Gettin’ Old, This Adventure Called 'Life' Continues, However…………..

[rick91351]

Gary, I got smoke in my eyes!  Don't think I was ever that broke.  Oh my word all that food and zeroed out!  Dang!  My stomach hurts thinking about it.....  But you did get the slobbers running!   

Been thinking about treckin' to Baton Rouge myself.  Would swing over to Houma and a joint out in the bayou.  We ate at before OH MY WORD!!  Then would have to make the trip on over to Lafayette.     

[Gary O]

Been thinking about treckin' to Baton Rouge myself.  Would swing over to Houma and a joint out in the bayou.  We ate at before OH MY WORD!!  Then would have to make the trip on over to Lafayette.   

Looks like my work is done here.......

[Gary O]

Here's something that some folks got a kick out of, you might too.

A friend has recently had a birthday, so I Emailed him some things to prepare for, well, the inevitable; 


Hey, Rodney, happy 49th.
Since you are approaching the 'golden' or maybe bronze years, I've got some advice and things to be aware of.

But don't read this now.

Just save it for a year, because you still have three hundred and sixty some wakeups before that magical milestone of fifty (50!!) .

So continue to enjoy what you've been doing, because once you hit fifty (50!!)...(and you will 'hit' it), things change a bit.

You'll make little noises when you commence to get outta your lazy boy.
Then you'll notice that those same noises will emanate from your wretched larynx when you commence to sit in said lazy boy.
I say 'commence' because by this time, all the wonderful things you did in youth...broken bones and sprains, from 'watch this' fetes of yore have caught up with you, and your leg muscles are now atrophied into strings of half cooked pasta, so you ease into/onto or out/off of anything, like toilet seats, cars, power chairs, Harleys, and slippers.
You take renewed interest in your grabber, and strongly consider installing a knee joint in the shaft for doing the paperwork in the oval office....enabling you to abandon the simulated bronco busting rodeo session you seem to need, up stretched left hand making little circles in the air while the other is performing 'the reach'.

Speaking of larynxes, you'll find that throat clearing takes several tries...like starting an ol' model T.

......wait, that's sixty.....you're only approaching fifty (50!!).

Ah, the age of enlightenment.
By now, people have looked upon you as a giver of advice, and that has worked, and has even seemed pretty cool.
The address of 'sir' is no longer a surprise.
You handle it all quite well.

But

When you reach fifty (50!!), you begin to have little chats with yourself...
('I'm fifty(50!!) , I should know something by now. These people think I do......let's see let's see E=mc².....WTF is a joule?')

You begin to have partial recall, and even that is a struggle.
The procedure is touching your chin with the fingertips of your right hand, and looking up or down.
Numbers and dates are up.
Names and places are down.

You put on 157 lbs in 13 minutes, just from sniffing a bran muffin.

You start to notice growths and weird hair in weird places.

While you slumber, a pubic hair can grow the length of 3 feet...on the pointy end of your ear lobe.

Of a morning, you look in the bathroom mirror, and find a goblin looking back.
Just smile at it (quit screaming for gawd's sake), comb back your ear hair and greet the day.

'Doc, take a look at whatever that is on my left knee.'
'Uh, Rodney, that's just your right testicle.'
'BTW, when's the last time I ran my finger up your pooper?'

Learn the difference between the words colostomy and colonoscopy...it's important when checking in.

Self keeping becomes secondary.
'Honey, there's a puffed wheat in your mustache.'
'Oh.....so?'
'We had puffed wheat two weeks ago.'
'And your point, dear?'

The underwear from high school has finally given up the ghost, so you begrudgingly retire the grey tattered shards of elastic, but consider the frugal acquisition of 12 headbands.

You discover your new fresh (actually brilliant white) Hanes briefs are quite the contrast to the occasional poop stain...of which is no longer occasional......poop cake can become a concern.

Oh, and you discover you no longer have a hind end.
It has furtively crept up and nestled onto your lower back, leaving you with just a six inch line and a tuft of hair, giving your Levi 550s even that much more of a 'relaxed fit'.

You still catch the ladies taking a hind sight, however, it's not so much one of allure, but more one of mystery and somewhat quizzical pity as your gluteus minimus brings up what's left of your rear.....'That poor man has no popo......musta lost it in the war'.

Your shopping consists of looking for obscure things like extra large Icy Hot patches.....mummy size.

The fire in your eyes is now just pain recognition.

Speaking of fire, get wunna those birthday candles that don't blow out.

It'll help you keep the fire.



Something I put in a book somewhere;

Eating/pooping² (part 1, discovering texture)

Preschool (intro to social, sharing)

School (the teacher is God)

Teenage (high school hell, for teen and parent, hormones are an entity requiring exorcism, the teacher is Satan)

College/military (fun, fun, fun; learn, drink, fornicate, kill)

Pre-parental Early adult (more fun, but serious, sipping not chugging, serious pursuits, mating, career)

Parental (joy)

Parental hell (see teenage)

Midlife (see early adult, attempts at hindsight adjustments) (you are here)

Grandparent (brief joy)

Grandparental hell (hiding, see teenage)

Musing Youngish Geezer (lazy boy-crossword-Jeopardy sessions, looking upon mate with renewed ardour, reflecting, attempting things you did with ease years ago)... (or you may already be here)

Geezer (whazzat? Whoozzair?)

Eating/pooping² (part 2)...Nurse!? I did it again (toothless smile)

Dirt nap


Happy birthday Rodney, and welcome to life, the real one.

[sparks]

  I was going to start a new thread for this, but decided what I have to say fits here best.

A few of you know that my mom passed away two years ago come October. Yesterday I received a registered letter stating that mom's burial plot is actually owned by another family.....they purchased several plots in 1992. This came to light when a member of that family passed away recently.

The cemetary screwed up. The 1992 purchase was never updated on the plat map.

In about two weeks.......I'll be burying mom......again

Life is getting real strange......or is it?




sparks

[Redoverfarm]

Sorry to hear that Sparks.  I think the cemetary should make it right.  But that is not much comfort with having to deal with it.

[sparks]

  Thanks John,


It's a really big mess, however I think I've got most of it under control. The cemetary board of directors will take responsibilty for all costs.

A new burial plot has been afforded to me.




And the grieving process has started all over ....again






sparks

[rick91351]

Sparks really hard to say anything to ease your pain and grief.   Hard for us to get our hands and heads around what you are going through with this.  I really can not say much other than time shall heal.

