Pat Ellison, A Living Eulogy

06/18/2016 X Teri 4 Comments

PAT COLLAGE.jpg

Perhaps it is a macabre thing to eulogize the living; yet, it’s oddly satisfying. It’s the chance to whisper softly, “Thank you for what you did for me.” As we recognize the truths that others attempt to reveal our eyes and hearts will turn inward, sharing similar memories and thoughts. Recognizing a person through other eyes is a precious joy in life, and I am sure that as other people who shared time with me in band read this, they will be held captive for at least a brief moment, recalling days long past. Trying to pick the words that convey the march of time and emotion is both a chore and an act of respect. All too often, we hear speakers exhort others to plant the words of appreciation and respect into the lives of those who are still living, so that they might feel the soft comfort of being remembered. As much as I have written about a soul named Barb who pointed the way for me, Pat Ellison was her counterpart for me in school.

If we are lucky, we each have a few people who define our nascent ideas of character, intelligence, and charisma. While we might not even recognize them as such at the time, as we grow older, life tends to grab our shoulders and turn us back to them, teaching us, revealing things that should have been manifested earlier in life. Perhaps those students lucky enough to have amplified homes with loving parents will not see the past as I did. After having known so many people who were in the military, I’ve discovered that some elements of my respect for Ms. Pat Ellison are exactly those that allow recruits to grow to love their drill instructors. No matter how irritated she would sometimes be, it was a frustration rooted in things I could understand, which was markedly different from what I might experience outside of school. I know for a fact that she wanted to throw a tuba at me a few times; if she had, I would hope she would have extracted the tuba player from inside it first. She told me that she remembered my sweet smile, and I joked that I remembered the time she was vainly trying to teach me to play a solo for a concert in the park. (Hint: neither one of us was smiling for the first hour.) One year, she picked a marching song with “Malagueña” in the title. That song was more complicated than calculus. The only reason I learned it was so that she would not throw me off the marching observation tower. I’m not sure I’m kidding. Any honest student will tell you that Ms. Ellison had her moments of intense frustration. In her defense, I’m not sure how any teacher confronted with 1 to 200 students might not claim criminal insanity multiple times a year. Let’s not even start considering the lunacy of trying to be a calm, rational person on a bus ride to Washington D.C. with hundreds of kids intent on finding the most fun possible.

I sat and talked to Pat Ellison on a Monday morning last year. Even though I see her from time to time, I haven’t interrupted her regular life to share moments and memories. As is always the case with her, she hugged me and talked as if the intervening years were a figment of our imaginations. She told me she had heart surgery a few years ago and back surgery later; at 71, her pace might be slower, but she is still a force of nature. She uses a flip phone and is not a fan of technology. She loves golf, but I don’t hold that against her. I did my best to convince her that so many of her former students would love to share with her as adults and that she was a huge impact on all of us. She humbly denies that any of my flattery could be true. Even though her eyes still light up when someone makes her laugh, you can tell her humility isn’t false. I can only imagine how full her memory must be from the countless people she’s known or how sore her knees must be from the million hours of marching and standing at the podium exerted upon her.

We have Pat Ellison at a great disadvantage: almost everyone remembers her. She has touched so many lives that her list of students and friends must be at least as long as a metropolitan phone book. Her connection to us and to others is immense and monumental. (For any teachers reading this, you at times have the best shot at immortality, being etched into your student’s minds and words for decades to come. Many of us are merely memory footnotes to others; some teachers are the thesis and anchors in so many kids lives.) Undoubtedly, there must be people who didn’t appreciate her – because I’ve also learned that good people must accumulate those who don’t understand them. Being great necessitates not being appreciated, too. I’m glad that I fell onto the side of right in regards to Ms. Ellison.

I told her that I was at a graduation a few years ago when she gave the “Tag-You’re-It” speech. She admitted to being terrified at the idea of giving such a speech. I would have never suspected her to experience stage fright. She was surprised when I told her that I had seen her speech on a blog a few years later, from someone who only knew her through another band member. While she thought her speech was uninspired, it had, in fact, reached many more people than she had imagined possible. Her legions of students and admirers hadn’t forgotten her. Even if her efforts hadn’t been inspired or creative, her commitment and persistence at showing up and working toward a goal, day in, day out, year after year certainly would’ve earned her recognition. I had also seen her at a British Brass Band concert many years before, and the familiarity of her expressions took me back a couple of decades.

