Niece and nephew spent the night Friday night, hence the late post yet for Saturday. They are delightful but draining creatures.

I had a pretty placid b-tribe cd in the hopper as we drove away, and having just kissed his mama and daddy goodbye, I could see nephew's chin quiver as he said "this music makes me sad," when in truth, he was missing them already. So I pulled over and popped in a Gorillaz cd, his favorite. I opened the sunroof and the kids watched planes and building clouds as we traversed Dallas county. It was about as enjoyable a rush hour as you can have on a Friday afternoon, laughing all the way.

I picked them up about 4:15, and then we went to the shoe store to get the 3 year old boy some shoes that light up (I got shoes for niecey last time she was over alone) and then we went to a burger place where husband joined us. Niece shows remarkable promise for the game Galaga, which makes her old auntie proud. Then we hit the snowcone stand and went home and ate snowcones in the pool.

We were in the pool from about 6:30 until 9:00. They ate lots of popsicles, and I got hiccups. Nephew said those weren't real hiccups, that they were too silly. He said "I'll show you some real hiccups." He reminds me of myself.

I watched Power Puff girls with them, and niece drifted off about 10:45, but nephew had real staying power. About 11:30, I fetched husband, who was setting up my new mac (on which I'm typing this) to watch nephew. I went to bed and fell asleep immediately.

I dreamt I was in Manhattan at a posh restaurant which was part of a rocket that was going into space. That's the only semi-normal part I can tell you of it.

Anyway, they are just the best, most delightful kids. But they always are when they're not your own, right? It's funny the difference in energy level between yourself and people who are 31 and 37 years younger. *L*

I'm digging the MAC. WOO HOO!

OH, I learned something about a bizarre little bit of Dallas history on Tuesday and I'm taking my camera with me today so I can share a photo of it with you when I do Friday's blog post. Seriously. I can hardly stand waiting to tell you. I'm near bursting. It's a gloriously tacky beginning to the consumate American rags-to-riches tale. And it's all true! Watch this space.

WTF is up with the photo thing in blogger? Grrrr.

Ok, now I MUST talk about Project Runway. OMG, what planet has Bradley been living on? I know she's out there, but even from the outer reaches of the galaxy, Cher in her signature Bob Mackie extravaganzas is readily visible. How could he not know who she is?

Has he lived his entire life not knowing the song "Half-breed?" Surely not, surely he was faking that.

There is simply no excuse for the top he made for Cher that most closely resembled a disposable foil roasting bag, flapping in the wind. And those ill-fitting white with fringe down the front camel-toe britches were a travesty, really. Frankly, he needs to avoid making trousers, generally. That's two disastrous pair of pants he made two weeks in a row. Finally they did the right thing and sent him home.

He seems like a nice guy, but he just didn't have a design aesthetic, period. That, coupled with the fact that he didn't know who Cher was, is practically the kiss of death. Go home, throw on a Phish cd, and get out your favorite bong, Bradley, and just unwind. You're too sweet for the fashion world, anyhoo.

We recommend you next launch a nice line of hemp garments dyed with beets and the powdery pollen from flowers.

OK, this is for YOU, lj - here's an explanation of what's on that audio post.

When I was at university, I was forced to take a computer class as part of my degree plan. This was a very basic "what's a CPU?" kind of course, which I had been way beyond for years.

The teacher was a middleaged cornball who was kind of adorable. In his northeastern accent he said things like "you'll want to bring your swimsuit to class because you will be surfing the information superhighway," and "by the end of the semester, you will be able to send and receive email."

I was bored and skipped a lot of classes and missed most of the pop quizzes which were a third of the grade. At semester's end, I calculated that in order to scrape by passing the class with a D, I needed to make a 100 on the final exam. Not 99 - 100. Eek.

So, day of the final exam, I whiz through the first 2 pages, relieved I know everything so far, when there's a rumble in the middle of the class (about 300-350 students.) I go on with my work, by the professor goes up to the middle area to talk with one of his teaching assistants and a student.