Rick

[peternap]

I can't say anything John and Rick didn't Sparks as far as sympathy.

What I can say is that you have again showed your character as being better than most of the world.

Far too many people would be thinking about how much money you could milk out of this rather than just trying to respectfully give a loved one a final resting place.

I've said this about this forum many times...."I'm in good company here"!

[Gary O]

 Well, it seems rather obvious to me, that I can't post for awhile on this, my own thread, due to the upswing in class it's taken....
However, crass individual that I am, down deep, in an obscure crevasse of my left ventricle, I now have a strange sensation of remorse, and sudden urge to have my brother fetch my mother's pre-urn box from his storage unit, that's been there since June of '08......
Damn, I wish I (and my brother) had a lick of humane feelings sometimes....and this is wunna those times.

Thanks, sparks, for gracing this thread every now and then.....always a pleasure.

[Gary O]

♫Some enchanted iiiiiiiland♪

OK, a weekend well spent.
Haven't done that for awhile.
Lady sez, 'I'd like a kitchen island.'
When my lady wants something for her kitchen, it gets done, especially when more food prep surface is involved.

Kitchen islands are a tad expensive in my (pocket) book.

$400-$600 for what she wanted

So, I made use of the scraps I have, and only bought a melamine sheet, some 'underlayment', and a bit of trim.


Obvious scrap wood...SPF and OSB.


White melamine top



A little green guy greated me this morn...And apparently left me a little sumpm outta the south end hopper



Underlayment and trim....the trim is photopaper crap, I might be sorry about that down the line, but we're pretty gentle with things.....
Funny, what others call underlayment, I use for overlayment....and some stain/sealer.





I'm no carpenter, and certainly no finish carpenter (how do those Finns do it?), but I'm happy with the results for $55



Yeah, I know, need to fill in the staple marks...it'll happen

[sparks]

 We moved Mom today.

She is now in her final resting place.

Very proffessional and handled with dignity.





sparks

[rick91351]

Thanks Sparks for the update.  May you and your family be at peace. 

Rick & Ellen

[Gary O]

Funny thing, today, of all days, I was at the office, early morning (5ish), sitting at my desk, mindlessly going thru the contents from my inbox, and kathump, a Mexican house centipede lands on my arm from the ceiling.

I think I scared the crap outta him, cause after unclutching my chest and eventually finding a way to stop screaming, I noticed him freeze right in the middle of my out basket.
So I jumped back down from my credenza and sopped up the excess beverage of my freshly hand rubbed coffee stained desk top.

OK, OK, I didn't get that startled, but did lurch a bit.....maybe a couple/six inches.....aaaand possibly a tiny NNNGUUH!

Little fella got the jump on me.


Seems we have inherited the little guys from our Mexico imports.....and they really like the space between the ceiling and the false ceiling above my office.



After we got done scaring each other, he skittered to the edge of my desk then turned around and looked at me, like; 'Dang, big fella, ya damn near killed me there with all that arm waving and hot coffee.'

Kinda cute, really.

[Gary O]

Gurls

My first real girlfriend, other than 'dancer number three' (as I called her) from the Jackie Gleason Show, was Patricia....fourth grade I think it was.
She had this smile, this beguiling smile, and if per chance she cast one your way, well, it turned all us guys into befuddled masses of profound stupidity, and I was no exception...and she knew it.

So every time she would come near, or I mysteriously found myself near her, I'd make sure and do something cool, like flip my fountain pen up in the air and nonchalantly catch it, writing side down. Unknowing that I'd just sprayed myself with a unique pattern of Sheaffer traditional blue .....'Boob, James Boob'.
Oh, yeah, and her eyes...flashing, batting brown eyes....and some kinda smell too...better than, say, my catcher's mitt, or even gramma's rhubarb pie.

That's all I remember about her looks.
Didn't even consider the shape of her hind end, or if she even had one for that matter.

One blessed day her parents invited my parents to dinner.
I sat across the table from her, sipping my shaken not stirred fruit punch, creating a rather distinguished looking purple mustache.

These folks had lived outta the states for a few years, and rather proudly offered up their unusual cuisine.
There, on my plate, was a heaping festering mound of curry and rice. Not the spicy curry of the orient, no, this was some sorta green slimey slices of slug guts.

Patricia smiled at me.

I forked the slug slices, and moved them around my plate, mustering and encouraging my life long taste buds of fried potatoes, hamburger patties and ketchup.
I furtively went to the potatoes.
Only they were swimming in some sorta god awful milk sauce....not fried, definitely not fried.
I think I had two bites, feigning nausea, gladly skipping dessert which looked much like mousse of dog vomit.

Patricia invited me up to her room (HER ROOM!!!), upstairs, legs of Patricia, leading the way....huh, Patricia has legs...nice, really really nice legs (fantasy log note 137; wimin my age have legs too. Take note, with etching fluids).

And there I was, in a girl's room.

Puffy, fuzzy things.
Pink things.
Lacy, frilly things.
Some sorta awning of posts and frilly cloth over her bed.
Pillows, stuffed toys, more pillows, more toys.

So there we were.
'Nice place ya got here' (I almost said 'doll face', but somehow knew my Bogart wasn't working any better than my Bond).

'You are in third place on my list.'

('what? there's a list?')

'If you kiss my locket, you'll be at the top.'

('If I kiss her locket?')
('what the heck is a locket?')

She pulled a dainty gold chain from where, I'd discover years later, cleavage came from.
Her locket was a little gold heart.
I felt really really stupid.
Here I was, in a gurl's room, with all this claustrophobic crap, and even considering kissing her locket for cryin' out lowd.
Get me the heck outta here!

(bat, bat, smile)

S-o-o-o-o after I kissed her locket, landing me solidly into first place, we went downstairs.

Funny thing. Next day at school, I took on a much different persona.
My once pitter patting heart went back to a normal beat.
Her smile took on a more sneer like function.
Her batting eyes became nothing more than a possible Tourette to me.
Her smell took on the odor of curry.
Basically, she disgusted me...and less than 24 ago, I kissed her locket....damn.

My first fleeting relationship.

Not for locker room lore.

[Gary O]

Awareness

Christmas 1954
I knew what was coming....really, for once I knew.
The tree, the lights, the bubbling ones, the tinsel, the snow outside, the oil stove warming everyone (that stood smack dab on the stove), the windows adorned with Christmas icing, and....the presents.
I just took it all in, quietly, unassuming, sizing things up.
('Hmm, so this happens, say, every year...huh')

I never said much for, oh, about twenty some years, and at four didn't say anything, ever.
I cast a rather small shadow, and more than a few times got left at places. Not on purpose, but I just wasn't much of a bother to anyone...to the point of, to some extent, non-existence.

