The plastic looks pretty, but to owe is a pity

I just calculated that it will take me only 137 years to pay off all my credit card debt – which is good news because I thought I’d be paying on those bills forever.

I’m not really sure how I got so deep in credit card debt, but I’m sure it has something to do with me having to purchase something right now. No, not later. It might not be there later. And look at that price. If we don’t buy it right now, we’ll miss the savings. This is something I really need. Not like all those other things. This is the one. And I promise I won’t buy another thing for 12 months. I guarantee!

Yep, that’s how I got in this mess. I “needed” all those things; couldn’t live without them; had to have “it” right then and there, no matter what “it” was, even though I didn’t exactly have the money to pay for “it.”

When to listen to advice, and when not to

I've never heard such balderdash in my life, and I've heard plenty, let me tell you!

The Internet is awash with helpful advice on a wide variety of subjects. You can get advice on which video games are actually good for you; how to prevent an affair; how to avoid diet pitfalls, Farmville tips and tricks; and rules for drafting a quarterback. But the advice I was looking for recently had to do with knowing who to tip and how much to tip them.

And what I found was shocking!

Everybody knows you tip the wait staff -- 15 percent if great service, 10 percent if they spit in your food -- and according to a Yahoo! Finance series on being financially fit, you also need to tip doormen and skycaps ($1 per bag), bartenders (15-20%), the pizza delivery guy (10%), and the person who shampoos your hair at the stylist ($2).

But do you know how much they suggest tipping the gas attendant who provides you with full service at the pump?

Absolutely Nothing!

An attendant comes out to your car (rain or shine), fills up your tank (in sickness or in health), washes the windshield (forsaking all others), checks your oil and tire pressure (till death do you part), and you don't tip him or her one red cent? Like I said -- balderdash. Absolutely balderdash!

I'm guessing the person who wrote the article (had to be female) just went through a nasty breakup with her long-time live-in lover, who admitted he was seeing a beautiful gas attendant (you know, the one who works at the corner gas station that got all that news lately about having beautiful half-naked women filling up the tanks of mostly men customers who waited hours in line just to get serviced), and that they had plans to jet off to Rio and open up a coffee shop together, leaving poor Tiza (just guessing that's her name) all in a tizzy.

You want to tip that girly-man for shampooing your hair? You go right ahead. You want to tip that doorman for carrying your bag up a flight a stairs to your apartment because you don't want to spill your Starbucks? Fine with me. But to suggest that you don't have to tip a gas station attendant who just got his hands dirty while changing the oil in your car -- well, that's just un-American!

I don't care what Yahoo!Finance says -- gas station attendants are an endangered species, and if I can save just one with my $2-5 tip, then by golly, I'm going to give them a tip.

All in favor, say Amen!

Fishing Without Oprah

I’m hoping that at sometime during Oprah’s last season, she’ll have a show about fishing – but I’m not holding my breath.

Oprah's been doing her TV show for 25 years and has had plenty of shows about sex, but none about fishing, and I don't suspect her last season will push that kind of boundary. Why? Because "sex shows" are good for ratings, and because "fishing shows" require squishy worms and insect repellent.

Fishing is good for the soul. Fishing is good for stress reduction. Fishing is good for almost anything that ails you. But c'mon! Can you really see Oprah pulling a worm from a bucket, skewering it onto a hook, and then casting it into a lake without washing her hands before, during and after? Of course you can't. What's worse, if she ever DID dedicate a show to fishing, she'd probably make a joke out of it by making weird faces when she had to "pull one in," which in turn would make her audience squeal with laughter, which is the last thing a fisherman wants to hear when he's been out on the lake all day and hasn't caught squat!

Fishing and sex have a lot of things in common. They both use "lures." They both come with strings attached. They both require patience in order to get something good from it. They both involve the "thrill of the chase" and the "agony of defeat." They both deal with throwing back the little ones in hopes of landing "a keeper."

So why isn't fishing a good enough subject for the Oprah show? I don't know. I don't sit around worrying about it all that much. I'm too busy out on the river, casting for trout. Which is exactly where YOU should be right now -- so getalong with ya...and good luck!

Are you ready to Live Without Oprah?

Life is a lot like Vegas Solitaire

For some reason, even though I can't find the time to do the things around the house like I should (like take out the garbage, mow the lawn or feed the goats), I can always find time to play one more hand of Solitaire on the computer.

And I don't enjoy just the plain-Jane version of the game --  I prefer playing the Vegas version, wracking up imaginary money, depositing it in my imaginary off-shore checking account, and buying imaginary Lear jets that fly me to exotic places because that’s what we big spenders do. Of course, that’s when I’m winning. When I’m losing, it’s a whole different ballgame.

When I’m losing, I always approach Bruno the floor manager to see if he can spot me another Grant (which in gambling lingo means a $50 bill). Bruno’s a good friend of mine. We’ve known each other since 6:30 p.m. yesterday evening when I walked into this joint. He’s more than happy to loan me the money – just as long as I know there are strings attached.

“You know me, Bruno,” I say. “I’m always good for it.”

“Yes, Mr. Farr, you’re one of our better customers,” he says, “but losing is for losers, and we don’t like losers. So don’t lose, or you’ll find yourself lost, do ya’ know what I mean?”

He has a way with words, doesn't he?

I pay Roxanne, the Vegas Solitaire dealer, $50 for a new deck of cards and spread them out. I go through the motions of flipping cards here and flipping cards there, but five minutes later I’ve lost again. I’m now $975 in the hole, and Bruno is breathing down my neck.

