PDA – Public Display of ART

Prologue: Thanks are once again in order to Raker for holding down the 'fort' in my absence.I think some of Raker's incapable ancestors filled in at the Alamo (where I was hiding this week) awhile back and look how THAT turned out. I guess then I should consider myself lucky, as the blog does not seem to be broken or worse for the wear. Now that I'm back however, I intend to FIX that problem and screw up this blog once and for all! So on with today's topic ...


Though I really do love quality art and creative and interesting uses of materials, I am actually not a big fan of public displays of art OR affection. What will really turn me off, is if you are kissing on top of a public art display. Even for an open-minded person, that is just too much to stand … so being closed-minded myself, I often will SIT and watch.

Now don’t get me wrong, on occasion like most folks, I enjoy a stroll through a park or city plaza to visit my tax money strewn on the lawn. In many towns, that is where they invest any extra revenue to buy some kind of BIG abstract public art piece. I want to like these ‘so-called’ sculptures, but most of the time I do not think they are ‘THAT’ meaningful or unique. Apparently I am not the only one who feels that way given the special kind of ‘art’ that the birds and squirrels do on top of the public works too.

Most of the problem is that I am jealous of all forms of PDA. I always believe in my heart, that I probably could make better artwork for less money or even ‘kiss’ better for hardly any money at all. The secret for these big-shot artists is that they simply make their stuff really, really HUGE and that is supposed to impress the taxpayers of its significance. If I had a forklift, crane, and random collection of materials, could I throw that stuff out on the lawn and impress people too? Where I come from that is called ‘Trash Day’!

If people are so impressed by big concrete, metal, and glass edifices, why don’t they just go stare at downtown buildings and fall in love with them for their artful significance. Unlike typical public art, those structures are highly interactive, and at least serve some purpose by (usually) keeping the rain off the people are inside. Unless really freaky, most public displays of art and affection don’t encourage people to climb all over them. So as a taxpayer, I have to ask – other than photos, what enlightenment am I really getting for all those public art displays? It can’t be culture, because I still seem to scratch n’ sniff in all the wrong places regardless what I’m looking at. Hmmm, I guess I should learn from those birds and squirrels – when it comes to PDA, they seem to have the right idea after all?

LINCOLN’S MOTHER’S DOCTOR’S DOG

That title might sound silly to you. If so, you’re right. But I’ll explain the brilliant reasoning behind it: Several years ago I read about a survey of American reading habits. It said the four topics that would attract the most American readers were “Lincoln, Mothers, Doctors, and Dogs." Gee, we must have been straight-laced back then! Now it would probably be more slanted to movie and sports stars plus debt and taxes. Dogs still might make the list. Even in supposedly tough times I see more people with two or more dogs, most stopping to leave tributes on my lawn. I don’t mind the lawn-defiling so much, but scraping my lawnmower tire treads could make a dirty stick my Man’s Best Friend!

Now since lots of writers read blogs, let’s think about this: How many times do we find titles that give us FOUR chances to write a Best Seller? So why not use that title, just as-is, (or as-was) and write your own version of Lincoln’s Mother’s Doctor’s Dog? Most people don’t even know much about his mother, and less about his doctor and nothing about any dog he might have had. Or the stick he used to. . . well, you know. And we will ALL know all those people and dogs when you enlighten us with your tale. No fear of perjury, as titles are not copyrightable, unless you’re usurping a famous one and trying to pass off “Gone With the Wind” as your own.

I’ve already messed with the “Dog” part, which I hope will get you started ‘scraping up stuff’ for the three human subjects. Anything you might find that Lincoln said or did should likely come next. His mother and doctor are harder, so I leave that up to you. I do see a framework for a soap-opera plot there, because what mother isn’t attracted to doctors? Even if no more scandalous than only for their sons to become or their daughters to marry.

It is easy to find quotes from famous folk, whether they said them or not. Yogi Berra must be continually surprised when he reads brand new made-up quotes that sound like his “Poils of Wisdumb.” Will Rogers’ zingers could fill books, and does so. But Rogers made his living being a ‘communicator,’ while so many “great names” rarely said much worth archiving. Henry Ford’s statement that fascinates me the most was one he took a lot of guff about: “History is Bunk!” If you’ve ever read a news story of something you saw or experienced you will likely agree with him. I’ve found at least a name or a place spelled wrong, or a typo error in most events I witnessed -- and where the reporter didn’t seem to have been there! Now compare the new (and more expensive) copy of a high school or college history text. See how so many “facts” and heroes have changed to meet the new more trendy viewpoints of what academia wants kids to believe NOW, instead of “last year’s slant.”