Mom forgot me at the Montgomery Wards store once.
Huge multi-storied store...fascinating.
She eventually came back and got me even though I wasn't quite done window shopping.
I wonder how far out of the store she got, or did she get halfway home, or even home and realize, setting the table, that, hey, the tiny person that normally occupies the booster seat is not here.

I really enjoyed the anonymity.
It gave me time to take in all I could, and remain in my own thoughts.
Kids were pretty much trained to be out of sight when folks came over.
Ever once in a while someone would ask,

'And what's your name young man?'

'Dad, it's me, Gary.'

My sis would take my hand and guide me over to the tree, pointing out each and every glittery thing.
It was a no shyt moment, but knew it made her feel good, so let it happen.
The day came.
I should say the day before came, as we traditionally opened gifts on Christmas eve.

Gramma and Grampa came down the hill to participate.
I'd say it was around 6pm, as it was dark out and everybody had already eaten.
My sis played santy, handing gifts to Gramma and Grampa.
I was busy watching while cracking the walnuts and Brazil nuts from my stocking.
I couldn't help but observe the fake happiness and surprise from everyone as they opened their gifts...everyone but Grampa. He was rather gruff, and had a habit of saying exactly what he thought.

'I already have a tie.'

I loved him.
Didn't even give much thought to that emotion back then, but now I know I loved him.

It came to be my turn to open my gifts.
Not a big trick, as my stuff was in a large sack.
It was a sack full of toys.....cars, trucks, a harmonica, and some little bags of hard candy.
The thing is, the toys were all kinda beat up, trucks with missing wheels, and everything was a bit scuffed, dented and rusty in places.
It didn't bother me a whit. I loved it all.
But I remember the look on my Dad's face as he watched me haul them outta the bag.
He was ashamed.
I felt like saying something comforting...but didn't.
My feelings of making the situation even harder on him by saying 'it's OK' won out.
Every Christmas after that was huge.

Funny, not haha funny, but oddly strange my thoughts on his mental processes.
For years I rather pitied him for toiling to get us what he thought was what we wanted.
Him, the bread winner, the toy winner, the house, food and warmth provider. How he fell head first into the American dream...the freaking nightmare.
But in my early years of fatherhood I came to understand.
He was from an era that dictated those things....'things'.

Christmas 1972
We were a tad impoverished.
Poverty stricken was a status I was striving for.
We managed a few meager toys from the five and dime, and wrapped them in newspaper, placing them under the tree limb from the neighbor's backyard that had miraculously blown down from one of their giant firs.
We watched the boys unwrap their tinsel strength early China bobbles.
They lasted almost long enough to get 'em outta the newspaper, disintegrating in their little ink stained hands.

However, as my lady wiped last Wednesday's headlines from their fingers so they could drink their mug of hot cinnamon tea and suck one their tiny candy canes, I whipped out to the truck to bring in the toy of toys...the one that would give back.
My eldest named the little puppy from the pound, Felix.
Felix the dog...hey, it was original.
Only he was too young to pronounce the name Felix, so it came out 'juwix'.
The thing is, a few moments after cleaning up the vomit and diarrhea from the truck seat, floorboard and doors, and me, it dawned on me that Felix may not have been the best of finds.
The next morning my eldest seemed to have lost track of him, so we both went looking.

'Juwix....Juuuuwix...heeeere Juwix'

I got a kick out of his determination in locating his new little buddy, trudging around the yard, big cheeks housed upon his tiny neck earnestly calling out with his baby Elmer Fudd like voice...'Juwix....Juuuuwix...heeeere Juwix'.
Unfortunately we found Juwix.
He was under a gap in the wood pile...rather stiff.

So, as my Dad, twenty some years before, I vowed to provide a better Christmas for the years to come.
Not lavish ones, but ones that bore a couple substantial gifts for each of my little beings.

Christmas now?

I already have a tie.



 

[Gary O]

Our Thanksgiving Story

 
We ate.


Whew, tired now.


OK, the highlight.
After stuffing myself with stuffing, we settled in to a rousing game of head bobbing scrabble.
I say 'head bobbing' because we don't use a timer, so some people....I won't mention names, but let's just say I've known her for 43 years, and still catches my eye.....and nose......not my ear...........some people take a fortnight or two to lay down the word 'MAY'.....and after a bit of wine and turkey and gravy, my head tends to bob, even though firmly propped up by my hands, elbows on the dining table.

One of the grandkiddies, he's thirteen now, still likes to chew on things...dangerous things, just to still get a rise outta Namaw.
Heh, he excused himself and proceeded to the restroom.
I heard some coughing.
Not the normal cold like coughing, but more like gagging, and kacking.
I told my lady my concerns, but we played on, which consisted of my head plopping onto the table while she fretted over the letters AAZQTXP...
So, our darling teen hulk finally emerged from the bathroom, and a bit sheepishly sat back at his place at the table.....and layed out a rather moist letter K.
Apparently he was wallering the tile around the inside of his mouth and got it lodged in his throat, but managed to proceed nonchalantly to the can and hork it up into the tub..along with other less distinguishable bits and pieces, but I could tell he'd dined mostly on green olives and cranberry sauce.

Now it's our special K.

[rick91351]

One of the mysteries that seems to plague me currently is a set of pick-up keys. They have disappeared, vanished into thin air. Yet I can not accept that they are missing as if raptured by God in these last days. They are somewhere just not here in my possession. You should not loose stuff in a thirty foot fifth-wheel trailer. Our current dwelling, our home away from home. Oh, but wait, this is our home now. That and two storage units and a shop filled with our stuff. But then that is another very touchy story. One that causes Ellen to tear up out of the blue. I asked her what is the matter and I receive in reply, "We have no home!" Now normally this causes a man to fly in to action and fix the situation. However because of all the counseling training I have done and done unto me I know I can not do that.

There are places where I can swoop in on the vine yodeling like Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan to carry her away. Or times I can appear from behind the curtain as the hot headed D'Artagnan in the The Three Musketeers pulling my blade to defend my lady. These times are not those times. I have been told and taught and taught I must let her process her own feelings. And myself I do fall into the grief and anger of the moment from time to time. Usually when looking for things stored in boxes we can not find. Or looking at our stored furniture and not knowing how well it will survive the cold of winter. Then I want and do roar in anger at times. However that said we are comfortable, we are warm and dry and all in all life is pretty good. We have no major medical issues we know of. I am no longer trapped on a train somewhere unable to return home. We sold our home in a down market.

