Eating Alta Fern

To tell you the truth; after Tam and I were married my mother-in-law, Alta, rarely cooked. But, when we were dating I ate her cooking. Oh, God! *hacking.....choking* I ate her cooking! Maybe it's best to start from the beginning.

I was born a poor black child........... (well, maybe not that far back).

My wife and I were introduced by a preacher (yes, I was raised going to church) *reader faints*, who was a mutual friend of both of our families. He had tried to get me to come and meet her for two years before I finally made the journey.

Tam's parents, Elmer and Alta Fern (stop laughing; that's their real names), were older so naturally our first date began at church one Sunday morning. After the last amen, I jumped astride my motorcycle and followed her family down the back-roads of two (almost ventured into three) counties to their house for lunch. At one point during this odyssey, near the Caney River, I could have sworn that I heard "Dueling Banjos" playing in the nearby woods.

*"I'm gonna' make you squeal like a pig, boy!"*

Tam and I had actually met the week before and had talked a couple of times on the phone before this first "date". She asked me what I liked to eat so that her mom could make me something "special" for Sunday. At that point in my life, I would eat nearly anything except tuna casseroles and fried chicken.
(I know. Southern boy that doesn't eat fried chicken? If you ate as much of it as I did growing up on the farm; you would have been burnt out, too!)

So, for my first meal with her daughter, Alta prepares me some sort of tuna spaghetti casserole. A nasty, odorous, foul-tasting concoction that I ate every bite of with a smile on my face. From that point on, while Tam and I were dating, every meal at their house was either fried chicken or a tuna casserole; always.

For some reason, Elmer trusted me with his daughter (BIG mistake). He even extended her curfew an extra hour when we started dating (BIGGER mistake). This extra hour gave us time, on the return trip from the movies in Tulsa, to find a secluded spot on a dark Washington County road to get to know each other a little better.

This always made eating Alta's cooking bearable. She would sit across the table from me and stare me down to make sure that I ate every bite; hoping to catch a cough, a wince or other disapproving gesture. I ate whatever was put on my plate quickly, smiling the whole time; thinking of the moves I would be putting on Tam later that evening.

Once we were married, Alta quit cooking for me. When we did share a meal it was usually at a restaurant or, on occasion, I would burn some old dead cow on the grill in her back yard. But I will never forget the hell that she put me through with her cooking, while dating Tam.

I suppose, in conclusion, there are only two reason that I ever ate my mother-in-law's cooking: lust and love. In the beginning; it was the lust that every young man feels when they start dating someone new. In the end; it was the love for the woman who became my wife.

Alta has passed on now; which for me is a relief. If I had ever decided to divorce her daughter; she may have tried to start cooking for me again!

Just Who Do You Think I Am?

Some people think they know you. You just met them five minutes ago; yet they can tell everything about you. Hell, they know you better than you know yourself.

For example: I'm in the old waterin' hole one night when a group of people come through the door. A couple of them are regulars (and dart players) and one is a former beertender there that I had only seen twice before and said about six words to ever. "Get me a Bud." and "Another here." I think, before shift change brought in a different waitress. When she comes in she says: "Oh, there's Gary!" (I couldn't even remember her name) and proceeds to stagger over to where I am seated and give me a hug. Being the polite asshole I am; I said hi to her and then turned my back to her and began talking with someone else. She then plops down beside me and starts in on me about how great a guy I am and that I really should come over to the other side of the bar and play darts with them. Her first mistake is: Neither of the guys she came in with wanted me to come over and play darts because they can't beat me and they know it. Secondly, I am not too keen on being touched by strangers (unless I am paying them to touch me .......... [I like a good massage, once in a while]). I am definitely not a hugger of them. Third. The crap compliments she was spewing my way, made the friend, who was with me, almost fall off his bar stool laughing! Anyone who really knew me, probably, wouldn't be complimenting me (perfectionist/superiority complex) about how nice and great a guy I am. I am a superior asshole (see previous posts if you don't understand).

