Notes from Beyond the Fringe

By Julie Miller

No one ever accused Greg Stott of not having a sense of humor. His retelling of experiences often left his readers begging for more and now there is an entire book dedicated to the events that comprise life (as he knows it).

Notes from Beyond the Fringe is a unique and entertaining collection of stories based on one mans view of the world around him. With a distinct and engaging voice, Stott relates his life through vignettes that, while seemingly ordinary in nature, either wind up impacting him or are subsequently addressed by him in a manner that is anything but ordinary. His subjects encompass a wide variety of topics familiar to just about everybody but are liberally skewed in the retelling by influences that began with growing up in a pre-tofu California in the 1950's, were adjusted as a result of teen life endured in a boarding school, befogged by a misspent youth and eventually warped from the effects of being a single parent.

Very little escapes Stott's attention and subsequent 'adjustments' to his concept of reality. Whether describing how to deliver 400+ newspapers at speed in a 1965 Volkswagen, explaining difficult situations to his pre-pubescent tax deduction, the acquisition of proper Texas BBQ etiquette or relating his seemingly endless failures in dealing with animals, offspring, relationships, hot rods and amateur carpentry, the stories are both original and told with a perspective that can only come about as the result severe mental instability.

Be prepared to spend hours attempting to understand how anyone could have survived so long in an uncontrolled environment and enjoying the humor that is, more often than not, related at the author's expense in Notes from Beyond the Fringe. Your perspective on the world will never be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 7, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440135835

Julie Miller

USA TODAY bestselling author Julie Miller writes breathtaking romantic suspense. She has sold millions of copies of her books worldwide, and has earned a National Readers Choice Award, two Daphne du Maurier prizes and an RT BookReviews Career Achievement Award. For a complete list of her books and more, go to www.juliemiller.org.

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Copyright © 2009 by Julie Miller (on behalf of Greg Stott)

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-3582-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-3584-2 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-3583-5 (ebook)

First Edition, 2009

iUniverse rev. date: 04/01/2009

Contents

FOREWORD

OLD MAN VS. LPD

LIFE MIRRORS PLUMBING

UPDATES ON THE DOG

RAMBLINGS FROM THE EDGE OF DEMENTIA

AH, TEXAS…..THE ADVENTURE BEGINS

PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS ON MOVING TO TEXAS

FLYING

LONE STAR STATE OF MIND

FUN ON THE FOURTH - TEXAS STYLE

ENTER THE GECKO

THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING ERNEST

THE SUNS NOT YELLOW – IT’S CHICKEN

PENNSYLVANIA - LIFE ON THE FRINGE

NEWS FROM TEXAS

BENCHES - THE SEQUEL

THE MANTLE PIECE

THE WEEKLY BLURB (BUTTERCUP THE GUARD DOG)

LOST ON THE RANGE

NUMBERS AND ABBREVIATIONS EXPLAINED

LOVE AND BRISKET

MID WEEK VERBOSITY

THE COOK-OFF

BICYCLE MAINTENANCE

DRIVE FRIENDLY

MEMORIES OF HOMESTEAD S&L;

THE POUND OF FLESH

A SPECIAL OF SORTS (LOOKING BACK)

TEXAS RAIN AND OTHER PHENOMENA

THE LAST RELOCATION TRAVAILS

FIREFLIES

WEAKLY WONDER

(FREUD, WHERE ARE YOU WHEN I NEED YOU?)

HOLIDAY HINTS FROM THE

DEMENTED SIDE OF LIFE

TEXAS COLD SPELL

VERBOSITY HAS ITS’ LIMITS

THE PAPER ROUTE

HAL, WILL AND STEVIE

COOL THINGS ABOUT BEING A GUY

WINTER STRIKES THE LONE STAR STATE

SCHOOL DAYS

NEW WORDS FOR 2003 - ESSENTIAL ADDITIONS TO THE WORKPLACE VOCABULARY:

WEEKEND TRIPS

FINANCIAL UPDATE

FURTHER PROOF OF A TWISTED MIND

LACKAWANNA

FUN IN PA - 08/02

ROUND DEUX - THE FAT MAN VS. THE ROADSTER

ST. VALENTINE’S DAY - SHARING THE LOVE

NANCI, ED & SHELLY

WAKER-UPPER

HYPOTHETICAL CASE: WHAT TO DO?

DUST

WORKPLACE PROFILES

THOUGHTS ON SHOPPING

FURTHER THOUGHTS ON TEXAS ICE SKATING

A DAY OFF

WEB CAMMING

THE CAT FROM HELL

TEXAS WEATHER

NOTES ON NAMES

THE NEGOTIATOR

UNTIL NEXT WEEK……(FLORIDA)

LAST MARDI GRAS

THE RETURN OF HECTOR

FURTHER TALES FROM THE ACADEMY

NEIGHBORS

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

INTERIOR DECORATING

LETHARGY

THE DEMISE OF THE GEICO GECKO

SPRINKLERS

FITTING IN

DRIVING, TEXAS STYLE

THE ART OF CONFERENCING

PARENT VS. KID

ERNEST RETURNS

PASSWORDS

VOCABULARY LESSONS

THINGS I LOVE TO HATE

TEAM DYNAMICS

COMPROMISES

TEXAS GARDENING

FOCUS

SCHOOL DAYS

MONDAY MADNESS

LESSONS LEARNED

DEMISE OF THE SHADE TREE MECHANIC

MAN MEETS LAKE

RETURN TO FLORIDA I

AND YOU THOUGHT YOU’VE BEEN ABLE TO EXPRESS DISAPPOINTMENT?

