Here at TharpSter.Org, we aren’t really given to calling attention to birthdays unless they’re our own. Even then, we don’t want to make a whole lot out of them.

For reasons which will become obvious in a moment, I feel it only necessary to bring up the Henson birthday because the fruits of his labor were instrumental in my formative years.

Certainly, that’s a pretty generic statement. I’m sure plenty of my contemporaries out here on the worldwide web are publishing such fodder in their own tributes to the Master of Muppets in similar tributes. What makes this one any different?

I’ll tell what’s different about it. Among all of the bloggers’ tributes you’ll read about Jim Henson today, I would bet you my vast collection of losing lottery tickets that none of them make the bold and audacious claim that said blogger ever hosted the disembodied head of Cookie Monster in the club cab of their 2003 F150 before.

Here at TharpSter.Org, quality is job 1. I will make that claim and stand behind it.

I won’t go into too much detail to explain exactly how I came to host the severed head of a muppet in my truck, short of offering just a few basic facts.

It was March 13, 2010. We were making the trek across town to celebrate the 40th birthday of my little birthday. While in the midst of a high speed romp on one of this city’s many freeways, a squirrel popped up in front of me and just stood there staring. That’s as much as I’ll say at this point.

Just know that when all was said and done, the head of Cookie Monster found it’s way into my truck.

We took it into the birthday party with us for whatever sick, twisted reason comes to mind. We then proceeded to have a really good time that night.

As far as the muppet head was concerned, I’ll say this.

It was delicious.

A matter of six hours ago, I came within a fat thumb or two of adding the following status to my Facebook page:  “Randy Tharp just got the buttons sewn back onto his favorite shorts.”

I opted out though.  Instead of sucking a few seconds of precious life out of a few hundred potential readers who could have read that status, I chose to ramp the premise to a thousand words or so and then cater to a global audience.

If you’re feeling sorry you stopped here, hang tight while I add value to your trepidations.

The saga of my favorite shorts pretty much follows along the lines of the saga around any favorite garment.  Within the TharpSter organization, they serve as a third of the three legged stool that brings harmony to my life and relaxed content to my pyloric valve.  The waist size just happens to be the same number as the big screen TV and my age.  I don’t expect such a cosmic alignment to last very long though.  The TharpSter PounDown Event has me down by 16 with a successful end taking place before my next birthday.

For years, I’ve been looking for the perfect pair of blue jean shorts.  I can never find the perfect pair which fits comfortably and snuggly up under my dunlap, while at the same time maintaining a proper length just at the altitude of my knees.  I have several pairs as it is right now.  A few pairs are too dark.  Another hangs below my knees and makes me look like a middle aged gangsta-wannabe.  Another pair has shallow pockets.  Another pair has pockets that are too deep.  I could only wish the literal meaning of that last statement paralleled the metaphorical one.

Speaking of deep pockets, I got a great deal on my favorite shorts.  Last spring, TharpSter Jr. had to get himself a pair of gray britches as part of his uniform at work.  Naturally I insist on nothing but the best for my children, regardless of the cause.  In this case, the boy would be wearing them out on the ball field while umpiring Little League.

So like any doting father, we packed it up into the truck and headed off to the Goodwill store.  At any given time, this bastion of capitalism and shining example of the free market provides a veritable plethora of products ranging from apparel, to household goods, to black velvet paintings of seductive tigers and the King of Rock-n-Roll himself. 

As I stood there watching Junior rifle through the selection of pants in search of a waist and inseam measurement I will never achieve, the would-be subject of a rambling blog caught the corner of my eye.  They hung there from the clip hanger exuding a certain level of comfort I haven’t encountered in quite a long time.  I inspected them several times to identify the reason why anyone in his right mind could have given them up.  No flaws existed at all.

They were just the right shade.  Much like Charlie slowly opened the wrapper on that winning Wonka Bar, I carefully looked for a tag to see if the size was right.  When I found it, the sunlight gleamed off of it with the promise of a good fit and extended leisure.  They were the right size.  They were also $2.00.  I nearly shucked the shorts I was wearing at the time right there in the aisle in order to try on the new object of my affection. 

Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and I made my way to the dressing room.  I would hate to get banned from the Goodwill store for such an offense.

Not only did they fit, but they fit well.

In the following months, I wore those shorts quite frequently.  I wore them on the ball field while coaching.  I wore them around the house.  I wore them while achieving symbiosis with the couch.  I even washed them on a regular basis. 

Over the course of those months, the stresses of life manifested themselves in a weight gain.  As a result, the buttons started to give way.  At the same time, wear and tear caused the hems to unravel at the crease. 

One sad day it happened.  The inside button called it quits in favor of a position somewhere in the bottom of my change bowl.  The other button passed a few weeks later of a broken heart.  The buttons were subsequently buried in a field behind the compound.  A few weeks later, I noticed a red fern had grown between the two grave sites.  There truly was love between the two.

