Staring is Rude

This post could be construed as the continuation of a previous post, but I prefer to think of it as an original grouping of thoughts...so you think of it that way too, 'kay? 

Am feeling rantful today due to the fact that a person CANNOT walk through the halls of this hospital building without being visually assaulted.  I'm minding my own business and pushing the noisy metal mail cart through the ground floor halls (which, by the way, I'm convinced holds a secret bunker full of experimental body parts...why else would temps be sub-Arctic?)  where one has the opportunity of encounter all manner of humanity.  Much of said humanity smiles, nods, and greets you in the typical friendly Texas manner.  While I appreciate these kind vocal gestures, quite honestly, I'd prefer to be ignored.  Still, kindness is theoretically its own reward, so I shan't obstruct the kind individuals who prefer to earn those groovy reward points from collecting their due.

These well-meaning people comprise approximately one third of the types you'll find wandering and/or sitting thereabouts on the ground level of our building.  Another third of the visiting population really DOES ignore the hades out of me.  Whenever I pass someone in the hall and they treat me as an invisible nonentity, I want to take their hands and bless them many times over.  But since that would require talking and the consequent revelation of my presence/existence, I instead mentally bless them in a vehement fashion.

Alas, this celebration of The Silent must now be interrupted by the intrusion of a third group of people oft encountered 'midst the chilly labyrinthine passages below my sandal-clad work feet: those who stare incessantly without reason or consideration.  One might assume that I'd forgive them this mortal sin as long as they didn't speak to me, but one would assume incorrectly.  As aforementioned, I'm walking down the hall and blithely pushing my cart along its rickety, squeaky path whenever I encounter a member of "Satan's 33 1/3."  No matter what, they stare from the time I (or anyone) comes into their eyes' focus, and then they literally turn their head to continue this visual infringement of my/anyone's personal space as I/anyone walk by.  What really melts my snowcone is when there's two or three of them in a group, and the entire group stares, turns, and continues staring...like that three-headed, slobbering dog monster in Harry Potter, only atonal harp music won't make these people stop staring. 

So do parents these days simply not teach their children that staring is rude?  Maybe it's because there's no smartphone app for it.  Or maybe no fun-but-instructional blu-ray disc exists to teach said children such things via video screen in the back of the SUV on their way to baseball practice.  Or maybe Sony needs to devise an action-packed, blood-and-guts video game depicting the consequences of illicit staring...gaze too long at any particular person for no good reason, and you get disintegrated by a Romulan disruptor...and so does The Princess!!

It all comes down to common courtesy, and while the super sweet people that energetically insist on saying "hello" or "good morning" do annoy me at times, at least they're demonstrating the fact that their parents did indeed teach them manners...and that they bothered to learn the lesson.

In All Seriousness...

I needs must pause from my typical banter o' goofiness and relative insanity that nobody gets but me in order to make a poignant, pertinent observation that far more Americans should be making at present: both U.S. political parties seem intent upon utter national destruction.  Both Democrats and Republicans pretend to be addressing the debt ceiling we as a nation crashed into a couple of months ago.  All political posturing and ruse-ing aside, these elected officials appear far more interested in preventing a success by their rival party than in doing anything even remotely positive for the survival of the United States.  In my opinion, neither party deserves to win (or purchase) the next Presidential election, and if their self-important antics continue for much longer, there won't be much of a nation left to govern. 

Now, I'm not going to get irrationally patriotic and declare that our perfect country was preordained for greatness by the near-Godlike acts of flawless Founding Fathers who knew precisely which form of government would seamlessly span the centuries.  What worked great during an age of exploration, global expansion, and industrial revolution doesn't necessarily transition effectively into a globally-populated, technological age defined and consumed by its industrial predecessors' lust for wealth, power, and convenience.  My guess is Thomas Jefferson did NOT have the internet in mind when he glorifed absolute freedom of speech nor did George Washington comprehend a necessity to ban automatic weapony from the general populace's possession. 