RETURN TO FLORIDA II

RETURN TO FLORIDA III

ENTER THE BEPPO

DUKE

MEETING MORRIS

WINE WHINE

HASTE MAKES WASTE

WEAKLY BLURB

BUGS

THE COMMUTER

FURTHER THOUGHTS ON RELOCATION

CHILI COOK-OFF - PHASE II, BUD FINDS JESUS

WORDS OF WISDOM A NEW LOW

MECHANICAL MARVELS

BUBBA VS. AMERICAN HOME SHIELD

ROO-ETTES

BOB QUICK

THE POUND OF FLESH -

PORTIA HAS NOTHING ON THE CAT FROM HELL

THANKSGIVING - THE CURSE OF THE TURKEY

SUMMER TRIPS

WHO SAID JUDGE ROY BEAN IS DEAD?

THE FLORIDA PRE-CHRISTMAS DINNER

CHANGES

EARLY WINTER MORNINGS

BUZZSPEAK

ACTIONS & WORDS

FURTHER MUSINGS ON APPLIANCE REPAIR

COMPARISONS ARE INEVITABLE

MUSIC

THE CONTINUING SAGA OF MORRIS, THE MINOR

SCOOTER

AH TO BE YOUNG AGAIN (ED & ME)

FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE CAT FROM HELL

HOMETIME’S GOT NOTHING ON ME

NEW YEAR’S ROAD TRIP

ROAD FOOD

THE PROJECT

ROAD FOOD - THE RETURN

HIGHER LEARNING

COLDS

LOOKING BACK

JUST DESSERTS

SPACE 2

AH THE MORNING

SHE WHOSE PARENTS RAGE

FATE

PFLUGER PHEST

DAYTON OHIO, 1903

NORCAL DINNER

RESERVATION RESERVATIONS

SELF REVIEWS

LIFE CONTROL

DINNERS

FELINE CHANGES

MONDAY MOANS & GROANS

THE LADDER

CATERPILLARS

WAITING

RETURN OF THROPMORTON

BAD BOYS, WHATCHA GONNA DO……

FASHION

IT NEVER FAILS

CAT VS. SPEAKER WIRE

BACK TO THE FAMILY

YOUTH

ISLAND TIME

IT’S RAINING HERE,

SO YOU GET TO SUFFER ONE DAY EARLY…..

DISTRACTIONS

GROWING UP

NOW & THEN

GOALS

BIRDS

OFFICE MUSIC

MODERN MEDICINE

COMMENTS

THE GIGGLES

PROGRESSION

THE NEW TOY

COUNTRY SONGS TO CURB THE IMAGINATION … .

OUT FOR TRAINING

LOGIC

TSA

COOKING

WARRANTIES

DENTISTS

WORDS & SONGS

MID WEEK WONDER

THE NURSERY

TOMO

WAITING…AGAIN

DATING

MAIL CALL

A FINAL WORD (MOLLY & EDGAR)

VACATIONS

THE INTER-OFFICE MEMO

REVERSE OF THE NORM

EXCESS BAGGAGE

DRIVER’S ED

CONFERENCE ROOMS

BEAM ME UP SCOTTY

WOMEN’S BATHROOM

EVANGELISTS AND WATER BEETLES

THOUGHTS ON GROWING OLDER

WATERING THE YARD

Foreword

This book started out as a gift to my father, Greg Stott. For years he wrote emails that he would send to a small distribution list of friends, family and co-workers. These emails, or missives as he calls them, were always the most humorous accounts of events that had taken place in his life.

Suddenly in late 2005 he decided to quite writing them, to the dismay of all who were fortunate enough to receive them. He has only recently begun to write them again.

While combing through some old emails, I stumbled upon one of those missives and thought that it would be a great gift to let him know that I had enjoyed them so much that I had kept a good deal of them. So in doing this, I reached out to all of the others on my dad’s distribution list letting them know what I was up to and to find out if anyone else had kept these stories. The response was overwhelming. Several of my dad’s friends and co-workers had kept many of them, and one or two had actually kept all that they had received. One overwhelming theme to all of the replies was that everyone thought these stories should be published. I was fortunate enough to have a family member who had been published numerous times before for his insight into education and gave me guidance on how to make this happen. So Uncle Dave, thank you.

To you, dad, I want you to know that I love you. I know that we were kept apart for a good portion of my formative years, but in the years since we have been reunited, I consider them to be some of the best. Your unwavering support and love have meant so much to me. I hope that you see this book as a reflection back of all my love to you and the love and respect from others. I personally find it a true testament to the person you are that so many have kept your missives for all this time. Now, I will confess that this was easier for me than maybe my sister, Meghan, as she is so prominently mentioned and is the center of many of your stories, but one fact remains true; these stories are so much a part of you, that by sharing them with others and now my ability to share them back with you is the only gift I could think of that could even rival what you have given to me over the years.

I love you dad, – JuJuBee (aka your first walking tax deduction)

Dad you have always been a support system for me, you embraced my problems and helped me find solutions. I wish everyone could see the kind of person you are. I am lucky to have you as a father and friend. You made my childhood great and I would never trade the life we had together. You send me stories about every other day and each time I open them they make my day a little lighter and I forget about what is bringing me down. Without your humor and ability to laugh at yourself your stories would lose their backbone. I hope that you never stop writing and continue to share your stories with the rest of us.

I couldn’t imagine my life without you. – Meghan (aka SWHR)

I am always amazed by your endless love, generosity, and ability to find humor in everything around you, Dad. Your love, great advice, and support, have helped me through some of the toughest times in my life, and I will never be able to thank you enough for that. Although we did not get to know each other until later in my life, we have definitely made up for lost time, through lots of great conversation, gourmet food, copious amounts of alcohol, and laughter.

Like so many others, I always enjoy finding a new story from you in my email, knowing that I get to take a little break from my own life…if only just long enough to laugh at yours! –smile - Thank you so much for sharing and bringing joy to all of us, through your writing. And thank you most of all for being such a wonderful father and friend to me…I love you dearly!

