An open letter to the Class of 2010!

Dear graduating seniors:

It seems like only yesterday that you were sucking your thumbs, eating mashed peas, and laughing at your parents for making “I think I’m going to pass out” faces while changing your warm but very disgusting poopy diapers.

Well, those “it’s a wonder we survived years” are long gone, and now it’s time for you to head out into the big blue world to fix all the things that we didn’t have time to fix, that we couldn’t fix because we weren’t part of the “No Child Left Behind” regime like you are, which probably made the difference.

So, since you’re going to be out there setting the world on fire, I have a list of 10 items I’d like you to consider fixing before I die. They are as follows:

1. Make it illegal for anyone to jazz up “The Star Spangled Banner,” and you know what I mean. No warbling, no crooning, no endless arpeggios on a single note until we feel like we’re about to pass out, and no starting in one key and changing to a different key when the notes start to get a little high. Our National Anthem should only be sung by a war-hardened U.S. Marine tenor who wouldn’t dare think of warbling or emitting emotions.

2. Change our National Anthem to something that is easier to sing and understand. I vote for “God Bless America,” or “This Land is Your Land.” They have catchy tunes, they’re easy to remember, and they never use the word “o’er.”

3. Please, oh please, make Peanut M&Ms an important part of our daily-recommended diet.

4. Declare the banjo Our National Instrument. Banjos promote goodwill, laughter, and a chance to experience the good old days before “reality TV” and Ryan Seacrest. I dare say that if everyone had a banjo in their home, children would listen to their parents, parents would always make the “right” decisions, bosses would put up suggestion boxes and actually read what their workers suggested, governments would place the need for banjo strings above the need for nuclear weapons, and the world would spin just a wee bit easier, bringing melody and harmony to the universe.

5. If anyone suggests that the banjo is a sub-par instrument, played only by hicks who don’t know the difference between good music and the sounds of a cow being turned into ground beef, I say those people should disappear to a government secret prison and not be allowed to return until some guard named Bruno “The Enforcer” has a chance to reconfigure their attitudes.

6. Design a hands-free telephone receiver that fits all the way up a person’s ear canal so the rest of us don’t have to see those stupid devices attached to the outside of a person’s ear, which makes them look like Robby the Robot.

7. Ban all uses of fossil fuels. Not only will that clean up our planet, but it will also rid us of polyester – an added bonus.

8. Hurry up and develop the Star Trek Replicator so we can have anything we want without working for it. While you’re at it, develop the Star Trek Transporter so we can go anywhere we want without having to sit for eight hours in coach behind a fussy baby whose parents are desensitized to the smell of poopy diapers.

9. Be an advocate of a four-day workweek so we can finally get rid of those “Monday Morning Blues.” Of course, we’ll then have “Tuesday Morning Blues,” so we might as well go with a three-day workweek. Nobody would dare have “Wednesday Morning Blues,” and if they did, we’d label them a communist – for old time’s sake.

10. Adults must successfully care for a herd of goats before having children. Pass “The Goat Test” and you’re prepared for anything a child will throw up at you.

So, graduating seniors, it’s your time, it’s your world to do with as you see fit, and I know you will do what’s right and make us all proud. If, on the other hand, accomplishing all 10 of these items is too ambitious, we’ll chalk it up to the fact that you came from a school that just “taught the test” and you slept right through it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Class of 2010!

I'm With The Band -- #6

Big Bertha

Saddle Sore 1,000 -- T-Minus 13 Days!

It's not long now before I ride the Iron Butt Association's Saddle Sore 1,000, so it's best I come up with a checklist and make sure I have everything I need.

1. Motorcycle -- check!
2. Route -- check!
3. Brains -- I say check, but my father says "Not enough."
4. Bottle of Tylenol -- will buy before leaving.
5. Camera -- will borrow from family member.
6. Chain inspected -- oops, I guess I'll put the bike in the shop on Tuesday. Would hate to break a chain somewhere out in the boonies!
7. Renew Honda Rider membership -- will do that online next week. Would hate to break a chain somewhere out in the boonies and be stranded because I'm no longer a member of "The Club."
8. Saddle -- Gosh, sure would like to get it reupholstered before I go because it's embarrassing to have a cracked seat.
9. Leather jacket -- check!
10. Chaps -- nope, but maybe I can find some online at http://www.shopgoodwill.com/.

Oh, man! There's still a lot more I need to do before I go on this ride. Better move my butt before I can't!

Is that a cow I see in my backyard?

Sometime this summer I'm going to bring home a calf, which is technically a baby cow, but if I were to mention to the family that I was bringing home a cow, the "you-know-what" would hit the fan, with me holding it.

So, I am NOT going to bring home a cow. I'm going to bring home a cute, little, helpless, baby calf that I'll bottle feed until it's bigger, and he will be oh so cute, with his big, brown sad-looking puppy-dog eyes and everybody will love him!

