A NEW KIND OF HERO

The jerk who stole the bike belonging to a missing coed said he took it because he needed parts for his own bike. And if someone leaves a bike sitting unattended, it's takers keepers. He did acknowledge the bike was chained up, but shrugged that off. Oh well, his bad.

And his lawyer claims he's a hero for notifying the police. HERO!!!!!

MY RESIGNATION

After much deliberation, I have decided to tender my resignation. Effective immediately, I no longer wish to be a member of the human race. The reasons for withdrawing membership should be obvious to most, however I will list a few considerations for clarity's sake.

Common Sense died and no one went to her funeral.

As proof I offer the following tidbits.

1. The government is considering issuing a FAT tax. At the same time, several states are banning TAG in school. God forbid the little tikes should run off a few pounds.

2. Looking for a needle in a haystack? Well, you better not limit your search for long, thin, sharp, metallic items with a point at one end and a hole at the other. Folks might think you are profiling.

The Haves and The Have-You-Lost-Your-Minds?

3. Money and fame is the name of the game. And if you don't believe me just ask Pete Rose, Jose Canseco, O.J. Simpson, Kobe Bryant, Robert Blake, Barry Bonds, Michael Vick, Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Mel Gibson.

Everybody's Talking And No One Is Saying Anything.

4. If I have to listen to one more loudmouth yacking in her cellphone, I'm going to lose it: I don't want to know about her colonoscopy. I could care less about his promotion. If you want to talk on the phone get out of the movie theater. Pull off the road. Get out of line. Step outside the waiting room. And for the love of God, take that silly looking headset of your noggin before I send you back to the proctologist.

CIGARS, HOT COFFEE, AND IDIOT SAVANTS

I was looking forward to the truck-load sale held at Prater's antique store. I'd missed the last three. My back was aligned like an contortionist's colon, but I managed to crawl out of bed and pulled into the parking lot as the first box of goodies was unloaded. Two regulars; a sawed-off, cigar chomping ex-marine with a crew cut, and a steely-eyed, tall drink of water with a bouffant hairdo, charged the box. They collided in a cloud of java spray and swirled smoke.
"Bitch!" The battle cry took wing above the heads of thirty early morning pickers. Some stopped to stare at the blistered arm aiming the cigar. Others continued to claw through the treasure laden box.
"Bastard!" The lady with the do fanned smoke from her face.
"You spilled coffee on me on purpose."
"I hope you get lung cancer!"
More boxes were unloaded. Folks scrambled for position. A teeny-bopper in a halter top pulled a sixties peasant dress from a banana box. Her squeals were drowned out by the Drill Instructor.
"Drop and give me fifty!"
"Fifty?"
The marine fought his way out of the flashback. He was alone.
I left him there, in a sea of civilians, armed with a single red-tipped cigarillo.

MY MOM’S A YANKEE

The guy would not shut up. He was standing in the kitchenware isle of our local thrift store, in a sleepy southern town nestled on the banks of the White Oak River on the coastal plain of the Tar Heel state. Three little kids were leafing through Dr. Seuss books. Frail, gray-haired grandmas dug through used linens. A young college girl picked up a T-fal skillet.

The man was railing against the South. He was a Yankee, A New Yorker by birth and a jerk by nature. In a loud, boisterous voice the condescending carperbagger did an impression of a southerner.

“There’s a Opossum in the gum tree, maw. Get me a gun and I’ll shoot’ um fer supper”. To a passerby he yelled, “Every hick down here has a truck bed full of empty beer cans, a shotgun, a fishing pole, and a welfare check in his hip pocket. Lazy motherf&#@ers. No wonder you lost the war!”

A mother collected her kids and left. The fine southern grandmas worked their walkers toward the front door. Most of the customers ignored him. Just another displaced Yankee with an attitude. We see it all the time.

Now, don’t get me wrong. My maw’s a Yankee. She spent the first 25 years of her life in the Bronx. Half my aunts and cousins are from up north. Most of them live here now, and some of them had a hard time adjusting to the culture shock.

When I told my Uncle Pete (an octogenarian Italian who moved here thirty years ago from the Bronx) about the guy in the thrift, he laughed and said, “Them damn Yankees are ruining the South.”

Maw said the same thing.

MY CAT SMACKED UP ON KITTY CRACK

Spaz likes to stand on her head after huffing catnip.

THE BIRDS, THE BEES, AND ME

My garden consists of two tomato plants, two Thai dragon peppers, two Habanera peppers, a Jalapeño, a Cilantro, and one sweet Basil plant.

I planted them in gallon buckets with rich, dark earth and I give them a shot of Miracle Grow every other week. The plants are doing nicely, thank you. Lush foliage. Sturdy stems. Plenty of blossoms on the tomatoes and peppers.

Problem is, I have little fruit for my labor. The bees are on Holiday, and despite the time I’ve put in, my table is suffering from lack of pollination. So is my sex life, but that is another story for another time.

Today I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. I bought some Q-tips, a pint of Canadian Mist, and a couple copies of The American Gardener. I’m going to pollinate the plants myself, with the swabs.

And you know what they say. “A rose’s a@# through a whiskey glass…”

If that doesn’t work, the magazines should put me in the mood.

DEATH OF AN IMAGINARY FRIEND

When my nephew Joel was six, his best friend was Al Kopotus. I assumed the boy was Greek. Turns out, he was from the Land of Nod. Al was Joel's imaginary friend.

One Sunday, as my sister sat with the sleepy congregation, Joel suddenly rose from the pew and asked the preacher if he would pray for his friend. Al, Joel told the solemn worshipers, had fallen from a Ferris wheel at the State Fair, and had died.
The congregation shed a collective tear as the preacher led his flock in prayer.

Mortified, my sister bowed her head.

Joel found closure.

BIG BROTHER, OR BIG MOMMA?

When Spike told me that New York City was thinking about paying kids to show up for class, I thought he’d finally lost his mind. And when Spike told me that the Big Apple was going to reward poor folks for not getting fired, I packed Spike’s suitcase drove him to the farm.

Come to find out, he was right.

Students could receive as much as $500.00 per year if they do well on tests, and should they graduate, they will get $400.00 along with a diploma. Students who get a library card will receive $50.00

Poor people can make an extra $150.00 for keeping a full time job, and $200.00 for going to the dentist.

When I was a kid, back when parents raised their children and not the Government, we had incentive programs. If you received poor grades you were given an increase in study time. If you didn’t graduate, you were given a low paying job. If you filled out a library card, you were given a book.

Grown-ups had incentives too. If they were fired they got bills they could not pay, and if they didn’t get regular dental checkups, they got cavities.

Way I figure it; Spike can have this new world. I’m packing my suitcase and heading for the farm.

SOMEONE DONE STOLE A LAKE

People will steal anything nowadays. When I was growing up you could leave your house and car unlocked. We didn't even have to chain our bikes to a rack.

BASEBALL SIGNS

My eight year old nephew Joel is a second baseman. He wants to pitch.
Yesterday his dad taught him the basics: how to hold the ball for different pitches, how to keep an eye on the runner, and the different signs the catcher flashes when calling pitch selection.
After a couple hours, Joel was flashed a series of signs and told to name each one. Dad held his hand down and showed the forefinger.
"Fast ball!"
Two fingers were flashed.
"Curve ball!"
Dad was pleased. He then pointed his middle finger down, the sign for a brush back to move the batter off the plate.
Joel shook his head.
"What's the sign, son?"
"I don't know."
"We went over it. Now think. What's the sign?"
Joel shrugged his shoulders and stammered, "F#@k you?"

