Terry lost his battle with cancer in early March, 2010. At Freak Train, I take the opportunity to eulogize my friend and then do the bullet catch trick that he helped design one last time. Not shown in the video, at the end of the night, the host called for a moment of silence...and the theatre stayed reverently quiet for almost a minute. Terry touched many lives and will be missed by more people than he would've ever imagined.

Labels: Freak Train, sad stories

I don't know if you noticed (and judging by the dearth of comments, you havent...but then again, judging by the number of daily hits, somebody MAY have) but I completely missed the month of April. Well, not in "real" life, but here in the world of the ol' blogsitething, April '08 came and went with no fanfare. Or blog postings. Or anything. Anyhow, it's May now and I'm taking advantage of the fact that the boy is feeding off of his mom to type up a potentially lengthy update-style post which, if executed correctly, will hip you kids to what sorts of things have been happening over Maison De Chevalier way...

Yeah, Max...He's Still Around...
Max is now a couple of months old and is a fat little baby. He can see objects and people at greater distance now and is smiling and laughing quite a bit. It's funny to think that when he was at his lowest weight it just never seemed like he'd grow at all and now he's simply massive by comparison. People still say "oh, he's a little one" (among other phrases) when they see him, but these would be people with no basis for comparison. Max is getting bigger everyday and is quite healthy. So there ye be - a Max update to fill that tiny baby shaped hole in your heart.

Max's Grandpa Is Doing Well Too...
I don't know if I mentioned this already on the ol' blogsitething, but my dad had gastric bypass surgery on Halloween of last year and is doing very well. To this point, he's lost somewhere around 125 pounds and is quickly closing in on being less fat than I am. The weight loss has helped bring his diabetes under control and has given him more energy and a sunnier disposition. So there's that...

Work's Going Fine, Thanks...
Nothing much to report there...Just busy...

Baseball: Harder Than You remember...
The last time I played baseball in a competitive manner, I was like...12 years old. I know I mentioned in passing that I was (am) playing in a men's baseball league on a team called the Cubs. Now, don't get me wrong, I love baseball. Not as much as hockey, but I still love baseball. I have yet to decide, though, whether I'm playing baseball at age 34 just to prove that I can or because I actually want to. Hell, sometimes I wonder if I can find the line separating those two reasons in everything that I do...Anyhow, baseball...We've played 3 games to this point (including a double header this past sunday) with one win and 2 losses and I'm doing OK so far. I have a .300 batting average with a small handful of RBI and even got to catch a couple of innings at the end of the last game. I've spent most of my (limited) playing time so far way out in right field which, since I haven't played outfield since...Well...Ever is a bit of a challenge. Don't get me wrong, I can play in the outfield...I've never had a problem tracking fly balls, it's the running that sucks. My biggest problem with the scenario? I'm an infielder. Most specifically, I'm a first baseman, a position which I doubt I will be allowed to play this season. I guess it's my own damn fault, I had this crazy notion that because I'm a fair-to-midland hockey goalie, I might be able to play catcher. As such, since I expressed interest in the position/bought the equipment, I'm kind of locked into being the "backup" catcher - warming up the starting pitchers and playing a couple of innings here and there in the outfield while I wait to see if the starting catcher gets hurt or tired. Now, I don't want to come off as a whiny little bitch about all this...I'm definitely the 2nd best catcher (out of 2) on the roster and I still get to hit even when I'm not playing in the field (so far, at least) 'cause that's something I can do but...Eh...There's always Summer softball coming up...At least Jason isn't afraid to put me somewhere that I can make a difference...

And Speaking Of Hockey...
I hate the Detroit Redwings.

Oh Yeah, The Podcast...
Sure...That thing...I'd love to get that thing back up and running, but I'd have to find the time to sit down and record even one. I know that Collin and I (and our cast of...2 or 3) could find tons of things to talk about...It's just finding the time. Little babies tend to monopolize one's time in a given week, free or otherwise. I promise, though, it is not dead...It shall come back and I will have Max Moments™ where Max makes random noises during the show...Heck, I might just try and do whole shows with him hanging out with me...Anyway, that's all moot until I can get us all back together to record...Stay tuned...

That's Enough Good-ish News...Let's Get To The Bad...
My grandmother Marjorie, who's health has been steadily failing since my grandfather died, was moved into a care facility this last week. Her kidneys are failing (among other things) and has to be on dialysis. True to her O'Dell blood, though, she's as stubborn as ever and had been refusing help and/or care leading up to all of this...Please think a good thought/say a prayer for my grandma. Thank you.

I've Never Been A Fan Of Cancer...
But hey, who is? You never hear anyone rooting for cancer. "Go, Cancer! Go!" No, you just don't hear that...Anyhow, some years ago, I lost a friend of mine named Gus to cancer. Gus and I had played hockey together on a couple of teams here in town. During that time, Gus had hosted a couple of team parties out at his house. Hanging out off the ice, we all got to know him as a generous and genuinely nice person with a warm heart. It was very hard to sit through his funeral knowing that I would never again be able to talk with him or hear him say something witty or inspiring...At Gus' funeral, though, cards were passed out with an inspirational message that, basically, sayed "don't quit." I carry that card with me in my wallet and refer to it at times when I feel overwhelmed or just plain tired. I only mention this because about a week ago, I received some sad news...A person who I consider a friend told me that he was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. I'd like to ask anyone who reads this little site to say a prayer for my friend. He's going to have to undergo chemotherapy which can't be pleasant. I'll post vague details as events warrant and I have one request...Don't quit...

