Some Things About Me (part two)

26. Two foods that a lot of people seem to like (but I hate) are onions and mayonnaise. Two foods that a lot of people seem to hate (but I like) are lima beans and pork rinds.

27. I was a fairly good speech-type person in junior high and high school. I placed second in state in both debate and extemporaneous speaking different years.

28. The only time I’ve stayed overnight in a hospital is when I had my tonsils out when I was five years old. I was upset because I had asked my parents to get the doctors to put my tonsils in a jar that I could take to my kindergarten class for show and tell, but they didn’t come through. I did like all the ice cream, through.

29. I went through three schools and three majors in my tour of the Southwest Conference during college. I started out going for a year at Baylor as an accounting major, then went for a year and a half to the University of Houston as a Radio/TV major, then ended up at the University of Texas as a broadcast journalism major. I graduated with a bachelor of journalism from UT in 1982.

30. I started wearing glasses when I was 12 years old. I tried contacts along the way, but they always bothered my eyes and I gave them up. About 12 years ago, I got RK surgery so I wouldn’t have to wear glasses anymore. By that time, my glasses were almost Coke bottle size and kept slipping down my nose.

31. I got my first kiss in seventh grade during a spin-the-bottle session at a party. The girl’s name was Wendy. I enjoyed the spin-the-bottle concept because at that time in my life, it was the only way I was ever going to get a girl to kiss me without some sort of armed threat. The party might have been a little tawdry and all, but I remember it as a magical night.

32. I am a Dr Pepper addict. I believe they began putting it in my bottles soon after I was weaned from formula, and I’ve been drinking it ever since. If they figured out the volume of all the Dr Pepper I’ve drunk over the years, it would probably float a battleship. If they gave me back all the money I’ve spent on Dr Pepper over the years, I undoubtedly could retire comfortably.

33. I am a decent artist, but I never pursued getting better at it as I probably should have. I can’t draw people worth beans, but I can do graphics and landscapes fairly well.

34. I met my wife when we were both working for a small market television station. When we met, I was a news bureau chief and she worked in production. By the time we married, she had moved up to producer of the 10 p.m. news.

35. When I was being born (the natural way), my big head got “stuck” and I had my oxygen supply threatened. My mom has always claimed that if they hadn’t been able to pull me out with forceps when they did, I would have been born a mongoloid. Some people over the years have said this explains a lot about me.

36. When I was in college, I was in a “band” with some of my friends. We couldn’t play band instruments, and we couldn’t sing very well, but we knew how to use recording equipment. We’d find recorded instrumentals, write our own lyrics to them, then record our singing over the tracks. We even gave a few public “concerts” singing over these instrumentals, including one concert in a large airplane hangar. Youth has no shame.

37. I once entered a poem of mine in a contest run by some blue-haired ladies in a county literary society, and I won. I can’t even remember if I got any money, or if they just knitted me a potholder.

38. The singers or groups that I have seen in concert include Elvis (in the Astrodome as a kid), the Who, ZZ Top, Bruce Springsteen, the Marshall Tucker Band, the Blues Brothers, Amy Grant, Ronnie Millsap, Willie Nelson, Jerry Jeff Walker, Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, and Weather Report.

39. I once was in the same room as George W. Bush. He was the governor of Texas at the time, and he met in his reception room at the Capitol with Abner McCall, the former president of Baylor University, who was being honored. I was there to take video of them shaking hands and talking. To my eternal regret, I did not attempt to shake GW’s hand myself.

40. I took four semesters of Spanish in college, but still can’t speak it.

41. I am a “Trekkie,” albeit the non-obsessive type.

42. From third grade until my junior year in high school I thought I wanted to be a doctor. When I went on a field trip to a hospital and saw the kinds of things I would have to do to learn to be a doctor, like cutting open cadavers, dealing with blood and doing intimate things to people, I changed my mind.

43. If you can believe it, I then decided to get an accounting degree followed by a law degree, and be a corporate attorney. I was thinking how much money I would undoubtedly make, but thankfully I also came to realize that I would end up gnawing through my mahogany desk in boredom.

44. I like to collect quotes and lists of vocabulary words I don’t know.

45. I write haiku for fun.

46. I was in journalism classes at the University of Texas with E.D. Hill, one of the co-hosts of “Fox and Friends” on Fox News in the morning. And when I working as a bureau chief for one station in Waco, she was co-anchoring at another. I seriously doubt she would remember me now.

47. I never owned a leisure suit, but I did once go to a high school prom wearing a white tuxedo with a powder blue ruffly shirt and a honkin’ big blue bowtie. I did it to match my date’s dress, but I felt like the pinch hitter at a gay escort service.

48. The first magazine I ever had a subscription to was Boy’s Life, since I was in both Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts. The first magazine I subscribed to out of my own pocket was Mad magazine. I can still remember how I’d be so excited when a new issue, full of twisted humor, would appear in the mailbox.

49. My first car was a 1967 Volkswagen Beetle, which I outfitted with an 8-track tape player as soon as I could.

50. I had a childhood crush on Valerie Bertinelli from the “One Day at a Time” TV show, but then she went and married Eddie Van Halen. Oh, well.

Some Things About Me (part one)

I've always been meaning to do one of these lists, so here goes. I'll break it down in smaller bites so as to not gag anyone.

1. I have blue eyes and brown hair. When I was born, however, my hair was a dirty blonde color.

2. I have lived in Texas all of my life, including stints in Houston, Austin, Friendswood and Waco.

3. I have traveled to 38 of the United States as well as the District of Columbia. I’ve got 12 more states to visit before I die: Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Delaware, West Virginia, South Carolina, Indiana, Iowa, Nebraska, North and South Dakota and Alaska.

4. Sadly, like many Americans, I have only been to two foreign countries: Canada and Mexico.

5. My favorite song as a very young child was “Puff the Magic Dragon” by Peter, Paul and Mary. I still love it.

6. The first LP I ever got my parents to buy me was the second album by the Monkees, “More of the Monkees,” the one with “I’m a Believer” and “(I’m Not Your) Stepping Stone." I played it until the grooves disappeared.

7. I have a habit of cracking my knuckles, which unnerves Mrs. Muley.

8. Since I was a somewhat fat child all throughout elementary school, I got the honor of playing Santa Claus in my first grade Christmas play. I didn’t need a lot of extra padding. I had to pantomime to “The Night Before Christmas,” including puffing my pipe and shaking like a bowl of jelly.

9. I became a Houston Astros fan at a young age, back when they routinely occupied the National League cellar. I would listen to the game broadcasts on a little AM/FM radio in my room.

10. I signed up for the “Astros Buddies” club one year, and listed my favorite Astro as Jesus Alou. I got a membership card with his photo on it.

11. Speaking of the Astros, the summer before my freshman year in college I worked in “food service” at the Astroworld amusement park in Houston. I sold soft drinks, made hamburgers and peddled Pink Things out in the blazing Texas sun.

12. I have three brothers, all younger than me. I’m the only one of them who has either married or had kids. One of them still lives at home with my parents. I don’t see them very often.

13. I once was urinated on by a lion in a zoo. I must do a post about that some time.

14. My favorite Charlie’s Angel when the show was on TV was Cheryl Ladd, but now I think I like Jaclyn Smith the best. I was never a big fan of Farrah Fawcett-Majors, especially after she started knocking around with Ryan O’Neal.

15. I played trombone in junior high and high school. At one point I was thinking of switching to trumpet, so I took lessons and learned to play that as well. As a result, I ended up being able to play trombone, trumpet, baritone and tuba.

16. I can also play the triangle.

17. My mother describes my heritage as “Heinz 57 variety.” My ancestors were German, Czech, Polish, English and even Native American. We got around.

18. One of my ancestors supposedly an early Texas settler. As a result, I was accepted into membership to the Sons of the Republic of Texas. I have never been to a meeting, but I’m a member.

19. When I was a radio and TV reporter, some of the famous people I got to interview or ask questions of in news conferences were President Jimmy Carter, Beverly Sills, Merle Haggard, Alexander Haig, Donny and Marie Osmond and Heloise.

20. When I was visiting New York City one time in my bachelor days, I saw novelist John Irving in Central Park. I was a fan of The World According to Garp and a few of his other books, and I thought about approaching him and introducing myself, but he was in a deep conversation with a young woman, and I didn’t think he’d enjoy being interrupted.

21. I started collecting coins as a young boy, and have continued to do so off and on since then.

22. I can name all of the U.S. presidents from memory, and in the order they served. I’ve known how to do this since third grade.

23. I have written one short story that I took the trouble to have copyrighted. It’s called “The Bloody Turnip Diet.” I wrote it in college, and it’s about a kid who hates having to analyze stories to death in English class.

24. I’ve been a Beatles fan almost my entire life, but during college and my 20s I was a huge fan. When John Lennon was murdered in 1980, I wore a black armband to work.

25. As a kid, I once owned a guinea pig named Sassafras.

And Them Ain't Small Potatoes

Here's a little-known piece of Hollywood trivia for you on this rainy Friday afternoon (at least in Waco, Texas).