Of course, a special thank you must be made to the makers of Shiner Bock, which has made such an enjoyable contribution to so many of these great stories!

- Beckie (Just Beckie – what’s up with that? No nickname?)

To any one who reads this, enjoy!

Old Man vs. LPD

January 2002

OK. I am bored. Therefore, you must suffer.

Finished off the Nova today and am reasonably pleased with the results. Of course I went out and tested the fruit of my efforts, which had a not unexpected but disappointing result.

As I hit roughly 7,000 RPM and shifted into second gear with the car almost sideways, the inside of the car came alive with flashing lights. Initially, I believed that I was having an acid flashback from the one time I dropped that stuff in 1968. Oh would that it was that. It was, in fact, Lafayette's finest; pushing the aging, 4,000-pound Ford Victoria for all that it was worth. It was the plague of highway safety - Officer Kathy (that’s Kathleen) Brembo.

Upon dismounting her metal steed, she approached this aging miscreant with pistol drawn. Obviously the seed of Tammy Faye and Norman the Mormon, she was fully prepared to rid the earth of this spawn of Hades loins in a 1969 Nova.

Poor misguided policeperson, she never expected to be greeted by an aging flower-less child, listening to Long John Baldry and singing along to Don't Lay No Boogie Woogie On The King Of Rock And Roll. If you have not heard this song (popular before most people were born) it is fun but probably unappreciated if you are trying to actively subdue a felon with a lead foot who refuses to listen to your well rehearsed lines like Let me see your hands and the ever more forbidding - Step out of the car slowly and walk backwards towards me. To the former, I gave her a single rendition of the finger. To the latter, I responded that I could not walk towards her if I could not see where the hell she was.

Kathleen (don't call me Kathy) failed to realize the humor rife within my trite responses. Promptly, three additional police vehicles appeared (obviously I was not that far from the doughnut shop) - sirens blaring and lights flashing.

One cop (who unfortunately was disfigured; he lacked any neck whatsoever and, with a total lack of hair above where the neck should be, looked remarkably like Uncle Fester) leapt from his car, only to trip over his (gummy) shoes and land on his butt. I immediately dubbed this obvious former dancer, Officer Buns. Cop #2 (literally) slid to a stop in front of my stopped vehicle to insure that this transport of the Demon Seed, which was not running, would not roll forward in a satanic manner, terrifying any Catholics which may have been drawn to the confrontation between the righteous and he who no longer cares.

Perhaps it was the one scotch I had but I began to laugh. Louis Armstrong was now singing La Vie En Rose (a favorite) and I decided to see what these clowns really wanted. About this time, the third additional cop pulled up (to You Didn't Have To Be So Nice by The Lovin' Spoonful) and took a look at me. He walked over to the car and asked me what was going on. I told him I was driving in a dangerous manner while listening to Long John Baldry.

His response, as expected, was Oh, OK, I understand. It is really amazing when your ex room-mate from boarding school is the lead rookie trainer for the C.C. Sheriff’s department which, obviously includes the whole of the L. P. D.

In truth, I deserved any ticket they deemed fit to hand out and more but got to depart unscathed; Buns and Kathleen (Don't even think of calling me Kathy) thanks to my ex-room-mate, now have an additional orifice through which to defecate. Altogether a bonus evening: No ticket. Great music. The Nova runs better than expected.

Life Mirrors Plumbing

March 11, 2002

If life could be summed up in a poem, it would be something like a scrawled message in an outhouse:

Here I sit, broken hearted - came to shit but only farted

Though possibly one of the less memorable of the public domain rhymes, both content and location suggests that perhaps this gem was penned by the Plumber Poet, Ray Saugus. For those unfamiliar with his work, it should be noted that he is actually not the author but, rather, the muse, for he readily inspires others to aspire to this level of poetry – usually after having contracted with Walnut Creek Ready-Rooter to fix a plumbing problem.

Ray will appear at your door as if by magic following any emergency call to his company. The magic I allude to here, being the fact that it is magic if he shows up at all. Once exposed to his manifest presence and the resultant bill for services rendered, poetic impulses or other, more violent ones, are usually quick to follow.

Anyone who has needed a plumber, especially in an emergency situation, understands that the long range effect of the event will have no material impact on educating the next generation as a whole, except that:

1. Your child will no longer be able to attend Cal Poly due to the sudden appearance of severe fiscal restraints on your immediate horizon;

2. Your plumber's children or at least the first five 'Roto-Seeds' as they are oft called, will be attending Stanford, via your generosity;

Case in point:

There is a group of Junipers in front of our house, which seem to be ever intent on sending roots into the clay sewer pipe which connects the house to the street main. Their efforts have resulted in clogs twice in the last 15 years. On these previous occasions, I used Contra Costa Roto-Rooter to remedy the problem and needed only to retire a portion of my bond portfolio to satisfy the resulting invoices for serviced rendered.

On Friday night, I gleaned, rather suddenly, that the pipe was again in need of a pruning, so to speak. The situation became apparent when She Whose Hormones Rage was in the shower. I was reading at the time and was alerted by a series of screams demanding that I needed to present myself to S.W.H.R.'s current location post-haste. Fearing that she was having a seizure or some such life-ending-event, I burst into the bathroom as only one who tips the scales at a scant 265 can do; to be greeted by a fresh verbalization of concerns for modesty, privacy and her being butt naked. It was at this precise moment in time that I realized that I was standing in the center of Lake Lafayette.

