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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, August 26, 2002
Undone by ol' Charlie Foxtrot
Whew. Aside from Friday, the weekend was blessedly free of much of anything. No road trips, no shopping excursions, just laundry and laying about watching videos. Made up for the horror of Friday. Almost. As you will recall (if you read down below to the last post) we were in the process of attempting to prove the theory that an object can exist simultaneously in multiple locations. I think we have managed to pretty well do away with all that nonsense. Just cain't happen. And the worst part is that I dare not do a detailed analysis of the strategic and tactical errors that contributed to an extra 50 mile round trip to Branchville, a one and a half hour soccer clinic that only lasted about 45 minutes for one little fellow, a skating party/sleepover that exploded due to finding that 12 year olds have a terrible time choosing "friends" (and just what in the [insert long string of foul Anglo-Saxon curses here] sort of parents just drop their feral brats at a skating rink and tell them they might be back at ELEVEN! Oldest was then shunned by her "friends" for bringing her mom along. The only good thing was the little epiphany of "You know what, Mom? I need to to a better job of picking my friends." Halleluiah.) No I dare not, for the same reason that I have learned not to answer the question "Does this make me look fat?" I haven't had 11 good, happy married-man years by being an idiot. Nope, sometimes there are things which are best left alone; little unspoken reminders of the results of trying to put 10 pounds of mud in a 5 pound sack. And there is also the issue of doing something productive this week. It appears I am going to have to take a busman's blogging holiday (blogman's? blogiday?) in order to complete the craptacular mess that now sits before me. One word--PowerPoint. As the only person on the floor who can plumb the mysteries of the greatest tool ever devised to senselessly torture meeting attendees, I have been charged with giving that Barton Fink feeling to some danged-fool mess for one of my legion of bureaucrabosses. I'm sure it will have the wonderful cutting-edge feel of the mid-1990s. Whee. So, my apologies for the remainder of the week in which my stunningly mundane writing skills will be poured into a multimedia dreckfest of unimaginable horror, leaving no time to display them herein for your pleasure. I should be back in form next week; so in the mean time, be sure to read all of the wonderful folks up top in my list of links. I will be able to answer e-mail should it come my way, but no blogging. Friday, August 23, 2002
Tonight--one daughter farmed out to spend the night with friends in St. Clair County, one son to be taken to soccer clinic, one daughter to be taken to skating rink, then to spend the night across town, one daughter to run screaming to and fro with an evil grin and wet pants--ALL AT THE SAME TIME! How we're gonna do this is a mystery.
Reba was supposed to get off work about an hour ago so she could pick them all up from school and start the payload delivery process. She is still at work. She has no money on her, and the bank branch around the block is closed. It is now 4:30. She is supposed to be in St. Clair County by 5 (it takes thirty minutes to get from downtown to school and get everyone, then another thirty to get where she needs to be), back to the soccer field in Trussville at 5:30, where I am supposed to meet her and grab Little Boy and Baby Girl, and then take Oldest to the skating rink by 6. Tomorrow--hey, that's tomorrow.
Now then, I have downed a bag of chips and a Coke and managed to get to the bank and back here in one piece.
Part Two of my continuing ed coursework for yesterday took me to the other side of town to the Richard M. Scrushy Center for the Study of Richard M. Scrushy at HealthSouth headquarters. The presentation was sponsored by the Structural Engineers Society of Alabama, and included not only the lecture by Dr. Corley but a video presentation by Mr. Leslie Robertson who was the principle engineer on the World Trade Center. There was an article about this conference in The Birmingham News this morning, but I refuse to link to it simply because the reporter must have listened to a different presentation than I did, or simply did not understand what he was writing about. As with most news stories I have read about this subject, there was little attempt to educate but much on trying to see if someone can be blamed. In fact, the writer of the article himself points to this in the very last sentence in the article (this’ll be the only part I quote) […] Corley said his team's report has been criticized by some because they did not point fingers and place blame for the collapse. He said that wasn't his team's mission. Amen. And in spite of how horrendously terrible this attack was, it could have been far worse had it not been for one man’s acrophobia. More on that later. So, now, on to my small part of trying to make some sense of this. As I mentioned, the first part of the presentation was a videotape of a talk given by Mr. Robertson (Click on his name to go to his firm’s message about the attack). I am not sure when the video was made, but it was billed as his first address to an audience since the attacks. I wish it had been done with a bit more forethought—it had the look and sound quality of a bootleg grade school recital tape; lots of out of focus shots, wandering framing, him having a coughing attack and gulping water right into the lavalier microphone he was wearing, folks walking in front of the camera. He gave a good overview of the construction concept and methods, and spoke about the work his firm did on the building after the first attack back in 1993—he was referencing a slide show which most of the time was out of frame, except for when the camera would whip around to the screen. When it came time for the part about the collapse, the entire chunk of his talk and the slide show had been edited out due to some not-quite-well-explained reasons dealing with the slide images not being able to be released to the general public. It just went straight to his question and answer session at the end, which had a few technical questions, and then one more: [Off camera-almost inaudible] ‘Is there anything you wish you had been able to do differently?’ He paused. “I wish,” he paused again. Choking on his words, he slowly and quietly said, “I wish…I could have…made it stand up.” The audience in the video was silent, as were those watching the video in our meeting room. It made my eyes burn, and my throat ache when he said that, and it does so now when I sit and type this. I know from the muffled sniffs from the men further back in the room that I was not the only one who felt that terrible pang. This is the side one normally doesn’t see within the staid world of welds and bolts and mass and force, but there are few people who are so acutely aware of the consequences of a potential failure in their work. If a doctor fails, a patient can die. If we fail, thousands can die. Engineers and architects do our best to anticipate the unexpected, to ask questions from different angles, to be thorough in our preparations, and above all protect the health, safety, and welfare of the people who will use our buildings. All of the blamemongering in the world, all the heated editorials, all the jackassed stupidity of the Usenet, will never change that. You can’t make the designers and builders feel any worse, nor will you be able to magically eliminate future attacks or revoke the laws of nature. The second portion of the presentation was Dr. Corley’s review of his assessment team’s report to FEMA. This report is available online at the FEMA website, but at the moment is appears they are having some technical difficulties (or my computer is screwed up). Luckily, it is also available over on the House Committee on Science website, which can be accessed here. It is a BIG book, close to 300 pages divided into eight chapters, and each chapter averages over a MB, although some of the more photograph intensive ones are closer to three MB. Before you read anything else on the World Trade Center (including my own stuff), before you go popping off on MeFi about who should have known what about what, if you really want to learn something, go read the report first. It is very well-written with a good mix of understandable general language, technical data and photographs. It has background information on the project, design criteria, general information about construction and building codes, and a detailed chronology. Not only are the Twin Towers analyzed, but all of the buildings of the complex and those adjacent that were damaged. It is far better to read that than any bit of commentary I might write in this silly blog. And just like Dr. Corley was quoted as saying, this report is an examination of the performance of the buildings under extraordinary circumstances. If you’re looking for fodder for your favorite conspiracy theories, you would do much better just to go ahead and make stuff up. You won’t find any help in it. Have you read it? Don’t go any further! Go read it now. Okay, finished? Good. Now, a few of my thoughts— First, the thing I keep seeing discussed ad nauseum is ‘if it was designed to get hit by a plane, why did it fall?’ A lot of the misunderstanding seems to revolve around whether things should be designed for all possibilities, or for the most probable circumstances. Folks, the only way to design for all possible attacks would mean that each one of use would have to live in a nuclear-biological-chemical resistant structure, and that every person would have to be widely dispersed to minimize possible deaths. This is a fine and dandy approach if you live in some alternate universe, but here, the most sensible thing is to work from the most likely occurrences. In the end, the most prudent course of action was to design for something within the most probable realm, and in this case the only similar incident occurred during World War II when an off-course B-25 struck the Empire State Building. The WTC designers concluded that the most likely way in which an aircraft would hit the towers would be if it were lost in heavy fog and low on fuel and flying at landing speed. The aircraft chosen was the most common type then flying in the area, the Boeing 707, which had a gross weight of 263,000 and a landing speed of 180 miles per hour. In the case of what actually happened, 767-200ER aircraft, each weighing 274,000 pounds, struck the towers at speeds of 470 and 590 (!) miles per hour. Given that force rises exponentially with velocity, it is a testimony to the robustness of the structural system of the buildings that they were not immediately destroyed by the impact. The study points out that on the impact faces of the building, more than 2/3 of the supporting exterior columns were destroyed, yet the load on the remaining columns only rose to their theoretical capacity. Had there been no fire, the buildings would have remained standing. As I mentioned at the first, this incredible structural performance had much to do with the way in which the floors were interlocked and tied to the exterior structural skin, which was made up of built-up segments of steel plate arranged as an array of continuous square tubes. Each column was only 3 feet, 4 inches apart from its neighboring column, one reason for which was that the lead architect on the project, Minoru Yamasaki, had a fear of heights. Mr. Yamasaki wanted to have window framing no further apart than he could comfortable grasp with two hands. The solution chosen was essentially to make the window framing part of the structure itself. (Dr. Corley said he had heard this story several times, but finally was able to confirm it in conversations with members of the Yamasaki firm.) The redundancy of these structural members and the way in which they tied back into the central core contributed to the tremendous strength of the towers. In spite of the high loss of life, it could have been far worse—at the time of the impact the Port Authority estimated the population of the complex at 58,000. The strength of the building allowed enough time for able-bodied persons below the crash levels to evacuate before the buildings fell. It was the fire though, and the inability to fight it, that set up the circumstances of the collapse. Surprisingly, the fuel on the airplanes was not a significant source of fuel except for the first 3 to 9 minutes. At least a third of the fuel burned up in the atmosphere in the form of the huge fireballs which shot out of the sides of the buildings. After about 9 minutes, the fuel had been totally consumed. However, before it was gone, it set fire to everything else within the crash area, and it was this fuel load of paper and furniture and equipment that produced the fire which finally weakened the structure enough to cause collapse. The energy of this fire was estimated in the report to be equal to the power generated “by a large commercial power generating station.” Due to the impact of the planes cutting off main supply lines of water, none of the sprinkler systems could operate, and the impact dislodged fireproofing sprayed on the structural steel in critical points, exposing the steel to continuous heat far above design temperatures, for a far longer time. Just as the impact alone did not destroy the towers, it is conceivable that a large fire on multiple floors might not have destroyed the building had the main water supply not been cut and had the integrity of the fireproofing not been compromised. The combination of the multitude of events and circumstances, however, was too great to prevent failure. So what does this say about the way in which the buildings were designed, and how such buildings should be designed in the future? From the report (Chapter Eight) Buildings are designed to withstand loading events that are deemed credible hazards and to protect the public safety in the event such credible hazards are experienced. Buildings are not designed to withstand any event that could ever conceivably occur, and any building can collapse if subjected to a sufficiently extreme loading event. Communities adopt building codes to help building designers and regulators determine those loading events that should be considered as credible hazards in the design process. These building codes are developed by the design and regulatory communities themselves, through a voluntary committee consensus process. Prior to September 11, 2001, it was the consensus of these communities that aircraft impact was not a sufficiently credible hazard to warrant routine consideration in the design of buildings and, therefore, the building codes did not require that such events be considered in building design. […] In short, the WTC was properly designed given the state of knowledge in 1966, when the design process was first begun. Could things have been done differently? Yes, although it’s not clear if the outcome would have been any different. Should things be done differently now? Yes, and they already are, due to the constantly changing nature of the building code writing process. Should we still build skyscrapers? The United States is full of tall buildings. To build no more would be short-sighted if the economic conditions which drive the construction of tall buildings remain functioning. The alternative to building up is building out, and I suppose that were the disincentives great enough, out would be where we would go. The economics of this should reflect the fact that a repeat occurrence of this sort would be highly unlikely since we have now decided that swarthy sorts who only want to learn to fly and not land a jumbo jet and who pay in cash are probably not a very good security risk. (But we dare not say that for fear of hurting the feelings of someone.) A better question is whether we will concede that anything over one story tall is just automatically going to be fodder for infantile-minded murderers who want to knock our blocks down like petulant bullies, or whether we will hold them accountable for their actions and make their cost of doing business too high. I sincerely hope that we decide that we make it expensive for others to attack us, rather than burdening ourselves with the cost of defending ourselves from being attacked. Do we really want the equivalent of herding ourselves through metal detectors, raised to an enormous scale, just to buy a little perceived security? Seems like the money would be better spent eliminating the threat rather than hardening the target. Just my two cents worth.
