…
I recently had time to surf the internet and ran across a story on Yahoo about the worst foods in the country. It was one of those book-promoting stories suggesting instant death if you ate any of several fast food dishes. They even had a list, sorted from bad to worst. The article suggested alternative recipes for each bad thing they mentioned.
I read with great interest, studying the “Bad List” for anything I might have missed. The list of the unhealthy foods read like a who’s who of my favorites. Somewhere in the middle, Arby’s potato wedges stood accused of unhealthy levels of something. The article said they contained “fat.” I think “taste” is more like it. Later, I learned my daughter read the same story and was heartbroken to see those potato wedges on the naughty list. They were her favorites. The chili cheese and onion fries from Chili’s were judged the worst of the lot. I began drooling as I read the list of charges against this greasy delight and resolved to treat myself to an order at my earliest opportunity. It is a tasty job and somebody has to do it.
For each bad food, the article suggested alternative recipes. They were uniformly depressing. How much celery and tofu equals the goodness of a slice of crisp fried bacon? The alternative “Good List” was so ridiculous; I dismissed it as a Communist plot. (Okay, you have to be of a certain age to recall what a Communist plot was, so you will have to trust me on this one.)
I do not know when personal dietary habits became anyone else’s business, but I am not about to change and certainly not for anything containing tofu. Better to dine on Chicken Fried Steak in Hell than eat celery in Heaven. The same goes for listening to good old Rock ‘n Roll versus Harp music, too.
Besides, fat is essential to all life on this planet. Specifically, some fat is essential to my life and the enjoyment thereof. A little alcohol and an occasional cigar can be part of the good life, too. There will never be enough veggie goodness to make me forget about good food, liquor or smoke.
After all, they are three of the four best things in life.
If you have a favorite recipe involving fatty goodness, send it along. The revolution starts here!
…
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Snow III: The meltdown.
…
For as long as I can remember, the State Bird of Texas has been the Mockingbird. I think that may soon change. I believe the replacement will be the chainsaw.
Bear with me for a moment.
So, back to the bird, er, chainsaw. The heavy snow demolished thousands of trees in north Texas. Not artistically gifted enough to make signs reading “Help Us,” my neighbors devote themselves to cutting and removing the destroyed trees. For the past few days, the mating call of the chainsaw has echoed thru the neighborhood from dawn 'til dusk.
I suspect a competitive element here.
Even after I gave up for the day, I could hardly hear myself think. “Vroom, Buzz, Whine,” went the saws. There must be dozens of them within earshot of my home. I estimate this will continue for another week. Maybe two. That should be long enough for the legislature to act.
“Mockingbird? No! - Chainsaw? Si!”
…
For as long as I can remember, the State Bird of Texas has been the Mockingbird. I think that may soon change. I believe the replacement will be the chainsaw.
Bear with me for a moment.The warm days following the Great Snow of 2010 made quick work of the white stuff. There are still small patches in shady areas, but they will not survive beyond today.
The temperature is on its way into the 60s and the sun is blessed bright. Thank goodness. With all the cool, cloudy and wet weather, I have been unwilling to play outdoors for any length of time. As a result, I have begun to resemble Sméagol Golem. It is not just a physical thing, either. I find myself repeating “my precious” far too often for mental health purposes. Fresh air and sunshine are my best hope for regaining a human appearance.
So, back to the bird, er, chainsaw. The heavy snow demolished thousands of trees in north Texas. Not artistically gifted enough to make signs reading “Help Us,” my neighbors devote themselves to cutting and removing the destroyed trees. For the past few days, the mating call of the chainsaw has echoed thru the neighborhood from dawn 'til dusk.
I suspect a competitive element here.
Hardly a house is without a substantial “brush pile” on the curb. My place is no exception. A branch 12” in diameter dropped from high in an Ash tree and grazed my truck on its way to earth. Yesterday and today, I joined the chorus, hacking and chopping to recover the full use of my drive. (Why does it always have to be the driveway?!) I am about half done with that branch. I have several others in less critical areas. They must wait their turn. I may have enough lumber in my yard to complete my retirement home on the ranch.
