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Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.) Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu. This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things. Thursday, February 28, 2002
Looks like The Teeming Millions finally have someplace to hang out again. After the original Straight Dope Message Board was hacked, a decision was made to upgrade software, but there has apparently been some sort of publishing-goob meltdown with The Chicago Reader. In the meantime, in order to restore peace in Cecilland, an temporary alternative site has been set up at http://bb.bbboy.net/straightdope. Everyone has to reregister, but it’s relatively painless, and I have already posted my first cracking good answer.
What’s so funny is the continued pleas from the SD admins for everyone to play nice and remember we are guests in someone else’s house. Obviously, they should know better than to try to make a bunch of delinquents behave.
Since I'm a great big suck-up, I sent Mr. Lileks a note about my post on Tuesday, in which I proclaimed my willingness to join with all the other anal-retentive, middle-aged, meat-eating, Target-shopping, dog-walking, suburb-dwelling dads for La Revolution. Because he is nice and answers his e-mail (how he does this is a mystery--I've done calculations and have come to the conclusion that Lileksdays must have about 35 Earth hours in them) he sent me a short note with a gleeful vow to scatter the entrails of our enemies in the streets. Of course, this will make a mess, and we'll have to clean up after ourselves, but it's nice to see he has his priorities right. He also noted that he considers himself non-suburbanite, in that lovely Jasperwood is within the city proper. No nice big old homes out in the 'burbs.
Actually, those nice old homes on their winding, tree-lined streets once WERE the suburbs. Many were the result of the urban reformer movement of the late-19th Century, which held that cities were unwholesome nests of disease and decay, and only by removing dwellers to the fresh air and civility available 10 blocks away could progress be made. Birmingham is ringed with such streetcar suburbs; Five Points South, Avondale, Norwood, Glen Iris Park, Highland Avenue, Bush Boulevard, Forest Park, then there's the City of Homewood (especially the Hollywood section) and the City of Mountain Brook, all of which were all touted as escapes from the hot, dirty, polluted air of Jones Valley, and most of which really are only about 10 to 15 blocks away from the original business core of the city. Of course, they are now mostly swallowed up by the city and surrounded by commercial development. One of Lileks' hobbies is old postcards, and so I sent him some links to Historic Postcards of Alabama, which is a great site at the University of Alabama. The collection, which is the part of the Sturdivant Hall Collection, has 234 postcards from 1900 to 1920. They are beautiful glimpses of the past, and a few of them show some of those early streetcar suburbs. Here are the ones I recommended: East Lake (recently planned to be eliminated to make room for Birmingham Airport runway expansion--this plan has been put on hold, though) Mountain Terrace Glen Iris Park (this one is lovely, most of these homes are still occupied today) Five Points South (now a hopping downtown dining/entertainment district, but still has a few old homes) 'Nother one of Five Points (streetcar turnaround in the center) Be sure to look through all of the cards when you get a chance--there are some real gems in there, especially of old Birmingham.
Madden on Monday Night Football
Due to MAD TV's Frank Caliendo, I can no longer hear or see John Madden without giggling. Before, I would just throw stuff at the TV. BOOM!
Uncovering Engel's Filthy Little Secret
That's right, folks, righteous oppressor Tim Blair informs us that Matthew Engel is... A CRICKET WRITER! I'm surprised he didn't mention that there were no cricket scores in The Birmingham News. A member of the elite British humour troupe Monty Python's Flying Circus put it best: I don't want to talk to you no more, you empty headed animal food trough wiper!!!! I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!
Welcome Home Vonetta!
Yesterday was apparently Celebrity Day in The Magic City--last night with George Bush and the Tuskegee Airmen and yesterday with the homecoming of OLYMPIC GOLD MEDAL WINNING Vonetta Flowers. Ms. Flowers, congratulations, and please, take this big box of Kleenex! And drink some water--you're gonna get dehydrated with all those tears! I don't think I have ever seen an athlete so full of excitement and joy and pride, or one so deserving of our admiration.
Red Tails Take Birmingham
Last night was the premier of the documentary about the Tuskegee Airmen that I mentioned a couple of days ago. This will be shown on Alabama Public Television tonight at 7:00 p.m. and it is supposed to be shown nationwide sometime in the fall. I would like to add my small thanks to some of the finest pilots ever. Wednesday, February 27, 2002
Yippee--my first fan mail!
From Janis Gore of Vidalia, Lousiana: "Dear Mr. Oglesby: How admirable you are. I think I would have just exploded after reading the Engel piece, been reduced to spluttering epithets. After a moment I might realize that this piece was aimed after all at that ignert uppity nigra, Condoleeza Rice, who coming from your state lacks the background to make decisions of import. What sort of national security advisor can arise from a place where the local paper doesn’t even carry international news? He seems to forget that all of us watch CNN, about half of us have access to the New York Times and every other international newspaper through the internet and at local newsstands, and that local papers long since decided that it was in their financial interests to concentrate on local content and leave the international reporting to wealthier and more capable sources. He also picks a family chain restaurant, where we go to find something suitable for 5-year-old Mary, who’d really rather have fish sticks, and Uncle Joe, who’s been a little queasy since his ulcer surgery a year ago, to criticize our cuisine. (An Englishman criticizing our cuisine? I’ve been to England, hon.) [Edited out some gushy stuff about her total undying devotion to all Possumy things--someone might think I pay bribes] All good to you and your family. Thank you, Janis! My response back to her (and I hope she doesn't mind me posting it publicly--if so, I'll snatch it down) was that I don't know if you can really call 'being so totally inured to stupidity that you no longer care enough to debate with crazy ignoramuses' admirable, but as I said, being from Alabama means I've grown so accustomed to dealing with such crap from fellow Americans that the odd Pommie git dishing it out just doesn't merit a lot of anger. As for Engel's seeming lack of knowledge about how we get our news, it would do no good to even try to point it out--none of our papers are nowhere NEAR as good as The Guardian, our TV is nowhere NEAR as good as BBC, our "elite classes" are nowhere NEAR as good as the Eurosorts (since we don't live there, we have to fly there)...it goes on and on. In the end, the real gripe is that it wouldn't matter how smart Condoleeza Rice, or Dick Cheney, or George Bush are, they are conservatives. Their politics is just all wrong. As for his choice of food, like Janis I've been to England, too, and spent the first week with a stomach-ache the size of a double-decker bus. Maybe Mr. Engel has a secret access to something palatable available only to the European elite. Thanks to Janis for the incredibly kind words about the Possumblog (which, as I mentioned, I edited out because they were too nice and I have an inferiority complex.) It's fun to do and I'm glad a few folks like it enough to check in. Today has been very slow because I have actual work to do (darn it all). Maybe tomorrow will allow more opportunities for shirking my paying duties. All the best to Janis and to everyone down in Vidalia. For Mr. Engel's benefit, Lousiana is one of those places that lies beyond the borders of the mythical land of Mississippi, which is west of all that Alabamaness which surrounds Birmingham. They have Olive Gardens there, too.
I will have to lay off of further bloggage today--this morning was one of our biweekly regulatory-burden-sharing meetings and I have to start typing the minutes before all of the words slip out of my brainial crevices and I have to work on all sorts of other extracurricular activities. Speaking of which, Middle Daughter got an honorable mention ribbon for her Social Studies Project! Plus 10 bonus points! My son was also involved in this thing with some of his class members. They did all of their work at school, so no Dad influence on that one. His group didn't get a ribbon, but their teacher gave them 25 bonus points!
All this, yet we are still unable to break into the ranks of the globetrotting elite. Oh well.
Lileks Dissects Matthew Engel
One of the advantages of being a fawning Lileks sycophant is that occasionally he smashes a bad guy, and you get to imagine that he's doing it just for you. Thank you, Fearless Leader! What is especially nice to see is that Engel's work has been so thoroughly eviscerated out in blogland. Since I live here in Birmingham, I overlook a lot of crap that gets written about us, and there is a lot of it. Some of it we bring on ourselves--for this, we deserve whatever we get. But for the overwhelming majority of the other crap, the only excuse is the mindless hypocrisy of those who see themselves as morally superior. In the end, Engel's article has nothing to do with Birmingham, or Alabama, or the US as such. The article has everything to do with whining about being marginalized by a bunch of yahoos. 'How dare they, those ignorant buffoons--don't they know we gave the world the Renaissance?' That little part in the article "Of course, Birmingham has an elite who travel all over Europe... " tells me what this is all about. If you don't travel the world, you are not one the elite; if you are not one of the elite, you have no business trying to run things. Little did we know that The New World Order will be run by whoever has the most frequent flyer miles. The inaccuracy in the whole equation is that not only does Birmingham have an elite who travel the world, but Birmingham, like the rest of the United States, has a bunch of non-elites who travel the world, too. We stand around Piccadilly and talk really loud and say stuff like "Hey Mama, look at that old buildin' over yonder! Don't look like they have built anything new since Churchill was in charge!" We take photos and go home and tell everyone about all the neat stuff we saw and all the peculiar people who act all snooty. Then we go back to work--life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Stuff even us non-elites get to do, by the simple accident of birthright. So sorry if we offend elite sensibilites by not being properly servile. If I may ask one favor, take a very deep breath and hold it while I work on the problem--I'll get back to you in a bit. Tuesday, February 26, 2002
The Guardian does Brummie
Thanks to Dr. Frank at Blogs of War for an interesting article from Matthew Engel, who comes to Birmingham to find out what's what with us ignert folks. Of course, Mr. Engel shows his own ignorance about our fair city by being snotty about the food at the Olive Garden when he could have stopped a half mile down Crestwood Boulevard and visited The Italian Villa, one of the best Italian restaurants around (and yes, I have been to Itt-ly). It's hard to give credence to someone questioning my intelligence when he shows such remarkably poor instincts himself. Bloody twit.