Well, now—I have now managed to catch up a bit on the stuff I was supposed to be doing yesterday instead of gadding about and associating with the brainiac crowd, so now you must endure a long-winded recap of stuff. Lucky you, eh?
Anyway, as mentioned several times, I had a professional liability seminar yesterday morning over at the conference room of the SEC Headquarters, (which, if you live around here, you know has nothing to do with the Securities and Exchange Commission and EVERYTHING to do with the real important thing—football). This is done to help fulfill my continuing education requirements for my architecture registration here in Alabama—in 1993, we were the second in the nation to require continuing ed (Iowa was first in 1979), and are required to do 12 hours a year. This was not popular when it began; architectural firms usually work on a pretty slim margin, especially those who work in a small practice or are sole proprietors, and so any time spent not being billed cuts deep. Most have come around now, though, and most find it valuable. I know I do, given that what I do now is pretty far afield from what’s normal in the profession. Believe it or not, the professional liability talks are pretty interesting, if for no other reason than it makes everyone feel so much smarter. In a way, it’s sort of like reading about Darwin Award nominees—it’s amazing how many people, regardless of their profession, don’t seem to ever consider the thought that they could get sued for something, especially since court proceedings are now America’s number one spectator sport. It’s hard to figure out how some people manage to get any sort of work. Of course, the stupid ones don’t last long, but it’s darned difficult for even the smart ones to stay out of the line of fire. Some people might say that it’s all the lawyers’ fault, but despite calls to take Shakespeare up on his suggestion, a better solution is to find yourself a good one. Also when it comes down to it, common sense should tell anyone a few things—do your homework about the task and the client, be clear ahead of time what you’re supposed to do and how to do it, document everything, keep good records, respond quickly to problems, communicate consistently and in a timely manner, observe mutual respect for everyone involved in the process—more or less the sorts of things you should do, no matter what. The insurance guy who handled the lecture was good—you could tell he had seen a lot, and his biggest problem was architects who would ask him to review a contract. He would suggest wording changes or even recommend not signing the contract, then he would be informed that the work was already underway or even complete. Poor guy, each story would be punctuated by a heavy sigh. But he kept it entertaining and informative, although he needed some help with metaphors. A couple of them actually made me take notes, one being that insurers didn’t like to take all of the risk on a large project or “put all their marbles in one basket.” Yeah, I hate it when that happens. Before the World Trade Center attack, he said that a lot of insurers figured they had done a pretty good job of insulating themselves from loss and were “sitting there fat and happy in glass houses.” I just hope they had the curtain drawn. Another good one was that due to premium increases, some firms where trying to economize by “cutting some edges” to save money in other parts of the practice. Golly, I hope they don’t make it all the way to the corners! Well, I’ve got to go to lunch, so later this afternoon you will get to read my take on the Gene Corley World Trade Center discussion. Great lecture, and despite what you may think, the WTC buildings performed exceedingly well given the catastrophic nature of what happened. Thursday, August 22, 2002
Well, I am breathlessly betwixt seminars at the moment--I had to walk near the library downtown to get to my car, so I thought I would sneak in here and check e-mail, and found Possumblog has spawned yet another blogchild! Yes, my partner in the Jessica Rabbit Petition boondoggle, Francesca Watson, finally succumbed to my persuasive power and started Yorkie Blog. Hooray for her! (and for you.)
Now, I have to get across town, so it's to the Possummobile! Wednesday, August 21, 2002
The free ice cream cones will be 100% smaller tomorrow.
In case you've been wondering why so much tasty possum has been thrown your way today, I will be out doing continuing education alllll day tomorrow (yippee--jeans!), so there will be nothing new. (Not that there ever is anything new, but there will be less of it tomorrow.) Seminar One will be "Limiting Liability Issues," which is always fun and it's good for 4 whole hours of continuing ed credit, and Seminar Two will be the WTC lecture I mentioned yesterday. See you Friday!
Well, now I've gone and done it...
I mentioned yesterday that one of Possumblog's fans, Francesca Watson, needed to start her own blog. My own motivation in this suggestion was to allow us to join forces to push for meaningful change--namely in the form of promoting the production of a new Jessica Rabbit movie with Mrs. Rabbit, and her alone, as the star. Apparently seizing upon the well-known power of online petitions, (such as in this case), Francesca has taken it upon herself to launch her own signature drive on behalf of the oh-so-squishy Jessica in order to insure that she gets her due as the fine actress we all know her to be. I figure with the one or two signatures we are able to gather, we will strike fear into the hearts of Hollywood for having so basely ignored one of the greatest talents in moviedom. SO THEN, go forth and signify!
A nice story about a what sounds like a very nice lady--Teaching the art of gracious living: Louisiana school stresses poise, grace, manners [...] The success of Smoky Creek Summer School for Girls, whose graduates number more than 300, underscores a reality of the times, says [Dixie] Gallaspy, who grew up in rural Washington Parish, La., and attended Texas Woman's University.As the father of a twelve-, an almost-ten-, and a five year old girl, this sounds like good advice. (Which means it will be studiously ignored and cause the veins to pop out on the side of my forehead.)
It's Wednesday, which means it's time for the newest Lileks from Newhouse! Concocting New Horrors in the Animal Kingdom Was there ever an organization so devoted to the destruction of its own cause as People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals?
Many Saudis Feel Betrayed By U.S.
Gosh golly, I know I have a box of Kleenex around here somewhere...
Awww.
Last night I was supposed to take Middle Girl to a soccer clinic (coached by yet another expat Brit--where they keep getting these guys, I'll never know) but due to God's artillery drills going on, the clinic was cancelled and we headed back to the house. I had decided to take Franklin (the Ford F-100 spoken lovingly of in past posts) but he was nearly out of gas (unlike his owner) so I pulled into the Exxon there on Main Street. A few moments later, a dung-colored four door Chevette blatted in behind me carrying a full load of two very large persons of the sort who might think driving an ancient Chevette was fun. The man got out to fill up the tank (producing a sizable shift in the center of gravity and a loud squeak from the suspension) when all of a sudden, in clatters a dark blue four door Chevette and hesitates briefly beside the first fellow. The driver's window is vigorously, yet slowly, rolled down and out pops a blue ball cap on top of a grizzled head--"Zthata sevndy-seven?" "Naw, it's a sevndy-ate!" Ball Cap looks it over carefully, admiring its velvety-textured paint and charming "brite" wheel trim. "Yep, these is really good cars--they gettin' to be collector's items." "Yeah, I know!" AND THUS WAS BORN THE TRUSSVILLE CHAPTER OF THE CHEVETTE OWNER'S CLUB.
Via Andrea Harris(nice new look to the blog, by the way), this bit of put-uponedness: Sure, there is a sizable percentage of Americans who are filled with do-gooder "change the world" intentions. That's why we invented things like the Peace Corps, so we could get these pests out of our hair. The ones for whom this was only a youthful phase were supposed to come home sadder and wiser (and much thinner from weeks of dysentery or malaria), and settle down and get productive jobs. The ones that were hopeless (ie, too egotistical to admit their ideals were about as substantial as cotton candy) were supposed to stay in foreign places like Gambia or the UN building and thus out of our hair. Unfortunately, things went a little wrong. But there's always the possibility of other solar systems to figure out how to
Wow. From Gilbert Nicholson of The Birmingham Business Journal, just what everyone in D.C. and Birmingham have been clamoring for:Birmingham-D.C. high-speed rail summit held in Atlanta Wednesday [...] The "Southeast High-Speed Rail Summit" will be held 1-2:30 p.m. at the Ritz Carlton hotel in downtown Atlanta.Well, gee whiz, with all of the stunning success of Amtrak's Acela line, who on earth could want such a wonderfully useless thing as a high speed train that can go no faster than any other train, all while costing at least a billion big'uns? Alabama Power Co. president and CEO Charles McCrary and outgoing U.S. Rep. Earl Hilliard, D-Birmingham, are among six panelists who will discuss a proposed high-speed rail route from Birmingham to Washington, D.C. [...]Ahhh, I see. I believe APCo. wants to sell 'em some juice (and cut their main competitor TVA out of the picture), and ol' Brer Earl is looking to get his family on with the railroad. Good gig if you can get it, I suppose.
Saudis Plan to Sue U.S. over Sept. 11 Ghaida GhantousAnd who said that irony was dead after September 11!?