Actress Marilyn Monroe was photographed wearing just about every conceivable type of clothing during her career, including bib overalls, sailor suits and a few infamous shots wearing "nothing but a smile." At one point, a newspaper columnist remarked that Marilyn would look good even in a potato sack, and she responded by posing in one. The shots of her wearing the "potato sack dress" were a bit hit around the world.

So, what do you think? How does Marilyn Monroe look in burlap?

Random Observations and Trivial Events

1. Did any of you see the Rolling Stones perform during halftime of the recent Super Bowl? I was watching the show with a bunch of other 40-somethings from my Sunday school class, and the initial consensus was that Mick Jagger looked pretty good for someone in his 60s, especially considering how thin he was and how much energy he seemed to have. However, after Mick removed his jacket and started strutting in a T-shirt, a closeup shot revealed the wiggling wattles of fleshy fat dangling from his upper arms, and the women in the room I was in let out a loud, simultaneous “Ewwwwww” of revulsion. I think it ruined for them the whole idea of Mick as a senior citizen sex symbol.

2. People here in Waco were shocked and saddened to learn of the death of one of our local TV weather forecaster’s sons over the weekend. What was unusual was that it was not an accidental death brought on by a car accident or drug overdose, but an accidental death that occurred while parasailing behind a tractor. I didn’t know you could even do this, much less that people do do it. I know the family must be grieving, so please say a prayer for them.

3. Have you heard the incessant ads on radio and TV for some product called “HeightMax?” A father comes on, worrying and fretting aloud about his son’s short stature, and the helpful female announcer asks, “Have you tried HeightMax?” It’s supposedly an “all-natural” supplement full of vitamins and nutrients, according to the company’s website, but my question is, who has the problem here? The kid who might just be a little delayed in his normal development, or the anal retentive dad who is so worried about his child not being as tall as the other boys that he’s willing to try pills hawked over the airwaves? I know a number of buddies of mine who were shrimps in junior high or early high school, and by the time they hit college they were six feet tall or better. Sometimes it just takes time. But I guess I can understand why a person might want to try to help the body along. Society is not very kind to very short men, I don't think. (I'm 6'2", by the way. I was very tall very early, the opposite dilemma).

Muley's Metaphors: The Coelacanth

"The greatest thing by far is to be a master of metaphor. It is the one thing that cannot be learnt from others; and it is also a sign of genius."

--Aristotle, Poetics

Okay, now hold it. I'm surely not claiming to be any stripe of genius, but I do love metaphors, and I like to create them in the same way that some people might like to make a quilt or take a pretty photograph.

What usually happens is that I will be thinking about something, usually something puzzling or surprising in my life, and, unbidden, a metaphor will burst out of my subconcious. I will then match it to the situation I'm thinking about to see how well it "fits." If it springs a lot of holes, I discard it. But if it keeps its shape on first examination, I tend to put it in the back of my mind, and then bring it out every now and then to test it again. After passing a number of tests such as these, I'll usually "keep" the metaphor in my permanent storage chest, even if there are a few minor aspects that don't fit perfectly. I mean, how often does any illustration or comparison fit perfectly?

I say all of this to preface the fact that my metaphor chest has gotten a bit crowded, and to air it out I've decided to share a few of my "keepers" with you. That way, you can tell me if I'm spot on, or if my metaphor crafting ability is as full of holes as a donut factory.

Today's metaphor uses the image of something called a coelacanth. That's pronounced SEE-luh-kanth. I first heard the story of the coelacanth when I was a child, and it has always fascinated me.

What, you ask, is a coelacanth? Well, it is a species of fish, representing the oldest lineage of fish known to man. Here's the thing: until 1938, the only examples of the coelacanth we knew of were fossils. The fish was believed to have been extinct since the end of the Cretaceous period (the "Age of Dinosaurs"), which ended 65 million years ago.

So here's the coelacanth, thought vanished from the Earth for 65 million years. But then, in 1938, an amazing thing happened. A strange fish was caught off the east coast of South Africa off the Chalumna River. The local fishing experts couldn't identify this large and somewhat ugly fish, and it finally ended up being shown to a taxidermist. He remembered seeing pictures of the fossil remains of a coelacanth, and positively identified the mystery fish.

It was evident that the reports of the coelacanth's extinction were premature. Since 1938, in fact, a number of other specimens have been caught in various places in Africa and Indonesia.

I have never caught an extinct fish, but I have had a number of "coelacanth moments" in my life with friends and acquaintances. I will meet someone at a certain point in my life -- maybe a schoolmate, a neighbor, a fellow employee, a romantic partner -- and for awhile I am in frequent contact with them. But then, something major happens -- I move, they move, or we both move. Maybe we are good enough friends that we try our best to keep in touch, but we both get busy with new friends and responsibilities, and before long we have disappeared off each other's radar screens entirely. Old photographs and yearbooks might be the only way either of us remember the other at all.

But just when we think that other person is gone, forgotten, blotted off the Earth entirely, BOOM, we turn a corner and run into them. We have had our coelacanth moment, and a person we thought we'd never see or hear from again is now making small talk with us as if only days, not years, have passed.

The number of my coelacanth moments is not large, but the sightings have definitely been more numerous than I'd ever have predicted. The latest one is one of the most surprising. I went to elementary school at a place called Frostwood Elementary School in Houston in the mid- and late 1960s. One of the kids in my classes was a guy named Lyle who was a friend, but not really a close friend. He had a very unusual last name (which I'll not reveal here), and his full name I doubt is shared by anyone else in the United States. I moved from Houston to Friendswood in 1972, and that was the last I saw of Lyle. I thought.

Fast forward to about six weeks ago. My nine-year-old daughter Katelyn has signed up for a new season of youth basketball, and it's the Saturday when she gets to meet her new coach and teammates for the first time. I take her to the gym and proceed to try and guess which middle aged guy on the court is her coach. I point to one man and ask a bystander, "Is that Coach Jones?", and they say "No, that's Lyle _____." I hear that name from my childhood, and I immediately know that there's no way that person can be anyone but my old classmate. I walk up and introduce myself, and sure enough, it's him. We're both a bit amused, I think, to run into each other this way.

Of course, there's a sequel to this story. Last night, my daughter's basketball team, winless so far, was hoping to score their first victory with an easy win against Lyle's team (winless and almost scoreless for the season). Dang it if he and his girls didn't beat us. I was thinking after the game, if I'd only known back in elementary school that Lyle's daughter's team was going to beat my daughter's team, I probably wouldn't have loaned him any pencils.

This is only the latest coelacanth moment I've known. I've been on vacation in faraway cities I've never visited before and run into people I worked with or studied with decades before. I have gotten calls out of the blue from high school classmates I last saw on graduation night more than 25 years ago. I have worked with neophyte reporters in small market television stations, lost track of them after they got better jobs, and then years later found them again, appearing on some national network TV news program. It seems I keep catching those ancient fish, over and over again.

So, what about you? Have you had any coelacanth moments? And if so, were they pleasing, or upsetting? I'm interested to know.

In any case, this was fun. I'll be back with more metaphors from time to time.

When Can We Call Ourselves Artists?

My teenage daughter Rebecca, an aspiring artist, found a book in the shelves on a recent Barnes & Noble excursion called The Art Spirit by Robert Henri. Henri was apparently a famous painter and painting instructor, and the book is a collection of his comments collected from his lectures and letters, published back in 1923. I looked through the book and found a number of thought-provoking observations. Here's how the book opens up:

Art when really understood is the province of every human being. It is simply a question of doing things, anything, well. It is not an outside, extra thing.

When the artist is alive in any person, whatever his kind of work may be, he becomes an inventive, searching, daring, self-expressing creature. He becomes interesting to other people. He disturbs, upsets, enlightens, and he opens ways for a better understanding. Where those who are not artists are trying to close the book, he opens it, shows there are still more pages possible.

The world would stagnate without him, and the world would be beautiful with him; for he is interesting to himself and he is interesting to others. He does not have to be a painter or sculptor to be an artist. He can work in any medium. He simply has to find the gain in the work itself, not outside it.

Museums of art will not make a country an art country. But where there is the art spirit there will be precious works to fill museums. Better still, there will be the happiness that is in the making. Art tends towards balance, order, judgment of relative values, the laws of growth, the economy of living -- very good things for anyone to be interested in.

Here's another passage that leaped out at me:

There are moments in our lives, there are moments in a day, when we seem to see beyond the usual -- become clairvoyant. We reach then into reality. Such are the moments of our greatest happiness. Such are the moments of our greatest wisdom.

It is in the nature of all people to have these experiences; but in our time and under the conditions of our lives, it is only a rare few who are able to continue in the experience and find expression for it.

At such times there is a song going on within us, a song to which we listen. It fills us with surprise. We marvel at it. We would continue to hear it. But few are capable of holding themselves in the state of listening to their own song. Intellectuality steps in and as the song within us is of the utmost sensitiveness, it retires in the presence of the cold, material intellect. It is aristocratic and will not associate itself with the commonplace -- and we fall back and become our ordinary selves. Yet we live in the memory of these songs which in moments of intellectual inadvertence have been possible to us. They are the pinnacles of our experience and it is the desire to express these intimate sensations, this song from within, which motivates the masters of all art.