You see, I know how to "work the system" because that's what I did when I brought home the goats. Everybody groans if you bring home nasty, ugly grown-up goats. But bring home little baby goats that nobody can resist, and you're a hero! So that's why I'm bringing home a calf and NOT a cow.

I'm going to put him in a pen, feed him, water him, watch him grow, maybe walk him around the yard so he can eat the grass the goats refuse to eat -- and then in nine months I'm going to make room for him in the freezer!

"These steaks are sooooo yummy!," I'll say to my family. "It's hard to believe it came from a calf we raised ourselves. It's great to be self-sufficient, don't you think?"

More than likely, their response will be something between disgust and becoming vegetarian.

It doesn't matter. I've thought it through. I've got plenty of people to guide me along the way to cow (I mean calf) ownership, and when I set my mind to doing something, I pert near do it, sometimes!

NOTE TO SELF: If I actually do bring home a calf, don't let family members name it anything but "Stew" or "Hmmm Hmmm Good!" I don't think anybody would enjoy chewing on a bite of Harvey The Moo Cow, no matter how much A-1 they put on him.

Women are from Bloomingdales, Men are from Sears

It doesn’t take a government-funded study to tell us that men and women are different. A blind man could tell. But just in case you’re not blind and you need proof, let’s examine the one place in every house where the differences are the most obvious – the bathroom.

(For argument’s sake, we’ll assume men and women have their own bathrooms, and neither one goes into the other’s. Granted, that’s totally unrealistic, but so is this story.)

First off, a woman’s bathroom is always so darn cheerful and bright. Why? Because they make sure all their light bulbs are working. Entering a guy’s bathroom is like entering a cave a mile underground. If one light bulb is working, then why bother with the others?

The next difference has to do with smell. A woman’s bathroom smells fresh and soothing, with the fragrance of potpourri and vanilla waltzing together inside a person’s nasal passages. Guys, on the other hand, forbid dancing inside their honkers. That’s why a man’s bathroom smells like Old Spice on a dead cow.

Let’s now move to the bathroom counter, a useful surface where women place a thousand bottles of lotion, face cream, and fingernail polish, all within easy reach. The bottles look a jumble, but they each have their own unique place in the universe, and to move even one would jeopardize life (generally a man’s) as we know it. In contrast, the only items found on a man’s countertop are a tube of toothpaste, deodorant and a comb. A man’s needs are simple, and being simple-minded is proof enough of our differences.

What’s underneath the sink? Well, in a woman’s bathroom there are cleaners, brushes, and detergents – things to make the bathroom sparkle like new, with nary a trace of germs or grime. Under a guy’s sink is nothing but a Sears Mastercraft Adjustable Wrench, a plunger, and a phonebook. The plunger for unstopping nasty clogs, the wrench to take apart pipes that refuse to be unclogged, and the phonebook for calling a plumber – just in case – to put everything back together again.

Next, hanging from the towel rack in a woman’s bathroom are face towels, hand towels, hair towels, body towels, and maybe even feet towels – most of them frilly and pink, with flowers. And how many towels are on a guy’s towel rack? Two. One commemorative Dallas Cowboy 1994 Super Bowl Championship Towel, the other a NASCAR Dale Earnhardt, Rest In Peace, Memorial Towel. Any more than two towels is just not guy-ish.

Toilet paper is the next big difference between the sexes. Women actually keep their toilet paper on the toilet paper holder, ready to be used in a moment’s notice. Toilet paper in a guy’s bathroom is either on the floor or in some other part of the house. (WARNING: When using a guy’s bathroom, it’s best to first find the TP before it’s actually needed.)

In regards to laundry: Not one article of dirty clothing will ever be found on the floor of a woman’s bathroom. They’ll be gently tossed in the dirty clothes hamper, waiting patiently to be washed. But in a guy’s bathroom, dirty clothes are all over the floor. In fact, they ARE the floor. These clothes, too, are waiting to be washed, but their patience is wearing thin.

And finally, everybody knows that the bathroom, for both men and women, is one of the best reading spots in the house. But what’s available to read makes it clear whose bathroom you’re in.

Magazines in a woman’s bathroom are neatly stacked in a wicker basket and contain the newest editions of Cosmopolitan, Woman’s Day and Redbook. The magazines are arranged in alphabetical order, by size, and not one page is bent or dog-eared.

The magazines in a guy’s bathroom are scattered all over the floor and are about fishing, NASCAR, plumbing and hunting. Some of the magazines don’t have covers. Some have been in the same spot for years. And if you want to see a prime example of a man’s ability to multi-task, just watch him sitting on the toilet while reading an article about field dressing a deer. (On second thought, let’s don’t.)

And with that lovely mental picture in mind, I now leave you to ponder the differences between the sexes on your own. May you make wonderfully fantastic discoveries, and may you live long enough to tell about it.

Writing Tips: Let Someone Read What You've Written

The final step to becoming a writer is to let someone read what you've written. Sounds simple, doesn't it? But it's not!

