Pistol Pete

(Frank Eaton, 1860-1958)


Today, in the year 2010, we aren’t really that far removed from the old American West. It was a legendary time, a time of Cowboys and Indians. Sparsely populated, there was little established law enforcement or other institutions we take for granted which promotes civilization as we understand it. Guns were plentiful and human life was cheap. The Civil War, which introduced several undesirable things into American culture, had just completed. It introduced lawlessness, despair in the populace, internal migration and movement of the people, and an abundance of handguns, the new weapon of choice for killing people. People moving into the American West were often at the mercy of cold blooded killers.

Into this, Frank Eaton was born. Born October 26, 1860, in Hartford, Connecticut, his family moved to Twin Mounds, Kansas, when he was 8 years old. Not long after the move his father was murdered by six former Confederates, two sets of brothers named Kempsey and Ferber. They had served during the Civil War with the Quantrill Raiders and were comfortable with violence against unarmed and defenseless people. The Raiders had sacked Lawrence, Kansas, during the war, burning it to the ground and killing indiscriminately anyone who got in their way. After the war they called themselves the “Regulators” and as such regulated this husband and father by murdering him.

A friend of his father, Mose Beaman, taught Frank to use a handgun soon after his father’s death. Beginning his training at the age of 8, Beaman also did more than simply teach young Frank to handle a gun. He taught him to hate and seek revenge on the men who had killed his father. By the time he was 15 years old, Frank had become adept at the use of a handgun and had reached the status of being called Pistol Pete by the U.S. Army. He went to Ft. Gipson in Indian Territory and even though he was too young to enlist he did get further training in the use of guns. In contests he was always on top, the best gunman at the fort and hence the name and honor which would always be with him.

During his life Frank Eaton served as a scout for the Army, worked as a cowboy and lived through and participated in those years which characterized the Indian Wars in which the Indians made their final stand against what they saw as an intrusion by the government and the populace of whites into their traditional lands. He also served as a U.S. Marshall in Indian Territory, working under the authority of Judge Isaac C. Parker, the “Hanging Judge” whose office and court were situated in Ft. Smith, Arkansas. By 1887, according to Eaton, he had killed five of the men who murdered his father and he only missed killing the sixth man because that one had been killed by someone else in a card game.

Eaton was in the land run which resulted in the settlement of Oklahoma and Indian Territories and eventual statehood for Oklahoma. He settled in the small town of Perkins, Oklahoma, where he was the local sheriff, grew old surrounded by a large family and developed into the caricature and character normally associated with him. Frank Eaton died April 8, 1958, at the age of 97.

In December 25, 1890, when Eaton was 30 years old, and living in Perkins, the Oklahoma Territorial Legislature created the small land grant college known as Oklahoma Territorial Agriculture and Mechanical (A&M) College. When Oklahoma became a state in 1907, the word “Territorial” was dropped from its name and it became Oklahoma A&M College. It continued with this name until 1957.

In their earlier years their teams were called “agriculturists,” “aggies” and “farmers.” They claimed a moniker of “Princeton on the Prairie” and used the tiger as a mascot. Thus, their colors were orange and black, mimicking the stripes on the tiger. In the early and middle 1920s people began calling their players “cowboys” for reasons unknown. And then in about 1923 the school gave serious consideration to creating a new mascot and replacing the tiger with something else. As the cowboy had become a popular designation, perhaps they were attempting to find a mascot that would reflect the cowboy and the cowboy culture.

In 1923 Frank Eaton was riding a horse in an Armistice Day parade in Stillwater, the home of Oklahoma A&M. Pictures of him clearly show a colorful character and some of the Aggies decided he would make a good mascot. They could thereby better align themselves with the American West, the days of cowboys and Oklahoma’s land run. Frank Eaton had been a part of all of that.

Even though there was a popular demand to make Frank Eaton the mascot for the college, it was not until 1958 that “Pistol Pete” was adopted as the school’s mascot, probably at the time it became a university and changed its name for the last time to Oklahoma State University. The university, however, did not approve, adopt and license the caricature of the present day “Pistol Pete” until 1984.

(Pistol Pete, official mascot of Oklahoma State University.)

There are two other schools that use “Pistol Pete” as a mascot, New Mexico State and Wyoming. Both of them consider Frank Eaton as the inspiration for their Pistol Pete but neither of them use a likeness of OSU’s mascot.

