The Gazette is taking a break for a few days...or not. We'll see how it goes...or doesn't.

One of the artifacts I uncovered during my most recent archaeological dig (that's what I'm now calling the process of unpacking the final boxes from our move, because it's more accurate than you might think) was this little booklet, probably given to us as a wedding gift:

Sure, it's a generic title, but what do you expect for 35¢? And it is accurate, if not winsome.

The book is from those days long past, when cigarette companies advertised in bicycling magazines ("Nothing refreshes your century ride sag stop like a menthol Kool!") and beer came in cans that required pointy devices to open. The only color photos in the book are the covers, and I gotta tell you that cheaply-reproduced 1970s black-and-white photography is not really the optimal method for enhancing the appeal of food.

Anyway, this 48-page masterpiece tells you everything you'll ever want to know about cooking meat and meat-like substances (there's a section devoted to such delicacies as "Breaded Brains," "Heart Goulash," and "Tripe Patties").

It even has a section on preparing wild game. The title for this post comes the instructions on how "To Dress And Truss Rabbits," which precede a recipe for "Hassenpfeffer," otherwise known as "Sweet-Sour Rabbit." But it invites you to think even bigger when it comes to game, as you can choose among recipes for "Reindeer Pot Roast" and "Braised Moose" (the latter was a newlywed staple for those of us on limited college-student budgets; we'd all pitch in for a side of moose from the College Station Skaggs-Albertsons, freshly harvested from the Brazos River bottom, and gnaw on it for weeks).

Here's another handy tip, guaranteed to drive your friendly local nutritionist into hysterics: Rolled veal roast is delicious when larded with salt pork. Veal roasts not larded may be topped with bacon slices before roasting. That crackling sound you hear is the blood congealing in your arteries from simply reading those words.

And, finally, two words that will strike fear into any pre-teen child's soul: liver dumplings.

For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by reptiles. Growing up in rural West Texas, I had plenty of encounters with lizards and snakes, and cultivated an encyclopedic knowledge of the more notorious species. But I never graduated to collector status, and thus never encountered the types of characters and degree of passion documented in Bryan Christy's new book, The Lizard King: The True Crimes and Passions of the World's Greatest Reptile Smugglers.

Christy is a freelance writer who has been published in National Geographic and Playboy, and The Lizard King is a perfect showcase not only for his writing skills but also for his dogged research.

I don't want to reveal too much of the plot in this true story, but it's the true account of how some of the world's most audacious and successful merchants made millions of dollars through the illegal importation of reptiles and other creepy-crawlies into the United States, and how an understaffed, underfunded (and underappreciated) federal agency brought them to justice. While the book's billing as The Sopranos, with snakes is a tad over the top, the book does deliver some fascinating plot twists and insights into a unique niche of criminal activity that most of us never knew existed, much less spent any time contemplating.

The Lizard King is effective and entertaining on several levels, but not all of those levels will appeal to everyone. If, for example, your skin crawls at the mere thought of a snake or lizard, you might not fully appreciate some of the tidbits sprinkled throughout the book that serve to highlight either the reasons some collectors are so enamored of certain species, or the reasons others judge those same collectors to be borderline insane.

Some of those "tidbits" are delivered in rather uncomfortable detail, including a description of one Dr. Karl Patterson Schmidt, a respected herpetologist who in 1957 inadvertently and unfortunately mishandled a boomslang, an African rear-fanged species that's generally mild-mannered but carries highly potent hemotoxic venom (and in the world of herp collectors, such poisonous snakes are termed "hot"). He received a small bite on the thumb for his carelessness, at which point his scientific training took over and he started a diary of what he thought would be his brief illness and recovery. Thirty-six hours later, he was dead of multiple hemorrhages throughout his body.

On another level, this is a study of the "victimless" crime of reptile smuggling – except that in many cases there are victims. The author succeeds in doing what some might find unthinkable: making us feel sorry for many of the hundreds of thousands of illegally transported reptiles. While most of them are bound for dealers and collectors who, we hope, will care about them, others are used as luggage by drug smugglers, and their fate is something no living creatures should have to endure, regardless of the phobias they generate in many humans.

