It Was A Good Night To Be A Texan

To the chagrin of liberals living within the confines of the 610 loop, last night more than 10,000 conservative Houstonians chose a Constitutional pep rally over Monday Night Football and the fifth game of the 2009 World Series. There was a Tea

Party at Sam Houston Race Park. Some carried posters denouncing Congressional leadership and pending legislation, some carried American flags that had been removed from sticks and poles, while others carried campaign placards for candidates in today’s election.

Blue collar Texans stood shoulder-to-shoulder with those wearing suits that cost as much as a house note. The full moon shown down on patriots of all colors, nationalities and religions as they joined together to protest a dysfunctional Federal government.

As the crowd continued to swell there were prayers of hope asking for direction, flag waving and an incredibly good jazz rendition of the Star Spangled Banner by event emcee, Joe “Pags” Pagliarulo – conservative talk show host on KPRC, the 950. Apostle Claver’s speech, proclaiming that from this day on we will not compromise in our beliefs, was delivered in an almost tent revival style, prompting the occasional shouts of “hallelujah”.

There were the expected catcalls at the mention of Barack Obama. An even louder outburst of displeasure echoed throughout the show grounds when Nancy Pelosi was added to the mix. But, the loudest reverberating blast came when Claver called out Texas Congresswoman . . . Sheila… Jackson… Lee. I don’t think that Congresswoman Jackson-Lee is well liked in these parts.

Others on the program spoke about freedom, the right to own firearms, the need for change and a return to the principles of our founding fathers and the Constitution of the United States of America.

It was a good night for those in Houston who still believe in individual rights and small government. It was a good night to see that you are not alone in your conservative beliefs. And, it was a good night to be a Texan.

They Live - In DC

John Carpenter’s “They Live” is an interesting Sci-Fi film.

Released in 1988, “They Live” chronicles a time where the American middle class is being reduced to poverty and the gap between the Haves and Have-nots is greater than ever before.

In Carpenter’s tale, the downturn of America’s working class is the result of a well planned strategy created by an invading skull-faced civilization from another planet, and a coalition of the elite, most powerful businessmen and politicians on Earth.

Not surprisingly the general public is kept in the dark through a constant stream of subliminal signals, stealthy messages and propaganda broadcast through state-controlled television. Only our hero, former professional wrestler Roddy Piper, and a small band of freedom fighters know the truth.

The public-at-large fully realizes that life is not what it used to be; jobs are scarce, there are soup lines and shantytowns for the growing number of homeless, America is becoming a police state, and individualism and independent thinking are under attack from the powers at the top.

The atmosphere of the world is being slowly polluted and blamed on rampant industrialism and capitalism, when in reality the environment is being changed intentionally to make it more hospitable to the alien puppet masters.

In a black tie gathering of the power elite, both mankind and alien, all are told how the takeover is progressing well, opposition by the common man is down, and that financial profits for those select humans involved in the conspiracy are up 39-percent over previous years.

A serious look at America today would lead one to believe that skull-faced aliens have invaded Washington, DC, yet I know that it’s something more sinister and less science fiction. The demise of the middle class and the continuing power grab at the top is being orchestrated by men and women who should know better than to mess with America and the God fearing ideals on which it was founded.

The outrageous behavior by many of those in power today bears no similarity to those men and women who made this country the greatest in history. It’s time to let the “aliens” in DC know that a new hope and change are coming in the next Congressional election.

Sheila Jackson-Lee - are you and your cronies listening…?

Thanks Scotty. You're the best.

It's Father's Day. The time to celebrate the man with the swimmers and remember both the good and bad times that made you who you are today.

I seriously have nothing but good memories of my Dad. I'm sure that there must have been some things on the dark side, but I can't remember any. Not one.

I remember watching him spit-shine his black lace-up National Guard boots until you could see your reflection in the toe. Then there was the day that he came in from work and said, "hey, catch this!" He tossed a realistic looking cork red "brick" at me from across the room. I was a kid, but looking back . . . what a great learning experience that was. It taught me to think fast, run for cover, and scream all at the same time. A sort of pre-school lesson in multi-tasking.