I felt a pang of knowing guilt reading this one:

The habit of digression -- lack of continued interest -- want of fixed purpose, is an almost general failing. It is too easy to drift and the habit of letting oneself drift begets drifting. The power of concentration is rare and must be sought and cultivated, and prolonged work on one subject must not be mistaken for concentration. Prolonged work on one subject may be simply prolonged digression, which is a useless effort, as it is to no end.

And here's one final thought from Robert Henri:

The true artist regards his work as a means of talking with men, of saying his say to himself and to others. It is not a question of pay. It is not a question of willing acceptance on the part of the public. If he is welcomed and paid it is very good, but whether or no he must say his say.

Rejected Romance Novel Titles #2

Random Observations and Trivial Events

1. I just noticed a new entry to the “Dummies” series of books called something like Getting Pregnant for Dummies. Don’t we have enough of this going around already? And do you really need a book to tell you how to do this? I’m wondering what the company will do for an encore. Will there ever be a book in the best-selling “Dummies” series titled Learning Disabilities for Dummies? Or a book in the “Idiot’s” series titled The Idiot’s Guide to Interbreeding?

2. Don’t laugh, but I have just started reading the book Little Women. And no, it’s not because I think it’s a photo book you look at long ways. I’ve heard so much about this American classic, I feel I’ll be missing out on something if I don’t read it. The heroine of the story, Jo, is a tomboy who I’ve heard described as the only woman in 19th century American fiction who was allowed to be opinionated and independent and “get away with it,” meaning that she didn’t have to relinquish it for the sake of some guy. I want to read about her and see how Louisa May Alcott created her (a character very much like her, I’ve been told). Any Little Women fans out there?

3. Speaking of literary classics, there’s a number of others that I’ve so far neglected to read, and this year I’m going to try and tackle at least a few of them. On my 2006 reading list so far:

The Divine Comedy by Dante
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
Crime and Punishment by Dostoevsky
The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
The four books in The Chronicles of Narnia I haven’t read yet

Any other suggestions for a good "classic" read?

4. Through various sermons I’ve heard lately from three different pastors, I’ve been getting the message that God has a plan for me, and that if I’m not having fun at what I’m doing for a living, God probably wants me doing something lese, something that uses the unique talents he’s given me. I’m on board with this assessment, but my question is – how do I find out what this “perfect work” is? The short, answer, or course, is pray about it, but I seem to be unable to discern God’s will for my life through prayer. I guess that’s my real question here – any tips on how to do this?

5. Finally, I was listening to a few minutes of an A&E “Biography” show on Frank Gifford this morning while I was getting ready for work, and I heard a funny story. The show was talking about how when Kathie Lee married Frank Gifford, he was already old enough to have grandchildren. It mentioned that when Kathie Lee had her first child by Frank, some of his old football and broadcasting pals were a little taken aback. When Frank called Don Meredith to tell him the news, there was a long pause, and then Meredith said “Don’t worry, Frank, I’ll find the guy who did this to her.” Years later, when Kathie Lee was pregnant with their second child, Frank called Meredith with the news, and again heard a long pause, followed by, “Dang it! I killed the wrong guy…”

Rejected Romance Novel Titles #1

Brad and Jen and Angelina, ad infinitum

As a former member of the broadcast news media, I understand a little about what type of story resonates with readers and viewers. A lot of recent stories that made a big splash on TV and in the tabloids I knew would be big, and I could see why. The runaway bride story? No doubt people would be interested in that. A young, healthy sex symbol like Lindsay Lohan showing up looking like a skeleton? I understand why people want to know what happened. The Weekly World News reporting that Bat Boy has run off with Hillary Clinton again? Hey, let me read that.

But there is one story that remains at the top of the news list for TV and magazines that for the life of me I can't understand. It's the story about the love triangle between Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie. For those of you just emerging from a 50-year stint in the bomb shelter, here's the basic story: Brad marries Jennifer, Brad takes an interest in Angelina, Brad dumps Jennifer for Angelina. Jen feels bad, Brad and Angelina are happy. Angelina gets pregnant. That's it.

Now, I understand why all of that news would be of great interest to the media eager to fill pages or 30 minutes of air time a night. But why, oh why, is the story still apparently the hottest thing around, long after the big revelations have already been made, and analyzed, and analyzed again? It's been many months now since the original infidelity and subsequent switcheroo took place. So why is this story apparently the No. 1 news event in the solar system?

You think I exaggerate? I do my family's grocery shopping each week, so I see all the tabloids and magazines at the checkout counter. Last night, I wrote down what each one had as its cover story. Not a cover story, but the cover story, the one with the huge headline and the cover photo. Here's this week's roundup:

People: "Brad and Angelina: Inside Their Love"

US: "How Jen Found Out"

Star: "Pregnant Angelina COLLAPSES" (and a secondary cover head: "Humiliated Jen Proposes to Vince!"

In Touch: "What She's Not Telling Brad" (she being Angelina)

Celebrity Living: "Brad and Angelina: TWINS!"

OK!: "Who Really Told Jen?"

There was not a single magazine on the stand that did not have the Brad-Jen-Angelina story as its cover. And believe me, it's like this almost every week. Another story will occasionally grab the covers for a week here and there -- the Lindsay Lohan anorexia revelations, the Jessica and Nick divorce -- but after those stories burn out, it's back to Brad and Jen and Brad and Angelina and Jen and Angelina.

I truly can't fathom that there are significant numbers of people in the United States so caught up in this non-story that they have to spend good money each week to avail themselves of every scrap of gossip and every idle speculation by "unnamed sources" about what Jen might think about what Brad and Angelina are doing, or what Brad might think of what Jen is doing, or what any of them think about anything at all.

Can any of you readers help me figure this out?

I tell you, it's almost enough to make me wish for another O.J. trial.

Spicy Wings and a Prayer

Now, faithful readers, in my time I have heard of ministers and other religious types invoking blessings over all sorts of things, living and inanimate alike: babies, married couples, buildings, pets and who knows what else. I mean, near where I grew up on the Gulf Coast, they even bless the shrimping fleet each year before it goes out to snag unwary crustaceans.

But I have never, until now, heard of a religious official clearing a path through the spicy chicken wings to preside over the blessing of a Hooters restaurant. And lo and behold, it's happening here in Waco, the buckle of the Texas Bible belt. Who says we're a dull town?

Now, I surely don't wish harm on anyone who works in or eats at this Hooters, and it would be proper and Christian to ask God to protect all souls inside from any disaster. But -- am I the only one who thinks that calling on the Lord to bless a restaurant whose appeal and indeed its very name is based on the idea of men coming in to look at women's breasts through tight T-shirts is a bit...oh, I don't know...unseemly? Is there a chart somewhere which lists which types of businesses may or may not receive church blessings? Where do casinos fit into this list? Strip clubs? Peep shows?

Looking Back at Christmas

Now that Christmas 2005 is just a fading memory, I thought I'd take a moment to look back on few things which briefly plopped in my brain pan during the holiday rush.

1. One of the things my kids look forward to every Christmas is to discover what kind of new animated Santa figurine the manufacturers will come up with. In the past, they've given us Santas that dance, snore and sing. This year, I was not surprised to see a "Rappin' Santa" figurine, as well as a Santa who shook his red booty as his pants fell partway down. Is there any limit to where they will go with this? Will we be seeing "Pull My Finger Santa" one day?

UPDATE: I can't even joke about this because they're one step ahead of me. Looking for a photo illustration to accompany this, I found out they already have a "Pull My Finger" Santa doll.

2. Everyone knows that all of the ingredients needed to make the "traditional" holiday foods often get in short supply around Christmas time -- icing and green and red sprinkles for Christmas cookies, frozen tukeys, cans of pumpkin, etc. One thing I was surprised to discover is also in short supply come Christmas time are cans of Rotel tomatoes -- you know, the ones that are a bit spicy and are used in salsa and dips. I never associated this with Christmas, but I found Rotel sold out at store after store on the eve of the big day (I was trying to buy some). I have figured out that lots of people must make the same cheese-and-Rotel dip that we do, and use it not at the Christmas meal, but for snacking at after-Christmas and football watching parties.

3. I won't deny that the lingerie sold by Victoria's Secret has always been attractive to me -- I think that's their entire point, right? -- but at the same time, it always seemed to be presented with at least a tiny bit of Victorian elegance and restraint. From what I saw holiday shopping last month, that restraint seems to have been deemed too tame. Every window I saw at a Victoria's Secret store this holiday season seemed to be one from a raunchier shop instead. The big signs in their windows said "Give Me Sexy," but I think it should have been "Give Me Sleazy." The mannequins were dressed in the naughiest, barest outfits, and placed in poses usually assumed by women either about to give birth or entertain a busload of sailors on shore leave. Don't we already have Frederick's of Hollywood for this?

4. I don't know about you, but I'm getting sick and tired of stores that have to do an in-depth interview with you before they'll ring up your purchase. I've always resented being asked even the simplest information at the counter, including my zip code or my telephone number. This past Christmas, however, it seemed as if salesclerks were instructed to probe further. I was at a Christian book chain store one day, trying to buy some Narnia items for my kids, and I got to listen in as the poor soul in front of me was quizzed for what seemed like minutes by the sales clerk. This guy ended up having to tell the clerk his name, address (including his apartment number), his zip code, his home number and his work number. I was ready for the clerk to come from behind the register, count his teeth and then take a blood sample. I made a decision right then and there: I'm no longer playing this game. At all. When it came to be my turn and I was asked for my address and zip, I said very politely, "I don't give out that information, thank you," and the clerk very politely said "okay."