With the piercing insight developed through endless hours of keen observation - honed to a razor sharpness during my tenure in internal audit, I immediately deduced that I was: a) Having a blonde moment or b) I would need to exhume Ewel Gibbons to eat mass quantities of Juniper roots in lieu of his preferred Grape Nuts. My first concern, however, was to remove my corpulent torso from the immediate vicinity of S.W.H.R. and the unending stream of demands, commands and bleatings which seemed to be hurled out as a single word:

"DadforChristsakeswhatisthematterwithyou?Iamnaked

forGod’sake!Andwhatisallthiswaterfrom?Can’tIeventakea

showerinpeace?Dad!HowamIsupposedtogotothedance?I’ll neverbereadyintime!Dad!"

Though plainly obvious to her, I was unaware that the very success of the Sadie Hawkins dance hinged on the attendance of the hormonal seed.

Fearing for life and limb, I retreated into the bedroom, which, I observed, oddly resembled beige carpet at low tide. Fortunately, the slant of the house was working for me for once and the tide was heading out - northeastwards - toward the outside wall. Setting aside the perverse notion that I should speak to S.W.H.R. about 25 minute showers or Dr. Watson's observations on Holmes' theories of deductive reasoning, I sought refuge in the kitchen, the form of the dreaded Yellow Pages and a large scotch.

Sadly, I noted that the old standby, CC-RR was no longer in business – more than likely having been able to retire after their first 5 house calls. In a moment of supreme misjudgment, I selected WC-RR and the plumber from hell - Ray Saugus.

After leaving a long and detailed message with Chris, who was either a woman with a basso-profundo voice or a guy whose loafers seemed to levitate in perpetuity, I felt the situation was now in hand. With a promised arrival of 7:00 p.m., I made arrangements for S.W.H.R. to be picked up and delivered to the social event of the season and set about putting out fans and soaking up as much of the soapy tide as possible from the bedroom. Needless to say, Ray arrived right on time; plumber's time - 10:25 p.m.

With the sharp analytical skill inherent in all union plumbers who work by the hour, Ray immediately set about identifying the problem (heedless of my pointing to the culprits and the nearby exposed cutout for the pipe) and launched into a survey of the yard, general repair of the roof (should he need to ascend) and numerous requests for more coffee. After almost exactly 35 minutes, Ray concurred that I was, by sheer accident, correct. At this point, he asked to use the phone to call in. I agreed and then spent the next ten minutes listening to him expound on the problem, the proposed remedy and, finally, a brief call to his 'girl' to let her know he would be home late. At this point, I was fairly certain that Chris was the love of Ray's life and felt that his business seemed to be appropriate to his chosen lifestyle.

With a determination and focus rarely seen outside of the DMV, Ray sprang into action, uncapping the cutout and, excuse me, inserting the rooter (or snake). It was at this juncture that Ray needed to check back with the office. Oh, it’s alright, I'll use my cell, he told me.

Admittedly, I am slow on the uptake but this, coming as it did with the request for some fresh coffee and assistance with managing the snake, actually got me feeling like a deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic. Moving with the knowledge of one paying by the hour, I of course went inside to fix a fresh pot but first needed to thoroughly scrub my hands, as the snake had evidently spent a lot of time fully employed without benefit of even a cursory cleansing. As it turned out, I needn’t have hurried, as Ray was still sequestered with his phone, muttering a series of grunts and groans to (imagined) questions. It sounded to me more like he was either saying goodnight to a pet porcine or was hooked into some area code 900 dial-a-dude.

In any event, after a mere 15 additional minutes, he returned to his task, finishing up in something akin to record time. Thinking myself lucky, I was leaving to get the checkbook when the snake got away from him momentarily, whipping a fine mist of putrid residue over Ray, myself and the side of the house. Shit happens, don't it? he astutely observed.

My goal in life, at this point, was to rid myself Ray and his rooter as quickly as possible and to that end, we adjourned to the kitchen, where Ray plopped himself down (Its OK, I'll just shower when I git home) and prepared an invoice which would certainly assure that generations of his descendents would be put through medical school in style (providing, of course, he and Chris could collectively, conceive).

Tearful goodbyes then a dash to pick up S.W.H.R. from the dance.

"Jesusdad!Yousmellawful!Ihopeyoudidn'tgetanyofthatonthe

upholstry!"

Now at least I understand why lions often kill their young. Who the hell says animals are dumb?

Updates on the Dog

April 14, 2002

With the passing of our Collie, Teddy, I felt a definite emptiness in our home; over and above the absence of the ever present clouds of dog hair that seemed to pervade every cubic inch of the interior. After a mourning period of some four months, Meghan and I decided it was time to acquire a new dog.

We studied and pondered the attributes and drawbacks of innumerable breeds and, as confused and bewildered as when we started, finally decided to visit the SPCA and find a dog who had no home and whose future was in doubt. To this end, we ventured forth and, not surprisingly, found the perfect dog within fifteen minutes of having arrived at the pound.

She Whose Hormones Rage was immediately smitten with a medium sized, spayed female with an apparently sweet disposition and doubtful lineage. While appearing to be a mix of Black Labrador and Chow, it soon became obvious that there was significant input from some other breed, which I strongly suspect had cloven hooves. The necessary paperwork was soon completed and fees paid to the stereotypical state employee who barely spoke English but issued commands in a manner which befit the emperor of her small and rather odorous fiefdom. Bonnie, as she was dubbed, for no apparent reason other than S.W.H.R. thought the name pleasing, was subsequently hustled into the car and whisked away to her new home.

Once home, Bonnie was at first found to be affectionate and docile but possessing the digestive tract of Godzilla, which sought to purge itself with astonishing frequency; an obvious (mostly) great choice for us, as neither has a lot of time to devote to extensive training. As things progressed, however, we soon discovered that we were the evident embodiment of P.T. Barnum’s most enduring observation with regard to the correlation of births within a specified time frame.

To ensure the safety of Bonnie and to keep her from wandering off, I invested some time in repairing our perimeter fencing and cautioning S.W.H.R. to keep our newest family member on a leash when venturing outside of the house proper. Things progressed nicely for the first several days; that is until we initiated the fence test.

