Hooker Hang-Ups

Given the typically rumpled stumps n’ skin that I sport it is probably no surprise that I am not a big fan of hangers. With stupid hangers horning in all over the place, what good are the backs of chairs anymore? Don’t you think if somebody balder than me took the time to invent handy door knobs all over the house, shouldn’t we take the time to hook stuff onto them.

Closets and the sagging shirts on sticks that populate them are fine for Regular SANE people but given my pink eye, tongue , and Pepto bill,  irregularity IS my middle name. Oh sure hangers are the perfect tool for organized people like my wife who orders her closet by color and a first-in first-out rotating inventory control system. But I on the other hand, only need ‘em to spruce up the reception for my digital T.V. or as a fancy flexible finger to flesh-out those twitches from itches deep down in my britches. 

Part of my problem is that hangers come in too many styles, colors, and materials so my clothes vault looks like a crazy clown party - or perhaps that’s just my personal choice of cheery checkered oversized formalwear. Even though I prefer wood or plastic to hang my hefty habiliment on, unlike metal wire hangers, they are so thick and heavy that they take up more space in the closet than my ‘bull-writing’ shirts and ‘Monteras’ do.  Even when not being worn, if my jodhpurs are jostled they always fall from their proper place of grace when precariously perched on those top-heavy ‘s’ shaped open-sided pants lances.

I admit it though, my prudish and unorthodox hang-ups with ‘hookers’ probably stems from the fact that we purchased our ‘DUMPicile’ from former clothing shop owners, who favored us with crates and crannies filled with the bulky bendy things as a house-warming gift. Their thoughtfulness would be hard to nix if their hanger handouts had not all been scrambled and mis-handled like a twisted mix of pick-up sticks. Anyway who wants to spend days deciphering how to dislodge my duds from THAT mess when any ol’ floor is just so much more convenient than a claustrophobic closet full of dangling triangle-y things!

Turkey Envy

Being a fan of all things ‘foul’, you can probably guess that I sincerely love a golden turkey on Thanksgiving. As a butterball myself, I have a ‘pop-out’ soft spot for sharing a pleasant holiday meal with my dandy-fam and nothing but ol’ ‘tasty Tom’ will literally fit THIS Bill! Despite that, I honestly still feel uncomfortable when around naked tawny turkeys with their prickled skin and in their pre-basted state of undress. I’m clearly no ‘Freudo’ psych-pro but this apprehension most likely speaks to my repressed childhood where I would avoid the high school showers after P.E. for the EXACT same reason.

Hey I know my ancient ancestors were ‘real men’ who had to run down and dance with anything they could get their ‘grubbies’ on just to avoid starvation. But even the most ardent and skilled ancient hunters probably didn’t shower either, before dragging a ‘kill’ back for others in the camp-clan to stuff n’ slather to the turkey tango. So ergo in modern times, I have technically already ‘done my share’ of the Thanksgiving prep. by picking-up the poultry in all its royal plumpness from the market and packing it home, right?

Oh sure you think I’m a ‘wuss’ and feel all high and mighty just because you fancy yourself as a master at buttering up and stroking cold, dead flesh per age old traditions. Remember morticians are pretty good at that too and even with their big high-brow Cadillacs, nobody EVER says they’re the life of the party. Besides, my tribe keeps me around for the NORMAL Ozark side dishes and immoral support. You haven’t really lived until you’ve feasted upon red Jello with buckets of fridge leftovers in translucent suspended animation, or my famous ‘hillbilly’ fresh greens overflowing with classy cheese-doodle croutons.

Still I wish I had the right stuff to shove a cuff up a big bird when called upon. Maybe it’s just a matter of practice so I need to stop being a chicken by ducking the plucking and start small to work my way up through the aviary food chain? I figure a finch is a cinch and a goose should boost my ‘hands-up’ experience with the egg-layers & cavity union. I am a bit skeptical though, because even if I triumph over my turkey touching trauma I still have to come face to fowl with the business end of an ostrich, ten pounds of Oleo and a toaster oven. I still don’t know how I’ll do it but like blogging, the best way is to NOT think about it and just ‘WING’ it!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Paper Proclivities

You know there is one thing that I cannot get enough of and that is paper and cardboard boxes. Yeah I was THAT proverbial ‘challenged’ kid who went straight for the box to play with instead of the cool toy packed inside. I’ve got stacks of various sized cartons as a teetering shrine to my shipping and packing prowess. In the office, I keep racks of paper in a variety of colors, textures and weights, from lowly yellow pads and quadrille Clearprint, to luxurious watermarked inlaid high cotton rag writing paper and glossy card stock.