While I am a nice guy on here; I'm sure that most of you would not like me too well in person. I just have a way of pissing most people off. I know this was her lame attempt at flirting. Which, if she really knew me, wouldn't have been happening either! I've been with the same woman for 22 years and ain't planning on leaving her, just yet. What's that song by Robert Earl Keene? "Rich, Young, Dumb Nymphomaniac" She probably qualifies on the last 3 parts of the title, but not the first. But who am I to say. I DON'T REALLY KNOW HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Am I a Strange SOB

Many times, when posting my ramblings, the title I begin with needs to be changed by the end of the story. I think we're good today! My regular readers, I'm sure, will concur. This is a little more about me......part three, I believe...... I am an odd character.

I am a loner, for the most part, that is very loyal to his few close friends. I'm a quiet person, who does not say much, unless, in my opinion, it needs to be said. I don't like a lot of company at my house (unless its poker night) or crowds, in general: But, will go to a football game or a bar and scream, dance and act like a complete fool with a mass of perfect strangers.

I hate death and funerals, but have my own (funeral, that is) planned out (I don't plan to die, but all good things must end). The first part is a joint agreement between my brother and I that whoever goes first, the survivor has to throw a huge drunken Irish wake in memory of the deceased. After the wake, I plan to be cremated (much to my wife's dislike!). Then, at the funeral (this is the part she really despises), all attendees will be given a small envelope with a pinch of my ashes to do with as they wish. Everybody gets a piece of me that day!

Touch the Darkness @ DarkCasket.com
No church service (those things only make people feel bad about themselves), but a party. An afternoon/evening/night/next morning in a park or a field with loud music; lots of cold, crisp refreshing Budweiser (and other spirits) and tons of grilled animal flesh! Free beads for all male attendees to use in exchange for whatever they can get from the female revelers! Bagpipes at sunset! Fireworks (or firearms) shot into the sky at midnight! Send me off with a bang!
I'm sure there will be a lot of people that I don't know, and would not have liked, show up for the event............WTF? I'm dead anyway; what do I care?........


Buried at PhotoCasket.com

More to come, .................................................................................................................... later. ....................................................................................................................... NOW GO AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! Seriously. Go read someone else's blog now. I'll have a new post later! Okay. Leave a comment on your way out.

Writer's Block is a Pain in the Ass

I started on a post about how I don't believe that I dream, during sleep, anymore. Guess you'll have to wait on that, because about halfway through it; I hit a wall. I didn't like the angle the story was taking and could not conjur up anything else from my frazzled brain to make it any better! So screw it! This blog is called "the ramblings of a middle-age madman" so I'll just let a few things fly out there and see how you like them.

You all need to check out, join, then post some crap to my new club: The Yuwie Sarcasm Society. If you're a smart-ass; this is the club for you. It is an adults-only place so you don't have to censor yourself if you don't want to. Someone else needs to post something there; K.C. and I can't do all of the talkin'! Where's your will to be weird? Enough of the pimpin'; back to the ramblin'.

I normally have tons of ideas flowing through my skull at all times. They are there now but I just can't get them from that black hole of my brain to my fingers that are pounding this keyboard. I see the problem. It's nearly 5:00pm on a Saturday and I haven't had a beer! Be right back .......................

Took a bit longer than I thought. Had to make some nachos. Freshly grated cheddar-jack cheese, ................. hot, thin, crispy, tortilla chips, ....................... jalapeno peppers, ..................... ice cold beer, .................... makin' you drool, aren't I. Tough, it's all mine! Unless you're a really cute girl. I've given alot more away to cute little brunettes.

I've always preferred a dark haired woman. Blondes may have more fun; but the brunettes will tell you exactly why it was fun so you can do it to them again (and again)! Not that I've ever turned down a blonde; or a red-head for that matter.

Hot pink hair is cool on a woman, too. If she's willing to do that to herself and show it off in public; she's going to be pretty damn kinky when you get her behind closed doors. If she has multiple piercings, too; look out! Tat on the lower back? Damn, it's getting hot in here.

How did we get there? Oh yeah: rambling. It doesn't appear that the beer is unblocking my brain so I think I'll try to have another. I'll go ahead and post this so that while I am drinking another beer or two or three or ever how many; you people can post comments and give me your opinions on writers block, women, nachos, jalapenos, beer, pink hair, tats, piercings, whatever else may be on your mind.

Blogger vs Writer; Part Deux

In a previous post I stated that I was a blogger, not a writer. Many have asked what the difference is. I have been both in my life. I'll try to explain.

I know many accomplished bloggers. Most are not what you would call great writers. I have several friends who are accomplished authors but most of them have a hard time being a good blogger.

A writer has many pages to relate his tale and can go into greater depths of imagery and emotion to get his point across. A blogger is more like a stand-up comedian who has to hit you hard and fast to achieve the desired response.

People who read books, and I am one of them, make time to absorb the information made available to them. If they pick up a book it is because it is something that interests them. The artistry woven into the words captivates them; keeping their attention for long periods of time.

Blog readers (I'm one of these as well) are usually cyber-junkies who bounce from one page to the next. Giving them multi-page narratives will only get you the "TLDNR" (too long, did not read) comment. If they drop by your site and see anything over a couple of thousand words long; you better hope they are one of your loyal readers, because the others will not stay around long enough to read it.

Most good Bloggers tend to use fewer obscure words and references. Their grammar and punctuation is often wrong. Mis-spelled words abound (even with spell-checker). But they know how to relate to their reader and what keeps them coming back for more.

Most writers find it difficult to shrink what should be a book down into a few paragraphs and still get their point across. The good bloggers do this without even thinking about it, but would have a hard time expanding their piece into a book.

Some out there are great bloggers; some are great writers. There are very few that are both.

Your thoughts?

I Am a Superior Asshole

I'm an asshole! A nice one. I'll be polite and smiling the whole time I have you bent over. I don't intend to be one; it's just the way I am (I guess).

I have a superiority complex. If I am talking about something; I know more about it than you (I am a genius, after all). If I'm playing a game against you; I will win! I am just better and will tell you about it, at times. If I lose; either I am entertaining a friends ego, or I am practicing so I can one day humiliate you at your best/favorite game!

I quit playing football in high school, because I was an under-sized, mediocre player, to run track. I wasn't the fastest person but could run all day. Cross-country and the two-mile run were my specialties. If it came to a sprint; I was dead in the water. But, when you have a 200 yard lead with 400 yards to go; you don't worry about the sprint.

The same applies today. I play good darts and dominate the action at my favorite waterin' hole. If someone comes along that is better; I'm going to practice like hell so that I can kick their ass, too. Most people don't like to play me. The one's who do are good players that are trying to get better and beat the best. But the better the competition; the better I play, as well.

I play better than most at poker. I can drink you under the table. If you are competing against me in business; I will know more about my customers, market, and product than would fit in your head. I'm just superior than you in all ways that count, to me.

I don't talk alot of shit unless the person I just beat has been talking trash; and only after I have taken their money. Something about my whole superior attitude just tends to piss people off without me having to say a word.

I don't take complements well. I expect to be close to perfect no matter what I am doing. I take the old saying: "If it's worth doing; do it well", to new extremes. If I'm not living up to my own expectations and a complement is thrown my way; I usually reply (without thinking first): "I've been better.", or something to that effect.

Luckily, I have a few good friends who can see past my BS. I am really an overly nice person. Polite. You just have to look beyond my superiority (even when I'm correcting a mistake you just made) to find that person.

If you meet me and I seem rude, remember; it's nothing personal. I'm just a superior asshole! (But I will try to be nice about it).

I Am a Blogger

Some say that I am a writer. No. I am a blogger. A writer is an artist with words. Me? I'm just an old hack with a laptop and a sense of humor.

I like blogging. There are no editors to say what does or does not fit. I can write what I want, how I want, when I want. No deadlines (even though I do feel pressure for something new from some of my more devoted readers, at times). I can entertain, enlighten or enrage the reader. The realm of topics: infinite.

I can take on the powers that be or poke fun at my own life and you read. I get drunk and ramble; still you read. I inflate my own ego and self-worth and there you are, reading again.

I've been called many things by fans and haters, alike. One of my favorite comments, ever (and I've been blogging for more than three years), came from Gayle:
"I have to admit that you're the strangest person I've met on Yuwie - flippant, sarcastic, narcissistic, enigmatic, etc. I love that in a person so naturally I love you."
She is a very busy lady who devotes her life to helping those that cannot speak for themselves: animals. As busy as she is with her causes; she takes time out of her day to read my words. Thanks, Gayle.

Me? I'm just happy to write about life on my own terms. I won't be bothered with editors, deadlines and censorship. You'll probably never read an autobiography of me, because I am not a writer.

I AM A BLOGGER!

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