Smug in the knowledge that our fence was indeed capable of containing such a small creature, I let Bonnie off her leash to explore the 1/3 acre which constitutes the rear of our yard. Approaching the four foot high fence, she looked up at me with what I can only describe as a smirk. Without seeming to flex her legs whatsoever, she effortlessly bounded over the Lafayette rendition of the Great Wall and sped off toward Nome, Alaska at a speed which would have made Chuck Yeager stain his shorts. Fortunately, S.W.H.R. is fleet of foot (as opposed to myself, who is Fleet of enema) and took to her heels to capture our reluctant beastie, returning some 20 minutes later, purple with exertion, with our errant canine in tow. Obviously, the balance of my 401K will be earmarked to create a more formidable deterrence to Bonnie’s (now dubbed The Dog From Hell) penchant for exploring life outside the confines of the yard.

Insofar as T.D.F.H.’s actions indicated that she would need to spend her periods outside on a leash until such time that a proper fence could be constructed, we initiated long walks in the morning to socialize her and, more importantly, allow her to stimulate the flora and fauna which grows along the various walking paths via spontaneous fertilization. Unfortunately, she often chose to perform this act in the middle of the macadam path itself, with disastrous results for any and all foolish enough follow. (It should be noted here that Bonnie’s life prior to her internment in the pound, was either quite sheltered or her diet must have consisted of those items which never, ever, produce gas. This became evident during a donation of biblical proportions just off the beaten path near our home and resulted in laughter, disgust and a longer leash; in that order. In mid strain, Bonnie emitted a most un-lady-like sound; something akin to a cross between a piano middle C and the bathroom scene from Dumb and Dumber following ingestion of the bottle of TurboLax. Ears up, hunched posture forgotten, Bonnie spun around to face her mysterious attacker with teeth barred and in full voice. Evidently the exertion of the sudden spin, followed by the fierce barking, forced out that which would not leave, resulting in an airborne projectile which launched from her backside with incredible force and subsequently arched into the mid thigh region of her handler, some six feet away; smiting him mightily.)

The secondary socialization aspect of these walks, also proved to be something only El Cid would have taken on (and even then, only in a drunken stupor). Without putting too fine a point on it, Bonnie’s leash manners require extensive modification. Even with the new, longer leash, she attempts to yank the associated arm asunder from its’ normal location, nestled within the shoulder socket, whenever she encounters a perceived threat (dog, human, bicyclist or, God help you, a squirrel).

Approaching women are ignored for some reason; children are generally mauled with licks but men are met with hackles raised. One obviously retired gentleman disproved the notion that reactions are generally slower when one reaches a certain age, for as he extended a hand to pet T.D.F.H., he was forced to quickly remove the proffered digits from the proximity of Bonnie’s snout or risk being called Lefty for the duration of his remaining years. His good humor vanished; he stumbled away questioning both Bonnie’s and my heritage.

Dogs foolish enough to be on the path when T.D.F.H. is in attendance, soon learn the error of their ways. Though Bonnie, at 45 pounds, is but half their size, she will strain against the leash to the point where she is walking erect on her hind legs, emitting sounds likened to Darth Vader in heat (courtesy of the choker collar) replete with hackles raised and bristling with aggression. I have seen several, much larger dogs put their ears back and grovel on the ground in the face of such displays of alpha superiority, much to the disgust of their handlers. In this regard, she is quite reminiscent of several of my ex-wives.

Squirrels, at least from the perspective of T.D.F.H., must represent the canine equivalent of the Klingons to Captain Kirk. I have, following the shredded tendons of my nearly severed limb, been dragged through bushes, barbed wire and copious amounts of fertilizer in pursuit of these innocuous creatures. Damned dog will even attempt to climb the tree to get one. Of course, if she ever caught one, it would probably bite the shit out of her. I am considering duct taping one of these little varmints to the fence in our yard to see if I am right.

As time and exposure fosters a feeling trust between a dog and its’ owners, the inevitable friendly roughhousing usually begins. T.D.F.H., however, plays the game somewhat differently than her owners.

A playful swat to the tail brought not a reaction from this dog; nor did a ruffling of the fur. Initially, I thought this type of play intimidated her, as she began to cower after a moment or two. Ashamed, I turned around to go and get her a treat by way of apology. It was at this point that she struck. The flying nip to the buttocks, followed by a firm hold on the left ankle assured her of an easy victory, grinning, I imagined, as I succumbed to gravity and proceeded to become one with the carpet. Not content with this easy victory, she then pounced upon me and, grabbing a firm hold on my hair, attempted to drag me off into the next room, where I can only assume, she planned to sacrifice me in some sort of canine satanic ritual.

Fortunately, sheer weight won out over intelligence and determination and I managed to free myself from her grasp. We must have looked the pair: me, still stunned and dazed and her, grinning, with white hair hanging from her jaws. Future roughhousing shall be done only when I am armed.

In addition to all these fine traits, I have recently discovered that perhaps, T.D.F.H. is the reincarnation of Leonardo. I make this observation after her most recent display of artistic talents. Not content to simply eat the Venetian blinds, remote control(s), assorted socks and the base of the coffee table, Bonnie hangs her head out of the car window as we drive along, insistent on pointing her nose into the wind, which causes an unending string of canine sneezes. While annoying within the vehicle, it is much worse when the proboscis is pointed out the window, as I came to realize after appraising the appearance of the Nova after a brief journey to the store. Trailing down the passenger side from window to bumper was an off-white series of wind induced pin stripes, spanning roofline to lower rocker panel. While less than a pleasant accent to the Indigo Blue, I had to admit that, nonetheless, it reflected a certain panache, which, up to this point, had remained undiscovered.