“Just one more chance, Bruno,” I beg. “You saw how close I was to winning. I’ll do it next time, you watch.”

“Against my better judgment I’m going to give you another Grant,” Bruno tells me. “But if you lose this time, I’ll have to call Mr. Happy to come over and make an adjustment on a leg or two. Do you get me?”

Bruno snaps his fingers, a big stocky hulk of a guy walks up, and I know without a shadow of doubt that this is Mr. Happy. And he doesn’t look a bit happy.

“Of course I understand Bruno,” I say. “No need to worry. This time I know I’ll win.”

Roxanne the dealer shakes her head at me, trying to get me to stop and pay up before I get even more in debt, but I don’t listen. I pay the $50 and play another hand -- and I lose again.

“Well Mr. Farr, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Happy,” Bruno says. “He’s going to take you out back and make sure your mowing days are over, so to speak.”

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I thought you said you were going to mow the yard today,” my wife repeats. “Well, are you or aren’t you?”

It takes every ounce of willpower I have to get up and walk away from the computer – especially since I was so close to winning.

WARNING: Playing computers games like Solitaire, FreeCell and Hearts may seem like wonderful diversions for when there is nothing better to do, but it’s a trap – a trap that will eventually suck the life out of every human being on this planet.

And with that, dear readers, I have nothing more to say.

French fries are unhealthy? So What!

A couple of guys who wrote some books on what to eat and what not to eat (that's right, I said guys), these two guys recently did some research on the three worst French fries you can get at chain restaurants, basing their list on things like fat content, calories and sodium.

SIDEBAR: Can the words "worst" and "French fries" actually be used in the same sentence? Isn't there some English grammar rule that says that's a no-no? (By the way, fat content, calories and sodium are the three things that make French fries great!)

According to these two guys (at least they SAY they're guys), Arby's serves the worst Curly Fries money can buy. They'll cost you 640 calories, have 34 grams of fat, and 1,460 mg of sodium -- and if there was an Arby's nearby, I think I'd go rustle me up an order.

Next are the wedge fries -- my personal favorite.

They say (they being those two quasi-guy writers), they say the worst wedge fries in America are the Bacon Cheddar Wedges from Jack in the Box. Well, I say I doubt very seriously these guys have ever tasted the Bacon Cheddar Wedges from Jack in the Box. I bet they have some kind of machine they plug right into the spuds and it does all the counting for them -- so as not to taint their healthy hearts with something so sinfully "bad."

And now for the Worst Fries in America:

These two girly-men (thanks Mr. Schwarzenegger) say the Worst Fries in America are the Texas Cheese Fries w/Jalapeno Ranch from Chili's. Did you see that? They used "worst" and TEXAS in the same sentence, and I KNOW that's a no-no.

Gentlemen -- if that's what you be -- I appreciate the fact that you've done some mighty fine French Fried research on America's favorite side order, but we really could care less about all those non-healthy numbers. We don't want salad, we could care less about fiber, we don't give a flip about fat, and if an order of Texas Cheese Fries w/Jalapeno Ranch has enough sodium in it to kill a horse -- then don't feed it to a horse.

Luckily, we have a Chili's in town. Can you guess what I'm going to order next time I'm there? Of course you can!

Knots 101: Learning to tie one on the right way!

In my humble opinion, I think our God-Bless American children are not getting the education they need, that we pay for, and that was mandated by the government and we just went along with it because it got those little buggers out of our hair for most of the day so we could go to work and pay taxes that help support education.

And what are they learning? Things like Calculus, Information Technology, Analytical Chemistry, The History of Linguistics and a lot of other high-falutin' courses that may impress you and the horse you rode in on, but it doesn't mean squat when they need to secure a tarp over a truckload of stuff they're bringing home from college.

Our kids need to know how to tie knots!

Okay, your car slid off an icy road. You're stuck in a ditch. A truck comes along but the driver doesn't have a chain to pull you out. Instead, he has rope. You tie one of those "pull my car out of the ditch" knots, and away you go!

Oh, you don't know how to tie one of those knots? You didn't learn that in school? But you do know how to dissect a pig? Well, I'm sure that will get your car out of the ditch!

Our God-Bless American kids need to learn how to tie a bowline. They need to be proficient at tying a sheet bend. And they should be able to tie a clove hitch in their sleep.

And I say, no student should ever be allowed to graduate from high school without a thorough knowledge of Knot Theory: "A branch of topology. It deals with the mathematical analysis of knots, their structure and properties, and with the relationships between different knots. In topology, a knot is a figure consisting of a single loop, abstracted from any physical rope or line, with any number of crossing or "knotted" elements. As such, it has no proper ends, and cannot be undone or untied. Various mathematical techniques are used to classify and distinguish knots. For instance, the Alexander polynomial can be used to distinguish the trefoil knot from the figure-of-eight knot and ..." Wikipedia

Sounds pretty scholarly to me.

Anyways, I needed to tie a knot the other day and I only knew the Granny knot. And since I would never blame myself for being "knot stupid", I put the blame squarely on the shoulders of our education system.

Are you Government Education folk listening?

Knot Theory! Let's teach our kids how to properly tie one on!

We Men Are Complicated

I recently read that women believe a man’s wants and desires can be boiled down to three things – food, a clean house and ...well, you know – sex.

