The Sqare Peg - Everything I Ever Needed to Know...

Everything I Ever Needed to Know...
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

[Note - I'm taking a page out of Jeremy Crow's Blogaholic Writer's Tips for this one... I have new material, but I just don't have the time to work on it today. This is an oldie, but a goodie... and it still applies.]

Someone once said, “All I ever needed to know in life, I learned in the first grade...” or was it kindergarten.  Doesn’t matter, they were only few months apart and my memory of the timeline is fading fast. I’ve thought about that saying for some time now.  What exactly does one need to know in life? Hmmmm... that takes some thought, so let’s be logical... let’s take inventory. Well, there are the basics... food, shelter and communication.

You need food or you waste away into nothing and die.  Check... I knew how to get food by the end of the first grade.  If it wasn’t on the table, it was in my brown paper lunch bag (and later available via the lunch line in the school cafeteria if you had a lunch ticket). I didn’t exactly have a great deal of choice about my food, somebody else decided the menu, but there were always the lunchroom trades... “I’ll trade my tuna sandwich for your peanut butter and jelly.” I must confess, I was only successful at that once or twice. Word got around about tuna sandwiches that had sat in a brown paper bag for half a day... they smelled fishy. It didn’t matter how well you wrapped them in waxed paper... it didn’t matter if it was warm or cold outside, your lunch bag still smelled like Fisherman’s Wharf. Don’t get me wrong, I like tuna... just not everyday. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration. Occasionally I got egg salad. I liked that, especially when it had sweet pickle relish in it. And I did get a real change-up one time. Anybody ever eat a sardine sandwich? I don’t recommend it. I always got a desert... it was an apple or an orange.  Geez, what was I? A health nut? Ever try to exchange an orange for a cookie? There aren’t many takers. Okay, so at least I knew how to get food. It kept me going.

Shelter is always important. It’s good to know that on those frigid Colorado nights I had a warm bed to park it in. My very own bed. Didn’t have to share it with anyone, although I did have to share my room with my brother until Junior High. That was a pain in the proverbial you know what. The kid never stayed out of my stuff. He was of the mind, “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.” After Junior High, I didn’t have to worry about that until I got married... then it was stated right up front, not implied. It’s okay if you are given the terms and then accept them. I digress. So, I knew where to find shelter... and what it was composed of. A roof, four walls, a furnace, and, most importantly, running water. I do like my showers. Oh, and as George Carlin later pointed out, “A place to put your stuff.”  I could have done without my brother’s junk. It took space away from my bug collection, my rock collection, and my baseball cards. I had one bed, one dresser, and one bookcase. No desk. I did my homework on the kitchen table like every other kid in the neighborhood. We didn’t have a TV (horrors!), but then I spent as little time inside as I could. I was outside when I wasn’t in school. And, if truth be told, my mother was probably not exaggerating when she said I brought most of the outside inside. So, check... shelter’s covered.

Communication is essential. How else are you going to let your fellow man know that you have a need for the other two? I must confess, I could talk a blue streak before I started school. It only got worse with age. Ask my brother. Ask my teachers. Ask my colleagues. Ask my wife. Ask my youngest son.... on second thought don’t ask him. He never shuts up. I swear, it took the longest time to get him to talk, but once I did... oh never mind. Yep, I still remember the notes on my orange cardboard report cards. “... talks too much in class.” “...won’t sit still.” “...whispering during class.” “...stares out the window.” Well fiddlesticks. Outside was one whale of a lot more interesting to me than what was going on inside. Later in life those comments would translate into, “Insatiably curious,” “...communicates well with others,” “...works well in a team setting,” and “...extremely observant.” I guess it all depends on one’s point of view. What I did during class was no different than what I did outside of class. I drove the plumber nuts asking him how he was going to fix the busted pipe. I wanted to know what that thing he was using on the pipe was called and why he had to fiddle with it. Basic lessons in the fundamentals of pipe wrenches. Introduction to pipe unions.  First experience with pipe dope... NO not the smokable kind you weirdos... the kind that helps the pipe joint bond. Although I did learn over time that if you use the stuff in a confined area without proper ventilation, you got really light headed. Sigh. Part of communication is knowing how to count... how to add, subtract, multiply and divide. I am proud to say, I got an A in arithmetic. Writing isn’t a bad skill either. Learned the basics in first grade. After that, it was all refinement. So, check off communication. I could DEFINITELY communicate. I communicated “all the damn day” as one of my teachers said. I rather thought that was the point. What good is it if you don’t use it?