(Pistol Pete of New Mexico State.)

(Pistol Pete of Wyoming University.)

Wyoming once had a caricature similar to that of OSU but neither at the present time share anything other than the name and the person on whom the name is based. It is curious since there is little credible evidence that Eaton had any significant contact with either state. His life, from at least age 15, was centered in Indian Territory, Oklahoma Territory and the State of Oklahoma. And he had an interest in Oklahoma A&M in Stillwater. Clearly, OSU should be and is the guardian of Eaton’s alter ego, Pistol Pete.

When A Hand Touches You While You Sleep

One day in about the year 2007 or 2008, I was sleeping in the early morning hours. I recall opening one or both eyes, glancing at the digital clock on the dresser and becoming cognizant of the hour. The alarm was set for 45 minutes later at 6:45 o’clock. It was during winter and at 6:00 o’clock in the morning the sun was still below the eastern horizon, still dark outside. I closed my eye, or eyes, and drifted back to sleep.

I don’t know when it occurred but some time between my 6:00 a.m. glance at the clock and the 6:45 a.m. alarm I entered that state of being where you aren’t really asleep and you aren’t really awake. A qualitative, or quantitative, analysis, had it been possible, would have probably placed it at a 50/50 state of awareness. I remember becoming aware of an intense calm, if indeed “calmness” can be modified by the adjective “intense.” Comfort in body and peace of mind worked together to bring about a transcendental experience, an awareness of flawless bodily existence uniting with an unencumbered human mind created in the image of God, resulting in an inner peace that was in a single moment both experienced and observed from afar. I was the one both experiencing and observing this sacred moment of inner peace.

It seemed as if I was experiencing this for several minutes, perhaps as many as 5 or 10. I consciously chose not to open an eye and glance at the clock as I was concerned this might destroy the moment and this experience of inner peace and the union of body and mind would suddenly disappear in a flash of reality. I was still not quite awake and not quite asleep but I could tell the ratio was moving toward 55/45 with sleep giving way to the awareness of being awake. And then I observed my breathing.

My breathing was shallow. So shallow, in fact, that the breathing process commanded all my attention. I was directing all my sense of observation to feeling the air as it went to and through my nostrils and back into my sinuses. I was looking for expansion of my chest which would cause the lungs to expand, drawing in air with the oxygen needed to burn the fuel to run this magnificent God-made and God-like human body. I became aware I could not feel the chest expand and the lungs fill. I could feel no air passing through the sinuses or the nostrils. My out of body experience was observing a body, my body, as it failed and refused to do something absolutely necessary for the continuance of life. I was not breathing and I was aware of the fact!

I was cognizant enough that I knew this was a serious malfunction. It wasn’t frightening, it was more curious than frightening. In fact, I continued to observe the situation with a great deal more curiosity than concern. I wondered how long a person could go without breathing. And then I wondered just how long had it been since my breathing had ceased. I realized, though I did not worry about the fact, that I really should consider breathing again. Probably sooner than later.

I knew I could go back to sleep and since breathing is an involuntary action I would probably start breathing again. I would often awaken in near shock, sputtering for breath, probably coming out of a state of existence similar to what I was currently experiencing. Or, in the alternative, I could force air in and thereby prime the pump which would result in my breathing again. So I was not overly concerned as I knew I could breathe at will.

I lay there quietly doing scientific observation and research. I was curious about the length of time I had spent without breath. It seemed I had been studying the condition for at least 5 minutes and perhaps as long as 10. And I had no idea how long I had been breathless before I discovered the phenomenon and began my observations.

I lay there on the right side of the bed, lying on my right side which would place “She Who must Be Obeyed” somewhere to the back of me. While lying there doing my scientific research I felt a small hand as it ever so lightly touched against my back so that the open palm was just barely touching. I wondered why she was doing that. It wasn’t a seductive touch because I think I remember that kind of touch somewhat differently. And then, just as gently, the hand pulled away and I returned to my observations. I was left wondering why she did that and was that something she often did at night while I slept. My awake-to-asleep ratio had now become about 60/40 but I was still deep in my scientific studies.

