Bad Taste And Poor judgment At Christmastime

I just love this time of year. Thanksgiving and its over abundance of food and family has given way to the main event . . . it's Christmastime baby! At no other time are our good sense and coping skills more pummeled with so much, by so many than during these next few chaotic weeks . . . What fun! Why is it that only during the Christmas season are we invited to buy the incredible "Chi, Chi, Chi, Chia" Pet? The makers of this holiday gift staple would have you believe that Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without a lovable Chia Pet under the tree. Have you ever known anyone who has received or given this sod-covered brick. I don't? Surprisingly Chialand is now populated with a Scooby Chia, Garfield Chia, and the Tweedy Chia, in addition to the Original and a menagerie of wild and domesticated Chias. And, when it comes to gifts available only at Walgreen, CVS or Big Lots, let's not forget the ever-popular "Clap On, Clap Off, Clap On, The Clapper". I have got to get one of those. Television commercials from Time Life Music and K-tel are running latenights on little-watched, yet affordable, UHF and cable stations hawking their latest compilations of holiday classics. What music collection would be complete without "The Chipmunks Christmas Song", "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer", the canine version of "Jingle Bells", and "White Christmas" by Grand Funk Tabernacle Choir? Classic commercials from Christmas past make their way back to the airways during this time of year much like the ghost who visited Ebenezer Scrooge. I wonder . . . when will Folger's Coffee retire the holiday homecoming commercial featuring Peter greeted by his young sister as he sneaks home from college on Christmas morning? That little girl must be in her mid-twenties by now, but the sappy spot still makes us smile and buy coffee just like it did in the 1980s. Throughout December we'll be entertained in theaters by such soon-to-be holiday classics as a live action "Fat Albert" and "Blade Trinity", the third installment in the comic-based series about a kick-butt, Black vampire slayer. If I'm lucky there will be a holiday dance sequence in the film to the tune "Deck the halls with boughs of garlic". TBS or Turner Movie Classics will no doubt run my favorites, "Christmas Story", "A Muppet Christmas Carol", and "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation", in tandem with that 1964 groaner, "Santa Claus Conquers the Martians". After all, it is tradition . . . just like the bizarre gifts, outrageous music and dated commercials that make this holiday season unlike any other time of the year . . . Oh thank Heaven for poor taste and bad judgment at Christmastime.

Even For A Turkey Like Me

Thanksgiving is just one day away, but because of some family scheduling issues our brood will be celebrating the holiday on Wednesday this year. There will be the expected Norman Rockwell moments. For example, my father-in-law carving the turkey while sheilded in a 60s style embroidered and ruffled apron courtesy of Memo, the eightysomething matriarch of the family. After lunch the youngsters will play football in the yard, while the oldsters watch football on TV. Some folks will sit and talk for hours, and others will nod off in assorted chairs and couches succumbing to the effects of L-tryptophan-laced turkey. As in most larger families there is a hierarchy or pecking order to the table where you sit for the holiday meal. The larger table in the dining room is for the senior women. The table in the breakfast nook is primarily for the senior men. Card tables are spread throughout the living room and den for the various couples with kids of their own and the 'tween teens. 'Tween teens are those in that Twilight Zone who aren't quite grown up, but are too cool sit with the kids. The bar with its high stools at the kitchen are for any stragglers or Johnny-come-latelies who don't fit the profile for one of the aforementioned seating assignments. The grandchildren and other younger guests dine alfresco on the patio and come inside only when refilling their plates. Sometimes I think that they are the smart ones. For us there are two constant traditions at Thanksgiving. The first is holding hands in a giant ring around the family room while my father-in-law blesses the meal then adds a special prayer for my Army chaplain brother-in-law and his family based at West Point, New York. That in itself is much to be thankful for given the military alternatives today. The second tradition is the opportunity to speak out and say what each of us is truly thankful for. Though I rarely contribute to this verbal ritual, topping my list is a wife who surprisingly continues to put up with me and situations around her that would have a lesser woman in a straight-jacket and on meds. I have good kids, more than five folks I can call friend, a real job with benefits and writing assignments on the side, the Krystal and of course . . . my pickup truck Ruby. Life is good and there is much to be thankful for this year. Even for a turkey like me.