Woo Hoo?
Woo Hoo?
Even after I gave up for the day, I could hardly hear myself think. “Vroom, Buzz, Whine,” went the saws. There must be dozens of them within earshot of my home. I estimate this will continue for another week. Maybe two. That should be long enough for the legislature to act. “Mockingbird? No! - Chainsaw? Si!”
…
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Snow II: The Shoveling
…
Question: Why do men suffer heart attacks while shoveling snow?
Answer: Because they want to.
…
Everyone knows record-setting snows pasted Texas last week. Here is something you might not know: The temperature never dropped below freezing through this entire episode. As a result, the 12” deep snow contained approximately the same amount of water as a foot of rain. That means a 12" square; eight inches deep would weigh just north of 40 pounds. [Yike!]
I enjoyed seeing snow and to a lesser extent playing in it for the past several days. There comes a time, however, when one must get out in the world.
For me, that time arrived on Saturday. My pantry was a goody-free zone. Worse, there was no alcohol in the house. I know, because I looked. Everywhere. Even my emergency rations in the overhead light fixture and the toilet tank were gone. I was contemplating my desperate situation when the phone rang.
It was my son, Ben. He wanted to leave my 2-year-old grandson with me for a while. I subtly asked if he owned a square-nosed shovel.
“You mean a snow shovel?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
In a few minutes, his truck stopped in front of my house. Ben, Augie and the Au Pair slogged through the wet snow to my door. When I opened the door, Ben handed me a red snow shovel.
“I was tempted to throw this piece of @#$% away when we left Chicago,” he said cheerily.
After a few pleasantries, I possessed both grandson and a snow shovel. I settled Augie into the “playroom” (aka, the whole house) and stepped outside.
Until today, I never realized my driveway was a monumental edifice, worthy of inclusion with the mythic wonders of the world. “The Augean Stables have nothing on my driveway,” I thought. One scoop at a time, I began clearing the snow. Soon, I remembered my son’s advice. “In 5 minutes, you’ll be shaped like a letter ‘C’,” he said, prophetically.
“That’s ridiculous,” I thought as I gazed at my shoes. “Uh oh.” Somehow, my shoes had filled with ice water. Worse, I could not straighten my spine.
Still, I kept on. Near the end, I found a drift of snow blocking my pickup truck.
“Just this one last…” I wheezed.
I dug in and, in a few minutes, cleared the drift. My back ached. Bent in half, I retreated to admire my accomplishment. Now I know how Igor felt in those Frankenstein movies. At that exact moment, the foot deep snow on the hood decided it was time to go. Flumpf. The drift was back, as if I had not moved a spoonful of the wet stuff.
Choked with pain and frustration, I crept back into the house.
“Let’s play with the Choo-Choo!” I exclaimed.
I can buy liquor and food in spring.
...
Question: Why do men suffer heart attacks while shoveling snow?
Answer: Because they want to.
…
Everyone knows record-setting snows pasted Texas last week. Here is something you might not know: The temperature never dropped below freezing through this entire episode. As a result, the 12” deep snow contained approximately the same amount of water as a foot of rain. That means a 12" square; eight inches deep would weigh just north of 40 pounds. [Yike!]
I enjoyed seeing snow and to a lesser extent playing in it for the past several days. There comes a time, however, when one must get out in the world.
For me, that time arrived on Saturday. My pantry was a goody-free zone. Worse, there was no alcohol in the house. I know, because I looked. Everywhere. Even my emergency rations in the overhead light fixture and the toilet tank were gone. I was contemplating my desperate situation when the phone rang.
It was my son, Ben. He wanted to leave my 2-year-old grandson with me for a while. I subtly asked if he owned a square-nosed shovel.
