Cold. Bad economy. Cowboys. Rangers...we need something, don't we?

Dog days: n pl 1: the period between early July and early September when the hot sultry weather of summer usually occurs in the northern hemisphere. 2. Period of stagnation or inactivity. (Thank you, Mr. Webster.)

That's what I'm talking about! An easy day -a dog day. Right?

Driving through west Texas on one of those long forgotten nice days, I pass a Dairy Queen equipped with this new fangled Star Trek tractor beam thingy that sucks cars off the highway. Jerked the wheel right out of my hands, it did.

As I walk in the front door and pause a minute to soak up some conditioned air, I glance at a handwritten sign hung crooked on the community cork board.

Reward

Lost brown and white mutt

Answers to name of Lucky

Small knot on right side of head

Call 325-555-1234

A dog named Lucky sporting a knot on his head? Hmmm.

Then there’s Uncle Clifford dog. When they tell stories about the dog, no one can remember its name but I’m sure it’s something equally as interesting as Lucky. Has to be because, as the story goes, Lucky Jr. was born without any back legs. When it was time to go, someone would pick the dog up by the tail and wheelbarrow him down the road. A Schwarzenegger tail muscle, no doubt. Probably a fairly tough nose, too.

And then there’s Muggins.

He was my dog when I was about eight or nine. My parents owned a small cabin about three hours from our house in the city and Muggins loved going to the cabin. Sometimes my mother would spirit him away for a quick Friday night to Sunday afternoon trip…just the two of them.

One winter evening while making the trip, mom decides stop at a McD’s drive-thru. It was bitterly cold out that night and begging for a hot sandwich with a steaming cup of coffee. As she rolls down the window to pay the cashier, the aroma off the grill hurries into the car. Mom gets her order, cranks the window shut and slowly slides forward in the snow.

Click, click, click.

Your biggest fear on any extended car trip in the middle of winter shivers around the “what is that sound?” scare. Mom slows the car to listen and see if she can figure out this terrible sound. Was it the brakes? The transmission? Front end issues?

If you haven’t guessed already, it was Muggins’ paws.

His snout was stuck in the window (grill aromas, right?) and his little paws were just a-flailin’ away on the glass, trying to pull himself out of the window.

So, dog days or tough times? I think it’s all point of view. Lucky was smart enough to run away, Stumpy was smart enough to get chauffeured around, and Muggins got half a hamburger and that’s 100% more than he was going to get before the window affair.

For these guys, no matter how bad the cards are in a particular hand, they never end up worse than even for the day, for one reason. Day always ends with a long, cool drink of water, a new comfortable position on a couch, a porch, or a rug and then the final, “days over” sigh.

So what’s the moral here?

Well who knows, Batman, but it appears to involve Dairy Queen, McDonald’s and someone grabbing my tail. I’m up for most of that.

What a great day Tuesday turned out to be; the Inauguration of our 44^th President was historical, exciting, and I have to admit I was puffed up with pride the whole day. I don’t care for a fair amount of the man’s politics, but we got something right in my lifetime and that’s a good deal.

Can you imagine what today was like for him? Certainly he walked in with a game plan and he’s been in the loop for quite some time, but today was the day to get going and what a list that must have been!

Thing is, he doesn’t have a lot of easy choices. On his agenda:

1. What to do in the Middle East.

2. How much more Monopoly money to print up to goose the economy.

3. Figure out whose head to crack amongst the idiots who’ve pocketed billions and aren’t doing what they’re supposed to do.

4. Find a way to see if he can end Rick Warren’s filibuster, which I think is still going. (Holy smokes! I thought he was gonna jump in Numbers for a minute there and start banging out the genealogy.)

5. Delicately letting our enemies and two friends around the world know that everyone gets a second chance, but do that without appearing too much of a hawk or a dove.

Tough first day, that’s for sure and probably a tough four years.

Oddly enough I can understand exactly what he’s going through. Yes, it seems hard to fathom but let me explain.

Tonight I’m at Wally’s getting some stuff and the missus calls, saying, “Get some All Natural ice cream.” She’s on this kick – and it’s a good kick, I must say, but a kick nonetheless – with ALL NATURAL, NO HORMONES, etc, etc. They have ice cream there that’s cream, sugar, milk and cocoa and nothing else. Pretty good stuff.

