Happy Independence Day Weekend!

Tornado: The root cause

All on my own, I have figured out what caused the Windsor tornado.

This is the truth: It began as a huge vacuum in downtown Greeley. The epicenter of the vacuum was situated in City Hall.

City officials had sucked up to the cheese factory people with such violent force that all the hot air in the City Council chambers began swirling about uncontrollably.

The rest is history.

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Seriously, folks. It shouldn’t be up to city officialdom whether or not an industry will locate in Greeley or somewhere else.

A city should be friendly and receptive, and industry should be required to meet municipal standards and obey city ordinances.

But this obsequious municipal pandering is simply undignified and unnecessary. Ad nauseum, et ad infinitum.

Will the cheese factory stink? I bet it will. Will the cheese factory be a huge boon to the Greeley economy? That will be hard to measure. My prediction is, it won’t make any discernible difference to your financial condition or mine.

Will the city be faced with a disobedient industry, once it is established? Quite likely. Following the lead of our elected leadership, the whole town turned around, bent over and said to the cheese people, “Do me, do me.” Once an industry has learned that a city willingly rolls over, the industry will expect it. Code enforcement, law enforcement has been given a handicap by the city.

Our elected officials set a definitive precedent with huge giveaways of city resources, wild promises, pandering, pimping and showing a very real willingness to kiss ass corporately.

Greeley may need a cheese factory. It doesn’t need leadership that sucks desperately enough to cause tornadoes.

Alley Oop

My favorite character in the Alley Oop comic strip – other than Alley himself of course – is Oola.

She’s curvy, brunette, wearing an animal hide sewn with only one shoulder strap.

Her name is Oola, short for (drum roll) “Oo La Lah.” Get it? Huh? Get it? Oo-la-lah.”

The rodeo

In the summer of 1948, Mom and Dad loaded up the Pontiac and drove us to Cheyenne to see the rodeo.

I remember Indians in turkey-feather head-dress, chuck wagons endlessly circling the arena, a bi-plane skywriting a script “Coca Cola” in the wild blue western sky.

I don’t remember the rodeo. I do remember that I have actually been to a rodeo. I’ve even been to more than that one rodeo.

Having fulfilled that obligation, I don’t go to the rodeo any more. Perhaps wherein derives the phrase, “Seen one, seen ‘em all.”

The same thing would apply for a parade. I have seen a parade. Having fulfilled that obligation, I don’t have to go back. Do I?

At my mother’s insistence, I once played croquet. Yes I admit I played croquet, summoning manly courage to overcome my quite rational fear that I would actually turn gay during the match.

Laura says I shouldn’t take such glee in the fact that I will never play croquet again.

So what do I like, if not games, live entertainment, ocean cruises, rodeos? Neil Young music qualifies. Read on.

The Stereo Rises Again

On May 1, 2008, when we entertained our friends Fred and Roxanne in our home, our venerable stereo system gave notice, rolled over, and died.

We were trying to play “I Love the Life I Live” by Mose Allison. The music whined, growled, slowed down, then quit altogether.

We had bought that stereo system – mostly for my personal enjoyment – in 1975. It featured a Pioneer 550-watt receiver, Jennings Research speakers. The original BIC turntable was replaced in 1983 with the Panasonic unit that failed a couple of months ago.

Now, with the able assistance of our electronics expert/grandson Stephen, the Jennings Research speakers are remarried to Denon receiver and Denon turntable. Denon was unknown to me, but I read it is related to Marantz, so I’m good with it. (Stephen knew exactly what to buy. We had no idea.)

So just in time for the Fourth of July, we have music again. Keep on rockin’ in the USA.

The Inheritance

Back in December of 1998, the month in which both our dads died, we began going through some of the material things the two men had left us.

Here were two dissimilar individuals. In manner and personality, they were nothing alike. They both professed pride in a mutual Irish heritage. But, my dad played golf avidly, Laura’s never made time for it; my dad was an aggressive pro football fan, Laura’s showed no particular interest.

Laura’s dad was calm, prayerful, serious, almost imperturbable, jolly, with a good sense of humor. My dad was angry and irritable; he thought of himself as a good ballroom dancer. He aspired to socialize but wasn’t very successful at it.

We inherited almost their entire collections of 33 1/3 recorded album music. Perhaps it was because they lived through the same era. However, it became eerily apparent that these two disparate individuals had identical taste in music.

Laura and I have a huge record collection. We own perhaps two-thirds of the world’s surviving 33 1/3 “albums.” Plus, thanks to our dads, we have matching pairs of “The Best of Lawrence Welk,” “Steve and Edie,” “Eddie Arnold Sings the Blues,” and “The Ames Brothers on Broadway.” And more.

It’s good to have the music back. And thanks again to Stephen who lent his professional expertise to the project.

The Lone Ranger

Leap aboard the Wayback Machine, set your dial for Palo Alto, 1955.

The Hodge boys and our cousins, Martha and Nard (Yes his name was, and is, “Nard,” short for Bernard) had built a western fort out of cardboard boxes. We played cowboys and Indians right there under the watchful eye of the Stanford University staff and students.

So here comes Nard around the corner and I bust ‘im good. Bang bang, you’re dead, Nard. But Nard doesn’t think so.

“I’m the Lone Ranger,” he says. “So what?” I ask. Nard puffs up his chest, spins his six-shooters on his fingers, holsters them deftly and announces:

“The Lone Ranger don’t go dead.”

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Word of the Week: Chingus, or in Spanish, chingaso. Guess what? These ain’t words. They are “usages” from the Lingo of Thomaso the Loquacious.

“Chingus,” means “thing,” as in “Hand me that chingus over there on the work bench.” “Chingaso” is a word I’ve heard used by some persons other than myself. It means, in Spanish, “Oh you thing you.” It means, well, something vague. Odalay, Chingaso!

Next week’s word: Nomenclature.

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Reciprocal rant? Feel free to express yourself in the comment section!