But wait! Re-thinking the Henry Ford quote about History - - If it really IS bunk, then maybe he never said that! I am “History” myself! I am “Raker.” Welcome back, Willie!

FINALLY WE LOOK INTO PAJAMAS

Since I, Raker, WCC’s 'sometime friend,’ am substituting,I wonder why this pajama-named blog has so little about pajamas . Also, I’m wondering how come the URL spells monoblogs without the “b,” as “monologs.” My guess is that WCC worked far into the first night to get this site launched. Being even groggier than usual, he just forgot the ‘b.’ Good thing he didn’t forget his pajamas. (He writes in a computer store window where he moonlights as a dummy.) Or, if you prefer, he IS a dummy, who doubles as a writer. I am not worried if he sees this. I get automatically fired whenever he gets back into town.

But I owe it to you, and to those professors of the future who will get million-dollar grants to research the lack of pajama facts herein. Worries me that this is far from the least vital subject which gets funded by giveaway money. But here is my unfunded attempt to remedy WCC’s ‘unfair labeling.’ I hope something I do will satisfy the hungry pajamophiles.

I know that in old movies everyone wore pajamas if they were in the same scene with the opposite sex. If women got up to answer a phone they instantly put on a bathrobe. We guess those old dial phones let in some cold drafts. In new movies adult pajamas are seldom seen, except on grandpas, (thankfully.) I have seen many cute “dorm pajamas’ for sale at Walmart. But my request to look into what college girls wear in the dorms is still pending, as it has been for several years. The Campus Police gave better service than the administration, however, when they called me in to discuss it. So I can’t see a thing from the 500 feet I am required to keep away.

I also know that in most hospitals you can’t wear pajamas. “Gap-View Gowns” are the uniforms of the sick. That’s so that nurses don’t have to paw around for a landing place to use for “shot spots." The health workers’ credo is “We open you up and see clear INSIDE you. So why worry if everyone else sees the OUTSIDE of you?" Makes you think that doctors and such don’t care about dignity...UNTIL you call one “Doc." He instantly looks very dignifed. “That’s Doc-TOR, Buster!" Best not to irritate anyone who holds the power of life and death over you, like doctors. Or waiters -- who are alone with your food.

Good news though. I saw that some British hospitals are using gowns with slits on the side to hide the split in the rear. Much better, but still the breeze can slip in and flop the flaps in a game of peekaboo. All of a sudden you are attracting the same attention as those slit-skirted women in Saigon bars.

But for the rest of us, the cry of the patient is still heard:

“Hey Nurse -- My gown has no rear end back there!”
“Hmm,” she says, I’ll take look.” She does, and laughs.
“Nope. You’re wrong. I saw a lotta rear end back there!”

-- The End. (A subject I just tried to cover.) --

DUMB BLONDE JOKE (by a DUMB BLOGGER)

Buffy: “Oh look at this in our recipe book, Muffy. A CHEESE BALL! Why don’t you read it to me and I’ll follow your instructions?”
Muffy: “Goody! Gimme the book. OK, now first roll up some cheese into a ball."
Buffy: “I’ve got the cheese in a ball. What next?”
Muffy: “Now it says to crush some nuts very fine, pick up the cheese ball and roll in them.”
Buffy, minutes later: “OK Muffy. I’m all covered with nuts. Now what do I do?”

Apologies to all the blondes who are not dumb. I know one who is actually brilliant, wise, and, in fact, knows everything about me -- even things that aren’t true. Are you reading this, wifey dear? Is it safe for me to come out of my room?

But since I subjected my readers to that, I will reward them with a real recipe. All that nut-crushing made me think of one of my favorite treats. Maybe yours too. Those great PAYDAY® candy bars. If I can’t chance having Buffy I’ll take one of those sweet things rolled in nuts.

I always like Paydays, even as a kid. But I learned to respect them in the Army. They were the only candy bar that wouldn’t melt in your pocket or pack on a long, hot march. I even slept in a pup tent and did a “Buffy thing” by rolling over on one in my pocket during the night. Good as new. We weren’t allowed to bring candy on maneuvers and guys who showed chocolate stains soaking through their pockets got in trouble. Not us with our Payday contraband!

Now here is your BONUS RECIPE. Just for putting up with my tasteless, sexist, blondist (?) joke. Well, not tasteless!

HOW TO MAKE YOUR OWN CHEAP, FAKE “PAYDAY” CANDY!