She genuinely is both unaware and humbled at the idea that she sits at the nexus of several thousand people who have such great memories of her. For those who know me well, you know that band is one of the few things that allowed me escape from my home life and opened the world up to me. Without band and without Noel Morris and then Pat Ellison, I am certain that my life would have taken a more sinister turn. I stayed in band through the generosity and kindness of both Noel and Pat. By being in band, I stayed connected to the world at large and remained able to convince myself that I was more than the circumstances of my youth. Unlike the cases of many of my contemporaries, band was almost my sole window to the world. I learned things in band that dwarfed the concept of simple musical notes or technical ability – that is what a good teacher and great human being seems to do naturally.

It was Mrs. Ellison who told me that the only thing keeping me from making All-State band was ‘me’ and to set aside who I was going into the audition room. It worked. “They don’t see through the curtain. Play like you just did for me and you will leave smiling.” She was right. Noel Morris had said, “Practice, you fool!” when I said I’d never even learn how to make a sound emanate from the mouthpiece. (It took me 2 or 3 days just to ‘buzz’ the mouthpiece, a bad omen. I think Mr. Morris thought I might have been soft in the head.) Between the ritual of books and practice, I advanced. Ms. Ellison told me the same thing over and over: practice. When I failed my senior year, it was her I let down. But I had those 2 years of All-State, all because even if Ms. Ellison didn’t really believe I could make it, I believed her when she told me I could. That confidence from her propelled me. Even though I didn’t take advantage of either, it was Ms. Ellison who gave me the option of both a music scholarship in college and a free pass into the U.S. Army Orchestra.

It is one thing to ponder in abstract the moments from over 30 years ago, reminiscing. It’s another to sit and share moments that Monday morning with someone who has lived such a rich, full life. It was a pleasure to share time with her and I think we all might be missing the chance to continue to learn from someone who probably could teach us all a few lessons in compassion and hard work. (All of these things are held in common by great teachers, of course.) Pat Ellison’s impact seems to echo and flourish as I age. The primary lesson I come back to is one of insistence on looking toward the goal and practicing enough to see it move a little closer. So much of what we excel at is due to simple persistence. Ms. Ellison certainly believed in persistence; at times, we played certain bars so many times I felt as if we were in the movie “Groundhog Day.”

When I was younger, there were times I didn’t understand Ms. Ellison. All I wanted to do was the play music, interact with people, and avoid being the center of attention. I didn’t enjoy some of the monotony of group practice, especially marching. (I still believe marching might be the only genuinely demonic force in the universe.) However, band allowed for travel and banter, though, and those things are what melded us into a loose group. I was able to be in a group of people and enjoy a huge slice of life that would have been otherwise mysterious to me. Maybe no one will understand it when I say that a great deal of life would have been hidden behind the curtain if it weren’t for band and Ms. Ellison. I’m certain that she had been exposed to enough of life to suspect how severe my circumstances sometimes were, yet she was also able to not press too closely. That’s another skill that is probably difficult to hone as a teacher and even more unlikely for the average human being.

Ms. Ellison had her own reasons for the things she did, some of which we weren’t invited to be a part of – and with good reason. Times were different and things that are easily accepted now weren’t met with the same casual indifference. Ms. Ellison was a complex person and not understanding those complexities back then diminished my ability to look past any frustrations I might have had. She made choices and did things precisely because of her own life exerting its pressures.

Now that I’m older, I can appreciate her as a music teacher and as a person – and my heart grows a little. For so many of the people in my list of notables; among them, Barb, Willie, Pat, or Nellie, they all share one thing in common: I wish I could live a part of my life again, as their contemporary, to see who they were and what made to be the individuals they became by the time I came along. Pat is now in her early 70s. Just thinking about how many people she grew to know in life since she graduated college in 1966 makes me feel both old and tired.

If she were standing here listening to me read this aloud, she would shift her weight from one foot to another, looking toward the ground and smiling. As I finished, she would deny that she had done anything special, other than work and try to finish what she started. But the flicker in her eyes would belie the notion that she probably does see the incredible line of students standing in single file behind her, all looking back to the times they shared with her. It is the earned legacy of a great teacher.

Thank you, Ms. Ellison.

