Hungry Holler Art Refuge

Matchbox Conversion

2012-01-15T23:32:00.000-06:00

I love these little slide boxes and can't toss them out.

What Hath Concrete and Iron Wrought? Porch Posts & More

2012-01-08T12:43:00.002-06:00

I love concrete. I love iron.

How it begins....lots of sand, doodads, muscle, lack of inhibition.

Former iron headboard

Peek-a-boo

A CREATURE WAS STIRRING...

2011-12-04T08:40:00.003-06:00

Accent Pest Control in Bartlesville, OK
Linda creates the best pest control company window displays ever.

NO NOSE!

2011-10-30T20:51:00.001-05:00

Friends Arlene and Vern Spain stopped by the Holler. Vern is a camera wizard. In three photos he caught Arlene and Molly and me just as Molly managed to put her entire nose in my mouth. That particular instant was left uncaptured. I'm quick when highly motivated.

What Happened to Gillette Good News Razors Sans White Strip?

2011-08-28T19:27:00.002-05:00

The Bad News: You can't go to the local Walmarts (as we call them around here) and get plain Gillette disposable razors. They all have that ridiculous white strip. I LOATHE the white strip. I don't know what it's made of, but on your skin, it feels like industrial aspic*.

I didn't think too much about white strip razors until I used them for awhile (like I had a choice). I began to think I had forgotten how to shave properly. It's not enough I go striding into rooms with determination to do something/find something and then am struck–suddenly–by the realization I don't have a freakin' clue what it was....I digress. Not to put too fine a blade on it, but places I shaved didn't feel like I did. Being very astute–and of comparatively sound mind–I figured out it was the damn white strip...my fingers typed white shit! HA! Through careful editing, I fixed that freudian slip.

Here's where you can get no white strip razors: http://www.drugstore.com/gillette-good-news-disposable-razors/qxp87845?fromsrch=disposable+razors

The white strip must die. Or at least share space with plain razors on store shelves.

*I luv the movie Julie and Julia. I eat Kraft Macaroni and Cheese (yes, the orange stuff) and still self-identify as a (delusional) foodie. So I like the food aspect. When we were kids, we watched Julia on PBS for fun. But I LOVE the depiction of the Julia-Dorothy sister connection. I adore my sister Juls.

LIVIN' IN OKLAHOMA IS A TRIP

2011-08-26T09:54:00.003-05:00

CORN DOG IN CHEROKEE

An entire fast food menu in English and Cherokee. This painted board is a culinary and cultural treasure. Check out the good grub and beautiful Tsa-la-gi written word at Pistol Pat's in Disney, OK at Grand Lake O' the Cherokees.

BAIT SHOP BUNNY

We were picking up worms at a Bartlesville bait shop, when a woman came in carrying a be-bowed bunny.

DO THE RIGHT THING (FINALLY) AND FOLKS NOTICE for good and ill.

THE CARVED GOURD SPEAKS...IN CHINESE

2011-08-12T18:36:00.004-05:00

The years-long mystery of what my carved gourd says (click here for background on what the heck I'm talking about) has been solved.

Hatsue and my cousin Andy live in Japan. With everything they had to deal with after the terrible tsunami, they found time to share with me–through Peter–an astoundingly beautiful and thorough translation of my gourd.

The first line:

Sow pumpkin (gourd) seeds, and then you’ll get pumpkins (gourds)

The second line:

Sow bean seeds, you will get beans.

The third line:

Sky net is cellular, but never leaked. A similar meaning may be something like: murder cannot be hidden. The direct meaning is there is a cellular net in the sky, but it has never leaked. People who have done wrong will be found out.

From China via Bangkok, Uschi Gaida graciously sends this lovely translation and poetic etymology as provided by John, her husband's Chinese colleague:

These writings are a Chinese proverb and a short poem, no religion involved. The photo with a hand inside is a Chinese proverb, it actually has eight characters, the photo only shows five.

This is a form of ancient writing/calligraphy, modern writing in simplified Chinese is:

种瓜得瓜，种豆得豆。

The direct meaning is "plant melons, harvest melons; plant beans, harvest beans."
2. The other photo is a Chinese short poem. I do not know who wrote it, maybe the guy who carved it. The modern simplified Chinese is:

此形秋更平，红色友犹明。

It is about the Autumn and friends, and says "the shape/form (depends on the object or the nature, here probably the object) sees Autumn in a way more natural, and the red colour makes friends in a brighter/clearer way. "

John explains further:

In China, there are more than 2000 dialects. Sometimes neighboring cities/villages do not understand each other when speaking. Among the many dialects are Mandarin and Cantonese. Others include Sichuanize, Kejiahua, etc..

Mandarin is universal, and can be understood throughout China theoretically. Today Mandarin is spoken in Taiwan, Hongkong (sic), and in other countries, such as Singapore. The languages of surrounding Asian countries–including Japan–were developed from Chinese many years ago. Cantonese is more known because years ago Chinese people came to North America, mostly from Guandong (Canton) Province in the south, where Cantonese is spoken in daily life.

In China, you can write in Chinese characters, no matter what kind of dialect spoken, because people all understand. There is only one form of Chinese writing taught in school. Schools must teach in Mandarin. After 1997 Hongkong started teaching in Mandarin. Before that time, Mandarin was taught only selectively, and was a second speaking language.

Some dialects are diminishing - as are other languages the world over.

Different European languages evolved from the same the same root. In China, there is one language we can say.

So the gourd speaks a universal truth: you reap what you sow.

The two poem translations are beautifully, obscurely variant. Too deep for me to figure out, but I have a feeling they're saying the same thing.

WHAT HAPPENED TO ROLAIDS?

2011-05-03T12:22:00.003-05:00

Rolaids were a constant at Hungry Holler Art Refuge. One of us was a daily consumer. A couple of years ago, I couldn't get Rolaids at the Walmarts (as we call the behemoth around here). I'd ask an associate and was told Walmarts changed their something or other and Rolaids weren't in the mix. I don't understand retail stuff, so I would nod and get Tums there and Rolaids someplace else. Then all the someplace elses didn't have Rolaids. WHAT HAPPENED TO ROLAIDS?

In December 2010, they were recalled. And not for the first time. NO place has Rolaids now. Twenty-some people complained of a musty odor to Rolaids. Some complained of foreign objects: wood and perhaps metal in Rolaids. We never heard a peep on this massive total recall, nor about any of the other times Rolaids have been recalled. Makes me suspicious. Not Pakistan-knew-where-Bin-Laden-was-roosting-comfortably suspicious, but sort of suspicious. No end in sight to the recall. I suggest Walmarts brand AR. The kind with ranitidine. I'm a true believer.

ROLAIDS FACTS:

Rolaids were invented by American chemist Irvine W. Grote in the 1920s.

Rolaids were named for the original foil roll packaging.

Rolaids Softchews were test marketed in Oklahoma City in 1984.

Rolaids help neutralize the acidity of stomach digestive juices. Long-term use of such products make the stomach produce more hydrochloric acid, which makes you want to take more antacids which makes the stomach make more acid. It's a terrible cycle. It makes my stomach hurt. I think about it every time I take an AR.

GAGGLE OF GILCREASE GILLIES

2011-04-16T16:07:00.010-05:00

This is Robyn Sanzalone in her father's size 12s.