Payday candy bars too big and expensive lately? Too many calories? But no problem for you! Now recreate almost the taste you love whenever you get the urge. HERE IS HOW:

Candy Corn is mainly the same mixture and taste as the inside of a Payday®. And any peanuts taste like any other peanuts, as long as your pet puppy or raccoon has not licked them. So you simply mix both together. (The candy corn and peanuts -- not the puppy and raccoon.) Use either plain or salted peanuts as to your taste. Combine the two fixins in whatever percentage tastes like the real, good old-fashioned Payday you are too cheap to buy.

Note: to make them into shapes like candy bars, you will have to do something like Muffy was reading, minus the “body roll.” Otherwise, just eat this mix by the handful. Either way you are set to enjoy even SMALL PAYDAYS!!!

FUNNY SIGNS OF THE TIMES and Other Times

I enjoy those outdoor church signs. If they’re not too wordy and I’m not driving too fast I have time to read the whole sign. I laugh so hard at the really funny ones it wiggles the steering wheel. So it’s no longer just the sign that’s funny, my driving becomes funny. But a cop wouldn’t think so.

Here’s one that got me gurgling by surprise: “Try Jesus. If you don’t get along together the Devil will always take you back.”

Instead of my long list, I’m betting I’ve stimulated you into remembering your own favorites. If so, let us hear 'em in the comments section.

There are at least two kinds of funny communications. FIrst are statements that are intended to be funny, like the above. But often even funnier are statements meant to be serious that get twisted into the opposite. Just a bit of inept wording can do it. “We chose our winner due to her poise and personality.” That looked OK when typed on the speaker’s notes. But hearing it left the audience wondering who and how died because of her lethal personality . Best to read aloud stuff you mean to be spoken unless you’re aiming for that kind of a laugh.

Foreign language throws humor curves at us too. I once was in a Germanic-mock-up Rathskellar Tavern. I decided to forego drinking and just ate the peanuts. No desire to open up the wrong restroom door until I figured out the ‘Damen and Herren” signs. I tried using ‘reason,’ like our teachers tried so hard to instill in us. It worked, but backward ... “Herren’ had “Her” in it. And any mobster might dash through the other door he read as “Da Men.” Poor jerk.. Cuz dose men wasn’t in dere.

But the church signs will have to do until the once-famed but now almost forgotten Burma Shave road signs come back. Driving across the USA before the interstates replaced our more leisurely highways, you’d find them. Sets of separate signs spaced for easy reading of a poetic phrase at a time. They were ever-changing. Written by clever, even brilliant rhymesters. Here is one I saw blooming among the prairie wildlflowers of southern Wyoming:

SPRING HAS SPRUNG
THE GRASS HAS RIZ
WHERE LAST YEAR’S
CARELESS DRIVERS IS.

...were the first four signs. Then always ending with
the last sign: BURMA SHAVE.

Hoping that even if you’re too young to shave you pay heed to the first four signs. Then you might live to BE old enough!

HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF IMMUNE FROM BEDBUGS

Some of you will be sorry to hear that blogger WCC is off on a trip again. Some of you WON'T be sorry that I, 'Raker', am back, judging by the raves I got when I filled in before. Not bragging. I was raved at by several of WCC's followers.

As for the title of Bedbug Immunity, I confess that was a ploy to pole-vault into higher Search Engine Ratings. But so as not to disappoint any reader who is "itching" to know, here's the secret: To avoid becoming a Slurpee to a bedbug, or messed with by anything (or anybody) that craves to cozy up to you in the night, try this: Sleep completely zipped up IN A BODY BAG. If you are into multi-tasking and want to sleep and breathe at the same time, a couple of soda straws up the nostrils should suffice. But don't worry -- the odds of one or two bedbugs finding the straw holes and sliding down inside are too big (and ghastly) to even consider.

With my "bait promise" fulfilled, I'll move on. Stop cheering! I mean move on in subject matter, not move away!. But I sense your preference to hear about WCC, your spoiled, and perhaps soiled, little favorite, so I'll spill the beans. Or "flop the frijoles," to fake a bit of Southwestern lingo. But WCC is rather a messy eater. Instead of a BIB, his momma made him wear a MOP.

No driving the Ozark-Okie-Texas Autobahn for him this time. He flew on the modern travelers' magic carpet -- a cutrate ticket. That means he won't be needing the heavy-duty forklift he used at those Fast n' Friendly Food-filled Diners on the roadsides. Just a tweezerful of peanuts (maybe) for each coach passenger. And free drinks IF you retained a cheekful at the water fountain back at the terminal. Sure keeps airliner restroom traffic down.