(Before I go any further, freedom of speech is requisitely necessary for any civilization to survive and flourish.  Overall I think the ability to own a gun is good too since any bad guy will find a way to own a gun whether it's legal or not.  Licensed, responsible gun ownership is okay by me, and that's not just my Texan blood talkin' ;-)

But back to the original commentary: no doubt the U.S. achieved worldwide power and prestige.  We succeeded where many failed, BUT we can't owe all of our success to unique government, personal ingenuity, and the incredibly strong bootstraps our forefathers apparently possessed.  No, we also got lucky.  VERY lucky.  We also seized upon opportunities regardless of whether they arose from positive or negative world events.  Our technological advancements which began in the 1950s were largely a result of the scientists our government "rescued" from a defeated Nazi Germany (unless Robert Goddard and Robert Oppenheimer were aliens, I'm not buying into that theory).  Much of the land containing our coal and oil deposits was blatantly stolen from the "relocated" Native American population.  The Great Depression was ended largely due to the massive amount of jobs created by the inception of World War II. 

That brings me to my final summation point: are the people that We the People elected to take care of this nation as a whole going to wait on a World War III event to bail us out of this financial crisis, or are they going to step into adulthood and make the sacrifices that We the People have to make in our normal lives on a daily basis?  Those types of financial choices typically require the loss of something we deem personally important.  We very well may lose face in someone's opinion.  But "failures" such as these are integral to our continued individual survival as well as eventual financial reconstruction.  Neither political party should be out to "win" right now because there is no winning without assuring the nation's continued existence.  Forget the elections.  Our political parties have created a culture of neverending election season.  No, instead of perpetuating the notion of campaigning as a 24/7 lifestyle, sacrifice your personal and party pride on the altar of "doing the right thing," do what we're paying you to do, and GET US OUT OF THIS! 

Ensign Wesley Crusher would have ;-)

Ensign Wesley Crusher vs. Sauron...and Darth Vader...and Rachel Ray

Stardate 48557.8

After safely relocating his mother to her day spa home complete with white picket forcefield, Ensign Wesley Crusher decided to embrace his maternally-prescribed domestication process and vehemently pursue gourmet cooking as well as hydroponic gardening.  He reprogrammed half of his nanites for weed-fighting and aphid-killing at the cellular level then proceeded to run database searches for past culinary geniuses.  While the wily microbots were cultivating veggies and exterminating veggie vermin, Wesley programmed various holodeck simulations for participation in a variety of cooking classes with the aforementioned culinary geniuses.  For the most part these lessons did not go as planned.  He strangled Martha Stewart with her own doily after his third failed napkin-folding attempt.  Data mistook the Iron Chef as an actual chef made of iron and challenged him to single combat at which point Data discovered there was no such literal thing as a chef made of iron.  Data could not understand the chef’s chagrin aimed in his general quadrant when Data also mistook massive blood flow for overly-tenacious rust. 

Ensign Crusher felt he would make great progress once he located Rachel Ray’s simple, flavorful, fattening brand of cooking but discovered otherwise when all of her recipes called for the deadly Electromagnetically Variant Oxygen Orbs.  He thereby concluded that Ms. Ray was a wicked voodoo priestess intent upon obliterating the universe with her inimitable, hip-expanding old-world ways.  To confirm his suspicions, the well-meaning Wesley consulted the literature-loving Captain Picard for any pertinent information on the subject.  He left the good captain’s presence armed with a stack of Time-Interstellar Life’s “Ambassador Spock Narrates the Classics,” now formatted for your very own shipboard computer!  The exhausted Ensign fell asleep to the soothing tones of the Ambassadors voice as he detailed exciting stories of old when there was still such a thing as money, toilet seats, and explosions that could be heard in the vacuum of space.

Upon waking suddenly, Wesley saw a plastic-hooded figure inspecting a set of holo-blueprints in the corner of his quarters.  The Ensign leapt out of bed and immediately demanded to know precisely what this mechanically-asthmatic interloper was doing in his room. 

“I’m inspecting the ring, the ring that will make me invincible!” 