He made professional quality "mail boxes" for my Valentine parties at Midway Elementary School, a poster board weather station for science class, and covered my books with an acrylic material that he got from work way before it was available on the general market... my school books were cool.

Today kids wear helmets and pads, fall into soft rubber on the playground, and don't keep score when playing organized soccer and baseball. When I was a kid my dad gave me a kit to melt lead and mold my own toy soldiers. You even had to use the soot from a burning candle to coat the molds to prevent the molten metal from sticking. Liquid metal, matches, candles and a poisonous substance . . . what was he thinking? Maybe that I was a responsible kid. After all, I had already mastered the fine art of wood burning with a 1,000-degree tool, using a toasty Mattel Vac-U-Form and building plastic models with buzz-inducing glue.

I still marvel at the thought of Dad teaching me to drive our big Ford in the back parking lot of Belvedere Plaza. I was slow at getting the hang of braking without slamming us both into the dash board. He used the same even mannered technique on me that he had used to teach my Mom several years before. We both survived.

I remember his homemade chili, grilled cheese sandwiches and Pepsi. Our trips to Jekyll Island along the Georgia coast and stopping at Stuckey's for a pecan nut log and divinity are legendary.

My Dad taught me to play baseball; how to throw and how to pitch, how to bat, cheer on a team mate, and how to never give up even when you knew you couldn't win. I was his bat boy at Midway Heights Little League before I was old enough to play, then went on to be a part of his championship-bound major league Pirates by the time I was 11.

Looking back at growing up in the '50s, my Dad was a combination of Ward Cleaver and Andy Taylor, something that I have tried hard to emulate over the years with my brood, though falling short many times.

It's been said that any man can be a father, but it takes someone really special to be a dad. I know first hand that it's true. My Dad pulled it off and I love him for it.

Thanks Scotty. You're the best.

Taking Life Month By Month

June is National Accordion Awareness Month. Who knew? It's also National Turkey Lover's Month, National Bathroom Reading Month and National Safety Month. I guess you can never be too safe when loving your turkey while reading the current issue of "Playpoulty" magazine in the bathroom. Of course you only read it for the articles.

I was intrigued that a single month could hold so many observances, so I did a Google search and guess what?

June is National Dairy Month and Dairy Alternative Month. It's also National Seafood Month and has a Fish Are Our Friends, Not Food! week. Are these sending mixed messages or is it just me?

It's Celibacy Awareness Month and World Infertility Month, has a Meet A Mate Week, and a National HIV Testing Day. There may be a theme here.

It's easy to make the connection between National Old-time Fiddler's Week and Watermelon Seed Spitting Week. Toss in a jar of moonshine, some pork rinds and a hound dog named Blue, and it's a party waiting to happen.

June is National Ice Tea Month, National Soul Food Month, National Steakhouse Month, National Fresh Fruits and Vegetables Month, National Papaya Month, and has a National Gingerbread Day, Applesause Cake Day, Eat Your Vegetables Day, National Ice Cream Soda Day, Fudge Day, Pecan Sandies Day, and a National Chocolate Pudding Day. It's no wonder June is also National Potty Training Month.

I think it's odd that June has a Take Your Dog To Work Day and a National Ugly Dog Day. Maybe they could combine the two for a Take Your Ugly Dog To Work Day. Just a thought.

Now I'm really looking forward to July, because it's National Baked Bean Month, National July Belongs to Blueberries Month, National Ice Cream Month, Lasagna Awareness Month, National Culinary Arts Month, National Hot Dog Month, National Picnic Month, and National Pickle Month.

It's great taking life month by month.

Rock On Freaky Dudes!

I was online recently searching for bands to fill out my summer concert schedule when I found a directory. Not just any directory, but an alphabetical listing of musical groups of all genres, varying degrees of personal hygiene, and not-of-this-world beliefs. From pure country and classic rock, to talentless garage bands and several apparently direct from the flaming pits of Satan's own backyard barbecue . . . there they were. A band buffet waiting for me to place my order.

I had heard that the perfect name for a band could be as simple as taking your high school mascot and combining it with your first automobile; Blue Devil Rambler or Rebel Pacer, for example. Maybe Bear Kat Gremlin or Bulldog Caddie?

