Overheard at a Bar

There's always some good bar stories if you listen long enough and you go to the right bar. I did both recently. Here is what I heard.



"See Ted over there. Me and him got DWIs together," said the old man with the cowboy hat and the Sam Elliot mustache. His boots were tucked solidly into his faded work jeans. I didn't look, but his horse might have been parked at the curb just outside the door.

"Sho did," Ted said back.

"I had a jury trial and I beat mine," the cowboy continued. "Ted didn't have a jury trial and he beat his."

The cowboy was telling this story to try and impressed two middle-aged female smokers plopped on the bar stools next to him. Ted continued.

"The officer asked me if I had anything to drink," Ted said. "I told him, 'just orange juice.' I didn't tell him it was mixed with vodka. And I had 23."

The ladies focused on their Marlboro reds. Ted and the cowboy went home alone. Drunk. But safe.


A little while later ...


Another man was telling me a story that happened at a trade show he attended in Fort Worth a few years ago. He was the only representative from his company, so he splurged and got a room at a fancy hotel near the convention center.

One day, he said, after the trade show, he was sitting in the hotel watering hole having a drink. He kept noticing men walking around with tiny radios inserted in their ear. Security personnel he was sure.

He kept asking if anybody knew what was going on. He was told, "We have a VIP staying in the hotel."

"Who?" he would ask. The staff was mum.

So, the man went to town and found a different watering hole, one with women who didn't need answers or security personnel or a reason to have a one-night stand. He found one such woman and began playing tonsil hockey.

The strangers were getting along nicely when it came time for last call. The lights came on. The lady excused herself to the bathroom. And disappeared.

"She was gone," he said. "I went home horny."

When he got back to the hotel, he thought it might be a good idea to call a … how do you say it … a hooker.

"It was my first time to ever call one," he assured me.

"Sure it was," I said.

"I'm serious."

He called one of the numbers from the Yellow Pages and asked for a girl to be sent over. He wasn't picky. Any little number would do.

It wasn't long before he got a text. "On my way." Although he didn't recognize the number, he knew.

To kill some time until his "date" arrived, he stood looking at the window onto the vast parking lot. A car pulled through and just as quickly exited. The car pulled through again. Slowed down in front of the door, then quickly sped away for good.

"I got another text," he said. "'Sorry, but too many cops' was all it said."

He gave up, took a cold shower, and went to bed.

The next morning during breakfast, the commotion and slowed down and the man asked who the VIP was the previous day.

"Barbara Bush stayed here last night," the waiter said.

"THE Barbara Bush?" the man asked.

"Yep, she was visiting a school here in Fort Worth."

"So all those suits running around with radios in their ears—"

"Secret Service," I guessed.

"Yep," he said, pausing to take a slow sip of his rum and Diet Coke. "I got cock blocked by the First Lady."

A Math Teacher's Lessons

Mr. Harold Rowe in 1980. What a stud. 

 Mr. Rowe, far right, in 1985 was the "Butner Is the Best With NHS!" Advisor. 

And, yes, that is me on the far left.

Mr. Rowe in 1980 with that famous blue leisure suit.

Recently, I was thinking about Harold Rowe. Mr. Rowe was my math teacher in high school. I mean he taught everything: algebra, geometry, algebra 2 and pre-calculus, for those who were so inclined.
Mr. Rowe was probably in his 60s when I reached Butner High School in 1981. He taught the very first class I ever took at ol' BHS: algebra. I had always been pretty good in math, but algebra was some new-fangled type of math, where letters replaced numbers and such.

Because of his wild outfits, large-frame glasses and slick-backed hair, Mr. Rowe was always a target of kids being punks. He was the butt of more than one joke. But it didn't take long for me to realize Mr. Rowe was a teacher that loved what he did.

He was a sharp dresser too. Mr. Rowe jumped off the fashion train sometime in the late 1960s or early 1970s, so his outfits were always just slightly out of date. From the gaberdine pants to the bright paisley-colored shirts with the wide collars, to the baby-blue leisure suits he wore in every picture, I could tell Mr. Rowe should have been a lady's man. Instead he was a confirmed bachelor. I'm sure at some point he fell in love with somebody and that somebody broke his heart, so he poured his life into math and his students.

One of the reasons his math students liked him so much was his penchant for dominoes. It was never moon or some other crazy game of dominoes. It was always regular dominoes, where players make points in bunches of 5's.