She grew up to be a lawyer–don't hold it against her–and random free range wedding caterer. She's not too big for her boots. She's a nice chick. She's also a Gillie, a member of the volunteer organization of Tulsa's Gilcrease Museum.

Robyn brought a gaggle of Gillies (L2R: Carmen, Nancy, Susan, itinerant sage, Uschi) to the Holler recently. We had a swell time. The Gillies are accomplished women, curious wanderers, culinarily daring–imbibing cherry sugar-free Kool-Aid and not just because it's pretty. I saw them everywhere. I love that.

Uschi's husband travels widely in Asia. We took lots of photos of this beautiful Asia-themed gourd Trader John found for me on one of his buy/sell treasure hunts.

It's covered with carved writing. I've had the gourd for years and still don't know what the heck it says. Uschi's husband may be able to unlock the exotic secret. I hope it doesn't say, "Eat At Joes." Or worse. Actually. Worse could be fun.

A SHAMELESS PROMOTION OF MY BOTTLE CAP PINS, BUT I REALLY AM TRYING TO MAKE A POINT

2011-03-27T18:17:00.008-05:00

Because

And there's movement afoot to take away the relative pittance in federal funding for NPR. This when General Electric claimed $14.2 billion in profits last year and paid NO TAXES.
I just want to SCREAM:

Wait. I just got

I really didn't get off-piste*. I just learned the phrase from my English friend, Mark, and wanted to use it.

Seriously. We should

NPR (and PBS) are public treasures. By any intellectually and fiscally honest measure, they are bargains.

And so are my bottle cap pins: $5 each. Order through Etsy.

*Translation: well .... off-piste is really a skiing term. Beginners like me have to keep to the piste (means 'path'; might be French but I'm not sure) which is the designated snow trail which has been compacted down by the 'piste-bashers' [slang] which are like tractors with rollers to compact the snow ... it makes skiing easier. But some people choose not to ski on the pistes - they go their own random way - so it's known as going off-piste. (By the way, it's much harder and I can't do it!). I've noticed in recent years, at least here in the UK, that the term off-piste has been creeping into the language - at least a little - to mean 'digress' so all I meant when I said that I'd gone off-piste was that I had digressed from my original thread. Pronounced:peest

DE NICE DENISE

2011-03-21T20:53:00.000-05:00

Lost City Denise came for coneys and brought Mexican cerveza Modelo (boring caps, tasty brew) and the finest potato chips on the planet: Lay's. DeLAYcious

If the day wasn't special enough with Denise in the house, the 1956 Chris Craft was delivered and docked at its permanent berth: the Hungry Holler Art Refuge pasture.

Check out the Boneyard Boats link. We're not alone in this madness. Stay tuned.

Dog n Cat

2011-03-20T12:54:00.000-05:00

Denise is comin' for lunch. On le menu: Coney Islander Coneys, diet cherry Kool-Aid.
She better hurry.

QUESADILLA RORSHACH

2011-03-05T09:40:00.000-06:00

Seester Juls is my baby sister....by two years. She's also my best friend, and my polar opposite in many ways. She colors inside the lines. I rarely do.

We had simple quesadilla snacks. Each prepared her own oblivious to the other. Which sister prepared which?*

*Juls prepared the one on the left....

ART START

2011-01-24T08:54:00.000-06:00

This is one of my favorite photos of all time. That's son Judd, now 28, and the granddaughter of renowned folk artist Emma Lee Moss. Forgive me! I cannot recall her name. That's me pretending to be a potter.

We lived at the Old Chicken Farm Art Center in San Angelo, TX in the mid 80s. The OCFAC is an art oasis wrought from thin air by Roger Allen. It has undergone evolution, and remains a vibrant expression of living art, literally and figuratively.

We published an alternative newspaper at the time. We had a softball trophy in the office awaiting photos with the team. Judd, age 4, came in and exclaimed: "Daddy! What a beautiful sculpture!"

FOUR FREAKIN' CATS! HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

2011-01-11T21:26:00.000-06:00

We have four cats. We don't want four cats. We could deal with two: MamaCat because she came with the Holler when we bought the property years ago. We figger she must be at least 20 years old. I hooked her up with a heating pad this winter. She never stirs from it. Since she has the old heating pad, I got myself a new one. We old queens have cold bones. She's grandfathered in.

Cat and Mouse. This is Goofy. We purposefully adopted him from the Humane Society of Grove and Grand Lake. He's special and is the official inside-the-house cat. He cramps my work space something fierce.

This is Punkin having a nibble served on a gourd. He showed up last year. Worked some badass cat mojo on me. I had him neutered, so he's my eunuch and I owe him care and feeding forever.

The least senior cat: Mr. Marmalade II named for WFH's Mr. Marmalade. He's a tom, but not for long. If he's eating at the Holler cat cafe, he's got to give up the jewels. I have secret aspirations to take him to Tulsa so he can live with WFH happily ever after. WFH only has two cats. That's just not right.

FOREVER YOUNG

2010-12-14T13:27:00.000-06:00

Michael (Mike) Arthur Mohr
December 7, 1958 - September 17, 1989
Thank you again and again, over and over to Michael's friends who put the quilt panel together September 1989.
AIDS Memorial Quilt. It's beautiful aesthetically and beyond.

I SALUTE ADMIRAL MIKE MULLEN

2010-12-03T08:21:00.000-06:00

Joint Chief of Staff Chairman Admiral Mike Mullen on Don't Ask Don't Tell: I would not recommend repeal of this law if I did not believe in my soul that it was the right thing to do for our military, for our nation and for our collective honor."

TWEAKED BY THE WRITTEN WORD...But not in a deep way

2010-12-01T17:19:00.000-06:00

I’ve been on the road–the same dang road–frequently, this year. It’s a pretty drive through the northeast Oklahoma countryside, thought-provoking and admiration-inducing, too. Some stuff I see on that drive:

THE......what? There are two pillars about 10 feet apart. Nothing between them. Nothing hooked to them. No fence. No gate. Both painted white a long time ago. The one on the left: blank. The one on the right: someone, with a pretty steady hand, painted THE in pretty blue script. THE what? I’ve knocked on the door of the house behind the pillars and have never found anyone home. If I ever find out the why of THE, I’ll let you know.

This is the Savoy Hotel in Nowata, OK. Seester Juls and I have watch a bazillion old movies where they stomped at the Savoy, met at the Savoy, stayed at the Savoy. Had dinner and cocktails at the Savoy. Were entertained at the Savoy. Here a Savoy. There a Savoy. Everywhere a Savoy. Savoy is what you named a place if it was ritzy. Or you named it the Ritz.

In 1916 The Nowata Savoy featured Radium Water Baths. I don’t know any spa offering radium baths these days. Probably because radium is treated as calcium by the body, deposited in bones, where radioactivity degrades marrow and can mutate bone cells. Click on the link for info that will curl your hair.

Chris and Amy's Bowling Ball Art outside of Nowata is a tribute to love and the creative imperative. I drove past the discreet BOWLING BALL ART signs for years. Then one day I didn't. Boy, am I glad. Now I'm spreading the Chris and Amy gospel. Click on the link for info that will uncurl your hair and make you glow but not in a radium way.