Two minutes later I get a text from my daughters. Three words: “Get Moose Tracks.”

Do you know about this ice cream? Oh my. I'm convinced when I get to heaven Moose Tracks will be the first thing I see, period. Then there’s Extreme Moose Tracks and even in simply writing those words, I have to stop and weep for a sec. 

OK.

Well, sir, there’s my dilemma and the level upon which me and my new Prez both sit.

The President of the United States must be all things to all men and women, at all times. As a man, I am compelled to keep my wife happy and I’m required to fall constant and consistent victim to my daughter’s moans of great pain whenever they ask me for something. What are the answers?

President O, you quoted Scripture on Tuesday, you invoked memories of past Presidential speeches, ideas, and focus. I give you one more great quote to remember.

 “If momma ain’t happy…” You know the rest.

Means a half gallon of all natural ice cream sits in my freezer is what that means. To heck with the whining in my ears, I’m gonna do the smart thing. I don’t know if it will help you, but there’s an application you can make, I’m sure.

“If you’ve never been in Starbucks…” may be a phrase as close to silly as one could snuggle, don’t you think? We’ve all either ordered, been with someone who ordered, or tried to order a cuppa joe at Starbucks – I’d put a fiver on it.

A man’s lifetime includes a handful of happenings that define his culture, and this Monster Coffee Company from the farmer’s market section of Seattle may rank one or two on the list for me, trailing only that last Cowboy/Eagle game. (Excuse me while I projectile vomit. Okay, I’m back.) I’m not a Starbucks junkie and really only go there when the missus says she needs a Hazelnut something before she goes postal, but the place defines the culture you and I live in, no doubt.

So if we all have an idea what goes down when the young person at the cash register (the registerista?) asks, “Can I help you?” then we all know there’s a different way to habla at Seattle’s gift to the world. 

For instance, there’s a Triple Grande Mocha. Know what that is? It’s a medium-sized espresso and chocolate drink with an extra shot of espresso. Maybe. I asked the missus, “Say, good-lookin’, what’s a Triple Grande Mocha?”

Twenty minutes later, “…so Kevin, it kinda depends on how the barista sets the Hecktor Vector Schmector on the espresso machine; that is to say, if he or she runs it at 35.045 PSI – corrected to sea level of course – it produces either 1.2 grams of white foamy goodness or 1.2 grams of just hot milk.” 

I blinked and made a squeaking sound.

“It’s simple, husband. A tall is the smallest size, and though I prefer the venti or large size when I order a Caramel Ray Liotta, you can still ask them to...”

It’s a whole different vocabulary and you have to wonder about the future. What if, thirty years from now, cities are trying to pass Starspeak Only laws? Might we have to understand things like…

 “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, when it comes to math and science, your son is Quad, Extra Hot and Double Blended; when it comes to reading and English…well, to be honest…he’s a datgum Two Pump Hazelnut.”

Will the announcer’s whisper hurry out of her mouth like a hiss of steam, “Our last diver needs to score a 9.6 on this dive, a very difficult Quarter Soy, half pack Sweet and Low, light extra foam maneuver. Here she goes…”

Will Starspeak slip into home decor? “I would have painted it a more vibrant color, you know? Looks kinda One Pump Sugar free Vanilla now that I see the whole room.”

“Gosh when I was 23, I could drink beer all night and still I looked like a Skinny Soy Latte. Now if I even pick up a bag of chips, I plump up to a Venti, Thick, Heavy Whipping Cream Breve.”

If you tell someone you want Iced Quad Venti, you'll be saying, “I'll come at you like a spider monkey, Chip.”

*Shiver* I better get up to speed…it’ll be soon enough the doctor will say, “Okay, Kevin, let’s have a look at the old frappuccino.” I’d better know what to show.

In honor of all our still fresh NY resolutions, I offer you the overview of one man's first steps in quitting smoking. I quit in the 90's, started again and then in 2000 quit for good. Nine years ago now, baby. Not one single puff since. It went like this...