However the name was chosen, some of the bands in this directory were genius, or at the least catchy. Others were . . . well let's say . . . I'd never book them based a name.

There was a collection of handles involving animals. Kitty Spankworthy was one of my faves. (I know... don't go there) Then there was Fluff the Kat, Dropkick Chihuahuas, A Dog Named Leo, and Forks for Cows. Snit's Dog & Pony Show, Pet Rooster, Captain Orangutang and Purple Monkey Dishwasher also made my list.

Being that I'm in Texas, I wasn't surprised to find a posse of bands with names such as Galactic Cowboys, Thriftstore Cowboys and Undercover Cowboys. We love cowboys!

I had to wonder if Half Decent was following truth in advertising guidelines, while Beans Barton and the Bipeds just rolled off the tongue and sounded cool.

I'd say that the two bands Explosive Diarrhea and Slop Jar Junior were a perfect pair for any event sponsored by Pepto, but not for me.

School Girl Knife Fight and Short Bus Superheros rang of issues that might force some Independant School District onto the short list for losing accreditation over the summer.

I've used the band Death By Injection several times before, so it was good to see them there. It still makes me laugh to think that a group of musically talented criminal lawyers can have so much fun when not in court.

Slime in the Ice Machine was an obvious tribute to longtime Houston television personality Marvin Zindler who made it his life's work to nail nasty restaurants for having sticky green goo in the cooler, and roach and rodent dropping on counter tops where food was being prepared.

There was a crypt full of bands with the word death, killer or Hell in the title. I even found Dracula's Dope Dealer listed in the directory. Who knew? I thought he was a blood-sucking, night stalker because he liked it.

I enjoy bands with real character though my audiences may not be ready for Cougar Camino or Titan Tempest. Rock on freaky dudes!

Rest In Pieces Old Girl

It was a week ago today that I lost Ruby. We were traveling down Highway 87 near Wall in West Texas.

A beautiful blue-sky day, the outside temp was in the mid '80s and I was listening to Mark Levin's new book, Liberty and Tyranny, on CD. That's when I heard the bang.

I had never been in a serious accident before. Maybe a fender bender or two, but nothing like this. The rear tire on the driver's side of my little red pickup truck had blown out, tread separating from the tire and tearing out a huge gash in the fiberglass flareside.

Fish-tailing is no fun at 55 mph, but the slide to the side across two lanes of fast moving pavement was the real eye-opener. You don't realize just how fast 55 is until you are doing it sideways. I'm sure the noise around me was horrendous, but I heard nothing except for a small voice in my head saying, "we're going to roll." And roll we did.

Off the highway then down a slight drop, Ruby and I flew right into a field of soft, newly plowed dirt. That's when we flipped over. I felt the impacts . . . first on my side, then the roof, then the other side and finally back upright on four wheels, two of which no longer had viable tires.

What a rush . . . I sat there for a few seconds, then unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door and stepped out into the powdery dust settling around me. A local guy, tall and thin, and wearing a baseball cap was running across the field toward me with a cell phone in one hand and shouting, "are you alright?!"

As the "stars" cleared from my head I answered, "yeah, I'm good." And surprisingly I was.

A quick walk around the scene and I saw that Ruby was seriously hurt. Her windshield was smashed and the roof at both ends was deeply dented from the roll. The tops of both doors were embedded with dirt and slightly caved. Though the airbag didn't fire off, I would be later told that the front had taken such a hit that the hood couldn't be opened even with a crowbar.

Personal items were strewn from one side of the cab's interior to the other: loose change, luggage, laptop, my range bag, racquetball equipment, CDs and extra work boots, a baseball bat and two 100-piece boxes of ball point pens from Traders Village, paperwork, sunglasses, cell phone, my lucky St. Patrick's Houston Astro cap and more. It was a mess, but it would have to keep until tomorrow because the emergency responders had arrived.

First on the scene were a couple of deputies from the Tom Green Country Sheriff's Department; nice guys who couldn't believe that I had just walked away from the crash. Next was the Texas State Trooper who took control of the accident. The deputies tried to get me to play a practical joke on him . . . I opted not to.

