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Mental toughness is many things. It is humility because it behooves all of us to remember that simplicity is the sign of greatness and meekness is the sign of true strength. Mental toughness is spartanism with qualities of sacrifice, self-denial, dedication. It is fearlessness, and it is love.--Vince Lombardi
Friday, June 04, 2004
Some People Have WAY Too Much Time On Their Hands Exhibit One, courtesy of Jordana Adams, who seems to be suffering from a terrible obsession; namely, the idea of getting me in touch with my feminine side. Upon viewing this monstrosity, one is reminded of the lyrics to the old Kenny Rogers song: You've painted up your lips And rolled and curled your tinted hair-- Ruby, are you contemplating going out somewhere? The shadow on the wall tells me the sun is going down, Oh, Ruby...don't take your love to town. Seek treatment, Jordana. Quickly.
You know you're a child of the Seventies if... Upon seeing the phrase 2004 jeffersons louisiana purchase the first thing that pops into your mind is Sherman Helmsley screaming, "WEEZIE!"
Hey Blogger Users! Heat, aardvarks, etc. Get rid of the ads while you can--in the post below, Nate mentions this little tidbit: I asked nicely this week about how to ditch the ads, even offering to pay. Blogger came back and said that since the online ordering function was not online, that I could have the "delete ads" upgrade for free! Unless you just like seeing the ads for "Hot Sexy Aardvarks Who Want to Chat With YOU!"
Whither Chet the E-Mail Boy? Nate McCord just sent me an e-mail a bit ago, and posted the same thing on his website--it looked a bit like Morse code, so I went over to this handy site I use occasionally for such things, but because of the use of the underscores for periods and the non-sequitur "A"s, I couldn't get anything as an output. I begged and pleaded with Nate to quit his infernal torture of me, and as partial relief, he sent me the address of yet another translating program. (One that obviously requires underscores instead of periods.) Sadly, my machine doesn't have the latest verson of Flash, and I can't download it because of the way the computers are configured, so I once again had to ask for help. Apparently Nate took pity on me after his sport at my expense and gave me the message in text form: DEAR CHET HAVE YOU RETIRED? THERES BEEN NO MENTION OF YOU FOR SOME WEEKS. NOW YOUR CRUEL MANAGER UPSTAIRS HASNT REPLACED YOU WITH SOME YOUNG BLOND INTERN HAS HE? Well, now, had Chet been here, he might could have caught on and been able to read the message by sight. As you all know, Chet the E-Mail Boy has a small desk in the basement under the stairs. Chet used to work for L&N; as a telegrapher, and later in life operated a Linotype machine. In order to have something to do in his declining years, we took Chet on as a secretary to handle e-mail correspondence. In order to allow him to keep up on his former occupational skills, our system converts incoming messages to audible Morse code. Chet carefully writes down the information, then runs outside to the garage where he has a carefully maintained Mergenthaler Model 30, where he pounds out a bed of type, places it on his press, and makes a rough galley copy onto newsprint. He then comes upstairs and allows me to review the draft, make any corrections to style and grammar, then corrects the plate and prints out a final copy on 25 pound laid paper for my use. After reading the message, I dictate a reply, and Chet scurries off back downstairs and taps out a message on his keyset, which is converted to computerized form, and then sent to the original sender. The idea for this is derived from the ultra-efficient Chinese Postal Service plan where they hand-deliver hard copies of emails to postal customers. And, as I said, it gives Chet something to do.WHEN HE'S HERE! Despite Nate's disparagement of my management style, Chet DOES get regular days off and holidays--I am not so cruel that I do not realize the value of allowing our employees recreational opportunities. Chet had Wednesday afternoon off for Bhutanese Coronation Day, and has all of today off so that he can wash the company van and replace the tie rod ends. Why, I even took him a snack of corn flakes not thirty minutes ago! As for why he has not been mentioned lately, it's the sad result of technological progress--with the comments section working, there is much less e-mail traffic than before, and Chet has less things to jot down. But he is still around, and is in absolutely no danger of being replaced by a young blond intern. Unless she has her own set of tools and knows how to work on a 1979 Chevy Stepvan. Chet says he is grateful that someone noticed his absence, and says hello to you all.
Careful, guys--Scientists try to inseminate rare bear Well, if they're smart scientists, they made a grad student try it first.
And now, this: Police look for naked drive-through patron HILLSBOROUGH, N.C. (AP) -- Police are searching for a man who was naked when he picked up his fast food order this week at a drive-through window. with short curly black hair Eww.that was receding on the top of his head. Well, still 'ewww.'He picked up an order at the window Monday morning. Sorta late for this to be hitting the wire, then isn't it?"He conducted his business So to speak...at the drive-through wearing no clothing and he had to open his door to receive whatever they were passing out the drive-through window," said Capt. Ross Frederick of the Hillsborough Police Department. Seems like they would have also made sure to give him some napkins. But that's just me.This is the first time police have been called about him, but the man has patronized the restaurant before. A regular, eh? NORM!!On those occasions, he wore only his underwear or perhaps shorts that may resemble underwear, Frederick said. And now, this poor man must feel the repression of Ashcroftian neocon fascism, where jack-booted thugs persecute people merely for having the courage to live alternative lifestyles that require the purchase of fried chicken and biscuits while unclothed. You can't legislate morality, you know!
Now that's one FREAKY Limey Just had a visitor from the UK through here looking for Judith Sheindlin nude. Cutie Judge Judy's booty, indeed. In any event, the Possumblog Editorial Board regrets to inform our readership that you will not see any such photographs on Possumblog. (Expecially after having seen that People magazine cover a few years back of her coming up out of a swimming pool.)
What Not to Do. Got in last night after Rebecca’s practice (yes, the season is over, but they’re going to play in a 3vs3 tournament next weekend) and had just gotten all finished with my very late supper as Miss Reba sat down to fill me in on the details of her day. Normal stuff--she goes into exquisite detail about the various operations of her office, but I like being around her, so even though most of what I hear is, “…so, then I had to confirm the referral with the providerwha wha wha WHA wha wha, and THEN she turned to me and asked if I had put the pending file into the wha wha wha wha…,” I still like to sit and let it wash over me. Sometimes I even learn stuff. Anyway, lots of yadda yadda, a few nuggets of interest, and then the tale of the ride home from Columbiana: “…and so then on the way home, I’m toodling along in my lane, I’m going right down the middle of the RIGHT lane, just driving along, and I hear someone blowing their horn. And I think, ‘huh!?’ and I look back and I can’t figure out what’s going on because I’M IN MY LANE and then I look over and there’s this carload of nasty looking guys and one of them is hanging out the window screaming and laughing at me, and I just look over at him [angry scowl, shoulders shrugging, palms up] and say, ‘WHAT!? I DON’T KNOW YOU!’ and they drive on off and they’re in some truck with a TOILET on top of it and toilet paper flying off of it and …” “Reba, don’t do that again. That was the wrong thing to do.” The moment she said there was a carload of guys in the car next to her, my blood ran cold. I repeated it a few more times for emphasis (but without belaboring the point--because doing that leads to intense poutiness) and she did allow that sometime after they got past her, weaving in and out of traffic, that she realized somewhere in the back of her mind that they could have had a knife or a gun. Bingo. Give the lady a ceegar. Folks, allow me to mount the soapbox for a few moments. You probably can figure how this could have turned out--a woman, alone, in a small car, somewhere on the interstate between Calera and Pelham, a carload of morons with too much time on their hands--the solution to that math problem should scare anyone with any sense. I don’t know how you feel about your own personal safety, but if you place any value in it at all, there are some things that you need to always have somewhere in your mind when you are anyplace other than in the safe confines of your home. First thing--there are bad people in the world. Sit and philosophize with your debate club buddies all you want about it, but strict empiricism says there are, and you would do well to be prepared to deal with them. Second thing--the police can’t be everywhere. Do not think for a moment that just because it’s against the law to hurt people, that there aren’t people around willing to break that law. And YOU might be the person they try to hurt, and there might not be a gruff but kindly big Irish cop to shoo them away with his nightstick. Both of which mean, if you value your safety, YOU might have to take some responsibility for it. Of course, some believe the idea of personal responsibility is rather old-fashioned, but better to be a throwback than a victim. Your best weapon in all of this is centered between your ears. Use the brain God gave you-- Know what’s going on around you. Know what can go wrong. Know what to do. These aren’t numbered, and they aren’t intended to be steps in a process--they are each interrelated and mutually supportive like the spokes of a wheel or the legs of a stool. Take away one and you’re not left with much support. In Reba’s situation, I know that she understands there are bad guys who can do bad things--she even admitted as much when she said she later thought they might could have had a weapon. But she has never really taken a hard look at what she might do in a situation where she might be called upon to deal with the unthinkable. Like many people, ignoring the possibility of bad things is a convenience--and most of the time she doesn’t have to worry, because there are very few times when she DOESN’T have me around to take care of such things. But, like the police, I can’t always be around, and that is something she hasn’t considered fully. She doesn’t like guns, she has never received any formal defensive training--if you are someone like this, YOU MUST be more aware of what’s going on around you. You CANNOT just blithely wander around anywhere and anytime you want and expect to be safe. Let’s go back to the car with Reba, and notice the first leg of the stool that was missing--awareness of her surroundings. If you don’t check your mirrors every few seconds, and if you don’t notice something like a weaving truck with A TOILET on top UNTIL IT’S BESIDE YOU, you are doing something terribly wrong. Any sort of advance planning or defensive driving you might know is negated. If they had been intent on mischief, they had the drop on her, and worse, she allowed it to happen. SO, back to the car again--having now allowed herself to be surprised by an entirely foreseeable hazard, she is left with few options. The best option is to be prepared to act defensively--make sure you have room to maneuver and you aren’t up against the bumper of the car ahead of you, survey the shoulder of the road in case it’s necessary to use it, see if there is anyone who might serve as a rolling barrier between you and the other person, know when the next exit is coming up. The worst option? TAKING NOTICE OF THE MORONS IN THE CAR AND ATTEMPTING TO ENGAGE IN CONVERSATION WITH THEM, EVEN IF YOU PUT ON YOUR MAD LOOK AND WHAT YOU SAY IS INTENDED TO MAKE THEM FEEL BAD AND GO AWAY! Do not EVER do this. When you take your concentration away from the task of driving, you have given away YET ANOTHER defensive advantage. And reacting to such things can be a sure fire way to ANTAGONIZE the idiot who’s bothering you. And then what will you do if they decide to do something!? Again, you’re an unarmed, single, female, in a small car with no weapon or self-defense skills. And your cell phone is down in your purse covered up with a pile of junk, and the idea of calling 911 gets lost in the stress of the situation. Good thing she’s on speaking terms with God, cause by then she’ll need to make extreme use of it. Drive defensively--know where everyone is around you, obey the traffic laws, and don’t antagonize other drivers. Be calm and courteous, and don’t allow yourself to be placed into situations that are dangerous. Know where you’re going, keep your cell phone charged, keep it dialed to 911 ready to transmit (or at least 91 so you can press 1 and send; or at the very least have it programmed into your speed dial), and ignore obvious attempts by other drivers to engage you in gamesmanship or other stupidity. This stuff is common sense, and it is equally valid if you’re a man or a woman--even though I do have extensive firearms knowledge and a concealed weapons permit I occasionally put to use, I don’t knowingly put myself into dangerous situations, I don’t look for trouble, and I go out of my way to avoid giving offense to anyone. The only way this works, though, is an ingrained sense of the necessity of being cognizant of my surroundings, as well as being prepared for potential trouble. This doesn’t mean I walk around scared and paranoid or swaggering and brash, and it doesn’t mean I don’t trust God will take care of me. It means only that I take the tools He’s given me to insure my own safety and that of my family. [/soapbox] One of the best online guides I have found on self-defense is written by Jon Grigsby and John Blue. Grigsby is a sergeant with the Pleasant Grove Police Department west of Birmingham, and runs the FOP shooting range, and in addition is a super nice guy. The guide is geared toward the defensive use of firearms, but the general information about danger avoidance and awareness is valuable no matter whether you like guns or not. Thursday, June 03, 2004
LeAnn Rimes pens children's book ::dopeslap:: I HAVE FINALLY FIGURED IT OUT! All I need to do to get a book published is become a young female country singer! This explains a LOT!
Now THAT'S one tough speller! Boy collapses at spelling bee, nails word By BEN FELLER
It's a dessert topping AND a floor wax! Just made a run for the border for lunch, which, in addition to meaning that I will having to make a run for the restroom in about thirty minutes from now, also means that I had to get a Diet Pepsi to drink. Now I like Diet Coke the best, but I also like Pepsi One, and don't mind drinking Diet Pepsi if there's nothing else around, but the stuff in my cup right now tastes an great deal like Fruity Windex.
The Tooth Fairy Returns Got home last night after church (and a very long day) and was desperately trying to get Tiny Terror in the bed. Me: "Go to bed. Just go to bed. Now. No. Bed. No. You can take a bath another time. Now. Bed. JONATHAN!? Get your stuff together and take your bath!" This was met with a deep disappointed sigh from down the hall in the direction of Boy's room. Boy: "But Dad, doesn't she need to bathe? She got all sweaty and stuff at the McWane Center today, and she needs to bathe." Said because he thinks the order of baths at night is very important, and hates having to go before his little sister. Bath order/birth order sort of deal. Me: "Go bathe." Such dejection. But away he went. Back to the task at hand--figuring out a way to incapacitate a seven year old. "Catherine? SLEEP!" She had gotten her shorts off and was squirming around on her bed. "Can you pull my tooth?" ::sigh:: She's been working on her lower left lateral incisor for a couple of weeks now, and it has always been tighter than wax everytime I have wiggled it. I gave it yet another wiggle, not expecting any progress, and the icky thing tilted outwards at an alarming angle of attack to the rest of her little razor sharp fangs. Hmm. Time to pull teeth. I tugged at it a bit more, but it was still attached somewhere, so I went and got a damp washcloth and started pulling it up to an accompaniment of "OWOWOWOWOWOW." Ploop. Came right out. Nice and shiny, no spots or chips. I then noticed Cat had a mouthful of blood, so I gave her the washcloth to jam in there. I suppose that's one way to keep her quiet. "AH WAHN GO SHAH IH OO AMA!" Off she pounded through the house to our bathroom to show her recently detached body part to Mom, who was, as always, grossed out. As she did that, I searched for the Tooth Pillow. It's a little fluffy thing with a pouch where you put the tooth, and a loop of ribbon to hang it over a doorknob so that the Tooth Fairy can get at it easier. Always manages to get itself lost. I asked all the kids and no one knew where it was, so I rounded Catherine back up and plopped her into bed again with a sad tale of not being able to find the tooth pillow. "Tell you what--I'll wrap it up and put it right her on your soccer trophy so she can find it easy." Entirely agreeable, thankfully. "Daddy, I hope she can get it because she is liiiiiiiittle tiny!" Hmm. This was news to me--as you know, our family has already had a long and verbose pre-blog relationship with the Tooth Fairy, and I was always much under the impression that she was one of the larger sorts of fairies, stoutly built, something like a softball player. (Based entirely upon my own rather odd ideas of what I would like for the Tooth Fairy to be. After all, it is all about me.) "Really?! I thought she was a big fairy, but you say she't teeninesy--like Tinkerbell?" Big smile--"Uh-huh! And she FLIIIIES up to the window, and POOF she does magic and she gets the tooth out of your room and then leaves money and then POOF she goes home!" "Well, you know, I never knew that! Have you ever SEEN the Tooth Fairy?!" "Ummm, I think so, but probably not or she would have gotted scared and flewed away." I kissed her on the noggin and tucked her in--"Make me be like a burrito!"--and went on to make sure the rest of the kids got bathed and bedded down. Got up this morning and started my rounds of wake-up, and walked into Cat and Rebecca's room, flipped on the light and was just about to say, "WAKE..." Oops. Something wrapped up in toilet paper on someone's soccer trophy caught my eye--it seems whatever size she is, she let this one slip by. Can't have that, so I quietly flipped the light back off and ran and got a buck out of my wallet and then came back and made the swap, THEN started rousting them up. I got Cat to go take her bath (which took forever because she wanted to play) and after no small amount of time, she came padding into our bedroom in her underdrawers, proudly holding aloft the dollar. "Where'd you get that, Squirt?" "THA TOOTH FAIRY BROUGHT IT!" "Really, now! My goodness!" I flopped her up onto our bed and got her clothes for today, and we discussed the recent visitation. "Catherine, exactly what does the Tooth Fairy do with all those teeth she gets?" "She puts them in BIG piles all around her house." "Why?" "I don't know, she just does." "Does she do anything with them? Play with them? Anything like that?" A look of disgust briefly crossed Cat's face--"NO, Dad, she doesn't PLAY with them! Sometimes she jus sits on them." Ah. We chatted some more about the Tooth Fairy's personal attributes and skill at sneaking into children's rooms, and then we went on to the most important topic. "And where does she get the money to give to people for their teeth?" Hmm. A puzzlement for sure. Catherine thought for a minute, and then said, "She gets it out of my big crayon bank." Such a shocking revelation--"So you mean to tell me the Tooth Fairy is a Democrat!?" I assured Catherine that the Tooth Fairy doesn't take her money out of her bank, and tried to convince her again that the Tooth Fairy is really a muscular blonde girl, as Reba walked out of the bathroom with the very tiniest of smiles on her face. "I've been listening to all of this...you tell Daddy he's just being silly." "You're SILLY, Dad!" Well, yes.
Judge Judy in dispute over athletic field GREENWICH, Conn. (AP) -- Judge Judy has a new case — in her back yard. Judith Sheindlin of "Judge Judy" fame and her husband, Gerald Sheindlin, a former "People's Court" television judge, are complaining to officials in wealthy Greenwich about a field one of their neighbors built for youth sports. They claim it was put up without permits and caused erosion that filled their swimming pool with mud.
I feel so special! And I'm sure all of you who came by because Possumblog managed to get itself listed in the Daypop Top 40 (#10 with an uppointy arrow!--at least for the next few minutes) are so very, VERY let down by the whole experience. You figure something must really be hot, and then you read the link and find out it was just some silly throw-away line about the Live Doppler ONE MILLLLLLLLLLION weather radar Channel 13 has now (thanks for the link, Doctor Joyner!) and you can't for the life of you figure out why THIS pile of crap is at #10 with an uppointy arrow. Well, I'm sorry, but this is the Internet, home of the inexplicable. But thanks for dropping by anyway! (In re. Weather Radar--I forsee in the near future that the local FOX affiliate will fire back with a Doppler weather radar so powerful and sensitive it can detect the fine sheen of dewy moistness forming upon the nape of Mai Martinez' supple bronze neck. Of course, I could be wrong.)
HOLY MOLEY! This short week threw off my internal sundial, and here I was thinking it was Tuesday or something! I very nearly forgot to slap together Chapter 48 of Dick Terwilliger’s Astounding Tales of Idaho! Oh, and there’s that Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, ver. 9.0 thing, too. Well, first things first… Today’s Threesday Thur category will be Potpourri! Hooray! Everyone loves mispronounceable stinky bits of dried vegetation! First question: What is the most daring thing you have ever done in public? Second question: Who was your favorite Cartwright on Bonanza? Third question: The South has long been known as a hotbed of scientific research and innovative inventors. (Yes, really!) Assuming for a moment that you yourself are an innovative Southern inventor, what device, tool, apparatus, implement, contrivance or other synonym do you think the world is ready for? As always, even though this quiz originates south of the Sweet Tea Line, it is not intended to exclude contributions from around the globe--from Tazmania to Timbuktu, from Saipan to Slapout, all are welcome to play along. If you have your own blog, leave a link down in the comments, otherwise, you’re welcome to post your answers there (provided you agree to get your own blog forthwith). Now then--my answers to the quiz: #1--I would say it would have to be when my dad and I went to the boat show when the Birmingham-Jefferson Convention Complex (nee Civic Center) first opened back in the mid-1970s. The daring part was afterwards, when we were walking back to wherever the car was parked, and both of us were overwhelmed with the urge to pee. There aren’t any such things as on-street public toilets in the entirety of the Americas, much less downtown Birmingham, and despite the distinct possibility of being caught and arrested, we both sauntered over to a somewhat sheltered landscaped area and quickly did our irrigation work. Due to the rapidity of our exercise and the deep shadows of the night, we managed to escape detection. I was about thirteen or fourteen at the time, and the idea of my dad and I both being juvenile delinquents together was very special. Of course, we had to tell Mama what we had done when we got home. She just shook her head. The incident did become one of those bit of family lore that would get brought up in conversations from time to time, just like the Gravely Tractor. (A story for another time.) #2--Oh, come on. Gotta be Hoss! I mean, he was the only one of them who really sounded and acted like he was actually a Westerner. All the rest of the family all sounded and acted like they were from back East (except, of course, Hop Sing, who was from the Far East). Listening to Adam and Little Joe's patois was kinda like listening to that whiny Yankee brat Bud Ricks on Flipper--“Hey look, youse guys, it’s Flippah!” ANYway, Hoss was always my favorite. #3--Well, they have those solar-powered robot lawnmowers that cut grass without anyone around, and they have those battery-powered robot vacuum cleaners that vacuum your floor while you’re gone, so I think it would be a neat idea to have something like that that goes around sidewalks and streets picking up cigarette butts and litter. I suppose they would be targets for vandals, so they probably need to be armed with skunk smell in case they’re tampered with. (I am also still working on my Norah O’Donnell-lookalike, weed-picking robot for the yard, but it’s a real slow process.) So there you are. Wednesday, June 02, 2004
DNC invites some 'bloggers' to convention By JENNIFER PETER
North American pollution falls 10 pct. Interesting. Especially considering this particular news report fails to note a particularly bothersome point, one that is reported in this article from Canadaeast.com: [...] The annual Taking Stock report, drawn from submissions by more than 20,000 polluters in the United States and Canada, shows that Canada is lagging the United States in curbing toxic pollution. Although total North American emissions declined by 18 per cent from 1998 to 2001, Canadian emissions rose three per cent. [...] From an overall amount of junk produced, the US is still ahead of the pack--to be expected given the size of our GDP--but it should be heartening to note the emissions trend is going in the right way. (This also fails to take into account the amount of turbidity created by fatuous sillyman Mike Moore.)
You know... a person might toil in obscurity for years, and then one day, a light clicks on and that person discovers that he is the number one search result for artsy fartsy hooters greeting cards, and things just have a way of becoming so much more clear and meaningful.
Now there's you an interesting defense--Scott Peterson a Cad, Not a Murderer, Lawyer Says Of course, neither characterization is mutually exclusive. And it's not like there aren't thousands of guys roaming around the Mexican border with large sums of cash and blond-dyed hair. I mean, come on!
Sound Advice From the Government I get these updates via e-mail every so often, and this one is a good one, discussing the caution you should exercise when OPENING E-MAIL ATTACHMENTS! This continues to be a problem because some feebs out there continue to open attachments even if they have no idea who sent it or why. Harder to resist are the ones from people you know--and especially if it comes from your friendly Possumblogger. I know somewhere out there something has gotten ahold of my Yahoo! address, because I get returned mail from it all the time, as well as viruses sent to me, by me. As I mention every so often, I do NOT send out unsolicited e-mails with attachments. If you receive an e-mail that looks like it came from me, and it has an attachment, DON'T OPEN IT. If I send you something, I will warn you ahead of time that it will have an attachment, and what sort of file it will be.