“That’s the exhaust port right below the main port.”

“It’s the Ring of Power, I tell you!  I must protect it with my lightsaber!”  The black figure produced a glowing stick from beneath his flowy cape and brandished it at the now-fleeing Ensign.  Wesley reached into his pocket, grabbed the latest batch of reprogrammed nanites, and flung them at the lumbering bad guy who, Wesley now suspected, must really be Rachel Ray manifesting in her true evil form.  In moments the robot assault ceased as Wesley cautiously approached his attacker.  “The ring!  Where is it?  Don’t just stand there, mister, where’s my napkin ring?  My presentation must be perfect!”

Thus ends the tale of how Ensign Wesley Crusher was able to learn and perfect his domestic skills all thanks to the assistance of Sauron disguised as Darth Vader channeling Rachel Ray, Priestess O’ Humanity’s Doom. 

P.S. Wesley inadvertently fell asleep in the holodeck not realizing that the Ambassador’s narrated classics had accidentally been replaced by the Ambassador’s ANIMATED classics. 

P.S.S. Dr. Beverly Crusher accidentally electrocuted herself on the white picket forcefield.  Oh the humanity.

P.S.S.S. Dr. Beverly Crusher is now engaged to marry the man who treated her forcefield burns, Dr. Hugh Manatee.

Ensign Wesley Crusher and the Attack of the Ficus Dwellers

I'm not entirely sure about this one but am feeling gutsy...these sagas were funny when I started them in 1992, but I'm woefully out of practice!
------------------------------------------------------

Stardate 48556.3

You did WHAT to my ficus???

After configuring the precise chemical makeup for his culinary sciences final, Ensign Wesley Crusher was dismayed to find himself with flattened soufflé and a failing grade.  Apparently having the correct number of properly beaten eggs is no match for a random phaser blast from a trigger-happy Cardassian tactical officer.  The Academy would not be pleased.  Anyway, upon feeding the soufflé remnants to Data’s cat Spot, Wesley decided it was time to employ his up-and-coming 25^th-century-grade nanite experiment to cooking since the advent of replication obviously hadn’t relegated the fine art/science to ancient history.  Why didn’t somebody come up with a “cook-check?”  The need to spell correctly had been eradicated all the way back in the 20^th century, after all.


Dr. Beverly Crusher's Ficus

Little did our intrepid Ensign know that his food failure and corrective nanite attempt was being closely watched by his mother’s ficus: or more accurately, being watched by the in-dwellers of said ficus.  It seems that upon eating Wesley’s ill-begotten soufflé, Spot had proceeded to “fertilize” the potting soil therein (thereby answering the age-old question of whether or not beings in the 22^nd century and beyond do, in fact, poop) in a very unsightly and badly-scented manner.  Oh, the humanity.  It was in this moment of such rude violation and disrespectful treatment that the Ficus Dwellers made their vengeful presence known.  “Aha!” the Ficus Dweller Leader shouted.  “You, Giant Biped, shall remove this travesty from our midst lest we attack thee with our poison-tipped vibro-spears of doom!  Grrr!”



Angry Ficus Dweller



Arggh.  Of course Wesley couldn’t hear him.  The leader was 2 inches tall.  It was due to this unfortunate difference in species height ratio that the left side of Wesley’s body suddenly began to shake uncontrollably.  The Ficus Dwellers had made their vibratory presence known and launched hundreds of tiny vibro-spears from multiple leaf layers of Dr. Crusher’s prized ficus into the unsuspecting Ensign’s skin.  Oh, the humanity.  The handful of experimental cooking nanites in Wesley’s left hand went shooting toward the tree.  Of course, being microscopic and all, the Ficus Dwellers couldn’t actually see the mechanical entities headed their way.  They instead continued to vibro-spear the hades out of poor Wesley until he lay in a stunned convulsional heap on the floor.  Oh, the humanity.