So, was that it?  You mean I spent 12 years going to primary and secondary school, then four years in a university when I really didn’t need to. What the !@$%!  I could’ve been floating down the Mississippi with Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer... oh wait, we didn’t get to those until Junior High. I must confess, however, I had read them well before I got there. Fun with Tom, Dick, Jane, and Spot just didn’t make it for me. There was COOL stuff out there to read about. I had books on birds, books on bugs, books on critters... ooooh! and I had Tom Swift and his Flying Lab along with about six other Tom Swift books. By the time I finished Junior High, I had read every book in the library (except for the girl books, of course) and was into college level science books. Yep, I was hooked... on learning.  

So I guess I did learn everything I needed to know for life in first grade. It was the beginning of learning how to learn. That leads to ever higher forms of learning, which, of course leads to dealing with whatever life throws you. From appreciating shelter, I learned how to build shelter. From receiving food, I learned how to husband and prepare my own food. And it all boiled down to communication. Whatever else I learned in life all flowed from that first encounter with the communication of learning methods. It’s probably why I teach my children about the importance of words, the beauty of structure, the joy of completing a thought. Precision in communication is not just important, it is essential.

"Okay, now I are done and is going to cop me some zees."  I heard that from a high school student.  Holy crap!

The Square Peg - It Ain't About The Bait, Baby.

It Ain't About The Bait, Baby.
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I was in the local grocery store in the late morning the other day. Mind you, I HATE the grocery store in mid-morning... it's filled with women shopping WITHOUT a list, browsing shelves and paying absolutely no attention to where their cart is aimed. This is why I (and most men) prefer to hit the aisles at three A.M. But  that subject we'll save for later. In any case, I wound up in a line... a loooong line. On the Express Lane - 15 Items or Less. Either the ladies in front of me couldn't count, or they just felt entitled. After all, they're women with responsibilities and they're multitasking. They're checking the impulse specials near the register, thumbing through the latest tabloid or Cosmo, and talking to one another... all at the same time. But that's a subject for another blog as well. It took me a few years to realize that women will talk to other women in a check out line even if they don't know each other. And that was what was happening on that particular morning.

I really wasn't paying much attention. Most of what women say in check out lines comes across to me as 'waaaa... wa wa waa wa... wa wa...' You get my point. Some things, however will prick up my ears. Such things generally involve something about men. Yep, that will get my attention. I'm always in the market for insights into the female mind when it comes to men. As the comedian says, "I are one."

In any case, two young women ahead of me... probably in their mid to late twenties and reasonably attractive... pretty even... were lamenting the fact that, "there just aren't any good men out there... or they are all taken." The one in the front caught me looking and listening, lowered her voice and shot me the look. Do they teach that or is it something those of the female persuasion are born with? Inquiring minds want to know. At that point, my mind wandered off and considered why they might not be able to land a good man. There isn't a shortage of them... really there isn't. And they aren't all "taken." Although the really good ones are usually snapped up pretty quick if they are inclined to matrimony. On the other hand, there are lots of good men out there who, quite frankly are not so inclined. I know. I was one for many years. So here's some advice, ladies... you can lure them in... let's face it, y'all have the right bait... so it ain't about the bait, baby. But if you want to land them you'd better have a strong line, a sharp hook and a really good net. And no bait and switch... they'll disappear downstream so fast it'll make your head spin. (Did you see what I did there? Fish in the sea... oh never mind).

So, once you spot the stud of your dreams... you know that hunky guy with the chiseled features, bulging muscles, and devastating smile... just remember plenty of other cowgirls have tried to throw a loop on them and come up short. Good luck on cutting him from the herd... that stallion likes his freedom and odds are there are some village people checking his conformation out as well. I'm not saying you have to settle on a sturdy plow horse... just don't overlook them... they're reliable and not nearly so hard to corral. (Okay, okay... that was gratuitous for all the Texas gals. And I know it).

Okay, let's say you have identified your good man, your handsome hero if you will... the one that gets your motor running... how do you reel him in? Hint, premarital ya-ha ain't the answer. Test drives make him wonder how far that car has been driven... and how often it's been traded in. What you need to do is find his Achilles heel, and wrench that sucker for all it's worth. That requires that you listen... with all your senses. Note what things make his breathing pick up and his eyes dilate (besides you, that is). (Whoa... talk about mixing metaphors in a single paragraph... Oh shut up, I know what I'm doing).

If he says he has to go to the Home Depot or Lowes (I'm not going to discriminate here... each one has its appeal) when you say the word "shopping." it's a safe bet he likes tools... or barbeques. You need to find out which, but either one can be an asset. If its Cabela's or Bass Pro Shop, you can bet you'll be a fishing or hunting widow during those seasons if you don't share the passion, but you'll never go hungry. If it's museums or the library, you've got a thinker... and probably a good conversationalist. If it's all of those, you just hit the husband material lottery jackpot. If he's so far into video games that he has spatulas for thumbs, bloodshot eyes, permanent butt prints in the sofa, and trouble keeping a job... run... run fast. The only thing he's Pac-ing is hooked to a computer or X-Box and it isn't worth having.

So, now that you know his weakness or weaknesses, you've got to exploit them. You've got to feed the need, as it were. For example, I'm a tool guy. Tap the trigger on a power drill and my head snaps around like Bruce Lee looking for an opening. Turn on a table saw and I positively drool. With a guy like me, you can put old Pavlov to shame. I also like museums... yep, especially those little out of the way ones that are hard to find and twice as rewarding when you do. All you have to do is pay attention to the signs on the back roads of America. Fishing and hunting... oooh yeah! Lose me in the lures... banish me to the boats, displace me among the decoys, pass me by the pistols... just don't rush me. I'm in heaven. Sorry, I'm taken... besides, I'm probably too old for you. Keep looking.

Once your man is in masculine Nirvana, then... AND ONLY THEN, can you slip in a dulcet voiced, "Let's stop by the mall..." or "I need to pick up a few things at the grocery store..." or "Let's stop by the Walmart..." If he goes willingly, you've just bagged the prize.  I hate the Walmart, by the way, and will do almost anything to avoid it. I'm still vulnerable when I'm in Nirvana though. In a few years, you will have completely humanized the beast. Crook your finger and he'll come like a faithful Irish Setter. BUT... forget to give him his annual dose of vicarious virility and he'll turn on you like a Pit Bull with attitude.

So now you know, single ladies... good luck and good hunting.

The Square Peg - Off the Grid

Off the Grid
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I ran into an old acquaintance the other day. I remember the first time I met him was in a second hand shop that specialized in electrical equipment. I was looking for some wiring, wall sockets, switches and a breaker box to electrify the shop I was building. Today, I was looking for a good, used 1-hp motor for my shop. I had it in mind to build my own table saw. I get these notions once in a while, especially after I have seen some DIY article with a catchy title like, “Build Your Own Table Saw in 5-Days or Less.” I really get hooked when they tell me I can do it for under two hundred smackers. I’m a bit of a scrounger... I figure I can do it for less. Anyway, I heard this voice, “Hey there, remember me?”

It was sort of familiar so I turned and looked. Sure enough, I recognized him. “Dudley, right?” I asked.

He grins broadly, “Yep, but like I said last time, just call me ‘Dud.’ I don’t stand on formality.”

Dud isn’t your typical urbanite. First off, he looks like one of those characters you might have seen in those History Channel commercials for Alaskan Bush People. I’ve never actually seen the show, so I really don’t know much about it, but from the ads I gather it’s a family that, as Steinbeck put it in Of Mice and Men, “...live off the fatta the land.” Dud sports a beard that goes to the middle of his chest, but it isn’t one of those magnificent full Dumbledore kinds, Dud’s is thin and scraggly. Sometimes it has bits of his garden in it, sometimes crumbs from his last meal. He wears his longish hair in a ponytail, and he has oversized glasses that give him a sort of owlish look. In his bib overalls, ratty baseball cap, and worn boots, he looks a little like a displaced farmer. Some folks cross the street when they see him coming, figuring he’s a homeless panhandler. I know better. Dud has money. His family left it to him.

“Whatcha been up to, Dud? I ask.

“I’m lookin’ for a generator... you know one of those treadmill motors. I’m building a wind turbine... yep, I’m fixin’ to go off the grid.”

“I don’t think the city allows you to build your own wind generator. I’m pretty sure the power company owns the franchise on those and they don’t want competition. Heck, even most Home Owners Associations won’t even let you install solar panels on your house. I’m pretty sure the HOAs are controlled by the power company. Either that or the HOAs own a lot of stock in the power company.”

“Naw,” Dud drawled, “My uncle died last year and left me a hundred acres up in the Hill Country. I had one of those container ship boxes hauled out there. I’m gonna make a house out of it. I got the plans from one of those tree hugging web sites. Yep, I’m gonna repurpose that sucker. What are you looking for?”

I told him about my plans to build a table saw, and I was after a motor, an arbor, and a set of pulleys. The rest I could build myself with a little help from the lumber yard and a few nuts, bolts, washers, and screws from the hardware store.

Dud nodded sagely. “I think I can help you out there... I know where you can get those for free.”

I was intrigued, but I had a feeling that “free” wasn’t really free. Turns out, it wasn’t. Over the years I had learned that Dud had a peculiar idea of what “free” meant, except for advice, of course. This time, he wanted help dismantling an old machine shop he’d bought in some small east Texas town and an old hardware store in Jerkwater, Arkansas. He showed me some wrinkled old pictures he carried in his bib pocket. The places should have been declared a disaster zone. One of them did have a “CONDEMNED” sign on it. I thanked Dud for the opportunity, but told him I didn’t have the time for that. Book deadlines to meet, I added. What I didn’t tell him was that I didn’t have the inclination to have a rickety old building collapse on me and ruin my whole day.

“Too bad,” Dud said. “I could have used the help.”

“Why don’t you just hire a couple of guys?”

“You mean pay somebody? With cash?” Dud was shocked at the suggestion.

“Well, that’s the common convention.”

“Why would I do that? Then the government would want me to withhold taxes... follow their ridiculous rules on safety, and get permits. That’s just nuts. Once you do that, they have your paper trail. No siree... not me. I’ll trade for services, but I’ll be danged if I’ll pay for them. Like I said, I’m going off the grid. When the apocalypse hits, I’ll be snug as a bug...”

“Apocalypse? Don’t tell me you got religion. I thought you said you were an atheist.”

Dud got irritated. “Not the biblical one... when the government collapses and...”

“Are you watching those reality shows again, Dud?”

“All kinds of people are preparing,” Dud said defensively. “You should be too.”

“Yeah... I think those shows are more about selling than anything else. There’s a whole industry built around them... dried food manufacturing, solar power, air purification, water purification, go bags... heck just look at the megabucks those underground bunker builders get.”

Dud just looked at me kind of nervously. “I gotta go,” he said and made a hasty retreat.

That got me a little curious, so when I got home, I looked Dudley up on Google. Yep, old Dud had ulterior motives. There was a whole raft of listings for Dud’s Disaster Supplies... everything from dried food to Conex containers for underground bunkers.. complete with pictures of the stack on his property just off the highway in the Texas Hill Country There was even a prepper’s podcast with handy tips for "building that backyard bunker and one extolling an “off-the-grid” goods for services exchange. Off the grid? Maybe, but he sure wasn’t off the net.

Happy Birthday America! Now, let's all remember what it is about.

INDEPENDENCE DAY IS ABOUT INDEPENDENCE - DON'T FORGET OUR HISTORY... AND DON'T DISTORT IT. TOO MANY HAVE DIED PROTECTING OUR FREEDOMS. LET US NOT DISHONOR THEM.

The Square Peg - The Joys of Retirement... or Payback's a Bitch

The Joys of Retirement... or Payback's a Bitch
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

Wow! I just found out I own a "HIGHLY DESIRABLE VEHICLE" and I didn't even know it. In fact, both my lovely and I own highly desirable vehicles! Car dealers want to give us "CASH" for them. And I have to hurry... it's a "LIMITED TIME OFFER." I need to "HURRY DOWN" and talk to their "FRIENDLY AUTO COUNSELOR." They even attache up to a $6,000.00 check to the bottom of the personalized letter they sent me. Of course, I had to trundle my vehicle down to their "TWELVE ACRE AUTO MART" to cash in.