I think Joel's staying at second.

THE FAMILY

I got new neighbors. An entire family moved in last week; a rough and tumble, tight knit crew from the looks of it, and just in time to dispel the rumor that the neighborhood is going to the dogs.

They got strange names, these new folk. Tony the tiger. Willie the whiskers. Tabby two toes. The calico kid.

Word is they are hustling kitty crack. I didn’t believe it until I found several catnip plants growing among the tomato’s in their backyard. That, coupled with the late night stereophonic screams emanating from the Hydrangea bushes confirms my suspicions.

Susie Miller, the precocious, pubescent daughter of Marge and Andy Miller, is missing her hamster, Fred. I fear Fred is sleeping with the fishes. I do not doubt these new neighbors of mine are whacking rodents. It’s what they do.

FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS

I CAN’T AFFORD NOT TO GO TO JAIL

I read that it cost taxpayers $1,000 a day to keep Paris Hilton in prison. But what amazes me is that taxpayers pay $100.00 a day to care for ordinary inmates.

I figure my expenses come to $25.00 a day, and that includes what I spend on Spaz. I don’t live high on the hog, but there is ham in my frig and I have cable, and I’m on the internet. I stay warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I also spend $3.00 a day on gas, an expense I’m sure the inmate need not incur.

So, what the hell does an inmate need? A cell. Three meals a day. Toiletries. I mean, how much can an orange jumpsuit cost?

PHOTOGRAPHY IS FOR THE BIRDS

I could smack Alfred Hitchcock for empowering feathered missiles. Last week I was almost gobbled by a turkey and I took a direct hit from a Mockingbird. I’m use to being mocked, but by a bird?

I was sitting on the couch watching the Paris Hilton show when I noticed a flock of turkeys in the back yard. I grabbed my camera and snuck around the side of the house. Seven hens, a couple of gobblers, and a whole passel of pouts’ were feeding on grasshoppers. I snapped a shot just as they spotted me. The turkeys scattered as I advanced the film.
Thirty minutes later, a hen and a jake cautiously made their way back into the yard. The hen spotted me and began to putt. The jake turned to flee. Hoping to ease his fear, I gobbled. Now, either I’m a champion turkey caller, or that jake was as dumb as a conch. He ruffled himself up and gobbled back before charging me. I’m not afraid of a bird but I suddenly remembered I’d left a pot of pasta simmering on the stove, so I went back in the house. Nothing worse than overcooked spaghetti.

A couple of days later I found a mockingbird’s nest tucked in a privet shrub. In order to get a good shot, I stood on a cinderblock, held back some branches with one hand, and snapped a picture. One of the fledglings gapped its beak thinking momma was going to feed her. But momma was busy. Just as I snapped the picture she dive-bombed my head, knocking me off the cinderblock. She circled to make another pass. I would have stood my ground, after all, a mockingbird is much smaller than a turkey, but I could hear the phone ringing so I ran inside. Turned out to be a telemarketer soliciting donations to the Wild Bird Fund.

WHEN CRIME PAYS

This morning I called the County prison and asked if they were overcrowded. The nice woman on the other line asked if I was with the press. I told her no, that I was just a concerned citizen. She hesitated at first, but then told me they were running at 85% capacity. I thanked her and hung up.

Damn.

I brushed my teeth and ran a comb through what’s left of my hair. I was going to shave, but I didn’t feel like looking at my mug in the mirror, so I doused it with cold water and left it at that. Blood-shot eyes, errant ear and nose hairs, and creased, leathery flesh are best looked at later in the day.

I checked my emails, but it was just another redneck vacation. Nothing but spam and phishing. I googled myself. No surprises there either. I was a ghost thumbing a ride on the information highway. Nothing solid. No bios. No links. No info.

I logged onto my bank account. If I can put together another ten bucks I can cover bank fees for the month.

No money.

No looks.

No celebrity.

I decided to call off the heist. Crime doesn’t pay for guys like me.

PARIS: FROM THE HILTON TO THE BIG HOUSE

Half the world believes Paris Hilton should be in prison. The other half is blonde. And despite the petitions, and calls for California Governor Schwarzenegger to intercede, Paris is now behind bars. For the next three weeks, news coverage of the war in Iraq, the up-coming presidential race, and global warming will take a back seat to the Hilton hellion. Tomorrows news reports will likely contain the following:

Last night, Paris Hilton accidentally walked through her cell bars while sleepwalking. She was captured a short time later when a guard overheard her say, “solitary confinement is hot.”

Nicole Richie, long time gal-pal, sent Paris a chocolate cake. A file was inside the cake. Hilton did her nails.

Paris announces release of her new perfume, “Felony”.

When told she would get “three hots and a cot“, Paris requested Leonardo DiCaprio, Nick Lachey, and Brad Pitt.

O.J. Simpson must be laughing his ass off.

SPIKE AND I CRUSH CANS

I had a couple bags of aluminum cans sitting on the porch, and since there wasn’t anything worth watching on the telly, Spike and I decided to crush ’um and cash in. We set a cinder block on the tailgate and smacked the cans with a brickbat. Not bad work if you can get it, but it’s hard on a man’s back.

I crushed the Sundrop cans and Spike took care of the Busch.

Sweet, syrupy soda squirted me every time I smacked a can and I guess the Magnolia tree couldn’t compete, because after half a bag the YellowJackets started buzzing around me and Spike. I grew up in the country amongst snakes, spiders, bees, and all sorts of varmints, so a Yeller Jacket ain’t nothing but a thing. But Spike got right nervous and started wind milling his arms. That just stirred up the wasps, and they called in reinforcements. I got stung on the hand and Spike smacked it with the brick. Not the best way to kill a wasp, and I couldn’t tell where the YellowJackets blood left off and my began, but the numbness did kill the sting.
Spike got stung on the ass a couple of times, seeing as how that’s the part of his self he showed the wasps, but I gotta give the boy credit; for a brain tumor, he sure can run.

I mixed us up a poultice of wet tobacco and we managed to draw most of the stingers out. We sold the cans for ten bucks, bought another six pack of Busch, and had enough left over to buy Spike a can of Raid.

SPAZ CRUSH

I'm pretty sure Spaz has a crush on me. All week she has been sleeping with my shirts, holding my hand, and making goo-goo eyes at me.

ME AND SPAZ KILL A BUG

My cat Spaz is one smart cookie.
Last night she called me into the laundry area. She started crying, and I was worried she got tied up in something, like the curtains again.
So I checked on her. She was standing on the washing machine, crying, looking up at the ceiling. She was after a lightning bug. When she saw me, she started hunching up the way she does when she wants to jump up on my shoulders. I turned my back and she got on. Perched on my shoulder, she reached up and swatted at the bug. It crawled across the wall. We followed. Spaz urged me forward, biting my earlobe whenever the bug looked like it might get away. We spent fifteen minutes crashing that bug through the house. Spaz finally nailed it, but not before she shredded my shoulders with her claws.

Next time, I'm wearing a shirt.

TIPTOE THROUGH THE TOMATO'S

I got a late start on my garden this year. I say garden, but in fact it's just a few potted vegetables. So far, I have two tomato plants and two habanero peppers. I'm going to add some jalapenos and herbs.

Spike decided he wanted to try his hand at gardening this year. Spike doesn't have a green thumb. In fact, he doesn't have thumbs. Spike is my brain tumor.