I estimated now I had not been breathing for 15 or 20 minutes and that was simply the length of time of which I was aware. There was no way of knowing how long before I became aware of the fact that I had been without breath. I reviewed the importance of breathing and reviewed the safety procedures I had put in place. I pretty well ruled out the possibility of returning to deep sleep and allowing the involuntary action of breathing to take over. I opted for the deep breath solution to break the suspension of the breathing pattern. I would simply take in a deep draft of air. But not yet. I was clearly enjoying the moment. And then, again, I felt the hand.

I felt her hand place itself ever so gently against the small of my back. Her open palm just barely making contact. And again, I wondered why. She was disrupting an important moment and I had never known her to be so against scientific research. As quickly and as gently as the hand appeared, it removed itself from my back. Leaving my “awake” status at perhaps 65%.

I was awake enough now that reason was setting in and I concluded her rationale for touching me was to see if I was breathing. But I was asleep enough that I was pleased she too was engaged in this observation of breath deprivation. She and I together would observe this phenomenon and would perhaps issue a joint report on the experience. Surely the scientific community was anxiously anticipating such a communique.

No sooner was I returning to my observations of breath deprivation, a condition I had experienced now for at least 30 minutes or so, than I felt movement at my back. I could tell without looking that she had pushed herself up and was looking over my body and into my face. For the first time I understood why she had touched me. I very calmly said in a low voice, “I’m alright.”

She hit me and yelled, “Well breathe dammit! I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”

And now I was fully awake–100%--and my observable moment where I could behold myself from beyond myself was gone and humankind was poorer for it.

Haiti Needs Soap

This year the tiny and impoverished island nation of Haiti suffered a horrifically destructive earthquake. The population was crowded into cities when the earth groaned and shook for 35 seconds, an eternity in earthquake time, at the end of which virtually all buildings in the cities were flattened and hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of Haitians were injured and killed.

Injuries could not be treated. Disease set in, further devastating the injured people. Entire families died. In some it was a husband or a wife or children or a combination of the groupings. Parents lost their children and children lost their parents. Makeshift housing, completely inadequate to meet pressing needs, was set up. Makeshift orphanages were thrown together to care for the homeless children now without parents.

All of the suffering of this tiny nation was endured by people who were already the poorest of the Western Hemisphere and among the poorest of the world.

An agency of a Christian charity sent word to its home office that they were in need of soap. “Send us soap,” they said. There were far too many Haitian bodies, bruised and bleeding, that needed to be cleansed for the healing process to begin. The agency consciously withheld the soap and sent them Bibles. A second request came and the agency sent them more Bibles. Another request for soap and again they received Bibles to be distributed among the suffering people.

Sometimes people need soap. Sometimes a shelter. Sometimes clothing and food. Their immediate need is seldom a Bible. Even the apostle Paul, when he learned of the suffering of the Jews in Jerusalem brought about by drought and famine, put together an offering of money and substantial funds were delivered to them for their relief. He did not say, “Now this letter I’m writing will someday be viewed as Scripture so make several copies of it and send them on to the people who are suffering in Jerusalem.” No, he said he needed money from the various Christian churches of Asia which he was going to take to Jerusalem to aid in relieving suffering. It was going to buy food and other necessities of life.

Hungry people need to be fed. Naked people need to be clothed. The homeless need shelter. And Haitians obviously need soap. Send soap to Haiti.

The Day Scout Died

I remember the year Scout died. When I found his little broken body I broke down and cried. There was nothing I could do to help him and little else I could do to help me.

For a couple of years he had been a part of our lives. We had found him running the streets of Norman and at the time I would estimate his age at not more than 6 or 9 months. We were crossing through a four-way stop when we saw him ahead of us in the road. I saw him about the same time as She Who Must be Obeyed and she ordered me to stop. “What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s a squirrel,” I said with all the authority I could muster. A dog loose on the street is an open invitation for her to exhibit her prowess as a hunter/gatherer. She hunts down stray dogs and gathers them in to the family. That way she has something to love and shower her attention on and I have something to do. I take care of them. There is nothing in the Code, if there is one, which requires the hunter/gatherers to take care of that which they hunt and gather. There are “hunter/gatherers” and there are “take-care-ofers.” Or whatever we are to be called.