Suddenly he says to the group "who in here doesn't have pages 3 & 4 in their exam?). I had them, but about a third of the class raised their hands, indicating they didn't have the middle bit of the test.
He told us to turn in our tests, that everybody was getting a 100.
Whew. Off the hook!

I took this photograph downtown this weekend. This has always fascinated me, and later on Dallas Diorama, I'll post more photos of this parking lot. It's at the corner of Main and Harwood Streets downtown, and is a mere block East of the Municipal building which was the Dallas Police Station until about 3 years ago.

This was apparently a store somewhere along the cusp of the 19th and 20th centuries in Dallas. This former indoor floor is composed of white, gray and charcoal colored square tiles, which seem to be cement tiles, rather than a porcelain or terra cotta. Their finish is quite matte. The entire floor is bordered by the Greek Key motif you see at the foreground of the tiled surface.

Of course, it's a pity that the building containing this floor was razed lo these many decades ago (before I was born, most likely), but I love the fact that the floor remains, even though little bits have flaked away and depressed areas have been leveled with paving materials. It's one of those little poignant reminders that we're all just passing through.

Oddly enough, this very lot has had a little bit of history pass by its threshhold. If you can see the word "lift" in the upper right corner of the photo, here across the street is where until recently a WesternUnion office stood for many decades. It was in that very office that Jack Ruby went to wire cash to a down-on-her-luck stripper in Oklahoma (she had formerly worked in one of his strip joints in Dallas), immediately prior to going over to the police station to kill Lee Harvey Oswald.

I wonder if Jack Ruby parked at one of those parking meters? Or maybe on this very lot.? Somehow, it seems incredibly callous and anticlimactic that these tiles are spray painted with parking space numbers. 122, 123, 124. The timeless march of repurposing.

...There is a light at the end of the tunnel for my computer woes. I have ordered a MAC and expect it to arrive by the end of the week. Glory glory to the day of my deliverance!

Then I should be able to be a better correspondence, as well as being more diligent in my rounds to drop off my grapeshot of pithy comments. Ciao!

I was talking to my brother tonight and I said if it's not observed when the prisoners in question are captured American military, then we should take the Geneva Convention and throw it out the window.
He said "The rules of war? That's stupid. It's kind of like fornicating for chastity."

Quite.

It got windier than a bag of buttholes in Dallas today, and next thing ya know, it's raining. It was a grand thing, and me caught out without my camera, alas!

Cross-purpose eddies of dead leaves swirled in the streets. The rain was beautiful, and much needed.

A lady swerved her car over into my lane and nearly hit LouLou the baby shoe. I laid into my horn and honked a good successive 5 seconds, none of which the old heifer appeared to have heard. All I know is my Asian SUV is about to get an all-American make-over.

As soon as I got out of traffic, I dialed my dad and told him my horn isn't cutting the mustard. I told him when I hit the horn, I want the person I'm honking at to pee their pants. Dad said to bring 'er in and he'll fix her up. Yee haw! I'll give a full report, of course.
Have a great Monday!

I took the doglet this afternoon and headed to downtown Dallas where I drove around a bit and got some spectacular photos, many of which will be appearing on my alternate blog, Dallas Diorama.

The photo at right was taken at Field and Commerce streets, looking up the eastbound one-way Commerce which is really the southern boundary of skyscrapers downtown. The red brick building is the Magnolia Oil building. Magnolia Oil was headquartered in Dallas until they merged with Vacuum and Socony Oil Companies and became Mobil Oil.

Thus, this impressive all-original 1920s structure is in effect the corporate beginnings of Mobil Oil. Atop the roof you can just make out the red Pegasus which is the symbol of Mobil and became by extension a symbol of Dallas. This sign is extraordinary, and I think it's about 40 feet tall, and can be seen for miles at night, as it is illuminated with red neon. coolness.

