Just Pixels

Saturday morning found the army band traveling northwest from Oklahoma City toward a seemingly unworthy destination. But when we arrived in Ames (pop. 200), the charm of the annual Ames Day Parade overpowered the feeling of metropolitan inconsequence. And the literal two-block parade seemed longer when viewed through a rural lens.

It's good to be in the small places sometimes. I wouldn't pack up my homestead and relocate to a place such as this, but I do like a bushel of elements that the prairie life has to offer. Namely the sense of community and the brotherhood of belonging. The wheaty embraces and the firm and genuine okra handshakes. The fierce friendliness and the desire to help even a stranger beyond what's asked. These are the colors of the country life. At least the country life as I mildly understand it. Two cheers for a deliberate style of life.

So here's a brief look into a communally significant happening among fiercely proud Oklahomans.




Here we are, rip-roaring down the parade route. At this moment we were probably half-way through our first song — the first song of two. Not a long slog. The trombones are always on the front row. Because we're hott and also so we don't kill anyone with our motoring slides. We can be clumsy...






Enthusiastic Ames patron visually telling me about the fireworks show that would happen in the evening. The pooch's name is Mel Gibson.




Sweet country goodness! After the parade we were fed handsomely by the local American Legion Post.


scenes while rolling out of town.




Country mile.




All in a day's work. Army Strong, Sgt. Rush, Army Strong.

I trust by now you've all met Milt. And if not, then you will now. Say hello to the man in the picture above. He came into my life a confused and provocatively dressed youth. Full of wonder. See him in his formative years here.

As far as alter egos go, I'd say Milt has been good for me. Just cool enough to make me feel important, but not too popular that it's annoying. No supermarket autograph maulings. No no.

But this summer it occurred to me that what I have in Milt, and namely his stunning threads, is just too special to keep to myself. It would be wrong for me to hoard it. Unethical. So. I did some talking to the sun. And said I didn't like the way he got things done. And I took Milt public and incorporated. Thus, Milton Inc. took to the skies, and along with it, a pictorial brand name that is sweeping the nations.

Some close friends bought into the vision. And the results? I think you'll find them most agreeable. So, I just have one charge for you all. Please, take this jacket. Take it to the corners of the globe and back again. And know that when you put it on, you represent a legacy of cutting-edge genre photography that is steeped in tradition.

I sincerely believe that deep down, there's a little bit of plaid polyester in each of us. And it's screaming to be let out. So please. Open the door. And let it out.

This is my charge. Thank you.


Meet Mildred. She did France this summer. Thanks for sharing, Mildred. Your contribution has been invaluable. Surely you won't be forgotten.


Mildred also saw Rome. Good show!


And now, I introduce Milt-Yao, a bless'ed brother. Milt-Yao walked The Great Wall this very month. Certainly a bulwark of artistic expression.


Curiously, Milt-Yao has a special accomplice, Mirabel. I'll let Mr. Yao explain the finer details of their personal contract, but this is certainly an edgy and riveting contribution to the genre. Well done, Mirabel.


And lastly, I give you an historic setting of Emperor Qin's Terra Cotta Warriors. A photographical masterpiece of such earthy magnitude only a handful have seen! Most humble thanks for what you've given us with this installment, Milt-Yao.

So who's next? The chapters are waiting to be written. And I hope you'll take part too.

For no particular reason and in no specific order:

H-E Double Hockey Stick
At Loggerheads
Be there with bells on
Tore up from the floor up
A tisket, A tasket
Oh, Gordon Bennett!
Taken to the woodshed
Knackered
Thrown under the bus
I don't give a Rat's
Jaw Jacking
Kicked to the curb
Minging
Got your Goat
Coming for your children (in the night)
Chatty Kathy
Six Ways from Sunday
Hung out to Dry
Ass over Teakettle
Oh Moses, smell the roses

Do you have any favorites?

Right kick.


Toothy assault.

From the leafed fruit factory in the back yard.

Saw these straw marshmallows resting quietly near Franklin and east 24th on my way home from OKC and army make-up drill. I had the camera with me so I fancied a few snaps.






Look carefully and you'll notice an intimidating stance. Just part of the local war on feedgrass terror. A lot of bad cowhands out there...

Last Monday I had nose surgery. Contrary to some nasty rumors, I assure you the procedure was entirely non-cosmetic in purpose. I got stuck with a needle, everything went black and the doc fixed my deviated septum so I can breathe better.

Despite being laid up for most of last week, icing my schnoz (see picture) and pumping water up my blood-clot strewn sinuses, I have to say I can breathe way better now (and I'm not fully recovered). It's nice to lie down and respirate freely out the nose. I didn't used to do this. And at the break of dawn, there's been no drool upon the pillow. I have to think this is a good improvement.