While Christy does his best to inject suspense and drama into the subject matter, in the end this is the story of criminals who are pretty far down on the food chain in terms of being dangers to society. That's not to excuse their illegal activities, nor to take away from the determination and ingenuity of those who brought them to justice. This is not a story that will make you quiver with anticipation of the next turn of events, but it shed a lot of light on the possible origins of those cute little turtles and sinister-looking snakes you see on your next visit to the pet store. And if you actually like the company of such critters, you'll probably learn some interesting things about them in the process.

The Lizard King will be introduced in hardcover on August 1 under the imprint of Twelve, a one-book-per-month boutique publishing arm of Hachette Book Group USA.

Technorati tags: The Lizard King | Bryan Christy

I generally steer clear of politics in this space, believing that however vague or illogical your reasons are for coming here, they probably don't include seeking out my ill-informed opinions on the burning issues of the day, and for that wisdom I commend you. But I will make an occasional exception when I feel there's wrong to be righted (that phrase is oozing with meaning, by the way) and that I might be able to play some minuscule role in doing so.

The rejection by the New York Times of John McCain's editorial presents precisely the scenario described above, and represents what I think is an inexcusable – albeit unsurprising – show of political partisanship by a media outlet that seems to be doing its dead-level best to make itself irrelevant. You've no doubt already heard the story of the rejection, so I won't repeat it here. What I will repeat is the text of McCain's editorial in its entirety (courtesy of The Drudge Report. If the Times won't print it, the Gazette will.

I'm in no position to dictate to my fellow bloggers what they should do with their pieces of the media pie, but I hope that others will elect to fill the vacuum left when a mainstream media source neglects its responsibility to present a complete picture of an issue that so strongly affects our nation.

The Wall Street Journal published an editorial addressing the sad state of the US energy situation.

The editorial goes on to describe how two Democratic Senators, both of whom want to be president, are calling for Congressional investigations to discover the causes, which, of course, they've already decided are directly related to oil company manipulation and economic deception.

Of course, the Wall Street Journal isn't buying it, and devotes the rest of the article to showing how all significant disruptions to the desired balance between supply and demand can be laid in large part at the feet of federal agencies and the shortsidedness of Congress itself.

OK, none of this constitutes new news, so why bring it up? The answer is that the editorial in question was published in July, 1975, thirty-three years ago*.

At that time, the senators in question were Adlai Stevenson and Henry "Scoop" Jackson. The supply and demand snafus were introduced by meddling rules promulgated by the FEA – the Federal Energy Administration (which set the bar for incompetence by a government agency with its performance during the Seventies).

Three-plus decades later, we (as in "Congress"; forgive me for implying that you are lumped in with that sad group) still haven't learned the lesson laid out quite clearly in the article:

In this case, the Journal was focusing specifically on the refining and distribution of gasoline, but the principles continue to be as relevant as they are ignored.

*I'd publish a link, but this editorial predates the World Wide Web by almost fifteen years. I found it in my "personal professional archives" (aka, "that big pile of junk that I keep transferring moving from one pile to another"). I have no idea why I decided that it was something I needed to keep; I'm pretty sure I never envisioned the concept of blogging back then.

I finally got around to looking for the list of the 600 stores to be closed by Starbucks, and found it on the company's press room web page. It's in PDF format, dated July 18, and you can download it here.

The good news is that while one store in El Paso is being closed, as is another in Plainview, West Texas otherwise escapes the shutdowns. Roswell, NM, is losing one store, no doubt due to the recent drop-off in alien traffic. And on a more selfish note, my next favorite non-local store - the one just off I-20 in Eastland - is also staying in business.

Feel free to leave a comment with your take on why $B put the Utah stores in Texas. Personally, I blame Warren Jeffs.

The Ballroom Dance Society's July shindig is a casual affair, the only one of the year where the guys toss their ties and the ladies shed the sequins and silk in favor of flouncy frippery. We also generally experience a change in music style, with bands who lean toward the rock and roll side of the musical family tree.

Last night was a good example, as The Shades provided the music, and quite frankly it was the best time we've had on a dance floor in recent memory. The band has been around forever, it seems, but inexplicably this was the first time we'd heard them. They provide a "CPR playlist" – country, pop, and rock, although not in that order – and they were in fine form at the Midland Country Club.