School Days, Golden Rule Days--Teen arrested after allegedly cutting three classmates
MOBILE, Ala. (AP) -- A 15-year-old female student was arrested for allegedly cutting three other students with a butcher knife at Williamson High School, police said.Pitiful.
I have been a bad person. Charles Austin has had not one, but TWO of his heartwarming Scourges of Richard Cohen (Episodes Forty 8 and Forty 9) sitting out for almost a WEEK now and I have neglected to provide this link right here. In these, we find that Richard Cohen does not like Ann Coulter or Shameful Gaps. (I never shop at Gap, and I think Ann would look better with about 10 more pounds.) Charles also lets us in on the differences between illiberal utopian statists and everyone else: [...] Most weekday mornings I wake up, roll out of bed, shower, shave, get dressed, kiss the wife, and head out the door to work. Sometime during the day, I will usually suffer some pang of guilt about something I have done recently, but more usually over something that happened many years ago that continues to trouble my conscience. It passes quickly and I move on to try and discharge another of my myriad responsibilities. I can’t be sure, but I imagine that most people’s lives go more or less the same way, with occasional regrets over long ago transgressions or missed opportunities that we can do little about now and bear no further mention.
Clinton May Yak on CBS Oh joy. First NBC, now CBS (which will now stand for Clinton's Bull S**t). [...] Rumors to that effect have surfaced again on word that syndication powerhouse King World and the CBS-owned stations are pursuing the idea with Clinton's camp. Both firms are units of Viacom Inc.Ahh yes, "we've determined WHAT you are, we're only negotiating the price." Mac Thomason over at WarLiberal asked several weeks ago why it is conservatives won't shut up and leave po' ol' Billy C alone. Were it only so easy...he doesn't WANT to be left alone!
Reps. Barr, McKinney Defeated in Georgia
I'm sure that Ms. McKinney already has a very complete list of conspiracy theories of why she lost. I mean, why would anyone vote against her?! [Update--I see over on Instapundit that the theories started rolling out even as the votes were being counted--of course, the reason I was so slow in posting this is due to those darned CIA orgone ray generators]
News From My Hometown: Trussville decides against spraying for mosquitoes Trussville officials said last week that the city will not spray for mosquitoes, but instead is using a larvacide to protect residents from West Nile Virus.When the head of your town's Street and San department is nicknamed Cooter, you know you're doing alright.
Howdy up to Rich Hailey from Shots Across the Bow, who sent me a link to his ongoing saga of vacationing down Florida way. In particular, he has this to say about something near and dear to my heart: [...] The possum is just too slow to make it across a highway, and keeps getting squished beneath the tires of an SUV loaded with kids coming back from a soccer game. Now a smart person would decide that maybe the possum needs to be a little smarter, or a lot faster in order to avoid oncoming traffic. But no, evolution decides to go in a different direction altogether. Nature gave the possum a suit of armor, so that it could stand against the oncoming vehicle and do valiant battle with it. Nature even equipped the improved possum with an aggressive nature, causing it to leap up at the approach of a car, to better engage the enemy. Once she made these modifications, nature decided the new, improved possum needed a new name, one which befit its new weaponry. She called it "armadillo", from the latin for " little warrior" and sent it out to do battle.Mmmm! Possum on the half-shell! I have linked to this before, but here is an interesting article from the Alabama Department of Conservation and Natural Resources entitled "Armadillos, Possums and Pavement." (Sounds like some sort of scary Driver's Ed film they show at Stupid Mammal High School.) It's a short article, but full of wonderful information-- [...] Opossums are true marsupials, meaning the young live in an external pouch after birth. They can be found throughout the eastern United States and along the extreme west coast. They are nocturnal animals that can climb well. The first toe on their hind feet is opposable (thumb-like) and they have a prehensile tail. The opossum is a scavenger on carrion (dead animal meat), and the smell of death draws it to the pavement. Many times, two or even three opossums are found dead at one site, all drawn to the animal carcass they were feeding on. [...]Wow--I nearly forgot! It's time for breakfast... Tuesday, August 20, 2002
Interesting coincidence--one of the folks quoted in this story "Engineers soak up what they can about building safety by studying Sept. 11 tragedy" will be coming to Birmingham on Thursday to give a lecture about the WTC collapse: [...] A year of intensive study by academics, engineers and government officials also revealed a number of other key points.I plan to be there; it promises to be a very good lecture--Dr. Corley has an extensive history of forensic analysis of building failures, and testified before Congress about the WTC. This is a link to the American Society of Civil Engineers' newsletter article from April about his appearance. A lot can be said for making buildings better at protecting their occupants from the consequences of those bent on wreaking destruction on innocent people. But folks, we can't afford to all live in bunkers, nor should we have to. We can build the strongest buildings on earth, but until we eliminate those who would do us harm, we will forever be hunkering behind Jersey barriers and concrete flower pots and shuffling through security gates. That is not freedom, and it is not security.
Just wanted to give a shout-out to a couple of folks who wrote in last week to say they enjoyed reading about my wedding anniversary. First up is a very nice lady from up in Tarheelandia who goes by the name of B. Indigo (I don't think that's her real name) in her blog called Indigo Insights. Thanks to her for all of the nice things she says about the oddness found herein, and a personal plea to all the Possumblog readers to please tell her how to set up a comment system! (She is also a bud of Redneckin's Chuck Myguts.)
And second is Francesca Watson (not Watkins--I am such a feeb) who has a personal website here, and does all sorts of stuff, including singing gospel music and playing in a rock band. In our exchange of e-mails, I pressured her to start her own blog due to her stellar record of managing to rack up four "thanks to" listings on OpinionJournal.com's Best of the Web column a couple of weeks ago. She says such an idea is "dangerous," which I think is all the more reason to do it. It will also allow us to join forces to start the drive for Jessica Rabbit to have her very own movie.
So, Fred, you've had a long hard day in the trenches of research science--what are you gonna want to fill your gullet? Why Rat Head Stew, of course! [...] I opened the autoclave slowly, to let the pressure escape gradually, and out pours a cloud of rat-head-scented steam filling the room...a vapor of all my little chums I had nurtured for 40 days, until I became their executioner. Was it too late to consider a career change, I wondered? Not a good day, folks. I was never so relieved when the job came to a stopping place and I could go home where there were no rats...heads, teeth or otherwise. I began the 2 mile walk home, trying to think about anything other than the details of my day.Mmmmm, boy!
Not just a venture capitalist, but pretty smart when it comes to WMD, too--good thing she's a member of the Axis of Weevil.
Good one from Steven Den Beste--a layman's look at libel law as it relates to discourse on the Internet. [...] In other words, the current jurisprudence in libel law is designed precisely to prevent people from succeeding in doing what you just attempted to do in your letter, which was to make a veiled threat of lawsuit as a way of attempting to coerce me into voluntarily restricting my use of my First Amendment rights of free expression. But that won't work with me because I understand the applicable law and I know full well that you don't have any case.Oh, what a give-away. Did you hear that? Did you hear that, eh? That's what I'm on about. Did you see him repressing me? You saw it, didn't you?
Somehow, I just KNEW this was coming: Iraq Shows Baby Milk Store at Reported Weapons Site
Yes, yes...nothings in here except the making of the pure fresh baby milks. That is why we have the writing of the words BABY MILKS in very large letters. No, we do not know why the filthy Kurds have been getting sick when we spray it upon their babies--it must because of their weak physiques and infidelic ways.
Alabama Academy of Honor 2002 Inductees
Alabama does a lot to shoot itself in the foot, but there are still a lot of people here who have made this place and the United States a better place through their influence. James Arthur Head Sr. remembers watching the Ku Klux Klan march down 20th Street in 1927 and hearing U.S. Sen. "Cotton Tom" Heflin a year later whip a packed auditorium into a frenzy as he bashed Catholics, Jews and immigrants. Monday, August 19, 2002
Oh, I know you all have just been a’clamorin’ for this mess—who am I to deny you the incredibly detailed remembrances of the past 72 hours. (And won’t you be surprised when FOX picks it up and makes it into a show! It’ll be three times better than 24, and they’re talking to Eli “Voice of NASCAR” Gold to play the part of me! That’s money in the bank, baby!)