Why subject himself and his wife to this? Mainly to jump up and irritate other patrons by yelling "Groovy!" when their violinist daughter goes into a soft and sensitive passage Amazing how that girl transforms a piece of 18th century wood, horsehair and rosin-on-a-stick so magically to life! Almost as ear-opening as a jalapeno on a stick ... IF you accidentally shove it in your ear. No, they don't serve those hot peppers at classical music concerts even in Texas -- no matter how hard LBJ and G.W. Bush legislated for them.

I'll be back to fill you in, or UP, on more of WCC's adventures. For now, we can just imagine him bursting with pride as the other concertgoers point him out as the father of the brilliant violinist. "Which one is her dad?" asks one guy. "Oh," says his wife, "I believe he's the one wearing the mop."

Thanks for listening to me -- and for thinking of WCC. -- Raker.

AIRBAGS should be un-seen and un-heard

Well no doubt I will offend some of you today. Given the fact that even my family thinks of me as a big ol’ bag of wind, you might be surprised to know that I am not a fan of bagpipes or accordions. Who wants to sit around and listen to an instrument that sounds like it is wheezing all the time?If I wanted to embrace the melodic respiration of heavy breathing, I would simply run up and down the stairs a couple of times or call the counter girl at Dunkin Donuts with my regular sensuous phone order.

Yes the only good thing ‘bellows’ are good for is stoking forest fires or making an urgent plea for Walrus mates at the zoo, but nobody should have ever attached them to pipes and reeds.Now don’t whine to me about how much skill these instruments take to play. Don’t you think everyone in the world already knows that? The reason bagpipes and accordions are so difficult to learn, is the world decided long ago that we collectively DO NOT WANT people to master these ‘honkers’ quickly, so get a clue!

Nobody EVER gets wistful for the throaty sound of a New Year’s Eve party horn mixed with a kazoo and that squeezebag, Bea Arthur’s bark. Even if you do - forget the hot ‘air bags’! You can get the same odious results by simply running out to any lake and fervently squeezing geese until your ears bleed, or one of you lays a rotten egg.

Especially in the case of bagpipes, I completely understand how this instrument has become associated with funerals and death. What is really ‘AMAZING’ to me is how the dearly departed have the ‘GRACE’ to stay in the grave when all the caterwauling starts. Here in Missouri, on occasion an accordion will play a graveside service as well. Believe me, I try to behave, but by the third painful stanza if you ‘REED’ my body language, it is obvious that I am trying mightily to refrain from ‘POLKA da fingers in my ears!’


Ok enough musical discontent – we’ll let the rappers do THAT heavy lifting from now on. It is clear that I must pay penance for this horrible, mean-spirited post against bagpipes and accordions. Like all the sensitive yet great men that have walked before me, such as Napoleon, Mel Gibson, and Richard Simmons, I intend to go into self-imposed isolation for the next week. Since maybe two and a half people ‘religiously’ read this blog, who am I to stand in the way of warped personal beliefs? Therefore I have conscripted the mighty pen of my dutiful substitute (and clearly unemployed) friend, code named ‘RAKER’, to fill-in during my rehabilitation. I am trusting you to be gracious and generous little blogophiles in my absence, and treat Raker with the same respect that Michael Vick treats his dogs. So play nice, have fun, and I’ll haunt you all next week! W.C.C.

Back in the 'Blog-Saddle'

I have to admit it is rather uncomfortable writing this blog again. It feels like a long time since I have written anything other than checks since I hauled the young one back to college. Oh don’t worry about her, she has to write a few essays too but the grading at school is a lot easier than that of my typical blog commentators. Plus my kid’s school is unique since in exchange for literally my first born, they provide maid service to clean her room and rick-shaw limo rides to class.

So other than the ‘rump dent’ in my oversized steel reinforced easy chair being a little out of place, I have to thank Raker for doing a bang-up job. He held down the fort and more importantly did not let any of the quarantined ‘hot air’ out of the blog for the past week. It gave me a chance to turn my full attention to my kid, although in all honesty I have never seen more fear in her eyes in the 19 years I have known her.

