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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. Monday, July 22, 2002
Good grief, how did I miss this!? Presidential hippo's death kept secret from leader Nigeria's Presidential hippo has died from suffocation in a poorly ventilated tank.I feel a wave of new spam coming on..."Please keep this secret--My name is Doctor Peter Ogunsalo, and I have been charged with recovering 600,000,000,000US$ which was illegally taken from the Nigerian Federal Hippopotamus Sport Training program by the previous director of the program, who was appointed by General Abacha. THIS IS LEGAL! We only need to use your bank account..."
Classic Rock 99.5 renamed 'The Buzzard'
From the Birmingham Business Journal: Gilbert NicholsonFor those of us who grew up in the mid- to late-1970s, this is just a bit too much. At one time, 99.5 went by K-99, and was one of the better album-oriented rock (remember albums? remember album-oriented?) stations in the South. Lots of dope-smokin' music, a goodly dollop of redneck rock, a bit of comedy from George Carlin or Richard Pryor, weird science stuff from Omni--but NO DISCO! For all the record execs who fume at people downloading MP-3s, it must seem absolutely incredible that radio stations used to publicize times when they were going to play an entire recording over the air with no commercial interruptions or DJ goob IDs of the tracks. People would actually stay home and pop a tape into the deck and record the whole thing. Amazing, eh? And now? The Buzzard. Oh, please.
Stocks Waffle on Wild Trading Day
Mmmmm! Waffles! And in a related story: Eyebrow 'Eaten' in Kebab Van Attack Mmmmm! Eyebrows AND kebabs!
Mystifying Yarns of Life in the Gateway To Happy Living!
Lurid Tales of Driveway Squatters, Embawassment, Frog Picks, Pure Drivel, Boy Hair, Studebakers, Loafers, Steak on the Grill, Successful Bird Housing, Teachers, and Miss Jennifer Gets Added to the List Good Morning! To all of you Googleers searching for condi rice pics legs, or julie chen undressed, or traficant hairpiece, or the secrets of the illuminati, sorry to disappoint you but you have fallen across the threshold into the odd little world known as Possumblog, where nothing much ever happens, yet it inexplicably it all gets discussed with little regard for reason or logic. So, then, Saturday I woke up. Chapter Two I kept having odd dreams of people talking right before I woke up. Just disembodied voices. How odd. Reba got up and fixed the kids some breakfast and I got gussied up to take the older kids for their horseback riding lessons. I walked out of the bedroom and looked out the window at the top of the stair landing. Hmm, there’s a car in front of our house…and another…and anoth…and then some old guy…what the!… awwwww, for the love of monkeys, I had forgotten our stupid neighborhood was having a stupid neighborhood yard stupid sale. ::heavy sigh:: I suppose it was these fearful geriatric bargain-hunting corsairs who had spoilt my last good minutes of sleep by yammering outside on the sidewalk at SIX BLEEDIN’ O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING! I went downstairs and Reba told me she was going to take Baby Fidget to the store with her and pick up important stuff such as laundry detergent while I took the other kids with me. “‘kay.” At this point, I’m still at that sort of caveman/coma patient state of wakefulness, so pretty much everything is reduced to grunts and loss of motor function. Mmmughn. Me need newspaper. Need good laugh. Me go out front door and not only does me find the street crammed with enough Crown Vics and Expeditions to start my own Ford dealership, I also find that someone had been gracious enough to park a long wheelbase Econoline van on our driveway right behind our van. I go into full Curly Howard circuit overload—I walk out, stand there and huff hMM!, turn around on the front stoop, turn BACK around, look at van and put my hands on my hips, turn around ONCE MORE, go inside, fume, fuss, say a bad word, tell Reba we’ve been invaded, realize I don’t have my newspaper, go back out the door, go get my paper, conspicuously look at giant white contractor’s van, look across street, huff, put hands on hips again, turn around, step on stick, say bad word, go inside, go through garage and open garage door (thinking that my previous performance had been too subtle), walk out, stand there (now with the added dimension of a wife ready to go to the store and a feral five year old), think a bad word (big ears, little pitchers and all), then decide to take action. I walk next door and ask Maria if any of her customers belong to the van. No luck. The only other possibility is three doors down, across the street. I walk over there and start asking various folks if they own the big white van across the street. Finally, I get a yes. Mr. Van Owner—“Yeah, that’s mine!” Mr. Van Owner is all that one could stereotypically hope for. A face which would have been a wonderful case study for a late-19th Century criminologist—‘You see here the small, close-set eyes which indicate no small amount of mental retardation especially when correlated with the cranial capacity of a rhesus monkey;’ scraggly beard, big 1980s plastic eyeglass frames, lovely blue t-shirt stretch tautly over the perfect sphere of his belly (some people have six-pack abs—he had a Party Ball strapped on), size 32 blue jeans tightly cinched underneath the prodigious globe of his size 52 gut and across his non-existent buttocks. Quite the looker, he was. “Yeah, I didn’t think I’d be over here so long—you know how it is.” What I wanted to say— “Why yes, Mr. Face Which Looks Like My Ass After Sitting Naked on a Chenille Bedspread for an Hour, I know exactly how lost in time one can become as he paws through the effluvia of suburbia’s richness, coming up with treasures such as a two-shelf particle board bookcase which is only missing two shelves, or maybe even a bristle-less brush for only 10 cents! Yes, the marvels of it all are quite enrapturing! What I said— “Yeah, I reckon so.” We got back into my yard and he started getting in. “I’ll go ahead and move her on out now.” What I wanted to say— “Oh, please, take you own sweet time, Mr. Inconsiderate Nose-Picking Chimp-Sucking Penile Wart, I enjoyed having to track your large, greasy self down, and even now I am entertaining thoughts of asking you to wildly spin doughnuts across my yard in order for you to have some small additional amusement. Next time you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to park anywhere, take a crap in my mailbox, and roll your sweaty, naked body on my welcome mat!” What I said— “Okay—thank you for moving it.” With the flight deck thus cleared for takeoff, lovely Reba and Baby Girl sojourned forth to the supermarket, as I retired below decks for to read my newspaper. I sat down at the kitchen table and the phone rang. It was Reba on the cell phone, complaining about the slow-moving traffic all the way out of the neighborhood (along with small old people wandering slowly into her path with broken lamps) and laughing about what Cat had to say about all of the goings-on. Looking out at the mess, the Tiny Sage is reported to have indignantly said, “AH!! Dis is jus SO embawassin’! Alls these cars is jus an emBAWASSMENT to our neighbahood!” Amen, sister. Act Five The horseback riding lesson went very well this time, and they finally got to do some real work. They learned how to groom their ponies and had to put on all their tack before the lesson, which was good for them. Poor Jonathan had some trouble, mainly because he was the shortest, and all the tack probably outweighed him by a good ten pounds. He also got stepped on a couple of times while cleaning his pony’s hooves. Rebecca seemed to really enjoy the grooming part, and related in detail the combing and brushing and fly spraying, and went out of her way to tell about all the gross stuff that comes out of their hooves with the pick. Thanks, sweetie. While all this was going on, I sat and finished reading my paper on the bleachers outside and tried not to eavesdrop on the two women next to me talking about letting their daughters date. Their girls are eleven years old. (!) I just kept reading my paper, and thankfully, they seemed to be able to conclude that eleven was a bit too young to really be dating. “So, Man With Four Kids, what do you think?” (And yes, she actually did call me that—she had asked before if I would mind if she changed her baby’s diaper and I said, “It’s fine—I’ve got four kids. And I don’t think anything is going to smell worse than all this horse poop.”) “Hmm? I’m sorry? Think about what?” “What do you think about what we were talking about, about girls dating? How old is your oldest?” “Well she’s twelve, and I really don’t have a problem with it, because I figure she has about eighteen more years to go before she’s thirty.” They both chuckled and said their husbands said the same thing. Right sane fellows, I say. Of course, I know that in just a few years there is probably going to be a skinny, nervous young guy with stupid hair and funny fitting clothes who has been told to be sure and come to the door and ring the bell and NOT sit on the driveway and honk the horn, and I will invite him in for a minute to chat and drink a Coke and absolutely terrorize him as I explain the subtle nuances of the lethal variants of Filipino martial arts, and about those voices I sometimes hear, and about the grenade I still have lodged near my pancreas, and here’s twenty bucks--be nice, drive slow, and have her home by eleven. So, speaking of kids and horses, they finished up their grooming and heavy lifting after about an hour, then rode for another hour. It still amazes me to see how much confidence Jonathan has on a horse. He rides like he’s been doing it since birth—the girls are good, too, but since they are older and bigger, they seem more like they would be in control—but Boy is so little compared to the animal, it just seems implausible that he could make them do anything. They all did fine and were worn slap out afterwards, which is usually a good thing. We stopped off at Sonic and got them some food, and some for Mama and the Tyke, not knowing that Mom had already cooked a nice lunch for all of us, since she didn’t know we were going to be gone for two hours. Oops. Section F, Part 5a.3 I tried as best I could to smooth this over, but even with all of my suavitude, it was very difficult—much as when I try to get her not to be mad at me for something stupid I did in one of her dreams. It takes awhile, and usually involves much mewling and groveling and singing “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You” like Elvis. (Never fails to raise a nice crop of goosebumps, especially if accompanied by softly breathing on her neck.) After she was satisfied that the delay was unintentional and not the result of hanging around with Sonny and Colonel Tom and the boys, it was time to review the rest of the day’s agenda, which included: taking Ashley by the library to cash in her summer reading points (didn’t know about that one), returning various bits of Pyrex and Corningware to her mom (didn’t know about that one), soccer registration (forgot all about that one), going to Books-A-Million as some sort of promised reward for the kids for being literate (didn’t know about that one), a trip to Bed Bath & Beyond for bedspreads for the younger girls (vague recollections of this, tried to forget it), church shoes for Boy (still can’t believe this one—we just bought some and they’re already too small), and get him a hair cut (spur of the moment thing—he’s starting to look ragged and wooly.) So, off we all went, AGAIN. Library—Took over an hour. Nearly three hundred points, representing nearly twenty hours of reading, and she had to redeem them for knickknacks and doodads and gimcracks that cost 2 or 3 or 5 points. She wound up getting a big box of…more books. Bakingware—Returned successfully. Soccer registration—Got the three youngest ones registered, despite the fact that we showed up a bit late and were half-jokingly told that since we were holding things up, we would have to volunteer for something at the soccer club. “I volunteer to give you this check, which blows a giant hole in our checking account.” Bedspreads—Bought two; received rueful look from Reba when I said, “Yes, they look very nice—wonder how one of them will look with a giant yellow pee stain in the middle.” ::sigh:: Wise men say, only fools rush in, But I can’t help falling in love with you. Books—They got some, but I spent most of the time in the van with the human equivalent of an injured howler monkey. Except for the short visit back inside Books-A-Million for her to…yep, go to the restroom. On the way out, picked up Steve Martin’s book Pure Drivel. Nice fun, but it’s no Cruel Shoes. Sorry, Steve. (It’s also interesting to note in the credits that “Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid” is not mentioned. What an inexplicable oversight.) Hair cut—Boy now looks like a boy. On the way out of the shopping center, we noticed that the Trussville Cruise-in was going on in the parking lot. I got to drive slowly through the aisles and reminisce about my own good times as a car show dude. (1969 AMX—the two seater, not a Javelin—390 4bbl, 315hp, bright red, went like stink, would swap ends if the weatherman said “rain.”) One of these days, when the kids are older, I might try my hand at it again, but at least for now it was fun to look. Most of these guys were not doing this for concours—these were mostly street cars with a bit of the street still on them—just something fun to play with. The mix was eclectic, to say the least, with lots of the cars that languish on back lots with “Collector’s Dreme” written across the windshield in white shoe polish—a few GM hunchbacked sedans from the ‘40s, a few muscle cars, some in the wrong colors (in particular, a screaming yellow ’67 Goat that was just icky), some early ‘50s Lincolns, a couple of Studes, including one ’53 or ’54 Starliner coupe (not the hardtop) in a frightening two-tone green—the bottom was Gerber Strained Asparagus with Chlorophyll and the top was Bright Vomit. Definitely NOT the thing to take to South Bend for the reunion. Anyway, it was neat to see all the cars. Shoes—Went to Wal-Mart. Boy now has shoes that fit. Further disappointed female side of family by saying NO to allowing Catherine to get her ears pierced. “You need that like you need another hole in your head!” Which made the counter lady chuckle. But not the girls. Like a river flows, surely to the sea Then back home for supper, which consisted of some very nice brontosaurus steaks on the grille, and salad, and asparagus with chlorophyll. While cooking, I noticed that the bluebird house that Jonathan had put together now has a resident. And that I needed to refill the bird feeders. And that we were almost out of bird seed. And that AN ANIMAL in the garage had been tearing at the sack. And that the less said about potential murine infestation, the better. Eek, as they say. Dinner was fine, and we finally managed to get the kids all scrubbed and into bed and ready for Sunday. Article XXIV Sunday was pretty good—all of my teachers showed up, and the problem children were unusually quiet. It must have been my whispering through the door that I was Satan. In any event, services were uplifting and free of Tiny Girl mayhem, at least until the last few minutes. Then it was on to Ashley’s grandparents (Reba’s former in-laws) where we had lunch and dropped off Ashley for a week. Which is just about enough time to schedule the reprogramming sessions. ::sigh:: Less said about that the better, too. Left early to get Cat to her pony lesson, and as soon as we got home to change, the bottom dropped out and we got another round of big slop buckets of rain. No Pony Pals. Sad little girl. Oh well. Rested a bit and went on back up to the church building, put together a plastic storage cabinet for one of the classrooms, helped open up and turn on the lights, and heard a nice sermon from a guy we are supporting in preaching school. Sat on the back row with a couple whose kids don’t sit still and are never quiet. ::sigh:: Despite my palaver about them, my kids really are very well behaved, especially when compared to just about anybody else’s I know (except for those mind-control people in the dark glasses). Somehow, the parents of all the unruly kids just don’t understand why their kids run screaming around the building and tearing up stuff and running over the little old people. Then they go back to chatting and visiting with everyone while their spawn continue their reign of terror. Oh well. Time for supper. We stopped off for our usual visit at Ruby Tuesday’s, and thankfully got the pretty and super nice Miss Jennifer. She was great as always, both with the service and just talking about stuff in general—mostly about everything in the preceding paragraphs—kids, grandparents, life. (She needs to start her own waitress blog.) And then to home, and to bed for everyone, including Mom and Dad. Take my hand, take my whole life too For I can't help falling in love with you (And despite the fact that Mom and Dad didn’t go right to sleep, I am very refreshed this morning.) Friday, July 19, 2002
It’s getting to be about that time again...