Another one bites the dust. Fer real. Old Opera House collapses in Opelika Jason Nix
Mo-ron Indiana man survives 69,000-volt shock CLARKSVILLE, Ind. (AP) -- A 22-year-old man who climbed an electrical tower survived a 69,000-volt shock that a utility official said was nearly always fatal. Grisham, from New Albany, scaled the fence around the tower about 6:30 a.m. and then started to climb the tower itself, rising 12 to 15 feet before he "received a dose of ... electricity and was knocked to the ground," said police, who were seeking a toxicology report.
Miss Universe! I caught the last part of this last night after getting home from Rebecca's practice. There was something familiar about Miss Australia, and I finally figured out that she looks like my big tall blonde friend Tracy I used to work with. I never saw Tracy in a bathing suit, though. As for the show, I sure wish they would teach them to walk a bit more gracefully. And more Daisy Fuentes, please, but whatever you do, get rid of Lil' Billy. And don't show pictures of Donald Trump's head.
There's an hour I won't ever get back. First off, I've said it before, and it's true--I am a computeretard. I don't know anything substantive about them, mainly because I have always thought they should be like a toaster or the telephone. You should just be able to use them without much thought. The frightening thing is that there are people--seemingly bright, responsible adults--who see computers the way a cave man might look at a toaster. "Oh! Box with fire make bread brown! Me hit on rock to make rock turn into bread!" Yes, it doesn't make a bit of sense to me, either. But that's the type of people I work with. Just had an hour long meeting with the guy who takes our photos and slaps together our PowerPoint presentations for our thrice-monthly regulatory meetings with our adoring public. What made it last an hour was the fact that he's going to be gone on vacation in a couple of weeks, and wanted to fill everyone in on how he puts these presentations together. My boss, three of my coworkers, Picture Guy, and me. Our combined computer expertise could fill an entire thimble. The bad part is that 98% of the thimble would be filled with stuff I know. The worst part is that two of the other folks in the group believe that they know everything. You know, like how to SAVE things! In a FOLDER! So, trying to get them to understand how to take the photos, download them to a folder, rename them something intelligible, then drop them into a PowerPoint template, edit the captions, and get it burnt to a CD was quite an exercise. Especially considering Photo Guy speaks English as his second language. I see a lot of work headed my way.
Well, well--even embittered little peckerwoods have coattails. Parker beats Justice Brown in Supreme Court Place 1 race TOM GORDON Moore also backed two other high court hopefuls, Criminal Appeals Judge Pam Baschab in the Place 2 nomination race, and retired Covington County Circuit Judge Jerry Stokes in the Place 3 contest. Baschab, however, lost decisively to Shelby County District Judge Patti Smith. Incomplete returns showed Smith with 116,474 votes, or 58 percent, to 85,407, or 42 percent, for Baschab. Smith will face Democrat Roger Monroe, a former state appellate judge, in November. Larry Sabato, a University of Virginia political scientist, Whu?! Odd to go out of state for a comment about this, given the amount of poli-sci professors in the state...said Tuesday's results showed that Moore has political clout, but not as much as his supporters would like. Moore's backing did little in the primary contest for the 6th Congressional District. His chief attorney, Phillip Jauregui, lost decisively to incumbent Spencer Bachus. [...] Again, in a survey of likely male voters currently sitting at my desk, this was a non-starter to begin with. Bachus has been effective at doing what Representatives are supposed to do--bringing home lots of filthy Federal lucre to his district. To his credit, he has not fallen into the usual mode of insisting that everything be named after him, as seems to be the general rule, and has been cognizant of the needs of people in his district other than the ones who voted for him--a lot of the money he has funnelled has been to improve mass transit, generally NOT something appealing to suburbanites and rural dwellers. To throw him off for an unknown, whose only claim to fame was being Jedge Roy's mouthpiece, was a bit too much to expect.Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Now that'll ruin your day. Just got word that someone phoned in a bee-oh-em-bee threat. Such things (phone calls, not the actual thing) do happen occasionally around here, and it is disconcerting, to say the least. Especially since we don't get to leave unless the police say to leave. Bummer of a birthmark, Hal. UPDATE: It's 5:00, and I'm headed home, so hopefully there was nothing to it.
Classy. Dave Helton has gone and fancied up his place and it looks VERY swanky and uptown. Nice job, and as always, a fascinating read.
[...] Despite its apparent dull wit and cavalier attitude toward self-preservation, it has survived for eons. Indeed. (Article requires registration--which I didn't realize at the time. Oops.)
It's just wrong to laugh at the misfortunes of a sailor. It does put me in mind of a time about thirty years ago when my dad and I had gone to Riverside Marina on Logan Martin Lake. For some reason I can now no longer recall--I think maybe our boat wouldn't crank, and after I had parked the truck, I was going to borrow a boat to get him back to the dock--but in any event, there was a small aluminum boat beside the dock, which I stepped into and then promptly fell out of, into the water. Which wouldn't have been so bad if Logan Martin was cleaner, but it's full of nasty Coosa River water. And so was I.
Yesterday morning I was awakened by God's own artillery drill--the same storm that woke Miss Susanna up at 4 managed to get me up about 45 minutes later. I usually don't wake up during storms, or didn't used to. When I was in college, even living in a tiny tin death trap couldn't convince me to rouse up during those nighttime storms, but I guess now my autonomic nervous system has adjusted itself to newfound responsibility as mother hen, waking me up when it used to let me sleep. Not that it still doesn't have some work to do--it took me a minute or two to finally decide I was supposed to wake up, despite the fire-for-effect going on outside. I looked over at the clock and saw that it was very early, but figured I would turn on the television and see what was going on. Despite the early hour, the local dude was already up and fidgeting with the new Doppler [Dr. Evil]ONE MIIIIIlllllliiiiooon [/Dr. Evil] super-de-dooper weather radar and two-slice toaster. Lots of the angry colors, sitting right over the top of our house, but clearing back to the west, and probably over with in about an hour or so. I lay there like a lump for a minute or two processing all of this and then pretty much went back to sleep--no use staying awake since Wendy Garner is on vacation. Thankfully, the kids slept soundly until much later, and didn't decide to start tearing the house apart. Amazing. I managed to wallow around and snore and drool all the way to nearly 8:30, which hardly ever happens at our house. Started in on some more book rearranging and general clean-up. The landing at the top of the stairs is now ready for its own set of bookcases for the leftovers that have yet to be put away. Even vacuumed the floor. The kids acted like they had never seen carpet before. "It's NOT new carpet! It's the same stuff that was there before--it's the same stuff in your room!" Put some more stuff up in the attic, took a shower, and then it was time to head BACK to the inlaws' house for lunch. Barbecued ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, tater salad, fresh tomatoes, Vidalia onions, baked beans--it looked like they were trying to feed an army, and although our children are very much like hyenas on a wildebeest carcass, it was STILL a lot of food. Afterwards, the kids went in the den, flopped down and turned on cartoons, and I felt awfully sleepy, so I lay down and put my head on Jonathan's butt, which he thought was the funniest thing in the world. It was comfortable, though. Then Catherine got in on the act and cuddled up with her head on my arm. Quite the picture of domestic tranquility, although I feared an outbreak of onion-induced windiness that would have triggered a terrible calamity given our close proximity to each other and the possible release routes. But, like sleeping through the storm, it didn't have much effect on me and I napped for what seemed like forever. Sometime in there Jonathan made me get a pillow, and Catherine fidgeted herself somewhere else. I finally woke up, and then swapped sides. Such a nice nap. After we had thoroughly worn out our welcome, we went back to our side of the tracks. Grocery-store time! We were running out of essentials like soap and milk, and there was a book to be returned to Books-A-Million, and gas to get in the Focus, so I was tasked with hunting and gathering for the afternoon. I took Rebecca with me since it was her book we were returning, and we took off again down the hill. First stop, the gas station. I have started stopping more at the BP station at the foot of the hill--it's convenient, but more importantly, the folks who run it seem to have quit smoking. It's run by a Vietnamese family, and the young guys smoked like chimneys, and from the smell of it they had never lost their fondness for the burning hair-and-rubber stench of Gauloises. You couldn't go in there for more than five seconds without smelling like that all day long. But they seem to have put a stop to that--the last time I was in there it just smelled like, well, nothing. So, I stopped and filled up (28.4 mpg) and got Rebecca and myself a cold drink and then it was off to the bookstore. She finally found a replacement book, and I got a couple of magazines, and then it was on to Food World. Never has such a short list of goods managed to expand so rapidly. It was fun, though. We have given up trying to grocery shop with all the kids with us--we used to all go once a month and make a big grocery bill, but the demands of time and the need to ride herd on them has made most grocery trips a dash-in, dash-out exercise, usually done on the way to somewhere else. So it was nice to be a bit more leisurely, and have some time spent doing something other than homework or soccer. We're going to parch us some peanuts sometime this week. I haven't done that since I can't remember when. Back home, unload, put away, eat some supper, into bed. Such a weekend.
Yard Work! Okay--tasks at hand: rake shrubbery trimmings from Thursday out into yard; edge yard so that the perimeter of the grass is laser straight the way Nature intended; trim the other bits of overgrowth with the trimmer; cut the grass. Reba raked for me, so that was one thing I didn't have to do, thankfully, so I got the old yellow McLane out for the edging work. Filled it up, cranked it, and proceeded to do the sidewalk in the back when I noticed that even with the blade adjusted all the way down, I wasn't really cutting anything. Turned it off, and noticed that the blade was only about 4 inches in diameter. I dimly recalled at the end of last year thinking that I needed to get a new blade. But no matter whether I remembered or not, a new blade was needed. I rolled it around to the garage door and after several tugs and pulls broke the nut loose and got the blade off. And dug out a double-handful of dirt and grass clippings that had compacted themselves into the guard around the blade. Noticed the zerk fittings on the axle housing, and couldn't recall the last time I had lubed it, so I got the grease gun and gunned it full of 90 weight. Apparently, it has been a long, LONG time. I am a bad person. That done, it was time to go get a blade. I don't know why I do this to myself, but I stopped at the Marvin's at the foot of the hill. It's so very handy, but usually so very poorly stocked. But, like Charlie Brown running to kick the football, I figure maybe just once I'll manage to connect on something I need. Walk in, and it looks nearly deserted, go over to the mower blades annnnnddddd.... AAAARRRGGGGHHHH! Not a single one in the size I need (9 x 2, round hole). ::sigh:: Off to The Home Despot. Walk in and find several million blades, including the one I needed, then back home, bolt it on, and get busy. Found out that using a full-sized blade is much easier than one that is worn out. Finished in no time at all. Swept the clippings up onto the grass, then got out my favorite toy. Why is it my favorite? Well, it's loud, and dangerous. Cut down all the weeds around the foundation, all the weeds in the flower beds (along with some collateral damage to the irises), cut down the honeysuckle growing up the pine tree, cut big gaping swaths out of the wisteria that has grown over the arbor. DISCLAIMER: I've said it before, but it probably bears repeating that holding a two-stroke weed trimmer with three-bladed head up above the level of your shoulders is probably a bit foolhardy. But gee whiz, it's not like I was using a flamethrower or grenades or anything. Yet. Anyway, got all that noisy and dangerous work finished, and then set in to cut the grass. Although I had hoped to get all of it cut, my yard still has the early-Billy Ray Cyrus, business in the front, party in the back, lawn mullet going for it. But it was getting late, and I was getting tired, so just the front this time. OH WAIT! I forgot something! Sometime this weekend (Saturday? Yesterday? Who knows?) I helped Catherine fix herself a plastic suncatcher in the shape of a butterfly. She was very helpful for the first thirty minutes or so, and we had a very deep discussion about caterpillars and glitter and school and shoes. After that thirty minutes, though, her interest waned and she went off to play with something else, "You finish that for me, Daddy, okay?" As if I had a choice. She would come back and check on me every once in a while, "You are doing SUCH a good job, Daddy!" Yes, such is the result of my highly specialized education--I can paint glitter paint inside the lines. She was very impressed when it was completely done, and only managed to touch the wet glitter paint twice in her eagerness to mess with it. Sunday was church all morning--and we had forgotten that we were supposed to have a dinner afterwards, so Reba ran to the store during the first part of Sunday school to get our part of the feast. Worship, eat, then our evening worship again right afterwards--the young guys conducted the service, and did a pretty good job. I know men who wouldn't dare get up in front of a crowd, so they are to be commended. And I have to tell you, I wish our late service was like this every week, although that is mostly just pure selfishness. But it sure was nice to go home and take a nap without having to worry about wrinkling your clothes or getting back out. Reba took the opportunity to go clothes shopping, with Rebecca and Jonathan tagging along--so the downside of having that extra time was having extra time to spend money. But still--a NAP! Such luxury! Now, it's time for lunch, though, so you'll have to wait a while before your final portion of mundane stuff.
About those popups. I still haven't figured out where they were coming from, but I suspect they might be related to the Bravenet hit counter I had installed a while back. I think I caught a glimpse of a redirect tag that had their name on it, so that might be it. As a test, I have taken down their counter and installed one from GoStats. If you still get popups when you visit, let me know and I'll see if it's something else that might be causing it.
So- Up early Saturday to go over to the track at the middle school with Middle Girl. Wait. Wait. At nine, Rebecca's coach showed up. And no one else did. Not sure if there was a mix-up or just apathy, but no matter. I left them there and walked over to the library, which was closed for the holiday (it would have been closed no matter what--it doesn't open until 10 on Saturdays--not that I knew that beforehand) so then I walked on back to the school to see that they had been kicking the ball some and stretching. He ran her and walked her around for a bit more than a mile, and then helped her on her running technique. She tends to hold her hands down at her waist and run on her heels, so to get her out of that, they did several sets of wind sprints and by the time it was over she was getting much better at staying on her toes and pumping her arms. After an hour of hard work, it was time to head back to the house and pick up the rest of the crew to go over to Reba's mom and dad's house for the single most important thing in the world--assembling Boy's basketball goal. Finally got everyone ready and back out the door, down the hill, over the tracks, up the road, then back up the next hill. Kids scramble out of the doors like they're assaulting a bunker from a Bradley, and I make my way downstairs to see what it is I'm supposed to be doing. Well, it's a basketball goal. Put it together. It's sad to look at--for some reason Pop had left it all--corrugated cardboard boxes, hardware, poles, bits, pieces--at the end of the driveway, so it has endured a month of rain and weather, and was in the condition one would expect. Soppy wet. With the help of the children, I started picking through the stuff, peeling the mushy cardboard away, sending them with wads of it over to the garbage can. I had begun to lay the parts out, when I felt a few driblets of rain on my head. ::sigh:: Got Granddad to back the truck out of their garage and we moved all of our junk inside onto the floor. The kids got themselves each a folding chair and I plopped down on the concrete and grabbed the instructions. It always pays to read the instructions first. Really. Even when they were obviously the result of the instruction writer being high on mescaline. It is a Huffy Sports Spyder Acrylic Portable Basketball System, which is not the least bit similar to the sheet of plywood and orange painted steel rim I nailed to the sweet gum tree in my backyard when I was young. We got to work, and I tasked the children with the unenviable job of reaming the paint out the holes of the mounting brackets. Why don't they just make the holes 2 mils bigger? Why not figure out a way NOT to get paint in the holes? It is a mystery. Anyway, they set to that task with a youthful vigor and ignorance as I continued to study the instructions. Slam three pole sections together. Eyebolt in base of pole through a pin, said pin intended to be held in place by the big plastic base. Manage to get bottom of pole, pin, eyebolt in proper alignment, leave with Grandpop, go get wheels and axle (also intended to be held by plastic base) which also serves as big washer to keep eyebolt from coming back through the plastic. Drop wheels. Go catch. Carefully position wheels and bracket, drop wheels. Go catch. Carefully position wheels and bracket, eyebolt drops out. One wheel drops off. Go catch. Reposition eyebolt, position bracket with wheels. Eagerly thread nut onto eyebolt. Wait while Granddad takes much too long to use ratchet wrench, very nearly drop wheel. Read instructions. First inkling of drug-induced mania on the part of the writer noted when instructions have absolutely no correlation to reality. More talk of eyebolts, and rod 11, and lobsters. (Not really--no lobsters at all.) Finally decide to make the best of the situation and fix it as close to the picture as possible. This works, for some reason. Pole and base now complete. Backboard. Spread out old blanket on floor, proceed to install mounting flanges and tighten them securely before realizing one is backwards. Untighten, fix, tighten. Install hoop bracket. Wonder why there is no way to fix things so that they can't be installed upside down. Pop goes to get lunch for everyone. Children disappear. Install adjustment arms. Looking at picture no longer any sort of help. Instructions begin sounding like Dennis Kucinich on mescaline. Install top arms, but in the bottom holes. Remove, reattach in proper place. Install bottom arms. Which are full of holes. None of which match the picture. No help from instructions, which are now in full, free-associative thought mode. Decide that despite my misgivings, I should attach them in as near an approximation to the picture as possible. Reba comes down to see how I'm doing, brings me a nice cold Diet Coke, mentions that her dad said the folks at the store offered assembly for only $85. I scoff at such spendthriftiness, and note that such a princely sum was about 80 bucks too much. Get Reba to help me hold the bottom section and pole while attaching arms to top of pole. Nearly drop everything, then find out there is no way the arms on the bottom will work. Because they were installed with the wrong end bolted to the backboard, just like the picture showed. Unbolt everything from pole, swap bottom arms end-for-end, again press Reba into service to hold the bottom part...[And let me just say RIGHT NOW--I don't want a SINGLE COMMENT about Miss Reba having to hold my pole! That's just RIGHT out!]...and finally get the backboard married to the upright in an fashion very close to what would be dictated by the laws of physics. Briefly think that maybe $85 wouldn't have been quite such a bad deal, after all. Break for a bit to go eat lunch. Mmmm--fried chicken with ELEVEN herbs and spices! Not seven or eight herbs and spices like they have in socialist countries... Finish up my dead bird and go back downstairs to finish up my little project that has now consumed more than three hours of the day. Assemble nigglingly maldesigned trigger mechanism for moving the goal upwards and downwards, discover that although the hardware package came with many, many spare bolts and nuts and washers, it was shy two plastic spacers of the proper spaciness. The ones supplied were approximately one-half inch too long. They need to be three-quarters of an inch. Decide to reduce the one-half inch overlengthenage through judicious use of my pocketknife. Manage to cut off a bit more than one-half inch, but not my whole finger, therefore the operation is deemed a success. Even though the resulting spacers were a bit too short, leaving a slightly more than optimal level of slop in the mechanism. Instructions begin to mock me with their tauntings. Pictures very clear, and entirely unhelpful. Attach elevator rod to adjustment arms, attach bottom elevator rod to pole, attach rim to bracket, attach net to rim, stand completed monstrosity up at end of driveway, fill with 33 gallons of water, anchor into ground with big auger, drive in from mid-court on a lay-up, dunk ball, grab rim, break backboard into a million pieces, and sign a $4,000,000 shoe contract. Not really. At least the part past where it says "auger." Got the kids out there and let them shoot a few, then it was time to head back to my house to start doing my stuff. Which will be discussed in loving detail forthwith.
Well, I'll be. I know I'll be sore for a couple more days, that's for sure! But at least I didn't slice anything off of myself that I need on a regular basis, and the house is still standing, so I figure it was a pretty good weekend. Check back in a bit for the exciting recapitulation of the various mundane minutiae of Life Along the Pinchgut. Friday, May 28, 2004
It's getting on toward that time. Weekend coming up, and no soccer games to go to! How very odd. I do have to take Middle Girl over to the middle school (how apropos) tomorrow morning so she can run laps with her team members--they're trying to stay in shape, which is good. Rebecca put on a LOT of weight the last time we were between seasons so she wants to stay in shape, too. (Mostly it was just natural growth, but there was a bit too many calories in there as well.) After that, it's over to Granny and Granddaddy's house to help Pop put together a basketball goal that was a birthday present for Boy. Pop doesn't have a whole lot of handy skills. Sometime in there I intend to cut the grass. Being that I now have tons of leisure time, I believe I will be giving it a trim both in the front and back (thus doing away with my lawn mullet) and go around everything with the Whirring Two-Stroke Engine of Death, and edge all the concrete parts with the edger. Such FUN! The shrubbery trimming yesterday was likewise an enjoyable experience, after I repaired the short extension cord that plugs into the hedge trimmer. (An ancient Black and Decker model that has an annoying habit of chewing through electrical cords.) I don't remember cutting it, but it was half in two, so I got out the wire nuts and electrical tape and made a first-rate fire hazard for myself. But it works just fine. After that, I finished going through all the kids' stuff from the past year--found yet more incriminating evidence of occasional lapses in willingness to complete assignments, as well as empirical proof that the mind of a 14 year old is a complete cipher. You'd think a particular someone was being held captive in a dungeon or something based upon some of the notes that were carefully folded and wadded up into hunks the size of a Chiclet. ::sigh:: It'sonlyaphaseIt'sonlyaphaseIt'sonlyaphase... Managed to get the car tags just fine today, although it did take thirty, never-to-be-recovered minutes standing in line with... yep, people. Actually, the only guy who was bothersome was the guy right in front of me--50-ish, long gray hair styled in wings which he fidgetted with constantly, golf shirt, annoying manner of looking around for people with whom to engage in conversation, cell phone--which had to be used to call someone when he couldn't get a sufficient number of people in line to talk to him: HEY--IT'S ME! (...) YEAH! HEY, IS TOMMY THERE? (...) HEY! ASK HIM IF HE REMEMBERS WHEN I CALLED DOWN HERE THIS MORNING AND THEY TOLD ME THERE WERE ONLY TEN PEOPLE IN LINE? (...) WELL, I'M HERE NOW, AND TELL HIM THERE'S THREE HUNDRED AND TEN PEOPLE IN LINE! (...) AHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! (...) TELL HIM I'LL BE IN IN A LITTLE WHILE! (click) He looked around to make sure everyone caught his joke. 310! Such a card. The line was pretty long, but no longer than it usually is at the end of the month, but this guy acted like he had been living in a cave or something. The revenue director was strolling around and making sure the line kept moving and everyone was in the right line--their office also does business, boat, hunting and fishing licenses, title transfers, and driver's license renewals. Of course, none of them had a line of people. Anyway, some lady came up and asked if they were going to be open Monday. No. But the director said that you could pay on Tuesday with no penalty since it was a holiday Monday. Had I known that, I would have sat here and not gone all the way home and back. I'm always uneasy about going home during the middle of the day--I keep thinking I will walk in on some parallel-universe family using my stuff and eating my food. Oh well. Thankfully, the bonus day idea pinged into Mr. Golf Shirt's consciousness, causing him to take his leave of us. You could feel everyone relax after he left. Got to the front of the line by the elevator and chatted with the director for a bit. I started to just hand him my check and tell him to run it to the cashier for me, but you never know how a person might react to that. Paid my money--$338 for three vehicles. Ouch. Then back here, and now, back to Trussville. All of you have a great weekend and holiday. I'll see you all Tuesday. Until then-- "The Soldier's Faith," by Oliver Wendell Holmes.
OKAY! So, this is it. Right here. I told you you wouldn't be impressed. But it's interesting anyway, at least on some level. And like I said, it's not really that surprising, seeing as how I'm one of those "obsessive" bloggers the little snots at the Gray Lady managed to take a swipe at the other day. I mean, you figure someone who actually posts several times a day(imagine!), and who has been doing this for 128 weeks, you sorta figure at some point in there they're going to hit 4,000 posts. And this is #4K. Some have been long, some have been short, some have been funny, and others not. But it has been quite enjoyable writing them, even the ones that are sad and serious. I hope those of you who have come by have found something that made you laugh or think or maybe even start your own blogs. And I thank you all for your confounded muleishness for continually coming back for more. And now... SURPRISE!  Yep, that's your author.
