Saturday, April 25, 2026
I squeak, therefore I am
Is there anything to be done with a squeaky pair of running shoes? Obviously not, or I would have found it. They’re not completely squeaky. Just one. The left. And not just a whisper of a squeak. A terrified mouse squeak. Such a terrified mouse squeak that when I walk through a crowded room, people start talking about what kind of mouse traps are best to invest in.
I had a dream way back in 2015 to run a triathlon. A triathlon is a three-part race of swimming, bicycling and running. My swimming ability was slightly better than a dog’s, my bicycle had more rust than wear on it, and the last time I ran anywhere, Uncle Sam was making me do it. So, I took some swimming lessons, greased up my bicycle, and bought a new pair of running shoes.
Good running shoes are expensive. My first pair didn’t squeak at all. If they had, I would have asked for a refund. “First pair” because you can’t have only one pair when you’re starting a running adventure. I’d never owned two pairs of running shoes at the same time in my whole life. I was determined to triathlon my best. The third pair started to squeak about six months after I bought them. Just the left shoe. Terrified mouse squeak.
If I was a running shoe manufacturer and wanted to make sure of a steady stream of income, I’d design my shoes to squeak after a specific amount of mileage, annoying the runner to the point of ditching the old for some new. Squeaky shoes would be like squealing brakes that warn of end of brake life, and if you don’t have them replaced soon, you’ll have nothing but trouble and strife. Keep the old pair for mowing the yard or gardening. That’s what I was thinking.
But then I bought the fourth pair of running shoes, just to walk around in. They started squeaking, too, and not after high mileage. Just the left shoe. Probably out of spite. Very little wear and tear. No stuck pebbles between the treads. Terrified mouse squeak. I only wear them now when I forget not to wear them.
No matter how hard I think about it, I can’t come up with an explanation for why only my left shoes are squeaking. You, on the other hand, probably came up with a perfectly plausible postulation post haste.
“It has nothing to do with his left shoes, expensive or not.”
“Obviously.”
“Are we thinking on the same wavelength?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“The problem is not with his left shoes. It’s with…”
“His left foot. He has a squeaky left foot.”
Sorry. It’s not my left foot. That would be just plain silly. I can walk around barefoot all day with nary a squeak, shriek, squeal, or screech. Unless I step on a rock, of course. But that’s different.
No, I think all that squeaking is a reminder that it’s okay to have a squeaky wheel whenever the universe deems it necessary. It’s okay to make a little bit of noise. To speak out. To transform your every-day Clark Kent persona into the fighting-for-truth-and-justice Superman. If only for a moment. To not would be pert near Lex Luther-ish.
Last year, I bought another pair of running shoes. High quality. Different brand. I don’t run in them. I use them as my daily go-to-Walmart shoes. At first, not a squeak. But recently they’ve been screeching like a pack of rats trying to steal the Feta right out of my fridge.
Looks like it’s time to dust off my cape.
Tuesday, April 21, 2026
Red Foxes in East Texas
Being born and raised in the suburbs of Dallas, "wildlife" mainly consisted of birds, squirrels, lizards and an occasional hawk when we visited the grandparents out in the country. Raccoons were a treat to see whenever we went camping, but mostly we had to infer their presence by the wreckage they left behind while trying to get to the food.
Now that we live in the country, we have "real" wildlife. And none to me are more attractive to watch than the fox.
We've been seeing foxes off and on for about 10 years. This year, Mom and Dad and six kits have taken up residence. If I believed that each person has an animal spirit guide, I'd want mine to be the fox.
These are a few photos I took of them recently.
Wednesday, April 15, 2026
A little more conversation, a little less action, please
“So, how do you think this is going to end?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’m not even sure how it began. Do you know?”
“It started a long time ago, I think. Long before we were born.”
“That long? Sounds like it might continue long after we’re dead and buried.”
“Depressing to think of, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“But it can’t last forever, can it? Everything comes to an end, doesn’t it?”
“I know those chili dogs I ate last night – I’m going to feel the effects of THEM forever.”
“Maybe you should’ve stopped at three. But I guess you learn something new…”
“Every single day. And yes. Everything comes to an end. Eventually.”