After you've spent weeks, months or even years on your story (I limit myself to an hour, and I'm sure it's quite noticeable), the hardest thing you, the writer, can do is hand over what you think is a masterpiece to someone who may or may not like it, may or may not give you honest constructive criticism, and may or may not still be your friend depending upon what they have to say about your story.

"Well, I think your opening really caught my attention, especially the part where the bad guy is chasing the good guy on a John Deere tractor through a hay meadow, looking to turn the good guy into goat feed, but I really think the second page was, how should I say it...it really sucked, and it kept sucking from that page to the end!"

Yes, indeed, we hope for good reviews, but way back in the back of our minds (and for most of us, way up front in the front of our minds) we fear that nobody will like our story, which means they don't like us, which means we are total failures, which means we ain't going to be buying a Rolls anytime soon...

...but we keep writing anyways because writing is not about money, fancy cars, dining with fancy stars, rubbing elbows with the most georgous women in the world because now we have access, which leads to Letterman, Leno, and Oprah, and before you know it we're under a lot of pressure to come up with a blockbuster second novel, but we can't figure out what it's going to be about, and now we have no more paychecks coming in, we've bought so much crap that we need a storage shed to store everything, especially since we defaulted on our home loan, and now we're living from day to day under some overpass, hoping that "lighting" will strike again before we get run over by a semi!

Nosirree! Writing is about writing, and if you don't have the balls to let someone read what you've written without getting all teary-eyed and suicidal, then you might as well stick to watching television and reading trashy novels from authors who DIDN'T give up!

So, it's up to you. Write, let someone read it, write some more, and continue until you're done. And how will you know when you're done?

Try poking with a fork. If the juices run clear, you're done!

Life without "Lost"

This is not going to be a funny story. Neither will it be slightly humorous. It's going to be depressing with a whole lot of shouting, fighting, killing, deception, quite a few "sonofabitches" thrown in, but in the end there will be redemption, and people will talk about it for years to come.

"Lost" is dead.

Son of a bitch!

So, what do I do now?

I can't remember what my life was like before "Lost." I mean, I know I had one, but it must not have been worth talking about or I would have remembered more of it. Of course, every now and then I have flashes of my previous life -- it may be even possible that these flashes are images of what my life COULD have been like if I'd never watched "Lost" -- but it doesn't make much sense.

I'm a Lostee. I used to be a Trekee. I liked Star Wars but nobody ever called themselves Star Warees, but I'm definitely a Lostee. And now the show's over, and I have even more questions than I do answers, which means I'm going to be thinking about this show and its impact on our society for years to come.

Son of a bitch! It's really over.

I don't get broadcast television. No cable, no satellite, no digital converter boxes -- nothing. But after investing five years in "Lost," I couldn't dare miss the last season and the final episode. So, the family and I packed up some chips and salsa (plus a whole lot of other snacks) and headed to the nearest hotel.

We watched every second of the two-hour pre-show and then the show itself.

Son of a bitch and pass the chips.

And when the show was over and Jack closed his eye, we knew that the end had come.

And now we have to let go! Have to let go of wondering at the end of every episode what exactly the episode meant; have to let go of the constant theorizing about every detail; have to let go to the fact that we'll never see Kate practically naked again (and for the ladies, Sawyer without his shirt) -- yes, friends and neighbors, we just have to let go.

Or do we?

I have the first five seasons of "Lost" on DVD. You can bet your fat Hurley's ass that when Season 6 comes out I'm going to buy that one, too. And then?

Son of a bitch, I'm going to watch that show all over again. I might just watch one episode a week. Make it last for another six years!

Holy Cow! I'm a Lostee, bad!

And here's a note to anyone in the television business: If you were to make more shows like "Lost" -- intelligent shows that make you wonder about life, make you question who you are and what you want, shows that are not dumbed down for the audience -- If you were to make shows like that, I'd get satellite, cable, or whatever else I need and sit my butt on a couch and soak it all in.

But you won't -- so I won't. "Lost" was a one-of-a-kind show, and it will be missed!

Son of a bitch!

I hereby challenge you to a round of music

When I was little, I was forced to take three years of piano lessons. I hated those lessons. I would rather have had worms stuffed up my nose. Of course, now I wish I’d never stopped taking those lessons.

When I was little, I loved all kinds of sports. I played basketball, football, baseball, and soccer. To not be able to play sports would have been like taking away my ability to pee standing up. Now I play the banjo and a few other instruments. Sometimes I play the didgeridoo, but mostly to make people laugh.

When I was little, I hated my elementary music teacher. She was mean, old, and ugly. I hated every moment I spent in her class, but she taught me a lot about teaching music – or should I say, how NOT to teach music.

It’s funny how life can throw you a loop. Today, I enjoy playing music. I’m not great at it, but the wonderful thing about music is that you don’t have to be great at it in order to enjoy it.

