A Bad Decision

I made keys at one of my local car dealerships this afternoon; a two year old Ford F-150 off road pick up truck. It seems that the driver over extended his abilities and rolled it. Once that happened he decided that it wasn’t worth what he’d agreed to pay for it so he quit paying the monthly notes and just left it at the bone yard.

While I was waiting for the keys to be programmed I couldn’t help but notice the car parked next to it; the one with the bullet holes in it. It had signs taped to all the windows, “Do Not Touch - U. S. Marshall’s Investigation”. There was a familiar foul stench emanating from within. All the windows had bullet holes while the driver’s side window was shot out completely. I could see the blood stains and was told that the driver had been killed. He’d stolen the vehicle and, upon being pursued by the police in Louisiana, had shot it out rather than give up. I counted close to 40 bullet holes; wondering how many had hit the mark. I wish I had my digital camera with me; the first thing that came to mind was the last scene from Bonnie and Clyde.

When I was a very young police officer working evening shift patrol downtown one of the more demented patrolmen, I think that would cover his personality, would take his fancy 35mm camera around to all the crime scenes. He would take pictures on slide film so that he could slip them in with his vacation pictures when friends and family came over. “This one is the kids jumping in the pool at the Holiday Inn, this next one is a drug dealer with his half his head shot off floating in Buffalo Bayou.” He eventually got removed from the force for some rather serious infractions, imagine that.

I made keys for a wholesale car dealer several years ago; an old Suburban that he’d bought at a police auction. All the carpet, headliner fabric and even the seats had been removed leaving the inside down to bare metal. Even with all that removed my nose could pick up on the smell, a particularly unpleasant odor left when the human body starts to decompose. I bet he had a hard time selling it, even with a box of Citrus Glade to cover the lingering odors.

The first time I ever ran across a DOA in a car was back in 1972 when I was a rookie police officer. It was a Monday afternoon on evening shift around 3 or 4pm; about this time of year because it was already starting to get pretty warm. We got dispatched to the parking lot of a large grocery store off the Gulf Freeway and were met by the store manager. The manager was upset because there was an ambulance parked with its flashing lights; not good for bringing customers in; that and the fact that there was a dead woman in one of the cars, a former customer at that.

We talked to one of the sackers who explained that he thought it a little strange that the car had been parked in the same place all weekend. He remembered having loaded the old woman’s groceries on Friday evening and never gave it another thought. The car windows were rolled up; even so, the smell was enough to gag a vulture. When the medical examiner gave permission for the body to be removed we were asked to help load the body into the bag. I wasn’t too keen on the idea; but my senior partner had volunteered my services.

It had been an especially warm weekend and the heat had cooked the woman. I put the disposable gloves on and began to lift the woman’s arm. I learned an important lesson that day; over cooked meat does not stick to the bones. It took quite a bit of effort to complete that assignment and when we left the odor had permeated my police uniform. It took several times going through the wash to make that shirt useable again; but when you only have 4 city issued shirts, well, you make do.

I suppose I need to bring this to a close, eventually. Jim Reed, the fellow who taught me how to be a locksmith, would show me the art of impressioning a trunk key. He’d prepare the key, wiggle it in the lock to collect some marks, file those marks and repeat the process until the key turned in the lock. He’d turn the key enough to make sure that the lock would work, letting the truck deck spring up half an inch or so before slamming it shut. He didn’t like to let the truck lid open up all the way, “Never know what you might find in there, a dead Mexican named Jose shot full of holes or a bunch of marijuana; no, you never know what you might find.”

I made keys for a Firebird that had been towed to a storage lot after being abandoned on the side of a freeway. Six months later the storage lot owner filed for a lien title so he could sell it when the original owner abandoned it. When I’d made the ignition key he wanted to hear the motor run. It turned over strong but never would start. I popped the hood for him, pulling the release under the dash board so he could see if it was getting any gas. He lifted the hood and had me crank it over again while taking the cover off the air intake.

“You’re not gonna’ believe this! The air filter has been packed with drugs in plastic bags; it’s not getting any air!” The car started right up as soon as the drugs were removed from on top of the carburetor. At least it wasn’t a dead Mexican named Juan.

Edited June 26, 2006
This article was published in the May issue of ALOA's Keynotes.

Joining of Two Sacred Events

I started to write this a couple of days ago but “the cares of the world”, earning a living, took me away before I could post it. I since have had a chance to read other talks and had a chance to think about what I wanted to share with you or how to better present my thoughts. I will borrow the opening lines from a talk given by Boyd K. Packer, “The Mediator”, which he gave in May of 1977.

“What I shall say I could say much better if we were alone, just the two of us. It would be easier also if we had come to know one another, and had that kind of trust which makes it possible to talk of serious, even sacred things.

If we were that close, because of the nature of what I shall say, I would study you carefully as I spoke. If there should be the slightest disinterest or distraction, the subject would quickly be changed to more ordinary things.”

I thought to myself, “Wow, what a powerful way to express the serious nature of everything that follows.” In that regard I paid full attention to every word, every intended utterance as the talk he gave proceeded. To this end I extend the same preamble, the same sincerity of purpose.

This weekend the Christian world celebrates the most important of all days in human history, the resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I’m not sure that “celebrate” is a strong enough word, although it comes closest to my acknowledgement and understanding of the gift which is least understood, that gift which God gave to all mankind to take us safely past death. I wonder how many of us contemplate the Jewish Passover and Easter as one and the same celebration. I read a talk given by Howard W. Hunter, “Christ – Our Passover” back in 1985 and published in the Ensign. I’ve linked to the website where the entire talk may be found in the title bar.

“The Passover in the Old Testament and Easter in the New Testament testify of the great gift God has given and of the sacrifice that was involved in its bestowal. Both of these great religious commemorations declare that death would “pass over” us and could have no permanent power upon us, and that the grave would have no victory.”

“And they shall take of the blood ( of a lamb without blemish ), and strike it on the two side posts and on the upper door post of the houses, wherein they shall eat it.”

{. . .}

“And it shall come to pass, when your children shall say unto you, What mean ye by this service?

“That ye shall say, It is the sacrifice of the Lord’s passover, who passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt.” (Ex. 12:7–8, 11, 26–27.)

Well, the time has now come; we all should be asking, “What mean ye by this service?” and yet many are not interested, or have placed this issue on the back burner in pursuit of the more temporal aspects of life.

“After the Israelites had escaped from Pharaoh’s grasp and death came to the firstborn of the Egyptians, the Israelites eventually crossed over Jordan. It is recorded that “the children of Israel encamped in Gilgal, and kept the passover on the fourteenth day of the month at even in the plains of Jericho.” (Josh. 5:10.) And so it was with Jewish families year after year thereafter, including the family of Joseph and Mary and the young boy, Jesus.”

“When Jesus was but twelve years old, he went to Jerusalem with his parents to take part in the Passover celebration. Luke’s account tells us that Jesus remained behind in the temple after his parents had departed for home. They returned with fear and anxiety to find him among the doctors of the law “both hearing them, and asking them questions.” (Luke 2:46.) Luke records that all who “heard him were astonished at his understanding and answers.” (Luke 2:47.)”

“Could it have been possible that Jesus was teaching these older and formally trained men about the meaning of the Passover just celebrated? Would it have surprised them that one so young and seemingly inexperienced would have known so much about the meaning of that fateful night in Egypt so long ago and so far away? Would they have been amazed at his knowledge of the lamb and the blood and the firstborn and the sacrifice? The scriptures are silent on such questions.”

I would remind you of the opening lines that I “borrowed” (stole) from Boyd K. Packer’s talk; blink you eyes and regain full focus as you read that last paragraph over again. That which we call the Meridian of times is the joining of the Old and the New Testaments, the joining of the two sacred events, the Passover and what we now call Easter; that being the events leading up to the Last Supper, the suffering at Gethsemane, the crucifixion and the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

“Finally, preparations for the Passover meal were complete, in keeping with nearly fifteen hundred years of tradition. Jesus sat down with his disciples and, after the eating of the sacrificial lamb and of the bread and wine of this ancient feast, he taught them a newer and holier meaning of that ancient blessing from God.