The Ficus Dwellers having taken a respite from their justified--though invisible--onslaught, Wesley had a chance to recover.  After reviving himself with a cup of “Tea. Earlgray. Hot.” he put on his special super-sensitive, sight-and-sound-enhancing device to aid in locating all of the wayward nanites.  What he found instead was of the astonishing.  Hundreds of mini-people were shaking mini-spears in his general direction and shouting about the sudden unleashing of Devil Gnomes upon their plant populace.  Sure enough, several nanites were digging in and out of the potting soil and attempting to make fire for the performance of their cooking duties but were unable to do so due to the lack of dry ingredients. 

The "Devil Gnome" as depicted in The Ficus Dwellers'
Book of Barely-Believable Legends

Other Devil Gnome incarnations



Their deviousness knows no bounds


“They’re nanites,” Wesley said patiently.  “Not Devil Gnomes.”

“They’re gnomes!”

“Nanites.”

“Gnomes!”

“NAN-ITES!”

“GNOM-MES!”

Exasperated with the inability of this species to communicate effectively, concisely, and with an English accent, Wesley decided that the best way to solve the problem was to relocate his mother’s ficus plant to an alternate location.  After consulting Data for any known ficus havens in nearby galaxies, Wesley discovered one suitable option for ficus relocation and proceeded to lock coordinates for transport.  His mother would be far from pleased, but it had to be done.  “Greetings once again, Miniature Ficus People.  I’m going to transport you and your potted plant to a ficus-friendly, gnome-free planet.  Do not throw additional things at me.”

The relocation was conducted successfully, and Ensign Wesley Crusher was overwhelmed by the personal satisfaction of aiding an interstellar species in need.  He was also overwhelmed by the maternal mandate that he now pass a horticulture sciences course AND take charge of her relocation to a mother-friendly planet of gnome-free day spas.

Oh, the humanity.

Texans Can't Drive. Nor Can They Walk.

OLD sign outside Hondo, TX

A very good friend of mine (who has driven the length and breadth of the country) once told me that Texas has the worst road and highway system he has ever seen.  He particularly despises access roads, which apparently don't exist in other states.  Personally, I think they rock.  They let cowardly (or drunken) drivers like I used to be (cowardly, not drunken) get from point A to point B (and possibly C should one make an incorrect turn) with as little interstate stress as possible.  It took driving around Nashville for eight years to break me of said cowardice.  So maybe that’s the reason we Texans can’t seem to drive worth a crap: the state has given us a substandard system upon which to practice. 

Access Roads are on the far right and left

Now, I’m the first to admit my disinterest in and therefore lack of superior expertise in driving.  I do what I must to take care of travelling business and leave the rest up to the bus, taxi, limo, horse-drawn buggy, any motorized farm implement you can think of, and airplane system.  Nothing would please me more than to spend the rest of my life letting someone else drive me around so I can enjoy the scenery and a good daydream.  Even ugly scenery can be pretty scenery once you get to sit still and actually study it whilst breezing wistfully by in your air-conditioned/heated vehicle that someone else is driving…but not the drivers on the road with me today!  Today was absolutely the day I should’ve stayed home and protected myself from the fiendish, road-hogging, speed-demoning Texans intent upon murdering me at 60 m.p.h.

I was only trying to get to work on time and was following my routine of circling under an overpass to get onto the loop that runs through town (what there is of it).  My lane has the right of way, and the people exiting directly off the overpass from the opposite direction are supposed to yield.  Well, apparently Redneck in the White Pickup Truck didn’t think so because he came barreling off the overpass, slowed down briefly when he glanced in my direction, waited until I’d started speeding up to take my proper right-of-way place, then floored the accelerator and began immediately moving into my lane without even looking at the girl steering madly and defensively onto the very-rocky shoulder of the road.  I sat there while several cars passed before I could get back onto the access road then onto the loop, all the while watching Redneck in the White Pickup Truck blazing a lightspeed-breaking trail toward the Austin exit.  During the final ten or so minutes of my journey work-ward I was praying madly that there would be no flat tires by the time I hike the six miles from our building back out to my car come 4:53. 