Labels: Baby max, lame stories, sad stories, sports

...Since our family lost a true patriarch when my Grandfather Harold Widegren passed away. I've missed him greatly in this past year, as have all of our family members. As a sort of tribute, I'm going to repost a story about him which I originally shared on this blog in February, 2004, one that hopefully will bring laughter and joy on such a sad anniversary.
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...The folks across the street from my Grandparents raise animals for slaughter (and other forms of amusement). This particular family are never without a number of chickens, some cows and a handful (or so) of goats. Specifically, it is them damned goats which cause the most trouble due to the fact that they simply have a nasty disposition. Additionally, they seem to be able to defeat whatever crude means of restraint that their captors choose to employ on them. As such, the goats routinely wander across the road to my grandparents' yard to chew up whatever they can get their vile little goat teeth on. Some years ago, the goats' bitey targets included a very nice garden that my Grandfather had planted and lovingly maintained. He complained loudly to his neighbors about the goats and their eating habits to no avail. Finally, after several destructive episodes, the neighbors conceded that something had to be done. If the goats wandered into my grandfather's yard again, he was given carte blanche to shoot them.

The goats, of course. He could shoot the goats. No shooting the neighbors, not even a little...Anyhow...

The reason that my grandfather's neighbors were so cavalier about passing out the license to kill was that them goats were scheduled to die anyway. Indeed, since the goats' sole purpose was to be raised for the slaughter (and since they were nearin' "slaughterin' size"), why not kill two birds with one stone? My grandfather would get the satisfaction of avenging his considerable property damage at the hands of these vile creatures and the neighbors would get to use the goat meat and goat bones and whatever else come out of dead goats for...Well, whatever people use goat things for. As should be expected, however, there were two minor snags in this seemingly clever plan: My grandfather didn't own a gun, nor was he aware of the "goat usage" intention of his neighbors.

The very next day following the goat death pact agreement, the goats once again freed themselves to feast on my grandfather's garden. Seeing this, my grandfather sprung into action, seizing the larger male goat which he then tied to a tree. Remembering only the basic directive of "kill the goat" from the previous day, but lacking any sort of firearm with which to accomplish such a task, grandpa quickly visited his garage, returning only with a shovel. The account of what happened next comes straight from my then 76 year old grandfather:

"I looked at the goat and it looked back at me...Then I brought up the shovel and came down on his head, square and hard. So hard, in fact, that I broke my shovel. Damn goat broke my shovel. And he didn't die straight away, either...Just lay there on the ground, lookin' up at me, moving it's hooves and going 'eee, eee, eee'...Well, I figured I had to finish the job, so I grabbed the handle and proceeded to beat this goat the rest of the way dead. Part way through, I saw my neighbor pull into his driveway so I dragged the goat behind the garage where they couldn't see. I buried the goat there when I was done."

"You...Uh...Buried it?" I asked.

"Behind the Garage." he replied.

"Don't you figure they would've liked to use the carcass? After all, I figure that's why they said you could shoot it." I inquired.

"Never thought of that." he said. "Humph. Well, it's done now. Maybe they figured it just up and ran away."

They say that on certain nights in Grand Junction, when the moon is bright and full, you can see the broken spectre of a goat, bleating his final death-bleats in the pale moonlight behind a ghostly garage while a phantom homeowner takes whack after solid whack at him with an ethereal shovel handle. Some folks say that the ghostly goat has a shovel-shaped dent in his lifeless, spooky goat head and that the homeowner has a look of glee on his face as the scene plays out on it's spectral stage...But that may just be folks tellin' tales...

Or it may just be true...

Labels: grandpa, indignities, lame stories, sad stories, spooky shit, tales of triumph

Hey, you kids like them talk radio thingies that get all topical and talk about like...Real News? Ok, fair warning, we try to do that on this episode and we fail MISERABLY. We DO, though, have a real live Collin via the magics of the telephone and, extra special guest on this week's episode is my wife Heather. You wish to click and listen, so why should my ramblings keep you from that?

Labels: audio, awesomecasts, collin crap, podcasts, sad stories

You know, I want desperately to write something...ANYTHING that would be post-worthy today but it seems that my fetid headmeats refuse to cooperate with such an endeavor. I mean, I guess it wouldn't be the WORST thing in the world to leave the stupid video post from Friday up until tomorrow (when, of course, the newest Awesomecast installment would be posted) but...I guess that simply by posting what I even have so far of THIS pathetic little entry, I've negated that thought entirely. I could type about my weekend but...Frankly, there's not a whole lot to talk about outside of cleaning house, mowing lawns and doing laundry. I mean, sure, I watched some football and had a couple of fantasy football drafts but...I'd have to work a lot harder than I'm even capable of to turn that kind of crap into a post...

So no...I don't really have anything to say today. Yeah, I know, the Crocodile Hunter guy died just like we all thought he would, placing himself in harm's way and saying "crikey" and stuff but, now that it's actually happened, it suddenly doesn't seem as funny as I figured it would...

So I guess this will have to do for today...Ok, this AND a crude representation of the White Spy from the Prohais classic strip Spy Vs. Spy:

So there you go, kids, thanks for stopping by...You all have a fine Tuesday now...

Labels: lame stories, random drawings, sad stories, sports, stagnation

Checked your calendar today? That's right, kids, it's Thursday and that means that, just by being in the right place (here) at the right time (now), you are about to be hit with yet another odd little Illustration Friday endeavor. How lucky are YOU today, huh? Anyway, this week's theme was "Skyline" and, because 1950s music is really where it's at, I decided to add an extra letter (or two) to this week's theme word and bang out a quick sketch of the legendary Pittsburgh vocal group, the Skyliners...
click on them, they'll get bigger (and stuff)

You've no doubt heard the Skyliners' 1958 hit Since I Don't Have You. Like many groups popular in the 1950s, only one original member (Jimmy Beaumont) remains as an active performer, the other male members of the group having long since retired and the female soprano, Janet Vogel, having died tragically in 1980...

Anyhow, thanks for stopping by...You all have a fine Thursday...

Labels: cartoons n' stuff, famous folk, Illustrations, sad stories

Well, to be fair, I've been back in town since late Friday night. My wife and I went over to Grand Junction caravan-style, following my mom, dad and sister on Thursday morning. My grandfather's funeral was 9:30 Friday morning at the Koinonia church, a church which my grandfather built and that my mom and dad were married in. Given all of what has transpired in the last week, I was up and down emotionally (mostly down) all weekend but I know that I need to get "back in the swing of things" eventually. My parents and my sister stayed in Grand Junction until yesterday but my wife and I left Friday afternoon for two reasons...One was that the weather was slated to only get worse as the weekend wore on and the second was, frankly, that I could barely stand to be in my grandparents' house knowing that my grandfather was gone...It was hard for me to see him in his casket...It was hard for me as a pallbearer knowing that he was in the casket as my cousins and I carried him to his grave...It was very hard being around so much family and realizing that he was not going to come walking in at any minute...I simply could not stand it...

The service at the church was a good one, I almost forgot that my grandfather was gone as I listened to family and friends recount stories of him...While I refrained from sharing any stories (and I have many), they affirmed something which I had always assumed: you'd have to look long and hard and you'd still likely not find anyone who disliked my grandfather. Above all, he was honest, caring, helpful and generous. He was a natural born father, a trait which easily endeared him to everyone whom he crossed paths with. I am going to miss him greatly, his being gone leaves a large hole in my life, the size of which I never anticipated...

Despite the emotionally draining week that I had been through, I still followed through on my original plan to compete in the 15th annual Broomfield Old-Timer's Wrestling Tournament on Saturday. I wrestled in the 27-36 year old division in the only weight class which I have ever known (heavyweight) and, despite emerging unable to breathe and with a bruised rib cage, took 2nd place. I'm definitely going to train, though, if I ever compete in the tournament again. No more going into a wrestling competition cold (and out of shape). No more...It's way harder than I remember...

There's really not much else to say...I'm going to try my best to get back to my schedule for this blogsitething as soon as I can but it may take me some time. Again, I'd like to thank everyone who comes around and especially thank those of you who took the time to leave the wonderful comments regarding my grandfather, It meant a lot to me...

You all have a good Monday, now...

Labels: get outta town, grandpa, sad stories, sports, tales of triumph

I will be out until next week so I can attend my grandfather's funeral. Thank you to everyone for leaving such kind comments, it means a lot to me.

Do you ever wonder, when you see someone that you love, that that meeting could be the last time which you ever see that person? Does it ever cross your mind, even briefly, that the time which you're spending with a friend or a family member could ultimately be the last time which you are able to enjoy that person's company? Generally, I never think of things in that manner...Conversely, from my seemingly overly optimistic and naive perspective, there will always be a tomorrow...Most of the time, operating on the same principal of a broken clock still being right twice a day, I'm correct that "life goes on." Sometimes, though, I'm proven wrong. As I'm typing this, just over six hours ago, my wife and I left my aunt and uncle's house and, among other people, I said goodbye to my grandfather Harold, shaking his hand and telling him that I'd "see him soon." He agreed, responding that he'd see us in a couple of days. We were both wrong.

Just over two hours ago, I received a phone call letting me know that my grandfather Harold had passed away.

My grandfather Harold was one of the four children which Anton and Olga Widegren, my great grandparents, whom I unfortunately never had the opportunity to meet, had. He was many things in his lifetime, including a sailor, having served in the navy in World War 2. Additionally, he was a devoted husband to my grandmother Marjorie and a loving father to his 4 children including, of course, my mother. He was a carpenter for many years following his service and certainly knew the value of a hard day's work. He was honest, friendly, genuine, opinionated, faithful and thoughtful. He was a good listener, even long after his eyesight and hearing had failed him, always eager to learn what was going on in the lives of others and taking pleasure in his family's successes. I am very fortunate not only to have known him, but to have had the privilege of calling him "grandpa" for the past 31 years. While I have countless memories of my grandfather to cherish, none of them can take his place - I'm going to miss him very much...

Goodbye, grandpa. We'll see you soon.

Labels: grandpa, sad stories

Hey, don't be all "like that." It's STILL Friday, even if it is like...later in the day on Friday. I'm STILL putting up a Phrickin' Photoblog for you to "ooh" and "ahh" over. That's right. Settle down.

Todays exhibition of pictorial goodness features my pet cat Rita who, sadly, is no longer with us. If you're so inclined (to simper and cry like a little girl), you can read more about her right here. For now, though, ON WITH THE PHOTOS! You click, they puff up, etc.


One of the places which Rita liked to perch was right on top of my mom or dad's car underneath their carport. This picture was taken by my parents' neighbor. Observe the indifference with which Rita regards him! This will be a theme with her, as you shall soon discover...


Here's a good shot of her on the front lawn of the house on Hackberry. She's doing her best to pretend to be looking at something else while the picture is being snapped. Perhaps she's looking for something to kill...She was good at the killin'...


Here's a similar shot taken at my parents' townhome a couple of years later. Rita's most likely looking to come inside due to the fact that it's cold outside. (The photo doesn't show real well the fact that this was the only "clear patch" on the patio, the rest of it was covered in "snow," a cold substance which cats are not terribly fond of).


Continuing the theme of "cat on object," here she is perched on the step of my parents' neghbor's motor home. The neighbors loved Rita almost as much as we did, so she was welcome to sit there as long as she pleased. Of course, now that I think of it, "permission" really didn't matter to her all that much.


Rita, like most cats, enjoyed solitude on a regular basis. She was quite fond of hiding underneath the bushes at the Hackberry house. Again she is displaying an indignant "I don't see you" type of expression.


Rita enjoyed itching her chin on the corners of the walls in my parents' townhome. Here she is, doing just that.


For all of her indignance, Rita was a sucker for a pillow. All you had to do was grab a pillow from the couch and place it on your lap and, in no time at all, it would be filled up with "cat." of course, once she was ensconced on the pillow, she expected whomever had said pillow on their lap to rub her head and/or scratch her back. She certainly led a challenging life...

Well, that's that...Now you all have a fine weekend, filled with things like head rubs and lounging in the sun...

Labels: Cat Pictures, Phrickin' Photoblogs, sad stories

update: as Ray alluded to in the comments, "Fats" Domino was, in fact, rescued from his flooded home in New Orleans' 9th Ward and Irma Thomas had the good sense to evacuate to Baton Rouge before Katrina hit. Allen Toussaint, at last report, was among the massive crowd stuck at the Superdome, waiting to be evacuated to Houston. As yet, there is no word on the whereabouts of Antoinette K-Doe.

Since New Orleans, the city which has arguably the richest and most storied Rhythm and Blues history of all, has been ravaged by Hurricane Katrina, many residents who decided, in the grand New Orleans tradition, to try and "ride the storm out" are still missing. This is possibly due to the fact that they are simply unable to get in contact with loved ones due to communications being limited or nonexistant. The "worst-case scenario," however, still looms large regarding these missing residents...They simply may not have survived the wrath of Katrina. Among the residents of the Crescent City who remain missing are performers whom I hold in very high regard, including Irma Thomas, Allen Toussaint and the legendary Antoine "Fats" Domino. Additionally, Antoinette K-Doe, widow of the late Ernie K-Doe is still listed as "missing."

This may seem selfish, for me to focus on such a select few potential victims of such a widespread tragedy, but the individuals I mentioned, and the music which they have created, mean a great deal to me personally. Yes, in the end, they're mere mortals, subject to time and tide like the rest of us but, somewhere in my mind, I still think of them as more than that. To me, they're icons from a bygone era, reminders of a time when what they did was fresh, bold and unprecedented. The performers I mentioned were true pioneers who helped to shape rock and roll in it's earliest of days, giving the performers that came after them, and who would go on to great fame and reknown, a base of inspiration to draw from. Without New Orleans, without Cosimo Matassa, without Allen Toussaint, without Irma Thomas, without Ernie K-Doe, without Antoine "Fats" Domino there would have been no LIttle Richard, no Chubby Checker and certainly, whether you choose to believe this or not, no Beatles...The major players of this bygone era are steadily dying off and, for every legend of rock and roll and rhythm and blues which we lose, as a society, we are that much poorer.

Thousands of times I've promised my wife that "someday we'll get to New Orleans and see Fats Domino perform," seeing that she loves his music almost as much as I do. Every time I made that statement, I fully expected to be able to follow through on it, even though I knew that I was "running out of time," so to speak. When I heard that Hurricane Katrina was headed for New Orleans, my first thoughts were of the many performers and historic buildings which mean so much to the history of rock and roll. As selfish as it seems, I couldn't help but hope that they, and the city as a whole, would be spared. As is obvious now, though, that was not to be.

A couple of days ago, while we were watching coverage of the hurricane, my wife turned to me and said "I hope that Fats is ok." Despite all of the devastation throughout the entire Gulf Coast, I have to admit, I was thinking the exact same thing. Now, I don't personally know any of the performers whom I've mentioned in this post and, conversely, they do not know me. This, however, does not change the fact that they, and their music, mean a great deal to me and always will. I can only hope that they're alive and as safe as can be expected. If not, I pray that they passed with a minimum of suffering.

Not that you haven't heard this by now but, if you're looking for a way to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina, I'd recommend starting with the Red Cross.

Labels: sad stories

Ever get to a point where you just have nothing to type about?..I mean, there's stuff goin' on and all that, but there's just not ENOUGH goin' on to turn into a cohesive entry? Is it just me? Regardless, I shall do my best to soldier on, despite such things...I bring you RANDOM POST OF CRAP! The crap begins...Now...

Congratulations to my cousin Jason, who married his fiancee Michelle on Friday. My wife and I couldn't make it to his wedding, but we WERE able to go to a barbecue which was held at my Aunt and Uncle's house for all of the relative-type folks who were still around. At one point, my cousins said that I should go jump on the trampoline. I declined, reminding them that the last time I did that, I ripped my pants. Another younger cousin (Brittany) heard this and mistakenly thought I said that I had "wet" my pants.

Brittany: "You wet your PANTS?"

Me: "No, I RIPPED my pants. RIPPED."

Brittany: "Oh...You know, if I HAD to choose, I would certainly rather wet my pants. See, if you wet 'em, you could just wash 'em and dry 'em and wear 'em all over again, but if you RIPPED your pants, well, then you'd have to sew 'em and then EVERYBODY would be pointing and asking you 'what did you do to your butt?' and you'd have to tell the story OVER and OVER...Yep...If I HAD to choose, I'd really rather wet my pants."

Me: "Yeah, well...I just threw mine away. Thanks, though."
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Not long after that conversation, the stinkier of the two dogs that were at the barbecue emerged from a wading pool and shook itself off in the middle of everyone, Brittany included...A little while later, as Brittany was finishing off her drink, she made a "screwed-up" face and peered into her glass. After drinking the last of whatever was in there, she pulled back, shook her head and exclaimed "ooh...The end of that tasted like dog." now, the fact that she KNOWS what "dog" tastes like is perhaps something which I should find slightly disturbing. Of course, Brittany WAS the one who, while the younger people were discussing the food served at the aforementioned wedding, asked the very pointed question "why do those 'rich people' always eat such crappy food?"

for the record, the menu at my cousin's wedding looked really REALLY tasty, making me regret not being able to attend..."Yeah, yeah, congratulations...When do we eat?"
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My dad was featured on the local news and in the newspaper this week because he had a revolutionary procedure done to remove a blockage from an artery in his leg about a month and a half ago...The doctor used what's called a Silverhawk to basically go in and "roto-rooter" a blocked vein in my dad's leg, completely removing a 7" blockage and effectively saving his leg. He's pretty happy with his brief fame now and continues to remind us that he "looked pretty damn good on the TV." I do think, however, that there are less painful ways to get on TV than by having a catheter inserted into your groin...Still, I'm happy that the procedure was successful...Yay, dad!
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One of my uncles was not as fortunate as my dad, However...He had to have his right leg, I believe, amputated below the knee last week...From what I can gather, while in the hospital for problems with his toes, my uncle contracted an infection which basically ate away the bones starting with his foot and then progressing up his leg. Apparently, he also had a procedure done to his eye at one point and was wearing an eyepatch, the details of that I'm not certain about...I AM certain, though, that one of my uncle's grandkids has now decided that my uncle needs a wooden pegleg instead of a fancy prosthesis so that said grandkid can take him trick-or-treating in october...Yarr...

The kid isn't all there...He's funny, but he's not all there...
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So, I think I fractured my left hand...Hockey puck, you see...This still remains to be seen...For now, I type tentatively.
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Speaking of hockey (we were), the NHL has ended it's (completely frivolous) lockout, what with the players and owners coming to terms on a new collective bargaining agreement and it's being ratified at the end of last week. The players, despite their adamant refusal to accept a salary cap last year, will have to exist under said salary cap of around 34 million (maximum per team), with a maximum on individual players' salaries as well...It'll be interesting to see how the Avalanche fare under this new system, considering their spending habits in the past. Hell, either way, I'm just happy to have NHL hockey back.
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Yet another Dead Money poker tournament is scheduled to "go down" at my house this coming weekend. I'm actually expecting a really good turnout for this tournament based on the RSVPs I've received already...There's still some people who haven't said yes or no (you know who you are), but things are still looking like there will be a decent field to fight through...As long as I'm not the first one out, I'll be happy.

Oh, who am I kidding...I HAVE TO WIN! I must now defend my title, after all...
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Well, that's enough random crap for one day...You all have a fine Tuesday, we'll see you later.

Labels: dad's stories, hockey stuff, indignities, poker, sad stories, sports, stagnation

Thurl Arthur Ravenscroft succumbed to prostate cancer on Sunday. He was 91.
Since you are now curious about the man's life and work, you can find a literal ton of Thurl information by clicking here.

Labels: sad stories

Today is my 31st birthday. Today also marks 2 years of being without my friend, Rita. Because of this, I'm re-posting (with a few edits) the entry I wrote about her, right around this time last year.
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Over all, I've never been much of a "pet person." I have a strong dislike for dogs which stems from my having been (viciously) attacked by canines more than once. In addition, I generally have pretty severe allergic reactions to pet dander and I don't enjoy cleaning up after any sort of animal. I had a goldfish when I was...4, maybe, and I had some hamsters in elementary school. That was pretty much it. I never liked cats too much as I was allergic to them, too. I was certain that I'd never have a pet. Truth is, I never felt the need for one.

Rita changed all of that, though. Rita picked my family to be her family when she showed up on our porch one evening when I was 19. No matter what we did or said, Rita refused to leave. Rita, eventually, became my pet and, more than that, she became my best friend.

We didn't always call her Rita, in fact, early on we mostly just called her 'Cat.' Since she didn't seem to have any desire to leave our front porch, we decided that she'd eventually have to eat, so we fed her. 'Cat' eventually was allowed to live in the garage. She soon moved from the garage to the utility room and, after a week or so, when it was discerned that I wasn't having any allergic reactions to her, she was allowed to live in the actual house with the rest of us. 'Cat' was a beautiful gray and white striped animal with wonderful green eyes. She resembled a cartoon cat on a show called Animaniacs that was named Rita. I hated the character, I thought she was annoying, but 'Cat' looked enough like Rita that we called her, obviously, Rita. She fit in to our family immediately.

Well, maybe not "immediately." She WAS prone to fits of erratic behavior early on, but that soon faded. My father was convinced that Rita was actually his brother, Jim, reincarnated. Jim had died the year prior from liver cancer, among other ailments. If Rita could help my Dad cope with the loss of his brother, so be it. Besides, she acted as if she knew us right from the beginning. She was affectionate and talkative and recognized all of us and our vehicles individually when we'd arrive back at home. She memorized all of our work schedules and would be ready to run up to the car door and greet us when we were due to appear at home day after day. I enjoyed very much how Rita would trot along beside me toward the door, chatting all the way as if she were telling me how her day went. It seemed that she always had quite a bit to tell me about her day.

Rita was an outdoor cat and a very adept hunter. One of my favorite pastimes when we all lived in the house on Hackberry was to watch my friend stalking whatever manner of prey had wandered into our backyard. Whether it were a bird, a chipmunk or whatever, it was never a match for Rita's cunning and stealth. In addition to her homicidal tendencies, she was really quite thoughtful. On special days such as anniversaries or birthdays, she would invariably have a fresh kill to offer as a present waiting on the doorstep. Like clockwork, she remembered everyone. She also loved Summertime because she could spend more time outside AND she could choose exactly when she would go out and when she would come in. This was because, years prior, either myself or my sister had broken the screen out of the screen door. During summer, we would simply raise the glass portion of the screen door to get airflow. With no screen, Rita was free to leap in and out of the house at her leisure, moving from one wonderful warm-weather adventure to the next.

Of course, when the weather got cooler, we would have to lower the glass. One afternoon, after having done this, I was lying on the couch watching television. I caught motion outside from the corner of my eye. it was Rita, bounding up the front walk toward the screen door. I surmised that, by the way she was truckin' along, she had NO CLUE that we had closed up her "leapin' hole." I couldn't get to the door fast enough to open it, but I WAS there just in time to see little Rita leap, soar majestically through the air and impact the glass part of the door square and hard. The whole door shook. Poor Rita fell backward, landing on her feet as cats are accustomed to, sat back and stared at the door with a murderous glare. As I opened the door, she saw me and sprang back to her feet, never one to be caught in an undignified position. I told her "Sorry, you can't do that again until May." She pretended not to hear me as she wandered off. She certainly wasn't going to admit defeat and she SURELY wasn't going to come in until she was damn good and ready. I loved that about her.

A couple of years later, my parents purchased a townhome. I moved with them, not quite yet adult enough to be back on my own. Rita, of course, moved with us as well. Rita never dealt with change very well and she HATED riding in any vehicle whatsoever. She cried the whole way to her new home and spent her first 3 days there hunkered back in my closet, angrily mewing at everyone who passed by. She seemed to be chastising us for taking her away from HER house. She ultimately mellowed enough to check out the rest of the place and soon enough she was right back to acting as if she owned it. My Mother was deathly afraid to let her outside at this new place, thinking that she'd become confused and return to the wrong home or, God forbid, not return at all. Rita, being an outdoor cat, and not accustomed to being told "no" consistently requested to be let out. We all toed the company line and refused until one day, when my Mom was a little distracted. Rita waited until she wasn't looking and darted outside to experience sweet freedom once more. Of course, my Mom panicked. Rita, seeing as she was more than just a pet, returned to the right home in a reasonable amount of time. We were her family. She knew where home was, no matter what.

Ultimately, I moved out of my parents' home. When I did, I missed Rita, but I got to see her often enough. Rita got a good amount of attention living with my parents anyway, in fact my Dad was unemployed (by his own choice) for a good stretch of time and that seemed to spoil her a bit. She certainly got used to having someone around to play with her, feed her and let her out whenever she wanted. At one point, when my parents went on a cruise, My wife and I were charged with looking in on Rita to see how she was doing. One particular night, We were over watching TV and I decided that I was going to read the newspaper. After I had finished a section or two, Rita got up from where she had been sitting and walked over to me. She mewed, I gave her a pat on her head and rubbed her ears. She mewed again and I mewed back. I told her I was reading the paper, I'd play later. She then set about destroying the newspaper.

I'm serious about this. She literally grabbed the newspaper with both paws and chewed what she could get to into pieces. I was totally shocked, yet utterly amused at the same time. I'm not sure she appreciated me laughing at her, but she got what she wanted. We played the "pen game" for a while and then played "chase."

late in 2002, Rita's behavior and appearance changed significantly. She got a little slower and clumsier and she grew quite thin. She definitely was not herself anymore. My parents took her to the vet and she got some medicine. Her condition got a little better, then it got a little worse. She fought a brave fight and never really seemed to want to admit that she wasn't feeling well. She'd try to play, but she simply didn't have the stamina that she once had. In addition, she couldn't take the stairs very well anymore, which prevented her from sleeping upstairs with Mom and Dad, something which she greatly enjoyed. She spent a lot of her time downstairs, alone, in the dark. Ultimately, when she could muster the strength to crawl up to him, she spent a lot of her time laying on my Father's chest, close to his heart, for as many hours as he would let her. In March of 2003, my wife and I were getting ready to drive to Kansas to visit some friends. We stayed at my parents' house the night before our departure and I decided that I'd better let Rita know that I loved her, as I didn't know if I'd have the opportunity to do so again. I sat with her for a while and chatted with her. She chattered right back like the good little girl she was. I told her as I got up to leave that I loved her very much and I was going to miss her. She looked at me for a few moments and then turned away. It was almost as if she didn't want to admit that she wasn't going to be there when I came back.

While I was out of town, on my birthday I was later told, Rita came out of the bedroom upstairs looking for my Mother. She stumbled and fell a few times, but ultimately made it to my Mother's lap. It was obvious that something was very, very wrong and so my parents took Rita to see the vet again. She had been in and out of the vet's office a lot recently and she had been on a lot of medication. unfortunately, none of it worked like it was supposed to. The vet ran some tests and finally diagnosed my friend with cancer of the liver, the same ailment that had done my uncle in so many years prior. She was too jaundiced at that point to be cured, and so my parents were suddenly faced with very hard decision. They soon came to the realization that they would have to put their "third child" to sleep.

Rita got to lay next to my father's heart one last time before they took her away. Both my Mother and Father were heartbroken. When my wife and I returned from Kansas a couple days later, There was a message on our phone asking me to call my Dad. I called and asked what was up and he said "we had to...on your birthday, we had to..." and he started to cry. I knew that Rita was gone. I cried too. We both cried together. There was nothing more to do but cry. Rita was a very good girl and an important part of our family, but she had to go away. I still miss her terribly.

My parents go looking at cats every sunday, to see if they can find another that will be as perfect an addition to our family as Rita was. After two years of searching, they've come up empty handed. I'm convinced that, while their search will go on, they won't find what they're looking for. As for me, I don't want another pet. After all, I never had a pet, I had a very good friend who's, unfortunately, no longer around. I do look forward, however, to the time when we'll be reunited. I don't know quite what happens after we die, but I certainly hope that wherever I end up, She'll see me coming. She'll run up to whatever vehicle I arrive in and she'll trot in along side me on the way in, filling me in on what she's been up to since she got there.

I know she'll have some wonderful stories to tell me.

Labels: Cat Pictures, sad stories

I'm only at work for a half-day today because I'm planning to attend a funeral later. As such, I'm not really in the frame of mind to blog. Since I didn't update yesterday, though, I'm gonna throw a wee sketch at you. HERE IT COMES!

Yep, There it is. I think it's a "liver." maybe a bota bag. Who knows...

In other "news," I produced a "mash-up," as Collin called it, by taking an existing song and "re-producing" it to make it...Well...Better, in my opinion. I'm still debating whether to post it or not. We'll see. Thanks for stopping by!

Labels: cartoons n' stuff, random drawings, sad stories

There're possibly a good number of people who wouldn't be aware who Merle Kilgore was, let alone be aware that he passed on. In a strange way, Merle Kilgore was a big part of mine and my sister's childhood. See, we had a 45 rpm record which we had won at a carnival, or at the state fair, which happened to be the Merle Kilgore rendition of "The Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Down." I loved the song because, even at an early age, I was rabidly interested in all things related to the American Civil War and, since we WERE kids, my sister and I derived great enjoyment from the record by playing at 78 rpm and making a little stuffed mouse named "Pudding" dance to the sped up music...

Thanks, Merle. We had a lot of fun.

Labels: lame stories, me roots, sad stories

One more reminder about the story contest going on currently at the forum. DEADLINE IS WEDNESDAY! The rules, for those of you who haven't ventured over to find out, are as follows:

There are a set of words. You must integrate these words into the story. Also, sometimes there's a theme. In this case, the theme is that all stories have to take place in England. The words for this round are as follows:

Kerfuffle
Serene
Bittersweet
Demure
Invoke
Knowledge
Mutilate
Mesmerize

Story writin' is FUN! Head to Head Death Match style Story Writin' is even more so. You shall participate, if you haven't done so already. Big "ups" (as the kids say) to those who have already participated! To fill space, I will now share MY entry in this contest with you...now...

As Sergei stepped out of the jetway into the terminal, he scanned the seats for a familiar face, any face that could bring him some sort of comfort. It had been a rough flight in every sense of the word and, making matters worse for him, his thoughts had been anything but serene. She had told him when he left that she'd be right here, waiting for him. She had spoken her promise, but her eyes, he thought, told a different tale. He was fearful that, not only would she not be at the airport, but that he'd never have the pleasure of her company again. It seemed that they'd grown apart during the last few months and his having to return to Chelyabinsk to tend to the death of his mother only strained their relationship further. Certainly, it had been a bittersweet relationship at best, but he knew that he loved her. He loved her more than he could say, perhaps it was the language barrier between the two of them or perhaps it was merely Sergei's own insecurities, but he never felt that he was expressing his feelings effectively, nor was she offering him the opportunity to do so...

Standing at the baggage carousel, Sergei allowed himself to reflect on the first time that he saw her in the restaurant, so quiet, so demure. The fact that she was absolutely mutilating her lunch while she ate belied her petite stature and was instantly endearing to him. He recalled how he had offered to lay down a tarp for her and how she had smiled wryly back at him and asked him, politely, to kiss her ass. This led to their first conversation and, of course, their first date. It was no wonder why he insisted upon invoking her wrath every time he got the opportunity to do so. Seeing her get all kerfuffle, as she was apt to say that he made her, gave his heart a flutter. Simply put, she was mesmerizingly beautiful in his eyes, even when she was at her worst.

As Sergei emerged from his daydream and collected his baggage, he scanned the faces around him one more time, desperately searching for her, hoping against hope that she would, indeed, be there to comfort him and to take him home where she would rub the tension from his shoulders and listen to him ramble on about his homeland and all of the people he had seen during his trip. How strange, he thought, that he hardly missed his own mother, whom he had just buried, but that the girl who has been on his mind so much over the last few days seemed to consume his whole being, even though now it was clear that she didn't even care for him enough to keep a simple promise. Forlorn and defeated, carrying his heavy luggage and an even heavier heart, Sergei hailed a taxi and headed for his flat.

As the driver negotiated the streets of Manchester, heading toward Sergei's home in Macintosh Village, Sergei came to the realization that had never felt more alone in his life than at that moment. Like a crushing weight, the knowledge that he'd no longer have the pleasure of dancing with her, or dining with her or drifting off to sleep with her securely in his arms, made it increasingly harder to breathe. Sergei now felt trapped in a dark world, filled with despair. He had to find a way out, he thought to himself.

After what seemed like an eternity, the sedan pulled up to the curb outside his home. Sergei emerged and handed the driver the fare, augmented by whatever else he had on him. Cash, jewelry, credit cards, it didn't matter anymore. He'd have no need for those things where he was going anyway, he thought. On the ride up to his flat in the elevator, he planned out the whole scene. His handgun was in his top desk drawer, the bullets for that gun were in the second drawer in the kitchen and the tarp...Yes, the tarp that he'd lay out as a courtesy to whomever found him was underneath his bed. He'd enjoy his last glass of wine and pull the trigger in front of the far window, he thought, so that he could enjoy the view that she had loved so much one last time.

About this same time, a lovely young woman who had been napping at the airport rose from her seat and looked around. She had drifted off to sleep while waiting for a friend and was suddenly aware that it was well past time for his arrival. Strolling over to check the arrival screen, she saw that his plane, indeed, had arrived as scheduled but at gate 12, not at gate 4 as she had originally expected. Scurrying around the baggage claim and the taxi stand, but not finding him in either location, she decided that he had simply gone home on his own and that she should depart too. She was eager to meet up with him so she could comfort him and share the special dinner that she had prepared for the both of them. It surely would be a special night tonight, she thought to herself as she buckled herself in for the ride home...

A very special night indeed.

Labels: sad stories, Stupid Contests

Internet connection is down today, therefore no posties until it's fixed. Probably sometime tomorrow!

Labels: sad stories

A great big "fuck you" to hockey fans like me...
from NHL CBA News:


The NHL's Board of Governors will meet today at a New York City hotel. NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman will address the media following the meeting and NHLCBANEWS.com will stream the press conference live beginning at 2:30 p.m. ET today . The League's CBA with the NHLPA expires at midnight ET on Wednesday. NHL executive VP Bill Daly said the Union's last proposal was unacceptable and currently no talks are scheduled.