PAPERWORK - Beancounting and Bohemian

2010-11-13T21:55:00.001-06:00

I’ve been gone, not just in the metaphysical sense. In this dimension, I’ve been forthing and backing between Arizona and Hungry Holler. When I’m in AZ, I’m divided three ways. I try to spread the wonder that is I, among my Dad, Ma and Seester Juls. There were times in recent months, where I’d wake up and wonder for a sec, just where the hell am I?

I’ve been counting beans and excavating the paper mountain that is my desk. But I gotta indulge the other side of my brain, equally. One of the more arcane laws of physics: for every mundane action there is an opposite and more equal esoteric one.

Stuff I’ve been doing:

I baked some apples in a pie plate made by a friend. They came out of the oven so dang beautiful, I didn’t hardly care how they tasted.

They were delicious. In taste. Not in apple. Delicious apples most decidedly aren’t.

I found a broken concrete cactus lamp behind the Mexican grocery store in Bartlesville. La Senora and I made a deal.

I cleaned it up, Liquid Nailed it where needed, sanded it just enough to say I did, and painted it. I'm looking for the perfect shade.

Rock Riffle Run Susie says to use a gourd. I thought of that, too.

The enormous–comparatively speaking–thing I’ve done:

papered the living room walls between the bottle capped areas of the walls. When you live in an old house with crappy paneling, no matter what you do, it’s an improvement. Even if it’s barely better. I’ve painted those walls a couple of times. It looks great for about 3 days. Then the original color of the paneling (Practically Pecan!) spookily bleeds through. No more caps. I promised! Stucco? No. Paper? I have a history with paper.

I paper bagged the rock room floor years ago.

I grocery bagged the kitchen floor a couple of years ago. Both have served and continue to serve, fabulously. They camouflage a multitude of sin spills.

I found some newsprint-like paper and butcher paper at Main Street Antique Mall in Mesa, AZ. They had a stack of gorgeous paper on the counter to wrap purchases in. Big 2 feet by 3 feet sheets, some cream-colored, the others a pale bluish grey. I bought a stack of thousands for $35. I bought a bunch of white glue. I remember seeing jugs of it somewhere, but not when I needed it. So I bought the biggest little bottles I could find.

In a bowl, mix glue with some water to thin; tear paper as it will. Put glue on paper, put paper on wall, over and over and over again.

I added real autumn leaves. Let it all dry overnight. Polyurethaned it one good coat, added partial other coats over the leaves. I used semi-gloss because I wanted a glow, not a brassy shine. Mundanely, it’s wipeable.

HOOVER'S HAPPY ENDING

2010-10-03T20:26:00.000-05:00

This is Hoover. He and Molly-The-World’s-Fussiest-Former-Starveling came running down the sidewalk at Hungry Holler several nights ago. Molly’s a solo dog act. Not half a duet.

Hoover was looking pretty concave because he was starved. He looked a little frantic because he was starved and because he had undoubtedly been run off repeatedly as he made his way to the Holler. He's about four months old and the world hasn't been kind to him.

Hungry Holler is called HUNGRY Holler because everybody here loves supper. We officially feed Molly, three cats and a parrot. All formerly neglected and/or homeless. Unofficially we feed brazen raccoons, passing possums, cagey cats. We don’t kill moles who tunnel the lawn. We share the pasture with wildlife and they’re welcome to graze freely. I did go to war with a garden-ravaging groundhog several years ago. I was prepared to go lethal. Molly showed up about that time and the ‘hog decamped to tolerable distance.

Hoover got fed. He seemed never to get full; went into that splayed-leg-don’t-come-up-for-air stance over the food bowl–Hoovered it up like a vacuum. He got a blanket. He figured out where the low bird baths were for drinking.

He didn’t know the Holler had reached and exceeded critical stray mass. The entire time he was eating, I was treacherously looking for someone who lost him...as if. Or for someone who could take him...as if. Everyone around here has taken in a full complement of lost souls. The Humane Society of Grove and Grand Lake was at capacity for at least the next two weeks. Think Hoover in multitudes. If you have occasion to donate in memory of someone, or for your own good karma, please remember them.

I made up fliers and took them to the Spavinaw Hills Rally grounds. They sweetly took them and put them up.

I emailed Hoover’s photo and story to friends, among them Trader John. John reminded me Anthony was dogless since dear Sparky died several years ago. I called Anthony. He agreed to meet Hoover. He saved some icebreaking bacon from breakfast.

Anthony’s a really smart guy. He’s building–quite literally HE’S BUILDING–his own unique home.

It’s three stories, has dormers, is plumb as can be, and solid. His temporary living space is warm, cozy, full of odd and beautiful art and artifacts. He’s decent and kind and a fine judge of dogs.

In my rear view mirror I saw Hoover eating bacon from his master’s hand.

THE CHICK IN THE HAT

2010-09-25T08:22:00.000-05:00

This is my friend Lost City Denise. She's a knitting knut, a yarn spinner–literally and figuratively, lover of lavender. And Chris. And books. And music. She's a snappy dresser, obviously. I've seen her wrapped in a towel, wearing Wellies, coming up from the creek, looking like Aphrodite rising. She asked me what I thought about this angora hat.

I thought immediately of pond scum, because just that day, I installed track lights over my kitchen sink.

I'm industrially adverse to electrocution so I turned off the power to everything at the Holler, not just the kitchen.

Which stopped the recirculating pump in the cottage pond. Which I never thought about because installing track lighting decidedly was not the skate the dude at Lowe's said it would be. Helpful Youtube videos weren't. I thought of nothing but getting the @&%@#$% lights up.

And I did. Which proves even a blind squirrel finds an acorn, eventually. It took one day to put them up and turn them on. Part of a second morning to find out why they wouldn't turn off, and fix that. The details are ugly, best unshared.

I went to the pond for serenity. Noticed the pump was running but the spitter wasn't spitting. In a few short hours, the spitter had clogged from lack of water pushing through it. So installing track lights necessitated pulling the pump, dealing with the spitter.

Due to the proximity of the work, I could no longer ignore the pond scum crop–though I had managed to, all summer. I scooped pond scum and tossed it in the flowerbed. This was more fun than it sounds. Scum is silky and a gorgeous color. When dried out, it looks like it could be spun. And knitted. And fashioned into a hat. Or you could eat it. I'd rather wear it.

PS I dig the hat.

MA'S A JEEPSTER FOR CHARLES BOYER

2010-09-22T01:35:00.000-05:00

Has been since she was the cutest cheerleader in Hadley, PA.

She scored his bedroom slipper chair at a Scottsdale auction recently. There were several treasures that had once belonged to Charles Boyer, at the auction. But the chair is what she wanted. I happen to know the bidding for the chair was fierce between two women: me on the telephone, and a woman on-site at the auction. I opened the bidding at $100. One thousand-plus dollar$ and a couple of hours later, Charles Boyer's chair was in a bedroom: Ma's. And she was sitting in it.

So–of course–was Bear. I happen to know he was not the first dog to sit in Charles Boyer's chair. The other dog was black and furry and shed.

Now Ma has Mr. Boyer's bedroom lamp, and the octagonal mirror that was over his dresser. One piece needed the other. There was no bidding war for either. I happen to know when she picked up the lamp and the mirror, Ma stretched out on CB's bed, and perched delicately–most briefly–on his very commode.

Ma and Sister Juls watched Gaslight the other night. Ma sat in Charles Boyer's chair, dug the pulsing vein in CB's forehead as he drove Ingrid Bergman to doubt her sanity. She thought it was crazy great she had the best seat in the house.

