I Get Hot When You Speak French At Me.

Because they spend so much time around vain, self-absorbed, appearance-fixated people, film crews and stage crews tend to be intentionally scruffy. They lean to beards, t-shirts and gimme caps. Even successful behind the camera people dress down.

Jim E. comes to mind. A excellent cinematographer, he has been the Director of Photography on several movies you'd recognize, and countless TV shows and commercials. I had the joy of working with him on TV spots. When not on location, Jim lived in Dallas. Dallas, with the Studios at Las Colinas, and other facilities, has a thriving film community. A while back, one of the big service companies supplying camera, grip truck, lighting, and other rentals to production companies, was a firm named Victor Duncan. Victor Duncan supplied many of the gimme caps worn by Dallas film crews, because all they had on them was a large, bold-faced, “V-D.” Grips, Gaffers, DP s, and other Craft crews live IN YOUR FACE.

During pre-production meetings for a commercial shoot in Dallas, Jim and I went to lunch at a small “French-influenced” restaurant in the Quadrangle. No group is quite so full of itself as the staff of a “French” restaurant in North Dallas. Jim was dressed in his usual Crew Casual, complete with VD cap. Snooty waiters in Dallas seemed to often misjudge Jim. He was well off, and and worked/traveled all over the world. Don't judge a customer by his cover.

As we looked at the menu, and got the stinkeye for the hat, Jim commented to me that he wasn't very hungry, and might just have soup.

When the waiter, from the height of his minimum-wage haughty, finally deigned to come to our table, Jim looked up and asked, “What's the Soup Du Jour?”

With all of his North Dallas dismay at having to actually serve the “Unwashed Masses,” the waiter sneered, “It's the “soup of the day.....(pause)...sir.”

Jim, with his gruff, growling voice, missed not a beat. “I KNOW that,” he rumbled. “But the last time I was in here and had the Soup Du Jour, the chef was using frozen Du Jours. That is not acceptable. You maybe can't, but I can taste the difference between frozen and fresh Du Jours. So, Sonny, what I want to know is, are the Du Jours in the soup fresh or frozen?”

Waiter stammered, “But, but, the words mean.......”

Jim jumped on it. “Don't you 'but, but” at me. Do I look like you could fool me with frozen Du Jours? Well, do I look like that kind of fool to you?”

“Sir, I'm sorry, but...”

“Yes, passing off frozen Du Jours is sorry. Here's what you do. You march your tight little waiter pants, and your silly gold neck chain, back to the kitchen. You get the chef. You tell him Jim is here, and he's on to the game. You bring that chef out so he can look me in the eye and assure me that his Soup Du Jour today is packed full of the freshest Du Jours he could find at the market.”

If you have a choice, go to lunch with the Crew, not with the actors. It's more fun.

A Balanced Meal. Teetering on the Edge.

The Beagle Posse marched in in Delegation File.

It's hard to explain, but they have different ways of coming at me single file depending on the purpose. There's the Dinner Time File, the Treat Time File, the We Need Attention File, the You Are Failing Woefully File, and most disturbing of all, the Delegation File. Admittedly, these all just look like one dog following another into the room, but believe me, to the practiced eye, there are differences in demeanor and stride.

The Delegation File means they have unmet demands—demands that go beyond the usual food, scratches, treats realm. Demands that may have been slowly percolating up through Beagle Consciousness (a state about which Climate Deniers are skeptical), or demands that may have just hit like of bolt of inspiration arriving on some cosmic telegraph. Few moments are as anxiety prone for a beagle owner as those before finding out just what new Posse demands might entail.

Tuppence spoke. “We finished our Thanksgiving list.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, “the things you are Thankful for?”

“The things we want.”

“Isn't that a Christmas list?”, I asked.

“We'll get to that after we see how you do on the Thanksgiving list,” said Tuppence. “This is a list of things we want to see on the table—and the floor.”

When it comes to food, beagles are single minded. And, with the Posse, Tuppence is designated to make food demands. Tommy is designated to commit food theft.

“OK,” she continued, “write this down. First, turkey; then turkey drumsticks; then turkey gizzards; then turkey gravy; then turkey juice; and finally, pie. Any kind of pie. And, oh, yeah, did I say turkey?”

I began to see a pattern. “Why did you add pie?”

“We want a balanced meal. You can drop the turkey on the floor. Balance the pie on the table, Tommy will get it.”

“Sorry,” I explained, “we're not having Thanksgiving dinner at our house this year. We're eating with relatives at their house.”

Tommy finally spoke up, “Did we say this list was for you? We noticed that it's only a week until Thanksgiving, and there's no turkey in our freezer. You are failing again.” Don't ask me how, but the Beagle Posse can give a complete inventory of all sources of protein in our house at any time—freezer, fridge, and canned in the pantry.

“If you want a balanced meal, shouldn't you have some vegetables?”, I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” said Tuppence. “We'll have Brussels sprouts with bacon.”

“Just make it without the stinking Brussels sprouts.”

