Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Quick, Like a Fox

Stuff to do....

Like an idiot I ran off and forgot a handgun I'd sold yesterday. Younger man walked into the shop and asked if I had any 'cowboy' pistols. Said yes but only one and it was in my safe at the house. He insisted I take his cash, sight unseen, with the request I hump the firearm to the shop today.

Told him, "Fine. It'll be here tomorrow."

It's tomorrow, er, today, and his revolver isn't.

Me, all red-faced, filled with shame. So, please excuse me while I drive back home and get this boy's Zombie Apocalypse weapon.


Tuesday, December 30, 2014


Do you hear the crows? The sun strains to break our darkness and with this slight light the crows caw and squeal and now I hear a flock of geese, I'm sure, ready for a river landing.

The dawn is peaceful, isn't it.

Take an adventure, move outside with your cup of coffee.

See 'ya later.


Monday, December 29, 2014

A Regulated Ripoff

I hate insurance. Yeah, yeah, I know - when you need insurance it can sure save your bacon but trust me I've paid far more than I've ever used. Still, I hate it. Insurance, in all its forms is still a darn ripoff, a frigging regulated ripoff.

So it was with wonder and surprise when I came home to find my lovely wife on the computer and cell with our new home owners insurance company - USAA. Bless their pea picking hearts they just saved us a bundle. Seems State Farm wanted to increase our policy, again, by several hundred dollars. Enough is enough.

State Farm can kiss my lily white butt.


Sunday, December 28, 2014

Just Stuff

Our hickory tree sheds its yellow leaves and it's warm here, fog rolls off the river like smoke and I've a headache, so there.

The television streams soft music. Herself roams room to room in search of lost sweaters. She hid them last year and now wants them restored to her deeply packed walk-in closet - an area most inaccessible because the clutter of shoe boxes and miscellaneous stuff bars the door, and above all hangs three of my rifles on homemade pegs. I'm sneaky that way...headache and all.

I just came back inside from a task in the garage. I thought if I puttered around out there this pain would vanish. What a joke of an idea. So, I continue to suck down ice water and wait.

Late yesterday, in southern Georgia, I held children, sweet little boogers, and accepted their kisses and hugs, and for the first time in months felt love and warmth. Nieces and nephews are worth their weight in gold. Their grandmother, my baby sister, has cancer. Stage four. Even so she smiled and glowed in their warmth. She is so frail.

I tried to stay outdoors with the other men. 

Like country boys everywhere, we talked, smoked, and told grand lies. It was nice under the clear sky of stars and cool wind. I did try and listen. But with the trees and moss and the faint scent of wood smoke and the whistle of trains, I was just too damn distracted to listen to stories of missed shots and local sightings of turkey and deer. There were endless questions of, 'Is this a good caliber for deer,' or 'Stephen what is this rifle worth.'

I'm sick of it. All of it. My soul needs a vacation.

Hence, my four month absence from this blog. And, yours.


The text came late Christmas night. It read in part, 'Thank you for their Christmas gifts. This is killing me too, so I think we'll try and find a local park for a visit. I want my children to know their grandmother again....if it's okay with you...'

As per the norm of the last three years we'd bagged the grandchildren's gifts, drove to their home and I slipped from the car and, like a thief in the night, sat the bag on their front porch. I knocked and we drove away. Sad to our bones.

The text gave hope.

I told her, "Do it."

We wait. If it happens I'll stand in the background and pray.


Friday, December 26, 2014

Shall We All Bow Our Heads

She has decided an escort is necessary for a day of pure torture. In mere moments we leave for the celebration of Boxing Day. Pray for me.

It will be a long day indeed.

Friday, August 1, 2014


Is here and I'm tired. It's been a very long day and I'm too pooped to write. I do have a funny story for you guys but it'll wait until tomorrow.

Until then...


Thursday, July 31, 2014

Just My Two Cents

But I firmly believe the show Pawn Stars has jumped the shark.

Excuse me while I return to my novel.


Slick As Possum Fat

That's my face this morning...smooth, slick, hairless. Other than my close cropped beard my cheeks glow.

I've thrown those silly little orange tipped plastic razors in the trash. I've gone old school. Say hello to my old friend, a vintage 1938 Gillette Safety Razor.