I sit here months later just as frustrated as ever about finding the right pair of shorts.  The ones I have are still too dark, or too long, or too baggy, or too whatever.

It occurred to me today that the recent successes and subsequent manifestations of the TharpSter PounDown Event may allow for a revitalization project to take place on my beloved shorts.  I persuaded the CFO to dig out the needle and thread in order to attach a few more buttons to the waist line this afternoon.  To my relieved exuberance, she was successful.  What’s even more is that they fit as well as they did before.

I would like to think at this point that the shorts will be short lived.  The primary reason is that the mission statement behind the TharpSter PounDown is inconsistent with wearing them into the new year.  In the meantime, I plan to get as much wear as I can out of them.  Even though they will eventually find their way back onto the rack at the Goodwill store, they will always be immortalized here on the web.

Yup.  So have I.

I really won’t go into a great deal of detail to explain or justify my absence, as it’s immaterial.  Just know that the absence has been widespread.  The absence has been so ubiquitous that I’ve even locked people out on Lotus Notes Sametime at the auxiliary offices.

In the last few weeks, among other events not worth a mention, I’ve fended off idiotic attacks on this very website in which spammers would copy previously posted comments into what would serve as their own comment.  Outside of providing a link to their own blog or website, I can only fathom what these “headspace for rent” idgits had in mind when they put their lack of creativity on display for the whole world to see.  At the very least, I became motivated to teach the dogs a new trick after this group of malcontents hit the organization repeatedly one day last week.

So what’s happening?

I’ll tell you what’s happening.  Things around the organization here had gotten a little depressing.  The Board of Directors had practically given up all faith and hope that Faith and Hope (aka TreadMill & the Pit) would ever achieve a state of nirvana with being left here at the compound alone.  To be completely honest with you, I’m still pretty sure they were planning a dog slobber laden coup.

Naturally, you may be wondering how I knew they had something in the works.  As the father of a couple teenagers, I can tell you that I’ve developed an ability to read certain behavior and figure out what’s going on.  The dogs had been exhibiting similar behavior as of late.  My first real clue revealed itself when I witnessed the two divas synchronizing their activities out in the back yard.  Once I realized what was going on, it didn’t take a whole lot of rocket science to smack my spacious forehead with an open palm.

Once the sting went away, I assembled the puzzle pieces the dogs had been throwing around.  Couch cushions were indiscriminately left lying around showing visible signs of physical torture.  An assault on the TharpSter economy was levied against no less than four AT&T U-verse remotes which were unable to withstand the stress and strain of the Pit Bull bite strength.  Baked goods had been pulled off of countertops.  The external perimeter of the compound had been breached so as to provide no viable containment.  Recent thunderstorms inspired them to make Headquarters resemble that of a bloody crime scene thanks to the aid of aluminum blinds.  One morning, we woke to find what had obviously been a high stakes poker game on the floor of the master suite.  Following their standard paradigm, the divas left their cards and poker chips lying around without bothering to put them away.  I’m not sure which one won, however she managed to bluff her opponent’s aces over eights with a lousy pair of twos.

With the signs screaming imminent threat, the Board of Directors convened an emergency meeting in order to prepare a defense for whatever battle plans lay ahead.  The first move was an obvious one; get the Pit Bull into obedience training.  This was probably something we should have done in January when she joined the organization.  Four weeks into class, I’m proud to say that she will sit, and lay down based on a hand signal.  She will also walk on a leash with you without the benefit of dislocating your arm.  Her co-conspirator is a little more stubborn in taking on some of the lessons which have been taught, however the guy on the other end of the leash is more stubborn and intent on getting his own way.

Step two came by way of stopping the brindle diva from chewing on things like my day planner, our remote controls, my headphones, the couch, the kitchen chairs, and TharpSter footwear.  That one came easier than expected with one simple word.  “Yuck.”

All together,now.

“Yuck.”

NaturVet Bitter Yuck! is a spray which can be applied to about anything to keep the household varmints from chewing on your stuff.  It was recommended to us by the dog trainer who had no shame in telling us that she had tried the product herself.

It works.

We sprayed it on the couch, the throw pillows, assorted stuffed animals, base boards around the doors, and even as you guessed it, the remote control.  As a result, none of the listed items have been subjected to the TharpSter.Org Pit Bull Bite Strength.  Keep in mind here that the owner of said bite strength has been known to take part in coprophagia.  Just sayin’.

Perhaps the real coup de gras on the part of the Board of Directors in putting down a perceived rebellion was the decision to enhance containment.  Concrete under the fence?  No way.  Razor wire on top of the fence?  Perish the thought.  Virtual moat?  You betcha.

