Eight Feet Deep

“Ah yes, in one pocket is snake-bite medicine and in the other pocket is a small snake.”
See ya Shelly. Hello W.C. Fields. He is just one of those people who, though dead, can make me laugh by just thinking of him. I just can’t picture him in today’s celebrity-driven culture. He is so yesterday and that is what is great about him.

I think about celebrity and it brings me to Tom Cruise. I obviously have nothing against people speaking their opinion, wrong-headed, pig-headed and totally ignorant those opinions may be. But I think Tom is going a little overboard with his Scientology rants against using medicines such as anti-depressants. I don’t know if he was ever depressed. I hope not and I hope his vitamins keep him from such a fate. Because I’m here to tell you, depression is no picnic. It’s scary. That’s about the best I can describe my experiences with it.

W.C. Fields didn’t seem to take himself seriously and by doing so he helped contribute to the health of many others through laughter. I never have found Tom Cruise particularly funny but he certainly seems to take himself seriously. I guess that’s show biz.

Heh-heh-heh-HEH-heh, indeed

Normally I like a little quiet time when I first wake up, get my morning coffee and fire up the old computer. This morning my quiet was assaulted by the drilling of a woodpecker. It sounded like the danged thing was boring into my outside wall except I know they really prefer trees to brick dwellings. I mean it was loud and obnoxious and really pretty funny. Its hammering was so noisy that I felt as if I had been trapped inside some 50s Woody Woodpecker cartoon. Just about the time I decided to grab my binoculars and go take a look at this disturber of peace, it stopped.

I’m hoping that the woodpecker does not do that anymore. I don’t mind sharing the neighborhood with it. I like woodpeckers. As far as I know, they like me, or at the very least have never attacked me like a mockingbird appeared to do the other day.

I was out for my morning walk and this mockingbird dove at me like it was going bomb me or perhaps peck out my eyeballs. It made at least two runs at me. I thought: “This can’t be good.” Then it flew away just as quickly as it had flown toward me. I’m glad it was just one and not a skyfull like in the 1963 Alfred Hitchcock film, “The Birds.”

I just never know what is going to happen. I hope some kitten doesn’t decide to take me out.

Is dancing with a linebacker really a sport?

The local daily newspaper, The Beaumont Enterprise, has an interesting interactive question running on their Website that asks readers what they consider sports and what they don’t think of as a sport.

Of course, this is one of those questions that begs a very personal and individual response, so trying to derive a conclusion after reading some of the responses from some of these geniuses who have replied is a guaranteed “lose-lose.” It is kind of a fun question though. Are sports only those activities where one is competing against others, or is it a sport when you are competing against nature, the laws of physics, time, space, yourself, a big ass volcano or what?

Back in college we used to consider drinking as a sport. We played the game “Quarters” using shots of tequila or whisky. I guess on a larger scale we actually considered getting drunk as a sport. “Australian Rules Drunk,” as my friend Dr. Warren, would say. It was when you got so drunk you puked on your OWN shoes.

But as middle age snaps us up like a frog on a fly we have to consider the type of pastime in which we want to indulge, or not. And if we have a modicum of sense it will be something not hastening our ultimate demise. In other words: skydiving. But is it really a sport? Actually, I have had thoughts about skydiving. Perhaps it is something I should talk about with a mental health professional.

I have friends who like golf. But is it a sport? Or hunting or fishing or collecting miniatures? I don’t know. Since I considered the question it really has made me think about the very nature of sport, which my dictionary says is a)an often competitive athletic activity requiring skill or physical prowess b)diversion or recreation c)jest d)mockery, ridicule e)a sportsmanlike person f) a debonair person or bonvivant g) an organism that shows a genetic deviation; mutation. Huh?

With such a diverse set of definitions practically any activity including insult, the act of being sporty or being a giant mutant Ninja turtle can be a sport. This really doesn’t settle anything as far as the original question of what is sport. But next time I choose to insult someone I will give them ample time for a reply. You know, a sporting chance.

A woman and her llama

I came across this colorful photo from MorgueFile.com and felt myself strongly attracted to it — the photo not the woman or the llama.

Something in the picture reassures me. It’s like the woman is saying: “Oh damn. Bad llama. Get off my foot please!” On second thought, I suppose it isn’t all that reassuring. But llamas are just so freaking funny looking even though I have been spat at by one. Fortunately, the great bomb of spittle missed me by about a few feet. I might be wrong but I feel that llamas have to spit only in the general direction of other llamas to get their attention. I don’t know that accuracy means all that much to a llama. Although I’d hate to get into a spitting contest with one.

But llamas are unfairly branded for their spitting, according to Llamapaedia.com

“A properly trained and socialized llama will not spit at people at any time, even during veterinary procedures. Most llama owners only meet with spit when they get caught in the crossfire of llamas spitting at each other. Spitting is used by llamas to settle arguments, establish dominance and pecking order, tell males that females are pregnant, discipline crias (baby llamas) and express fear or discomfort.”

The “all-llama all of the time” Web site goes on to say that llamas give some sort of warning before spitting including pinning their ears back or raising their head. Hmm. I guess I was too busy not trying to step in the llama crap to notice that the llama was about to peg me as a human spitoon.

I’ll know better next time I go up close and personal with a llama that’s got a problem.

Thanks to Laurie at “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” I have discovered Blogger’s new feature allowing direct photo posting. This really rocks! Speaking of rock, here is a photo I took on top of Enchanted Rock near Fredericksburg, Texas, in January. Just trying out the new toy.