It was a good run while it lasted
My thanks to Moira Breen for having me on her Blog of the (Now Bi-)Week(ly) list, and thanks to everyone who visited from her link. The Blogworld is about like Talladega--the only way for back-of-the-pack drivers like me to stay in the race is to draft with the big dogs--so it's been nice having her out in front.
Why me, Lord?
Yet ANOTHER disturbing Google search request: colonoscope picture The summary returned a link to the post I did about visiting the doctor for my annual checkup and having to endure looking at the stupid fish picture on his wall. All sorts of other nice scientificky-medically sounding websites all around it, and some poor soul thinks that something named "Possumblog" is a must-read when it comes to understanding the finer points of colonoscopy imaging. Could be worse, I guess. (Please note that this is not intended as a request for attempts to prove the assertion.)
Tommy Test Tubes
Dr. Thomas Wdowiak is an astrophysicist at the University of Alabama at Birmingham and one of the all-around neatest people ever. He is consistently one of the top-rated professors at UAB and pretty much universally loved for his teaching methods and his enthusiasm. He has been writing a weekly series for The Birmingham News this year involving all kinds of nifty science projects kids can do at home with stuff around the house. These articles are now online at the link above. "Child's play is preparation for adulthood and the rest of the world," he said. "You've got to start early and you've got to stay in there. Perseverance is very important. You've got to be prepared to fail and fail and just pick yourself up and keep on going." Good words.
Aaron Sorkin is a Poopiehead
The creator of The West Wing lets us know that Martin Sheen would be a much better president than Bush. "...[Sorkin] says the entire country -- including his own network -- is "pretending" that President Bush is competent and brave....Sorkin said he recently began reading a book about Bush's presidential campaign, which he said includes a description of the future president "making goofy faces" at reporters during a funeral. "It reminds you of a junior high schooler on a field trip," Sorkin said." Yes, it's much better to have president who acts like a drunken frat boy trying to hump anything with tits. When someone like that makes goofy faces, it's very charming.
Heartfelt Words for Jimmy Breslin
Greg Hlatky shows us that there is at least one dog out there not worth a dime--the vaunted New York Boozehound. In addition to Mr. Hlatky's links to heroic working dogs, I would also like to add some links to sites for my heroes: Robert Caterson's World War I War Dog Memorial, the US Army War Dog site, and the Marine Corps War Dog Cemetery on Guam. The stories of dogs in combat are some of the most inspiring you will ever read.
Go Read James Lileks
Well, I might as well just get it over with and have Lileks' name tattooed on my butt--I must come to terms with the fact that I have become a fawning sycophant of the worst sort. I just can't help it. Whenever he decides to lead a beer hall putsch of anal-retentive, middle-aged, meat-eating, Target-shopping, dog-walking, suburb-dwelling dads, I'll be right there with him. (Probably wearing a nice brown golf shirt from Cutter and Buck). There will be terror and panic in the streets as we pour forth and go on a rampage of cleaning the trash off of the sidewalks and castigating stupid people and insisting on good customer service at the video store. Monday, February 25, 2002
Bad Tidings For Roy Moore
The US Supreme Court has refused to overturn a decision by a US appeals court in Chicago which "[...]held the Ten Commandments contained an inherently religious text, and that the monument amounted to an endorsement of religion by the state. As you should know, Alabama Chief Justice Roy Moore stuck a privately financed, multi-ton hunk of granite in the main lobby of the State Supreme Court building soon after being elected, and has been daring anyone to remove it. The big rock has a big copy of the Ten Commandments on top, along with some other quotes about the role of God in law all around it. With the latest decision, the precedents are running agin' Jedge Mo'. You know, I'm pretty conservative and I am a religious man. In fact, my own personal beliefs are way to the right of the mainstream of what passes for Modern Christianity. But I also know that somewhere in the Good Book, it says to beware of the Pharisees, who "bind heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers. But all their works they do for to be seen of men: they make broad their phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their garments, And love the uppermost rooms at feasts, and the chief seats in the synagogues..." I wouldn't dare call Roy Moore a Pharisee--someone much more adept at it has already beat me to it. Personally, I don't have a problem with a big hunk of rock with writing on it. I have a problem with people who can't be bothered to live the words written on it.
American Stuff
Once again, my pen pal Moira Breen gives us a good lesson in the importance of looking out over the gunwales every once in a while-- [...] there're a few who say "Enough of the Eurotrash!", or "write about American stuff". To the latter I say, nuts to you, gentle reader. Not that I don't and won't write mainly about "American stuff". But what the "Eurotrash" are saying, and what the mad mullahs think, and, most importantly and horrifically within the last few weeks, what is going on in the homeland of that man "from Asia" is "American stuff". This is not some schoolmarmish plea for "understanding the roots of terror" blah blah blah. Rather, I'm disturbed by the idea of clueless young Americans wandering the earth, unaware of and unable to intelligently debate or counter "evil U.S." arguments. Amen.
Tuskeegee Airmen; George Bush; P-51 Towed Through Town
Exciting stuff! Avenger jockey George Sr. will be in town Wednesday for the premier of a documentary about the Tuskegee Airmen. The film will be shown at the Alabama Theater, "The Showplace of the South" and will be shown on PBS sometime soon, although I can't find anything on their website about it. As part of the promo, a P-51 will be towed downtown from the airport and parked near the theater. My one hope is that they crank it up and let everyone hear that sound. I attended an airshow many years ago down in Auburn, and the bestest thing was a low, fast flyby by a Mustang. Sweet!
"Value is in the eye of the beholder"
Well done article by Mobile Register reporter Eddie Curran on the 1999 sale of Guvnah Don Siegelman's house in Montgomery. It seems Siegelman purchased the home for $36,000 in 1979, then sold it for $250,000 cash to Birmingham accountant J. Wray Pearce. At the time the house was sold, it was appraised by Montgomery County for $125,450. In 2000, Mr. Pearce was appointed to the Alabama Securities Commission. Odd, huh? Comments today include this one: Rip Andrews, a spokesman for the governor, said Monday that "a house is worth what someone is willing to pay for it. That's how the market works." Funny, but when we sold our house in Irondale, we listed it for twice the appraisal and not a single well-connected political ally ever showed up to buy it. Maybe our market was different. I guess some peoples' markets are more lucrative than others. An interesting editor's note can be found at the end of the original article: (Editor's note: The governor's office has a stated policy of refusing to comment to Register reporter Eddie Curran. Anyone seeking to reach Curran can e-mail him at ecurran@mobileregister.com, or call 1-800-239-1340, ext. 636.) The silence speaks louder than anything else, fellows.
And speaking of the aging relics of America’s past, now that the Olympics are over it’s probably time to say that although we all love Jim McKay, NBC's decision to have him on air was about like the one that strapped Howard McNear onto a stand behind the barber chair on The Andy Griffith Show. Floyd just wasn't the same. Neither is Jim.
Rusty Rockets
Not a new band, but sort of a sad tale of the Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville. The tight funds for NASA mean less money is spent to preserve the implements and history of our early space program.
Terror Tim Strikes Back!
Oppressor Tim Blair smites Rochester, NY dweller Matt C. Matt, who has a computer and a telephone and a direct link to the white house hot line and an inability to use upper case letters and an approximate age of 15 and an astounding lack of sense, berates the Aussie leg of the axis of right wing evil. Blair, picking bits of CIA sponsored lobster from his teeth, uses the unfair tactics of logic and ridicule against poor Matt. Thanks once again to Mr. Blair.