NOPE, nope, nope--this ain't it either. Sorry. Just got finished with my stupid ol' work junk (yippee) and now have to run over and pick up Miss Reba's paycheck, then to the bank again, then way over to the house to pick up my tag notices and a check (Note to self--pick up check. Must. Get. Check.) then head way back to the courthouse to wait in line with people (ick) and pick up the tags, then come back and sit down here, and THEN I will post my not-really-very-interesting post. I promise you, it really is underwhelming, and the only reason I keep mentioning it is because I'm just trying to take up space. OFF NOW!
This is not the surprise. But it might be interesting nonetheless if it works right--rather than keep posting links to pictures in my Yahoo photo album, I took Stan the G-Man's advice and signed up for a free Photobucket account. Let's look now and see if we can make it work-- Below, you should see a small photo of Miss Reba:  Ta-daaaaa!
Yes, yes, I'm here! Just got things to get done this morning--work junk, then just now had to run to the bank, and then remembered that although I had intended to go pay for my car tags Monday (the absolute last day to buy them) the county courthouse will be closed, meaning I need to pay for them today instead, but I left the notices at the house this morning, and Reba has the checkbook in Blount County with her, which means I'll have to go home and get the notices and an out-of-sequence check to pay for them with, and did I mention that I trimmed the shrubbery in the front yard yesterday afternoon? Well, I did! NOW, I have more work junk to do for a little while, and then there's a big surprise coming up. Oh, I suppose not really "big," per se. But surprising! In a way. Actually, not surprising so much as unexpected. Although I suppose if you thought hard about it, you probably could calculate the probability of it, and think, 'well, duh, that's to be expected.' So later, not a big surprise. Thursday, May 27, 2004
My sister turned 50 today. She's another one who doesn't know about this little corner of my life (that I know of) so I suppose I can talk about her with some freedom. We've been having a running battle for years now as we get older, revolving around the concept of a "go-round." Each go-round is ten years, and we have made a point of teasing one another when the next go-round is reached on our respective decade-birthdays. Since she's eight years older than me, there are always a couple of years in there where I am on the same go-round as her, which gives her infinite pleasure when she brings it up to me. I merely stick out my tongue and remind her that she is still eight years older. She called this morning and with some sense of resignation mentioned she was now on her sixth go-round. For some reason, I didn't really feel like teasing her. Our relationship has always been of a rather cantankerous nature--although not diametrically opposed, we do seem to have some notable differences in a remarkable number of areas. And a equally remarkable affinity for silliness and non sequiturs, books, food, and mischief. In any event, making that sixth go-round has taken some of the fun out of the fraternal mockery. It's not that 50 is old, because it's not. And she's not an old person--mentally, socially, physically--anything-lly. It's just that there's some sense now (and I suppose there has been for a few years now) that we have well and truly grown up. The games we play with each other now aren't like when we were younger. The search for advantage has faded; they're no longer for keeps. The contests themself aren't as compelling as rehearsing the memories of contests past. And it hurts a bit.
Thousands line up to see Buddha finger "Nobody better lay a finger on my Buddhafinger!" I crack me up.
Dr. Joyner makes mention of Tom Selleck's new motion picture on A&E; in which he portrays Ike, and notes that Magnum, in addition to not looking greatly like Eisenhower, also doesn't look much like Magnum anymore. Be that as it may, is it just me, or does Mr. Selleck bear a striking resemblance not to Gen. Eisenhower, but to Maj. John Reisman?
Dinosaurs Fried Within Hours of Cosmic Collision, Study Concludes Mmmm--Cornasaurs! ::sigh:: Such a waste of perfectly good meat...
Well, I'll be...Feds Indict Former Alabama Gov. Siegelman By JAY REEVES, Associated Press Writer
From the Comments Stan the Gummint Man akses this question regarding the previously mentioned official state word of Alabama: Dear Mr. Language Possum, The Secretary of Parliament at the time, Richard, Earl of Cahawba, explained the oversight as meaningless being that the words were roughly synonymous, but nonetheless, it did lead to the downfall of the Perthywaite government and the exile of several House of Commons members to the Western Territories. Both forudarial and sonillaceous relate to "the state or nature of being treliarous." (Bennett's Compendium of Usage, 1876). In a sentence, one might say, "Have you seen the latest news? It is quite sonillaceous." As always, we are happy to oblige all knowledge seekers.
I don't care who you are... this is just really cool: AU Faculty Working to Assemble Online Encyclopedia of Alabama AUBURN -- In a few years, people all over the world will have a single source for everything they may ever want to know about Alabama. That source will be the online Encyclopedia of Alabama, which faculty at Auburn University are assembling. Examples of information you can find on Possumblog and nowhere else*include: --Alabama has more active volcanos than any other state east of the Mississippi. --99.23% of all duct tape in the world is made in Alabama. --Alabama is the only state that is a parliamentary monarchy. Its current monarch is Queen Jennifer, whose husband is Prince Wayne Ed, Viscount of Decatur. --Mail is delivered to each home in Alabama by a pneumatic tube system like the ones at bank drive-throughs. --The official state word of Alabama is "sonillaceous." --Each child born in Alabama is given a gift of a live duck. So, all of you keep tuning in, and you never know what you might learn! *DISCLAIMER--Information on Possumblog is deemed to be accurate, although probably not in the sense that most people use the term. Possumblog takes no responsibility for any damages, lost wages, injury, embarrassment, incontinence, or other such things resulting in the use and/or abuse of the information found herein.
Suggestions for Dave! Dave Helton asked me if I had any ideas for image hosting services so he could post more steamy hot sexy tractor photos on his Blog*Spot-hosted blog without having to glom off of someone else's bandwidth. He noted that I used Yahoo! for my few photos I link to, but this is only because it meets my criteria of being both free and simple. It's not really good for posting an image directly to your blog (at least I don't think it is--I might should check on that), but that's beside the point. Any suggestions for Dave on a good image hosting service?
YEEEAAAARRRGGGHHHH! Part Deux Gore calls on Rumsfeld, Rice, and Tenet to resign By Tatsha Robertson, Globe Staff | May 27, 2004 In the end, putting aside all the obvious glue-sniffing going on, one is left to wonder about someone whose rhetoric is barely distinguishable from that of our enemies. Constructive criticism is one thing, and is a valuable thing--no one can make a case that decisions made by fallible humans could not have been better thought out or executed. But this attempt at trying to look bold and angry and tough and pugilistic isn't constructive, and isn't compelling to those of us who ask the question, "which man do our enemies fear most will win." I would feel much better if the twisted minds who see every American as an infidel worthy of death would at this moment be miserable with dread, knowing that whoever the hated American devils elect will allow them no rest, and allow them no quarter. Oh sure, it may just be election-year politicking. But in trying to give hope to your partisans, let's not give equal hope to our enemies.
What to do, what to do… I mean, it’s Thursday and all, and it just seems like something is missing. What could it be? Oh well. Since I can’t remember what was so danged important, we might as well get started with the Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, Installment No. EIGHT! For this week’s quizzlement, I think we might go back to our roots and ask three questions that require you to work really hard on an answer and give yourselves headaches. Seeing as how the South seems to be replete (or at least stereotyped as being replete) with “characters,” and seeing as no matter how uncomfortable they might make you feel when they catch you outside while you get the mail or walk the dog they ARE still good for making conversation, let’s see how you answer these questions: 1) Who is the most peculiar person you know personally? Please give a short listing of their particular foibles you find most compellingly peculiar. Obviously, the more peculiar, the more prudent it will be to disguise their identity to some extent--giving their name, address, and aluminum-foil-hat communicator number is probably a bit too much information. You know how those people are. 2) What characteristic(s) about yourself do you think others might find just a tad bit peculiar? 3) Knowing how Peculiar-Americans tend to have rather different ideas when it comes to politics, have you ever voted for a person who was identified as something other than a Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, or little-‘I’ independent? NOW REMEMBER, just because this whole thing has some tenuous connection to the South, DOESN’T MEAN that if you live in such peculiar places as Borneo or Newark, that you have to sit back and not participate. It’s fun and exciting for the whole family--even those in state custody! Second, if you don’t participate, we have operatives who know about it, and well… We just wouldn’t want anything to happen, you know. SO, go off and make yourselves some answers, and post a link down in the comments. As always, if you don’t have your own blog, you are welcome to use the comment section and post your whole essay. (Remember, however, that Haloscan only has a thousand character limit due to restrictions placed upon it by the Trilateral Commission and Queen Elizabeth’s reptilian cabal.) Now then, now that those people aren’t staring at me anymore, here are my answers. 1) Oh, good grief--I work in municipal government! The whole place is full of peculiar sorts--meaning, obviously, I had better not be too specific about any of them. There’s one in particular who is beyond peculiar and is actually under the care of a physician. Whoops, hollers, talks to no one (loudly), barely functional in any sort of social setting--and nearly completely immune to official action, lest it be construed as discriminatory. Gotta love that civil service. HOWEVER, there are plenty more--one in particular I DON’T know apparently uses the downstairs restroom every morning. The urinal has one of those electronic flush valves that senses when you leave and flushes the urinal. It works fine. But someone, for some unknown reason, apparently stands to the side of the sensor, leaving a urinal full of pee when he leaves. I’m not sure what might be going through his tiny mind. It makes it worse that there is a regular, handle-flush model right next to the electronic one, meaning he has a choice, yet still does this. As for other peculiar sorts outside the walls of the bureaucracy, there are tons--I am a magnet for the disaffected, after all. I know a fellow whose wife makes him shave his armpits; there were the people who lived up the street from my in-laws who turned their whole front yard into a junkpile as some sort of protest--hung CDs from trees, lined the fence with handmade signs, threw garbage bags out in the front yard--even after they had been sent to jail several times; there were the people who used to live next door to my aunt who would stand or squat outside all the time, even in the rain; there were our neighbors at our old house who would do yardwork at night--not even with the floodlights on--just the light of the streetlight (we concluded they were vampires); a large proportion of my various remote in-laws do numerous peculiar things (a fact to which Reba would gladly attest)--keeping all their money in cans rather than the bank being one attribute of at least several odd ones; I dare not mention all the peculiarities of my sundry religious brethren and sistren--aside from saying that if you have someone in your congregation who fills up a giant Igloo cooler with ice from the ice maker in the church kitchen every Sunday and every Wednesday, you’re not alone. In short, the majority of the people I know have some sort of reeeeeally obvious mental disharmony going on. At least it makes for handy blog fodder. Now then 2)--I think the one thing most people find peculiar about me is my quietness, which comes across as standoffishness, aloofness, coldness, unfriendliness, anti-sociability, and just about every other uncharitable thing. After they get to know me, it’s not so bad because I actually do talk and can carry on reasonably witty conversations. That’s when they find out just how peculiar I REALLY am---that’s when I go from being the odd quiet guy on the edge of the room to the familiar voice you read here, all tanked up on Diet Coke and pharmaceuticals. I remain reticent about striking up too many conversation with folks I don't know well, though, mainly because I am all too aware (vis. Question One) of just how many acquaintances I ALREADY have who would like nothing better than get off on a long ramble about why the U.S. is under admiralty law, how they once saw the Devil, why they keep their broken dentures, or how their Uncle Nedro once lit George Wallace’s cigar. Being that I am willing to listen politely without resorting to fisticuffs or gunplay to prevent myself from being on the receiving end of such blabber, I just tend to wait and watch before committing myself verbally. Finally, Question Three--nope, never voted for anyone exotic. As you can probably tell, I’m pretty conservative, although I’m not a registered voter with any party. I tend to vote Republican, although for state and local offices I have voted for Democrats, and have voted (for sheriff) for Democrats even when they were running against Republicans. I won’t vote for them for national office, though. I have voted for some Libertarians before, more out of an anti-incumbent protest than anything else, and a tiny number of folks unaffiliated with a party. So there you go. UPDATE--Jim Smith sends this message: In your description I think you forgot haughtiness and snobby.Possumblog makes every effort to correct or clarify innaccuracies as soon as they are brought to our attention. Now then, I have a dead mouse I have to go leave in someone's shoe. Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Long day. And it ain't over yet, and won't be until late tonight. I have made some progress in pushing this nice rock up the hill--golly, I hope it doesn'tWHOOOOP--NOOOOOOOO!! Dang. All the way back down to the bottom. Might as well start pushing again--maybe tomorrow, though. As for now, as I mentioned this morning, last night was spent (after sufficiently packing the blood vessels back down into my temples and forehead--the result of having to castigate the children for being children at their Grandma's house) cleaning out bookbags and moving furniture around. It was VERY interesting--Boy had lots of stuff, including his "Lit Log," where he was assigned to write his teacher a series of letters during the year about books he had read. It started off hot at the beginning of the year, and plummeted from there. She was very disappointed in him. Odd, but I never saw that folder the entire year. Next year, he won't be so lucky. All of his other grades and assignments were fine--he's a smart little kid, like the rest of them. Still spells like he's never had a lesson, though. Which is weird, seeing as how he always made hundreds on his spelling tests. Seems he would learn for the test, then go back to seeing spelling as an inconvenience to his creativity. Again, not next year. Cat's bag was obviously less full of stuff--first graders don't have a lot to begin with. But it was full of sweet stories she had written and illustrated--most of them along the lines of: My sstur REBECca is PRIDI! I LOEv MI catt is stoffeded with FERR! I LVOE YOU! ::sniff:: Writes just like her old man. Rebecca had the most junk (although I haven't gone through Ashley's yet) and it was all very nicely done. She seems to have had an inordinate amount of help from a parent when it came time to turn in reports. Best of all is that they all made the honor roll every nine weeks, and Chick-Fil-A and Arby's (among others) are both very good to give schools coupons for free food as incentives for the kids. We have eight coupons for free 8-piece chicken nuggets, four coupons for free chicken sandwiches, four coupons for free 4-piece kid's meals, four coupons for free desserts, three coupons for free Arby's Adventure Meals, a free kid's meal from Applebee's, and three free Personal Pan Pizzas from Pizza Hut (all have expired, though--cheapskates). I hope they keep that up long enough to be able to get scholarships. And then, furniture moving. Had to relocate a bookcase in Ashley's room then move the armoire off of the stair landing into her room so she'll have sufficient space to put all the clothes she swears she has none of so they won't litter the floor. The armoire is a big heavy thing, although not particularly tall. Much like me. And about as easy to move. Reba was very helpful and cautioned me not to hit anything and not to hurt myself. Got it turned and shoved and herniaed into the corner. Success! And soreness! No matter. Saw the end of American Idol--looks like Fantasia to me, although I think Simon's adulation of her was a bit overblown. She's good, but the best he's ever seen of any of the various shows around the world? Please. That other girl tanked--must have been nerves or something. I don't think there should be any voting controversy like last year. Also managed to watch the last few minutes of 24. I sure wish they would let Jack take a vacation--he seems rather stressed out. It would also be nice if Kim would get a different hairstyle than the white bangs-in-eyes look--hers reminds me of those blasted Andorians. Or maybe a change of wardrobe would help. Couldn't hurt. Anyway, after all that, and after getting the kids to bed, it was time to hit the hay, then get right back up this morning. Uggh. And I forgot to bring the key to the building where we meet. Dunce. Maybe tomorrow will be a bit less hectic. Or not.
Well, hello. As usual, I am up to my elbows in stuff so it's going to be a while before I can come out and play today. I am also sore from moving furniture last night--but you'll hear about that later, too. So, while I get back to the paying job for a while, what you might want to do is wander over to see Cletus' first interview. As you recall, the proprietor of the BBQ Emporium has decided to hand off the reins of Compleat Redneck to Cletus for a while and allow him to post interviews with actual folks. Although the names are changed, because sometimes that's a good thing to do. The first interview is with a fellow Cletus calls "Billy." Tuesday, May 25, 2004
ENOUGH! Close to time to hit the road, so this is it for today. Tomorrow will once more be lightish on the silliness as I have one of those early morning meetings to sit and take notes at. One day, I believe I will show up completely nude just to make things interesting. Not really. Anywho--see you all tomorrow sometime!
What's the hubub, Bub? UPDATED! "Whole lot of nothing!" (Perfect for Possumblog!) Truck stopped on I-65, traffic snarled GARDENDALE, Ala. (AP) -- Authorities stopped a truck and temporarily closed Interstate 65 north of Birmingham on Tuesday, backing up traffic for miles in an investigation that included homeland security officials. UPDATE: Well, it wasn't even something like that... GARDENDALE, Ala. (AP) -- Authorities briefly closed Interstate 65 Tuesday after a police dog indicated explosives were on board a truck that had been stopped for an improper tag, but a search turned up nothing.
Just remember, you asked for it. What? Why photos of my lunchtime wanderings! I figured since I had a post this morning about old buildings and such, I would steal the camera for a while and take some shots. Excuse the quality--I was just taking pictures and not trying for anything artsy. So then--come along and let's see what we have. First up, this is 20th Street North (Birmingham Green), looking toward the south. The building to the left is Cathedral Church of the Advent. Yes, of course they have a website. Beautiful building, although the masonry has seen better days. They just got finished with a year-long project of repointing all the mortar joints and fixing broken stone, but the way the stone was cut has made the front faces spall off. It might stand only for another 2 or 300 hundred years. Walking on south a bit, we get to the former McDonald's location I mentioned this morning. As you can see, it doesn't quite look like a McDonald's--all that writing and stuff was initially covered over in the '60s or early '70s with metal panels. They looked "modern." Not that such a thing was necessarily all bad. The painted facade treatment when it was Buschs Discount Jewelry (We Take out the Apostrophe, and Pass the Savings on to YOU!) was not particularly sensitive--proving, if nothing else, that the folks in the '70s weren't the only ones able to screw up nice old buildings. On down a piece and you come across the CVS drugstore that's closing. As I said, a nice old building that deserves some attention. No trip down 20th is complete without a sidetrip to Pete's Famous Hot Dogs. That 6 foot wide sliver of building sure has a lot of history in it. Before we turn around and head back north, a view of The Heaviest Corner on Earth. Just a bit of early 20th Century civic boosterism, but still important to Birmingham, even if there are a couple of other places that might outweigh it. The tall white building to the left is the John Hand Building, recently the beneficiary of a $20 million renovation. It houses a bank on the lower floors (you oughta see the vaults), then high-priced condos above. There is no truth to the rumor that just because Charles Barkley has one of the condo units that when he is home, the corner once again becomes the heaviest on Earth. Going back down, a shot of the famous bicycle belonging to Bicycle Guy. He wasn't around, but I don't know if he would have appreciated my taking his picture even if he was nearby. All the way back down at Park Place is Linn Park--here's a shot looking toward the north. Ever wonder what happened to Shirley Eaton? You know, the girl who got gold-dipped in Goldfinger? Well, she found a nice job here in town demonstrating electricity. Not really. That's the statue of the Goddess of Power and Light (commonly called Electra) on the Alabama Power building, which isn't on Birmingham Green at all, but it gives me an excuse for showing a big gold nekkid girl. Art, you know. (By the way, here's the Snopes rundown on Miss Eaton.) And, to end it all up--the Trust Jesus Sign guy. (The sign in question being pointed away from you.) SO there you go.
Getting all uppity--Auburn University museum receives collection of European art AUBURN, Ala. (AP) -- A Birmingham businessman and Auburn University alumnus donated a $2 million collection of modern European art to the Jule Collins Smith Museum of Fine Art at Auburn University, the museum announced. Anyway, here's a link to their website in case you want to look at all the other purty stuff.
I realize that Madonna is supposed to be all subversive and shocking and all to old farts like me, but when I saw this picture, the only thing I was reminded of was this. Superstar!
Well, that was quick Got home yesterday and decided to go see if, just by chance, mine and Boy's Japanese beetle traps had anything in them. I mean, it's still early, and we just put them out. I figured there might be something in them, but nothing really cool. Imagine my surprise as I looked down in the first one and saw a big wad of Japanese beetles! Same with the other three traps--all had a wiggly handful of bugs. Apparently we were just in time to put them out. After mentioning this turn of events, all the kids had to see, too. They thought it was gross. And, therefore, really cool.
Another sign of the times CVS to close downtown pharmacy despite petition drive to save it MICHAEL TOMBERLIN
Alabama unit turned scandal into lesson TOM GORDON
The Public Cries Out for Answers! Dredged through the referrer logs this morning to see what all brings folks to the door of Possumblog, and was assaulted first thing with someone shouting, HOW TO MAKE A CONGRATULATORY TOAST FOR SOMEONE RECEIVING A PHD? Obviously, something like this does deserve due consideration, and because it is such an important occasion, much planning usually goes into it. I would suggest a nice slice of sourdough, and using some of the rich and flavorful Squeeze Parkay margarine, carefully write "Congrats" on the surface of the bread. Place on baking sheet and toast lightly in an oven set to Broil. Do not leave any longer than required for the toast to brown around the writing. (You may also place in a toaster over, but do not use a stand up toaster.) Remove toast from oven after completion of the toast, and allow to cool. Wrap completed toast in paper towel and present to the person with your warmest regards. I remember when I got my PHD. I had an old pair with wood handles, and they finally got to the point of uselessness. Found a really nice pair at Lowe's with fiberglass handles. Nice and light, yet strong. I know your friend will enjoy using his PHD, and might even be willing to let you borrow it to dig your own post holes! Next up, someone looking for a "hernia haiku". Believe it or not, your old friend Possumblog was the ONLY returned result! Now, I never actually wrote anything, just referred to a weak attempt at hernia haiku when I met Reba at the doctor's office when she was diagnosed with her hiatal hernia. And that was a long time ago. Which means if you actually want something, I'll have to make up something new. Goodbye chocolate- And, Hi! atal hernia More Prilosec, please No one said it had to be good. Then there is this plucky, resourceful soul who came here wondering if we had some information on fixing bowl on methamphetamine pipe. Man, they sure don't make 'em like they used to. But you know, you have to really admire the desire of some folks to conserve and recycle. Most people would just go waste money and buy another pipe, but not our plucky Mr. Fix-it. Well, then, in order to help out, the best thing to do is march right down to the police station and demand they fix it for you. It's like, some kind of law or something, that they have to fix it or replace it for free. No, really! I read it somewhere! Anyway, thanks to all for stopping by, and glad to be of help to you all. Monday, May 24, 2004
TV networks won't cover Bush's speeches [...] But it's a difficult decision for the networks, forced to weigh the newsworthiness of the event, when it is left up to them. In that case, the three networks often take their cues from one another. Maybe if President Bush could come up with something more compelling, say, a celebrity match-up with Ray Romano and Patricia Heaton and Nancy Pelosi, and they all have to eat a whole bucket full of worms while stacked in a naked pyramid and try to decipher coded message, and if they don't finish in time, they're attacked by TIGERS! Now THAT'S TEEVEE! OH, wait--forgot that there's a big ticking LED clock. GOTTA HAVE A CLOCK! Better'n some dumb old thing about that icky Iraq place. I just feel sorry for those poor programming executives who have to make these hard decisions.