“But I guess if people really do learn from the past, then you’ll stop at two chili dogs next time. Maybe?”
“Knowing me, I’ll probably dive right in again, thinking this time will be different. That is, until I’m in the thick of it and remember, oh yeah, this was a bad idea. Just like last time.”
“So, I’m guessing that’s how we got in this mess again? Someone thought it’d be different this time?”
The two were silent for a moment, drinking their coffees and watching people as they walked past the coffee shop. Everybody walking. Nobody running for shelter.
“It’s funny how words change over time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take the word ‘bad.’ It used to mean not good. And then it meant really good. And now some other word means really good. Not sure what. But the meaning of words can change.”
“I guess. So what’s your point?”
“‘Obliteration.’ It used to mean the total annihilation of something. Destroyed in such a way that there’s no way you could pick up the pieces and put them back together again. If Humpty Dumpty had been obliterated, he’d be completely scrambled. No need for the king’s horses and men.”
“And your point?”
“If obliteration meant obliteration, then none of this should’ve ever begun. So I’m guessing the meaning has changed. Maybe now it’s just trash talk. Like if Conor McGregor ever said ‘I’m going to obliterate you.’ He really can’t. He can hurt you a lot. But at the end of the fight, you’re still going home in one piece.”
“Conor McGregor. Haven’t heard that name in a while. Is he still fighting?”
The waiter came by their table and asked if they needed anything else. “Just the check, please.” No slice of homemade apple pie? “Well, okay.”
“Just for a moment, imagine what it would be like if we were over there, sitting at a cafe drinking coffee, eating apple pie, minding our own business, then all of a sudden — WHAM!”
“WHAM?”
“Yes. WHAM!”
“It would be horrifying.”
“And now imagine what it would be like if it happened right here where we’re sitting.”
The waiter came back with the apple pie and the check.
“It really needs to stop. All that WHAMMING. There are other ways to solve our problems than to WHAM everybody, isn’t there?”
“If there isn’t, there’s no telling when this will ever end.”
Hanging on the wall across from where the two friends sat was a framed version of a John Donne poem: “No man is an island entire of itself. Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less; as well as if a promontory were. — Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
“Haven’t a clue. I’m not even sure how it began. Do you know?”
“It started a long time ago, I think. Long before we were born.”
“That long? Sounds like it might continue long after we’re dead and buried.”
“Depressing to think of, but I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“But it can’t last forever, can it? Everything comes to an end, doesn’t it?”
“I know those chili dogs I ate last night – I’m going to feel the effects of THEM forever.”
“Maybe you should’ve stopped at three. But I guess you learn something new…”
“Every single day. And yes. Everything comes to an end. Eventually.”
“But I guess if people really do learn from the past, then you’ll stop at two chili dogs next time. Maybe?”
“Knowing me, I’ll probably dive right in again, thinking this time will be different. That is, until I’m in the thick of it and remember, oh yeah, this was a bad idea. Just like last time.”
“So, I’m guessing that’s how we got in this mess again? Someone thought it’d be different this time?”
The two were silent for a moment, drinking their coffees and watching people as they walked past the coffee shop. Everybody walking. Nobody running for shelter.
“It’s funny how words change over time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take the word ‘bad.’ It used to mean not good. And then it meant really good. And now some other word means really good. Not sure what. But the meaning of words can change.”
“I guess. So what’s your point?”
“‘Obliteration.’ It used to mean the total annihilation of something. Destroyed in such a way that there’s no way you could pick up the pieces and put them back together again. If Humpty Dumpty had been obliterated, he’d be completely scrambled. No need for the king’s horses and men.”
“And your point?”
“If obliteration meant obliteration, then none of this should’ve ever begun. So I’m guessing the meaning has changed. Maybe now it’s just trash talk. Like if Conor McGregor ever said ‘I’m going to obliterate you.’ He really can’t. He can hurt you a lot. But at the end of the fight, you’re still going home in one piece.”
“Conor McGregor. Haven’t heard that name in a while. Is he still fighting?”
The waiter came by their table and asked if they needed anything else. “Just the check, please.” No slice of homemade apple pie? “Well, okay.”
