I was listening in on a conversation with a guy who owned a truck which he had installed a 27 inch lift kit on. The floor boards were about to my shoulders. It was rediculous. He commented on how he got alot of attention from the police, how little his gas milage was and how many times it had been broken into. He talked about how much it cost him to get everything the way he wanted it.

When he was asked if he enjoyed the off roading he got to do, he said, "Oh, I haven't done any. I'm afraid I might break something."

What the . . . ! That is alot of hassel and exspence to go to for someone too afraid to use the equipment he's installed.

I don't even know what to call that, overblown consumerism, a need to grow up, or at least enjoy your toys.

I don't get it. I'm not a collector. I get something, a collector's edition, I have it out of the box in three seconds. I don 't want to collect it, I want to play with it. I want to enjoy it. Got a pretty candle, burn it. Beautiful soap, wash with it. A truck that will bounce all over creation, drive the crap out of it, go home and assess the damage.

That's how to live.

The other day I saw a cowboy running down the highway shoulder. He was running fast like he was chasing something, or something was chasing him. But there wasn't.

Sometimes I just don't get Texas.

Independence day 2003: I had a pretty darn good day. I got up at 9:30, opened a pina colada wine cooler and enjoyed my first taste of the day. I took a shower and scraped off all the hair from the offensive parts of my body. I then ironed a periwinkle, strapless, floor length formal (crinoline included) gown. I put on the dress, called my friend, agreed to attend a lunch party with her, and warned her of my full intent to wear the formal all day as part of my Independence day celebration. She said it was a good idea, she would wear a formal as well.

Before she came I had time to finish my pina colada and run to Walmart for a hat to complete the outfit.

The lunch party consisted of a set of Iranian twins, Amir and his brother Amir, (no joke) and their father who was visiting from Iran. (Interesting to me was the fact that their father had been the third highest commander for the Iranian Navy before the Revolution) two Indian fellows (one I could not understand for the life of me, and the other, named Robin Alex. That was actually his given name, he was born in India, raised in Bahrain and had a perfect American accent.) my friend Catherine, who told us all how to pronounce her Chinese name correctly Yan He: (Yawn Hu(h) Not Yan Hee, never Yan Hee, just call her Cathy and don’t worry about it any more.) the international students minister of First Baptist Church Arlington, and me.

Amir and Amir declared themselves Agnostic, their father Muslim and the rest of the group claimed Christ. We discussed everything from fire works to Iranian poets. We talked about Sunnis, Shi’ites, Sufis and Ismiles. Amir-1 said the Sufi’s wrote great poetry to God, but he really thought that it was opium induced dancing and love poems about women they couldn’t have.

His brother Amir-2 said he heard that mystics could do many strange things, even stop a train with their eyes, (but, oh, how tired his eyes must be when he had finished.)

I think the Indian boy I couldn’t understand said he had once seen a holy man charm a rope out of a basket as if it were a snake. Or maybe it was a snake that looked like a rope . . .honestly every sentence that came out his mouth sounded like one very long, strongly accented word.

I think the best bit of conversation was this exchange:
The Iranian father (Baba) said, “Yes, many things were very different in Iran before the Revolution, it all changed with Khomaini. Now the priests run the government and the people who should be running the government work in the bazaar.”
Amir-1: “Khomaini was a very bad man.”
Baba: “Yes he was bad.”
Catherine: “I hear about Khomaini a lot, but who was he, what did he do?”
Amir-2: “Khomaini was very terrible, if there is a hell, he is there. He is burning at the very bottom, in the fire, he is the charcoal that burns other people in hell, he was the worst man.”

Now that is serious! Not since Dante of Judas have I heard of such things said about anybody dead or alive. “He is the charcoal that burns other people in hell.” I’ll have to remember that. I can only imagine who well the curses and insults would have come off in Farsi if they were that impressive in his second language.

The next party was a pool/cook out affair. I was not half impressed with the conversations which were by a bunch of adult missionary kids who were newly married, or about to be married or really wanted to get married and about their dogs and/or babies and going to church. (“Gag!” I mean, “cough, cough, excuse me, I need to leave this conversation now.”)

I had changed into my swim suit before most of the guest had arrived so they missed out on the formal, but I put it back on before we left and walked out in all my glory, floppy white hat and all, everyone looked, no one spoke. I smiled graciously, but didn’t say a word. I can only imagine what might have been going through their tiny little mk minds.

At the third party of the day we shot off fire works for an hour or so, I came away with only one small hole burned in my dress near the hem.

I’d have to say that dress was well worth my $4.00 investment at Thriftown.