“You mean a snow shovel?” He asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
In a few minutes, his truck stopped in front of my house. Ben, Augie and the Au Pair slogged through the wet snow to my door. When I opened the door, Ben handed me a red snow shovel.
“I was tempted to throw this piece of @#$% away when we left Chicago,” he said cheerily.
After a few pleasantries, I possessed both grandson and a snow shovel. I settled Augie into the “playroom” (aka, the whole house) and stepped outside.
Until today, I never realized my driveway was a monumental edifice, worthy of inclusion with the mythic wonders of the world. “The Augean Stables have nothing on my driveway,” I thought. One scoop at a time, I began clearing the snow. Soon, I remembered my son’s advice. “In 5 minutes, you’ll be shaped like a letter ‘C’,” he said, prophetically.
“That’s ridiculous,” I thought as I gazed at my shoes. “Uh oh.” Somehow, my shoes had filled with ice water. Worse, I could not straighten my spine.
Still, I kept on. Near the end, I found a drift of snow blocking my pickup truck.
“Just this one last…” I wheezed.
I dug in and, in a few minutes, cleared the drift. My back ached. Bent in half, I retreated to admire my accomplishment. Now I know how Igor felt in those Frankenstein movies. At that exact moment, the foot deep snow on the hood decided it was time to go. Flumpf. The drift was back, as if I had not moved a spoonful of the wet stuff.
Choked with pain and frustration, I crept back into the house.
“Let’s play with the Choo-Choo!” I exclaimed.
I can buy liquor and food in spring.
...
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Crash! Crash! Crash...
…
It seems I have used that word a lot lately. Crash, that is. This time, it occurred at the car wash. You know, one of those places where they drag your car through a tunnel, wash and blow it dry. At the end, a recent immigrant to the country drives the car a few yards to another area where more immigrants swarm over the car with towels and spray bottles, drying and polishing as they go.
The system experienced a slight hiccup Tuesday a week ago. The fellow in charge of driving my car to the finishing area could not operate the gearshift. “Vroom, Vroom,” went the car. It did not move. After a suitable interval, I walked over to help the man. I knocked on the door and gestured toward the gearshift. The driver grinned an ivory-toothed grin and opened the door. I reached in and put the car in gear, motioning him to go ahead and drive. I stepped back.
“Vroom, vroom,” went the car. It did not move.
I returned to the door and was trying to gesture in Spanish that he should take his foot off the brake and drive. At that point, the next car in line arrived.
Bang!
I looked back to see an elderly Lexus climbing my back bumper. The conveyor that moves cars through the tunnel was persistent.
Bang!
The Lexus hit my bumper again, making a kind of grinding noise.
After six or seven hits, I convinced the driver to stop the conveyor before destroying both cars. Frankly, I was surprised to learn the proper Spanish gesture involved bulging the veins in my forehead while shaking a fist in the face of the immigrant. He sprang from the cockpit and rushed to the kill switch. The Lexus settled to the ground a few feet behind my scarred bumper.
With the serial collisions finally ended, I spoke to the manager. He agreed I should get the car repaired and bring him the bill. He agreed to pay immediately. I agreed to his terms and released my grip on his throat.
Here we are, over a week later. The body shop took its sweet time repairing the damage and I picked up my car on Wednesday evening. (Yesterday) I believe they worked harder adding up the invoice than making the repairs. In any event, I plan to visit the car wash, paid invoice in hand, as soon as the snowfall ends.
In Texas, snow is as familiar as flying lobsters. I see no reason to tempt the Fates by venturing out. Still, I cannot wait to see the manager’s face when he sees the cost. Heh, heh.
…
It seems I have used that word a lot lately. Crash, that is. This time, it occurred at the car wash. You know, one of those places where they drag your car through a tunnel, wash and blow it dry. At the end, a recent immigrant to the country drives the car a few yards to another area where more immigrants swarm over the car with towels and spray bottles, drying and polishing as they go.