He took one of the flat, round loaves of unleavened bread, said the blessing over it, and broke it into pieces that he distributed to the Apostles, saying: “This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.” (Luke 22:19.)

As the cup was being poured, he took it and, giving thanks, invited them to drink of it, saying, “This cup is the new testament in my blood, which is shed for you.” (Luke 22:20.) Paul said of it: “For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do shew the Lord’s death till he come.” (1 Cor. 11:26.)”

{. . .}

“In this simple but impressive manner the Savior instituted the ordinance now known as the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. With the suffering of Gethsemane, the sacrifice of Calvary, and the resurrection from a garden tomb, Jesus fulfilled the ancient law and ushered in a new dispensation based on a higher, holier understanding of the law of sacrifice. No more would men be required to offer the firstborn lamb from their flock, because the Firstborn of God had come to offer himself as an “infinite and eternal sacrifice.””

I would encourage you to ponder these thoughts as to their relevance in your individual lives. I started by “borrowing” directly from Boyd K. Packer, his words having the necessary strength to gain my attention. I will close in similar fashion by leaving you with Howard W. Hunter’s closing remarks; my own testimony being added to his.

“At this Easter season, I bear testimony of the Firstborn of God, who made that sacrifice, who has “borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows,” who “was wounded for our transgressions” and “was bruised for our iniquities.” (Isa. 53:4–5.) Of the divine nature of this Redeemer and Savior of all mankind I testify, in his name, Jesus Christ, amen.”

Gang Related Information and Warning!

I’m posting this on my blog in the hope of extending my normal email area of influence; in other words, this is for the two or three who stop by and read my articles.

Important Edit: April 16th

I have found that the information I posted is one of those "Urban Legends", a hoax. My thanks to Greg, Rhymes with Right, for pointing this out to me. I would have pulled this and tossed it in the digital file 13; except for one thing, by reading this information it just might cause one or two folks to pay closer attention to traffic, hazards that are out there and that might be enough to keep them out of harms way. With that in mind, disregard sending this on to your email connections, your friends and family.

“The following is from an email that I have forwarded to all of the CFSA sports commissioners to pass through the sports association. I am sending it to you all in hopes that you will let others that you know. Vince Smith is the President of the Cy Fair Sports Association and a veteran police officer with the HPD gang violence task force.

Please copy this and send it to all your email friends. ( disregard this line, see edit above )

Last Friday, Vince Smith told me that the HPD gang task force that he is a part of has determined that a local gang has started a deadly ritual for initiation into their gang.

Here is how it works...... Between the hours of 10 PM and Midnight, prospective members drive around in a car with the headlights off. When a passing motorist flashes his lights at them to let them know (as many of has have done), they use this as the method of tagging the car and they then attack the car, shooting and killing all occupants. He said that this has happened 3 times in the Houston area.”

Thanks to Belk Null for originating this message.

I Got It All Ready for You

I got a call from a young fellow yesterday morning who said somebody had taken the keys to his 1995 Chevy S-10 truck. The locksmith from the night before didn’t know how to do the job since the ignition switch and steering column had come out of a junk yard and didn’t match the door key. With that in mind I told him I could do the job and we agreed upon a price knowing that I would have to pick the ignition to the start position, remove it and fit the key.

“I’ll call you back after the wrecker brings the truck to my business; it’s across town.” He was afraid that the person who’d taken his keys would take the truck and so he hired a wrecker to haul it away as a precaution. I figured it wouldn’t be much trouble to pull the spring cover cap, toss the old combination and set it up on yet a different key since I’d have out of the column anyway.

The day went by and I had plenty to do; he never called back, at least not until the sun was going down and I told him it would have to wait until the next day. I wasn’t about to start on it in the dark.

He called this morning and explained that he’d been by the local GMC dealership parts counter, purchased a new ignition switch and they’d already put it together for him with a completely different key so that the old key wouldn’t be able to start the truck. “I got it all ready for you to work on.”

Jim Reed, the fellow who taught me to be a locksmith, had a sign in his shop to explain his prices. I wish I had a copy of it to jog my memory. It went something like this:

Basic Locksmith Work - $ 10
If you watch - $ 15
If you talk while I’m working - $ 20
If you worked on it first- $ 50

I drove the short distance to his location, one of those quick lube and oil change places. His truck was parked in the back with the hood up as I pulled in. I looked inside and sure enough the plastic clam shell pieces had been removed, along with the “Mickey Mouse” ears from the ignition switch. The brand new ignition switch was sitting in the center console.

“I tried to turn the ignition to remove it but it just wouldn’t turn no matter how hard I tried.” I closed my eyes and pictured the sign in Reed’s Key Shop from so many years ago. “I was trying to save some money so you wouldn’t have to come out”

“So, how were you trying to turn the switch?”, a reasonable question since I knew he didn’t have a key.

“I used that big screw driver; I hope it didn’t damage anything.” I took a deep breath and studied the keyway. The first three wafers had been crushed and completely destroyed. I couldn’t get the proper key blank to even go in the lock. “Maybe I shouldn’t have hit it with the hammer?”, he added as I was shaking my head.

I mentioned that the previously agreed price was no longer on the table, that it would cost more since I would have to take the ignition switch out a piece at a time. He was not prepared to pay and so I packed up and got in my truck to leave.

“What am I supposed to do now; you just going to leave me stranded?”, as if it were my fault.

“Call some other locksmith, one who has lots of time to waste; I’m out of here.”

When I was still an apprentice locksmith I would go out on calls as an observer. I remember standing off to the side of a fairly new Mercedes. The owner had locked the keys in the trunk by accident and called to have one of Reed’s locksmiths come out. It couldn’t have been 15 minutes from the time the call came in to the time we arrived. The owner had decided that a pair of scissors might be the perfect lock pick tool as he pounded the tip into the truck lock, missing a couple of times as the scissors dug into the once pristine paint surface surrounding the trunk lock.

You have to wonder what kind of chemical imbalance is triggered in the brain of somebody who’d do that. Maybe that’s one of the differences between men and women. Most women, not all, would have patiently waited for the locksmith to perform his special magic, paid for the service and gone down the road. A few macho men are unable to accept the fact that a stupid lock has prevented them from moving forward as they pick up their club, bow and arrow, shot gun or what ever “precision tool” is handy or within reach as they detonate the C-4 plastic explosives to get into their car. Maybe that sounds like an exaggeration; possibly the part about the C-4, the rest I’m sure have all been used.

I went on a simple lock out many years ago; it was a brand new Cadillac. The woman who owned the car had complete AAA coverage and so it wasn’t going to cost her a penny for my services. When I got there I noticed that something was wrong; all the rubber gasket material around the windows had been chewed up.

“My neighbor has been trying to get in. He’s such a dear; but all he had was a bow saw blade because he lost his Slim Jim.” I had one of my apprentice locksmiths with me that day and he was having trouble containing his laughter. I looked inside the car, observed the cuts on the door key and clipped out a perfect copy. Unfortunately, the “Good Samaritan” had unhooked all the linkage rods on the driver side door and it no longer functioned. Thank goodness the linkage was still working on the passenger side. To top it off, the woman called AAA and wanted to complain that I had destroyed her new car; forgetting all about her neighbor and the bow saw blade.

Edited June 1, 2006

This article was published in the ALOA magazine, Keynotes, May issue.

Sweet Little Old Ladies from Texas

Thanks to my friend Bricks Corbin for sending this audio clip. It's been around at least once; but worth hearing again. Click on the title bar.

Modern Math

Lukas Alpert of the New York Post has written an interesting article which follows the extensive, if not exhaustive efforts of British academia in search of the perfect butt; so much for the old saying, “only in America”.

“A team of British academics has developed a mathematical formula to determine just how perfect your posterior is.”

{. . .}

“And the Rosetta Stone of bootyliciousness is: (S+C) x (B+F) / (T-V).”