I am not sure I can take many more such discoveries in what remains in my life and still maintain a degree of sanity.

Ramblings from the Edge of Dementia

April 22, 2002

Driving is high on the list of things which seemed to change when one is beset with white hair and wrinkles. Reaction times are markedly slower, tolerance for the mistakes of others is nil and your own mistakes seem to be on the increase. Added to the responses from others as one changes lanes without looking or makes a hard left turn from the far right lane, the driving experience for the aged is less than fulfilling.

As a youth, I was fond of stop light drag racing and appearing in front of Walnut Creek Municipal Court Judge Roy Parker (one event almost certainly followed the other). Judge Roy would tell the court, at the onset of the day’s festivities, that if you could tell him a story he had not heard; you were off scott free. I never saw anyone take advantage of this in the 27 odd times I attended his court and I doubt that anyone else had after his first year, which was back in 1951. The only surprise I managed to give him was summed up rather succinctly in his response to me as I appeared before him at age 17, in celebration of my 13th citation: I don’t understand how I missed this. Thirteen moving violations in one and a half years without suspending your license? I must be slipping. But I shall rectify that now.

This 13th citation was bestowed on me for a minor indiscretion which occurred at the main stop light in Walnut Creek some weeks prior. Cruising the main, was the highlight of weekend life if you were a senior and summertime was approaching. At the top of the school food chain and possessing a 1957 Chevy, you were invincible. Every car that pulled up next to you at a light was a potential rival; to be thwarted and subsequently vanquished by the blinding acceleration generated by the tired, oil cloud generating 283 with a whopping 195 horsepower. Your rival was never looked at, for that was un-cool. You could tell by the sound of his engine if it was a kid, or a kid out in the folk’s car and the reaction at the changing of the light would be adjusted accordingly. Rapid acceleration for the family chariot; blinding, smoke filled, tire shredding launch for anything which even vaguely sounded like it was running on more than 2. 75 cylinders.

Having dined at the posh Mel’s drive-in on a sumptuous repast of cheeseburger, fries and a chocolate shake, my cohort in crime (Edward Huie Burgess III) and I felt that it was now time to terrorize the Corvairs, Ford Falcons and Dodge Darts which permeated downtown. God forbid that we would encounter a ‘Vette or a big block Chevy Impala or Ford Galaxy but all others were fair game. As we approached the light at Civic & Main, there was the unmistakable sound of a big Ford pulling up next to us. Not much of an exhaust note but the sound of a mild cam was begging to be challenged.

Not wanting to look, I could just make out his front bumper to my right as the opposing light turned yellow. Thinking about this now, it was amazing that we could see anything, given that we were wearing sun glasses and it was 9:00 p.m. but evidently I could see enough, for as the light began to turn green, I wound up the old Bel Air to the smoke generating maximum and slid my foot off the clutch. It was a magnificent launch. Front end rising, right rear wheel spinning, exhaust roaring out the pipe which had been drilled multiple times for reasons of sound enhancement and a dense cloud of blue smoke asphyxiating those in the car behind us. He didn’t stand a chance.

Actually, he didn’t have to, as he won by turning on his lights and siren. To add insult to injury, we were stopped in front of the El Rancho theatre, just as the audience of the first of two shows of the evening was leaving. In addition to the crowd of our peers which immediately gathered to watch the wheels of justice grind two innocent lambs into dog meal, Mr. & Mrs. Burgess decided to step forward from the theatre crowd and ask just what in the hell we thought we were doing. It was at this point that things took a turn for the worse, for the officers decided to inspect the car.

If I failed to mention this in the past, one of the favorite activities of the young and the bored in a rural environment is to deface property or collect things (more specifically, things which do not belong to them). Some kids choose to shoot up road signs or initiate imaginative alpha-numeric modifications or creative art work to public signs and billboards with cans of spray paint (one of the more memorable of these being the golden penis added to The Coppertone Girl billboard between Alamo and Danville).

Ed and I were raised to respect the property of others. We never spray painted or defaced property. If the truth be known however, this was only because we never could find spray paint when we needed it. We suds’d fountains with astonishing regularity (the Rossmoor Leisure World entrance seemed to forever be generating mountains of foam) and we collected things.

Specifically, we collected stop signs. Ed would ease up to the target of opportunity and snap the post using his dad’s 1964 Olds 98 which had a front bumper rivaling that of a locomotive. The casualty was then loaded into the trunk and ferried away to our cache of trophies in my dad’s potting shed, which had not seen use since dad began getting potted himself some years prior.

In any event, that very evening, I thought it wise to clean out the shed before my hobby became known to my folks and the associated punitive action initiated. Separating sign from post, we loaded the 12, eight sided standards into the trunk and headed out for the evening, intending to return the octagonal corpses to the nearest guardians of the public safety? The WCPD parking lot. As it turned out, this last step would done for us.

The officer, whose name escapes me at present (but whose large coffee stain extending from a trickle at badge level to Lake Superior dimensions at the crotch, I can picture even now) seemed more upset than his (unstained) partner, proceeded to check the car. Finding nothing of merit in the passenger compartment, he proceeded to the trunk, whereupon his demeanor seemed to suddenly change for the better. Smiling, he turned to us and had the temerity to ask us just what we would be doing with these stop signs in the car.

Before either of us could speak, Mr. Burgess, sensing the imminent incarceration of his youngest and the resultant loss of the a tax deduction, with the lightning reactions of a realtor at the close of a deal, stepped forward and identified himself to the officer as being the unfortunate father of young Edward Huie. With the glibness developed from years of practice, he told officer coffee that we were delivering these signs to the WCPD at his direction, as he had found them at one of his construction sites (obviously abandoned there by Concord hoodlums).