5. I'm usually on the tail end of trends, so I wasn't surprised when Christmas shopping that I suddenly saw books, games and magazines offering up something called "Suduko," and realized I didn't know what the heck this apparent new hot trend was. I finally picked up a book and learned that Suduko is a new type of crossword puzzle from Japan that uses numbers instead of letters. You look at the numbers that are printed in an unfinished grid and then have to figure out which numbers should be added in where. I bought a book, did one puzzle (at the "obscenely easy and infantile" level) and got it wrong. This dampened my enthusiasm a bit, but I guess I'll try again soon. Do any of you Suduko?

6. This might make me sound like trailer trash, but I wish we could keep Christmas lights up all year round. How they transform dark, dreary neighborhoods into fairy lands! If people got tired of seeing the same things, we could alternate light colors with the seasons and the holidays -- pink and red for Valentine's, pastel colors for Easter, red, white and blue for Fourth of July, etc. Just a thought.

Bye for now.

We Must Not Let Asia Lead in Snake Smooching!

Hear that giant sucking -- I mean hissing -- sound? That's the world snake-kissing record leaving the U.S. for distant shores.

KUALA LUMPUR, Malaysia -- A kiss is just a kiss, but it may prove to be the kiss of death for a Malaysian snake charmer who will attempt to set a new world record by planting 50 smooches on a venomous snake in 10 minutes.

Shahimi Abdul Hamid, 33, will perform the dangerous feat on March 11 in a bid to break the current record held by an American man who kissed a poisonous snake 30 times in an unspecified time, the national news agency Bernama said Thursday.

Shahini has urged Malaysians to support him in his endeavor, saying he "wants to prove that Asians can also be champions in taming poisonous snakes." He could not be reached for comments.

Bernama said Shahimi displayed his prowess at a news conference late Wednesday by kissing a three-meter long King Cobra 21 times. His bid in March will be filmed by U.S. television show Ripley's Believe It Or Not, Bernama said.

Guess She Was All Shook Up

SYDNEY (Reuters) -- An Australian woman will face court on Tuesday charged with repeatedly stabbing her partner because he played an Elvis Presley song over and over again, police said on Tuesday.

Police said the 30-year-old woman was charged with unlawful wounding after her 35-year-old partner was stabbed with a pair of scissors in the back, shoulder and thigh at Northam, about 100 km east of Perth in Western Australia state on Monday.

The man, whose injuries were described as "non-life threatening", had been repeatedly playing the song "Burning Love," a police spokesman said.

The 1972 song was the U.S. rock great's 40th and last top 10 hit on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

Acting My Age

Found a face-slapping quote today...

"Forty-five is the age of recklessness for many men, as if in defiance of the decay and death waiting with open arms at the sinister valley at the bottom of the inevitable hill."

--Joseph Conrad, Victory

Good morning, sunshine! Care to guess how old I am? Well, let's just say that after reading this, I'm inspired to drag my decaying carcass out into the middle of Interstate 35 and forget about waiting for the sinister valley. I'll just let a sinister Kenworth do me in.

Sheesh, now I see why this guy wrote a book called Heart of Darkness. I'll bet he was fun on a date.

And you know the funny thing? Old Joe lived to be 67 years old, so he had 22 years to mope around thinking he was a rotting bag of peat moss heading for Potter's Field.

I'm 45, and I'm here to say it's not bad, not bad at all.

POSTSCRIPT: Man, what was it with all of these turn-of-the-20th century writers? Couldn't they handle middle age with a little more grace?

Here's what one of my favorite humorists, Mark Twain, had to say on my desk calendar's daily quote today:

"The first half of life consists of the capacity to enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without the capacity."

Gee, no wonder Huck left in the raft.

Is That Gouda in Your Pocket, Or Are You About to Whack Me?

(MEMPHIS, Tenn.) –– In an unusual case of mistaken identity, a woman who thought a block of white cheese was cocaine is charged with trying to hire a hit man to rob and kill four men. The woman also was mistaken about the hit man. He turned out to be an undercover police officer.

Jessica Sandy Booth, 18, was arrested over the weekend and remains in jail with bond set at $1 million on four charges of attempted murder and four counts of soliciting a murder.

According to police, Booth was in the Memphis home of the four intended victims last week when she mistook a block of queso fresco cheese for cocaine — inspiring the idea to hire someone to break into the home, take the drugs, and kill the men.

An informant described the plot to police, who arranged a meeting between Booth and the undercover officer.

The undercover officer gave Booth some nonfunctioning handguns, bought ammunition for her because she was too young, and the two proceeded to the home under police surveillance.

Booth told the officer that any children inside the house old enough to testify would have to be killed, police said.

A search of the home with the permission of the occupants revealed no drugs — only the white, crumbly cheese common in Mexican cuisine.

"Four men were going to lose their lives over some cheese," said Lt. Jeff Clark, who heads Project Safe Neighborhoods.

Weird Web Photo Gallery

Anyone you know? Look closely.

Prep School Panhandler

I'm curious -- what do you readers think of this mom's attempt to help her daughter? I'm still undecided.

Mom Makes Teen Stand on Street With Sign

By Sean Murphy, Associated Press Writer

(EDMOND, Okla.) -- Tasha Henderson got tired of her 14-year-old daughter's poor grades, her chronic lateness to class and her talking back to her teachers, so she decided to teach the girl a lesson.

She made Coretha stand at a busy Oklahoma City intersection Nov. 4 with a cardboard sign that read: "I don't do my homework and I act up in school, so my parents are preparing me for my future. Will work for food."

"This may not work. I'm not a professional," said Henderson, a 34-year-old mother of three. "But I felt I owed it to my child to at least try."

In fact, Henderson has seen a turnaround in her daughter's behavior in the past week and a half. But the punishment prompted letters and calls to talk radio from people either praising the woman or blasting her for publicly humiliating her daughter.

"The parents of that girl need more education than she does if they can't see that the worst scenario in this case is to kill their daughter psychologically," Suzanne Ball said in a letter to The Oklahoman.

Marvin Lyle, 52, said in an interview: "I don't see anything wrong with it. I see the other extreme where parents don't care what the kids do, and at least she wants to help her kid."

Coretha has been getting C's and D's as a freshman at Edmond Memorial High in this well-to-do Oklahoma City suburb. Edmond Memorial is considered one of the top high schools in the state in academics.

While Henderson stood next to her daughter at the intersection, a passing motorist called police with a report of psychological abuse, and an Oklahoma City police officer took a report. Mother and daughter were asked to leave after about an hour, and no citation was issued. But the report was forwarded to the state Department of Human Services.

"There wasn't any criminal act involved that the officer could see that would require any criminal investigation," Master Sgt. Charles Phillips said. "DHS may follow up."

DHS spokesman Doug Doe would not comment on whether an investigation was opened, but suggested such a case would probably not be a high priority.

Tasha Henderson said her daughter's attendance has been perfect and her behavior has been better since the incident.

Coretha, a soft-spoken girl, acknowledged the punishment was humiliating but said it got her attention. "I won't talk back," she said quietly, hanging her head.

She already has been forced by her parents to give up basketball and track because of slipping grades, and said she hopes to improve in school so she can play next year.

Donald Wertlieb, a professor of child development at the Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development at Tufts University, warned that such punishment could do extreme emotional damage. He said rewarding positive behavior is more effective.

"The trick is to catch them being good," he said. "It sounds like this mother has not had a chance to catch her child being good or is so upset over seeing her be bad, that's where the focus is."

Built For a Kilt

This past weekend, Mrs. Muley and I took our oldest daughter to the Scottish Festival and Highland Games in Salado. My daughter is very interested in and proud of her Scottish ancestry (on my wife's side of the family), and last year we went to the festival for the first time. My daughter loved it, and ended up getting us to give her a woman's kilt and a tartan tam as a Christmas present.

This was our second year to attend, and my daughter brought two friends along with her. A big highlight for her was that she got to taste haggis for the first time (she claims she LOVES it, and says it tastes like very seasoned hamburger, despite numerous reports that it tastes like something you'd find on the bottom of your shoe).

It's a somewhat surreal experience to be at a Scottish festival. Everywhere there are men in kilts walking around, and the sound of bagpipes, all playing different tunes on top of each other, is constant. Some might consider that to be one of Dante's circles of hell, but you get used to it after awhile, just like the noise of freight trains passing close to a house, or a pneumatic drill pounding away in a machine shop.

The most interesting thing about the festival for me was a piece of information I received from a genuine Scotsman that I haven't been able to verify yet. He said that there is an age-old feud between the clans of McDonald and Campbell. It's so bad, he said, that to this day in Scotland, people named Campbell will not eat in a McDonald's restaurant, and people named McDonald will not eat Campbell's soup. Even if he was pulling our legs about that, it's an interesting story.

