You Can't Tune A Fish

This past week, Buck Owens, a country music legend, passed from this world. As this information was relayed to me, it got to thinking about a time a lot different from now. It was a time when I was a kid, Buck was a star, and Hee-Haw invaded the living room every Saturday night. Folks, those sure were some sweet times.

Back then, we were usually at my grandparents on Saturday afternoons. My Grandmother was the queen of finding things that needed to be done, such as weeding the garden, cleaning the yard, making enough Jelly to last 20 years, shelling 40 bushels of peas, and so forth. She was what you call a “visionary”; she could see all of us doing work.

Toward the evening, we would all go into the house, and relax before supper. My grandfather had a big recliner, and he would grab a Jax beer, a Wilson wiener, sit back in his recliner and turn on – you guessed it – the Lawrence Welk show.

Now, just to let you know, there was nothing, and I mean ab-so-lute-ly nothing, that I hated more in this world than the Lawrence Welk show. Mr Welk was even more despised than The Waltons, and that took some doing. It was an hour of pure child torture, and I am sure that making your child watch it would violate at least 23 laws today.

Anywho, my grandfather would turn on sir Welk, and delight to the sounds of whichever weird instrument they were featuring on a solo today. It could have been a tuba or even a fog horn, but he watched intently as they danced around the stage, enjoying songs that featured guest stars like Perry Como. And if any one of us got between him and the television he would say “Move. Your head’s made out of muddy water and I can’t see”.

Incidentally, let me just say that on occasion, my grandfather did chance to fall asleep in his chair during this show. Do you think we ever changed the channels when he did? No on your life! We might have been young, but we weren’t stupid!

Now, you are probably asking your self “Self, now why would a 10 year old boy put himself through such torture as to watching Lawrence Welk?” Well, it was because once Lawrence Welk was over, it meant it was time for Hee-Haw. And I LOVED Hee-Haw.

I loved the jokes. I love the cornfield. I love the salute to the home towns (though they never did “Siiiiii-Lute” Blanchard). I loved pickin-n-grinnin, the barbershop, “Hey Grandpa- what’s for dinner”, Empty Arms Hotel (which is still how I answer my home phone most days), “gloom, despair, and agony on me”, Archie’s stories (particularly Brender-cella), the guest stars, BR549, and anything else you could possibly imagine. I literally loved ever minute of the show. Watching it was the highlight of my week.

My Grandfather, on the other hand HATED Buck Owens. He would moan every time ol’ Buck came on stage with a guitar. He claimed he “couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket”. And I could never understand how anyone could possibly hate a guy who sang about having a Tiger by the tail.

But I guess that’s how Papaw felt about Lawrence Welk.

My grandfather passed on to the other side many years ago, and now, Buck has gone too. And though both of them are gone, they each made there mark on the world in different ways. But in my mind, they will always be infinitely twisted together, along with Lawrence Welk, Saturday evenings, and some fond memories of a happy childhood.

And If they are together up there somehow, I’ll bet Buck’s singing and my Grandfather’s looking for a bucket.

Now Elvis Wants My Autograph

Whether y’all realize it or not, I am a very popular person. Heck, I may even be more popular than the president. I know this because I get emails everyday telling me that people are looking for me, wanting to meet me, or want me to be part of their family. And as we all know, TV, polls, and facts may be manipulated, but emails never lie.

Daily, I get an email from some reunion place, telling me that 52 people are looking for me. It’s hard to believe that 52 people went to a website to find me, especially since I still live in the town I grew up in, have my phone number in the phonebook, and keep in touch with a lot of the folks I grew up with on a weekly basis. I guess not everyone gets new phonebooks every 20 years.

There are also at least 73,000 local women who want to meet me. I know this because I took all of those emails telling me that 7 or 10 local women want me, and I added them all together. And it's not just the local ones either. Russian women want to date me to. I had no idea I was popular outside fo teh country.

46 of my old flames are looking for me, too. Honestly, I can’t remember having 46 old flames, but obviously I must have had a really wild time that night I got drunk in New Orleans. Never go on Bourbon street without a chaperone!

Last week, I got 34 separate emails from lawyers all over the world, telling me that someone had died and left $10 million to no one. They then tell me that if I trace my roots, I will find that me and the dead guy were both descended from some guy named Adam. I am then informed that if I come forward, they will split the $10 million with me 60/40.

Sounds good, huh? That’s still $4 million to me, anyway. But I ain’t stupid. I know that all they really want to do is learn my secret to having 73,000 local women want me, and then they will try to move in their 2 crazy aunts into my back-house. Sorry lawyers, but I got enough crazy aunts already.

Bankers, of course, are just falling all over themselves to refinance my house. They beg for my business at least 26 times a day. They offer to pay me to let them refinance. But sometimes I wonder where these bankers were when I was actually buying my house. I guess I must have bought during golf season.