I have no idea why anyone would think all men can be categorized so simply. But being a man, and being a better judge of what men REALLY want, I humbly submit the following rebuttal:

Yes! We want food, but not just any old food you can throw at us. We want Pot Roast, slow cooked all day and smothered in gravy. We want freshly picked green beans, a baked potato with all the trimmings, a cold glass of our favorite beverage, and for dessert, a heaping bowl of homemade apple cobbler with vanilla ice cream on top.

I’m in a cold sweat just thinking about it.

With regards to the house – basically, we men could care less if it’s clean or not. As long as we can get through the door, find the remote, relax in our recliner and watch TV while eating our Pot Roast, we’re more or less happy campers.

And finally, we come to the most misunderstood “want” that a man can want. A want so infused in the male psyche that to deny him of it would be tantamount to ripping out his soul, throwing it to the floor and stomping the ever-loving life out of it. And no, I'm not taking about sex.

I’m talking about the male need to own a 52-inch Plasma HD TV with Dolby High Definition Surround Sound, plugged into a 575-channel cable service that can beam into our home 574 sports channels from around the world, with one channel left over for whatever the wife thinks she needs.

After that, THEN sex.

So, as you can see, men are much more complicated than they appear to be. And next time you read differently, read it with an ounce of skepticism. Why? Because I said so.

I am man, hear me snore.

What the world needs now is a bit more Hoopla!

In the interest of being politically political for politics’ sake, I denounce my association with the Democratic Party, I shun any connection to the Republican Party, and I will not sit and be pandered to by the TEA Party, the Green Party, the Red & Blue Party, or the Tupperware Party.

Instead, I shall endeavor to style my own political party, herewith referred to as the Hoopla Under Farr Party (HUF), and turn it into a new grass-roots movement fashioned upon beliefs, values and principles that I hold near and dear to my heart.

Those beliefs, values and principles include the following:

You've Got To Have a Plan

Saturday is a day of getting things done, of making yourself useful, and of doing what needed to be done on Monday but you were too busy then, so you put it off until Saturday, hoping it wouldn’t rain, but the forecast doesn’t look so good, and now you’re thinking next Saturday might be better.

Yes indeed, there’s no other word in the English language that means “work” more than Saturday (except for maybe the word “work”), but in order to be successful at getting something done, it's very important to develop a routine and stick to it. My Saturday routine consists of waking up early, fixing myself a hug cup of coffee, reading a couple of home improvement magazines to get lawn and garden ideas, then immediately going back to bed and not getting up until lunch time.

When I finally do get up, the first thing I do is create a plan for accomplishing whatever it is I might think about doing for the day. You can’t just go about doing things all willy-nilly, hoping to discover what it is you want to do. No sir! You have to give some actual thought to what you might want to do, then write it down on paper in outline form, making it easy to be followed to the letter.

(Some people write down their plans in an official-looking notebook. I prefer to write mine on the back of old Wal-Mart receipts – because they’re easier to lose).

WARNING: Never develop a plan without having a “Plan B.” If your initial plan does not work like you envisioned, it’s much better to change direction than it is to give up and settle for getting nothing accomplished. Unless, of course, giving up and settling for getting nothing accomplished IS your “Plan B,” then that’s okay.

Come to think of it, I think plans are overrated. Nothing can ruin a good “getting something done” day faster than having to follow a plan. That’s why I believe that once you have your plan all written down, you should throw it away and go outside and wait for inspiration. If nothing happens within five minutes, go back inside, open up the fridge and wait for inspiration there.

Let's Go Camping!

Camping is a time-honored American tradition where families shuck the pressures of modern living, gather together by an open fire to roast hotdogs and S'mores, snuggle up together in weather-worn tents, all in an effort to bring the family together to produce memories that will last a lifetime.

Oprah, unfortunately, has deemed camping as a cheap alternative to going on a REAL vacation -- say to Bermuda or Saks Fifth Avenue. But with the Oprah show going off the air next year, I'm hoping Oprah fans will break free from the shackles of "we need to take a cruise" vacationing, and pull out the old tent and head to a state park to go camping.

You haven't lived until you've pitched a tent, caught a fish or two on a cane pole, gathered sticks for firewood, built a fire to stay warm, and peed in the woods. You haven't lived until you've spent the evening playing dominoes by lantern light, swatting at mosquitoes because someone forgot to pack the insect repellent. You haven't lived until you've been awakened in the middle of the night by a woman screaming bloody murder, only to find out it's really two raccoons trying to get intimate in the woods.

And you haven't lived until the morning sun peeks through your tent window, and you can smell the aroma of coffee brewing and bacon frying in a cast iron skillet.

No, camping is not an alternative vacation. It's a way of life. And you and I both know if we had more money than God, we'd STILL go camping -- and I don't mean in some sissy travel trailer.

Are you ready to Live Without Oprah?

Whadya Mean, Texas Ain't a Happy State?

According to a recent national survey called the Gallup-Healthways Well-Being Index, the happiest God-Bless-American state in the union is Hawaii.

Hawaii -- the land of the big wave, endless days of sunshine, plenty of grass skirts even in the winter time. Oh yes, I can see why it beat last year's winner, Utah.

Utah -- the land of snow resorts, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, mulitple wives. Oh yes, I can see why it came in a close second.

And where did the State of Texas rank in this so-called Well-Being Index? 24th. Right in the middle of the pack.

At first I was at a lost to explain why Texas wasn't ranked a happier state. I mean, in Dallas we've got George Bush; in Amarillo we've got the Big Texan: Home of the FREE 72 oz. steak; and, we can legally pack a sidearm anywhere. We've got rattlesnakes, armadillos, Jack-a-lopes, dust, tornadoes, the Gulf Coast, and piney woods.