Weird Web Photo Gallery

What happens when you cross the Cat in the Hat's hat, Big Bird and and a rainbow? Well, you get something that will certainly turn some heads when you wear it to church on Sunday.

When I see these weird fashion pictures, I always wonder what's going through the model's head when she's wearing contraptions such as this. Does she think she's being daring, or chic, or does she know that most of us will be laughing our rears off at her costume? Or does she even care what we plebians think?

Weird Web Photo Gallery

I'm not sure how to caption this.

"The Child is Father to the Man...no...the Man is Father to the Child...no..."

"Mother and Child Reunion"

"The Ending of Kubrick's 2001 Finally Explained"

Any ideas?

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

Does anybody really care?

I ask this question after a revelation I had today on the university campus on which I work. For some unkown reason -- possibly I was worried in the back of my mind that my old-fashioned wristwatch was so old-fashioned as to be dorkily laughable, I don't know -- I used my walk across campus to look at students' arms to learn what types of wristwatches they are wearing nowadays.

What I found is, put simply, that they don't wear wristwatches.

Of course, I exaggerate a bit. But I saw a lot of students, and did a lot of mental noting, and I'd say only about a third of the guys wore wristwatches, while maybe (maybe) only five percent of the women wore them.

I know that if you did a watch survey of my post-college colleagues in the building where I work, you'd find every single one of us timebound serfs was wearing a watch. So I want to know -- what causes the discrepancy between our two groups?

Is this an age thing? A cultural difference? A difference in life philosophies? Can college students not scarf up $14.95 for a Timex at Wal-Mart? Please tell me, dear readers, what you think the answer might be. I appeal to Humor Girl and any other college students reading this -- what's the deal?

I have a few possibilities that might or might not be the answer at this university:

1. College students, being the free spirits they are, don't need to be tied down by materialistic, capitalistic tools of slavery like clocks and watches. Besides, TIVO will record Lost and The OC when it's supposed to.

2. Since all college students are melded to electronic devices such as cell phones and laptops at all times, and since most of these gadgets tell time as well, there's no need for superfluous wristwatches.

3. Since the clock on the administration building here chimes out the quarter hours, and can be heard across much of campus, wristwatches aren't needed, at least by students who haven't attended an excessive number of rock concerts.

4. By not wearing a watch, students can always have a foolproof excuse for being late to classes and other pesky obligations.

5. Maybe wearing a watch is secret code for "I have extensive comic book and Star Wars figurine collections and live at home with my parents. Wanna go out sometime?"

So -- tell me your ideas. I want to figure this one out.

Weird Web Photo Gallery

If Pablo Picasso had owned a dog, it probably would have looked like this:

The Latest from Waco

IT'S OFFICIAL

Yesterday I heard my first Christmas tune of the season piped in through a sound system while shopping. The place was Wal-Mart, the song was "Jingle Bell Rock." Start your engines.

ANY COUPONS, YOU OLD FOGIE?

Speaking of piped-in music, the HEB grocery store I frequent plays 1960s and 1970s rock and pop hits, which I usually enjoy a lot, except when they interrupt a great tune I haven't heard in years to tell me that chicken gizzards are now available in the deli section. While I like the music, the teenagers who work the cash register and haphazardly bag my groceries absolutely hate it.

I have had this happen more than once. I wheel up with my cart and start unloading items, only to hear the checker, usually a teenaged boy with pimples, muttering loudly to impress his teenage female co-worker: "I hate this music. This music sucks! How can I work here with this stuff playing? Why don't they get some decent music in here? This sucks. I hate this music."

Of course, I empathize. If I had worked at a supermarket back in the 70s, and all they had playing over the speakers was Muzak and stuff like the Four Freshmen and Pat Boone, I would have gone nutso. So I know where they're coming from, even if I firmly believe the songs I grew up on are way superior to the drooling ghetto thump that most of these kids listen to. Maybe they understand, or maybe they don't, that if HEB played the stuff they wanted to hear over the speakers, Coldplay and Green Day and Simple Plan and Razzy Daddy Super Pimp 50 Cent Ghetto Hood rap, all the customers over the age of 23 would head down the road to buy their bagels at the Super Wal-Mart.

HIT ME AGAIN

This is not something your typical good Baptist boy does, but I occasionally pick up extra money dealing blackjack. My brother-in-law owns a sideline business here in Waco called Vegas to Go, and they provide casino games for parties. He does a lot of sorority and fraternity parties at Baylor, as well as company parties, family reunions and the like. There's no cash betting allowed. Usually what happens is that the players are given a certain amount of funny money, which they use to buy chips. They then either lose their chips or add to them by playing Texas Hold 'Em poker, blackjack, craps or roulette, and then trade them in at the end for tickets to a raffle of some sort.

Blackjack is fairly easy to deal, and the people who play are usually young and doing it for fun. So it's usually enjoyable, even though sitting there and dealing hands for two or three hours at a time can get tedious. Mrs. Muley (who deals as well) and I will be spending part of tomorrow night dealing at a sorority party on a riverboat here in Waco. Should be fun.

SENTIENT UNDERWEAR?

I've always wondered -- why do they call it a "Living" Bra? Are there bacteria or some other type of living organisms woven into the fabric? If so, ladies, can you feel those critters wriggling around? If you put one of these things in a microwave for a minute on HIGH, would it then be called a "Dead" Bra? And would it still support the merchandise?

THERE'S ALWAYS NEXT YEAR

I have so far said nothing about my Houston Astros since they won the National League pennant. As you know, they tanked in the World Series, losing every game to Chicago. What can I say? Even though the games were close (distressingly so), Chicago actually brought their offense along to the ballpark and deserved to win. I'm just glad that the 'Stros finally made it to the big show after 44 years. I hope it's not another 44 till they're back again.

And since the Astros didn't win the Series, no, the world will not end. At least not because of that.

Yes, I'll Take a (Cashier's) Check

From surfing around, I see that this is the latest gimmick. So here I go.

My blog is worth $13,548.96.
How much is your blog worth?

Anyone want to purchase the biting wit, hard-hitting analysis and sheer irrelevance of Muley's World? The money would help pay for a bathroom remodel, a few nice reading chairs and a big box of Dots candy. Send me an e-mail if interested.

Don't Laugh, It's Coming

Now That's Realism

FREDERICA, Delaware –– The apparent suicide of a woman found hanging from a tree went unreported for hours because passers-by thought the body was a Halloween decoration, authorities said.

The 42-year-old woman used rope to hang herself across the street from some homes on a moderately busy road late Tuesday or early Wednesday, state police said.

The body, suspended about 15 feet above the ground, could be easily seen from passing vehicles.

State police spokesman Cpl. Jeff Oldham and neighbors said people noticed the body at breakfast time Wednesday but dismissed it as a holiday prank. Authorities were called to the scene more than three hours later.

"They thought it was a Halloween decoration," Fay Glanden, wife of Mayor William Glanden, told The (Wilmington) News Journal.

"It looked like something somebody would have rigged up," she said.

Musical Maxims

Have you ever thought how much great (and terrible) advice and life philosophies there are in pop songs? I sat around the other day and tried to recall all the pithy lines I could. Here's 10 off the top of my head. Maybe you can add your own to this list:

1. Every form of refuge has its price. (Lyin’ Eyes, Eagles)

2. Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose (Me and Bobby McGee, Janis Joplin).

3. You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. (Subterranean Homesick Blues, Bob Dylan)

4. All that glitters is gold (All Star, Smash Mouth)

5. Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans. (Watching the Wheels, John Lennon).

6. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. (Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell)

7. In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. (The End, Beatles)

8. All you need is love. (All You Need is Love, Beatles)

9. You can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself. (Garden Party, Rick Nelson)

10. It’s what we do that makes us what we are. (One Less Set of Footsteps, Jim Croce)

What Happens in the Blogosphere Stays in the Blogosphere (Yeah, Right)

I’m sure by now, if you live in America and come within one linear mile of a television set now and then, you have seen the commercials hawking Las Vegas as a place where you can do things you normally wouldn’t do, with the knowledge that your dirty deeds (or at least your embarrassing ones) won’t become gossip fodder back home. You’ve no doubt heard the slogan that sums up the philosophy:

WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS
STAYS IN VEGAS

As it usually happens with catchy slogans, this one has caught on and is being copied and modified all over. The other day, I even saw a student on the campus of America’s largest Baptist university with a T-shirt that read

WHAT HAPPENS AT BAYLOR
STAYS AT BAYLOR

This got me to thinking (which is always a dangerous turn of events). What if this slogan concept had been available much earlier in world history? What kind of T-shirts would have been in evidence?

I think all the way back to the 1500s on the North Carolina coast, the site of England’s first North American colony. No doubt Virginia Dare and her fellow “lost” colonists were wearing clothing that said

WHAT HAPPENS ON ROANOKE ISLAND
STAYS ON ROANOKE ISLAND

In the same way, Amelia Earhart’s support team should have worried when they saw her step into her plane after refueling in Lae, bound for Howland Island, wearing a T-shirt that said

WHAT HAPPENS IN OPEN WATER
STAYS IN OPEN WATER

These types of shirts likely would have shown up at other points in history. Imagine the guards watching Tsar Nicholas II and his family in that cellar in 1918, wearing T-shirts with hammers and sickles that proclaimed

WHAT HAPPENS IN EKATERINBURG
STAYS IN EKATERINBURG

And what good Nazi anxious to impress Hitler and Himmler would have been caught dead in 1944 without a brown T-shirt that read

WHAT HAPPENS IN AUSCHWITZ
STAYS IN AUSCHWITZ

I think other criminals would have been attracted to the slogan concept as well. Too bad Scotland Yard didn't stop and question the surgeon’s assistant wearing the bloody smock that read

WHAT HAPPENS IN WHITECHAPEL
STAYS IN WHITECHAPEL

And people should have been a bit suspicious about Unabomber Theodore Kaczynski when he came into town for supplies wearing sunglasses and a smelly, torn sweatshirt that read

WHAT HAPPENS IN LONELY, REMOTE SHACKS IN THE WILDS OF MONTANA
STAYS IN LONELY, REMOTE SHACKS IN THE WILDS OF MONTANA

Politics would be a natural for these as well. In fact, I’ve learned that Deep Throat didn’t decide to reveal his identity because he wanted to. He was forced to, being outed by neighbors who saw him mowing the lawn in shirts that said

WHAT HAPPENED IN EMPTY WASHINGTON D.C. PARKING GARAGES AT NIGHT DURING THE NIXON ADMINISTRATION
WILL STAY IN EMPTY WASHINGTON D.C. PARKING GARAGES AT NIGHT DURING THE NIXON ADMINISTRATION
(AT LEAST UNTIL I’M DEAD)

Speaking of Nixon, the T-shirts he and Bill Clinton had made didn’t work like they hoped:

WHAT HAPPENS IN THE OVAL OFFICE
STAYS IN THE OVAL OFFICE

Those guys should have learned from President Harding’s cabinet members back in the 1920s during the Teapot Dome Scandal, when they wore little pins on their starched white dress shirts that said

WHAT HAPPENS IN SMOKE-FILLED ROOMS
STAYS IN SMOKE-FILLED ROOMS

I see this slogan working on TV shows as well. Of course, there needs to be a bit of sex or other salaciousness to make it work right. For example, Aunt Bee wouldn’t have drawn in any more viewers wearing an apron that said

WHAT HAPPENS IN MAYBERRY
STAYS IN MAYBERRY

Surely one of the saddest, most frustrating T-shirts on television was the one worn by Gilligan and his friends that said

WHAT HAPPENS ON THE ISLAND
STAYS ON THE ISLAND

And we should have kept a better eye on Pee Wee Herman when he began wearing shirts that said

WHAT HAPPENS IN THE PLAYHOUSE
STAYS IN THE PLAYHOUSE

Finally, will we see this T-shirt on the Sopranos anytime soon?

WHAT HAPPENS IN NEW JERSEY
STAYS, WEIGHTED DOWN BY CONCRETE AND DUMPED IN A CANAL SOMEWHERE, IN NEW JERSEY

Will Jesus Return Now That the Astros Have Won?

Yes, that's the question I'm asking today. Are the end times here? First, all these hurricanes and earthquakes. Then the impossible -- Houston actually WINS a National League playoff.

I have been rooting for Houston almost since I was old enough to watch TV or listen to radio. So many times have I waited through the playoffs, only to be denied a trip to the World Series by some incredible mistake. My analogy was always that the Astros were Charlie Brown, and the World Series was the football that Lucy pulled away at the last moment every single time.

Now, I guess I'll have to take that blurb about "long-suffering Astros fan" out of my profile. At this point, I don't even care as much that they win the World Series than that they fought the odds and made it. I'll be watching Saturday some way, even though Mrs. Muley and I will be down in San Antonio celebrating our 17th anniversary. We've got a nice hotel on the Riverwalk, so we're going to be eating Mexican food, strolling around, and doing other things I won't discuss here.

Have a great weekend, guys. And root for the 'Stros!

The Latest from Waco

SUICIDE SQUIRREL

It is squirrel season in Central Texas right now. On the campus where I work, the little things are scurrying back and forth, gathering nuts for the winter. This is a life-affirming activity, but there is at least one squirrel around here with a death wish. Twice now, as I have driven off the campus toward home at the end of a day, this little fella has waited for my approach, then has run straight in front of my vehicle at the last minute, hoping my wheels would crush him to a furry paste. I know it’s got to be the same squirrel, because the two episodes have occurred in exactly the same spot.

Even when I have stopped and tried to drive around the squirrel, instead of running in the opposite direction he darts straight for my tires. He wants to be dead, dead, dead, and he wants me to kill him. He’s the Charlie Tuna of the treetops.

So far, I have resisted all his attempts to have me play the part of a mercy killer. But if he keeps it up, my patience might wear out. I keep wondering – what fuels his death wish? Is Mrs. Nutsy cheating with a bushier squirrel from the tree next door? Did some scavenging rodent steal the supply of pecans he’s painstakingly spent all summer amassing? Did some heartless frat boy spike an acorn with PCP and feed it to the little guy? I detect a series on Animal Planet here: “Suicide Squirrels.”

OH, PLEASE

While browsing through the stacks in the library, I saw an anthology of stories collected by Alfred Hitchcock called Stories that Scared Even Me. Now, c’mon. Did these tales really terrify old Alfred?

I SCANNED THE SHERIFF

The other day at the grocery store checkout, I noticed that the nametag of the high school girl who scanned my items said her name was “Marley.” And she didn’t have black skin or dreadlocks, or talk with a Jamaican accent. I said, “I know you probably get this all the time, but were you named after the singer?” She said, “You mean Bob Marley?” (as if maybe I thought the ghost in A Christmas Carol actually sang carols, I don’t know). I said “Yes,” and she then confirmed the fact that her parents were big Marley fans. “You know, there’s another girl who works here who’s named Marley as well,” she told me. I was a bit taken aback.

How did I miss this apparent trend –– little Millennial WASP girls named after the doobie king himself? Have any of you run into someone (not a Rastafarian vocalist) named Marley? Is there already a women’s perfume or a Bratz doll character named Marley?

AISLES OF SMILES

Speaking of grocery stores, I notice that they have upgraded the special kiddie carts they provide for parents to push small kids around the aisles in. They used to have those extra-long carts with a few plastic seats just added on the back, but now they are using big enclosed plastic buggies, with fake steering wheels and flashing lights on the fake dashboard to keep the sugar-fueled little tykes occupied while mom tries to ignore them and shop. Some of the buggies at the HEB where I shop are even decorated with pictures of Barney and Baby Bop.

I’m wondering two things. First of all, since almost all consumer products evolve endlessly, what is the next step for these kiddie carts? Will they next have actual TV screens and DVD players in them, so kids can watch TV or DVDs while mommy shops? And will they then add X-Boxes or Playstations? I wouldn’t doubt it.

My second thought is this. If kids can have this opportunity to be entertained when faced with being forced to endure a boring shopping trip, why not adults? When men are forced to accompany their wives clothes shopping, why can’t they sit in an enclosed cart filled with munchies and beer, a TV tuned to sports and copies of Maxim and Stuff? And gals, when you have to accompany your husbands as they patrol the aisles at Home Depot or the neighborhood electronics store, why can’t you be pushed around in comfort in a buggy filled with snacks and video or your choice as you lounge on a seat with built-in massage devices? Hmmm?

KIDS SAY THE DARNDEST THINGS

A few weeks ago in the 4th grade Sunday school class Mrs. Muley and I teach, they had a Baylor baseball player come and give his testimony to the kids, and talk to them about his plans for life. He mentioned that after he finishes playing baseball, he might go to seminary. “Does anyone know what a seminary is?” he asked the class. One puzzled-looking little boy raised his hand.

“Isn’t that where they bury people?” he replied.

Quote of the week:

"If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant's life, she will choose to save the infant's life without even considering if there is a man on base."

--Dave Barry

Deep Breath...Take Two

Okay, as the old phrase goes, it's time to &*$# or get off the pot.

I have been in a blogging limbo for three or four weeks, wondering what to do. The long story short is this. I got a great thrill out of blogging, but that was the problem. I was devoting WAY to much time to it, committing myself (in my own mind) to make at least one post a day, if not more. I was throwing in everything but the kitchen sink in an effort to do something every day, and try to keep an audience. At some point, the well ran dry.

Also, I became somewhat obsessed with the numbers game. How many visits did my site get today? How many comments did my last post get? None so far. (15 minutes later) Let me check back again and see if anyone's commented. Nobody? (20 minutes later) Surely someone's commented by now! No one? (I'll wait 10 minutes and check again...)

Between the time I was spending writing posts -- and rewriting posts -- and then checking back for hits and comments on my posts, not to mention checking other blogs I loved, commenting on THEM, then checking back those to see if THOSE comments had been commented on, I was using almost every available minute of "free" time blogging. And what's worse, more and more of that time wasn't truly free. I was stealing time away from things that should have been untouchables -- like family and work -- to fuel my blogging obsession.

So, no more of that insanity. I can't handle it anymore. Besides, I have some new projects -- two historical research writing projects and some family history stuff -- that's incredibly exciting to me, and that's taking up a lot of my free time now.