I'm stunned. I had no idea my Lizzy 13 (she's my 13th vehicle with that name) was desirable, far less highly so. Now, it's no secret that I take care of my vehicles... I keep them well shod with highly rated tires. I keep them well oiled with new 10-W30 every 3,000 miles. I slake her thirst with factory recommended Unleaded Regular with 12% alcohol. At 75,000 miles I had her injectors cleaned and the transmission and cooling system flushed and refreshed. I'll do that again whenever I reach 150,000 miles... I'm at 102,000 right now and it looks like it will be a while before I get there. I don't drive long distances much any more. I fly. I cruise. It's stress-free.

Heck, I even keep her clean by washing her three times a year... top and bottom. Sometimes more if I've been playing in the beach sand down at Port Aransas or frolicking in the mud in the Hill Country. I vacuum her interior. When the hot Texas sun blistered the paint on her roof, I sanded it down, slapped on some primer, and blended a nice coat of matching white paint from the auto store. And when old Sol dried the glue on the headliner, I carefully re-glued it so it wouldn't look like a teenager's jalopy. So, except for a few scuffs on the composite panels in the rear compartment from hauling stone from the Hill Country for my dry creek bed, Lizzy 13 looks and performs pretty much like she did when I bought her in 2005.

Eagerly I read more. They'll put me in a brand new vehicle for "ZERO DOWN" and "LOWER MY PAYMENTS..." as low as $129.00 per month. Geez, that's hard to resist... my car is paid for. Does that mean they'll pay me to take that new car off their lot? Just for giggles, I decided to drive down to meet one of those friendly auto counselors that will treat me "LIKE FAMILY." What have I got to lose?

When I get there, I snake my way through the maze of cars and trucks, find a parking space in front of the Parts Office and pull in. It's pretty dead at the lot. Eight or nine "Auto Counselors" eyeball me as I exit Lizzy, but don't leave the comfort of shade under the Sales Room overhang. They remain unmoved until I start to wander out to the lot. Then they all move at once, like sharks who smell blood in the water. One of them knifes through the rows of vehicles faster than all the rest, circles me and stops, extending a hand.

"Hi there," he purrs, "I'm Vern Vendor... but you can call me Slick. Everybody does."

I shake his hand. Heck, I'm friendly too. And I'm a Texan and that's what a polite Texan does.

"I see you drive an SUV," Slick says. "Are you interested in another one, or are you ready to step up to real comfort."

"Really, I'm just window shopping today."

"No pressure," Slick replies. "How about I show you a selection?"

I'm no novice... I know what that means. I'm not ready to select. "Why don't we wander over an take a look at your SUVs?" I ask.

Slick eagerly leads me to that section of the lot, takes me to his "top of the line" cross-over. "Just look at this beauty," he croons. "Gets an EPA rated 30 miles per gallon on the engine, but the best part is that this is a hybrid... you can drive half way across the country before you need to fill up. And just look at those stylish lines, you'll be the envy of your neighborhood. And the interior? Custom bucket seats up front, semi buckets back seat, and a hideaway rear seat for two extra passengers. You can take the whole family!"

I look at him. "I could put this in the back of my Explorer and have room for that all electric we passed on the way. And I don't think this could tow a fold down Coleman camper."

Slick nodded solemnly. "I get your point. What you want is something with plenty storage and a roomy passenger compartment. Let's look at a king cab truck. We have some beasts that are right up your alley."

I want to wander, after all, I'm window shopping. I'm retired. I want to kill part of the day. Slick gets paid by the sale, though, so time is money. He herds me to the line of pickups and marches me to the biggest beast on the lot. "Holy crap," I exclaimed.

"You bet!" Slick returns excitedly. He opens the door and says, "Climb on in... get a feel for this baby."

Baby? This monster was born full grown. I sink into the big leather bucket seat. Everything from cruise to the windows to the climate control to the sound system can be managed from the buttons on the steering wheel. Very convenient. The dash looks like one continuous flat screen TV. Slick lets me soak in the new car smell while he surreptitiously runs to the office and returns with a dealer plate and a key. Well, it's not really a key... its the biometric electronic device you have to have on your person to start the truck. There's a dash button for that. I don't know why they didn't put that on the steering wheel, maybe they're afraid you accidentally press it and turn the engine off while driving down the highway.