The system experienced a slight hiccup Tuesday a week ago. The fellow in charge of driving my car to the finishing area could not operate the gearshift. “Vroom, Vroom,” went the car. It did not move. After a suitable interval, I walked over to help the man. I knocked on the door and gestured toward the gearshift. The driver grinned an ivory-toothed grin and opened the door. I reached in and put the car in gear, motioning him to go ahead and drive. I stepped back.
“Vroom, vroom,” went the car. It did not move.
I returned to the door and was trying to gesture in Spanish that he should take his foot off the brake and drive. At that point, the next car in line arrived.
Bang!
I looked back to see an elderly Lexus climbing my back bumper. The conveyor that moves cars through the tunnel was persistent.
Bang!
The Lexus hit my bumper again, making a kind of grinding noise.
After six or seven hits, I convinced the driver to stop the conveyor before destroying both cars. Frankly, I was surprised to learn the proper Spanish gesture involved bulging the veins in my forehead while shaking a fist in the face of the immigrant. He sprang from the cockpit and rushed to the kill switch. The Lexus settled to the ground a few feet behind my scarred bumper.
With the serial collisions finally ended, I spoke to the manager. He agreed I should get the car repaired and bring him the bill. He agreed to pay immediately. I agreed to his terms and released my grip on his throat.
Here we are, over a week later. The body shop took its sweet time repairing the damage and I picked up my car on Wednesday evening. (Yesterday) I believe they worked harder adding up the invoice than making the repairs. In any event, I plan to visit the car wash, paid invoice in hand, as soon as the snowfall ends.
In Texas, snow is as familiar as flying lobsters. I see no reason to tempt the Fates by venturing out. Still, I cannot wait to see the manager’s face when he sees the cost. Heh, heh.
…
Snow!
...
For the second time in 8 weeks, snow is falling in Dallas. The last time, as far as I can recall, was Christmas Day. According to the Weather Fool, it had not snowed in Dallas on Christmas Day since 1926. As unbelievable as that might be, I have to take his word for it. These days, I am lucky to recall what I had for lunch. Worse, I did not fully appreciate that Christmas miracle due to a fever and emotional exhaustion from attending my son during his illness in New Mexico. It made for a very subdued Christmas.
[My backyard is a snowy forest]
Here we are in February. The icy heart of winter is upon us. I slipped outdoors and snapped a few photos of current conditions. The deprived souls in southern California may have never seen the white stuff. As a public service, I offer these views of my neighborhood on a rare snowy day.
Enjoy!
PS: It is better to enjoy the photos than the real stuff.
Here we are in February. The icy heart of winter is upon us. I slipped outdoors and snapped a few photos of current conditions. The deprived souls in southern California may have never seen the white stuff. As a public service, I offer these views of my neighborhood on a rare snowy day.
Enjoy!
PS: It is better to enjoy the photos than the real stuff.
A neighbor. This one has company - stranded, no doubt!
Here is a shot of my neighbor, his dog and
small daughters frollicking in the snow.
Hope you can see 'em.
The new look of global warming.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Motorcycle ‘Hoods III
...
Jim, Terry and I shucked out of our helmets and gloves and entered the Wagon Wheel Café. I would like to say we entered quietly and slipped into our chairs unnoticed. I would like to say that, but I cannot. Men from Mars would have drawn fewer stares. What was so strange about seeing three old men dressed in motorcycle touring/racing garb? Apparently, there was quite a bit about us they considered strange.
As we strode toward a table in the back, I began estimating the crowd’s reaction. I saw three possibilities. One possibility was they might start shooting. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reminded myself. “Clearly, these civilized folk left their shotguns and rifles outside in their pickup trucks.” An elderly man in a cowboy hat held his fork in mid flight from the plate to his mouth, his head rotating to follow our progress through the café. “They might all get up and run out.” I mused. “Nah. Not unless they go outside to get their shotguns.” The third and most terrible possibility was they were old bikers from back in the day. If so, they would soon be regaling us with adventures and misadventures on their Harley, Indian, or God knows what. I shuddered at the thought.