After all the work was done in class, Mr. Rowe would allow his students to pull out several sets of dominoes and play a simple game. At least we thought it was a simple game. What we probably didn't realize at the time was we were using the very same math Mr. Rowe was trying to teach us.
Most days, if there was need, Mr. Rowe would jump in for a hand or two. You could see those eyes of his dancing behind those large frames, always about three to four steps ahead of the rest of the human race.

"I was wondering when you were going to play that," he would say after somebody laid down the three-four domino. He always knew. I never did understood how.

While he was a lot older than the rest of us, he always seemed like a kid playing that game. He also showed he wasn't willing to go away silently when he volunteered to teach the computer programming class when the school got its first Tandy TRS-80 (Kids, those are computers your parents had before we could fit them in our pockets).

The thing about Mr. Rowe is that he really taught math like no other. With all due respect to all my other math teachers, Mr. Rowe definitely taught me more than I ever probably needed to know. I think he was a great teacher because he showed us how to do it. He would demonstrate a problem or two, ask us to help him do it and then turned us loose on the Pythagorean theorem or solving for X.
I appreciate everything he taught me about math and life.

Every week now we get together with friends of an evening with a few adult drinks and adult talk. We call this time "Therapy," because people are always bringing some situations for us to discuss and figure out the "right" thing to do.

One thing people want to know is how to do the "right" thing when it comes to raising kids. I used to think I knew the answer to those questions, but now I realize I don't. I don't think anybody does.
The way I look at it if you ain't hurting your kids, you can't mess them up too bad. You will make some mistakes along the way — I know I made more than my share — but that's okay.

The one thing we all really probably need to teach our kids is to love others and themselves and to respect everyone.

How do we do that?

The best math teachers teach math by showing you how to do it?

Maybe we need to show our kids how to do it.

I bet Mr. Rowe would have made a good parent. I still wished he would have given me one of those baby-blue leisure suits for pictures.

Give Yourself a Raise

I read an interesting poem yesterday that I think might help everyone out a little bit. It may help us all realize we can't settle for less.

"I bargained with Life for a penny,
and Life would pay no more.
However I begged at evening
When I counted my scanty store;

For Life just employer
And gives you what you ask,
But once you have set the wages
Why, you must bear the task.

I worked for a menial hire,
only to learn, dismayed
That any wage I asked of Life,
Life would have willingly paid."

- Jessie B. Rittenhouse


Get that raise today.

A Failed Filibuster

Kids probably should be seen and not heard and in a lot of cases, not even seen ... at all.

One of the cases is at a man’s favorite watering hole. The place where he goes to seek refuge, camaraderie and enjoy a refreshing adult beverage.

I love kids. I really do. But a child, a young child, does not belong at a man’s favorite watering hole. Especially not my favorite watering hole.

A week or so ago, on a beautiful Saturday, I put the top down on my car and headed out for a ride with my wife and adult daughter.

We decided to stop at one of the aforementioned watering holes to have a beverage on the patio and enjoy the sunshine. This particular place has a large outdoor area complete with a tiki bar, swimming pool and several sand volleyball courts. It’s a great place to check out for a little while, work up a sweat and relax with an ice cold beverage.

Since I’m not big into sweating, I decided two out of three ain’t that bad. We ordered our drinks and while we waited, we each turned our faces skyward to feel the warmth of the sun.

Ahhhh...

When the drinks arrived, we imbibed. When they were near empty, we ordered another round. The volleyball action was really heating up and I contemplated actually joining in on the play. If I wouldn’t have been wearing my good gym shorts that day, I might have.

The second round of drinks came and we hit a little snag. Two kids wandered up from the patio. I guess these two came to watch their parents play volleyball and roam the premises.

Okay, not a problem, I thought, just watch your language and drink your frosty beverage.
As the bible might say, the kids came nigh unto us and started sneaking into the pool. One of the kids’ alert mother said, “Don’t you go near that pool.”

The little girl, being an obedient child, stuck her foot in the water, laughed, then went back from whence she came. The little boy followed.

Before long, the boy was back with another group of boys. This time it was the boy, I’ll call him Bart because I don’t know his name and Bart is a fun name to say, who decided to sneak into the pool. He went a little further than the girl and stayed for a few minutes while all of his buddies sat around the edge of the pool, casting nervous glances toward their busy parents.