In the end, we were cited for excessive acceleration? (they had not yet coined the phrase engaging in an exhibition of speed) and our trophies confiscated before they could be properly returned. The humiliation suffered in front of our peers for trying to drag race a cop was more than offset by the aforementioned confiscation and, while we both suffered greatly when we arrived home, our standing in school was elevated to God-like level.

Altogether, a stunning victory for mindless, misguided youth.

Ah, Texas…..The Adventure Begins

June 22, 2002

Well, it has been three weeks now. Though initially I thought I'd expose myself to Texas, it has turned out quite the opposite.

First and dearest to a Texan's heart is BBQ. Ever had brisket? It was a new treat for me. Like trying to bite something which, while it appeared to be somewhat solid, was actually so fragile that it fell to pieces before it could be shoveled it into the eating orifice. It is at this point that I learned why God invented bread - it was for Texans who try to eat brisket. Sliced into thin strips and delivered to the unsuspecting diner on butcher paper, tucked into a basket that looks much like one of the old open top milk crates (which, as it turns out, is what it was) and replete with sausage and 11,816 slices of what could only have been Wonder Bread. All this is handed to you by a woman who looks like the reincarnation of Lou Costello, along with a beer which is only slightly larger than the spa I used to own.

Though I was the only patron in Rudy's BBQ who did not carry the faint odor of manure, I was determined to fit in. Sitting at one of 20, 40 foot long picnic tables covered in red checked oil cloth, I made my first mistake; I had forgotten a napkin. My innocent question directed at the fellow sitting across from me was greeted with something more than a chuckle - sort of a guffaw, mixed in with choking sounds brought on by an unfortunate mixing of brisket, beer and laughter and followed with: Y'all ain't from aroun' here, are ya son? Though the speaker was short, he also appeared to be only slightly less fit than Hulk Hogan, so I fessed up in true Texas style: Nope.

The brevity of my response seemed to please him and once the color drained from his face and the choking stopped, he pointed to the biggest friggin’ rolls of paper towels which hang on posts at either end of each table. About this time, the waiter (ranch hand?) appeared and, without a great deal of ceremony, dumped the contents of the milk carton on the table and removed the carton, while muttering something about 'fags from California not knowin' there only be jus' so many of these here cartons an he should a-payin' attenshun'. '

Having utterly failed my first and second tests, I was tempted to return home to change into something in chiffon but I realized that if I did, I would miss the nightly after dinner minority roping and Remember the Alamo inspired drag behind the owner's pickup, hence I opted to stay and dig into the brisket and sausage.

As it proved to be, Hulk turned out to be OK, for having observed me for a few moments attempting to litter the entire table with spilled brisket and after passing some secret test which proved to him that I could not possibly be a Messikan, he turned expansive and offered to get me through my BBQ trials. Being rather reticent in his desire to vocalize at length, Mr. Hogan offered the following advice, which shall ever remain with me: Firs, you need to cover yer shirt-front with some of them towels; then you need to put a mess of that there brisket on some ah that bread, cover it with some a this here sauce and there you go. Jus be careful to keep it washed down with this piss warm beer or it'll back up on yuh.

Cicero could not have said it better. Armed with the secret of eating in the Lone Star State, I waded into my meal and, having started to spew BBQ sauce in every direction, swilling piss warm beer in great quantities and not speaking, other than the occasional grunt, I found myself on the verge of being almost acceptable. By the end of the meal, now covered in sauce and reeling from the mass quantities of beer, I was even greeted with a couple of 'howdy's' and 'how y'all doin' and, the most endearing; 'try not to piss on my boots, son. ‘Final proof of my possible acceptance came with my exit from Rudy's, when Lou Costello hollered: You gonna make it to your truck OK boy?

At least at Rudy's, I have arrived. Now I just have to figure out how I will get this BBQ off my jeans and shoes and figure out what the hell I will do with all those chiffon outfits.

More later.

Greg

Preliminary Observations on Moving to Texas

Data Unknown

Back when the explorers were setting forth to blaze new trails westward, life, though primitive, lacked an obstacle which presents itself to the current day explorer (or, relocatette, if you will). Back then, provisions, a gun, your faithful horse and two or three trained sheep comprised the basics necessities required to embark upon your journey.

Current day exploring (or relocating, in this instance) bears little resemblance to that era. Sure, McDonald's suffices for minimal nutritional intake and provides the frequent surprise bouts of incontinence; the Honda supplants Trigger and Margo, the inflatable doll, doesn't bleat or require feeding - only the odd puncture repair and mask adjustment.

What Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone never had to face was established policy and procedure. While policies and procedures, at first glance, appear far less daunting than having to face down a pissed off Grizzly, their true impact on the adventurer makes the Grizz look as intimidating as a one legged man standing on a greased floor, participating in an ass-kicking contest.

The School Transfer:

Your daughter's new school requires very basic information to get her started: Notarized Birth Certificate - check, Social Security Card (no copies, please) - check, Immunization record - check, Former School Release -check, Statement of Units Credited - check, Grades for the current year -check and Proof of Residence - damn - guess I had better call Westwood H.S.

Good morning. My name is Greg Stott. My daughter and I are moving to Austin and are searching for a home. We will be staying at the Radisson but will settle in this district.

"The Radisson is in the Stony Point district, Mr. Scott, not the Westwood high school district. You must register at Stony Point. You will like it there, though they only have firearms practice on Tuesday's and Thursday's."

I anticipate putting in a bid on a home within this district by month's end and will be able to provide you with a purchase contract at that time. Will that suffice?

You are placing me in a difficult position, sir. We cannot begin making exceptions that would compromise District Policy. Insofar as you are not a native though, I will extend this courtesy to you until month end

Thank you for noticing that I do not carry a spear nor appear to be the product of extensive inbreeding. I appreciate your understanding. Is there any other information which I shall need at that time?