Divas at the front door

That’s right people.  We put in an invisible fence around the perimeter of the compound.  By doing so, the divas are forbidden to get within a foot of the fence in back without getting a static correction from their collars.  If they get out the front door, they can only get half way into the front yard before encountering the same consequence.  The real thing we have to make sure of now is that the crasher squirrel doesn’t figure out the frequency of the collars and mess with the dogs with its own little device.   I wouldn’t put it past him.

So look at that.  The four legged creatures around here are starting to follow instructions.  The couch is recovering, yucky as it may taste.  My membership in the “Remote of the Week” club has been cancelled.  We’ve got a couple of dogs who don’t feel compelled to run off at the first site of an escape route.  At this point, I’m left to other doggy related hobbies which don’t involve the replacement of fence slats and the pouring of concrete.

I’m thinking about photography.

That’s right.  I’m talking to you Jason Levin, creator of http://www.CrashTheTeaParty.org.  Just how clever do you think you are by telegraphing your plan to infiltrate Tea Party events tomorrow?  Did you drink all of the bong water when you came up with that idea?  Do you think you’re the Crasher Squirrel?  There was some Kook Aid mixed into that bong water, wasn’t there?

Here’s the deal, Jason.  There are plenty of people out there like you who have spent the last year or so trying to discredit the Tea Party.  Be it elected officials or bright, shining rays of sunshine like you, they’ve referred to the party’s members as tea baggers, racists, homophobic, and a host of other less than flattering assignments.  Has the Tea Party effectively been discredited as a result?  It’s nice to know you people are still sticking to the crusty pages of the same old playbook.

Be honest now, Jason.  Exactly what is your hard, solid evidence that members of the Tea Party are the bigoted morons that you would love for them to be?  I would suggest you don’t have any, and deep down you don’t really believe the claim.  If you really had the evidence, or believed the mantra of your like-minded brethren, then why do you feel it to be necessary to infiltrate the party?  Why do you want to dispatch your agents of idiocy to the tomorrow’s events to make them look bad?  Don’t you think that if they really were racist, homophobic morons, that you could just sit at home watching them self immolate on CNN or MSNBC?  You obviously don’t.

I’ll give you a few moments to go look up some of those big words I just used.

It’s as simple as this Jason.  I’m not going to even bother to enlighten you with at least a thousand words of verbal brilliance to explain the spirit of the Tea Party to you.  The primary reason is because I don’t feel like wasting such magnificence on you.  Second to that, something tells me that the mushy goo residing between your ears doesn’t have the capacity to process and understand it.

Instead, I’m going to just give you a rundown of what will happen tomorrow.

First of all, you’ve told the world you’re going to do it, and you’ve announced your motive and your devices.  That means that anything that happens tomorrow is going to be blamed on you.

Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?

But wait.  Here’s where it gets better.

Let’s say you and your buddies lose the testicular fortitude to go out and do your thing.  At the same time, maybe on the rarest of chances, there’s a bonehead in the Tea Party who is a racist, homophobic moron.  Just for shiggles, let’s say that said moron pulls a stunt similar to the ones you’ve advertised to the world.  Guess who gets blamed for it?

Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?

Good luck tomorrow, Jason.  Frankly, I don’t think the strongest of Teflon underwear is going to keep the stink off of you by the time the day is done.

The fence turned gate turned fence again on the western side of the compound is showing signs of deterioration at ground level.  I have a sneaking suspicion that a 35lb Labrador mix has the capability to have caused the damage in my absence last week, however the suspect has yet to step forward with a self loathing mea culpa.

The TharpSter Pool which we acquired from the auto parts arm of the organization lies in wait in the garage.  I may have made mention to one of the other board members that I would look to assemble it this week.

Yet still, procrastination reigns supreme.

In my own defense, I’ve actually gotten a few things done around here.  There is currently a load of lights in the dryer, and reds in the washer.  A picture frame dawning images of when the kids were actually cute has been sufficiently centered and hung just above the piano.  I’ll be managing TharpSter Jr.’s baseball team this spring, and managed to draft a pretty good team last night.

All in all, the staycation portion of the 2^nd Annual TharpSter March Vacation has so far come off pretty much as expected.

In the process, I’m afraid I have gained detailed insight into the neurosis of Faith, the TharpSter TreadMill.  Even though I’m on vacation and am trying to keep the step count on my pedometer well in the double digits, I’m still receiving non verbal demands by our four legged companion to take her for a walk.  Fortunately, said walk is waiting until mid-morning instead of prior to sunrise.  During these constitutionals of recent days, I’ve noticed an increase of squirrels on our route.  We take a different route each day, so you can only imagine we’re not encountering the same squirrel each time.

Every time we see one of the neighborhood rodents, it drives Faith nuts.  Her ears perk up, her body tenses, and she develops a facial tick and a slight stutter.   Face it people.  If that dog were notching her collar for every squirrel she’s ever gotten, she’d have at least 1 ½ that we know of.