No, I’m not making this up as I go; there actually was a “study” conducted; what better place than a college campus. For those obsessed with perfection in math I’ve linked to the original article which contains the means for computation and comparison of results.

"The perfect female derriere has firmness to the touch and a resilience that prevents undue wobble or bounce, yet looks soft with flawless skin," said Dr. David Holmes, a psychology lecturer at Manchester Metropolitan University devised the formula for measuring one's moons.”

Those planning to major in this field will be glad to know that it requires quite a bit of hands on training, after hours assignments might be hard but satisfying. The list of low level puns is endless; not exactly a bummer of a job.

The Way Movies Were Meant to be Seen, in Chinese?

I caught the very end of a movie, the credits rolling across the screen. At the bottom was a banner, “The way movies were meant to be seen, widescreen Wednesday”. That came across as funny; the credits from the last movie continued to roll by, all Chinese characters for some martial arts import. I have no idea if it was rated G or R; who knows what profanity may have been embedded within those funky looking blocks of squiggles.

I think this has something to do with the immigration bill up before congress. All those Chinese are swimming across the Pacific, taking away jobs from Americans, getting free acupuncture at our clinics and putting extra starch in our shirts to make us feel uncomfortable. Don’t even bring up their driving habits; the only folks on the road with both hands on the steering wheel going 3 miles per hour under the posted speed limit, Geeze Louise! These folks have to be in cahoots with the Mexicans; why else would it be called Juan’s tan soup? Egg rolls my Aunt Tilly; those are over cooked burritos. They have the Great Wall, why can’t we build one too?

Observations April 10th 2006

The other night my business phone rang and the caller ID suggested it was a Spammer. I answered and the young woman, without disclosing her name, asked for my daughter, Bonnie.

“Who is this?”, I asked, not recognizing the voice and wondering why the call had come in on my business phone.

“I’m a good friend of Bonnie’s; are you her husband?” A couple of thoughts came to mind as I started laughing into the mouthpiece. Bonnie is out of town on business, she isn’t married and if this person were, as she claimed to be, “a good friend”; then why didn’t she call Bonnie on her cell phone, and certainly she would have known that I couldn’t have been her husband. I didn’t explain any of this to the caller; laughing uncontrollably as I clicked off.

Bonnie’s birthday is coming up soon and for the right fellow, an engagement ring would definitely be on the list of welcome gifts; serious offers only, return missionaries move to the head of the line. One of my jobs as Bonnie’s dad is to embarrass her in public.

I was watching the George Burns’ movie, Going In Style, about three old guys who've grown tired of simply sitting on a park bench each day wasting away until the grave takes them. They come up with the idea to rob a bank and the movie takes off from there. Over the years I’ve enjoyed the wisdom and humor he supplied.

Last week I enjoyed the 176th General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The President of the Church, Gordon B. Hinckley addressed us on Sunday morning and shared some memories of his service in the Lord’s work. In his mid 90’s he has an interesting mix of wisdom and humor for a man in his position. It struck me that George Burns and Gordon B. Hinckley had similar features; not that anyone would confuse them for twins, just a thought that made the edges of my mouth form a smile. All they would have to do is change the frames on their eye glasses to pull it off; well, get rid of the cigar too. Maybe when we get to be old, approaching that time when we meet face to face with God, the edges wear down a little and we all start to look the same. 

Street Art

A friend of mine sent me some interesting pictures and I looked up the artist on the internet to see more of his work. Thanks to Steve Sanders for sharing.

“Julian Beever is an English artist who is famous for his art on the pavements of England, France, Germany, USA, Australia and Belgium. Its peculiarity? Beever gives his drawings an anamorphosis view, his images are drawn in such a way which gives them three dimensionality when viewing from the correct angle. It's amazing !!!”

Use the link provided in the title bar to view more of his work. I’m still getting over being sick and have kept my writing down to a minimum.
 

My Major

You scored as Journalism. You are an aspiring journalist, and you should major in journalism! Like me, you are passionate about writing and expressing yourself, and you want the world to understand your beliefs through writing. Journalism 100% Philosophy 92% English 92% Art 83% Theater 83% Psychology 83% Linguistics 67% Mathematics 58% Engineering 58% Chemistry 58% Anthropology 58% Biology 50% Sociology 42% Dance 42% What is your Perfect Major? (PLEASE RATE ME!!<3) created with QuizFarm.com Tip of the hat to Ethne of Pole Dancing in the Dark (link in title bar)

Gimme a "D", Gimme a "U", Gimme an "I"

I got this from Mover Mike’s Blog and thought it could be expanded upon. Think about the benefit of being able to identify who is sharing the road with you just by a glance at the license plate. It seems to fit quite well with what I just posted a few minutes ago, “Know Your Neighbor”, where you can find out what lurks in the shadows just by putting in your address.

“California is considering "the scarlet letter for drunken drivers" according to the SacBee.
A California lawmaker wants to force two-time offenders to attach red license plates with the letters DUI, for "driving under the influence," to their vehicles - a rolling advertisement of their crimes.”

http://www.movermike.com/posts/1143129763.shtml

(Change that last quote to read, “California WAS considering… as I found in Mike’s related blog article that the measure was defeated 5 -2.)

http://www.movermike.com/posts/1144255761.shtml (shot down )

I think it’s an interesting idea, identifying the dangers all around us by placing a specific license plate on a vehicle; but why stop with DUI or DWI? Instead of looking at another bumper sticker, “My Child is an Honor Student at Dweeb Elementary School”, why not have something with a little more pop in it? “My Dad is a convicted Child Molester”, or, “This Vehicle is owned by a convicted Rapist”. The folks going along for the ride will be thrilled as well as they slink down in their seats avoiding eye contact on the way to the shopping mall. If not on the license plate, have the information etched into the rear window; that should make the resale of the vehicle do cartwheels.

“This is no way to ease violators back into society, have them become productive citizens” will be the outcry of the ACLU, the whiners and the compassionate liberal left. It wouldn’t be fair to have the stigma emblazoned on their vehicles any more than it would be fair to have the “Scarlet Letter” embroidered on Demi Moore for having committed adultery in the movie. Why not brand these folks as part of the judicial process? Okay, maybe not brand them; just a huge tattoo prominently identifying their crimes against society. I’ll bet the baseball cap industry would enjoy a healthy spike in sales.

In the event of a conviction the court appointed tattoo artist would be waiting, electric needle in hand as the suspect is led to a sanitary room on the other side of the courtroom. “Okay, pick from the samples there on the wall. We have a special today on Aggravated Sexual Assault of a Juvenile, Aggravated Robbery with Injury and Murder. When you have all three you get your choice of multiple colored borders on the first letter of each word. The cost of this service will be automatically dispersed into your monthly probation fees.”

Sick as this may sound, my guess is the criminal element would find a way to improve their standing in “their society”, something which most of us have no clue about. There is already a whole criminal culture of tattoos and their associated meanings that would scare the bejebers out of most God fearing folks; having the court add official status to such a collection of body art would only add to those credentials.

The folks who are clamoring about the rights of convicted criminals are the same folks who are upset that terrorists are not being tucked in at night down at Gitmo, or that the introduction of chemicals intended to end the life of a convicted Capital Murder suspect might make them feel unnecessary pain in those last few moments while strapped to the gurney. I like the line from Dirty Harry, the one Harry used to explain that he was all broken up about the rights of the suspect, the one who left the young girl to die after having yanked one of her teeth out and sent it to the police to prove that he actually had the girl. “Well I’m all choked up about his rights!”, growling at the judge and prosecutor and glaring at their inability to see how they were protecting evil over good.

Know Your Neighbors

Know Your Neighbors - Knowledge is a key to survival

Here’s an excellent tool to make parents and grandparents aware.

Please share this website with others!!!!

It is www.familywatchdog.us

When you visit this site you can enter your address and a map will pop up with your house as the small icon of a house and red, blue, green, dots surrounding your entire neighborhood.

When you click on these dots a picture of a person will appear with an address and the description of the crime he or she had committed.

I was really shocked at how many of these people were in my neighborhood.