The first thing Spike planted was a light bulb. I was surprised to see what sprouted.

He also grew this. I'm afraid to ask him how he did it.

THE KEY TO HAPPINESS

Like most kids, my nine year old nephew Joel has more questions than I have answers. The other day he wanted to know why crows get chased by small birds. I always try to give the boy the straight scoop.

Unfortunately, he asked Spike about the birds.

Spike is my brain tumor. I named him because I got tired of referring to him as a benign acoustic neuroma brain tumor. Spike is easier. We look a lot alike, Spike and me, so I can see how my nephew confused us. Spike is not the best person to answer a young boy’s questions. His wiring is a little screwed up. And he’s no friend of the truth.

So when Joel asked Spike about the crow, Spike told him this.

“When the earth was young, Woodstock, the wizard of the wood, gave the key to happiness to the Mockingbird People. He knew they would safeguard the key, as everyone knows Mockingbirds hold no one in high esteem.
Of course, everyone wanted the key. They had all heard the song,’don’t worry, be happy’, so they sent soldiers to steal the key from the Mockingbird People.
An Opossum was dispatched, but halfway through the journey he was surprised by a wild dog. The Opossum lay down and played dead. While playing dead, he suffered a massive heart attack and died.
A tyrannosaurus was sent, but before he finished the long, arduous journey, he became extinct.
A pig was sent next. The old sow figured she could make better time flying, so she got a running start and launched herself from a high cliff. The porker dropped like a stone. As a result, people today still say, ‘when pigs fly’.
The people of the woods voted, and a fox was elected to steal the key. It is well know a fox is sly. Because of his cunning, the fox studied on how best to steal the key. He studied the ways of the Mockingbird. He charted their migratory patterns. He read everything known about their ability to imitate other people. The more the fox learned, he harder it was for him to formulate a plan. Eventually, he went mad and was last seen stealing grapes.
Finally, a crow volunteered. A shinny dingus is irresistible to crows who will steal anything not nailed down. The crow flew straight to the Mockingbird People and snatched the glinting piece of metal.
And to this day, you can still see Mockingbirds chasing Crows through the skies of the earth looking for the purloined key.

My nephew, to his credit, hasn’t repeated this to anyone.

PICTURE THIS

Last summer I bought a 35mm camera with a telephoto lens for $10.00 at a yard sale. I've shot seven rolls of film and have decided this is going to be an expensive hobby, considering I only get one decent picture for every three rolls. Good thing the camera was so cheap.
Some time back I saw a flock of twenty-five wild turkeys in my backyard. I grabbed the camera and stalked the gobblers. Turkeys are difficult to sneak up on, but I managed to get within fifty to sixty feet of the magnificent birds. They looked huge through the telephoto lens. The rising morning sun lit their plumage in an iridescent glow. I knelt behind an old gnarled oak and snapped several pics, bracketing the exposure to ensure I'd get at least one good shot. One ancient gobbler with a 12" beard strutted like a model on a runway and I entertained visions of seeing his portrait on the cover of Outdoor Life Magazine.

Fire yanked me from my fantasy. My right knee was enflamed. I was kneeling in a red ant hill. The fiery devils were swarming up my leg. I limped inside, dropped my pants, and jumped in the shower. A red river of ants swirled down the drain.

After I popped a couple of aspirin, I checked my camera to see how many more shots were left on the roll. Of course, the camera was empty. No film. No photos to submit to Outdoor Life. Just a knee full of angry red welts.
Later, after the swelling went down, I loaded the camera and took these.

WEIRD GOTHIC PAINTING

I found this oil painting in a dusty corner of a thrift store the other day. I can't stop looking at the damn thing.

The scene has invaded my dreams. I find myself enveloped in mist, my mood as blue as the swirling fog, eyes wide as I make my way to the castle, toward the warm, yellow light shinning in the windows.
When I wake, I'm standing in front of the painted monstrosity, unaware of rising from my bed. I look for myself in the mist, and am drawn to the empty eye socket. It pierces me like no eye ever has, and I shiver despite the warm May night.

A QUEER DAY FOR YARD SALES

Man, it was cold at six this morning. And overcast. I could smell rain, but the clouds held their water. Must have been young clouds-if clouds are anything like men-because this old man can’t hold it that long.

Spike and I usually don't travel too far from home, but this morning we decided to ride into J‘ville. According to the classified ad, someone had a huge selection of books for sale. The misguided young woman holding the sale had four boxes of books. Four. To me, huge conjurors up a lawn covered in stuff, but I still managed to pick up five or six titles. Spike handled the haggling. Price should have been $7.00. She added wrong and came up with $4.00. Spike gave her a Jackson. When she made change, she handed Spike $18.00, cheating herself out of another $2.00. Spike didn't catch the mistake. He claims he didn’t, but you never know with Spike. An hour and a half later, I realized the woman gave too much change. I wanted to go back, but now I'm now forty miles from her house and it would have cost me $12.00 in gas to give her the $2.00 back, so we kept going…..


At the next sale, I bought an 1892 volume of poems by Wordsworth. What a perfect name for a poet. Knowing the worth of a word, they use them sparingly. I also picked up an old pharmacy bottle from Savannah, and a small stack of vintage catalogs. My total should have been $5.50. I give the owner two quarters and a five. She gives me one dollar and fifty cents change. Didn't realize mistake till after I left.

We headed east looking for more treasure. Blackbeard use to roam this area, and Spike likes to think of us as swashbuckling pirates, so it is only fitting we sail from yard to yard looking for plunder. Spike also wanted to look for a little Captain Morgan since it was so chilly, just enough to warm his old bones, he said. I told him it was too damn early, and besides, I was driving. Sometimes Spike doesn’t think things through. What he does affects me. For those who don’t know Spike, he’s my brain tumor.

At the next sale, I bought 10 coasters at a quarter each. The woman couldn't total my purchase. She counted them out, one at a time, saying, .25, .50, .75, $1.00, until she counted all ten coasters. I think she is a retired professor.

I almost didn't make the next stop. I’ve been in the area before and it’s not a great place to find good stuff. There was only one other shopper rummaging. I spotted an old bible. It was a thing of beauty. Hand-tooled. Leather bound. 8“-10" thick. Beautiful, full page color illustrations. Attractive endpapers. Immaculate condition. I asked what she wanted. $10.00. I pulled my wallet out so fast smoke rolled up off my butt. The jerk shopping tells her, "I wouldn't sell that for $10.00. You should research it on the internet. Probably worth hundreds!" Lady changes her mind and decides to keep it. I thought Spike was going to kill the guy and I didn’t want to go to jail as an accessory, so I wrestled him into the truck and we peeled out of there. I hit a pothole on the way out and messed up my front end alignment.

Signage was a problem this morning. We wasted an hour, tricked by posters advertising puppies for sale, wedding receptions, family reunions, and charity car washes. In my neck of the woods, once you’ve committed your turn signal, and have slowed down, you have to make the turn or risk going visiting the proctologist so he can get a 57 Chevy pulled out of your ass. Spike and I followed one sign to a church. The parking lot was full. We went in, expecting an indoor, fund-raising yard sale, only to find a wedding in progress. Spike ended up giving the bride away.

I did pick up thirteen pieces of Clarice Cliff dinnerware. I didn’t know the pattern, but the fine ladies at The Yardsale Queen's site told me the pattern is Rhodanthe.


Looks like Spike and I found some treasure after all.