Stories from the One Armed Paper Hanger
Aaahhhh. You know, you’ve got too much going on when it’s a relief to get to work. I just have one boss here—at home I have five, and they all wanted it done last week. I just hope they don’t decide to fire me! Saturday was a good one. As noted Friday, this was the day of reckoning for the Cub Scout Bake-Off, and things did not get off to an auspicious start. My son’s cake had been getting stale in the refrigerator since Thursday, so I figured that the icing design on the top would be dry. I covered it all up with plastic wrap and threw it and my Cub Scout into the car without a worry. Until I got to the school cafeteria and tried to unwrap the cake. The carefully squirted-on Wolf Badge design was done in icing gel, which apparently had not dried out, and was now showing a remarkable affinity for plastic wrap. All of that hard work was now transferred to a sheet of flimsy film which had started clinging all over itself and the icing design. Trying not to show panic (because Wolf Cubs can smell fear, and if they do, their eyes get really sad and they start to cry and kill you with overwhelming guilt) I whipped out the one tool that can always be counted on to save the day—or get me arrested in an airport—my legendary Uncle Henry pocketknife. Deftly scraping little wads of yellow gel goo off of the plastic wrap, I carefully reconstructed the outline of the design. As I finished, one of the moms complimented me on my daring rescue and bravery in the face of disaster. Spent by the ordeal, I could only manage a wan smile and utter a few words, “Uhh, well, uhh, I didn’t think it would stick.” She gave me that knowing look that women give men who get in over their heads with such projects. What made it worse is that I should have known better. Oh well, at least I got it fixed. And apparently fixed well enough for my bud to get “Best Cub Scout Theme”! There was much rejoicing and ritualistic shaking of hands and saluting. Afterwards, we journeyed to the wondrous land of Head Start to get his hair cut by attractive young maidens who all look like Mandy Moore. You know, a long time ago, men went to the barber shop, where there were hunting magazines and a bunch of phlegmatic old men who smelled like Old Spice and bait. Back then, no self-respecting man would ever set foot in a beauty saloon. Either I have no self respect or I’m not a man, but give me Head Start any stinkin’ day of the week. There are three in my little dinky town. THREE! They even have hunting magazines. I love America! After completion of our pulchritude fix for the day, it was time to go to Food World to pick up the meat’n’cheese tray we had ordered for five year old Catgirl’s birthday. Go to deli—“Here’s your meat tray.” Trouble. “But my wife ordered a meat AND cheese tray.” When she ordered it back on Thursday, the young duuuuude who took the order had apparently just gotten back from his dope break and was having a lot of trouble working the pencil. “Uhhhhh. You want cheese on there?” “Yes, meat and cheese.” “And meat? Oh, wait, yeah, okay, meat, my bad, duh! What’s your name, ma’am? (What a nice young man—still retains his manners even while a monkey perches on his back) ‘O-G-S.’ Sorry. ‘O-G-L-B.’ Sorry. ‘O-G-L-E-Y.’ Sorry. ‘O-G-L-E-S-Y.’ Sorry. ‘ O-G-L-E-S-B-Y.’ Hey, I got it!” Such pride of accomplishment. And my wife was concerned that he was not using an order form, but a yellow legal pad…silly person! Luckily, the Saturday clerk was up to her hairnet in customers, so her quick decision was either to get me to wait so she could remake it, or she would knock 10 bucks off the tray price. I got her to discount the price, then went and got $10 worth of cheese. Got back home, got everyone dressed, including a wife who has been down with flu or diphtheria since Thursday. (I blame the deli dude, but she insists it was because I coughed in her face all night earlier in the week.) She managed to drag herself to the van, I threw everything in and we took off for her mom and dad’s house. Luckily, they live in the same town as us, so whenever we can’t get the house cleaned up enough (which is never), they are gracious enough to allow us to hold festivities in their house. Little Girl has already had a party at school, so this one was just for immediate family. My mom came over, and my wife’s semi-invalid aunt who is temporarily living with my in-laws came up from downstairs. We ate lots of food, the children fought with each other, and Catherine blew out her candle and licked the frosting off of it. Then it was time to return to Maison d’ Possum to begin the exciting Social Studies Project! Ah, the wonders of the Social Studies Project! This was to be done by our second girl, who is in the third grade. It was an extracurricular thing. She signed up for it unpressured by mommy or daddy. And then piddled away her time waiting for the teacher to assign her to a group. Until Friday, when the teacher said she could do an individual project. Which would be just fine, except it is due today. I tell you what, if I had to go back and do elementary school again, I could do some kick-butt projects. As it is, I tried to let her do as much as possible, and act only as a creative consultant. Which would have been much easier with more than one day and the fragments of another to work on it. It wound up looking pretty good—she did a presentation on the American Revolution, using stuff from my reenacting group’s website. If she doesn’t win, I intend to lodge a formal protest and may even boycott the award ceremony. Anyway, that’s about all from the exciting world of Weekend Me. As I said at the start, I’m just glad I have a chance to rest now. Until soccer practice tonight. Thanks to everyone who continues to read the Possumblog and putting up with such meanderings. It amazes me that anyone would ever stop in, much less read any of this stuff. So, thanks. Friday, February 22, 2002
Another week draws to a close, and I get ready for another wild weekend of incredible, breathtaking domesticity.
Tomorrow will see the results of the Cub Scout Pack 216 Father-Son Bake-Off—which will hopefully have a better outcome for us than the Pinewood Derby. We made the cake last night—devil’s food with lemon icing and a big blue Cub Scout logo in the middle. This was a cake mix, so Mr. Tiny Testosterone was able to do most of it, except for the part where there is the pouring of batter into the pan. Such requires the strength of a mighty man such as me. My mom used to bake a cake every week, and then would go mad during the holidays and bake all sorts of stuff. I learned how to make red velvet cakes, rum cakes, lazy-dazy cakes, 7-Up cakes, fruit cakes, pound cakes—a little bit of everything. I always got to lick the beaters. Back in those ignorant days, no one ever gave any thought to eating raw cookie dough, or tasting ice cream batter, or licking the cake batter bowl. And then there came the Great Salmonella Plague in which even thinking about raw eggs caused people to swoon and beg for relief and claw down the doors of personal injury lawyers. I thought of that last night as he finished mixing up the goo with the hand mixer. “Can I lick one of those metal things?” The government nanny alarms went off and for a brief time, I couldn’t think what to do. Then I took the beaters out, gave him one, and I took the other. Devil’s food indeed. Sure was good. See you all Monday.
EWWWW!
My first disturbing search request--I note someone has found the ol' Possumblog by entering "toilet training AND punished AND parents AND enema AND stories" in Yahoo's searchbox. The summary, which was several entries down the page, came back with: "... leaky upstairs toilet, which will ... not been punished enough? For ... The Flaming Enema of Death ... the stories seem too ... J. Reimer Training and Doctrine ... of parents and ... Now, for what it's worth-- 1. I fixed my toilet--it wasn't the wax ring, but the valve nut on the cutoff was loose and dripping about a cup of water a day. Tightened it up, leak gone. But not before I had gone to Home Depot to buy a repair kit. Which I'm going to keep, and one day will take a picture of and post. 2. Yes, I have been punished enough for whatever it was. Please stop now. 3. The Flaming Enema of Death is another blogger I had linked to, not an aid to toilet training. Sorry. 4. The stories? Clark Bowers, The Tiger of the Khyber Pass, whose stories still seem too hard to believe. I'm sure he would be available for a speech or two, though. Call him. 5. The General Dennis J. Reimer Training and Doctrine Digital Library is touted as an electronic "library without walls." The Library is the single repository of approved Army training and doctrine information, none of which has anything to do with toilet training, although there is some stuff on punishing people, and probably a medic's field manual where there might be something about enemas. As the Army says, Know Your Enema. 6. Parents. Yes, I had two, which is now down to one, although my wife and my children all have both parents. I hope I have cleared all of that up for anyone else who might be interested. It's so strange to me how just a few out-of-context words can be sucked up and squirted back out in such fashion--the Internet is just so queer--seemingly innocuous words, yet put them together just right and bang! Anyway, I now have to go finish my report on Tijuana goat felching nymphettes who channel psychic Britney Spears nipple slips.
Standing Down
Air Force Secretary James Roche is proposing scaling back domestic CAPs over major cities and going to strip-alert status. Given that everyone who flies now has pretty much steeled themselves to the thought of subduing any potential highjackers, this is the proper response, and one which probably could have been made a month or more ago. As for it allowing more time for training in other missions, that may be so, but it's hard to beat the type of training these good folks have been through in the last few months. Turning up the pucker factor has a way of building sharper reflexes.
Brigadoon: The Final Chapter
Looks as though my predictions of a quick repair to the damaged I-65 bridge will come true, but even Miss Cleo could have guessed why: With a $25,000-per-day bonus for finishing ahead of schedule, contractors are expected to reap a $1.3 million bonus for finishing the bridge 52 days early, if it opens Tuesday. No gripes on this one, even from a typically gripey taxpayer. Just another example of "you get what you pay for." We couldn't afford to do all of our roadwork like this, but it's good for once to feel like we got our money's worth and that we're not funding Jimmy Joe's condo down in Orange Beach. Maybe if all funding requests were emergencies like this, there would be fewer ways for politicians to build in graft. A boy can dream, can't he?
Bloody Peasant
Alabama has something called the “Alabama Virtual Library” which is a portal site to various subscription-based online information databases—companies such as Grolier, EBSCOhost, SIRS—which is available from computers in public schools. This access has recently been expanded to allow access from student’s homes, which leads me to the whole point of this post. Your child fills out a form which gets sent to Montgomery and later you get back a little blue library card. It has your name and a password and the web address, and then an interesting little bit of additional information: “Funded by Governor Don Siegelman and the Legislature.” Hey guys, the wallet you’re pulling that cash out of is mine, not yours. It’s called MY TAXES! I don’t mind paying for it, but at least give me the credit. It used to be that projects like this got a “Your Tax Dollars at Work” sign—now apparently we owe gratitude for these wonderful benefits not to ourselves, but to our beneficent leaders who deign to scatter largesse onto the roadside from their bulging purses. Thank you, o wise ones—would you like us to give you a pay raise? You already got it? Oh, good, would’ve hated to keep you waiting. Divine right is nice in theory, but it’s like Dennis said—“Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony.” Thursday, February 21, 2002
Those willing to give up parking spaces for security deserve neither.