Eventually, we made it to a table and stacked our gear on the floor. It felt great to sit on something that was not moving. The waitress brought water and took our orders. I did not look at the menu. “I will have the lunch special,” I recited. In this part of the country, the chicken fried steak is always the special. For those in disadvantaged parts of the world, a chicken fried steak is a piece of tenderized meat, probably from a mammal, deep-fried in a coating of seasoned flour and egg. Thick cream gravy, which contains no actual cream, covers the patty. Tradition dictates a lump of mashed potatoes, optionally covered in gravy, alongside the steak. A side of any sort of vegetable matter meets the standards of etiquette for this meal. I got corn on the cob. My colleagues were more concerned with their arteries. They ordered hamburger steaks.
Soon, our lunches arrived hot and fragrant. Ravenous, I dug in.
Truckers have a slang term for roadside eateries serving such unpretentious fare. They call them “Choke and Pukes.”
I struggled not to. My companions chewed tentatively on their hamburger steaks, their eyes darting furtively from side to side. No, there was not a potted plant nearby. We were all stuck. Across the room, another gent smiled toothlessly at me, waving a fork-load of food. “Mm, Mm. Bon Appetite,” he seemed to say. Jim and Terry fixed their gaze on their plates, pushing the food around like children sentenced to eat canned spinach. I ate my lunch. I thought sure I would clip a large tree soon and be spared the aftermath of the burnt lard patty. Over my lifetime, I have eaten hundreds if not thousands of Chicken Fried Steaks. This is the first one I met that was plain bad. Then, the inevitable happened.
“Them are quick lookin’ bikes you got out there.”
The voice came from a middle-aged man at a nearby table. He was thin and sinewy. His face showed the marks from more than a few troubles. I cringed.
“I had a Harley once. Rode it smack into a tree. When I came to, the doctor said I had broke every bone in my body…”
Jim acknowledged the man and traded a few pleasantries with him. In the next breath, we learned a bus or something had also hit him.
“Okay, pardner, take care of yourself,” said Jim as we fled through the front door. We were hurriedly “suiting-up” when a dozen young women crossed the street and walked directly past us. Sashayed, I think. They were from the local high school and and said they were participating in a fire drill. We looked around, but could not see a school. The girls laughed and continued on their way.
“Can’t be too careful when it comes to a fire drill,” I thought.
“Psst. Jim. That cute young woman in the car smiled at me,” I boasted in a stage whisper.
Jim glanced at the woman filling her tank and back to me.
“Quick, put your helmet back on before she gets a good look,” he offered supportively.
“Thanks. I’ll do that,” I said, grateful.
In a few minutes, we were back on the road. It began to rain. Did I mention I hate rain when I am riding a motorcycle? No? Well, I do. Visions of zipping off the slick pavement to an awkward landing in the weeds tormented me. I felt tense and old. I slowed down. The gang disappeared around a curve ahead of me. They were out of sight. All I could do was plod along until the rain ceased. Then I caught up.
We eventually connected with Texas 22 and rode on to Hillsboro. There, as the sun sank low in the west, U.S. 77 welcomed us back. In half an hour, we were in Waxahachie. I stopped at Jim’s place long enough to get some parts for my spiffy new m/c trunk installed then headed home.
It seemed as if I arrived home an instant after leaving Jim’s house. It was night. “Hm. I must have been conscious, right?” No matter. I was home and utterly spent.
Sure, I would pay for it tomorrow. It was still the best ride in the ‘hood I ever had.
...
Jim, Terry and I shucked out of our helmets and gloves and entered the Wagon Wheel Café. I would like to say we entered quietly and slipped into our chairs unnoticed. I would like to say that, but I cannot. Men from Mars would have drawn fewer stares. What was so strange about seeing three old men dressed in motorcycle touring/racing garb? Apparently, there was quite a bit about us they considered strange.