She had brought home a couple of dogs, large dogs, with the only explanation being that her friend had a lab that had a litter of 10 lab/boxer mixed pups. No one wanted them and she needed a home for them. So she brought home 1/5th of the litter. They weren’t very bright dogs, in fact I felt one of them was suffering from more than mere limited curiosity. I still have the other one which isn’t too bright either. But it seems these dogs of limited mental prowess take a particular shine for and toward me.

She had also brought home a beautiful Springer Spaniel she had rescued from running wildly through the streets of a large city during the third day of a wild and furious thunder storm. I had never been exposed to a Springer Spaniel before and was impressed by the beauty of the dogs. She took her to the vet, had her seen after and groomed. She was in pretty good health in spite of her ordeal, she was just old. In fact, she was so old she couldn’t hear and was suffering from well-developed dementia. We brought her home and made her a pallet next to our bed, my side of course. She wasn’t house trained which was the least of her worries. Because in addition to her deafness and dementia, she was also incontinent. My daily routine was get up in the morning and take her outside. She was only around about a month, during which time she never quite got a grip on how to make the two turns from her pallet to our front door without getting lost. For three weeks I fed her the same time each day out of the same bowl at the same location yet she could never find her way to the food. One day I took her outside and got distracted. I looked up and she was gone. She had wandered off. I ran to the neighbors and then drove all around the neighborhood. I don’t know how a dog can get so lost so quickly.

When we saw the squirrel/dog on the road running under and around parked cars She Who Must be Obeyed quickly abandoned her own car and set out after him. I imagined she would capture the thing and we would have another dog on our hands. We were down to three at the time, perhaps four, and we could always use another. He was a beautiful little red Chihuahua. We drove around the neighborhood and asked everyone we saw if they knew of a missing dog. We even posted signs and watched the paper for lost dog notices. There was no news of a missing dog and we could not find any grieving dog owners. He made his home with us and we named him Scout.

Scout turned out to be one of the better dogs we ever saved and had in our home. He was clearly a part of the family. He was an affectionate dog who demanded and received a place of honor. He allowed himself to be held on his terms but usually preferred to sit idly on the couch next to you. He barked when a stranger came on the property but not otherwise. And unlike many Chihuahuas he did not bite. He was not a snippy little dog at all.

He enjoyed being outside with the larger dogs. We had an electric underground fence around the yard and he wore a collar to keep him in. Only once did he run through the fence and get shocked. Usually he was alert to the vibration of the collar as he got close to the invisible line and would return back into the yard before it could shock him. He liked riding in cars and he liked being with you when you were out working in the yard.

A few years ago we had an unusually hard ice storm hit about 1/4th of the state. In that storm we lost nearly all of the trees we had. We lived on 2 ½ acres and loved the place because of all the trees growing on it. After that storm they were nearly all gone. All during the night of the storm we listened as one tree after another exploded, making a loud sounding boom and then a shattering crash to the ground. The next morning the trees looked like so much bombing debris.

I had worked hard sawing limbs into manageable lengths and stacking them in piles so they could be carried off. The devastation was so great that all we had to do was locate them as near the curb as possible and the city, using state and federal FEMA monies to assist, would pick them up one day and take them to a secluded area where they could burn them with the blessings of the EPA.

On that one particular day I was working outside late getting more of the limbs placed in a pile. My daughter, about 9 or 10, was home inside the house. We were the only ones home. I had been working outside until after dark, around 7:30 in the evening. There were large stacks of limbs and trees stacked about the property which was unusual. Usually the area around the house was clear of anything but grass and growing trees. The dogs had been outside with me doing whatever they wanted while I was working. There was no commotion or excitement on their part.

Around 7:30 that evening I had gone into the house. I sat down just for a second when I heard the dogs barking. I decided immediately that before getting too comfortable I needed to get up and let them in. I got up and went to the door where all the dogs but Scout were standing barking, looking off into the direction of a distant creek. One of the dogs ran off into that direction continuing with her barking. I took a head count and knew immediately that Scout was missing and knew what had probably happened.

I ran off toward where Snoopy was looking as she barked, crossed the street and got just onto the neighbor’s property when I came upon a small, still body of a little red dog. He was still wearing his collar. He had just one or two small puncture marks. It looked as if he had been shaken until his neck had broken.

I took him into the emergency vet clinic but it was no good. He was dead when we arrived. I think he might have still been alive when I first found him but he was in serious shock if he was. He didn’t last long, perhaps he died when I held him and cradled him to me.