I've been updating and adding pictures of great neon over at Dallas Diorama the past few days, so check it out. I'm looking forward to posting the great stuff I photographed today, some of it related to the JFK thingie.

After piddling around town with the camera, I headed the buggy over to one of the area dog parks so doglet could get her social game on. There were about 8 other Jack Russell Terriers at the dp, and first time there ever, as soon as she came through the gate, a much smaller JRT bitch came up and yapped excitedly for about 2 minutes nonstop. Welcoming committee. Then another little female came over and just flopped on her back in front of doglet. They know the queen bee when they see her, apparently.

Doglet would mosey all over the place while I sat and chatted with other dog owner/victims. The news of the day was about the 270 dogs rescued from a rural home recently, more than half of them being JRTs. Heaven help me to have the strength to resist rescuing a dog. Doglet wouldn't be pleased to share our affections, I suspect.

Anyway, it was a grand day out. Enjoy the remains of the weekend.

This image is El Rancho motor court motel in Hot Springs Arkansas. You have to go long exposure to get these neon signs with no flash, of course, so the white smear in the bottom left is an auto headlamp streaking past. I need to get a photo of this building in daylight, because it's very mid-century modern, pretty swanky for that moment in time.

I am SOOOOO glad it's the weekend at last. This flu stuff is still sorta kicking my butt, but at least I can have a 24 hour period where I don't have to be anywhere, and I won't get any calls from my problem children. I can think of several (I call them) special needs residents who are in dire need of a serious spanking, which I'll happily provide, gratis. I'm just generous that way. I call it a kindness that I don't want to beat the ever-loving crap out of them.

OOOOHHHH, yummy products on the market. Tyler Candle Company, from Tyler, Texas has the most incredible line of candles. They have one called "Cowboy" which honest-to-goodness smells like yummy new leather, and maybe a bit of sage thrown in. It does smell like a fine boot store or something. Great stuff. Trust me. I'm an expert. These are some of the best candles on the market. 'Specially "Cowboy" and "Texan" (vetiver - yum) flavors. I'm hoping they'll do a Taos/Santa Fe version with Sage, Pinon and Cedar. That would be heaven.

Have a great weekend. Oh, and coming soon will be pictures of the big fake cow at the Longhorn Ballroom where the Sex Pistols played all those moons ago. Great concert venue, that.

Click here to read how a school in Texas is banning cleavage. I'm ok with that, but while they are at it, I just hope they address the pandemic of ass cleavage. Perhaps Whitney Houston said it best when she said "crack is whack!"

Seriously.

I'm sick of butt cleavage. It's everywhere, and on some rather ugly bodies, in a lot of cases.

And time for an end to "muffin top." That's when your body that would have fit in your too-low, too-tight jeans comes bubbling up over the top and sits there just bulging, flapping in the wind. I've got to say that this is a dark, dark moment in some ways, fashion wise.

For all the repugnance of the styles of the 80s were, at least proper grooming and presentation was a concept. Now, no matter how beastly it looks, young to middle-aged women are doing the muffin top/ass cleavage thing like it's a desireable look for everywhere: Family reunions, funerals, fine restaurants, the grocery store.

So, I'm still sick and even then I can rely on the likes of nein to wax critical when in a fevered haze I leave a letter or two out of words on a post. All this after nein has enjoyed mining the fertile fields of my demented blog, that fair-weather sampler. Tsk tsk.

Yes, Kelly won. I realized that you might have gotten the impression that everyone in my family is all sweetness and light, so I had to gently introduce the fact that there are some neer-do-wells in the bunch, too. Actually, I have a pretty straight-and-narrow side of the family (paternal) and then there's the wily bunch of criminal hillbilly carpetbaggers on the maternal side, and more than one career criminal in that lot, including the one in prison with that famous Scientologist, Charles Manson. I know. Now, having read my blog, you have rubbed shoulders with greatness, by extension. No need to thank me.