I never did figure out who Bart belonged to. For all I know he may have driven himself to the bar.
Soon the other boys went back to whatever mischief they were doing before. But not Bart. Bart lurked.

We ordered another round and tried not to make eye contact with Bart. But it was too late. He smelled the blood in the water.

“You want to see something funny?” he asked my daughter.

“Sure,” she said.

He started gyrating like John Travolta (not “Saturday Night Fever” John Travolta.  I’m talking “Pulp Fiction” John Travolta).

And I’m sure in the proper context, the moves would have been funny. This was not the proper context. It was a watering hole.

Bart babbled on for a few more minutes toward my daughter, then got bored and left.

We continued to enjoy the day.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Bart doing what he obviously did best: lurk. Oh, how that kid could lurk.

My two favorite women saw it too and got up to perform a closer inspection of the pool. I soon discovered that the pool inspection was a ploy to leave me alone with Bart.

He came nigh and sayeth unto me, “Why don’t you play volleyball?”

I tried to tell him that I gave up volleyball because of the political nature of the U.S. Olympic volleyball team trials.

I was trying to bore the kid to death so he would go away. I soon realized, you can’t bore a kid who is already bored. Bart had a new project: me.

He tried to pepper me with questions and I went into full on filibuster mode, trying to get Bart to stop first.

I made up a story about how I tried to make the U.S. Olympic volleyball team but because of politics and corruption, I quit and went home.

“That’s when I switched to water polo,” I told Bart. He continued with the questions like a rabid prosecuting attorney.

This went on for three or four minutes. Finally, I said, “That’s why I quit volleyball and that’s just sad.”

Bart picked up my cue.

“You know what’s sad?” he asked.

“The commercialization of Christmas, that’s what’s sad,” I responded.

“You know what’s sad?” he asked, without batting an eye.

“Global warming,” I said.

Bart barely took a breath.

“My cousin died,” he deadpanned. “And my Grammy. And my soccer coach.”

I slithered under my chair like the serpent I was.

You’re right, kid, that is sad and so is this total twit sitting in a bar trying to enjoy the sun and bore a little kid.

You win, Bart. Well played, sir. Your debate skills cut right to my heart.

And that’s why kids should be seen and not heard, especially at a man’s favorite watering hole.

The Problem with Superheroes

If you are a superhero, raise your hand.

I know many superheroes that read my column and I appreciate all of you and what you do. I just found out this week that my wife is a superhero of sorts. What is her superpower you may be asking yourself. Good question. She has been giving the superpower of smell.

That woman can smell anything from like 100 yards away.

She can just be walking along and suddenly stop: “I smell gas,” she’ll say. I always assume that it’s a certain type of gas, and sometimes it is, but usually she’s talking about gasoline and not the type I’m thinking.

But she uses her powers for good and I love her for that.

Superheroes are an interesting bunch and I have to admit that I’m a big fan of Superman. Superman, I admit, is probably the best superhero ever. He has all the good superpowers: x-ray vision, flying, running really fast, able to disguise himself as a mild-mannered reporter with just a pair of eyeglasses. That’s pretty big stuff.

Batman is also arguably one of the best superheroes. Even though he doesn’t have any real superpowers — unless you count the ability to “ka-pow” a villain. The newest version of Batman is pretty cool with his utility belt and his deep voice and the sweet Batmobile, which also turns into a pretty awesome motorcycle.

Spiderman is also a great superhero with his ability to climb walls, sling spider webs, take amazing photographs of himself and get paid for them.

Hulk might be superhero I feel most sorry for. Every time that dude gets mad, his clothes explode off of him, except for his pants, which not only grow in proportion with the Hulk, but turn an amazing color of purple. It must be somewhat of a pain in the hind quarters to continually run down to the local Gap and purchase trousers.

“Wow, you’re back again, Dr. Banner” the clerk would say.

“Yep, I just need a couple more pairs of those britches over there,” Bruce Banner would say. “Give me a dozen in size 32. You don’t have purple ones, do you?”

If I were a superhero, I’m not sure what superpower I would want. I like the whole flying thing and being able to have x-ray vision would be a bonus. But I think ultimately, if I were given a superpower, I would like to have the ability to eat Twinkies and not gain weight. I would eat them by the case, then go fight crime or watch “CSI-Miami.”

I would probably settle for amazing ninja skills.

I have a lot of questions about superheroes too. Why can’t Robin fly or fight or “boom” a villain?