Apparently, so were we – that is, the collective group of ballroom dancers – as the band expressed their amazement at playing for an audience where (1) everybody danced, and (2) everybody knew how to dance. Making that observation once could have been chalked up to an attempt to butter up a well-paying audience in anticipation of a repeat invitation for a comfortable gig, but their kudos went well beyond that point. And if you think about it, there's probably not much better affirmation for a rock 'n roll than moving people to get up from a nice meal and hit the floor. So, the appreciation was mutual.

But it was an interesting scene. Most of the crowd was AARP-fodder, but that also meant that we grew up with the music the band was playing. That also meant that we brought a certain "maturity" to the dance styles, meaning that there were actual steps involved, unlike the arrhythmic shuffle-and-jerk I did when I was in high school. But that led to some occasional incongruities.

For example, one expertly-performed medley merged La Bamba with Twist and Shout, which in turn led us through a dancing safari combining rumba, East Coast Swing, and – what else – the twist. I had never considered it before, but a lot of the Beatles' music lends itself to Latin dance steps (although some of it also has rather maddening tempo changes that make it a challenge to dance to).

Our ballroom form quickly went by the wayside, though, when The Shades launched into a rendition of the Isley Brothers classic Shout, popularized in Animal House. It was a toga party in spirit, if not in fashion.

The best was saved for last, as the band ended with a high energy version of the Commodore's Brick House, followed by Wild Cherry's classic from which the post title is derived. I seriously doubt that when Wild Cherry recorded Play That Funky Music, they envisioned that three decades later a bunch of middle-aged hipster wannabes would be doing the cha-cha to their song (and mouthing all the words at the same time) in the middle of an upscale country club ballroom. Is this a great country, or what?

A tarantula was walking across the street in the general direction of our house as we headed out for our evening stroll with Abbye. It was making pretty good time and I figured it would be long gone by the time we returned.

I was partly right.

The black "sticks" in the photo are tarantula legs, and they were strewn next to our front porch. A fifth leg was laying in the driveway about ten feet away. Now, I can't swear that they were there when we left, but I do think we'd have noticed them on the way out. So, there's a good chance that the spider we passed made it up to our sidewalk just in time to become a late supper for a grackle or some other omnivorous bird. And just like the best part of a cinnamon roll is the tender middle, the diner in this case took the juicy parts with him and left the drumsticks for the ants.

The absence of telltale goo (that's a highly technical anatomical term, you know) causes me to wonder if the predator disassembled the tarantula and then flew away with the legless beast to dine at his leisure. That's a gruesome mental picture, isn't it?

Life's sometimes short and brutish out here in the sticks.

I picked up the following flyer at the restaurant where we now go for our Wednesday night fajita fix, and it proves that Jack Black's 2006 comedy contained far more realism than some might have thought.

I get a kick out of these things (the flyer, not the actual event; I've never attended one); the wrestlers' ring names, in particular, are hilarious. These guys don't take themselves as seriously as their counterparts in the big [business] leagues. Can you imagine a WWF wrestler calling himself "The Coward" (El Cobarde), or "Super Porky"?

Many of the names in this "Lluvia de Estrellas" (Shower of Stars) have puzzling origins: "El Hijo Del Santo" (The Son of the Saint); Nascar (it might sound Spanish, but I don't think it is); "Sexy Flower" (now we know what Lucy Liu does on her nights off); "La Parka" (which, as far as I can tell, translates to "The Parka"; is it just me or is that a less-than-intimidating name, unless your opponent has a ski jacket phobia?); "Impostor" (how do we know he's really an impostor? Behind that mask, he could be the actual person.); and "Hijo de Cien Caras" (Son of 100 Faces; I assume his mask collection is second to none).

The inevitable little people contingent (at least, that's my guess as to the meaning of the heading "Los Minis") are represented by "Piratita Morgan" (a POTC fan, no doubt) and "Mascarita Sagrada" (Sacred Mask).

It's not my intent to mock events such as this or the luchadores or their fans. This is a cultural phenomenon that's been taking place for scores of years, and I hope it continues. The goal of the event is to entertain; it requires a certain amount of complicity between participants and audience, and that's no different than most $150 million Hollywood blockbusters. And I'm guessing that lucha libres take place with a great deal less cynicism and self-importance than their Anglo counterparts.