So then, It was time to wash some more clothes and get a quick shower and head back out to the wilds of Branchville for a cookout at the house of one of our elders. Every year we try to have something for our Bible class teachers to let them know we appreciate their hard work. We’ve had dinners at the building, and had dinners at restaurants, and in order to do something a bit different, this year we decided to have a cookout. That was not attended that well at all. Not for lack of announcing it and trying to get people to come. Which, if you are the person hosting it, tends to make you a bit disappointed in certain folks. He had cooked up a ton of ribs and hamburgers and had a big spread of side dishes, and after those of us there had our fill, there looked like almost exactly as much left over as when we started. But at least the ones of us who were there had a good time. And the standing joke was that this time, I managed to get out of cooking. Seems like every time he has a cookout, I wind up getting volunteered to tend grille. But that’s okay, I don’t mind, as long as no one else minds eating stuff I’ve sweated on. Anyway, this year I managed to get away with not having to do that, and must say that the ribs were mighty tasty. We all sat around and talked for a long time and watched the kids make the circuit around and through the house, alternately ignoring and bothering a dachshund puppy one of them had brought. It started getting toward dark, and we were tired, so we took our leave and headed back to the house to get everyone cleaned up for church the next day. Up early, off to church, had a good class period (forgot to mention in last Monday’s recap that when I taught the adult class last week it went very well, and got lots of compliments from the older members, which is always nice) and worship, which I stayed awake for very well. Boy was down for the count almost immediately, and right before the closing song he perked back up. After leaving a big wet drool spot on my left leg. Little rat. Off then for some Chinese food at the Golden House of Inexplicable Anglo Waitresses, which was okay. The hot and sour soup was missing something. I’d rather not think about what, exactly, it was missing. Back to the house, and started trying to make some headway on cleaning up the den, and then Ashley’s other grandparents came to pick her up to spend the week over there, which always leads to a rotten attitude upon her return. ::sigh:: It just goes to show--never mind. After she was away, more stacking and putting and filing and throwing away, the effect of which was barely discernable, and then it was time to head out again for Jonathan’s soccer party. The dad of one of the kids is somehow involved with the new bowling alley/arcade/meeting venue/billiards/ family entertainment/dessert topping/floor wax complex that just opened up last month in our little hometown, and graciously footed the bill for the boys to have their party there. We’d never been there before (it has just opened, after all) and it is a mighty impressive looking--several million bucks will do that. Of course, being what it is, it relies heavily on high schoolers for help, which always has its pitfalls. Looking good in tight jeans only goes so far when someone is expecting you to answer questions with something other than, “Huh?” Just saying. And despite having more room inside than most mid-sized Gothic cathedrals, it was jam-packed with people, none of whom seemed quite sure of what they were supposed to be doing. Could be because 98% of them were kids, all running around, all needing a big dart full of tranquilizers thunked into their haunches. After several long, long minutes of trying to figure out what the plan was (our team mom having not been filled in on this vital bit of information beforehand) it was finally determined the boys would bowl from 2 to 3:15, then have pizza, hand out trophies, and leave. Jonathan went and got some shoes and grabbed a ball. “Son, have you ever bowled before?” “NO! But they showed us in P.E.!” Hmm. That must explain why the ball he chose had a thumb hole the size of a pencil. “Son, can you get your thumb and fingers into those holes?” No. We looked around and finally found him a ten-pounder with big enough holes, and he got with his buddies and started slinging balls. As they did that, I took Catherine and Rebecca back to the arcade to waste some time and money, which I am happy to say we did successfully. By the way, the “Popcorn” game is a danged big rip-off. The idea is to move a little basket back and forth and try to collect ping-pong balls that come blowing up out of the funnel. Get enough, and you get tickets. Yet, despite getting as many as was humanly possible, the game stopped and a certain small child was looking up at a big screen that said “0 POINTS,” and then down at the slot where the tickets come out, which was empty. Such is not the way to endear yourselves to the tiny set. Or their parents. So we went and played Hammerhead, which is a version of Whac a Mole, except with six sharks that pop up. Catherine took the middle row, Rebecca one side and I the other, and pretty soon we had racked up a stunning string of tickets that almost made up for the disappointment of Popcorn. After spending our entire two dollar allotment, we went back out to see how the boys were doing at bowling. Actually, not too bad. The lanes had bumper rails, making gutter balls AWFULLY difficult to manage, and Jonathan managed to do okay. Most of the other boys had played before and were somewhat more skillful in form, but being that none of them have attention spans longer than about four seconds, it was difficult for them to keep their minds in the game. (Gee, just like soccer!) So although Boy didn’t win, he also didn’t come in dead last, either, so he was tickled pink. As they bowled, I sat there in one of the booths so I could people-watch. Saw several young ladies for whom rolling a 16 pound ball down a hardwood lane was the LAST reason they showed up, as well as lots of young guys for whom strength of throw and noise produced was much more important than score. Fascinating. Also saw Phyllis George Mom and her kids and husband there for their baseball party and swapped pleasantries with them. Nice folks. After the boys had slung their arms out of joint, it was time for pizza, so they all ran back to the Blue Room, notable for its glass block mosaic of a giant bowling pin set into the outside wall. Spiffy. It was also notable for its twenty foot ceiling height and ten foot width, giving it the feeling of being in the bottom of a very tall pencil cup. Pizza, trophies, and time to go. To Target! Hooray! Jonathan had gotten a duplicate copy of a book for his birthday, and so we scooted down the hill to Target to return it. “But what if I don’t want to GET a book, Daddy?” Hahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Yer gettin’ a book. He has a bad habit of wanting to buy more of those crappy Yu-Gi-Oh! or Pokemon cards whenever he has to make a return. But not today. Got some vitamins and Benadryl and then it was off for evening worship. Which we did, all without benefit of massive doses of caffeine. Not that it sure wouldn’t have hurt to have some. Then it was time for the monthly get together for the younger kids, which includes supper and a devotional, and this time the added benefit of a giant Great Dane in the back yard who pounded up and down the wood-decked patio like an elephant. That is, when she wasn’t joining in with every other dog in the neighborhood to howl at the fire truck when it went past. Our hosts seemed reluctant to say the dog’s name, and then we found out it’s name was Reba. If you think I’m going to say anything remotely related to that particular coincidence, you’re crazier than I am. Finally got finished up at NINE-THIRTY PEE EM! Exhausting sort of weekend. Went home, sent the kids to bed, and collapsed. And then I came here! Whee!
And speaking of breakfast... Or not, our resident ovumputidaphobia sufferer is also celebrating two entire years of blogging! ::sniff:: They grow up so quick. As for no longer worrying about who all comes by, Marc has the right attitude--I consider it a very fortunate thing that I have something to do that's enjoyable, and that other folks enjoy parts of it is hard to beat, whether it's one or a hundred of you. How many other hobbies have you ever had--golf, philately, gardening, logging--where you ever got a chance to be seen by more than a few folks at a time, much less get complimented on your efforts. In any event, good on you, Marc, and Lucky, too.
Possumblog & Chet the E-Mail Boy Thank Mr. Morse. STOP Hard to believe it's been 160 years. Seems like only yesterday. (Of course, to Chet, it really IS almost like yesterday.)
Okay, now--it’s time for the ALL ME Show! Got home Friday and after the normal bit of finding out who all did what to whom, things settled down a bit and I gathered up Boy and we went outside to feed the And thus, my justification for having a large family is validated! YARD HELP! We didn’t cut anything this weekend, but now that soccer practice is over for the next three months, I have something to occupy him. And there’s plenty enough to do. But before that, time to feed the birds. I let him do it all, which he enjoyed, and then as we were hanging the one up by the pine tree in the corner of the yard, I spied something two doors over hanging in our neighbor’s backyard. The lovely yellow top and gently swinging cone-shaped bag that can only mean it’s getting close to Japanese beetle season. After spending the past three years fighting these buggers after they’ve attacked everything, last year I decided to get some of the traps to try and get a head start on them. They start coming out in June, so I suppose it’s probably not too soon to set the traps out--we had a mild winter, and it’s already getting nice and hot outside, so Pappy Possum is predicting an early visit. And anyway, I just wanted something to tinker with. After we had the birdseed put back up, Boy and I went back inside and found the plastic bag full of traps and handy metal rod stands to hang them from, and set to work with the delicate assembly process. I put one together so he could see how to do it, then, being really smart like I am, I opened the flower-scent lure while still in the kitchen. Aaaaaahhhh--just like drowning in a swimming pool of Glade air freshener! “Whoa, Dad--that smells funny.” Thank you, Little Lord Obviousleroy! I didn’t really say that. I just said, “REEEALLY!?” He giggled and we went outside and after a careful survey of possible routes of attack and potential targets, we stuck the stand down sort of close to Catherine’s cherry tree that always gets eaten up. Back inside, then three more stands and three more traps assembled, then back outside to open up the “flower” scent. See? I’m teachable! Sorta. Got them all staked out and we sat down on the stone bench to survey our manliwork. “Think we’ll catch any?” “Don’t know.” “If we do, would you like me to make some Japanese beetle omelets out of them?” “EWWWW, DADDEEEEE! You’re gross.” Well, yeah. Anyway, back in the house, did some laundry, ate some supper, then sent them upstairs to get ready for the next day. Which turned out to be very long. Up early for Catherine’s game, which they lost. She was just glad to be through with it--her coach is almost as bad as the coach I complained about during their tournament, and now that the season’s over and he can’t retaliate against her, the director has just been sent a special message from me about his conduct. I hope something positive will come out of it, although it’s probably a bit much to hope he’ll be tied in a sack and beaten with a shovel. But you know, hope springs eternal. Afterwards, it was back to the library to see about getting the squids signed up for the Summer Reading Program--alas, they don’t start signing kids up until June 1. Which seems to be something they could schedule a bit better--seems like they would make it start when school’s out. Oh well. It promises to be very fun this summer, because there will be two different age groups, and Catherine’s will be called…the PENGUINS! YEA PENGUINS! As you can see from the linked graphic, although penguins may be flightless, it doesn’t impede their ability to ride a unicycle while playing an accordion, a bass drum, and a indistinct sort of brass wind instrument! They truly are one of Nature’s most versatile animals. And they taste great. On back to the house, did some more laundry, then got Jonathan ready for his final game against Mountain Brook. Despite having a reputation for being all a bunch of high-dollar sorts, the concession stand was just a little tiny thing, and it was CLOSED. Hmph. They did have a truck pulled up there selling ices, but still, you’d figure they’d have guys out there with silver trays taking orders from people. And other guys with fans. But no. I must say I am disappointed in my bedollared brothers. Although they do seem to have figured out how to get their kids to score goals. As has so often been the case this season, yet another loss to a team we could have played better against. But didn’t. ::sigh:: Must have been the weather--it started off blazing hot, then it came a cloud (as we say), and then it was blazing hot and humid. Anyway, they finished up, and although Cat didn’t enjoy her season, Jonathan seemed to have. And he really did get a lot better, so I suppose it was okay for him. Off then back toward the house, but on the way out, I decided we’d go up Overton Road and go by our first house. Catherine was just a tiny baby when we moved to our house now, and she was baffled when we pointed it out to her. Looks pretty good--they’ve replaced the porch, and the corkscrew willow that I tended from a mere sprig is now a giant. And they finally fixed the mailbox post. Not long after they moved in, they hit it and knocked it over, and it stayed that way for years afterwards. Hard to describe going back by--I suppose melancholy is the best word. Such wonderful times, but seeing it look different meant that all of those old times don’t really seem as real. And the neighborhood is becoming increasingly locked in by commercial development all around. It’s changing, which is what stuff does, but sometimes you sorta hope things will be familiar, and, well, still homey. It wasn’t. Which is why is was good to get back to our house, even with all the dishes in the sink and the toys strewn all over the floor, and the slow-running drain in the kid’s bathroom, and the backpacks full of school ephemera. Good or bad, clean or dirty, it’s still home. AND, it’s time for lunch. See you all in a bit.
Well, now that you've had breakfast... From Joanne Jacobs via Steevil (well-known NASA Scientist and Language Guy), a nice quiz question from English English teachers in England about some dudes named Banquet and McSpeare or someone. It is comical to think, however, that should the answer given on the test be deemed acceptable, it indicates the student would be qualified to be...an advice columnist. Which is, you know, like, journalism. Heh.
You know what? I sure would like to go back home and go to bed. Yes, I know, I'm just being a big baby, but I am sleepy and I want my blankie. I suppose I'll have to settle for the next best thing, that is, writing this silliness. SO, in lieu of much-needed shuteye, tune in (in a little while) for zippy tales of suburban thrills of Japanese Beetle Traps, Soccer, The Library, Hoity-Toity Soccer, The Old Homestead, Ribs, Church, Clean Up (Sorta), Bowling for the ADD Set, Target Practice, Church, Great Danes Are Big, and Go to BED! But first--MONDAY MORNING MEETING MADNESS! Whee. Friday, May 21, 2004
Oh, that's enough! I'm fixing to pack up and head to the house in about thirty minutes and get the weekend rolling. Two soccer games, one soccer party, one church-related cookout, and digging all the kids' papers and junk out of their backpacks so we can put it all away, and feeding the birds (mistakenly got a 25 pound bag of black oil sunflower seeds, which they have eaten like little flying pigs), and laundry, and stuff like that. SO, all of you have a great weekend, and come back Monday and let's see what else we can tear up.
Study exmaines how schools can ease asthma Obviously after having given up on getting schools to teach spelling.
The End. Well, not quite--we do have a couple more games this weekend, but last night was the last night of soccer practice for this season. Rebecca's season ended last week, so she's already feeling at loose ends, and Catherine was supposed to have practice last night, but it got cancelled. Leaving only Little Boy to haul around. Had some other stuff to do first--our local zoning adjustment meeting started at the same time as his practice, so Miss Reba took him and Cat and Rebecca with her to the park (leaving Oldest at the house) while I stopped by City Hall. Good meeting, and it only lasted about thirty minutes and then I was off again. Got there, and it was eerily quiet. Only about three teams were practicing; Jonathan's, then a couple of the older teams on another field. Walked over and sat down with Reba and finally got a chance to catch up on the day. The kids' first day of summer break was yesterday, and they stayed with Reba's mom, which is always fraught with peril. They have a tendency to act like ill-mannered little [You can't call your own kids that! Ed.] persons and can be a chore to deal with. And judging from the After Action Report, the talking-to I gave them when I dropped them off had the effect of producing only a faint, high-pitched, buzzing noise in their ears, which was quickly ignored. ::sigh:: Reba took the girls on home so they could get cleaned up, and I stayed and watched Jonathan and the rest of the guys kick at the ball and exhibit their finely-honed dramatic falling skills. Jonathan had been doing the falling bit Monday night, but in yet another talking-to, I reminded him that when he is on the ground, he can't run, but other people CAN kick him in the head. THAT seemed to sink in, because he was one of the few last night to stay upright the whole time. Sure would be nice if they learned to pass and shoot instead of flopping around. But that's just me. Sat there a bit apart from the other parents and mused. Watched the planes make their east-to-west approaches to the airport. Mostly commercial airliners, but I did see one oddball--actually, heard it before I saw it--small, twin-turboprop high wing monoplane with a radar dish on the back and twin rudders. It was odd because our ANG base flies tankers, and this wasn't one of the big Air Force AWACS type planes. I thought I knew what it might be (because I like planes and stuff) but wasn't sure until I got in today and did a bit of Googling--sure enough, an E2C Hawkeye. They made several long loops far to the west and back around. Not sure why it would be so far from the water, although the crew might be up here for training or something. In any event, hey guys. It started getting dark, and getting time for them to wrap up their practice. Boy was doing pretty good, and having a whale of a time. Since he finally got himself some eye-foot coordination, he's been practicing a lot better. One of his teammates on the opposing scrimmage team got the ball and Jonathan challenged him without hesitation, which he used to never do, and WHAM! Ball, mouth, tears. Last practice, only five minutes left, playing his little heart out, and the one thing I have been dreading finally happens. I just knew all that newly installed mouthwire was going to have cut his lips to shreds. And then the wires would be dangling there asking for money to go get themselves repaired. I walked out and he was in terrible shape--sweat and snot and spit and tears, and a slight tinge of redness arcing across his lower gums. He got his water bottle and the coaches kept fishing out ice chunks with their nasty hands for him to put in his mouth--he tried, but the ice, being slippery and all, just kept popping out. I finally got him to open up and in some sort of Providential gift, saw that everything was still in place. Seems his bottom lip had taken most of the blow, and his lower teeth had brought some blood out, but nothing too serious. He sniffled and snubbed for a bit, and then practice was over. He gathered up his ball out of the net and we started walking toward the van. As we walked, he opened up his water bottle again and started getting ice cubes out, which he would deftly spit out toward me. "BOY! You're not trying to spit ICE on me are you!?" Giggle. "'Cause if you are, I'll have to get you and tickle your ribs!" Giggle. Spit. He asked for it. And got it, too. They heal pretty quick, these kids.
Elmo promotes plan to make kids eat right Well, I just hope Elmo starts off haranguing that slob Cookie Monster. Sheesh, what a pig. Speaking of which, Miss Piggy could use some lifestyle alterations, too.
From the "Stories That Defy All Attempts at Parody" File, Second Folder: Shrek Brings Justin And Antonio To Tears Justin Timberlake and Antonio Banderas have been reduced to tears while watching Shrek 2.The pair reportedly cried and held hands while watching an emotional scene at the movie's Cannes premiere.Banderas, who is the voice of Puss-in-Boots in the film, said Justin's girlfriend Cameron Diaz could only watch in amazement as the pair comforted each other. Justin Timberlake. Hmm. Oh, what the heck--David Hasselhoff and Gary Coleman.
From the "Stories That Defy All Attempts at Parody" File: Hasselhoff Has Rapping Down To An Ice-T Rap legend Ice-T is risking his massive reputation on his latest recruit - middle-aged former beach bum David Hasselhoff.The original gangsta believes he can turn the ex-Baywatch star into hip hop's next big thing.Ice and Hasselhoff, 51, are neighbours in Los Angeles and have struck up a close friendship.
Say, here's one for Lucy the Blogging Adolescent Parrot: British company makes DVD for parrots LONDON (AP) -- No more bored birds. No more annoyed avians. Amazing. As part of World Possum Day, I plan to offer an 80-minute DVD of wild possums preening, feeding and flying through the rainforest, too. It only seems fair.
A great honor indeed. Rural Studio exhibit opens in D.C. MARY ORNDORFF
Hiding in Plain Sight Nate McCord wonders about this: Check this out- Google Search: "terry oglesby" There's 24 pages of links to our favorite grey furred marsupial! The reason that I find this of interest is his professed anonymity at the possum burrow. I'm mighty certain the distaff possum is an intelligent and web savvy type person and I know that there is a web connection functioning in the burrow because the more active, minor possums use it for schoolwork. Although Miss Reba knows how to use a computer, she is NOT Web savvy. She looks at using the Internet sorta like she does getting the car worked on. She knows enough to know when it's working right, but if it's not, she tells me to fix it. Same with the Internet--she doesn't have access to it at work, so her ability to learn all the ins-and-outs of searching for stuff is necessarily limited. When she does need something, it's usually a specific thing like shopping for clothes or something, and she (usually) can navigate to the proper website. Aside from that, though, she doesn't spend any time at all just surfing around looking for bizarre stuff. And since she doesn't know that I write all this mess, and doesn't fully comprehend how easy it is to find someone's name using Google or whatever, I don't think it every occurred to her that she could look up mine, hers, or anybody's name. Just not something she even thinks about. As for the kiddies, being that we have no filter or anything on the computer at home, whenever they use the Internet, I am hanging right there over their shoulder lest they stumble into something they shouldn't. Again, I don't think it has ever occurred to them (yet) to search for mom or dad's name. Why would THEIR names be on the Internet?! But, if any of them ever DO by chance find this, or if anyone else who knows me does, well, hopefully they'll enjoy it. Or at least understand why I act the way I do. As for how this little slice of pixel heaven remains a topic not conversed, it is simple. I have four kids and a wife, and in real life I am exceedingly quiet. Even if I were more talkative, I couldn't get a word in edgewise at my house. And even if I were able to manage to get a word in, the moment I started talking about something I wrote, eyes would glaze over, and I would promptly be ignored. I have a few close friends and former coworkers with whom I can converse, but between our mutually busy schedules, it's difficult to spend much time with them. And given that I work with bureaucrats, most of whom believe sucking at the public teat is some sort of divine right, it makes it hard to have the same sorts of discussions with them that I can have with you folks. In the end, I need some kind of outlet to blabber about stuff. I make no claims of special knowledge or insight--I'm just some guy, and this is just some blog. I talk about what I want to talk about, and sometimes it's politics, and sometimes it's art or food or meat or guns or Catherine Zeta-Jones or penguins or what a steaming pile of dog dung Ted Kennedy is or painting or cars or severe personal injury or people I like or my home town or the Spanish Inquisition. Which is something no one expects. I write not because any of this means Anything Deep, or because I want to become the Most Famous Blogger in America (unless it pays really, REALLY well) or because I'm trying to influence the public debate. It's fun, it gives me a way to vent, and keep some sense of normality (such as it is) in a world that continually seems one second away from chaos. And you meet some interesting folks. Such as Nate. And all the rest of the folks on my blogroll--every single person up there I have corresponded with in some way--they aren't just there to be there. As for the anonymity, well, I guess I'm just more anonymous to some than to others. I don't really go out of my way to get my name out there, but then again, I do use my own name. I'm not quite sure yet if that's good or bad, but it is the way it is. I figure nothing on here is nothing I wouldn't say to you if you were sitting over there in that chair by the door. And as for the 24 pages of Terry Oglesbys out there, it's interesting, but if you put in that name on Google Smackdown along with "Manatee," it comes back with 313,000 pages for the gentle aquatic creature, versus only 330 for me. That in itself tends to damp down any delusions of grandeur. Thursday, May 20, 2004
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Managed to get out of there earlier than planned, and rather than do something worthwhile, I figured I would do this. Overall, a pretty good presentation--this was the GIS mapping seminar I talked about yesterday. The system is pretty okay, but it does have some drawbacks--it can do boxes around areas, but the background color can't be changed inside the box; it can do point marks, but they are stars and can't be changed to anything else; there's no good way to do mailing labels without a lot of rigamarole; and the printer output is to a .pdf file and the highest resolution is a stunningly low 150 dpi. Our stand-alone terminals have a much better resolution (and a color printer to go with it) and can do a few more things. They are slow, though, and only one person at a time can look something up. This system is pretty fast since it's online, and it was nice that the instructors did it live so we could get a better idea of how well it worked. They also promise to have a version for public consumption soon, too, which will be nice for folks to be able to look up their own information about zoning and land use and such like. Dr. Smith mentioned in the comments that he hoped if we had snacks that I would be nice and share. Sorry, no snacks, although they did say that they had doughnuts earlier. Which I thought was kinda cruel. The seminar was held down in the Emergency Op Center, aka The Bunker, which is always a fun trip. It never ceases to amuse me when I see the main control center room--big Strangeloveian War Room with a big screen and consoles and tables with telephones. Since there's nothing going on today, the room was empty, but they leave one of the local television stations playing on the screen in case any sort of breaking news comes on. Usually though, it's just a soap opera. I keep imagining the room full of guys with cigars and crew cuts--"DID YOU SEE WHAT MARLENA JUST DID TO HER!?" Anyway, overall it wasn't nearly as unfun as I thought it would be. Now I really am going home. See you all tomorrow!
All right now... I'm out for the rest of the afternoon to do my computer training. It will be very fun, I'm certain. See you all tomorrow!