Of Roofing and Pig Trucking.

(Names changed to protect the guilty.)

Hey Ray is of the conviction that there is no construction project a half dozen beer-fueled hillbillies can't handle in a day.

When the century-old farm house he lived in got to the point where a new roof was essential, his trip to pick up materials included a stop at the liquor store for a couple cases of Pabst and three bags of ice. He already had the galvanized wash tubs ready and waiting for the beer.

Hey Ray, was called this because his dad was “Big Ray” and would step on the porch and call his son, “Hey, Ray, get up here.”

He was a real mix up. A country-living hillbilly who taught High School math. He stood about six one, and weighed about 140 at the most. He was a master at what he called “Tom Sawyering,” getting his friends to do work for him. The friends involved in this roofing project should have known better. Some of them had previously been involved in what became knows as “The Great Christian County Pig Rodeo.” That was an afternoon when Hey Ray and three friends had, after sufficient Pabst, decided to load a 250 lb. Duroc Sow into the back of his pickup. The pig had no plans for a pickup ride that day. Let it be known, even 600 (combined) pounds of hillbilly are not a match for 250 pounds of Sow when there is a difference of opinion about transportation.

Back to the roof.

The project, and the top popping began about 9 a.m. on a sunny Saturday. It was a big job. Even the decking was bad, so the roof had to be stripped clear down to the rafters; then re-decked with plywood, covered with tar paper, and finally shingled.

After stripping the old off, the work began on the front-facing slope of the roof. That was finished by noon. As the crew took a Bologna and Beer break for lunch, Hey Ray stood on the front slope surveying the progress. He walked backwards up the slope to the peak of the roof. He wasn't thinking that so far ALL of the replacement work had been done to the visible front. Opinions differed as the story was later told as to whether it was Ray Hey's general inattention or some combination of sun and beer that led him to take that one more step back across the roof ridge. A step that led off into empty space between rafters.

You'll remember we described Hey Ray as tall and very skinny. He was also very lucky.

He happened to fall precisely between two rafters, and stayed lucky as his fall took him between, and not on, two ceiling joists. He hit above the kitchen ceiling, and the insulation, plaster, and lathing of the old house served to break his fall.

We need to introduce another figure in the tale here. Hey Ray was married at the time to a woman none of his friends much liked. As Ray said, “While we were gone on our honeymoon, she had ordered 40 pounds of ass and a ton of bad attitude from Montgomery Wards, and they delivered it all the day we got home.”

Wife was occupied with her usual mid-day activity. Sitting at the Formica and chrome kitchen table, eating chocolate marshmallow cookies, and reading a movie magazine.

In a huge cloud of plaster dust, insulation, broken lath, and a century's worth of attic dirt, Hey Ray landed flat on his back in the middle of that table.

Miraculously unhurt, (a piece of luck he attributed to The Blue Ribbon Angel) he stood up, brushing himself off and looking around a kitchen that looked freshly bombed. His gaze finally landed on his shocked, open-mouthed wife. “Dayum, woman,” he said, “Me and my friends are workin' our butts off to put a roof over you. Least you could do is take a dust rag to this place.”

There was a flag on the play.

And the Great God of the Turf sayeth, “Betwixt the Touch of the Passing, and the Downs of the Rushing, thou shalt split not asunder, for they are of the equal holy Six in my sight. Also wilt thou, with Gleesome Joy, welcome the Goal of the Field which arriveth in the seconds of finality.”

Even just driving through Texas, including the short strip across the Panhandle, it is obvious to the casual observer that High School Football is a religion, a celebration of Friday Sacraments.

Celebrated as a hallowed ritual of that faith is the biannual meeting of Texas high school football coaches in the city of Galveston. A priestly pilgrimage to the sand, sun, and sea. The stated reasons are to discuss rules, rule changes, new methods of training and safety, and for coaches to exchange tips and knowledge. (Though the thought that knowledge and adolescent concussions can actually be related is a bit problematic.)

Times back, in Houston, my wife (known by the Beagle Posse as, “The Morning Food Lady”) worked at a law firm with a woman whose husband was one of those coaches. Said coach referred to by said wife as, “Coachypoo.”

As was the custom in such Texas households, this wife was in charge of packing Coachypoo's bags for a Galveston meeting. Which she dutifully did.

Before his departure, Mr. Coach informs wife, “Don't try to reach me tonight. The first night we always spend fishing out on one of the Red Snapper boats.” (Our tale takes place in the days before Cell Phones.)

Upon his return home 3 days later, Wifey asked Coachypoo, “How was your meeting?”

“Fine,” he replied. “Except you forgot to pack any clean underwear for me.”

“Oh, yes, I packed it,” smiled wife. (A smile NO husband wants to see.) “It was in your tackle box.”

The Cabra Portal

If there's a door in the wall, and no one will go through it, is it still a door?

The patio beagle door got delivered and installed. Now comes the process of “training.”