This site was developed by John Walsh from Americas Most Wanted; another tool to help us keep our kids safe.

Please pass on to anyone who has families.

Thanks to my friend Richard Sutton for this information

Weapons in School

I read a short blurb of a story on the Fox website about a teacher who had been using a live piece of military ordinance as a paper weight on his desk. I qualified with the 40mm grenade launcher when I was in the Army. It makes a neat sound when it propels the payload down range, “thummphhhh”; hardly what I’d expected the first time I fired it off. The grenade spins as a means of arming the firing pin so that when it hits a solid object it can detonate. The idea of picking up a “bad round”, one that somehow didn’t blow up reminds me of those idiots who light the fuse to set fireworks off and look down the tube of an aerial mortar thinking that the fuse must have gone out. “911 Operator, state the nature of your emergency?”

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,190582,00.html

“A teacher who kept a 40 mm shell on his desk as a paperweight blew off part of his hand when he apparently used the object to try to squash a bug, authorities say.

The 5-inch-long shell exploded Monday while Robert Colla teaching 20 to 25 students at an adult education class.”

Having a warped mind, the product of 20 years working the street as a police officer, I will do my best not to jump on this with various lines intended to evoke muffled laughter. “Bugs just get dead with Raid”, “If it had been John Kerry teaching the class he’d have put in for another Purple Heart.”, or other tasteless one liners.

I would like to know why the teacher thought that taking a weapon to school seemed appropriate. Maybe thirty years ago it might have been “kool” to have an old Army grenade on the desk with a sign that read, “Take a number!” attached to the safety pin, or some other inert piece of weaponry; but a piece of recovered ordinance that had never been checked to see if it was live? Maybe he was teaching Darwinian Theory, the survival of the fittest; just a thought.

I read where a Middle School Boy was walking to school the other day in the Indianapolis School District and realized that he’d accidentally taken his Swiss Army Knife along in his pocket. Upon arriving at school he immediately walked to the administrative offices and turned it in for safe keeping. That young man was expelled from school and classified as a trouble maker in spite of the fact that he was an honor student and never had a disciplinary mark on his record. He will now have to attend an alternative school, that place where the undesirable kids are sent, those who are one step away from a life of crime. (linked via title bar)

There used to be a sit-com, Barney Miller, about an office full of detectives. I thought it had some good writers and the show made me laugh. Once they had arrested a young man for having put together an atomic bomb from information gained at the public library. Nobody at the station really believed that it was a bomb, much less one that could blow away half the city as they poked it, shook it and in general discarded common sense. The device was sitting on Captain Miller’s desk when one of the other detectives walked by and casually observed the object, “Hey, where’d you get the atomic bomb?”, as if anyone would have recognized the hidden destructive power inside the interesting device.

What kind of class is adult education anyway? “Tonight I'm going to show how to properly put on a condom, avoid HIV and collect Welfare from as many agencies of government as will hand it out; but first, watch me smash this bug with a dud grenade.”

Go with me a little way

I know that many who read my articles click the “close box” at the first hint of anything religious and look for some political blog. There must be a rash of clicking going on now so I’ll wait a moment to see if anyone is left after the lights come back on. Go with me just a little way on this and your efforts will be returned several fold. Think of this as a movie review, one you hadn’t seen yet, may not of heard of because it didn’t have the right title, didn’t have the familiar hype necessary to grab your attention.

This weekend I had a chance to hear some of the finest spiritual talks ever given. These talks had but one purpose, to provide hope to the listener of the truthfulness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ so that he/she might return to Father in Heaven. If this one thought is on the edge of “possible”, that you have a Father in Heaven and that by some slim chance I have information that would make your return possible; then be of good cheer and go with me just a little further.

You are probably familiar with the line, “Repent, Repent and return unto me.”; but did you know that in Hebrew the root of the word Repent is to return or to change direction? If you would have a place in your heart for the possibility that you have a Father in Heaven, one who wants you to succeed in this mortality, one who has provided you with a way to achieve what you may consider to be nearly impossible, and yet something which you would dearly wish to still be possible; then go with me a little further.

Invest 8 hours of your “entertainment time”, call it what you will, and take the time to listen to the talks given during General Conference. They are in the process of being archived at this very moment, the Saturday Morning Session has already been posted. Each session of conference contains 2 hours of information worth much more than any Star Wars, Harry Potter, Titanic or any other top box office movie. It’s a gamble, I know, investing that much time to hear some “Bible Thumpers”, some boring choir music when you could be watching a TEVO generated recoding of the last episode of “24” after a hard day of work; go with me a little further. The link to the archives is in the title bar.

Breaking News

On Wednesday of next week, at two minutes and three seconds after 1:00 AM, the time and date will be:

01:02:03 04/05/06

Now go back to whatever you were doing prior to my sharing this bit of trivia with you. What would I do without breaking headline news shared by Richard Sutton?

An Abstract Thought

I was noticing that I had a tune running around in my head and finally figured out that I was hearing part of Peter and the Wolf; more specifically, the part of the Duck. I can’t say when the last time I heard that piece of music. Now that I’ve identified the noise in my mind, I’ve been enjoying various other parts of the orchestration, the Wolf, Peter and even the little bird.

How does this brain of ours work? What makes us dig around for obscure pieces of music we may have heard years ago and bring them to the surface of our perception? I’m not offering an answer; merely offering this up as something to ponder.

Last night in my dreams I was back working for the Police Department. I remember seeing a traffic jam, some emergency lights up ahead and off to one side where another unit was investigating a wreck as I drove my three wheeled motorcycle. I came to an intersection where a rookie was directing traffic, more accurately; he was standing to the side with no clue. I pulled into the pedestrian crosswalk, threw it in reverse and skillfully parked against the curb, all in one fluid motion as if it were 1975 and I never left. I was there for a few moments and showed the rookie how to get the job done and then I lost the moment.

Maybe I was listening to Peter and the Wolf back in 1975, I do have a copy on vinyl, an old 33 1/3 recording. I haven’t played it in quite a long time; my record player isn’t even hooked up to the stereo anymore. I know, some folks think that vinyl makes the recording sound more authentic or some such BS; personally I prefer digital. Who knows, this could all be part of a reaction to those antibiotics, some kind of drug induced chemical imbalance of my brain to distract me while I’m sick.

 

The Funeral is Friday

I'm still feeling poorly, an understatement. I've been telling some of my regular customers that the funeral is Friday if they want to come. Until then... Here is something to cheer everyone up.


http://media.hugi.is/hahradi/fyndnar/maestro_1.wmv

A tip of the hat goes to my friend Richard Sutton for sharing this in my email.

Why Keys Are Expensive

When folks call and ask for a price quote to replace a set of keys that got lost for one of the newer cars, the keys that have fancy electronic packages hidden under the plastic head, I know that many of them suffer from “sticker shock”, not much different than when they bought the car in the first place. I tell them my price is based on the time it takes to make the mechanical key, the time it takes to program the key, my cost for the key blank with mark up and last on the list is the cost of the computer that does all that fancy programming.

I have a collection of programming computers that I carry around in my service truck, one is nearly obsolete and will only program certain cars that I hardly ever see anymore. These units cost anywhere from a thousand dollars, that obsolete unit, on up to about five thousand dollars for a mult-vehicle computer. That price gets the basic unit; adding the programs for each upgrade costs quite a bit too.

I just upgraded my multi-vehicle computer with software that will permit me to continue my efforts on 2006 model cars along with some programs recently made available for some older cars and trucks. My annual update would have cost $1700.00; but since I purchased multiple upgrades I was able to shave off $450.00. I also had to purchase an upgrade connection cable so I could work on the newer Mitsubishi vehicles, another $150 out the door.

If somebody wants to complain about how much something costs, having watched me breeze through making a key, I like to start with an apology, “Sorry it took so long.”, or “That only took me 30 years and 5 minutes to make it look that easy.” I then show them the neat little computer that hooks up to their vehicle and thank them for helping to pay for all those nice little upgrade packages.  