A Tip for Media Types This morning I was sprawled half-awake across the bed half-watching the local morning news-'n'-fluff show when the semi-celebrity girl they have to do traffic reports popped up with a report about the proper protocol for tipping when you go to a restaurant. Just your normal sort of blather about percentages, and who should get a tip, and that a big chunk of waiters' pay comes from tips. Same airy foofery that local stations have always come up with to fill time and train new people how to do interviews and such. They came back from the taped spot and after sharing some banterful cross-talk with the other anchors, the young lady, with no small amount of pride, asked if anyone knew what "tips" meant. Oh boy--I could see this one coming. After a few seconds of baffled bewilderment from her fellow Fourth Estaters, the comely lass stated it stood for, "To Insure Promptness." ::sigh:: It's just a word, and despite the fact that some folks swear it's an acronym, it's not. Well, obviously such silly misinformation isn't quite up there with the reluctance of some outlets to engage on the U.N. Oil for Food scandal, or Tim Russert being a big hypocrite. It was just a silly gaffe in a bit of dandelion fuzz reportage. But, still. I thought it might be good to at least let the young woman know that she might have been mistaken in her assertion. I wrote her a short, cordial e-mail noting the error, with the link to the Snopes article above. Exactly five minutes later a reply came back, thanking me for watching the morning show, and stating that the source of her information was a lady here in town who runs a protocol business, as well as the MANAGER of the restaurant himself! And thanks again for writing. And that's it. Nothing about having read the link and realizing a tiny goof had been made (I imagine because five minutes elapsing between my send and her send didn't leave near enough time to actually read something)--just the nearly blind assumption that simply because a "source" said it, it must be, if not true, then at least close enough to not really worry about. Almost as if to say, 'one source says one thing, one source says the opposite--oh well, we'll use the one that works.' I hope that's not the case. Now this isn't a slam against local news in general, nor this reporter in particular. She's new(ish) and was not chosen for her reportorial skills, and she seems like a very nice person. But you have to wonder if these are the newsroom attitudes she has picked up in such a short time, what else do their editors and producers let get on the tube with a wink and a nod. Just in case any of you folks work for real newspapers and such like, there's a reason people are continuing to find other outlets for accurate information. Your willingness to turn a blind eye to information that doesn't fit the template isn't helping.
Jordana Adams sent me a link last evening to a new site called Memeblog, devoted to gathering together all the various memes floating about the blogosphere at any given time. Of course, the Thursday Three was submitted, and many thanks to them for posting a link. For those of you who are new to Possumblog, the Editorial Board and the Board of Governors would like to take this opportunity to offer our sincerest apologies for the content and construction of this site, and beg you not to complain to the authorities. Thank you. NOW, the next assignment is to figure out what in the world a meme is. It sounds sorta like what country kids call their grandmothers--"Is MeMe out yonder with you?" "Naw, MeMe is gone into town to the parts place for an alternator!" Anyway...
Is it the end of the BBQ Emporium?! Or a new beginning? The BBQ Emporium is going out of business. This will be my last post. Cletus has started a new project and will be posting here about once a week. He says he is going to be the Redneck Studs Terkel and will be interviewing the ordinary people he sees everyday and writing about them about once a week. Cletus knows a lot of ordinary people so I guess this could go on for quite a while.
Who knew they could walk!? -- Orcas wander inland in Washington I just hope they can't make it over the Rockies, or else we'll have yet another vicious animal to worry about when we take the garbage can to the curb.
Say, has Chris Muir gone and got himself syndicated?! I think it must be--congratulations, Chris! Unless this is some sort of Sopranos-like dream sequence. (In either event, thanks again to Chris for that drawing of Sam. Rrrowl.)
Ladies and Gentlemen-- THE CHICKEN-FRIED STEAK CAPITAL OF KANSAS Peg says: [...] our houseguests/friends love chicken-fried steak and have had it at the Midland and KCs since they have been here. They loved it both times and that is because it's prepared the Explorer way...with fresh meat purchased locally, hand-dipped and breaded, and grilled or pan fried. No pre-breaded, frozen steaks tossed in a deep fat fryer for those folk. I sure am hungry.
Fun with Referrer Logs! Sickos. That's all you people are. Just like the Aussie who came here looking for emperor penguin gams. Tim Blair, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Anyway, as you all know, penguins, Emperor or otherwise, have hardly any drumstick meat to speak of, which is why they waddle about so. And anyway, why look at penguin legs when there's Catwoman? Next up, a person who wants to make use of my well-known psychic abilities and says--I want know what in in the box without opening the door of that box in Dubai. Must be a contestant on that wacky new Al Jazeera game show, Let's Make Hadil. Anyway, the best way to know what is in the box, without opening the door of that box in Dubai is to read the label. Unless you're afraid the box might have some sort of rapid uncontrolled expansion, in which case you would be better off to take what's behind Door Number 2. I have it on good authority that it's a new Pontiac Astre! There are more, but some of them aren't fit for publication. Not that such a standard has had any effect on the remainder of the stuff on Possumblog.
Cow Tipping Remember the cattle truck overtumping I mentioned yesterday? Well, here's the whole story from The Birmingham News. It happened at 3:45 instead of later, as I had thought. They showed some video on the local news and it was interesting to see them trying to round up the loose one. What I was even more fascinated by was the fact that they were able to find actual cowboys, who knew how to actually use a lasso, in such short notice. Another thing the story doesn't mention is that these weren't just plain old moo-cows--I'm not sure what kind of beeves they were, but they were lean and muscular, and the bulls had full horns. And they seemed very perturbed.
Say, kids, what time is it!? Iiiiiiiit’s Thursday Three time, It’s Thursday Three time. Possumblogger and Chet the E-Mail Boy, too, Say Howdy Do to you! Let’s give a rousing cheer, ‘Cause Thursday Three is here. It’s time to start the show, So kids, let’s GO! What? Why are you looking at me like that? Anyway, it having now been exactly seven days since the last installment of our show, it is once again time to throw the tarpaulin off the old noggin and once more get yourselves all geared up to participate in America’s most favorite funtime activity (if you don’t count Jarts), the Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, Version SEVEN! But before we get to that, I wish to rectify a mistake in last week’s quiz-- ‘I’ before ‘E,’ except after ‘C.’ That’s all I’m saying about it, and I have since erased the ignominy of my misspelling, but next time, please, someone let me know. It’s like walking around with your zipper down all day. Or, in this case, for a whole week. NOW THEN, as has been the case with past questionarials, we will attempt to cover some topics that will cause you to ponder and pontificate about our mutual love and respect for the South, for no other reason than it’s something to do on a Thursday, and it takes up less time than the Friday Five. So then--Race. There. I said it. Long a topic of intense emotion (and not just in the South, by the way), it is one topic we have not yet explored in this format. Mainly, this has to do with the fact that the Thursday Three is intended to be more in the vein of light humor (or attempts thereat) and as such the does not lend itself easily to topics of a more serious nature. Far be it for us to allow heated controversy to stand in our way, though. Here’s your questions: 1) NASCAR recently sent up a squeal from old-school fans for its decision to move two Nextel Cup (nee Winston Cup) races from Rockingham and Darlington to Texas Motor Speedway and Phoenix International Raceway in Arizona. The move is seen by many as a naked grab for a more mainstream audience and an attempt to walk away from the sport’s redneck past. Is this a good thing? 2) It has been noted by others that the original 26 episodes of Jonny Quest are now available on DVD. The question: Race Bannon--is he or isn’t he? 3) Have you ever participated in any sort of organized footrace--track and field in school, fun runs, marathons, Olympics--and what was your finishing position? (Sprawled on the ground with dry heaves does not count as a position.) As you can see, these topics about race can be touchy, so try to be civil. Based upon continued reader input, you will notice that I have tried to strike a balance between questions that require no thought and those that do. The success of this strategy is debatable, but not as part of the quiz. As has been the case in the past, if you have your own blog, leave a link in the comments below, and if not, leave your answer in the comments. And while this is intended as a series of queries aimed at those of you who live in the South, remember that this can be played by anyone in the ENTIRE WORLD. Just like Jarts. SO THEN, go off and think up some stuff. Here’s my answers-- 1) I know there are some fans that don’t like it, and it is sad to see some of the venerable old venues where the sport was built be cast aside like a shredded tire carcass, but NASCAR is a business, and there’s some more money left yet to be made. So they’re going for it. The problem of alienating old school fans might be eliminated, however, if NASCAR decided to incorporate groups such as the Historic Stock Car Racing Group into its fold. Vintage racing is very popular in sports car circles, and given the love fans have for old stockers, it could be something for NASCAR to explore as a way to keep the older tracks operating, and give those heritage fans something interesting to look at and still be able to get some money out of them. 2) Oh, come on. Of course he is. And don’t try to bring Jezebel Jade into this. 3) Oh, surely you--I mean I--jest. I have run non-competitively before, for P.E. classes in school, but nothing I could ever hope to get a trophy or medal for. I was just happy to not be curled up on the ground with dry heaves. Maybe running a marathon should be my next big goal. Nah. Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Obviously... I'm still not through shoveling. Dumb ol' work. But tomorrow is Thursday, and you know what that means! (If so, please remind me--all my brain am sore, and it is hard to remember what the schedule is.) I do know tomorrow's blogging will again be work-truncated. I have an inhouse seminar tomorrow afternoon on our new spiffy Geographic Information System that is supposed to be available online. As proof of our immense intelligence, we can't just have it as a desktop application through our shared servers, we have to get on the Internet, then log in to a website, then come back in and access the information. It's like standing there in the den looking into the kitchen, and deciding the best way to get to the refrigerator is to go out the front door and then come back into the kitchen from the door at the carport. Silly computer people. Making it even less useful is that it won't be the full setup that we already have access to (via a single dedicated workstation in each department), but rather some sort of lite version with half the flavor, and twice the gristle. Again, sorta like looking at the kitchen table full of a big barbecue spread with cold iced tea and a big pecan pie for dessert, and then deciding to go out the front door, through the carport, back into the kitchen, to the refrigerator, only to get a box of shredded wheat. The final indignity is that we don't have a color printer. Oh, there's a nice inkjet hooked up to the GIS workstation at the front counter, but no one will listen to me when I mention how nice it would be if we were networked to it so we could print other things in color, too. Yeah, I know, but it never hurts to ask. Most of the time. Anyway, see you all tomorrow.
The public cries out for information. Just got a visit from a person searching for cattle truck overturned trussville alabama. Strange as this might sound, there really was a truck that tumped over this morning sometime around 5 a.m. or so, right before where I459 North splits off to I59 North and South, just before the Trussville-Highway 11 exit. They had to shut down everything up that way--cows were roaming around everywhere. I decided to go up Chalkville Road and get on I59 to keep from getting hung up in this, but when I drove by, there wasn't much going on. Just some police cars and cows. There is, however, absolutely no truth to the rumor that the cows were observed climbing billboards while carrying buckets of paint. This has been your Possumblog Traffic Update.
Well, now. Silly meeting with six cases lasted about as long as one of our regular meetings with 15 cases! As noted yesterday, I have a whole row of stables to shovel out this morning, so not much in the way of tasty and wholesome bloggy goodness, EXCEPT-- Figure I might as well take one of the suggestions from below on what you all want to see pictures of. Marc mentioned wanting to see what Franklin (my old green F-100 I recently sold to the nice Yankee fellow who lives up the block) looks like. Again, not being bold enough to take the camera home with me (seeing as how it's not mine) I did the next best thing and took a picture of the pictures on my wall of Franklin. Here is one in which the bed is prominently displayed, hauling a winsome 3-year-old named Catherine. (Original taken July 23, 2000) The second shot taken moments later shows Franklin being used as an imaginary fishing platform by said child. I had an old piece of cane pole in the back that had fallen out of a plant I had been hauling from the store, and she grabbed it and pretended to cast a line over the side. Pretty sophisticated for a three year old, if you ask me. And finally, proof that I am the luckiest man alive. Anyway, there you go--I'll drop back in again this afternoon. Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Tomorrow... in addition to being another day, is also going to be sans possumy goodness. We are having a supplemental regulatory meeting, in addition to the two we already schedule, to clear up a backlog of cases. SO, no blogging until later in the day tomorrow. Remember to keep offering photo subject suggestions--otherwise, you might have to just keep putting up with boring written stuff. See you tomorrow sometime.
Just in case you didn't get enough humiliation and pain as a child... Adults finding exercise with dodgeball By ANNE M. PETERSON Although Finn was crying and dazed, the gym instructor told her to quit being a baby and to shake it off. Upon gaining her feet, Ms. Finn was ridiculed by several of the really cool girls, who said if she'd gotten hit in the chest, the resultant swelling could have meant she could could begin buying real bras instead of training bras. Mr. Thunder was sent to the office and ordered to scrape gum off the bleachers.
Open for suggestions. Having yesterday breached the visual wall between my world and yours with photographic evidence of my existence (or at least a reasonable facsimile thereof), I am now open for suggestions of other things you would like to see. These suggestions should be limited to stuff I can take pictures of during the day, because I think someone might get upset if I checked the camera out and took it home to play with. Also, although I know you all want to see it, no pictures will be taken of me with less than my full complement of clothing on. Thirdly, given the nature of this enterprise I call Possumblog, the more boring the suggestion, the better it will fit with my oeuvre. Fourth, I can't tell you when I can actually get these posted--it does take actual effort to do, and I am firmly of the position that effort is bad. But I'll do it anyway because you're my friend. So leave a suggestion below.
Seeing as how it's lunchtime, and seeing as how we had an earlier post about eating cicadas, this might be of interest also. Jim Smith sends along an interesting historical note: I ran into something while reading last night that I thought you might enjoy. I found a book on the everyday life of the Civil War Southern soldier. Given you former hobby, this might be of interest to you, although your eras were different. Bell Wiley is a good one--The Road to Appomattox is still a good read, even fifty years after it first hit the shelves. (It was first published in 1954.) Anyway, anyone still hungry?
Obscure Architectural Term of the Day! SPERE. A fixed structure which serves as a screen at the lower end of an open (medieval) hall between the hall proper and the SCREENS PASSAGE. It has a wide central opening between posts and short screen walls, and there is often a movable screen in the opening. The top member is often the tie-beam of the roof truss above; screen and truss are then called a spere-truss. Yes, a two-fer, in which we also find out what is a:SCREENS PASSAGE. The space at the service end of a medieval hall between the screen and the buttery, kitchen, and pantry entrances. Mmmmm--buttery!From the Penguin Dictionary of Architecture, Third Edition.
As H.D. Miller notes, sometimes you CAN get away with bringing a knife to a gunfight. He points us to this blurb in The Sun: OUTNUMBERED British soldiers killed 35 Iraqi attackers in the Army’s first bayonet charge since the Falklands War 22 years ago. The fearless Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders stormed rebel positions after being ambushed and pinned down. Before you try this at home, kids, remember that sometimes it's not the weapon that's important, but rather the man that wields it. Especially when you consider that the current British issue rifles are variants of the Enfield SA-80, a bullpup design (having the trigger mechanism far forward of the magazine and the action integrated into the buttstock) that although handy in close quarters (about the only benefit) is horrible for trying to use a bayonet. The idea of a bayonet is derived from the pike, and to be truly effective as a last-ditch weapon, you really want some length between you, the end of the bayonet, and the other guy. The last British rifle that was really suitable for this was the fine FN-FAL, aka "The Free World's Right Arm," which was long enough and strong enough to work as intended. Again, however, when you are able to succeed in spite of the shortcomings of your circumstances, it says a lot about the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. For some reason, even though we might make light of John Kerry for wearing a daisy on his ski ensemble, I don't think anyone would give these guys grief for their sense of fashion. They've also found a way to make sure no one makes fun of bagpipers.
Just got a CNN Breaking News Alert noting that -- Emmy-winning actor Tony Randall, best known as one of TV's "Odd Couple," dies at 84. I always thought he was a strange little fellow, but The Odd Couple was one of my favorite shows when I was a kid. The opening montage is still one of the best show lead-ins ever.
Based upon my visceral reaction to this story, I want to state categorically that Possumblog Kitchens will NOT be producing a line of Cornicadas.
For those who believe that past Supreme Court decisions are sacrosanct and inviolable regarding certain issues--such as the decision in Roe v. Wade, it might be good to remember there are other cases out there, such as Plessy v. Ferguson, that many saw as equally important to their rights. Not really drawing a parallel between the two cases, but rather offering a reminder that wearing the robes of a Supreme Court justice does not convey absolute infallibility. Courts are made up of fellow citizens, and although they may have deeper individual insights or knowledge, they are still bound up by the same human limits that affect us all. Also a reminder that because something is legal, doesn't mean it's good.
Ad Age's Bob Garfield on--Why McDonald's New Ads Are Like the Food. [...] For instance, in the latest pool of 13 spots: "Hangin' with Ronald," a Leo Burnett spot that portrays the kids' icon as a rocker. Pitiful. Next to rockin' Ronald, the Archies are the Velvet Underground. The talk of commercials does remind me of my mom's reaction a few years back to one of the local McDonald's spots--they were running some kind of Big Mac combo promotion, and the announcer kept pronouncing the prefix "Mc" in McDonald's as "Mick." My mother wondered if they were going to insist on pronouncing it that way, why they didn't call the sandwich a Big Mick instead of a Big Mac. My mom's such a clown.
The Dangers Inherent in Being Inquisitive I came in this morning, and not thinking I could make it all the way upstairs to use the restroom, I made a stop in the one on the main floor. This is the one the engineers use, and therefore is stuffed with wackiness--there is a toilet seat cover dispenser hung on the wall, and although it is too high to meet handicapped requirements, and although everyone who has some technical skills more than likely knows exactly what it is, whoever hung it up decided to very precisely (pencil guideline and all) letter the outside of the dispenser with 1 inch vinyl letters, "TOILET SEAT COVERS." Thanks, glad to see you're thinking. (Of course, some wiseacre has come along and removed some of the letters so that it reads, "TO LET EAT OVERS.") Another one of the fascinating things is the faucets--you know, since faucet handles are all germy, some bright person decided to eliminate them and install knee-operated controls. COOL! Just like a DOCTOR! Or not--these are a retrofit, and when the sink was installed long ago, it was placed at the very back of the countertop, which means you have to lean over to put your hands under the water. Which is hard to do while simultaneously trying to hold in the knee pad control. Especially if someone has left a puddle of water in the broad expanse of countertop between the edge of the bowl and the countertop. Sure, it's an ergonomic nightmare, but HEY! KNEE CONTROLS! Whatever. Anyway, all of that is just filler to the point of the story. I was standing there at the urinal admiring the beige paint on the wall, and noticed the paper box hung over the partition holding the deodorizer. Having nothing else to do, and being a devotee of reading, I quickly perused the information on the box on how to use it (hang up with hook, do not eat) and then saw the list of ingredients. Just in case any of you want to know, it has: 99.75% Paradichlorobenzene And the other .25%? Well, it's good to see you're just as inquisitive as I am. That other quarter-percent is made up of... Fine Perfumes. Now, this is just me, but I think they probably could bump that .25% up a few percentage points. Monday, May 17, 2004
And then, there was the rest of Saturday. Reba decided to take the two older girls with her to go do some spending of money, and I took the two littler kids with me back to the house, where I had first intended to get some yardwork done. Silly me. We got there, and I actually did get the gas cans and take us all back down to the gas station to pretend I would actually have time to get something cut. As if. Got back home, put them in the Big Plastic Playhouse That Also Has Room for Lawnmowers, and we went inside and started the bath process. It was already getting late, and since we were going to go out to eat, I knew if we didn't get it done then, it would be midnight before they all got in the bed. Reba finally got home around six, with herself and two more girls who needed baths (one in particular who had not changed from her soccer clothes). Baths, then Jonathan said we had to eat at Palace, so off to the ultra-ritzy Wal-Mart Shopping Center over on the next mountain over for some Chinese food. And even better, we got the waitress who looks like Ming-na Wen. Rrrrwlll. AND the guy who looks like Jack Soo. Eh. Plenty of leftovers, then back to the house, and then... More stuff that I'll have to get to tomorrow. Right now, it's time to go, and we've got two practices, an end of season soccer party, and a party full of 14 year old girls to get everyone to, and all at THE SAME TIME! Whee! See you tomorrow.
Fritz sez... I’ve been wondering about the extent to which the artwork and other display objects in one's office give a hint about the personality of its occupant. First up, a small token of the frustration of working in a bureaucracy. This is directly in front of my desk. Underneath it is the office chair where I imagine you are sitting as I talk to you. Next, behind the door, artifacts of a day six years ago when Rebecca and Jonathan came to spend the day with me. That coathanger on the doorknob is genuine plastic. Third up, a look at my drawing table. Yes, I still actually draw things with pencils and markers and stuff. (I'm not really part of the high-tech cognoscenti.) Stuff you can see in the shot include some paper, more paper, and some paper. The tall stick-looking thing is a tall stick, which also converts to a wide stick when held sideways. I use it now to push the upper sash of the window closed so I can lock it. It came off the front of the drafting table when I mounted the metal drawing roll on the edge. (The metal tube that keeps paper rolled up and free of creases when you flop your huge belly over the table.) The two things pinned to the wall are a couple of figure-ground studies I did for fun of the downtown area. Yeah, I know, I'm a barrel of fun. Over to the right on the floor are a stack of various park-type design studies. Underneath the table is a sheet of plywood useful for converting the table into a bed. Nextly, the view out said fifth floor window towards the east. The gray lady in the background is the Courthouse, and the park is Linn Park. The dark lines running across the picture are the venetian blinds inside the window. It's a pretty day today. Fifth, the wall just to the left of the whole nerve center of this operation. ON there you see my calendar of purty Eyetalian places, my push-pin clock, photos of kids doing kidly things, cartoons carrying various architectural themes (heavy on Far Side ones), a drawing of Notre Dame du Haut, more paper, some paper, a small stuffed husky dog (under the calendar, next to the stolen harmon/kardon speaker), a stack of paper, and some drawings. On paper. Sixth, some of the really fine artwork I am blessed to view every day. "The Rain Fish" by famous artist, Boy Oglesby, done at the tender age of seven years. One of his earliest works exploring chiarascura and the vibrancy of natural piscine jewel-tones, rendered in a striking proto-realist fashion. Available for acquisition, signed by artist. Offers beginning at $4,000,000. And what would a trip to my office be without a picture of me?! In this one, Boy Oglesby exhibits a stunning sense of proportionlessness, allowing his paint to fill his thoughts and movements with a fury and creativity unbounded by mere draftsmanship. Note the gigantically-sized head, perched atop a body impossibly thin, the right arm beefy and muscular, the left delicate and sensitive--a thrilling composition showing the attributes of incredible intelligence, strength, and tenderness. Truly a masterwork. Not offered for acquistion. Anyway, that there's what it looks like around here. I'll be having more pictures up another time when I can get the camera out of the drawer.
