I’ve been away from WordPress for several days, visiting Galveston. Yes, the very same one about which Glen Campbell sang. February is probably not the choicest month for much of anything, and visiting the coast is no exception. It was miserably cold (not Yankee minus-temperature cold), rainy, and so windy that it shook the walls of the rental condo all night long. I could easily see how being caught in a hurricane would be terrifying. We’ve visited Galveston before, but this time we were witness to much more dilapidation. Beach towns will always be in various stages of construction, as is the nature of weatherworn homes, but it was particulary disheartening to see homes that surely once knew glory, left to slowly decay.
Galveston already has a history of ghosts, but with the constant fog and drizzle surrounding Victorian-era houses, it was even more apparent.
Bright colors can’t mask the ramshackle state of this home.
You know, I was gonna make a crack about Justin Bieber’s dad in the pedophile mustache, but then I remembered that the Bieber is STILL A TEENAGER. Yes, he is. And Papa Bieber is barely old enough to be president. Yes, Jeremy (spoke in class today) Bieber would have been learning what sound farm animals make and how not to wet the bed when this picture was taken. So maybe it’s Bieber’s granddad. Or fun uncle. Or Drunk Uncle.
Either way, it appears they’ve drained the bottle. And nobody likes an empty bottle.
Mercy here was bold enough to enter (and win) a jalapeno-eating contest, and the Mickey Gilley lookalike appears only too happy to judge. Now she has some pocket money to put in these cowboy’s change cups.
Or maybe this dude’s more her style, in his Urban Cowboy Chic.
Either way, dancing is on the agenda.
Just don’t take it too far. Bikini bull-riding is no fun when you’re tipsy.
What is this? Animal House meets the Village People? No, maybe not the Village People. Although they sang “In The Navy,” I doubt these Navy ROTC Midshipmen spun a lot of VP on their turntables. Check them out in their weapons and combat gear. This is where I make an obscure reference to Howard Jones in the way way back (the tall, Aryan one), but perhaps that’s more a Pandoran influence than reality. Anyway, I think we can all agree who the alpha male is here, in this portrait of masculinity. It’s knee socks guy. You know it is. The posture, the marriage of vest and tie and ripped daisy dukes, the sassy confidence. Damn, it feels good to be a gangster. Seriously no Low T here.
Don’t know what “Low T” is? Why the heck not? The TV is riddled with commercials about Low Testosterone, alternating between those hormone replacement commercials, where longhaired women in their sixties confess how happy their husbands are that “my libido is back.” Your grandparents didn’t have to worry about this stuff, right? My grandparents spent more time absorbed in Readers Digests than they did at the corner Walgreen’s, refilling prescriptions for afflictions they were too ignorant to know they had. BECAUSE THEY HADN”T BEEN INVENTED BY BIG PHARMA YET. Complaints were limited to arthritis, goiter, and bursitis. But not today’s society.
Let’s not. Who cares about your Low T? You’re not getting any action regardless, pajama boy. I bet that’s herbal tea in that mug. Yeah, I have heard about the lonesome loser. It’s you. Dang, just when I thought my libido was back, you had to send it away. Curses!
Just think, somewhere out there, hundreds if not thousands of pharmaceutical company employees are getting paid to brainstorm up some fake diseases to prey on our fears and our wallets. Did you know my gums are receding? Perhaps that’s blog-induced bruxism (BIB)? And just like diabetes, there are two categories:
The bruxism (teeth grinding) I have at night while I sleep, wondering what to blog about the next day
The bruxism due to reading blogs that oppose my core beliefs, causing me to clench my jaw in defiance and fight the temptation to respond with a violent outburst or clever barb
You, too, may have BIB. Where’s the pill for that? Oh, they’re working on it?
(Disclaimer: side effects may include sleepiness, nervousness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, skin rash, headache, diarrhea, upset stomach, loss of appetite, dry mouth, anal leakage and sudden death. But really, isn’t anal leakage as bad as sudden death?)