JEEPSTER: Remember T-Rex?

SUMMER SIMMERIN' DOWN

2010-09-09T22:36:00.000-05:00

I'm sick of summer. I'm tired of hauling water hoses around. I have a three digit water bill. One of the digits is a 3. That's all I'm gonna say about THAT. Here're some reasons for the stout bill:

This is my friend/garden mentor, Russell Studebaker. He looks harmless. So does poison ivy. Don't rub neither of them the wrong way in the garden. That stick is more sheleighly than cane. He's generous with plants and keeps track of them. And asks about them. Regularly.

*This is American Beauty Berry. Russell gave me two starts of it and it has flourished. I made it sure it was never thirsty. Which wasn't too hard. It's tough once it gets going.

*Gotta have posies if you want butterflies.

I mixed a bunch of concrete for this pond. That takes water. Then I had to empty this pond numerous times and refill it those same numerous times plus one, because the damn thing had a most elusive leak. Harshed my serenity. Kept me humble. Hell, I do custom concrete work. My ponds must NOT LEAK! So they don't. If not right away, eventually.

You gotta keep the bird baths full. Providing water is more important than providing seed if you want birds around.

You can't grow soulful gourds without water.

*Thanks to Vern Spain, photographer and nice dude for the photos he took at the Holler the other day. Arlene served as swamper and inspiration. She's a standup chick, maintains a cool demeanor despite close encounters of the noggin-knockin-against-errant-birdfeeder-kind.

BOTTLE CAP PINS: TRES CHIC/HANDY

2010-08-30T10:41:00.000-05:00

Check it out. Tulsa's own Kelly Morrison keepin' things harmonious with one of my bottle cap pins. Normally the pins are ornamental, my tres chic jewelry line. But Ms. K found herself one screw short on her glasses. Been there. In a crescendo of clever, she proves she's not only a poet/singer/song writer, she's an emergency engineer.

I love her CD, pardon the interruption...Naw. It's really called, Sorry to Intrude, but for the life of me, I can't remember that. It's weird how your mind jerks you around.

She wrote the signature song, Legacy, for the flick, The Ultimate Gift.

Sister Juls and I rock her stuff LOUD. Helped us get our game face on pre/post some heavy stuff recently.

This one says, DRUM IT. Son Judd inspired it. But the pins can say just about anything in three words or less, sometimes profanely. Symbols are featured too. Two elements of upcycling create each pin: a bottle cap and a pull tab. And one of the world's finest, most perfect inventions: the safety pin.

Five bucks each at Tiffany's, New York City*; Neiman Marcus, Dallas*; Miss Jackson's, Tulsa*

*Small print disclaimer for a Big fat lie...you can get them exclusively through Hungry Holler. Email me: hungry3@hotmail.com

WHEN DOVES CRY..."JUDGE JUDY!"

2010-08-27T14:51:00.000-05:00

My 85-year-old Dad swears there’s a dove in his wild flock that calls, “Judge Judy! Judge Judy! Judge Judy!”

He waited for my comment.

“Well, um,” I began.

“UM IS NOT AN ANSWER!” He said. He loves that Judge Judy line. He doesn’t miss an episode. I confess I like her too, but I didn’t hear the dove’s devotion.

I just got back from an extended visit to Arizona to visit my clan. My Dad lives there. Ma lives there. Sister Juls lives there. It’s more efficient for me to make the trek. As usual, there was drama. This is my trip from Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport to Dad’s house, in a nutshell:

Southwest got me (and everyone else) in 10 minutes early. I love Southwest. They’re in the black with no help. Have an excellent safety and on-time record, crews are quirky or at least friendly. Captains often let passengers know what’s below.

I didn’t leave the Phoenix airport for an hour and-a-half after touchdown. For some reason, luggage was delayed for some minutes, which kinda harshes the early arrival euphoria. Dad came in to help with luggage while Ma and Bear circled and circled the terminal. In a huge black comedy of mistiming, we never connected until she and Bear parked, came into the terminal and found me and Dad. I’m still too embarrassed to describe that scene.

We stopped IHOP. Dad ordered the Rooty Tooty breakfast. He wondered why they had to spoil the pancakes with that too-sweet fruit topping, which is by the way, the signature of the Rooty Tooty breakfast.

Ma reminded us to make sure Bear’s beard was blowing in the car’s a/c stream. This is a constant. Do not cuddle him (as if) while the car is still warm.

Ma’s little cache of IHOP creamers (she’s frugal) sprung a leak in her $200 leather clutch.

We arrived at Dad’s.

Ms. Henri greeted us. Had her lettuce snack. Jack, the bunny was nowhere to be seen.

Doves and wild love birds were everywhere. It was almost time for Judge Judy.

HARD MATTRESS

2010-07-24T14:45:00.000-05:00

I love stuff that weighs nothin': gourds. I love stuff that weighs gobs: concrete. I've been in concrete mode lately. I've mowed around the damn iron bed spring for years. It has grown progressively more entangled in weeds because I've grown progressively less inclined to move the sucker, mow, move it back. I'm anal about my landscaping and the situation reached critical mass: I had to do something with the bed or toss it. As if that would happen.

No shock to those who know me, I've been collecting Mexican beer bottles for years. The kind with screened labels on the bottle, not a paper label. My bottle cap mania is well documented. I've got piles of doodads and old jewelry. I've got my sand pile. A simple thing like a heap o' sand can facilitate the crazy stuff that creeps into my insomniatic brain. Spell check tells me there's no such word as insomniatic. But there is. Just another reason NOT to depend on spell check. And it's an album by a duo I'm too unhip to recognize.

One twin iron bed spring, three bags of concrete and all attendant doodads, came out this way. I couldn't lift it. I was afraid to use leverage and believe me, I've used leverage fearlessly–literally and figuratively–in my life. Not this time. Not with those bottles. My muscle arrived and he and I (truthfully mostly he) loaded it on the working sled and pulled it into place with the riding mower. He tilted it upright. I welded it to the iron post.

I've got a solar spot light on the back side of it (the bottle neck side) and at night the light shines roundly through the bottle bottoms on the other side. It's so dang nifty.

I've got a broken pot stuck in on each side, planted with sedum. Concrete gets better as it ages, like artists and gardeners. Years ago I welded the other stuff in the photos. Set the pasture on fire doing it. But that's another posting.

BAG-A-BUG TRAP BEAUTIFULLY LETHAL

2010-07-17T16:26:00.000-05:00

Pile of Japanese beetles emptied from a Spectracide Bag-A-Bug trap. I've emptied the bag four times in the last two weeks or so, with equal results. The sex lure is still going strong as evidenced by the beetles swooning around the trap. As I was removing the bag from the yellow vanes, two beetles smacked into the vanes and dropped into the bag. I cheered.

If you look closely, you can see the dark line on the bag. The bag is full of Japanese beetles to that line. I empty the bag at this point or a little above. Then I rinse the bag with some water and re-hang it. What smells like eau de luv to beetles, smells something a whole lot less romantic to me, but I find dead Japanese beetles in large numbers very appealing.

Lowe's sells this system for about six bucks. You can get it through Amazon.com, too.