Okay, let's see how much I can get done in the next Meeting to go to, and I haven't gotten to all the rich and meaty chunks of weekend to blab about. SO--Friday, rushed home, grabbed Boy from the loving confines of the house and headed back across town to Homewood. Huge backup at Lakeshore, which meant getting to the park was YET ANOTHER stress-inducing exercise, but we did get there in time to not get a parking place. Absolutely jam-packed. Finally found one at the bottom of the hill, and also found I had snagged a bit of chicken wire underneath the car that was causing a terrible sound. No time to fix that, so we unloaded and hiked back up. Good game against a team from Smithfield. Boy played like he was on fire--lots of actual running, stopped a few players, lots of kicks with some actual heat on them. He said later it was because he had turned 10. Whatever, he played his best game ever. And the boys all played good for a change. No one hogged the ball, they stayed spread out in their positions, they actually PASSED the ball. Good game. Wound up tied at 2. Would like to have tied up the lady I was sitting next to. For some reason, all of our parents sat near one end, and I wanted to be closer to the middle so I could see better. The other team's parents were between our parents and the centerline, and I suppose I could have gone on and sat by myself on the other side of them, but people think I'm antisocial enough, so I became the last person in the row, sitting right next to a big screaming crazy insane woman who insisted on running up and down the field hollering BOOM anytime one of their players got near the ball. When she wasn't doing this, she was standing there in front of me. It was not a fun experience, and I finally had to stand up to be able to see what was going on. Game over, and we decided to go get a bite to eat--I wanted a hamburger, and after pulling into Rally's, Jonathan decided he wanted a taco. ::sigh:: I was going to insist he eat a burger so I wouldn't have to go somewhere else, but then I saw there was no way to drive in the right direction without first driving right by Taco Bell. So we stopped at Taco Bell. He was very happy. On to home, where the girls had gotten back not much earlier after going out and doing his birthday shopping, so at 9 p.m., it was PARTY TIME! I suppose if you're one of those hoity-toity big city dwellers, that sounds awfully early for partying, but for Ma and Pa Kettle, it was just additional exhaustion. Anywho, he got three GameBoy games and a pair of swim trunks, and the aforementioned Dragon Ball Z cake. Again, a very happy time--and he made sure to save a piece of his cake for his teacher. I'm not sure if she will want it today. Boy's father, who is rather sweet on his teacher, insisted on making sure she got a corner piece, then Boy's father proceeded to drop it upside down into the plastic box, then after turning it right-side up, put the lid on it and nearly smushed it flat. It sure looked less high when it went in the box. It certainly was after I got through with it. Maybe she'll be charmed, thinking it was Jonathan who made such a mess out of it. He'll probably tell on me, though. To bed for them all, because the next day was going to be another one of those days. Up early, started rousting kids. Plan was for all of us to go to Cat's game, then separate and let me take Jonathan to Riverchase for his second game as Reba and the girls went to the band cookout, then all meet back up together at Liberty Park for Rebecca's game, then after we got back and got cleaned up, go eat supper with Reba's mom and dad for Boy's birthday. Quite a plan, that. And here I was, actually thinking I would get to cut the grass... Got to the park on time for once, watched Cat's team win their game and see yet more examples of why some people shouldn't be allowed to be around children, then headed out with Jonathan to the next stop. After first having to run back by the house to get something we forgot. And I can't remember what it was now. On to Riverchase, and was gratified to see that their concession stand was actually open for once, bought some sunflower seeds from the expensively dressed-down lady inside and got Boy an ice cream sandwich. The game was pretty good, but they were forgetting all the good stuff they had done the night before. Might have been the heat or something, but they looked like their old selves. Managed to only lose by 1-0, though, so I guess it could have been much worse. We left the huge mess of sunflower shells and headed back up I-459 to Liberty Park to wait on the girls, who brought us some burgers and hot dogs from their cookout. Almost still warm! Mmmmm. Rebecca's game (their last of the season--yea!) was against the Vestavia Steamers, whom they have done well against in the past. Same thing this time--final score 4-2. And a remarkable amount of pushing and shoving in evidence from the opposition. They don't usually play like this, but again, it may have been the effects of the heat and lack of substitutes, but they were getting real ragged and playing poorly and appeared to be trying to make up for it anyway they could. As always, though, the best salve for poor sportsmanship directed at you is to make sure you win. Convincingly. Now then--what comes next? Have to wait a bit--gotta go meet. Mmmmm. Meet!
HEY! May 17 is Norwegian Constitution Day! Which can only mean one thing...husky blond girls with flags!
From Snopes, the story of Marine Capt. Brian R. Chontosh, recipient of the Navy Cross. Semper fi, Mac.
Wonder why he was mad at the house? Man undergoes emergency surgery after shooting at his Ensley home The house must have been armed as well.
Food! Glorious FOOD! As you all know, not only do I have a dashing sense of style when it comes to clothing, there is also my well-known culinary skills. I suppose this is why I just had a nice person come by looking for information about vegetarian oatmeal patties recipe PETA. Possumblog is right up there at the number 2 search result, so I think it's safe to say my kitchen skills are becoming even better known to a much wider audience. BUT NOW, to the task at hand--here is a great recipe for oatmeal patties that I think is just dandy! OATMEAL PATTIES Chopped fresh basil, 1/4 cup Eggs, 2 whole Flour, 4 Tbsp Cooked, thick, cooled oatmeal (NOT instant) 2 cups Salt Dry breadcrumbs for coating, about 1/2 cup. Blend ingredients well. With damp hands, form the mixture into oval patties. Dredge them in the breadcrumbs. Saute in medium-hot butter until golden on both sides, about 3 minutes per side. Allow to cool. Place in paper bag and place several in and around known feeding areas. (Check your local ordinances, as this may constitute hunting over a baited field.) When a deer comes by, shoot deer, gut it, and take it to your local processor. When you get your steaks and sausage back, try Mrs. Graybeard's Sliced Venison with Peppers. 3 venison steaks, sliced into 1 inch thick strips 2 tablespoons butter 2 tablespoons cooking oil 3 green peppers, slicked into 1 inch thick strips 1 large onion, diced 1 garlic clove, crushed 1/4 teaspoon of salt 1/4 teaspoon of pepper Combine the butter and oil in a large frypan. Add the green peppers, onion, garlic, salt and pepper. Saute until the peppers and onion are soft. Push the vegetables to the side of the pan, add the venison strips, and quickly brown them on all sides. Stir all the ingredients together in a pan, cook for 5 minutes, and serve immediately. Hot white rice and escalloped apples are a nice accompaniment to this dish. MMMmmm! That's good eatin'!
An admission. Before we get along to the incredibly banal details of my weekend, I feel I must make a confession. The Gap. This might shock you all, knowing as you do my finely-honed sense of style, but I have never once set foot in a Gap store. Never bought anything from them, never gotten anything as a gift that I had to take back there. The whole place gives me an odd creepy feeling, and it has nothing to do with their ubiquity or a sense that I must hop on the Bash Gap bandwagon--it's just that nothing about the whole concept appeals to me. Except. Except for they know how to do commercials. Especially commercials for tank tops. You know the one--girl on a beach, all windblown and bouncy and lascivious and squishy and tanned, walking toward the camera with that look in her eye, and starts peeling off layers of tank tops. That is a very compelling commercial. Boy came in the room the other day and it was on, and he asked, "How many shirts has she got on!?" Although I was tempted to recite the old Tootsie Pop commercial with the turtle and the owl, I just let it go and said, "A whole bunch." "Well, Dad, why's she keep taking them off?" "They're just trying to show all the colors they have." "Oh." Yep. "Is she gonna take them all off!?" Kid, you're killin' me here. "Nooo, buddy--they can't show that on teevee!" "Well, good! That would be gross!" ::sigh:: A few more years and you won't be saying that, bub. Anyway, I feel better now having unburdened myself about liking their commercials. The Gap--clothes that look better coming off than they do on.
I feel like I've been beat with a ball peen hammer. Although how this differs in quality from being beaten with any other unyeilding object is beyond me. I guess I just like writing "ball peen." (And just so you know, I DO know what it's like to get hit with a hammer. Twice. In the head. By my own hand.) ANYWAY, I managed to drag my mushy self in here this morning after a weekend filled with unsleepfulness and unrestfulness. You'll get to hear about some of it in a bit, but FIRST--I have to go sit at the big table and attempt to stay awake during our staff meeting. BUT FIRST--Reason #293 To Not Exercise I was coming back down Main Street this morning after letting the kids out, when up ahead I saw one of those icky, sweaty, joggers. Tall guy, bald, grimacing, running along the sidewalk by the cemetery. As I got closer, I also noticed something in the gutter beside a storm drain where he had just passed by. It was a giant tabby cat, sprawled on its back, furry white tummy shining in the morning sun, with all four of its legs up in the air. It had an almost cartoon quality, but not enough of one to make up for its sad, sad demise. But imagine not being insulated from it in a car, but having to actually JOG PAST IT! Eww. Fresh air?! Please. Much healthier just to stay in your car where it's nice and sealed up. SO, off to my meeting. Friday, May 14, 2004
My brain has now turned to a runny paste. Yet, oddly enough, I feel few ill effects. But boy am I ready to be through with this day. After a marathon session of typing meeting minutes the last two days, I am finally through with them, which leaves me just enough time in the rest of the day to fume about the guy I just had a meeting with. Same guy from a couple of weeks back who just couldn't stay off his cell phone. Today, he just couldn't make it on time. Now before, I noted that I didn't want to get a call every five minutes letting me know he was going to be five minutes late, but I WOULD like to have received at least ONE call to let me know he would be strolling in 20 minutes past time. I also would have appreciated having received a ready-to-be-processed contract from him, too. You know, one sorta like the one I keep saying I HAVE TO HAVE. Yeah, yeah, I know--and if Granny had wheels she'd be a trolley. Whatever that means. And then there's this whole weekend thing--as I mentioned before, Boy has a game tonight at 7 at West Homewood--meaning I go to the house, pick him up, and turn around and come right back from where I started. Then tomorrow, Catherine's game is at 9, his is at 12 in Riverchase, Rebecca's is at 3 at Liberty Park (at the ultra swanky Richard M. Scrushy Football and Soccer Complex--yes, really), and then sometime in there around lunchtime, there is a Band Booster cookout on The Mall in Trussville that Reba has already paid for us to attend. But given that Boy and I will be on the road, we'll miss it. I told Reba to make sure she and the girls eat enough food to make up for our absence. Then Catherine has her team photos Sunday afternoon, and Jonathan has a game at noon Sunday, and I'm supposed to fill in to teach the adult class Sunday morning and I haven't even started my lesson, and sometime in there we have to do some gift getting and giving for the Birthday Boy, and it has now been three weeks since I cut the front yard, and it has rained now several times and is beginning to look like we have a religious aversion to inflicting pain on poor defenseless grasses and wild flora. But it must be clipped, or else. In other words, the usual stuff. See you all back here bright-tailed and bushy-eyed Monday morning. Or something.
Dad, aren't you forgetting something? A small boy had appeared beside the bed this morning as I was putting on my shoes and loading my pockets with man junk. "Hey, buddy. Uhhhhm, I love you?" "No." "Have you brushed your hair?" "Yes, but that's not what you're supposed to say." "Hmmm. Well, you do look very different today--could that be because...it's your...DAY TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH?!" "DAAaaaaddddy!" "Not it, huh? Well, then, maybe it's your BIRTHDAY!" And much singing ensued. Yep--Little Boy is now a whole decade old. We went downstairs and lined him up against the doorframe of the utility room to mark his vertical progress--he was very relieved to see that he was just as tall as Rebecca was at ten. He had been lagging behind her a bit, and it was bugging him. But he's caught up now, and he felt better. I noticed we had forgotten to mark Catherine's name when she turned 7 back in February, so I got her up against the door and -- holy moley -- she's as tall as Ashley was at 10! (Ashley was always very small until she hit puberty, then she shot up.) And she has grown a full six inches since her sixth birthday. Despite the fact that it has become nearly impossible to hold any of them in my lap, that hasn't damped their desire (or at least that of the younger three) to try to clamber up on me and snuggle. Or suffocate me. But who could complain? As for Jonathan's festivities, we got him a Dragon Ball Z decorated cake--if you don't understand the allure, don't try. I gave up a long time ago. He also has a tournament game tonight, so he's going to have to wait until later after the game to have some of it, but I don't think he'll mind. And, poor thing, we still have to go shopping for his presents--one of the by-products of having to spend perfectly good shopping time schlepping him around town for soccer, but he's a good sport about it. The way it works out, our neglectfulness in party planning means the celebration drags on for days in bits and spurts, rather than just blowing itself out in a mad couple of hours. And he seems to kinda like that. Anyway, Happy Birthday, Buddy Bear. And now, I have a boatload of work to get done and little time to do it in. Posting will once again be on the lightish side today because of that. Thursday, May 13, 2004
Reader Mail Chet the E-Mail Boy was so excited to receive this morning's mail--it contained a missive from a foreign country-- Anyway, here you go: Good Morning, Why, thank you!While I was eating breakfast this morning, the local TV news had their "Fortune Financial Report" segment. Amazingly, most of the segment focused on a single news item. Well, it IS local TV news...It seems that Brad Pitt has decided that the latest fashion trend will be ... men wearing skirts. As I said, the hard-hitting world of local TV news just begs for stories like this to receive full and complete attention.A quick Googling of "Brad Pitt" and "skirts" turned up some interesting links. You mean, like this? As H.D. Miller notes,This just seems like a topic designed for your sense of humor. ;-) Thanks! I think. Or not.Thanks for the great blog! Eric Z. Zzzzzzzzt Anyway, back to Pittly mandresses. The whole idea reminds me of a fellow who I see occasionally walking around downtown Birmingham. He looks a lot like Howard Stern, but he wears blousy women's dresses. And heels. And a purse. And a bra hugely overstuffed stuffed with paper or something. And again, he looks like Howard Stern, especially around the hair. Except it's not his own long, black, tangled mass of curls, but rather, a wig. He proudly flounces around, and I'm sure on some level he probably feels pretty, but here's the deal. He ain't. Men have enough trouble dressing in men clothes not to have to deal with trying to find something else to look like a slob in. Oh, sure, it's simpler to go to the john, and cooler in hot weather, and the new styles for summer are really cute, but obviously, God had a reason for inventing pants. Let's just leave well enough along and be thankful for the status quo.
Hey dude, DOUSE THAT BUTT! GOOD MORNING AGAIN! As I noted in the first post, I have been out this morning doing Proud Papa duty. A certain professor (who shall remain nameless) asked if this meant that I got to play slugabed this morning and sleep in. NO. I had to get up at the normal time and get the kids up and ready to go as usual and get them to school. Little Boy had a choir presentation this morning at 8 a.m. (so he said) so I figured I might as well get them there and wait. [Some of you may be wondering how it is that I posted the Thursday Three at 8:00 this morning, when I just said I was doing all this other junk. Due to my association with the high-tech cognoscenti, I cheated and actually posted it last night, and used Blogger's handy Change Date and Time feature to make it appear to have been posted today. I hope you can see clear to forgive me this egregious abuse of your trust. Or not.] Out the door right at 7 or so, shoved all four in the van and headed off down the hill, intending to stop at the post office on Watterson and buy some stamps so I could mail my rubber checks to the various people to whom I owe money. Drove right past it. Got all the way over the bridge to the traffic light before realizing it, so I made the loop back up South Chalkville and back around to the PO. Which sorta describes my mood. Parked, admonished the children to be COMPLETELY SILENT to avoid the inevitable arguments that would ensue at the instant any one of them uttered a syllable, and made my way to the stamp machine in the box lobby. Still too early for the counter staff to be working, and apparently the vending machines are on the same schedule. There was one of the school lunchroom ladies in front of me trying to buy some, and it didn't work for her. She turned and fussed and walked on out. Like a slot machine addict, the obvious lack of a jackpot of the player ahead of me meant that my odds were MUCH better for a payoff, so I went ahead and tried my hand. Crapped out. For some reason, it could only give $5 in change. If I could have figured out a way to make it give five bucks in lieu of the 14 cents I was due, I would have stayed there and played all day, but there was no time for that. I fussed and walked back out to the van, where it was remarkably quiet. And now I was running behind schedule, which is never good. On to the middle school to drop off Oldest, whom I have taken to saying goodbye to and kissing on the cheek while we are still on the other side of the driveway from where I let her off. I figure not letting her friends see that she actually has anything to do with me is going to be about the only way I can still give her a nice smooch and tell her I love her without her being SO! EMBARRASSED! Let her out, then circled back out to the main drag and was off to the elementary school. Let the kids out at the gym, then went and parked in the front, and congratulated myself for still having about fifteen minutes to spare before the program started. Walked in, signed the visitor sheet, went to the gym, which was empty except for teachers in the process of setting things up and the custodial staff sweeping and cleaning. It seems the program was supposed to start at 8:30, not 8 as my sweet son had told me. WOW! I was SUPER early! That NEVER happens! After they got the bleachers unfolded, I went and made myself uncomfortable on the back row, which had the benefit of the wall, where I could lean and rest my back. A few more parents filtered in, and then the kids started coming in, and by 8:30 it was a happy madhouse of chatter. The assistant principal quieted everyone down, pledge, and then the performance. The presentation was about all the types of musical concepts the children had learned during the year--tempo, pitch, notes, harmony--stuff like that, all set to simple songs. And the addition of two special visitors. A couple of the teachers dressed themselves up as a couple of high-fashion redneck chicks, and they interjected various silly comments throughout, and sang a rousing version of Elvira. It was kinda funny, I suppose, and the kids thought it was a hoot, but I would have preferred just letting the kids sing and play their instruments. But I'm just not a very humor-oriented sort of guy. They finished up at 9, and I went down and snapped a couple of shots of Jonathan with his buddies, and then figured out what to do until it was time for the next program, Rebecca's D.A.R.E. graduation. It started at 10:30, so I had some time to kill, and rather than hang around leering at the teachers, I figured I would go try to buy stamps again, and get some gas in the van, and remind my boss that I was going to be out this morning. Sometimes, he forgets. Off back toward town, making a quick detour to the library so I could check my e-mail and send a message to my boss that I was going to be in at lunch. I mentioned it in the super fun Monday Morning Meeting, but I don't think he was in attendance, and I didn't want him to think I had just up and quit. Checked on the blog and the multitude of other e-mail accounts I have, and read the story about Rummy visiting Baghdad. Fat Teddy's reaction was predictable, saying it just didn't matter, and Secretary Rumsfeld should have gone and seen to this when the allegations were first made. But when I listened to the report on the radio on the way to work, the reaction of the troops when they saw him was tumultuous and grateful. Said reaction, oddly enough, not mentioned at all in the article, and something that shouldn't be discounted. Fat Teddy might be right, but it would be hard to make that case based upon the reaction of the soldiers who greeted the Secretary of Defense. That type of reaction is something those wishing for nothing more than an opportunity to embarrass the President might want to ponder before playing the contrarian. On then into town to the post office, where the counter was now open and staffed by the clerk who looks somewhat like Candice Bergen, circa 1980, at least around the hair. Stamps, drop the letters, and off to fill up on some of that wonderful gasoline. You know, everyone complains about the cost of gasoline, and it is pretty high, although not when you factor in inflation. But when you consider that I paid $27.95 for an H-P 28mL black ink cartridge at Wal-Mart the other night, it's a downright BARGAIN--one gallon of ink is the equivalent of 3785.41 mL. At $0.998 per mL, that ink costs a whopping $3,777.84 per gallon! The heck with war for oil, I want someone to find out where they pump that ink out of the ground and go take THAT over! The gas cost a buck-eighty, which is about five cents higher than the RaceTrac down by the interstate, but I just didn't want to have to drive that far. I DID, however, want to smack the slack-jawed loser who pulled up on the other side of the pump, who got out and pumped gas while HOLDING A LIT CIGARETTE in his teeth. MORON! I never know whether to say something to boneheads like this or not, but one of these days, I believe I will be compelled to repeat the title of this post. It'll probably get me knifed, but that's better than getting blowed up real good. ON back to the school, park, and head to the amphitheater, and sit in the back so I could get a good view. Six classes of fifth graders went through the program, about 160 kids or so, and out of each class, one representative was voted on by their classmates to read his or her essay about the program. And guess who one of the ones was who got to read her essay? So, yes, I was very proud of Middle Girl. She got up there and did a very good job, a fact I'm sure will provide hours of gossip to the girls on her soccer team when they found out that not only does she talk, she did so in front of a room full of nearly 200 people! (There were two of her teammates there, so word is bound to get out.) I know there is a lot of talk about the D.A.R.E. program being ineffective at reducing drug abuse, and there might be a more cost-efficient way of getting better results, including the idea that parents might do more in the home to discourage abuse, rather than farming it out to the schools, but I still think the concept of getting kids to think of the police as advocates rather than adversaries is good. (And it certainly beats teaching them that it's perfectly fine to experiment.) Anyway, that's what all has been going on. Now back on the tractor.