SIDEWALK SALE

A local antique store holds a truck load sale every two weeks. Store employees unload the truck, filling a small wagon with seven or eight boxes of goodies at a time. The boxes are lined up along the storefront. Nothing is priced. The boxes are full of all kinds of vintage items. Linens. Books. Glassware. Pottery. Tools. Radio tubes.

Customers are not allowed to touch anything in the wagon, and they cannot dig through the boxes, until the last box is set down. When the wagon is completely unloaded, all hell breaks loose. Arms flail, hips bump and grind, feet stomp and get stomped as customers claw their way through the feeding frenzy. If two hands grab the same item, it's a tug of war, with the plunder generally going to the beefier picker. The store's owners supply coffee, doughnuts, and band aids.

Last Friday, the crowd was particularly worked up. I saw an older woman pick up a medium sized box full of table linen. She fought her way out of the crowd so she could go through the treasure unmolested. Two women boxed her in and started pulling pieces of damask and laced napkins from the assorted linens. The older woman was game. She twisted her body with great force, trying to dislodge the interlopers. She held that box like a linebacker holds pigskin, but fingernails trump cardboard, and pretty soon the box gave way. The crowd smelled blood, and they swarmed in like locusts. When the scene cleared, the old lady was left holding a piece of tattered cardboard and one dingy, crocheted doilie.

I fared a little better. While going through one box I noticed an old, accordion style envelope. What it held was a guessing game, but I’ve found some good stuff stuffed in envelopes and small, sealed boxes. I grabbed it. As I was bringing it out of the box, I felt some resistance. I looked up, into the cold, dead eyes of my arch nemesis. The Chaplin.

We have a past, the Chaplin and I. For six months this man has stomped on my feet, he has nudged me out of the way just as boxes of goodies were laid at my feet, and a few weeks ago, he almost sent me through a plate glass window. I'm an easy going guy, and in the past I just took it all in stride. But this time Spike was with me.

Spike is my brain tumor. And he's no push-over. When the Chaplin latched onto that envelope, Spike took control. He got a good grip and tugged back. The Chaplin's eyes widened. His arms looked like road maps with thick, blue veins crisscrossing the contours of his flesh. Sweat beaded on his tightly knit brows.
I started hollering, "Give'um hell, Spike."
People stopped digging though boxes and settled in to watch the match. One guy took bets. Spike was the odds on favorite.
I don't know how long they battled, but Spike finally managed to rip the envelope free. The Chaplin hung his head and staggered past the crowd of cheering spectators.
Later, after the crowd returned to razing boxes, I noticed the Chaplin. He was standing alone, rubbing his hands. Knowing he was watching me, I opened the envelope, clutched my chest, and put on my best, "My, God, I've hit-the-jack-pot," expression. The look on the Chaplin's face was worth the dollar I paid for an old envelope full of worthless junk.

I LIKE A LITTLE POT

I’m a junkie. I love small pots and bits of unusual pottery. I especially like earth tone glazes and Eames Era urns and vases. I feed the monkey at yard sales and thrift stores, and pay anywhere from .25¢ to $1.00 each.



Most are 5” and shorter, making then easier to display.

Spike bought this piece.



The guy is warped.

REVERAND SHARPTON IMPLIES MORMONS DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD

Reverend Sharp tongue is at it again. During a debate, he links Mormons with infidels, a remark which ranks right up there with his infamous, “if the Jews want to get it on, tell them to pin their yarmulkes back and come over to my house," rant.

Reverend Sharpton said, "As for the one Mormon running for office, those who really believe in God will defeat him anyways, so don't worry about that; that's a temporary situation."

Perhaps the good Reverend misspoke. I read his explanation. He said, "What I said was that we would defeat him, meaning as a Republican."

Huh?

I don't get it. But what I do get is, if you make a career out of throwing stones, you shouldn't live in a glass house.

Building a Library Book By Book

For the bibliophile, nothing is more satisfying than a bookcase full of reading material, and collecting books can be as fulfilling as reading them. A collection can be built around specific authors, genres, subjects, publishers, bindings, editions, or autographed copies. And books can be purchased for as little as a quarter at local thrift stores and yard sales, or for several thousand dollars from dealers of rare and antiquarian books.

After deciding what type of books to collect, the novice collector should learn... Read more

DRESS IT UP WITH COSTUME JEWELRY

Just because its costume doesn't mean it's a wolf in sheep's clothing. Costume jewelry has come a long way since the 1940's, and today the pretty pieces of glass and plastic, set with the basest of metals, are hip with the in-crowd. Faux is fabulous, so forget about Diamonds and Rubies. Show me the Rhinestones and Bakelite, baby.

When it comes to costume jewelry, it's all about vintage. Those pretentious baubles' from the Eames era are hot. And the designer pieces are once again setting the collecting world on fire. Should you decide to accessorize your wardrobe with these fashion flames, do so now, before competition gets behind the wheel and drives the market out of sight.

The name is the name of the game. Certain designers are coveted by collectors. Pieces by Mazer, Kramer, Eisenberg, Trifari, Miriam Haskell, Chanel, Weiss, and Sherman are perennial favorites.

Bakelite pieces, be they bangles or beads, are highly desirable. The chunky, carved bangles absolutely sizzle. Prepare to pay a bundle for Polka-dot bangles. Prices can easily exceed a cool grand.

Diamonds may be forever, but Rhinestones are now. And ostentatious rules, so go gaudy.

If Pit Bulls set the scene for the new millennium, poodles ruled the fifties. Poodle pins can set you back a Grant and the price is sure to rise.

Size matters, so go chunky, monkey. The thick, heavy pieces of costume jewelry are where it's at. Heavy hoop earrings, bangles, bracelets, and necklaces are bringing premium prices.

Red might be hot, but black is scorching. Black glass and plastic is trendy among the fashion elite.

Unlike Platinum or Gold, costume jewelry can still be found in less prestigious venues. You can still dig through yard sales, mine thrift stores, and pan auction houses for these fabulous bits of colored glass and plastic. But if you want to find strike gold, stake your claim before the next gold rush.

BUILDING A LIBRARY BOOK BY BOOK

For the bibliophile, nothing is more satisfying than a bookcase full of reading material, and collecting books can be as fulfilling as reading them. A collection can be built around specific authors, genres, subjects, publishers, bindings, editions, or autographed copies. And books can be purchased for as little as a quarter at local thrift stores and yard sales, or for several thousand dollars from dealers of rare and antiquarian books.

After deciding what type of books to collect, the novice collector should learn the terms of the trade.

First Edition: The first time a book is printed. Subsequent editions occur when major changes are made to the text.

Printing: Additional runs of the same edition.

Number Line: A series of numbers listed on the copyright page. These are usually shown as 1 through 10, or 10 to 1. If the full sequence is show, the book is a first printing. If the number line starts at 4, it is a fourth printing.

ISBN: International standardized book number. Usually ten digits long.

Boards: Refers to a books cover.

Book Club: Less expensive copies, often cheaper in quality.

Book Plate: The printed label of previous owner usually found inside front cover.

Bumped: Damage to corners of a book.

Chipped: Refers to damage to dust cover.

Cocked: An uneven book.

Deckled Edge: Uneven, rough edges to pages which occur when book is bound.

Dust Jacket or Dust cover: The printed cover which covers boards.

End Papers: The first and last pages of a book which may, or may not, be decorated.

Ex-Library: Previously owned by a library. Usually has library stamp and pocket glued inside rear cover.