Light Chatter on a Sunday Night

Some kind of ugly bug has gotten hold of me, the kind that makes your lungs ache. I took some of that nighttime cold medicine; hope it keeps me from drowning in my sleep.

I wanted to share a short conversation I had with a customer yesterday; a chance to prove I know just enough Spanish to almost get by. A fellow called me and asked right off the bat if I spoke Spanish. I told him in my best Tex-Mex, “Poquito”, followed by a question, “So, you lost your keys, your yavez. ( I can barely come up with the words so don’t worry about the spelling.)

“Si, you come and make for my truck?”

“Como se yama de trocka,. . . no, que anyos de trocka?”, having asked what the trucks name was the wrong question as I could hear him laugh at my feeble attempts to communicate. I was able to figure out the he had a fairly new Ford F-150, the kind with the transponder key. We agreed on a price and the more he spoke the more English he showed command of.

“You speak pretty good Spanish, come on and make me a key.”, he blurted out, still having some fun with me.

“My Spanish is poquito.”, trying to let him know that I’d exhausted nearly all my Spanish vocabulary as he gave me the address. I arrived and got to work making the key, waiting the ten minutes necessary for the program to run its course. I handed him one of my magnet business cards, the kind I tell people to place on the refrigerator.

“So, how do you say refrigerator in Spanish?”, I asked as I showed him the magnet.

“Refridgerador.”, he said, again laughing at how easy the translation had been.

“You could have said, “Ice-a Box-a”, laughing at my own mild attempt at humor, “But that would be Italian, wouldn’t it?” We had a good time making fun of our limited communication skills in each other’s language.

Next weekend is General Conference, a chance to hear from the leaders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I offer this as an opportunity to hear about simple truths; things like keeping the commandments, being careful in a world full of temptations, living life with the understanding that we are all children of our Father in Heaven and things like that. If this sounds like something you might be interested in click on the title bar for a link that will explain how to enjoy these sessions via the internet. I've been told that Time Warner cable has decided to air all four of the general sessions on channel 14; that may only apply to the Houston area as far as the channel goes. Should you desire to listen in a foreign language, I promise that those doing the translating will be much better equipped in the many languages offered than I am with my Spanish.  

Word Verification Code Broken

One of the top stories from the AP on the Fox website, Russians Deny Giving Saddam Pre-War Intel. The story goes on to explain that interviews with captured Iraqis along with papers recovered shortly after the US troops engaged and quickly took control of key sites in Iraq point to intelligence sharing between the Russians and Iraq. Russia has dismissed the allegations. (linked via title bar)

Another source in the Pentagon, who wished to remain anonymous for obvious reasons, has been working to prove that Blogger Word Verification is actually being used by Iraqi covert moles to send important data. Many bloggers are familiar with Word Verification, that annoying scramble of letters required at the bottom of each comment section intended to prevent spammers from inundating the comment sections. Until recently these short abstracts held no meaning; that is until the huge computer at the Pentagon began analyzing the mountains of data.

“szbpqi”, “wyhzhp” and “sdmvmu”; seemingly harmless random characters in the English language, when translated into Arabic and interfaced with known code systems used by insurgents are quite another thing. These words came across clearly, “Drink More Ovaltine”. Attorneys for Jean Sheperd, author of the now classic movie, “A Christmas Story” have been interviewed and deny any connection with the Russian Ambassador or the loss of any Secret Decoder Rings from their vault. 

Straw That Broke the Camel’s Back

Reading the Fox website this morning I came across an AP story, “BATAVIA, Ohio — A man who neighbors say was devoted to his meticulously kept lawn was charged with murder in the shooting of a 15-year-old boy who apparently walked across his yard.”

{. . .}

"Police, who released the call's contents, said Martin also told the dispatcher: "I've been harassed by him and his parents for five years. Today just blew it up."

I find this a tragedy in more than one way; the loss of a young person, only 15 years old who will never have a chance to live out his life is the first. The second tragedy, also a victim, is the 66 year old man who threw away a lifetime worth of being civil in a moment of frustration. Then there is the cumulative social loss of civility which has suffered yet another blow.

Playing the Devil’s Advocate for a moment, how many times was Martin supposed to quietly stand back and accept abuse from his next door neighbor? “Hey, kid, get off my lawn”, followed closely by some quick insult, “Up yours old man!”. I don’t claim that that is how it happened, just that I’ve bit my own tongue and was glad that I had sense enough not to kill of the little twerps on more than one occasion. My yard could use a bit of work, don’t think I’m up for “Yard of the Month” anytime soon; but that’s not the point.

I notice the little hostilities that push the envelope of civility all the time; I’m guilty of it myself here and there. Driving down the streets of our quiet neighborhood I see three or four young people walking and having a good time together as they take up the entire street. Instead of extending some common sense by moving off to one side of the road to let my vehicle pass safely, these young people act as if the street were one giant side walk and that I should have to inch along at the same rate as they are walking, often having to observe a one finger salute and some vague obscenities as I honk for them to move out of the way.

The Walter Mitty alter ego engages; formulating plans to eradicate these jerks by some diabolical gadget I’ve installed in the side of my vehicle, something which lashes out, rips and shreds their lower calf muscles, possibly a piece of barbed wire or a rotating blade that slices pieces of blue jeans off as it digs into the meat below and leaves them on the curb grimacing in pain, wishing they had learned to respect their elders, too late, they had their chance. Instead, I drive around them and bite my tongue, once again, and hope that some day they grow up to be the fine citizens they have the potential to become, learning that we all have such a wonderful neighborhood and wouldn’t it be even better if we learned to be civil to each other.

Lastly on the list of things lost in this tragic encounter will be the lovely yard that Martin has taken care of all these years. While he’s away, locked behind bars, who will maintain the grass, the flowers and shrubs? I doubt if his next door neighbors, the parents of the slain young man will see the irony of the situation, jump up and volunteer to fill in for him while he’s “away”. So the entire neighborhood has one less beautiful yard, one of those prize manicured lawns to travel past as they head for work each day.

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

I’ve had an interesting day of accomplishing almost nothing I’d planned to accomplish. It all started a few minutes before 2am when my phone rang waking me from a sound sleep. Some guy leaving a bar wanted me to unlock his car. I couldn’t say for sure; just a hunch, that he’d had a few too many. “Call AAA, we’re closed”, was my answer as I stumbled back to bed. I never could get back to sleep, at least not that deep level of rejuvenation that sets the tone for the next day.

A front pushed through during the night and I had left the windows open to cool the house down; the A/C repairman will be out Tuesday. It dawned on me, even in a mild slumbered state, that the noises I was hearing were rain drops landing on my hard wood floor in the den. I closed the windows, grabbed a towel from the stack and mopped up the floor before returning to bed around 3am.

The picture ( the one that never loaded out of Picasa and so you don’t see it. It’s a picture of Bubba Kitty sitting on one of the dinning room chairs in natural light, every whisker, every hair perfectly visible, even the 7 toes on her paw. ) is one that I took the first day we had our digital camera several years ago. I wanted to see what kind of quality we could expect out of our 1 mega pixel Olympus. I have a hard time trying to justify the need for more mega pixels after seeing the results. I still want an SLR digital camera with interchangeable lenses similar to my old 35mm; call me irrational.

After my having gotten out of bed a couple of times Bubba decided that, since I was up, she needed some attention. She walked across the pillows and pushed on my hand until I found the right spot. Bubba is our polydactyl cat, having 7 toes on one paw and 6 on another. You might think Bubba is a funny name for a female cat; it’s the truncated version of how a southerner sounds out Baby Kitty, blame this one on Lucy. By the way, Bubba is the owner of this house and everything in it; which she permits us to use as long as we properly administer to her whims, desires and needs. A special thought goes to our friend at Catscape. (link via title bar; yes, I did try to hide this link and it failed, again) Their kitty, Shamus, is scheduled to go in for some kind of surgery.