I would later speculate that a coyote had found shelter behind those piles of brush and limbs and that he had ambushed Scout who had probably never seen anything dangerous in his life. Then, taking him in his mouth, the coyote would have carried him toward the creek but in doing so he would have had to cross the invisible fence. When he ran across the border the collar would have sent a shock and a vibration through Scout and on into the coyote’s mouth. It probably caused him to drop his prey. All of that happened in a matter of seconds.

The family mourned. We all cried for that little squirrel/dog. We all missed him and continue to miss him to this day. We buried him in a little coffin shaped cardboard box the vet gave us to take him home. He was laid to rest in a flower bed in the front of the house where he loved to play. Now and then we think of him and we share a short story about a little red dog that didn’t get to spend near enough time with us and we with him. Someone will start by saying something like, “Do you remember when Scout . . . .”

Advice to the Elderly

At age 65 I had noticed I was not the man I once was and was concerned I was not the man I would yet become. At age 55 I observed the growing number of acquaintances who were developing serious health problems around their 60th birthday. These were life changing problems, sometimes resulting in death but more often causing a disability that severely limited a man’s productivity if not ending it altogether.

My friend Everett and I had a man of 60 years of age come into our office with some legal problems. Now here’s some sound advice: Try not to have legal problems at age 60, it takes too much effort, too much energy and too much money to resolve. And given the capricious nature of the law and its arbitrary application in American Jurisprudence, you have no assurances you will win your case, regardless of it’s merit. You may very well lose and if you lose a legal fight you lose face, pride, dignity and, above all else at age 60, you lose money. It matters not that you are in the right or that you walk in the company of angels, you can still lose and it will leave you a beaten man. Really all you need is someone willing to lie to you and about you. That's all it takes to lose. In the best of circumstances one doesn’t have that many productive years left at age 60 and the time one does have should be guarded jealously and enjoyed to the extreme. That precious time should not be spent in a fight, legal or otherwise.

Our client had some serious health problems. He was only 5 years older than us and he moved, thought, talked and bore the marks of a much older man simply awaiting death. I told Everett then that based on this experience and based on my observations of too many other 60 year old men it appeared to me that the next 5 years would be important to us. We needed to work hard, accomplish all we could on our “to do list” (later to become a “Bucket List”), make all the money we could and at the same time nurture our familial relationships.

Now at age 65 I had managed to survive my 60th birthday (a day I never really expected to see) and the following years. I had some problems with my heart which had been partially corrected with the placement of stents and was having some continuing difficulties that resulted in neuropathy in the hands, feet and legs. At times walking was difficult and I had to use a cane for strength and balance. But, I usually felt pretty good.

What was concerning me right then was deterioration of short-term memory and a sense of confusion I felt at times. (Something which corrected itself when I got still other health issues under control.) In-depth studies were becoming more challenging and I wasn’t sure I had another one left in me. Since age 60 I had spent quite a bit of time reading and writing about religious issues and was finding this activity a little more challenging with the passing of years. And then I pulled a bone-headed, silly, old-man stunt.

Following worship services on Sunday in the Spring of 2010, we went to lunch with a group of youngsters who had returned the day before from a mission trip in Mexico. Many of the kids in our church travel to Mexico where they spend their Spring Break building “casitas,” small concrete block houses, with cement floors, for housing for less advantaged people. This was the first Sunday back and I wanted our 14 year old son, who had been on the work trip, to enjoy this celebration lunch in which they would reminisce about the experiences of the past week. (I have never heard these kids boast of their sacrifice, doing hard work to help the poor each Spring Break rather than going off on a ski trip or a beach party. So, allow me this moment of boasting for them.)

While awaiting our order I excused myself to go to the restroom. I was acquainted with this restaurant, the Hideaway Pizza, in Norman, Oklahoma, and they were especially busy with the influx of all our kids with their regular patrons. I went to the restroom and as I stepped inside I was taken aback by how nice it looked.

“My,” I thought, “they must have remodeled the restrooms.” It was cleaner looking than I remembered and far better decorated than it had been before. A very attractive paper was on the walls rather than the earth tone paint I remembered. The room was so pleasant I decided to stay awhile.