Generally this time of year is always a bit hard for kids and of course that mostly means ME. Even now, I detest the ‘back to school’ sales and ads on television celebrating the return to structured education and the loss of freedom. Now mind you, I LOVED SCHOOL and by most accounts (except for those of my accounting professor) achieved reasonably successful results. Yet, don’t let that Charlie McCarthy, devilish grin on my face fool you, as I ‘aint no dummy’. Who in their right mind REALLY wants to get cooped up inside cramped, echoey spaces with dozens of others who don’t want be there either? School sounds a little too much like church to me. Most people learn BEST through real experiences, not just theoretical explorations and lofty reading.

Ok, so I had better get off this soapbox before it starts to bubble; and heave my heft back into the daily blog-saddle. I kind of wish that teacher’s pet ‘Raker’ would have trimmed the bushes around the place or done something truly useful other than his ‘high-brow’ blogging while I was away. I guess the old adage ‘you get what you pay for’ is still valid? Gee I hope so – with all the REAL dough I am shelling out for my daughter’s college, in THEORY, our family will be enjoying hot, fresh bread for the next thousand years!

"RAPID-FIRE RAKER" IS GETTING RETIRED -- (Or Fired)

It had to happen. Blog-owner WCC, unlike Jim Bowie or Davy Crockett, is coming back (alive) from San Antonio tomorrow. I guess he saw the high prices of those Gila Monster-skin cowboy boots and can't wait to get back into his holey tennis shoes. Or perhaps those ten-gallon Stetson hats didn't fit. He only has a five-gallon head, y'know.

More likely WCC thought I wasn't able to match his wit and funniness. But he's hard to follow for anyone who is still partly SANE. So I'll try to cram in as many of my very own custom-created jokes for you so I'll leave you laughing. Does that mean you or I will be laughing to leave? We shall see. But this 'big ending' will let me jump into a role I created but never got to try: that of "Rapid-Fire Raker -- World's only standup comic who sits in a rocking chair." The jokes only SOUND old. I 'm the real thing. Try to imagine this, from a packed comedy club ...

After sweeping the stage I shuck the broom and drag out my wooden rocking chair. As I sit down, cries of "He's off his rocker" begin to die out. I begin...

"Hi folks! Anyone from Wisconsin? Well how about a guy from there that watches old Andy Hardy movies during lunch. I'd call that "Mickey Rooney and Cheese." (Drums: 'Kaboom, crash!') Thanks, drummer. Now pick up that cymbal before the waiter grabs it and starts serving drinks. (Silence) See, the cymbal is big and round sorta like a tray, and -- Hey, I need some laughs! Just cuz you're still sober you don't have to act it! What are you,an audience or one of those posters Hitler hung? Aw, that's OK cuz I don't need this job. Or any job. That's why I never vote for any of those presidents who wanna put everyone back to work. You call it a promise -- I call it a threat!

"Besides, I've been sick. Of all places I hadda eat HERE! But drink up if you did cuz the alcohol will kill anything. You too? Sure, but it'll get rid of those little tiny germs first. Oops! My shoes are worn out and the soles are flapping. If I walk real fast it sounds like clapping. So I keep these. Saves money plus the sound effects make me feel like a big success. I need the applause cuz I don't get as much respect as that Dangerfield guy. It's true. I bought one of those Memory Foam mattresses and it forgot who I was. For some reason it thought I was the wrong guy when I crawled in. Oh well, I can always oin this audience and sleep here." (Runs out -- of jokes and courage both.)

Just kidding. Thanks. You've been a great audience as I tried to fill in for my pal, WCC. At least I think you were a great audience. (In a blog you can think anything you want...until you read the comments - so I just won't read them.)

I hope our real blogger will be glad to be back. But it will be one of those bittersweet homecomings, like many parents will have as their kids go back to college. And each year they return less like kids than when they left. Takes awhile to realize that 'growing up' was your and their goal both all along. So cheer up!

Now it's time for me to say "I'll keep a song in my heart for all of you." Because nobody wants to hear my chest rattle! Now...

"Howdy WCC, and 'Bye Y'all." (I'm speaking Texan.) -- Raker

BUTTERED PARSECS -- Slipping into Astronomy

Hi. This is Raker again, not WCC, the STAR of this blog. He’s still a few light years, or heavy-footed miles away on his trip to Texas. But enough about Earth. Let’s talk about something even bigger than Texas: The rest of the Universe, whether Texans admit it or not.

Several years ago one summer my son and I signed up for an astronomy class at a nearby college. He did it for the high school credits that he could get. I did because I “just thought the stars were pretty.” I wonder how many others who figured on some easy credits of relaxing star-gazing got hit with wall-to-wall MATH instead! So that’s how “Parsecs” got into the title today. It’s an astronomy measurement, one of the few I remember, which is 3.2 light years. That’s 19.2 trillion miles, for you who tend to check the National Debt Clock on this page.(Don’t worry, because we are still in the lower trillion dollars of debt.)Things are still just fine, especially for whoever keeps selling printing presses to Washington, D.C.