JAPANESE BEETLE YIN/YANG

2010-06-23T10:01:00.000-05:00

Hungry Holler is lousy with Japanese beetle romance. The yin/yang of life is writ small but multitudinous in Japanese beetles. They’re dang pretty: metallic bronze-green, shiney. They’re affectionate to one another. They thoughtfully devour leaves on my roses, wild grapevine, the new jewel weed WFH gifted me recently and that were thriving until Japanese beetles turned them into the insect equivalent of hot mattress joints–so you can get up close to their amorous encounters. Son Judd, many years ago, breathlessly exclaimed that bugs were “giving rides” on mama’s plants. They make music. I can hear them rattle and jingle among the evermore skeletal leaves in my garden.

The Yin? See above!

Long ago I got over being squeamish in the garden. I can lethally pinch bodies with my bare fingers. I do try to taco them in a leaf if possible, then pinch. It’s harder and harder to find leaf tortillas and in my fury, I pinch like a mad woman.

What the hell good are they? And ticks. What the hell good are they? I know in the big picture there must be some reason, but my riddled plants trump whatever it is.

Some Japanese beetle trivia:

Japanese beetles originated in Japan! They're thought to have made their way to a New Jersey nursery in 1917.
All that Japanese beetle lovin’ drives the female to lay 40 eggs or more a season in soil. The hussy returns to leaves for more more more!
Those yucky white grubs with brown heads you find in your turf are Japanese beetles to come. Brown spots in your yard? That’s probably them.

Pinch them, spray them. I hate spraying stuff in my garden. It’s so indiscriminate. I find more ‘friendly’ remedies largely ineffective. It pains me to say that, but it’s true in my experience. You can put out buckets of pheromone stuff but attracting the suckers seems counterproductive even if some get caught in the bucket. Milky spore can be applied to the ground to get them at grub stage but it takes several years for noticeable improvement.

Loathsome things. They take the fun out of gardening.

MY CAN OPENER PICK

2010-06-20T08:21:00.000-05:00

The can opener that can....The OXO Good Grips smooth edge can opener. Friend Sherri recommended a can opener that doesn’t leave a jagged edge behind. Made sense. I had been tempting finger fate with the old one. The OXO cuts from the SIDE of the can NOT around the top. You can put the lid back on the can and store the can in the fridge without having to put the contents in a covered dish. This is huge for me.

I love the name OXO. It isn’t what you think, durnit. But it’s still a good tale and the website is quirky.

I like Popsicles in orange. Or red. Trouble is, they come 6 to a box: two orange, two red, two yellow. The yellow ones stack up in the freezer. Molly, the world’s fussiest former starveling won’t eat them, of course. Nor will the formerly-starving cats. I’m always looking for someone to lay them on. Visitors to the Holler today had two children among them. I graciously offered them banana Popsicles. They accepted. Sweet. Doesn’t happen often enough, so around October I pile banana Popsicles in the kitchen sink and let them melt down the drain. It’s not as much fun as it sounds.

We use miles of water hose around the Holler. We have a spigot toward the front of the house. We have a spigot in the well house. We have maybe 2.5 acres of flora that need watering occasionally, to watering every other day. Kinking hoses are the bane of my summer gardening life. I’ve gotten rather clever at shaking the hose out way up the line but that doesn’t always work. I have to throw down the hose and stalk back to the kink, unkink, stalk back. It drives me to profanity. I broke down and bought a really good no-kink hose. The first time I mowed, I ran over it.

TICKING and TICKED

2010-06-09T12:49:00.000-05:00

Time is an approximate thing at Hungry Holler

The day I realized I wore the same watch as my 85-year-old father lives in infamy. Infamy may be a little strong, but I try to use INFAMY, occasionally. Frivolously paraphrasing President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s powerful language informing the country of the attack on Pearl Harbor is in poor taste, but sometimes I’m that kind of chick.

The watch is a giant-faced Timex. It’s the Indiglo kind that glows in the dark when you press the stem. Not water proof nor water resistant. Just under 35 bucks at Kmart.

We wear the watch for the same reason: We can read it without glasses, day or night. I’ve blogged about my never-ending search for my reading glasses, so you know how HUGE this is, literally and figuratively.

I jump from one frenzied detritus-producing project to another. Dirty Projects: gardening, gourd cleaning; Gritty Projects: concrete casting, sand shoveling; Wet Projects: mucking in the pond, watering every damn thirsty plant I’ve brought to the Holler and put in ground or pot when it’s still spring and rainy and I’m delirious with plant lust.

I never take my watch off. NEVER. I’ve literally knocked dried concrete off it so I can read it, (and raise my arm). At night when I press the stem I can FEEL and HEAR the grit. I’ve read it while it was underwater as I moved rocks around the pond bottom. I’ve wiped paint off it, so I could read it. The black leather band has been spattered every color. You gotta play tough as an accessory in my world.

I can’t remember how long I’ve had my Timex. Several years. I don’t remember having to change the battery. I hope I didn’t jinx anything typing that. I wrote to Timex last year extolling the virtue of their fabulous watch.

The only reason I got a new one–exactly the same as the first one–is because the watchband disentegrated. Our local Jay Walmart does NOT sell watchbands any more. WHERE do we go for watchbands? Siloam Springs. The associate actually said that.

Kmart in Bartlesville doesn’t carry watchbands either, but they had ONE of my watches. I bought the watch to have when the inevitable happens....and I have to wear it now because I still don’t have a watchband for the first one. I’m gonna cobble something together. It’s still ticking. We’ve been together way too long to let a watchband keep us apart.

What’s your Timex tale?

I COMBINE PIZZA AND WHEELBARROWS IN ONE POSTING

2010-05-30T23:26:00.000-05:00

Hungry Holler Art Refuge is 12 miles equidistant from the grocery store (Reasor’s in Langley) and Wal-Mart (Jay), with Grand Lake O’ the Cherokees smack dab in the middle of everything, not just geographically. I turn left out of the driveway to go Reasor’s, right for everything else. You learn to make do when it’s a hassle to run errands. And pizza delivery, forget it. When I visit kith and kin in the big city, we order pizza. It actually comes to your door, HOT.

Pizza is a good thing. Wheelbarrows are a good thing; both are dependent on the quality of components. I can deal with a mediocre pizza especially when it comes magically to the door. I’ve dealt with all kinds of wheelbarrows. I’ve bought them at yard sales, knowing pretty much from the get go why they were for sale. Wobbly? OK. Dented to hell? Adorable in a wheelbarrow, shows it’s been faithful and a hardworker.

The last couple I bought brand new had plastic trays (wheelbarrow speak for the body). Wheelbarrows play tough at the Holler so I had misgivings, but I didn’t pay much for them and I consider them Bics. Hauling rocks is one of my constant chores for purposes aesthetic and mundane. I pretty quick got a big ole crack right down the middle of one.

The thing I cannot abide is the tires they put on wheelbarrows: they’re pneumatic which means they’re full of air, which means they’re never full of air when needed. It’s irritating as the devil. You’ve got a head of steam going, got rocks needing hauled, compost moved, sand distributed, and the damn tire is flat as the fens of Holland.* Or flat as John Deere riding mower tires. That’s a whole nuther piss off. Pneumatic tires on working stuff is just stupid.

So I pay 60 bucks for plastic wheelbarrows and another 30 or so to buy solid tires for them. Seriously. I’m pretty sure I paid about thirty dollars for tires.