She's a three piece made of solid brass and nickle plated. I like the fact it came off the assembly line at the tail end of the depression and just a few years prior to the second world war. She has heft. She's solid and fits well in my hand.

I recently found a ready supply of blades. Russian blades - sharp double edged, thin, wicked little suckers, and if handled improperly will skin the hide right off your face. But, if placed gently gives you a fine close shave.

I like Russians.

Anyway, back to my Gillette. When I take her to hand and glance into the morning mirror I like to think of the man that once owned her. Was he a man of the land or sea...I like to believe a farmer. A sturdy man that provided for his family during the dark years then signed on the dotted line when the war was brought to our shores. I like to think he survived the conflict and returned to his farm to walk the fields in peace. The old Gillette probably gave many years of service as his children grew into adults. I hope it was his grandchildren that finally took Papa's old razor, afterwards, and placed it in the estate sale.

Now, seventy odd years later it gives me joy. She has had her nickle plate refreshed. She still holds the double edged razors nice and tight, and when the lather is applied, slides like a dream down my cheeks.

Sometimes the old ways are best.


Wednesday, July 30, 2014

How's The Weather

It's friggin hot here....

How 'ya doin.' I know, I know - been a while hasn't it. Thought I'd take a vacation from computers for a few months and all I get is grief.

We're fine. Busy, but fine. She twinkles, as very active in her church, and knock wood, healthy. I'm here at the shop keen on growth after the awful bitch slap this country has suffered at the liberals hand.

Otherwise, life is one huge bore. With afternoon temps in the high nineties and 'feel like' ranges over one hundred degrees I figure the darn grass can just go grow itself and leave me the heck alone. One day I just fired the John Deere and engaged the blade and told the sucker to roam at will.

Neighbor didn't think it funny when the mower crossed the street tracked down his poodle....

All my friends have abandoned me. My best buddy, Duke, as many of you are aware, bought a horse barn and decided to spend the summer shoveling poop. Didn't even ask my permission. Senior runs between here and his farm in the Carolinas, not sure which, its either one with a North or South attached, but anyway I understand he's enrolled in a tractor driving course. Little red cones and all...

One shooting buddy and his wife purchased a new home and is busy in the retrieval of all his buried loot....those darn tubes tend to shift and drift after twenty years underground. I'll wait until he's long packed and gone and then sneak over for that fine old surplus piece under the rose.

ShooterSteve found a job with night hours....he's happy as the employers asked him to wear a uniform and pack a firearm. Between us I think he pretends its some kind of swat job. Yes, his bullet is in his pocket.

My friend Rebel is just Rebel....he spends his days reliving Woodstock.

 I really miss my friends. Soon as this heat wave turns to cooler days and nights I'd like to once again gather the bunch and take 'em out for some serious range time.

Until then I just hope they don't hurt themselves...


Thursday, June 26, 2014

Welcome, and Thanks

To my new friend and follower, NightSky.

The coffee is hot so pull out a chair and lets sit and chat a while.

Again, thank you and welcome. You are now among friends.


Wednesday, June 25, 2014


Too busy here to write so I thought I post this link for those of you interested in precious metal ingots.

See 'ya later...


Tuesday, June 24, 2014

The Price

Of precious metals has rallied. If you missed the recent dip in sliver, wait. Or, dollar cost average and purchase a bit each  month.

The asking price of gold is beyond me. If I recall my very first purchase, in bullion form, the cost to me was a whopping thirty-six dollars, and back in the early to mid eighties, thirty-six dollars was a whole bunch of cash to a poor fella like me.

A pocket filled with the smooth heft of silver gives great comfort to those of us leery of our nation's fiat currency.


Monday, June 23, 2014


She just flew out the door after a quick, "Back soon." Seeing as how I just became the new owner of a fine batch of Georgia peaches, sweet bundles of pure joy, and since I know good and well she'll be at Walgreen's for at least two hours I jumped and whipped out a fresh peach cobbler.

Y'all can wipe the drool and just do without...

I built this beauty in about twenty minutes. Its still in the oven. Didn't use any one recipe so haven't one to post or link. So if you Google someone's 'this is the perfect' scribbling remember to substitute a half cup of cream instead of one cup of whole milk. Cut back on the granulated sugar by a quarter and please, for the love of all things Holy, use a good grade of light brown sugar and real vanilla.