You’re wondering about the half count, aren’t you?

Faith’s desire to rid the yard of squirrels came when she was about one.  At one point, there were a few squirrels which lived in our back yard tree.  These two were particularly mean, as they were known to drop stuff on Faith as she barked at them from the ground.  One day, one of the squirrels was on the ground when Faith was inside.  When we let Faith outside that day, she managed to catch one of the little guys before it could climb to safety in the tree.  In the process Faith bit off a better half of its tail, which subsequently left us with a half tailed squirrel throwing stuff at the dog from high up in the tree.

About a year later, I received a call at my auxiliary office (where they actually pay me to do stuff) from the TharpSter Wife.  She was exceptionally freaked out about something, and was hoping I would come home to take care of a matter.  That matter, of course, was Faith and the slow squirrel which didn’t get away.  Faith had taken the rattled rodent carcass into the house and presented to my beloved wife as a first fruits offering.  Much to the disappointment of Faith, the offering was looked upon much like how Ralphie looked upon the pink bunny pajamas that Aunt Clara gave him for Christmas.

So spring has sprung, and the squirrels are out of hibernation.  Yesterday, I was sitting on the couch performing my narcolepsy exercises while listening to my iPod and watching TV at the same time.  Just when I had achieved an optimum state of nirvana between the three activities, a commotion arose out in the back yard.  When I finally got out there to see what was going on, I found that Faith had treed yet another squirrel.  In the process, the squirrel had moved from our tree, to the fence, and then into a tree in the neighbor’s yard.

The fortunate thing here is that I have a 6ft privacy fence which is too tall for Faith to jump while in hot pursuit of her mortal enemy.  Instead, she will just need to find other methods of staring at the little guys when they leave our yard.

Otherwise, squirrels beware.

]]> http://tharpster.org/2010/03/23/bird-on-a-wire-squirrel-in-a-tree-dog-on-a-fence/feed/ 2 http://tharpster.org/2009/12/31/new-year-tharpsterlutions/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=new-year-tharpsterlutions http://tharpster.org/2009/12/31/new-year-tharpsterlutions/#comments Fri, 01 Jan 2010 04:58:49 +0000 Tharpster http://tharpster.org/?p=264 Well my dear reader, the time has come.  At the time of this typing, 2010 is on the outset of a mere two hours and ten minutes away.  You can feel rest assured that the Board of Directors here at TharpSter.Org is well prepared for what is expected to be an uneventful transition into a new decade.

You may be asking yourself what steps I’ve taken to get ready for the coming year.  If you are, I can only say this.  Stop asking silly questions.  As of yesterday at approximately 2:00 pm central time when Federal Express delivered my latest purchase from the internet, I was ready to absorb and/or deflect any issue that will come up in the next 365 days.  That’s right, people.  My day-to-day Dilbert calendar arrived, and now resides next to last years desk litter at the TharpSterCube.  If memory serves, I’ve displayed this particular calendar on my desk at work for well over 12 years now.

Now that my annual ritual of knowing what day it is has been put into place for 2010, it’s now time to make a resolution or two.  I usually don’t make resolutions because I tend to fail to carry them out beyond Super Sunday in any given year.  Since the attempt to make resolutions I know I won’t keep has proven to be ineffective over these many years, I’ve decided to institute the New Year TharpSterLutions.  Unlike resolutions, TharpSterLutions lower the bar and make the goals more obtainable.  They’re relatively easy to track.  Even when you forget about them, they’re easy to achieve at the last minute when you reflect on them 12 months down the road.  There may be a few new things in the TharpSterLution, however for the most part they’re just a promise for you to maintain behavior that you’ve already established, whether it’s good or bad.  That being said, I offer you the 1^st Annual New Year TharpSterLutions for 2010.

1. I have to give credit for the first TharpSterLution to a colleague at work.  I’m pretty sure it would have taken me a long time to dream this one up.  From now on, whenever I call some automated customer service line and I get trapped stating my name to a voice response unit, I will call off my name as “Yicky Yicky Chow Mau Mooky Allah Bing”.
2. I will continue my tireless search for the crasher squirrel so as to give him a high five.
3. In 2010, I will maintain my somewhat irrational discomfort with roving mariachis.
4. In 2010, I will strive to lose the bare minimum of one pound.  At this rate, cryogenics will be needed in order for me to obtain my ideal weight.
5. In the coming year, when the opportunity arises to recite memorized statements and passages such as The Lord’s Prayer and The Pledge of Allegiance, I will recite them in a different cadence than the one which is commonly used.
6. I will continue to stand against the use of Daylight Savings Time in 2010, and quote that stand as a policy statement if I should ever run for elective office.
7. As of this posting, I’ve posted a total of 53 articles, rants, and colossal displays of smart-assery here on TharpSter.Org since its launch last July.  Next year, I will double that number.
8. At work, I will continue to use black ink, medium point, RSVP pens, even if that means I have to *shudder* buy my own office supplies.
9. Next year, on December 31^st when I take a picture of my old and new day-to- day Dilbert calendars, it will be later in the day than 6:20 am.  (Go ahead and scroll back up to check the timestamp.  I’ll be here when you get back.)
10. I will continue to speak out against big government, regardless of what political party is pushing it.

That’s it, right there in a nutshell.  The 2010 New Year TharpSterLutions are goals which are easily achieved.  There are only a few in there that I don’t do today, so it should be pretty easy.

The comment box down below has been reserved for your TharpSterLution.  If you dare post a resolution in there, I will delete it.

Go nuts.

The pancake itself was produced on the kitchen grill earlier this morning during the breakfast rush hour.  It initially went unnoticed by the grill cook who prepared it, and the waitress who served it.  The image which had been cooked into the surface of the pancake was recognized by the customer who had ordered the pancake.  Had it not been for the patron’s belief in the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the pancake would have been consumed with no one involved for the wiser.

Ownership of the pancake now creates a dilemma for the legal system in Topeka.  The patron who identified the Flying Spaghetti Monster in the pancake wants to preserve the image with the intent of sharing it with other Pastafarians.  The restaurant owner maintains that he actually owns the pancake, as it has not been paid for yet by the patron who ordered it.  It’s the owner’s intention to preserve the pancake and sell it on eBay.  For now, local authorities have seized the breakfast food and have put it under lock, key, and vacuum seal until a ruling on the ownership can be made in a court of law.

Although the appearance is the first of its kind, Topeka, Kansas is no stranger to the Flying Spaghetti Monster.    The noodly deity was first introduced to the Kansas Board of Education in 2005 via an open letter.  The letter itself announced a following of 10 million people worldwide, and made the demand that the Flying Spaghetti Monster should be included in the school boards curriculum on the study of how Earth and the universe came into existence.  Four years later, Pastafarianism has not found its way into the curriculum in Kansas state schools.

The event itself appears to have renewed the faith of those in the Pastafarian movement.  Given the snails pace recovery of the global economy, the continued concerns about humanity’s effect on the environment, and the threats of war (both current and future), many resort to their faith in order to find some shred of evidence that such a bleak outlook will be resolved.  For Pastafarians, the appearance of the Flying Spaghetti Monster serves as a sign that maybe conditions are going to get better.  A similar outlook is typically taken by Christians when images of Jesus or the Virgin Mary appear in uncommon places.

Even then, such appearances are not limited to belief systems.  Images of celebrities and other popular icons appearing in things such water stains, tree bark, and various foods are common events.  Images of Elvis Presley and Michael Jackson are probably the most common occurrences of departed celebrities gaining face time in the public eye.  One icon which appears to be gaining notice is the Crasher Squirrel.  Even though this character is not known to be dead, it’s made a many appearances in the last six months in situations and events where it would not have been expected.  Most recently, the critter has appeared in a piece of toast in south Texas.  The event with the toast marks the first reporting where just the image and not the squirrel itself appeared.

This last week has been no exception for those in the public eye and their continued inability to engage the firewall between their brains and their mouths.  Let’s start with Kanye “Imma let you finish” West.  Four years ago this month after Hurricane Katrina ravaged New Orleans, West went on a live NBC broadcast with Mike Myers and spontaneously announced off script that then President George W. Bush didn’t care about black people.  Okay, sure.  Whatever.  If Kanye wants to believe that, he’s well within his right to do so.  It was pretty short sighted for him to use the noble cause for which he was there in the first place to air such an opinion. The stunt ultimately revealed him to be nothing but an attention whore.

Last week, West once again disengaged his firewall to the point where he charged the stage at an MTV award event in the middle of an acceptance speech being delivered by Taylor Swift.  He took the microphone from her and announced to the entire audience that a video by Beyonce Knowles which had been nominated for the same award was the best video of all time.  Crasher Squirrel meets MTV.  Four years ago, the man showed absolutely no respect for Mike Myers, NBC, or the American viewing public.  In 2009, he’s shown the same lack of respect for Taylor Swift, Beyonce Knowles, and MTV.  All things being equal, the whole event looked like it was a set-up.  Perish the thought that such an outburst would ever happen on a network like MTV.

But wait.  It gets just a little bit better.

In response to the MTV incident, the President referred to West as a “jackass”.  The irony of it all is that the one President who would have been fully justified in calling West any name, chose to maintain the dignity of the office by not responding to the Katrina outburst four years ago.  In the meantime, the President who had absolutely nothing to do with the MTV incident offered his own commentary.

Aside from the fact that we now have a President who publically comments on the happenings in pop culture, we have the makings for Beer Summit II at the White House in the near future.  Skip Gates will be played by Kanye West, James Crowley will be played by Taylor Swift, and Barack Obama will reprise his cameo once again as the guy who made the stupid remarks.  Even if the summit doesn’t happen, you can count on a lampoon of the incident to hit the tube soon.  It will happen somewhere like Saturday Night Live, or even the next MTV awards show.  I’d be surprised if the original players didn’t reprise the roles they’ve made famous.

Speaking of stupid remarks, let’s talk about the Joe Wilson affair.  I don’t really need to summarize what happened there, do I?  Needless to say, the Congressman from South Carolina showed us all that he has a mild case of Tourette’s Syndrome when he called the Bamster on a lie.  He apologized to the White House immediately, and they accepted it just as quickly.  In the meantime, the House rebuked Wilson a week later because he refused to apologize again on the House floor.

Over the years, there have been some pretty filthy, despicable things done on the floors of the House and Senate.  Reputations and careers have been ruined, wars have been waged, lies have been told, and incredibly bad laws have been written and passed.  Yet when a member of one of those chambers bluntly calls a liar for his craft, censure and rebuke is on order.  Go figure.

The real problem with what happened with Joe Wilson along with the months old healthcare debate is the ugly face which has been displayed by those who favor Obama’s policies toward those who don’t.  In the minds of the proponents, it would seem that the only reason the opponents don’t want to climb on board the socialism wagon is because we’re all racist.  In the debate to rebuke Wilson this week, one of the arguments for doing so was to avoid having “folks putting on white hoods and white uniforms again, riding through the countryside intimidating people.”  Jimmy Carter has now opened up his own cavernous pie hole and echoed the same sentiments. Ridiculous is an understatement.

The stupid thing about all of this race talk is that those making the accusations have to expand the definition of the word in order to pigeon hole the opposition into the category.  Nowadays, words like “socialist” or “radical” are supposedly code words which reveal our presumed racial machinations.  Bluntly put, they’re seeing things that just aren’t there.  Frankly they can call me a racist all they want (they already have), and they will still not change my opposition to the agenda at hand.  You can’t really play the white guilt card against someone who doesn’t have it.

One of the funny things Carter asserts in his statement is that there is “a belief among many white people around the nation that African-Americans are not qualified to lead this great country”.  Sadly, that may be true.  The fortunate thing is that the mindset has changed considerably in the last few administrations.  One thing that should be noted though, is that Carter didn’t appear to practice his preaching back in 1977, as evidenced by a picture of one his cabinet meetings found on the White House Museum website.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  Times were different.  Big deal.  Carter could have blazed a trail with that one, but for whatever reason, he didn’t.  Given the makeup of his cabinet, it appears the soap box Carter is climbing on is made of balsa wood.

Thankfully, Jimmy Carter has been out of office for nearly 30 years.  With each passing year, the memories of those four years slowly push their way out of my head.  Even still, every time he ever opens his mouth to show us that he has no firewall, he always reminds me of one specific phrase.

I can only guess what absurdity will escape the next politician or celebrity next.  Given the size of the gene pool and its obvious inadequacy, I’ve got to think I won’t need more than a thimble full of accelerant for the flame.

Among some of the more popular social networking sites of late is Facebook.  This site allows you to set up a profile, add your pictures and personal information, and join various networks attached to your place of work, schools, your hometown, and a slew of other options.  One of the other features of Facebook is the existence of a wall for each user profile.  The wall is used for members to talk to each other outside of the email or instant messaging utility built into the site.  Comments which serve as small talk land on these walls.  They’re usually along the lines of “Hey, good to see you.  How long has it been?”  The wall also advertises the latest pictures or videos you’ve posted, along with the results of the silly little quizzes you can take on there too.   It doesn’t end there though.

Naturally there are all types of business, public figures, political movements, hobbyists, and the like who set up fan pages over there as well.  Don’t forget websites though.  I happen to know there is a fan page for at least one website right now.  (That was a subtle hint to let you know that TharpSter.Org has a fan page which can be found here.)

Another feature about the wall is the status updates.  Remember that guy from your 11^th grade English class that made a sarcastic remark to the teacher once?  Thanks to the wall you can now track his movements, as he has just updated his status as on the way to Home Depot.  What about that co-ed back in college who used to drive you nuts with her infectious giggle?  She just put it on her wall that she’s going over to the trendy coffee house to meet up with old friends.