Slick climbs in the passenger seat and hands me the electronic biometric thingy, explaining that it's universally programmed, but when I get mine, it will be synched to me, whatever that means. "Let's take her for a test drive! Careful, though, this has a big diesel and if you tromp on the gas you're going to peel out."

For just a minute I considered doing that, but I exercised self-restraint. When I started the engine, that dash lit up like the cockpit of the space shuttle. The GPS came on, showed me where I was on its map, and asked me where I wanted to go.

"Rides like a luxury car, doesn't?" Slick asked as we pulled out of the lot. "Just imagine yourself driving down the road hauling that fifth wheel RV AND a boat.! Man that's the life... I can't wait to retire."

'You sell three or four of these and you can do that this year if you stay out of the casinos.Besides, I don't own an RV or a boat,' I thought, but I said, "It isn't quite Cadillac or Mercedes smooth, but for a truck it's nice. Let's head back."

"But you haven't had her on the highway... don't you want to open her up?"

I don't know if they teach them to use sexual similes, but I've noticed they use them a lot to seduce you into taking something home you had no intention of buying. Seduction doesn't work on me... well at least when it comes to buying a new vehicle it doesn't. Tools are a different story. I turned the truck around and parked it in the lot.

"Let's go inside and get a cool drink," Slick said, removing the dealer plate.

Once inside, he took me to his office, sat me down in a comfortable chair and disappeared... to get us a cool drink, I presumed. Those drinks must have been hard to find. He didn't come back for twenty minutes and I had just stood up to leave when he entered the office breathlessly with a couple of cans of pop (soda for you easterners). I popped the top and took a swig while he rounded the desk and sat down and pulled a sheaf of paperwork from his inside jacket pocket. I should have seen that coming.

"Now down to business... we've looked at your car and we are prepared to offer you $3,500.00 trade in."

I stopped him right there. I pulled out the letter with the $6,000.00 check at the bottom. "That's about half of what you offered in your letter," I returned shoving it at him.

"Well, that's subject to appraisal of your vehicle... it says so at the bottom of the check."

The print at the bottom of the check is miniscule. It would take a microscope to read it, but this wasn't anything new and, like I said, I'm retired and had time to kill. I decided to toy with him a little. "Well, what about those $129.00 a month payments?"

Slick looked a little panicked, but to his credit it didn't come through in his voice. "Well, if you were interested in that little electric car, that's what they'd be, but this truck is forty two thou... and a steal at that... way below MSRP. Now with your trade and, say five K down, we can get those payments down to around four hundred a month."

"My first house cost less than that, Slick."

"In 1960 dollars, maybe, but look at what that would cost today."

I nodded. "Yeah... inflation's a heartless bitch. Think I'll pass."

"Tell you what... let me talk to my manager... I think we can do better."

"Uh huh, I've been down this road before, and I don't have all afternoon. I've got an appointment at the hardware store. Besides, I think there's at least another hundred and fifty thousand miles in Lizzy."

"It'll only take a few minutes," he pressed, desperation setting in. He could see it slipping away after spending two and a half hours with what he thought was an easy mark.

"This ain't my first rodeo, Slick, but I enjoyed the ride while it lasted. See ya." I didn't feel a bit sorry, either. After having spent hours upon hours with guys like Slick trying to negotiate the prices that should have been on the cars in the first place, car salesmen were due a little payback.

The Square Peg - Terrorists... They're Everywhere!

Terrorists... They're Everywhere!
Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I took a break from writing, mainly because staring at the flat screen for hours on end was starting to make my eyes go screwy. Besides, it was four o'clock and time for me to start thinking about what I was going to fix for dinner. When I retired, my lovely went to work, not so much because of the money as the fact that I was driving her crazy. Or so she said. Hey, at least I wasn't following her around the house with a carpet rake. But I digress. I turned on the local news. I like to hear the weatherman mess up on the forecast. When he says, "no chance of rain for the next three days," you can bet your bottom dollar the creeks will rise and the streets will flood. It's sort of amusing... and it helps me plan my outdoor work.