I had to go across the park to the courthouse today at lunch to pay my sewer bill (remembering to leave my pocketknives in the desk this time) and afterwards decided to go to Sophia’s to get something to eat. [Tedious background information] Sophia’s is a little deli that sits at the ground floor corner of the county parking deck, across the street from the courthouse, the art museum, and the county jail. Great place to watch people. Howard was in a talkative mood today—he usually is very quiet. He started rattling on about something and asked me why they did that. Since I missed what he was saying (think Boomhauer from King of the Hill) I just sort of nodded in commiseration. This gave him license to continue, and I finally figured out that he was complaining about his new cowboy boots hurting his feet. I asked if he had one of those cushiony mats behind the counter and he said no. “I suppose if you were on a horse all day, they would feel better.” Blank look, then a slow “Yeahhhh. I guess. That’ll be $7.87.” Oh well. [/Tedious background information] I got my food and sat down looking out toward the jail. There is apparently something going on today because the local new stations had their remote trucks parked all over the sidewalk by the big plaza in front. Which is the source of my wonderment. I’ve noted before that the county law enforcement types have instituted some pretty stringent security measures to do their part to fight the war on terrorism. One of these steps has been to install big sections of Jersey barriers to block the curbside parking spaces in front of the courthouse and the jail. It’s hard enough to find a parking space downtown, and this certainly doesn’t help, and it does nothing to thwart a vehicle packed with ANFO. The problem with this and with a lot of the stuff going on right now is the thought process—we have tried to make note to our governmental brethren that this doesn’t enhance security because the street in front of these buildings is one of the busiest in town, leading from the Southside to the interstate, so traffic is constantly flowing by. The lack of some convenient parking is not going to stop somebody who is intent on being a martyr. All he has to do is stop the truck—he doesn’t have to park. And apparently, if he has al-Jazeera TV written on the side, he can pull right up to the door of the county jail. Sure as heck makes it hard on the folks who have to come buy a tag. My suggestion is that we mark the spaces “No Bombs.” About as effective, and much more convenient and inexpensive.
Hey Secretary Dulles--Ribbed or Smooth?
James Lileks' Newhouse column which explores the arguments associated with turning the hose pipe on them dogs in the back yard. [...] The moral right loves abstinence; the cultural left thinks it's the sexual equivalent of creationism. We cannot prevent 14-year-olds from coupling like bunnies in a centrifuge, the argument goes; in some perfect world they'll wait until they're 15 to have sex, but who are we to play Taliban and crowbar the kids apart? Well, someone should. Kids deserve a childhood that doesn't skid off the cliff into premature adulthood, but American culture works to remove innocence, not preserve it.
Alabama among fastest-growing states for convenience stores
Alabama grew nearly 21 percent to 3,361 from 2000 to 2001, placing Alabama No. 5 among U.S. states for such growth. [...]The No. 1 state for convenience store growth is Alaska, which last year saw that industry grow 47 percent (although to only 196 stores), followed by Rhode Island, New Jersey and South Dakota. Believe it or not, the entire bulk of this growth occurred in my home town. All of us now have our own convenience store and gas station located right in the front yard. Apu says "Hey."
Warning--Proud Papa Alert
My son came home the other day and told me he had drawn a picture for school. Apparently the folks at the Montgomery Museum of Fine Arts thought it would be cute to have school kids from around the state submit drawings of portraits to tout the opening of A BRUSH WITH HISTORY Paintings from the National Portrait Gallery which will be held February 23, 2002 through May 5, 2002. They received about 600 submissions, which were whittled down to 190 or so pieces which will be displayed in one of the other galleries at the museum. Yes, you guessed it--Lil' Boy's picture managed to get picked! His subject? Well ME of course! I haven't seen what he drew, but if it's anything like his other work, I have been perfectly presented in all of my rotund, large headed, bespectacled glory. "Look, dear, that poor child's father is the Elephant Man!" "Shocking! But he captured the essence of the ghastly beast with nicely rendered forms and a painterly eye for color far above the abilities of other second graders; while the juxtaposition of the hovering water element with the giant flower points to a wry self awareness of life and a radical shifting of subjectivity which asserts itself through all levels of the composition." As his agent, I can assure you that this one-of-a-kind piece will be certain to rise in value over the years and represents a savvy investment in the budding field of 21st Century representational grade-schooler art. A limited quantity of signed and numbered photocopies will also be available for those seeking a more economical alternative.
Honest! I thought they said MP-3s--maybe some nice Britney Spears tunes!
Sources in the U.N. Security and Safety Service say that the members of Mr. [Kofi] Annan's personal protective detail have been using the German-made MP5 submachine guns since 1998, despite an apparent failure to obtain U.S. clearance for their use. [...] The dispute is made even more sensitive by the fact that Mr. Annan himself led a U.N. effort last summer to stem the production and sale of small arms around the world, an effort that drew criticism from U.S. gun-ownership groups and from the Bush administration. "There is no single tool of conflict so widespread, so easily available and so difficult to restrict as small arms," Mr. Annan told a special meeting of the Security Council in July. Especially when you can't get criminals to obey the law.
Dr. Franc
Le medicin Frank reacts to Matt Welch's column of a couple of days ago in which Matt asks that we not pile on the French for being so...French. Being from the South, I have a bit of a feel for what it's like to be spoken of negatively by people who don't know anything about you. Thankfully, I also have a sense of humor. Every once in a while we all do something stupid enough to deserve ribbing for it, but as Matt and Frank point out, the comedy can only go on so far before the ref has to throw a flag. One of the things that I enjoy about the current crop of bloggers (or at least the folks I read) is that they seem to have a pretty good handle on who and when to mock. But sometimes the 'dumb bombs' do some unintended collateral damage beyond the target area and folks get upset. Worst is when we lump together someone like Ambassador Vedrine and an octogenarian who was a member of the Resistance under the same fromagiphagic Alouatta belzebul "Pusillanimous" banner. When I'm at home, sometimes the kids start screaming at each other downstairs--Mad Dad comes down and starts laying down the law about acting like humans and everyone's grounded and you oughta be ashamed and if I hear it again and what would your grandma think--and one of the kids says something like "Dad, she called us boogers." My response is always the same, "Are you?" "No." "She wasn't talking about you then, so hush." Peace and harmony then reign supreme, and Dad is seen as the godlike master of logic and reason. Not really; they wait till I leave and start calling each other boogers again, but at least they do it quietly so I won't come back and lecture them. After a while, this becomes comedic and the Booger Game is born, and it gets played in the car and in large department stores and in church and none of them are the worse for it. Because they like each other (most of the time). So, for what it's worth, I believe that my French brothers and sisters are beautiful, strong, proud, patriotic, and brave. I love you all. Boogers. Wednesday, February 20, 2002
Congratulation to Moira Breen for being highlighted on FOXNews.com's Fox Weblog site. To everyone who has come bounding over from Inappropriate Response expecting something good--well, see, it's like this...most of my words are spelled correctly. That, and I can type relatively quickly. That's about it.
Hawk Girl Emily Jones offers a comparison of Bush's 'axis of evil' comment to that of ignorant cowboy-unilateralist Ron Reagan's about tearing down the Berlin Wall--
My grandmother was born in Berlin in 1907. She saw the city through two world wars and years of being divided. On November 9, 1989, I remember walking in the front door, and seeing her leap to her feet, with her arms stretched out and tears in her eyes because, partly as a result of U.S. efforts during the Cold War, that nasty wall was finally coming down. I can't tell you how much it means to me that she got to see that before dying a few years later. My point being, that Reagan was right. I'm willing to take the chance that Bush is, too.
Tales from the Hajj
Speaking Wednesday on the Qatar-based satellite channel al-Jazeera, a senior Saudi security official said authorities were not expecting any trouble. Brig. Mansour Turki boasted that they were so confident, security and police inside the holy city were unarmed. "In other places of the world police are heavily armed even in sports events," said Turki, who is in charge of hajj affairs in the public security department. Gee, Turki, it sounds simply dreamy! I wish our folks could walk around sports events without worrying about the dangers of guys financed by the House-O-Saud trying to blow us up.
Just a Chat with Dollar Hair
Mr. Hair, 107, lives in a nursing home not far from me in Chalkville. The next time you hear a story about simplistic Americans, think of Mr. Hair.
Why They Are The Hating Of Us, by Aussie Tim Mate, Sydney.
I sometimes take a pretty hard view of those in the West who aren't sufficiently hawkish enough against Islamoterrorists, until I read this heartwarming letter from a fellow Westerner in Australia: "It is not the hamburger, rolling along the street, that is the reason for the hating of us dirty Westerns. Not also is it the luxury goat in every garage, proud and supple. "No, they are the hating us for being the dog scum Jew-lover pig filth that we all are in the West, me included. As a genuine Australian cobber from out back, I tell you now this: we are every week killing of Arab babies for fun of it. Yes! "I say to my wife, Barry, we are out of the babies again. She goes to Western market wearing no clothes because of decadence and return with fresh babies. Put on disco music and dance for the killing! "I go now to make beer with mates and laugh at Phil Hogan show. Shalom." Thank you, Aussie Tim Cobber Mate, for showing me the errors of my ways--I am now seeing the horrible fruits of mine own infidelity and am hating my own very self, too, and I hate your exposed wife Sheila. George W. Bush is the creator of the axel of elvis, and to him I would never say Good on, you, mate.