Now I’m all for these sites and doing stuff like this.  I draw a line at letting everyone know what’s going on in my life at any given moment via an ad-based social networking site though.  Do you really care that I’m a little nervous about sitting in my home office chair right now because it looks like a chair leg is going to break?  Is your day going to change in anyway knowing that I had Hamburger Helper for dinner tonight?  No.  As such, I’m not going to put it on my wall.  Instead, I shoot for the absurd.  Just the other day, a Facebook friend from work pulled me aside.  With a real serious look on her face, she advised me in hushed tones that half the time she doesn’t understand the status updates I put out there.  Quality is Job 1.  That’s exactly what I’m looking for.  If I can’t dazzle them with my brilliance, I’ll baffle them with bull.  Regardless, they’re still reading my updates.

With that in mind, I conducted my own little science experiment which didn’t involve any mason jars or Bunsen burners.

I’ve been a member of Facebook for about 15 months now.  In that time, I’ve posted 176 status updates.  Of those, 109 of them have garnered a comment from a current friend, a family member, or a friend from way back when.

Yes.  I know.  It’s pretty disturbing to know that I’ve gone back through my Facebook to count my comments.  What should be even creepier is the fact that I went through and gathered the updates that earned a response, and did a statistical analysis on the subject matter to see what was more popular.  It would appear that my insatiable desire to put my smart-assery on display for the entire world (actually about 130 people) to see on an almost daily basis is paying off where social networking is concerned.

Among some of the more popular updates are:

1. Wondering how many turduckens were on the ark.
2. Loves to send lengthy and thought provoking emails about critical subject matters which demand immediate attention to the bosses that read all of their correspondence on a Blackberry.
3. Invites you to join in the resistance against the oppressive ways of the argyle consortium.
4. Looking for the hidden code / meaning in the inaugural poem while making music with wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
5. Reminds you that the difference between a ‘moot point’ and a ‘mute point’ is not really as moot as you would like it to be.

Sadly, some of my favorite updates turned into sleepers which went ignored:

1. Regretting the incident with the nacho cheese.
2. Wondering what Pythagoras of Samos did before he started measuring right triangles.
3. Just realized the pool cleaner is a Cylon.
4. Wonders why a 12 ounce Blizzard from Dairy Queen is only 8 ounces of Blizzard on the top and 4 ounces of unmixed, vanilla soft serve on the bottom.
5. Going back to town for a load of dimes. Stupid prairie tollbooths.

So there you go.  I’ve got a spreadsheet with a bunch of numbers on it that point to the types of status updates I should provide to hit my targeted demographic.  The saving grace is that the time I wasted putting that stuff together could have been spent watching TV instead.

For what it’s worth I had Hamburger Helper for dinner tonight, and I’m pretty sure this old chair is going to sacrifice a limb any moment now.

Thursday, August 20, 2009 – If I could point to one specific event which started this weekend, I would have to say it was in the remaining hours at the office on Thursday afternoon.  The Penske File has taken up a majority of my time for the last few months, and it’s just a matter of weeks before it becomes the full blown bane of my existence.  But then, as I was filling out the last of the new coversheets for the TPS reports, I received a flickering indicator that the long week was just about to be over.

That’s right people.  I got an email forward.

It seems that the latest internet sensation right now is a picture of a couple who had set up a camera on a self timer.  While they were crouched  in front of a lake and waiting for the camera to do the one thing it was meant to do, a squirrel appeared in front of the lens and became the centerpiece of the resulting photo.  The photo itself is quite amusing, just under the circumstances alone.

Personally, I find myself laughing at the photo because of our dog Faith, aka The TharpSter TreadMill.  Faith loves squirrels.  That is, of course, if you can define “love” as possessing the instinctive desire to capture a squirrel in the back yard before it runs up the Arizona Ash tree, hold it’s fighting little body in ones mouth and shake the head violently so as to end the little guys life, and then taking it into the house to present the recently deceased as a first fruits offering to one of the members of the Board of Directors here at TharpSter.Org.  If you can define “love” that way, then yes, Faith loves squirrels.  They stay crunchy in milk.

Friday, August 21, 2009 – This particular day had been one I had looked forward to for nearly six months.  The reason was because I would be going to Dallas on this day with my 15 year old son to see Cheap Trick, Poison, and Def Leppard in concert.   Long story short, (believe me, it was too long.  I just typed it out to verify it and then deleted it.) I am a very big fan of Def Leppard.  Just to give you an idea of what a fan I am, consider this.  I hate Poison.  I could go into an entire diatribe as to why (I ain’t gonna type that one out), but I’ll spare you the expense.  Just know that if I’m willing to set the Penske File aside and make the five hour drive to a town which hosts the one football team I hate above all others, I have a pretty good reason to do so.

All along the six months of anticipation, I could only hope the show wouldn’t suck.  I knew that Cheap Trick would do what they needed to do.  I knew that Poison would rock the house with a whole bunch of stupid songs that 20 years ago served as the epitome of why hair metal had to exit stage left and make room for grunge.  What I didn’t know was what Def Leppard would do.  As a purist, I haven’t been the biggest fan of their new stuff.  I would hate to think I had driven all the way up there to see them pimp their pop friendly love songs from albums of late.