I mix concrete in an old beat-to-pieces steel wheelbarrow. It has served me well and I’d still use it if it had a tire, pneumatic or otherwise. I’ve been dragging it around where I need it, propping it up on a brick to make it semi-level. I move sacks of concrete to it in the cracked plastic wheelbarrow...I can’t bear to continue.

My wheelbarrow need is righteous and at this stage of the game, I want a damn good one. I went to Jones Hardware in Ketchum and spent 100 dollars for a beautiful blue one.

What sold me and drove to me spend a hundred dollars on a wheelbarrow without blinking? A non-inflatable tire, and it was yellow.

The wheelbarrow was invented by the Chinese. The wheelbarrow was invented by the Greeks. Either way, it was a long time ago. Neither used pneumatic tires.

Chemistry eggheads find this wheelbarrow molecule amusing. If you do, click on the link for more hilarity.

The wheelbarrow as art pure and simple, by Cal Lane. Check out her other beautiful work.

*I didn't know what that meant. If you don't, click on this link for enlightenment.

GIVE TURTLES THE RIGHT OF WAY

2010-05-21T23:44:00.000-05:00

"Having once performed the spectacular feat of getting its girdles inside its ribs, [the turtle] lapsed into a state of complacent conservatism,&" and watched as "Eohippus begat Man o' War and a mob of irresponsible and shifty-eyed little shrews swarmed down out of the trees to chip at stones, and fidget around fires, and build atom bombs." —Archie Carr, Handbook of Turtles (1952)

How have turtles lived so long? They appear terminally linear. They get pointed in one direction, THAT WAY, and it’s the ONLY WAY. Hopeless illustrated? A turtle nosed against a highway median barrier. It’s spring in northeast Oklahoma and turtles are going walkabout. Females are looking for a cozy spot to lay eggs. We all know what males are looking for.

If I see imminent doom and can do something to avert it without horrific unintended consequence, I do. Yesterday I saw a prime red eared-slider on the side of the road, just making the first move to cross. I got turned around, headed back, turned around again to be on the correct side of the highway and parked in someone’s driveway. I got out in time to see the turtle, neck stretched, head up, disappear under a pick up. Nice driver made sure not to hit the jaywalker. I scooped up the turtle (whereupon one of us peed), and took her to the other side of the highway, set her down, nose pointed HER WAY and wished her well.

Turtle Facts

Turtles have been around for 200 million years, and only lately have had to contend with mechanized dangers. They pretty much always take second in close encounters of the highway kind.

Most turtles don’t survive the eight years or so it takes to reach breeding age. With exceptional karma, they can live 40 years. The loss of every turtle on the highway is a very bad thing for the species.

In the spring turtles wake up from hibernation feeling amorous. They can feel romantic in the fall too.

They’re omnivorous, but especially carnivorous when young.

They charmingly bask on logs in chains, the front of one turtle resting on the back end of another turtle and so on.
Photo courtesy http://www.flickr.com/photos/brooklyntyger/2509684599/

Bottle caps make an artful and evocative turtle shell.

I've always wondered what was under the shell. It's one thing to see the wonder of turtle anatomy as feng shui, and entirely different to see 200 million years of evolved perfection wasted on a highway.
Image courtesy of http://www.petturtlesandmore.com/blog/inside-a-red-ear-slider-turtle.html/

TThis his

ART AND ANTIQUE GROUP DOES HUNGRY HOLLER

2010-05-18T16:19:00.000-05:00

Lois L. and her posse came to the Holler, Tuesday, May 18, for homemade custard and chocolate mousse pie. To get pie, visitors have to sit through a gourd program of truth (mostly), gourd trivia historic and contemporary, and hands on passing of quirky and/or beautiful gourd specimens.

Despite a toughies reputation in the genteel world of the learned, the Art and Antique group of Tulsa was well-behaved. The help was left unmolested, and all silver accounted for.

I promised to share Grandma Gertrude May's pie crust recipe. Grandma May was a wizard in the ways of cookery. She and my Grandfather Herman May (whom I always thought looked like Clark Gable) had a Linneaus-light streak: they named my mother June (May); my Auntie, April (May). Their courage failed them when my uncle was born. They gave serious thought to naming him August....but didn't. We call Uncle Paul, Butch. In my heart he's always Uncle Auggie.

Here's Grandma May's recipe for constructing four masterwork crusts:

In a big bowl put this stuff:

4 to 4-1/4 cups unbleached flour

1 tablespoon sugar

3 teaspoons salt

1-3/4 cup shortening (I use Crisco)

Then get a measuring cup for this part:

1/2 cup cold water

1 tablespoon vinegar

1 egg

Mix the dickens out of the above

Cut the shortening into the dry ingredients and then drizzle in the wet ingredients. Keep cutting it until it's all blended. Then dust your hands with flour and make four equal balls and put those balls in a smaller bowl you've dusted with a little flour. Put the bowl with the balls into the fridge and chill for hours...I leave it overnight. Then about an hour before I'm ready to roll out crust, I take the bowl out to bring down the chill so the dough rolls out more easily.

Now it's up to you.

HOW I HAVE MORE BOTTLE CAPS THAN A SANE PERSON NEEDS OR WANTS

2010-05-14T14:54:00.000-05:00

I have bottle caps in Johnny-Carson-as-Carl-Sagan numbers: billions and billions.

And still don’t have enough.

I sort them as to color.

My single biggest provider: E Z Duz It Hot Spot in Langley, Oklahoma. Proprietress Deborah is a clean freak. The Hot Spot is the cleanest tavern I’ve ever been in, outside a Four Star establishment*. It’s a rare time that I don’t find her laying a scrubbin’ on something when I stop in for my bottle cap supply. I like getting bottle caps from such an individual. Makes me feel like have standards when it comes to this weird mania. Like I don’t accept just any bottle cap.

Except I pretty much do. I can’t walk anywhere without a quick scan of the landscape. I get a small but distinct rush when I spy a cap. Mostly I pick them up, unless it’s a Bud Light cap. I can tell you without a doubt, around these parts, Bud Light is the brew of choice. Blue caps. They outnumber all others by a bunch to one. Deborah’s stash is blue blue blue. So sometimes, when I’ve got my wits about me, I’ll pass up a Bud Light cap.

Family saves bottle caps and pull tabs for me. Pull tabs are a whole nuther weird thing I like. I return from visits with a suitcase that rattles with caps and tabs. There’s always a note in my suitcase that the TSA picked my luggage to open and paw through. Any more I’m surprised when I don’t find the note.

When friends come calling, or we cross paths, they offer their saved caps. It’s touching.

Certain sophisticates are closet cap fiends, they share their caps with me. You know who you are...Brian.

When Trader John’s family went to Mexico, the nieces and nephews took time out of burying Uncle Stretch in the sand to comb the beach for bottle caps.

The Toews Tribe stops at Pops 66 when they’re on the road. Jerry pushes down his natural inclination for shyness to ask for caps for me. Pops 66 is pop and bottle cap heaven. I dream about rolling around in a mountain of Pops 66 caps almost as frequently as I dream about being locked in a Lowe’s overnight. Let me be clear: these are dreams not nightmares.

I use bottle caps in my art.

Bottle caps make up my tres chic line of jewelry.

I use bottle caps on interior walls of my house.

*I've never been in a Four Star establishment in my life.

OUR BIRD EATS PIZZA. SO WHAT!

2010-05-04T14:58:00.000-05:00

And cheapo frozen pizza at that.

BLUEBIRD: BELOVED BUDGIE BUDDY

2010-04-28T23:30:00.000-05:00

This is BlueBird and his roomie Tallulah. Together they lived in West Sussex, England. BlueBird was a powerful little creature. He brought together his English family, an animal healer in AZ (that would be my sister Juls), and–peripherally–an Oklahoma artist (that would be me).

BlueBird is named not for his color (that would be trite) but for a line in the the K.S. Rhoads song, Dark Hotel.

This is my sister Juls dancing
with her hen Ms. Henrietta

English Mark is my cyber penpal. We discuss heavy stuff like health care in England vs health care in the US, garden vs yard meaning the same thing, and Search Engine Optimization of which Mark is an expert. His family (wife Elaine, daughters Chloe and Isabel) shares my family’s love of animals. Which led to an email exchange in early February that mentioned the family budgie (that would be BlueBird) was not feeling well. Thus began among us, copious email exchanges including photographs of the patient, graphic descriptions of healthy bird poop (that would be poo in English) and not, Juls’ input and advice, reports from trips to the veterinarian, results from online research, and the ordering of a special aloe detox preparation from the States, sent as quick as money will induce. The family sprouted seeds for a more liver-friendly diet.

It was in vain. BlueBird succumbed to apparent avian liver disease in late March. That he lived so long with so dire an ailment is testament to what a tough little nut he was, and how well loved. Hearts were broken on both sides of the ocean (that would be the Atlantic).

Talluluah (whom we now call Mr. T, thanks to the observant vet who examined both birds) comforted his cagemate through his illness. A warm-hearted snogfest (that would be English for cuddling and grooming) is salutary among all species. Mr. T receives extra rations of attention, grooms himself, and is coping well.

BlueBird was laid to rest in the family garden (that would be yard in American) beneath a huge sycamore, next to Br'er Thumper (that would be a rabbit), and cats Harry and Lottie. Among the family tokens of affection there stood a peach-colored rose in the name of Juls and Jan.

RADICAL MUSLIMS HAVE A COW

2010-04-27T08:57:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Skepticalist for the image

CAN'T OPENERS SOS

2010-04-09T21:36:00.000-05:00

The Electric can opener died. I didn't grieve. It seemed weird to use electricity to open a can of refried beans. I wasn't guilt ridden or wracked with angst every time I wanted tostadas or green beans, but I figured I'd replace it with a good sturdy hand-cranking can opener. I had a couple of old ones in the drawer for emergencies. When the electric's off due to an ice storm, a can of chili hits the spot.

The basic all metal one never gets lost. I root over it when looking for the candy thermometer, which I need once every two years. The white handle can opener just keeps surfacing. I thought I threw it away. But maybe not. The patina on both is organic, but since it's our patina, I can deal with it. But I wanted a GOOD new one since it was going to be the primary tool for opening cans. I went to town and bought the most expensive hand-cranking can opener I could find, which means I had three to chose from: the same two I had only new and patina-less, and the black handled Ekco one. That's it in the photo with its round disc guts beside it. It disemboweled its ownself about six cans in, five cans of which were a bitch to open, and the last two I had to get the ice pick and pry the Morse coded (hole.....open dash....hole....open dash) lid off. I was comparatively unfamished, and years of foraging food from cans saved me from nasty injury.

I'm ticked. And hungry. This is the latest experience I've had buying something new that turned out to be crappy, over designed and yuppified.

If you're in the midst of this very conundrum yourself, here's some food for thought from The Daily Green:

Electric can openers require more resources to build, and take up more space in landfills than old-fashioned models. Typical 175-watt brands use .01 to .18 kWh per month, for an energy cost of about one cent. That doesn't sound like much, but if every person in America used one, that would be 36 to 648 million kWh of power, costing us $36 million.
What kind of can opener do you use?

Thanks to Trippy Chicken for the can of Wup Ass

2FINGERS 2LIPS 2 MAKE YOU TOO GLAD

2010-04-07T21:01:00.000-05:00

My knight, Sir Luke

The Holler's first 2lips, and the First Dog aka Molly, the world's fussiest former starveling.

IT'S PURPLE. BEES LOVE IT. THEN IT'S GONE. DEAL WITH IT.

2010-04-04T20:11:00.000-05:00

I do not get the futile War on Henbit/Dead Nettle. Futile wars are many and varied, and in the overall scheme of things the futile War on Henbit/Dead Nettle is small potatoes. But at least I can be pretty sure of the righteousness of my high dudgeon in this futile war. I’ve lived with both henbit and dead nettle for many years. We have lots of turf at the Hungry Holler (6 acres). We mow more of it than sane people would. If I had my way, we wouldn’t have so much grass, but we do. We live intimately with it in all seasons.

A perfectly manicured lawn gives me the creeps. It’s not natural. A dandelion-free yard takes all kinds of ‘cides, herb and pest; and fertilizers and unhealthy obsession. I know something about unhealthy obsessions too, but that’s for another rant.

The point is, henbit and dead nettle are dang pretty in the early spring. At the Holler it’s the first color after a drab winter. Bees are happy to see it. It’s slim pickens and they’re hungry. When I go out to admire the purple, I can hear it before I see it. The bees are feasting.

Once you start mowing in earnest, and as turf resurrects around Easter, you’ll soon never know henbit was even there. So get over it. For everything there is a season.

Thanks to Martha/Molly Day, flowersgallery.net and rurality.blogspot.com for images.

A NOD TO PEEPS

2010-04-02T00:16:00.000-05:00

IT'S NOT EASTER WITHOUT PEEPS

In 1953, it took 27 hours to create one Marshmallow Peep. Today, it takes six minutes.

The first Peeps were squeezed one at a time out of a pastry tube and the eyes were painted on by hand. Now, machines create 3,500 Peep eyes per minute.

Just Born's Bethlehem, Pa., factory makes more than 1 billion Peeps a year -- that's 4 million Peeps a day.

I FEEL BAD ABOUT BADLY...IT ACTUALLY PISSES ME OFFLY

2010-03-28T11:13:00.000-05:00

I'm a grammar freak. Every time I hear, "I feel badly" the hair stands up on my neck. Seriously. That's all it takes. Am I tightly wrapped in this respect? Yes. I don't feel bad about it at all. When I was a day to day mother, I felt compelled to correct every grammar crime that crossed my path. Help me, I corrected rogue apostrophes on signs. Judd's grammar is pretty darn good, in spite of my annoying mania.

My feeble attempts pale compared to those of Joy Behar. Her teaching moment was pure instinct. Once a teacher, always a teacher. She did us all proud, and a big favor.

Why You Can't Feel Badly About Sandra Bullock

Once an English teacher, always an English teacher, talk show host Joy Behar corrected her guest Richard Lewis on The Joy Behar Show yesterday when he used the grammatically wrong form of the word "bad" to express his sympathy for actress Sandra Bullock.

Here is an excerpt from the March 24, 2010 episode of The Joy Behar Show on HLN:

Joy Behar: I want to talk to you about Sandra Bullock because, uh...

Richard Lewis: I feel badly for her ... I don't know her...

Joy Behar: You feel bad, not badly!

Richard Lewis: No, that's an adverb, I can use it...