The Historian Who Couldn't Shoot Straight
Weekly Standard article by David Skinner summarizing the Bellesiles debacle to date. One of the folks who first questioned Bellesiles work, Clayton Cramer, was kind enough to contact me recently after noting that I had posted the Georgia Militia Act over on the website of The Georgia Refugees. This is one of the colonial militia laws which Mr. Cramer has not yet posted on his site, and it is one which further pokes a hole in Bellesiles' arguments about the government's role in arming the militias. (Be forewarned--The Act is long and boring) Aside from his book, Bellesiles also presented an article entitled "The Second Amendment in Action" at the Chicago-Kent Law Review Symposium on the Second Amendment, in which he mistakenly states that: "Every state saw it as the government's responsibility to, in the words of Georgia's militia law, "Arm and Array" the militia "for suppressing all such insurrections, as may happen."[176]" The citation he gives in endnote 176 is for the 1778 Georgia Milita Act, which quite plainly states that: "AND BE IT FURTHER ENACTED by the authority aforesaid, that every person liable to appear and bear Arms at any Muster, exercise or training hereby appointed, pursuant to the directions of this Act, shall constantly keep and bring with him, to such training, exercising or Muster, one good Gun, Bayonet, hanger, sword or hatchet, a Cartouch Box, twelve Cartridges a powder horn and half pound of Powder, with at least twenty four rounds of Lead, a Worm, pricker and four Flints each, to be produced at Musters and at all other times retained in every Person's House, and it shall and may be lawful to and for the Officers of the respective Companies as many times as may be agreed upon by them to visit the Inhabitants belonging to their said Companies and to demand a sight of their Arms, Furnature Ammunition and Accoutrements aforesaid and in Case it appears any Person shall neglect or refuse to produce any of said Arms, Furnature Ammunition and Accoutrements or to suffer the same to be viewed and inspected, or if when produced the said Officers shall find the same defective, every Person offending shall forfeit a Sum not exceeding Five pounds." I am not an academic, nor a historian, but I can read well enough to understand that the State of Georgia did not see it as the state's duty to provide arms for the militia, but rather, the provisions of the law provide that the state's chosen method of seeing that that the militia was "armed and arrayed" was for each militia member to supply his own gun, ammunition, and accouterments. The whole mess of Arming America can be boiled down to the result of a peculiar arrogance which continues to pervade higher education, particularly the unwillingness of some to take seriously objections voiced by non-academics. In this case, those non-academics saw themselves as having a fundamental interest in the question at hand, and saw refuting the assertions of Arming America not as a simple academic debate, but as a struggle for survival. Choose your target carefully.
Screedish Crankery from Lileks
When I think of screedish crankery, there are few who do it better than Mr. Lileks. Today he runs through a marriage-control advocate and basically says 'They can take my matrimony from me when they pry it from my cold dead fingers.' ... On the radio today I heard an hour-long interview with some hay-headed professor who teaches a class in gender, class, ethnicity, paper, plastic, Heinz, and Hunts. She believes that the family is the greatest threat to humanity today - specifically, the (crash of thunder, neighing of frightened horses) Patriarchal Family, with its army of thick-browed brutes picking their teeth with bowie knives while their cowering wives sit hunched in the corner, polishing daddy’s brass knuckles. If’n I see any yore hair left on them, you’re in for a whuppin agin, and this time I ain’t stoppin’ for refreshments. Ah’ve been readin’ up onna my Playboys, an’ they done taught me how to drink while beatin’, and Ah’ve got a pahrful hankerin’ to try. It’s us menfolk whut breed terrorism, and our very desire to be part of our children’s lives just turns them into al Qaeda cellmembers. Now you see the violence inherent in the system! ... No, she gets a job, and an audience, and a state stipend, because the long hard coil of her stool contains a few fossilized remains of doctrines still worshipped in places where the light of recent history has yet to penetrate. Misogynist oppressor! At some point a society’s ability to indulge this sort of bullshittery is a sign of its weakness, not its strength. Anyone whose prescription for the troubled dynamics of some familial relationships is the abolition of ALL such relationships is a hapless crank, and if we have to keep these people on the public payroll then we’d better start hiring flat-earthers for the geology department. Silly man--everyone knows the earth is hollow.
Alabama Bobsled Team
Brakewoman Vonetta Flowers is the first black athlete ever to win a medal at a Winter Olympics, but much more importantly, she's from Birmingham (well, actually a suburb south of town called Helena, which Bob Costas should know is pronounced "h-LEENuh," not "HELL-unuh") Congratulations to her and to her driver Jill Bakken, and to all of her other teammates. Tuesday, February 19, 2002
D'Aulaires' Greek Myths
Moira Breen shares a favorite book with one of her readers. When you read Moira’s blog, the effect of her favorite childhood literature on her style of writing is apparent. When you read the Possumblog, you will be able to tell that my favorite childhood book was MAD magazine. And my favorite adulthood book. Well, that and the Chilton manual.
The Godfather is Free!
James Brown is found not guilty of sexual harassment. The Hardest Working Man in Show Business stated "I feel GOOD!" and went on to say "HAH! HmmmmuhhhhAHHHAH! OWWWHHHHHahahahHAH! UH!" Moments later, Brown collapsed in the courtroom, and several assistants rushed forward to cover him with a cloak. Observers were surprised when Brown jumped back up and shouted "HEYYYYYYYYYYEAHHHHAH!"
Mr. Tyson Goes to Washington
"If this can provide a boost to get people back in spending money and doing business, we are all in favor. And that outweighs any issues concerning Mr. Tyson's past," said [D.C. Boxing and Wrestling Commission Vice Chairman Mike] Brown. Well, it's Washington--what did you expect!?
Matchbook-o-Rama
The newest addition to lileks.com. Whenever I see the stuff Mr. Lileks puts up, I always imagine me as the Joker asking where Batman gets all those wonderful toys. Of course, I'm one to talk--the whole house bulges with stuff I wouldn't let my mom and dad throw away: a mid-50s tin of Ann Page Red Pepper, a coffee urn shaped like a Mercury capsule, an electric facial muscle stimulator (Mom and Dad were concerned about those tell-tale signs of aging), a pecan can full of screw-in fuses, my old Lincoln Logs (they're fun AND educational--they would probably be even more so without the splinters); then there's all of my dad's welding stuff--torches, an acetylene tank T-wrench, railroad switchbox keys, chipping hammers, goggles, all the little iron bookends and doodads he made--the list goes on and on. Just another in the long list of "Stuff That Makes People Look At Me Funny." (Of course, Lileks gets a book deal out of his, and I wind up with a sore toe from tripping over my junk)
U.S. planes rain dollars on Afghanistan
In another crude display of American unilateralism, a Reuters India report from last week notes that vicious imperialists are dropping C-notes on the longsuffering Afghan people. THIS MUST STOP! I bravely offer myself as a target in the stead of the proud and independent Afghans. Target coordinate is UTM 16 535675E 3717930N. No thanks are necessary, my friends.
Beguiling Bedford
Commentary from today's Birmingham News about Roger "Just Because I've Been Indicted Doesn't Mean I'm Corrupt" Bedford and his newfound love for replacing the Alabama Constitution. Bedford would like to portray himself as a supporter of a new constitution. But there's a cause he believes in more than constitution reform. That cause is Roger Bedford. That stuff I wrote earlier about other's perceptions of the South--well, forget it--we do a spectacular job of reinforcing any and all possible negative stereotypes about ourselves by continuing to send folks like Rog to squat on Goat Hill.
Flights delayed, travelers rescreened at Louisville airport after security worker falls asleep
Luckily, we now have federalized security workers. Back in the bad old insecure days, such lapses in security would have resulted in immediate termination of the employee. In our now much safer environment, we can all rest easy knowing that the employee in question will be given a job in management, and medical treatment for his sleepingonthejobotisis.