Dammit, we've got the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders!

But then I realized, 24th is exactly where Texas should be. Not too happy, not too sad. Middle of the road. Not spoiled, not neglected. Medium-well done, with a baked potato and sweet iced tea. Banana puddin' for desert with a strong cup of black coffee to wash everything down.

Nope, it wouldn't be right for Texas to be too happy! That's just not the Cowboy Way!

Breakfast Cereal Can Make The Man

The kind of cereal a man chooses to eat for breakfast says a lot about his personality, his goals for the future, and his ability to interact with other people.

For instance, a man who sits down and has a bowl of Raisin Bran for breakfast, is a man who believes in the benefits of a healthy diet, staying fit and trim, and treating his fellow human beings with respect. He is a no-nonsense kind of guy, believes in getting "the job" done at any cost, does not dilly-dally around, and probably doesn't even know what "dilly-dally" means.

The Raisin Bran man is a good provider, a man's man, and an excellent catch for any woman.

A man who sits down and has a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast, is a man who likes tradition, takes very few risks, doesn't really worry about the future, and enjoys being with old friends from the past. He doesn't mind taking the road less traveled (just as long as he gets his job done at the end of the day), but is practical enough to know he better take along his GPS.

The Honey Nut Cheerio man has a middle-income job, mows his yard every weekend, and wishes he had a swimming pool like his neighbors.

A man who sits down and has a bowl of Captain Crunch for breakfast, is a man who is comfortable with his inner child. He's not that concerned with his health, his pants are a little bit too tight, but he knows how to talk and act like a pirate, and is a hit with all the neighborhood kids. He's spontaneous, doesn't mind adventure, refuses to wear a watch, and is often late for work.

The Captain Crunch man may or may not have a steady job, he likes to flirt with every pretty lady he meets, and has a reputation around town as being eccentric, but harmless.

I, on the other hand, am a man who prefers to mix Lucky Charms with Frosted Flakes and Fruity Pebbles -- all in the same bowl. I would say I not only embrace my inner child, but I take him out to the playground, play catch with him, and teach him how to burp the alphabet backwards. I am in no way concerned with my health (physical or mental), I believe I will live forever, and my heroes include Larry, Moe, and Curly.

The Lucky Fruity Flake man, as I call myself, has a decent job, hates doing adult chores like mowing the yard or brushing his teeth, and is mostly frowned upon by the adult population for being really weird.

Of course, all of these generalizations concerning man and his breakfast cereal are the opinions of the Lucky Fruity Flake man -- so I'd consider the source if I were you.

Winter 2010 - Here One Day, Gone The Next

The thing I like most about winter is that I look a whole lot skinner when I put on a heavy jacket. No matter how hard you try, you can't hide those love handles during the summer. Unfortunately, in Texas, winter doesn't last for long. So when it comes, you have to take advantage of it the best you can.

Here are some photos I took during the "Texas Blizzard of 2010," which began Thursday morning and was all melted away by Sunday. I hope you enjoy them:

Writing Tips: What To Write About?

What do you mean, you can't find something to write about? Aren't you looking hard enough? Aren't you paying attention? Hold on, maybe you're looking TOO hard. Maybe it's right under your nose and you can't even see it.

"You mean I should write about my mustache?"

Why not? It's there isn't it? So write about it. By the way, it needs a bit of a trim, and I think you have some spaghetti sauce stuck in it.

Ideas are everywhere. You see that UPS driver? The one who just delivered that package to your next door neighbor's house? Looks mighty suspicious to me. Looks like he's casing the joint. Looks like he's not even the regular delivery guy, but an escaped convict who highjacked the truck and is looking for easy access to a house. He'll end up terrorizing the lonely widow who lives there, who doesn't turn him in because he looks like her long-dead husband, Charlie, which really freaks out the UPS imposter-guy, who then decides to make a break for it, head to Wyoming, and start a whole new life as a sheep herder.

Terrible idea. Forget I even mentioned it.

Story ideas are everywhere. Right now, one of my cats is sitting on the arm of the couch, looking right at the TV remote control. Possible idea for a story? Maybe.

Right now, snow is melting in my backyard, messing up my septic system, making both toilets almost impossible to flush. Possible idea for a story? Why not!

Right now, my youngest son is at the local book store, waiting for his girlfriend. He drove two hours to see her. She's eating out with her parents. He wasn't invited. Possible idea? I don't know. That one may be a bit delicate.

What I'm getting at is this: Story ideas are all around you. You just have to be watching for them, waiting for them, ready to pounce on them at a moment's notice. And sometimes, when you've found your idea, and you're right in mid pounce, writing it all down, a Brand Spanking NEW Idea will pop inside your brain, and Holy Cow -- two ideas for the price of one!

See how easy it is?

Now, go find something to write about. And don't come back until you do!

A man can’t be truly happy until he has a truck to work on

Every man worth his weight in motor oil needs to own a broken-down truck that sits in the driveway waiting to be put back together and driven until it falls apart again five miles down the road.

It doesn’t matter if the man actually knows how to repair the truck, it just matters that he has one. A truck like that builds character; it reinforces patience; it makes you understand that there are a million things in this universe that you can do, and a million things you can’t – and there’s no use crying about it!

I, apparently, am worth my weight in motor oil because I own one of those kinds of trucks. And even though I bought it specifically to learn how to fix it up, thus transforming myself into a handyman when it comes to working on engines and tailpipes, it’s still just oily alchemy to me, and I will understand its workings at about the same time I understand women.