Back to the class. I hadn’t had algebra for years, and avoided using or thinking about it, preferring to let those mechanical calculators do that for me. But I didn’t drop out like some of the disillusioned stargazer wimps. I plunged into the homework, partly as a good example for my son. He still had years (I hoped) of study ahead, and “Wise Responsible Dad” would show him what it took to succeed in a difficult subject. In fact I began to OVERdose on homework. Facts and figures regarding parsecs, astronomical units, kelvins, doppler effects, red shifts, temps of stars, dying, exploding and newborn from cosmic dust began to fill my world, and our home. Scribbly notes and numbers covered our desks, tables, bedsheets and any flat surface I could find with half-done and crossed-out graphs and problems. Anything ‘blank’ was in danger of getting a ‘number tattoo,' White and light-skinned people began to fear to visit, Fine, because I had no time to entertain anyone who preferred to talk about their babies or work instead of astrophysics. My marriage was in danger too. When I caught my wife trying to throw away a pile of my wrinkled paperwork and yelled “Drop that pitchfork!" it almost caused a supernova explosion.

Now for the happy ending. And any ending to that class would have been happy. I got a final grade of “A.” Wow! I must have had more math stowing away inside that UFO, which my mind had become than I thought! This proof of my Einsteinian brilliance had to be shared! I approached my son, lazing like a Basking Shark in our swimming pool. When you want to make a statement last longer and sound more important, you start with lots of prefaces: ”Ahem. Well, son, I notice you spent a lot of time out here this summer. And your astronomy book isn’t wet so I know you didn’t study. In fact, that bookmark is on the same page I saw it the first week of class!" (No reaction behind the sunglasses.) “But, in contrast, I worked like a dog myself and got an ‘A’ as my reward. But I won’t be angry as long as you learned your lesson about the worth of genuine study. Now what kind of grade did you end up with?"

He took another suck at his lemonade, somehow floating beside his rubber mattress. “Me? Aw, I just scanned that (slurp) book. Kinda lame. A lot the same as my old physics course. So I (slurp) only got a B plus.”

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Today’s tip for a cleaner home:
When you tell someone to “Think outside the Box,” make sure your CAT isn’t listening. - RAKER

VELCRO VELCOMES YOU TO ITS VORLD

Either Velcro is getting stronger or I am getting weaker! Lucky nobody saw my Tug O' War with my fabric case when I took my laptop computer to breakfast with me this morning. No, "IT" doesn't get brekkie, or eat -- except for some of my data. It chomps only bits and bytes while I eat the whole thing of whatever is on my plate. When people talk about 'having a full plate' I always wonder if they're talking about ME! Those of us who are truly guilty don't have to be paranoid to think people are talking behind their backs. Maybe that's why laptops and notebook computers are getting so thin while we are not.

But the Velcro closures on my new computer case are real Grabbers! They don't want anyone in, even to fighting their owner when he tries to win the Rip-Fest. It's as embarrassing as when you absent-mindedly try to tear up a stack of papers then realize you took more sheets than your out-of-tone muscles can handle. That happens when everyone else has nothing to do except stand around the copy machine staring and smirking. But the world has to stay in balance. It must apportion out its powers evenly enough so that we don't all end up sticking in big chunks to Velcro. Like a Black Hole might pull you in. Proof of this is how my old comfy tennis shoes can no longer keep their Velcro flaps flapped. I think their adhesive powers must have been reassigned to my laptop case. If you actually use your tennis shoes to play tennis, this could let your opponent win while you keep bending to refix your floppy-top shoes

But you might use a different term than 'tennis shoes' for the fabric/rubber/composite shoes that have captured yards of feet nowadays. Running shoes, walking shoes, whatever. Seinfeld's pals called them "Sneakers." I heard that term as a kid, but mostly from older people. Like themselves, it faded. Now I consider "Sneakers" as mainly a "New Yorkism", and they're welcome to it. Think about this: Would a great-looking, free-breathing, athletic Heartland-America girl be more attracted to a Tennis Pro in tennis shoes or a Sneaky guy in Sneakers? I rest my case.

And I'll rest the rest of me after typing on this machine which I finally freed from its voracious Velcro case. But I apologize if I seemed to stereotype all New Yorkers as some kind of Sneakers, like their shoes. Not true! I'm sure that at least half of them are just the VICTIMS of Sneakers.

