Remember the Alamo? Too vividly.

Kelli: ...remembers the Alamo.

Miles: I remember the Alamo. In fact, it's the last thing I remember.

Jack: Which side were you on?

Miles: The inside.

Jack: How was the view:?

Miles: Gory. Glorious. Terrifying. Intoxicating. Right up til the endless wave of Mexican soldiers came over the wall, flogged hard by the death of their comrades and Santy Anna's frothing like a rabid dog. Then it looked like death, like shiny, cold, hard steel, like hot lead, like blood and brains and guts and pain. Might have been our finest hour, but definitely not our best day. My last actual thoughts were, "Where the hell is Houston?" and "Poor Mrs. Dickinson".

What else, what else...

February. Cool and cloudy, the moon playing hide and seek like my kids I realized I'd never see again. Ground still muddy from rain the week before. Never thought about dying in mud. Kind of ignominious.

Wind was blowing the clouds about and away. Got to see some of that glorious, blue, Texas sky I loved so much while laying in that blasted, cold mud. Suddenly a couple of Mexican soldiers eclipsed the sky, bayonet and sword whipping down. Then I was soaring through the sky toward the brightest sunrise I ever saw. No more mud and blood and guts... From gory to glory in a flash of steel. Those last cuts, made in anger, were the greatest favors anyone ever did for me.

Top 12 Reasons Sara Was Late to Work

A friend named Sara realized she was going to be late for work and asked for help coming up with excuses. I offered these.

1) I was hit by a drunk in a pickup and left for dead, but fortunately a lightning strike brought me back to life. The lightning was too late for me to be on time, but at least I'm here.

(This will sell better if you singe your eyebrows first.)

2) The dog ate my alarm clock.

3) I spent the past 24 hours stranded between two low water crossings on Brushy Creek. I'm only here now because I finally was able to make a life raft from styrofoam sea turtles tied together with hair from the back of a dead pirate that floated by.

4) My alarm clock electrocuted my dog and I was tied up with the Humane Society and county inspectors for several hours.

5) I went to sleep in my room but woke up floating in Lake Travis. It was only an hour ago that the helicopter rescued me and flew me home. I'd have come straight here, but a vulture had puked on me and I figured you'd want me to wash that and the duckweed off first.

6) Some dork named Miles kept posting on my wall and I lost track of time.

7) I was protesting the guy who wants to burn the Korans and a bunch of military families kidnapped me and took me to Killeen for a parade in my honor. I had to sneak out or I'd still be there eating Buffalo Wild Wings and giving speeches.

8) I was protesting the guy who wants to burn the Korans when a bunch of Islamic terrorists kidnapped me and took me to a secret mosque in a bus buried in Waco for a dinner in my honor. I had to sneak out or I'd still be there eating something that reminded me of pork (but I wasn't about to say that) and giving speeches.

9) I was busy burning Korans when the fire department showed up and cited me for violating the burn ban. Then I had to explain to them how I could burn anything that wet. It was tough because I had run out of lighter fluid.

10) I was busy burning Korans when some preacher from Florida kidnapped me and tried to marry me. I only got away by reading Song of Solomon to him in the original Hebrew. He got so excited he burst into flames, which took care of the rest of the Korans.

11) I was busy beating up Miles for constantly spelling Qur'an wrong and I lost track of time. I'll finish up after my shift.

12) If they don't buy any of those, just shoot the clock and glare at them meaningfully. This is Texas.

A friend about to enter the USMC (Steven Eldridge) mentioned he'd been writing poetry. I got to wondering what Marine poetry would be like. This is what crawled out the shifting desert sands of my cranium.


How Do I Love You, Leatherneck?
by MSgt Elizabeth Barrett "50 Cal" Browning
-------------------------
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways.
Like a 7.62x51 NATO in the bullseye at 1,000 meters.
Like the smell of napalm in the morning.
Like the sound of a thousand drill instructors screaming so loud their lungs come out of their mouths. In unison.



Midnight Muse by GySgt
by Edgar Allen "Alpo" Poe
-------------------------
Once upon a midnight hour
I came upon a lonely flower
Laying in the desert sand
A reminder from God's hand
That an enemy could be near
So I shot the flower, dear.

Birdman of Intrinsitraz

A friend at work (we'll call him Nywroc) loves to hunt. One day while we were playing darts on break and Nywroc was lamenting not getting any doves his last two or three hunts, someone came in to ask if we'd seen the mess on the window. A bird had flown into it so hard something had burst and it had left yucky stuff where it hit. Additionally, there was the vague outline of the whole bird in dust on the window. Someone had drawn an outline of a bird around it. All that was missing was police tape.

Back in the break room, Nywroc got a funny look. He started to say something, then stopped.

Me: "What?"

Nywroc: "Nothing."

Me: "No, what is it?"

Nywroc: "You'll think I'm weird."

Someone (possibly Will): "No, we won't."

Me: "We already think you're weird, so you have nothing to lose."

Nywroc: "I was thinking about getting the bird and taking it home to cook."

All of us: "What are you waiting for?"