Why doesn’t Spiderman have a sidekick? What is the deal with Aquaman?

It must be tough being a superhero all the time. For Batman, he has to choose whether he just wants to sit around and spend money and live in a nice house and vacation in Bora Bora as Bruce Wayne or if he wants to fight crime in a place where crime, serious crime, is just running rampant. That is a tough choice.

All Superman wants to do is write amazing articles for the Daily Planet and take Lois Lane to dinner and a movie every now and again. But he can’t do that. If he shows his true feelings for Lois, then every bad guy in the known universe would try to kidnap Lois and trick Superman into giving himself up and wearing a suit of kryptonite.

And then there’s Spiderman. Peter Parker has to live like a spider and all he wants to do is get  Kirsten Dunst to notice him. She doesn’t even notice him. It’s really sad. And he wants to tell her he’s Spiderman so bad, but he can’t, because then she’ll be susceptible to all the crazy bad guys out there, just like Lois Lane.

Superheroes can’t have a life. They can’t have love. They can’t even get a decent pizza without somebody crying for help.

When I was in Key West recently, I saw a guy dressed up as Spiderman sitting on the street and playing a sitar. And I thought to myself, maybe that’s the real Spiderman. Why wouldn’t he come to a place like Key West, where the weather is perfect and the crime rate is low and there’s plenty of opportunity to take pictures and date Kirsten Dunst? Maybe Peter Parker finally figured it out. Maybe he just wants to sit on the street and play the sitar. I know I would.

But, alas, Peter Parker and Bruce Wayne and Bruce Banner and all the other superheroes can’t just leave their crime-ridden cities. They have a calling to superhero-dom. That is what they do. That is who they are.

There are many people who are superheroes in everyday life right here in reality too. They teach, nurture, mentor, discipline, serve and protect every day people. Sometimes they want to escape reality, to live behind the life they are destined to lead. They want to run off to Key West and play the sitar for a few coins and Twinkies. But they can’t.

They are called to superhero-dom. That is what they do. That is who they are.

So go out there and be a superhero in your neighborhood, or your town or your world. There is always some damsel in distress that needs help. Maybe you can help by lending a hand, offering a smile, or giving a sympathetic ear.

I’m glad for the superheroes in my life. My kids are superheroes to me. They inspire me and teach me stuff all the time. My friends are always there when I need them. And my wife is a superhero to me every day. I’m glad she’s in my life.

I just can’t take my shoes off when she’s within 100 yards.

Is Your Testosterone Too Low?

Is your testosterone level too low?

That's a question that just got presented to me. Not by a live human, of course, but a recorded human — I assume —  coming through the miracle of the radio.

Is your testosterone level too low? I honestly don't know. I never really thought about it.

Evidently, there's a place, I know now, where I can get my levels checked for free. Do you think I need to?

Pfft. Pfft.

I'm terribly sorry for spitting in your ear there but I had a hair in my mouth. I treated myself to a spa day this morning and with it came a free haircut and facial.

I took advantage of both, by the way. The facial was amazing and made my skin look like a 13-year-old. The haircut caused a few loose hairs and one of them — Pfft. Pfft. — just landed in my mouth and I can't get it out of there.

I hate that feeling, but I'm going to fight through this.

Back to my testosterone level.

Some of you may not be familiar with what testosterone does or if you think you know, you are misinformed.

I went to the Internet — The Source Of All Truth. According to one very accurate website, testosterone is "a steroid hormone from the androgen group and is found in mammals, reptiles, birds and other vertebrates."

Got it? Got it.

In men, testosterone "plays a key role in the development of male reproductive tissues ... as well as promoting secondary sexual characteristics such as increased muscle, bone mass and the growth of body hair."

Hmmm? Let's break that down.

First off, what is "reproductive tissues"?

Speaking of tissues, isn't it hard to find the right kind of tissue anymore?

Whenever I shop for tissues I seem to be completely overwhelmed with all the selections. I must have 20 boxes of tissues beside my bed. Some of too soft. Some too rough. Some have too much aloe vera and some have too much.

Maybe I should take some time and design the perfect tissue. Maybe I will.

Anyway, I do understand hair growth and muscle mass. I have hair growing in places that I don't remember having as a child. Why do I need that much nose hair?

The other day when I went in to have my nails done, there was a lady there who did waxing. She asked me if I have ever had a waxing to get rid of "unwanted hair."