The printed stuff lives here too of course. I’ve got magazines jammed into every nook n’ cranny. I try to wash frequently and avoid ‘yellow journalism’, but honestly those glossy mags make me a little itchy under my clothes. We get a daily newspaper too which these days consists mostly of ads and looks more like the phonebook WHITE pages than a sophisticated periodical that’s ‘RED’ all over.

Oh sure, you turn your nose up at my paper-thin puns now but you’d never dare to without your stash of lotion-laced Kleenex nearby. In addition to those precious greenbacks you like to sleep with, you probably have a vault filled with rolls of ultra-soft ‘potty-paper’ and reams of fancy-schmancy embossed napkins too. Surely everyone’s got a healthy stock of plaid-clad lumberjack paper towel rolls, not to mention the yards upon yards of gift wrap trappings for every celebration and major holiday?

I guess in a philosophical sense I love all the paper and boxes because they represent limitless potential. I can design and dream up most any wondrous creation on paper, and the boxes can contain nearly anything but my enthusiasm. At today’s high prices, it’s no wonder we hold our paper proclivities with such high esteem. Except for the toilet paper of course – that stuff still tends to be HELD in rather low regard ... just below the belt I’m told.

My Swan Song – “365 and still alive”

Like death and taxes, when it comes to goals there is a certain inevitability to them. However, unlike dying and taxation, with goals you have the generous 3 alternative outcomes rather than just one. The first of course is to complete the goal as originally established; the second is to abandon the goal altogether; and the final option, most often exercised, is simply to change the goal to a different, more achievable challenge.

While I will continue to try every year to NOT pay more taxes, I think in the end, it will be far easier to squeeze out another gasp or two of life’s last breath than avoid the tax-collector’s deeply dark, and linty pockets. So it is only fair that if I set a real, DEFINED goal, no matter how insignificant, I should do everything in my power to achieve it right – but then what?

So it is with genuine mixed emotions, I can report that as of today I have completed my bloggy goal. Back in March I promised myself to write 365 blogposts as quickly as I could. For five months straight I wrote close to 23,000 words per month and over 11,000 words during both August and September. It has been a fun challenge to write mirthfully to a daily deadline regardless of mood, interest, and other priorities. Despite that fact, it has also been an incredible amount of work too, and it is time for a change.

So unlike politicians and tenured teachers, before I get truly redundant and entrenched in routine, it is time to wander around the bend and conquer new meaningless goals and personal challenges. Oh sure I will check in from time to time on my blog friends and comment where necessary. I will also continue to randomly write a post or two when I stumble upon life’s glaring absurdities begging for goofy insights and wordplay.

So rather than this being the Pajama Monoblog’s ‘swan song’, I encourage you to treat this ‘auditory assault’ as simply my silver swan’s celebratory bugle and hiss of FREEDOM. Check the archives once in awhile if you need a ‘tickle-fix’ and of course stay in touch. Thank you all and remember … when our goals cross paths again in the future – I’ll be sure to HONK!

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.) --

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!

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.

The REAL 'Vloggers' of Orange County

I don’t have pay television but when I am travelling or at friend’s homes who do have cable and satellite, I enjoy bouncing around the channels to see what’s on that’s different. On one of those occasions a few years ago, I noted a show called the ‘Real Housewives of Orange County’ and found it intriguing like a dead bug. Low and behold the dead bug is alive and well and now apparently in reruns on my broadcast channels this television season.

No don’t worry, I have not got sucked up in the artificial lifestyle vortex of the Southern California ‘Glam and Fab’. I now have too much fun foraging for my next buffet in the ‘Slab and Flab’ bar-b-que tornado called the Midwest. Anyway I already did my time in Orange County for nearly 20 years. As different as the place was, you’ll be happy to know the ‘REAL’ people that live there are not anything like ‘weird-sters’ portrayed on the TV show – they’re like me … WEIRDER!