A fire truck from the Wall Volunteer Fire Department rolled up with lights flashing. As the crew jumped from the truck in full gear, one of the deputies said light-heartedly, "Volunteer fire department . . . these guys love this stuff." They were a good group that quickly wrapped a support around my neck and had me strapped to a backboard awaiting the ambulance.

It wasn't long before the EMS from San Angelo arrived and I was off to Shannon Medical Center for three-hours of observation, x-rays, CAT scans and trying to pee into a bottle while laying on my back in a neck brace . . . I gave up the try.

The ER medical staff couldn't have been more friendly or helpful, even calling a cab for me once Dr. McGoon told me that I was good to go....

Though the whole event was a bit unnerving, the trip to Home Motors the next day was the most emotional experience of all. There I stood with two large trash bags in-hand looking at my girl . . . Ruby sat there among rows of other broken bodies, bruised and silent as the West Texas wind blew wildly around us. I wiped the grit from my eyes as they began to tear up. It was then that I knew, really knew, that Ruby would not be coming home with me.

I filled my bags with all the stuff that had accumulated there over the past six years, all the time remembering the fun times that Ruby and I had photographing the Bluebonnets in the Texas Hill Country and the white sand at Dauphin Island. I thought back to exploring the backroads of Texas and the north Georgia mountains in my little red pickup and what a great pair we were together. She was always there for me and all she ever expected was an oil change every 3,000 miles and a good grade of gasoline.

I know that God was my co-pilot on Highway 87 in Wall, Texas last week as he had been on all my trips with Ruby over the past six years. I survived a speedy roll-over with God at my side and Ruby wrapped around me. Thank you God. And, thank you Ruby. Rest in Pieces old girl. You were the best.

Happy Trails Joe

I went to a funeral on Saturday. Joe Pace had died.

As I stood in the entryway of the stately old church in downtown Fort Worth I watched family members, and several hundred friends and business associates arrive. Most were dressed in black though there were a few from the ranch in their neatly pressed jeans and plaid shirts, polished boots and western hat in-hand. From the Mayor and his wife to the flea market receptionist they had come to say goodbye to Joe.

Mourners took a seat as the bell in the tower began to toll marking the start of the service. The main room with its beautiful stained glass windows quickly filled and it was obvious that the balcony would be needed. Spiritually soothing tunes poured from the pipe organ, and soon thereafter the family was escorted into the sanctuary and seated in the first three rows.

To the rear on either side of the organ sat a impressive backdrop of brightly colored floral arrangements and standing sprays. But, everyone's attention was drawn to the small table, front and center at the altar. Sitting side-by-side were a old disheveled rancher's hat and a small wooden box. The sweat-stained hat - Joe wore proudly in life. The box - a temporary resting place for Joe's ashes that would soon to be spread across the family ranch lands that he so loved.

We all stood as an honor guard of uniformed Boy Scouts presented the colors, then led the gathering in the Scout Oath and the Pledge of Allegiance. Even in his later years Joe was still a big Boy Scout.

Music and memories filled the church in the following hour. Prayers were said. We heard stories about Joe's love for flying, a love that he got from his dad, "Big J.C.", and a love that he has now passed on to his own son, "Little J.C.". There were tales of business ventures and endless philanthropy by the man from Sweetwater, Texas. Tales of his kindness and love for his family.

But, the one thing that touched me most was the story told by the minister near the end of the service. He said that as Joe laid in Intensive Care in those final hours, his surgeon stopped by and asked, "Joe, is there anything that I can do for you?"

Unable to speak because of the respirator, Joe wrote his response on a small tablet then handed it to the doctor. The note said, "Go save someone else. Thanks, Joe". The sanctuary was silent. That simple request was so Joe.

From the day we met ten years ago at Joe Poole Lake right up until the end, it was a joy to work with Joe and share a bit of his time. He was a good man. Happy Trails Joe...

Tee-ball Toddler in Blue and Red

I just had to stare. It was the most incredible exhibition of total mayhem I had ever experienced. Tiny bodies running in all directions, slamming into one another then falling to the ground in piles of two, three, and sometimes four. Shouts of "run", "stop", "go", and "gimme" could be heard over the ping of metal smacking leather. It was like nothing I had ever had ever seen. It was . . . Tee-ball!