Foxed: Pages are discolored by brown spots.

OOP: Out of print. Only secondary copies are available.

Rubbed: Wear to covers.

Tanned: Pages are uniformly darkened by age.



Nothing affects the value of a book like condition. Lack of a dust jacket for a modern first edition may devalue a book by as much as seventy percent. Copies which are badly foxed, cocked, or worn should be avoided unless they are rare.

First edition, first printings are generally the most sought after, and as a result, the most expensive copy of a book.

As with any other collectible, rarity and demand has great impact on the value of a book.

Whether you collect as an investment, or solely for the pleasure of having something to read, book collecting is a rewarding hobby for both the novice and the serious collector.

LITTER BUGS PROTEST ACROSS U.S.

Last night I dreamt that Litter Bugs marched across the Nation, protesting unfair fines, claiming their civil rights are being violated by an unfair administration. The protesters loudly demanded the government recognize the rights of Litter Bugs and that they be treated with dignity. Litter Bugs also called for unconditional amnesty for those who have littered in the past.
What they didn’t do was address the fact that littering is a crime, nor did they make it clear why they should be exempt from committing this crime while others have to abide by that same law.

And when the Litter Bugs turned violent, when they starting throwing trash at law enforcement agents, the police had no choice but to respond. And now the police are being investigated.

Thank God it was only a dream.

SPAZ HAS GONE CRACKERS

Shara, over at My Deal of the Day,
suggested that I submit this photo of Spaz to Stuff on My Cat.

I did. Thanks, Shara.

I've had some strange animals live with me through the years, but Spaz is in a class of her own. She slaps me awake every morning when she's ready for breakfast. At the end of the night, as I go about the house shutting of the lights, Spaz grabs a quick drink, makes a trip to the litter box, and makes a mad dash for the bedroom to secure her side of the bed. I'm use to the left side but have grown weary arguing with her.

When we have a spat, Spaz shakes her head violently, screaming like a rabbit caught in the talons of a barn owl. She'll stomp off, only to return when she's hungry again.

One morning I found her stuck in a large vase with her tail and hind legs stretched toward the ceiling. She never made a sound. I think she was embarrassed.

Another time, when I was repairing the flush mechanism on the toilet, she dove into the open tank. I found her clutching the rim, eyes wide, soaked from the neck down.

Maybe I should have flushed.

SPIKE BUYS A PHOTO ALBUM

Spike and I went yard sailing Saturday. Spike is my brain tumor, and since we are going to be together for awhile, I decided to name him. Actually, he picked the name Spike. I wanted to call him Leon.

We had a poor start. I had a headache and wanted to sleep in, but Spike kept calling me Nancy-boy, so I threw back the covers and we hit the road. Despite the pleasant weather not many folks were holding sales. And the first three were duds. Nothing but baby clothes and Family Dollar do dads. I was ready to head for home, but Spike insisted we keep looking for loot.

Spike fancies himself a pirate. To him, yard sale signs are treasure maps and he's always ready to dig for booty. He'll swagger across a yard full of junk, despite his limp, searching for pieces of eight, McCoy pottery, old books, gold doubloons, and vintage fishing lures. The pirate wants me to wear an eye patch. I might do it if it will shut him up.

Spike pointed out a yard sale sign I missed. I hit the brakes and made the turn. We drove a couple of miles but couldn't find the place. I was ready to give up but Spike told me to keep driving. We rounded a curve and found the joint. Spike starting singing something about a bottle of rum as we got out of the car. Now, Spike ain't got the best voice, and people were starting to snicker, so I told him to shut the hell up.

I found a bunch of books. Four leather bound Jeppesen Airway Manuals,
a couple of turn of the century religious pamphlets, and an old telephone directory from Virginia.

Spike found another old photograph album. Spike likes to pretend the photos of strangers he finds at yard sales are his family. When the woman holding the sale asked Spike if he was creating an instant family, Spike told her, "My relatives aren't that good looking and I'm replacing them with a better looking class of people."

That's Spike. The guy's a nut.

COMMON SENSE DIES TODAY

OBITUARY


Common Sense, a popular resident of long standing, died today. According to reports, she chocked on a ham sandwich while reading the Sunday Times.

She is preceded in death by her father, Good Sense, her mother, Horse Sense, and an elder brother, Yankee Ingenuity.

She is survived by two nieces, Paula Cole Correctness and Lotta Hype, and a nephew, Rush T. Judgment.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests mourners send donations to the following organizations:

ACLU

GET THE HAM OUT FOUNDATION

DON IMUS EFFIGY FUND

ROSIE FOR PRESIDENT CAMPAIGN FUND

HAM MY ASS

A pre-teen put food on a table, in a school cafeteria, and now faces possible hate crime charges.

O.K., it was ham, like the kind you find on a pig's ass. And the students he put it in front of are Muslim. But a crime?

We take things too seriously these days. When I was in the fifth grade our teacher asked the class where our ancestors came from. I told the class my Mom's side of the family came from Germany. This was back in the mid sixties. In the South.

The next day I found swastikas carved on my books. Now, I was ticked. I wasn't a Nazi. And my momma wasn't no Nazi. During recess I found the kids who did the carving and I lit into them like a cyclone in a hay field. When the oats separated from the chaff, two of the three had black eyes and the third was sporting a blood splattered shirt. And I was no longer a Nazi. The next day the four of us went bass fishing together.

And that was that. No one was charged. The school didn't get involved. The sheriff wasn't called. We settled things and moved on. Eventually, we grew up and left childish things to the children.

SPAZ THINKS SHE'S A PARROT

Lately, Spaz has been jumping on my shoulder. She stays perched there, like a parrot, as I walk about the house. If I start moving too fast, she puts a hind foot on either shoulder and hugs my forehead, resting her chin on the top of my head.

Spaz spends her morning hours sitting on the window sill chirping at the other birds feeding in the yard. When they chirp back, she gets excited and preens herself.

Any day now I expect to find an egg in her litter box.

WHAT'S BEHIND SHERYL CROW

In an effort to save the environment, SHERYL CROW wants us to use only one square of toilet paper.

Now, I don't know about you all, but I don't think I care to get in a swimming pool with the girl.

FISHING WITH A SERIAL KILLER

Back in the early 1970’s I use to fish off a small pier behind Tom & Joe’s Sportcenter in Swansboro North Carolina. My dad, Tom, was co-owner of the bait and tackle shop. At the time, Swansboro was a quaint little fishing village set on the banks of the White Oak River.

Swansboro has grown, but it still is a small town by today’s standards. We now have a Burger King and Hardees. A stop light regulates traffic on the four lane highway which skirts the edge of town, and the Police Blotter in the Tideland News recounts four or five misdemeanors every week.

But the fall of 1974 was different. Several banks were held up at gun point in Jacksonville, a much larger town just twenty miles west of Swansboro. People were killed. Two teenage girls were found strangled, dumped on a rural dirt road on the outskirts of Swansboro. The girls had been raped before being brutally murdered.

On that same pier, the one behind my Dad’s store, as I took snappers from schools of small, needle-toothed Bluefish, the conversation usually turned to the crime spree. I remember one man in particular, Marcus, a Navy Corpsman thirteen years my senior, who always had fresh insights into the horrible deeds. We spoke at length on the subject as we fished. His teenage daughter, Debra Ann, a quiet, mousy slip of a girl, was always with him. She seemed embarrassed when her father mentioned the rapes and I figured it was partly due to her age and partly because it was her dad who spoke of such things.