So with all that said what does that have to do with lost pick-up keys? As the politicos all say, "That is a great question." And strangely it falls somewhere in the line of the pick-up tool box and the fifth-wheel trailer. The toolbox is one of those silver boxes that sits across the front of the pickup box. It sits suspended from the rails of the pick up box. 90% hangs down into the pick up bed. It fastens in with a bolted J bracket and a bolt in side the box. They are easy to unbolt and get out. It was a the most surprising Christmas I think I ever received. It was like a pony! A present from Ellen five years ago. To her I need a tool box in the pickup and I so agreed. I am a ranch kid. You never go anywhere with out a shovel, an ax, a Pulaski and a chain or two. Then there is the set of jumper cables and enough wrenches, pliers and screw drivers to disassemble all the components of a Mack Truck along side of the road. Well that is during the good weather. Then in the late fall and winter time you need a set or two of tire chains. Because of the roads to the Prairie and the winter storms I opt for a set for the front and a set for the rear because it is a four wheel drive. (Might as well use them all when you are going to get stuck). Now indeed all that stuff can be hauled very messy and dangerously on the floor of the back seat. However if you ever occur a roll over with all that stuff in the cab with you. If the wreck does not do you in, rest assured two sets of truck chains and a very heavy duty logging chain will. So for safety issues and other reason I have a tool box.

However with all that there is a problem I can not haul our little fifth-wheel trailer with my tool box mounted in the back. It like most of these old units are set up where they are close to the hitch and mounted very low. (The main reason I love to pull it. You hardly know it is there.) So I have to remove the toolbox when I have the little fifth wheel. It is because on a tight backing or turning maneuver the trailer will get the tool box. This in turn will damage the fifth wheel trailer, that also will damage the tool box and then that will damage the pick up. So if I have to move the little fifth wheel I empty out the tool box. Unfasten the fasteners and remove it. I set it some where when finished moving the little fifth-wheel put it back in, fasten it down and put all the valuables back in it. WWHHHUUUW! Lot of work just for that.

Now if you are a serious fifth-wheeler you have a tool box that sets down inside the pick up box. But they are hard to retrieve things out of. So I opted not to get one of those because we just move the little fifth wheel camp trailer up in the spring to the ranch and out in the early winter back to the valley. That is all the further it goes now days. Then we got the big fifth wheel. The hitch sits a lot further a head to the front and it is higher. In fact the whole unit is higher. So I have decided to try using my old tool box and not get a new one that sets down inside the pick up box. So my last trip to the ranch I grabbed our old tool box.

I brought it down here to the RV Park and mount it. I never have locked my tool box up. I never figure I needed to. It went mostly to the ranch and back. But here in this new environment of RV parks and our road trip down south and who knows what to expect next. I thought it would be handy to be able to lock it up. The only key I knew of that might fit the tool box was on my primary key ring. However it had gone missing for several days. Ellen and I looked and looked for that key ring. Then she came up with the idea, "Have you looked in the car?" I told her I just had the car to the car wash and cleaned and vacuumed it. I would have seen it then. I did however remember seeing four keys sitting by themselves not on a ring in a hollow place in the console while vacuuming. One was a key to the shop up at the ranch the others the were unknown to me.

I went back out and unlocked the car got the loose keys from the console and tried them. The first one I tried fit, it turned it matched with the second. There was two keys that fit the toolbox out of the blue. Ellen can not remember how the four keys got there. She thought I put them there, they were just laying there in the console one day. She made several trips in and out from the ranch with them. They survived there with three grandkids and three dogs. They survived her sacks of sewing and yarn going to her gals sewing circle up there at the Prairie and on and on and they were never lost. To which I do thank the Lord for keeping an eye out for them. That they never got flipped out on the floor and lost. Lets face it lone keys are so venerable to being lost. Then there is the issue of two keys for my toolbox I never use just show up out of the blue. A toolbox or tool storage or just a tool locker that we never have locked in five years of traveling in and out of the Prairie with it. Then I decided I have to lock it up. So I guess my real question is where in the world did those keys really come from? Well let see I think I can rule out someone broke into the car and set them there.........

[MountainDon]

Lost a car key for about 4 months a year or so ago. Found them when the Kleenex box in the car got empty. They were in it.

[Gary O]

an excerpt of something I'm working on;


DAD

My first remembrance of my dad was seein' him come home from work through the kitchen door. Guess I was about three. He was a giant in my eyes, shirt sleeves rolled up, curly auburn hair combed straight back, kindly smile bearing witness to his good feeling of getting home. My circle of life was complete when he arrived.
I never really ever ran up to him like a lot of kids do, as I revered his presence. He was my god.
He was a simple man, and we lived simply. It was all us kids needed, ever. Oh he had dreams, big dreams, and later on a good portion were realized, but with the sacrifice of a working man. That's what it took.
At about 4 yrs of age I remember my dad explaining an appendix to me, after overhearing them talk about someone having theirs out.

'Oh, it's a little man inside you that keeps you well, and sometimes the little man will save up all that sickness and pop. Then he has to come out.'

Seemed to satisfy my curiosity and maybe any other explanation would not have done much better.
Four year olds are quite impressionable, as overhearing my sister talk about a schoolyard mishap gave me a more vivid picture than I should have created.

'Dennis Blickenship fell off the slide today and split his head open.'

(SPLIT HIS HEAD OPEN??!!)

This gave me the vision of a kid runnin' around with two head halves, split down the middle, propped up by his shoulders.
Course Dennis Blickenship was a bully, and I felt kinda good about it, bein' he was the one that tied me up in the tool shed all afternoon while him and my sister did whatever they did.
Still.......

What's for Dinner?...... Gnah! Whazzat?
The wife has cured me of most my finicky leanings, but I'll be darned if I'll ever relish things like chicken liver, or hearts, or any organs for that matter.
Dad was the same way. We did have all four of the basic food groups, however.
Taters, peas or beans, and hamburger or chicken....oh and ketchup.....
Mom could be very creative with this broad selection.
So, one develops mono-taste buds when fed this combo in all its variations for 12 or so years.
Dad was even finicky about pieces of chicken, legs being the most kosher in his mind.
If I happened to reach for a leg, Dad would go into his subversive mode.

"Oh, you like the pooper, aey?"