My first call was a lockout for a good friend; but farther away than I normally travel for a lock out. It was raining as I headed out, noticing that traffic was unusually heavy on the main street that passes our neighborhood. The signal lights at the largest intersection in our area were out, all these folks forced to use it like a 4 way stop sign; that’s 3 lanes each way plus left turn lanes going East and West then the 2 lanes plus left turn lanes going North and South. It was a pure and simple mess which took me an hour or so to travel. On the way back I tried a back way only to find that a similar mess had put me into a gridlock of happy campers. Some days are just that way.

Last night we watched super extreme situation night on the television; a super tornado that might develop and take out Dallas followed by a super sun spot that might knock out all the power along the East Coast. Maybe it was just a tiny sun spot that knocked out the signal lights Kuykendahl at FM 1960.

RU- 486 is a Killer

I was reading an AP article on CNN’s site, the lead line in bold print, “Two more women have died after using the so-called "abortion pill" RU-486, regulators said Friday in a warning that brought renewed calls for pulling the drug combination from the market.”

http://www.cnn.com/2006/HEALTH/03/17/ru486.deaths.ap/index.html

“Meanwhile, Planned Parenthood Federation of America Inc. said it would stop recommending vaginal insertion of the second course of pills. Four of the women who died, including the latest two, received the pills at Planned Parenthood-affiliated clinics, said Dr. Vanessa Cullins, the organization's vice president for medical affairs. Planned Parenthood estimates RU-486 has been used 560,000 times in the U.S. since it was approved in 2000.”

In case you missed that last line, that’s over half a million drug induced abortions since 2000; which does not include figures for abortions carried out in clinics by other means. Does that sound like a healthy society, one that places the value of life above all else?

“Monty Patterson, a California man whose 18-year-old daughter, Holly, died in 2003 after taking RU-486, also said the drugs should be pulled from the market. The Senate bill is informally called "Holly's Law."

"The bottom line is that this is not about the abortion debate. This is about the safety, health and welfare of women," Patterson said.”

I hate to poke a hole in your balloon Monty; but killing an unborn baby is still killing and so, yes, abortion is part of the issue. I suppose you didn’t mind your daughter killing your grandchild; your attitude amazes me, I grieve for both of them.

Back in February I posted a split article, maybe it should have had its own title, A Bitter Pill to Swallow ( linked via title bar). RU- 486 is the controversial prescription drug that was at the center of a recent lawsuit which forced Wal-Mart to keep the drug in stock as part of their pharmacy inventory after 3 women forced the issue in Massachusetts.

“The unanimous decision by the pharmacy board comes two weeks after three women, backed by abortion rights groups, sued Bentonville, Ark.-based Wal-Mart for failing to carry the drug in its 44 Wal-Marts and four Sam’s Club stores in Massachusetts.”, quoting from the original story.

I suppose the next lawsuit will be filed against Wal-Mart for endangering the lives of those women who only want to murder their unborn child, not themselves, when Wal-Mart starts filling prescriptions of RU- 486. It’s only a matter of time.

Look at it from a different perspective; the drug RU-486 was designed to kill small children, so small they are living inside the womb, what makes anyone think that this same drug couldn’t kill a larger individual? Playing God is a dangerous game, we humans suck at it.

The Secret Lies with Charlotte

I was watching the movie, National Treasure, and enjoying the presentation when my phone rang. I looked down at the caller ID and noticed it was my daughter, Bonnie, calling from her cell phone. Bonnie’s been working out of town, this past week or so in the D.C. area. I punched the answer button on my cell phone and instead of saying, “Hello” or “T. F. Stern & Company Locksmith”, the words came out, “The secret lies with Charlotte.”

“How did you know; did you talk with grandma or something?” Bonnie was laughing and at the same time scratching the back of her head. We often have fun, making up interesting conversations to amuse each other; but this reaction meant that she was at one of the National Treasures; out to see the Declaration of Independence or some other important piece of history while in D.C, or so I thought.

“Know what; I was watching the movie and it came to mind, where are you?”

“I’m at Independence Hall in Philadelphia, that’s totally weird!” Bonnie and a friend drove the short distance so they could do some sight seeing.

“Well, take some pictures, awesome!” Sometime I have to wonder how the human brain works, takes giant leaps of seemingly random possibilities and lands on the mark; go figure.

With all the problems I’ve encountered trying to use Blogger, I’m going to keep this post simple; no links, no pictures and short. With any luck it will show up. Bonnie has promised to help get my blog functioning properly when she comes home next time; that is if Blogger will permit it. If it sounds like I’m complaining, I’m not. Blogger is a free service and I’m just frustrated at not being able to share my articles for the moment.

Back Up Again

I decided to start all over with a new template, having saved the information with all my side bar information in advance. It seems to have worked; at least I was able to view my blog. With any luck all those nice little tools, especially the one that helps hide URL links will work as they were designed to work.

Thanks and a tip of the hat goes out to my blogging friends, Eric and Brad for support and suggestions over the past 24 hours while my site was off in a parallel universe or something.

Permission Denied

I found out that I lacked the proper credentials to view my own blogsite last night. I kept getting error code 403 telling me to contact the website administrator to gain access. I walked over to the mirror and gave myself permission; I even sent myself an email giving me permission, still no access. I sent off a request for help to Blogger and got back an email explaining that some blogsite were down for maintenance and to be patient.

They must have sent me the right credentials, maybe they’re being installed on my hard drive as I write because I now have access to T. F. Stern’s Rantings. I can feel my head swelling from the ego trip; I have proper credentials, do you?

Lucy and I are in the middle of getting ready for painting two rooms, the dinning room and the office. Part of getting ready is getting all the books off the book cases, all five book cases are solid oak. Three are side by side in the office, formerly known as the living room, and take up the entire wall. This is where I have my computer set up. The two book cases from the dinning room have been emptied and placed in the garage which means my little green Z is parked in the driveway until this project is over.

As soon as the paint has been applied we are ripping out the carpet in both rooms and having hardwood floors put in. The fellow who moved in across the street installs hardwood floors for a living, how’s that for timing? When we bought this house we were concerned about having light colored carpets. I told Lucy that as soon as they got to looking ugly we would put down oak floors. Well, we did that in the den several years ago and they look fabulous; now it’s time to get rid of the rest of the down stairs carpet.

This is the closest thing to moving I can think of, boxing up books, trophies, glass vases for cut flowers and putting it all somewhere else; that sounds like moving to me. I may rent a U-Haul and park it out front just for show. We did that one time when one of the kids, I think it was Jennifer, was on the way up to Salt Lake City or Denver; can’t remember for sure. We have all the time in the world to get this done so we pack away a couple of boxes and then relax before going after a couple more boxes the next day. I figure by the time we get it all done Lucy and I will be moving into the assisted retirement community; at least all our stuff will be boxed and ready to go. When we get to the receptionist and she will take one look at all those boxes of junk and tell us, “Permission Denied”.

Parenthood for Seniors

I keep in touch with my folks; nice to have that opportunity as they are both older than dirt now. The other day mom was calming down after what she called a terrible time. That could mean anything from dad trying to fix something to dad fixed something.

Mom was watching the morning news and they were going on about the floods in Hawaii, more specifically the story about the dam that burst. The headline being reported, One body found, six missing as mud, debris released on Kauai. Kauai is the island where my sister lives. ( link via title bar )

Mom dialed my sister’s phone number and got the typical answering machine message; not very comforting to a distraught mother worried about her daughter being swept down to the ocean never to be seen again. It might have been five in the morning Florida time; that would make it the middle of the night in Hawaii. Several attempts to contact my sister, leaving messages on the damn answering machine, were taking a toll on my folks.

My sister must have heard the phone ringing off the hook in her sleep and got up to hear some of the frantic messages as she called mom and dad to let them know she was okay. Had she known about the flood waters and the dam break, she might have gotten on her surf board and ridden it to the beach just to see if she could.

Minutes spent worrying about one of your children, those eternities of doubt, are not properly explained in the parenthood owner’s manual. Maybe those pages were intentionally removed by the Author as Adam and Eve left the garden. In case you haven’t figured it out; the moment you become a parent you enter into a never ending position of having to love, care for and yes, worry.