Upon nearly reaching work, a person in the lane to my left swerved over directly in front of me at the last possible second before collision should be sounded (aoooooga, aooooga!).  By now I was CONVINCED of my impending death and overly-cautiously made my way up the hill, into the parking lot, and into an empty space the aforementioned six miles from my building’s entrance.  Braving the evil-plotting starlings collaborating on a power line, pockmarks, cracks, and three-foot-deep potholes scattered o’er the aging asphalt, I successfully maneuvered myself inside only to nearly collide with ten people before reaching the elevators…and we’re not talking crowded halls, people, we’re talking folks who walk as skillfully as they drive!  You practically need a turn signal (not that anyone here uses them) to get around corners without running into nursing students in deep conversation about when their next salon appointment is (and they all have the same friggin’ hairstyle anyway), guys pushing AND pulling huge carts of heaven knows what manner of smelliness, patients being taken to and from wards on giant wheeled beds (I feel so sorry for these people!  I would hate for everybody we passed to see me in such a state), guys of dubious employment staring you up and down like you were a pile of hot wings covered in Cowboys season tickets, and women of dubious employment staring you up and down for I don’t know WHAT reason.  Did I forget to check my nose for boogers??

I fully expect to walk outside this afternoon and be offed by a Smart car.

Subconscious April is a big floozie!

Wicked interpretation of me

Hooker.  Whore.  Prostitute.  Harlot.  Lady of the Evening.  Wanton hussy!!  These appellations could all be applied to my subconscious REM behavior over the last few days.  Remember the wonderful night spent with Dream Guy only 48 hours ago?  Yes?  Well, last night Subconscious April got all kissy with it with a completely different dude!  The shame!  Granted, it made more sense that I'd spend theoretical romantic time with this guy.  Really, I mean there's history and everything, but if this behavior was translated into real life?  Let's just say I'd have had a red letter "A" on my high school letter jacket instead of the gaudy orange "B" that glared its way through the hallowed halls of Buckholts ISD. 

Where am I going with this post?  I've not the slightest clue, but going I am.  It probably stems from inner frustrations regarding men and relationships in general...not just my previous men or my previous relationships.  Methinks these sleepful thoughts are inspired by the messed-upness of ALL relationships I've watched happen in the past 36 years.  Overall it hasn't been pretty.  So many people who were so amazing together just let it all fall apart, and why?  Reasons varied, but each individual firmly believed that their argument and their point of view was the last and only word to be said on the subject. 

But common sense tells us that such is never the case.  There are always at least two sides to each argument, oftentimes even MORE than two sides (which is why they call it a "meat and three"...never mind).  It confounds me how frequently open communication eludes us as human beings, how constantly we feel the desperate need to be "right" to the extent that we must "win" the argument at any cost.  Even more rare than open communication is the existence of solidly defined right and wrong, black and white.  Sure, some things are universally accepted as being right or wrong...like killing.  Killing is bad.  It messes with the good of everybody and everything on multiple levels.  And Jar-Jar Binks...and Speedos.

Of course, sometimes communication is impossible, and who's right of wrong doesn't even enter into the scenario.  Sometimes one person wants to have a genuine, meaningful discussion, but the other person sincerely does not.  I accept this as another fact of reality conveniently left out of my unhelpfully-abridged Handbook of Life.  It sucks, and I don't understand being willing to lose something special because you don't wish to discuss problem issues...but I accept it.  It is in those instances that I want to repeatedly smack the unwilling talker with my Handbook of Life until they couldn't speak even if they DID want to.  How could it possibly be "the right thing" to simply ASSUME you know things can't be fixed?  Wouldn't it bring about more long-term peace for all concerned to verbally and mutually explore each 'n every avenue thoroughly before tossing the towel out with the bathwater?  Wait a minute...

So talk, people.  If you have a great relationship with someone--be it romantic, platonic, or even business in nature--TALK the problems out lest the bad permanently replace the good.  Starting over with that cliche-ful clean slate is sometimes necessary, yes.  There truly are situations that no amount of discussion can fix, but you've got to try...WE'VE got to try. 