Whimsical

Frampton Inn – A Story

06/17/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

I made some friends this week. Additionally, I’m thinking that I might have also made the “Watch” list of other people or been noted as suspicious, or ‘needing medication.’ From a couple of the hotel desk clerks in Hot Springs to our waiter Allister at the Brick House, there were some interesting people fluttering about. Other than having to look at one specific person’s horrific haircut, I was surrounded by both wit and interesting people. I’m appreciative of the opportunity to have been in Hot Springs and learn so much and don’t want my total lack of decorum in story-telling to cause anyone to think otherwise. (Except for the guy with that haircut. I was going to post a picture of his hair to prove it, except he is very vain about his hair – even though he murdered it with whatever happened at his hair stylist to have caused Hairicane Katrina to be on his head.) (I am still laughing about the name “Hairicane Katrina,” by the way.)

During the conference this week, I stayed at a hotel I will call the Frampton Inn to protect their integrity. Evidently, they are in the middle of a massive renovation project – or a badly-executed game of large scale Jenga in which everyone is playing by a different set of rules. In the past, this hotel has been excellent and well maintained. They are redoing the facade of the building, as well as the hallways and rooms. But they are telling no one when reservations are made that it looks like a refugee camp. It’s like a Christmas surprise, except in this case, we are crying and throwing our yuletide gifts out the window. The hotel feels like it is being used to re-enact a war scene from Lebanon. And not the good war scenes either, where the hero is climbing across rubble to save someone. In this movie, everyone is lying dehydrated on the ground, dirty, begging for someone to shoot them and take them away from the misery. (In other words, it is exactly like Parent-Teacher conferences.)

When my wife and I checked in, I noticed some aberrations from the normal. Chiefly among them, there was a gap running the entire handle side of the room door, wider than a quarter. I could sit on the bed and see the door across the hallway – with the door shut. The couch looked like a roving band of angry Scotsmen had used it for knife training. When I opened the curtain, a startled Hispanic male almost fell off the scaffolding, as he was crouched away from the sun, using his cellphone. This hotel has always been nice, in my opinion, both with great staff and maintained like a modern motel. I’m guessing that the renovation prompted management to do nothing pending the other work being done, sort of like we do at work after a meeting. Luckily, the front desk clerk allowed us to move to the top floor. The only catch was that she told us they would be working from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. on the roof and that it might be loud. Might be loud? Had the International Jackhammer and Cymbal Symphony been practicing up there, it could not have possibly been louder. And I think they had their watches synchronized to 3 times zones away, as their interpretation of the hours of work seemed to have been determined by randomly throwing a dart at a calendar from 2002 – and then doing shots.

Even though you think I might be exaggerating, the hotel staff had TAPED the room numbers on our doors. I think they used a computer to print the numbers and then just gave up, ripping the numbers into squares and using scotch tape to place them on the doors. I have pictures to prove it, as I realize that this sounds nuts. Additionally, the contractors used pencils and markers to make notes on the hallway walls and door jambs. As you all know, I routinely travel with pens, pencils and markers. This fact presented me with a moral dilemma: should I switch the room numbers or add additional notes to confuse the workers? It seemed appropriate to not limit myself and instead do a little of each and observe the consequences, if any.

The first morning, I listened as the Indian manager had a conversation with the Latina housekeeping supervisor. Both were struggling to speak another language and get their points across. After the manager had walked away, I surprised the housekeeping supervisor by speaking to her. In Spanish, I told her to remember to go to the 5th floor and retrieve the extra linen from the tents where the guests without assigned rooms had stayed the night before. I added some details to add legitimacy to my directions. Behind me, one of the Hispanic contractors was on stilts, working on the ceiling. He listened to me as I talked to the housekeeping supervisor. I think he was ‘on to me,’ given the facial expressions he exhibited. I added, “And tell that guy behind me if he feels so short to find a better way to compensate, because stilts are dangerous.” I forgot to mention – there is no 5th floor on this building, so I can only assume that the housekeeper imagined that tents had been erected on the roof of the hotel overnight and guests had been staying up there. The fact that she didn’t immediately object tells me that this crazy idea of mine in some way probably sounded like something management would have come up with. In case you are wondering, after I got another cup of delicious coffee from the lobby, I told her I was just joking and introduced myself. She laughed and laughed. The guy on stilts was named Jorge and he told me that management at the hotel had no sense of humor whatsoever. Although I’m not sure he got the joke, I told him, “You are always looking down on people, though, Jorge.”