A word of warning: The following is way too long. FRIDAY. Got home and found that Reba had picked out some anniversary cards and gifts—I am impossible to buy for, mainly because I would be satisfied with anything she gave me—bright blue leisure suit? Thank you, it’s beautiful! Poke in the eye? Your lovely fingers make it all the more enjoyable! I’m just as happy with nothing as anything, but she still feels bad if she doesn’t get a little something for me. I won’t tell you all of it, but two of the things were a couple of videos of stuff we never got to see in the theaters; A Beautiful Mind, the story of some chick who looks exactly like Jennifer Connelly who falls in love with a schizophrenic math wiz (wow, just like me) and The Lord of the Rings, the story of Liv Tyler and Cate Blanchett and a bunch of guys running around. But, before we could enjoy these, there was the Pre-Mother’s Birthday and Anniversary Dinner that was thrown together for my sister’s benefit, since she was only going to be home for a day or two. Over to Riverchase to the Hunan Garden Chinese Restaurant (and every time I type “Hunan” I mistakenly type “Human,” which just makes me giggle every time I think about it) and had a very nice meal, except for the constant necessity of telling one particular member of the Oglesby family to quit putting her mouth on the plate, and quit blowing bubbles in her Sprite, and quit talking with food in her mouth, and quit loudly asking to go to the bathroom to poop, and quit turning around and staring at the two guys behind us, and quit asking why they are holding hands, and quit burping, and quit putting rice in her hair. SHEESH! (Can’t take my danged mom ANYwhere!) Actually, this was Tiny Girl, who since coming down with her cranio-nasal cruddiolity (I realize some of you aren’t familiar with the medical terms, but it makes me sound smart to use them) has just been an absolute pill. Apparently all of her gray matter has been replaced with green matter, which causes a decided slowing of the firing of the “Good Girl” synapses, and an inversely proportional quickening of the synapse exchanges devoted to loud, obstinate, turdliness and associated lachrymal deluges. All the rest of the kids excitedly yammered to my sister about her new kitty, and I resisted the urge to say something mean like, “Cats are wonderful—you’re eating one right now!” I had enough to deal with without that, so I just tended to my Kung Pao animal flesh, which was really good. It was fun; good to see Mama and sis, but I sure was glad to be through with it, just the same. (Mainly because I wanted to go home and watch my movie.) Got the kids in bed and put in Lord of the Rings. Movie Review Time I was never a big Tolkien reader, but had enough general knowledge of his work and of the hype about the movie and all the Burger King toys to sorta know what to expect. Excellent movie—I enjoy stories about stuff such as this with all the elves and ogres and trolls and dwarves and silly English kkkkkk-niggits. Beautifully done movie, lots of walking about, some real fancy swordwork. (Interesting note, just in case: Orcs fight just like movie ninjas—huge hordes who politely wait their turn to attack the good guys.) Did I mention Liv Tyler and Cate Blanchett? Them Elfwomen is sure real purty like. Which might make for a pretty good second episode if they make it to where Middle Earth somehow manages to intersect with The South. First of all, we’d get rid of all them glowing Elvish blades (although it is worth noting that Elvis collected knives) and show ‘em how to shoot (which Elvis REALLY liked), which would really throw them Ninja Orcs for a loop, and there would be a wet t-shirt contest for Elfchicks, and dadgummit, we’d find a ride for all them little Hobbit fellers so they wouldn’t have to walk everywhere—in fact, what would be even better is to have ‘em ride around in Bigfoot! Now THAT, my friends, would be a derned MOVIE! Anyway, the movie really is very nicely made and the live scenery and studio sets are beautiful and nicely detailed—the only parts that got in my way were the edits for when the Hobbits appeared with other actors. Sometimes they obviously used kids, other shots relied on camera angles, and others were CGI, but it wasn’t quite seamless because the proportions kept changing; this is especially true when kids were used, simply because of the different proportion of head to body size between a child and an adult. Liv Tyler is in this movie, but not enough. Nor Cate Blanchett. I wish now that we had seen it at the theater, but it still translates pretty well to the small screen. The scary parts are good enough to have given Catherine and maybe Jonathan bad dreams had they been watching it, but for kids over about 9 or 10 it’s probably not too bad. I didn’t have more than a couple of nightmares, myself—I believe it was the thought of big, hairy Hobbitgirl feet. Eww. SATURDAY. Finally, the end of regularly scheduled horseback riding. They have really enjoyed it, and I have, too, but it does take a big chunk out of the productive part of the day. They got to ride bareback this time, and Jonathan managed to do all of his leaning over and turning around and stuff without getting scared, even though once he slid off and made a big Sam Peckinpah production of falling in slow motion to the ground. (Would have served him right if he had landed in a big pile of processed horse feed, but at least he jumped back on without having to be chastised by Dad.) After they got through, the kids were as nasty as could be from the aforementioned sans-saddle riding. Horses are prone to becoming quite dusty and sweaty—JUST LIKE KIDS! Eww. Took them home and made them strip in the garage then run squealing upstairs to take baths. Did some laundry, Reba cooked some soup, I finally fixed the tire with the screw in it, refilled all the bird/squirrel feeders, pulled up mimosas (another of the fine family of invasive Asian species), trimmed the roses, struggled to defeat the wild tendrils of the wisteria vine which has grown to Audrey-like proportions, and generally puttered around getting all stinky and hot. Came in, sat down, opened the curtains at the kitchen table so I could watch the hummingbirds and vegetate, and had lunch. The girls had already finished and were avoiding chores in other parts of the house and Boy had just finished his bath, so we had a bowl of Mommy’s special home-made soup. Reba sat down and all three of us just sort of sat and talked about not much. Look at that little bird. Need to go to the store. Trees are starting to turn. That hickory tree looks dead. Other trees have really grown this year. Except Catherine’s. Mean ol’ Japanese beetles just about got away with eating it all gone. “What’re Japanese beetles?” asked Jonathan. It is instances like this that the professionals call “teachable moments,” when a topic comes up naturally in conversation and you are able to impart your knowledge to your child in a way that will be memorable and allow him a better understanding of the world around him. I put my spoon down, and started off, “Well, son, they are small, round, metallic-looking beetles that eat tree leaves, like Catherine’s cherry tree…” His little eyes were locked on me with an earnest desire to learn, to grow… I deftly held up the corners of my eyes, “and they gettah they choppastickah, and they fry arong until they see a yummy twee, and thennnnn they EATAH IT UP AHH GONE! And before they put a littah soy sauce onah leaves, they hold their sixah littah ahms up in the air and yell, ‘BONSAI! BONSAI! BONSAI!’ As I kept up my highly inappropriate, culturally insensitive anthropomorphic stereotyping of Popillia japonica, (including the dreaded sumo variant) he collapsed into a paroxysm of silly laughter, at one point falling down completely onto the kitchen floor and rolling around. “And that, son, is what a Japanese beetle is.” Saturday evening we went to get Oldest Girl some church clothes—Reba took her to the row of clothing stores between Home Depot and Target, while I agreed to keep the others far, far away to avoid undue shopping stress. I dropped off Mom and Ashley and drove back down to Target by way of the lower parking lot, which was again full of the old car Saturday cruiser folks. Many more than there were last month, and a few more better looking cars this time. Still a lot of odd ones that have a lot of sentimental value only to their owner—one stood out—a jacked up, bright yellow, stock-bodied shoebox Ford Tudor. Yikes, talk about unique. And hard work—a business coupe or convertible would have been much easier on the eyes, and none of the ’49 to ‘51s look right with a lift kit. Whew. Lots of other good stuff was there, though, but I dared not get out and look with three little demolition dynamos. Anyway, I would probably wind up doing something stupid like buying something. After a couple of hours of Targetry (with only two trips to the restroom and only fifty uses of “DON’T TOUCH THAT!”) we met back up with our other shoppers and headed home in a just-starting rain. All of the cruisers picked this moment to start leaving, too, so getting out was a chore. And loud. Finally got out onto the highway and pulled up alongside a relatively nice GT500-KR fastback, which seemed to be quite a handful on the slightly wet pavement. Yow. 428 cubic inches of pure pucker power. I reminisced to Reba about the time I found myself staring back at a line of traffic after trying to complete a simple left turn onto a damp street in my AMX. “Do you miss your car?” I had sold it right before we got married. “Nah, not really. I had been ready to get rid of it and start something else, anyway. Maybe one day it might be fun to do one for Jonathan.” Which, if you know the signs, is the sound of someone laying the groundwork for a future in which his obsessive/compulsive personality disorder is transferred back to its rightful home under the hood of an obnoxiously loud and fast hunk of iron (cleverly disguised as a father-son project.) Heaven help us all. SUNDAY. Good crowd at church, no hiccups with Sunday school, ran out of time long before I ran out of material for the kids in my class, and made the big mistake of bringing my bag of goodies. I am an idiot. They had been nice and quiet for 45 minutes, and then I get them all wound up when it was time to go, by rewarding their niceness with a chance to get a prize out of the sack. Which created pandemonium (which is really bad in church, you know.) Not gonna do that again. Afterwards, we went to see my mom again at her house, stopping first for our usual meal at Ruby Tuesday. Once again we arrived too early to get Jennifer, instead being saddled with some glacier-slow moon-faced idjitboy. When I asked where Oldest Girl’s food was, he went back to the kitchen to check, but before coming to tell us what was going on, decided a better customer-relations duty was to walk right past us with his other hivemates and sing their HappyCrappyBirthday song for someone on the other side of the restaurant. Arrrrrrrrrrrgh. Jennifer The Great came by to say hey, and I verified for future reference that she does indeed come on duty at noon. She said she did, so it now looks like from now on we’ll just have to wander aimlessly around Leeds for an hour so as to be sure to get her. She asked if everything was okay (even though it was not her table) and I allowed that our dough-brained server was not quite in her league. She asked if she could get us more napkins or anything else (again, even though she wasn’t our waitress) but I said it was okay. I wanted that little fellow to work for every dime of the tip he got. He just better be glad my mom wasn’t there, or all he would have gotten would have been a dime. My mom is very…thrifty. Got to her house, and had a very nice visit. She would kill me if she knew I was telling you she is going to be 73 next week, but I do it anyway just to pick on her. And I pick on her mainly because if she wanted to she could still whip me. And just about anybody else. She works her own garden, cuts her own grass, keeps up her own big old house, works 40+ hours a week, and thinks nothing of calling stupid “stupid.” For any of you who like Billnhillary, Ralph Nader, David Duke, Louis Farrakhan, Jane Fonda, Jesse Jackson, Don Siegelman, art that looks like a drop cloth, lawyers, car salesmen, PETA, or women who act coarse, I would advise you to steer clear of admitting these things in front of her or you might get your ears pinned back. It’s always fun to visit Mom. The older girls really like this trip, because Granny Jean had gone through her closets and found some of my sister’s duds from the Nineteen Seventies, which due to the great care my sister had shown them, and their near indestructibility, were now ready for a new generation of fashionably retro-minded young girls. Thankfully, these were not the hippy-dippy crap that Old Navy sells nowadays, but some of the kinda cute clothes that were made back then (believe it or not, there actually were some, but they don’t have the same self-referential ironic parody potential as the really ugly crap.) The girls were tickled to death to go through them all, and I’m glad they have some clothes that don’t start falling apart as soon as they’re worn once. It got time to go much too soon. Happy Birthday, Mom! Headed back for evening church, headed home, ate some more of that good soup, and time for blessed rest. Then came Monday morning, which failed to kill me, but another such victory and I shall be undone. Then comes tonight with soccer practice and homework and baths and maybe, just maybe, a bit of time to watch my other new movie. (While at Target I managed to sneak a copy of The Magnificent Seven into the cart.)
No more posts until this afternoon. I have to finish typing up minutes from our meeting last week and get some other stuff out of the way for several out of office experiences on Tuesday and Thursday.
Darned ol' work.
Separating the Wheat from the Staff
Well, that's finally over with. If there is one single thing less productive that our staff meetings, I am unaware of it. (Unless it's blogging.) In any event, the highlight of the meeting was the review of the Council agenda and this item: ITEM 12.Now, lest you invision a burly troupe of men in hard hats with tap shoes and pipe wrenches, this competion is to see which team can tap a large diameter, pressurized water line and install a watertight doo-hickey in the shortest time. You can read all about it here. So see, sometimes some good can come out of these meetings.
Forget the derned weekend--what a Monday morning!