"No. Never," I lied.

Of course, I've waxed before but I'm not going to tell some perfect stranger that. What would my regular waxing girl think? That could cause a lot of trouble for me.

Actually my hair is pretty normal, I guess, especially for a man my age (27).

I do, however, pull the occasional ear hair and, sometimes, when I'm plunking my eyebrows — every Tuesday — I find a wild hair that's about 10 times longer than the rest.

Testosterone at work, I would suspect.

I'm sure testosterone was very important to our ancestors, the cavemen. They must have needed lots of testosterone to build muscle boss so they could fight off animals and other nefarious punks of the prehistoric world.

Reproductive tissues — that sounds important — was probably needed to produce children and other creatures.

Women have testosterone also but men produce ten times more than women do.

Hold on a sec. My scones are almost ready to be taken out of the oven.
(Insert musical interlude here).

Okay, I'm back.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure my testosterone levels are fine. I bet I could hang with just about any of those cavemen in a game of scrabble or reading Harlequin Romance novels.

Oh man, my scones burned. Now what will I take to my Romance Book Club reading tonight?
Maybe I'll just stay in and wax my ears.

I Found Paradise

I spent some time in Key West, Fla. recently and I can only describe my experience as "a drunken stupor."

Ha ha. That's just a joke. There were several hours of sobriety during my stay.

But the place really is a tropical paradise. It's almost like visiting a foreign country but leaving your passport at home. There's just something special about it.

Key West has been a major draw to many famous people, not just me. Ernest Hemingway might be one of the most famous former residents of Key West. Hemingway spent the winter months of the 1930s in Key West. He worked on "A Farewell to Arms" and "To Have And To Have Not" while living there.

Today, his house is open for public tours so visitors can see the beautiful, airy, two-story home. There's also a two-story pool house behind the house, where Hemingway kept a writing desk and worked on his novels and other writing.

Hemingway would wake with the morning light, write until about noon, spend the afternoon fishing and, in the evening, drink himself into oblivion at his favorite watering hole in Key West: Sloppy Joe's.

In his honor, I tried to do the same thing, but I found I needed a nap around noon and I don't really like to fish.

Singers Jerry Jeff Walker and Jimmy Buffett also spent some time in Key West.

In 1971, Jimmy and Jerry Jeff packed into the "Flying Lady," Jerry Jeff's 1947 Packard, and headed out for Key West — 120 miles from Florida's mainland but only 90 miles from Cuba. It was Jimmy's first experience in the Florida Keys but the island changed him and inspired him — along with countless others because of his music.

Artists, writers and musicians still find their way to Key West every day.

But the island is not just a place for creative types. Key West draws folks from every walk of life.
It's a paradise.

I spoke to some of the "Conchs" — those who have grown up in Key West, the Conch Republic, to find out their thoughts on growing up in paradise.

My thought was surely there are people who can't wait to get off "The Rock" that is Key West and get back to civilization on the mainland. It's not a cheap place to live and I saw plenty of homeless people and at best, people who lived in ramshackled homes.

But the people I talked to about growing up there only had good things to say.
Everyone spoke about the great weather, the beautiful water, the excellent fishing and the general laid-back lifestyle of Key West.

Since Spring Break was close, I wondered where somebody in Key West goes for Spring Break. Most don't go anywhere. They stay at home and entertain friend's from other landlocked, cold weather locales.

Did I mention Key West is Paradise. It sounds wonderful.

Most don't ever want to leave. Many others are moving there from all over. I wouldn't mind living there myself.

I know a little about paradise. I grew up in Oklahoma and East Texas, so I'm very award of what paradise means.

I grew up surrounded by oil derricks, hay fields, cattle ranches and hog farms. There are people from Cromwell, Okla. who wouldn't think about moving away from there. It's home. It's paradise.

I guess our paradise is what we make it. I can never imagine myself living in a cold climate like Wyoming, Montana, Maine or, lord help me, Canada. To those people, cold weather and snow and big blue skies are beautiful.

I shutter.

Our paradise is created in our minds, though. Everybody's definition of paradise is a little bit different.
But I'm sure there are people who live in exotic locales all across the world and are still chained to a personal hell of the mind. The mind is a powerful thing.

For now, I choose to live in Texas, my little slice of paradise. But I wouldn't mind a trip to Bora Bora if anybody knows of a cheap hotel.