Joy Behar: No, no you don't feel sadly, do you? You feel bad. You feel sad.

Richard Lewis: So you call me illiterate in front of your entire audience?

Joy Behar: No, I'm just correcting you...

Richard Lewis: Okay so I used an adverb improperly. Can I say improperly?

Joy Behar: Yes, that's correct!

Feigning defeat, Richard Lewis seized the "ham sandwich" moment by throwing up his hands in mock frustration, then turning to the audience, whining "Where's my lunch box?" as if he were a school boy who had just been slapped on the hand with a ruler by his bun-wearing English teacher.

What is the grammar rule for bad vs. badly?

With her English teacher pedigree, it's not surprising that Behar was grammatically correct in the matter of whether to use the word "bad" vs. "badly" in the context of expressing sympathy for Sandra Bullock. After high school many people mysteriously forget that while action verbs are modified by adverbs (the ly form of the word), linking verbs such as am, is, feel, appears, and looks are modified by adjectives.

The verb "feel" is especially tricky, however, because it can be an action verb or a linking verb. When "feel" is used as an action verb—for instance, a blind person might say, "I feel the Braille dots badly," it requires the adverb form of the word "bad." When "feel" is used to indicate a state of being, such as Richard Lewis feeling compassion for Sandra Bullock, the adjective form of the word "bad" should be used, as in "I feel bad for Sandra Bullock, Elin Nordegren, Elizabeth Edwards, Jenny Sanford or (fill in the blank of wronged woman)."

The copy above taken from: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2825746/joy_behar_and_richard_lewis_scuffle.html?cat=49

Image credit: http://blog.triggerlappy.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/05/grammar.jpg

For more smug hilarity: I Judge You When You Use Poor Grammar

THIN MINTS...THERE ARE WORSE ADDICTIONS

2010-03-27T20:24:00.000-05:00

I don’t care the Girl Scouts in front of Reasor’s Grocery weren’t friendly. They set up a card table. They had what I was jonesing for. The commerce of addiction is strictly need/supply. The dealer isn’t there to be charming. Hand over the Washingtons, get the box. Boxes. Always the same for me: Thin Mints. Two rolls of cookies per box. I had one box ripped open, one tube unwrapped before I got out of the parking lot. One tube devoured before I got back to the Holler.

I pack them around in my hoodie pouch. Lint? Piffle. You either eat a Thin Mint no matter what or you don’t. If I have to explain, you’re not among the fallen. Count your blessings. It ain’t pretty. Thank gawd it’s seasonal. Even when I think I have a year’s supply, I know 3 months in, I don’t.

Seester Juls is an enabler. She buys Thin Mints from her AZ connection. Brazenly sends them to me through the USPS. And she's a retired cop.

I’m not alone. According to Girl Scout propaganda:

The biggest sellers are:

25% Thin Mints
19% Samoas®/Caramel deLites®
13% Peanut Butter Patties®/Tagalongs®
11% Peanut Butter Sandwich/Do-si-dos®
9% Shortbread/Trefoils

The other varieties combined account for the remaining 23%.

Thirty-eight calories a Thin Mint. Who cares?

Thanks for the Thin Mints image: Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Generic license.

THE PEACE SIGN IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE PEACE SIGN

2010-03-22T20:24:00.000-05:00

IT'S 9-FEET ACROSS

You can see it from space. It took 170 feet of neon blue LED rope lights from Orange Tree Trade. The lights are not quite blue, not quite purple.

HOW IT STARTED

That's Gentleman Art. He was at Woodstock. He knows all about peace signs and stuff round. He's in Little Kansas, OK. If you're looking for round, he's got a square deal for you. Blue tape marks the spokes that stay.

GENTLEMAN ART AND TONY delivered the peace sign. Tony did a first-rate job removing the un-peace sign spokes. He even ground the raw spots. The universe was with us. The peace sign hung over the sides of their truck something 3-digit fineable, but no one official made waves, except the friendly kind.

That's Evan Best up on the ladder that's up on Jerry Toews' truck. Evan's an Eagle Scout. He knows knots. He believes in redundancy. The peace sign is up. For Good. I'm not really doing anything helpful.

Jerry Toews (foreground) and Evan Best haul the sign out for raising.

Hungry Holler has had a lighted peace sign out front for years. Two hoola hoops wrapped with years of new light strings on top of burned out light strings. A January storm collapsed the peace sign.

So from then until now the Holler has been peace signless. At least out front. We wanted to go BIG this time. And we did. Gentleman Art in Little Kansas, OK has more inedible round stuff than roboppy has edible.

Peace and its symbols are wrought through collaboration. Thanks to Art and Tony for being generous good sports. They delivered in more ways than one. Thanks to Jerry's Lawn Salon for again proving Grand Lake's premier lawn service crew provides concierge service, fulfilling most every request no matter how odd.

Bicycles race through branches and line up on limbs of the venerable elm tree. The peace sign hangs from a gravity defying cantilevered branch. None of it possible if not for the tree. True for much of life.

RUSSELL STUDEBAKER - CHICK MAGNET

2010-03-19T11:23:00.000-05:00

Russell Studebaker and Miss Fluffy his alpha Silkie hen. Miss F is wearing Sammy Wholon and her nails are painted to match.

Stu takes his ease with Arthur Mohr. Note his red nails (Stu's).

Blink: original gourd wall art by Jan Meng.

Chicken of many colors. Original gourd wall art by Jan Meng.

A 2-piece gourd by Jan Meng.

Chicks of all species love Russell. The Poultry Pasha was keeping an urban flock before it became a gentrified practice. He is paid cash money for crowing to audiences about the joy of chicken husbandry, and it ain't chicken feed.

He loves his chickens a bushel and a peck. He invests in tres chic haute hen couture and takes his chick out only when she's all decked out.

We love poultry at the Holler too. Stu was our beloved Australorp rooster. He was so black his feathers glistened green in the sun. Ninety percent of the time he was a perfect gentleman. That other 10 percent of the time he was a rangy basterd and a lawsuit waiting to happen. The last straw was when the ZSM looked up from mowing pasture rings to see Stu hot on the heels of three well-coiffed ladies as they ran for the sanctuary of the Cottage Gallery. Stu went to live up the highway that very day. We removed the bling in his comb. Yes, I pierced his comb. But his nails retained their red polish. I polished his nails every four days or so to match his orange-red comb. He didn't mind at all. The warmth of the blow dryer on his wet nails put him in the trance chickens experience when you hold them just so. He was a bit of a fop, but was super hard on his manicure (pedicure?).

Chickens are in my heart so they're in my art.

HARSHING MELLOW YELLOW

2010-03-17T10:02:00.000-05:00

When seasons collide: the punkin is a husk and dry as a pharaoh.

Gourds make fabulous vases. Fill them with water and insert flowers. Email me for details: hungry3@hotmail.com

Forsythia flames me: Get to it! If you're a gardener, early spring yellow means: WORK

The Holler is awash in yellow. Bossy daffodil blooms hound me to hustle and grab a rake. I've got a shovel on my shoulder. I've got one hand on the pruners in my pocket, and the other one is giving a peace sign.

When we first moved to the Holler, there wasn't a daffy along this fenceline. There are knee impressions (mine) all along the line.

Best Evocative Yellow Song EVER: Donovan's Mellow Yellow.