I'm With The Band -- #5

"The Know-It-All"

Saddle Sore 1,000 -- T-minus 22 Days

I probably should do a little more "working out" before I tackle my first long-distance motorcycle endurance ride, but seeing that I'll be sitting all the time, does it really make a difference?

I may not be totally prepared for the distance, but I know my Honda Shadow will be.

I bought my motorcycle during the summer of 2004 and I currently have almost 59,000 miles on it. Every time I take it in for maintenance, the Honda guys are just dumbfounded that I could actually put that many miles on a bike in so little amount of time.

Whereas most bikers you see out on the road are just fair-weather riders, I ride my bike constantly. Rain, shine, hot summers, cold winters. To me, my bike is my transportation, and I don't let it sit in the driveway for long amounts of time.

For the Saddle Sore 1,000, I'll be taking very few things along. Some food to snack on, several bottles of cold water, and a bottle of aspirin. Oh, and maps. I'd hate to get lost.

Other than that, I'll be taking along a journal to write down my mileage, a ziplock bag to store my receipts, and a camera to record anything I might want to take a photo of -- maybe the state signs as I enter each state.

I've told a few people about my little one-day adventure, and several of them blabbed that I was out of my mind. One specifically said, "You're crazy."

Well, I believe the crazy ones are the ones who sit on their couches and naysay those who go out looking for adventure. The sole purpose of these naysayers is to make you see the "error of your ways" so you'll stay on the couch, too.

I see these people as sad, frustrated individuals who would go on adventures if they didn't have to miss "The Wheel of Fortune," but they can't, so they don't.

I don't listen to those people. I listen to my butt, and my butt says, "Get off me and go do something worthwhile. You wanna be a big lazy ass for the rest of your life?

So, me and my butt (excuse me, my butt and I) are heading down the road in a week or two. You can tag along on Twitter if you like. Or not. I'd hate to interrupt your "Wheel" watching.

My first blog-ish post

I can't believe I'm about to do this. I vowed I would NEVER do what I'm about to do, but there's nothing I can do about it because there's nothing else I CAN do.

This is going to be a "blog" post. No story, just a lot of blabbering, pathetic emotions that won't do you or me any good at all, but it's the only thing I can do because:

Thursday I had an accident.

Okay, so in my spare time, when I'm not writing these little stories, I'm a teacher who also drives a school bus. Bus No. 6. Got to keep a paycheck coming in so I can feed the family. It's my day job. It's the job I would love to get away from so I can implement my "Evil Plan."

My Evil Plan? Write, maybe draw cartoons, eat ice cream and get paid for it; I don't know -- just something else.

Anyways, so I was driving my bus Thursday morning-- it was fully loaded with kids and we were heading to school -- when a car made a left-hand turn right in front of me. The car was a Lexus. It's now a dead Lexus.

When all was said and done, everybody was alright and the world kept spinning. But, school policy states I have to take a drug test. You know, pee in the cup. So, I went to the nurse's office to "give a sample," but there was no sample in my body to give. That's when I drank a big bottle of water, to "prime the pump," if you know what I mean.

Just as I was sipping the last drops of water from the bottle and about to pee in that cup, the transportation director came into the room and said I couldn't give a sample "on site." I had to go to a third party, which meant I had to go to a clinic that provided DOT drug testing.

To make this pathetic post shorter, we eventually found a clinic that could administer the test, got to miss a day of work, had a great lunch, but missed the tornado.

I've always wanted to see a tornado. While I was at the clinic (which was an hour away from the school), a big storm blew through, complete with tornadoes, and I missed it all. My best chance to see one and I'm off in another town peeing in a cup where it's nice and sunny.

Oh, wait a minute, I forgot to add some emotions to this post. Ok, here goes:

Happiness -- all the kids were okay; Sadness -- that was a nice-looking Lexus; Fear -- that my bladder was going to explode before I gave my sample because I drank a whole lot of water; Anger -- for missing the tornado; Depression -- because I have to go back to driving Bus No. 24 which is as slow as Christmas; and Thankfulness -- that it wasn't my fault, because that would really suck!

Okay, I'm done.

Do our tax dollars help maintain Rick Perry's hair?

Shhhh. Don't read this too loud. I'm laying low today.

I recently wrote some stories about Texas Governor Rick Perry and now I think I'm being followed by some black SUVs with tinted windows. I'm not saying the two are related, but....

And to make matters worse, I'm about to write something about Mr. Perry's hair. BUT, I'm going to type softly, because, like I said, I'm laying low for awhile.

Rick Perry is 60 years old. Sixty-year-old men are supposed to be bald or balding. Rick Perry is NOT bald or balding -- THEREFORE, he must be lying about his age OR that's not his hair.

In this day and age of Wikipedia, it is virtually impossible to lie about your age when you're a public figure. I could lie about MY age all day long and nobody would care or even TRY to investigate it. But Rick Perry IS a public figure, and if Wikipedia (the fount of all knowledge) says he was born in 1950, then dad-blasted he was born in 1950. So, that only leaves one alternative...