Half the family now has the barking-seal-sounding croup, had to deal with a two-year-old trapped in the body of a twelve year old who JUST! COULDN'T! GET! HER! HAIR! TO! DO! RIGHT!, had to get everyone to swallow bowls of mushy cereal (mushy only because of the time they spent arguing the finer points of "Uh-HUH!--UH-UHHH!--DID!--DID NOT!" rather than eating), had to roll wife out of the door on a gurney due to her debility with the barking-seal-sounding-croup (I believe hers has actually passed on into the epizutic), had to stop at the post office on the way out on my morning child delivery run to buy two three-cent stamps, which is always a pain because of the dodginess of the stamp machines, then had to swing by the gas and water works office to drop off my bill and keep the water and gas turned on another month, then get the kids dropped off at the appropriate schools (and this morning I was really wishing for a more conveniently located reform school), then dropped my mind into neutral along with everyone else travelling on I-59 South into Birmingham, got in and found out that not only had my just-mailed-in telephone bill contained a charge for receiving a call from a number in Vincennes, Indiana, said call was to a personal 800 number I never knew I had, and said call came from a fax machine, which required a call to Verizon Long Distance Customer Service to cancel the 800 number (still have to pay for the call, though, and the apologetic fellow on the other end punctuated his apology with "really--that's not a lie," which is a sad commentary on something) and finally I had to write this paragraph. Right before strolling into our staff meeting, which will take entirely too long, and further delay me in telling you the wonderful yarns of a weekend in the paradise that is my neighborhood--tune in later on today for exciting and thrilling stories of Kung Pao chicken, The Lord of the Rings, filthy horses, sumo/samurai Japanese beetles, Target practice, old cars, The Return To Bennigan's, missing Jennifer, Mama'n'em AGAIN, rain, and maybe a puppy story. Whew. Friday, August 16, 2002
Who puts the “eek” in weekend? Possumblogger!
(Actually, that’s not true—“eek” is in there without my help; otherwise it would be “wend.” Which is what most of my posts tend to do.) Anyway, I haven’t posted much today, mainly because I wanted not to detract from my musings about my muse, but also because of that horrid thing some call “work.” Much to do the past week, which really gets in the way of thinking up suitably absurd stuff and making a medium-sized, furry, pouched, pest of myself. And tonight and tomorrow and the day after will be chocked full of stuff to do—tonight is dinner with Mama’n’em, then tomorrow is the blessed end of horseback torture for the rest of the year, and Sunday is a full day of making up for being a furry pest. In amongst those hardpoints, there are hummingbirds to be fed (after four years of living in our house without ever seeing a single one, we are now overwhelmed with these little buzz-bombs who are drinking down hundreds of gallons of red juice every couple of hours), non-humming birds to be fed, along with their pudgy little squirrel friends (after four years of living in our house without ever seeing a single squirrel, we are now overwhelmed with these voracious little tree rats who are munching down hundreds of pounds of pretty seeds every couple of hours—at least they were until I moved the feeder), the mowing of grass, the moving of stuff, the mopping of floors, the detangling of freshly washed child hair, the completion of an alternative unified field theory, the translation of the entire Possumblog oeuvre into a graphic novel with Linear B text, and polishing the Bentley (if you know what I mean, eh…wink wink, nudge nudge!) Soccer practices have started back up now (for not one, not two, but THREE of the kids), which means my evenings will be filled with watching the little grubs run themselves silly as I try to stay away from West Nile mosquitoes (and the encephalitis ones, and the malaria ones, and the meningitis ones, and the big giant ones that just carry you off to their nest to feed to their spawn). Sometime in the coming weeks it’s going to be time for Cub Scouts to start back up, and now that Oldest Girl’s in the 7th Grade Band, her squealing clarineticizing will be unleashed upon the poor unsuspecting foes of the mighty Huskies at their football games. Life is good. So, as with each Friday afternoon post, I bid each of you happy weekend, and invite you to return bright and early Monday. Not that I will have anything posted then, but you are welcome to sit around and eat some breakfast and look out the window until I have completed what I promise will be no more than a 5,000 word recap. See you then!
I get the best mail.
This by way of North Carolina: Hi Terry -And thank you.
If you have read enough of the highly aromatic poo I write here on Possumblog, you will probably realize that I am partial to humans who are women of the feminine girlish persuasion.
I suppose I tend to dwell on this a bit much. And, this morning is no different. Bear with me, and realize that sometimes I just can’t help myself. But this morning, I saw absolutely the single most gorgeous woman I have ever seen in my entire life. She was about 5-5 or so, with thick, heavy, wavy, blond hair. Curves in all the right places for a woman—not skinny, certainly not fat, but a voluptuous combination of speed and comfort—a Bentley S2 Continental of a woman. And her face—o lordy me! High, wide cheekbones like a Cherokee; smooth, square jaw; eyes like cobalt; and a nose that made a perfect line from bridge to tip. Her skin looked like new silk. Every little bit of her was a work of sublime, godly art. Of course, knowing me as you do, and knowing the situations I get myself into, I got caught. She turned her head quickly—“What!?” Oops. I guess she could tell someone was staring at her (duh). I saw the wedding band; it looked so fine on her hand, on her long smooth finger. It probably looked like that on my mom’s hand, too, back when she wore it. “Oh nothing—you just sure are pretty.” “Yeah, yeah…I bet you say that to all your wives.” “Nope, just you. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. Happy Anniversary.” Yep, eleven years ago, Miss Reba and I became one person. If you remember, back on February 14 I gave you a bit of our history together, and marked the anniversary of our engagement. And today completes that circle—what good’s the engagement without the follow-through, eh? It has been some more sort of eleven years, and ones I would be much poorer without. She is part of me, and I of her. We think the same thoughts (even when I can’t remember what I’m supposed to get at the grocery store), we laugh at the same things (except my jokes—about a month ago, a tractor trailer dumped a load of sand on one of the interstates here in Birmingham; I turned to her and said “Hey, I wonder if they’ll put oil on it to clean it up.” She didn’t laugh at that. At least not in front of me.) We worship the same God, we cry at the same dumb mushy parts in movies, we hold hands, we have a houseful of young’uns, we wonder about the future, we swallow a lot of pride to let the other one win, we like old furniture and new sheets, we just don’t understand some people, we are right, we are wrong, we are as much one as the other. She lets me kill the bugs, I let her pick the curtains. I cut the grass. She wears the perfume. Lord God, what a gift I have been given, and how I love her. Thursday, August 15, 2002
Via Instapundit (although I know all of you have already seen it) is this excellent primer on the Second Amendment by Dr. Nelson Lund. An excerpt: [...] The Second Amendment unambiguously and irrefutably establishes an individual right to keep and bear arms. This conclusion, which is dictated by the language of the Constitution, is confirmed by an abundance of historical evidence. Nor is it contradicted by anything yet discovered in the Constitution's legislative history or in the historical background that illuminates the understandings of those who adopted the Bill of Rights. [...]
[I guess Thursday must be a big day for everyone wanting to use Blogger--a huge crowd has gathered around the gates of the embassy trying to get in and only the elite Blogger Pro folks can get on the helicopters. Nervous-looking security men wander the grounds with their rifles at the ready as Free Blogger users try to get them to take the bribes shoved through the bars--rolls of piasters; chickens; Devil Rays tickets. Sure hope the situation doesn't get ugly...]
Awwwww...Kitty! Hey, good news, my sister is up for a few days of R&R and to wish Mama a happy birthday. We're gonna take us all out Friday night for Chinese, which should be a hoot. I just got off the phone with her (my sister, that is) and as usual it was an example of free-association gone wild--a bit like reading Possumblog, except faster, and with vocal impressions of various film and TV stars such as Hoss Cartwright, Stewart Smalley, Brisco Darling, Gomer Pyle, Lyle the Effeminate Heterosexual, George H.W. Bush, Barbra Streisand, Woody Allen, Matt Foley-Motivational Speaker, Colonel Walter Kurtz, Wile E. Coyote, Eartha Kitt, and Pixie and Dixie. The resulting "conversation" is more like listening to the howlings of a psych ward combined with the soundtrack from COPS. The horror...the horror. Anyway, most of the conversation dealt with trying to figure out a name for her new cat. She had two cats, Coco and Twinkie, but poor Twinks finally succumbed to old age a few months ago. After a period of mourning, she decided to adopt a new kitty so Coco would have a playmate. She hasn't signed the final papers yet, but is "trying out" this big guy. As you can see from the website, he already has a perfectly good name, Dusty, but my sister wanted to pick something the cat would be able to ignore better. In a fit of non-work-related multitasking, as I talked to her I clicked through some of the names on 2000 Cat Names. (Man, there's EVERYTHING on the Internet) I would call out a few and we would discuss the finer points of each (I suggested Hunan Palace Special #43, but she didn't like that). Even with all of my help, it still looks like she can't get away from calling him Mister Kitty (said in a very exaggerated lisp--MITH'terrrr KIT'eeeeee--for the best comic effect). Poor thing. My sister as a mom, and Mithter Kitteeee as a name. Oh well, supper will be fun no matter what.
A fresh one from Fred Reed on Steve Hatfill [...] When the professional crosses into the personal, writing gets difficult. Personally, I'd trust Steve with my life. Journalistically, I can't tell you he didn't do it. How could I know? I don't think he did, but that is a judgment, not a fact. Jeff Dahmer seemed to be a nice fellow until you learned of his grazing habits. Neither can I prove that you didn't do it, or that Steve isn't a robotic space-alien disguised as an ebola researcher.
Good grief, I am such a cotton-picking idiot! How could I not have known!? Why couldn't I see it!? It's so very obviously a "regally pampered and immaculately groomed, rather small Poodledog Princess, lying on its side (facing left of image), expectantly, on an affordable, adjustable deluxe Craftmatic Dog Bed at firmness setting 4." I won't quibble about the setting, although I personally believe it to be set not at 4, but at 5, but as for the rest it is dead on, and I apologize for being so blinded by my preconceived notions.
Fun with Explosives
Chuck Myguts (I don't think his name is really Chuck) has a great post on the wonders of a child's open and inquisitive mind: [...] That summer day we built our - get ready for the scary part-- First black powder gun . Even at the tender age of 12, I knew we needed to develop our concept in stages before moving into full scale production. Our first try lacked the beauty and grace of a Kentucky flintlock, but was an interesting first attempt using plumbing supplies and tools borrowed from my uncle while he was at work. That being the best time to borrow things from him.Heard more than once around these parts, "Hey y'all! Watch 'is!"
And speaking of vacationaries, H.D.'s back after a two-week sojourn across Dixie and up to The Nutmeg State, and has an excellent essay on the powers that be (and will continue to be) in Sandy Arabia.