Cheap Trick sings "Surrender"

Well, we got there late.  By the time we took our position on the grassy knoll at the back of the arena, Cheap Trick was finishing up “The Flame”.  Strange enough, the last time I had an opportunity to see Cheap Trick, they were opening up for .38 Special about 20 years ago.  I only caught the last couple of songs for that one too.  I was more disappointed back then because I thought the band was on their way to retirement.  They appear to be on scenic route to their golden years.  Regardless of how long Cheap Trick has been around, I can assure you that Mommy’s alright, Daddy’s alright, and they still seem just a little weird.

My first encounter with Poison that evening came during the intermission after Cheap Trick.  We had gone back into the area where beers were $9, shirts were $35, and the spirit of capitalism reigned supreme.  The place was loaded with a variety of fans ranging from children who showed up with their parents, to geriatrics sporting mullet wigs.  At one point, the nasal tickle hit me and I sneezed.  Naturally, I didn’t expect anyone to acknowledge the sneeze.  I was somewhat surprised to have someone throw a “Bless you” at me.  When I looked to see where the gesundheit had come from, I saw a buxom bleach blonde offering the courtesy.  It wasn’t just any buxom bleach blonde though.  It was Heather Chadwell, who is best known for being the runner up on the first Rock of Love season over on VH1.

Big deal.  I know.  She appears to be more polite than I originally thought.  That’s all I’m saying.

C.C. DeVille blasts out a guitar solo. *Note to self - cell phone camera not the best for a concert.

The time then came for Poison to take the stage.  At this point, I should probably let you know that my preconceived notions were a little off base with this group.  For 20 years, I have shown little to no respect for Poison.  Once again, the details are covered in the diatribe I chose not write.  The one thing I learned that night once they went on stage was that their songs are written for live shows versus the CD player.  Shockingly enough, I found myself singing along with everything they did.

And then they were done.

After planning for the moment for 6 months, driving several hours to get there, and then seeing the moving advertisements provided by the collective efforts of the plastic surgeons from throughout the Dallas – Fort Worth area, it was now time to see the headlining act.

Def Leppard sings "Two Steps Behind"

I’m not going to go into extreme detail about the show that Def Leppard put on.  While I stood there pumping my fist to the beat, I had another revelation.  First of all, the volume knobs were cranked up way beyond 11.  It was so much so, that any kidney stones I may have had previous to the show have been pulverized and dissipated.  Even more important, was that fact that this band knows where their base is.  They know that it’s their die hard fans from the early years that are willing to pony up the dough to go see them live.  Based on that knowledge, it appears they made a very conscious effort to stay away from anything written in the last 10 years, save for one song from the newest album.  Not only did they renew my faith in their ability to git-r-done, they also set the bar for my son and any concert he should attend in the future.

Saturday, August 22, 2009 – On November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated while his motorcade made its way through Dealey Plaza in Dallas.  Within 90 minutes of being exactly 549 months later, I found myself in that same plaza taking in a bit of history.  The interesting thing about the events of that day was that there was a time I subscribed to the conspiracy theories about who actually pulled the trigger.  I haven’t altogether given up on those theories, but at the same time I’ve seen evidence in recent years which points only to Oswald.  Regardless of who done it, I wanted to see where it happened.

One of the eerie things about the area is that an ‘X’ has been painted in the middle of the road at the exact point where the fatal head shot took place.  It’s quite ironic that the particular location is marked in the road.  People go out there all the time to stand on the ‘X’.  The look up at the book depository, and then turn around to look at the grassy knoll.  A witness to the actual events of that day told me he has seen at least two people hit by cars as they stood on that mark.  Even after that, I felt compelled to go stand on the ‘X’ just like so many others have done before me.

View of the Depository from the 'X'

I would be remiss in visiting Dealey Plaza without checking out the grassy knoll where the second gunman presumably took a position to fire the fatal head shot. After I talked my way out of a ticket for standing in the middle of the street and holding up traffic, I made my way back to where the conspiracy started.  There’s a wooden picket fence back there.  At two different places on that fence, the picket is painted red.  This is supposedly where eyewitnesses had either heard shots or saw poofs of smoke.

The grassy knoll view

Overall, I would have to say I had a pretty good weekend in the place Hank Hill referred to as having nothing but crack-heads and debutantes.  Presumably, there was some football game there in which a new stadium was being used for the first time.  There really wasn’t much about it in the news, so I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to whatever fly by night operation that was.

None the less, I’m back.  The kids go back to school tomorrow, and I’ve got the Penske File and the TPS reports at work to keep me busy.  In the meantime, I’ll be looking for more email forwards.