I don't think parents really realize how they give their children a sense of comfort and well-being.
I remember long trips in the Dodge, trips that would become overnight stays. And me and sis would be sittin' in the back.
No seat belts. Seat belts?
Those were for race car drivers, Indy, Le Mans.
I'd just sit there, not seein' much, but the tops of telephone poles, so I was content to examine the petrified booger I'd placed on the back of the front seat from the last long trip, and the backs of my folk's heads.
Mom with her permed do, somewhat Lucille Ballish, and Dad with his curly hair neatly trimmed in the back. I'd wish for that curly hair to be mine, but I had my own, the cow lick being as close to curly as I'd get.
But toward the end of those long drives I'd get all sleepy, and as consciousness faded, I could still hear my parents chatting away, voices becoming unintelligible murmurings, until I was zonked, slumped over like I'd just been shot. Their voices were quite soothing, and I looked forward to those long trips, just for that.
Not sitting by the car for days waiting for voices on a long trip, but none the less, a subconscious thought of that scene was a comfort....quiet voices in a cloud of nothing else but stillness...all is well...... I have parents that I can willfully take for granted, without even really thinking about it.

I wasn't the most curious child in the world. I could very well have been in the world's top three least curious.
Actually, the term 'acute awareness' might as well have been in a foreign language.
Untied shoes, zipper at half mast, jam from breakfast on my afternoon chin, all were part of my repertoire.
As mentioned, I looked upon my father as God.
I revered his very presence.
And it was intimidating.
So, me and God are going down the road.
Mom, in her momliness, 'Don't forget your coat and cap!'
The morning became quite warm.
I don't know where we're goin'...never knew.....never asked.
The sun is beating down through the windshield.
Sweat is beginning to pour outta my cap and into my coat.

'How ya doin' over there?'

'Goooood.'

'What are you thinking about?'

(THINKING?!!!)

(GOD IS ASKING ME A QUESTION!!!)

(THINK MAN, THINK!!)

(Whaddya think Adlai's chances are?....How 'bout them Mets?...what then???!...I got nuthin')

'Are you warm enough?'

(He's got me. I've got this damn coat and cap on, don't I...?!)

'Maybe you should roll down the window.' (words heavily dripping in sarcasm)

(Well, there it is. God is looking upon his idiot mongoloidal first born son. Hopes of a bright future dashed against the rolled up window.)
The breeze was refreshing.
I really wanted to hang my face out the window, but dare not make a move that may totally confirm his thought pattern at present.

Things went like that with me and God....for quite a few years really.
Throwing the baseball into the dark of night till my arm fell off.

' You've got a natural curve, son.'

(curve?...the damn thing is going so slow, he thinks I'm throwing a curve ball...)



Something about me.
For many of my first years, aside from play, I could be found with a blank stare on my face.
My thought pattern count, of over, say, 2-3 hours would be the grand total of minus zero.
Not even day dreaming, just a nil undefinable gaze of inert mental process.
It wasn't until many years later (six decades to be exact), that I actually became aware enough to put my non thoughts into words.
I, as many, became busy with life.
But now have come somewhat full circle.
Not that I sit with 'the stares', fixated on absolutely nothing. But I now enjoy removing all busy thoughts, and all the hectic little things that are forever emerging, getting in the way of a serene view of our wonderful existence, and center on the intangible zephyr of existence.
I simply call it 'The Happiness of Being'.


Dad had a rather satanic twist to his personality that came out and ambushed us kids.
I guess the little one sided fun game of pinning your children to the floor and letting your saliva drool string dangle over their frantic squirming faces until it almost lands, then sucking it back up, is a game played by many a dad, but mine really really enjoyed it...really.
I tried it on mine, but never got the hang of the sucking saliva back in procedure.
So, it all became rather traumatic, with frowns and scolding from my better half...and a towel.

One event that sorta stands out is when we went to the zoo.
The old Portland zoo had a bear pit, huge, deep pit, enclosed with an iron fence embedded in concrete that us little guys could stand on for a better view, pressed against the bars.
Dad picked me up and dangled me,
by my ankles,
over the fence,
above the now very interested grizzlies.
They all gathered under me, fixated, licking their chops.
I stayed very still...survival.
After maybe 3 minutes of going up and down, or the relative time span of a four year old's life passing before his eyes...three times.....my dad's arms musta got tired, so he hauled me back up and we proceeded to the lion's den.

Sarcasm ran deep in our family.
Snide mocking acidic remarks directed at the butt of the cruel jokes...me.
I, like an idiot, would laugh along with them. Yes, laugh with the cruel aliens that loosely called themselves my parents.
Then even my good hearted acceptance of their verbal scorn would become the next target.
Years later I'd become quite good at these derisive remarks myself, and, as they say, what goes around comes around.
They were no match....hardly anyone is in my league....maybe satan....maybe.

I have learned to stay away from that mindset.

People are too precious.

[Gary O]

Mac and Velma's

Back in the '70s, ....before 'coffee shops', before anyone knew what a Starbucks was, a little cafe sat at the edge of hwy 30, between Linnton and St Johns, smack dab in the middle of Portland's northwest industrial section of mostly huge tanks of gas, diesel and oil.
They just opened for breakfast, closing at around 11 AM.

Mac was a long retired Marine.
Grey hair in a crew cut, high and tight.
The typical tattoo on his forearm, not ones like today, but just a simple anchor.
Velma was the chief cook and bottle washer.
Didn't see her much, just heard her, bangin' pots and pans, flippin' hotcakes.
Mac was the entertainer and pourer of coffee.
Always wiping his hands on the little bar towel tied to the front of his white apron.
White short sleeve shirt.
Stiff collar.
The tiny coffee shop was always spick and span.
Simple.
Mostly white.
A dozen red stools at the wooden counter.
Three padded booths.

'There he is, last of the all time greats!' was his typical greeting of a trucker that pulled his tanker rig into the gravel parking lot.

Of a cold morning, after working all night, I'd stop there, needing a shot of joe for the 30 bleary miles to the house.

The coffee was always good.
Back when coffee was just coffee.
They call it 'house brew' now.

Mac would yard a plain cake donut outta the glass lidded pedestal container for me with his dinner plate sized hand.
'How ya doin' kid?'
I was not an all time great.
Truckers, gnarly truckers, with gravel for voices, and road maps for faces, they were the all time greats.