A few weeks ago, I began to notice something odd whenever I entered an incorrect URL into my browser's address bar. Instead of seeing a Google search result page with suggestions that closely matched whatever I had typed, I was getting a Suddenlink-branded page (Suddenlink is my internet service provider) listing its own suggested alternatives. Here's a partial screen shot:

I was vaguely annoyed by this, but sufficiently focused on other things to not take the time to investigate – until this morning. That's when I noticed a tiny linked phrase on the page: "Why am I here?" While I was pretty sure that link didn't lead to the meaning of life, it did provide me with an explanation of what was happening with my browser:

For those with less than perfect vision, the page reads, in part:

Apparently, Suddenlink has partnered with Yahoo! to take over the redirection tasks that I had been relying on Google to handle. However, I have no recollection of giving them permission to do that, and if there's one thing that chaps my hide, it's someone messing with my computer without my authorization.

The page does go on to inform you that "If this service is not right for you, please visit your Preferences page to opt out," and "Preferences page" is linked to a place where you can restore your browser behavior to what you wanted in the first place before Suddenlink decided it knew better than you how you wanted your system to work.

If there's one message I'd like to pass along to my esteemed ISP, it's that unilaterally imposing your will upon your users but justifying it with an opt-out provision is so 2002. Really, I expect more out of a major communications company.

P.S. I wish I knew more about how this interwebosphere thing worked, because I'd like to know how Suddenlink is able to inject its presence into my browsing experience in this fashion. If you have the answers, please feel free to educate me.

Even though I once mocked it in a post (the link to which escapes me now), my wife has secretly coveted one ever since it was released and so for her birthday (today, in fact) I gave her a Kindle, Amazon.com's "wireless reading device."

MLB is a voracious reader, which explains why I've assembled three new bookcases in just the past month. I figure anything that will reduce the possibility that I'll have to interpret more English-as-a-third-or-fourth-language assembly instructions is worth the price of admission.

And I must admit that in person, the Kindle is much sleeker and attractive than the photos make it out to be. At this moment, it's accumulating its first charge and so we haven't yet actually seen it in action, but I know that will be quick in coming once MLB gets home from work.

My only concern (other than the fact that it will hold 200 titles at around $10 each) is that one of her long-time habits is reading in the bathtub. An accompanying habit is falling asleep in the bathtub. When you combine those two pursuits, it makes for some soggy paperbacks (did you know that books swell up like puffer fish after they dry?). You can see where I'm going with this, right?

I'm petitioning Jeff Bezos to introduce an underwater housing for the Kindle. Not only would it protect my personal investment, it would be a boon for the masses of literary – or is that "literate"? – scuba divers around the world.

I'll try to post some reactions and observations about the Kindle as my wife gets acquainted with her new gadget. The biggest downside I can see at this point is the relatively limited selection of titles for purchase.

I'm early in the book of Job in my 2008 "Read Through the Bible" curriculum, and I noticed a phrase yesterday morning that has hitherto escaped my consciousness. In the fifth chapter, Job's friend Eliphaz is continuing his monologue intended to provide some comfort – or at least some explanation – for the sorry state in which Job finds himself, having lost everything but his life (and his wife).

Eliphaz isn't really a very good counselor; he and his two compatriots would have been better off doing what they did for the first seven days of their visit with Job: just sitting with him in silence. Sometimes we try too hard to fill the void, when all we really need to do is be there.

Anyway, Eliphaz is talking about the privileges that accrue to those whom God favors with His discipline (a oft-repeated Biblical doctrine, by the way, but not one that necessarily provides immediate comfort to those in pain). Here's how the New American Standard Version phrases verses 17-23:

I love that turn of phrase, in league with the stones of the field. It speaks to a reconciliation with the most fundamental aspects of God's creation, and not just a passive one, either. I don't mean to get New Agey or Zen-sounding, but communing with rocks conjures up precisely that kind of image. On the other hand, I'm probably giving rocks too little credit. After all, Jesus spoke of stones crying out, and while He was probably being metaphorical, far be it from me to suggest that the Creator and Sovereign Ruler of the Universe couldn't imbue limestone with lyrics or agate with articulation.