The Great Migration
An interesting story of the movement of black people from the South during the early part of the 20th Century. Of note is that many of the people interviewed don't seem to see the racism and segregation they faced in the North as being nearly as bad as in the South. ... They poured into East Side [Cleveland, Ohio] neighborhoods already jam-packed with families and found little room to move. Segregation forces rose like walls around the newcomers. A segregated black community emerged. Whites fled from its edges, establishing the housing patterns of the modern city. ... The influx of poor, uneducated blacks from the Deep South alarmed even the black establishment, said CSU Professor Regennia Williams, who did her doctoral thesis on the Great Migration. The white community all but panicked. Racism took hold, and new, unspoken rules emerged. Traditionally, Cleveland's immigrant groups clustered for self-support and then moved up and out. By the second and third generation, many had assimilated into the larger community. "But the blacks seem to be trapped," said Williams, recalling the era. "It's the racism that seems to endure when for other groups, ethnicity melts away." Restrictive covenants, redlining and insular white ethnic communities kept the black community confined to a crowded swatch of Cleveland's East Side. Newspapers called it the Negro Ghetto. Its heart was the neighborhood known as Central. Housing was scarce and often miserable. Central High School crowded 40 or more students into classrooms. Elementary students attended school in double shifts. The segregation and racism dismayed the migrants but did not crush them -- they had endured it before. In many ways, life in Cleveland was better than in Alabama or Georgia. ... Prominent black politicians and businessmen lived alongside steelworkers and housekeepers. Homes were divided into small apartments with shared bathrooms and kitchens. ... "Our people had their own businesses," said Lula Newton, who moved here from Tennessee in 1947. I have been struggling since reading this article to figure out what to say about it--the segregation and the racism of the North appear different from that in the South only in the fact that it was not reduced to legislative fiat--the rules were "unspoken." The conditions in segregated Birmingham of the 1940s were the same as described for Cleveland--blacks had their own schools, stores, doctors, theaters, neighborhoods--the only difference seemed to be that workers received better pay. I'm sure they did, but then again, the percentage difference between whites and blacks was probably about equal to that of their Southern kin. Was, or is, the mere absence of institutionalized racism sufficient to allow everyone to be comfortable with it? "Well, we may have been racist and allowed segregation, but at least everyone could drink from the same fountain, and we paid better, and we had the good sense not to write it down." I don't know, but I believe that this is one of those things like the Emancipation Proclamation--perception being much more powerful and influential than reality. We still struggle with it today--the image of "Bombingham" and of snarling police dogs and fire hoses are the only things many will allow themselves to believe about the South of today. It is different here today, and I believe people who examine us honestly would say it is better. As the saying goes, don't believe everything you read in the papers. Monday, February 18, 2002
Cadillac's Break Through
I don't know what has me on a kick about car commercials today, but this is another one that just rubs me the wrong way--specifically the CTS commercial with the background music of Led Zeppelin's Rock and Roll. I guess you have to give GM credit for trying, but they still don't quite seem to have it. GM is not the same place that Harley Earl left--I'm sure Harley must have been keeping up a constant 4000 RPM in his grave ever since the Cimarron hit the market, and he probably has cranked it up a few notches after reviewing the CTS ad showing the '59 Caddy in the same frame with the CTS. I'm sure the intent is to draw from the legacy of the past of Cadillac and show the CTS as a worthy successor to the '59, and that the CTS is made for folks who are not on the way to the funeral home. However, the way it's done is just dumb looking. (As is the use of a similar Caddy in VoiceStream Wireless ads with Jamie Lee Curtis--there seem to be a few ad folks for whom a '59 Caddy embodies "America"--these people are not car people) The Caddy ads suffer from the same stupid decisionmaking process that GM seems to bumble through whenever it tries to mine its own past--witness the new Impala. For those of us who remember anything about the original, from back in the days when GM Styling was king, we know that the new version is nothing but a Biscayne. FOUR tailights is a BISCAYNE, SIX is an Impala! Feh! But back to Cadillac--the past is all well and good, but the '59 is not that high of a standard--any of the various pre-1972 Eldorados would be the nearest equivalent in the minds of your target demographic--but the bigger problem is that anyone who really liked listening to Led Zeppelin is not going to like the Cadillac. Not only is the Harley Earl GM gone, but the Bunkie Knudsen GM is no more, too. Knudsen is reputed to have helped turned Pontiac's image around in the early Sixties by noting that "You can sell a young man's car to an old man, but you can never sell an old man's car to a young man." Sorry, but from a young man, Cadillac is still an old man's car. And Led Zeppelin ain't exactly the same as Bare Naked Ladies. Hopefully, the arrival of Bob Lutz will shake some of the cobwebs loose in GM's structure and rid it of some of the worst aspects of the brand-management style of selling cars. Mr. Lutz, who, though old as the hills, is still a car guy and still understands that solid content is what it takes to sell cars when people are demanding solid content. Good luck to him.
WAR!!
In a sign of ever increasing tensions in Europe, British forces decide to launch a pre-emptive strike against Spain. Chadwick reports Perkins got rather badly bitten during the night; Livingstone recommends Perkins keep warm, favor his other leg whilst playing football.
Police, media turn out as Moroccan girl attends school in Spain with Muslim headscarf
It's a shame that this is a news event, but it does give me a way to link to this story about our current Moroccan ambassador, Birmingham's own Margaret Tutwiler.
Bellicose Woman
Venita Edge, Jefferson County SWAT team member. She said she loves the camaraderie with the SWAT team. Edge said she tries to fit in without making waves. No need to tone down the locker room talk for her. "I know I'm working with a bunch of guys," she said. "If you're not thick-skinned enough to hear what your co-workers say, then you're definitely not thick-skinned enough to hear what the bad guys are going to say."
Finally! Even though I won’t be posting a lot today, it sure would have been nice to be able to post WHEN I WANTED TO, instead of having to do Real Work, then checking back every few minutes to see if Blogger was still giving me “HTTP Error 500-13” messages. Good thing I ain’t having to pay for it. Anyway…
GOOOOOOOD Morning Blog Nam! Today promises to be full of fun and surprises. For other people. I absolutely have to get a set of meeting minutes typed up today or risk immediate termination, so there will be little in the way of impressive illogical arguments and drunken, arm-waving rants. But I have a moment before work starts, so... Weekend went as planned, except there were no trips to Wal-Mart. I made up for this by taking a load of junk to the landfill, which meant that I got to fire up Franklin. Franklin is the name my kids gave my 1982 F-100 pickup. Franklin is ancient by human standards, with 254,000 miles on the original straight six engine--I bought it a couple of years ago just to go to the dump and the hardware store. Anyway, the naming convention is actually quite sophisticated: the truck is green, it is slow, and both Ford and F-100 start with the letter "F" (My standing joke is "No, kids, it starts with a key! -- I crack me up), so quite naturally they decided it was Franklin the Turtle. In addition, in order placate the Illuminati, notice that it is not a coincidence that the model number is "100." And whose picture is on a $100 bill? Yep, Ben FRANKLIN! So it all works very well. Franklin the Turtle, for those of you without spawn from hel....I mean precious gifts from God, is a curious little turtle (no similarity to any other curious animals, especially primates, should be inferred or implied) who has a show on Nick Jr. and a huge series of books for preschoolers--"Franklin and the Tooth Fairy," "Franklin Plants a Tree," "Franklin Explores His Faith by Joining the Jihad," and stuff like that. Now, speaking of animals--The Olympics. The only thing that has caught my notice, aside from the Women's Biathlon, is the ad for the Saturn Vue. It's potentially kinda clever--teeny-sized white Vue rolls up to a group of snowshoe hares, who are pounced upon and chased by a cougar. The lapineVue manages to escape by driving under a log. Whew! The odd part is the tagline "professional driver closed course" during the chase scene. I really, REALLY hope that was an attempt at Subtle Quirky Saturn Humor. If there is actually a lawyer deep within the bowels of GM who forced this into the commercial, he should be forced to drive a miniature Saturn for the rest of his life. Or be eaten by a cougar. As for the world domination thing--I have the garden hose, but do any of you know how hard it is to really go out and buy 10,000 marbles? This may take longer than I thought. Finally, today is Catherine's birthday. Our tiny little baby Kitty-cat, the caboose of our train, is now 5 years old. She's a sweetie, but has absolutely no fear. Last year she put on one of her sister's pairs of roller skates and tried to walk down the stairs. She made it to the first one, but the rest of them were a blur. Nothing like the sound of a stout screaming little toddler tumbling down steps to wake you up. I credit her survival to the fact that she is, in the charitable words of her pediatrician, "robust." I worry about the boys she will date. They will come to the door and I will put a kindly hand on their slouching shoulders--"Son, you really sure you want to do this? The doc said she's robust." But, being lovestruck kids, they won't listen and there will be much carnage. Ah, well. I guess it beats having to sit there cleaning the shotgun and ranting about the spacemen what done put that computer chip in my head. Anyway, I have to work now! Go read everyone else's stuff! See you later on after I have saved my job! And other sorts of exclamatory comments! ! Friday, February 15, 2002
Well, it's getting to be that time of day. Signs are favorable for another weekend filled with the normal stuff--laundering clothes, cleaning garage, listening to squeaky clarinet practice, avoiding yard work, trekking to Wal-Mart fifteen times, refereeing child fights, plotting world domination--same old, same old.
See you Monday.
Thank you to Greg Hlatky of A Dog's Life for the kind words and the link--if you got here from there, the post Greg's talking about is a bit further down the page under the February 14 posts. Thanks for stopping by, and make yourself at home. There's a box of Cheez-its over there on the table, and a full jug of Milo's tea in the refrigerator. Oh, sorry. That's my sock under there--let me get that.
The IOC--Making the World Safe for Graft
Glenn Reynolds takes note of an article in the Guardian in which the IOC expresses the thought of forever leaving the unfriendly shores of America due to our jingoism tarnishing the precious Olympic ideal. Such a stinging rebuke! Woe upon woe! Please, dear IOCeans, forgive our transgressions and accept these lovely Official Olympic Ideal bribes to stay. Like the old joke, we know what you are--we're just negotiating the price.