Usual stuff planned for this weekend—yardwork, housework, horseplay and many other compound words. And a trip to Wally World to finish buying back-to-school supplies (which I couldn’t make fit into any sort of compound word except maybe “shopinsanity.”) Hard to believe it's already time to start thinking about back-to-school, but as the school system inches its way to year-round scheduling, eventually no one will remember (or believe) that children were actually allowed to be out of state custody for an entire three month stretch. ::cue fiddle music:: WHYYYYY, back in my day… ::music abruptly stops: Aw, I don’t know, maybe it IS a good thing for kids to be supervised—you would be surprised what sorts of things bored kids learn about gunpowder, electricity, pornography, gasoline, knives, hair spray, construction equipment, open flames, telephones, high-pressure steam, ammunition, car batteries, and other seemingly harmless inanimate objects. But, darn it all, there were always those hopes for a guest shot on Mission: Impossible. Thinking back, I believe one more prayer of thanksgiving to God is in order for protecting such an all-fired nitwit kid. Whoever he might have been. But not me— honest. Really. More ironic, given her father’s past…I mean, her father’s friends’ past, is that this year Rebecca gets to be a safety patroller, one of the kids (4th graders ONLY; must have had…umh-hmm…STRAIGHT As in 3rd Grade; and must be recommended by a teacher) who helps the little kids during carpool time before and after school. She was so proud of herself—she worked so hard to make those As—and I’m proud of her. It’ll be so sad when she has to bust me for coming in the wrong driveway at school. Anyway, no more tales of misspent youth, as I have just been summoned by my boss (with less than 30 minutes left in the day) to come and help color some maps. Whee. Such fun. Shoulda studied more during summer vacation as a child. So, until Monday, have a happy and safe weekend, and don’t do anything I… I mean my friends…wouldn’t do.
Meryl Yourish, Meryl Yourish
Here's your link! Here's your link! But I'm mo' Southren than Ma-ac, A nice lil' possum sna-ack, You ought'a hear me drawl, You ought'a hear me drawl. (Link courtesy of N.Z. Bear.)
JINKIES! This just in to the Possumblog hitcounter: horror ghosts strange occurences investigations This sounds just like a job for some meddling kids to me! (Or maybe Kathryn Tucker Windham.) In any event, my own explorations of the supernatural are limited to trying to figure out how to make myself invisible. So sorry.
And Possumblog comes in at Number 30 for those searching for...smelly waterproofs Little bit of baking soda'll clear that right up.
Ahhhh, the good auld days. (1590 to be exact) From Alistair McIntyre's Electric Scotland, a link to excerpts of the Domestic Annals of Scotland, this one in particular from the reign of James the IV: Aug 18Whew.
Taking a possumy stroll through the wonders of Ebay
This is what I want for Christmas. And this. (That's real polymer clay, you know) This sure does bring back some special memories. Just the thing for my oldest girl who will get her first locker when she starts school--"Use the elsewehre you may use any ordinary magent, use them at the office or pick one up today for that special teenager with a locker at school!" Wow, I couldn't have said it better myself. And, for all of your stereotype-perpetuation needs, there is this postcard, or this one, each suitable for framing. For the politicos among you, take a look at this bit of campaign ephemera for William Howard "Billy Possum" Taft. Since I, too, "Am Good and Sweet." (Beware of Imitators) Finally, if you have $400K, you can live here. It's good to be the king.
Yet another antipossumite screed! O the horror--A's are in need of a new mascot Pesky little things that can't be crushed Gwen KnappWhen will this constant barrage of specieist claptrap cease!? When will self-respecting marsupials be allowed to waddle the streets with their small, ratlike heads held high and not be subject to comparisons with insects or carrion? Golly, closest contender to a roach just makes us all feel great about ourselves, doesn't it!? Well, it seems to me that a certain Miz Kah-napp shouldn't be surprised to wake up one morning and find her trash cans turned over, and all of her dog food gone--not dynamic INDEED! Hmmph!
Council pushes its party tab to court BENJAMIN NIOLET
New transportation security chief described as thoughtful, straight shooter
Straight shooter? One sure hopes.
What IS that smell? Oh, I must be downwind from the WaPo. Once more, Charles Austin dons his respirator to muck out the stable, with more lighthearted Scourging of Dickie Doo: I think that today’s column started out as a complaint about John Walker Lindh’s plea bargain, but then, without thinking (so what else is new), Richard typed “John Ashcroft” on his word processor. Richard’s left eye started involuntarily twitching, his knee began jerking uncontrollably, venomous drool started dribbling down his chin, and he flipped! Richard must have felt an uncontrollable urge to switch gears, deleting whatever he had been working on and furiously penning a screed that breaks through all conventions of reason and reasonableness, rivaling Dan’s rather loopy “what’s the frequency Kenneth” episode for credibility.And that's just the intro!
That wasn't so bad--woke up sorta late, watched DragonTales and snuggled with Tiny Girl (snuggling being a bit of misnomer, in that it consisted of her sprawling across the foot of the bed and rhythmically kicking me in the groin in time with the music), got Oldest Girl registered at the middle school (took about five minutes, cost $42), ate a hearty brunch at Cracker Barrel (took longer than the creation of the world, cost about $42), got Middle Girl to mostly clean her room (took all stinking day, cost innumerable amounts of hair being pulled from my scalp, and the banishment of Tiny Girl to our bedroom to keep her out of the way), got Boy and Middle Girl registered at the elementary school (took about thirty minutes due to everyone in town showing up when I did, but cost only $10 for two agenda books), played at the park (which took only long enough for them to melt into little puddles, cost nothing), went home to welcome Mom, ate supper, and proceeded to work on getting four different school supply lists filled (still incomplete, cost is indetermined since we were recycling as much unused supplies from past years as possible--"Look honey, I don't think the crayon cares if it's only one inch long--it's STILL a blue crayon!" "I KNOW it says 70 sheet notebook, but tearing out the ten you scribbled on during school last year won't matter--it STILL says '70' on the cover!")
And now I'm back here, once more with a pile of undone stuff to be done. So, as always, go read all the folks listed above and I'll check back in once I get some of these alligators beaten back. Wednesday, July 17, 2002
Well, if you thought today's content was crappy, just wait until tomorrow, when I will once again be watching my kids so my maw-in-law can go to the eye doctor. At least tomorrow I will be somewhat smarter and stay home with them, rather than drag them up here and hid them under the drafting table. Although, one does find interesting little notes when children come to work--I was moving some stuff the other day, and found a scrap of paper my middle daughter had left in a big box on the floor: 6/21/02Editor-shmeditor, she's a natural-born blogger--take that Mr. O'Neill! Of course, with such sweet little discoveries, there are also the moments when you could pitch a right nice fit. I came in this morning and started drawing some stuff and needed my pair of dividers. They were underneath a stack of paper on the table, so I picked them up, spread them out, and proceeded to put them down onto a scale. One point in place, aaaaand one point completely missing. What the...! No retaining screw either. Well crap. Being saddled with a walnut-sized marsupial brain, I figured it must have fallen out in the case. Nope. Crap. At least there are some little spare partish things, including a point and a screw in the case. Take out tiny little plastic vial, dump contents in hands. Ahh, a point. Put it to end of divider. Too big. Take out little spare screw. No hole for point to go through. Spare parts to implements that were apparently from another set of tools. (Yes, I know all you CAD folks are chuckling. Leave me to my circles.) ::sigh:: Go back over to table and futz around looking for elusive parts, and finally come to conclusion it was one of my sticky-fingered co-workers who had used it and screwed it up and then dumped it back on my table. Jerks! *&*%$#! That Linus, probably him--he's Nigerian and all, and probably spammed me to distract my attention, then dropped though the ceiling and made off with it! Or maybe it was John, he's an artist, and well, you know how THEY are...oh, look, my set screw and my point...right here by a marker drawing of Pikachu. ::arrrrrrrrRRRRGH:: Stinking kids of mine tearing up my stuff...! I oughta sell 'em to the the ethnic group formerly known as the Gypsies....and then, I found ANOTHER scrawled-on scrap of my GOOD paper..."I love my daddy!" Aw, heck, couldn't get nothing for them anyway--guess I'll keep 'em. BUT AT HOME! Might be able to work in an update or two, as I will be enrolling them for school, and I'm sure making some trips to Wal-Mart, and finishing the final portion of the backyard--all sorts of completely banal and mundane stuff, enriched with the moist and furry goodness of possum.
Army Credit Cards Used in Strip Clubs WASHINGTON (AP) - Some 200 Army personnel used government charge cards to get $38,000 in cash that they spent on "lap dancing and other forms of entertainment" at strip clubs near military bases [...]Navy sources scoff, say "we have a Machinist Mate 3rd on the Ike who can blow that much in one afternoon in Rota." UPDATE: This just in from the kudzu patch--Larry Anderson writes: The story is a perfect example of Senators and reporters mixing apples and oranges in order to make a point. The travel cards (call them apples) are issued in the name of the traveler by the credit card company whether he wants it or not. The government does not guarantee payment and all charges are the holder's responsibility. The rationale is that it saves the government money since it does not have to make advance payments on travel plus the credit card company pays a percentage back to the government. Thank you, Larry (although with all I've learned about the godlike status of reporters in the past few days, I'm shocked that a journalist would ever distort a story to make a point).
Spanish Forces [sic] Moroccans Off Island
Moroccans Protest, Say They Passed Immunity Challenge--Dispute Going to Tribal Council
Angelina Jolie Says Her Marriage on the Rocks [...] "I'm angry. I'm sad. It's a very difficult and sad time," Jolie was quoted as telling Us Weekly. "It was a real deep connection, a deep marriage, so it's not that simple to say this or that one thing caused the problems. It's clear to me that our priorities shifted overnight." [...]Mmmmm-hm.
Hey, you just THOUGHT he was on vacation...lookie here for the newest Newhouse Lileks. [...] Sen. Joe Lieberman, sounding like Droopy weeping as he emerged from anesthesia, worried that Bush's involvement in the Harken case cast a cloud over his moral authority to do something about the economy. It's one thing to make it sound as if Bush were running Harken last week, like a hobby farm, when his Harken involvement dates back to the days when Michael Jackson was still recognizably human.[...]Ooooh! Baywatch! (I like Mr. Lileks.)
Arafat May Appoint Prime Minister
JERUSALEM (AP) - Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat is considering the appointment of a prime minister to share the running of day-to-day government affairs once a Palestinian state is declared after a planned January election, a senior Palestinian official said Wednesday."Yes, we have found that having Chairman Arafat's signature on payments to our glorious martyrs for Semtex and suspenders has made it very easy for him to be accused of supplying Semtex and suspenders to our glorious martyrs."
No matter what you may think of the Homeland Security Plan/Strategy/Fingerpointing Directory, it is comforting to know that somewhere, some smart folks are going to find a way to capture it as a market for their product. (I know you didn't ask, and I know it's been beaten to death, but I still think "Homeland" is just plain silly sounding--"Domestic" is what it should be, but I'm sure there were some overly sensitive sorts who thought we would offend the housekeeping staff.)
Four U.S. Soldiers Injured in Afghanistan BAGRAM AIR BASE, Afghanistan (Reuters) - Four American soldiers were injured when a helicopter tossed debris into the air as it landed in eastern Afghanistan, U.S. military officials said on Wednesday.Quickly claiming credit, an unnamed al-Queda spokesman said "Yes, praise to Allah, our very alive leader, Sheik Osama, who is alive, has planted many such traps of debris all over the world to foil the landings of imperialists whores of Satan. Do not think this was some accident! Since he is alive, and only wounded, and much better now, he is able to bid the djin to cause the rocks, and twigs, and small limbs up to about 3 centimeters, to rise up and smite with righteous fury the wickedness of the infidel. Which he could not do if he were dead, now could he?"
Much work to do this morning, so no posting until after lunch sometime. In the meantime, be sure to read every single site linked above! And lest I forget, there is a brand spanking new spanking of Richard the Seer, Volume Extra Large. You must read it--the power of Rice compels you! Tuesday, July 16, 2002
Baby Dreams
I mentioned in my return-from-vacation post that our youngest seems to have a whole lot of fun in her sleep, to the point of laughing out loud at the funny parts of her dreams. She also seems to be getting better at remembering the action for later retelling. Our usual routine is to roust her about 5:30 a.m. and drag her like a sack of wet cement to the pot so she doesn’t wet the bed. She is semi-conscious during this ordeal, which makes for some interesting conversation and hygiene; then she either stumbles back to her bed, or she stumbles back to her bed, gets four pillows, a Barbie, a shoe, Blankie, Other Blankie, and heads for our bed to snuggle with Mom as Dad gets dressed. After about an hour, I start re-waking her to get her dressed. Most mornings, this is like trying to put clothes on a dead giraffe—lots of dead weight and big floppy appendages. Yesterday, I raised her to the upright seating position and she giggled a bit. “You got that bad old witch.” I tickled her a bit and finally got her awake enough so that she could tell me what was going on. “There was this witch and she was REAL mean and she was bad and you gots your cannon and you shot it off BOOOM and you blew that old witch up and I wasn’t scared.” “Even of the cannon?” Sleepy giggle—“No! You was there and you gots her!” Well, that’s good…I guess. What an intriguing experience that must have been, though, to see ol’ Dad doing battle with the forces of evil. And comforting, too, in that the only cannon she’s ever seen me around is our reenacting group’s smoothbore three-pounder, which seems decidedly low-tech for such work, yet is apparently of sufficient power to defeat black magic. Musta been using canister and grape. Of course, the downside is that this is an awfully violent image for Little Girl to be dreaming about. I felt better this morning, though, when we repeated the arise-tinkle-snuggle-wrestle sequence and this time she blearily said, “My toes!” “What about your toeses?” Sleepy giggle—“Grandmama, she painted thems with her polishes, and she colored on my fingernails, too! Of course, they was red.” Well, of course.
U.N., European, Russian leaders split sharply with Bush administration on future of Arafat, Palestinian aide [sic] Yep, it's the blogosphere that needs editing. Anyway, aside from the dangers of overreliance on spell-check, the story gives us this gem: [...] President Bush, in demanding Arafat's ouster, has accused the Palestinian Authority of corruption, and U.S. aid is distributed to circumvent that body.[ital. mine] Well, somehow I can believe that, given the reputation of international aid programs. UPDATE: I have been called to task by Larry Anderson over at KudzuAcres: Subject: AideObviously something I had not thought of. And also raises the question of when some smart Palestinian entrepreneur will take the successful example of the Arafat Cheese Snack and apply it to the pre-moistened personal wipe market and plaster the Chairman's grizzled mug on a few boxes of wetnaps.
Study: Alabama school teacher pay 19th highest in the nation
How can this be? In a state where education has long gotten short shrift, where there never seems to be enough money for paper and books, how is it we can afford to pay our teachers so much? Alabama schools sued for failure to pay overtime MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- Lawsuits have been filed in federal courts claiming that at least 30 Alabama school systems have failed to pay overtime to support personnel, including cafeteria workers, janitors, bus drivers and secretaries.Oh.
Just a word of warning...
I just got a message from the Yahoo! e-mail postmaster (who I sometimes imagine must look a bit like Captain Kangaroo) that something I sent was undeliverable, and from the looks of it, it seems it must have been a virus. The file in question was sent as an e-mail and is called "document.write." (Or at least a portion of it--part of it was truncated) Two things--a) I don't send any e-mail to anyone with anything attached unless I have told them I'm going to send it. b) Even someone as technically backward as myself should know not to open any attachment from anyone if it is unsolicited. Well, three, c) It was sent to someone I do not recall corresponding with. I have done a virus scan and can't find anything, but it could be something I don't know about. In any case, I'm not sending any attachments or weird looking files to you without prior warning. UPDATE: J. Bowen seems to have had trouble also.
From the "Covering All the Bases" file: Weak Dollar Can Be Good for the Economy, But Also Very Bad
Thanks. AND, from the "Surely You Jest" file: Insider documents says WorldCom executive didn't want SEC inquiry I never jest, and don't call me Shirley. AND FINALLY, from the Inspector Renault "I am Shocked! SHOCKED!" file: Washington masks deficits using accounting tricks
Traficant Late for Ethics Hearing
Must have been fixing his hair. Or, affixing. Anyway, from the story: [...] "In the future, when we set the time for the hearing, unless there's some reason in advance, we need you to be here," Hefley told Traficant.Hard to believe, but there is actually someone out there who makes outgoing Representative Earl "I've Fallen and I Can't Figure Out Who to Blame" Hilliard seem almost normal. Thank God for Ohio, I say. And thankfully, The Hon. Mr. Traficant has no hard feelings towards his fellow Congresspersons. 'Cause he could make it tough for some folks, if you know what I mean.
Stomping on frogs only gets your shoes messy. Get yourself a good gig and a bucket (or a tow sack), Miss Lee Ann! The Sane Half takes un moment to playfully bandy about with the good people of France. The French people get a lot of ribbing in the blogosphere, but France is really okay by me. They gave us Catherine Deneuve, and the Charleville musket, and French fries, and French toast, and French Indo-China, and French horns, and French postcards, and French letters, and the French disease, and cars which make Detroit iron look dependable. Did I mention Catherine Deneuve? OOO, and Sophie Marceau, how could I forget her?! So see, France is alright.
Via Greg Hlatky over at A Dog's Life, his comments on TV Guide's list of the 50 Worst TV shows: FOR ITS 50TH ANNIVERSARY TV Guide has come out with its list of the 50 worst TV shows. Number 5 is Hogan's Heroes. It's not the first time I've seen it on one of these lists.All the rest of the list I more or less agree with, many of the shows listed being spin-offs of dieing or dead sitcoms (AfterMASH, Hee Haw Honies, The Brady Bunch Hour) or just pure excrement (Jerry Springer, PTL, Pink Lady...and Jeff!), but I can't quite understand Hogan's Heroes being included. Six seasons is nothing to sneeze at, and it did give us "I know NOT-INK! I seeeee NOT-INK!" and it had Cynthia Lynn as Fräulein Helga and Sigrid Valdis (Mrs. Crane) as Fräulein Hilda. How could this be a bad show? No, Greg, you are NOT the only person to like this show! (Or F-Troop, for that matter.)
Another sign of the Apocalypse: Liza Minnelli and P Diddy could become reality TV stars
Liza, Puffy, and reality. What a concept. Monday, July 15, 2002
Go read KudzuAcres! This has nothing to do with Mr. Anderson's always kind words for the claptrap I put here, but for his startling revelation that he has a Cooper that ACTUALLY HAS BEEN DRIVEN SEVEN MILES! (Were it an "S," it would have done it in half the time.) Good stuff in there, too, about pacificism and about school vouchers. After having served on two separate Christian school boards (and attending a Christian school for twelve years), I can tell you for certain that his conclusion is just about right, and is the reason my kids go to public school.
Good grief, where does the time go!
Into much arm-waving and useless meetings, that's where. Yet, I still manage to simultaneously answer Possumblog e-mails, Georgia Refugee e-mails and private e-mails (all of which my Chinese e-mail carrier is really getting tired of toting back and forth), eat a snack which is bad for me, doodle a magnificent small public space (if your definition of "magnificent" means a sidewalk and a bench), sign off on a multitude of computerized thingies for people trying to get permits, call my home answering machine and erase the telemarketer guy (that's some more sort of tenacious telemarketer to sit and talk to an answering machine; but then again, if he got me in person he would get the ol' "sorrynotinterestedthanksCLICK," so I guess it makes him feel better), praying for no rain so the kids can make up one of their missed swimming lessons and I can leer at the help, talk to my wife on the phone, finish writing the minutes of last week's meeting, AND try to figure out why Blogspot is down again (I blame the cultural and economic hegemony of the evil United States. You don't see Iraqi bloggers having this kind of trouble on Saddamspot.) So, basically, the time goes into a large vat marked "Waste." Take THAT, Stephen Hawking! Lord willing, we'll do some more of it tomorrow, so check back if you're so inclined.
The latest from Fred Reed, (who incidentally has gone into the giant radioactive cobra-venom-dripping garden slugs breeding business): Ads aren't about products. They're about how we'll feel about ourselves if we pop for them. Products are pretty much identical, so ads compete as cures for boredom and inner emptiness. Often they create, and then assuage, anxiety. "Everybody thinks you smell like a rendering plant. Wash with Dial and they'll stop whispering behind your back…."
Other People's Fun With My Referrer Logs Just received this e-mail from the hand of my trusty Chinese coolie postal runner: Your post (copied below) has me deeply troubled:Dear Marc de Spudlet, please do not allow yourself to be caught up in the madness that is Google. If your evil twin does indeed exist within the blogosphere, I know you will be able to defeat him with clever mind tricks and a kettle of hot oil. Of course, if you have been deluding yourself and you ARE are the Evil Spud, keep up the good work.First up: possum of evil spud. Hmm. I wonder if they mean "the possum belonging to evil spud," or "possum of evil" combined with nice lil' taters?As the possible Spud connection, I have to worry that: In either case, I would be honored to be considered your fellow-travelling marsupial acquaintance, but only in a strictly non-custodial sense (the whole question of ownership conjures up a bit too much don't-drop-the-potato-peeler-type imagery with which I'm not quite comfortable). As for the Potatorave, it sounds dreamy, either as a tasty side dish or the name of a rock band. And Warlord Spud? I just don't know but I doubt he has a pet possum. Sounds more like the ferret type. I hope this helps you come to terms with your deeply troubledness.
TALIBOY PLEADS GUILTY!
Well, ain't that something. He's apparently smarter than I ever gave him credit for. But, there is this little bit of wisdom: Lindh's father said he was thankful the government dropped the more serious terrorism charges. Frank Lindh said he told his son after he was brought back to the United States that South African leader "Nelson Mandela served 26 years and I told him to be prepared for something like that."Of course, I guess since we're making wildly idiotic comparisons, I guess we can look forward to a "Lindh in 2024" campaign and watch as he is swept into the presidency by a tide of public sentiment upon his release, just like my good buddy Nelson. And, it's lucky for all of us that John is not bitter. I was really concerned that he might be upset with us for placing his traitorous little sensitive self on trial. Gosh if he was sore at us, he might have well, you know, taken up arms and try to kill a few of us. Whew! Glad he's not bitter. UPDATE: From another viewpoint, here are some comments from the mother of Mike Spann: [...] Gail Spann, whose son was shot and killed in the Taliban prison uprising at Mazar-e-Sharif on Nov. 25 after interviewing Lindh, said the deal wasn't what her family wanted out of the Justice Department's prosecution of Lindh.And there you see the difference between a true American and everyone else. If you ever wanted to know what "reasoned dissent" means, this is it. I disagree, I think it's wrong, but I respect our system of justice. One wishes John Lindh and those who would defend his actions against his country had similar respect. But at least poor John is not bitter.
Rain
Well, I didn't hit a lick at a snake this weekend due to the intermittent piles of water that kept falling out of the sky. Got up Saturday and got over to Camp Coleman to find that it was too wet for the kids to ride, went right back home and cranked up the lawn mower and got 5/8ths of the way finished with the front yard (and a very interesting variation of a crop circle pattern) before it started raining again, went inside and was forced by my sick-of-clutter wife to clean up the pile of receipts and pins and collar buttons and check stubs and business cards and paper and string and pennies and dust that had accumulated on my nightstand. Blech! Sunday was similarly besotted, and we had just gotten Cat ready for her Pony Pals lesson when once more, the rain came down in great big stage curtains (with ropes and swags and everything!) Blech! Not much done, and not much to write about. No injuries this weekend, no unidentifiable roadkill (thanks J. Bowen!) no odd-looking people (other than the one in the mirror), George Bush is coming to Birmingham this morning, and I have a small park design I have to get drawn up TODAY. So, there will be about 90% less moronic spew for the next few hours. BUT, luckily you can go read all the other folks in the list above, who are all much more betterer writers. As for the one or two people who are disappointed that there's not much creamy, possumy goodness for today, I can only tell you to be patient. Just as soon as I get some work outta the way, the ill-advised opinions and verbal non sequiturs will return in full force. Friday, July 12, 2002
Aww. Is it time to go home already?
Well, no, it's not, but I've other things to get done this afternoon, and stuff to do tonight, and stuff to do tomorrow, and stuff to do tomorrow night, and stuff to do the day after tomorrow, and stuff to do the night after tomorrow. What might it all be? It might be a leisurely cruise through the canals of Venice. It might be when I finally do a shake-down flight in the P-47N I have lovingly restored in my hangar. It might be my one-man show at MOMA. It might be me cutting the grass, unpacking the rest of the stuff from vacation (we still haven't finished because we've had Vacation Bible School every night this week, so we come home, throw a sandwich up in the air, run under it and catch it in our mouths, then pack up and head to the building for two hours, come home and collapse in bed), getting the kids back out to Camp Coleman for the rest of their equine exploitation lessons, figuring out how to keep the feral cat that has taken over our yard from sleeping on top of my car, taking Franklin the F-100 and going and getting a load of rocks to put in the yard and give me something else to try to mow around and keep free of pernicious weeds, washing the hair atop squirming children, hitting myself with something by accident (the newest was last Saturday when we got home--I heard a funny noise in the A/C return vent in the ceiling outside our bedroom, which was caused by the filthy filter getting nearly sucked into the duct. I dropped the vent grille, took out the filter, then went back to close the vent and sliced open my forehead on the razor sharp corner of the grille when I stood up on the chair. Ouch. I look like I've been through Prussian military school.), and generally repeating every weekend story you will read on this site. It might be fun. We'll see, I suppose. See you Monday.
From Alastair McIntyre's Electric Scotland, the regular "Holy Wit" feature of the weekly newsletter: One New Year Sunday a Helmsdale minister rebuked his church officer, not only for arriving late for the evening service, but also for being the worse for drink, and for falling asleep during the sermon. The man excused himself by saying that he had been up the Strath that afternoon, and then added, 'You know what it is like at New Year.' 'I know perfectly well,' replied the minister. 'I was up the Strath myself this afternoon visiting, and I am not in the state that you are in.' 'No,' agreed the beadle, 'but you are not as popular as I am.'IINS,IC!
Fun with Referrer Logs!
First up: possum of evil spud. Hmm. I wonder if they mean "the possum belonging to evil spud," or "possum of evil" combined with nice lil' taters? And I wonder why Possumblog is only FOURTH on the return list. For what it's worth, here's the recipe for Baked Possum and Sweet Potatoes. Next up: fake stories of supermodel kidnapping. At least this time, Possumblog is the number two result, right behind a link to Pravda. Anyway, right now I'm fresh out of fake stories about supermodel kidnapping--I've got one fake story about a group of six supermodels deciding to paint my house for me, but they quit halfway through and I have to go to the courthouse and file a lien on their business; then there are two fake stories about superuglymodels being detained for about fifteen minutes at the video store, then are released with no charges being filed; then there is the real story I have about the supermodel who thought she had Stockholm Syndrome, but never could find anybody to kidnap her; then there are four shaggy dog stories (veracity undetermined); and then there is Possumblog, which is entirely fake. AND NOW, THIS EXCITING UPDATE: This just in: free little girly boy panties stories Sorry, dude, no freebies. And I wear size 42 Fruit of the Loom whitey-tighties.
Whooboy! Axis of Weevil Minister of Non-Melon Products J. Bowen notes that it's time to come up with some Politically Correct Trash Talk!
He's just asking for his self-esteem to be damaged by taunts that a competition for PC trash talk flies in the face of true political correctness, in which competition of any sort is counterproductive to understanding and developing alternative methods of resolving dynamic interpersonal differences of world-view and societal outlook. Further, competitiveness over such a wide-ranging topic as language ofttimes fail to adequately take into account widely divergent meanings associated with the root concepts of "language," with a concomittant neglect of equally equivalent, though non-normative, patterns of communication and relationships among various participants. Maybe it would be better to channel this creativity into the manufacture of papier-mache representations of our homeworld being raped by the forces of unrestrained economic hegemony.
Over at Instapundit, ol' Glenn got my curiosity up about Jeff Cooper's take on arming airline attendants, so I followed his link, and poor Jeff Cooper sez, "I'm not that Jeff Cooper." Not That Jeff Cooper does make a real good point, however, that a hijacker knowing which persons are armed in the cabin could be a recipe for trouble, and it's best to keep them guessing. As for THAT Jeff Cooper's thoughts, I haven't found anything where he addresses the arming of attendants, but does touch on pilots in his Commentaries, Volume 10, Number 2: This matter of arming the pilots of commercial aircraft tends to miss the point, as is the case with many considerations involving groups rather than individuals. Certainly nobody should be armed unless he is properly qualified, both mechanically and temperamentally, in the use of his instrument. You cannot arm a man by simply handing him a gun, and we would not want to see airlines handing out pistols to aircrews. On the other hand, if these people show the desire and the capacity to handle this problem, they should not only be allowed, but encouraged, to protect both themselves and their passengers. This is by no means an abstruse problem. There are all sorts of ways of checking people out in all sorts of skills, from skindiving to skydiving. It is, of course, necessary to remember that people are more significant as individuals than as members of groups.
Real Employment Empowerment
Elizabeth Spiers (who, by the way, is NOT the sister of Britney Spiers [sic], despite what all you pervgooglers who mistakenly stumble upon Possumblog may think, nor do I have any nekkid pictures of her. At least right now), points out one of the core things that separates successful companies from unsuccesful ones: Every employee should be made to feel like they make a contribution - negative or positive - to the bottom line, and that the company's success is directly connected to their individual performance. Not because that sounds nice and makes every feel all warm and fuzzy, but because if every employee has that attitude, it makes a *material* difference to the bottom line. No one takes the minor costs that add up to be major expenses for granted. Individuals understand that their lack of productivity can affect their colleague's job security, and vice versa.Also kinda points out the difference between bureaucratic reality and everything else. Thursday, July 11, 2002
Well, now it appears that some sort of Bravenet counter glitch is tieing up mine and a few other's blogs. I finally just had to cut the code out so the page would finish loading. Not that I'm complaining about this, either. I never do that.
Malaysian Addicts Turn to Cow Dung KUALA LUMPUR, Malaysia (AP) - Faced with some of the world's strictest anti-drug laws, some addicts in Malaysia are sniffing fresh cow dung to get high.Maaaan, that's some good sh... Nah, too easy. UPDATE: I notice in my Friday morning blog stroll that Mr. Goldstein beat me to this punchline by three hours. What can I say? Great minds think alike (only some are very slow on the uptake.) And thanks to him for bringing up the vaunted Alabama Cow Pie Likker story. And as for the cousins, it's less worse if they don't have the same last name.
EEEEEEK!
I was just now sitting here typing up meeting minutes and noticed a small, peculiar looking spider slowly walking across the top edge of my keyboard. I don’t know what kind it is, other than it has sort of a tiny, striped, football-shaped (and by that I mean an oblate spheroid-variety football) abdomen and it looked like it was holding two long legs out in front of itself. It got about to the F8 key and I figured I would thump it off into the floor beyond the desk. I eased my thumb and middle finger down there…just…like…aaaand…AAAAAAH! AAAAAH! *&%@#$&*^^&$&^!!!! ITJUMPEDONMYFINGER!!!!!!! I very nearly screamed like a little girl and fell off my tuffet, but realizing my reputation, I screamed like some large moron and flicked it off somewhere. Where?!? Oh crapohcrapohcrap! I probably flung it into my hair or down my shirt collar or in my ear or down my shoe and it’ll crawl out and bite me and kill me and I’ll be stuck here at my desk until someone notices that I’m moving less than normal and… Oh, there it is. Climbing across one of the kids’ picture frame on my desk. Then it disappears again. At least it’s not on me. I don’t think. Then it shows up on the cork board wall beside my desk. A coworker just came in and I showed him and told him it jumped on me. He was suitably impressed, and then I got a piece of paper and squashed it. The spider, not Fred. Fred is too big to squash with paper, and he has never jumped on my finger. Well, anyway, back to work. UPDATE: Pelican Stater Janis Gore writes in marvelling at my lack of fortitude and general goobishness: Subject: Eeeee?Well, all I know is that The War would have been over in minutes had the Yankees unleashed spiders at First Manassas. In this case, my high-pitched squeal of terror was not caused so much by the spider itself as it was the unexpected preemptive strike it launched on my "i-k-comma" typing finger. Just try typing anything witty and erudite without "i" or "k" or the lovely ","! I had very good reason to be all skeert.
Conyers suggests Democratic candidates avoid running against each other in primaries
This certainly always worked well for the Politburo.
Missing Open Golfers Baffling LONDON (Reuters) - British authorities are investigating whether dozens of Nigerians fraudulently obtained visas by posing as golfers with invitations to next week's British Open.Get ready for some interesting e-mails... GREETINGS! My name is Dr. Thomas Mbatomo, and I formerly was the head of the Nigerian Federal Golfing Ministry until I recently had to flee my homeland of Nigeria. I secretly writing to you to request your assistance in helping me transfer a large sum of money which the Nigerian National Sporting Association has tried to withhold from our oppressed golfing professionals who have tried to go to Great Britain to play golf. The Federal Golfing Ministry had allocated five hundred trillion American dollars (US$500.000.000.000.000,00) for our golfers to travel, stay at hotels, and have a small per diem. BUT, This money will only be able to be paid to our patriotic golfers if it can be taken away from the currupt dictator's Bureau of Sporting Finances and this can only be done by secretly transferring ownership of the money to a third party. THIS IS LEGAL! YOu name has been given to me as someone who can be trusted to assist us in these effort. For your trouble, you will be given a 15% fee for the use of your bank account, which will only be needed as a intermediary account. THIS IS LEGAL!...
This explains a lot...Vacations Are Wearing Americans Out: Survey NEW YORK (Reuters Health) - They're supposed to be a time of rest and relaxation, but vacations have become such a hassle that many Americans come home more worn out than ever, a new Gallup survey shows.
Blogspot is hammered with server problems today, and they are only letting us freeloaders publish by taking turns. I'm not gonna complain. I never do that.
A right reg'lar Burning Man festival today as Axis of Weevil Straw Man Conflagration Specialist Charles Austin presents the Scourging of Some Guy in Dung-colored Glasses, Number One Score and Nineteen. [...] In a way, I agree with Bush. Enron, WorldCom, Global Crossing and all the rest are exceptions if only because of some teeny-weeny accounting errors in which billions of expenses were reported as profits. Bush, though, thinks the rest of corporate America is just hunky-dory while I think it just stinks.One wonders if Mr. Cohen makes more than $24,466 a year. If so, it's only fair, using his logic, that he should give the difference to someone else. (Of course, it would be hard to believe that anybody would willingly give him even $24,466 per annum for his "efforts.")
I just want to say one word to you - just one word.
Yes sir. Are you listening? Yes I am. 'Plastics.' Thanks, Mr. Hlatky!
Navy Says Boat Wreckage Likely Kennedy's PT-109 [...] Mark Wertheimer of the Naval Historical Center said his team compared original photographs against 10 hours of video footage obtained by a team led by U.S. oceanographer Robert Ballard, famed for discovering the sunken ocean liner Titanic.When this story first broke, I was a bit sceptical that they could tell for certain that it was Kennedy's boat, mainly because there were no details from Ballard about why he suspected this was 109. However, the quote above from Mr. Wertheimer about their reasoning and their methods makes it sound like much more of a sure thing. And a really cool find. PT boat crews did dangerous work in a dangerous place, and no matter what you may think of the Kennedy family politically or personally, Jack was a good skipper. Go Navy!
S.Korea Picks First Female PM, Six New Ministers ...While in N. Korea, Benevolent Leader encourages comrades to quit complaining about the taste of grass.
Adventures in Headline Writing!--Jerry Springer sued by son of former guest who was killed by ex-husband
Sounds like a good idea for a show theme. Wednesday, July 10, 2002
Archaeologists Reveal Roman Finds ...and give some insight to the later English inventions of jellied eel and Marmite: [...] A display Monday of artifacts found in the ruins of a first century garrison in northwestern England suggests the frontier was not all that grim.Yummy! PORTVMNVS (portrayed by John Cleese): Hail, dear; what have we for supper this night? PEIRENE (portrayed by Terry Jones): Tunny Helper with Dates, and quit tracking dirt into the house! Wipe your caligae outside! AND DON'T PUT THAT PUGIO ON THE TABLE! PORTVMNVS: Apologies. Is that the Tangiers Old Style? PEIRENE: It's just as good...go wash your hands. PORTVMNVS: Does it thus have the luscious dates, and the savory herbs and spices? PEIRENE: Oh good grief! Yes, it has dates, they couldn't put "Dates" on the amphora without it actually having dates, now could they?! Dates are dates--so what if the pieces are smaller. AND YES, herbs and spices, too, and something called Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil and Glyceryl Monostearate--just like they have in Tangiers. Happy? PORTVMNVS: Well, those store brands... PEIRENE: Look, if you don't like the store brands all the time, you're either going to have to march in there to Marcellvs tomorrow and demand a higher take from the customs house, or arrange some sort of bad accident for him and get a promotion! PORTVMNVS: It is not that, my dear; simply that the Gaels and Picts are very naughty about putting rabbit droppings in the boxes and trying to pass them off as dates... PEIRENE: FINE! You go get it, and YOU cook it! PORTVMNVS: ::mumbles under breath::
U.S. Developing 'Star Wars' Style De-Mining Gun
Oh for the day when anything having to do with lasers is not immediately dubbed "Star Wars." FLASH--U.S Developing 'Star Wars' Style Pointing Device To Replace Collapsable Metal Wands--Said To Fit in Pocket! Anyway, the article goes on to describe a big old laser mounted on a Humvee that will explode surface laid mines. The interesting part? [...] Although the weapon does not work on buried mines, it could be effective against surface-laid devices and munitions such as unexploded shells and cluster bombs.Way to go, Huntsville! Wonder if they would loan one for the annual Axis of Weevil Picnic and Artillery Review...
Saddam was urged early on to seek power and glory, analyst says WASHINGTON (AP) -- A turning point for Iraqi President Saddam Hussein may have occurred when, at age 9, he came under the influence of a maternal uncle, says Jerrold Post, a specialist on the outlooks of foreign leaders.Gosh, at age nine, I was instilled with the vision of a United States who got sick and tired of Barbary pirates and sent the Few and the Proud to the shores of Tripoli. I say the Marine Hymn could use a new stanza, although it may be hard to find something that rhymes with Baghdad or Pyongyang.
Holden and Golding and Cohen, Oh My!
One of the bad things about being out is having to catch back up on stuff, but then the stuff you catch back up on is really good, like the most recent Scourging of Bonhomme Richard, Episode Exty Exty Exty Vee Aye Aye Aye. In this episode, Dick says not much, badly, and our hero vigorously slaps him betwixt the ears. There's too much to choose from, so here is a sampling: [...] What kid can stand up to that kind of pressure? Certainly, no member of Congress could.Such good hearted, wholesome fun! As for Mr. Cohen, I wonder if he would be willing to champion the Second Amendment as zealously as he seems to the First? Yeah, I know, silly me.
This is very, VERY late, but I did want to say congratulations to Mark Byron on his nuptialization. Best wishes from the Possum Clan to you both! (Just remember that if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.)
Passenger Taken Off Flight for Drunk Pilot Joke [...] America West spokeswoman Patty Nowack said Tuesday the passenger was removed from the Tucson-bound plane and later placed aboard another flight.Well, if it was so serious, why did they put her back on ANOTHER plane!? She might have started a ruckus about the peanuts, or the creases in the inflight magazine, or the dorky shoes the flight attendant has on! WHERE WOULD WE BE THEN! A whole 'nother planeload of poor, frightened passengers, terrorized by this harpy--I think it's obvious that America West is being too lax here--they should have detained her for a couple of weeks in the lounge area with some drunk pilots.
One of the few things I really like about The Birmingham News are the little feature stories they write about folks in their Just a Chat... columns. This is a nice one written by William Thornton about a guy who lives close by in Remlap and works on cars. (For those not in the know, Remlap is next door to Palmerdale, and in fact is "Palmer" spelt backwards. In addition, I know a guy named Dale Palmer who lives in Palmerdale.) Anyway, an excerpt from the story: [...] Is it hard to keep up with changes in cars?Yep. Tuesday, July 09, 2002
Thanks to everyone who has sent me birthday wishes today--and especially to Dr. Weevil, who pointed out to me that I share a birthday with Donald Rumsfeld, who is seventy. I didn't know about this until the good Doc mentioned it. I also didn't know I shared it with O.J. Simpson, who is 55. (I had to find that one out myself.)
Imagine if we all got together for a birthday party--O.J. would be clowning around with the knife and comparing the cake to "a certain person," Rummy would be over in the corner with some Delta guys arranging his own little hunt for "the real killer," and I would be trying to get everyone to sit down and be quiet so I could tell the telemarketing guy to quit calling at suppertime, and O.J. would get all nervous and think I was calling 911 and get all up in my face. I hate it when he does that. Then Sue Lizano's mom would come in and smack the crap out of him and tell him to get his #$%^(@) out of the house. Yep, it would be quite the party. Anyway, many thanks again, and a reminder that the free ice cream cones will be 27% smaller tomorrow, due to my having to shuffle large stacks of paper around and look the part of an officiously self-important bumblecrat. Wheeeee!
A Yahoo!/E! Online article from yesterday rehashing the accusations of the Artist Who Was Once a Black Kid against Sony Music and Tommy Mottola: [...] Ironically, even Sharpton said he was "surprised" by Jackson's racism charge against Mottola. Commenting in Monday's New York Post, Sharpton tried to distance himself from Jackson's attack.When you're playing the race card game and Big Al folds after you raise, you better KNOW your hand is a winner. (I see a nice consulting contract with Sony headed towards Sharp One with nice big, creamy, dollar signs.)
Blind Psychic Gropes Buttocks to See Future BERLIN (Reuters) - Forget palm-reading. A blind German psychic claimed Tuesday he could read people's futures by feeling their naked buttocks.You know, there are things about my future I would rather not know. (Although I'm sure there are a lot of folks who would like to try this technique on Jennifer Lopez.)
Spaniards rave over TV sitcom based on Franco years
This just in from Weekend Update--Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead.
The Honda vehicle plant expansion over in Lincoln has been in the news for days now, but the official announcement was made today, and I link to this story via CBS MarketWatch only because the reporter William Spain uses the term "Yellowhammer State."
1
2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40. 40 years. Before you get there, you can't figure out why this thing won't go any faster and why everyone is giving you the finger. When you finally do get here, you find out the brake pedal goes all the way to the floor and there's an awful lot of traffic in front of you. You're left with trying to figure out if the emergency brake works, or if you can downshift, or if you can rub off speed on a Jersey barrier, or you try to find a soft spot on the shoulder, or you just start blowing the horn and brace yourself. Or, you turn up the radio a bit, look in the mirror and make sure your hair looks right, and floorboard it. And then, moments before impact, a helicopter will swoop down with a ladder and you climb up and find out it's being flown by a former Bulgarian spy played by Sophie Marceau, and she whisks you to a secret NSA lab where you are interrogated by agents portrayed by Jodi Applegate and Norah O'Donnell, who keep asking you why you think it's important to try to share silly, self-referential maunderings with a group of strangers. And you explain that it's your birthday and you can't quite figure out whether to write something ponderiferous and twee to mark the occasion or lapse into some sort of slapdash farce in which your antogonists can't keep their clothes on. As they mockingly strut around the interrogation table, with the lights following every contour of their newswomanly physiques, Wilford Brimley bursts in and asks if you've had your bowl of oatmeal. "It's good for you." Jodi and Norah both swoon, and Wilford brusquely says, "You're in trouble here, get up and let's go!" Despite your protestations that your captors had saved you from a terrifying collision which would have caused your insurance to skyrocket, and that even now they were both vulnerable to mischief, having swooned and are now lying dishabile at your feet, he hurries you through a nearby (conveniently unlocked and unguarded) side door into a waiting Rambler 440 two-door sedan. He drives off and finally speaks again after adjusting his suspenders, "What's wrong with you?" And you think 'oh great, more interrogation, and this time by a flatulent old man with cereal in his moustache,' and you hope he doesn't try the ol' naked interrogation routine, 'cause that would be too gross even for the weirdest sort of hallucinatory birthday blog entry and then he punches you in the arm and says "I asked you a question, boy!" and you answer that you were just trying to mark a special occasion with interesting observations about life and stuff. He makes some sort snuffling grumble sound and looks at you out of the corner of his eye. "Idiot." You drive on and on, through a very long expanse of desert, and he keeps having to stop and pee on the cacti every fifteen minutes. During one interminably long portion of the drive, flashing lights suddenly fill the car and you are pulled over by CHP Officer Bonnie Clark, played by Randi Oakes. Wilford starts trying to mouth off at her, and she smacks him a good one with her baton which sends him to his knees. You cheer and tell her that he kidnapped you from a perfectly nice interrogation and made you ride all across the desert in a car that smelled like Old Spice and phlegm. He starts screaming that you should be grateful, and that at least it wasn't a four door or a station wagon. She calls for a paddy wagon for the coot, and asks you to ride up front with her back downtown. She lets you play with the lights and sirens, and you manage to get her to see how fast the cruiser will go let you shoot the shotgun out the window at road signs and you don't really want to ask why it is she was way out in the desert like that, because you're having too much fun getting to play with all the cool cop stuff. She drops you off beside a comfortable and nicely upholstered sofa, which looks a lot like the one you saw in the last issue of Town and Country. The phone rings and it's the late Charles Nelson Reiley, but you quickly hang up and realize that you are standing at the lectern in a nondescript civic center, and that you are expected to give a speech to the assembled crowd of the Janet Reno Appreciation Society. You clear your throat and button your coat so that it covers your underwear, "Today, I am forty years old, and..." You are drowned out by the sound of thunderous applause and realize that Miss Reno herself has appeared at your side. "Well, then I guess that means that you get a great big kiss." As she sweeps you up in her husky embrace and she peers at you through her large plastic framed eyeglasses, a small beeping sound is heard. It progressively gets louder, and you look over and see that it's five a.m. Turn it off. Sit up. Vow not to eat the spicy pork rinds after nine p.m. Turn on CBS early news to see what Julie Chen is wearing. Get your tee shirt and FoTLs and turn on the shower. Pee. Take medicine. Brush teeth. Shower. Wonder what to do about van that is still running funny. Wonder if the kids at Vacation Bible School last night listened to you, or were just trying to figure out why Jacob was wearing glasses, or alternately, why Mr. Terry was wearing a big dress. Wonder about when you're going to replace the filters in the air conditioners. Wonder when vacation will get paid off. Wonder why there is a loofa in the shower, since no one uses it. Wonder if peanut butter dental floss would sell. Wonder when grass will get cut. Rinse. Repeat. Dry off, get dressed, wake wife and kids, turn over to local news, wonder how these people ever got a job. Get littlest kid dressed. Brush hair, fix pony tails, try to find orange and white fish toy. Kiss wife. Take kids to grandma's. Turn to leave--"Happy Birthday, Daddy!" Hugs and kisses. Go to work. Blog. Monday, July 08, 2002
Hey, y'all, I'm home
Well, here we are again. Lots of blank space on the screen, and lots between my ears. If you put my head up to your ear, all you hear is the sound of the ocean. Amazing how much mental vigor escapes after a week at the beach. A whole week of thinking of nothing but how much seafood is too much (never got an answer on that), how much sun is too much (ignition of close-by draperies with the heat generated by your neck is an approximate measure), how much inhaled pool water is too much (less is better, especially in a pool full of children with tiny weak bladders). ::sigh:: I get back, and it’s as if I was gone a month—stacks of crap left undone by wonderfully efficient government-issue bureaucratic coworkers (thank you!), grass banging the underside of the eaves, the huge stack of blogs the delivery boy threw in the yard—there’s just too much to process. I keep telling everyone how tired I am, but I would much rather be tired from spending two hours catching Wild Baby jumping into the pool than having to return umpty-jillion phone calls about stuff that common garden voles could solve. But, that’s what makes vacation even better. Or work even worse. A week’s worth o’fun is too much to cram into this blog, so I’ll touch on a few highlights. Road Kill Four coyotes (all before getting very far out of Jefferson County, and as always, nary an anvil in sight), three raccoons, a seagull, a snake, assorted furry meat pies, about twenty armadillos and only four possums. I am not sure whether to be glad or sad about that last part—either possums are getting scarcer or smarter, or ‘dillers are getting abundanter and stupider. Neither scenario is a good one. Gulf Shores, Alabama Great weather all week, even though there were towering storms out in the Gulf, down around Perdido, across the bay toward Dauphin Island, and north up in Baldwin County. They all skirted around and left only a few drops of rain. No motorized scooters to be found this trip, and either they have added a bike lane or I just didn’t remember it being there, but there were few of those butt-puckeringly close calls with moron-with-a-snootful-and-a-toy crowd. There were a huge amount of folks down there, but it didn’t seem oppressive or scary—everyone was pretty well behaved, waiting on the traffic lights to change and keeping the thumping-bass stereos on wheels toned down to a manageable level. Gulf Shores is more family oriented than a lot of places on the Gulf that cater to college kids (or their bad-driver twins—ancient snowbirds so tiny they can’t even see over the steering wheel; assuming they can see at all), so even at its worst, it is still pretty fun, even for a curmudgeon. Good grief, what am I saying!? The place is a total hellhole! GO AWAY! DON’T GO THERE! There is a constant shower of pestilence and perfidy, with mobs of scabby, slack-jawed poltroons! BAD! (Good googlie, how I wish I was back down there.) Seafood Price does not indicate quality. The Original Oyster House is good, but busier than a shark in a pool of chum. The Back Porch is good, but the servings are criminally small, although it is fun to sit there and watch folks pull up at the dock and sit down for supper. Surprisingly, Gulf State Park Resort’s restaurant puts out one of the best buffet spreads, with really good fresh ocean stuff at a very reasonable price. The only drawback is the place itself, which labors under the pall of governmental oversight as part of the Alabama State Park System. It was built in 1974, with all of the style and grace of the big bunker in Guns of Navarone. Big, brutalist, concrete thing which was out of style eight years before it was built, with icky plastic tablecloth covered fold-up tables and Saarinen knock-off Tulip chairs that are still covered in sort of a weird 1970s proto-industrial olive green vinyl. Doors patched with bits of metal that look like Skip from the Metal Shop at Atmore Prison made his very own self, dust bunnies in the corners that could have made a throw rug, rusty light fixtures—INSIDE THE BUILDING, brown streaks on the walls from the leaky dead-flat roof (flat roofs, non-existent upkeep, and torrents of annual rainfall do not a happy ménage make). All of it is just pitiful—especially when you go a half mile either way and see what the private side manages to do. But it does have one thing—location. Huge frontage of untouched prime beach real estate, great big Lake Shelby back off the road behind it, and plopped right there between Orange Beach and Gulf Shores. Ah, well. Food’s good. Tall Ships Wednesday we drove down to Fort Morgan to see what promised to be a really neat thing with the arrival of a group of big schoonery-clippery-type sail boats for Mobile’s Tricentennial celebration. They were going to moor at the channel, then head up the bay on Thursday. The entire Eastern Shore decided to go see what there was to see. Which was a couple of boats, including the USCGS EAGLE. The rest either were too far out to sea to see, or had not arrived or had already gone up the bay. Which was disappointing, especially after enduring a billion people waiting to use one bathroom, or walking a half mile from the parking place in 100 degree heat with four whiny children and two whiny inlaws. There was a brief black powder cannon firing event. Two rounds. Please. At least there was the thrilling walk back to the parking place in 100 degree heat with three whiny children, one whiny preteen girl who chose to make a point of acting like a large, loosely constructed wombat turd to curry favor with two whiney inlaws, who chose to use this as a time to hold forth that our parenting style was unfair, in that it placed undue burdens upon one particular child who was extra special and was deserving of free rein to act in any sort of non-species-specific mammal feces-type she wished. My, what a long, LONG walk back to the parking lot. It was definitely a learning experience. Swimming Those swim lessons paid off pretty well, in that none of the kids drowned. Not for lack of trying. Catherine’s biggest problem was that she was having so much fun that she tended to forget it is unwise to laugh underwater. That cost us two separate incidents of unintended protein discharge and much embarrassment as we attempted to use a towel to corral small bits of really icky floating stuff. She was able to do pretty well in the face down and face up float modes, though, and thoroughly enjoyed repeatedly jumping into the water from poolside. Lots of splash. Jonathan did fine, and finally got to where he could do something that looked like swimming. Ashley contented herself with trying to tell everyone what they were doing wrong, all the while studiously avoiding putting her head underwater. Rebecca still is very timid, even in three feet of water, but she is better than she was to start with. Biggest surprise was Reba, who even though she had lessons when she was little, had not really swam in maybe 30 years. “You know, I really need to take lessons again.” I looked around. “Well, let’s see—you’ve got on a swim suit and you’re IN THE WATER. What are you waiting for!?” So we went through the basics, including actually getting your face under the water and messing up your nicely fixed hair, holding your breath whilst there, floating, gliding, molesting, diving, kicking, and groping. Despite my pedagogical methods (which were attuned more toward my own amusement rather than her instruction) she did fine, and didn’t want to get back out. The Beach No signs of Leonardo DiCaprio, so we start off with a great big plus right there. The sand was in great shape this year—blinding white with little trash, no seaweed to speak of, no jellyfish (which meant no Spongebob) and a huge abundance of shells. We went out for about an hour and came back with several big bucketsful. Most were pretty small, because we didn’t get way out in the water, but they were impressive nonetheless and there seemed to be a lot of dark colored scallop shells. Don’t know why. There were a good many people, but not crowded to the point of being uncomfortable. More or less perfect. The Condo Wars, or What Happens When Large Amounts of Disposable Income Meets the Fireworks Stand It is illegal to discharge fireworks within the corporate limits of Gulf Shores, Alabama. Which make me wonder what would happen if it was legal. As it stands, civil disobedience in celebration of American Independence with huge caches of explosives is alive and well, and pretty much was continuous on the nights before, during, and after the Fourth. I imagine the entire Chinese military complex would be flush with cash for the entire year based solely upon the combined purchases of the folks in our condo and the ones on either side. Sure was cool, though. The best was the night of the Fourth itself. The Town of Gulf Shores sponsors a legal, safe, and huge display every year from a barge anchored a couple of hundred yards offshore. This year, it looked like it might get rained out, as one of those gigantic thunderstorms looked like it was going to blow back in from the east. Miles high piles of black clouds that came down and met the water and bolts of lightning all across the sky. Luckily, it stayed back east of town and blew down far south down into the Gulf, so the official display went on as scheduled, accompanied by God’s Own Fireworks Show from horizon to horizon. The barge would light off a few hundred big boomers and then one of the several groups of folks on the beach would light off some big mortar shells and then there would be a huge network of purple lightning running across the underside of a hundred square miles of clouds, with attendant thunder sound effects. God always got the biggest applause. God apparently likes to celebrate like a regular good ol’ boy patriot, but of course, God was working out beyond the 12-mile limit, so he didn’t have to worry about getting himself arrested. Relaxing I did not get to watch the History Channel, although I was able to watch every single cartoon on the Cartoon Network, and I did finally get to watch my copy of The Sand Pebbles that I brought from home. I bought it nearly two years ago off the bargain rack, but only got to see it during vacation. Sort of. First night was aborted due to some sort of bathtime crisis, and the second night it had to compete with everyone trying to see how loudly they could discuss everything else except my movie as they loudly shushed the kids and loudly told them that I was trying to watch my show. They all finally decided I was being too antisocial and they all went down to the beach to play. As for the movie--we need more actors like Steve McQueen. I think it would also behoove us to make sure our sailors can still conduct a boarding party with pistol and cutlass in summer whites. Other relaxing activities included going to the zoo, which was very nice, but not quite worth the 41 bucks it took to admit a family of six; several laps around the Big Woody in a go-kart, which was very nice, but not quite worth however much it finally wound up costing us; and a round of miniature golf at the Zooland Park (next door to the zoo, hence the name) which was the adventure it always is. Oldest Girl hits ball eight times and uses the putter to keep errant balls from rolling back to the tee, then claims a score of four; Little Girl combines the finesse of a wrecking ball with the smooth strokes of an axe-murderer as she chases her ball over multiple adjacent holes; Boy tries to figure out how all the obstacles are built; Middle Girl tries to play the game straight up; Mom tries to not beat little children with putter; and I sweat buckets and try to figure out why anyone really likes to do this. I took several books, and even bought one while I was there, but didn’t read anything. We shopped some, including several trips to the Wal-Mart in Foley (I might give up blogging for a week, but surely you don’t think I could give up on Wal-Mart!), and did some outlet shopping at the stores where you can buy stuff you can’t get anywhere else (except at any decent-sized department store) and pay the absolute lowest price around (except, again, at any decent-sized department store). As for sleeping late…HAH! Between the kids firing up Nickelodeon and my mama-in-law deciding to do laundry at 6:30 every morning, sleeping late was just a silly dream. Speaking of which, Reba and I wound up sharing a room with Jonathan and Catherine. I never knew it, but Catherine talks in her sleep, and even more interesting is she laughs like she’s having quite the wild time. Every night, she would just cackle and giggle. Beats screaming, I suppose. I do wonder what she must be dreaming about. Going Home We left early Saturday, loaded down with all of our plunder and booty. Reba’s mom and dad decided to stop and eat, and we went on, stopping to pee and air up the tires and buy gas and cold drinks. Everything was great until just north of Prattville, when the engine popped and lost power, then finally died. Crap. Saturday about noon it was around 97 degrees in South Alabama, and an interstate shoulder is not the place to pass the time. And Reba’s cell phone was dead. Crap. I figured that there was something in the gas—it has done this before after a pretty long trip and usually clears itself after sitting for a while. Of course, we were able to go into a nice building when it happened then. This time was just a long strip of very hot asphalt. Crap. I got out and raised the hood, just to check and see if there was anything else it could be—everything looked fine and I lowered the hood and came around the passenger side and met up with a State Trooper. Halleluiah! He was going to another call and saw us and pulled over. While he was there, it did crank back up but wouldn't stay running, so I got him to call a tow truck before he went on. We waited about fifteen minutes and saw no sign of a truck, so I cranked it up and it ran fine. We headed back out and of course, twenty miles further it crapped out again. This went on all the way to Clanton, and we made about four different stops, each time just past an exit or in the middle of nowhere. Crap. Finally, we hit Clanton right and were able to coast into a service station. I filled it up with premium and two bottles of injector cleaner, and actually managed to make it to Trussville with no further stops. Thank God. And so ends the brief, expurgated version of My Summer Vacation. I got in and saw that Possumblog had about as many hits without me as with me, which tells me a lot, but being the large, pea-brained marsupial I am, I doubt I will figure out what it tells me. Anyway, glad to be back. Thursday, June 27, 2002
Packin’ it in a bit early for the week (and for next week, too, for that matter…)
I realize posting has been very light this week, and probably a few of you new visitors are quite sure, given the dearth of hard-nosed and pithy commentary about important stuff, that Possumblog’s “unknown” status is richly deserved. Which is quite observant of you. But I have had other barrels of fish to burn at both ends, and other beeswax to run up the flagpole, namely the pursuit of gainful employment. Martina, baby, you’re right—everything’s for money here in the good ol’ US o’A, and since I don’t have the wondrous ability to insure the safety of the world’s health, ethics or the environment by playing tennis and being a lesbian, I am chained to the only thing I know to do, which is to work and try to make enough money to be able to go with my wife and kiddies on vacation next week. So, I have tried extra special hard the last couple of days to get everything cleared up enough and far enough ahead that I will not be swamped upon my return. Hence the lack of time to use my walnut-sized marsupial brain for other tasks, such as high-quality blogging or buying Q-Tips. Tomorrow will be meetings all morning, then meetings all afternoon, so this is it for a few days. I will be completely disconnected from a computer next week, so for the thousa…hundr…three of you who try to get in touch with me or send me a story about Mee-maw killing that guy, you will have to wait for my return for acknowledgement. But when I get back, whooboy are y’all gonna hear some stories. We will be going (thankfully in separate vehicles) with my in-laws, thus insuring our survival given Grandmom’s propensity for buying out the grocery store before leaving. She has been packing for three weeks now (honest—I am not making this part up) and has bought huge quantities of provender and cups and plates and napkins and water and juice and everything else which would normally be required to supply a Marine Recon unit for three months in the jungle. Apparently there are no such things as grocery stores along the Redneck Riviera. We also are bringing the children with us, insuring that Daddy will not get to do what he would really like to do on vacation--stay in the room, watch the History Channel, and molest his wife. Instead, I will act as chauffeur, dodging sunburnt maroons riding electric scooters on the little strip of asphalt between the white stripe and the edge of the pavement, and going into every single place that has sunglasses and shells to explore the fruitful bounties of the Chinese plastics industry in the form of dolphin penlights and keychains with “Gufl Shures” written on the side. And there will be go-karts, and miniature golf, and the swallowing of much pool water. It will be the weekend every day, which can only mean that I will return even more exhausted than when the weekend is only two days long. And you know what that means—a single, 30,000 word blog entry. And since I won’t have access to a computer, it also means that I won’t be able to post anything in celebration of our country’s birth. So, I lifted the introduction from the Inaugural Address of John Kennedy (via the John Fitzgerald Kennedy Library and Museum). Sounds pretty good to me, especially considering a lot of the commentary floating around the past few days. We observe today not a victory of party but a celebration of freedom--symbolizing an end as well as a beginning--signifying renewal as well as change. For I have sworn before you and Almighty God the same solemn oath our forbears prescribed nearly a century and three-quarters ago.Hope you all have a great holiday—see you when I get back.
You know, I’m just that way.
I used to have a real fun coworker to whom I would talk about all my seemingly endless supply of publicly self-inflicted pain and misery. (Much as I do with you poor people now) She was also prone to such rank clumsiness or poor karma, and in comparing notes, we figured out that not only were we pretty pathetic, we also managed to do stupid stuff to ourselves in twos. Like the time I hit myself in the head with a hammer. Twice. I was trying to relocate a pipe column in the basement of my mom’s house. I wanted to do this because my mother thought that she might want to build a room in the basement, and the column was just barely out of line with where it needed to be. It only needed to move over about two inches, and would then be in line with a future wall and be hidden under the future layer of drywall. The column was not nailed into the joist girder above, or anchored into the concrete, so I got a floor jack and another length of pipe and very gingerly jacked up the girder just enough to take the pressure off the column. Not quite enough to move it by hand, though, so I had to resort to some extra help in the form of a hammer. First I just grabbed one of the ball peen hammers off the work bench, but after the first incredible ear-ringingly loud tap, I thought better of using that. Hmmm. Dum-dee-dum-dee-doooooo—HEY! I know what! My dad had an ancient, heavy, rubber-faced tire hammer somewhere in all the mess of tools of ours—THAT’S what I needed—nice cushiony rubber. The hammer was from the job he had a long time ago at the gas station in Praco, and was used for breaking down truck tires. Not only did it have a rubber face (backed by a steel head), it had a wedge-shaped peen on the back for whacking down the tire bead at the rim. I found it in the bottom of the toolbox and started waling on the top of the column for all I was worth. WHANG-BOUNCE WHANG-BOUNCE WHANG-BOUNCE Each time, the hammer would rebound at a slightly different angle, just as one would expect a hard rubber thing to react after contacting a cylindrical surface. WHANG-BOUNCE WHANG-BOUNCE WHANG-THUD It bounced just right that last blow, and the wedge-shaped peen caught me right square above my eyebrows. You know the stars that twirl around Wile E. Coyote after he catches an anvil with his head? Those are real. I saw them. You ever wonder why Wile E. Coyote never decided to stay away from anvils? Because he was a genius. Said so on his business card. Just like on mine. Figuring that the since the lightning had now struck that it surely couldn’t happen again, I blithely ignored Murphy’s Law Number 317 and once more picked up the tire hammer. WHANG-BOUNCE WHANG-BOUNCE WHANG-BOUNCE Yep, still all the SuperBall bounces. WHANG-BOUNCE WHANG-UHHHHGHGHHH Hmm, that hurt again. This time it was more off to the left and slightly higher upon my forehead. More stars. And little birdies. And the blinding pain that usually only bovines feel as they are poleaxed. But I did get that stupid column moved over just right. I relate this story only because my mother-in-law had to go back to the doctor at 2 o’clock today. Which means that once more, I have brought the Booger Brigade BACK to work with me. They are at this very moment happily sprawled across the floor of my office, using up the colory stuff inside of $4-each Prismacolor markers at a prodigious rate and falling out of the drafting stool and wondering why Daddy is rubbing his forehead. By the way, my mother decided not to finish the basement. She built another house and moved.
Well, today is apparently just the day for stories about the black arts (see what happens when they make the Pledge of Allegience unconstitutional!): Freemasons say they are not sinister freaks
UPDATE: Illuminati of Avignon say they are sinister, but not particularly freakish; John Birch Society says "Well, yeah, we're pretty sinister freaks"; Skull and Bones Society says Bush ties meaningless; Democratic National Committee says it welcomes all, regardless of beliefs--Proposes Sinister Freak Caucus, Rep. McKinney (D. Ga) first member; Carnival Freaks, Inc. threatens class-action against Freemasons for alleged slurs--Spokesman says "Tired of being associated with Freemasons"; No comment from Axis of Weevil World Headquarters.
Let's hope she doesn't find herself in Wetumpka: Miss Cleo Won't Discuss Birthplace FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. (AP) - Television psychic Miss Cleo repeatedly invoked her Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination Wednesday, refusing to discuss a birth certificate that shows she was born in Los Angeles to American parents.
One more for the "Fill In Your Own Story" file: Wetumpka man charged with making terroristic threat over voodoo curse
I love this place. Wednesday, June 26, 2002
And some real smart fellers from the East (that being Tifton) brung with them gifts of a $20 gift card, baby wipes, and a whole mess of Glade Plug-Ins
There is apparently some sort of Bravenet hit counter glitch operating out there, so Possumblog is loading slowly. Sorry for the inconvenience.
And for the lack of anything to reward your patience.
The thing that makes Wednesdays extra special? Why it's the extra dose of Lileks from Newhouse, that's what! Today, we have a big spoonful of yummy goodness with "A Peek at Saddam's Private Papers" [...] Oct. 23. Today I asked my driver what he though of Uday so far. The poor man couldn't decide whether to condemn him and earn my wrath, or praise him and earn my wrath. I saw sweat trickle from his scalp.
Making the world a better place: Pledge Declared Unconstitutional
By DAVID KRAVETS, Associated Press WriterThanks be...well, to somebody. Now we can start up on the National Anthem, the last stanza of which reads thus: O thus be it ever when free-men shall standAll that "Praising the Pow'r" crap's just gonna have to go.
Very nice Newhouse News story from Roy Hoffman of the Mobile Register about Artelia Bendolph: PRICHARD, Ala. -- Her crisp hair plaited, her large hands folded in her lap, Artelia Bendolph sits in a wheelchair in front of her red-brick house here telling a long-ago story. Gone blind in recent years from diabetes -- "I got a little grandbaby going on 2 years old, and I can feel her, but I can't see her" -- she peers into the past.
And then there's this from Mr. H.D. Miller, whose shoes travelled over to quite possibly the only medieval European-themed Korean restaurant in existence [...] Last night, I'd completely forgotten that the World Cup [of Soccer] was still going on and that LA's Koreatown was in a state of near frenzy in preparation for the big game with Germany, so when I walked into the lobby of the Wilshire BBQ House I was taken aback to find that everyone in the place was wearing a red bandanna; waitresses, hostesses, patrons, the Mexican busboys, everyone. Of course, I was left with no choice but to join in, as a hostess quickly wrapped a red bandanna embossed with the cryptic phrase "be the Red!" around my non-soccer-loving neck. Whether or not I wanted to be, I was now officially one of the Red Devils, one of the fanatical Korean soccer fans. I was being assimilated by the soccer-borg collective, and there was nothing I could do about it, or at least nothing I could do that wouldn't involve giving up dinner and/or loosing the goodwill of the friendly staff at the Wilshire BBQ House. This must be how communism works, I thought, complete with red bandannas for all good young pioneers. [...]Well, I know what the newest item in the Axis of Weevil Gift Pack is gonna be! All together, now-- "Be the Redneck!"
Well, it's summertime, and those hot temperatures mean that the danger of raw flaming idiocy is at its peak. Luckily for us all, we have Axis of Weevil Fire Warden Charles Austin on the job, standing ready to beat out those fires as only he can--by making an example of a particularly hardheaded miscreant firebug by giving him a sound scourging. (Of course, after thirty five times, it seems like one or the other would get tired.) [...] Like the Indian sitting astride his horse on top of the mesa, gazing out over the vast expanse of the desert and seeing Clark Griswold wandering about madly in the heat, having abandoned his senses and family in a futile and stupid attempt to make up for his last mistake; I read Richard Cohen’s columns and all I can think of writing is, “what an asshole.” Yet again, Richard values the peace process over peace and freedom in Deadly Progress in the Middle East:Remember, only YOU can prevent idiots.
Nothing this morning due to the demands of our twice monthly exercise in bureaucratic obstructionism--check back in later on, and in the mean time, check the folks above for stuff which is not crappy. And congratulations to Artur Davis for beating Daddy Earl like a drum. Tuesday, June 25, 2002
By divine right, the King of Denial: Arafat says Bush's call for new Palestinian leadership didn't refer to him Yes, surely he must have been referring to Jimmy Arafat, who runs a small dry-cleaning establishment in Jerusalem and is the other head of the Palestinian Authority.
Rat Study Finds No Cell Phone - Cancer Link However, they did have trouble paying attention while driving, resulting in several crashes in the neighborhood around the study site.
Extending Alabama's Cultural Hegemony, One Blog At A Time.
It seems another Alablogger has been shook out of the cybertree, a nice young lady from Huntsville who calls herself Sue Lizano who has a brand new blog called Get Your Drawers On, for all of your commentary and step-in needs. Sue wrote in to say hey and congratulations on my newfound status as 1,000th Best Marsupial Blogger in Alabama, and I found that she has already been blogrolled by VodkaPundit. Yet, she seems to be a bit reticent about the rigors necessary to be included in the hallowed and feared Axis of Weevil. On the 16th, she detailed her qualifications as follows: I get questions. You get answers.Now, how could anybody dispute those credentials!? Although she protests that her blog is (to quote her confidential e-mail to me on the subject) all about silliness. I can't imagine that I'll ever have serious traffic and I doubt I'll ever have any real contribution to make other than escapist fun.Pshaw! And falderal! With a dash of pifflesnit! The Axis of Weevil, despite its terrifying level of seriousity and the awe with which its writers are held by the world at large, is truly all about escapist fun. Every Friday, there are the well-received public mockings, complete with rotten fruit throwing, and there are the numerous high-power rifle matches we sponsor, there's the Cooking Light With Lard class taught by our very own Dr. Weevil, and the just-added sponsorship of Jimmy's (from Human Resources) Sportsman-class racecar (we even got to pick the spot on the car for the logo--it's right beside the one for Hoosier tires!). So surely you can see that there's more to us than hard hitting punditry. And we need more girl members. So then, despite all of Sue's protestations, the large clanging engine of Weevilosity cannot be stopped--by the almighty power vested in me by the Alabama State Docks Authority and by the voices in my head, it is with great pleasure and pride that Miz Sue Lizano is hereby and herewith granted entrance into the Benevolent Order of the Yellowhammer and the Cotton State Blogging and Coastal Artillery Society, otherwise known to the universe as the Axis of Weevil, with all of the duties and woes pertaining thereto. As with all new members, Miss Sue will forthwith be receiving the justly famed Axis of Weevil Gift Pack containing Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for her veehikle; a package of Bubba's Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; and a one quart bottle of Pilateri's Steak Sauce. We regret to announce that we are no longer able to offer the coupon for free Kool Seal for the trailer roof. Jimmy, who lives next door and has a condition (and is not the same as Jimmy from Human Resources), has been doing Kool-Sealing for people as a method of expressing his artistic side. Sadly, last week he took a terrible tumble that has only made his condition worse. We are negotiating with the local LPG company to see if we can work a deal for 25 free pounds of propane. ANYway, go visit our newest Weevil and tell her hey.
Must be a slow news day: Beetle Bailey enters information age with computer geek character BALTIMORE (AP) -- Comic creator Mort Walker knew he was on to something when he brought a computer technician into Beetle Bailey's world and asked fans for their input.Gee, I hope with all this hi-tech stuff, Mort doesn't decide to start drawing soldiers carrying M-16s instead of Garands, or wearing PASGT helmets instead of steel pots, or driving Humvees instead of jeeps. Luckily for us all, it appears the humor level will not change.
Thank you!
A great big hug and kiss to John Hawkins over at Right Wing News for naming Possumblog as one of his 10 Best 'Unknown' Political Bloggers! Of course, in the interest of accuracy, for Possumblog he really needs to put quotes around "Best," and "Political," and "Blogger." I have a feeling I was included to make the other guys look good by comparison, but hey, ain't no such thing as bad publicity. John also put me in his Quick Links in his companion e-zine Brassknuckles.net, so more 'thank-yous' for that, too. And thanks to the Possumfans (all three of you) who visit on a regular basis for the finest of trippy suburban patter and searing, insightful commentary on life, love, trucks, marsupials, weed killer, ankle biters, football (real football), idiots, and eating. And other stuff.
Hey, we got a finalist! From this morning's Birmingham News, a nice story about a Trussville soccer mom, Vickie Mathie.
Missed this yesterday, and I know everyone has already found it already because everybody reads everything Lileks writes every day (right?) but the newest Flotsam Cove is up and it's a wimdoozie of an effort from our good friends in the Ozarks. There is even the magical land of Camelot in there: This is part of a big glossy spread for the Camelot, a resort that attempted to exploit the natural relationship between King Arthur and summer vacations. Surely King Arthur spent a weekend or two smoking Winstons, yelling at the kids not to swim too far from shore, getting a painful sunburn on his shoulders, and listening to the people in the next cabin go at it like newlyweds without bothering to close the damn window. So, Welcome!WOW! It's just like I'm THERE!
Good morning! It's runoff day in Alabama, and of all the races, the one that is most interesting is that between Artur Davis and the incumbent, Ezra Pound. (Some would put him closer to Lord Haw Haw--I won't quibble one way or t'other.)
I don't have a dog in this fight--I am not a Democrat (or a Republican, for that matter--I vote the straight Possum Party ticket) and I don't live in the Seventh District, but I still think it will be interesting to see if voters are fed up enough with their own version of the Palestinian Authority to oust the Friend of Moammar in favor of someone who is operating with two fully functioning brain hemispheres. I doubt very much that I agree with Davis on many issues--he is a left of center Democrat, after all, and his solutions to the terrible problems of the Black Belt generally follow the idea that more pork money will solve everything, BUT, he is not a blithering idiot. And at least his idea of a federal job program doesn't include creating jobs for all of his relatives and friends. Despite his political proclivities, he can put forth a reasoned argument, which again is the benefit of not having a head filled with Play Doh. He has had a tough row to hoe, as do all challengers to an incumbent, but at least voters in the Seventh have an opportunity to explore the possibility of change. Monday, June 24, 2002
H.D. Miller, Axis of Weevil Minister of Travel, takes us on a wondrous voyage to Cloud-Cuckoo Land in Interview With a Terrorist.
