A dancing fool

Cooooooool Water!

Regular readers have met most of our cats. There are Muggles and Jazz, our inside cats who aren't allowed outside. Then there is Smoke, who I call our half-cat because he spends some time in our house, some in the BRD's next door, and the rest of the time he seems to roam the neighborhood gathering up pettings and handouts.

The BRD has a couple more - Noel, the nasty oldest of the bunch who loves to bully all the others; Emma, the tiny but very solid white cat who tends to chase Smoke off the patio; and Sheba, the roaming small black and white cat who seems cowed by all of the rest.

We also have a small fountain on the front patio and the cats can't seem to resist it. For instance, Smoke, contemplating that bubbler as he balances on the rim.

He finally manages to get his weight adjusted and bends down to drink and drink and drink.

A little later Sheba makes an appearance, daintily jumping up on the rim.

Ah, she's found her spot and she, too, slakes her thirst.

Cats. They're a constant moving circus.

A hurting Tiger

Sorry news about Tiger Woods today. He's going to have reconstructive surgery on his left knee and will miss the rest of the season. You can read about it here.

What struck me was that Tiger has been rated the number one player in the world for 500 weeks! That's nearly ten years!

Well, while it will be a loss for golf fans, some of the other players on the tour will finally have a chance and Tiger will be able to spend more time with his wife, Elin, and his one-year-old daughter, Sam

Get well soon, Tiger.

Pix

Nothin' much. Just some pictures around the south 40.

The Human High-Light Reel

I know there are a number of you that are not fans of sports. But I am and I can't help writing about one of my absolute favorite golf stars - Tiger Woods - the number one professional golfer in the world.

He's arguably the greatest golfer that has ever lived and he's only 31, I think. He has years to go to add to his records.

Today at the final hole of the U.S. Open golf tournament, he barely sunk a 12 foot putt to force a playoff for the championship tomorrow.

Rocco Mediate had finished just ahead of Tiger and was watching on a television set. He simply turned around and said "Unbelievable. But I knew he'd make it."

SWMBO and I were watching and she said afterward "I didn't think he'd make it."

I said, "You just can't ever bet against Tiger in a crucial moment."

The field might have been hopeful that someone could beat Tiger this time because he was obviously still recovering from a third surgery on his left knee. He grimaced at times and limped at times.

And he didn't play very well.

But he's still Tiger.

Tomorrow, he and Mediate will go head to head in an 18 hole playoff.

Don't bet against Tiger.

Update:

It took 18 holes of a playoff and one hole of sudden death but once again Tiger proved he is the best. He won the U.S. Open (again). His 14th major golf tournament win is 4 behind the record established by Jack Nicklaus. Nicklaus won his 18th at the age of 46. Tiger is 32. (Correction from the 31 listed yesterday)

Update: VICTORY!

You may have read of my battle with the New York Times.

After 5 weeks and one day I can report that I have finally won.

Last Friday (after two more somewhat snotty e-mails to the publisher and the president of the company) I received a call from a deeply apologetic Manager of Customer Care. She told me she was going to take care of this. Today, I got a full refund of the overcharges to my account.

She said it was a system failure.

I say when all else fails it helps to complain to the top guys.

(By the way, that's Sir Winston Churchill flashing the V for Victory sign. He was my 15th cousin.)

Wasting Money

I've been anxiously awaiting my stimulus package check from the federal government. An acquaintance of mine got his several weeks ago and it seemed to me like the boys in Washington were taking a long time getting mine to me. When I went to the mailbox today, there was an envelope from the Internal Revenue Service with the words Stimulus Package on it. When I came in to the house, I told SWMBO "Hey I finally got my check from the feds."

But when I opened the envelope, there was no check inside. Instead, a bunch of fine sounding language about the fact that I would get a check, probably in three days or so. I started to rant. Why couldn't they just send the check? Why did they have to send me a letter explaining that I would soon be getting a check? Wasn't that going to cost them twice as much in postage? It's not just to me, it's to everyone? That seems like a lot of wasted money to me.