Nywroc grinned and ran (literally) out the door. A moment later he was back. "I'll need a bag." Someone found a ZipLoc[tm], and he was off again. We watched out the window as he carried the bird over to the dumpster, stripped off the feathers and wings, and field dressed it right in the parking lot. Soon he was back upstairs with a mess in a bag. Fortunately none of the vegetarians from work were around.

The next day we asked if he ate it.

"Yup."

"How was it?"

"Good. But it was only about two bites!"

Douglas Adams-- like a Breath of Fresh Vacuum

There's something about Douglas Adams that struck a chord (a Gm chord, pre-bailout) within me from the very first words I read in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Rereading Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency now, I find I still resonate like a detuned guitar through an amp with the knobs on 11.

Why?

I can think of a couple of reasons.

First, he writes in a style I've always used. Not that I use it as well as him, much less to the tune of millions of dollars, but the same, general style-- especially the absurd metaphors. I caught a lot of flack in school for that, and from friends when we'd all try writing. I didn't care. Writing, to me, was like a bagel. Except that I always enjoy writing, but most bagels are merely so so.

``Later," insisted her father.
"This is already later. I've been timing it."
...
"Except the ferry never came when it said it would. Never, ever. I timed it."

Brilliant.

Next, it's pure escapism. It's completely surreal, has nothing to do with anything, and I seriously doubt Adams wanted us to find any deeper meaning in the books. Although some people do. Those people probably trust politicians, too.

How surreal is it? Well, at times it makes Alice in Wonderland look like a travelogue.

Then again, it's so surreal that it often reminds me of working with teenagers. So it's no wonder I love it. I'd as soon race an electric monk for the shotgun, a race I'd be sure to lose, probably to my physical integrity's detriment, as not have teenagers around.

So long, Doug, and thanks for all the fish. Especially that one beta. I think the cats still have nightmares.

The grass is always neater on the neighbor's lawn

One of the reasons I don't live in the standard suburbs

It's just a LAWN.

It's not a Texas high school football field (Texans take HS football more seriously than most people take college or pro football).

It's not a world series baseball diamond infield.

It's not a World Cup stadium.

It's not the Augusta National, home of the Masters.

It's just a LAWN.

You walk on it. You play on it. You roll around on it. If it's ours, you can drive and park on it (Rachael and Shaunda both think the spot by the front door is theirs).

So when I get out the old riding mower (it is after all more than an acre!) on the big wedge shaped lawn (like part of God's "Trivial Pursuit" board) with the house at an angle and oddly shaped flower beds and trees planted willy nilly, I don't even worry about perfectly parallel tire tracks or making a cross-hatch pattern. If the grass and weeds aren't so tall that mowing leaves huge clumps, we don't bother to rake. The leaves and semi-mulched grass make a good fertilizer; why should I rake them up, then go pay for more fertilizer?

I'll never win a "best lawn award" unless the Addams Family moves in on one side and the Munsters move in on the other side. And then, I'd probably just let it go longer between mowings.

You want to invest time, love and money in your lawn? Be my guest. It doesn't bother me one bit. Just don't expect me to, or get offended if I don't fit the image you want for the neighborhood.

It's a lawn. A collection of grasses and weeds. Something to walk, play, lie down, drive and park on.

Life's too short to waste much time on a steenking LAWN!!!

Sometimes a banana (pepper)...

Sometimes a banana (pepper) is just a banana (pepper).

The other day I wandered into the break room at lunch time. Rosa had just put out the meat for sandwiches, with what looked like tiny, orange bell peppers a little larger than cherry tomatoes in the midst of the meat slices.

"What's this?" I asked, picking one up.

"Banana pepper," said Rosa, as I popped it into my mouth, knowing full well it wasn't a banana pepper but having no idea what it was.

"Mmmm..." I said as I started down the hall, chewing. About the time I swallowed a tiny bit of it, my mouth caught on fire. I quit chewing, but the pain grew. I could feel each seed, each bit of pepper flesh, every molecule of it, burning away my tongue and skin as if I'd bitten into a high concentration of sulfuric acid. I could almost feel my teeth melting.

I spat the pepper into the trash, and groped desperately through my food stash. Chocolate or bread! Both! I ate a brownie; it had no effect at all. Running back to the break room, I some how managed not to knock anyone aside. My mouth felt blistered, and the heat was growing. Soon I would be breathing fire, annihilating my friends and co-workers!

I'd only swallowed maybe 2% of it, but my stomach was cramping like crazy.

I tore into some cheese, trying to plaster it all over my mouth. I started rapid fire hiccuping, and got the shakes. Hot stuff never does that to me. Until yesterday.

Finally I went to the fridge, and poured some half and half into a mug. As I held gulps of that in my mouth, the blaze began to diminish. A half coffee mug of half and half, over about 5 minutes, finally got it down to where it was merely annoying rather than devastating. The hiccups were gone, but the shakes continued for a few minutes.

I accused Rosa of trying to kill me. "I told you it was a habañero pepper!"

"Habañero? You said banana!"

"No, habañero."

Whether she said it wrong, or I heard it wrong, was irrelevant. I'd just tried to eat a whole habañero, one of the three hottest, naturally occurring foods on the planet.

Sometimes a banana (pepper) is just a banana (pepper).

But sometimes it's not.



Copyright 2007, Miles O'Neal, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved.