FAVs

My mate

Family

Friends

A sense of humor

Crunchy peanut butter

Mountains

Pulp fiction

Sunshine

Olives

Denim shirts

Naps

Streaming

Campfires

Single malt Scotch

Puns

Digital photography

Thunderstorms

Helicopters

BLTs

Cordless screwdrivers

Cutoffs

Pickleball

Stuffing

Smartphones

Travel

Wit

Online shopping

Habanero cheese

Words

Classic rock

Beer-butt chicken

Happy 40th!

Yesterday's parade was the 40th annual such event, honoring the birthday of the London Bridge here in LHC; it was completed in 1971.  Everybody loves a parade, they say.  But 'they' are wrong: I don't love 'em.  Was in too many when I was in the military, marching on scorching hot pavement, getting cooked in the sun, wearing heavy clothes, carrying a heavy rifle and assorted other crap, getting dehydrated, getting headaches.  No end to the fun.  I can handle watching one occasionally, though, especially if Trish and Ranger are in it.

The Marine band was near the front.  There are a lot of veterans in LHC and the Marine Auxiliary is large and active. 

Mr and Mrs Clyde, Omar and Abdul, Shriners all.  This shot and some of the others aren't very good cuz I was shooting into the sun. 

Little rigs with big Shriners.

Austin-Healey, the car I really wanted when I bought my first set of wheels.  Couldn't afford it, got a used MGB instead.  Couldn't afford that either, had to borrow from my Dad.

Didn't realize McC made flying chainsaws.

A pickup cozy?  In Arizona?  Huh!

Here come the Pet Partners!  Poodles dominated.

Foreground: old fat fart.  Background: Ranger and Mommy Dog working the crowd.

I'm late!  I'm late!

This is after half a night's sleep, leaving Vegas at 5 AM and driving to LHC.  Takes dedication - and a lot of energy.  Tired woman.

An impressive pre-high school band.  Sharply dressed and great little musicians.

Finis.

Off to the Races

Above and below is the first race we saw, a women's event.

Getting the checkered flag.

 Lake Havasu is the venue for numerous boating events and races, ranging from small remote-controlled model boats up to unlimited off-shore behemoths with 1000s of horses.  There's no speed limit on this lake.  Put the peddle to the metal, Babe!  Last week the event was the world finals in jet ski racing with 30+ categories of competition.  Yesterday we packed a lunch and our folding chairs down to the island to watch a couple hours of the action.
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At noon they sang the national anthem, followed by a flyover of 4 Marine fighter jets out of San Diego. Forgot how loud those buggers can be close up; poor Ranger went apeshit.

Large crowd, dozens of vendor and food tents, city in background.

Hydro Man above and below.  A large (6"? diameter; 50' long) hose is tethered between harness and floating power source (motor and pump).  It can push the rider up to 30' in the air or along the surface at a pretty good clip.  Reminds me of a character in a Spiderman movie.  Or was it Batman?  Superman?  Chickenman?  Dipstickman?  No, pretty sure it was Spidey.

 

WMDs

Guys, you know the drill when it comes to painting a house: pressure wash, scrape and brush, calk, prime the bare spots, 2 coats of paint, have a brewski.  And, you also know that women go through a similar routine every morning when they ‘put on their face’ (often, less the brewski).  We don’t know, however - at least I don’t - how many coats of whatever go wherever when women do their thing.  Frankly, it’s best that we don’t.  This is a mystery that doesn’t need solving.
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Another thing I didn’t know and didn’t want to know is that among women’s myriad tools and devices for applying said faces is a free-standing mirror.  And, the thing I most didn’t want to know is this: one side of that mirror magnifies.  A lot!  Most folks are wearing glasses by the time they’re 45.  This is a curse in some ways but a blessing in others.  One blessing is that our eyesight continues southward as we age, thereby sparing us the emotional and psychological trauma of actually seeing our deteriorating faces when we look in the mirror.
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One recent fateful morning, Trish had things all laid out on the counter, ready to put on said face; before starting though, she decided she’d better walk Ranger.  All unawares, I walked by the counter and got a glimpse of myself in the mirror - the magnifying side of the mirror.  HOLY CRAP!  Nearly had a stroke.  There they were in all their glory: all the blemishes, all the wrinkles, all the wild hairs spurting out of my nose and ears - all the stuff I was blissfully unaware of from my daily glimpses at conventional mirrors, sans glasses.
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After changing my underwear, I sat on the edge of the bed and as my heartbeat returned to normal, I reflected (you knew that was coming) on this horrific event.  The humane thing to do, I thought, is to get the word out on these ............ these domestic WMDs of self-image.  So, pay attention, guys: if your main squeeze has a makeup mirror, give it a wide berth.  Steer clear of all known or suspected face-application areas. If you’re unsure about the safety of a particular room or area, have a youngster precede you.  Enter only after you hear the kid shout ‘CLEAR!’
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Going a step further, we need to act!  We need to protect future generations from these WMDs.  We gotta track down the purveyors of these devices, destroy their inventory, and level their manufacturing plants.  The purveyors, of course, should be put on trial for crimes against humanity.