Elizabeth Spiers has done come home for a spell, and has found that we'uns do indeed have a nice dirt road out to the Information Superhighway, and that we have much more entertaining people than other parts of the country... Overheard in Charlotte Douglas International Airport:See what you people are missing!? Anyway, best vacation wishes to Miss Elizabeth and have a safe trip.
Mice Produce Pig and Goat Sperm in Experiment
Pinky, are you pondering what I'm pondering? Uh, I think so, Brain, but balancing a family and a career...oooh, it's all too much for me.
How does he make money? VOLUME! Amateur Brain Surgeon Nabbed CAIRO (Reuters) - Egyptian police have arrested a man who performed brain surgery on a number of people even though he had only a primary school education, court sources said Wednesday....and practiced in Washington, D.C.
I notice Mac found this one, too: NASA works on hypersonic engine HUNTSVILLE Space planes that can deliver packages from Birmingham to Tokyo in less than two hours could be slashing their way through the sky in 25 years if NASA engineers succeed in developing a new hypersonic engine. [...]I'm sure the Japanese are just itchin' for the day when this dream comes true. Wednesday, August 14, 2002
Occam’s Pocketknife
Goodness me. Today has been piled high with stuff to do, so this will probably be the onliest thing I get to post today. And it’s not really what I wanted to blog about. What I would really like to discuss is the new commemorative artwork project our fair city has embarked upon to honor the memory of the attacks of September 11. I got to see it as part of my morning spent madly scribbling notes. But you see, I can’t really say what I think about it—good or bad—being that I am one of the wormgears of the vasty bureaucracy around here, and I don’t want anyone to think that my opinion is in any way representative of the official view. I also don’t want to have to wade through my (quite suitable) qualifications for daring to speak—good or bad—about this fine civic project. Obviously, my scholastic merit or artistic grounding has little to do with the necessity of positing pertinent questions to those involved in this project’s creation (not to mention expecting to receive a straight answer in return. Because we all know that to question art is censorship.) And, of course, I don’t wish to seem unpatriotic or insensitive or any of that. SO, instead of a point-by-point analysis of this newest piece of public art, I will simply yack about something I know about. Pocketknives. I have mentioned before that if I have on pants, in the front pocket there is an old Uncle Henry “Senior Rancher.” It is one of the best pocketknives I’ve ever had—it’s just about the right size for about any job and can take a good edge and hold it. It’s just a nice, simple, tough tool. I bring this up, because today I met some folks who were trying to get an apple peeled and cut up. It was really sorta comical. Obviously, someone was hungry, and they needed a knife to peel the apple. From the way it played out, it seems like the folks wanting to peel the apple thought a nasty old pocketknife just wouldn’t do. At one point, I think someone suggested a Swiss Army knife. If one blade is good, several is better, and after all, it’s Swiss, and has tweezers, and a can opener, and a saw! I don’t know if any of you have ever tried to really use a Swiss Army knife—the blades are beautifully polished stainless steel that are rock-hard—once they’re dull, they’re almost impossible to resharpen easily. The knife itself is a bit too big to hold comfortably with all the stuff inside of it; the tweezers are so flimsy they don’t really work too well, the saw blade is too short to saw with, and the plastic toothpick is only useful if you have a gap in your teeth like Lauren Hutton. But they are very pretty and shiny. And Swiss. Anyway, someone else apparently suggested that it would be nice to have five or six Swiss Army knives. And I guess someone didn’t like the red color, and thought if one color is good, seven would be even better. And you know, the concept of knifeality really needed to be explored and perhaps the essences of knifeliness could best be explored through the use of a wire outline of a knife. Then someone else walked up, saw what was going on, and mentioned he had seen this really cool-looking eagle sculpture a guy in Alaska did with a chainsaw, and that maybe some sort of thing like that would be neat. There was a problem, though, when someone brought up that there were many more types of fruit than just apples, and demanded that pears, and peaches, and oranges be included in the peeling process. At some point as they were discussing all this, there was an idea that what was really needed was for other people in the building to tell about the times when they peeled an apple (or other suitable peelable fruit). These stories would be very helpful in peeling the apple. After a while, they had all come together in an inclusive knife-making process, incorporated all of the wonderful peeling ideas, and started some groups to discuss the beauty of the plans for their new knife (which had by now had become a five thousand pound, semi-metallic conglomeration of bits of twine, cast iron, tree bark, radio tubes, a Barbie Corvette, a trombone, an assortment of black velvet Elvises, and a fireplace), and to convince everyone else how nice it was. They were quite anxious to have everyone like their plans for their knife; lunch was almost over with, and they needed to start building their knife right away. I noticed that none of them realized the apple had long since rolled off the table onto the floor. Imagine that.
Well, it's the second Wednesday of the month, which means I must don my regulatory armor and go forth to do battle with the mighty forces of bad taste, so no posting for a while. Thanks to all three of you for stopping by, and I promise there will be more rich, meaty goodness of possum later on. Tuesday, August 13, 2002
John Frum for Homeland Security Director
Miss Moira talks about the absolutely failsafe polygraph: [...] Most people are outraged by Senator Shelby's arrogance and hypocrisy on the subject of polygraphy. But that's just a predictable irritation. What gives me the willies is the realization that nothing will change, and polygraphy will go on being considered a reliable, first-line-of-defense security tool. Cargo-cult acolytes with their fervent devotion to little electrical devices that measure stuff and draw squiggles (that's how you know polygraphy, as opposed to tea-leaf reading, is scienterrific) will continue offending against dignity, besmirching reputations, trashing careers, and destroying morale, for no known payoff in increased security. (Hey, millions of us have been bullied into peeing in cups, why not universal polygraphy? What've you got to hide?) Tremble, citizen.Well, they use polygraphs on NBC's Meet My Folks; ain't that good enough proof that they work?
I Am A Magnet for the Disaffected
Last night after we had gotten 2 of 4 kids bathed and in the bed, I was called upon to go forth and hunt and gather provisions for our tribe from the mythical land of FoodWorld. Mostly it was just normal stuff; school snacks for the kids, some milk, eggs, toilet paper, carrots, an onion, cheese. I was very proud of myself for managing to round it all up within about 40 minutes, and headed for the checkout. Hmm. Who to get—the cashier who looks like Katie Holmes, the cashier who looks like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, or the wooly-haired slacker guy? Went with Tiffani-Amber, only because her line was shorter than Katie’s, and I think she’s underrated as an actress. (Although there was nobody in Slacker Dude’s lane, I wasn’t in that big of a hurry to check out.) Things started out very well—Tiffani-Amber glanced about three feet behind me and said “heyhowareyoudoinsirdoyouhaveaBonusValueCard” and I did and she scanned it and started running the produce and boxes of crackers across the scanner as she chatted with one of her friends about homework. While she was doing this, another customer came up behind me and started unloading her cart. I wasn’t really watching her, though, if you know what I mean. Tiffani-Amber scanned the next to the last thing and absent-mindedly shoved it back for her friend to sack and left the conveyor running. I was swiping my card through the machine and heard the woman behind me say “whoa” and saw one of her big boxes of stuff about to crush my eggs, which I had been very careful to place at the very end of my stack. Luckily, Tiffani-Amber was able to drag herself from her discussion to shut off the switch and scan the eggs. “I’m so sorry!” said the lady behind me. I didn’t think anything about it because none of the eggs got squished, so I just laughed and said “It’s alright, they’re only eggs.” I said this because I thought it was a light-hearted attempt at humor, and really was directing it more toward Tiffani-Amber than the other customer. Because I really wanted Tiffani-Amber to know that I didn’t blame HER for this—you know how Hollywood is, and I didn’t want this to negatively effect her career. “Hahahaha! Yeah, they just gonna get broke anyways!” Woman talking. Me, surprised somewhat, “Yep, they will.” Her, getting louder, and more into the humorous nature of poultry ova-- “Yep, they gonna get broke when you cook ‘em up fer breakfast!” Tiffani-Amber does not seem to be taking this line of discussion well as she finishes sacking up the groceries. Me, somewhat tersely, “Uh-huh.” “You gonna scamble ‘em up good for breakfast! Then you can put a little cheese in ‘em, and make yourself an omlit fer breakfast!” “Mmmhm.” By now, I am trying to understand why she puts so much stock into breakfast products, and why she is trying to drive a wedge between Tiffani-Amber and myself, and I finally look around to really see who I’m talking to—tall, raw-boned woman, mid-50s (or a really hard 30), big curly fe-mullet hairdo, pack of smokes in her shirt pocket, blue twill work pants, big black oxford shoes, keys, sorta squinty eyed—she continues talking, fortissimo, “Yeah, them eggs sure would be good right now—‘course, I’m just sorta punchy from coming off shift!” The damage is done. Tiffani-Amber doesn’t even glance when she shoves the receipt in my hand, doesn’t even say “thankyouforshoppingFoodWorld.” The humiliation of the eggs has been too much for her. I fear for her, and wonder if she will ever have the confidence to be able to key in the code for Vidalia onions from memory, or remember that the Bounce Fabric Softener Sheets are 2 for $5. Man, show business is rough.
The Mistress of Pogosity, Irene Adler, talks about Fanfiction.net and the Youth of Today. Really good comments about writing and criticism, constructive and otherwise--one part in particular caught my eye: [...] I have always maintained that one of the worst accidents that can befall a growing intellect is isolation. There is nothing more insufferable than the rural intellectual, the one who has grown up accustomed to being the smartest person in the room, the one who has bumperstickers that say things like “Question Authority” and “Why be NORMAL?” well into his thirties. If you believe your mind is open, you may not notice when the door swings shut. [...]Indeed.
Wal-Mart Profit Rises 25 Percent
Reports indicate the majority of the increase was the result of one family of six in Trussville, Alabama, who, if they had bought stock in the company rather than the wide variety of goods available for purchase, would be the single most powerful bloc of shareholders.
When Imitation Firearms are Outlawed...
Singer Adam Ant Admits 'Cowboy' Incident LONDON (Reuters) - Former British pop star Adam Ant Tuesday admitted threatening pub customers who laughed at his cowboy attire and mocked him by humming the theme tune to spaghetti Western "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."You know, some things are just beyond parody. UPDATE: Larry Anderson over at Kudzu Acres says that we should laud Mr. Goddard for finding something Lucas alternators are actually good for. It's worth noting that the alternator probably travelled faster by being flung by a prancing cowboy than it ever did whilst connected to some poor car, and that its usefulness was not diminished by dampness or mental instability. Lucas Electric spokesmen are quite excited by the development, and are thinking of marketing the alternator sets to soccer fans and anti-everything protestors.