Besides, in this Texas heat, any greener grass you think you might see will be all crispy and brown once you get to the other side anyway LOL

What the world DOESN'T look like in Texas!  This is actually Tennessee ;-)

Math: an even bigger WHY??

I became an English major for a reason.  Like waterbugs, I find all things mathematical to be troubling, stressful, and for most areas of my life, inapplicable.  Of course addition, subtraction, multiplication, division...these processes may be applied helpfully to daily life.  But graphing linear equations?  Working with logarithms, sines, and cosines?  Finding the value of f(g(x)?  Appolonius, Pythagoras, and Descartes can all go to hades, as far as I'm concerned...do not pass purgatorial "go," do not collect your $200 refund from that Charon guy.


My college degree is almost complete.  As of May 2012 I shall be the proud possesser of a Bachelor of English degree, but in order to progress to that illustrious point, a college algebra course must be tackled and passed.  In order to progress to that hateful point, a math placement test must be endured and passed.  This test is scheduled for Wednesday, June 29th.  I've been glued to math.com, am reviewing a basic college math textbook, and up to a point I'm doing grandly.  But once you get to the point in math where there are so many more letters in the mix than numbers--even to the extent that you could start punctuating each equation--you have a serious problem!  Letters are for making words: words that tell a story, words that convey a feeling, words that describe a moment in time that has NOTHING to do with the slope of x and y.  I already know the stupid line is sloped.  It's going uphill.  Isn't that what a slope typically does?


The inanity of this particular placement test, however, arises from it being classified as an indicator of a student's readiness to take college algebra.  Okay.  I get that.  Let me prove to you that I can work with decimals and percentages, fractions, all manner of factoring, finding square roots, finding circumference and area of geometric shapes, solving algebraic equations, and even getting a little crazy with the changeable "greater than or equal to" signage.  But why do you have advanced college algebra PLUS trigonometry problems on a test to see if you're ready to take advanced college algebra and trigonometry for the first time?  If I already knew how to do this stuff, why the crap would I need the class?


Again, I became an English major for a reason.

Buckholts Unexplained Researching the Paranormal Episode 1: Full Transcript

Lead Investigator, Amanda: Misty shadows crossing the train tracks at midnight…mysterious lights flickering in the old cotton gin when everybody knows it’s wheat-harvesting time…crop circles made with freshly-baled hay…two horses in town as opposed to just the one…a local crack dealer afraid to pawn his dubious wares after dark…what a minute, who wrote this intro?

Investigator-in-Training, Austin: I did…and Rubix Cube helped.

Investigator-in-Training, Rubix: *waves at the camera with a newly-opened can of beer*

Amanda: Rubix Cube?  Seriously?  Sounds like a quintessential 80s rap star…for nerds!  No.  Lose the “Cube.” 

Austin: *smacks Rubix with a beer fresh from the cooler then pops it open* Yeah, not to impugn your intelligence, but how would you ever think outside the box if you worked inside a cube? *laughs uproariously*

Rubix: Betcha can’t spell that.

Austin:  What?

Rubix: “Impugn.”

Austin: Shut up.

Rubix: Anyway, that name was your idea.  Madame Lead Investigator Lady, I am pleased to announce that MY contribution to this online video series thingy…

Austin: Besides the beer!

Rubix: …besides the beer is the actual name of our investigative group *salutes with his beer hand slinging Bud Light on Austin*

Amanda: Wait, it’s here on the script somewhere, I think…what did you write this thing on anyway?

Austin: Old Cotton Festival cookbook. 

Rubix: That was rude.

Austin: I asked Grandma first!  Besides, it’s only one of them.  Next time we’ll just use empty Budweiser boxes.

Rubix: Your recycling dollars at work! *toasts his beer with Austin’s* Hey, we emptied this box already, didn’t we?

Austin: Hells yeah! *another toast*

Amanda: You can imagine my lack of surprise *continues looking through the script for their official group name*.  Anyway, I’ve got to know what to put on our t-shirts…oh, that’s cool: Buckholts Unexplained Researching the Paranormal, otherwise known as…B.U.R.P.??? 