Never being ones to allow work to interfere with important things, we are proud to announce the latest and greatest entertainment enterprise within a four-county area, the Super Exciting Stupendous Axis of Weevil Thursday Three, Volume VI! After receiving myriad entreaties from all across the far reaches of the prolate spheroid of Bloglandia--“PLEASE! Give us questions that do not require us to think hard thinks!”--the Three-Question Production Staff have worked diligently in order to provide you with the least thought-provoking questions ever seen! You’re welcome! SEEING AS HOW our beloved South is known to some for its engaging, bucolic rusticity, we would like to know: 1) Have you ever used an outhouse? And we’re not talking portapotty, but a real, live, honest to goodness, wood-plank-over-a-hole, crescent-moon-door-cutout, infested-with-dirt-daubers privy. Please describe the experience. 2) Have you ever called livestock for feeding? If so, please describe the type of animal, and a general approximation of the call used. 3) Have you ever driven a tractor upon a public street? Again, if so, please describe any backstory you deem necessary to allow our less well-rounded readers to fully appreciate the experience. Now, as always, even though these questions are intended to be Southocentric, anyone is welcome to answer and play along, no matter whether you live in Malta, or Tasmania, or even Minnesota. If you have a blog of your own, leave a link in the comments below, and if you don’t have a blog, get one and make this your first post, or if that’s too much effort, just leave a comment. As for my answers--outhouse? Oh, my, yes. I was a small child, and all I remember about it is hoping I didn’t fall in. I cannot remember where we were, or why we were having to use it, but it was a regular old one-holer made of wood. It did have a roll of real toilet paper, though, which was comforting. Livestock calling--again, when I was little and we went to visit my uncle and aunt, who had a few cows. Their preferred method of calling was to say, “YOO! COW!” and rattle a bucket. Tractor driving? Not quite. I have driven a contraption when I worked one summer at a steel fabricating shop, that was a jury-rigged self-propelled boom loader, built on a Hyster chassis. Every once in a while, we would have to move stuff from one end of the shop or yard to the other, and most of the time the most convenient way was to use the street beside the shop. (It is located in the heavy industrial area a few blocks east of downtown Birmingham, and the street was a regular through street with cars and trucks and everything else coming down it.) Anyway, this particular beast was about 25 years old 25 years ago, and the way it was fixed, you were in effect having to drive it backwards--the gas and clutch pedals were slightly underneath where you sit, and had to be operated with your heels. And the steering was sorta like that on a skid loader--or more like a boat, actually, with a tiller of sorts. Except when you pushed it to the right, the thing turned left. And the tiller was somewhat behind you, too. And it steered the “rear” wheels. Compounding the degree of difficulty was that it had big, squishy pneumatic tires that bounded around in complete disregard of steering input or the laws of physics. And it had a 20 foot boom sticking out toward the “front,” with a big dangling iron hook on the end, all of which sat alongside of the operator, more or less blocking the view of anything on that side. I had never driven it before, but it looked relatively easy, because I was 17 and full of all kinds of mechanical knowledge. We needed to move it, and since it didn’t have a load, I figured I could help out and get it moved around to where it needed to be. Cranked it up, blipped the throttle with my left heel, let out the clutch with my right heel, and WHOAAAA! It bucked and bounced down the street, veering across the centerline as I tried to figure out the double-inverse steering movements, and then I swung it in a looping right arc toward the big open door in the metal building as I tried to simultaneously halt it with the handbrake (forgot about that bit of arcana) and figure out how to get it to straighten up. Again, the tiller confused me, and I managed to bring it to a shaky halt with the end of the boom only six inches away from the back window of the precious truck belonging to one of the old-timers. It just happened to be parked right by the door. His name was Cat, and the truck was a mid-60s GMC pickup, primer gray, with the pickup box removed and a custom flat bed installed that was made of various scraps of steel plate he had collected over the years. He was very proud of his truck, and had I busted out the back window, he would have been very, VERY angry. Angry in that Sand Mountain sort of way. Luckily, I don’t think he was looking. I gingerly backed up, got in the door, and never tried to drive the Hyster again. NOW THEN--having dispensed with that, I must warn you that your normal deluge of Possumania is going to be really limited today. I have a thing to do with the kids at school this morning, so I won't be able to play on here until much later on in the day. SO, go amuse yourselves in the archives or in the blogroll, and I'll see you all in a bit. Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Another one of THOSE days... No, not one of those, one of those days--SKY/WX--PTSUNNY, TMP--83, DP--65, RH--54, WIND--SE10G17, PRES--30.15F--in short, absolutely wonderful for walking down the street at lunch to meet Miss Reba. I can't get enough days like this--it's warm, but not yet as oppressively dank and hot as Satan's armpit, like it will be in August; there's a nice fresh breeze that's not so hard that it messes up my fur, but merely tousles it; bits of sunshine and shade; girls in their summer dresses (thanks, Irwin!); the Trust Jesus guy holding up his sign and waving to folks; Wheelchair Guy hawking his fresh peanuts from the Peanut Depot; and, of course, getting to meet Miss Reba for lunch down at the Sabor Mazatlan--located on the ground floor of this grand old pile. It is a day when Birmingham, the world's biggest small town, feels much more like the world's smallest big city. One thing, though. I do have to ask that if you consider yourself a jaded, cosmopolitan, man-o-the-world type fellow, would you please not try to demonstrate that sensibility by walking against traffic? I don't know WHAT it is, but there are certain folks who seem to want everyone to know they're too big-city to have to stop and wait on a walk signal--which is fine when there's nothing coming. But when you have four lanes of traffic coming straight at you, stepping off the curb and assuming they're going to stop doesn't really make you look very bright. Yes, I jaywalk occasionally, and cross on red sometimes, but at least I have sense enough to know I should RUN LIKE THE WIND so as to avoid unecessarily detaining the nice people rolling toward me in two tons of barely brakeable steel. And it probably goes without saying (but that has never stopped me) that on those occasions when you DO have the light, it doesn't necessarily mean you can just splud on out there--it might be good to make sure that dumptruck load of gravel stops first. Just saying. Anyway, meeting this morning went off with nary a hitch, although it seemed to drag on a bit too much--first case went nearly twenty-five minutes. Got finished after an hour and a half, packed up my junk, headed in to the office, and then spent the next few hours typing madly trying to make some headway on the minutes. Which I wasn't able to do, so I thought I would do this instead! Not that this is worth slagging off for, but it does break up the monotony a bit. At least for me. But, sadly, such shenanigans must not take up too much of my time--I need to get back to the paying gig BUT BEFORE I DO THAT-- Reading the mail last night I came across one of the myriad newletters I get from Alabama Polytechnic Institute and was just about to pitch it in the round file when I spied an interesting blurb on the back. Seems as though the old alma mater has gone and got all electronic on us, in the form of a fascinating website known as the Auburn University Digital Library. What caught my eye in the article was that as part of their collections, they have gone and digitized old copies of the yearbook, the Glomerata, as well as over 300 old postcards of Alabama. I spent hours last night looking through this stuff and it is absolutely incredible. I have a thing for old postcards anyway, especially ones from around here. (In fairness, I also must point you to another nice collection of old Alabama postcards from those people in Tuscaloosa.) A sampling of the stuff I found include: from the "Beauties" section of the 1924 Glom, the smolderingly naked-shouldered Miss Sarah Bullock, and the raven-haired Miss Katherine Thorington seen demonstrating the efficacy of the Ag Extension Program at growing dogwood blossoms in earwax. From the 1910 edition, a Senior Class history a la the book of Exodus. From the 1897 edition, a whole page of zippy cheers for bolstering the fighting spirit of the Plainsmen-- Preck-a-ge-ges! Preck-a-ge-ges! Who-wah! who-wah! Sis boom Hellabaloo! Auburn. Uh, well, okay. Anyway, there's tons of stuff in the old yearbooks, and then there's the POSTCARDS! Get a load of one of the architecture rooms from 1910. I don't feel so bad about my office now. This is the building where the shot was taken, an interesting bit of bricks-n-sticks that later gave way to this hi-style edifice (which still houses the Art and Industrial Design folks). This is the latest architecture building, Dudley Hall. Eww. (Should I ever begin writing a news column on architectural criticism, my pen name will be Dudley Hall.) Other nifty cards are this one of the dusty Highland Avenue in Birmingham about 1912, the grand old Thomas Jefferson (still standing, but in severe disrepair), the Boll Weevil Monument in Enterprise, and really hot beach chicks in Gulf Shores. Hours of time wasting potential in all of these, and I haven't even gotten to the non-postcard, regular old photographs--like this one of a mock battle by the cadets. Sheesh, college boys--nicely turned set of gams, and they're all off running the other way. Except for the old slyboots in the straw boater and the dapper fellow in knickerbockers. So, go look around all that stuff, and I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Back to typing now. Tuesday, May 11, 2004
As happens every so often... I will be suffering from bloggus interruptus tomorrow morning due to that silly thing I call "my job." It promises to be full of wonderful fun. Not really. Anyway, see all of you later on in the day sometime.
Gore encourages people to see 'Tomorrow' WASHINGTON (AP) -- Former Vice President Al Gore says people should see the upcoming movie "The Day After Tomorrow," in which global warming suddenly creates a new ice age that freezes entire cities. "It's an emergency that seems to be unfolding in slow motion, but it actually is occurring very swiftly — not as swiftly as the move portrays, but swiftly in the context of human history," Gore said Tuesday in a conference call organized by the liberal advocacy group MoveOn.org. Al Gore seems to be an emergency unfolding in slow-motion, but actually it's occuring very swiftly--not as swiftly as it should, but swiftly in political terms.Gore and MoveOn.org are promoting a leafletting campaign, where volunteers will distribute fliers when the film opens on Memorial Day weekend. Gore said he has read the script and seen the trailer and anticipates seeing an advance screening of the film. O, the HUMANITY! Think of all the trees that were murdered for all those leaflets. PAPER IS MURDER!The fliers describe the weather crisis in the movie as "over the top," but say global warming is real and that President Bush is doing nothing to stop it. I would certainly breathe a sigh of relief if he could do something to stop Hollywood from producing overwrought pot-boilers. They're much worse for the environment.Republican National Committee spokesman Christine Iverson said given that Gore chose Howard Dean to win the Democratic primary race, "it's doubtful that the American people will be willing to rely on him as a movie critic." All together now--"HOW DARE YOU QUESTION MY PATRIOTISM!"
For those of you who like to leave comments... Stupid, STUPID Haloscan still seems to be having difficulties this week. If it's not working when you try to comment, either reload the page or wait a bit and try again. Sorry.
Study: Students suffer in unruly classes [...] education colleges don't prepare teachers to deal with rowdy students; children in special education are treated too lightly even when their misbehavior has nothing to do with their disabilities; schools back down from discipline when parents threaten lawsuits. Now, there are probably some people who would jokingly pout about not having adult Happy Meals, but the sad thing is there really is a sizeable group of folks out there who are genuinely miffed at being adults and being denied childish frippery. The problem is that, despite their adolescent tendencies, we screwed up and gave them high-paying jobs so they can hire lawyers and sue someone when Little Jimmy gets in trouble for beating down a teacher. Sadly, it's not one-sided, though. Not only did we give them jobs in the private sector, they also managed to sneak into the field of education, too, which explains a lot of the absolutely ridiculous zero-tolerance silliness being foisted on students by pin-headed administrators in the name of security. Sometimes (and I can't believe I'm saying this) it IS a good idea to grab a mouthpiece and start raising some sand. I suppose it's too much to wish for a little common sense on both sides.
Traditional Media Strategic Advantage #3,678 Professionals who are able to produce headlines like this: Dead Panhandle hostage-taker's mom accused him of attacking her.
Questions from the Audience Jim Smith asks: Just a quick architect question, since we haven't had one for what seems like weeks. That is, if you would share your special knowledge with us.Man, it sure is tough being one of the high-tech cognoscenti. Anyway, the seeming weeks-long span of time without architectural content is due to the fact that it has been weeks. Back to the question-- Do real, passed the test and everything, architects resent the term "landscape architect". I know that the landscape guys have degree programs and such but does it still stick in the craw, as it were?Not really--given the malleability of the term “architect,” and the way it gets thrown about to describe any sort of vaguely buildy sort of concept, the fact that someone uses it in a sense other than the way I use it doesn’t really matter so much to me. It does make a difference to me if persons put themselves forward as licensed or qualified to provide services that are regulated by statute. In Alabama, the use of the titles “architect” and “landscape architect” is strictly regulated by law, as are the practices of both architecture and landscape architecture. In Alabama, the practice of architecture is defined as: When an individual holds himself out as able to render or when he does render any service by consultations, investigations, evaluations, preliminary studies, plans, specifications, contract documents and a coordination of all factors concerning the design and observation of construction of buildings or any other service in connection with the design, observation or construction of buildings located within the boundaries of the state, regardless of whether such services are performed in connection with one or all of these duties, or whether they are performed in person or as the directing head of an office or organization performing them. And “building” is pretty comprehensively defined as “a structure consisting of foundation, walls or supports and roof, with or without other parts.” In general, this would include just about anything you could build, but there are exemptions for certain types of buildings that do not require the services of an architect.Anyone who either calls himself an architect, or provides the services above, must meet certain educational and work requirements, pass a registration examination, be licensed by the state, and accumulate a minumum of 12 hours of continuing education credit per annum. Alabama has adopted the standards of the National Council of Architecture Registration Boards (NCARB), and under those standards, an applicant for registration must have completed at least five years of study at a National Architectural Accrediting Board (NAAB) accredited school of architecture, fulfilled the requirements of the NCARB Intern Development Program after graduation (generally, this is equivalent to three years of office practice), and successfully complete the Architect Registration Exam. OLD COOT ALERT... BACK IN MY DAY, the A.R.E. was a paper test comprised of nine parts covering mechanical systems, structures, site design, history, construction documents, materials and methods, and building design, all administered over four days. The tests were sort of like SATs, with a list of multiple-choice questions ranging from 50 to over a hundred, and you were given a set amount of time to finish. The last part was the building design test, which was given the last day, and lasted eight full hours, in which you were given a program, site, and general information and told to design a complete building. And it was only given twice a year. Nowadays, you can go to Sylvan Learning Centers and take the multi-choice thing on computer, and you only have to answer enough questions to insure that you have a grasp of the material--if you do well enough on the first couple of dozen, you pass. Danged bunch of meddling kids. Oughta have to do it the way I did! The building design is on computer, now, too, which means that after eight hours, you are no longer covered from head to waist with graphite. Buncha crybabies. Getting back to the question, in Alabama, landscape architecture has some similar definitions and such to tell what the practice is. Since the practice is much more limited, the scope is defined in a bit more detail-- The performance of professional services such a consultation, investigation, research, planning, design, preparation of drawings and specifications and responsible supervision in connection with the development of land areas where, and to the extent that the dominant purpose of such services is the preservation, enhancement or determination of proper land uses, natural land features, planting, naturalistic and aesthetic values, the settings and approaches to structures or other improvements, the setting of grades and determining drainage and providing for standard drainage structures, and recordation. Nothing contained herein shall preclude a duly licensed landscape architect from performing any of the services described in the first sentence of this subsection in connection with the settings, approaches or environment for buildings, structures, or facilities. Nothing contained in this chapter shall be construed as authorizing a landscape architect to engage in the practice of architecture, engineering or land surveying as these terms are defined in Section 34-17-27. Landscape architects also have educational and work requirements, have to sit for an exam, and once licensed have to do continuing education as well, although in most instances, their experience is necessarily limited to those things that define their practice, and is thus not quite so comprehensive as that of architects.But it doesn't bother me that there is a title called "landscape architect." (Don't get me started on interior designers.)
Say, it's not just for plumbers! The elevator over in the annex has been inoperable since last week, but they just got around to getting someone in here yesterday to fix it. Which prompted two fire alarms yesterday afternoon, and Anyway, as I was walking down the corridor last evening on the way out to the parking deck, I met a co-worker heading the opposite way, and as he passed, he jerked his thumb back over his shoulder--"Look out." I rounded the corner and was met by a giant chasm--not only were the annex elevator doors open, there was a trusty mechanic kneeling on the floor looking over the sill into the bottom of the shaft, giving all who passed by nice look at his vertical smile. I guess plumbers aren't the only ones afflicted with plumber's butt.
Uhh...sure, whatever. An AP story describing Blooger's update that I mentioned yesterday--Google's Blog Feature Made Easier. Of course, it being mainstream media, it was necessary to explain what all this was about: [...] The revisions to Google's Blogger.com are designed to make it easier for computer neophytes to create and update their own personal journals for free. Now, pardon me while I go stoke the boiler. Monday, May 10, 2004
Happy Mother's Day! I forgot to mention that due to the amount of stuff we've had going on, Reba's Mother's Day gift was limited to cards and the promise of a gift to be named later. Poor Mom. But it's telling about our schedule when you consider that the half-day at the spa we got her for her birthday still has not been redeemed. But the kids still love her very much, and made sure she got her cards, and gave her big sloppy kisses. We had arranged to meet my mama at the Shoney's (my mother's words were, "whatever is cheap") over on Montgomery Highway in Hoover after church, so we headed that way. Only to find the restaurant had closed, and had been closed for a while judging by the looks of it. My mom was parked there out front, so we wheeled up and I said I thought we wouldn't have any trouble getting a table, but it might be a while before we were waited on. Next suggestion, hop down the sidestreet to the place that apparently took all of Shoney's business, the Golden Corral. Or, as I like to call it, Hell's Own Feedlot. I don't like going there, because even on slow days it seems jam-packed with slow, sweaty, messy people just milling around dropping stuff and breathing on you. Well, Sunday was the same, only bumped up with even less elbow room in order to squeeze in as many mamas as possible. Many of whom could rival Mama Cass for both size and consumptive ability. I think they would do better just to take out the tables and put in a trough. The food isn't really so bad, I don't guess, and it gets vacuumed into everyone's gullet so quick that it probably doesn't have a whole lot of time for the e. coli to bloom. And it did meet my mother's requirement of value-pricing. Finished up our food and exchanged some more kisses and hugs, and then Reba and the kids and I drove around a bit, did a bit of exploring, and headed back to the house so Boy could work on his book report poster, and I could help him work on his Alabama history project. Again, another instance of Extreme Parental Overkill, but he promises to help do SOMEthing before it's completely finished. On back to church for evening worship, after a brief meltdown that required a certain Youngest Girl to have to completely change all of her clothes, which would usually have been an inconvenience but was doubly so this time because she had to change right as we were about to leave, and we had to leave on time because I was supposed to lead singing when I got there, and I like to have a minute or two to make sure everyone else remembers if they have opening or closing prayer, and a minute or two to make sure I still have my little piece of paper with the hymn numbers on it. BUT, why worry about that! Just as long as my blood vessels were nice and bulging, everything would be jusssssst fine! Got there with exactly two minutes to spare, had to find a closing prayer guy, found my little piece of paper, and then started up a'wavin' my hand around. And for once, nary a bobble. Got all through, got home, helped fix the kids some supper (the effects of the Feedlot still fresh on my gut, I decided to bypass the evening meal), sent the Youngest and Middle Girls to bed, sent Boy to his room to finish his poster, and heard a screech from Oldest. Because, you know... Seems she had this assignment, that was assigned Thursday, which is when I went to school and got her, and she HAD! JUST! RE! MEM! BERED! IT! Yeah, sure, whatever. Spent all that time, studiously forgetting it until 9:30 Sunday night. "I HAVE TO GET ON THE INTERNET!!" She blew past me as is her wont. "Whoa. Why?" "BECAUSE IT SAYS TO!" I looked at the paper, "Using sources you have at your house, such as the Internet, write a story about..." The assignment was to research a planet and write a comic-book style story in eight panels that uses various characters to tell something about the planet. "Look, you don't need to look on the Internet, there's a bookcase full of encyclopedias right there--choose a planet, find it in there, and get the information." "I! CAN'T! DO THIS!" Whatever. She whined and pouted and complained and moaned and cried and whined until 1 a.m., at which time she was still not finished, but was intending to finish it in study hall. I just now got off the phone with Reba as she was going home, and she says Ashley called her to let her know she had gotten home okay. When asked if Oldest had turned in her work, come to find out, she somehow dropped her books. And somehow her drawings got lost. And now she'll have to redo them. And she was mad, because the TEACHER was going to take 20 POINTS off for it being a day late! Why, the nerve! (Obviously, that teacher just has it in for her!) Speaking of nerve, this weekend a certain child has managed to get on my very last one. I'm just glad I don't let it show. In any event, I am thinking the time is nigh for a come-to-Jesus meeting, which you will not get to see recited herein. Just be glad it ain't you. Now then, time to head to the park! Wheee!
And THEN! Got to the park just in time to see Reba and the rest of the brood ambling to the car. (She had to get them there for Cat's game at 9:30 and Boy's team pictures at 11.) I wheeled into the parking lot and beeped the horn, which brought a very excited Tiny Girl to the window screaming at me that she won her game. 7-1 it was, and she even got to KICK THE BALL! Boy's photos went fine, but he had to wait another couple of hours before the start of his next game, so they were all going to head back to the house. Catherine decided she wanted to ride with me in the car, until I received permission from Miss Reba to take a small amount of time to go get the prodigious pile of wool trimmed from my head. Once Cat heard I was going to the hair cutting place, she bailed, as did Oldest. I think I have finally found a way to have more Me Time! I really should do a better job of keeping my hair trimmed, you know. Off I went and stopped at the Head Start down by Winn-Dixie, where, sadly, the girl who looks like Mandy Moore was not in attendance, but rather the woman who looks more like Roger Moore. Oh well. 15 minutes of furious scissor action, and I was 20 pounds lighter. (It's been a couple of months.) Over to the Express Oil Change to have the oil expressly changed in Reba's car and be handed the usual line of BS about my trans fluid being dark. The sampling method consisted of dabbing some fresh ATF on the side of a filthy used oil bottle, then rubbing some trans fluid off of the dipstick beside the spot of fresh. This is then held up to the light, just-so, and knowing eyes are squinted and the vital fluids compared and contrasted. Only slightly less scientific than reading goat entrails. Luckily, they aren't real hard sell about it--if you refuse, they go on about their business, but I wonder how many times people are told they need their fluid changed needlessly. As long as you follow the manufacturer's recommendations, you shouldn't have a problem. That done, back to the house, where I happened upon the entire family attempting to make a getaway without me. They had books to return to the library, it turns out, and needed some more. I am amazed, given my efforts of three weeks ago, why we would EVER have to go to the library, but, there you go. It Must Be Done. So, park one vehicle, jump in the other, and go bother the quiet people. Hop out, go inside, children scatter. One I am able to track by the shrill nervous laughter--Oldest had found two girls from her class there, and they immediately all began acting like they were in their own rooms. Again, another pet peeve is people who treat the library like it's a hog-calling competition. I realize this is fast becoming a sign that I am just an old fart, but still. Come ON, folks! I tend to give a pass to other kids, because I figure their parents just haven't taught them well enough to know they shouldn't act like troglodytes. But ding-dernit all, MINE know better--although you'd never know it sometimes. So, YET ANOTHER lecture, given through clenched teeth, to PIPE DOWN. Receive Look of Hate, etc., etc. Finally got them all satisfied with books--Catherine found one that I remember from when Captain Kangaroo read it on his show--The Story of Ferdinand. It was a read-along book with a tape, which she greatly enjoyed listening to. After she tired of listening to the tape, she read it herself, charmingly pronouncing Ferdinand to be a "bool." ON to the park for the last game of the day. Jonathan's team was playing Chelsea, who had come from way, WAY down south on Highway 280 in Shelby County. Due to the fact that it was 190O, the rest of us bravely decided to stay in the van and watch from the hillside parking spot. ::sigh:: What to say? They played like they always do, with two boys in particular doing their dead-level best to steal the ball from their own teammates. Final score was something like 5-0 or 6-0. Jonathan did really well again, despite the heat, although he did take a hard shot in the wrist and then the ribs as he blocked a shot. And he really ran hard this time--not the odd little jumpskip he sometimes does. Obviously, though, one kid trying to play like a team doesn't go over real well. Back to the house, where I noted that the front yard needed to be mown. TO which, Miss Reba replied that she thought she would run to Lowe's and go buy plants. TO which, I responded that maybe we could first set out some of the pile of stuff we already have percolating in various pots and bowls and stuff, and, you know, maybe save a bit of money. TO which, there was much silence and no small amount of poutiness. ::sigh:: She managed to overcome that and dragged me to the backyard to discuss where I was going to put the existing stuff out. I looked around and around, trying to find a way to say again how much the front yard needed to be cut, but finding no easy way to say it, I said, "I think the corner right her by this tree would be good for the rose bush, but the crape myrtles might need more room." Moving, touching--I know the emotions you must be feeling right now, but control yourself. At this point, Catherine came out of the house in a bright tie-die colored swimsuit that fit her like shrink-wrap. "I WANNA PLAY IN THE WATER THING!" No. More pouting. Reba and I decided it might be good to repot the ton of small crape myrtle cuttings she has amassed from her mom's house, so we set about to clean out some old flower pots and dig the old roots out of them. Cat continued to run and beg for the hose to be turned on her, and then Jonathan came running outside with his swim trunks on. Good grief. Still, no. No soppy wet kids. I sat on the stone bench by the little pond I had made, and decided I really needed to fix the frog spitter. I had come to the conclusion it was leaking since after turning the pump off, no water drained out of the liner. Grabbed it, and found that the tube on the back was loose enough to pull off. Well, that explains that. Clamped it back on, powered it up, and once again a happy spitting frog. Yay. Went back to repotting plants, with some help from Rebecca, who enjoyed getting black dirt under her fingernails. For some reason. Finally got it all redone, and got the spray wand to clean the porch off. And spray the kids. I kept telling them to back up, but they wouldn't, so I had to let 'em have it. Nothing like being a kid in the water in the sun. I sprayed them and slung water on them and turned the hose off and back on again right in their face (it's a big shower head sprayer, so it didn't hurt them) and put it under their legs and on their heads and under their armpits and in a few minutes they were thoroughly saturated. And begging for more. I suppose I can cut the grass Tuesday night when I get home. SO, more water. Then Rebecca came out all dressed in her swimsuit and so I had to get her soppy wet, and then Ashley came down and got in the act. I went back inside to see what Reba was doing, and found her stacking up the books we had culled last week and putting them in boxes, so I helped with that a while until I heard the inevitable shriek of agony from outside. ::sigh:: Always happens. Not content to have fun, someone has to turn the whole exercise into a contest. Downstairs, turn off the water, roll up the hose, pass around recriminations and towels, and send everyone inside to go bathe. Suppertime, then bedtime, then churchtime. Sunday morning, two teachers call in. Beginning to get rather tiresome, you know? As is trying to get everyone to wake up and get dressed. I think I'm going to have to start getting them all up at 5 just to get out of the house on time. Of course, that's AWFULLY hard on me, so maybe not. Don't suggest alarm clocks--they all have them, and they all sleep right through them. Again, about the only thing that gets sure results is to do the Gunny Hartman route of beating on a garbage can with a swagger stick. (I don't really do that. However tempting it may be.) Finally got everyone going more-or-less toward the door, at about ten minutes later than usual. Which is fine--I mean, you know, the ol' blood pressure had dropped back down to normal during the night, and we can't have it hanging around not doing anything. Sunday school, then church, and then time to go meet my mom for lunch! About which, later--right now, I have a MEETING to go to! Yea, meetings!
But before I get to that-- I have been looking around the new Blooger interface (included the vaunted "Dashboard") and I notice that since December 20, 2001, I have made 3,901 posts. I think that's a whole bunch. All the new changes are detailed here. (Except for who came up with "Dashboard" as a name.)