Rabbits unearth rare medieval glass window as they refurbish their burrow By Jane Wardell::sigh:: Those darned rabbits get all the good publicity, but there's never anything good about the archeaological wonders unearthed by possums--just the other day, I found a hubcap and a shoe, but is there a bunch of reporters fawning over me? No. (But then again, I don't know that I would like to speak to anyone who would write a story about rabbits and include the phrase "grass covered hump.")
Fun With Referrer Logs
This is a very good one: WHICH FAMOUS ORCHESTRA IS SOMETIMES CALLED PLO FOR SHORT I believe that would be the Palestinian Liberation Orchestra--their "Greatest Hits Volume One" album from 1979 has such greats as Evil Woman, Livin' Thing, Can't Get It Out of My Head, Showdown, Turn to Stone, Rockaria, Sweet Talkin' Woman, Telephone Line, Ma Ma Ma Belle, Strange Magic, and Mr. Blue Sky.
God's Little Rorschach Test
I got a nice e-mail from Fred First of Fragments from Floyd (Virginia) with a bit of a challenge: I'm countin' on your impeccable (well, could probably be pecked a smidgen) vision to come up with an inspiring epiphany in the light and shadow of the cloud pictured at the link below. It IS an Alabama cloud, after all, captured exactly one year ago today on the way home from my 125th high school reunion.Wow. That's an awful lot of pressure to put on a fellow, Fred! I am being asked to be at least somewhat peccable, epiphanicious, ilk-aware, creatively visionary, not to mention wisely warped. Well, first things first--HERE is the Test Case So far, Fred has comments that say the cloud looks like a herd of feline Shriners, Ruff from Dennis the Menace, and a crazed Bibendum. I see an angry man's face, too, but what struck me most is how much it looks like the background of illustrations by Howard Pyle, such as "The Buccaneer Was A Picturesque Fellow," or a couple of his illustrations from T. W. Rolleston's book Parsifal, or the Legend of the Holy Grail--"Parcifal and His Lady Blanid" and "The Grail's High Mysterious Call." I guess that's not very wise, peccable, or anything else, but Pyle and the rest of the artists of the Brandywine School really have a hold over my imagination both in their technical mastery of painting and in their artistic ability. I see pictures like Fred's, and they remind me not only of pirates and knights, but they also remind me of a time of confident, artistic vigor in America--not only in painting, but in music and architecture and sculpture and dance. It is a time I wish I could have seen first hand. So, that's my take on it, Fred. For all the rest of the loyal legion of Possumblog fans, e-mail Fred what you think of his photo or drop a paragraph or two in his comment box! No word yet on a possible prize--word is that Fred still has remnants of a dearly departed possum somewhere in his backyard. Monday, August 12, 2002
Cuban defector says economic problems could produce social explosion [...] [Former Cuban ambassador to the United Nations, Alcibiades] Hidalgo shares the Bush administration's view that congressional attempts to end curbs on Americans' travel to Cuba, if approved, would be an economic windfall for Cuba and a "gift for Fidel."Well, he obviously hasn't met with Jimmy Cast...I mean Carter yet. I'm sure when he does, Sr. Hidalgo will learn the real truth.
The finest short course on real estate terminology I have ever seen. Thanks from all of us to South Knox Bubba, especially for this one: Architect's dream home: Some mullet head with a cracked warez copy of Home Designer Plus came up with this nightmare by channeling Frank Lloyd Wright through a Ouija Board while having a flashback from that time in high school drafting class when he dropped some acid and designed a perpetual motion bong.For the record, I never had drafting in high school.
Iraqi: Weapons Inspectors Not Needed BAGHDAD, Iraq (AP) - A senior Iraqi official said Monday there is no need for U.N. weapons inspectors to return to Baghdad and branded as a "lie" allegations that Saddam Hussein still has weapons of mass destruction. [...]WOW! I feel so much better now! I mean, they say they don't have anything! Why should we not believe them?! Just because they took four years to say it should NOT be held against them--they had other things to do, you know--murder, smuggling, helping fund glorious martyrs who suffer from intelligence deficit disorder, shooting at stuff; in short, just no time to devote to being massively destructive. Nope. Just making baby milk, that's all.
Health advocacy group targets fungus-based meat substitute [...] CSPI, citing documents it obtained under the Freedom of Information Act, said one study showed nearly 10 percent of people who ate Quorn reported feeling nauseated or sick to their stomachs. [...]Gosh, a fungus-based meat substitute with the melifluous name of "Quorn," and only 10 percent of people who dared eat it felt nauseated? Why, I'm about to quorn right here on my keyboard just thinking about it!
Rally to be the latest push for reparations for descendants of slaves
Supporters of slavery reparations are preparing for a weekend rally in the nation's capital -- a city they note was built in part by slaves hauling sandstone blocks and sawing lumber.Interesting. I don't know, but to me it sounds as though the group's name comes from the slogan "Millions for defense, but not one cent for tribute." Odd sort of juxtaposition, there, ain't it.
Another member of the Axis of Weevil goes to see Spy Kids 2...and really liked it. Maybe I was just in a bad mood. Maybe if I see it again, I will like it. (It does, after all, have pigs that fly...)
If you thought my exposition of my weekend was too long, here is one from Kudzu Acres that is short, sweet, and to the point. The point being that there is no such thing as a simple job.
As promised (I think I promised it) here is Fritz Schrank's expanded version of his daughter's performance last week and the triumph of Southern culture way up yonder in the Blue Hen State. (scroll down to Rock On)
Best wishes to Fritz's daughter and congratulations to her and her band on their fine job.
The shame of the possum world
Dr. Weevil sends along a link to Rodger Shultz's Curmudgeonly & Skeptical , which I am sad to report contains damning evidence of a fellow possum associating with a known criminal. I have often said that no self-respecting member of the family Didelphidae would stoop to this level, but it appears I have been wrong. I can only hope that this poor specimen has a family in Youngstown whom he feared would be "taken care of," and so allowed himself to be used and abused in this fashion. It is a sad day for all possumdom.
You know, there really is nothing better than starting Monday morning with a staff meeting. The only thing close to it would be allowing chimpanzees to give you a face lift while you are fully awake but paralyzed. Or maybe repeatedly slamming your naughty parts in a car door. But everything else is just no fun by comparison.
As for the weekend, it went pretty well, as weekends go. It quit raining but I decided to allow the weeds another week of peace. The actual grass hasn't grown much, so hopefully the neighborhood pretty police will give ME another week of peace. As I mentioned last Friday, we had big plans to take the kids to a movie that night--Spy Kids 2: Island of Lost Dreams. SPOILERS AHEAD! Movie Review Time: I've gotta admit I was all prepped to hate this movie, but I must say that hatred gives it too much credit for being able to elicit any sort of emotion other than raw indifference. Oh, who am I trying to kid--I absolutely hated every wretched, stinking minute of this dreckfest. And not only does it suck, it does it on so many levels. It's not funny. It's not funny in a self-referentially ironic, campy way. It's not funny in a takes-itself-too-seriously way. It's not so-bad-it's-good. It is funny only if you have never ever seen anything really funny, or even anything close to being really funny--for instance, it might be considered funny if your only exposure to humor is being struck repeatedly with a tire iron. About 20 minutes in, I was wishing for a tire iron. It has some redemptive potential in Carla Gugino, but she is always completely dressed. It has Ricardo Montalban in a wheelchair, fer cryin' out loud! Maybe it would have been better if I had seen Spy Kids I. Maybe the horrible acting, the stupidity of the script, the lack of imagination, would have made sense in more complete context. Again, who am I trying to kid? But the kids liked it. They thought all the gadgets were neat, and enjoyed the fact that all laws of physics and logic were erased, and the fact that it was so incongrous and surrealistic, and they laffed out loud at the two evil spy kids falling in camel poop, and were overwhelmed by the nose-picking machinery. Obviously, I am an idiot--ol' Roger Ebert gave it three stars --[...] Director Robert Rodriguez wrote, directed, edited and even did some of the digital photography. He seems to have chosen his color palette from those brightly painted little Mexican sculptures you see in gift shops, the ones that have so much energy they make you smile. [...]Er...Roger, I think the next time you go to a Mexican gift shop, you really owe it to yourself to lay off the peyote. [...] With "Spy Kids 2: The Island of Lost Dreams," the Spy Kids franchise establishes itself as a durable part of the movie landscape: a James Bond series for kids. One imagines "Spy Kids 9," with Alexa Vega and Daryl Sabara promoted to the roles of the parents, Antonio Banderas and Carla Gugino as the grandparents, and kids yet unborn in the title roles.Wow! It's right up there with Citizen Kane! (Which really would have been much better if Welles had been able to work in some fightin' skeletons, and if Rosebud was powered by rockets.) And then, Saturday came. As mentioned, it didn't rain, so to the horses it was. They stayed in the arena this time, so I had something to watch. The kids did pretty good this time, although Boy got scared. There was a new dog hanging around the barn who was as wild as he could be. He got into the barn once and started chasing a sheep, which ran straight into the metal gate across the door--WHANG!!!!CRASH! Jonathan's horse got startled and nearly bolted. At least as it was happening, Jonathan appeared to be in control--he pulled back and his horse stopped right where it stood. I thought he had done an excellent job dealing with a potentially bad situation, but later on I guess he started thinking about it and got scared. They had gotten to the middle of the arena and the instructor was trying to get them to lean way over and lean way back and turn around on the saddle as their horses stood still. The girls did it with no problems, but Boy balked. The teacher even got down and crawled around under his horse to show him how tame it was, and talked and talked to him for what seemed like ten minutes, but he was still in no mood to be adventurous. Sometime in there he had gotten off, and I walked over so we could have a nice, warm, father-son talk. "Go get on your horse." "But I'm scared." "Go get on your horse." "But he was trotting once, and I didn't tell him to." "Yes, and as I remember, you made him stop, and you made him stop when nearly bolted. Go get on your horse." "Yes, sir." He got back on and they finished up and he did just fine. Back to the house, and time to fix stuff. I put back on one of our decorative plastic window accent panels (known to some as a fake shutter) which had blown off a month ago, went to the hardware store and bought a huge package of wire shelf clips to reattach the shelf in wife's closet (I only used one, but I have a big reserve stash now, which I will carefully put away and forget about), and messed around with a few other things. I avoided taking a crack at the microwave, because it's going to have to be replaced and I need to find a replacement before yanking it out, and I avoided the computer in Oldest Daughter's room because I just didn't want to have to deal with it. The screw is still in the tire of the van (although I did change the windshield wipers). And luckily, Boy brought down a football and wanted to go