As we strode toward a table in the back, I began estimating the crowd’s reaction. I saw three possibilities. One possibility was they might start shooting. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I reminded myself. “Clearly, these civilized folk left their shotguns and rifles outside in their pickup trucks.” An elderly man in a cowboy hat held his fork in mid flight from the plate to his mouth, his head rotating to follow our progress through the café. “They might all get up and run out.” I mused. “Nah. Not unless they go outside to get their shotguns.” The third and most terrible possibility was they were old bikers from back in the day. If so, they would soon be regaling us with adventures and misadventures on their Harley, Indian, or God knows what. I shuddered at the thought.
Eventually, we made it to a table and stacked our gear on the floor. It felt great to sit on something that was not moving. The waitress brought water and took our orders. I did not look at the menu. “I will have the lunch special,” I recited. In this part of the country, the chicken fried steak is always the special. For those in disadvantaged parts of the world, a chicken fried steak is a piece of tenderized meat, probably from a mammal, deep-fried in a coating of seasoned flour and egg. Thick cream gravy, which contains no actual cream, covers the patty. Tradition dictates a lump of mashed potatoes, optionally covered in gravy, alongside the steak. A side of any sort of vegetable matter meets the standards of etiquette for this meal. I got corn on the cob. My colleagues were more concerned with their arteries. They ordered hamburger steaks.
Soon, our lunches arrived hot and fragrant. Ravenous, I dug in.
Truckers have a slang term for roadside eateries serving such unpretentious fare. They call them “Choke and Pukes.”
I struggled not to. My companions chewed tentatively on their hamburger steaks, their eyes darting furtively from side to side. No, there was not a potted plant nearby. We were all stuck. Across the room, another gent smiled toothlessly at me, waving a fork-load of food. “Mm, Mm. Bon Appetite,” he seemed to say. Jim and Terry fixed their gaze on their plates, pushing the food around like children sentenced to eat canned spinach. I ate my lunch. I thought sure I would clip a large tree soon and be spared the aftermath of the burnt lard patty. Over my lifetime, I have eaten hundreds if not thousands of Chicken Fried Steaks. This is the first one I met that was plain bad. Then, the inevitable happened.
“Them are quick lookin’ bikes you got out there.”
The voice came from a middle-aged man at a nearby table. He was thin and sinewy. His face showed the marks from more than a few troubles. I cringed.
“I had a Harley once. Rode it smack into a tree. When I came to, the doctor said I had broke every bone in my body…”
Jim acknowledged the man and traded a few pleasantries with him. In the next breath, we learned a bus or something had also hit him.
“Okay, pardner, take care of yourself,” said Jim as we fled through the front door. We were hurriedly “suiting-up” when a dozen young women crossed the street and walked directly past us. Sashayed, I think. They were from the local high school and and said they were participating in a fire drill. We looked around, but could not see a school. The girls laughed and continued on their way.
“Can’t be too careful when it comes to a fire drill,” I thought.
We left town by a different road, headed toward Gatesville, a little north and west of Waco. Naturally, Jim found roads that were all curves to take us there. I was beginning to tire. My “Will to Live” meter was on the last quarter tank when we arrived in Gatesville. Then I noticed my fuel gauge was also in distress. Always thoughtful, and equally low on fuel, Jim guided the gang to a station where we filled our tanks and stretched our legs. I was still pumping gas when a car pulled up to the pump next to me. I looked up and saw a young woman driving the car. She seemed to be looking my way and I smiled reflexively. To my surprise, she returned my smile.
“That’s different,” I thought. “They usually call the police.”
I finished squirting gas and closed the fill cap. I walked over to Jim, who was standing on the other side of the pump.
The derelict school stood alone beneath gloomy skies.