Yesterday, after a second service sermon (oh, how my pastor would love that alliteration) and a meal of brisket, beans, and cole slaw, we took advantage of the 77 degree weather (which has now–as per the usual winter inconsistency–become 44 and will become 18 this evening–honestly, it’s like living in a BIPOLAR vortex) and took our two dogs to the nearby dog park.
While we were there, we noticed an enormous black monster truck of a dog. It didn’t run; it galloped. Furthermore, it lacked any clear features. It was in essence, a big black furry blur. At first, I thought it might be Obama’s Portuguese Water Dog, Sunny, but it was too large. After consulting with my canophilist friend, Lisa, we determined it was in fact a Jacqueline Kennedy Bouvier Des Flandres. And while neither the Kennedys nor the Obamas possessed such a breed, the Reagans did.
They named their dog Lucky, like “Get Lucky,” the song that won both album and record of the year last night at The Grammys. While we’re at it, I wonder how long they’ll continue to use those terms: album and record, especially when an entire generation has never touched an actual vinyl record. Or cassette. And they don’t play CDs. Anway, back to behemoth dog…This was what we saw:
He sniffed around.
He led the chase.
He tried to use his size to bully others, but he got back whatever he gave.
These dogs managed to get him balled up like a circus bear.
He made a grand exit when he finally departed, and a sense of loss filled the park. Five seconds later, the dogs began molesting each other again.
Two liberal arts majors receive their Texas Cowgirls membership bandannas, thus allowing them to volunteer at HOBO (Helping Our Brothers Out), which gave Thanksgiving dinners to the homeless. Texas Cowgirls was a social club made up of girls from different sororities as well as “independent” girls, brought together at “Tap-In” and known as “heifers” until the next group was tapped in. Seriously.
Behold the power of the cat’s eye glasses to make an otherwise attractive 16-year-old girl look 74 years old.
However, the presbyopia epidemic dared not cross the threshold of the Anderson home, for these two towheaded teens were clearly spared (or too vain to wear them in their portraits). If Delores and Donna were in fact twins, I can say with certainty that they were fraternal. We all know who the pretty one is. But if it’s any consolation, Donna had the better marriage. The Andrus twins, however, were identical, down to their floral pinafores. The only difference appears to be Norma’s daring sideswept bang. And her mischievous smile.
Then we have the bottom row, all of whom spent significant amounts of time with pink foam curlers–or perhaps, cans of frozen orange juice. The result can only be called breathtaking. In the case of the center ladies, I half expect a surfer to fly out from under the tidal wave atop their tilted heads. Magnificent! And Jean is really selling the look. Once you see the Sophomore Favorites, you’ll understand why they tried so hard. Two words. Elmer Snodgrass.
Once the word was out that he didn’t like Jana “in that way,” it was on. IT. WAS. ON. Competition was fierce. Jeanette Hill accidentally dropped her books in front of him. Classic Jeanette.
It didn’t work. Sandra Mabry used her graceful swanlike neck and coconut macaroon earrings to entice him in Economics class.
No dice. Pastor’s daughter, Donna Smith, lay in wait for him in the parking lot, asking for a light for her Camel.
He did not light her Camel. Those broads were swell, but they all lacked one thing that only Nancy Shurbet possessed.
I’ve been away from WordPress for several days, visiting Galveston. Yes, the very same one about which Glen Campbell sang. February is probably not the choicest month for much of anything, and visiting the coast is no exception. It was miserably cold (not Yankee minus-temperature cold), rainy, and so windy that it shook the walls of the rental condo all night long. I could easily see how being caught in a hurricane would be terrifying. We’ve visited Galveston before, but this time we were witness to much more dilapidation. Beach towns will always be in various stages of construction, as is the nature of weatherworn homes, but it was particulary disheartening to see homes that surely once knew glory, left to slowly decay.
Galveston already has a history of ghosts, but with the constant fog and drizzle surrounding Victorian-era houses, it was even more apparent.
Some homes were probably not much to begin with.
But among the poverty, were words of hope.
I Don't Get It 