That is NOT Rick Perry's hair. (1+1=2)

So, now we must ask ourselves: 1) Who does that hair really belong to; 2) how much do Texas tax payers (including me) pay to keep our governor's hair free and flowing; and 3) where does he shop because that's a darn good-looking rug!

Governor Rick Perry's bathrooms are bigger than my house

Of course I'm just guessing that Rick Perry's three bathrooms are bigger than my 1,500 square foot home, but I bet I'd be pretty darn close.

Here are some facts I'm absolutely sure of:

You could fit four houses just like mine into his 6,400 square foot home -- with plenty of room to spare.

His $10,000 a month rent would pay off my house in three months.

I could buy 2,200 goats for the same amount he pays in yearly lawn maintenance expenses ($44,000).

Mr. Perry was charged $1,000 for an "emergency repair" of his filtered ice machine. I have five plastic ice trays that never need repairing.

His $8,400 yearly maintenance bill on his heated swimming pool is more than I pay in yearly grocery bills ($6,000).

Rick Perry's mansion has five bedrooms, seven bathrooms, and houses just him and his wife. I have a three-bedroom home with two bathrooms that houses two adults and three children.

Perry has cable. I have Netflix.

The sad thing is that I, through my taxes, pay for Governor Rick Perry to stay in his rental while the Governor's Mansion is being repaired. I, on the other hand, live in the only house I've ever owned and I can't afford to repair my roof.

I guess it's fair. He's the governor and I'm just a bus driver.

God Bless Texas.

Banjo Strings

Some people don't understand the allure of the banjo. It has a way of grabbing you, making you want to take it places and show it off to your friends. But those friends don't understand because they don't play banjo. They just don't get it.

If everybody played banjo, this world would be a much better place. And the only thing we'd worry about is when to buy our next set of:

Banjo Strings
Based on Summer Breeze by Seals and Crofts. (sing along with the video at the bottom)

See my truck all scattered on the driveway,
In the evening on a Friday night.
I stop awhile to sing and play my banjo,
And I know everything is alright.

Banjo strings, make me feel fine,
Strummin' with the jazzmen in my mind.
Banjo strings, make me feel fine,
Strummin' with the jazzmen in my mind.

See the engine lying on the sidewalk
A little helpin' from the guy next door.
So he walks right up to my banjo
I can tell that he really does adore,

Banjo strings, make me feel fine,
Strummin' with the jazzmen in my mind.
Banjo strings, make me feel fine,
Strummin' with the jazzmen in my mind.

Sweet days of summer, my truck just won't go,
Banjo's all tuned up, and ready to go,
And I come home, from a hard day's work
And it's waiting there, not a care in the world.

Play a tune and singin' in the kitchen
Good feelings playing jazz or maybe blues.
Feel the strings as they start to vibrate,
In the evening when the day is through.

Banjo strings, make me feel fine,
Strummin' with the jazzmen in my mind.
Banjo strings, make me feel fine,
Strummin' with the jazzmen in my mind.

All this drama deserves a musical

I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think I’m going to write a musical about the recent bombing attempt in New York City. I’m talking songs, dancing, skimpy costumes, a chorus line, and I’ll call it, “The Broadway Bomber – A Musical.”

Now, just thinking out loud, the orchestra will start off playing something Middle Eastern. Militaristic, but exotic. It’s disturbing because we hear snippets of American songs – like “Yankee Doodle,” and “Born to be Wild” – until right before the curtain rises, when the orchestra plays “The Star Spangled Banner.”

(Kind of a cheesy way to get the audience up on their feet, but it’ll work.)

I'm With The Band -- #4

"Alien Music"

Saddle Sore 1,000 - T-minus 29 Days

Okay, I've finally decided which Saddle Sore 1,000 route I'm going to take.

I thought about going south to Corpus Christi, head over to Galveston to eat a sandwich at Captain Jack's on the beach, and then head back north to home. Then I thought I'd go out toward Marfa and El Paso, ride through west Texas, spend the night, then head home the next day if my heart and butt would allow.

But, I've decided on an even more thrilling ride!

I'm going to head southeast to Shreveport, then east to Jackson, Mississippi. From there, I'm going to head north to Memphis, Tennessee, hook a left and ride to Little Rock, Arkansas, then northwest to Fort Smith. Finally, I'll cross into Oklahoma, head toward Paris, Texas via Hugo, then another 78 miles straight to the house, a hot bath and a soft bed.

Total No. of Miles: 1,057
Total No. of Gas Fillups: 11
Total States Traveled through: 6
Total Bottles of Tylenol: 1, if I'm lucky.

And that's the plan. Make sure to follow along as I make regular status updates on Twitter.

The life and times of your friendly neighborhood Wolf Spider

It is with great pleasure that I hereby present to you my scientific treatise on the roaming habits, reproductive cycle and life span of a North American Wolf Spider (Rabidosa rabida) that was living behind my bookshelf last Tuesday – until it met its untimely demise.

