Category Archives: Mr. Boy

The dumbass generation

They wear shorts in the winter: knee-length basketball shorts for boys, crotch-hugging short-shorts for girls. Mr. Boy wears his daily, even when the temperature is in the 20s, which is about as cold as it usually gets in the daytime here in CenTexLand.

I think he’s deficient in common sense, but, then, so are the rest of the kids his age at his middle school. As near as I can tell most of them do it, too. Nevermind the Millennials. This is the dumbass generation.

Because, wandering the Google trail, I find it’s common across the country for kids his age to wear shorts in the winter, and it has been for several years now—even in Iowa, in the snow, and in New England when it’s 10 below.

Mr. B. swears he isn’t cold, swears he’s not trying to be a macho man. Has to be a fashion thing. I’m sure of it because when I drive him somewhere the first thing he does is turn up the car heater. So I know he’s really cold. How could he not be?

I turn the heat back down because I’ve already got on three layers and I’m not interested in sweating underneath them. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to call attention to the fact that, underneath the swagger, he’s freezing.

Things we miss about Israel

(A Reprise of a post from last year. Only a year? Seems longer. Or shorter.)

As Mrs. Charm, Mr. Boy and I return to Texas today (July 1, 2012) from our 10-day visit to Israel, here are some of the things (a few cribbed from this insider’s list) we’ll miss, in addition to my longtime blog-friend and host Snoopy-the-Goon and his family:

Diced cucumbers and tomatoes for breakfast.

An entire country slowly shutting down and settling into Shabbat around 4 pm, every Friday.

Seeing well-dressed young children on urban streets after dark, not always accompanied by an adult but apparently unafraid.

The generally friendly people who seldom failed to nod and say “Shalom,” very much like hearing “Howdy” in Texas.

The supply of beautiful women, with generous decolletage, neither of which ever seemed to run out.

Chez Stephanie B&B ski resort on the slopes of Mount Hermon where we stayed one night. Wonderfully cool temperatures after much lowland heat and humidity. It was late June, after all.

The brave young soldiers of the IDF, men and women, black and white, their automatic rifles slung over their shoulders at the mall and on the street. Even hitch-hiking, which they are no longer supposed to do.

Pretty sunsets and puffy clouds which easily rival the Texas ones.

The smell of eucalyptus at Bet She’an in the lower Galilee.

The steep, ancient rock path at Gamla which Mr. Boy’s encouragement (“just a little more way, dad”) finally got me up to the top without a heart attack.

The informal (“individual,” Snoopy says) way most Israelis dress most of the time.

Camel Crossing signs in the mountainous Negev Desert.

The thousands of prayer notes seeking help from G-d rolled up tightly and stuffed into crevices in the Kotel.

Ice cream on a stick for five shekels (about a dollar).

The funny way some of the lower-domination coins are larger than the higher-denomination ones.

The way drivers sat patiently, without honking, in an almost two-hour traffic jam in Jerusalem caused by forest fires whose smoke blanketed the main highway—but honked repeatedly in the hour-long jam caused by Russian PM Putin’s visit to the city.

Riding the Swiss cable car at Masada.

The hugely-generous buffet supper and breakfast at the Lot Hotel on the Dead Sea, and the colorful flowers in the courtyard at Gil’s Guest Rooms where we actually spent the night—even if the Wi-Fi had a poor signal and kept cutting out.

Those curious buttons on the tank tops of Israeli toilets: I finally figured out the difference between the two of them shortly before we left.

The round-abouts which make a lot more sense and are easier to use than the four-way stops in Texas, where no one can remember who is supposed to go first.

The juicy cucumbers you can eat like Popsicles without cutting them, one bite at a time.

Red-clay tile roofs on many residences and more all the time.

Roof-top water heaters which make a lot of sense in a country with so much sun. And would be smart in Central and South Texas, too.

Sparklers on restaurant birthday cakes.

Ireland bound

Mrs. Charm departs this morning for the airport and a day mostly in the air (Austin to Newark to Shannon) for eight days in Ireland with friends from Kansas City. They’ll be staying out in the country towns of Kenmare, Doolin and Dingle.

Mr. B. and I will be roughing it, eating Kosher hot dogs and cold cuts and him his favorite TV dinners and EZ Mac. In short, we’ll be glad when she returns, full of tales about the rainy, chilly Irish weather, no doubt. In September!

Did you know that Ireland shares the same latitude (53rd parallel north) as Lake Winnepeg in Canada? Also parts of Alaska? Yup. It is that many miles north. Hundreds of them north of Texas. No wonder so many Irish have emigrated to the US. They came to get warm.

Mr. Boy’s first date

I didn’t see her myself. Mrs. Charm had the duty and drove him to the movie plex, way the hell out in Cedar Park. He told me she was someone he met at the J and I figured it was one of the two NJGs he was palling with at Camp Tiyul.