If you tend to throw a scoop of ice cream on the dish...make sure the cream really came from the working end of a cow. The label 'light' is so darn metrosexual. 

Hope she's surprised...




Earlier this evening as I stood in the kitchen I heard a strange sound, steady beat, rhythmic even, and at first had a heck of a time tracing its source. I finally tracked this strangeness to our living room.

We have on the fireplace mantle an old clock, a wedding gift from a relative some thirty odd years ago. Its a Sessions, manufactured early in the twentieth century. Nice old piece, and here's the strange hasn't hit a lick in over thirty years. Hasn't been cleaned nor oiled properly since the day it came into our lives. We'd thought the old girl was just flat-assed broke.

Until late last evening when out of nowhere it began to tick-tock all on its own. 

Yelled for the wife. She freaked, "Why is it working?"

"It's a sign from God."

She didn't like my answer and instead said, "What did you do to it?" I made a few of those spooky noises, then, "Nothing. It's the end times."

She went to bed.

I'm still wide awake. The old clock just chimed 0300. Perhaps I should say a little prayer. Couldn't hurt.

This is indeed spooky stuff.

(Insert Boris Karloff movie soundtrack here.)


Yesterday was her birthday. She's twenty-two. Still cute as a button.

After Sunday services she requested a day in St. Augustine. We arrived and duly paid our ten dollar parking ripoff tax fee and strolled the ancient city.

Since she hadn't eaten all day we hit a local tourist trap for lunch. Took almost three hours...serious here, three hours. Back outside we find severe thunderstorms. Hard rain. Ducked into a store. Rain continues. We wait.

Still, she smiles. Said she was happy. Rain slacks a bit. We hit a coffee shop to wait, and I of course, over indulge with a pecan sticky roll and a mug of java. Outside a lightning strike fries a tourist into ashes. Heavy rain spoils another visitors hundred dollar cigar and the ponies refuse to pull the sunburned down the cobble stoned streets. I just smiled and sipped my coffee.

She took my hand and set a course towards that ten dollar parking spot.

Anyway, it was a nice ride.

I strive to please.


Took me a year but I've finally found the proper cross draw sheath for my favorite knife. A friggin year. The knife was gifted to me by herself upon our last anniversary - a custom hand forged piece and I love it. Anyway, it came with a junky plastic black bit of stuff disguised as a sheath which I promptly discarded.

I like a cross-draw. Wear it slapdap in the middle of my back, right-handed. It too is custom from a nice husband/wife team out of Cajun country. If I had their names (info is at work) I'd give credit. Nice leather, proper fit.

It's the little things,

which create the faintest of smiles.




Thursday, June 19, 2014

World War Z

Thanks to Netflix I've finally watched Z.

Not a bad flick, and I do recommend you take a gander. Try and spot the Coleman lantern, the real thing, not the battery model.

Remember, zombie uprisings are very unpredictable. Keep a firearm close to hand in case of attack. My constant companion rides behind the seat of my truck.

Zombies are a real threat...all I need do is glance outside my window and count; there, six of the boogers across the street.

It's dangerous out there.


Wednesday, June 18, 2014

It's Just Silly

In this weeks Shotgun News is an ad for a Chinese SKS for five hundred dollars. Give me a friggin break. I remember when a case of Russian rifles still packed in their coat of cosmoline had a grand 'ole price of seventy-five bucks, and I turned down the offer.

Silly me.

Bet you in twenty years we'll regret we passed on these five hundred dollar beauties.




Sunday, June 15, 2014

I Remember the Hate

Deep summer meant thick fields of grass and calloused hands wrapped tightly around the ash handle of the sling blade. I hated the sling blade. I loathed the high grass of the fields.

I remember the arrogance of the man. He was perhaps fifty, fairly tall to a child of twelve, and land lord to my little brother and me. I remember, most vividly, my hatred of the man. We lived under his roof. He was my uncle.

I remember the cold winter day our mother stood beside her gray car and tried to explain her reasons why it was necessary for us to remain behind in her sister's care. "It's only temporary. Farm life will keep you busy. Mind your manners and behave. Your aunt and uncle are doing us a huge favor."

Then she was gone.