The donut was not sweet, but a saccharine contrast to the java.
I'd listen to Mac's snappy patter with the truckers.
Sardonic retorts to Mac's rhetoric was pure entertainment.
Everyone looked forward to the upbeat boost Mac would give them.
It was a good start to another day.

I drove by that spot not long ago.
The little café is gone.
Mac and Velma may very well have taken it with them.

Last of the all time greats.

[Gary O]

 Hey folks, been a while.
How's everbody doin'?

How/what you been doin' Gary O'?

Well, I'll tell ya.
I've been enmeshed in another site....of youthful creative artisans (of which shame me with ease)

Right now you're thinkin' ('Gary is nothin' but a web whore')

Eau Contraire mon frère

I've been busy writing my next book

It's now done, and it's actual book size (352 pgs)

Right now yer thinkin' ('Gary is nothing but a spamming slut')

Eau Contraire mon frère

I'm not gonna mention the name of the book (yet).

But

I'm itchin' to share an excerpt with y'all.
You see, those kids seem to enjoy my fractured prose. And that's cool, but I'd like some input from you geezers (anyone older than Justin Bieber), so I can fixate on a market niche.

Right now you're thinkin' ('Gary is nothin' but a product pushing bastard')

Ya got me.

No, really, I have few aspirations, but like everyone else, have little time to waste on bunny trails at this time in my life.

So, next time you profound masters of the building world lay your levels down, consider taking a moment to cruise thru a bit of a read, and tell me what you think.

Excerpt;


GURLS


Tom Gurls

1957
I was dropped off for the day at the Beasley farm.
I don't recall how or why, but, since both folks worked, ever so
often I'd just get dropped off for the day.....at someone's
place.
Didn't matter if I knew them or not.
What did matter, I guess, was that someone was watching my
7 or 8 year old idiot savant self.

The Beasleys had a farm, cows, fields, ponds, barns of hay,
yards of farm animals....and three sisters.
Horrifically wild, country girl wild, sisters.
Mom chatted with Mrs Beasley as I settled in at the kitchen
table.
'Oh he'll be fine, there's plenty to do here.'
'OK, bye bye.'
And she was gone.

The kitchen smelled of ham and eggs.
I was given a glass of milk, raw milk, warm raw milk,
accompanied with the complimentary clumps.
'You don't like milk?'
'Full.' (ready to hork up my own breakfast)

'Well, why don't you go outside, the girls will be out in a
minute.'
(Gurls??!!)
They aged around 10, 12, and 13 I'd say.
'Mamma, can we play with the boy?'
I felt like Lennie Small's imaginary rabbit.
They too had bib overalls, but no shoes, no T-shirt, just bibs.
'Wanna play in the barn?'
'Yeah, sure.'
Not realizing I was the prey for catching and raping, I climbed
the hay bales and crawled thru the tunnels they'd made.
It was quite fun at first.
Things turned a bit when I heard the eldest say something like
'he's over there, get him'.
I made for the open air, and scurried toward the corn field.
Not a chance.
The eldest tackled me at about the third row.
Everything kinda gets fuzzy after that, as I was picked up and
thrown down like the calf in a calf roping contest.
My arms and legs were pinned by their knees, as all six hands
eagerly explored my entire self....things even I had yet to
explore.

So, being the only one present of sound mind, I immediately
employed my most potent offense, which consisted of
violently flopping my head from side to side.
This abated some when the eldest straddled my face.
I then went into stealth mode, lying as still as one could while
being tossed up and down, probed, rubbed, and generally
molested, farm girl style.

Eventually (I'd say sometime late morning) they lost interest.

Lunch.

'Did you girls show Gary the castration shed?'

(!!!!!!!!!)

I don't recall leaping up, running out the door, or the journey
to the pond, but I have feint recollection of the sound of the
kitchen chair hitting the floor, and the screen door slamming
shut.
I played with the ducks and geese on the other side of the
pond, taking swift glances behind me every few seconds, until
I heard our Chevy pull up.
Farm girls, as a rule, turned into extremely fit, vivacious young
ladies, and seemed to know what they wanted, and when they
wanted it (now).
I avoided them like the plague, right up until about 15 or 16.
Then we, shall we say, taught each other a few things.


Patricia
My first real girlfriend, other than 'dancer number three' from
the Jackie Gleason Show, was Patricia....fourth grade I think
it was.
She had this smile, this beguiling smile, and if per chance she
cast one your way, well, it turned all us guys into befuddled
masses of profound stupidity, and I was no exception...and
she knew it.
So every time she would come near, or I mysteriously found
myself near her, I'd make sure and do something cool, like flip
my fountain pen up in the air and nonchalantly catch it, writing
side down. Unknowing that I'd just sprayed myself with a
unique pattern of Scheaffer traditional blue .....'Boob, James
Boob'.
Oh, yeah, and her eyes...flashing, batting brown eyes....and
some kinda smell too...better than, say, my catcher's mitt, or
even gramma's rhubarb pie.
That's all I remember about her looks.
Didn't even consider the shape of her hind end, or if she even
had one for that matter.
One blessed day her parents invited my parents to dinner.
I sat across the table from her, sipping my shaken not stirred
fruit punch, creating a rather distinguished looking purple
mustache.

These folks had lived outta the states for a few years, and
rather proudly offered up their unusual cuisine.
There, on my plate, was a heaping festering mound of curry
and rice. Not the spicy curry of the orient, no, this was some
sorta green slimy slices of slug guts.
Patricia smiled at me, batting her eyes.
I forked the slug slices, and moved them around my plate,
mustering and encouraging my life long taste buds of fried
potatoes, hamburger patties and ketchup.
I furtively went to the potatoes.
Only they were swimming in some sorta gawd awful milk
sauce....not fried, definitely not fried.
I think I had two bites, feigning nausea, gladly skipping
dessert which looked much like mousse of dog vomit.

Patricia invited me up to her room (HER ROOM!!!), upstairs,
legs of Patricia, leading the way....huh, Patricia has
legs...nice, really really nice legs (fantasy log note 137; wimin
my age have legs too. Take note, with etching fluids).

And there I was, in a girl's room.
Puffy, fuzzy things.
Pink things.
Lacy, frilly things.
Some sorta awning of posts and frilly cloth over her bed.
Pillows, stuffed toys, more pillows, more toys.