Once, when a Snapper had cut his line,
Marcus tied on a new Gotcha-Plug and I noticed the holstered .45 in the bottom of his tackle box. I didn’t think much of it at the time. A lot of guys toted pistols, especially near the water where Rattlesnakes and Moccasins slithered.

Later, after the news broke, when they had that cold-blooded serial killer behind bars, I thought about that pistol. I saw it in my dreams. I smelled the cordite. I recoiled at the muzzle flash and clawed the sweat soaked sheets which bound me to the bed.

DON IMUS MUST BE PERPLEXED

A few days ago Oprah Winfrey said that white men can't dance.

And this morning the cast of The View was referring to other women as bitches.

I've been watching the news, the same networks who called for the head of Don Imus, but I must have missed the denouncements of these latest racial and sexists epithets. And the Reverend Al Sharpton has been conspicuously absent.

The Don Imus show averaged 361,000 viewers per episode. The View had over 3 million viewers last month. Oprah has the highest rated talk show in history.

I guess it's about numbers, not words.

But more troubling than the obvious double standard is the omission of these insulting remarks by television journalists; the same journalists who stripped the flesh from Don Imus in their moral fervor to eradicate bigotry and misogynistic comments from the airwaves. The talking heads are mute when it comes to reporting unfavorable comments made on shows which generate huge profits for the networks, especially when that money pays the talking heads.

YOU GOTTA LOVE THE SOUTH

A local man won the Powerball lottery a few weeks ago. $15,000,000. When asked what he was going to do with the money, he said, "I'm going to buy me a Moonpie and a R.C. Cola."

STARTING TO SMELL LIKE HORSE MANURE

If I could afford to, I'd beat my Compaq Pressario, with it's fancy-smancy Vista operating system, with a sledgehammer. And the same goes for Windows Live OneCare.

I bought a new computer a month ago from Circuit City. I'm beginning to really hate that town. The salesman installed Windows Live OneCare for me.
Three days after I bought the computer I started having problems with the hibernate function. Computer would wake itself up, the screen flickered, and my icons disappeared. I was told my computer was screwing up because it was never personalized. The salesman skipped that part when he turned it on for the first time to install virus protection and the prompt didn't come up again when I hooked this piece of garbage up when I got home. I ended up taking the computer back for a replacement. That was a battle in itself, but I prevailed.

This time I personalized the computer and installed One Care myself. The product key code was not accepted and I notified Windows support. They responded to email and gave me a phone number to call. Today is day four and I'm still unable to install.

I've mentioned this before, but companies in this country should consider hiring people who speak english. I spent half the phone conversation asking tech to repeat information. It took five minutes to get my email address right. I'd say j, he'd repeat k. I'd say b, he'd repeat z.

One tech discovered I was attempting to sign in with the wrong email address and password. He asked a security question-where was mother born-and my answer didn't jive. I was becoming more then a little confused and was starting to wonder if Spike was in the room. And then I had an epiphany. The salesman who initially setup OneCare on first computer must have created a hotmail account for me, and the dumb son-of-a-you-know-what didn't tell me.

So I let the tech in on my discovery and he says, "No problem, I'll transfer you to someone to reset password and you can activate OneCare".

I'm transferred. I wait. I'm disconnected.

Now I'm getting ticked. I email a nasty-gram. Five minutes later the phone rings. I accept the apology, wait while my call is transferred, and get disconnected. Again.

My next nasty-gram contains a request for full refund. This prompts another call. Another apology. Tech tells me someone will call back in thirty minutes to resolve my complaint.

I'm still waiting. With a sledgehammer.

VIRGINIA TECH SHOOTING

At last report, 32 students are dead and 22 more have been wounded by a gun wielding nut, making this the most deadly mass shooting in America, a country known for both nuts and guns.

And no doubt, political pundits will wage war over gun control in the coming months. They always do following a tragedy. Network newscasters will parade a host of experts whose opinions will cancel each other out and the debate, while cathartic, will end in a stalemate; the chess pieces will be put up and the talking heads will turn to other topics until the next mass shooting.

But they miss the point. Gun control is not the problem. What we have is a people problem. A pistol, sitting in a drawer, or on top of a table for that matter, harms no one. The gun is not dangerous until picked up, until it's in the hand of someone bent on carnage.

More people are prone to commit violence these days. When I was in grade school, the older students left rifles and shotguns resting on gun racks in the cab of their trucks. And they didn't even lock their doors. Forth graders carried pocket knives. To us, guns and knives were tools, and nothing more.

But this was before our national divorce rate was over fifty percent. And it was before the term 'latch-key kids' was coined. And back then we prayed in class. And we said the Pledge of allegiance each morning in front of the flag. And we sat down to supper as a family and we talked about our day. We knew all our neighbors. And come Sunday morning, we sat in God's house, took in the sermon and sang hymns.

BOB CHAKALES

I bought three old Benedictine High School annuals at a yard sale last week. While reading the baseball stats, I noticed a blurb about Bob Chakales. He was a pitcher, and during the 1945 season Bob threw a no-hitter against Thomas Jefferson High, striking out twenty-one men, handing his team an eight to nothing victory.

He signed with the Philadelphia Phillies, was tagged with the moniker, 'the golden Greek', and played for several teams over the course of his career. He won 15 games and lost 25. Chakales had a lifetime 4.54 ERA.

And that's the way life goes. Sometimes we start off golden but end up like tarnished bronze.

MALFUNCTIONS

I bought a new computer three weeks ago. A Compaq Presario. Everything was lovely for the first two days. On day three, the Gremlins struck. My trash can icon threw itself away, Windows Defender surrendered, and my firewall burned down.

Three weeks is a long time to spend with a phone in your right hand and the left outstretched, pointing a specific finger toward the information highway. I got a bad cramp on day six.

And then last night I spent another six hours on the phone talking to a tech rep I could not understand. He had me run a system recovery, and that's when things got real hinky. Computer froze like a Pointer on the last covey of the season.

Took another hour, but we managed to thaw the mother. He assured me that all was well; or maybe he said go to hell, what with the heavy Indian dialect and all, I can't be sure.

I was ready to hang-ten on the web but my computer couldn't locate the modem. I kept shouting, "It's right beside the monitor you idiot," but the contrary cuss wouldn't listen, so I called my internet service provider.

This guy I could understand. He spoke redneck. He walked me through installing the software. When the USB driver failed to load he told me to try connecting an Ethernet cord from the modem to the computer. I told him to hang on while I crawled under the desk. I set my glasses on the floor, worked my way through a nest of cables, and found the port. I'd like to think what I did next was the result of fatigue, but I think Spike (my brain tumor's alias) played a small part in the drama which unfolded.

I tried to insert the Ethernet plug. It wouldn't fit. I jammed it in harder, but no dice. It finally dawned on me that the plug I was attempting to insert was, in fact, not an Ethernet plug at all, but rather my telephone receiver. With that, I grabbed my folded glasses, held them to my ear, and told the tech rep,"Give me a minute, I'm having trouble with the plug."

HEARING IS A BIOLOGICAL FUNCTION: LISTENING IS A CEREBRAL ACT.

DON IMUS: RACIST OR JERK?