The farm stood close to a railroad. I remember the stand of hardwoods and the tattered fields of corn and how the land sloped away from the house and I remember the hog pens and the house garden and how hobo's had marked the back door with their jackknives. I remember, that first winter, how the old man stood on the lower stoop  and pointed towards a tract of land and said, "When the grass turns green it'll be your job to cut it. Every week, you cut it. You work, no food. For either of you."

Soon winter turned to spring and then summer. He took a slingblade from the barn, said, "Sharpen it then get on that field." I remember he kicked a chicken from his path and walked away to his bottle.

The texture of the grass was thick - juicy stuff. Each swing of the blade resulted in a watermelon scented blade of grass blood.

The first day was painful only for my lack of technique and style. I became friends with rhythm.

I still remember the day he walked out and stood close and said, "It's the chicken poop. I spread a heavy load on this field. Gotta let it dry, can't dump the wet stuff. "Yep, the chicken s*it makes the grass. Can you smell it?"


"What the hell is wrong with you. You mean to tell me you can't smell that fine fertilizer? You dumb or what?"

I kept the blade on the move. My senses were attuned to the ripe odor of green grass and the south wind and faint odor of oil and creosote from the tracks. I seem to even remember the scent of sweat and loamy earth. I'd never admit the undertones of chicken crap...because I remembered I hated him, and the farm too.

He bent and took a handful of dirt and squeezed, held it tight, then took the back of my head in his meaty paw and with his left hand shoved the dirt into my face. "Now, can you smell it? Ain't that nice?"

I spit. Wiped my face. Held the sling blade tightly. Eased it back. "Go ahead, boy. Try it. I asked you if you can smell that chicken s*it, and you'd better answer me."

I remember the tears on my face and how my hand came away streaked with dirt and bits of grass...and how much I hated the man.

"You a tall boy for your age but I'll still cut you in half if you don't answer me."

I took a step back and said, "No. I can't smell it."

I really do not recall his punch. I remember I awoke in the field. He stood above me with a huge grin on his face, bottle in hand - my uncle. 

I remember the ring in my ears, how my face hurt. A bit of blood on my fingers. He said, "Come here." I went. "Now, do you smell the chicken s*it?"

I wanted my mother, I remember that. I remember the high clouds as they scuttled high on the south wind and I think I remember a flock of birds but I'm not really sure of them. I remember hate filled my heart. Hatred grown from the lack of a father, and my mother's absence. Hate so vibrate it painted my soul.


"Yes, what, boy?"

"Yes, Sir."




Friday, June 13, 2014

Smoke Signals

I wanted to post yesterday but my internet provider decided to take the day off. Sorry.

Just finished reading this article, here's the link, and I find it very disturbing. One thing is for sure, if you believe, as an American, your Constitutional rights still exist, please walk outside and count the number of moons in the universe.

Me, well, I believe I'll practice the old art of smoke signals.

Time for the me to hit the old grindstone....


Wednesday, June 11, 2014

The Dude

This morning it was the same old thing. He's barely inside when he begins with, "Hey, did you know Wal-Mart is filled with those types?"

He hates gay people, or so he claims. His assertions are never ending...always with the hate talk. Like this, "I hate those mother*uckers. They're everywhere. I bet six out of ten men in that park are lip smackers. Know what I mean?"

I change the subject. Ask if he's seen or has knowledge of a box of .32-20. Then, it's back to the subject of gays. I think perhaps he protest far too much...especially since he dresses in muscle shirts, tight trousers, loud colors. He's married with two children.

"I'm telling 'ya, Stephen, those people have ruined our country."

"Okay, Mac."

I again changed the subject. Mentioned the Marine in Mexico. Him, "Boy I bet when he leaves that prison you'd be able to hear a BB rattle in his rear."

See what I mean....

Hey, live and let live.


Sweet Wife is home building a beef stew. My phone has only screamed twice, so far. She's a good cook, but the structure, routine of a beef stew is new to her.

Still, I bet it turns out just fine...

Gotta run, later.


Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Let's Ramble

If it were possible to pocket a piece of summer; fold its essence within an envelope, I would. I'd remove this slice of season when needed, or better yet, when my mood suited. Like last night.

I'd just wheeled our garbage container to the street. A nice warm south wind carried the scent of sweet flowers and pushed the Spanish Moss. The moon was bright. The river flat and glassy. Perfect. Warm enough yet not hot. My kind of summer. A slice of summer children remember.