On hangers, lite smack
"Colombian drug smugglers used heroin as starch for shirts and blue jeans and hired a man to bring the drug-soaked clothes into Florida, according to federal court documents. Customs Service inspectors stopped Alejandro Mejia Garcia at Orlando International Airport on Feb. 5 and noticed the unusually stiff clothes, which smelled of vinegar and left a trail of white powder" Ancient Chinese secret, huh!?
A couple of good ones from Ken Layne this morning--first, no trip to Mars for you! in which Ken puts forth the entirely radical view that religion is fine as long as it doesn't drive you to act like a complete flippin' mush-headed asshole. Silly man, where's the fun in that? Second, Mr. Layne decides that being a non-progressive moron suits him. Way to go Ken; that's what got me where I am today!
No money to burn
Dandy Don Siegelman shows he is a champion of the people for suing to block the startup of the chemical weapons incinerator at the Anniston Army Depot. What does he want? Gas masks. Actually, he wants the $15 million dollars remaining out of $40 million which FEMA had agreed to give the state. FEMA's problem? "It's federal money--you spend it the way we say." Don's problem? "I have to find a way to get reelected." Our problem? Burning chemical munitions is dangerous, but keeping them is a couple of hundred times more dangerous. There is no doubt that the money promised should be delivered, but to continue to delay the destruction of the munitions just allows a vastly more dangerous situation to continue. It is more dangerous to wait than to go ahead. But Mr. Siegelman sees an opportunity here to trumpet himself as standing up for the little fellow against the feds and as a champion of the environment, and sees an opportunity to lay hold on some free money. Given all the various hands grabbing at it, if that promised $15 million is ever delivered to Montgomery, it will wind up much smaller when if finally gets back up to Calhoun County. It'll pay for some nice campaign ads, though.
Alabama deputy homeland security director charged with DUI
Gosh, I didn't realize we had hired General Jack D. Ripper! There's fluoride everywhere--just can't be too careful.
Slob channels Colin Ferguson
Mr. Milosevic shows he has a firm grasp of reality, and that he has apparently joined the John Birch Society: "It is quite clear that Clinton wanted to go down in history as the first man to bomb Chinese territory by bombing the Chinese embassy in Belgrade," Milosevic said, referring to an incident which killed Chinese diplomats and journalists and provoked fury in Beijing. "This was no accident," he added. No word yet on his take on the whole Vince Foster thing. It is true that the bombing of the Chinese embassy could have been deliberate, but to ascribe it as being Clinton's wish to use it as a part of his legacy or of assuring his place in history is a bit much. Especially in light of the large Chinese investment in his presidency. It would be hard to imagine Clinton sitting at his desk in Harlem now, leaning back with a big ceegar and saying "You know, I was the first man to bomb Chinese territory." Although that line might get an intern all hot, it really doesn't do anything for the rest of us. More likely, if it was deliberate, and Clinton did order it, he did it without rancor or evil intent toward his buddies, and figured he would be able to lie his way out of it and call it a mistake and go back to being chummy and raise more money for Al's trip to the White House. What a bunch of wacky, zany guys.
Anesthetize the populace, win the war on terror
From Sgt. Stryker, who takes issue with ass-backwards jackasses in the West, particularly The Amazing Kristof. "Your bumbling efforts on their [Filipinos] behalf are better suited to the Three Stooges, who at least would've provided some entertainment and an air of professionalism to the matter. Whyyyyyy, I oughta.... Thursday, February 14, 2002
I never really remember meeting my wife. We more or less grew up going to church together, so I’ve sorta always known her. We went to different grade schools and high schools, and we never socialized outside of church, but we always were friends. She is two years older than me, and with my immense adolescent awkwardness and shyness, I never worked up the nerve to ask her out on a date. But she would always save me a seat in Sunday school. And I would always sit with her. Her name is Reba.
The first time I ever had one of those pubescent rush-of-hormone moments was because of her. One Sunday when we were waiting for class to start, she was standing at the door talking to her dad. She had on a sleeveless blue dress. Just a plain, A-line, to the knee, homemade, God-fearing polyester church dress. But I couldn’t look away from those soft, pale, naked arms. I can still feel my ears turning red, and trying to make sure my Bible was firmly placed across my lap to cover the embarrassing results of my wandering eyes and the machinations of my limbic system. We grew up together, through junior high and high school, and my mom would pester me to ask her out. I always scoffed and said it would be like dating my sister. Reba went off to college at Jacksonville, and then I graduated a couple of years later and eventually went off to Auburn to study architecture. Whenever we would meet up again in those years, it was always at church. We would talk, although I can’t remember any of our conversations. She would always sit on the pew behind my mother and me. In my third year at Auburn, I got to spend a quarter studying in Europe, and my mom told me that she would ask about me every week. But, I was still in school, and semi-stalking another girl, and well, you know. I finally made it out of Auburn with two degrees and a minor in business, after going to school for five straight years—twenty complete quarters, breaking only for a two week respite in my very first quarter there, due to my father’s death. I moved back home; bone tired and lonesome. I started my first job two weeks after I got back and started the next chunk of my life, which was centered on passing my licensing exam. Not much time for socializing, although some of my well-meaning coworkers would allow their wives to use me as a test case for their unmarried girlfriends. There had to be something better. Since I was back home, I had started going back to our old church again with my mom. My wife-to-be had gotten a job at a local hospital, and wasn’t around a lot. But I had finally decided that I even though I was still awkward and shy, dadgummit, I was going to ask her out. Then I learned why she had not been around much. Seems she had starting dating an acquaintance of mine, and he had asked her to marry him. I went to their wedding, which was held right there at our old church. I have no remembrance of it at all; even watching the video of it I cannot remember anything of it. I guess I was trying hard to forget it. She and her husband left and went on their honeymoon. When they got back, they moved to the other side of the county and moved to another church. A few months later, she was pregnant. I was at work one day when I got a call from my best friend in high school. “Rick died.” I couldn’t say anything except to keep saying ‘no.’ 29 years old. Married six months. Baby due in five months. Dropped dead of a heart attack. The funeral, I do remember. There was a group of us who had all run around together in high school, and Rick had been one of the group. When I got there, all of the rest of the guys were just standing there, silent and somber. Reba sat back behind a curtain with her girlfriends on either side of her. She had a wad of tissue in her hands, which were crossed across her small pregnant belly. I didn’t really know what to say—what came out was something like “This may sound stupid, but no matter how bad you think this is, it will get better.” I reminded her of her family, and the folks at church, and that I would help watch out for her, too. Some time passed, and she started coming back to church at our old place. She grew and grew, and I made a point of finding her every Sunday she was there at church to talk to her. And to flirt. She tells me now that she thought I was crazy for telling her she looked good pregnant. Despite all that had gone on over the years, to me she was still that girl in the blue dress, leaned up against the door of the classroom. And whether I had ever wanted to admit it to myself or not, I was, and had always been, very deeply in love with her. On March 27, 1990 her baby was born. From then on, I had to flirt with both of them. Which I did, rather shamelessly. In December of that year, the moment finally arrived. It was time for my office Christmas party. A couple of weeks before time, I sidled up to Reba at the card rack at church and pretended to be looking for something. I asked her to the party. She said yes. We went, and had wonderful time. A week later, we had a second date, ostensibly to look for a kitchen table for me. After that, we have rarely been apart for longer than a day. 11 years ago today, I asked Reba to be my wife. Since then, we’ve been through a lot. Another wedding. Passing my registration exam. Three more kids. Two houses. Five vehicles. Moved to three different school systems. Three job changes between us. More college for both of us. More deaths in the family, and more births. A couple of wars. Three presidents. We even moved to a different church. 11 years, and it seems like only yesterday. And to this day, I still have to be very careful when I see that she is wearing a sleeveless dress. So Mrs. Oglesby, Happy Valentine’s Day. And thank you for saying yes.
"sheer sensual joy" and "sweat-damp cotton top"
Moira Breen describes her cruel and unusual life in the South, BCE (Before Conditioned Era). My own memories of those inhuman times include a trip from Birmingham to Saint Augustine, Florida in a 1966 Pontiac LeMans. Vinyl seats. Three speed fan motor. No A/C. No interstate. The horror. The horror.
Ahhh. That's better--looks as if things are rolling again at Blogger World Headquarters. So, where to start...
Excuse me? I believe you meant to say President Evil James Lileks’ Newhouse column of today, in which he compares and contrasts ambling into history versus getting jacked on crank and giving history a beating in. To those who call it "evil" when the local cable company declines to carry "Queer as Folk," Bush has proved again he is unfit to lead. To those who plop in the La-Z-Boy with a bag of Fritos after a long day and watch football, he's a peer. To the smart set, Bush's ignorance has no excuse -- why, everyone watches "Sex in the City"! Everyone who matters, that is. I'm still a revolutionary then Dr. Frank whacks J.H. Tompkins of the San Fransisco Bay Guardian for his love affair with wistful, dreamy-eyed murderers and thugs. Mr. Tompkins apparently longs for the good ol' days of pre-2002, when it was really cool to be labeled a terrorist; you know, back in those halcyon days when all the popular kids joined the Weathermen and the SLA. Gosh, what a long, strange trip it's been. Wednesday, February 13, 2002
The Question No One Has Asked Me
What is the favorite Winter Olympic sport of the Possumblog? That would be your Women's Biathlon. The reasons for this choice are very complex, but can be summarized thusly: gun-totin' Nordic chicks in tight shiny ski suits and the profound absence of Scott Hamilton.