*Austin and Rubix salute Amanda with two fresh beers, huge grins on their faces*

Austin: AND we have the t-shirts right here! *reaches for a plastic HEB bag inside the cooler, removes a shirt, and holds it up for her to see*

Rubix: Yeah, the kids did the lettering with stencils and Crayola markers!

Amanda: *speechlessly aghast*

Rubix: Don’t worry, they weren’t the washable kind.

Amanda: *sighs* Fine, they’ll do for the moment.  Now let’s get started.  You’re not going to investigate with beer in hand, are you? 

Austin: Why not?  The ghosts won’t be offended.

Rubix: What if they’re Baptist ghosts? *more uproarious laughter betwixt the two guys…giggles also heard from the camera person*

Amanda: Fine, keep the beers!  I don’t friggin’ care as long as we can just…get…started!  Are we ready to record then?  *the sound of a pistol cocking is heard* You’ve got to be kidding me.  Austin?  If there ARE any ghosts, I think they’re already kinda dead!

Austin: Oh, I wasn’t going to kill them…just might need to wound them a bit.

Amanda: I’m more afraid of you than I am of them.

Rubix: Hey, that’s what my mama always said!  No wait…she was talking about the clowns being more afraid of me than I was of…never mind.

Amanda: Okay, ready on camera?  Great.  Three, two, one, and action!  Here we are in scenic downtown Buckholts, TX at the local SPJST Hall.  For those of you who don’t know what an SPJST Hall is, I can’t explain it because the letters stand for Czech words that I couldn’t pronounce even if I DID know what they were.  Suffice it to say, this was once the local hot spot for dances, dinners, and all manner of gatherings in general.  After the original hall was burned down in 1934 by bank robbers attempting to distract the town’s population from their nefarious activities, big musical names of yesteryear including Bob Wills and Ernest Tubb performed in this replacement hall.  Recently our office has received reports of strange sounds and conversations coming from inside the structure while no one was there.  Flickering lights have been seen from inside the building, possibly a result of residual energy left from the fire set so long ago. 

SPJST HALL, BUCKHOLTS, TX

Austin: *in his best Vincent Price voice* It was a dark and stormy night…!”

Amanda: *gives Austin a dirty look then continues* Could the restless, creative souls of bygone days still be entertaining ghostly crowds from inside this Hall of Hedonism…Hedonism?? 

Rubix: Austin was playing with the thesaurus again.  You know, you really should read the instructions before operating heavy vocabulary.

Austin: I used it appropriately…thank you very much! *cocks the pistol* 

Amanda: And put that damn pistol away!  We’re going inside now to…ssshhh!

Austin: You were the one talking.

Amanda: *whispers* I know!  But ssshhh!  I swear I just heard voices whispering in there.

Rubix: I did too!  And look up there! *orangeish light flickers from a window*  Let’s get inside and see!  Is there enough battery power left on the camera? *camera nods an affirmative*

Amanda: Okay, stay calm.  Austin, go first…camera person, go behind him *camera person makes a remark in the Charlie Brown teacher voice*  We’ll follow. 

Austin: Gotcha *reaches once again for his pistol and cocks it* Here I go…turning the knob…NOW! *door opens to the flickering lights* Umm…I think we now know where the crack dealer pawns his dubious wares after dark.

Rubix: Y’all run!  *sound of rapidly retreating footsteps are heard as the camera crashes to the ground*

TUNE IN NEXT WEEK WHEN B.U.R.P. HOLDS ITS FIRST FUND-RAISING BAKE SALE TO PAY FOR AUSTIN’S BAIL…WE APPARENTLY INTERRUPTED A STAKE-OUT, AND SINCE AUSTIN WAS CARRYING CONCEALED…YEAH.

ALSO TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT WHAT “SPJST” MEANS IN CZECH AND ENGLISH…BECAUSE WE’RE JUST MULTI-CULTURAL THAT WAY!