The adult me hates summer. I find its heat uncomfortable. But once in a blue moon I find a taste of my youth in the months of June and July. Seldom August. Yet, late summer nights often make me smile. Now, if I find a way to bag just a few moments of what I experienced last evening think of the possibilities of its use during those long cold and dark winters ahead.


With the children out for summer vacation the street and park seem abandoned. Business has grown to a crawl. It's slow. Believe it or not the basketball courts are empty. Even the Urban Campers have ducked beneath the earth.

So, I clean firearms. My hands smell of gun oil. I should dab a bit beneath my ears. Stuff smells kinda good and has been noted to work out the wrinkles. We'll see.

Sweet Wife has never said but I'm sure she thinks I'm nuts for my weird habit of firearms cleaning during those nights of movies and certain television shows. Me and my little bottle of Break Free, bore-snake and shop rags, two or three handguns....keeps me busy. I've an old Colt Official Police that has been cleaned so often it absolutely sparkles. She sits upright on my mantle with a shotgun shell thru the trigger guard. I have the old girl filled with vintage rounds of .38....just seems right somehow. Old firearm, equally old ammo. She stands guard just above an ancient rabbit eared shotgun. My Colt came into this world before Hitler invaded Poland.

Told you. This is a ramble.


Over at Gander Mountain this weekend I found the shelves filled with ammunition, well, other than what I wanted, but none the less, the place held tons of boom-boom. But, the prices were silly high. I mean, damn. I passed.

This price increase, I believe, is the new normal. Guess it's high time I dusted my loading bench and lubed the press.


Now, if you'll please excuse me I've blogs to read and comments to answer.

Go thump a watermelon and smile.



Monday, June 9, 2014


All I want, at present, is one small box of .32-20, just one. Stuff is rare as hen's teeth. Can't find it. None, and it ticks me off.

See, the thing is I want to shoot. I miss the faint odor of gun powder. The thump of lead (the real stuff) as it slaps a target, and I sorely miss the fine company of my friends.

For far too long I've denied myself the therapy of the gun range and the fellowship of my friends. And, I've a new toy. It requires this most antique cartridge. The load is still manufactured - when component parts are available. Every source is badged back ordered, or out of stock.

Anyway, soon. Soon I'll take the fresh air and sling lead.


As an aside...we're both fine. She's out of pain and the mass the doctors found in my lower body isn't....

Thank the Lord.

To all of sincere thanks. You're good people.


Saturday, June 7, 2014


Isn't life wonderful.

I've missed you guys and gals. Not quite ready for the daily grind of the blog just yet, but almost. The last two months have been awful, to say the least. So far all is well.

Next Monday we should cross the bridge, hand in hand, into the light and begin, again, a normal life.

Thank you all for your kind prayers and good thoughts.


Sunday, May 18, 2014

Andy's Advice

She asked, "Did you bet?" I flipped a spoon into the sink, turned and said, "I'm chicken. I'm a tenderfoot. I need to study, read. Para-mutual betting and the horse races befuddled my tiny brain."

But, you know what...Andy Capp, the old clothe capped cartoon character, had a point....if you don't bet on a horse you'll never win. So, instead I bet on paper, all pretend and chicken like...and won the Preakness. On paper.

She said, "See."

She attended church this Sunday, as is her way. Her mornings are filled with energy and zest. The late day, not so much but she still holds a smile, all grace and dignity. She's much improved after a second and very late night visit to the ER. I hate the place. Two hours into the visit I made an escape and walked outside to find a democritter peeing on our car, the left front wheel. Serious. I didn't give him a chance to zip. Just its kind sits behind the desk in the White House.


Our weather is soft and warm. If she allows I will leave my current post at this laptop and spend the rest of the day with rake and hoe and shovel, and dig in the sunlight. The sea breeze should make an appearance soon and it will make for a plesant afternoon of work. I have a fig tree that begs for a permanent home and I believe I've found a perfect spot. I plant figs for the squirrels and birds...all I ask in return is they leave me one or two juicy bites.


I must apologize, to you, my kind friends, for my lack of visits and comments on each of your blogs. I will try and rectify my lack of attention and focus. Now, if you'll excuse me I think I'll walk outside and dig a can of worms....I understand armadillos love 'em and I need to practice my shooting skills.


Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Thoughts, like Vapor

As soon as my muse and gas like brain return to normal I'll try and set a normal pace for this blog. With her sick and in pain our lives have flipped to the erratic side of life.

As an example yesterday I sat in a local emergency room from zero five hundred until thirteen hundred....with a batch of drunks, druggies, loonies, and democritters.

She's fine. Scheduled for procedures in early June.  Hopefully by then the white shirts will have a diagnosis.

You will now understand my thought process, bad in the best of times, is now fleeting with occasional puffs of vapor.

Please know I have read and do appreciate all of your kind and thoughtful comments and prayers. I have gone days when this computer (or any computer) hasn't crossed my mind. Books, newspapers, and the Kindle have been my chosen escape. I will make every effort, soon I hope, to answer all comments.

Don't worry. With proper medication my Sweet Wife is functional, and at times, very happy. She continually tells me to have faith. She's stays quite busy with her flower beds. I did indeed sneak a few herbs into the mix. She welds the water can with aplomb.

In the  meantime I've decided to study the Daily Racing Form and take a ride on the ponies....busy mind and all that...

Again, thank you.



Thursday, May 1, 2014

Idle Fingers

Recently I became the new owner of a stash of older Crown Royal bags, sans cords. The old fella said he didn't want the bags, six or seven of 'em and I was welcome to take the warm and fuzzy sacks home. Okay, I said, and thanked him.

I've owned a few over the years. The bags are very handy for precious metals, ammo, small radios and as I've recently discovered, a fine storage container for my binoculars. So, last night I took the blue bags and a roll of 550 cord and sat back with shears and made pull cords. Tedious work. I enjoyed the experience. Just wish I'd taken pictures.

Anyway, nice work for idle fingers, so much so I dug out three very old sets of BDU woodland camo trousers. Very old trousers...willing to bet their older than a few of my readers. One or two pair had lost buttons, or torn knees, rips here and there. I dug out needle and thread and an old block of bee's wax and pretty soon the thimble clicked. Soothing work.

Wish I could find my old military issued sewing kit. Remember? A small folded piece of green canvas with flaps, basic stuff. A needle or two with bits of olive green thread...mine is lost to time.

Any man that lacks the skill to repair his clothing isn't worth his weight in salt.

 Gotta run. Accounts await my attention.

Hey, be careful out there.


Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Just Because

Early today I escorted her to the awful place. There was the time wasted process of registration, then elevators and hallways from hell and I felt as if I'd stepped into a third world country. Straight backed chairs under awful starving artist art. I held her hand as we waited, and then she was taken from my sight.

I hate the unknown.

Rivers of people ebbed and flowed. I read, and I must confess, said a few prayers. Then again I tend to worry, I mean come on - she's awful important to me. As proof I sit here as she watches American Idol and I've been very good and for the most part held my comments in check. 

Just because...


Saturday, April 26, 2014


Sorry for this extended break. The wife has been ill, business is busy, and I've been deep into my books. These aren't excuses it's just ever so often I feel the need to stand well back from the computer.

I'll try and write, tomorrow.

Have a wonderful evening.


Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Lit 101

Of late I've been on a poetry kick. Its a phase and I'm sure it will crash and burn very soon. I lean towards the odd stuff, like Bukowski.

"Some people never go crazy, what truly horrible lives they must live," Charles Bukowski.

Another of his quotes, "An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way."

Hard to argue with the man.

His work isn't for everyone. If you're delicate, easily offended, or stricken with a puritan heart, it's probably best you stand back and leave his writings to others. On the other hand if you do appreciate a well turned phrase or enjoy good writing and want an inside look at a drunken genius's mind then by all means find his books. Much of his works were issued by small presses in limited editions and are worth thousands. Amazon has many listed on their Kindle pages.

"If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose." Charles Bukowski.

It's a sickness, my eclectic taste in literature. If you follow take care the path.


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

My Pleasure

It was recently my pleasure to assist a fella with his computer. He asked why the wife's printer failed when they'd instructed the desk top to spit a few pages from the internet.

"Simple," I said, "Load your floppy disc."

"Our what?"

"Your nine inch floppy. Isn't there a slot on the computer for your floppy?"

Him, "Oh yeah."  He plays golf, wears his sweaters wrapped over his shoulders with the arms crossed over his chest...that kind of fella.

He walked away all smiles.

I'm using the Bloomberg method of attaining heavenly glory....


Wednesday, April 16, 2014


And spell zombified anyway you'd like but it describes the last few days of my life, zombified, dead meat. May I ask as to your condition...

Our weather has turned. Its cool and breezy. High forties this morning, and yes the repairman fixed our a/c unit. Took him four hours and cost us one nice pretty penny. I flipped it in the dirt.

Business is very slow...I mean snake belly dust swallowing dead butt slow. Blame it on Uncle's tax grab.

Old man in here yesterday, "I swear, Stephen, if I'm given a terminal prognoses I'll pack my bags and drive to the District and find the headquarters of the Infernal Revenue and blow those sonsabitches to hell."

Me, "God bless you."

Excuse me while I try to refresh my coffers. I also will make every effort to respond to the comments you've so kindly left in response to my last few pitiful posts. If given peace and silence, and of course time, I will give my all to a longer written piece. Seems of late I live a very hectic life and this poor excuse of a blog is its reflection.

Until then.


Sunday, April 13, 2014

Sunday Ramble

Often when I sit to write the words fail me. I've much to say stuck away in storage but those ideas have yet to ripen, mature, thus useless. So, I listen, and wait. It'll nudge me when ready.

It's best if I just sit and listen..and record the sounds....

Mockingbirds, the steady tick of the tide clock, the old emerald windchimes dance on the breeze.

(Ping, fodder.)

The old emerald wind chimes sing as if tuned by a great pianist, notes lost to my musical ignorance. The emerald windchimes came to me long ago from a different life.

The chimes were removed from a small cardboard box and placed on a hook from the roof line of an old Victorian home built high above a cold rocky creek which fed Hammersley Inlet. From that night forward they have gentled the pathway into my dreams. Their metallic wind forced dance came and went with seasonal regularity, always there throughout the last forty years of my life.

Lost within its strings and tubes and its emerald paddle are the shadows of death, divorce, hardships and hope. Also recorded are the whispers of joy and smiles. Horrible sadness lurks within its depths, too.

Often I've repaired the emerald windchime. It hates hard savage winds. After proper repair her songs return as newly minted, and continues to record my life.

The day will arrive when I fade into the shadows of time. Upon my drift into darkness I hope a thoughtful soul continues to repair her dropped tubes and reties the odd broken string. Then to nudge her paddle and play one last tune to my memory.


It's time.  I need to slip on the boots and fire the mower and cut the grass and weeds, after I take a basket and clean the yard of pine cones and broken limbs and rake a bushel of oak leaves. The gutters also need attention. We have a bed of shrubs gone wild...should make for two hours of sweat. Bet I stir at least two wasp attacks.

I'll procrastinate until her return from church. If I'm lucky she'll ask to attend another Sunday movie which will give me all the excuse I'll need to avoid the awful chore. I've grown to hate yard work. Its tedious and returns little in value, other than a tidy lawn. If grass cuttings were gleaned as a food source I'd be far more willing to bust my butt. As it stands the waste is nothing more than compost material.

Speaking of which, it's high time I plant a bed of herbs. A few herbs love compost, other just plain old sand. My compost barrel, a contraption which requires I turn a handle and rotate the drum twice to three times weekly, works very well yet has stood silent and still for the last few years. It's paint has faded to dull green. Blame Obama. The result of a six day work week is a very sad forlorn garden.

Last week, since it's Spring, the love of my life stepped forth and cleaned a flower bed. She then discovered my stack of walkway bricks - a huge neatly organized pile of half-inch dark brown brick.  She took a wheel barrow and gave it a heavy load. Wheeled the ton of baked earth to the east side of our home and proceeded to border the bed with the brick. That evening she downed a bottle of Advil. Spring's a bitch.

But, every cloud has a silver lining. She'll forget the newly planted flower bed with its neatly arranged brown brick border. When she has fully forgotten, I'll step forward with my herbs. It'll make a fine garden.

Just you wait and see...


Friday, April 11, 2014

Ah, Just Sweat

Fact: We live in Florida, and our state is hot and humid. Air conditioning is required. If you don't believe me, try living here without it. Within a week mold will cover your walls. You'll find yourself shucking clothes the moment you walk inside the front door. Indoor pets have been known to commit suicide. The very air you breath is heavy with moisture. Step into your garage and within seconds your body glistens with beads of water. Plain and simple, it sucks.