There's No Man Like a Snowman!

My daughter built her first snowman yesterday. It was a dapper young gent, complete with scarf and pinecone eyes, a cute little baby-cut carrot nose, and rock-hard abs (she insisted).

I built a snowgal with big boobs, but she turned out to be a little too frigid for me.

It's not every day you get to build a snowman. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I’ve built one. And I’m not talking about one of those pipsqueak snowmen you build on the hood of your car. I’m talking about a World Federation Wrestler-size Snowman—a snowman so big it would laugh in the face of a sunny day, if it could laugh.

When I was younger, my brother and I made a snowman that was so big, a newspaper reporter stopped at our house to take a picture of it. I still have that picture. That snowman stayed in our front yard for weeks. It was too stubborn to melt. I would hate to meet a snowman like that today in some dark alley. I bet it would eat icicles for breakfast and little boys for lunch.

Yes, when God gives you enough snow to build a snowman (or gal), it's just not right to go into work and NOT take advantage of the opportunity. So, early Friday morning, I declared a Snow Day by Executive Decision, and stayed home. With all the reports out there about global warming and the changing of our environment, it was the only decent thing to do.

Speaking of, I read a news report the other day about a certain species of bird that no longer inhabits the southern regions of our country because of “environmental changes” — which in plain English means it's just too darn hot for them. And if it’s too darn hot for those birds, you KNOW one of these days it's going to be too darn hot for snowmen.

And if it’s too hot for snowmen, then it’s too hot for snow angels, snow forts, snowball fights, snow ice cream and yellow snow (which I don’t think anybody will miss). Can you imagine a world without snow angels and snow ice cream? My very first “brain freeze” was due to a bowl of snow ice cream made by my grandmother. The ice cream was delicious. The pain was excruciating.

There are times during the winter months when we get what looks like snow, but it’s really just ice. You can’t make a snowball out of ice. With ice you get slush balls. Throwing a slush ball is like throwing a rock, and it really hurts to get hit by one. You might as well throw a rock and bypass getting cold hands. Snowballs, on the other hand, never really hurt when you get hit by one because they explode into a million snowflakes that drift away with the wind. Slush balls can leave scars.

Building a snowman can teach a person a lot about life. For instance, it’s easier to build a snowman’s body by rolling it downhill, unless you want him to stand at the top of the hill so everybody can see him. Lesson No. 1: If you don’t plan ahead, things can go downhill pretty quick.

Building a Monster Snowman requires heavy lifting. Heavy lifting requires teamwork. Teamwork requires a Team. If you don't have a Team, you might throw out your back. Lesson No. 2: Bend your knees when lifting heavy objects.

A snowman requires stick arms, a carrot nose, charcoal facial features, and a hat. A scarf and pipe would look good, but they’re optional. Lesson No. 3: There are rules for everything, such as “ask before borrowing your dad’s scarf and pipe.”

Snowmen melt. Lesson No. 4: Life is short.

Unfortunately, our children’s children may never learn the lessons my daughter and I have learned by building snowmen (and gals). They may never experience the thrill of creation at the cost of a few frostbitten toes and fingers. To them, snowmen will be creatures of a bygone era, only seen in photographs and artwork.

What a shame.

You should sit around and do absolutely nothing

People like Oprah are always busy, always doing something, always in the middle of whatever's going on because that's what they do -- and to NOT do it would mean the end of civilization as they know it. To them, doing absolutely nothing is a fate worse than death.

Well, I've done absolutely nothing many times, and I kind of like it.

It's not that hard to do absolutely nothing. You just get out of bed, fix yourself a huge cup of coffee (which sounds like you're doing something, but isn't), then find a comfy place to relax (a couch or wing-back chair would do fine) and concentrate! Yes, to do absolutely nothing requires concentration because what you'll WANT to do is think about what you SHOULD be doing -- and we can't have any of that!

You've got to forget about mowing the yard, forget about paying the bills, forget about calling your parents so they'll know you're still alive, and forget about the sorry shape of our economy.

You've got to forget about the company downsizing you right out of your job, forget about that reunion you went to and how good Marylou looks after all these years, and forget about wishing you'd dated HER in high school instead of Imagene (believe me, just forget it right now!)

You've got to forget about digital TV, forget about iPhones, forget Facebook, Twitter, blogging, and about all those other things that drive you absolutely bonkers, but you put up with them because "that's progress."

All you need to do is sit there, forget, and be happy in your nothing-ness. A ham and turkey sandwich with Pepper Jack cheese on wheat, lightly toasted, with the works, couldn't hurt, either.

I bet you didn't know that doing absolutely nothing was hard work. Well, it is. It's not for wimps. But with a little practice and a little self-determination, I know you can do it! And you'll enjoy it.

Now, jump to it! Get in that chair. Raise those feet! Let those eyelids droop! And concentrate!

Are you ready to Live Without Oprah?

Barkeep -- Give Me a Mug of Your Finest Silicon!

I've been feeling a little sluggish lately. I'm not really sure what's wrong, but I can feel it in my bones -- like they're not as strong as they use to be. Squishy, rubbery, just not able to hold me up any longer.

According to a recent study by researchers from the Department of Food Science & Technology at the University of California, it's possible my bones don't feel like they should because I'm not getting my daily recommended allowance of silicon, which I had no idea was supposed to be a part of a healthy diet.

And where do these researchers say I can find all the silicon I'll ever need?

In Beer, of course!