So there we were.
'Nice place ya got here' (I almost said 'doll face', but
somehow knew my Bogart wasn't working any better than my
Bond).
'You are in third place on my list.'
('what? there's a list?')
'If you kiss my locket, you'll be at the top.'
('If I kiss her locket?')
('What the heck is a locket?')
She pulled a dainty gold chain from where, I'd discover years
later, cleavage came from.
Her locket was a little gold heart.
I felt really really stupid.
Here I was, in a gurl's room, with all this claustrophobic crap,
and even considering kissing her locket for cryin' out loud.
Get me the heck outta here!
(bat, bat, smile)
S-o-o-o-o after I kissed her locket, landing me solidly into first
place, we went downstairs.

Funny thing, next day at school I took on a much different
persona.
My once pitter patting heart went back to a normal beat.
Her smile took on a more sneer like function.
Her batting eyes became nothing more than a possible
tourette.
Her smell took on the odor of curry.
Basically, she disgusted me...and less than 24 hours ago I'd
kissed her locket....damn.
My first fleeting relationship.
Not for locker room lore.


Linda
By the age of thirteen I'd mastered the art of
girlfriendmanship.
The major thing about the ladies was they needed to be
dazzled, swept off their feet, so to speak.
I knew this from my vast studies of Errol Flynn movies.
So, with my now astute knowledge of the opposite sex, it all
came rather easy.
Take my next conquest for example.
I'll call her 'Linda', mainly cause her name was (and probably
still is) Linda.
I usually change the names to protect the innocent (me), but
there's nothing about Linda here that would be
defamatory...pretty sure.
She had a beguiling smile...hell, all of 'em had those beguiling
smiles, but hers kinda took on a Susan Hayward look.
And, she was cool.

Never went to the same schools, as she lived in St John's,
and I lived up in the hills twenty miles outta Portland.
But I met her at swim lessons in Portland, lessons that near
drowned me as I tried so hard to get hold of that long ass
bamboo pole the bitch of a swim instructor kept poking at me,
pushing me away from frantically hugging the edge of the
pool. Very frustrating for her, as several times I'd glommed
onto that pole with both arms and legs, while she tried like hell
to push me off the ledge and into the deep end. I'd just climb
the pole, hand over hand, like a waterborne lemur, as she'd
whisk me back and forth across the pool.

It only took a half dozen lessons to figger out that one really
can't breathe water...
Linda smiled at me, thus I was smitten.
Since we didn't have very many ways of hooking up, meeting
was rather sporadic.
The next time we met was at Pier Park in St John's.
We strolled around, holding hands...sweaty hands...a real tell
in regard to my rico suave persona.
But she kept smiling and I kept sweating.
Mostly, our relationship consisted of letters and phone calls.
Letters were a snap, cause I could take my sweet time in
expounding on my devil may care, swash buckling life style,
but the phone calls required some fast thinking on my feet.
In my vast knowledge of the opposite sex, knowing they
needed to be dazzled, my acute imagination begat that of my
own version of Walter Mitty.
'Hi, how are you?'
(I could just see her smiling that Susan Hayward smile)
'Hi, I'm OK, now that I'm able to stitch up my shoulder.'
'What?!'
'Oh, it's nuthin', just got done fightin' a grizzly in the back
yard.'
'Oh my god! What happened?!'

'Well, I was choppin' wood, and he kinda got the jump on me.
So I just chopped him in the neck with my axe.'
'Are you okay???'
'Yeah, right now I'm stitching up my shoulder while we talk.'
'Is the bear still there?!'
'Naw, I chased him up the hill for several miles...had to cold
camp a couple days, and lost him up in the high country.'
'Oh, so the bear fight didn't just happen?'
'Uh, no.....sorta.' (sweat)
'Well, I gotta go. Gotta tell some folks that I've gotta cancel
the sky diving lesson for today, so see ya.'
'Oh, are you taking lessons?'
'No, I teach it.'
'Oh,'
'Yeah, so I gotta go....bye.' (my hands now sweat faucets)
I really don't know what ever happened that severed our
relationship.
It certainly wasn't due to my boring life style that's for sure.
Actually, I do remember seeing her for what was probably the
last time, and somehow her smile no longer did it for me.

When I was in my mid teens, I used to think back on those
times and get all embarrassed.
Then later, in my twenties, would vividly recall it all and just
laugh my ass off.



Lindsey
From months of bucking hay and picking berries, beans, and
whatever I could get hold of, at 14 I bought a car.
My first.
'54 Chevy
$300
When you save your money in a cigar box for several months,
taking it out, counting, fondling, stacking, fanning it out like a
hand of gin rummy, then putting it back under the bed, w-a-aa-
a-y under, and you make a major purchase, your object of
worship is gone...gone I say...just an empty cigar box with
only the faint scent of cheap cigars and a hint of the smell of
soft currency once soaked in the sweat of your front Levi
pocket.
There are few words to describe the emptiness.
Maybe 'bereft'.
I'd had this same experience at 12, getting my 30-30, but
$79.50 from Western Auto was not the same as giving over a
summer of work in one fell swoop.
The following summer I got a job hoeing roses for a famous,
prize winning rose grower that had several acres of (you
guessed it) roses at the end of a gravel road on top of the hill
we lived on.
So, before sunup I'd make myself lunch, make coffee for the
thermos and breakfast, fire up the green hornet and bomb up
the hill, taking switchback after switchback.... sideways.

Then proceed to get a head start on a degenerative back by
hoeing roses for 10 hours.
One Friday I'd gotten a call from a pretty little girl that I'd met.
Not as beautiful as my lady now, but beyond cute...really
really cute, even pretty....her smile did funny things to my
heart.
So Sunday I approached dad.
'Hey, ol' man. I wanna go to church with this girl.'
'Well, what's stoppin' ya?'
'She lives on the other side of Portland.'
'You want me to drive you to the other side of Portland?!'
'Uh, no.
I'd like to drive my car.'
(Mom)
'ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!'
'I'd be careful.'
'And, (the coupe de grace) can I borrow grampa's bible?'
'You better be careful, cause if you get in an accident, they're
comin' after me.'
'Thanksdadbye.'
Mom said something, rather sputtered something, but I was
already bombin' down the drive.
Can't recall the jaunt over the St Johns Bridge or the rest of
the twenty miles.