Labels: hockey stuff, misguided rantings, sad stories, sports

I don't often simply lift stories from a news service and present them, but today I have little choice. I'm not in the right frame of mind to author an appropriate tribute to a man who gave so much of himself to our community. With that in mind, here is the Colorado Springs Gazette news story regarding the passing of Dominic Venetucci...
____

Pumpkin Man ‘gave, gave, gave’

By DEEDEE CORRELL - THE GAZETTE

The Pumpkin Man is gone.

Nick Venetucci, the beloved farmer who gave millions of pumpkins to generations of children who visited his farm during the past 50 years, died Tuesday. He was 93.

“He taught our kids the definition of generosity,” said Suzanne Royer, principal of Venetucci Elementary School in Security, which was named after the venerated community figure in 1986.

“He gave, gave, gave, and never expected anything in return. He was kind of like Santa Claus.”

The legend of Dominic Venetucci began 50 years ago when the farmer would drive his truck slowly along Tejon Street and hand out pumpkins to children.

Eventually, a teacher noticed him and asked if she could take her children to his farm.

Of course, he said.

Thus began a tradition that touched nearly every child in the region and led him to give away millions of pumpkins to children who visited his farm along Monument Creek in Security.

“He’d be right there with his big smile, very patient. He just loved those kids,” said Fred Darpino, a Colorado Springs artist who is creating a sculpture of Venetucci surrounded by children in his pumpkin patch. It will be placed downtown by the Pioneers Museum.

He especially loved to watch the enterprising children who went to the far end of the field to find the largest pumpkins, then struggled to roll or push them back to their school bus.

“He said those were his favorite,” Darpino said.

“He saw the joy it brings to children, and he loves children. They are his pleasure in life. He was always so happy having children running around the farm,” Nick’s wife, Bambi Venetucci, said Tuesday afternoon.

Venetucci, who did not have children of his own, regarded the students at Venetucci Elementary as his own, Royer said.

“He said, ‘How many kids do you have at school this year?’ I said, ‘474 kids,’ and he said, ‘OK, I have 474 kids,’” she said.

The saddest thing she ever saw, Royer said, was a man stealing pumpkins from Venetucci. As children roamed the fields, a man parked his pickup near the far end of the field and started loading pumpkins into the back. Someone ran after him, but he escaped with the stolen pumpkins.

“It really upset Nick,” Royer said. “Here he is giving, and someone wants to steal.”

When the drought hit several years ago, the Venetuccis announced they wouldn’t be able to have their annual giveaway.

That was difficult for her husband, Bambi Venetucci said.

“It’s been very hard for him,” Bambi Venetucci said. “It’s been part of his life.”

“It’s kind of a hole in our September,” Royer agreed.

When Pikes Peak International Raceway spokesman Clark Curtis, who once covered the annual pumpkin giveaway as a reporter for a local television station, heard the news, the raceway decided to try to pitch in, he said.

“It was the first time in 40 years it wasn’t going to happen,” Curtis said.

PPIR officials asked Hirakata Farms in Rocky Ford to donate pumpkins, which were given to children at several elementary schools. This year, they’ll have pumpkins for about 600 children, Curtis said.

“We obviously were never going to be able to do all he’s done over the years,” he said. “He meant so much to the community.”

Last year, a campaign began to raise money for a sculpture to honor Venetucci. Royer said they’ve raised enough money for the $100,000 sculpture but still need $10,000 more for its maintenance fund.

Venetucci resisted the idea of the statue at first, Royer said.

She argued with him, telling him he deserved it because he had done so much for the community.

“He kind of smiled with his toothless smile and said, ‘No, I didn’t,’” she said.

The first time they saw the sculpture, Royer said, Bambi, who is blind, ran her hands all over it and began to cry.

“She put her hands on his hands and said, ‘It’s so much like Nick,’” Royer said.

The sculpture, which depicts Venetucci handing a pumpkin to a child while two others play with their pumpkins, is nearly finished, Darpino said.

“Everyone says it looks just like Nick,” he said.

The statue will be placed on the north side of the Pioneers Museum, probably in late October, with pumpkins and marigolds planted around its base.

“I was hoping he’d live long enough to see it,” Bambi Venetucci said.

A public memorial service will be held at 2 p.m. Sunday in the Widefield High School auditorium. Burial will be at Evergreen Cemetery.

Anyone who wishes to make a donation to the “Pennies for Pumpkins” campaign — which remains $10,000 short of its goal — may send a check to the Widefield School District No. 3, Nick Venetucci Fund, 1820 Main St., Colorado Springs, CO 80911.
____

I'll see if I can make it to the memorial and also I feel the need to donate to the sculpture fund...After all, he gave me more than one pumpkin in my lifetime...It's only fair...

Thanks, Nick...We'll miss you.

Labels: sad stories

I was very sad to learn that today, Ray Charles done shuffled off this mortal coil. He's been one of my favorite performers as far back as I can remember. I will miss him very much.

One of my favorite Ray Charles songs is "That Lucky Old Sun." Even though he didn't write the song, his soulful performance of it, in my opinion, is the benchmark against which all other versions should be measured. The lyrics to this song are as follows...
_____
Up in the mornin'
Out on the job
Work like the devil for my pay
But that lucky old sun got nothin' to do
But roll around heaven all day.
Fuss with my woman, toil for my kids
Sweat till I'm wrinkled and gray
While that lucky old sun got nothin' to do
But roll around heaven all day
Dear Lord above, can't you know I'm pining, tears all in my eyes
Send down that cloud with a silver lining, lift me to Paradise
Show me that river, take me across
Wash all my troubles away
Like that lucky old sun, give me nothing to do but rol around heaven all day
But roll around heaven all day
Send down that cloud with a silver lining, lift me to Paradise
Show me that river, take me across
Wash all my troubles away
Like that lucky old sun, give me nothing to do
But roll around heaven all day
_____
Ray, your work is done. your reward is at hand.

Labels: sad stories