As for tomfoolery, I put an exit sign directly on the 4th floor window facing Temperance Hill Road. I kept hoping to hear a thunderous crash of glass as someone ran through the hallway and dived out the new “exit window,” instead of the stairs to the left. I couldn’t bring myself to switch any of the room numbers, despite the ensuing guaranteed shenanigans as strangers tried to enter the wrong rooms, or started complaining that their keys wouldn’t work. I did write “Needs Jacuzzi installed” in English and Spanish next to the door of a room which was being totally renovated. I’m wondering if the contractors will check, or will actually install a new Jacuzzi in that room. “You’re welcome,” I say to all the future guests who will benefiting from a possibly free Jacuzzi upgrade to their room. Even though one of the contractors saw me, I also wrote “Extremely Slow Escalator” on the 2nd floor sign next to the stairs.

(The general method to the contractors system could best be described by the words “pandemonium,” or “mixed martial arts involving hammers.”)

I didn’t want to go too far, being a guest of people who expect the utmost professionalism at all times – despite them having inexplicably and foolishly invited me to come and stay. I amused myself by making a list of things I should have done. It’s bad when you find yourself laughing at your own stupid ideas. I’m convinced I added a lot of fun and levity to several of the people’s work, other than that one guy who probably is still stuck upside down on the scaffolding. (As for him, he now understands that it is the LAW of gravity, rather than a suggestion, in a way he previously hadn’t considered.)

Dawn will tell you that I joked with all the hotel staff, even getting them to participate in the goofiness, especially the rumor that a roving band of barking dogs was bothering the guests. It seemed possible. If Hot Springs is the City of Dreams, then surely someone might have brought their own pack of roving dogs to experience it.

As an anecdote, one of the other guests we knew said that when she checked into the hotel, she noticed that the soap had been used, then put back into the box, still slightly frothy from use. It sounds gross – and it is, but it turned out that it wasn’t hotel staff who were guilty of being involved. Another guest, one who decided not to stay at that hotel, had done like he always did and used the box for storage while staying there. The staff just assumed that the room was still pristine and hadn’t checked the boxes. Why would they? And by the way, as weird as I am, it would never occur to me to store the soap back inside the box, surrounded by all that water. I loved this story, though, as two people who knew each other were comparing hotel stories, only to find out that one had actually caused the other guest’s crazy story. Had they not known each other and talked about it, all of us would have believed that the hotel was recycling soap to save money.

The hotel wasn’t much to look at during this visit, but it did provide a verbal playground and that’s hard to put a price tag on. I’m thinking about writing the corporate office and telling them that I didn’t appreciate having to stay on the 5th floor in a tent, or to listen to roving dogs bark all night, or being ridiculed by people on stilts calling me ‘short,’ just to see how they respond. As I think about it, though, I wouldn’t want corporate to step in an deny anyone the right to experience the Frampton Inn in the same way I did. You will need earplugs and a wish to find fun in normally uncomfortable situations if you stay there. But it is there, waiting, if you seek it.

And bring some magic markers with you! Love, X

(The picture in the is at least some proof that I didn’t make all this craziness up.)

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Personal, Whimsical

An Unintended Dinner Joke

06/16/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

Normally, I’m the one accused of improperly putting my foot in my mouth. I’ve argued in favor of my relative innocence over the years, indicating that my wife Dawn is as likely to commit a social faux pas as I am. Since she has a normal reputation, anytime she deviates into my clown forest of verbal missteps, it tends to be much more pronounced and noteworthy.

This week, Dawn had me chauffeur her to Hot Springs for a technology conference. She’s shortened her stern lecture about me not being crazy or saying anything too far off the wall.

Last night, Dawn’s company treated about 20 professionals, employees, and customers, to a delicious dinner at the Brick House.

Typically, I order strange menu selections and most often avoid meat. Usually there is enough meat on the table from the other guests to cause the president of PETA to have a coronary. That night, I had an order of fries, an order of asparagus, and an order of broccoli – and of course a superb salad. I had an array of sauces: A-1, Heinz 57, anything I could steal from those around me. (Asparagus might look like boiled snake throats, but it is a food from the heavens.)

We were engaging in witty back-and-forth banter, anecdotes, and typical supper conversation as we began to inhale our various selections.

Oddly, the entire table seemed to experience a unifying lull in conversation. It was if the Pope had wandered into the room playing a banjo or a unicorn had magically appeared on top of the table – and we all noticed and stopped talking simultaneously.

Dawn had been eyeing my menu selections, probably pondering the gastronomical consequences and symptoms I might later experience.
Into this previously cited lull, Dawn hollered these words, probably as the volume of talk to that point was high:

“Who wants to sleep with my husband tonight?”

Dead silence.

Then cacophonous laughter.

PS: There were no takers, in any case, so my wife Dawn rode back to the hotel with me, mentally flipping a coin as to how accurate her intended joke might turn out to be. As for who ate the largest selection of their own foot on this trip, I think Dawn earned her award this time.

Brinkley, Monroe County, Opinion, Personal, Politics, Social Rules

A Personal Story About Guns

06/15/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

This story is intensely personal, one involving guns, domestic abuse, and biography. It’s not what I started to write and it certainly isn’t perfect, but it’s honest and reflects much of who I am. Apologies for any errors and I tried to avoid the mention of real people; however, it is just as much my story to tell as theirs.

In 1970, I lived near Rich, Arkansas, near the nexus of Highways 39 and 49. It was a swampy place, surrounded by farms and mosquitoes. My family lived for a brief time slightly up the hill to the East, on the south side of the road. It’s easy to remember, because in March of that year, my dad killed a cousin of mine while drunk driving. Growing up, I thought my cousin Donald Wayne Morris was an uncle, as we called his wife Aunt Elizabeth. Like most family lore, it wasn’t accurate and caused confused conversations. After my dad was released from prison for, among other things, armed robbery, he came back to Monroe County, Arkansas to continue his wild ways. One of the ways he chose to do this was to have an affair with my “Aunt Elizabeth,” the widow of the cousin he had killed in a drunken driving episode. I was at home in the little white house near Rich the day my dad killed Donald Wayne. As I remember it, his wife was with us at the house, too.

But this story isn’t about Aunt Elizabeth, drunk driving, or armed robbery.

Despite having an extensive criminal record, my dad always had firearms around the house. Being a quintessential redneck, he believed that all guns should always be loaded. He would brag, “You’ll be careful if you know that all guns are always loaded.” Had Bill Engvall been around back then, he would have paid for a “Here’s your sign” tattoo to be emblazoned on my dad’s forehead. My dad also didn’t believe in keeping guns hidden or under lock and key, even if toddlers or small children were around. After extensive research, the word that best describes him in this regard is “moron.”

Growing up, there were a couple of notable deaths resulting from children getting their hands on guns and shooting themselves or each other. Some family members wanted to scream and get angry about such easy access to guns – but were silenced by the withering collective stare of the culture that considered any questions about gun access to be a treasonous breach of their rights. There were angry shouts about it sometimes, but they were rare and quickly subdued. In pockets of society all around this country, men will grow angry at any mention of responsible gun ownership. They are not likely to understand nuance and the greater collective good. The words evoke a threatening aura of loss, or make them feel like they are quite wrong about the idea that not all guns and gun owners are created equal. It is an ‘all or nothing,’ scenario, without regard to a safer middle ground.

I’m not certain how old I was, but somewhere before my fifth birthday. One early Saturday afternoon, my mom and dad were screaming at one another, planning to escalate to blows at any moment. It was a familiar and constant ritual – and they knew the steps as well as any dance. I went into their bedroom and the longest rifle I had ever seen lay across the bed. It was sleekly black, with a surprisingly long silver barrel. There were others guns in the room; there were a couple of shotguns and pistols under the bed, a few in the closet, and one leaning in the corner for quick access. It was the black one on the bed calling my name, though. Without hesitation, I went up to it, put my hand across the trigger guard, and squeezed the trigger. The gun leaped from the bed, thundering like an exploding gas tank in the bedroom. I felt my ears pop inward.

I’m sure I started crying – and not just because of the painful gunshot inside the room. I knew my enraged dad would be coming in to exact his revenge. I wasn’t disappointed. I suppose he forgot his mission to scream at my mom in the kitchen when the gun fired, because he backhanded me so hard I thought the back of my head was going to touch my shoulder blades. Although mom denied it, dad kicked me more than once as I curled against the dresser near the bedroom door. Mom would find it hard to believe I could recall an event from such an early age. I used to point out that it was more traumatic than a typical memory, as it involved firearms in closed spaces and being kicked like a coffee can along the sidewalk.

Later, I looked through the round hole in the bedroom wall to see that the line of fire went straight to the next house along the road. It turned out that the bullet had pierced through the siding on that house, too, although no one was hurt. I often wonder if anyone from the other house still tells this story.