Now Dick, you've got to give Kelly the wet sloppy kisses, k? She already had my great admiration, but now it's just cemented. I love the way you sorta backed into that one, Kelly, thinking it couldn't possibly be right. I just celebrate that there ape-shit galloping lunatics out there who are Scientologists, just to put everything into proper perspective. Well, Travolta and Cruise are obviously apeshit, but then the Manson thing cements that deal. woo hoo.

I saw a license plate going up the Dallas North Tollway today that said ARKITK. I wondered if it was some screwed up way of spelling "Arctic," like maybe they went exploring in their spare time. Oh, and it was on a brand new Corvette. Red.

THEN it dawned on me: Architect. I would think the very exacting nature - that the sense of proper structure of an architect would be outraged by this dumbed-down carbonics version of the name of their esteemed profession.

I don't think I ever will, but if I were considering getting customized license plates, I'd probably get something like CRASS or the name of that incredible band, the CRAMPS. Think the DMV would go for it? I didn't think so, either.

meh. sick.
I have the flu. Aching joints, sinuses stuffed to bursting and a bastard of a headache behind the eyes. As Withnail said so daintily, "I feel like a pig shat in my head."

5 people in Dallas have died of West Nile Virus. I hope I don't have that shit. I think I'm too full of spleen for such a pathogen to really get a grip - there's only so much room in here.

I'm glad that bitch Keith got booted off Project Runway for cheating. I knew it would be him - he was the only one arrogant enough to flaunt the rules so brazenly. And it wasn't the only questionable thing he'd done in just this one episode.

Anyhoo, since I'm not up to a marathon typing session, I thought I'd give you a quiz.

One of my maternal cousins lives in the same building with one of the world's most famous Scientologists. Can you guess which one?

Big sloppy kisses and my eternal admiration to the winner.

Do you ever glance at something - newsprint, a sign, etc., - and mis-read what is there? This happened to me in Arkansas this weekend.

Driving through Harrison, I glanced at a billboard that said "Meth Makeover" and showed mug-shots of a homely, barfly-type woman in a photo on the left, nothing remarkable, and in the photo to the right was the same woman a year or so later, sunken-cheeked (having lost all her teeth), looking like she should be stirring a cauldron in a swamp somewhere.

(This is not the same sign, but it was very much of the same ilk - I would guess this sign is somewhere in Washington or the Pacific NW area, and I found it on the site over here.)

The point of this ad campaign obviously was that if you dabble with meth, you'll get an extreme makeover that will render you an aged, haggard old crone.

But that's not what I saw. I wondered why the makeover photos were out of order. At first glance what I thought was being advertised was some sort of plastic surgery/makeover clinic where they'd redo your puss after you jellied it up with face-melting hallucinogens.

Well, it is understandable I'd glance and think that, seeing as our culture is all about the quick-fix for problems. There are countless publications and tv shows dedicated to just that subject: the miraculous repair that will fix the whole life and undo the ravages of poor choices, etc. I think what would be tragically telling would be if those shows revisit their ugly ducklings to see if the physical repair did in fact bring along some better choices and a dollop of less hard-luck in its wake... But I seriously doubt there was significant change in the fortunes of most of those made over people.

Anyway. More importantly - great story from my childhood.

High Midnight
Along about the mid-70s, we lived in a town across the Mississippi River from Memphis and across the street from our house was a city park with a pavilion and picnic tables.

Now keep in mind that my family is very clean-cut with no drinking and very few smokers among us. Mom and dad have never drunk socially, though they did concede to taste the champagne (rotten grapes to them!) at my wedding. At 13, I got my mouth washed out with soap for saying the word "butthole" in front of my 4 year old sister, who was delighted to repeat it. (thanks, sis!) In other words, my parents have never been the sort to abide anything with the appearance of impropriety, and be assured they would not sit idly by while nefarious goings-on are conducted in their neighborhood.