“Just for a moment, imagine what it would be like if we were over there, sitting at a cafe drinking coffee, eating apple pie, minding our own business, then all of a sudden — WHAM!”
“WHAM?”
“Yes. WHAM!”
“It would be horrifying.”
“And now imagine what it would be like if it happened right here where we’re sitting.”
The waiter came back with the apple pie and the check.
“It really needs to stop. All that WHAMMING. There are other ways to solve our problems than to WHAM everybody, isn’t there?”
“If there isn’t, there’s no telling when this will ever end.”
Hanging on the wall across from where the two friends sat was a framed version of a John Donne poem: “No man is an island entire of itself. Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less; as well as if a promontory were. — Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
Sunday, April 12, 2026
Friday, April 10, 2026
Two-legged Carrot
At first, the carrot was just unusual. I didn't identify it as a two-legged carrot until I chopped off its upper torso and feet. And then I felt sad for doing it.
It tasted fine, though.
Wednesday, April 8, 2026
Only the beginning
I’m so happy to see humanity once again heading off to the moon. But I’m a little disappointed that most of us will be “dearly departed” before construction begins on any kind of moon colony. I was so looking forward to having my own little “cabin in the woods” looking over the Sea of Tranquility.Imagine a neighborhood of pre-fabricated moon condos, scattered across the lunar surface like a Mongolian village of yak-skinned yurts. Each no bigger than an efficiency apartment. Bathroom. Mini fridge. Sink. Hot plate. And a sleeper couch placed in front of a bay window, offering a full view of the landscape under a big, black sky.
A home so small it borders on being claustrophobic. But consider the solitude, the tranquility. No noisy sounds of garbage trucks picking up trash at six in the morning; no kids racing their cars through the neighborhood; no neighbors who keep their TV turned up to full volume all day. Nothing but peace and quiet.
Peace and quiet to finally learn how to play the piano; to read all the books that can fit on an e-reader; to master yoga; to finally write that Great Galactic Novel. And when you need to stretch your legs a bit, the factory-installed airlock gives easy outside access for exploring, visiting neighbors or just puttering about in the backyard.
Two years after initial construction, Phase II of the project includes the Community Center, a gathering place for mingling, parties, movie night, potluck dinners and Bingo. Weddings? More than likely. Funerals? Unfortunately.
Phase II also includes an insertion of life-like animal drones and robots — hummingbirds, squirrels, armadillos, etc. These artificial creatures function on the lunar surface to give residents a more living-in-the-country feel about the place.
Five years after the neighborhood has been populated, Phase III sees the construction of a completely-oxygenated underground city, hollowed out deep within the moon’s rocky crust. Residents gain access through the Community Center via elevator. They enjoy being able to walk around, shop, and eat at the food court, all without the need for their environmental suits.
I imagine you’ll find me at the local Taco-Burger, siting at a table with friends, discussing whatever old friends discuss.
“I’ve got an idea that will make us a million dollars.”
“Oh no. Here we go again.”
“Robo-Squirrel Hunting.”
“What? Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“Not REAL hunting. More like laser tag. We develop a program that makes those squirrels a little more wary of people. When we see them, we hit ‘em with a laser pistol. Nothing lethal. Just stuns them for a bit.”
“Why would anybody want to put on their environment suit just to…”
“No, no. You can do it from the comfort of your couch.”
“Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea. And it sure would beat watching reruns of ‘Real Housewives of the Moon.”
I was 6 years old when Apollo 8 — piloted by Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and William Anders — became the first crewed spacecraft to orbit the moon. They circled the moon 10 times without landing, and then got back home safely. Eight months later, humans were walking on the moon.
My wife and I were heading to Dallas for a concert the same day Artemis II and its crew blasted off for a flyby of the moon. We stopped at Buc-ees for a restroom break and snacks, then sat in the car to watch the launch. It was then I started thinking, “I wonder how much a yurt on the moon would cost?” I didn’t mention it to my wife at the time. I’m not completely nuts.
A home so small it borders on being claustrophobic. But consider the solitude, the tranquility. No noisy sounds of garbage trucks picking up trash at six in the morning; no kids racing their cars through the neighborhood; no neighbors who keep their TV turned up to full volume all day. Nothing but peace and quiet.
Peace and quiet to finally learn how to play the piano; to read all the books that can fit on an e-reader; to master yoga; to finally write that Great Galactic Novel. And when you need to stretch your legs a bit, the factory-installed airlock gives easy outside access for exploring, visiting neighbors or just puttering about in the backyard.
Two years after initial construction, Phase II of the project includes the Community Center, a gathering place for mingling, parties, movie night, potluck dinners and Bingo. Weddings? More than likely. Funerals? Unfortunately.
Phase II also includes an insertion of life-like animal drones and robots — hummingbirds, squirrels, armadillos, etc. These artificial creatures function on the lunar surface to give residents a more living-in-the-country feel about the place.
Five years after the neighborhood has been populated, Phase III sees the construction of a completely-oxygenated underground city, hollowed out deep within the moon’s rocky crust. Residents gain access through the Community Center via elevator. They enjoy being able to walk around, shop, and eat at the food court, all without the need for their environmental suits.
I imagine you’ll find me at the local Taco-Burger, siting at a table with friends, discussing whatever old friends discuss.
“I’ve got an idea that will make us a million dollars.”
“Oh no. Here we go again.”
“Robo-Squirrel Hunting.”
“What? Now you’re just being ridiculous.”
“Not REAL hunting. More like laser tag. We develop a program that makes those squirrels a little more wary of people. When we see them, we hit ‘em with a laser pistol. Nothing lethal. Just stuns them for a bit.”
“Why would anybody want to put on their environment suit just to…”
“No, no. You can do it from the comfort of your couch.”
“Hmmmmm. Not a bad idea. And it sure would beat watching reruns of ‘Real Housewives of the Moon.”
I was 6 years old when Apollo 8 — piloted by Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and William Anders — became the first crewed spacecraft to orbit the moon. They circled the moon 10 times without landing, and then got back home safely. Eight months later, humans were walking on the moon.
My wife and I were heading to Dallas for a concert the same day Artemis II and its crew blasted off for a flyby of the moon. We stopped at Buc-ees for a restroom break and snacks, then sat in the car to watch the launch. It was then I started thinking, “I wonder how much a yurt on the moon would cost?” I didn’t mention it to my wife at the time. I’m not completely nuts.
Tuesday, March 17, 2026
Not wasted at all
While observing cherry blossoms in the movie “The Last Samurai,” samurai leader Moritsugu Katsumoto (played by Ken Watanabe) says to 7th Cavalry Captain Nathan Algren (played by Tom Cruise), “The perfect blossom is a rare thing. You could spend your life looking for one, and it would not be a wasted life.”
The point behind those words concerns the pursuit of perfection, or purpose in life. And even though neither may be fully attained, the destination is not necessarily the goal. It’s the journey that matters.
While deciding on what meals to cook for the week, meals that would be interesting, nutritious and not too repetitive (You can’t have pizza EVERY Friday night, and there’s no reason you can’t have Tacos on Thursday every now and then), I try to remember: “The perfect weekly menu is a rare thing. You could spend your life trying to create one, and it would not be a wasted life.”
It’s a given that meatloaf and mashed potatoes are great for Sunday, and hamburgers and potato wedges seem obvious for Saturdays, but where does a Thai meal fit in, or a shrimp casserole? The perfect weekly menu may never be fully obtained, but it beats having to say, “I don’t know,” when asked, “What’s for dinner?” The destination is not necessarily the goal. It’s the journey to the grocery store that matters.
While contemplating on what would be the right time to head off to Walmart in search of food to complement my mostly well-thought-out weekly menu, I often say to myself, “The perfect shopping time is a rare thing. You could spend your life waiting for the perfect day (and time of day) to go — procrastinating over a cup of coffee and slice of buttered toast, wondering why the blue jays outside are causing such a ruckus — and it would not be a wasted life.”
Time is easy: early in the morning when it’s just you, the stockers and somebody buffing the floor. Saturdays are ok: everybody else is sleeping in, or off at their kid’s soccer game. I never go at noon or after work. At either of those times, the pursuit of perfection and purpose in life are thrown completely out the window. Besides, the destination is not really the goal. It’s the buy-two-and-get-one-free sale that really matters.
While standing at the avocado bin and trying to determine which avocados are good for today, which ones will be ready for tomorrow, and which ones to avoid at all cost, I often say to myself, “The straight-out-of-the-bin perfect avocado is a rare thing to find. You could spend your life looking for one (your spouse may file a missing person’s report if you do), and it would not be a wasted life.” At least in my opinion.
I’ve never been to a grocery store where I didn’t stop at the avocado bin and squeeze a few. Finding one that’s ripe enough to eat right then and there is like stumbling on buried treasure without the aide of a pirate or a map.
At the end of the movie, as the samurai leader is slowly dying and watching the cherry blossom petals blowing in the wind, he says, “Perfect…they are all…perfect.” And maybe that’s the point. Spending your life looking for the perfect avocado, weekly menu, or shopping time is not a wasted life. Not very movie worthy, but not wasted at all.
Monday, March 16, 2026
My neighborhood is quite Foxy
If I spent my life
watching for The Fox
to walk through my neighborhood,
it would be a life well spent.
watching for The Fox
to walk through my neighborhood,
it would be a life well spent.
Tuesday, March 10, 2026
The cats of my 'Downton Abbey"
In my house, when it comes to all things feline, I am the butler, Stewart, loyal employee, confidante, chef, dishwasher and chauffeur.
“Long enough, Stewart. Now, come along. I’ll take my first breakfast in the kitchen as usual. And please make sure there’s fresh water on the porch — and muzzle that dreaded hound.”
“Yes sir. Right away sir. And again I’m so…”
“Can I come too? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I? I really need to pee.”
“Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. Yep. And don’t forget. I really need to pee. And eat. And pee.”
It’s not a long walk to the kitchen. And after letting the hound out, I go about my morning duties of serving breakfast.
“Here you are, sir. The usual in your favorite bowl. And let me once again say…”
“Forget about it, man. I’m sure it was an oversight that won’t happen again.”
“Right you are, sir. And let me say it’s a JOY to be able…Oh. Good morning Master Toby. Is the young sir ready for first breakfast?”
“It’s here, Master Toby. In it’s usual…Good. You’ve found it. Now chew every…Or just swallow it… whole. My, what an appetite you have.”
“Stewart?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I seem to have regurgitated my morning breakfast underneath the table. You’ll take care of it for me, won’t you?”
“Of course, sir. And will you be off hunting this morning?”
“Indeed I will. Nothing gets the blood coursing through my veins like a good hunt for a fresh second breakfast.”
Once the gentlemen are out of the house, I usually take my first cup of coffee at the table, and wait for the Dowager Cat to appear.
“Here I am, Stewart. I’m surprised my morning meal isn’t already in its bowl. Please, oh please hurry. My tummy needs some yummy. And NOT the hard cheap kibble. You know it hurts my teeth. Are you done yet?”
“Oh, please hurry, Stewart. I absolutely will die from famish-nessity.”
“Yes, I should have already…”
“Stewart? I’m about to faint from hunger-osity. Can’t you see?”
“Oh, yes. I see quite well.”
“Oh Stewart. You will be the end of me. You’ll find my wasted dead body under the…Oh. Food. Good. Good Stewart. Hmmmmm. It smells funny.”
Once breakfast is cleared and the Dowager is off for her mid-morning nap, and the hound is back inside for HER mid-morning nap, and the Governor and his young ward have returned for THEIR mid-morning nap, I relax at the table in the kitchen and peruse the morning paper — and often doze off.
“Stewart? Stewart! (He’s fallen asleep again. How he can sleep sitting straight up is beyond…) STEWART!”
“I must’ve fallen asleep. What time is it? Oh, I’m so sorry. Thank you, sir, for waking me up again. I hope you weren’t waiting long. Ready for pre-lunch? Right away, sir. And a fresh bowl of water? Of course. As I’ve said before, my only purpose in life is to serve.”
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)