When put in place, the panel was something that Tommy eyed suspiciously, then backed away from and growled at. He looked as confused as a Creationist in a planetarium. Tuppence, ever so much more brave, sniffed and walked away.

The instructions said to place yourself on the opposite side from the dog, hold the flap open, and using a treat entice the dog through. Here's the problem for a guy with a bum leg like mine. If I'm close enough to hold the flap up, I'm close enough for a dog to stick just a head and neck through. Snatch the treat, and run away from the scary hole in the wall. So, all that exercise really got me was a nipped finger or two.

I tried to reason with the Posse.

“Look, I got this so you can come and go to the back yard whenever you want, and the cold won't get in the house.”

Tommy said, “What's wrong with the automatic door opener we've been using?”

“You don't have an automatic door opener,” I said.

They both gave me a slow take that would have made Jack Benny, or Tommy Smothers, or any particular Python, proud. They were disgusted at how slow I am. You'll never feel slow until a beagle makes you feel slow.

We tried a few other maneuvers, and ways of both holding and tossing treats, and they would pass through the opening to get a treat, then run right back through it. They acted like I was opening a portal to a parallel, but very dangerous, universe. They'd zip through and right back as long as I held the flap open. No way a beagle nose, their most valuable possession, was going to touch and push a flap.

I tried reason yet again. “Look, you used the screen flap this summer, use the plastic flap now.”

“It's dangerous,” said Tommy. “If we can go out, the Chupacabra can come in.”

“What?”

“Do you WANT the Chupacabra to come in and suck all of our blood? Is this part of a plan to get rid of us.”

“First of all, a Chupacabra isn't real, it is an imaginary beast. Second, it lives in Texas and Mexico, not Indiana.”

The Posse spun and walked away from me. “If it's imaginary, how do you know where it lives?”

We've got some work to do.

I think you're unclear on the concept.

Early 1970s: the “Sexual Revolution” was all the rage. And a young generation of college students thought that they, and they alone, had invented sex.

In the theater department of a Midwestern university, a student-written play was being produced, and it included a bit of business concerning a character's earrings, which were made from IUDs.

The head of the costume department, a young, “hip” female professor said she'd get those from her gynecologist.

In the rush of mounting a production, things got forgotten, and left until the last minute. So, the afternoon before Dress Rehearsal, we find the costume prof frantically phoning her doctor's office.

The nurse answering the phone said, “I'm sorry, the doctor can't come to the phone, you'll need to leave a message.”

Costumer says, “I don't need the doctor, I'm sure you can help me. I need some IUDs.”

The nurse replies, “I'm sorry, but the doctor is busy.”

Voice rising, the costume maven pushes, “I don't need to talk to the doctor. I need someone to get me some IUDs.”

There's a pause..........”SOME IUDs? How many do you think you need?”

“Well, two, of course, one for each ear.”

“I'll get the doctor. He'll explain some things to you.”

You don't know Grits from Granola.

Early mid-morning, and the laser glares from the Beagle Posse were burning the back of my neck. I turned around from the desk and sighed, “OK, what now?”

“Breakfast,” Tuppence said.

“You had it,” I replied.

“Had what?” spoke Tommy.

“Your usual, Kibbles moistened with warm water, and lovingly served in your bowl on your food rug.”

The lasers went from red to white hot. “Yes! Again.”

“Look,” I said, “It's your food. You love it. You pester me for it, and you gobbled it up this morning as you do every day.”

Tommy began to inspect his butt while Tuppy continued the conversation. “And what did YOU have for breakfast?”

“My usual, eggs on buttered grits.”

“And what did Deborah have?”

“Her usual, yogurt with blueberries and granola.”

“And we get kibbles.”

“I think of it as your doggie granola.”

Tommy looked up from his posterior perusing, “And we've decided you don't know Grits from Granola.”

“I think the real phrase is, …......You know what, never mind that. Listen, guys, you've stolen a bowl of Deborah's yogurt and granola before, and the yogurt gave you the runs. Lactose intolerance. Remember?”

“So?”

“So? I had to clean it up, and steam clean the carpet. THAT so.”

The Posse had held still as long as possible. At this point, they went into committee with a snarling, running, ear tugging tumble down the hall and back. The caucus completed, they returned to their task. “We want yours.”

“Our food isn't good for you.”

“We don't care.”

I gave it a bit of thought, and said, “How about this? Tomorrow, when I make my grits, I'll make some for your breakfast.” They began to wag and look triumphant. “The thing is, I'll do it at MY breakfast time, which is a couple of hours later than your usual breakfast.”

Posse triumphalism turned into Posse growls. “Nooooooo. Too late.”

“Well,” I said, 6 am breakfast is kibbles. 8 am breakfast is grits.” I know the power of the beagle tummy clock. It rules.

Blank stares turned back into lasers. Then, they looked at each other, got their chipmunk hunter expressions on, and headed down the hall to the patio door ready for a rodent chase.

As they walked away, I heard Tommy say, “Well, Shineola. It was worth a try though.”