Dr. Sophistication
From Blogs of War, Dr. Frank's take on the European hand-wringing sorts-- Sophistication is a pretense you can't really afford when someone is trying to blow you up. It seems as though the Euro-elites are as yet too sophisticated to grasp this "simplistic" truth. With a continent full of McClellans, fortunate is it that there is at least one nation willing to be Grant.
Ted, Ted, Ted...
Mr. Turner lets us know that "The reason that the World Trade Center got hit is because there are a lot of people living in abject poverty out there who don't have any hope for a better life" Ahhh, that explains it. Just the other day, my mom was telling me stories of when she was growing up during the Depression, and her family lost everything, and they lived in abject poverty, and they had no hope for a better life, that one day everyone in town walked all the way to Birmingham (they had no money for a train ticket) and commandeered the only airplane on the field and loaded it up with gasoline and flew it directly into the City Federal Bank building. Yep, it was in all the papers--"Depression Panic Hits! Poverty-Stricken Rural Dwellers Fly Aeroplane Into Top of Sky Scraper!" She said anyone in town who didn't get on the airplane went and stole some dynamite (she calls it "dynimite") from the mines and wrapped themselves up in it and walked to Birmingham (they had no money for a bus ticket) and blew themselves up along with a bunch of school kids. Yep, it was in all the papers "More Depression Panic! Hopeless Rural Dwellers Commit Act of Self Murder--Take Out Large Group of Children Belonging to Selfish Industrialists!" Just a thought here--"Let's ignore the idiots."
Circumnavigating Magro
Tim Blair presses his own outside-in button in response to Magro Knigstons's' indepednent views. No one pays him to spruick her line. So many idiots, Mr. Blair; so little time. Godpseed. Tuesday, February 12, 2002
Well, there you go again
Al Gore "returns to the national debate" by demonstrating his superior knowledge of the work of Neville Chamberlain. Mr. Gore spews forth: "What we deal with now is today's manifestation of an anger welling up from deep layers of grievance shared by many millions of people." He also notes that [...]it is crucial that the administration show "a more evident respect" for the coalition of allies it has built or that alliance could quickly crumble. Yes, after the punitive conditions imposed by the Treaty of Versailles, millions of Germans manifested the anger welling up from their deep layers of grievances by democratically electing some little Austrian chap and a few of his unsavory, but equally put-upon, partners. Luckily, we were able to achieve a just settlement with the Third Reich in the 1938 Munich Agreement. As Mr. Chamberlain said, The real triumph is that it has shown that representatives of four great Powers can find it possible to agree on a way of carrying out a difficult and delicate operation by discussion instead of by force of arms, and thereby they have averted a catastrophe which would have ended civilisation as we have known it. The relief that our escape from this great peril of war has, I think, everywhere been mingled in this country with a profound feeling of sympathy." Yes, we had to sacrifice those poor, brave Czecho-Slovaks, but it allowed us to finally get to the root cause of all the misery the Germans faced, namely, those godless Jews. Herr Schickelgruber was able to eliminate the evil root of Zion, and we were able to avoid a Second World War, and any nastiness that might have come from it. And now the trains run on time all across Europe. Let's face it--the anger welling up among many millions across the world has nothing to do with anything other than blind, willful ignorance. Yes, there is injustice and tyranny in this world, but the larger problem is a powerful few who prey on that misery, who deify themselves and build a delusional tribe of sycophants and bullies. They deny any culpability for their own problems and shift the blame to the nearest target of convenience (especially if they believe such target to be a particularly soft one). Attempting to negotiate with such madmen only leads to more misery for those under their control. Those who believe that it is beneficial to tread lightly around despots rightly deserve to be marginalized and ignored. As they say around here, putting fur on a rattlesnake don't make it a bunny. Shy away from them what think it does. (It is here that I must note that I do not consider Godwin's Law to have been invoked in this commentary, in that I never actually mentioned the name "Adolph Hitler" or the word "Nazi.")
Joe Bloggs
Coming to you live from the beautiful North Shelby County Library, I give you My Lunch Break. Yes, rather than take a break from computer class and go eat, I took the unprecedented step of actually skipping a meal to sneak down and do more computery stuff. No, I don't HAVE to do this--I could quit any time. Really. So, class today is Intermediate Excel, and the only thing that makes it bearable is our instructor, who hails from Jolly Olde. I could just sit there and listen to her talk about foldahs and figgahs and numbahs and dater all the live long day. I love anybody's accent who comes from anywhere in all of Great Britain or Ireland; makes me feel all squishy inside. Put Fiona Ritchie on the radio and I become a big puddle of goo in the floor. Anyway, an interesting little bit of information I picked up is the name "Joe Bloggs" as an equivalent to John Doe (or Joe Schmoe). For some reason, in spite of all my incessant playing of Trivial Pursuit and watching Benny Hill, I never picked up on this. Gosh, I guess there are better places to learn about popular British culture. Ah well, time now to head back (I've got to learn to type faster!) Last time I took the Intro class, I told the instructor I had jellied eel and Vegemite for lunch. Today I think I'll say I had toad in the hole. Just doing my part to learn about other cultures.
Thank you, Miss Moira!
Due to my incredible possuminess, I was apparently able to convince Moira Breen to ruin her Link of the Week list by including the Possumblog. Unfortunately, this honor comes at a time when my normal level of silly tripe will be curtailed by my aforementioned trip to Excel training class today. But there is a lot of other smelly stuff from previous days, so feel free to wander around. And please excuse the mess. Monday, February 11, 2002
Scientists Find Jurassic Age Dinosaur Vomit
"Pledges were not being hazed" says fraternity representative, although funnel and keg tap were found in adjacent dig. Dinosaur reported to be new on campus and not well known. Daytona Beach police have several chapter members in custody pending toxicology reports.
One 'G' Good, Two 'G's Bad
MSNBC's goof, and a very calm response from Mr. Innis. The fact that Mr. Innis is described in the article as having once been a radical in the black movement and is now a Republican is probably the reason why Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson are not scrambling to start competing boycotts of MSNBC advertisers.
Tora Bora Ted
No, not Ted Rall--and if you call it a doll, it'll call in a daisy cutter on your worthless hide.
Clark's Hawaiian Vacation
The Tiger of Afghanistan, Clark Bowers, surfaced over the weekend in Honolulu. I know most of you could probably care less about this fellow, but since he's living here in Alabama now, and since he has seen fit to force himself into situations in order to promote his agenda, and since he seems to believe that promoting his agenda does not exclude dissembling, and since I believe it takes a special kind of idiot who would rather climb a tree to lie than stand on the ground and tell the truth, I just keep linking to these ridiculous stories of Mr. Bowers. The most chilling thing in the article is the same claptrap Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson were spewing after September 11: In his speech, he discussed terrorism and said some of the criticism of America by extremist Islamists is the same critique they are hearing from their pastors and local conservative Republicans. "They are not just whistling Dixie when they talk about the decadence, when they talk about the corruption, when the talk about what we export in many cases throughout the world and how it undermines traditional family, traditional home," Bowers said. If "pastors and local conservative Republicans" are saying America got what we deserved in the form of godly retribution by the hand of Islamic idiots, then something is desperately wrong with their minds. If that is truly what they believe, then they cannot in good conscience support any retaliation, because to retaliate is to fight against the hand of God. And if God is using Islam to smite America, why don't they consider converting? Did they ever think that maybe God was getting upset because they cling to that silly old Jesus guy instead of God's true prophet Mohammed? Or maybe God is angry that small men with big egos flaunt their religion and make a mockery of true Christianity in order to make a profit from misguided souls. Or maybe God wasn't displeased so much with America as He was with just lower Manhattan. Or maybe God is displeased with Major League Baseball for contemplating league contraction. Although it rakes in the money to act like you alone can decipher the will of God, this type of mental gymnastics requires a peculiar breed of ignorant, ugly people who are more than willing to express the faults of others while brushing aside any criticism of themselves. Before Mr. Bowers decides to Blame God First for whacking America for destroying family values, he might better check his story a bit more fully and tighten up on the edit. Remember Revelation 21:8, Clark--liars are in that lake of fire right along with whoremongers and murderers.
I'm Lusc-ious Cara-mel, I'm Lusc-ious Cara-mel!
What in the world possessed the good Sergeant to put me in his new SLiM system? Well, it could be because I sent him an e-mail last week begging for a link, noting that in my opinion, Possumblog is the Snickers equivalent of a FunSize chunk that fell out of a trick-or-treater's bag and got smooshed by a car. Apparently Sergeant Stryker has decided to taunt me--using me as some sort of tainted manufacturer's by-product which fell into the luscious caramel; now when everyone gets the heaves, he can easily point out that it could only be the Possumblog causing it. He will call in legions of Japanese civil defense workers who will point and scream, then he will develop some kind of anti-possum beam (like car headlights), then after I'm eradicated, he will run off with the good-looking, smugly sarcastic scientist-type girl in horn-rim glasses and a tight sweater. Or not.
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