Lindsey jumped in and we headed down the country lane to a
park.
On the way, she was all over me.
I gave a thought to just pull over into the ditch, but maintained
my James Bond nonchalant approach and returned her
kisses, French kisses,
my first,
in my car,
driving,
For some reason, even beyond the control of my crotch, my
mind relished in the sensation of tongue wrestling with this
lovely being, and not on keeping in my lane...or on the road
even.
It wouldn't have mattered much to look where I was goin'
because my eyeballs were rolled back in my head.
Then a funny thing happened.
Somewhere deep in my semi consciousness, I heard
trumpets blowing.
(So this is what Brad was telling me about...)
But while trying to gather my fuzzy thoughts, I had a flash
back of a song that was getting popular....Leader of the Pack
had a girl yelling 'LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT, LOOK OUT!!',
then screeching tires.
Only it was Linda yelling, and the trumpet was a car horn, and
the tires were those of the car in front of us.
I just remember two old couples, dressed for church, mouths
open, arms waving.
I swerved.
Our rear quarter panels met.
Hard.

A sickening crunch.
My rear view mirror revealed them just sittin' there in the
middle of the road...sideways....gettin' smaller and smaller as
I floored the little chevy.
Lindsey didn't say much when I dropped her off, but a few
days later I got a letter.
My first.
I drove into the drive and parked behind the garage.
My story was that there was black ice on a corner and I slid
into the guard rail.
He bought it.
I sweated blood for weeks after that, waiting for cops to haul
my dad off in hand cuffs...leaving me with mom.
It never happened, but every time I got in my car, I got a little
sick to my stomach.
I told him the real story three decades later.
We both had a good laugh over it.
Together.
Not at each other, but with each other.
My first.

[F.Aguilar]

Here's something that some folks got a kick out of, you might too.

A friend has recently had a birthday, so I Emailed him some things to prepare for, well, the inevitable; 


Hey, Rodney, happy 49th.
Since you are approaching the 'golden' or maybe bronze years, I've got some advice and things to be aware of.

But don't read this now.

Just save it for a year, because you still have three hundred and sixty some wakeups before that magical milestone of fifty (50!!) .

So continue to enjoy what you've been doing, because once you hit fifty (50!!)...(and you will 'hit' it), things change a bit.

You'll make little noises when you commence to get outta your lazy boy.
Then you'll notice that those same noises will emanate from your wretched larynx when you commence to sit in said lazy boy.
I say 'commence' because by this time, all the wonderful things you did in youth...broken bones and sprains, from 'watch this' fetes of yore have caught up with you, and your leg muscles are now atrophied into strings of half cooked pasta, so you ease into/onto or out/off of anything, like toilet seats, cars, power chairs, Harleys, and slippers.
You take renewed interest in your grabber, and strongly consider installing a knee joint in the shaft for doing the paperwork in the oval office....enabling you to abandon the simulated bronco busting rodeo session you seem to need, up stretched left hand making little circles in the air while the other is performing 'the reach'.

Speaking of larynxes, you'll find that throat clearing takes several tries...like starting an ol' model T.

......wait, that's sixty.....you're only approaching fifty (50!!).

Ah, the age of enlightenment.
By now, people have looked upon you as a giver of advice, and that has worked, and has even seemed pretty cool.
The address of 'sir' is no longer a surprise.
You handle it all quite well.

But

When you reach fifty (50!!), you begin to have little chats with yourself...
('I'm fifty(50!!) , I should know something by now. These people think I do......let's see let's see E=mc².....WTF is a joule?')

You begin to have partial recall, and even that is a struggle.
The procedure is touching your chin with the fingertips of your right hand, and looking up or down.
Numbers and dates are up.
Names and places are down.

You put on 157 lbs in 13 minutes, just from sniffing a bran muffin.

You start to notice growths and weird hair in weird places.

While you slumber, a pubic hair can grow the length of 3 feet...on the pointy end of your ear lobe.

Of a morning, you look in the bathroom mirror, and find a goblin looking back.
Just smile at it (quit screaming for gawd's sake), comb back your ear hair and greet the day.

'Doc, take a look at whatever that is on my left knee.'
'Uh, Rodney, that's just your right testicle.'
'BTW, when's the last time I ran my finger up your pooper?'

Learn the difference between the words colostomy and colonoscopy...it's important when checking in.

Self keeping becomes secondary.
'Honey, there's a puffed wheat in your mustache.'
'Oh.....so?'
'We had puffed wheat two weeks ago.'
'And your point, dear?'

The cheap lingerie from high school has finally given up the ghost, so you begrudgingly retire the grey tattered shards of elastic, but consider the frugal acquisition of 12 headbands.

You discover your new fresh (actually brilliant white) Hanes briefs are quite the contrast to the occasional poop stain...of which is no longer occasional......poop cake can become a concern.

Oh, and you discover you no longer have a hind end.
It has furtively crept up and nestled onto your lower back, leaving you with just a six inch line and a tuft of hair, giving your Levi 550s even that much more of a 'relaxed fit'.

You still catch the ladies taking a hind sight, however, it's not so much one of allure, but more one of mystery and somewhat quizzical pity as your gluteus minimus brings up what's left of your rear.....'That poor man has no popo......musta lost it in the war'.

Your shopping consists of looking for obscure things like extra large Icy Hot patches.....mummy size.

The fire in your eyes is now just pain recognition.

Speaking of fire, get wunna those birthday candles that don't blow out.

It'll help you keep the fire.



Something I put in a book somewhere;

Eating/pooping² (part 1, discovering texture)

Preschool (intro to social, sharing)

School (the teacher is God)

Teenage (high school hell, for teen and parent, hormones are an entity requiring exorcism, the teacher is Satan)

College/military (fun, fun, fun; learn, drink, fornicate, kill)

Pre-parental Early adult (more fun, but serious, sipping not chugging, serious pursuits, mating, career)

Parental (joy)

Parental hell (see teenage)

Midlife (see early adult, attempts at hindsight adjustments) (you are here)

Grandparent (brief joy)

Grandparental hell (hiding, see teenage)

Musing Youngish Geezer (lazy boy-crossword-Jeopardy sessions, looking upon mate with renewed ardour, reflecting, attempting things you did with ease years ago)... (or you may already be here)

Geezer (whazzat? Whoozzair?)

Eating/pooping² (part 2)...Nurse!? I did it again (toothless smile)

Dirt nap


Happy birthday Rodney, and welcome to life, the real one.

The procedure is touching my mind........the  underwear from high school has finally given to the ghost..ha ha ha ....

[Gary O]

Well, F.Aguilar, I've added to the list since I penned this, but hey, those elastic bands are resilient!
(welcome to the forum, BTW)
cheers

[Barry Broome]

Ok so how do I get the book? PM me so you aren't such an internet whore... 

[Gary O]

 Hey Barry, OK, I'll PM ya.

(note to self; I may have just doubled my book sales)