Author: Dick

Quick. What pops into your mind when you think Dutch? Treat? Rembrandt? Sex and drugs? Well, whatever you envision you probably aren’t thinking Tex Ritter are you? That is unless you live in Nederland, Texas, and happen to know who is Tex Ritter.

For those of you who do not know, Tex Ritter was a singing cowboy. He was much unlike the whistling cowboys, or the mumbling cowboys, or the clicking Kalahari bushmen cowboys. Trust me. Tex Ritter was a singing cowboy and country-western star who also spawned the late John Ritter. Perhaps he spawned the future “Three’s Company” and “Eight Simple Rules” star while swimming upstream. But enough with the fishy explanation of whom Tex Ritter was. I’m afraid that doesn’t get us any closer to why we should associate the Dutch with Tex Ritter.

The best I have been able to piece this puzzle together is that Tex Ritter lived at one time in Nederland, Texas, which is nestled among the cornucopia of petrochemical plants between Beaumont and Port Arthur. Nederland — which sounds one hell of a lot like “Netherlands” — was invented by a railroad tycoon who wanted a settlement for Dutch immigrants. Thus, we have the Dutch connection to Nederland and perhaps to Tex Ritter. Maybe.

Tex Ritter Park — home to this Dutch-like windmill (actually a museum that is air-conditioned)– is a rather scenic park in downtown Nederland. The windmill seems to have lost portions of its blades, perhaps yet another victim of Hurricane Rita. Also, Tex Ritter has been dead for more than 30 years. But that shouldn’t change anything. I don’t really think you can have enough Dutch windmills in U.S. parks named for singing cowboys. I mean, it all makes total sense to me. Sort of.

Try as I might to not have a small mind about such things, I just can’t understand how people can be afraid of clowns. Well, I suppose if you remember John Wayne Gacy … But of course people can fear anything. They fear fear itself. Some people are afraid of a Jennifer Lopez ass — if not fearful of J Lo her own damn self. I knew a guy in high school who had a phobia about birds. He was a pretty big guy and if we were playing softball and a bird flew over you had best made way for him.

But think of all the frightful people and situations in life — terror attacks, random acts of violence, mugging, earthquake, hurricane, being hit my a meteor, teeth cleaning. And we, the collective we, are afraid of a clown. We are afraid of a bird. We are afraid of spiders and snakes. Okay, I’m a little frightened by snakes. I’m kind of ambivalent about heights. Certain insane street people also kind of give me the willies from time to time.

Divine? Good gracious yes. Were I more normal would Divine frighten me? I don’t know. I think being normal would scare me even more. Mediocrity should leave me shaking as well. But it doesn’t because if mediocrity didn’t exist then those people of excellence who aspire to be failures would … be excellent failures? I never claimed to be a philosopher.

Nothing to fear but fear itself? Not if you’re a turkey. But what of fearing turkeys? Undercooked turkeys are especially something of which to be wary. Remember that this Thanksgiving. Should you fear the turkey? If it’s undercooked. Damn straight. You don’t want to have all sorts of weird stuff shooting out your orifices like Mount St. Helens, especially while watching the football game after Thanksgiving dinner.

So the fear of clowns is not at all unreasonable when you consider so much is out there within this great big universe that can get you. Sweet dreams. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite nor let the thing under the bed grab you.

It seems a lot of people have been telling me both literally and figuratively for a long, long time that I’m going to Hell.

Certain mortals among us suppose their knowledge of the Holy Bible enables them to make such a judgment. It has always been rather disquieting to know that if indeed Hell exists — somewhere other than in supermarket checkout lines — that certain actions or behavior will send you to that big steaming, fiery pit when you’re no mas. It is especially frightening when you’re a child. Perhaps that is why I liked to pretend I was Jesus when I was a kid.

Now we have more mortals making all sorts of pronouncements about what God will do to you for various indiscretions. For instance, Pat Robertson’s recent prediction that a Pennsylvania town will face doom and destruction for voting out the school board that demanded intelligent design be taught to students. Well, I guess Pat and the rest of the Bible beaters can do whatever they think is best.