Naturally, it is still a little hard for me to believe that I have reached such heights of fame, but obviously I have. They will probably be knocking down my door any day with offers to be parade Grand Marshals, local festivals’ dignitary, and possibly even a Mardi Gras King. So the next time some asks you if you know anyone famous, you can tell them that you knew me back in the early days, when I was just a redneck with a typewriter.

Of course, that was before my typewriter was gold plated, and my neck was dyed a nice golden tan.

Talk Louder, My Ear Has Holes

We are bombarded every day by new and incredible ways to lose weight. There are commercials for diets, pills by the thousands, surgeries, and tons of machines that all claim to have found the secret to weight loss. And I suppose that there are people who lose weight with each and every one of those.

Lately, though, I have been hearing quite a bit about “ear stapling”. For those of you not in the know, this is a process where they take a metal staple and poke it through your ear. According to all of the literature and testimonials, the pounds then just fall off. Whether it works or not I have no clue; but it does make me wonder about a few things.

First, how do you know that the person who is stapling your ears is really a professionally trained ear stapler, and not just some redneck who used to tag cattle? Does anybody police the Ear Stapling community? I’d hate to go through all of the pain of having my ears stapled, only to find that Bubba accidentally stapled the wrong place, and I was gaining weight instead. And I don’t ever recall Matlock threatening to report anybody to the AESA (American Ear Staplers Association).

Second, what kind of staples do they use? If you go to the local office supply or home improvement store, you will find all kinds of staples. Some are for stapling papers, some for wood, and some are for stapling metal things together. So which do they use? What length? Do they use a blunt or a chisel point?

Next, are there other solutions for those of us who want to do things on a not-so-permanent basis? Like, suppose I just need to lose enough to get into that particular pair of jeans for Saturday night, can I just use a paperclip? What about a bobby pin? If I use a nail, will I lose half as much?

Finally, if you walk into work, and someone is chasing someone else with the stapler, how do you know if they are trying to help the person lose weight, or if they have simply gone mad and want to staple their head to the printer? Should you intervene? Will this lead to “Stapler Anxiety” and possibly years of therapy?

All of this lead to one simple thought: who was the first person to think of this? Did they accidentally staple their ear and then figure out 2 weeks later they had lost weight? Or did they first staple their nose, and when that didn’t work, they move onto their cheeks, and so forth until they found a place that worked? Supporters claim this comes from thousands of years of acupuncture, but is it possible that is was accidentally discovered at a punk rock concert?

Hmmm. Maybe that’s the reason them punk rockers were so skinny in the first place.

Grounded By Chuck

She led me into a room filled with what looked to be normal people. I even saw a couple of people I knew, but mostly is was a room full of strangers. I felt uncomfortable and anxious, and it showed as I kept wiggling in my seat. Finally, everyone else took their seats, and she stood up and began to speak.

“Hello everyone. My name is May, and I am a groceryshop-a-holic.” I let out a deep breath. There were other people out there who had the same problem. I had been living with this shame for the last 20 years of my life, much like the 14 cases of tuna I bought on sale in 1987 and had hidden under the bed.

“I haven’t over-shopped for groceries in 2 years, 6 months, and 14 days, thanks to the grace of God and the help of this group” she said. “As a matter of fact, I actually have let myself run out of lettuce twice this month, and there is absolutely no tomato sauce in my house at this time.”

The audience gasped at first, then broke into applause for the strength that May had shown. Anyone who could let themselves run of out of lettuce must have the will power of a thousand men. And no tomato sauce? What if somebody drops by and she suddenly needs to fix spaghetti for 6?

“Is there anyone else who would like to speak today?” she asked. A lone woman in the back raised her hand. As she stood we could all see that she was crying. An older woman beside her was holding her hand, and slowly stroking it.

“Hi everyone. My name is Cindy, and I am a groceryshop-a-holic” she began. “I am here today at my mothers urging. I didn’t want to admit that I had a problem for so long. But last week, when my husband went to gamble at the casino, he found that I had wiped out our savings and bought groceries with it.”

“He said he would leave me if I didn’t get help. I still denied it. Then, two days ago. I called my mother and asked if I could borrow some money so that Jim could go to the horse track. Then I took that 5 dollars and I bought saltines with it because they were on sale for 5 for $5.

“That evening, when my mom called Jim to see if he had won any money, the whole thing blew up. He packed his bags and left, and Mom finally got me to see that I had a serious problem. She told me how this kind of thing runs in families, and how, when I was a kid, she took all of Dad’s liquor money and spent it at the meat market on stuff that she froze and later fed us for supper. I never knew that was the real reason my parents were divorced.”

After that, the conversation went around the room, with some people talking about how they had gotten better, some talking about their daily struggles, and a few that still could not see how they could pass up ground beef at 99cents/lb, even if it was 70/30.
Finally the meeting was over, and I smiled to myself, knowing that, although this is something that I will struggle with for the rest of my life, there are people I can turn to when I feel the urge to buy 40 boxes of taco shells just because they are 3 for $1. And maybe one day, Jim will forgive Cindy, and they too can out their lives back together.
Then again, who could ever forgive someone for spending their gambling money on food?