What Eliphaz was probably getting at, though, is that when you're right with God, everything else pretty much falls into place as well. Here's how the Contemporary English translation puts verse 23: ...and your rocky fields will become friendly. What's interesting is that he doesn't suggest that God removes those rocks – those bumps in the road that at best are uncomfortable and at worst throw us completely off track – but that we learn how to deal with them. We can't always control our circumstances, but we can determine our attitude toward them.

In league with the stones. That sounds like a great place to be, doesn't it?

The 35th year of a marriage is one of those odd milestones. It ends with a "5," ostensibly setting it apart as a special anniversary, but it's not one of Big Ones, like 25 or 50. It's been overlooked to some extent by those who make the rules for observances, as it has no gemstones or flowers associated with it, and the recommended gifts are somewhat less than exotic: coral (for the non-PC traditionalist) or jade (for the contemporary).

But I wouldn't trade today for anything, as it marks thirty-five years of being among the most blessed fellows on the face of the earth. Three-and-a-half decades ago, a mere slip of a girl said "I do" and forever changed my course, ensuring that I'd never be lost or alone. And to me, she's still that slip of a girl, ever youthful, ever enthusiastic, ever loving. I thank God every day for the privilege of sharing life with her.

While others with less impressive skillz turned to outsiders to determine whether the photo released by Iran showing four simultaneous missile launches was, in fact, Photoshopped, the Gazette has obtained top secret satellite imagery giving incontrovertible proof that the mullahs need to brush up on their propaganda-generating technology:

So, I pull into the drive-through at McDonald's on Loop 250 this morning to pick up breakfast for MLB and me (yes, we're living the high life now!), and my eyes are drawn to the car in front of me, a Jaguar J8. Since you can't swing a dead cat around Midland without hitting a Jag, that was not a big deal, but what really attracted my attention was the vanity license plate on the car. To wit:

In case your eyes have trouble with the less-than-stellar quality output from my phone's less-than-stellar camera*, here's a close-up:

Now, I don't know about you, but my imagination runs wild when I see something like this. Who, exactly, is behind the wheel of this car? (It looked like a middle-aged man, judging by his profile as he placed his order through the car window.) How did he come by this plate? Did his investment in Google stock pay for the vehicle (probably not, unless this is his beater car while the Lambo's in the shop)? And why is he pulling through a West Texas Mickie D's for breakfast?

The fact that this is a California tag makes the possibilities even more intriguing.

If I'd been a real journalist, I would have jumped out of my car, banged on his window, and demanded the story. I also probably would have been judged to be a would-be 'jacker and tapped with a pearl-handled .45, so it's probably better that I just stick with my imagination.

Feel free to contribute your own interpretation of this sighting.

*What really torques me is that the nice little 10mp camera my wife got me for my birthday, for the specific purpose of carrying everywhere I go, was safely ensconced in the handlebar bag on my bike where I had inadvertently left it after yesterday morning's ride. So much for being prepared.

The American Association of Drilling Engineers ("AADE") has posted on its website a rather scathing dismissal of the current TV series Black Gold. Said series purports to give a realistic look at life on West Texas oil drilling rigs.

The AADE takes exception to almost every aspect of the drilling operations displayed on the show, and particularly the health, safety, and environmental issues.

While I'm not experienced in the arcane ways of roughnecks and other drilling hands (all of my field experience was in a natural gas processing plant, which had its own issues), I've suspected – and my friends who do have experience have confirmed – that much of the drama that's depicted on the show is staged for the camera. And the basic premise that the first rig to TD (total depth) "wins the prize" is laughable. But I also confess that there are a number of interesting sub-plots and even some technically informative segments that make the series entertaining.

That's what it's all about, after all. Remember, the network that produced the series was once called CourtTV, so it knows a bit about how to sensationalize the otherwise humdrum and make it appealing to less-than-expert audiences. And while I won't argue with the many legitimate points raised by the AADE, the response on its website seems to go overboard in its paranoia that this series will give the industry a black eye.

So, to paraphrase one of the drillers on Black Gold, "Chill out, you *^&#(&#! It's just a (*&#(&(@ TV show!"

Tip o'the hard hat to MLB for the AADE response