Yes. We will require both a utility bill and proof of telephone service.

As I said, we will be staying at the Radisson. Even though I will be connecting these services, I shall not have a statement until sometime after our first month of residence in the new home. Can I submit the request for service and / or agreement to do so in lieu of these items?

Yes. Just make sure it is accompanied by your current refuse collection statement.

I just told you that we will be moving in but at present, we do not have this service, nor does the local trash collection outfit issue service orders for starting collection. Is there no other way to work around this?

Well, I COULD treat this as an open transfer enrollment and that would give you an additional 30 days to fulfill the other requirements.

Oh, that would be great - thank you! What do I have to do to get this going?

Simply stop by Stony Point and get a transfer form.

Don't you have these forms?

We do sir but the school from which the student is transferring must initiate the form.

Meghan does not go to Stony Point. She is coming from Campolindo H.S. in California.

Then you will need to register with Stony Point first.

Why would I do that?

Stony Point is the school which services the area in which your hotel is located.

Am I to understand that the registration requirements at Stony Point are different than here at Westwood?

No, sir. Unlike some western states, registration requirements are identical through out the Lone Star State.

Seeing no way past this dilemma and in the face of abject defeat, I terminated the call. Daniel & Davy would have shot her 20 minutes ago - even Margo is (somewhat) unappealing at present.

Flying

Date Unknown

I can recall going to Los Angeles from San Francisco on one of TWA's big old four prop-engined Constellations and having to wear 'good' clothes so that no one would think we were the dregs of society. The semi-formality of that era, along with any sense of attaining even a modicum of comfort in anything but first class, has gone the way of the Dodo. Announcements from the cabin crew, once delivered in honeyed-tones by stewardi are now often delivered with all the panache of someone in the final stages of brain death and whose name happens to be Steve or Maurice. Of course, traveling by air is so commonplace today that changes to accommodate the volume were unavoidable and, when combined with the pace of life in general and the security imposed as a result of 9/11, the combined impact on the traveler is hardly inconsequential. While I am constantly accused of living in the past, neither am I completely unaware of what to expect now a days but my recent trip to Philadelphia from Austin, Texas served to drive these changes home.

Having flown Continental often in the past, I figured to use up some of my frequent flyer miles and thus reduce the initial cost of this expedition into the northeastern United States. Knowing that booking a flight via phone now added significant service fees, I went to the computer and after logging on to the Continental site, found several flights that at first blush appeared to suit my needs to a tee. Just prior to pressing the send key and committing my mileage to an itinerary, the alarms bells started to sound in the space that once housed a truly second-rate mind: the reason I had not used my mileage in almost two years was that Continental never, ever went where I wanted to go, when I needed to go. Ever. A quick perusal of the details confirmed this historic fact when I noted that following the aircraft transfer in Houston, the flight went to D.C., had a significant delay and then required that I transfer to a train for the balance of the trip. With visions of the train accommodations that Continental would provide (approximating those provided for those poor souls bound for Auschwitz) I exited and went to the American site.

American had the flights; American had the best departure and arrival times; American would greatly assist on my inevitable sojourn to debtor's prison. Sitting and stewing at the keyboard in the early evening, I should have recalled that flight schedules and costs change multiple times a day and, as I watched in horror, the convenient schedule evaporated and subsequently spiraled into something that would require I get a note from my mother to arrive before dawn in Austin, bring 'jammies' for the layover in Dallas and spend an additional $65.00 for the pleasure of doing so. Stunned but aware that they had me by the base of my snarglies, I hit the send key before things went any further down the tubes.

Some weeks later at dawn on a Friday morning, found me checking in for the American flight which, with electronic ticketing proved to be a breeze. Heading through the TSA Security check started OK but quickly devolved, as I had to remove my shoes (I presume for a lethal fungus check) and was required to give up my lighter (I assume because it may have hidden a bomb within, as my matches were OK to retain). Mistakenly thinking this would be the worst of it, I cringed as the alarm sounded as I passed through the metal detector (failing twice) and was sent to the 'questionable persons line'. After a wait of about 5 minutes, a TSA representative festooned with 9 gold chains and two gold front teeth, arrived to put me through an additional scanning, stopping his studious efforts no less than four times to laugh with a fellow TSA officer with significant darts in her blouse and subsequently restarting his scans several times in the area of the crotch, which generated a noise from the 'wand'. Perplexed, he asked if I was carrying any metal in my shorts, to which I replied: Not since I was in college.

Insofar as I was becoming impatient with his methodology, I then asked if he thought it just may be the zipper in the pants or if this was the TSA's method of initiating a spontaneous cavity search. Evidently this offended his sensibilities and he warned that if I did not settle down that it may not be out of the question, to which I responded that if this was the case, I'd appreciate if he would arrange for a second opinion at the same time so that I could at least get some enjoyment out of the experience. Well, he didn't get it but must have figured I was too old to hassle and finished up in record time, leaving me feeling only semi-violated and in need of a 6:30 a.m. shot of scotch. In contrast, the flight itself went just peachy, except of course for the change of planes in Dallas, which added forty-five minutes to the travel time as we sat on the tarmac, one can only assume, awaiting the second coming.

With the visit in Pennsylvania ending, I was subsequently deposited at the main terminal and glided through check-in and the security scans with flying colors, leaving only the flight itself to endure before arriving home. The sheer excitement of flying home from Pennsylvania or anywhere, for that matter, can normally be likened to attempting to contemplate world peace while trying to pass an un-husked pineapple – the tendency is for the experience to be less than pleasant; that is unless you are fortunate enough to find that your flight crew happens to be based in Austin. What started as an hour delayed sardine-tin flight quickly became (almost) bearable:

As near as I could tell, there must have been a sale on dragging your infant(s) along on this flight, for there were a number of them, of which at least