According to Wikipedia (the only website discriminating scientists choose to trust), Wolf Spiders wander from place to place, all alone, preferring not to keep a permanent home due to the high cost of upkeep as well as the possibility of foreclosure. Some build burrows complete with trap doors, but those are the across-town “rich” cousins who can send all 800 of their offspring to private school without blinking any of their eight eyes.

Wolf Spiders are said to be “robust and agile hunters,” preferring to roam in pastures and fields, pouncing on harmful insects, eating them piece by piece, and just making a party out of the whole shebang.

I have no qualms about them being out in those fields eating little nasty insects. They are doing a job we Americans (and even illegal aliens) wouldn’t stoop to do – and I say, “God bless them, each and every one.”

But a scientific treatise is no place for quoting Tiny Tim. So let’s continue.

J-Walk reviews "Never Trust a Goat"

Holy Cow! Somebody other than my mother actually downloaded my "Never Trust a Goat" e-book and read enough of it to actually write a review!

And the reviewer? None other than John Walkenbach of The J-Walk Blog!

Okay, so let's cut to the chase and see what J-Walk thought of my little book:

"Just a bunch of humorous essays. I got it because a few of the essays mention banjo. But, as it turns out, he plays a 4-string banjo. I'm pretty sure I could write a book like this."

Plus, out of Five Stars, he gave me a Three! I mean, that's like a "C+" -- just enough to pass the class and not have to go to summer school! Hot Diggedy!

So, how about I review the review? I mean, just in case you're not used to reading reviews it might be best for me to point out some "between the lines" sort of stuff. Okay, here we go:

"Just a bunch of humorous essays."  First off, the word "just" implies that something "unremarkable" is about to happen, and when associated with "a bunch," that means there's going to be a lot of it! And what kind of essays are there going to be a lot of? Unremarkable but HUMOROUS essays! Score one for ME!

Next: "I got it because a few of the essays mention banjo." And indeed they do! The title of the e-book was just the title of the first essay -- you know, to grab a person's attention to make them want to at least THINK about downloading the book. The book is not totally about goats! But to find that out, you've got to read ALL of the book's description before you download it -- which obviously Mr. Walkenbach did! And since he found something that might interest him -- the possibility of there being banjo stories -- he downloaded it! Score TWO for me!

Let's continue: "But, as it turns out, he plays a 4-string banjo." Oh well, I knew it had to happen someday. You mention you play the banjo and people automatically assume it's the five-string type. A bluegrass banjo. I guess I could have made that a little clearer (I play the four-string banjo, which is used in jazz and Dixieland), but I didn't. I guess one of these days I'm going to have to learn how to play the five-string so as to not disappoint the masses. Score one for J-Walk.

And finally: "I'm pretty sure I could write a book like this." Well, of course you could. I just threw some stories together, wrapped them up in an e-book cover, and just put it out there. Anybody could do it! Of course, I just thought my mother would be the only person to read it, but I was wrong. Even SHE hasn't read it. Score TWO for J-Walk.

To sum up my review of J-Walk's review, I think he hit the nail right on the head. The book IS unremarkable. Anybody could write one just like it. There's really no excuse to even have something like that offered on the internet. I mean, it's no Thurber; it's no Benchley; and it's no Barry. It's Farr, and that in itself speaks volumes!

Anyways, thank you J-Walk for taking the time to at least look at the book. I am sincerely appreciative. I promise that my next book will be super-duper remarkable -- or in the trash!

Rogue Satellite Might Crash Internet

High above the planet Earth, a communications satellite is adrift which could wreak havoc with the Internet. Of course, sources "in the know" or not actually saying it could disrupt the web, but what they're NOT saying is just as important as what they ARE saying.

The satellite, Galaxy 15, which is owned and operated by a communications company called Intelsat, went "silent" when a possible solar flare knocked out its systems. This happened in April -- a full month ago. Why the delay in telling us? Why are they just now saying there could be problems? Why are they singling out cable TV as the only thing that will be affected and not including the Department of Defense or the Internet?

It's because they don't want us to know the truth.

If  a satellite can careen across space and disrupt MTV and Fox, then it surely has the power to shut down the Internet, and we all know what that means -- no email, no Facebook, no Twitter, no YouTube, no Google, no iJustine, no...

What? No iJustine? Holy Cow! Without iJustine, there's no reason to have the internet at all. In fact, the whole planet is DOOMED! Did you hear me? I said DOOMED!

 We might as well pack up our toys and go home -- or maybe to Mars.



iJustine invented the Internet. She is the sole reason I even care about it!

"Never Trust a Goat"

Monday was an auspicious day for my e-book "Never Trust a Goat." No, it wasn't picked up by a New York publisher; no, it's not going to be made into a movie; no, Mattel isn't going to make goat action figures based on it.

On Monday, somebody downloaded "Never Trust a Goat", bringing my total to a whopping 200 downloads.