Old Geezer recalls "The Daisy Air Rifle Handbook."

I'm feeling the POWER! You know, like the strange but exciting power of 'being in someone else's house and free to poke around, open all the cabinets and peek inside. Even rearrange things at my will.

No, I'm not a burglar. It's just me, Raker, the guy WCC trusted(maybe a bit naively) to take care of his PJ Monoblogs while he hit the road on a short bit of business.

But he didn't reckon on how lazy I am. If not, maybe I'd have my own blog. What's the diff if I do his or mine for nothing? Anyway, I know an old guy, call him "Geezer," who lived some funny stories. His motto is "Been There, Done That, Even CAUSED some of it." Here is one from right after World War II. His tale is in progress, as he is muttering to himself. Let's join him.

"...and in those days kids were thrilled that real toys had started to come back. So were makers of toys, like the famous Daisy brand of air rifles. Naturally I had to send 50 cents for a copy of an exciting fat little publication called "The Daisy Red Ryder Handbook." Or similarly titled. It featured the cartoon cowboy whom their best-selling rifle was named for. It was full of he-man outdoor lore like how to shoot safely, (so you don't put your eye out.) But Mom told you that, so it added all kinds of other neat stuff boys wonder about. Excluding girls.

We played in the alleys back in Denver, and I was sitting on the ashpit out back reading that book. I'd already learned from it how to lasso fenceposts, then moving objects riding bikes. I was so good at that I got into trouble roping a kid we called "The Shrimp". He was riding his new bike past me, and when he went down like a baby calf, he dented the fake gas tank and hurt himself a bit. I was sorry, and was MADE to 'treat him nice from now on or you're gonna git it!'

Then here came Shrimp that day, and taking advantage of my pledge to 'be his friend' said "Whatcha readin'?" So I showed him several pages. "Wow! Neat!" He seemed to sense its ability to rid any 'sissy tendencies' out of even kids like himself. "Tell me some of the good parts," he begged. In the back of the book Daisy must have realized that modern kids who like cowboys also crave info about modern things...like the Atomic Bomb. It had exploded into reality recently, and how a thing so powerful was made was still a blank in peoples' minds. So, being proud of what I'd just learned about the awesome weapon's inner workings. I enjoyed playing teacher to a willing and impressionable subject like The Shrimp.

Then, down the alley kicking a can came Kenny. He was bigger,tougher, and tended to become a bully whenever his short attention span overcame his boredom of being civil. "What you doing on that ashpit? Readin' BOOKS?" spat Kenny. Actually spitting, and a bit too close to us. He always had lots of spit, and used it to make statements. Both the mental and wet kinds. We could see he was going straight into bullying that day. "I wanna see what yer readin'. Gimme that book." He grabbed it quick as a snake. He gave a fast flip through the pages. "Maybe I'll borrow this and take it home to read myself." Just as I thought "Goodbye book," The Shrimp stepped right up to Kenny. "Listen you," he said louder than we'd ever heard him, "You'd better not mess with us anymore!" "Oh yeah? Why?" said Kenny wearing a confident sneer. "Cuz WE know how to make an ATOM BOMB, that's why!"

Kenny stared for a second, then tossed the book back to me. "I was just kiddin' anyway." Then he turned and trotted a bit faster back up the alley. Poor guy must have thought he was intimidating enough to become the target of another Manhattan Project!

End of story. That's all from The Geezer. And me too this time. C.U. -- Raker

SECRETS RE BLOG WRITER UNREVEALED IN SCANDAL MAGS

-- I mean those 'Ragazines' we scan while wating in line to pay at Walmart. Why die waiting until he's a Movie Star?

By now perhaps you know WCC's Monoblog has a guest host. That being yours truly, 'Raker.'

Hello again to those who are back for my second attempt at being Ghost Guestwriter, or whatever. I realize I don't do this as well as WCC, "The World's Weirdest Wordsmith." That's a title I gave him. He's far too modest to brag about his weirdness and prefers to let others do it. In fact, he used to be classed as a "Functional Illiterate". That is, until he stopped functioning.

