Not surprisingly, I see a lot of churches here in Texas, but I found this one quite intriguing. Did you notice the barely legible ‘no trespassing’ sign on it? Inside there were folding chairs in rows, a lot of cardboard boxes, and a chainsaw sitting on a crate. It smelled like a garage.

Across from the church was a little place called The Diner where we grabbed some fried chicken. We got it to go because the tiny place was packed. There were 7 men in total, and 5 of them were wearing cowboy hats as they ate. Guess it’s not considered rude to keep them on.

Of the 5 cowboy-hatted men, 4 of them also wore Bluetooth headsets. This put the phrase “Bluetooth cowboy” in my head, which somehow morphed into the song “Rhinestone Cowboy,” which flitted through my brain for much of the day. I was too chicken to whip out my camera and snap a photo in the diner, but I wish I had now. I’ve gotta get better at that.

The tiny parking lot was jammed, too. I’m not sure who was driving what, but there was an interesting assortment of vehicles. The Hummer seemed nearly as big as the interior of the restaurant.

Across from The Diner, and just around the corner from the church, was this porch, which – if I’m counting correctly – has enough chairs on it for at least 8 people to sit and rock simultaneously. I wonder if there is ever a sunny afternoon during which this porch experiences full rocking capacity. That’s something I’d like to see.

We eventually made it to Possum Kingdom, even though our British-voiced GPS lady made sure we took the long way. Must be how she gets her kicks. I did not see any mink-robed rodents on thrones in PK, alas. I did spot a black helicopter on our way back. Turns out there’s a Vietnam War museum/Meditation Garden somewhere along the way.

I have since found a song titled ‘Possum Kingdom,’ which was released in 1995 by a Fort Worth band called The Toadies. You can watch their eerie video for it here. According to an interview with the lead singer, the lyrics were inspired by the tall tales he’d hear around campfires and at bbq’s growing up about vampires and other creepy goings on around Possum Kingdom.

Overall, it wasn’t the best day for taking photos. The sky mostly glowered and spat, keeping the best light to itself. Even so, I am still curious about Possum Kingdom, and hope to return when it’s sunny.

The other sign, at least, read both ’signore,’ and ‘men,’ so after standing in the hallway for a few baffled moments, I opted for door number one: Uomini. Phew! Not a urinal in sight. It was the ladies room, all right.

On the way out, I asked one of the wait staff about the sign. She just shrugged and said that, ‘It was painted by Mexicans. They kinda guessed at the words.’

‘Well, they guessed wrong,’ I told her.

‘Yeah, but it looks real good,’ was her response, to which, I confiess, I had no snappy reply.

I love our neighborhood Chinese buffet. The food’s yummy, the staff is friendly and they do a brisk business. This being Texas, there’s a definite regional influence to the line-up: steak, frog legs, stir-fried chicken with jalapeno – even sushi rolls with ham and cream cheese.

Their fortune cookies suck, though. Rather than predict anything fun, they merely give advice, and the advice is so obvious even your grandmother would roll her eyes, stuff like, ‘If you are kind to others, you will go far.’ I did get one the other day that was more creative than usual; it read, ‘Ask not what your fortune cookie can do for you, but what you can do for your fortune cookie.’

I get a kick out of their dry erase board, too. Looks like Chinese and Korean down below. I should have had them translate it. Actually, I should have had them translate the shirt I was wearing, ‘cuz it had some Chinese writing on it. I once worked with a Japanese woman, and one of our customers walked in wearing a T-shirt with a big Japanese character on it. My co-worker nudged me and whispered, ‘I wonder if she knows her shirt says, I am diseased,?’ Ever since that incident, I’m a bit self-conscious when wearing what – to me – seems like a cool shirt with foreign writing on it unless I’ve had it translated first!

I can honestly say that I make the best espresso in town. Why am I so confident in this boast? Because I make the only espresso in town. Our little home machine is the closest thing to a real one in these parts. The nearest thing to espresso in this burg is spewed out by automated machines at the gas station. It’s actually pretty tasty, but it’s not a cappuccino.

It’s not just the brew itself that I miss, but the coffee shops. A friendly coffeehouse offers a nice alternative to donut shops, bars, strip clubs, and churches, all of which are in abundance in north Texas. Coffeehouses are fun for people-watching (albeit clothed), playful conversations, learning (they were once known as Penny Universities) and making friends.

So this lack of quality java creates serious culture shock (or lack thereof) for me. After growing up in college towns, living in the Seattle area, owning a coffeehouse, and living in Europe, can you blame me? I have so many fond memories revolving around coffeehouses.

I guess I’m just a bit homesick today.

p.s. I don’t know how I created this mouse with the foamed milk, but I thought it looked kinda cool, so here you go.

If you’ve read my blog much, you’ve probably noticed that I like to take pix of some of amusing billboards and post them here.

So far, I’ve blogged about the mysterious Hardcore Training Facility, the fact that in Ft. Worth Big Grandma is Watching You, and whether or not you’ve Got Gun?. I even lamented about the ‘ones that got away’ in my Bubbly Clouds post.

I’ve seen these donut ads for a while now, but have been holding out because there is a particular one I wanted a photo of. It shows this donut ad side by side with an ad for the human body exhibit, you know, the one where they have real cadavers on display? Talk about an appetizing juxtaposition!

This billboard reminds me of a conversation Tex and I had a while ago. To kill time while waiting for an order of chicken fried steak with chicken fried grits over at Ginger Brown’s, we drew up a Texan Food Pyramid on a napkin. As I recall, the pyramid’s many layers included chicken fried stuff, steak, bbq, things smothered in gravy, and queso. Oh yeah, I think we had bacon on there – twice – kinda sandwiched in between Ro Tel tomatoes and okra. Makes me feel bloated just writing about it all!

Back to the billboard, though, whatever happened to the “4 Basic Food Groups”? What’s the 5th one, soda? I do notice a lot more donut shops here in Texas. In fact, there are nearly as many donut shops as their are churches. Maybe folks need a good refined sugar buzz to carry them through lengthy sermons.

When I was a kid up in eastern Washington, I often carried pebbles in my pocket to toss ahead of me before stepping into tall grass. Sometimes I’d hear a rattler slithering out of the way afterwards. My little dog was good, too. She’d run ahead and keep the trail cleared of any snakes. I didn’t realize people ever shot snakes; so when I saw this ad for a snake gun proudly displayed in a shop window, it caught my eye.

The ad amuses me because the guy they drew looks a bit like Hunter S. Thompson. I can just envision a graphic novel penned in Hunter-esque prose about a macho Texan snake hunter. This main character would have a basement armory featuring weapons for all sorts of specialized nuisances, everything from mime attacks to bomb-laden armadillos.

At some point in the wacked out story, the protagonist would be so full of fear and loathing that he’d blurt out some of Thompson’s famous lines, stuff like: “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me,” and “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”

Tex and I ventured into the shop, which was full of interesting knick-knacks, antiques, and post-Christmas deals. The whole time we wandered around, the man behind the counter was on the phone with various people. Every conversation was about guns.

The man behind the counter was still on the phone, blabbing on about firearms as he rang up my purchase, which was not a gun. At one point, however, he set a pistol on the countertop. The barrel pointed right at Tex’s belly. We exchanged nervous glances, before Tex gingerly turned the weapon around.

After he hung up the phone, the man behind the counter apologized, then took a moment to admire the string of beads I’d purchased. “Well, aren’t these just darling?” he remarked, while tucking them into a little bag.

I wanted to ask if he’d ever shot a snake, but I chickened out. Maybe next time.