I know, big deal. But it IS a big deal for me because that means I successfully conned 200 people to download the e-book -- or maybe just one person downloaded it 200 times (thanks Mom).

And who cares if it was free -- it has been downloaded 200 times and that means....

Holy Cow. That means absolutely nothing.

Okay, for my e-book to mean something -- even if it's just a little something -- I think I've earned the right to charge for it. Not much. Just 99 cents. And then if 200 more people decide to download (or Mom 200 times), then maybe I can buy my goats some better goat feed.

So, how's about it? Want to spend a buck for "Never Trust a Goat'? It sure would make my goats happy.

I think there’s a critter in my yard

The other day I saw a wild hog at the end of my driveway. A wild hog – in my neighborhood. By golly, you won’t see one of THOSE in the big city.

All they have in the big city are squirrels. But they’re not real squirrels; they’re more like sissified urban squirrels that aren’t scared of men carrying big shotguns, because men in the big city don’t carry shotguns – they carry briefcases.

City squirrels come right up to you, begging for a handout, not knowing that their country cousins taste great in stew. It’s a good thing, too, because if they did, they’d probably mount some kind of demonstration, complete with little squirrel placards and signs, in an effort to save their country brethren.

I'm With The Band -- #3

"It's A Trombone Thing"

Saddle Sore 1,000 - T-minus 36 Days

I'm counting down the days, the minutes are flying by fast, and before you know it, I'll be attempting something that few people even dare to think about -- I'll be heading out on my motorcycle to ride a thousand miles in under 24 hours.

I'll be participating in The Saddle Sore 1,000 -- a motorcycle endurance ride sponsored by The Iron Butt Association.

My friends and neighbors think I'm crazy to even think about doing it, but I shall attempt it, and whatever comes will come and...

Wait a minute!

I'm not just going to ATTEMPT the ride, I'm going to DO IT!

Yessirree! Think positive; best foot forward; a thousand miles in a day is child's play; a monkey could do it; I could probably do it blindfold, but that's stupid and dangerous -- but I could.

So what if I'm never able to feel my butt again; so what if I'm never able to lift my arms to take another drink again; so what if every bug on the planet will be splattered across my faceshield (I wear a helmet. I ain't completely stupid); so what if every biker babe in Texas wants my name, number and Twitter ID!

Holy cow! This could be fun!

Could be? No, it IS going to be fun. And don't deny that you're jealous.

(BTW -- it's www.twitter.com/tracyfarr)

Cleaning up the Gulf -- the simple way!

When a pesky, little problem arises, it is just human nature to want to solve it, fix it, or repair it in the most inexpensive way possible. And if we can't repair it, just throw it in the trash and start all over again.

Break a pencil, throw it in the trash. Simple.

Car won't start, haul it to a mechanic, have HIM fix it. Simple.

An oil rig blows up, spewing gallons of petroleum into the Gulf -- well, not so simple.

Unfortunately, it's also human nature to want to fix massive problems in the most elaborate and expensive ways we can imagine. At least, that's the thinking of the guys and gals at British Petroleum.

But they're wrong!

Here, with my infinite knowledge of oil and drilling (which amounts to absolutely zero, nada, zilch), here are my two solutions for cleaning up the Gulf, and an idea for making sure it never happens again:

1.  To clean up all the oil, why not use an industrial-strength Shop-Vac. I mean, it works in garages, so why not in the Gulf? Suck up the oil, spew it into the hold of some oil tanker, then separate the oil from the water -- and viola! Problem all solved.

2.  To clean up all the oil that's just sitting on top of the water waiting to make landfall, why not use sponges? Maybe like one massive one. Soak all the oil up at one time, wring it out into an oil tanker, separate the oil from the water -- and Tada! Problem all solved.

And now for a sure-fire way for this to never happen again.

Turn all petroleum-consuming devices into electrical ones (electric cars, trains, planes, boats); go back to bottling everything in glass (and letting us make 5 to 10 cents on their return); and immediately stop the manufacture of polyester (from now on we wear nothing but cotton or buckskin)  -- and Shazam! Problem is solved!

That's what I'd do, yessiree!

But of course, I'm not in charge. I'm just a banjo player!

Writing Tips: Revise Everything Until It's Not Crap

Let's be honest -- you are not Ernest Hemingway, I am not Charles Dickens, and your next door neighbor is not Stephen King (unless your next door neighbor IS Stephen King, then good for you!). Of course, we all dream that our names will one day be mentioned in the same breath as these masters, but it won't happen unless we do the one thing they all did (or doing -- sorry Mr. King):

Revise, Revise, Revise.

Everything you first write down 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, realize it's still C-R-A-P and start all over again. And you keep doing that until it's NOT C-R-A-P!

Do you think the great writers of our time just sit down at their computers and type heavenly-blessed stories without revising the crap out of them? Heavens no! And if you think you can, then someone needs to knock the crap out of YOU until you get it through your thick skull that you can't.