That's it! I haven't been drinking enough beer. In fact, I can't remember the last time I've had one. A week ago? No, it's been a month or two! No wonder my bones feel like they're about to snap into tiny little pieces.

So tonight, for the sake of good health, I'm heading to my local beer store to buy me a six pack of silicon. Longnecks. Serve them up icey cold, for the goodness of my bones.

Silicon makes bones healthy.
Silicon makes bones strong.
Give me a mug of Silicon,
and I'll be happy the whole night long.

Cheers!

I got an award for lying! Honest truth!

Well glory be! Maryann Miller of It's Not All Gravy just awarded me with the “Lesa’s (Bald Faced Liar) “Creative Writer” Blogger Award. No, I'm NOT lying! It's the truth.

I have no idea who Lesa is, I'm not sure if being a "bald faced liar" is something I want to let on about, and labeling myself as a "creative writer" seems a bit pompous in my opinion -- but I do accept this award in the name of my long-departed Aunt Edna from El Paso. She isn't dead yet, but she long departed my house last week after what was supposed to be a two-day visit that stretched into three months. She could have long-departed sooner, but she's old and cranky and said she was staying until she FELT like going.

Now, there are some rules and regulations for this award, but the most important of the rules is that the recipient (Hey, that be me!), the recipient has to tell at least six outrageous lies about themselves and at least one outrageous truth. And then, you, the reader, must decide which is which, and what is what, and what isn't supposed to be or was, but might not be, or vice-a versa -- if you know what I mean!

I'm not very good at this "creative writing" (lying) business, but I'll give it a go:

1. I was born into a rich white family, who longed to see me grow up, graduate from college, earn my masters and join in "The Family Business." Feeling that my life was meant for better things than pin-striped suits, money-lending, extremely high interest rates, and broken legs for those who didn't pay on time, I decided to play the harmonica in a rhythm and blues band, and have been on tour ever since.

2. My older sister, the one with the crooked tooth, which she got when I accidentally threw a Coke bottle at her because she made me mad (can't remember why, but it doesn't matter, at least to me), my sister, because of her tooth, was too embarrassed by her looks to ever date, ever get married, ever have kids (that I know of) and now she's secretly blackmailing me, threatening to tell our parents that I was the one who threw the bottle, not Little "Jim-Boy" Nooley from down the street, who "secretly" disappeared one night, and was never found. Our "family" was suspected, but never charged.

3. Growing up in "the neighborhood," everybody knew that my grandmother was a stripper. I was teased by other kids about it, until their noses ran into my fists, but still it was hard to live with the fact that my grandmother, instead of staying at home to bake cookies for Christmas, was out dancing for drunken businessmen, who were stuffing $10s and $20s down her...oh, it's just too gross to think of. The only good thing is that she always gave us money for Christmas. Most of the time it smelled like sweat and beer.

4. I can't stand Brussel Sprouts.

5. I can't stand Brussel Sprouts because when I was 10, I dared my younger brother to stuff as many Brussel Sprouts in his mouth as he could, keep them in his mouth for one minute without spitting them out, and if he could do it, I'd let him ride my new 10-speed bike. Well, he stuffed 37 of those little buggers in his pie-hole, held them in there for 32 seconds, and then barfed them up all over my father's new billard table. And guess who had to clean it all up? That's right -- me! I haven't looked at a Brussel Sprout since.

6. I lost my virginity to the neighbor's dog when I was 12. I had no idea what all that humping was about, but he looked like he was enjoying himself, and I felt loved. Okay, I'm lying. I'm actually still a virgin.

7. I've always wondered why my parents named me Tracy, and even though I've asked my parents why, they've never explained it. So, here's my theory about the matter: When I was born, my parents, before they joined "The Family Business," were deep in debt and couldn't pay what they owed in a timely manner. My cousin Sal, the "loan agent" who lent them the money, said they had two choices: either lose a couple of fingers, or name their first born something totally ridiculous. And there you have it.

And there YOU have it. Which ones are the lies, which ones are the truth, leave me a comment, and maybe I'll tell you.

Again, thanks Maryann for this award. I am honored!

A Truck, Some Hay, and a Chance Encounter

I almost sold my truck this weekend. It kind of has a few problems, like a gas leak, an oil leak, a grinding transmission, an intermittent taillight problem, sadistic windshield wipers, a dead alternator, and it drinks gas like a wino drinks wine! Other than that, it's not a bad truck.

But I didn't sell it, and here's why:

I put two bales of hay and a bag of goat feed in the back (got to take care of them goats, don't ya know), and then headed off to a gas station to put another $30 in the tank. As I was stopped at the pumps, an elderly gentleman asked me where I got the hay. He said it looked like good hay. And that he used to buy hay like that when he had his sheep, but he recently sold the sheep to his brother-in-law, and now he was looking for some goats.

Goats! Pygmy Goats! Just like I have.

So we talked goats for awhile, and then sheep, and then the hay again, and then back to goats.

After my tank was full and wallet empty, I got back into the truck, thought that had been a really nice out-of-the-blue encounter, and realized that if I'd been in a car, we never would have met. I wouldn't have had the hay. He wouldn't have asked about it. And we wouldn't have talked about goats and sheep.

So I decided to keep the truck. Besides, you can't haul hay on the back of a motorcycle!

Thanks kind sir, whoever you are! Maybe we'll meet again some day!

And Now, The Almost Live Super Bowl Twitter Fest Recap!