Sure, the comments Don Imus made about the players for the Rutgers women's basketball team were cruel. But were they racist?
When the story broke, I thought the outrage would be over his use of the word, 'ho', but people seem to be up in arms over the adjective nappy? What is wrong with a term that describes hair as being closely twisted or curled?
If the Reverend Al Sharpton, the loudest voice shouting from the crowd, were to describe a group of Scandinavian basketball players as silky haired ho's, would we shout racist?

Edy, a news commentator with Fox News actually reported that Don Imus has made racial slurs in the past, and she quoted Imus as saying: Colin Powell is a weasel, and that Bill Richardson- a Hispanic presidential candidate- is a sissy.
Am I missing something? I don't consider either word a racial slur.

Maybe it's because Imus made a comment about a group who happen to be of a different color? And if you do that, any word uttered can be construed as racism.
Calling these girls ho's was just plain wrong. But if using the word nappy makes him a racist then we need to whittle thousands of words from Webster’s dictionary.

I SHOULD HAVE STAYED IN COPACETIC CITY

I got pulled by the man this morning. Expired plates. My back was out, and I stumbled getting out of the truck when Smokie asked me to get in his car. The trooper wanted to know how much I'd had to drink. It was a few minutes shy of 10:00. I told him I was sober.

"How much did you drink last night?"

For some reason I said 'two beers.' He gave me a stern look, one I'm sure he practices in front of the mirror, and I gave it up.

"Three beers."

"You had something stronger than beer," he says. "Your eyes are bloodshot."

Of course they are. I'm fifty. My eyes are red, my skin is crinkled, my hair's jumping ship, and you could plan a road trip with my face.

He gave me the ticket. A $25.00 fine and $110.00 court costs.

My dad and I booked on down to the DMV. A few years ago, before they modernized the joint, it usually took thirty minutes to get a new registration. They now have a forty-foot long counter, and when you go in you take a number and wait to be called. I was number 82. A few minutes after we sat down they called number 40. Forty feet of counter and three clerks working. Two hours, and a numb butt later, I hear, "82."

I gave the clerk the old registration and told her I didn't get a renewal in the mail. She checked her computer and told me one wasn't sent because I didn't pay my property taxes. Now, getting bad news is one thing, but getting bad news after a two hour wait, well, that's two things.

We traveled across town to the tax office and I paid the tax. I told the clerk that I didn't get a tax bill in the mail. She checked her computer.

"We sent you three notices," she said, with the expressionless nuance perfected by the civil servant. And I don't doubt they did. I've received a lot of mail addressed to other people. I wonder how many of them ended up fined and tagged as a tax delinquent.

I'm back in Copacetic City now, sipping a beer and wondering how long I can stay here.

SPIKE AND I GO TO A YARD SALE

I have a brain tumor, and until I get accepted by Medicaid, the tumor will have to stay where it is; and since I’m going to be stuck with this morbid mother for the foreseeable future, I’ve decided to name it. So meet Spike.

Spike and I hit the yard sales this morning. It was a weird ride. Thirty-seven degrees outside and we’re looking for hot deals. The plan was to start on Easy Street, across from the Fish Trap Restaurant. They had advertised books, and I’m always looking for a rare first edition, so I pointed the truck north and off we went. Now, I’ve been on Easy Street. And I’ve taken a few meals at the Fish Trap, but I couldn’t find the joint this morning. I don’t know if it was because of the cold, or because of Spike. He was pitching a hissy-fit, like it was my fault I couldn’t find the damn place. Twenty minutes later I stopped at a convenience store, bought a pack of Marlboros, and asked for directions.

Turns out, Spike and I were in the wrong town.

Ten minutes later we make the turn across from The Fish Trap. No yard sale signs anywhere, and the road dead-ended, which just pissed off Spike. I wasn’t too happy myself. I whipped the car around and headed back home. On the way, Spike spotted a sign for another sale so we checked it out. Three signs outside the house, nothing set up in the yard, and no one in sight. The garage bay doors were down. I wanted to leave but Spike dared me to knock on the door. Bastard wouldn’t let up, so I knocked. I was told the sale was in the garage. We checked it out and found a side entrance with a post-it-note yard sale sign. I let us in. Three guys were hunched over a camp style gas heater. I’m hearing Dueling Banjos, and that got Spike to giggling something fierce.

The sale was a bust, but I asked if anyone knew where Easy Street was.

The guy with the most teeth says, “Sure, you turn across from the Fish Trap. Go down two streets, turn right, take the next left, and the next, and then two more rights. Can’t miss it.” I didn’t tell him he was wrong.

We found the place. I bought three Dark Tower books by Stephen King. Not exactly Blackbeard’s treasure, but I made out better than Spike. He broke a grime covered plate and had to pay the lady a quarter. He bitched the whole way home.

I'VE BEEN SPAZZED

Spaz added a pet door to my shower curtain.

She's also stealing my clothes. This morning, after showering, I couldn't find my socks, shirt, or underwear. I'd laid them on the bed with a clean pair of pants. The dockers were still there, but the rest had vanished. My first thought was aliens. Interstellar not illegal. Maybe they tried to beam me up, missed, and got my duds instead. Then Spaz strutted into the room and I knew she'd stolen them. You see, she's a thief. A regular cat burglar.

It took five minutes to find the first sock. It was under the sink. Twenty minutes later I had the other one, it was in the closet, behind a box of old photographs. I'm still looking for my underwear.

A NEW KIND OF WAR

The war on Terror is a new animal for the United States. Like the Giant Toad, it too, is non- indigenous. Both slipped into this country unexpectedly, both prey on native species, and both are highly toxic to predators.
We should remember that as we hunt down terrorists in Iraq and Afghanistan.

President Bush has announced that the war on terror is a "new kind of war". The phrase falls nightly from the lips of newscasters. So often, in fact, it has lost its lustre.

My question is: if it's a new kind of war, why are we fighting the same old battle?
Past wars-animals we were familiar with-dictated invasions, large battles, the dismantling of enemy forces, toppling governments, and occupation. After the war was won, we would begin restoration.

We are doing just that now.

If the war on terror truly is a new kind of war, let us fight it as such.

If a foreign country plans, or launches, an attack against us; or should they turn a blind eye as terrorists plan attacks from camps on their soil, or should those self-same governments fund any such terror organizations, then we should respond as quickly and as efficiently as we did when we invaded Iraq. The parallels stop there. Once we disband the army, overthrow the government, and destroy their infrastructure, we head home and let the citizens choose how to govern themselves. Had we done that in Iraq, our casualties would have been limited to a few hundred and not several thousand. We would have saved billions of dollars. And we would have impacted our enemies ability to strike us again.

And when they attack again, and they will, we go back.

Eventually, foreign leaders will realize the cost of terrorism; that their futures' will be decided, either by an American attack, or by their own angry citizens, unwilling to suffer needlessly for their leaders sins.

OLD PHOTOGRAPH COLLECTION

Recently I started collecting old photographic negatives. I find them at yard sales, usually in small envelopes, and occasionally I'll stumble across a larger box lot. I choose the more interesting negatives and have them processed. This gives me a fresh, vintage photograph, without the wear and yellowing associated with vintage photos.

The negatives are harder to find than prints but they are worth the hunt.

Here are a few of my favorites.

OUT OF THE CORN

HOW MUCH WOOD CAN A WOOD CHUCK CHUCK

MAW AND PAW KETTLE

WHAT'S WITH THE NIGHTLY NEWS?

I wonder what the crime rate is for my state. Have the number of violent crimes decreased? Have they increased?

How's the war on Terror going? Did the troop surge stabilize the region? How many American soldiers died last week?