I sat high on a grassy slope as my grandson, Landon, and his teammates ran onto the field in a four and five year old sea of blue and red. The Braves were in the house and were looking to take down the Mariners under a clear, cool Texas sky.

With arms stretched wide, coaches from both sides tried to herd their newbies into position; Mariners onto the field and the Braves toward an aluminum bench along the first base line. It was like watching cowboys with their ropes whippin' over head trying to corral a herd of ferrets with A.D.D.

As each batter was escorted to the batter's box the coach could be seen speaking to the young player, obviously explaining the basics. "Now, when you get to the tee take your time, watch the ball and hit it hard. Then you run to first base as fast as you can. Got it?" To which the batter would always nod affirmatively.

One after another, the batters would approach the tee, address the ball, then swing like a pro. There were lots of grounders, a few flies and even fewer misses, but no matter what the skill level, almost every batter shared a common concept; when you hit the ball you just stand and watch it roll, never flinching, never moving off of home plate . . . standing until the coaches and the crowd shouted in unison . . . "RUN!"

As the ball rolled into the field any sign of control disappeared with every player between first and third converging as one on the small white sphere. They came from everywhere, leaving the bases unprotected. The first baseman made a dive for the ball as it approached mid field just ahead of three second-basemen, a short stop and two others who just seemed to be passing through.

In their passion to make the play the youngsters would pile-on as if making a gang tackle in football. There would be pushing and shoving to get the ball until the adults were able to sort out the mess, then they would all return to a position of their own choice awaiting the next hit. In the course of two batters, Landon played third base twice, shortstop twice, stood on the pitcher's mound until a coach made him move, meandered over to a spot between right field and first base and then landed back on third. For all practical purposes he was a freelance roving position player.

No matter how out of control it may have seemed on the surface, Tee-ball is a learning experience for these young ballplayers. It's also a time to just cut loose and be a kid. I hope they come to love the game as much as I did at that age in a sandlot on Midway Road with a chicken wire backstop. I also hope they grow to love the game the way that I do today close to 50-years later. With a bit of luck maybe that's how it will be for our little Tee-ball toddler in blue and red.

Wouldn't Want To Give Vampires A Bad Reputation

Forgive me, but I just don't get all the hoopla surrounding the teen vampire saga, "Twilight".

Vampires are not meant to be cool, pickup truck-driving, "vegetarians" from Washington state. They should be anything but that. At their best they should be like the vampire brood in "Lost Boys" or "John Carpenter's Vampyres". At their worst they should be all camped up in the style of George Hamilton in "Love at First Bite" or Lauren Hutton's "Once Bitten".

Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of vampire mythology knows that sunlight will toast a vampire into a charcoal briquette. But, "Twilight" wants us to believe that the real reason vampires avoid sol de caliente is that it makes their skin shimmer and glow as if covered in diamonds. Give me a blood-sucking break...

Caskets filled with dirt from the motherland are out. Never sleeping is in.

Superman is no longer the only character who is faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, or able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. "Look, up in the sky. It's a bird, It's a plane. It's . . . Edward?

Kiefer Sutherland and his disfunctional band of biker vampires hung out in an eclectically decorated cavern, and were cool and ruthless, swooping down from a pitch black sky onto their unsuspecting victims by night. On the other hand, Edward and his foster family of immortals live in a posh "fishbowl" with glass walls, play baseball during thunder storms, and prey on small defenseless animals.

When Edward's love interest, Bella, finally realizes the truth about her boyfriend, he orders her to "say it!" With a melodramatic gaze away from him, Bella takes a deep breath, pauses then says simply, "Vampire." If the story had been governed by the truth in advertising statutes Bella's correct response would have been "wimpire". I grew up on Dracula, Edward, and you are no vampire.

Yes, I understand that this is a love story . . . a story of forbidden, yet never ending love. It's a story of trust and lust and all the other elements that go into a best selling romance novel. I only hope that the tale of Edward and Bella steps it up in the next film. You wouldn't want to give vampires a bad reputation now would you?