Okay, so I didn't watch the Super Bowl. But, that doesn't mean I didn't have a good time on Super Bowl Sunday! I fixed some hamburgers, washed the dishes, fed the goats, drank a Rootbeer, and then broadcasted a totally made-up version of the Super Bowl on Twitter, calling it my "Almost Live Super Bowl Tweet Fest." My wife thought I was crazy, but she didn't complain too much, seeing that I DID fix dinner and wash dishes.

Anyways, here's what went on during the Tweet Fest. It's a little long, but I've got the space!
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In honor of Super Bowl Sunday, I will now have a Super Bowl of French Vanilla Ice Cream with Choc. Syrup, and eat it with my Super Spoon!

I might do a Live Super Bowl Tweeting event, even though I'm not watching it. I'll just make it up. So, when's the game?

Alright! Let's get this game started! I'm all pumped up! Bring on the GOOD commercials!

What a great game so far. Can't believe the reception! Can't see a thing, but that ain't gonna stop me!

Saints have the ball. And they should, being America's team and all, and...Holy Goat Poop! C'mon guys!

Now THAT's what I'm talking about. I have no idea what I'm talking about, but that's it! What a Super Bowl!

We aren’t ‘Lost’ without television, but we might be

My family and I have spent the last seven months, 26 days and 13 hours without watching television – not that we’re counting. It wasn’t exactly our idea to go TV-less for all that time, but when the government says pack up your antenna and “get thee out,” there’s nothing much you can do about it.

Almost eight months ago, digital killed the analog star, leaving several million people – including us – without a signal. Oh, we tried to make The Big Switch with converter boxes and new antennas, but nothing worked. When our local television station turned off its analog signal at exactly 9 a.m. on June 12, 2009, all we got was 13 inches of snow that wasn’t even worth skiing on.

I don’t remember much about the day, except it was a Friday, the television was on, and I was pacing the floor while everybody else was sitting on the couch. I glanced at my watch. Only 10 minutes left until bye-bye TV. For some reason, my little girl screamed with excitement. I looked up to see what the commotion was all about. ABC was broadcasting a Jonas Brothers’ concert.

Before I had time to take off my shoe and throw it at the set, the signal was gone. And now, for time without end, the image of the Jo-Bros is forever seared to my retinas as the last thing I ever saw in analog. Please have pity on me.

Eat WHAT you want, WHEN you want!

Who says breakfast should only be eaten in the morning? Why can't we eat our dessert before we eat the "good stuff?" Where in the Rulebook does it say, "Thou shalt not eat Pumpkin Pie for Supper"? I'll tell you where -- Nowhere! Somebody just made this stuff up years ago and we've been stuck with it ever since. But it hasn't always been that way.

A million years ago when Krag the Caveman was sucking on mastadon bones, his wife didn't walk up to him and say, "You shouldn't be eating that because it'll ruin your dinner" -- which in caveman talk means, "Ugh, balla balla, grunta-nono cuz scrag-a-boomagerl chi wacka-wacka." Nosirree, she probably yanked the bone out of her no-good cavehusband's hand, beat him with it for not sharing, and chowed down with Abandon (the caveman next door, who she thought looked mighty cro-magnum in a loin cloth, but had a funny name).

So how did we get so far off track when it comes to eating what we want, when we want? Well, I hate to admit it, but it probably has nothing to do with Oprah. In fact, I'm quite sure she is an advocate of you and me eating whatever we want, whenever we want it. But, if not her -- who? Is it just one of those mysteries that may never be solved?

Who cares! Fix yourself a bowl of ice cream tomorrow for breakfast and eat it with Gusto (Abandon's good-looking sister). And if you're still afraid the "Rules Brigade" will come knocking at your door, sprinkle some Frosted Flakes on top, and I guarantee you'll have nothing to worry about.

Are you ready to Live Without Oprah?

Rain, Rain, Go Away!

This is to inform you that I've put in a work order concerning the rain problem we seem to be having, and I suggest that if the matter is not looked into in a timely manner, we form an ad hoc committee to address the issue with the All-Powers That Be as soon as possible.

Personally, my complaints concern: (1) access to my humble abode, which is currently surrounded by water, and (2) the use of "the facilities," which really means the NON use of "the facilities."

In reference to "access" -- I would be better able to access my humble abode if given some kind of floating apparatus that is large enough to comfortably transport a family of five. I'm not suggesting something as grandiose as an Ark, but a U.S. Marine Corps Advanced Amphibious Assault Vehicle (AAAV), might just fit the bill.

In reference to "the facilities" -- Because my humble abode sits on an acre out in the country, I do not have access to the public sewage utilities. Instead, I must use the tried-and-true septic tank system, which truly works well in dry weather, but I just tried it a few minutes ago (I needed to go after drinking two cups of coffee) and all functionality is at a standstill. Therefore, I have just raised our Alert Level to "Def-Con One."

Def-Con One: All personnel must adhere to the "Pee-Little Principle" until further notice. Number Two is off limits except for emergency situations. Chemical Warfare Gear is advised until Flushing is reinstated.

Personnel not adhereing to Def-Con One face persecution under the Uniform Code of My Justice, with possibility of monetary fine, jail time and reduction in rank.

"To be an asset to your community and country, avoid Dishonorable Discharges."

How To Become A Writer In 5 Easy Steps

I had a thought the other day. It wasn't a very big one, but I did have one. And the thought was this: People always say they want to be writers -- write columns, essays, books that make them richer than Bill Gates -- but they get bogged down in the day-to-day chore of living and never actually do anything about it.