A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing and Matching Purse

I don’t spend much of my time thinking about the clothes that I wear. I get up in the morning, find a shirt and pants that are somewhat related in color, and head out the door to the office. That’s about as much though as I give them. This is probably the reason then that I can’t understand the attachment between women and their clothes.

Women actually seem to have a relationship with their clothes. In the beginning, they bring them home and are so happy that they have found them. Soon, though, they forget about how special the clothes once were, and doom them to spend eternity in a dark space in the back of the closet. And then, just as all hope is gone, they stumble upon them while looking for something to wear to the ball, and once again, and a star is re-born.

I tell you, my eyes get all watery, and my heart starts pounding just thinking about it. However, this love affair with clothing does tend to make women do some rather odd things.

For example, they will say to a friend “Oh my but that shirt is just darling on you! May I borrow it sometime?” Do you honestly this is something a man would ever do? I think not. I mean, geez, can you imagine John Wayne doing that?

“Well I’ll tell ya, pilgrim, them’s some might fine britches you got on there. Mind if I mosey on over this weekend and hitch ‘em up fer a spell?” Nope, that just ain’t gonna happen.

Women will stand at their closet door, look out over 6 acres of hanging clothes, and scream “I have nothing to wear!” Please note guys, that this is NOT an invitation for you to stick your 2 cents worth in about how there are 6 acres of hanging clothes in the closet. There are rumors that Richard Simmons once did that to his momma when he was a kid, and just look at him now.

Women will also shop for hours to find something that matches something they already bought. It could be shoes, a purse, pants, a blouse, a hat, or a turkey feather, but their need for something to match it overwhelms them, and the next thing you know, 38 hours have passed, and you are still at the mall. Which always makes me wonder, why did they buy the dang un-matched thing in the first place?

And on top of all of this, after days of shopping, borrowing, and matching, the woman will get dressed and then go and ask a guy to tell her how she looks. What sense does this make? She just spent 3 weeks matching the stripe in her purse to the stitching on her shoes, and then she asks for an opinion from someone wearing a Hawaiian shirt, wrinkled khaki’s, and work boots?

It all leaves me befuddled and amazed, in fear and in shock, at the sheer time and devotion women put into something that most of us men just take for granted. I’ll never understand this anymore than I understand why you aren’t supposed to wear white after labor day. For some reason, men and women just don’t fell the same about clothes.


I hear this all started when Eve looked at Adam and asked “Does this fig leaf make my butt look big?’

A Marriage Made In Curlers

My friend Felicia called me the other day to tell me the news: it seems that she is considering getting married again. Since this would be hubby number 7, I asked her why in the world she thought number 7 would be any different than any of the others.

“Because,” she replied, “I have done a lot of soul searching. I know exactly what I want and what I don’t want, and exactly why things didn’t work out before. I have found that I do not need a man in my life to be complete. I am who I am.” I guess she has been reading Dr. Phil again.

Anywho, I asked Felicia to tell all about this new man, and tell me what exactly she did that was different. She then told me that this time, she had forced him to get to know the real her. Intrigued, I had to know just what that meat.

“I didn’t put on airs,” she told me. “this time, I let him see the real me. The first night he came over, I answered the door with my hair in curlers wearing a moo-moo. I made him sit and wait for an hour while I got myself ready. Truthfully, I was ready in 5 minutes, but he didn’t need to know that”.

She went on. “Then, when we got in his car, I didn’t even ask, and I took out a cigarette and lit it up. I proceeded to tell him all about my family, my ex-husbands, my run-ins with the law, and my flow problems during that time of the month. All of this was before we even got to the restaurant.”

She then told of how she made him listen to her stories about her glory days in high school, how bad her last 5 bosses had been to her, her troubles with the IRS, and why she hated Britney Spears. She then went on to exhibit terrible table manners, called the waiter “Sugar lips” and even cried about how no one ever asked her out for a second date..

Needless to say, I sat there in total shock at what this woman had done to this poor man. I am not sure but what I would not have ran to the bathroom and crawled out the window. And yet, this man had actually stayed!

“Finally” she told me,”we got back to my house. I just knew that this was the last time I would see him, because he now knew the real me. So I asked him, real firm like ‘Well I guess YOU won’t be coming back for a second date either, huh?”

She said that he just looked at her for a minute, and a smile came across his face. Then he said to her “ Oh yeah, I’ll be back. This was absolutely the single worst date I have ever had in my life. Nothing else even comes close. But you know, that got me to thinking. What kind of a person goes out of their way to scare me off on the first date?

“Then I figured it out. It must be someone who thinks I am so wonderful, that they are really scared that I will hurt them. And anybody who could think I am that wonderful, well, I reckon I just got to see them again.”
Now I don’t know for sure that this marriage is going to be any different than the other 7; but I do know that this time, Felicia has probably met her match..