Eat Red Meat Day

Kateland over at The Last Amazon wrote a piece, Eatapeta Day, a stab at those folks at PETA who have made it a point to grill everyone who eats meat by comparing this to the Holocaust. Other than being a bunch of hypocrites, the folks at PETA have marginalized their position by grossly misrepresenting life on the planet Earth.

I won’t watch any movies with reference to the Holocaust, Shindler’s List, The Rose Garden, Life is Beautiful or any of the reminders of human suffering. The Jews weren’t the only victims; millions of other innocents were destroyed. I see no link between blind hatred of one human directed toward another human and the use of food obtained to maintain life. I believe all that was put in the earth, on the earth and above the earth was placed there for our use and our benefit. I’m going have a Pastrami on Rye for lunch and be grateful that my needs and desires to have food are supplied so efficiently here in the United States of America. Tomorrow I may have peanut butter and jelly or roast beef, the choice is mine.

Photo courtesy of Katz’s Sandwich found using Yahoo. (link via title bar)

Here's the link to The Last Amazon since the tools to hide URL links is giving me fits again.

http://thelastamazon.blogspot.com/2006/03/eatapeta-day.html

Serious Stuff

Harry Potter had us all on the edge of our seats waiting for Serious Black to sneak up behind and cancel his ticket; sorry, today’s ramblings aren’t that dark.

First on the list of serious stuff would have to be a phone call I had with my dad yesterday. He was telling me how one of his balls developed a huge crack in it. Dad’s a little odd; he has one 16 pound ball and the other is only 9 pounds; no braggin’, just facts. He used to keep them in the trunk of his car until he decided that it would be easier for him to have a locker at the bowling alley. He had the 9 pound ball made for when he had surgery, something that would permit him to enjoy his favorite sport without over doing it. The plastic split, a giant fissure formed and ruined the custom ball. I think he should keep on using it just to hear it thump thump thumps down the lane, maybe throw off shrapnel as it strikes the pins and clogs up the works.

“Bowl a hundred, Dad!”

I got a neat letter from my chiropractor this past week; a special discount on all their available treatments to celebrate being in business for 21 years, all for just $ 21. I needed an adjustment; been putting it off too long as it was, as I drove over to take advantage of the special offer. I didn’t need to have my back x-rayed, that was done before I ever had my first treatment, all the same I had to ask if I could have one x-ray done.

I’d seen a picture box that a friend of mine had made, an x-ray of his police pistol. I explained all this to the receptionist at the chiropractor’s desk. There was an interesting look on her face; not quite sure how to answer my request and at the same time wondering, “Are you signed out of the mental hospital or did you recently escape?” There was a short committee meeting of doctors and technicians in the back room. Dr. Durrett came back and looked at the billing codes on the computer, going down the standard list.

“Your kidding, they have a billing code for pistol x-rays?” I laughed as she pointed to the closest simple charge that would justify adding 21 dollars to my bill. “Do you do shotguns too?”

I got my back adjusted by Dr. Upchurch which opened up my sinus cavities. She then did some hocus pocus chiropractor stuff as I lay there on my back.

“Am I officially a Catholic now?”, I asked as she finished the interesting gestures; touching my forehead and moving down to the center of my chest. Dr. Upchurch breathed out slowly and blinked as her eyes rolled noisily, not sure what to make of my question.

She continued to work on a particularly painful area just below the neck. I told her the joke about the piece of rope, the one that had gone into the bar asking for a beer. The bar tender explained that he didn’t serve rope and tossed him out the door.

Not to be denied, the rope climbed back up on the stool and asked for a beer. The bartender got a bit angry, picked him up and twisted him into a knot before hurling him out into the street where he was subsequently run over by several vehicles.

A few minutes later, having recovered from the abuse, he goes back into the bar and asks for a beer.

“Hey, aren’t you that rope I just tossed out?” The bartender gritted out as he walked closer.

“I’m a frayed knot!”

Hey, it’s the only joke I know that matched up with the huge knot Dr. Upchurch was working on in between my shoulder blades.

The x-ray technician had me lay the pistol on top of the film box as she adjusted the settings for Smith & Wesson, again, not on the list of normal procedures. I chided that most of her clients might not be loaded; but that this one was. She took the x-ray and shook her head. It’s not as interesting to look at as my friends; but I’ll bet they didn’t crack his neck as part of the deal. 

Happy St Patrick's Day

Happy St Patrick's Day and a tip of the Irish cap to my friend Patti for sharing this one. I can always remember my brother’s birthday because all the Irish celebrate it; Happy Birthday Dan.

Two men were sitting next to each other at a bar. After a while, one guy looks at the other and says, "I can't help but think, from listening to you, that you're from Ireland "

The other guy responds proudly, "Yes...that I am!"

The first guy says, "So am I! And where about from Ireland might you be?"

The other guy answers, "I'm from Dublin , I am."

The first guy responds, "Sure and begora, and so am I! And what street did you live on in Dublin ?"

The other guy says, "A lovely little area it was, I lived on McCleary Street in the old central part of town."

The first guy says, "Faith & it's a small world, so did I! So did I!! And to what school would you have been going?"

The other guy answers, "Well now, I went to St.Mary's of course."

The first guy gets really excited and says, "And so did I. Tell me, what year did you graduate?"

The other guy answers, "Well, now, let's see, I graduated in 1964."

The first guy exclaims, "The Good Lord must be smiling down upon us! I can hardly believe our good luck at winding up in the same bar tonight. Can you believe it, I graduated from St. Mary's in 1964 my own self."

About this time, a woman walks into the bar, sits down, and orders a beer.

The bartender, walks over to her, shaking his head & mutters, "It's going to be a long night tonight!"

She asks, "Why do you say that?"

He replies, "The Murphy twins are drunk again."

Photograph credit goes to Celtic Accents where you can purchase sun catchers and ornate boxes. (linked via title bar) 

Another Bush Fiasco

One of the headline stories in the Houston Chronicle reads, Ex-Bush aide is charged in fraudulent store refunds (linked via title bar)

“WASHINGTON — President Bush today said he was shocked and saddened to learn that former domestic policy adviser Claude Allen was charged with theft for allegedly receiving phony refunds at department stores.”

{…}

“Allen, 45, was arrested Thursday by police in Montgomery County, Md., for allegedly claiming refunds for more than $5,000 worth of merchandise he did not buy, according to county and federal authorities. He had been under investigation since at least January for alleged thefts on 25 occasions at Target and Hecht's stores.”

None of this would have happened if President Bush had not directed Allen to start his life of crime in order to pay for the Iraq War. President Bush lied to Allen, telling him that he would never get caught, never become involved with the Abu Grabe prison scandal. Allen was transported from his detention cell in an SUV that only gets 9.7 miles per gallon, further eroding the fragile relations with our allies who signed the Kyoto Protocol agreement. This is the same SUV that Dick Cheney purportedly used in his attempted assassination and subsequent cover up on a ranch owned by Bush supporters.

It is rumored that President Bush has attempted to quash telephoto digital photographs taken by uniformed high ranking Army officers of Allen in an orange jump suit playing with himself while he was waiting to board a secret CIA jet bound for an undisclosed prison camp in eastern Europe where he will be humiliated and tortured along with hundreds of other political prisoners.

Isn’t that the story the biased news media would have preferred to have printed? I should send in my resume to the Washington Post, the Los Angeles Times or the New York Times and include this as a sample of the hateful one sided news article I am capable of generating, regardless of the facts or the damage done.