Like Homecoming But Without The Zits

I did something today that I haven't done in more than 30-years. I helped to construct an old fashioned, "hey gang, let's put on a play" do-it-yourself parade float. The last time I worked on such a rolling work of art was homecoming my senior year in high school. It was a marvel. We were playing the Gordon High School Generals, and my assignment, along with friends Chuck Antonie and Mike Williamson, was to design and build a seven-foot tall replica of the "General", as if walking to his death at the blade of an amazingly realistic guillotine. The figure looked somewhat like a stately scarecrow in full military attire, with an ostrich plume on his hat. Oh what we could do with two-by-fours, chicken wire, papier mache, and tempera paint. I don't remember if we won or lost the game, or if our entry took an award, but I clearly remember the fun that we had working on that project. That same feeling returned tonight in a stone and timber country barn as a much older group of friends worked to turn a flat-bed trailer covered in wood, fabric, zip ties and imagination into another rolling work of art like so many years ago. Most of us are gray or midway there. It took two to lift what one of us could have easily toted just a few years ago. Some showed up a bit late or had to leave a bit early because of scheduling conflicts. But, despite the little inconveniences, changes in design, and lots of improvisation, the thing took shape nicely and will be a work worth applauding at the annual holiday parade this Saturday. It may not be the most professional entry on Main Street, but I'll wager few other teams had more fun tonight working on their float than we did. It was almost like homecoming but without the zits.

Long Live Rock And Roll

Is nothing sacred anymore? Groups across this great nation, with their own ultra-liberal, change-for-the-sake-of-change agendas, regularly attack everything red, white and blue that we hold dear. From religion and what constitutes a marriage, to how much mercury-laced red fish we're allowed to eat from the Gulf of Mexico, these pseudo pundits are apparently now intent on pushing their ill-conceived ideologies on my home town of Houston, Texas. Yesterday morning broadcast radio behemoth Clear Channel Radio attacked and utterly vaporized one of the pillars of our great democracy; the freedom to ROCK! Legendary Houston rock station KLOL-FM was replaced by something called Mega 101 FM - Latino and Proud! Puhleeeeze . . . Is this the second time that the music died? Maybe a new verse should be added to Don McLean's epic tune, American Pie. After 34-years as Houston's raucous Rock Authority, KLOL has been dumped for a format labeled "Spanglish Top 40", a mixture of Spanish hip-hop, reggaeton and pop/dance targeting young Latinos between 18 and 34. What about us Boomers who still need a regular Aerosmith fix and our daily dose of ZZ Top and Led Zeppelin along with the Accupril and Zocor? The genre is good enough for Cadillac in its commercials, so why not for Clear Channel? If you're going to dump a station, dump the one that plays polka accordion music from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. and then changes to Vietnamese call-in/talk from 3 to midnight. Not the station that has rocked a generation. Long live Rock and Roll!

Changes I Don't Get

The older I get, the more things seem to change around me. I realize that some change is inevitable. But, many of these changes sneaked up on me without warning, or else I was too preoccupied with other issues to take notice. My kids growing up and starting out on their own, I get. But, when did my mustache turn completely gray? Where did this hair in my ears come from? It was never there before! And, what's with stray, wiry, extra long eye brows? You never see a thirtysomething guy with hairy ears and a salt and pepper fuzzy caterpillar unibrow above his eyes, so why me at my age? I am also having a tough time accepting this shift in body mass as it seems to continually settle around my waist and belly. I can't help it if I never kicked the Little Debbie Oatmeal Pie habit that began between games at Midway ball park when I was a kid. I blame the pusher moms in the concession stand who probably knew the long term effects of an oatmeal pie addiction, but were more concerned with making a buck for the League. At least back then I didn't have a gray mustache, hair growing in my ears or weird eyebrows. Personal issues aside, I have to ask, who's brilliant idea was it to combine three traditional holidays into one giant, mega holiday season. It's like I went to sleep last night and woke up to find that it was Hallogivingistmas and I hadn't even started my gift shopping! Halloween merchandise was in stores in late August. By early October it was 50 percent off and the shelf space was being filled with Beany Baby turkeys, Pilgrim candles and cornucopias of fake fall leaves and mini pumpkins. Then before the last Trick-or-Treater had left my doorstep, 10-foot tall inflatable Santas were on sale and store owners were decking the halls with boughs of holly. This has to stop before it really gets out of control. What's next? Poncho Cotton Tail delivering jalapenos to kiddies at Cinco de Easter? So, until the world comes to its senses and puts the holiday calendar back the way it was, have a Merry Hallogivingistmas and a Happy Newalentines Day.

