muscles

I can remember growing up in Texas in the late 70s and 80s when it was undergoing a shocking transformation as old populist Democrats (epitomized by the great Ralph Yarborough) were being replaced with a coalition--flush with new GOP money--of suburban Republicans and yellow-dog Dems who were threatened by, among other things, immigra

There are a few basic rules of music video making.  “Don’t prominently feature toilets” would have to be at the top of them.  And there are probably not many rules about country song writing left anymore, but “Don’t associate, even by rhyme, Hank with Hoobastank.” must surely be one.

The majority seems to be on the right track this cycle, so I have been watching with some serenity as the people process the political fodder thrown in their mangers.

For personal reasons, I have been doing outside home improvement chores before cold weather sets in. My muscles are sore, and my hands are raw. The last couple of days, I have been fighting a cold brought on by exposure Monday

Becky’s big eyes and blonde hair.  My father-in-law’s booming voice, charisma and athleticism.  My dad’s brute strength and the muscles that go with it.  Energy that came from I don’t know where. And Ken Lay’s, um, appetite.  That’s Gresham.

I go back and forth between being a gender essentialist and not.  Sometimes, I believe that men and women are pretty much the same and except for differences so inconsequential as to not matter, but blown out of proportion by ridiculous gender expectations, we are pretty much indistinguishable from one another.

Last night, during a ten second water break, while the Cuban Assassin set up the next gauntlet of torture devices, a blonde woman in tight black spandex panted to another blonde woman in tight black spandex, “I heard someone threw up in this class once.”

“No way,” I said.

There are times that I find out things that I didn’t know. It’s an oddity rather when you have perceptions about things and then you find out stuff like this.

Hope for us ol farts, yet....

Ageing muscle 'given new vigour'

The difference between me and the boy in my second grade classroom who claimed his dad could beat up everyone else’s dad was that I believed mine actually could.  My father was in Vietnam.  He let me wear parts of his uniform, stumble around the house in his combat boots, touch his medals - once.  He wasn’t drafted; he enlisted.  Twice he fought, First Cavalry Division, hol