I’m kidding of course, but I have to say that because I have many friends and family who happily reside and are still ‘California dreaming’, despite their regular cold sweats and feverish nightmares. The place has changed from the glory days of orange groves, endless blue skies, and future promises but that’s another story. But this whole TV show thing got me thinking, they probably need to make a television series about the challenging and exciting lives of ‘Real’ bloggers too, right?

I mean Blog-Geeks talk about literally anything and everything. Our soap opera lives unfold day after day with thrilling adventures and artfully colored words, pictorials, and better yet, even without soap! You would think that Bloggers represent and relay the ‘REAL’ things that most humans encounter at some point, if not daily, in their lives, so where’s their freakish 15 minutes of Hollywood fame? If misfits like me want to stare at a SINGLE ‘dead bug’, once you break into the fertile blogosphere, it’ll be like viewing a WHOLE TRAY of dead bugs from one of those screened ‘bluish’ restaurant lights. Wow, on second thought, this idea is TOO BLUE for regular cable … I think we had better go “PAY PER VLOG”

Fermentation is in Bad Taste

My house really stinks lately. Ordinarily I would tell you that it is not my fault, but this time I have to take most of the blame. No I did not run through the yard after a deer migration, or bloat up on a double bean burrito. Actually the problem around here lately is purely a matter of first-degree felonious fermentation.

Recently with the garage sale acquisition of a rather large variety of beer making buckets, pots, and bottling paraphernalia, my wife and I whipped up not only a batch of brew but some sarsaparilla too. The problem of course is that each recipe fills the house with its own distinctive scent. While the sarsaparilla smells sweet and ‘rooty’, right out of the vat, the ale permeates the air with the odor of ‘damp earth’ and malt balls without the chocolaty goodness of candy varietal.

Though I am not a fan of beer in the least, I’ll line up for a chilly sarsaparilla over a ball of ice cream anytime. The ‘rilla’ likes a warmer final resting place so the bottles are banished to the upstairs bathroom to ferment. The beer likes it cooler so its potent grainy fragrance gets bounced to the basement bathroom. Sadly, I am quickly running out of bathrooms to stink up on my own.

If you don’t find that a ‘gas’ then how about the fact that today I also discovered a DEAD mouse on yet another level of the house. I don’t mean to get ‘CARRION-ED ’ AWAY, but what in the heck is going on in this stink-hole? Between my blog, a rotting Mickey, and the literally BILLIONS of yeast molecules ‘out-gassing’ around here, I feel like I’m living inside a BLIMP instead of a public dump. Oh well, fermentation I’m told, should temper bitterness. I sure hope so, because after smelling and stewing in my own juices this week, I am starting to get a REALLY bad taste in my mouth!

Public Servant's Plus-Sized Prows!

Believe me I have the utmost respect for the police and fire people and the job they do. Even on my best day I do not have the stamina or guts to carry out one of these ultra-risky jobs. With that said however, sometimes I wonder if when these PLUS-SIZE public servants were told they were ‘first responders’, they misunderstood and thought that meant it was for the buffet line.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not talking about your local cops that have had an extra donut or two and the Blueberry muffin top is just starting to peek over the bat-utility belt. I am referring to these full-on overgrown ‘Oompa-Loompas’ who would have trouble running to the elevator much less up a flight of stairs. I’m not saying big people can’t do demanding jobs. As long as these folks can meet the SAME physical training standards that everyone else meets in the same job, then bless their big-bagel hearts!

You see, I too have crushed my fair share of chairs so I have lived on both sides of the subject. When I was a young buck, I could bound up the side of a mountain, or paddle a river undaunted for hours on end and by nightfall be ready for more. But add 30 years and double that in poundage of brain-blubber, and I can tell you endurance activities like working in a Chilean mine,or scrubbing my nooks and crannies become a real challenge.

There is indeed something to be said for experience, but if you’re part of my team as a soldier, cop, or fireperson, I’m going to have much MORE to say about your physical readiness if my life depends on you. Though it rarely matters when all you do is pick-up the mail or stare at a laptop all day. I would be concerned however, if people’s lives depended on my physical PROWESS these days - because it’s clear that I have a ‘wittle WESS’ spring in my step, but a much bigger ‘PROW’ now!

I’m one mixed up OLD DOG!