My Granddaddy Was King

I love my pickup truck. There. I said it. I love my pickup truck. It wasn't too long ago that I would never have considered owning the official vehicle of Texas, but in an uncharacteristic fit of Lone Star patriotism, I did it. I gave in to temptation the way that so many others do here. Today is the first birthday of my candy apple red Ford Ranger with its extended cab, flared sides, sprayed-in bedliner, big old tires and shiny chrome wheels. Her name is . . . Ruby. I fell in love with Ruby one joyous afternoon in November of 2003. Oh, how she stood out from the rest of the Rangers and her bigger F-150, F-250 and F-350 siblings. As if saying "Take me home with you. Take me home now," she flirted shamelessly, metal flakes sparkling in the bright sunlight. Though relatively petite in size by Texas standards, this little pickup was just what I had been looking for. Her smooth, nostalgic lines and flared sides reminded me of a smaller version of the truck that my Granddaddy Owens had driven for so many years. He'd pick me up after school, and after tossing my "grip" into the cab, he'd help me climb in to sit beside him on that big bench seat for the trip to his place way out in the "country". Bouncing along back roads in that dusty old truck was much more of an adventure than riding in our family's Ford Fairlane or the Rambler to Crook's Foodtown. It allowed me the opportunity to look down on the world from a totally different perspective . . . the perspective of a little kid riding in a big truck. I was King of the road. Well, more like Prince of the road. Because when we were in that truck, my granddaddy was King.

God Bless Texas

There is nothing quite like a good, old-fashioned Texas chili cook-off. Aside from Mardi Gras, with all its flash and debauchery, where else can you eat and drink to excess, watch an impromptu female belching contest, and carry on an intelligent conversation with a guy wearing a ten gallon hat with a stuffed duck on top and wrapped in a "Hillary in '08 My Ass!" apron? The spectacle is sensory to the extreme. There are wannabe cowgirls in their tight Wranglers and Tony Lama boots strolling the grounds in search of a free, no-strings attached Bud or Shiner Bock. All are filled to the brim with more howdies, hons, and darlin's than the law should permit, but golly-gosh-darn it's fun to be a part of the goin's on. A cook team captain is part wizard, part chef and total master of his domain within the boundaries marked off by a 100-foot-long string of Houston Texans/Miller Lite pennants. Within those confines can be anything from a simple propane stove and lawn chair, to a fully loaded replica of a western-style covered wagon with painted canvas and replete with all the fixins for gallons of beanless chili. That's right . . . no beans in Texas chili pardner! When it comes to judging chili, there is one rule to live by . . . never, never, never judge any round of competition below finals. This bit of wisdom was passed on to me by an old codger who rode the trail for many years before passing away on the range while driving a herd of cattle to Fort Worth some years back. . . . . Not really. The first time I judged an early round of chili it almost killed me and I spent days popping Pepto-Bismol like candy. You never know what's in those homemade recipes, so it's best to let others take the bullet for you when possible. They say if you're gonna play in Texas, you gotta have a fiddle in the band, but the pickers on-stage this afternoon were mighty fine without one. I heard about why all of George's exes live in Texas, then the next minute REO Speedwagon would keep on rollin' all the way to Sweet Home Alabama and on to Luckenbach, Texas with Willie, Waylon and the boys. It was a spicy musical mishmash to rival the ingredients in any award winning chili pot. I've lived in Houston for almost half my life and consider myself a Texan. I'm one of those transplants who proudly proclaim, "I wasn't born in Texas. I just got here as fast as I could." This big old Republic has a lot to offer, but I have to admit that it's the quirky, off-the-wall circumstances I find here, like those of a down home Texas chili cook-off, that regularly remind me why I stayed. God bless Texas! www.baxwrtr.com

