Excerpts & Table of Contents:

Introduction

J.D. Rogers was born a Hoosier in Indianapolis, Indiana in 1951. He attended Avon High School, where he majored in study hall, home room, and the principal’s office. Dress codes were not to J.D.’s liking. Why did an unaccredited high school like Avon care if he wore paisley-colored capes with knee-high suede boots? Besides, with his band, he was destined to be a rock star—or so he thought. Read more about J.D...

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Three Dog Night

Our family here at Rocky Thistle Ranch has grown by one. Sioux was just beaming from head to toe when she came home the other night. “Isn’t she cute?” Sioux said to me. Yea, yea, but where is she going to sleep, we don’t need another mouth to feed, my God, all the training I’ll have to do. I don’t know if we should keep her. By the way, what did you name her? “Tuesday!”

“Tuesday? I don’t like that name at all. Couldn’t you call her Stormy, Lucky, or Arco?” bringing home a puppy! You’ll just love her, J.D.” I thought, “Sure, yea, she‘s got you guys trying to scam me.” Wrong! Sioux got home a few days before Christmas with little Tuesday.

Our other dogs are getting used to her finally. Boogie still bars her teeth at the puppy, but Tuesday just licks Boogie’s teeth and gums. Bentley tried to hide in the corner for a few days, but they both play together now. As for me, after a few kisses from Tuesday, she has a new home. She knew I’d be easy. As I finish this column up, Sioux is down south, the dogs are curled up on the bed, and it’s the coldest night of the year—definitely a “Three Dog Night!”

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Traumatized

As Tuesday flung whatever it was she had into the air, I hollered at her to sit, which she did immediately (all my training was paying off). I could then see what had been in her mouth. My God, it was our pet rooster Louie…. I stuck him in my shirt with this head sticking out, hoping to warm him up. Boogie and Bentley knew this was not good. Old Louie was their pal. They were both sniffing his body and whining… so I took him out to the chicken coop to get him a shot of water. As soon as I sat him on the roost, he let go with one of the loudest screams I’ve ever heard from such a small critter. All twenty-nine hens and six ducks came running in from the orchard to the coop as Louie kept up his screaming …I checked up on him a few hours later, and he was out in the orchard with his ladies doing just fine. Nothing like a good woman to make you feel better—having twenty-nine of them must really be something!

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Spandex Madness or Zipper-Lipped?

Speaking of brains, where in the world did these goofy-looking outfits come from? These bicyclists look like they’re from a heavy metal rock and roll band strongly influenced by Liberace. Maybe they have a death wish. I don’t know. What I do know is that anybody dressed in pink, green, and yellow spandex, with stupid little advertisements plastered all over their bodies, gloves without fingers, shoes with cleats, and helmets with fins and air holes that look like a 1959 Cadillac, surely isn’t playing with a full deck—you know, a couple of quarts shy of full. Of course, I once wore stupid-looking things like Nehru jackets, Madras pants, and psychedelic paisley capes. (I miss my capes).

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Biker Chicks or Yellow Snow

I find the atmosphere very interesting at laundromats. The mixtures of people run from Harlequin romance novels to a Stephen King bestseller. I used to patronize a laundromat that was used by biker chicks. You know the type – leather and lace.

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The Big Stink or Trail Fees

I heard a story on the news today about how we taxpayers funded the tab for a study on flatulence. It seems a doc at the V.A. Hospital in Minneapolis was given tax dollars to see what causes the passing of gas (better known as farts) to stink. If they had asked me, I could have told them for free. Tell me, is there anybody who really cares what makes a fart stink? Next I’m sure the government will want to know why some farts burn better than others—for alternative fuel sources, of course.

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Phone Rage

Why aren’t there real people working the phone lines when you have the misfortune to have to call some company about a problem you’re having?

Anyway, I want to know if it bugs you as much as me when I’m calling, let’s say, Torture and Torture Incorporated, and I get a recording saying “Hello. You’ve reached the offices of Torture and Torture. Your call may be recorded for quality control and training purposes, for your convenience.” (When I hear the words “For your convenience,” I automatically bend over and grab my ankles, because I know it’s a lie and someone wants into my wallet.) Anyway, then I’m told to please follow the menu…Who are they kidding? I wish I knew Putz Baloney’s extension number, but that is top secret information. Or “If you know the name of the person you wish to speak to, push the star button and say their name.” Okay, so I say, “Putz Baloney.”

“If Frank Malloy is whom you wish to speak to, push the pound button. If not, push star and repeat name.”

So I repeat Putz Baloney’s name.

“If Bob Shupe is whom you wish to speak to, push the pound button.” I’m going nuts. Maybe I’m speaking with an Indianan/Utahan accent that the mechanical voice doesn’t understand.

I’m praying that Torture and Torture Inc. goes the same route as Enron!”

Is phone rage a legal defense these days?

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Chickens and Terrorist Dogs

Stepping into the kitchen, I was deluged with disaster. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The chick condo was upended on the floor and ripped to shreds. The dinning room chairs were flung every which way. The bottom pan drawer was broken glass from the chick feeder scattered around and an empty one-gallon water container shoved into a corner. Wood shavings covered the entire kitchen, dining room, into the living room, down the hallway, extending into the bedroom, and onto our bed.

Good grief! We’ve been the victims of a terrorist attack.

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Oh, Litter Boy! or We are Tourist!

Los Angeles doesn’t have a night sky. Sioux was sure she was looking at her favorite harvest moon. I had to break the sad news to her that it was only a Shell gas station sign…We’re actually visiting our son Weston and daughter-in-law, Monika… My favorite night down here was after a return from Venice Beach, still the hangout of all the characters from the first Star Wars bar scene. As we drove up to the kids’ house, their side of the street was in a total blackout. The other side of the street had the god of electricity smiling on them. Was there a terrorist attack on our side of the street? Darn, I forgot to check and see what color the official government terrorist danger alert was.. . Weston went into the backyard to get or do something. He instantly slammed back in, hopping on one leg. The bare foot he was holding in the air had encountered what we call “doggie land mines.” Yep, right between the toes.

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