Anyway, as soon as I switch on the idiot box, a big red rectangle with white letters declaring "BREAKING NEWS" pops up. It piqued my interest, although experience should have taught me by now that the media's idea of breaking news isn't... and by that I mean it isn't breaking and it isn't news. Today, however, it is followed by another notice in bold face type. "NORTH SIDE NEIGHBORHOOD TERRORIZED." Whoa! You've got my attention. Terrorized... in San Antonio? My mind conjured up visions of all kinds of mayhem and horror in the two seconds it took the anchor, Bert Drivel, to introduce the on-scene reporter. "And now we take you direct to Becky Blabber who is on the north side scene of the attacks." Oooh, attacks! I sat down.

"Yes, Bert, this is Becky Blabber on scene in this north side neighborhood that has been terrorized for the past three days..." Must be a serial killer or worse, flashed through my mind. "...by a pair of dive bombing birds."

SAY WHAT?! Oh please... somebody call the FBI! Notify Homeland Security. Telephone the TSA... put them on the "NO-FLY" list. Send 'em to Guantanamo Bay! Water board those little suckers and make them tell you who heads their network!

"That's right," Blabber continued, "a pair of Mockingbirds has literally been terrorizing this neighborhood by diving at people's heads..." Literally? Seriously? Its a four ounce bird, for crying out loud. "...and here with us now is neighborhood resident, Tabitha Timid, to tell us what has been happening all this week. What are the birds doing, Tabitha?"

Tabitha adjusts her halter top, and puts one hand on her hip. "Well they've just been diving at folks every time they walk past that big tree! It's horrible... the only safe place to walk is on the other side of the street. I have two children and that's just not safe for them..." she simpers.

I'm confused. It's a nice, quiet, tree-lined street. Not a single car has driven past while Blabber has been broadcasting, and it's pretty clear that the cameraman is standing in the middle of the road shooting the interview. Not safe? When I was a kid we dodged traffic to retrieve our baseball... and I'm still here! I want to shout at the screen, "You're turning America into a nation of pantywaists... you're wussifying our kids. For the love of God... STOP IT!"

"Back to you, Bert," Becky coos.

"Before you go, Becky, can you tell us if there have been any injuries from these attacks?"

"Well, Bert, in our conversation with police officials, we understand there actually have been some injuries, but none is considered life-threatening. According to police reports, Rhonda Runner fell and skinned her knee while trying to avoid the aggressive and vicious birds, while Brendan Bawler suffered a minor concussion when he ran into a tree as he tried to escape the attacks."

I'm incredulous... they called the cops? For a bird? Wow! Call my councilman... that's got to be a waste of taxpayer money. Better yet, recall my councilman.

"Again, that was Becky Blabber on scene in north San Antonio. In just a moment, we will talk with Dr. Orno Thology, with the San Antonio Zoo, who will try to explain this bizarre behavior, but first this message."

The birds have a nest, you morons! Any idiot off the street could tell you that! There's a Karl's Kia ad on right now that is more intelligent than the crap Blabber and Drivel have been drooling over. I'm about to turn off the TV when Drivel interrupts his interview with Orno Thology... "Wait... just in... this breaking news report from Houston. An alligator is threatening a local community on the south side of the city. We take you now to Marvin Moonpie for an on-the-scene-as-it-happens report. What's the story, Marv?"

"Well, Bert, as you know there's been considerable flooding here in Houston over the past month, and the wildlife is showing up in places they haven't been seen before..."

"The wildlife was there for centuries before humans showed up and started building cities in their swamps, you halfwit, imbecilic ignoramus," I mutter at the screen. I know he can't hear me, but it makes me feel so much better to get it out. Once more my finger caresses the power button on the remote... but then I see, just creeping in from the right, this enormous gator, its mouth partly agape in anticipation... Marvin and the cameraman don't notice. I'm on the edge of my seat... "EAT THE MOONPIE!" I scream so loud the neighbors can hear it.

Then the screen suddenly goes black. The AT&T U-verse logo comes up with that little spinning circle at the bottom... I've lost my signal. "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

The Square Peg - So You Want To Be A Cowboy...

So You Want To Be A Cowboy...

