We've all been told to never say never. Well, that's all well and good, but here are my list of nevers (as of this date) that many people have done:
I've never:
Been to a strip club.
Smoked a cigarette, cigar or pipe.
Been to a bachelor party.
Been to a casino.
Eaten caviar.
Seen the movie ET.
Heard a Dave Matthews Band song.
Hunted.
Driven over 100 mph.
Seen the Pacific Ocean.
For that matter, been west of Kansas City, Kansas, south of Atlanta, Georgia or north of the Upper Peninsula.
Ridden a horse.
Seen my nation's capital.
Swum with dolphins.
Skydived (or is it skydove?)
Taken drugs.
Dated an Asian.
Been in a wedding as a best man or groomsman.
Hit a hole in one.
Seen a no-hitter in person.
Experienced a hurricane.
Been on television or radio.
Won a raffle.
Eaten food with chopsticks.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
The Generals
By no means am I a PETA supporter. I think that group is just another extremist organization that started with good intentions that have run amok. Still, I do enjoy dogs. Cats would be fine with me were I not allergic to them. I guess it's fair to say that I'm a dog lover.
My fiancé Karen loves bulldogs of the English variety. She thinks they're beautiful. I think they're ugly enough to make me look good. Karen is an enthusiastic supporter of bulldog rescues and in fact owned one -- Sherman -- when we met. Sherman is the wizened old man -- he's four -- with a highly affectionate nature whose only shortcoming is that he has a bit of a food addiction. Karen thinks it's because he was overfed by his previous owner. Whatever the reason, it is always advisable to tell him nicely before actually nearing a treat to his ready maw and be prepared to pull one's hand back, quickly.
Because Karen has a big, generous and tender heart -- what else can explain why she's chosen to be with me? -- she has a weak spot in it reserved for rescue bulldogs. Wanting to give Sherman a brother and a playmate, she found one we chose to name Custer that we subsequently rescued. We had always said that if we ever got a dog together, it would be named Custer after the Fort Custer National Park at which we'd had a memorable date. That we would coincidentally be reviving Union Civil War generals' memories was unintentional. Custer is a rambunctious one-year-old whom I have likened to the child in the movie Parenthood that ran around the house with a bucket over his head; higher edcucation is not in his future. For whatever reason, he has glommed onto me as his sidekick. If I go downstairs, he follows. If I go upstairs, he follows. When I sit on the toilet...no, he doesn't sit on it with me, but he gets about as close as he can right in front of me. When he plays with a toy, he uses me as a ledge whereon he balances his toy as he chews it. Remarkably, he hasn't bitten me once. Besides being about as dumb as a box of hair, Custer is an overly affectionate being who only wants to love and be loved and makes sure both aims are taken care of on his schedule.
Not satisfied with the Romulus and Remus of English bulldogs, Karen trolled the internet until she allowed herself to be seduced both by the lure of another bulldog and an unbelievably sad story: In the Deep South, someone had callously and cruelly dumped a bulldog in a dumpster that, upon being rescued, was discovered to be pregnant with eleven puppies. She approached me about possibly taking one of the puppies to which, responsibly, I suggested that the timing just wasn't right, no matter how much I'd love to have one (honestly, that's how I felt). But I underestimated my opponent. One day, Karen said, Look at these pictures of the puppies, sweetheart. One look at the pictures justified my response: We're screwed. The next thing we knew we were renting a car and driving down to Dixie to pick up the white puppy with the big, brown circle on his back near his backside. One would think that the perfect name for this one would be Spotbutt. One would be wrong. Now that we had inadvertently created the monster, we knew that we had to continue it, and since our third one was from the South, Stonewall he would be. Had Pickett met with greater success at Cemetery Ridge, our third might have been known as Pickett, but I wasn't about to saddle him with that inauspicious name.
So now our little troupe includes Sherman, Custer and Stonewall. Of the three, the biggest troublemaker, by far, is Stoney. He sinks his piranha teeth into the flanks and mouths of his brothers, humps them, pees in the house, poops and eats it in the house (yes, we know...), eats Karen's shoes -- he'd eat mine too but (a) I don't leave them all over God's creation and (b) he gets so tired carrying them that he's too tired to chew them. He doesn't like being told No and growls at me when being reprimanded. Don't even try to tell me about being the Alpha Dog -- Sherm and Cus obey me and cower when I get loud. Stonewall invokes his namesake's defiance and tries to figure out ways to beat me. When he gets to be too much with his older brothers, they take him on in tandem to remind him who won the Civil War.