At the time, I couldn’t understand how stupid my dad sounded, screaming at me that I could have shot someone – and that I should never touch guns. Part of it was that he was constantly handing them to me or doing ridiculously stupid things with them as he drank. Often, he pointed them in anger at other people, including his own family. He shot at several people when I was growing up. He fired guns from inside moving vehicles, shot propane tanks, poured ammunition into both open campfires and fireplaces, and did just about every idiotic and unreasonable thing possible with a gun.

But this story isn’t about how I could have killed someone when I was very young.

All through my youth, my dad had guns everywhere. Guns, knives, crossbows – of all kinds. He had a violent temper and a lengthy history of domestic violence and criminal behavior. Anyone who knows me also knows that while I came to terms with my dad before he died, the truth is that he had no business being allowed to touch guns or own them. Police in Northwest Arkansas and in Monroe County knew dad’s criminal history and love of hitting people in anger. They also knew he had an arsenal pretty much his entire adult life. Dad had more than one gun given to him by members of law enforcement. Is it hard to see that he felt somehow empowered to continue the same wayward behavior?

Part of the reason I’m telling this story is to shake my head that people seem surprised that just about anyone can get guns and commit horrible acts of violence. I acknowledge that it was a different time even a couple of decades ago. The truth, though? People haven’t changed. Right now, in places that might surprise you, there are people are thinking of doing crazy things. Many of them are surrounded by people that don’t think their friend or family member is going to be the one who loses it and goes on a rampage. The gun buffet is at their disposal, if they want it. It’s true that a person so motivated isn’t going to be limited by a lack of easy access to guns. Don’t try to weaken my story by implying otherwise. If the guns are military grade automatic weapons, though, we are treading into the less reasonable realm of gun ownership. As I might have mentioned, my dad had access to explosives, too, despite his criminal record.

On more than one occasion, I fantasized about taking one of the guns and killing my dad. He deserved it on several different nights. For those unfamiliar with anger and alcohol, the nightfall has always brought with it a greater likelihood of violence. For all of you who’ve never been put in the position of wishing you could kill your own father to protect yourself, I can only say “you’re lucky.” People around us and certainly some family members knew how likely it would be to get a call informing them that my dad had killed one or all of us, finally. There would have been tears and the usual, “We could have done something”nonsense. Yes, they could have done something – they could have knocked my dad silly and taken all of his guns. There were a couple of times I regretted not killing my dad because the lesson of not doing so was followed by him beating my mom so violently that it was difficult to get the sound of her head bouncing off the metal bed support frame from my mind. It would not have been the gun’s fault had I grabbed a pistol from under the table and shot my dad. It would have been his fault.

It is true that it’s not the gun’s fault. People commit crimes.

It’s also true that the gun crowd is a little too zealous; playing the role of society that surrounded me while I was growing up. We can all be reasonable without resorting to exaggeration. Our collective future society is not going to look like it does today. It’s inevitable, because the problems we are dealing with are complicated.

It might be an easy thing to say that my dad was an aberration from the normal; he was aberrant, that is true. He also was representative of many in our society, those who secretly know that having access to any gun they want is probably a bad thing for most of the rest of us. We blithely wander through our lives, hoping that anger or mental illness doesn’t propel someone to kill us or someone we love, all the while uneasily thinking of the millions of complex firearms sitting in closets, under beds, in attics, within reach.

As I walk the streets, I don’t worry about getting shot or protecting myself. It’s a fools errand. There is no guarantee of safety, no matter how many guns I carry or how many take up space in my home. From my experience, if everyone is carrying around sticks, the likelihood of someone getting clobbered is 100%.

I don’t own any guns but shooting at a firing range is entertaining. If you’ve never done it, you might be surprised how enjoyable it is. I don’t hunt, though, mainly because I would be a vegetarian if I weren’t so damned lazy. The idea of shooting animals for sport or food is strangely exotic to me. While I would do it to survive, it would be a lesser choice for me. (You’d find me eating stale prairie grass before you’d catch me skinning a hog as an appetizer.) For our own sake, we have to figure out a way to separate the exaggerated claims of gun ownership for hunting and basic personal protection from the one the fringe continues to impose on us all – the one which commands us to pretend that all guns and gun owners are the same.

Most gun owners are responsible, reasonable people. Contrary to what the NRA would try to tell us, most people don’t want automatic weapons or the ability to buy literally any firearm they want. They think gun locks and safes are reasonable. Most want responsible controls in place for everyone. It’s the way society works when it works well.