As writers, we revise, revise, revise; edit, edit and then re-edit. We change this, we rearrange that, we try the third paragraph in a different spot or delete it all together. And if we're lucky, some editor will accept our story and only ask us to revise just a LITTLE bit more crap out of it.

Revision is the name of the game, and if you're not willing to do that, your game will end long before the opening kickoff.

And how will you know when your story's not C-R-A-P?

I don't know. I'm still working on that part.

Don't worry -- it's just an oil spill

I love the words spill and leak.

Spill and leak are words that can have a variety of different meanings, depending on what you’re talking about or who you’re talking to.

For instance, if I accidentally hit my coffee mug, sending coffee flying across my desk, I’ll say, “I wasn’t watching what I was doing, I hit the mug with my elbow, and spilled it all over the place. Don’t worry about it, I’ll have it wiped up in a jiffy.”

Spill – a small word that implies there’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a little annoyance.

The word leak is another small word that I might use when it rains and the skylight doesn’t keep out all the moisture. If you walk through my kitchen and see water on the floor, I’ll say, “Yep, I’ve got a leak in my skylight. One of these days I’ll get up there and fix it. For now, we just wipe it up.”

Leak – a small word that again implies there’s nothing to worry about, it’s just a little annoyance.

Of course, spill and leak are also good to use if you’re trying to downplay the fact that you’ve made a huge error in judgment, one which will affect the lives of millions of people, kill countless numbers of wildlife, and ruin the natural balance of a fragile ecosystem for years to come.

For instance, if an oil platform were to blow up in the Gulf of Mexico and start hemorrhaging millions of gallons of oil into the ocean, you might say, “We weren't watching what we were doing, we lost the platform, thus causing an oil leak. But don’t worry – we’ll have the spill wiped up in a jiffy.”

You would never in your right mind use words like gush, flood, torrent, flow, surge, eruption, spew, or vomit to describe a pesky little spill or an irritating little leak. It would just give “the wrong impression.”

Spill and leak – small words that imply there’s nothing to worry about, everything will be O.K.

I don't know about you, but I'm thinking it’s time for a change in vocabulary.

You Ain't Been Blue

Oh, how I wish I could have pizza delivered to my house. How nice it would be to just call, wait 30 minutes, pay the delivery person (maybe even give a tip), and then sit down and enjoy.

But...

We live too far out in the "wilderness" for pizza to be delivered.

You Ain't Been Blue
Sung to the music of Mood Indigo by Duke Ellington


You ain't been blue; Oh, no, no.
Until you've,
Ordered pizza and they won't deliver it.
Because you live so far away, like I do.
You ain't been blue; Oh, no, no


All I want is a pizza supreme,
Maybe with some extra cheese.
But they won't deliver to me,
Even if I'm down on my knees, begging pretty please.
I'm just so hungry I think I might die,
And all I want is a hot pizza pie,
But no, they refuse; Oh, no, no

Sometimes you just need to call in sick

Last Friday, I called in to work sick. The sad thing is I really was.

I’m a firm believer that sometimes you have to get out of the office, grab a fishing pole and head out to the nearest lake under the pretense that you’re just not feeling well. And the sudden “24-hour flu” is a lot easier to explain than the need to do something spontaneous.

But to have to take a day off because you actually feel like your head’s about to explode – well, it’s just a waste of a perfectly good sick day, if you ask me.

I'm With The Band -- #2

"Flute conversation"

Saddle Sore 1,000 - T-minus 43 Days

I'm counting down the days until I attempt the Saddle Sore 1,000, and wondering how many hours it will take after I finish the motorcycle ride before I'll be able to feel my butt again.

Not that I go around feeling it, mind ya', but....well, you know what I'm talking about.

A thousand miles in 24 hours is a daunting task, and if I'm not in shape for it, it could be a very painful task. So, to make sure that I'll be fit enough to finish, I have put together an exercise regime that includes pushups, sit-ups, walking, jogging, eating right, maybe some deep-knee bends and some weight lifting.

I'm not sure when I'll actually put this "regime" into action, but I've put it on my list of things to do, and that's saying a lot -- at least for me.

CLARIFICATION: I will not be jogging with a pistol in my pants just in case I run into some vicious creature that just so happens to look in my direction. I'll leave that to Rick Perry, star of "The Shooting of Wily Coyote."

Let’s continue…

I also haven't decided which route to take. I'm either going to ride toward San Antonio, down to Corpus Christi and over to Galveston -- where I'll stop and have a sandwich and Pina Colada at Captain Jack's tiki bar on the beach -- and then finish off the ride well before midnight.

Or....

Head down to San Antonio, out to Marfa and then on to El Paso -- where I could spend a night in an old friend's garage (because my snoring would just be too much for sleeping inside with polite company who let me crash for the night), and then head out the next morning to Ft. Worth, giving me 1,500 miles in less than two days -- making me the happy recipient of a Burns Burner 1,500 certificate. If I make it.

Anyways, that's a lot of decisions to make, but I WILL make them.

Maybe tomorrow.