By Allah's shoelaces, it is one of the most brave tales you will ever lay your filth-encrusted infidel eyes upon, after which you will gouge them out and die, and then you will cry in the corners of various rooms like small crying women children, after which you will be released to run away like so many of the foolish whoreson minions of Satan. And thus the fantasy-life of Abdul Adheem al-Muhajir reaches its pinnacle; sixteen heavily-armed Americans are captured and executed by brave, brave jihadis armed with nothing more than Soviet-issued can-openers and long-arm staplers. Oh, and by the way, we've also shot down 213, no, no, 313 American planes with slingshots and bottlerockets.
Adventures of the Amazingly Obvious: Wildfire reaches the doorstep of evacuated Arizona town; risk to town is high
Fred Reed's newest--Remedial Condescension: Are We Sure This Is What We Want? [...] Decades ago, I decided that blacks should be judged on their individual merits, just as everyone else should be, without regard to race, creed, color, or national origin. For this I was called a liberal and sometimes a commy.*Go read the story to find out why.
Scottish city honors William McGonagall, master of awful verse You know, I kind of like to think of myself as the McGonagall of the blogworld. Except with less readers.
Al-Qaida: Bin Laden Still Alive
BEIRUT, Lebanon (AP) - Osama bin Laden and his No. 2 man are both alive and well and their al-Qaida network is ready to attack new U.S. targets, bin Laden's spokesman said in audiotaped remarks aired Sunday.Although details remain sketchy, the spokesman quoted two sources, a Mr. E. Presley and a Mr. J. Hoffa, claiming that both have signed affadavits attesting that bin Laden and his lieutenant are both planning strikes against the Great Satan, and are currently working at an undisclosed 7-11 in Davenport, Iowa.
Well, it's time for More Fun With Disturbing Search Requests!
First out of the box, from today we have DOES GEORGIA HAVE MINKS. Why are you shouting? Keep that up and you'll run 'em all away! Yes they do, and like possums, they make mighty good eatin'. Next, from yesterday--silly possum. Says you, bub! U.S.supreme court five clown heads picture Bush Gore. Talk about scary imagery. As for the deeper meaning behind this, I have not a clue. Next, there's crimes trussville alabama. Sorry pardner, we made crime illegal 'round these parts. Worst we got is folks who think they can get away with putting up a great big plastic shed in their backyards by calling it a playhouse. Then we see liberty low back bibb overalls. Sorry to disappoint, but Cafe Press does not carry bib overalls imprinted with the impressive Possumblog logo. And, finally, quite possibly the loudest cry of desperation in history: chat rooms for intelligent young environmentalists in austin texas. We at Possumblog are terribly sorry to inform you that the only chat rooms we currently have are for Stupid Elderly Vivephobes in Galveston and Hot Young Mensa Things Who Absolutely Abhor Environmentalists. Please check back later.
What A Nice Weekend!
Well, I couldn't very well get out and cut grass with it threatening rain, now could I? Nooo, of course not. It finally rained late Sunday night, so I was very lucky indeed. So then, hang on for wondrous yarns of life on the edge of urbia, with a cast including Monica the undine; mo' hosses; losing my lacrimal fortitude to Disney; and the Tiny Wrecking Ball says hello to Fritz. As we left you Friday, I was concerned about returning with wife and children to swimmy class. At least this time I felt more normal, having stopped by the house to change into jeans and deck shoes. Unfortunately, I neglected to bring the blindfold (or knitting needles to jam into my eyeballs), so once more I had to distract myself from Catherine's instructor with mental gymnastics. This time it was going backwards and forwards through the decimal foot-inch equivalents—1"=.08', 2"=.17', 3"=.25', 4"=.33', 5"=.42', 6"=.50', 7"=.58’, 8"=.67', 9"=.75', 10"=.83', 11"=.92'. These numbers used to be handy back before I had a foot-inch calculator to make it easier to add dimensions when I was drawing. Now they come in somewhat handy for trying to ignore a young lady whose body moves like it's filled with hot caramel. And it was even worse than the day before, in that her Speedo cladding had now whittled itself down to a two-piece model. Luckily for my sanity and soul, there was a large, goateed, shave-pated, wraparound-shades (sunglasses, not swim goggles) -wearing fellow doing laps (and probably imagining himself in BUD/S training with Jesse Ventura) who floated over to the steps and got out. All that trouble to shave head, and yet he would have been much better served by running the Epilady over his lushly forested back. Coming up out of the water like that, he looked uncannily like one of those evolution posters. I am an ugly, horridly misshapen lumpen man, but I feel much better about myself knowing there is at least one person out there who outranks me. And I do have a nice head of hair. I was grateful for the distraction, however, along with that provided by the exuberant class of highly buoyant older ladies who were doing water aerobics in another part of the pool. The sight of so much avoirdupois was somewhat helpful in overcoming my more natural mind-wandering tendencies. As for the swim lessons themselves, Oldest Girl did much, much better this time, with none of the theatrics of Thursday. Little Boy is having a wonderful time (of course, like Dad, he tends to like girls, and their instructor dotes on him since he's the only Little Boy in her group. Lucky little devil.) Catherine splashes a LOT, and seems to have little interest in learning to float on her back or hold her breath. She sure has a lot of fun, though. Monday evening will be devoted to convincing her that floating on her back is fun, too. “Catherine, Miss Monica says you need to learn to float on your back.” “I don’t want to. Them waters gets all in my face.” “That’s why she wants you to float on your back—you don’t have to float face down!” “No, I’s not gonna float, I’ma gonna bounce!” Wicked little grin. “If you won’t float, Miss Monica will be sad.” “Okaaaay. I’ll float!” Saturday morning was cloudy, and as I mentioned, it looked like there was a chance of a possibility of rain. I was trying my best to have an excuse to not have to endure the heady, refreshing fragrance of the rear of a Briggs and Stratton, and Reba reminded me that she was going to collect on her Mother's Day present of a day at the spa. Hooray! I figured a good way to keep the kids from killing each other and keep me from having to do my necessary yard duty was to take them to a movie after horseback riding lessons, while Mom was getting herself pampered. As for the pony riding, they (the ones with hooves) seemed distracted by the weather, too, and were more recalcitrant than usual. The instructor, who is usually the picture of patience, also seemed a bit on the peevish side, and before class got started made a loud announcement that the people sitting on the bleachers needed to be very quiet and not make comments to the class. Reba, Catherine and I were the only ones on the bleachers. Reba and Cat stayed in the van for the rest of the lesson. Someone was not happy. The lesson didn’t last very long, either. Which was either a blessing or a curse. Whatever it was, it sure made for a very quiet trip back to the house. Quiet until the kids learned about our plans for the afternoon. As has become our very bad habit, it was MOVIE DAY again. We swung by and bought advance tickets then dropped Mom back by the house to go get all massaged and preened, and the Demolition Squad and I set out for to see Lilo and Stitch. Movie Review Time I am such a great big sucker for cute critters with big sad eyes. And for manipulative Disney stories. Dumbo? Buckets. Bambi? Buckets. Ol’ Yeller Buckets. Lilo and Stitch? Well, there are not one, but multitudes of sad-eyed critters in this one—little girl Lilo, big sis Nani, alien Stitch, alien Pleakley (who had one very large sad eye--close enough). So you figure it out. But what a sweet movie. We all thoroughly enjoyed it, and no one had to go to the restroom during the show. Lots of fun action, lots of clever dialog. AND very nicely drawn. I read somewhere that the studio eschewed the digital work with this one—I don’t know, but if it was used it was so seamless as to be invisible, which is just the way it should be. There are several scenes with hula dancers, a couple with Nani’s boyfriend doing a fire dance, and an extended surfing sequence that are great in their detail and fluidity of movement. There are some elements that don’t really work very well, seemingly thrown in as an uncomfortable “some of my best friends are […]” paean to ‘diversity’ which I absolutely despised in Atlantis. One in particular being (at least for me) the CIA spook-turned-social worker. I realize the whole premise of the movie is unbelievable, but for some reason this guy seemed much more of a non sequitur and unbelievable than any of the aliens. Even the expository bits at the end of the story do not fix him right. I don’t have the vocabulary to adequately express all the reasons why he’s wrong, but he’s just wrong. But he’s just one part, and the rest of the movie gave me a raging case of wetface. Give it 8.75 Possum Curly Tails. And even better, Boy now pretends he’s Stitch, and Baby Girl pretends she’s Lilo—this means that we don’t have to buy any of the merchandise! We got back home, and then Mom came back all honed and kneaded and prettied up, although disappointed that the spa had neglected to schedule her pedicure and manicure (which was all part of the Mom’s Day package, after all). So, she gets to go back next Saturday for that, and the owner told her she was going to fix her up with some “product” to make up for the gaffe. What kind of product(s)? I’m not real clear on this point, but one assumes it would be some sort of smell-good stuff and not Amway floor cleaner. At least she was in a better mood than when we left the barnyard earlier. She was in such a good mood that she decided to go to the store and do some vacation shopping; in particular, swimsuits. She has lost about 30 pounds since her well-documented-herein gall bladder surgery, and is all excited about not having to get one of those suits with a skirt on it. And when she’s excited, I’m excited. She came back with two, and I liked them both very, very, very much. ‘Nuff said about that. Sunday was all the normal churchly things, and I got to further burnish my reputation as the “big mean man.” I was wandering around making sure everyone was in class and that all the teachers were in place. I turned the corner of the elementary hall and was met by the kindergarten teacher with a very perturbed look upon her face and a door opened to a classroom with a very upset young man throwing a fit. Squalling and yalping and pounding the table. Such a sweetie. She had told him that she was about to go get his father—little did he realize that I had was nearby. I first tried to get him to come with me, and when that only made the noise louder, we had a very intense little heart-to-heart which included my maddening insistence that the little bra…angel say “Yes, sir” and apologize to his teacher for acting like an absolute but… shi… tur… bad boy. Of course, such was much worse than he would have ever gotten from his dad, which is his whole problem. Hard to make one mind in class when they aren’t made to mind anywhere else. But we got it handled and class got started back—I checked back in a couple of times and he didn’t get out of hand anymore, but it’s only a matter of time. He has quite a reputation, which is sad, because he IS just a kid, and seemingly doesn’t know any better. Which is just a shame. Folks, don’t rely on the village to raise your kid—the villagers are for backup purposes only, especially since the number of people willing to make other people’s kids mind is dwindling by the hour. For all the mindless mischief my crew gets into, they know there is a hard, bright line out there they dare not cross. And everyone else knows it, too. Which is why people like our kids and WANT to have them in class. And why you will never see me on TV thanking God they blew up a busload of infidels. My, this has turned a bit hard-edged—back to happier subject matter, in this case the introduction of Baby Girl to the joys of the equestrian arts. Catherine had been very patiently waiting, and Sunday it was finally time for her classes. We changed into our jeans and got ready to go. Reba had to be up at the church building for a meeting before evening worship, so she and the other kids stayed behind and it became an official Daddy-Tiny Daughter afternoon. These lessons are much different than the classes for the older kids, in that the little ones more or less just learn to hold on and balance while being led around by parents dragging on the lead rope. Cat got to sit on Fritz, a chubby little Haflinger who is about as sweet and gentle as a bunny, and about as smart. Once Fritz gets going, there is no dragging him—he drags you. I had to stop a couple of times to wipe the sweat out of my eyes, which caused poor Fritz much grief and made my arm sore trying to hold him still for a minute. Baby Girl had a wonderful time, though, and even got to turn around and ride backwards for a bit. (Yes, this was intentional—teaches them balance). She wanted to hold the reins so bad she couldn’t stand it, and grabbed them up as soon as I had hoisted her heavy little preschool butt into the saddle. She even held them exactly right (since she had already seen her brother and sisters do it) but she had to content herself with just holding on. After it was over, I was nasty and sweaty, had a strained right deltoid, and two shoes full of sand. And it was time to go back for evening services. I had just enough time to swing by the house and change shirts and take a Rite Guard shower, which was hampered by the fact that Cowgirl had gone to sleep in the back of the car. Knowing how ill-tempered she gets when awakened prematurely, I ran through the house grabbing clothes and changed on the run and got back out in under a minute. We made it to church, and I wound up having to carry her in. Which may not sound hard, but she is about as cumbersome a load as a sack of bowling balls. I laid her down on the pew and after a few squinkles, she was back out. And she stayed asleep for the whole service—one tired little cowpoke. Right before it was time to go home, the rain that had threatened all weekend finally fell. We stayed and had a meal with everyone at the building, then it was home and everyone to bed. And up again this morning ready to start it all over again.
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