Turned out that was a lie. A 13-year-old-boy’s glib lie (rather like our current president who also lies glibly even if he only acts like he’s thirteen). Told his mother he’d met her through school friends. Not likely I said. School has been out for centuries, in relative adolescent time.

More likely he met her on the Internet, at one of the computer game forums he frequents and finagled her phone number and used the Face feature on his iPhone to check her out. And didn’t want to admit any of it.

Mrs. C. said she was pretty (which figures, 13-year-old boys rarely settle for plain), and somewhat demur if you discount the short-shorts that stopped at her crotch. She was not, however, exposing her midriff and/or her pubescent breasts and she has braces like he does.

But it took some wrangling of Mrs. C., who always puts the nicest face on everything, to come up with the detail that the girl’s father (who was there at the theater with her mother to meet Mr. B. and whoever accompanied him, all very responsible parental behavior, for sure) had an armful of fading ink tattoos in a neutral geometric pattern from shoulder to wrist.

Oh, well. That’s reality these days. He did drive a Suburban and they have two other children, which is unusual in itself, having three children, I mean. Suburbans are pretty common “large” family transport hereabouts, though they are more expensive to operate and maintain than a van.

What movie did they see, you might ask? Wolverine. Yup. I figure it was his idea and she acquiesced. The way women do at first, when they’re trying to please you, before you get hooked and they suddenly turn bossy.

So now, with the resumption of school only five days away and her living in Georgetown (miles north of the rancho) and so going to a different school entirely, I give their relationship a month more to run. At the outside. Even with the Internet and the iPhone.

My first date? A secret assignation in the woods not far from home which my parents never knew about. And which I would have casually (i.e. glibly) denied if they had asked. We got there on our bikes and sat and chatted. And held hands. No iPhones, of course, but I did meet her in school and she did live just across the privacy fence in the back yard and it was very easy to climb. Repeatedly.

Axe versus Old Spice

Michael over at Cobb sums up (at Amazon) his shift away from Old Spice deodorant to something called Elixir Blue:

“My son uses Axe. He’s 18. I used to use Old Spice, [until] they changed their formula to go after the kids who use Axe. I don’t want to smell like some kid in a club. This [Elixir Blue] is the body wash for the mature sophisticated gentleman.”

I could say the same, except that Mr. Boy is 13 and I still use the “classic” version of Old Spice, partly out of habit (a habit established at 14 or so) and partly because, well, I just like the way it smells. But I will check out Elixir Blue. For my  money, Axe literally stinks. It smells like bad girly cologne.

Our thug culture

Making a rock star out of the Islamic Boston bomber on the cover of Rolling Stone is the latest example of our thug culture. Hip hop “music” with its lyrics about whores and killing niggas is another example. White teenage boys like Mr. B. soak up the cynical lyrics alongside their favorite headbanger noise.

Look how the alphabet stations and the big newspapers knowingly stuck with a photo of a baby-faced Trayvon at 8 12 years old, instead of the sullen, gold-grill 17-year-old who sold and smoked marijuana and stole jewelry.

Then they ignored Zimmerman’s mixed-race heritage and by uniquely dubbing him a “white-Hispanic” turned him into “an honorary white male steeped in white privilege.” All to elevate a young black thug into a pitable victim of pretend racism and give the Revs. Al and Jesse a new lease on “leadership.”

And you could go back even farther. How about the musical Guys & Dolls, with its catchy, hummable songs (Luck Be A Lady) celebrating the blood-soaked gangsters of the New York underworld and their hooking-up floozies? It almost won a Pulitzer for drama.

And don’t forget Bonnie & Clyde. They got a hit movie thirty years after their deaths for their small store (not banks, as their publicists claimed) robberies and killing at least nine cops.

It all may seem more vulgar and dishonest today than ever before, and maybe it is, but the squalid nonsense is old, very old in a culture that has always been much less than it pretended to be.

Via Phase Line Birnam Wood and Instapundit.

Weaponizing the tax code in California

The Boy Scouts (Mr. B. is a rising First Class) recently changed their policy to start admitting homosexual boys, even here in Texas. They still refuse, however, to allow homosexual adults as full or assistant scoutmasters.

So California—naturally it would be the Californicators—is raising the ante. The scouts must allow homosexuals in all capacities or lose their nonprofit status there. Also the California churches and synagogues that frequently sponsor their outfits (called troops) must do the same or suffer the same.

The way to fight this, it seems to me, would be to demand (via a good lawsuit if necessary) that it be enforced equally. Politicians don’t do equal very well, for all their pious prattle about it.

Force mosques, for instance, to allow homosexuals in all capacities. Since the goat-lovers are about the only fully-protected American minority these days, their howling might get this oppressive nonsense stopped. Might. Or it may take the Boy Scouts joining the business exodus out of California.