So here's to cleaning out the bloody-nose clots of life, and straightening septums for the betterment of society. Cause hey, we all deserve a fresh breath of air.

Move over, Beckham.


Older brother can kick while holding a popsicle.


Free throw. We're multi-talented here. Molly is uninterested on the left.


Molly greeting Daddy with a kiss. My dad got home today from New Orleans where he's been for the last three months working for The Man. Basically, State Farm is trying to finalize what they owe and what they don't to Hurricane Katrina peeps. My dad sifted through piles of fraudulent claims alongside handfuls of credible ones. He said lawyers in NOLA will roam about speaking in CHURCHES and promise to get people money in court for their property losses. That's so shady.

But anyway, welcome back to the "dry" heat, Pa. Glad to have you home.

Tasha on the afternoon installment of the walk around the field.


Abby "Tortuga" Stuart. Lately she's been catching as many as two turtles per outing. It seems we've stumbled upon her special doggie powers.


Buzz.


Ribbit.

Lately we've been going out to Farmer John's in east Norman to get fresh milk and eggs. All very good. Here's what life's like at Farmer John's.

Got this in the mail yesterday and there's no going back. Most excellent.

for more info on Costa Rica's tallest volcano.

I've always wanted to do this from a young age. I can't really explain why. So, today was the day. Sadly, the event proved less emotionally fulfilling and more painful than anticipated (see photos and explanation below). Tami and Mama Stu documented. Gracias. And if anyone is interested in similar ramping pursuits, talk to me first. I have a lot of notes on what not to do.

The video:




Assembling the ramping apparatus. Structural integrity was sketchy, but it held firm in the time of need.


Jump No. 1. I rode the bike all the way into the water. Bad idea. Front tire stopped on impact and I faceplanted the surface HARD. You gotta let go of the bike. It's priority one.


Jump No. 2. Again, I didn't release the bike. Very foolish. I was too scared of landing on it. The end result? Face plant. Again. And HARDER this time. On face impact, I turned my head to lessen the blow. Bad idea. It basically caused a neck buster and all the energy of the rushing water slapped my neck. Suck.


Into the pond on Jump 2. Notice foolishly turned head. If you're gonna stay on the bike you gotta pull up hard on the handle bars. The back tire has to hit water first, people. Anything else is faceplant central. No lie.


Recovering after Jump 2 (the last one at that). I got really dizzy when exiting the water. I nearly passed out. And my vision went all white with spots for a while (presumably because I hit my neck). Kinda frightening for a few moments though. And I won't be ramping again soon. Currently my neck is still swollen, but morale is high. At least I tried, ya know? And I think that's worth an A for effort.

At the Little River Zoo in the kangaroo paddock.








Kicking it at Lake Dirtybird.


Post-swim sillyness. Oddly, Cal and I made similar faces. I can't explain this...

Figured with all the Oklahoma storms this summer I better have something to show for it. Took these from my living room picture window.

Bonus points if you can name this building on the OU campus.

I've been cleaning out my old room at the rents' house. Behold: my letter-jacket letter. You'll notice the three bars. These represent three years of getting a superior rating at state solo-and-ensemble competition for band. Nerd alert. I claim it. So yeah, the whole letter-jacket business isn't only for you jocks. We band geeks and orch dorks are representin' too.

I've always wondered why we're trained to drive a car with one foot. Currently, the venerable Dan Ling is learning to drive. Soon he will take his driving test and hopefully cross over into the numerous ranks of legal American vehicle operators.

And in Dan's training they told him to drive with one foot, just like they do everyone else. When I was 16 I thought driving with one lower apendage to be an oversight. And I still think it's totally silly and inefficient.

Barring unfortunate experiences, we've all got two feet. There are two pedals. I see a pattern. My grandpa drove with two, my dad does as well. I drove with my grandpa once just after getting my permit (c. June '99). "Now you'll want to drive with two feet," he said intuitively before we left the driveway. "It's just a better way to drive."

Well said, grandpa. Well said.

"But you'll get the pedals confused," say the masses. Ahhh...I don't think so. I've been behind the wheel for 8 years now and have never gotten them mixed up.
Gas = right foot. Brake = left foot. It's easy.

When you're eating dinner you don't get confused about where the proper silverware utensil goes. Fork = left hand (if you're like me), knife = right hand. It's easy. You don't suddenly lose control with your left hand and send your filet mignon flying into your neighbor's Pinot Noir. You just cut the steak and eat it.

So anyway. Which is it? Dos or uno? I really don't care. It's just interesting.

I drive with two feet.

NOTE: obviously this post pertains to automatic transmission vehicles. when i drive a standard tranny machine i use my right foot for gas AND brake. but that's just a note...