We're on our forth day without this wonderful life saving system of Mr. Carrier. Our new five ton system was installed less than eight years ago. The compressor in our Carrier is supposed to be under warranty. As such we've had to wait until the local contractor received approval from Carrier with assurances they would indeed honor their warranty, otherwise we'd eat the bill for a new fan compressor. Our quoted estimate was a bit over two thousand dollars, not including labor, coolant, and of course, taxes. (Just received word, the part has been deemd worthy of warranty, thus saving us a few bucks.)

Here's the catch. The part is located in Orlando and if it arrives by 1500 today a fix might take place Monday. After 1500 the nice lady said possibly Tuesday. Here's the thing...the first hot humid air of the season (We're well into Summer here.) arrives, tomorrow. I shall practice the sweat drip dance and make extra ice for sweat (not sweet) tea.

Now where oh where did I hide my loin clothe.


Thursday, April 10, 2014

Had Enough?

To further your government education.

Please, take a few minutes and watch.

Big hat tip to my friend, Matt.


Not At My Door

As is my every morning habit I stepped outside the shop and sipped my first cup of coffee. It was a beautiful day of bright sunshine and cool gusty wind with a scent not unlike honeysuckle. I felt good until I heard the slap.

It was a older man, maybe fifty or sixty, and appeared to have just crawled from beneath the local park dumpster. Greasy, dressed all in black, his light t-shirt ripped; he drooled, so much so a puddle had formed between his black chucks. In his right hand he held a needle. He used his left to slap his exposed right vein. The syringe, I'm sure, held the poor old man's nirvana 

On my bench in front of my shop. Not gonna happen.

"No, not here. Move it on down the road."

I didn't yell. I simply pointed my cup of coffee in his direction and gestured. He glanced my way and reached and took his plastic bag and shuffled to his feet. He then placed the vile of death, that dirty syringe, between his teeth. Another creamy stream of slim dropped from his mouth. The old man slid his watery focus on me and shuffled toward the sidewalk.

Two steps, stop. Two steps, pause. In the meantime school children boarded the bus. Six steps later and midway my parking lot he again stopped, dropped the plastic bag, quickly removed the needle from his mouth and slapped his arm.

This time I yelled, "Get the hell away from here."

Drool dripped. Then, "Okay, you have a nice day."

They, the pimps, hookers, meth heads, crack girls, and this addict all materialize from the park across the street. I have grown to hate this park with its swings and slides and fountains. The tall pines and birds and squirrels are fine. The rest I'd blow to charcoal if given permission. I'd tear down the public restrooms with its picnic benches and little cast iron grills and especially the fountain...its nothing more than a democrat outdoor shower.

Just last week one of my friends yelled, "Hey, Stephen, you gotta see this..." I walk over, he points towards the swings. A young black woman sat on a swing with her arms wrapped around a man's waste. She held him very close. He had his shirt tail lifted, his low-rider shorts lowered to half mast and ever so often she lift her head and check the surroundings as she preformed her service. This in spite of the fact not ten yards away children played.

Like animals....well, almost. Animals at least have class.

The old smack addict slowly worked his way onto the neighboring business property and tried once more to shoot his junk. But this time he glanced in my direction. I simply yelled, "No."

He went.

I propose here and now the States issue all veterans and former military a lifetime license. This license gives discretionary powers to all holders to shot on sight any booger we deem worthy of lead poisoning. Not an open obligation. Limit the harvest to ten (10) boogers per day, with ear tags, and rollover. If said veteran only fires five shots on a given day he's then allowed to carry over the other five and tag fifteen critters the next - and so on.

 I guarantee crime stats will drop like a rock.

The poor old sod finally reached nirvana the next street but one.


Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Another Waco

This poor guys doesn't stand a chance....

The blackbooted thugs have him surrounded. Janet Reno smiles....


Someday Soon

I hope to own the complete DVD set of Justified. I'd like to kick back one day watch the series uninterrupted, front to back. Justified reminds me of Deadwood; the same grittiness but with more gun play and far less foul language.

When the show airs my sweet wife leaves the room. Don't feel bad for her, after all I stay in the same room and suffer as she sings along with that silly American Idol.

(I should be very clear here...Sweet Wife has a beautiful voice...I don't suffer her, it's the show I hate.)