I quit a few years ago, started up again, and have been scared to quit -- afraid of failing for good, I guess -- if you can imagine such a thing. Now, I'm ready to do it for good. I think.

Besides the obvious benefits, there is one other. The missus and I operated under this uneasy truce; she hated me starting up again, as well she should.

"Kevin, are you stupid?" she asked the day she found me out.

I just muttered.

Finally, she wouldn't bring it up, and I wouldn't do it anywhere around her or the house. Sort of like gays in the military, don't ask, don't tell, and all. She knew I was, and I knew that she knew I was, yet I felt compelled to hide it. The smoking I mean. Never been the other thing. Curious about it, I think I'd be good at it, but it's not for me. The. . . uh. . . military, I mean. Anyway, I decided to quit. Here's my account of the toughest days, the first three.

Jan 10, 2000 - I decide the quit day is 24 January. That's the thing to do, pick a day somewhat in the future, and make it your quit day. I tell everyone, post a note on a bulletin board at work, and prepare to enjoy two weeks of guilt free smoking. 'Cause I'm quitting, see?  So everyone is either supportive, or gunning for me to screw up. Either way is very motivating and for the first time in three years, no one is bugging me to quit. Because I am.

Jan 23. Day before quit day. Today, I will smoke four hundred eighty-six cigarettes and by bedtime, smoke will be billowing out my eyelids. I'll sound like Wolfman Jack. I'm ready, though. I've prepared myself, burned all my bridges, and tomorrow I wake up a non-smoker. I drift off to sleep.

Jan 24. Ahhh! #$%*! What did I do? Why today? Tomorrow would have been a much better day. Ahhh!#$&*!

 (Driving to work) Okay, okay, I can handle this. Almost there. Ah, the traffic signal at Park and Preston. The light I always catch red. Ha-ha. No matter, I always seem to catch this light red. I always light a...Ahhh! #$%*! 

 (Driving home) It was okay. Operating on adrenaline, most anything is possible.

Jan 25. Really, I mean really, craving. Just time for a small breakfast -- eggs, bacon, grits, hash browns, biscuits, gravy, oatmeal, waffles. . . .

Drive into the gas station, and whip past this slow idiot ("Hey, buddy, it's the little skinny pedal on your right!) and up to the pump. I choose the pay at the pump option, and then go to pay inside. Just because I can. Too bad.

"Sir, you want all three kinds of Zingers?"

"If that's okay with you? Lemme know, and I'll put some back. I thought the idea was..."

"Oh, that's right, you quit today, right?"

I just growl.

Lunch time, chicken fried steak, mashed, corn, rolls, salad, and a chocolate shake. Boy, hadn't a shake in a long time. Yes, the good things in life. All told, this is going okay. No troubling side effects -hey pass me that piece of pizza please, no, the big piece - and ask around: have I been grouchy today?

Jan 26. Takes three days for the nicotine to leave your system, and then it's all psychological after that. I've been drinking so much water (helps, supposedly), folks must think I'm seven months pregnant I'm running for the john so much.

Time to head home. The drive is great ("Up yours, #@$%*!"). I pull in my drive, just missing the cute little birdie. Miss him when I back up, too, the quick little  #@$%*! Growls and spittle flow out of my mouth, and I make for the front door. If I can just. . . . and then I hear it.

Fire and brimstone, thunder and that trumpeting noise. I ease in the door and find the kids cowering in a corner.

"What's wrong?" I ask the missus. She's sitting on the chair, wiggling her foot in that way people do when they're angry, and smoke is rising off her head.

”It's called 'pre,' okay, as in before, and if you value your life . . . " and the rest is indecipherable as her head spins round and round. Godzilla and Rodan, the two of us.

A few hours later, with me on day three, jamming cookies in my mouth, and her, just before day one, the conversation goes like this:

 (You know, I can't even write it, not even with punctuation. Think for a minute; me on three, her on pre. . .does the word Armageddon paint a #@$%*! picture for you?)

Jan 30. On vacation. It's easy now, being on vacation. Everything is easy on vacation.

So, lesson here is quitting smoking involves lots of food, unbridled cussing, and folks will put up with any behavior you can dish out -- at least for a time.

You should quit more often.