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Should work pretty well. It would with me, then I go on safari to hunt down whoever did it.

Redo!

Yup, old Adam West doesn't look TOO unhappy either!

I was reading an interview with Yvonne Craig one time. She said Adam West felt her up. The script had Batman walking up behind her and putting his hand on her right shoulder and then monologuing to the camera. But she turned around and he put his hand on her left boob instead, but since he was looking at the camera he didn't notice and he just made his speech.

Julie!

..... now back to something interesting ...

Leghorn

WELL! It’s kinda’ logical, if you take into consideration that without the plastic straw, you make it more difficult to snort up the fairy dust!! THINK ABOUT IT!! Some of these idiots are too stupid to roll up paper currency and use it!!!

SCRUB OUT SOME SALTS A pale eyed girl, a growing girl somewhere between the ages of twelve, tapped a combination into the keypad, turned a key in the lock, drew open the door and slipped inside. She turned on the balls of her feet -- almost a dancer's move -- she drew the door shut, turned the lock, turned and looked into the shadowed depths of the Firelands Museum. This would have been Sarah Llewellyn's parlor, she thought: I know it was opened up to make it big and open for exhibits ... Her thoughts drifted off as she slipped across the floor, silent in well polished cowboy boots. She'd had her Daddy teach her how to polish her boots -- "you told Jacob and Joseph how important it is to take care of your leather goods," she'd said quietly, and she'd taken one boot while her Daddy took the other, and together they cleaned the leather and warmed the leather and they applied the polish, she watched carefully as her Daddy made a fine spit shine look easy: hers was almost as good. With practice, hers became equally as good as her Daddy's. Her boots gleamed as she glided across the floor and up the stairs, her breath was quick in her throat as she unlocked The Office, as she went inside, as she closed and locked the door behind her. For a moment she imagined the museum as suddenly populated with ghosts, stirring in shadows, curious about this nighttime intruder, coming to the closed office door and listening, perhaps waiting for her to open the door. Angela Keller opened the door with the key she wore around her neck, the key given her by her pale eyed older sister that day when she stepped through a glowing oval, and departed through the glowing oval: Angela closed her eyes, leaned her head back, raised both hands at arm's length, palms up. "I call upon the shadow-line, "I call upon my blood and time, "Answer now these quests of mine." Angela opened one eye, half-fearful, half-hopeful, then opened her other eye. Nothing. Her shoulders sagged, her arms lowered until her hands were at her sides. Nothing. Disappointed, she turned. The pale-eyed daughter of the pale-eyed Sheriff stopped, surprised, her eyes sudden-wide: her head was tilted a little to the side, then she did something that surprised her. She giggled. "That's not how we thought you would react," a pale eyed woman said, smiling: she stood before Angela, wearing a gown and a funny cap and a shawl like women from the American Revolution. Angela looked at the musket the woman held, upright at her side, almost as if she were holding a walking stick. "Brown Bess, the Long Land pattern," she said aloud. "That's right," another voice said, and Angela looked to her right, at an archer-maiden with a Grecian band holding her curly auburn hair back, a maiden with a draped garment that left her right shoulder bare -- apparently so she could draw the recurved bow in her left hand. "Ancient Greece?" Angela hazarded. "Two for two," another voice agreed: Angela turned, frowned, planted her knuckles on her belt. "Sara McKenna or Gammaw?" A second appeared beside the first, both identical in coiffure, in gown, in posture and smile: Angela knew one was her Gammaw, but much younger than she remembered her, the other had to be, had to be, Sarah Lynne McKenna! "You have a question," the many chorused. "More than one." Feminine laughter, gentle and light: "Ask as many as you want, there are many of us!" "How come Jacob didn't kill that man today?" Jacob Keller dropped the rifle's muzzle, took a quick sight, slapped the trigger. The ancient Garand spoke once, loud and echoing in the mountain air: the military issue, full metal jacket bullet drove through the trailbike's finned cylinder, busting the castings and bringing the exhaust-screaming,high-RPM bike to sudden and deathly silence. Angela's mare, exhausted from being chased, turned, flanks heaving: Angela stood cold-eyed, her own rifle in hand: she'd been chased by mountain bikers, hell raisers trying to herd her into a cul-de-sac: she was a pretty young girl and alone, there were several of them, or had been: Angela rode for high country, she'd almost made her escape, and when she found herself with rock on three sides and approaching bikes before her, she threw up a leg and dropped out of the saddle, she slid the rifle out of its scabbard and cycled the lever, determined to drop every one of them that came at her. When the lead bike stopped and the Garand's roar echoed through the mountains, the pursuers hesitated: when another bike inherited a fast moving