude, I’m trying to order, we are at Jack-in-the Box, get a fucking grip”
Backseat #2 “Is that where they have the big Macs?”
(car explodes with laughter)

And it just goes downhill from there, right?
Once you started laughing, that was it.
How we didn’t starve, I don’t know.

DIG THOSE SOCKS

"You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development."

- Chapter 6, The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemingway

BARE-BEAMED AND BUCK-NAKED

Dad would have been 95 today.

I always think of Rubber Band Trotlines whenever I think of dad.
And then I think about the time we set one up at Toledo Bend Lake when I was a boy.
Then I think of the old man I met down there, years later when I was grown , who told me of some of the legends around the lake, like the haunted bridge, and the bubbles of natural gas that attracted huge schools of crappie, and the giant catfish down there, big as Volkswagons.
But my blood ran cold as we stared into the fire and he told about a man and a boy who had caught hundreds of fish, here, right off this point one night on rubber-band trotlines.
It’s a creepy feeling, hearing something like that and knowing he is talking about you and your dad, and you decide to just keep it to yourself.

When the legend becomes a fact, just stick with the legend.

I don't know where Dad came up with a Canoe. Nor do I know where he came up with the "Rubber Band Trotline" either.
Twice a year my mother’s family would get together at Toledo Bend Lake. We would camp on an old road that now led to the lake in either direction. There was a dirt path wide enough for a car that you now used to get to the road.
Moms family was made up of Southern Baptists; and they were hardwired to the bone Baptists that did not believe in doing anything on a Sunday but go to Church. All cooking and shopping was done on Saturday. It was even against State law to buy anything on Sunday... the "Blue Law".


So it was during the fall get together that Dad, big Bruce and I loaded the Canoe and set out for a point and an Island, a good mile away where my Dad would show us how to set up a Rubber Band trotline. Actually, there were to be three.


Let me now describe the Rubber Band Trotline for you. First, you must find and aquire 1/2 inch rubber band stock that comes in 100 foot lengths {available at most Army-Navy Stores}. Then you need about 100 feet of Trotline with as many hooks as you can get on there.
Now double the rubber over to make fifty feet and attach to the trotline You now have 150 feet and you will need to find a stump approximately that far from the bank. Tie the rubber band to the stump and take the trotline to the shore. There should be a little tension on the line. And you should be able to pull the trotline all the way in onto the shore and bait the hooks. The increased tension, provided by the rubber band, pulls it back out into the water towards the stump. Tie it off on a green stick poked into the mud.


With my dad in the stern, Bruce stationed amidships, and myself in the bow with a quick "heave to" we glide from the safety of the firmament onto the glassy surface of Toledo Bend. My Mom, and Bruce’s wife have arrived to see us off. The look of worry on their face makes me wonder if "Edmond Fitzgerald" may be scrawled on the side of the Canoe.


'Stevie, are you sure you don't need a Jacket?".
"I don't think so mom, I'll be awright"


Its a sunny 76 degrees. I glance to Dad who has managed a thin grin. I watch as his cigar rolls from one side of his mouth to the other and the grin never changes. How does he do it?


"Bruce, you boys be careful out there!" shouts Jean.
Jean is the love of Bruce’s life. She is wearing white Clam-Diggers, a flowered top and a crazy straw hat. Looks like a cross between Betty Boop and Minnie Pearl.
"Aw, Jean, I've been doing this all my life" says Bruce.
"You be careful just the same"
"Yes, Mother" Bruce says. They have been married for years, have three kids, and his pet name for Jean is "Mother".


We arrive at our destination, midway between a small island and a point of land. We successfully tie off two of the rubberband trotlines. I am starting to get pretty excited, as is Bruce. My Dad was always coming up with pretty cool stuff and this was looking like a real winner.


Bruce is my dadas best friend,  about 6'5" and weighs in at a good 300 lbs and so far has been pretty good ballast for the Canoe. But when Dad asked for a knife (he had misplaced his) and Bruce stood up in the middle of the Canoe, there was real concern in dads voice as he said;


"Bruce, I don't think you should stand up in this canoe."
"Aw, I have been standing up in Canoes all my life, Jack!


I,  for one, was pretty certain that Bruce had never been in a canoe at all and that we would all soon be very wet.
Sure enough, we rocked once to the left then once to the right- I glanced at Dad who had that Cigar clenched in his teeth- and the canoe turned over and I found myself underwater, slowly rising to the surface.
Now I can see the sky and the bottom of the Canoe.
I can see Bruce break the surface and gasp for some air.
Slowly , very slowly rising to the surface, I see my Dad 's hat, then his nose, and then there is that Cigar. It's still clenched in his mouth and I see him give a few puffs, and there a little smoke, and then a few more puffs and PRESTO! clouds of cigar smoke. Its like magic! He has been fully submerged but that  cigar is still lit!