Kay Pack Never Knew That I Existed

Tonight while checking email and listening to boomerradio.com, a block of songs played that sparked hippy-dippy memories from Atlanta's WQXI and WPLO, and the profanity filled underground newspaper from the 60s, The Great Speckled Bird. To use a far out term from my teen days, I had a flashback. Trust me. It wasn't a delayed reaction to some postage stamp laced with a chemical known only by its initials, or from licking a South American frog. Geek that I was, I never even tried an herbal brownie back then. This flashback was entirely musically motivated and brought with it vivid images of maroon and white high school letter jackets, Christie Anderson, monster movies at the Glenwood Drive-in, and McDonald's fries. Each reflection led to another in a series of experiences almost 40-years old. The fallout shelter in Jeannine Lawrence's basement, Slurpees at 7-Eleven, and freaking out when Debbie Bailey kissed me on the cheek. Those tunes from my own Wonder Years helped to shape me . . . in fact, shape a whole generation. Faceless on-air personalities such as Tony "The Tiger" Taylor and "Skinny" Bobby Harper guided us through a difficult time of social change and the passage from adolescence to young adulthood. Their word was near-gospel and their G-rated humor made me laugh at myself and the world around me, despite the fact that the Beatles' Abbey Road album proved that Paul was dead and that Kay Pack never knew that I existed. www.baxwrtr.com

The Lack Of Votes Tomorrow

It's the morning after and it looks as if "Four More Years" is no longer a slogan, but a mandate. Voter turnout was at an all time high nationwide. People stood in line for hours at schools, fire houses, churches and other voting locations because of the importance of the issues and the positions up for grabs. But who were actually standing in those lines? I saw several television network polls throughout the night analyzing voter demographics, and they were pretty consistent. From the conservative Fox News to the more liberal NBC, the numbers showed that well over 55 percent of those voting in this election were 45-years and older. I had noticed that myself while standing in line to early vote last week. So, where were the young voters? There was a major push to get first-time voters registered and to the polls by both Democrats and Republicans. Even the clout of MTV and celebs such as Sean "P Diddy" Combs couldn't pull the trigger. According to the polls only 17 percent of those casting a ballot yesterday were young registered voters . . . the same number as in the 2000 election. I know the voting age kids in my family didn't make the effort. It just didn't interest them. They were too busy. Something else came up. So I have to ask, what will interest and motivate them enough to participate in the democratic process that has guided this nation for more than 200-years? This is the generation that howled when online music provider Napster was nailed by the government and they lost their free music downloads from the Internet. Yet these young people can't find the time to help select the leaders of this great nation and help chart its future. Time is running out on the generations that decided this election. Baby boomers are getting older and many of their parents will soon be casting their final ballots. Only time will tell if the selections made yesterday were good ones, but it's the lack of votes tomorrow that worries me.

Oh Happy Day!

It's the day before what could be the most important election of our time, yet for a moment the entire world was made right today with the opening of Houston's first Krystal restaurant. There was no full eclipse of the moon as in St. Louis last week when the Red Sox took the Cardinals in four, but cosmic forces must have been at work to bring so much pleasure to so many this morning on FM 1960 West. In a state of totally unplanned goofiness, I got up this morning before 6 a.m. and drove to the Mecca of ground meat with its glowing red and yellow "K" sign as a beacon. There along side three strangers I stood in a downpour of pseudo-biblical proportions as lightning and thunder filled the sky. It was then through the recently Windexed windows that we caught our first glimpse of the elusive, most sought after, Krystal cheese burger. Never before seen in Houston, Texas, the Krystal cheese burger was so close, yet still so far. But we knew that by mid-morning it would be ours. Much like the wait to early vote last week, the line grew and we talked about all things. We discussed issues from politics and the state of Trick-or-Treating in our country, to our various occupations and of course, Krystal love stories. Some in line were Houston natives having only heard the myth of the little square burger. Some had eaten Krystal when traveling across the Southeast, while others had grown up with them as a regular part of the food pyramid. My favorite was the lady from Chattanooga who complained that some Halloween vandal had stolen the Kerry/Edwards campaign sign from her yard . . . the same sign that she had stolen from the polling place herself early last week. There was one from Memphis, several were from Atlanta, another from Austin, and a few White Castle outcasts from Chicago and New Jersey. But, no matter where they had been raised they were all right here, right now to share in this historic moment. The time passed quickly and at 10 o'clock the doors were opened. By now there were more than 100 in line and a drive-thru that backed out into the six-lane Farm to Market road. As the first dozen of us passed the smartly dressed regional manager we were thanked for being "Fantastic Krystal Fans" and each handed a card entitling us to 12 burgers every week for the next 52 weeks! I felt like Christmas Story's Ralphie when his Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring came in the mail. I reverently approached the pristine counter and placed my order for cheese burgers with a young blonde cashier who was determined to make this the best fast food experience of my life. It was. In fact it was so good that I was back an hour later with a good friend for lunch to do it all over again. Oh, Happy Day! www.baxwrtr.com