So I get to the house Friday night and load up the family to go to Rebecca's game. I wish they would play with some consistency--this week they looked like they were trying to run in molasses. No energy at all, and we even had more substitutes this time than the other team. They did pretty well defensively, even though they did allow 3 goals--the bigger problem was offense. We only got one score, and it was due more luck than skill. Even Rebecca, who usually has a good game no matter what was off--she let a multitude of players get past her, and it looked like she wasn't paying attention. I guess it's hard to concentrate after having been in school all day. And then, out to eat. Probably not the best thing to do, since it was edging down towards 8:30, but we hadn't had supper and everyone was hungry. So, we hopped over to Jim 'n Nick's. Hard to beat barbecue, you know. Which doesn't explain why none of us got barbecue. Reba and the two older girls got big salads, Boy got a basket of fried chicken fingers, Cat got a cheeseburger, and I got a catfish po' boy. The barbecue sure smelled good, though. And my sammich was really good, too--sorta salty, but nice and fresh tasting. I think the only reason we went there was because one of Catherine's student teachers also waits tables there, and SOMEone just HAD to go see where she worked. We saw her several times, and after Catherine got finished with her food, she insisted Mom take her to go see Miss Christy (or whatever he name is) so she could say hello. I think Cat and her teacher both enjoyed seeing each other, one as much as the other. Wound up not getting out of there until 10. Eating that late is not a good thing--at least for we non-trendy, provincial sorts whose bedtime is sundown. Home, into bed (or bath in the case of the stinky soccer one), and then up early again Saturday. Since Oldest's solo and ensemble competition was in the early slot, 8:30, I volunteered to take her so Reba could have a few more minutes to wake up and move around. And, well, you know, my blood pressure was feeling low, and I needed something to get it back up to a nice, consistent, cerebral aneurysm level. Woke Ashley up, kept hounding her to get dressed and get ready, then it was time to go and she hadn't even had breakfast yet due to her incessant dawdling. Grr. I grabbed up a couple of muffins out of the refrigerator and gave them to her with a bottle of water, and we headed out the door. Onto Main, left onto Deerfoot, over the river, and fifteen minutes after getting in the car, we were pulling into the street running alongside Clay-Chalkville High. Now, if you read the stuff on the link, you will find that this is a pretty darned big school campus. Which means it can be somewhat confusing if you have never been there before. Or, if your daughter has neglected to find out anything about where to go. As one end of the school building hove into view, I asked, "Okay, now, where are we supposed to go and park?" "I don't know." Said with the slight edge that intimates the anwereror is being put out by having to answer such an obviously stupid question. ::sigh:: There was a line of cars parked on the road (both sides, actually), and I think they might have been there for the soccer games that were going on over at the sports complex, but no matter. I parked and we started walking. After passing several likely entrances, we found the other end of the building and went on inside. Where I expected to find someone checking people in. Or something. "Okay, where to you go sign in?" "I don't know." Yes, you are sensing a theme here. We walked down the corridor, and finally started seeing signs directing us toward the registration area, then saw the director for the Hewitt band in the library with some fusty old dudes whom I took to be the judges. I was about to open the door when a lady with a look of horror on her face quickly walked over and asked if I needed help. Well, yeah. She asked Ashley who her director was, and said we needed to go to the cafeteria where everyone was warming up, and he would be there. Halfway there, one of her bandmates came up a side hall from the outside, and said the director was outside getting everyone signed up, but given the emerging sense that this was turning into a nice little Charlie Foxtrot, I was dubious that she was right. But her mom verified it, so we went out and sure enough, there he was. Sure would have been nice if this undisclosed location had been disclosed AHEAD of time, but hey, that's just me. Stood there behind some other kids, and each one was asked what his or her performance number was. I turned and asked Ashley, "Do you know what your number is?" "No." "Sir." "No, sir." ::sigh:: Luckily, there was a master sheet (which, come to find out later, had been posted in the Band Room the previous day so everyone could find out their number) so we eased over and found her name and her fellow ensemble members and the number. 58 and 66. The director gave her the grade sheets to fill out, judge's music sheet, and instructions. We sat down at one of the concrete tables and she started to fill things out. Well--not quite. "I DON'T have a pencil!" "He has some--go get one." She huffed off and came back and sat down, and after exactly five seconds of constant grunting and more huffing, she groaned, "I don't know HOW to fill this out!" Name, date, etc. Seemed pretty simple to me, but you know, I'm too stupid to even walk around, so what help could I be? "Just fill in what it says." "BUT WHAT DOES NAME OF ENSEMBLE MEAN!?" "Probably it means if your ensemble has a name, you fill that in--why don't you just go ask." Let someone else tell her. She stomped off then came back just as put out--"He told me to read the INSTRUCTIONS!" Imagine that. I had read them in her absence, and they seemed pretty darned clear to me--fill in your information, number the measures of the sheet music for the judge, and go warm up. She finally decided to leave the ensemble name blank. We went back over and the director looked it over, pronounced it filled out right, and told her, "Okay, go back to the warm-up room, find your other members, and just let them know you have already signed them in and you have the information." On to the cafeteria, which was full of noise. I asked Ashley which judge she was supposed to have. "I don't know." I saw the mother of the girl we had first ran into, and asked how they were supposed to know which judge's room to go to. She said she wasn't sure, but her daughter already knew when they got there which room it was. Hmmm. Sounds like someone wasn't paying attention again. I walked over to where Ashley and the flute-playing girl were jabbering. "Excuse me, sugar, but can you tell me how you knew which judge you were supposed to have?" "HUH?!" Grr. NOTHING sets me off like impolite kids who should KNOW BETTER. Her loud, vacant-headed, open-mouthed grunt nearly set me off into R. Lee Ermey mode with the standard speech I give my kids--"My name is NOT 'Huh' or 'What,' and if you do NOT understand me you WILL say 'Sir?' or 'Excuse me?" I honestly had to catch myself, but I did--it's poor form to dress down someone else's kid, especially when I know in the back of my mind that my own does it, too. Anyway, I asked again, and the little dear said it had been on the sheet posted in the band room. "Ashley, do you think maybe that the sheet that had your group's numbers on it might have also had your judge's number on it, too?" "OH, well, Clarinet Girl (not her real name) told me we were supposed to have judge 6 and 7!" "And what time are you supposed to be at each one?" Eye roll, and the heavy sigh that indicates your father is dain bramaged--"NINE-THIRTY, and NINE-FORTY!" "And which one is which--is judge 6 the one for 9:30 or the one for 9:40?" She opened her mouth with something tart to say, but then realized something... "I don't know." Imagine. Back to the director's table, where we found that indeed the judges were listed, along with the time. How 'bout that! Back inside, and I suggested we find the rooms ahead of time just to make sure where they were. "BUT Clarinet Girl and Trumpet Girl and Flute Girl aren't HERE!" I reassured her they would be there eventually, and it wouldn't hurt to see where she was supposed to be. Back up the corridor, found the proper classrooms, and then back to the cafeteria to let her warm up. I told her I had to go find a restroom, and I turned back to go see what I could find. Well, surely there is a boy's room somewhere, but it was nowhere nearby, and I wasn't about to go too far astray. Dad's Patented Sense of Looming Trouble, you know. Which came in handy. I had gone about twenty feet back down the corridor and was coming back toward the cafeteria when here came Oldest stomping down the hallway with Huh!? Girl--"Whoa, where are you goin..." Blew right past. Wrong. Move. Ahhhhhh, but the blood pressure is up nicely! "Ashley...Ashley..." She keeps right on, studiously keeping her head turned away and yammering as loud as she can at Huh!? Girl. Finally, to her eternal credit, Huh!? Girl turns and says, "Ashley, your dad is trying to tell you something." She stopped and I asked where she was going. "NO ONE is here yet, and Mr. Director said I HAVE to go find them and I HAVE to tell them I have their stuff and I HAVE to GO. FIND. THEM!" Short, terse lecture on A) Responsibility--her job was not to go running around, she would be better off to warm up. B) Common Sense--she didn't know where she was going, where anyone would be, or if she would find them, seeing as how they could be following each other around in circles. If they didn't come to the cafeteria first, they would go see Mr. Director, and he would send them on. No use to waste time. Go practice. That went over really well. She gave me her usual I Hate You look and turned around to storm into the cafeteria and saw one of her ensemble members waiting at the door. I resisted the urge to say 'I told you so.' And yes, I DO want a medal. They all ran back inside and started practicing, although they were still short a couple of folks, and it was getting close to time to begin. I gave up on trying to find the john and just leaned up against the corridor wall and watched people. Never having been a bandweeb, this confusion and noise was new to me. I can't for the life of me figure out how they could do any substantive practicing surrounded by everyone else doing their own music, but Miss Reba (a former bandweeb) tells me this is normal. As I stood there, I noticed that Ashley and her half-ensemble were headed full-steam back toward the door. ::sigh:: Not again! Just then, I suppose Ashley caught a glimpse of me through the door, because she stopped dead in her tracks and wheeled around and went back and grabbed her clarinet. Well, whaddya know. Wait some more, more kids pile in, and then about 9:15, another jailbreak is attempted. Oldest comes blowing out the door, again on a mission--"HO--where you going?" Going to go talk to Mr. Director again about the one remaining member who has not yet shown up. I followed along behind just to make sure they went where they said, and caught her as she was coming back--basically, if the other girl didn't show, they would just play without her. Imagine that. Back into the cafeteria, more noise, and I looked down at my watch to see that it was time for them to head out. I stepped to the door and caught Ashley's attention over across the room and tapped on my watch. She said something to the other girls, and they started playing again. Went on over, told the girls the instructions has said they needed to be at the room five minutes early, and they needed to go on. "OHHHHH!" Yes, instructions are your friend. They gathered up their junk and headed toward the door, and then halfway to the room, they found their other member (who was going to play in the second ensemble). Seems she lost her trumpet. The day before. Amazing. I mean, they're so large, you figure it would be hard to LOSE one. Then again, fourteen year olds... The director was telling her she could borrow someone's and then when Ashley and the other girls in her group got finished with their first number, they could get together in the cafeteria and go through it several times. Obviously, he was not aware they were supposed to be playing only 10 minutes apart. Again, Patented Sense of Impending, Etc. Went to the first judging, the girls went in, the girls came out, went well by all accounts. It was now seven minutes until their next performance. They all strolled back down to the cafeteria to find their trumpeteer, who by now had gotten herself someone else's instrument, and they blabbered for a minute before realizing they had to turn around and go right back. They played through their piece once, then took off again for the next judge. He was running behind, so they stood with some of the other girls from school and talked about how stupid everything is. One group came out, and the door locked behind them. Ashley decided this needed to be fixed, so after attempting to break off the handle, she took to pounding on the door. Yes, I realize sometimes I get somewhat hyperbolic in my descriptions, but sadly, not this time. I was standing across the hall and shook my head and mouthed, "STOP IT! He KNOWS you're out here!" but she was not dissuaded. Balled up her fist and WHAMWHAM! Geez. It'sjustaphaseIt'sjustaphaseIt'sjustaphase... The pallid old fellow finally opened the door and let them in, they played, then they came out. Back to collect their stuff, then outside to the courtyard to await the results. Well, how about that--both of her ensemble groups got Superior marks! She was very happy, which is a good thing. Off then to the car, stop at the convenience store for a cold drink and something to snack on, stop and get some gas in Mom's car, then head to the soccer park. About which, next.
Oh, what sort of bothersomeness is this!? Got logged in to Blogger just now, and the whole interface has gone and changed--it used to be that you could see the posts from earlier, but now there's just an edit screen, and I don't see any way to search old posts. This comes in handy when I find someone who found Possumblog by searching on something with a misspelled word, and I can go back and erase my shame. WHO KNOWS what I'll have to do now?! --OH, wait, found it. Never mind. It does have a blockquote button now, which is nice I suppose--took 'em long enough. And there's something up at the top that you click and it says "Back to Dashboard." I shudder to think what all that entails. Anyway, stupid STUPID Blogger looks to be trying to spiff itself up, so I guess we have to give it some credit for that--and they do seem to have solved the Persistently Disappearing Archives problem, and there haven't been any systemwide crashes in a while. And it's still free, so who am I to complain? ANYway, more blather later, it's time for the MMM! See you in a bit. Friday, May 07, 2004
Well, here we are again. It's getting close to the time when the foreman pulls the bird's tail and Fred slides down the brontosaurus tail and hops in his car. You know, they seemed to be pretty advanced for cavepeople, what with all sorts of the normal sorts of conveniences like telephones and Ann-Margrock, but I never could figure out why they didn't save their feet a little bit of wear and tear and hook up an animal to the front of their big tree trunk and stone cars. Oh, sure, it might look a little Amish, but still, they could have done better than just running along. I mean, why even have a car if you have to do that?! Where was I? OH YEAH, it's nearly time to go face the weekend. Tonight, soccer game at 7 for Middle Girl, then tomorrow morning we have Oldest having a solo and ensemble competition at 8 bleeding 30 a.m. up the road at Clay-Chalkville High, and Baby Girl has a soccer game at 9, and Boy has pictures at 11 and a game sometime after that, and there's the usual batch of housework that must be ignored, and then Sunday is Mother's Day, and I think we might even get to go see my mom! Speaking of Motherhood, and Middle Girl, and in conjunction with the earlier post about baby names, and in particular, Jordana's comment that I seemed to leave the impression I am less than thrilled to talk about the beauty of new life, I have decided to go ahead and tell you one of my heartwarming stories of the miracle of birth. Rebecca is actually the first of our kids I had any help in producing--as I have mentioned in my Valentine's Day posts for the past couple of years, Ashley was part of the family when I married into it. Anyway, after the normal nine months of waiting and watching Rebecca run laps around the inside of Reba's abdomen, it got to be time for the Big Event. We had gone to eat at the Shoney's in Eastwood to eat at the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet, and about halfway through, Reba was obviously in no small amount of discomfort. We still ate our fill, though, before heading to the hospital. About six hours later, Little Rebecca entered the world, a screaming, red, 8 pound-13 ounce picture of robust, vigorous vitality. She was pretty as a peach, even if she looked exactly like me. Lots of pictures, lots of oohs and aahs from the staff, and then possibly the proudest moment of the entire ordeal. The nurse came in from the nursery, and passing by the plastic washtub containing everything else that was NOT Rebecca, she looked down and exclaimed in barely disguised awe, "God, would you look at the size of that placenta!" Kinda gets you right here, doesn't it? Anyway, that's about it for today--all of you stay safe and Lord willing I'll see you Monday.
As you all know... ...no one enjoys fine literature and flatulence more than I, so it was with great joy and noise that I received this link from Steevil (evil scientist brother of Dr. Weevil) regarding the brave stand of some good folks to insure that their children will continue to receive the finest in good books, without the jackboot of Ashcroftian tyranny crushing their hopes and dreams for a better world, a world in which all peoples can freely walk into their local libraries--proudly, with head held high--and read about farting dogs. I raise my pocky right ham and deliver to you good people a thunderous salute!
Speaking of baby names... I found that "Terry" is currently the 400th most popular name among boys born in 2003, and is not even in the top 1,000 for the years 1990-2003 for girls. 1997 was the last year that "Terri" broke into the top 1,000, with a rank of 998. If you go to the 1,000 most popular list, after about the first 100, you start running into some real corkers--the 119th most popular girl name is Brooklyn--none of the other boroughs are mentioned, although I imagine somewhere, there probably is a child named Bronx. Or Manhattan. Likewise, the 181st most popular girl name is Genesis. No other books of the Pentateuch are mentioned, although, again, there is probably some poor kid getting beat up because his parents named him Deuteronomy. The 199th most popular name for boys is Damien, while oddly enough, the 666th most popular is Ryder. Number 237 is Xander. Buffy is strangely absent from the list. Kobe is the 268th most popular boy name, although I hear that attorneys are attempting to suppress that information. Neither Bush nor Kerry are in the top 1,000, although Clinton is the 737th most popular choice. (See comment about Kobe.) Mercedes is the 333rd most popular girl name, and parked right next to it at 332 is Christine. Odd coincidence since Christine the possessed Plymouth Fury was manufactured by Chrysler, which is now part of the Daimler/Chrysler organization who make Mercedes-Benz and no longer make Plymouth. (Lincoln is at 553 for boys, by the way.) Jesus is number 67, Abraham is 196, Moses is 503, and Mohammed is 605. As a testament to lack of creativity--Baby is the 767th most popular boy name, and the 969th most popular girl name. AND FINALLY, the 1,000th most popular boy and girl names are Zayne and Katy. Bless their hearts.
I realize NASCAR is real popular around here, but... As I was returning from my noonday constitutional, I noticed a car parked at the curb belonging to one of the fine cadre of Mary Kay cosmetics consultants, and it had the big magnetic pink door sign placed neatly on the hood. Although that's great for when the cameras are on you as you come down out of Turn 2, that particular location does make it a bit hard for pedestrians to see. (Could be why the car wasn't a pink Cadillac, but a white econobox.)
I just went downstairs to purchase a refreshing can of Diet Coke... ...and noticed one of the wire newsracks in the snack bar was full of just-off-the-press Birmingham Weeklies. Or, maybe they were Black and Whites. I'm not real sure, because it occurred to me that I haven't read either one of them since I started Possumblog. Now, Birmingham is probably lucky (at least on some level) to have two independent alt-weeklies to choose from, and I used to be an avid reader of both. But I soon realized that I could get the same content immediately online, without having to wait a week for it, or wade through someone else's turgid writing to find it. (Wading through my own is enough, thanks.) Wacky news of the weird, cartoons, entertainment, opinion, lingerie ads--pretty much anything I could read in a weekly--I can find in just a few seconds on the computer. And despite the imprimatur of professionalism granted by using ink-on-pulp, there are hundreds of writers online who write better as a hobby than many do who write for a living. Occasionally, I will visit a sandwich shop that might have a few scattered around, and pick one up as a diversion, then notice five or six different things I have already commented on or linked to. I ran across this article at the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies' website from last year that did a rundown of the difficulty weeklies have had at maintaining their circulation numbers (and when you consider how poorly dailies have been performing, running in place isn't quite so bad) but the one quote that jumped out was from the publisher of the Chicago Reader, Jane Levine: [...] Still, while the Reader's circulation is down to 133,000 (ABC 12/02) from a peak of 137,000 in the late 1990s, Levine says she's moving "a ton of papers" from 1,400 distribution points in Chicago. Anyway, I wonder how many of you have had the same experience--you used to read the alternatives, but now do most of your grazing online?
Best. Friends. EVER! Wife got off late yesterday, and Rebecca had her team pictures to be done at 6, so we had to rejigger the normal pickup routine--I had her go by the house and pick up duffel bags full of cleats and balls and shin guards, and I would go get the kids from school, and then we'd meet back at the park where I would give her a Small Girl, and get clothing for the Middle Girl and Boy. I did this for a reason--basically, there are fewer people to socialize with at the house than at the school. She goes to pick up the kids, and feels compelled to spend fifteen or twenty minutes chatting with everyone about everything. No time for that yesterday. I got the kids, got to the park, sent Cat to the restroom to pee, and waited. The way I figured it, since we both got off at the same time, and it takes a few minutes less time to get to the house than the school, taking into account the time required to stuff bags with equipment, we should have arrived about the same time. The big hand climbed its way up toward 6 and I was starting to get worried when she finally came putting down the road and pulled in the parking lot--5:53. I shoved Cat into the back seat and gathered up the bags and water bottles, blew everyone a kiss and hustled Rebecca into the restroom to change into her uniform. Boy thankfully only had to put on his shin guards and cleats, so he sat at one of the concession stand tables and made himself at home. Bec popped out in her white-shirted-and-red-shorted glory after a minute or two--I wish I could get all of them to be such quick-change artists--and wandered on to the lower field to where the photographer was set up. Boy FINALLY got finished a few minutes later and we walked down to join her and her squealing teammates. Perfect afternoon for it--the sun was still bright, but it wasn't really hot, and the humidity had not started climbing, and the lower field was nice and shady, and the other teams were running and shouting, and you could hear the p-TINK of aluminum bats from the nearby baseball fields, and there was the whiff of hamburgers grilling, and to top it off, the nearly overpowering sweet smell of honeysuckle in full bloom back up in the woods beside the field. Hard to beat. Three individual poses were proposed by the photographer--kneeling on one knee, sitting with one knee raised, and prone with the soccer ball held coquettishly betwixt upraised feet. NO one wanted to just kneel--way too boring. Bec decided to sit, as did about half of the girls, and the other half thought the ball-tween-the-feet was better. While not engaged in posing, they ran around and bothered each other, alternately hugging and gossiping, or attempting to kill each other as they practiced takeaways. Sure was an expensive camera, just sitting there WAITING to get knocked over, but miraculously, it made it through just fine. Then time for the team picture, and some bright chick decided they needed to do a pyramid. One of Rebecca's teammates, CatCat, I think was the instigator of this--she kept trying to get someone in charge to agree to this deal, and then when no one would answer her, she ran up to me and politely shouted, "HEY! REBECCA'S DAD! DO YOU CARE IF WE DO A PYRAMID LIKE CHEERLEADERS?!" "Catherine, I REALLY don't think it's a good idea." So she went and asked someone else, and after she received several less-than-enthusiastic responses from other parents, the girls wisely decided to ignore the danger and go ahead and clamber on top of each other. They got a bottom layer and a middle done, and were trying to get the lightweight girls to finish it off when the whole mess of them fell over into a giggly pile of ponytails. Knew that was going to happen. So they were stuck with doing the boring pose--five sitting, five kneeling, four standing--then it was time for practice and to complain about not getting to finish their pyramid. While they warmed up, Boy and I went back up to the concession stand and got him some Chex Mix to snack on before his practice and me a Diet Coke, which came in handy later. Came back, and as Jonathan carefully ate his snack with his molars (to keep from hurting his braces, don't you know) I sat on the bench and listened in on CatCat's Mom and KayKay's (whose real name is Kaitlin, or Kaytlyn, or Caitlin, or something) Mom and Robin's Mom talk about how they picked baby names. Being a man, I was more or less invisible in this conversation, which was fine, 'cause if I had to choose one superpower, invisibility would be it. But not to listen to conversations. It got to be 7 and Boy trotted on off to his practice and Amanda's Dad came and set up his folding chair in a bit, and we carried on a much less animated guy conversation. "Hey." "Hey." When you're a guy, that actually means a great deal. Sat there some more as the girls practiced heading, then at the request of KayKay's Mom, I displayed my now mostly-healed little finger. She studied it very carefully and was very impressed. She's real nice like that. Watch the girls, feel the moisture in the air begin to make my head sopping wet, and then WHANG! Felt like one of the kids had kicked a ball hard into the bench--looked around and KayKay's Sister was on the ground with a startled look on her face, and as her mom jumped up, it was as if there were a five second broadcast delay in effect before the tyke (who is my Catherine's age) began wailing and screaming. Seems she had been running along and tripped, and sent her kneecap right into the end of the aluminum bench. No broken skin, but huge rivers of tears, which was made better by much pampering--the ladies all gathered her up and sat down, Amanda's Dad ran and got a Ziplock baggie and I fished out the hunk of crushed ice out of my Coke and dropped it in so she could put in on her rapidly swelling knee. By this time, the team was taking a water break, so all the other girls were soon crowding around offering even more petting and commiseration, and after all of that, she was soon feeling a bit better. On back to practice, which carried on and on, got through with Rebecca's then went across to the other set of bleachers where Jonathan's team had another thirty minutes to go, watched them and kicked the ball to Rebecca some, and then FINALLY it was time to go home. Back to the house, and by the time we got some food on some plates and actually got to kiss Miss Reba, the early local news was already on. There was some story about a teevee show that was going off the air, but it seems I missed it. I figure I didn't miss much.
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