The shadow in the back of my mind, though, is the one created by people such as my father.

Whimsical

It’s Not September

06/14/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

car rentals oj

(This picture I made has no bearing whatsoever on the post. It is the comment equivalent of your sister-in-law jumping in to the middle of your conversation again.)

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cup of tea 235

I took a shower today. It took 2 crowbars and a motorized wench. My neighbor is really angry and is unhappy with the drywall damage. I think I’ll take another shower tomorrow.

The megaphone is at your disposal. If you’re going to shout out your opinions, first and foremost, make them honest. Secondly, make them informed. Finally, change them as new information demands it. The hesitation to do any of the above is what makes the opinionated shouting so ridiculous.

You can be sure in life that no one with foot-long words such as ‘cowboy’ tattooed on their body is going to be in the Who’s Who of American Thinkers book.

I purchased a package of seasoned chicken, one with a recipe on the reverse. The directions indicated “Apply spices liberally,” so I went next door and took my neighbor’s and used theirs too. The country is getting very progressive when the recipes start advocating socialism, too. (Is this joke too convoluted?)

The American Bowling Association recently had a competition for slogans. They said it had to be true but witty. You might have seen the commercials. Mine was, “Bowling: Say Hello To Hepatitis.” I didn’t even get an email in thanks for my idea.

Take a look at the next 2 pictures from a friend’s social media:

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The first one is the original picture, while the second one is what I thought I saw in the first one.. PS doing this sort of thing to friend’s pictures is one of my favorite things to do.

omaga tourism

The above picture is one I made as a result of a typo. I admit I spent at least two minutes making it, but it tickled my funny bone.

The next 2 pictures are from one of my favorite families in the whole world. I made a picture puzzle using about 100 individual pictures, using words, colors and trickery to make the puzzle complicated. Since it’s summer, my friend got started on it recently and posted about the fun/terror at piecing together such a monstrosity. I had the puzzle custom-made, and the tin, too; not only for decoration but to lessen the agony of twelve million failed initial attempts to get started.

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Here is the closest final image I found in my archives, the one I used to submit the puzzle to the company which made it for me…

hignite puzzle final

I had been wanting to make such a surprise for these friends for a long time. The matriarch of the family last year, leaving a void impossibly large to fill, so I included her in fond memory.

Social Rules, Whimsical

I Guarantee At Least One Laugh

06/13/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

Scientists tell us to use stairs to live longer. I’ll believe that when I see scientists living inside stairwells – they’ll damn near live forever in that scenario.

For the average Fitbit user: I’m glad you are tracking your alleged health. It’s important. I’m not sure what you are prolonging, though, unless it is a further comparison to unusually tech-savvy ferrets.

The only thing worse than hearing health advice from a doctor is getting it in person from someone who smokes.

The only thing worse than hearing health advice from a doctor is not hearing it because I’m dead.

I think I had a bad reaction to my ‘meds,’ because I could have sworn my math professor told me to do my homework using fractals instead of fractions. My work was all wrong, but it sure is pretty to look at.

I hate it when I’m reading vague warnings on medications. If it says “explosive diarrhea” instead of “projectile explosive diarrhea,” that kind of thing really matters when planning your social calendar.

“Were you born in a barn?” is the wrong thing to ask kids these days. The last time I asked, my nephew shouted back, “I must have been, because there were cows and asses in there.”

If I were a realtor, I would add “beautiful screen doors on all entrances” to all property descriptions just to confuse the snotty clients.

Likewise, if I were a realtor, I would add “Haunted” to every house listing so that once the house was sold, I would have some prank victims lined up.

I have a jar of nickels. I don’t collect them. I keep them for when some cliché-abusing speaker says “If I had a nickel for every…” Perhaps a slingshot is the wrong method of delivery, but you have to stick to what works.

It’s weird that people say “…all you could hear were crickets…” to describe an awkward social silence because if all I can hear are crickets, I’m already pulling my own hair out.

I jumped off the roof of a ten-story building. The roof was on the ground and awaiting a crane to lift it up there – still, though, I did jump off the roof of a ten-story building. Thank you, English language.

Have you seen the rumor about bees learning Morse code? Well, now you have. And it’s all the buzz around here.

Just once, I would like to attend an opera where the actors suddenly start doing improv.

Opera: squealy singing in another language, punctuated by one delicious intermission.