As I have gotten older I have started to worry that people will judge me when they find out that my DNA was hijacked by some sort of street dog. I am not completely sure what kind of dog yet, but I am fairly certain I’m a mangy, reincarnated ‘Chupacabra’ (goat sucker) mongrel mix instead of a high-brow fancy Purebred. Given the content of my usual blog posts and my propensity to eat, I am starting to lean towards some kind of rare BULLdog and CHOW mix.

Since I often curl up in some corner of the room for a nap, and I am unusually skilled with my hands at digging in the yard I have definite dog tendencies. I am constantly dog-breath challenged, prefer ‘collared’ shirts, and of all things I really enjoy canned hash. If you never have had the pleasure of eating this stuff, when you open the tin it looks and smells EXACTLY like dog food – YUM! But when it’s cooked up into a fattening crispy patty, my wife has to start shaking a can of pennies to scare me away from those delicious but caloric ‘Gains’ burgers.

I have mellowed and yellowed a bit as I have gotten older however. I don’t ‘bark’ orders as much as when I was young and rarely if ever, do I shred the Sunday paper before getting it INSIDE the house. Also, despite being raised by culturally challenged Appalachian wolves, I now have learned the joys of indoor plumbing. As long as there is the fragrantly musky scent of Pine Sol and Mountain DEW in the air to remind me of home, I’m happy!

I guess it’s true that I am more of an old loyal dog these days instead of a lean and mean junkyard scrapper. Apparently the wife has trained me well and has done an exceptional job at keeping a short leash on me. As a self-proclaimed ‘LAPtop’ dog I don’t mind it so much especially since being a ‘Setter’ is a job requirement for a blogger. I only wish someone could give me a few ‘Pointers’ on getting old though - since now, I am rapidly turning into a ‘GREYhound’!

The ‘Prime 9’ interview questions most often asked of Spiders

One of my favorite books of all time is Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. I’m not sure why the book speaks to me but maybe it is because its main character is Charlotte, a talking spider, and the book features Wilbur, the conversational pig as well. My personal relationship with swine thus far has been limited to eating various slabs of their body parts slathered in BBQ sauce so rarely will they grant me an interview.

Though spiders mostly ignore me as well, cleaning up after their webs is a constant source of frustration. Spiders are like the brood of children that I never had, who provide my garden with benefits but at the same time leave a mess everywhere they roam. If I could sit down over a plate of nachos or maybe a mummified fly with a talking spider, I think, like most deranged people, I have a lot of important questions to ask. Just in case, I ever get the chance for such an interview, I have prepared the following top nine queries that most people REALLY want to know about spiders:

1) Are you bothered when garden bullies call you ‘four eyes’ even when in reality you have four PAIRS of eyes?

2) Does ejecting limitless yards of floss out your rump hurt and is it Waxed or Mint?

3) As a spider, do you have any phobias like myself, such as ‘of the birds and the bees’ or hairy-bristle legs?

4) Does it bother you that no ‘macho’ high school on earth bills itself as “Home of the Super-Silky Spinning Spiders”?

5) While it’s obvious that you don’t shave your legs; are your eight armpits essentially hairless, like those of ‘baby-face’ Tobey Maguire?

6) Everyone wants to know, do you drive a Fiat, Ferrari, or Alpha Romeo ‘Spider’; or do you prefer the daring spelling of the Maserati Spyder for that ultimate ‘bad arachnid’ image.

7) If I gave you ‘two sense’ for your thoughts would your ‘spidey senses’ be twice as valuable?

8) Given your – uh, appendage situation … are you offended that the terms ‘Eight Ball’, ‘Dr. Octavius’, ‘Octo-Mom’ and the 70’s TV series ‘Eight is Enough’ all have primarily bad connotations associated with them?

9) While everyone knows you are ‘Web savvy’, do you prefer Yahoo or Google as your primary search engine.

So who cares about any more trendy interviews with ‘emo’ Vampires or other soul-less hacks like Hollywood actors and political zombies. Now if you ever meet old Charlotte and her spider family in person, you’ll be well on your way to a hard-hitting ‘web’ interview without any of the ‘spin’. Oh yeah, and if you happen to meet curly-tailed ‘Wilbur’ along the way, be nice – or better yet, have him for DINNER!