Homicide

I spent most of my adult years in the Pacific NW where there's 9 months of rain and 3 months of dry.  About 4 days after the rains stopped, everybody was out watering lawns and plants.  Didn't seem like there was such a thing as too much irrigation.
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Now I live in the desert; very dry, very hot.  Seems logical that you'd have to water the living crap out of everything virtually every day.  Right?  Wrong!  The plants are different, the soil's different, it's a whole 'nother shooting match entirely.  Cacti have attitude: 'Go ahead, dumb ass, water me once a week, see what happens.'  What happens is they quickly become sullen and lethargic.  Keep it up and it's, 'Up yours, sucker.  I'm outta here.'  Game over.  Post mortem: homicide.  Weapon: water.  Perpetrator: me.
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Homicide victims are not noted for their photogenicity and cacti are no exception.  Pix of the survivors are considerably more appealing.  Here are 3 that have yet to succumb to my ministrations.

Golden Barrel Cactus

Echinocactus grusonii

Tubac Prickly Pear

Opuntia macrocentra/violacea

Century Plant

Agave americana

Doggerel 2

Readers' comments were positive on the first doggerel, so here's another one.  Gotta warn you: this one really stinks!

MANURE!

This was written for, and first read at, the Delaney family reunion in July, 2005.  My siblings and I relate to manure as only one-time farm kids can.  It’s audience participation: listeners are encouraged to shout 'MANURE!' where indicated.

Making hay is our biggest chore,
Three crops each summer, sometimes four.
A hundred tons a year or more,
And all will end up on the floor.  MANURE!

It comes in varied shape and size,
Horse apples, sheep pellets, large cow pies.
Whatever the size or configuration,
I’d much prefer constipation.  MANURE!

It splats and plops, oozes and flows,
It covers floors and walls and clothes.          
It’s on our shoes, our shirts, our hair,
It permeates our underwear.  MANURE!

We fork it from the gutters,
And wipe it off the udders.
We shove it here, we pile it there,
It tears our eyes and fouls the air.  MANURE!

The spreader flings it wide and high.

And as it plops down from the sky,

We cower on the tractor seat,
And shower in that fragrant treat.  MANURE!

On the day I turned eighteen,
I left to make the college scene.
It’s over finally, in the past,
I’m outta’ here, I’ve forked my last.  MANURE!

In ending this, I should mention,
In case you haven’t paid attention,
Though perhaps I’m just a picky chap,
I’m really not that fond of crap.  MANURE!

Mike Delaney  
6-20-05
All rights reserved.

Doggerel

Sporadically, very sporadically, I'm inspired to write bad poetry.  I call it doggerel - for reasons that will soon become obvious.  Also sporadically, I inflict these literary gems on innocent, unsuspecting friends and relatives.  Since returning to LHC, there's been a lack of breaking news and exciting adventures to report but I feel obligated to post something.  So, here's a doggerel.

HOLEY WOMEN

The barbaric trend in female fashion,
Is body puncturing, with a passion.

Like members of the Zulu nation,
They glory in self-mutilation.

The holes are for attaching things,
Chains and pins and studs and rings,

To noses, tongues, lips and nipples,
A host of dangling participles.

Studs and metal everywhere,
Living ads for ACE hardware.

Do they think they’ll win men’s hearts,
By punching holes in body parts?

Maybe some guys like to squeeze,
Women holier than Swiss cheese.

But I feel this fashion’s overrated,
I still like mine unperforated.

Mike Delaney

6-30-05
All rights reserved.