Karen has infinitely more knowledge about raising dogs than I do. To that end, she tries to bring them home appropriate toys that will keep them busy enough to refrain from fighting. One such purchase was something known as a Jolly Ball. It looks much like a kettle ball used in weight training, except that it's made of allegedly indestructible rubber. It comes in various sizes and colors and, from all appearances, does what it advertises.
But it never counted on Custer. If Sherman is a food whore, Custer is a toy whore. And should one object to the use of the word whore in this sense...consider this: Custer not only is quite possessive about his Jolly Ball, he's also quite enamored of it. The other night, I had to call the cable company for some technical help in setting up some replacement equipment. To keep Custer and Stonewall distracted (Sherman was keeping vigil for Karen who was upstairs lying in bed, not feeling too well), I pulled out a couple of toys, including the Jolly Ball. While I was talking with the poor lady at the cable company, Custer began to hump the Jolly Ball. He humped it so much, in fact, that he got winded. Meanwhile, I was concentrating so hard on the instructions I was being given that I was completely oblivious to the noise of Custer's panting and, embarrassingly, how audible it might be on the other end of the line. Suddenly, it occurred to me and I hurriedly apologized to the woman. She, to her eternal credit, said, I thought you might be having a private moment and wasn't about to interrupt you. All I could do was burst out laughing.
The phone call ended, I checked on Karen to see how she was feeling. When she heard what happened on my phone call, she couldn't believe it. Yep, sweetheart, you bought Custer a sex toy, I told her. It is, after all, called a Jolly Ball.
Sherman, Custer and Stonewall are three very good dogs. We're blessed to have them. They enrich our lives and make us happy all the time. As I told Karen once, they're the best toys I ever had. I wouldn't trade them for anything.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
My fiancé Karen loves bulldogs of the English variety. She thinks they're beautiful. I think they're ugly enough to make me look good. Karen is an enthusiastic supporter of bulldog rescues and in fact owned one -- Sherman -- when we met. Sherman is the wizened old man -- he's four -- with a highly affectionate nature whose only shortcoming is that he has a bit of a food addiction. Karen thinks it's because he was overfed by his previous owner. Whatever the reason, it is always advisable to tell him nicely before actually nearing a treat to his ready maw and be prepared to pull one's hand back, quickly.
Because Karen has a big, generous and tender heart -- what else can explain why she's chosen to be with me? -- she has a weak spot in it reserved for rescue bulldogs. Wanting to give Sherman a brother and a playmate, she found one we chose to name Custer that we subsequently rescued. We had always said that if we ever got a dog together, it would be named Custer after the Fort Custer National Park at which we'd had a memorable date. That we would coincidentally be reviving Union Civil War generals' memories was unintentional. Custer is a rambunctious one-year-old whom I have likened to the child in the movie Parenthood that ran around the house with a bucket over his head; higher edcucation is not in his future. For whatever reason, he has glommed onto me as his sidekick. If I go downstairs, he follows. If I go upstairs, he follows. When I sit on the toilet...no, he doesn't sit on it with me, but he gets about as close as he can right in front of me. When he plays with a toy, he uses me as a ledge whereon he balances his toy as he chews it. Remarkably, he hasn't bitten me once. Besides being about as dumb as a box of hair, Custer is an overly affectionate being who only wants to love and be loved and makes sure both aims are taken care of on his schedule.
Not satisfied with the Romulus and Remus of English bulldogs, Karen trolled the internet until she allowed herself to be seduced both by the lure of another bulldog and an unbelievably sad story: In the Deep South, someone had callously and cruelly dumped a bulldog in a dumpster that, upon being rescued, was discovered to be pregnant with eleven puppies. She approached me about possibly taking one of the puppies to which, responsibly, I suggested that the timing just wasn't right, no matter how much I'd love to have one (honestly, that's how I felt). But I underestimated my opponent. One day, Karen said, Look at these pictures of the puppies, sweetheart. One look at the pictures justified my response: We're screwed. The next thing we knew we were renting a car and driving down to Dixie to pick up the white puppy with the big, brown circle on his back near his backside. One would think that the perfect name for this one would be Spotbutt. One would be wrong. Now that we had inadvertently created the monster, we knew that we had to continue it, and since our third one was from the South, Stonewall he would be. Had Pickett met with greater success at Cemetery Ridge, our third might have been known as Pickett, but I wasn't about to saddle him with that inauspicious name.
So now our little troupe includes Sherman, Custer and Stonewall. Of the three, the biggest troublemaker, by far, is Stoney. He sinks his piranha teeth into the flanks and mouths of his brothers, humps them, pees in the house, poops and eats it in the house (yes, we know...), eats Karen's shoes -- he'd eat mine too but (a) I don't leave them all over God's creation and (b) he gets so tired carrying them that he's too tired to chew them. He doesn't like being told No and growls at me when being reprimanded. Don't even try to tell me about being the Alpha Dog -- Sherm and Cus obey me and cower when I get loud. Stonewall invokes his namesake's defiance and tries to figure out ways to beat me. When he gets to be too much with his older brothers, they take him on in tandem to remind him who won the Civil War.
Karen has infinitely more knowledge about raising dogs than I do. To that end, she tries to bring them home appropriate toys that will keep them busy enough to refrain from fighting. One such purchase was something known as a Jolly Ball. It looks much like a kettle ball used in weight training, except that it's made of allegedly indestructible rubber. It comes in various sizes and colors and, from all appearances, does what it advertises.
But it never counted on Custer. If Sherman is a food whore, Custer is a toy whore. And should one object to the use of the word whore in this sense...consider this: Custer not only is quite possessive about his Jolly Ball, he's also quite enamored of it. The other night, I had to call the cable company for some technical help in setting up some replacement equipment. To keep Custer and Stonewall distracted (Sherman was keeping vigil for Karen who was upstairs lying in bed, not feeling too well), I pulled out a couple of toys, including the Jolly Ball. While I was talking with the poor lady at the cable company, Custer began to hump the Jolly Ball. He humped it so much, in fact, that he got winded. Meanwhile, I was concentrating so hard on the instructions I was being given that I was completely oblivious to the noise of Custer's panting and, embarrassingly, how audible it might be on the other end of the line. Suddenly, it occurred to me and I hurriedly apologized to the woman. She, to her eternal credit, said, I thought you might be having a private moment and wasn't about to interrupt you. All I could do was burst out laughing.
The phone call ended, I checked on Karen to see how she was feeling. When she heard what happened on my phone call, she couldn't believe it. Yep, sweetheart, you bought Custer a sex toy, I told her. It is, after all, called a Jolly Ball.
Sherman, Custer and Stonewall are three very good dogs. We're blessed to have them. They enrich our lives and make us happy all the time. As I told Karen once, they're the best toys I ever had. I wouldn't trade them for anything.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Bad books
Art-appreciation is, I understand, subjective. What one person sees as art can be viewed by another person as trash and vice versa. Still, my tastes aren't so hoidy-toidy that I'm too critical about most things. My tastes can be described best by saying I know what I like and I like what I know. Come to think of it, that would describe my eating habits, too.
But I digress.
Recently, I've read a couple of books that made me scratch my head. The first, 1776, by the estimable writer David McCullough, won the Pulitzer. As anyone who knows me will explain, I'm a book whore of the first order, an inveterate reader of virtually anything historical dealing with the Revolutionary War, the American Civil War, the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War or any of the Gulf Wars. Typically, I can find something worthwhile in anything written about one of those conflicts.
McCullough's book is an eminently readable tome, but not one that wowed me. In fact, it was rather pedestrian. I didn't see any great scholarship evident in the writing. He may have found an interesting tidbit or two that was newsworthy, but otherwise it was singularly unimpressive. I'm not sure how Pulitzers are determined, but this one was a headscratcher.
The next book, The Zookeeper's Wife, by Diane Ackerman. Touted by many as a must-read novel of historical fiction, it was the most outlandishly deceptive piece of literature I've read in a long time, so much so that I actually went on amazon.com and gave a review. Given a riveting true story, the author butchered the tale by dwelling on nature, animals, colors, biology, botany and anything she could think of to detract from saving Jews from the Holocaust. In the hands of a more talented scribe, this could have been a great work. In Ackerman's hands, it was a travesty. From what I read on amazon.com, I wasn't alone in thinking this.