“Psst. Jim. That cute young woman in the car smiled at me,” I boasted in a stage whisper.
Jim glanced at the woman filling her tank and back to me.
“Quick, put your helmet back on before she gets a good look,” he offered supportively.
“Thanks. I’ll do that,” I said, grateful.
In a few minutes, we were back on the road. It began to rain. Did I mention I hate rain when I am riding a motorcycle? No? Well, I do. Visions of zipping off the slick pavement to an awkward landing in the weeds tormented me. I felt tense and old. I slowed down. The gang disappeared around a curve ahead of me. They were out of sight. All I could do was plod along until the rain ceased. Then I caught up.
We eventually connected with Texas 22 and rode on to Hillsboro. There, as the sun sank low in the west, U.S. 77 welcomed us back. In half an hour, we were in Waxahachie. I stopped at Jim’s place long enough to get some parts for my spiffy new m/c trunk installed then headed home.
It seemed as if I arrived home an instant after leaving Jim’s house. It was night. “Hm. I must have been conscious, right?” No matter. I was home and utterly spent.
Sure, I would pay for it tomorrow. It was still the best ride in the ‘hood I ever had.
...
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Neologisms
...
Once more, my thanks to A.L. for this one. I laughed. I hope it does as much for you. What's your favorite?
...
Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its annual neologism contest in which readers supply alternative meanings for common words.
The winners are:
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.) describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) A smelly British apartment.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokémon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are this year's winners:
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): it’s like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n..): The frantic dance performed just after you accidentally walk through a spider web.
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you are eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who is both stupid and an asshole.
...
Once more, my thanks to A.L. for this one. I laughed. I hope it does as much for you. What's your favorite?
...
Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions to its annual neologism contest in which readers supply alternative meanings for common words.
The winners are:
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.) describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) A smelly British apartment.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokémon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are this year's winners:
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): it’s like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.
11. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n..): The frantic dance performed just after you accidentally walk through a spider web.
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you are eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who is both stupid and an asshole.
...
Monday, February 1, 2010
Motorcycle ‘Hoods, II
…
Back in the day, U.S. Highway 77 was the main artery linking Dallas, Austin, San Antonio and possibly Corpus Christi, Texas. Then, Interstate 35 opened next door, literally. For years, I-35 was the coolest and fastest way to navigate Texas, north and south. Narrow old “77” was all but forgotten. Then NAFTA hit. Now, the once glamorous I-35 is the highway from Hell. It is jammed with Mexican trucks and busses north and southbound 24/7. Sure a few automobiles still squeeze onto the road, but I am certain they regret it. I have not travelled any distance on that super highway in years. It always seemed the truck behind me wanted to drive 85 and the bus in front of me preferred to go 45. Riding in the middle was stressful, so I found other routes.
U.S. 77 is a two-lane highway passing through several bucolic villages that line the road between Dallas and Hillsboro 50 miles to the south. Traffic is light. The road surface is good and the scenery is varied and attractive. For any destination south or west of Dallas, it is a smart choice for a cyclist. It only made sense that our little group left Waxahachie via “77” to Hillsboro.
In Hillsboro, we picked up Texas Highway 22 and headed east across the Lake Whitney dam and on toward Hamilton. Jim set a brisk pace, averaging a little over the legal speed limit, but not so fast as to leave the rest of us hopelessly behind or to draw the attention of the law enforcement community. I think we were running about 75 mph, most of the time. Highway 22 has curves, but is mostly straight. Jim enjoys a more spirited ride, so after a dozen miles, he signaled a left turn onto a tiny state highway. I think it was 219, 217, or 215. This goat track of a road was paved well enough, but it was amazingly twisty. I moved my bike close behind Jim, hoping to get a tutorial in proper handling on curves. The tutorial was not long in coming.
Jim denies it, but I am certain he lit the afterburners on his bike as he leaned into the first curve. In a second, he vanished around the turn. I twisted the throttle slightly and followed the curve. I got through it, eventually, and straightened with the road. Jim was a tiny speck, well ahead of me. Stunned, I opened the throttle a bit more, regaining my position fifty yards behind the leader. I arrived in position a few seconds before the next hairpin curve and the disappearance of the lead bike, once more. Since I raced to catch up, I was going too fast to negotiate the curve, so I got off the throttle and onto the brakes. The bike returned to double-digit speeds just in time to round another sharp bend. Jim and his bike were long gone when I completed the turn.
This scene repeated itself on a continuous basis for the next two hours. Jim has been through this part of the country many times. He has a catalog of challenging roads. I am sure we covered all of them. My odometer said I was 180 miles from home when we arrived in Lometa, less than three hours later. It was an exhilarating ride. I was thrilled and exhausted at the same time.
I was feeling a little shaky when we parked near the Wagon Wheel Café in Lometa. No, I do not think it was from hunger. Still, it felt good to stand up and stand still. In a few minutes, the cramps in my arms, the result of heavy clutch and brake action, relaxed. We went inside and sat down. (Me? Well, it was more of a collapse than a sit-down.) A Texas-style lunch was on the way.
To be continued.
…
Back in the day, U.S. Highway 77 was the main artery linking Dallas, Austin, San Antonio and possibly Corpus Christi, Texas. Then, Interstate 35 opened next door, literally. For years, I-35 was the coolest and fastest way to navigate Texas, north and south. Narrow old “77” was all but forgotten. Then NAFTA hit. Now, the once glamorous I-35 is the highway from Hell. It is jammed with Mexican trucks and busses north and southbound 24/7. Sure a few automobiles still squeeze onto the road, but I am certain they regret it. I have not travelled any distance on that super highway in years. It always seemed the truck behind me wanted to drive 85 and the bus in front of me preferred to go 45. Riding in the middle was stressful, so I found other routes.
U.S. 77 is a two-lane highway passing through several bucolic villages that line the road between Dallas and Hillsboro 50 miles to the south. Traffic is light. The road surface is good and the scenery is varied and attractive. For any destination south or west of Dallas, it is a smart choice for a cyclist. It only made sense that our little group left Waxahachie via “77” to Hillsboro.
In Hillsboro, we picked up Texas Highway 22 and headed east across the Lake Whitney dam and on toward Hamilton. Jim set a brisk pace, averaging a little over the legal speed limit, but not so fast as to leave the rest of us hopelessly behind or to draw the attention of the law enforcement community. I think we were running about 75 mph, most of the time. Highway 22 has curves, but is mostly straight. Jim enjoys a more spirited ride, so after a dozen miles, he signaled a left turn onto a tiny state highway. I think it was 219, 217, or 215. This goat track of a road was paved well enough, but it was amazingly twisty. I moved my bike close behind Jim, hoping to get a tutorial in proper handling on curves. The tutorial was not long in coming.
Jim denies it, but I am certain he lit the afterburners on his bike as he leaned into the first curve. In a second, he vanished around the turn. I twisted the throttle slightly and followed the curve. I got through it, eventually, and straightened with the road. Jim was a tiny speck, well ahead of me. Stunned, I opened the throttle a bit more, regaining my position fifty yards behind the leader. I arrived in position a few seconds before the next hairpin curve and the disappearance of the lead bike, once more. Since I raced to catch up, I was going too fast to negotiate the curve, so I got off the throttle and onto the brakes. The bike returned to double-digit speeds just in time to round another sharp bend. Jim and his bike were long gone when I completed the turn.
This scene repeated itself on a continuous basis for the next two hours. Jim has been through this part of the country many times. He has a catalog of challenging roads. I am sure we covered all of them. My odometer said I was 180 miles from home when we arrived in Lometa, less than three hours later. It was an exhilarating ride. I was thrilled and exhausted at the same time.
To be continued.
…
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