We made it to shore. We lit a fire from Dads cigar. We stripped down to our underwear and hung our clothes to dry. We heard the rumblings of motors and cars on a gravel road that led right up to us. It was my Mother and Jean and Mom's Southern Baptist Family. They had gotten word and come to check on us.


I am sure they would have stayed away had they known what we were not wearing.
Except for a pair of wet tighty-whiteys, Dad, Bruce and I are bare-beamed and buck naked.


The caravan of cars slowly parades by with those Baptist Bitter Beer faces gawking out the window.
Finally the car carrying Mom and Jean pulls up and stops. Jean climbs out of the car and hollers at Bruce "Just what do you think you are doing there Brucie Boy"
Bruce looks down at me and grins "Just tryin to get dry, Mother"
Jeans got her hands on her hips now and yells at Bruce "Don't you know you can't just take your clothes off any ol' where, light a fire and think you are going to get your clothes dry?"
Bruce looks down at me again and winks "Been doin' it all my life, Jean!"


Man, we did catch some fish that night.

BIG TIME FUNNY GUY

I played this fun game over at Nita’s place last week. Heres what you do:


Take your resume’ and go online to one of these translator sites. Translate your resume' into Chinese. Then take the Chinese version and translate it into Russian. Take the Russian version, and wash it back through into English!
You wouldn’t believe how it comes out!
There is a line in my original resume’ from 25 years ago that goes like this:
“Serious about task, people oriented with an outstanding sense of humor”
The ExMrs Bulletholes she never did like that line, but I always thought it was great.
When I wash it through the translator, it comes out like this:
“Friendly businessman and big time funny guy”

So you want to know what it was that dope did to me? I knew it long before I ever quit doing dope. Dope took away my personality. It made me neither happy nor sad. It made a usually friendly guy into someone that had nothing to say to his friends. There was no way I could ever meet and make a new friend. Why would I want to? I already felt so good inside from the dope I didn’t really have to do anything else but sit there like a big lump of feel good, just a big flesh-sack of chemically induced endorphins.

There was even a funny little thing that would trigger me to using dope. I was even aware of it. I might go a couple weeks without any dope, not because I was trying to quit, but because I was out of money, or I was too tired to go get some, or I was just letting my nervous system recover from my last go. And one day I would walk into a store, and I’d smile and joke with the cashier, or the people in line, and they would all laugh and I’d say please and thank you and generally be the friendly businessman and ig time funny guy that I was meant to be, and I’d walk out of the store and realize I could no longer stand being me and decide it was time to go get some dope so I would just shut up and start minding my own business again.
And that’s what I would do.
Did it just like that for years.

And when I finally came to Narcotics Anonymous, and got a couple months clean under my belt and started getting my personality back and being friendly and funny, people would say “Oh, you must have been a blast to get high with” and I’d tell them “No, its just not true”, because once I got high I couldn’t wait to get away from people, and get back to my little apartment and sit there like Gollum with my precious.

My precious.

You know, it funny that when you lose your personality and start to get it back, its really not easy. Its hard sometimes to be me. It takes a little getting used to, being friendly and polite and looking people in the eye and saying ”Hello” and “Please”, “Thank You” and “You're welcome”.
But once you do, get used to it again that is, it’s also very nice to be a “Friendly businessman and big time funny guy”.

Anyway, this is what I shared at a meeting yesterday, and maybe you have to be an addict to really relate (many of us have experienced this same thing I have described) but I thought it was worth writing down.
Worth writing down in English.

WHERE HOUSE FORT WORTH

Great flyer from my young friend at Where House last week.

"WHAT DID YOU DREAM?"

"ITS ALRIGHT, WE TOLD YOU WHAT TO DREAM"

KARN EVIL KITCHEN

When I worked for Hyatt, we had General Meetings once or twice a year. They always had a theme, and one year the idea was that each department would do a “Booth” that demonstrated or informed as to what that departments role was in the Hotel.

I came up with a Booth called “KARN EVIL KITCHEN” representing the kitchen where the Pastry Chef taught folks how to pipe a rosette from a pastry bag (with a lot of free pastries for the audience) and another chef was carving a block of ice.
But the centerpiece of the booth was a 3 burner omelet station all set up for anyone to come and try to flip an omelet. Had a big sign that said
“FLIP AN OMELET- WIN A PRIZE”
with Karn Evil cooks helping the participants to try to flip an omelet.
I stood out front like a Carnival Barker with this an oversized chef hat, a purple cape and a cane, and from a tape player behind the booth came the music of ELP’s “Karn Evil Nine”.

“Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends” and so on.
It was beautiful, and our booth won first place in the the booth contest.
I’d forgotten about this story.

A CONVERSATION WITH SUSAN, PART III

Need I say more?
And thats just how it goes with my best friend Susan @ Assorted, who was in town last week from Mobile.
For Parts I and II, click here.