A group of teenagers and young adults from the area started convening at the pavilion in the park after dark on summer evenings. Soon after they'd arrive, a sweet cloud of pot smoke would drift the 50 or so yards over to our front door.

Then on the 4th of July these kids and one 35 or 40 year old guy were smoking pot under the pavilion, and firing off bottle rockets that were landing on the houses all along the street, including ours. Big mistake. Dad told them to clear out, and they proceeded to foolishly ignore this.

Dad then took a high-pressure sprayer with trigger-control and got the water hose of a neighbor a few houses down and connected it to our hose, turning it on full-blast. Dragging the hoses along behind him, Dad calmly strode across the street, up to the pavilion, took aim and opened fire, thoroughly dousing the potheads and their little fireworks, too.

Dad said the older guy was apologizing profusely as they cleared out, because I suspect these people were about to pee themselves thinking Dad was really about to drop a knot on each of their heads. He would have, too.

Every neighborhood should be lucky enough to have such a badass Charles-Bronson/no-BS type resident.
Yup. That's my Dad!

Fantastic bowling neon sign from Hot Springs Arkansas. This sign cycles three phases - first is just the red neon "Bowling", second is just the white pin and ball, and the third is both of those lit along with "Snack Bar" in white on the bottom. The cycle flashes back and forth for in about a 10 second series. I love neons like this. This is a super-cool art form. Beautiful.

One popular sport in the country has always been coon hunting. Raccoons are plentiful, destructive and a nuisance in general, so it makes good sport to go out and give the dogs a thrill by rustling some up and letting the dogs go in for the kill.

Grandpa bred blue-tick coon dogs and won lots of trophies. These dogs were brought from several regions of France in pre-colonial era, and in the early 20th century breeders would travel to the Ozarks and remote areas of Louisiana to buy coon hunting dogs of the most pure bloodline from the original Gascogne. They were grandpa's abiding passion and he devoted countless hours to breeding and training these ultimate hunting machines. Intrepid scenthounds, even blind blueticks make masterful tracker/hunters suffering no deficit in competition with sighted dogs.

These dogs are beautiful animals with a deep baleful howl that must be terrifying to raccoons. To me their bark is by association the right sound to hear reporting through the hallowed columns of the forest on cold dark nights. Grandpa also had several redbone hounds which were larger, and truly magnificent dogs, but the blueticks were his specialization.

Invariably sleeping on the sofa at Grandma and Grandpa's, I remember staring out sleepily from under my quilts as dad and Grandpa made ready to go out hunting in the middle of winter nights. They'd be pulling on hunting boots and attaching the wires on the carbide lamps they wore on their hats, attached to wet-cell batteries worn on their belts. Grandpa always had the wet-cells in plastic Ideal brand bread sacks, which grandma never threw away, along with twist-ties. I remember the smell of those lamps too, the vaguely sulphuric tang of the odor that wasn't unpleasant to me.

Anyway, he told a story that painted such a vivid picture that I wish I had a photograph of the scene he witnessed.

Out with the dogs one winter night, the air was incredibly still, and the trees and the dead grasses were all encrusted in a thick layer of ice. He said the moon was so bright you could almost read a newspaper by it, and it illuminated a scene of enchantment in the cold silence of the night forest.

The dogs had treed coon after coon that night, and in his words, "I decided to honor the dogs by letting them catch this coon." The coon was treed, the dogs howling at it, and Grandpa pulled out his hand axe and set about felling the tree.

My dad said once that Grandpa was so remarkably efficient at felling trees that there was no wasted motion and you'd best stand back, because the wood chips would be flying.

Anyway, down came the tree and the coon was on the ground and was off, dogs in hot pursuit. As they progressed through the woods-- coon, dogs and man-- all the frozen grasses in their path shattered sending diamond fragments up into a glimmering shower in the still night air.

He said it was one of the most beautiful visions of his life. I can well imagine it's precisely this sort of moment that a sportsman lives for. Who says men have no appreciation of aesthetics?