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(The last in my trilogy of Christmas stories for PC-Friends)

One Christmas, years ago, when my son Chris was about ten years old, I set out to buy toy cowboy guns for him.  He already had boots and hats, bandanas and sheriff's badges. But they don't have holsters and guns. Without those critical components, however, you've really just got yourself a Village People costume. We've made do until now with two wooden pistols that were originally designed to shoot rubber bands. But I wanted to get him shiny cowboy guns, the kind that make a little boy's heart race, that turn a bad guy's legs to jelly, and that give a damsel in distress,  that funny climbing-the-rope-in-gym-class feeling when she sees them strapped around your waist.

So I got up early, a couple days before Christmas, that year, and set out to catch Toys R Us right when they opened. This is advisable if like me you find yourself drawing hysterical conclusions about the future of civilization based on your experiences shopping in malls and driving behind school buses. If you can't find anything nice to say about your fellow man, I like to think, and then best just to avoid him.

So I walked inside the Toy Mecca in vain hopes of quickly completing my mission. In this I was working against teams of psychologists and store design specialists all bent on exactly the opposite goal, which is to keep the hapless shopper in the store for as long as there are dollars left in his wallet. I winded my way past rows of video games and Barbie paraphernalia (I think boys might benefit from owning a Barbie doll; every young man should understand what an expensive proposition it is to cohabitate with a narcissistic woman built like a stripper), past noisy electronic gizmos and remote-controlled devices.

But I couldn't find guns. I wandered up and down aisles until I spotted a salesman. "Excuse me," I said, "where can I find cowboy guns?"

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My cousin used to hang a pair of panty hose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true because every Christmas morning, although Steve's kids' stockings were overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.

One year I decided to make his dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown. If you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go. You'll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour saying things like, "What does this do?" "You're kidding me!" "Who would buy that?" Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section.

I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that could also substitute as a passenger in my car so I could use the car pool lane during rush hour. Finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I settled for 'Lovable Carol." She was at the bottom of the price scale. To call Carol a "doll" took a huge leap of imagination.

On Christmas Eve, with the help of an old bicycle pump, Carol came to life.

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Have you seen the cute Comcast TV ads lately with the turtles named the Slowkies. It typifies the smoke and deception that Comcast and the cable industry have used over the years. As usual, there is some truth to what they have to say, but there is also some fiction as well. Let’s take a look and try to sort facts from fantasy, and price from value. That is what a consumer needs to make an informed choice of broadband providers.

Comcast would like you to think that because their service has four times the download bandwidth as the typical DSL connection, you will always get four times the speed when surfing the Internet. This is patently a false assumption.

ISPs like to talk about speed or bandwidth. But what exactly is bandwith? It’s not really speed at all. The information on the Internet is electrical, so it moves at the speed of light.

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{From my youth, so long ago ...}

When I was a very young boy, my Grandpa bought the property on Sintz road and it had a barn on it. Grandpa, had been a sailor and was prone to be gone up to as much as 3 weeks at a time, down to the ocean for small trips. When he came back from his ocean trips, the grass in his new lot would be head high. So, Grandpa bought a horse to keep the grass down. The old horse was named Horace. Grandpa put Horace in the lot and went down to the sea. When he returned Ole Horace was laying by the barn, his stomach was twice it’s normal size.

My Grandpa did not know much about horses, but he did know Ole Horace was in bad trouble. Now, our small town did not have a veterinarian, but it did have a MD, Dr. Heaston, who had some animal experience. At one time he had given cholera shots to pigs and goats, at the request of the local college. 

So, my Grandpa walked up the street to see Dr. Heaston,  who was always in the bar this time of day.

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When two people meet, what is with the hugging and back patting behavior?  Are they hoping to give themselves a back rub?  Don’t misunderstand me, I like the custom.  It  does feel good.  I don’t remember this custom when I was younger.  When did this custom creep into our culture?  It must have been gradual, as I didn't notice.

Here in California, I was raised with shaking my friend’s hand.  A close family member usually got a hug.  Especially if I had not seen them for awhile, like maybe a year or more.  Where did all this new hugging come from?

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