I selected the handicap stall. They're usually large and as I am a large man with some limitation to my standing and walking abilities I like the larger stall with the higher toilet and the handrails to assist in lifting. As I sat down I was impressed with the level of comfort of the seat and was well-pleased with the renovation. At such a high level of comfort I was wishing for some reading material but there was nothing available.

As I was fishing out my iPhone to check my Facebook account, I noticed a small trash can near the toilet. A label had been on the top of the can but it had been torn off, leaving only a fragment of the original lettering. I looked closely at it and could see the letters, “_m_p_o_n.” “_m_p_o_ n?” I thought. Using a highly developed sense of deductive reasoning I struggled with the letters “_m_p_o_ n” until I added a vowel and arrived at “_a_m_p_o_n.” And from there to “t_a_m_p_o_n!”

Either I was in the wrong restroom or younger American males had developed a sanitary hygiene practice unknown to me and my generation. I was hoping it was the latter but I didn’t want to know the details.

Retracing my steps, I remembered walking into this lovely little room and while I was admiring the decor I had ignored the functional setting itself. Now I could remember a lavatory to my right as I entered. Next to it was a smaller stall with a toilet and next to that was my larger, more luxurious stall. Next to that was a wall. In front of that was a wall. Behind me was a wall. To my left, beyond the smaller stall and lavatory, was the fourth wall with nothing but a door. Conspicuous in its absence was that most extraordinary tribute to male superiority, the standing urinal.

I sat there contemplating my blessings. For example, I had learned how beautiful a restroom could be. I had no idea all these years girls and women had enjoyed so much finer facilities than boys and men. I was also blessed that there had been no women in the room when I first opened the door. And none had come in. But now I was in a quandary. How could I extricate myself from this web without bringing embarrassment on myself, or more importantly, on She Who Must be Obeyed and my children who sat in the dining room oblivious to my predicament. I was completely innocent of any wrong doing and even any evil intent but I could just imagine if a screaming woman ran out of a room yelling that there was a man in her precious room I would probably be denied the presumption of innocence even though that is the bedrock of the American legal system.

If I could just get up and out, all would be forgiven. Even if someone encountered me, someone like the manager or, God forbid, a woman, and challenged my being in the wrong room, I fully planned to take out my reading glasses, get up very close to the sign and then say something witty like, “Huh? And your point is?” I would then totter back to my table. Who in his or her right mind would want to engage a doting old fool in a mental skirmish, especially when there had been no harm? No harm, no foul!

Then I contemplated the problem I would have if a woman came in before I could get up and out. (It never occurred to me at the time that a small child might enter by herself. I still lose sleep over that possibility.) Instead, I was imagining a woman, young to close to middle age. An old woman would simply get a good laugh out of it and express her gratitude that it happened to me rather than to her own simple-minded husband. No, with my luck it would be a young woman without either reason or sense of humor. And probably with no respect for old men. She probably even had “daddy issues!” I was liking her less all the time.

I managed to get my pants up and moved toward the door. Luckily I had worn a dark suit that day, a “power suit” that might command a little respect from some and intimidate others. Sure, that was it, I had been a lawyer for over 30 years for God’s sake. Surely I remembered enough law that I could bluff my way through this. I could use a little Latin. If accosted I could say something like “caveat emptor” or perhaps “res ipsa loquitur.” And if worse came to worse, I could even say, “illegitimi non carborundum!”

I made it to the door, opened it and no one was there. Quickly I returned to the table. Sensing something was wrong, my family kept quizzing me and I kept avoiding them. Finally I tired of their questions and said, “illegitimi non carborundum!” They quit asking and ducked their heads while the other patrons looked on.

____________________

On an unrelated note, my friend, Everett Sweeney, died on March 8, 2010. He was 64.

Dopeslap

“Dopeslap” (also "dope slap"). My new and favorite word. It hasn’t made it into the dictionary yet but it has made it’s way into common usage among this new and younger, happening, generation, with which I identify.

It refers to a firm, yet affectionate, slap applied to the back of the head of someone who has acted stupidly in your presence. It is not painful, simply attention getting so that it sends the message, “For the love of God, quit being stupid!” It demonstrates an expectation that more and better is expected of the slapee (another word that may not have made the dictionary but will now have to). It is usually applied by a superior to an inferior. I may dopeslap my 14 year old son but he probably should not dopeslap me. “She Whom I Fear” may dopeslap me but I probably should not dopeslap her. I can’t go without sleep forever and pay backs are hell.