Copyright S. Bradley Stoner

I swear, I think Harold must have sired a whole passel of kids in his travels. I keep running into them. Take Dwayne, the kid is about as clueless as a bloodhound with a snoot full of cayenne pepper. Dwayne showed up at our house the other day in his pickup truck. I guess you could call it that. It has a cab and a bed, but the passenger door is permanently closed and the only way to open the driver’s side door is to take the window crank off the dash, push it on what remains of the crank stem, roll down the window and use the outside handle. On top of that, the bed is cockeyed, the front bumper is hanging by a thread, and the tailgate is decidedly bowed from Dwayne repeatedly backing into trees. You can hear that truck coming for blocks. He put glass pipes on the exhaust and it has a sound system that cost more than the truck. I guess you have to get your priorities straight.

Now for any of this to make sense, you need to have a mental picture of Dwayne. He’s about six foot two inches tall, reed thin, poor posture, and no muscle... except, perhaps, for the one between his ears. Don’t get me wrong, Dwayne is a nice kid... says, “Yes sir,” and “Yes ma’am” like any properly raised Texas boy, but when it comes to smarts, he’s about two pecks short of a bushel. Oh, and he’s bowlegged... not because of a misalignment or because he spent years in the saddle. It’s due to years of practice. You see, at some point in his young life Dwayne decided he wants to be a cowboy. The first time he told me that, I looked at his sneaker clad feet, the ragged t-shirt, the off-center baseball cap, and remarked, “Well, right now you look like an unemployed rapper. You’re going to need a pair of boots and a proper hat.” As usual, I was being a smart aleck.

Danged if the boy didn’t go out and buy himself a pair of cowboy boots and a big, wide-brimmed hat that sort of makes him look like a pin head. I told him he might have considered a smaller one. “This is what the cowboys wear,” he replied solemnly. To complement the hat and boots, he wears jeans and a plaid western shirt. I don’t think he’s changed them or washed them since he put them on two years ago. They’d probably fall apart if he washed them now. He also bought a wide leather belt and a huge belt buckle with a bucking horse on it. He must have seen one like it at the rodeo.

I was out putting rose food on the roses when I heard him coming. I should have made my escape, but I’m a shade slower than I used to be. Dwayne gave me a half wave and said, “Howdy, sir.”

“Hi Dwayne. What’s up?”

“Ummm,” he hesitated. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand the question, or was just working up the courage to ask me whatever it was he was going to ask. Finally, he launched into it. “Do you know where I can buy a horse?”

“What do you want a horse for?”

“I want to be a cowboy,” Dwayne replied with shining eyes.

“Um, yeah... you told me that. Look Dwayne, owning a horse doesn’t make you a cowboy.” I knew for a fact that the closest he had ever gotten to horses was gazing across a fence at them at the local stables that rented them for trail rides down Mud Creek. “Have you gone out and talked to any of the ranchers? You know, like a career day thing.”

“No sir. I don’t know any, but I know you can’t work for them unless you have a horse.”

“Well, that’s not necessarily true. First off, most ranches have plenty of horses and ranch work involves a lot more than riding and herding cattle. Matter of fact that’s probably the smallest part of it.”

“Huh?”

“Well, there’s growing and harvesting hay, for instance. That means irrigating, running a mower or a swather, and baling.”

“I can run a mower,” Dwayne said proudly. “I’ve been making money all summer cutting lawns.”

“Not the same thing, Dwayne.” I went on to explain about vaccinating, dipping (not snuff... Dwayne already did that), branding, castrating, dehorning, ear tagging, and pulling calves.”

Dwayne got a horrified look on his face. “Pulling calves? To where?”

I could tell this was going to be a long afternoon. I figured I might even have to drag out some old pictures. I started in, but I didn’t get very far. Dwayne’s mind wandered away... to where I’m not sure, but it was clear he wasn’t paying any attention. He does that a lot. “Hey!” I growled sharply.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. I was thinkin’.”

I was tempted to say, ‘with what,’ but I restrained myself and instead asked, “Oh? About what?”

“I think I was supposed to go to court today.”

I thought about the stack of traffic tickets on Dwayne’s dashboard. How he keeps his license is beyond me. “What for this time?”

Dwayne looked down and toed the sod. “I got a DWI,” he almost whispered. He squinted at the sky. “I gotta go. I’m meeting the guys at Nipsie’s. We’re gonna wash down the trail dust. Thanks for the talk.”

‘And that,’ I thought, ‘is about as close as that young fellow is ever going to get to being a cowboy.’ Harold, wherever you are, I found another one of your long lost kids.