Beer hater turns boozer

Uh with the exception of toasts at weddings, I typically go years between a glass of alcohol, and even then it is usually fingernail polish or mouthwash. Generally I am not a fan of booze because it creates lots more problems for people and society than the pleasure it can bring. Since I am already out of control most of the time anyway, I detest anything that has potential to add to my mania.

While I can accept the high-brow wine types and their quest to acquire a taste for varietal vintage ‘vino’, I have never understood the same affection for beer. I really dislike the stuff and even the smell of it will often make me nauseous. It is a beautiful drink to look at, but when it comes to taste and calories, the wife and I will slug back a Diet Coke anytime over any kind of beer.

Now with that said, my wife and I were on the prowl this weekend and found a beer making kit for sale at a garage sale for a bargain price. From an early age, both the wife and myself, really enjoyed our chemistry sets when we were young, so we mulled over the opportunity to learn how to make beer. The kit came with all the fermenting vats, hydrometer, sanitizers, brushes, bottles, caps, and capping machine. I could not believe all the gear involved just to make some foamy brown water when I have a perfectly good fizzy cesspool in the backyard that can do the same thing equipment-free!

So we will see how this experiment turns out in a couple of months. My first shock was that the grain and flavorings cost about $40 just to even mess with brewing your own beer. The second surprise was that you have to be clean – I mean REALLY clean to brew beer successfully. Who knew you have to take a shower to cook up a batch of mash and make beer? I always thought you just had to sidle up to a lamppost with a sack-covered can of malt, all itchy, unshaven and ‘fermenty’ - then nature would do the rest. I’ll keep you posted on my progress down the bumpy road towards ‘Monoblog Moonshine’. Gee maybe if I become a confusing, derelict boozer someday, my blog will read like a Hemingway novel!

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!

The Car Vs. Plane college experiment

This last week, I got to experience first-hand the juxtaposition of cross country travel by car and the reverse of the trip by aeroplane. By the way that is the same thing as an ‘airplane’, however I just ate a crumpet and my tea-stained teeth allow me to a think and feel British. Despite being literally shoehorned into my daughter’s car in the ‘shoe’ section,(which is next to the ‘party dress’ section) it was a pleasant trip back to college. I never did find the ‘study hard and save money’ section on the seating chart so I doubt one exists, though I will remain hopeful for the time being.

My daughter drives a convertible, however this trip is never as pleasant for her since she cannot lower the top for fear of losing both the shoe and party section ‘occupants’ to the wind’s fickle whimsy. I personally appreciate the protection from the sun, dirt, and hot winds in a car with a lid on it, plus I really don’t look too attractive ‘topless’. Though a 16 hour drive seems horrible, we try to break up the monotony by counting Indian casinos and sleepy truckers along the way. Amazingly, the strategy works as the drive only feels like 15 hours – Wheeee! My daughter also has the convenience of a DVD screen which pops out of the car dash so we can watch public service messages of the danger of driving distracted along with other sitcoms.

To haul all of that junk to college costs about $120 in fuel - $85 for the gasoline and $35 for the two of us in food. To fly back to St. Louis it cost about the same, but oddly, the flight attendants still would not allow me to travel topless. I did have the pleasure to be sandwiched in between two handsome women, however I think it was against their will? Given the typical tight quarters in airline travel these days, I probably should have bought one of those ‘I-Pad’ thingys rather than a widescreen laptop. But buying ‘I-Pads’ embarrasses me too much because they sound so much like feminine products (and only cost a little bit more).

Anyway, I enlisted the help of my seat partners as the lady on the left could take care of the ‘Caps Lock’ side of the keyboard and the lady on the right handled the ‘Enter’ side keys. My role in the middle was very limited as I simply had to dictate the necessary idiocy for a few bloggy paragraphs in between in-flight peanuts and tomato juice. All told, my trip home by plane took about 5 hours including my gate waits, and a few hundred extra seconds (as well as calories) from Dunkin Donuts.

A reasonable hypothesis and expectation is that you would think hands down the airplane trip is the clear winner for cost vs. time in the Car vs. Plane experiment. The truth is, NOTHING beats the chance to spend a few extra hours with the kid before she starts back at life’s grind toward adulthood. No I’m not actually THAT sentimentally sweet with political correctness - it just has become necessary since my unfortunate ‘copy-cat incident’ exiting the plane via the emergency slide. I must be just 'plane' crazy - WHEEEEEE!

"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

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.

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!