I’m just kidding, I love opera. Like a brother. Cain and Abel, I mean.

Instead of taxing fast food, I think we should instead require each fast food place to have mucus on at least 5 of their top-selling items. I think Arby’s has already jumped the gun on this one.

I got permission to make my own version of “Oil of Olay.” Mine is called “Oil of Olé,” and is made of 75% taco grease. Like with the original, wrinkles will be the least of your worries.

These jokes are sponsored by Hardee’s: where meat lovers gather to share communicable diseases.

Whimsical

What Day Is It?

06/12/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

I created a new flavor of gum, one made from the things one might encounter on a stroll on an average street: pavemint

“He died of a broken heart,” shouted both the cardiologist and the poet. But only one of them sent a bill.

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A picture I made, from “Los Tiempos Van Cambiando…” one of the best songs imaginable. “Los Tiempos Van Cambiando” Franky Perez

pave your yard.jpg

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NO, I didn’t bring my Yeti to the beach. They prefer to live on the slopes of snowy mountains. And they don’t like publicity, either. Modern marketing has ruined this creature’s ability to live a quiet life.

Mediterranean Diet: If you can’t spell it, you shouldn’t claim it works.

I knew I might have picked the wrong job when the boss said: “We are not satisfied with just a double standard here. We insist on a triple standard.”

It’s hard to think normally when you see Blue Man Group live and then watch the newest Bo Burnham on Netflix.

The only phrase worse than “I’m wearing my <Vote For Pedro> boxers,” is “I’m not wearing them.”

Most despised post to date: “That awkward moment when you see that a friend is against socialism when it is for ‘free’ college, but loves making you pay for 13 years of public education for their kids.”

PS: I personally never complain about taxes or refer to myself as a ‘taxpayer.’

“It’s finger-licking good.” Really? I don’t know anyone who licks his own fingers like that. Besides, if you want to impress me, I’d like to see “It’s toe-licking good.” Anyone who licks their toes to get the juicy leftovers is truly proving the deliciousness of the food in question – and their flexibility.

Entertainment, Whimsical

A Colorful Alternative

06/09/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

As I look out upon the sheer magnitude of weird and inspirational, I laugh and rejoice when I see people who have the same ideas that streak through my mind. A Canadian man named Jeff Janzen lost his son in an auto accident in 2012. His son was an artist, while Jeff works with cars. Jeff spent a while fixing his son’s car and then painting in black. He and some friends signed the hood in celebration – and then the stroke of genius hit him. The car now has 4,000+ signatures and messages adorning it, from people all over the world. People hear his story and share theirs. It is an incredible way to carry forth a person’s memory.

I’ve written before about how interesting I think our lives and cars would be if we could paint them all in chalkboard paint – or paint to allow friends and strangers to write on our vehicles. Not only would it break our ridiculous obsession with the superficial appearance of our vehicles, but might inspire everyone to think more creatively.

Likewise, I keep meaning to start another signature wall inside my house or garage. Each time someone visits, I could ask them to write their name or the date. In no time, the wall would be a testament to a shared life and something noteworthy. I don’t know if you can picture in your mind how glorious something like this could turn out to be. Imagine if your grandparents had done this starting when they bought their first house. It would now be filled with personal memories for the world to see.

In time, of course, time and circumstance will eventually erode everything around us. But for these brief butterfly moments that delight us, the world would be a brighter place.

Whimsical

Not What You Expected

06/08/2016 X Teri Leave a comment

I got into a knife fight. As you know, the “k” in “knife” is silent – but the screams certainly weren’t.

(The above phonetics reminder was brought to you by the We Need to Retire Now Teacher’s Alliance.)

cant let loose

You’ve already lost – I’ve won ten thousand, two hundred and thirty consecutive games.

THE CHICKEN GAME

The people who invented Silly String were angrily thrown out of the first meeting to sell it, as the potential marketer got sprayed unexpectedly during a demonstration, and didn’t respond kindly. Not only was Silly String originally created to act as a spray-on cast for broken bones, but it also came about accidentally after the inventors experimented with different nozzles to discharge it. I’m telling you all this in anticipation of a Trump campaign for President. Silly String is a goofy and fun invention, but it can also burn your eyes out of their sockets if you discharge it near an open flame. Trump is no different. Ignore him at your peril. (I wrote this in response to a request to make a political analogy by being educationally absurd. I give myself a B+ for this one.)

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