But maybe you wonder how and why I was chosen out of the million or two who applied. (That's partly true -- TWO did apply.) I proudly came out as his top choice, being the one who wasn't jailed and agreed to work for nothing. How lucky I was that, for this blog, writing skills were not critical. Look how far he got without them! Just kidding, of course, because he confesses having to repeat so many English classes taught him a great deal. Though mostly about aeronautics. On the rare days he attended class he devoted his time to folding and testing many revolutionary types of paper airplanes. When the teacher would retrieve one sticking in her hair or cleavage, her scowl would soften as she'd find actual attempts at writing essays scrawled among the gum and doodles on the paper. WCC credits her, more than anyone, for truly PRAYING him to pass.

But, since today's issue seems to focus on inside stories about our once-again-truant blogger, and since he's not here to stop me,let me add something more. I remember visiting him in his newly-remodeled home in St. Louis. You know how all that newness makes you want to extend it to accessories, right? And that means sets of fluffy new towels in all the bathrooms. I was impressed that all of his and his wife's were monogrammed. Pretty classy, I thought.Then I noticed every towel had a scripted letter "H" on it. Nobody's name in that small family even has an "h" in any of their names! So when I asked about it, WCC told me that the H's were for "HIS" and "HERS." That led to the obvious question of how, since both initials are the same, how She and He can tell which is which. He stared at me like I was the only idiot standing there. "Easy," he said. "Her "H's" are on HER towels, and my "H's" are on MINE. How silly would it be the other way around?" I left soon after that, and washed up in a service station on the way out. I don't know whose paper towels I used, but I almost skipped drying my hands because I couldn't find any "H" on them. Now Adios from Raker. I'm doing the same as you faithful readers are: Counting the minutes 'til the landlord of this blog comes home riding a steer, (or maybe a steer horn,) back from Texas. Yee Haw, Y'all!

ANIMAL LOVER

I like animals of all kinds but I am not what you would call an ‘animal lover’. When I was a kid I had warm and fuzzy pets like two snails named Sydney and Tyrone, an occasional carnival goldfish, and a green baby aquatic turtle named after my favorite Jane Fonda movie, ‘Salmonella’. I had a couple of dogs over my life but in both cases, after getting to know me, they always seemed to want to run away from my underground electric fence; – so much for that ‘man’s best friend’ palaver.

Aside from a milieu of stray mangy cats over the years, I have preferred mostly noiseless pets so that when they expire, I can use them to flavor soup. I know REAL animal lovers would never ever, dare think about the last sentence much less put it in print, so that is how I am sure I am not one of your ‘ilk’. Now that does not mean I go out of my way to torture animals or avoid petting them. On the contrary on more than one occasion I have fantasized about having a pair of ferrets or maybe mink on the collar of my favorite ‘Mac Daddy’ coat, to go with my pointy-toed alligator boots.

Truly though, I am more of a ‘gatherer’ than a hunter. I am not against hunting warm-blooded food in a cold-blooded way for sport however. That’s why several times a week, I get lost in the local warehouse ‘fight’ club, searching for hot appetizers to sample. Yes, you’ve not seen true animal behavior, until you’ve witnessed first-hand, the white-knuckled pursuit of freebie hand-outs, while beating back legions of gaunt yet ravenous senior-geezers.

As a kid I tried to shoot squirrels but my camera jammed and I missed every time. As a teen in Yorkshire we would hunt for rabbit and pheasant but it was with a Ford Fiesta, not with a gun. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a plate of ‘Ye Olde’ English, skid-mark fiesta stew. Hmmm, I guess if I’m willing to eat road-kill, I must actually be an ‘animal lover’ after all? More likely though, I’m just a hillbilly gourmet, who just happens to live in mainstream Missouri!

** Afterword **

Hey speaking of ‘animals’, I sadly must return my own ‘daughter-unit’ to her college cage back in San Antonio this coming week. So being the charitable yet increasingly lazy, ‘big blog-dog‘ for the Monologues, I have arranged a guest-blogger for your light-hearted yet strangely hard-headed reading pleasure next week. Yes, I have asked my ‘liver-spotted’ and dearest mentor / landscaper (code-named ‘RAKER’) to fill-in during my absence.

If this guy could speak English he would have his own blog, but fortunately for you he learned to write highly elegant ransom notes while in a Cuban prison. The rehabilitation (as well as his victims) have paid off handsomely, so he now works cheap and I did not have to pay his normal 2.99 pesos per minute phone rate for ‘stimulating’ blog conversation. Please be on your best behavior for my ‘bloggy-guest’, because he surely won’t be on his. Don’t use too many ‘big and small’ words in your comments, because ‘Raker’ is highly sensitive about his enormous waistline and teensy tiny ‘pin head’. Consider yourself warned and now Deputized. I will see you in a week. – W.C.C.