One book that gained notoriety for reasons that escape me is the humorously titled A Confederacy of Dunces. The author died a decade before the book was published by his widow and ended up winning a Pulitzer, for reasons that escape me. Yeah, it's got lots of local color, but I'm baffled as to the plot of the book. This book seems to have anticipated Seinfeld's show about nothing by being a book largely about nothing. Yet the voters saw fit to give it an award. Great title for a book, but a mediocre story.
Then there are people who, contrary to all reason, are able to get books published. One such example is Larry Legend, the story of Larry Bird, the former Boston Celtic. Unarguably an interesting topic, the rhetoric of the biography reads like an infatuated high schooler's diary. What grown adult relies on the player's nickname almost to the exclusion of his given name throughout the book? One can almost see the saliva dripping from the writer's mouth.
More troubling is that the author -- who had as his day job that of being a noted criminal defense attorney -- got some facts horribly wrong. Notable among the several gaffes in his book is his assertion that during Bird's high school days, he and his buddies would listen to Cubs' games on the radio while Harry Caray did the play by play. The only problem with that is this: Bird graduated from high school in 1974. Caray broadcast for the Chicago White Sox from 1971 to 1981. Anyone who would describe himself as a diehard Cubs' fan surely would know that the voice of the Cubs during Bird's high school days was Jack Brickhouse.
What's more surprising about this is that the author of the book has published several books. If any of the other books is as weirdly written and as poorly edited as Larry Legend, it's a wonder anyone would agree to publish the author's books.
If there's any saving grace, neither The Zookeeper's Wife nor Larry Legend won any awards, much less a Pulitzer.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
But I digress.
Recently, I've read a couple of books that made me scratch my head. The first, 1776, by the estimable writer David McCullough, won the Pulitzer. As anyone who knows me will explain, I'm a book whore of the first order, an inveterate reader of virtually anything historical dealing with the Revolutionary War, the American Civil War, the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the Korean War, the Vietnam War or any of the Gulf Wars. Typically, I can find something worthwhile in anything written about one of those conflicts.
McCullough's book is an eminently readable tome, but not one that wowed me. In fact, it was rather pedestrian. I didn't see any great scholarship evident in the writing. He may have found an interesting tidbit or two that was newsworthy, but otherwise it was singularly unimpressive. I'm not sure how Pulitzers are determined, but this one was a headscratcher.
The next book, The Zookeeper's Wife, by Diane Ackerman. Touted by many as a must-read novel of historical fiction, it was the most outlandishly deceptive piece of literature I've read in a long time, so much so that I actually went on amazon.com and gave a review. Given a riveting true story, the author butchered the tale by dwelling on nature, animals, colors, biology, botany and anything she could think of to detract from saving Jews from the Holocaust. In the hands of a more talented scribe, this could have been a great work. In Ackerman's hands, it was a travesty. From what I read on amazon.com, I wasn't alone in thinking this.
One book that gained notoriety for reasons that escape me is the humorously titled A Confederacy of Dunces. The author died a decade before the book was published by his widow and ended up winning a Pulitzer, for reasons that escape me. Yeah, it's got lots of local color, but I'm baffled as to the plot of the book. This book seems to have anticipated Seinfeld's show about nothing by being a book largely about nothing. Yet the voters saw fit to give it an award. Great title for a book, but a mediocre story.
Then there are people who, contrary to all reason, are able to get books published. One such example is Larry Legend, the story of Larry Bird, the former Boston Celtic. Unarguably an interesting topic, the rhetoric of the biography reads like an infatuated high schooler's diary. What grown adult relies on the player's nickname almost to the exclusion of his given name throughout the book? One can almost see the saliva dripping from the writer's mouth.
More troubling is that the author -- who had as his day job that of being a noted criminal defense attorney -- got some facts horribly wrong. Notable among the several gaffes in his book is his assertion that during Bird's high school days, he and his buddies would listen to Cubs' games on the radio while Harry Caray did the play by play. The only problem with that is this: Bird graduated from high school in 1974. Caray broadcast for the Chicago White Sox from 1971 to 1981. Anyone who would describe himself as a diehard Cubs' fan surely would know that the voice of the Cubs during Bird's high school days was Jack Brickhouse.
What's more surprising about this is that the author of the book has published several books. If any of the other books is as weirdly written and as poorly edited as Larry Legend, it's a wonder anyone would agree to publish the author's books.
If there's any saving grace, neither The Zookeeper's Wife nor Larry Legend won any awards, much less a Pulitzer.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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