Personally, I have my own list of people who should go to Hell for their misgivings. And this list does not really have a whole hell of a lot to do with religion. I will try to come up with lists of people I think should go to Hell from time-to-time. I think it should be quite fun. Here are my first listings:

1. The inventor of the smiley face. It is one of those mysteries of life just who created this ghastly icon. But whomever got the ball rolling surely must know that if there is a Hell he (somehow I think it had to be a guy who came up with this) will burn there to a crisp. Smiley smiles but behind that mask is an insidious doom merchant urging that you grin while you’re getting gored by the ox of life. I especially hate pop-up smileys. They are like the jack-in-the-box of an impending nuclear winter. Jeeeezzzzz. They give me the freakin’ creeps.

2. Pat Robertson. I don’t care whether he burns or is Lucifer’s maitre’d. I wish he would go straight to Hell and the sooner the better.

3. Mosquitoes.

4. Tom Cruise. And would he please take his Scientology and his dime store pop psychology with him.

5. Driver’s who tailgate me. I can never be sure but perhaps a strong chance exists that this constant pain in my neck and the related two cervical disc surgeries may have had its origins from the person who hit my car in the ass end while I was at a stoplight. It is annoying, tail-gating. It is dangerous. To paraphrase Baghdad Bob: The stomachs (and all the rest) of those who tailgate me should roast in Hell.

That’s it for now. Have a hell of a nice day!

We’ll even throw this guy in the deal.
I thought New York had it all. I guess not, says AP’s Larry McShane:

“NEW YORK – Spin the radio dial in the nation’s largest city, and the choices are dizzying. Talk shows in English and en Espanol. Smooth jazz and heavy metal. Nonstop hip-hop and 24-hour news. Classic rock and all-sports.
“But AM or FM, one thing remains absent: A country music station.”

In the spirit of brotherhood, I would gladly give them one or two of our country western stations here in Southeast Texas in exchange for a decent music station period.

Since I spent four years in the Navy it seems almost like a conflict of interest for me to talk about Veterans Day. But it’s not really. I reap the bennies of those who served, fought and/or died for whatever reason those men and women served.

I say that because military service isn’t always about duty, honor, country, apple pie, blah, blah, blah. For some it is a gateway to a better life. Or an economic opportunity. Others served because they were drafted. And yes there were those who were inspired in a fit of patriotic fervor such as after Pearl Harbor or 9-11-01.

On this Veterans Day I think back to all the people I’ve known who served. It’s a lot of people. There was the old man up the street from where I was raised who was gassed during World War I. My own father and two of his brothers fought in World War II. I knew a lot of Korean vets. But of course, Vietnam was the war when I was growing up. One of my brothers served. I likewise knew people who died there. I know or knew guys whose souls were forever damaged there. And I know people who came through that war just fine. Then there are all the battles since. A good friend of mine had two sons who went to Iraq last year. The last e-mail I got from my friend said her boys — both mobile machine gunners — “had been changed forever.”

The Paris Peace Accords were signed the year before I enlisted in the Navy. I’m considered a Vietnam-era veteran because I served before 1975, when our last official military actions were evacuations as the North Vietnamese overran the South. But the closest I got to Vietnam was after the war, cruising hundreds of miles off the coast on a destroyer in the South China Sea. And the biggest danger I faced in the service — was from my own reckless youth and that of my fellow young, knuckleheaded sailors.

I am not a fan of the war in Iraq. I feel our troops were backed in there and put in a situation where our country would look weak if we withdrew without deposing Saddam. I’d like to see us get the hell out of there yesterday. I don’t know what that would do to us in terms of perception by other nations. A bunch of extremist terrorists may perceive us as evil. But real nations that will go to war over a lunch tab might perceive us as weak if we pull out without some sort successful conclusion. And no, I don’t know what that would be. I’m afraid we’re in a no-win-win situation. But then, I’ve always been a bit of a Gloomy Gus.

With my diatribe about Iraq done, I do challenge the right wing propagandists who put out this ridiculous notion that you can’t support the troops in Iraq without supporting the war. It’s just total bullshit. I was supporting the troops long before they got to Iraq. I was one of the troops, so to speak. And many of those talking heads or government officials who espouse such drivel never served a day in uniform. But hey, they don’t let a little hypocrisy get in the way.

So yeah, I’m appreciative of veterans past, present and future. The military can be idiotic and bureaucratic and supreme ass-coverers and let things happen like Abu Ghraib but I wouldn’t want any other country’s military protecting us. Like Texans used to say about Lyndon Johnson, “He may be a bastard, but he’s our bastard.”