SWMBO calmly said "But it's our money they're wasting, not theirs!"

Yup, I hadn't thought of that.

Fishin'

A friend and I were talking today . . . first about hunting, then about fishing.

I can only think of twice when I was really hunting with a gun in my hand. The first experience, with my Dad, was a good one as I brought down three or four Prairie Chickens, each with a single shot.

The second time I was alone, looking for pheasants. The only one I saw exploded into flight virtually from under my feet. I didn't come close to hitting it. I don't know what I would have done with it if I had killed it anyway.

But fishing. Now I liked fishing. At least when I caught something. I hated trolling. That's riding in a slow-moving boat with your hook in the water. Usually, I brought up weeds.

One day, at a lake in Canada, after trolling most of the day and not having caught anything, we came back to the dock at dusk. Dad headed up to the cabin to find something to cook for dinner. I said I was going to do some casting off the dock. Aha! Dusk apparently was feeding time and I almost immediately caught a fine Northern Pike, or a Jack as we called them.

Putting the fish on a stringer, I ran up the hill to the cabin to show Dad my prize. As he began cleaning it, I ran back down to the lake and promptly caught another.

By the time I brought a third fish up the hill, Dad said "Okay, that's enough." But it was a great triumphant day for me.

While telling my pal that story I was reminded of a couple of pictures that were taken back in the 1940's. So from at least 60 years ago, here's how it used to be at Carlyle Lake, in Saskatchewan.

That's my Dad on the far right. He's with three of his pals after a good day of fishing.

And here's Dad with a big fish, probably a Wall-eyed Pike, which we called Walleyes. As you can see by Dad's smile, that was a triumphant day for him.

Progress . . . or not

My last post on this blog brought out a plethora of what most of Arizona calls "tree huggers." Up around here, they're also known as "no growthers." They are people who have moved here from somewhere else or who have grown up here. When I first moved to Phoenix several decades ago from "back East", the expression was "O.K. I made it to Paradise, now let's slam the door."

But, you know, you just can't stop growth. Folks like me call it progress. The other folks call it urban blight. If you have a place that regularly makes it onto some list or the other as being a great place to retire then what do you suppose happens? People move here from somewhere else. And there is growth. And the people that come want all the amenities they left behind. But they don't want that damned "urban blight."

So, what's the solution. Mine (I should really say SWMBO's and the BRD's because they've done the lion's share of the work) is to build our own oasis. You can have all those stores and restaurants and bars and car dealers and fast food joints and still have . . . your very own oasis of calm and beauty.

For example . . . these pictures were taken on our front patio, only steps from our front door.

And you can lean back in a comfortable chair, with a drink in your hand and look at the sky. It is boundless.

So remember, folks, every cloud . . .

has a silver lining.

If that's not enough, just remember . . . we've got our eyes on you.

PV is growing!

My town is growing. Up on the side of Glassford Hill, near the Kia dealership, the new Comfort Suites hotel is pretty much all framed up.

Just down the road, on the north side of Highway 69, is the beginning of the huge Crossroads Mall - a very large Home Depot store under construction.

On the south side of the highway is another of the "big box" stores - Sam's Club. It and it's gasoline station are going up very speedily. Only a couple of weeks ago, this was flat ground. Now the steel is rising to the sky.

And closer to the highway, a new Cracker Barrel restaurant is a-growing.

The Crossroads Mall will be the largest in central Arizona once it is completed.

Oh and I forgot to get a picture of the new Hampton Inn, in the Entertainment District a short distance away. It's even closer to completion.

By this fall, Prescott Valley will look considerably different.

Bo goes

Sadly, Bo Diddley died today.

Sing a song.

Correction

I was mistaken. Last night's post should have been titled "Saturday Evening" instead of Sunday evening. Lord knows I don't have to hurry things along any faster than they're already going.

But..speaking of Sunday...

...actually this goes back even further, to Saturday afternoon. I lay down for a short nap and as I was lying there I felt a tiny bit of tightness in my chest. This worried me a wee tad because, as regular readers know, I have a pacemaker in my chest. But the thought that went through my head was this:

My buddy Steve, who has season tickets to the Arizona Diamondbacks games, had invited me down to take in a game this afternoon (Sunday). So as I was lying there contemplating the tightness in my chest Saturday I wondered idly if I suddenly "ceased to exist" (to quote the Monty Python dead parrot sketch), would SWMBO call Steve and tell him I wouldn't be able to make the game.

I then further thought that if she had neglected to do so and the time reached, say 12:15 p.m. today (Sunday) when I was due to to meet Steve at his house and I wasn't there, would Steve call and ask SWMBO "Where's ***** (Catalyst)?" And would she then respond, "He can't make it. He's dead."

Well, I told Steve all of this today when I did get to his house on time to go to the game. He said if the latter case had happened, he probably would have told SWMBO that he still had the ticket and could she make it to Phoenix and go to the game with him.

Y'know, that's what friends are for.

Sunday evening

Summer evening.

Whiskey and water.

Smell of grilled meat.

Diamondbacks win.

SWMBO clipping rose hips.

Smoke hanging out.

A trip to the (new) neighbor.

Her neighbor out grilling steaks on a barbecue grill.

Stop for a quick visit.

He's bare from the waist up, except for numerous tattoos. But he's a gentle man, in spite of his unmufflered car, truck and motorcycle.

A talk with the new neighbor about her love of cats, including Smoke (she already knew his name.)

Later, after TV dinners, a wonderful strawberry shortcake.

Nice evening.

Car Sale

SWMBO sold her car today, thanks to Craig's List. She got exactly what she asked for it and, considering it was 17 years old, we think she did well.



So, on this Wednesday, everything's coming up roses.

Accidental Scott

There's something you should know about SWMBO and I.

Though we've been married for 37 years, it's not our first rodeo.

I was married before and so was SWMBO.

And we both have sons named Scott! Curiously, I guess, my kids have never met her kids. And none of them are kids anymore.

This story is about SWMBO's Scott.


In this picture of him in California a year or two ago, I think of him as "Indiana Scott." Which is fitting, not just because of the hat, but because he actually lives in Indiana, where he grew up.

We had a telephone call from him about a week ago in which he told his mother "I thought I'd better call you before you find this out from somebody else."

Uh-oh.

Scott is a contractor and a remodeler and a damned good one at that. But he has a tendency to be a little stubborn. When a refrigerator was delivered to a construction site, he asked the delivery man with some help moving it into the house.

"Not my job", said the delivery man.

So Scott . . . being Scott . . . said "All right, I'll do it myself!"

Well . . . that didn't work out so well. The fridge fell over onto Scott, breaking two bones in his left leg.

He told his Mom that he had broken one of his own rules. He had employees on site who could have and would have helped him but his orneriness took over.

So, he had surgery and his left leg is now full of screws and staples and he's trying to be patient. That is not a good trait of his: patience.

But he has a sense of humor. Some years ago, some friends of his gave him a lift somewhere and as he got out of the car, he got hit by another car and broke two bones in his right leg.

As he told his Mom, "Now I've got a matched pair!"

Weddings, anyone?

As I was contemplating our near-arch of roses this morning, the thought came to me of how to turn it green. I think I could find some place on the Web that would make me an ordained minister for a relatively small investment. With my papers in hand, I could conduct WEDDINGS!

After all, who doesn't dream of being married surrounded by roses. Just step into my bower, dear hearts, and I shall be happy to commit you to a life of (a. happiness, b. misery == pick one).

And, after the rain, a carpet of rose petals.

Sometimes, my brain just stuns me.

Me and the Times

O.K. I've been reading Mike's blog for a long time now and I've been through his problems with his job, the Mormons, Utah, his kidney cancer, his lawyer daughter, his running son and that ugly dog of his. (Man, he's gonna love that.)

So, I've decided to bare my soul and tell you of my problems with the Newspaper of Record, the New York Times.

For months, maybe years, now I've been taking the Sunday Times delivered to my driveway. Since I live in Lower Butf--k, Arizona, I find this amazing at best. Every Sunday morning, I open my door and there lies the Times in my driveway. Except some Sunday mornings when the delivery guy has had a meth overdose or something and my paper didn't arrive. Or some mornings when it's been lying in the rain or snow for long enough to soak it through. (Note: you can't dry it out in the microwave.)

For this great convenience (mainly for SWMBO who gets through the whole paper in one day while it takes me two, three, four or more days) I pay the New Yorkers 26 bucks a month.

Until this month. I noticed a payment deducted from my bank account on May 6th for $52. Well!!! I called the Times (very convenient: 1-800-NYTIMES) and was told I had been double-billed because I had not paid anything in April. I checked. Yes, I had. My bank account had been debited for $26 on April 8th. I told the guy on the phone about it and he said they had no record of it. I faxed them the proof. (This was on about my third conversation with a third person - - you never get the same guy or gal twice.)

Everyone I talked to said the same thing: we have no record of it but the billing department has opened an investigation and we'll get back to you. I finally asked them to tell the billing department to call me. They never did.

Somebody once told me: go to the top.

So last night, I e-mailed the Publisher (Arthur Sulzberger Jr.) and the President and General Manager (Scott H. Heekin-Canedy), told them the whole story and asked for their prompt attention.

This morning at 8:15 I received a call from someone who said her name was Tanya, who sounded cooperative, or perhaps cowed, who asked me to fax all the bank proofs of my various payments (which now are $78 more than I owe) and she would definitely take care of it. She gave me her private, direct telephone number. She was very sympathetic.

Of course, this is Friday. The beginning of the Memorial Day weekend. I am hoping that maybe, just maybe, by next Tuesday I will hear something back. If not, maybe Mr. Sulzberger and Mr. Heekin-Canedy (what kind of a name is that?) will receive yet another e-mail from me.

Grillin' 'n' Chillin'

Oh, yeah. It's time to fire up the grill.

What we have here is some asparagus, several boneless skinless chicken breasts and a half a hunk of Artisan bread wrapped in foil.

SWMBO fires up the gas.

This is not time-lapse photography but the first side of that chicken is done. The bread is heating on an upper rack.

The asparagus is in the grill basket. Oh, yeahhhhhh!

Can you smell that chicken?

Can you taste that asparagus and chicken?

Oh, yeah. Fill my plate. Add some brown rice. And my salad: grated carrots and apple, some poached raisins and toasted slivered almonds.

Let's see. Anything else? Oh, yeah, a glass of red wine.

I'm in heaven!

Progress(?)

The local newspaper was full of letters from outraged citizens for months about the damage the construction of a new Lowe's store was doing to a hillside in Prescott. Before that it was more of the same for another hillside for a Wal-Mart construction. Before that it was the "leveling" of Bullwhacker Hill as the Gateway Mall was being built.

But I haven't seen a single comment about the ugly hillside drivers are confronted with as they enter Prescott from the east. As graders and bulldozers have carved away at another hillside to make way for the long awaited highway intersection improvements, they have draped the top of the remaining dirt with some strange type of netting. This has offered (from my car) the rather odd two-toned view as one enters the town. Certainly distracting and definitely not a pretty entrance to the city.

Where are the letters? Or have their authors just given up?

Note: Clicking on the photo will make it even uglier.

More flowers - more snow!

I wonder if this is what is called a rose arbor.

Some different colored neighbors.

But . . . what's that in the distance? We had rain here last night but up on Mingus Mountain, it was what an old disc jockey friend of mine used to call Celestial Dandruff.