The Safe Job

Dan Kaufman, from the Committees of Correspondence, commented on my article about some thief who'd broken the window of his car; never having bothered to check the door, which was left unlocked. I’d written about stupid thieves who destroy much more than they ever get away with. (linked via title bar)

I suppose I should add to the list of destructive jerks; those wonderful folks who help raise our insurance premiums with each breath they take outside the cell block walls. I could go on quite a while; what’s that line from Alice’s Restaurant, the one Arlo Guthrie adds after having sung the first ten minutes or so and you’re not sure how much longer he’ll keep singing, “I could go on all night, … I’m not proud…or tired”, as he waits for the chorus line to come around again; hoping that this time the audience will join in with a little more volume, “You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant; excepting Alice, You can get anything you want… at Alice’s Restaurant. Walk right in it’s around the back, just a half a mile from the rail road tracks, you can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant, …Da da da da da da da dum…at Alice’s Restaurant…”

As a point of interest, I think it’s mildly amusing that a retired cop would enjoy Alice’s Restaurant with all the sarcasm directed toward, “Officer Obie”, who put him in jail for littering and the rest of the police in attendance. Here’s the link to the lyrics for the entire song.

http://www.arlo.net/lyrics/alices.shtml

I made a burglary of a residence at the home of a retired individual many years ago. His hobby was learning the art of cutting gem stones. He’d stored all his practice gems in a rather large old time safe in one of his bedrooms, the door to the safe was always left unlocked so he didn’t have to fumble with the combination. My thought was, “Why not leave them on the table if you’re not going to lock the safe?”, but this was his stuff and not mine.

He came home to find the house had been broken into as he followed the trail of concrete dust that had been tracked on the carpet. This old safe had walls that were filled with concrete as a means of insulation against fire. The thieves had pried open the top with sledge hammers and crow bars. They tore the top layer of steel off and broke the concrete into “Gorgan Dust”. ( Line stolen from The Last Star Fighter). Then came the next layer of steel and finally into the compartments that had the gem stones all in those fancy velvet protective flaps. There were pieces of safe scattered everywhere and the dust from the concrete had drifted into every room of the house. The thieves got away with a bunch of junk stones, the owner showing me that the really good stuff was in the next compartment and had never been touched. The door to the safe had never been tried as it swung open easily, the owner showing me as he pushed down on the lever arm.

Moving right along on the list of worthless thieves are the ones who break into convenience stores during the wee hours to steal a couple of six packs of beer. They have a couple of methods to accomplish the break in; tossing a huge piece of concrete through the front window is the most popular, followed closely by driving a bumper into the front of the store so that it takes out several of those windows along with the supports for those windows. They then grab a couple of cold ones and disappear into the night. I used to arrive after having been dispatched to one of these “Smash and grabs”; take notice of the damage, what I figured had been stolen and fill in most of the blanks on the official incident report before the owner showed up. I could then get his/her name to finish off the report and turn the building over at that time. The store front glass cost about $ 400 for each piece broken; the beer was about $ 20.

Last on my list, at least for today, is the young man who broke into one of his neighbors apartments here in Houston this past week. He saw an electronic gadget that he just had to have so he took it. On the way out he came up with the idea of covering his tracks, getting rid of his finger prints on all the other stuff he’d rummaged through. He set the apartment on fire and ran out the door with his prize. A few minutes later 8 apartment units had burned to the ground, their occupants escaping serious injury and death by only moments as the smoke filled each attached apartment. Some of the neighbors had seen him leave the apartment, the one that he set on fire, and it was only a matter of putting the cuffs on him as they led him off to jail. Did I mention that most of the families who lost everything in the fire were also temporary residents, evacuees from Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans? When asked about it, the suspect could only say he was sorry.

Was he sorry about the damage, the possibility that he could have killed folks because of his stupidity or was he sorry that he got caught? At least he got caught.

Payback is Hell

Last week my daughter Jennifer posted a picture of me, one that I had protested as being uncomplimentary. I’d flown up to visit them after the birth of my first grandchild and was exhausted from the trip. Sometime during my slumbers Jennifer borrowed my camera and snapped a few pictures. I thought about deleting them as soon as I found them on the memory disc; but Jennifer protested, saying that she really like them. I knew I should have deleted them,

During Jennifer’s Senior Prom and all the festivities that went along with graduation from High School, the parents were asked to supply a picture of their child to post on a huge bulletin board. All the other students were to guess who their classmate was by observing the childhood photograph. I suppose Jennifer had that in mind when she posted my picture; payback is hell! (linked in title bar)

The photo was taken right after church. Jennifer was all dressed up and slipped out the back door and into a muddy bird bath before her mother was even aware. I snapped the picture and kept it tucked away in the stack of albums for when she was grown. I would tease her, telling her that I’d show it to the young men who would come to pick her up on dates. She never thought I’d post it on the bulletin board for everyone to see, for that matter, post it on the internet. At least she had all her clothes on for this one.

HPD Watering Hole

During a move back in the early 80’s to have police officers walking beats downtown, something which was a pure public relations gesture, my partner and I did our best to be seen. Some of our efforts reminded the local business owners that they only had a business on the street that went past; not ownership rights to that street. We did take it upon ourselves to do a complete traffic study of the six blocks assigned to us, indicate changes to parking zones and general traffic movement we thought would benefit everyone. Many of our suggestions were acted upon and my partner and I received a Chief’s Commendation for our efforts; this was just before they tried to fire us for these same efforts, another story that I might share one day.

I used to cut the shoulder patch off of my worn out police shirts, the ones that I was supposed to turn back in to be destroyed to keep the bad guys from pretending to be cops, I would glue those patches to trophy plaques. I would then engrave the award, "HPD Watering Hole", and give them to businesses that were pro-police; those who let us use their facilities, lunch rooms, and the like. We even gave a plaque to the Blood Center, a place we would visit every so many months to donate our blood.

I’m giving a tip of the hat to Ted at Musings of an Old Man for his post, “Top Cop”. (linked via title bar) His photo of a police shoulder patch reminded me of those times. 

The Ignorant Thief or I Have No Clue Let’s Just Break It!

I’ve been making far too many service calls on newer vehicles, the kind that won’t start without a properly programmed transponder key. These vehicles have been butchered with hammers, screw drivers, wrenches as in days of old. A thief with limited abilities used to be able to beat the crap ( technical locksmith term) out of a steering column and access the gears to steal almost anything. Now these same idiots can destroy quite a bit of very expensive gadgets and never once start the engine.

I’m thinking of starting a newsletter; one directed toward amateur car thieves. Maybe I can enlist the help of the local police department’s Auto Theft Division to get me a mailing list for the newsletter, or just leave them a stack for the detectives to hand out to the next generation of auto thieves. I can call it, The Ignorant Thief or I Have No Clue – Let’s Just Break It!. I could print a list of all the cars and trucks that are easy to steal, another with the ones that are not. I could get Bail Bonds companies to advertise and Attorney’s who specialize in defending stupid criminals would want a piece of the action too. The problem, at least as I see it, most of these folks are too stupid and can’t read.

Today’s genius, rather, last night’s genius destroyed the door handle to get in; punching the lock smooth into the door cavity. He then took a sledge hammer to the dash board of the brand new 2006 Dodge Charger. I have no idea how much time this bozo invested before walking away empty handed. I do know that it will take at least a thousand dollars in repairs just to fix the cosmetic damages, never mind the electronic packages that will have to be replaced.

On the other hand, as much money as this has been generating for me, maybe I should start selling hammers, screw drivers and large wrenches when the sun goes down, hand out some of my business cards and wait for the phone to ring. The UPS man just delivered another box of replacement ignition switches, gotta’ go now.

Mulch Warning!!!

A tip of the hat goes out to Richard Sutton for passing along this important warning. I know, you folks up in the northern climes still have your snow shovels in hand and the idea of putting down mulch won’t hit for another month or so; but here in Texas, Spring has sprung.

If you use mulch around your house be very careful about buying mulch this year. After the Hurricane in New Orleans many trees were blown over. These trees were then turned into mulch and the state is trying to get rid of tons and tons of this mulch to any state or company who will come and haul it away. So it will be showing up in Home Depot and Lowes at dirt cheap prices with one huge problem; Formosan Termites will be the bonus in many of those bags. New Orleans is one of the few areas in the country were the Formosan Termites has gotten a strong hold and most of the trees blown down were already badly infested with those termites.

Now we may have the worst case of transporting a problem to all parts of the country that we have ever had. These termites can eat a house in no time at all and we have no good control against them, so tell your friends that own homes to avoid cheap mulch and know were it came from. I’ve included a link in the title bar for more information.