But, the undeniable fact is, I still enjoy blogging, and I enjoy interacting with the friends I've made through the blogosphere. So here's what I'm going to try to do -- a classic in the art of compromise. Like an addict trying to leave the halfway house for the first time, I'm going to start off by trying to do just one post a week -- maybe a "Week in Waco" wrapup -- and see how that goes. If that works, then maybe I can increase things slowly, if the mood hits me. I know this sounds incredibly self-indulgent and anal, and I know the main thought now from you probably is, "Do I care?" But for those few of you who might care, that's my plan. Please stick with me -- maybe Muley still has a few kicks left in him.

And besides, I can finally get that picture of Rita off the top of this site!

It's Looking Like Rita's Moving East

It's 5 p.m. here in Waco, and the latest news reports make it sound as though Hurricane Rita is going to hit further east of where the experts once predicted. Mrs. Muley just told me that she heard the eye of the hurricane is now projected to hit Lake Charles, La., instead of Galveston. This means that the Houston-Galveston area would still get rain, but nothing like they would have gotten with a direct hit.

Of course, the people in Lake Charles can't be too happy, and I've got to think a Louisiana landfall will bring enough rain to New Orleans to endanger the repaired levees. There really isn't a good alternative at this point. The good alternative would have been if this thing would have headed south and hit in a remote section of Mexico, where only some goats and lizards would have been affected.

Now the questions in Waco are a bit different than they were this morning. No. 1 is, "Will we get any rain at all out of this?" A little rain would be welcome, since we've had 100-degree temperatures and no rain for weeks here. Question No. 2 is, "How many refugees will pour into town looking for shelter?" Already, I've heard that Interstate 35 here is one big traffic jam, with people trying to head north toward Dallas. Colleagues at Baylor were gathered this afternoon, trying to figure out the best alternate routes home so they wouldn't have to get on the highway.

Regardless of what happens tomorrow or Saturday, things have changed around here. Scads of events have been postponed or canceled, including a big balloon glow and Christian concert at Baylor, a Heart Walk Saturday for the American Heart Association, and a church conference at Truett Seminary. Lots of high school football teams decided against canceling their games, so they're having them tonight instead of tomorrow night. I even heard that Texas A&M University decided to have their game tonight instead of Saturday.

Both my parents and my relatives in the Houston area tried to leave this morning to come to Waco, but after hours sitting virtually still in traffic, they turned around and came home. It's not as though they want to wait the storm out, it's just that, lacking helicopters, they have no realistic way of leaving that won't leave them exposed on a highway somewhere when the rains and winds hit. The news this afternoon told of one woman from Houston who's been on the road an entire day -- 24 hours straight -- and she's traveled only 150 miles along the Interstate. That's how bad it is, folks. Other news reports I've heard say drivers have gotten out of their cars on the Interstate and have created impromptu tailgate parties, throwing frisbees and sitting in lawn chairs. If you're stuck and can't move, why not?

I'm glad for everyone in Waco that we seem to have been spared the brunt of Hurricane Rita (the forecast only calls for a 50 percent chance of rain now on Saturday), but I realize that the ol' girl could turn back west and hit us bad anytime she chooses. And I know many others won't be this lucky, so I will continue to pray for those in her path -- wherever that ends up being.

I'll check in tomorrow when I have more news. Hope all of you are safe.

We're Riding Out Rita

Here in Waco, Texas, we're getting a closer view of what those poor people in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama suffered three weeks ago when Hurricane Katrina blew in. As I write this, Hurricane Rita is making a beeline for Galveston, and there's a decent chance that it will hit Waco on its way through Texas. Let me take a few moments to describe some goings on here.

First of all, speculation is rife. We've been hearing one disaster scenario after another for tbe past three days on local news. The latest scenarios have the main part of Rita going up through East Texas, which means that Waco would get only heavy rain and higher than usual winds. But no one really knows for sure except God.

If it wasn't so serious, some of the speculation would be hilarious. The other day, my wife and I were listening to the local morning news, and one excitable weather personality came on to describe what "might" happen to Waco if we got hit head on with Rita. He decribed an almost apocalyptic scene with water and power out, trees uprooted, food supplies cleaned out, and no help for days. I swear, I was expecting him to end the report with either an alien attack or Jesus coming again through the parting clouds.

We did the things that they recommended -- went to the store and stocked up on things we might need (like bottled water, which was cleaned out by Tuesday morning), contacted relatives in harm's way, and prayed.

My parents live in Friendswood, which is almost halfway between Houston and Galveston on I-45. Residents of Friendswood and surrounding towns are under a mandatory evacuation order to leave by noon today, so my parents are leaving this morning to try and make it to Waco, where they'll stay with us. I have no idea how long it will take them to get to us. Interstate 45 is pretty much jammed between Houston and Dallas, and I've heard that the trip from Houston to Waco, which normally takes 3 1/2 to 4 hours, is now taking as much as 12 hours to make. Cars are on the side of the Interstate, stranded, because they ran out of gas waiting in the unmoving traffic.

My brother, meanwhile, who still lives with my parents in an upstairs garage apartment, has decided for some reason to stay and wait it out. Maybe he thinks he'll be there to get started on any needed repairs after the storm hits, I don't know. He's a grown man, so there's little chance of persuading him to do what he doesn't want to do.

Meanwhile, my brother- and sister-in-law and their family live in Humble, which is a northern suburb of Houston. They have been battling traffic trying to get loaded up and leave town since yesterday. It took my brother-in-law four hours just to drive home from work across Houston yesterday, a trip that normally takes him just 45 minutes to make.

They must also head out north on I-45, which I hear that officials are about to make one-way most of the way to Dallas to get more lanes in use. I imagine the wait on that road will be maddening.

Their teenaged son -- my nephew -- works in the local HEB grocery store, and he described a scene of pandemonium a few days ago as people came in and quickly cleaned out much of the stock. (I'm not sure if the sauerkraut sold out -- does anyone ever really eat that?) The bottled water went first, but my nephew got to unload a truck delivering new bottles, so he was able to buy some for his family.

Here at Baylor, the university has cancelled classes tomorrow, but I'm not sure yet whether staffers such as myself will be required to come in. There's also a good chance that some of the university buildings could be used for refugee shelters, but I'll know more after an announcement they're making at noon today.

So, for now it's wait and see. I was at my childhood home in Friendswood when Alicia hit there in 1983, dropping more than 20 inches of rain in a very short time. Our house was in the 100-year floodplain, but it still managed to get about six inches of water. We did much better than the houses across the creek -- the water was up to the roofs. So, I've lived through this before, and know how vulnerable the Houston-Galveston area is to a hurricane and the flooding and destruction it causes.

Hopefully, everyone has had enough notice to allow them to get out of harm's way in time. The lessons taught by Katrina have been invaluable in this sense. I'll keep my eyes and ears open and let you know what happens in a later post (assuming that Jesus does not come. If he does, I won't be posting).

By the way, speaking of Jesus, I must throw in a joke I heard recently to introduce a little levity.

Two men, Harry and Fred, were ardent church choir members who often discussed whether there truly was a choir in heaven. The men made a pact that the first one of them to die would come back and somehow tell the other if a heavenly choir did indeed exist.

Well, as luck would have it, Harry died suddenly a few months later. The night after the funeral, Fred was awakened by the sight of his deceased friend hovering in his bedroom like an angel.

As soon as he recovered his senses, Fred said "Harry, it's good to see you! So tell me, is it true? Is there a choir in heaven?"

Harry said, "Fred, I have good and bad news. The good news is that there most definitely is a choir in heaven, and it's a doozy -- the most wonderful choir I've ever heard."

"What's the bad news?" Fred asked.

"You're scheduled to sing a solo in it tomorrow," Harry said.

Later...

I've Lost That Blogging Feeling (Part Two)

In yesterday's post, I detailed how I backed into a place in the blogosphere. Today, I'll look at those heady first months at the helm of Muley's World, including a development that left me challenging some of my earliest assumptions about blogging.

PART TWO: GIDDY AS A SCHOOLGIRL

After I had taken the plunge and started Muley’s World, I had to sit down and try to figure out how I wanted to use my new toy. Remember, I didn’t know much at all about the blogosphere, its characteristics or unwritten rules, so I was flying blind. Here are some of the things I resolved to do with my blog when I first began:

1. I decided to view my blog as my own personal online magazine. Forget trying to get some snooty magazine or literary journal to accept my stuff – I had my own! I was publisher, editor, writer, layout artist and circulation manager. I could print what I wanted, when I wanted.

2. As far as the content of my new magazine went, I decided I would concentrate almost exclusively on printing the essays, short stories and poetry I produced. Again, I viewed Muley’s World as my own literary journal. Or, if you like, it was my own free art gallery, open to the public 24/7, with endless wall space, allowing me to hang whatever pictures I wanted the public to see.

3. Knowing that one of my failings as a writer has always been the inability to write and produce finished works on a regular basis, I resolved to give my powers of self-discipline more muscle by committing to posting something every single day, with the exception of Sundays and times of illness, family emergency and vacations.