payload through its transmission, the other three turned and fled. "We are given many decisions in this lifetime," her Gammaw said -- now she wore her usual blue suit dress instead of the gown like Sarah McKenna wore -- "and you made the right decision." Angela frowned a little, turned her head as if to bring a good ear to bear, and every one of the -- ghosts? memories? ladies? -- every one of them laughed a little, for they remembered their men doing that very same thing. "You were ready to stop them from doing terrible things to you," the Greek archer-maiden smiled: the smile was warm, and Angela could almost feel the Mediterranean sun's warmth smiling from her bronzed, healthy skin. "Yes," Angela said, nodding. "Yes, I was." "But your question is about Jacob." "Yes." "Every generation, and everyone in that generation, is tested," the pale eyed woman of the Revolution replied, her fingers working a little as she gripped the musket barrel. "Each of us, male and female, is tested to determine our suitability." "For what?" "For the Final Battle." Angela was quiet for several long moments. "How," she said finally, "does being chased by bikers compare to Har-Megiddo?" Angela saw approving looks exchanged between the pale eyed ancestresses. "Yours was your first test, and you did well. You did not panic, you evaded as best you could, but when you saw your mare was flagging, you made your stand where they would have to come at you one at a time, and from only one direction." Angela blinked. "Yes. Yes, I did." She frowned. "But what about Jacob?" "He's been tested many times. He chose to stop the threat by killing machines instead of men." "Oh." "This was a test of his judgement. By taking the unhorsed into custody, he was able to interrogate and get the names of the other criminals. They will be brought before the Bar, and you will be a witness." Angela nodded. "Good," she said firmly. "How many of them were there?" "Four," Angela said without hesitation. "You had a rifle." She nodded. "How many shots had you?" "I had ten rounds of full-house .357," she said firmly, her jaw taking a less than ladylike set: in her lifetime, she'd never been subjected to the brutality others of her line had survived, but she knew about some of them, and she was determined that those thing would never, ever! be done to her! Every one of the Ladies' heads nodded, one, firmly, every throat uttered the same pronouncement, all in unison: "Good!" "Was your question about Jacob?" Sarah asked, folding her hands in a very feminine, very ladylike manner in her apron. "Mostly." "Have you any more for us?" "No." Angela blinked: she was suddenly alone -- the several pale eyed women simply disappeared -- not with a clap of collapsing air, not in a flash, no whoosh, whizz or puff of smoke, and suddenly she felt so very, very alone. "Thank you," she whispered into the suddenly empty air. Jacob Keller swung down from his stallion, the Garand slung from his shoulder. He walked over to his Gammaw's grave, knelt, planted the rifle's butt hard on the sod, laid a hand on the polished quartz stone. "Gammaw," he said softly, "I don't know if you're the reason I took Uncle Pete's Garand today, but if you are, thank you. It worked well." He lifted his eyes, looked around and behind to his right, then around and behind to his left: he looked directly at his Apple-horse: satisfied all was well, he took a long breath, continued. "We got a full confession from the ones we brought in, and the others are either apprehended or have warrants out for their arrest. Pa said he was pleased with my performance and very pleased with my interrogation." He took another breath, blew it out through pursed lips, trying to discharge memory-stress with it, and not quite succeeding. "They all admitted they intended some very bad things for Marnie. When she saw them and fled, they bayed after her like a wolfpack. Angela was ready to drop 'em and I stopped that too." He stared long at the laser engraved, oval portrait on Sheriff Willamina Keller's tombstone: his Gammaw, formally posed, with her six point star on the lapel of her suit dress's coat: he hung his head, swallowed, bit his bottom lip: here, and only here, did he allow himself to truly feel the loss of his Gammaw's death. "I miss you," he whispered, then he raised his head and grinned. "I kept my baby sis safe," he said softly. Jacob rose, turned: he slung the Garand, paced back to his stallion, stopped. Apple-horse's eyes were closed, his ears laid back, the way he did when someone was giving him particularly welcome caresses: Jacob first saw this when his Gammaw met Apple-horse for the first time, and he felt that sorrow again, and then he saw the rose, laid across Apple's mane, just ahead of the saddle. Jacob picked it up, slid it through the button hole of his shirt pocket: he lifted it, sniffed it, turned, looked at the tombstone. "Thank you, Gammaw," he whispered, then he thrust a burnished boot into the doghouse stirrup. "C'mon, fella," he said softly. "I've got to scrub some salts out of this good old bore."

It's missing something . . . .

Aah Mom, we just want to grow up like Dad …

I have no life outside of this

Sister just posted a picture on FB of one floating over a grocery store in mid Missouri.

...... the '64 vintage .............. nearly as old as me, ........... and it's in better shape too