How's the Presidential campaign shaping up? How many candidates are in the running? How many have a chance. What are their stands on the important issues facing this country. I'm just curious.

Will taxes increase.

How much is a gallon of gas going to set me back this summer?

I can tell you this, this week we will---

1. know the identity of Anna Nichole Smiths baby's daddy.
2. know the cause of her death.
3. know if Britney Spear's hair will grow back.
4. see three or four slow-car, cop chases
5. see an interview with American Idol and Trump losers.
6. listen to movie star-political commentators and strategists.
7. see another celebrity named to Rosie's "hit-list."
8. be shocked to discover college kids are getting stoned and having sex during spring break.

What we won't get, is the news.

"Goodnight Mr. Brinkley, wherever you are!"

YARD SALE TICKLERS

With the possible exception of bondage freaks with feather dusters, no one says, "I got tickled," anymore. But when I was a kid, before cable and MTV cooked a big pot of English stew, people spoke in the vernacular. Down South, if you got tickled, it meant something amused you. I hope you will "be tickled," by the following recounting of my more humorous yard sale adventures. I'll continue to add as the season progresses. If you're not give me a call. I got a deal on a feather duster at a sale last Saturday.

My dad and I often spend Saturdays at yard sales. The man has a mischievous smile and the soul of a leprechaun. At one sale he picked up a shot glass. The price was a nickle. He nudged me, and with a conspiratorial tone said, "Watch this." He held the glass up and asked the owner,"How much?" She told him it was five cents. He examined it closer and asked, "Will you take four cents for it?"

At another sale we bought a few items. We paid the woman and she said, "Thanks. Come back and see us." My dad, using his best robot voice, told her,"We will, the next time we are on this planet." He walked back to the car with a mechanical gait, swinging his arms while uttering,"Beep. Beep beep. Beep beep beep."

Funny yard sale sign--Big Ass Yerd Sale

I'm always looking for books at yard sales. At a recent sale, I asked the seller if he had any more books. He went in his house, and when he returned, he handed me three volumes.

"You'll want these," he said.

I thumbed through them. All three were written in Swedish. I handed the books back. "I can't use these."

The guy seemed shocked. "Why not?"

"I can't read Swedish," I said.

Seemingly stunned, the guy exclaimed, "You can't!" He took the books, shook his head in amazement, and walked away.

At a recent friends of the library sale, I meet a guy who told me he phoned in ISBN numbers to his wife. She would check Amazon, from her computer at home, and let him know whether the book was worth buying. I, on the other hand, write down the numbers of books I'm interested in, look them up at my leisure, and return to the sale should I find something of value. During the sale, the volunteer, (a woman I know) noticed he was relaying numbers via a headset phone. She politely inquired as to what he was doing. After he explained himself, she turned to me and said, "You should do that." My reply was, "I can't afford to."

She gave me a quizzical look and asked, "You can't afford a phone," to which I replied, "No. I can't afford a wife."

SPAZ

This is my cat Spaz. If the eyes are windows to the soul then I'm in trouble. She's resting peacefully now, wrapped around her favorite plant, the one with the baby's breath. An hour ago she had a cat fit. Tomorrow I'll have to re-hang the drapes, comb cat fur off the cactus, and sift garlic bulbs from her litter box. Spaz buries garlic in her Fresh Step. I think She's trying to tell me something.

Spaz is an incorrigible thief. A year or so after she moved in I noticed things were disappearing. Small things. Mundane items you don't notice at first, like cellophane from cigarette packs, soda caps, used napkins. Then one day I couldn't find the salt shaker. I was worried. I have a brain tumor and I thought I might be suffering from blackouts. Then I couldn't find a pack of Trojans. I was terrified. Not because of the tumor. I had a friend coming over. A special friend. But I digress.

Spaz followed me as I tore through the house. I searched under couch cushions. I rifled dresser drawers. I checked the freezer and found three cans of Lima beans and a bar of Ivory soap. Brain tumor. When I looked under the bed I discovered two paper towels draped over a small hillock. I pulled back the towels and found cellophane, match books, dryer lint, ink pens, soda caps, a salt shaker, and a tattered pack of Trojans.

When I looked up, Spaz was gone.

Does anyone speak English anymore?

I bought a new computer last week. The setup instructions were not included so I had to call tech-support. I was connected to an automated system and the instructions were in spanish. I waited, and the second message was in english. I followed the prompt and finally reached a live operator. She spoke english, but her accent was thicker than the callouses on a politician's tongue. We stumbled through a lengthily conversation before she transferred me to the appropriate tech advisor. Her accent was even harder to decipher.

This "failure to communicate" resulted in my connecting the printer cable to a potted plant instead of the parallel port. The goods news is I now have some nice print-outs of a Boston fern.

Now, I am used to accents and dialects. My dads side of the family are born-again rednecks and my moms side hail from the Bronx by way of Germany. Thurty-thurd street to be exact. My fifth grade french teacher was from France and I have two Uncles whose parents came to this country from Italy. So I have a pretty good ear.

A couple of months ago I had to place a call to a Federal Governmental agency. The woman I spoke to was Korean. Not only was her accent difficult to understand, but her command of the english language was limited at best. You would think that people hired to man telephones, especially folks who either work for the government or who are in technology services would be required to have a certain "phone" presence.

Despite the frustration, I did learn something. The next time a telemarketer calls I'm going to tell them, "I no speekatee engleesh!"

MARCH MADNESS

What a weird month.

I had to take my computer to the chiropractor. It slipped a disk.

My cat was sick as a dog.

I slipped on my slippers and caught a chill in my sweats.

I come from a mixed marriage. My mom's a woman and my dad's a guy.

Last night at dinner, I had a Highball with my Lo Mein. I ended up somewhere in the middle.

I accidentally mixed Rogaine with Viagra. My hair's been stiff all day.

MY UNCLE SAM

Paydays use to make me feel, well, patriotic.
Uncle Sam would get his cut and I got to keep
the rest. I was feeding the beast.

Freedom has a voracious appetite. But it keeps
the wolf from the door. And the Commies, the
fascists, and the Islamic fanatics.

And I was helping the less fortunate, the folks
wedged tight between a rock and some other
hard mother they were caught up against. I was
chipping in for food, and medical care, and job
training.

And my money was protecting the environment. I was
keeping snail darters from going the way of
the dodos. Damn snail darters. Where are they now when I need help.

I no longer get a paycheck. I'm on the other side now.
A bad back saw to that. And my uncle, that grand old fellow
in his star spangled top hat has turned his back on his aging
nephew. Bastard. I'd like to rip his stupid beard off.

I told him I'm disabled and showed him my doctors note.
He said he could not help me.
I told him I was hungry, and he gave me $2.97 a day to
feed myself. Six months later, he took away my allowance.

And I'm family.

But he has no qualms about feeding the neighbors kids. They sneak
over the fence and my Uncle Sam treats them to doctors,
and feeds them, and helps them buy low-cost homes.

My Uncle Sam even gave some of the bad kids Viagra after
they got out of jail for hurting my sisters and my little niece.

The old boy must be senile.
I may have to disown him.

50

Last Wednesday I turned fifty. I woke up, stood in front of the toilet, peed on my feet, and then spent twenty minutes looking for my car keys.

I generally do not celebrate my birthday. I mean, I didn't do anything. I'm here today because my folks didn't watch Johnny Carson 50 years and 9 months ago. Had Don Rickles been a guest that night I would not be typing this.