4. I would wait about a month or so to compile a “back catalog” before letting anyone else know about my blog (Mrs. Muley excepted, of course). When I did start getting the word out, I would begin with my closest friends, then include family, then -- maybe many months out -- include people I did not interact with every day, such as friends from church and kids’ sporting events. I thought that if any “strangers” ended up seeing my site, they would be friends of the friends I personally told about Muley’s World.

5. Because the place I work for doesn’t have a blog policy for employees, and because I was unwilling to have people I work with commenting on my daily posts, I decided to remain as anonymous as I could, without being too anal retentive about it.

6. I didn't really care how many people saw my blog site, as long as I could write the stuff I wanted and have a permanent home for it.

Alongside these early resolutions, I also had some early misconceptions about the blogosphere:

1. I pictured blogging as basically a one-way circuit. In other words, you put material out there, someone else read it, and that completed the circuit. The idea that as much time and effort would ever be spent in commenting on someone else’s blog -- or responding to comments someone else wrote on your blog – didn’t even enter my mind.

2. I thought that the blogosphere was a great home for all types of writing -- from the shortest quips to the longest, most detailed essays. I also thought it was most likely a great home for fictional work, where blog owners would post their short stories, poems and novellas for others to see.

3. I had no idea of whether the blogosphere was primarily liberal or conservative, Democrat or Republican. I didn’t know and I didn’t care, because getting into any kind of discussion online about politics was the last thing I felt like doing. I wanted to write and create and be whimsical and funny and lyrical.

It’s no surprise, then, that my first posts were either humorous essays I came up with on the fly, such as a piece where I imagined what the mystery element Retsyn might be, or pieces I had dreamed up years ago but had never written, such as an evaluation of great sleepers of the Bible. I was having great fun, but almost overnight I began spending a lot of time with my new hobby. I was combing through old notebooks, writing first drafts, editing, then tapping out finished versions. I would post long pieces sometimes twice a day, often written late into the night after everyone else had gone to bed.

I could tell at first that Mrs. Muley was unsure if my new mistress was going to take me away for good. Looking back now, I was so excited about finally having this creative outlet available that all I seemed to talk about to her was blogging – my previous posts, the posts I was working on now, the post I had planned for tomorrow. I started taking my lunch hour off at work to spend it either writing posts, or reading the posts of others.

I should have known it was bad when at least two or three people who read my earliest efforts said, “You sure have a lot of free time on your hands, don’t you?” To some extent I did, since May and June are very slow months for me, but in another way, no, because I was stealing time away from family and other important tasks to blog.

An entirely unexpected event happened less than a week after I had begun Muley’s World. The one blog I had discovered and become a faithful reader of prior to becoming a blogger was Dawn Eden’s “Dawn Patrol.” She was my cyber hero. I so admired her writing skill, her humor, and her passion for great causes such as the right to life. Well, lo and behold, one day that first week I was checking Dawn’s site, and there was a mention of Muley’s World! Not only a mention, but Dawn praised me and my site far more than I would ever deserve. I was flabbergasted for two reasons: one, that she would have such good things to say about what was clearly a neophyte’s attempt to blog, and two, that she knew about me at all.

I was thrilled and giddy as a schoolgirl, but a bit shook up as well. What did this mean? I had never contacted Dawn by e-mail or commented on her site, so how in the heck did she know about Muley’s World? I knew nothing about things like trackbacks and site meters, so unless you left some sort of message, I figured you remained anonymous when you looked at other people’s blogs. I didn’t know what the little “Next Blog” button at the top of Blogger sites would do if you punched it. How did Dawn find me? How?

This meant, of course, that my original planning about having no one look at my site until I’d had a month or so to tweak it and build up a library of postings was now useless. People – strangers to me – were looking at my site, now. My art gallery’s doors were opened, so I’d better have something for them to see.

I kept on writing furiously, but I also spent more and more time looking at new blogs, trying to see how others were doing things. I found indexes of conservative and Christian blogs and visited many of the sites listed. And it was these visits that started turning me away from my first plans for Muley’s World into something quite different.

Next:

PART THREE: LOOKING FOR A HIT

I've Lost That Blogging Feeling (Part One)

Okay, let’s clear up a few things right away:

1. I am not dead. Really.

2. I am not, thank the Lord, a refugee from Hurricane Katrina who’s been without a computer for weeks.

3. I have not had extensive plastic surgery, requiring me to recuperate, swaddled in bandages, in a secluded spa somewhere.

4. I am not holed up in a love nest with Jennifer Aniston, trying to make her forget Brad Pitt.

5. I have not been abducted by aliens. Or if I have, they have a heckuva reality simulation room in their spaceship.

No, I have none of these exciting and nifty explanations available to explain why I have been AWOL from the blogosphere for more than two weeks. This was an unplanned vacation, I assure you. If you’re wondering if I’ve decided to abandon Muley’s World, the short answer is no, at least not now. But I find it hard to come up with an equally short answer to the question of why I have seemingly disappeared into the twilight -- at least a short answer that makes sense. So, I‘ve decided to treat you few regular visitors, my patient and supportive friends, with a long answer that will hopefully suffice.

For new visitors to this site, especially those new to the blogging scene, maybe this will serve as both an entertaining cautionary tale and a look behind the scenes at “the rise and fall” of an average American blog site, with all the embarrassing parts left in.

Since I feel the urge to ramble a bit, I’ll divide up this post into three or four sections, each posted on a different day. That way, it won’t be like asking you to swallow a bowling ball all at once. And maybe some of you will even manage to read the whole thing.

PART ONE: THE BACK STORY

Maybe my story is a lot like yours. I got into blogging – became the owner and creator of a blog, in fact – before I truly knew what blogging really was. It was akin to learning how to swim by jumping off the high dive and seeing what happens next.

Of course, I had been hearing about the blogosphere for quite awhile before I joined it. About a year or so ago, I decided on a slow day to see what these “web logs” were all about. I typed in “blog” on a search engine, came up with a directory or two of blog sites, and started looking around.

Frankly, I was not impressed with what I found. Most of those first blogs I looked at were the type kept by whiny, self-obsessed teenagers (are there any other types, you ask?) who filled page after digital page with gossip, ruminations on what clothes they were buying and wearing, observations about friends and the opposite sex, cynical analyses of the latest hot shows on Fox and the WB, and minute-by-minute accounts of their seemingly boring and, like, you know, uh, tedious days. After reading a dozen or so of these, I jumped to the conclusion that blogs were simply online journals of the “Dear Diary” type, a new fad that bored teenagers had taken up after instant messaging was no longer cutting edge.

At the same time I was pooh-poohing the blogosphere, I was yearning for someplace to display my writing talents. I’ve been a writer ever since I learned how to put pencil to Big Chief tablet, and in the last five years or so I have filled about a notebook a year with poems, haiku, and detailed ideas for short stories, essays (both humorous and serious) and even a children’s book or two. A few essays I even managed to write, filing them away in a folder when I was through.

I knew very well what the fate of the average wannabe writer is when he decides he wants to be in print, and I realized I just didn’t have the heart or the stomach to send out 5,312 unsuccessful query letters before finally getting a small piece accepted by South Dakota Bovine Digest and Literary Journal for the grand sum of $10. I just wasn’t up to it, but I wanted to get at least some of the stuff I was writing (and could one day write) in front of a reader or two I wasn’t related to before I died.

The best idea I could come up with was a sort of “e-digest,” where I would ask close friends if I could e-mail them some sort of collection of prose and poetry every few weeks or so. But I knew this was problematic. It would put my friends on the spot –- how could they politely decline my offer if they weren’t interested? –- and, if they got the e-mails but soon grew tired of them, how would they ask me to take them off the mailing list without offending me?

So I was stuck. I did think about a blog, but I seriously thought that anyone with a blog site had designed it themselves, and that before you could get a blog you had to know Web programming well enough to some up with templates and headers and all that stuff, as well as being fully versed in html. Some day, I thought, when I have the time to take a Web design class, maybe I’ll get into that. But not now.

I told you I knew next to nothing about the blogosphere.

So, imagine my surprise when, in mid-May of 2005, a friend of mine here in Waco, someone who didn’t know Web design, sent me an e-mail saying “check out my new blog.” I did, and was amazed by what I saw. Here was a professional-looking web site, with daily entries and links and all sorts of wonderful things. I called this person and complimented her, saying I wished I could one day learn how to do that. “It’s easy,” she said. “Go to the Blogger web site. You choose a template, answer some questions, and push submit. It took me about five minutes to set mine up. And it’s totally free.”

That same night, after thinking more and more about this great new toy, I decided to jump off the high dive. I went to Blogger, chose a template, and came up with a name – Muley’s World – which was the name of a fake, satirical radio show I came up with and hosted during my radio station days, featuring me introducing songs and doing comedy bits with an accent that sounded quite rural Texan.

I didn’t know what to say in my first post – hadn’t thought about it, really – so I ended up tapping out a few sentences which basically announced “Here I am!” and pushed the submit button. Muley’s World was delivered kicking and screaming without the use of forceps.

Tune in tomorrow for

PART TWO: GIDDY AS A SCHOOLGIRL

Testimony in the Sand

Here's some amazing photos of Christian sand sculptures sent to me in an e-mail. They're done by Chuck Ritchey on the beach at Ocean City, Maryland.