Make “dopeslap” a part of your lexicon and use it proudly.

Observations on an Election

[This is taken from Thoughts I Thunk, a compilation of some of my own personal reflections. The date of the writing is included as it is sometimes relevant to understand what was said and why.]

The following was written and posted on Facebook the day after the national election in 2010 which resulted in a Republican landslide:

I have to speak to this Republican wave that swept over us yesterday. In 1964, following Goldwater, pundits said the Republican Party was doomed to die. It didn't. In 1980, following Reagan, it was announced the Democratic Party would die. It didn't. Following W's ascendancy, the Democratic Party's obituary was again being written. In 2006 and 2008 the Republican Party’s epitaph was being written. Again, none of this happened. Each was little more than a bump in the road.

It is what it is. Living in a state that has turned from Democratic to Republican in the last few years, I can tell you it is not the end of the world. It’s still a good place to live. Of course, we are 49th in per capita income, 49th in education, 49th in health and health care, 49th in teacher pay. (Thank God for Mississippi.) And we rank right up there toward the top in teenage pregnancies, methamphetamine production and use, imprisonment, health problems, divorce, child abuse, spouse abuse and a host of other dubious standings.

It is still basically a good place to live. It’s even a good place to visit. So come on by.

I predict there will be gridlock as bad or worse than anything we have ever seen in Washington. There won’t be any progressive action and the sole goal will be to stamp out Obama and the rest of the Democrats as soon as possible. There are surely consequences to elections. We’ll live with this landslide until another one comes along.

It is what it is.

Spiritual Superiority

[This is taken from Thoughts I Thunk, a compilation of some of my own personal reflections. The date of the writing is included as it is sometimes relevant to understand what was said and why.]

Persons who feel superior to others are a bit trying. People who feel and act that they are religiously and spiritually superior to others are subjects of my own personal disdain.

“Facebook” has opened a new social and interactive possibility which has its lighter moments. Too many people disclose too much personal information on their profile. One Facebook friend has on her profile, “Jesus loves everyone but I’m his favorite.” I have always found this funny and have used it often in birthday greetings, telling the birthday celebrant that “Jesus loves everyone but today you’re his favorite.”

Another friend posted, “I have a friend who sticks closer than a brother.” It is a loose quote from the Jewish King David who undoubtedly was thinking of his dear friend Jonathan who had long since died in battle against the Philistines.

A friend of mine had recently passed away unexpectedly. His friendship had so impressed me that I thought of and associated that friendship with David and Jonathan. I posted that sentiment, extolling my friend and friendship which to me was closer than a brother. “I, too, had a friend,” I said, “that was closer than a brother.”

Four people noted they “liked” what I had to say. (Hitting the “like” button on Facebook is the equivalent to saying “amen” in a fundamentalist church.) Then a woman commented, “Hahaha. . .I believe I know Him. . .!!! LOL [this means “laugh out loud”]. . .” Another woman commented, “I have a friend that sticks closer than a Sister!” I should have recognized from the capital letters in these two comments that they were referencing deity in some manner. But I wasn’t thinking in those terms. King David wasn’t writing about God nor was he thinking of anything other than his friend Jonathan when he penned the original words.

I commented, “You’re fortunate if you have one of those during your life. Mine died recently.” He had been a dear friend of mine on whom I could depend in all things and he had recently died. I don’t have many close friends. We all have acquaintances but a really close friend is a rarity. After a few months I was still feeling the loss. His was a companionship now gone. His was a listening ear now missing. His was a wise counsel now stilled and silent.

Another of the Facebook “friends” joined in. She commented, “I know him 2 He is my Savior!!!! Jesus!!!!” (Facebook language is full of shortcuts.) I wanted to come back with something like, “Give me a freakin’ break, Lady.” Or, “How does he take his coffee?” Or, “Is he a good enough friend that he’ll help you move? If so, does he own a pickup or would he just zap it to the new address?”

That sense of spiritual superiority is offensive on so many levels. It probably doesn’t speak very well of me that I can be offended by ignorance but I took this as a personal affront to my own friend “who sticks closer than a brother.” And now he was gone to stand with the angels.

“That’s sweet in a superincumbent way,” I posted in reply. She’ll probably never know she was dopeslapped.

6/30/2010