Maybe they (and I'm really talking to YOU), maybe YOU think it takes up too much time, and there's not enough time in the day to get started. Maybe you think ideas come from heaven, and heaven seems to be closed whenever you go looking for an idea. Or maybe you just need my "How To Become A Writer In 5 Easy Steps" essay to jumpstart a surge of creativity within you that will get you started and last a lifetime.

Well, here it is -- my "How To Become A Writer In 5 Easy Steps" essay. I hope it works for you!

1. Get An Idea. Inspiration doesn't come from heaven. It comes from your backyard. It comes from your overflowing toilet. It comes from the leftovers in the back of the refrigerator that look like they're about to start breathing. It comes from Wal-Mart. It comes from dirty dishes. It comes from work. It comes from your children. It comes from someone else's children. It comes from everywhere. If you can't find an idea, then you're just not paying attention.

2. Choose Your Weapon. Want to write with pad and pencil? That's your choice. Want to write on a computer? Go for it. Want to write on a napkin at your favorite bar, the one where you always complain to the bartender how you want to be a writer, but you can't find the time, and then get miserably drunk and pass out on the floor? It's up to you. Just make a choice and stick with it.

3. Sit Your Butt Down And Begin. This may be a little confusing, so let me break it down for you: Sit! Sit Down! Sit Down On Your Butt! Once You're On Your Butt, Begin! Begin is another word for Start. Does that make it any clearer? It doesn't matter if you have five hours or five minutes, Just Begin.

4. Revise Everything Until It's Not Crap. Everything you write down first is C-R-A-P! Nothing comes out great the first time. That's why you Edit. Revise. Copy. Paste. Destroy. Give Mouth to Mouth. Slap. Jab. Throw Down. Pick Up. Edit again. Realise it's still C-R-A-P and start all over. Keep doing that until it's NOT C-R-A-P! How will you know when it's not crap? I don't know. I'm still working on that part.

5. Let Someone Read It. People say all the time that they only want to write for themselves, for their own enjoyment. Well, that's a bunch of goat poop. People write stuff because they want people to read it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime. So, when you're finished writing what it is you've written, let someone read it. And then...

Find yourself another idea! Choose your weapon. Sit your butt down and begin. Revise everything until it's not crap. Let someone read it. Then Start All Over Again!

If you can do all that -- whether you become famous or not -- then you can proudly call yourself a writer.

Congratulations! And you thought you couldn't do it!

Lessons I've Learned From My Brother

Today is my brother’s birthday. His name is Scott. We grew up together in the suburbs of Dallas, and like most brothers, we didn't always see eye to eye – actually, we’ve NEVER seen eye to eye because he’s quite a bit taller than me. But that’s neither here nor there. We didn’t get along and it was mostly my fault. I didn’t realize it then, but I do now.

My brother and I, although raised by the same parents, are as different as night and day. I went to college, and he got a job. He joined the Army, and I enlisted in the Air Force. He plays the drums, I play the banjo. He knows how to fix a car and make it run like new. I know that if I step on the little pedal thing, it will go.

A Robotic Groundhog? I think PETA may just be on to something!

I love Groundhog Day. Just the thought of a gazillion people waiting to see a furry little marmot make predictions about winter -- which will determine whether or not it's time to pack away the parkas and get out the swim trunks -- absolutely sends tingles up and down my spine. Not only that, but Punxsutawney Phil has his own website! And if that doesn't make you want to head down to your local pet store and order a groundhog for yourself, I don't know what does!

Anyways, Happy Groundhog Day, and let's hope the little bugger predicts a short winter! But, that's not the reason I called this meeting. I REALLY want to talk about PETA's proposal to do away with "Real Phil" and replace him "Robot Phil."

At first I thought the idea from PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) was just a joke -- a gag, a yarn, a tall tale, something to give their group a share of Phil's spotlight. But the more I thought about it, the more I decided that.....

THEY MAY JUST HAVE AN AWESOME IDEA ON THEIR HANDS!

Just imagine it:  Disney makes an animatronic Punxsutawney Phil lookalike -- a twin, a duplicate, a mirror image of the original -- and programs him to come out of his hole, wave at the crowd, moonwalk up to a groundhog-level microphone, strike a John Travolta "Saturday Night Fever" pose, then proclaim his wintery prediction based on satellite images and weather patterns from the NOAA's National Weather Service. He could do it in eight different languages. He could be pre-programmed to sound like Alvin the Chipmunk or Eddie Murphy. He could blow kisses to the crowd.

Not only that, but a robotic groundhog would no longer be relegated to appear just one day out of the year. He could come out on New Years and sing "Auld Lang Syne." He could wear a Santa outfit for Christmas and sing "Jingle Bells." Put him in a pair of groundhog-size swimtrunks and he could proclaim the beginning of Spring Break and sing "California Girls" or "Surfin' USA."

The possibilities are endless.

So I say, let's don't outright poopoo the idea from the good folks of PETA. Let's think about it. Let's put together a focus group to study it. Let's gather up a committee of top professionals who'll bat the idea across a round table, and one day author a white paper on the matter and present it to the rest of us for our consideration. Let's give the thought all the merit it's worth.

Until then, I'm going to have a cup of coffee and watch the Gobbler's Knob Groundhog Day Festivities Webcast. How about you?

A School Bus Driver's Nightmare

Today, or tomorrow, when you're late for work and you get stuck behind one of those big, yellow school buses, don't get angry, don't be upset, don't slam your hand against the steering wheel and let leap from your mouth curses for which your grandmother would slap you.

Just remember this: It could be a lot worse. YOU could be the one driving the bus!