outside, so how could I do anything else? It's odd that he got a football--even though I love football, and will regale the children of my time in the trenches (back in the days when training meant no water and lots of salt pills and two-a-days in August and lots of spray-on Benzocane; and the glories of playing on a high school team with only 18 players, which allowed one the honor of playing the entire game on both offense and defense)--Jonathan has never really been that interested in it. But he wanted to play pitch, so we did. He was pretty good at it, but I think he's going to stick with soccer. AND THEN, in yet another effort to keep from doing anything productive, we set up a box of newspapers in the garage and shot his BB gun. He had gotten it as a present for Christmas so he could practice for the Cub Scout target shoot, but we hadn't had a chance to try it out. After a few shots, he finally got the hang of it--he even managed to get a few in the black, (which I had trouble doing given the quarter sized bullseye.) After all this, there just wasn't time to do anything else, except eat some supper, now was there? Well, there might have been but I wasn't going to let that mess me up. Sunday was well spent--church was uplifting as usual, and the kids in my class were great, and all my teachers were present. Rebecca's soccer coach had a parent meeting, so we all went to that. Sounds like she is going to have a killer team this year, and she's looking forward to starting back. Then we all went to Wal-Mart to get some school clothes for Little Bit and Boy. The older two couldn't find much they like, so we get to go somewhere else for them. The biggest problem in their sizes is finding something that doesn't look painted on--believe it or not, not all parents wants their little Punkin to look like Britney-Kate Aquilera. Middle Girl is not so much of a problem at Oldest Girl, who wants to be an individual and look just like everyone else her age. Or more particularly, like the daughters of the parents who think Britney-Kate Aquilera is hot and want their twelve year olds to be a sexy as possible. ::sigh:: Anyway, that's one more weekend out of the way. As for this week's postings, they are going to be very light. I've got more icky work to do, a deadline, and no cool gadgets to help me out (aside from an electric eraser). But do check back in periodically--I promise whatever does get posted will have that energy that makes you smile! Friday, August 09, 2002
Weekendery
Once again it's about time to head toward home. I had mentioned to Mr. Schranck in our earlier exchange of e-mails that it had started raining here, and that I sorta hoped it would keep on raining so I wouldn't have to cut grass or go sit in the blazing heat and smell horse poop on Saturday. Evil man that Fritz is, he brought up the fact that a few weeks back I was begging for it to stop raining so I could cut the grass. But you see, after the grass got cut, it also quit raining and blazing fire from heaven fell all over the place, so the grass is not so critical right now. Meanwhile, all the inside jobs have now reached their boiling point, and demand my attention--wire shelving being pulled from the wall by wife's densely packed wardrobe (each dress is apparently woven with a mixture of cotton, polyester, and lead); a backup computer that ceased to function correctly five minutes after being placed in the command of Oldest Girl (despite three years of flawless service to Yours Truly); a large screw stuck in the tread of the right front tire of the van (oooooo, I get to use MAN TOOLS); a variety of appliances needing repair, including the microwave over the stove which has been a flatline since about, ohhhh, four...five MONTHS ago; and then there is the dreaded "You know what we need to do, Terry?" Word of advice--never say "What?" Best bet is to say, "Yes, we need to stop fiddling around with those Bolshevik anarchists and give Trotsky a good swift kick. And we also need to learn Urdu. AND, not only that, but I think it's high time we thought about developing a response to the Time Cube. It's fiendishly complicated, but we can, and MUST do better." Then run away. Because if you say "What?" you will find out about rooms that need painting, and curtains that still have not been hung after four years, and that big box in the garage that you said you were going to clean out, and the floor has a torn spot, and that Parisian is having a back-to-school sale. So don't say "what." Tonight will be fun, though. We are going to see Spy Kids II, which, along with whatever else happens this weekend, will no doubt provide much of the stale and hackneyed blog posts you have come to know and detest come Monday morning. See you then.
Popular Summer Drinks Called Desserts in Disguise [...] According to the editors of Tufts' Health & Nutrition Letter, plain old iced coffee poses no threat to the waistline. But when large doses of sugar, whole milk and cream enter the picture, these drinks should be considered desserts rather than beverages.Artery-clogging saturated fat!? Why, this is a pernicious danger to the public health! We need to start throwing those ne'er-do-well barristas and their evil corporate bosses into the slammer--imagine knowingly serving someone a deadly concoction of fat and caffeine and sugar, blithely ignoring the dangers to the patron's health and the burdensome cost to the public! I smell a class-action! Get me Jackie Childs on the phone!
(pronounced 'lĕh-'nérd 'skin-'nérd)
I received a nice e-mail this morning from Delaware's finest public servant, Fritz Schranck of Sneaking Suspicions: Last night my younger daughter (15) performed with her fellow rock 'n' roll campers at The Rusty Rudder in Dewey Beach. It was the culmination of two weeks of musicianship, with kids from about 8 to 16.Indeed I do. As I told Fritz, this is cool. And odd. But that's the way it should be. Resistance is futile. Y'all will be assimul...asimule...assem...aw, you know.
Charlton Heston says he has symptoms of Alzheimer's disease I imagine there will be a lot of chortling from some folks who disagree with Mr. Heston's politics about this sad story. Like him or not, he deserves respect as a veteran, and as a human being now being slowly overcome by a debilitating, fatal disease.
From his statement to the press: "I'm confident about the future of America. I believe in you. I know that the future of our country, our culture and our children is in good hands," Heston said. "I know you will continue to meet adversity with strength and resilience as our ancestors did and come through with flying colors -- the ones on Old Glory."
ALABAMA MEN IN DRESSES!
For all of you Scots lads and lasses in Alabama, here is an interesting link from Alistair McIntyre's Electric Scotland to the Celtic Alabama News.
Fun With Referrer Logs
Gosh, Google is just the best! I'm certain that this must be tied to the post below in some strange way: how often may i refill my valium in Georgia? Well, if the Russkies drop in, all bets are off, but in general I think Georgia allows you to refill your valium every couple of hours or so. I could be wrong about that. Then there's this from one of Possumblog's legion of British readers: George Foreman Grill rubbish. I hasten to inform you, gentle reader, that the George Foreman Grill is not intended to be used for cooking rubbish. Rubbish should only be cooked in an incinerator, as it make much smoke and noxious fumes (also meaning that it should be done in an outdoor setting.) Of course, you might have been thinking of the Mike Tyson Wubbiss Gwill™. These are available in the Possumblog Gift Shop, and if you hurry, you can get free a grill brush shaped like Don King's head. Finally, there is this little gem: home renovation how-to boobs As an architect, I am often asked by budget-minded individuals if it is possible to successfully undertake a do-it-yourself home renovation which includes the addition of boobs. Are they hard to add? Do I need any special tools? What is the best size? What about nipples? All good questions, to be sure. Surprisingly, it is not beyond the means of the average homeowner to give his or her house a rack to be proud of! As with all construction projects, it is best to plan beforehand, and get as much information as possible before lifting the first hammer or driving the first nail. With a little "sweat equity" and forethought, your home can be the envy of the neighborhood, and you will have the satisfaction of being able to say "I did that!" And remember, ALWAYS WEAR YOUR SAFETY GEAR! First, you should check with your local zoning officials. Occasionally, zoning restrictions require that the boobs be covered in an opaque material, or that only a certain percentage of boob area may be shown. Other restrictions may be placed on size or yard setbacks, either of which may mean your dreams of a 'Double-D' may have to be dialed back to a more chaste 'Single-B.' Also, while checking with your local officials, it would be good to also visit the building inspections and permitting department. Some cities are very strict about boobs on residential construction, and many require engineering calculations to insure that there is proper support for the boobs. In some cases the regulations are as strict as those for boobs on commercial buildings, which can have an adverse effect on your budget. After those regulatory hurdles are cleared and you have an idea of the things which will be required of your boobs, the fun really starts. This is when you start making those decisions about the look and style of the boobs for YOUR home! The varieties are seemingly endless--big; small; perky, pointy or pendulous--and you can certainly become confused. One of the best ways to determine your favorites is to slowly drive through your own neighborhood and look at the boobs of other houses, especially those of houses which are similar in construction to your own. Are they saucy? Are they warmly touchable? Do they seem to flirt with you? Or, do they look out of place--such as a large, round firm set of boobs on a Victorian? Take some photos of the ones that strike your fancy and imagine how they might look, nestled snugly on your home. At some point in your research, you will come to a conclusion about the pair of housejugs that best suits your style and the image you want to project. Maybe something in a flirty Mediterranean style that promises hot days (and even hotter nights!), or maybe a buxom country style that reminds you of a roll in the hay and a friendly "Yeeeeee-HAW!" Whatever you've chosen, the next steps are crucial, for they begin the actual construction process. All the necessary information about tools, construction methods, materials, finishes and "special extras" can be found in my newest book, The Possumblogger's Guide to Home Boob Construction, also available in the Possumblog Gift Shop, for only $24.99! Already, homeowners from across the nation have been quick to praise its helpfulness and depth--from Bob G. of Pinellas, Florida: "I love my new house boobs! And I couldn't have done it without the Possumblogger's helpful book;" from Eilene L. of Chattanooga, Tennessee: "I needed new boobs--the old ones had begun to sag, even pulling away from the wall in spots. I was able to use Home Boob Construction to remove my old ones and install a brand new set of townhome ta-tas that have made everyone jealous;" and from Rev. Harlan B. of Ann Arbor, Michigan: "They're HEAVENLY! And I did them all by myself!" So, what are you waiting for!? Order today--you'll be glad you did!
Russian defense minister says Georgia is second major terrorist "nest" after Afghanistan
They're probably just looking for an excuse to knock the Braves out of first in the NL East. Either that, or they've driven I-20 through Atlanta during rush hour.
Miss Moira is feeling better! I'm almost back! Much improved after the surgery, though I can't yet sit comfortably for extended periods at the keyboard. They did give me some pretty cool pictures of the mess that was my shoulder joint, and it's dawned on me that modern video technology and the web could allow one to take post-surgical droning boring boorishness to a whole new level: hey, you want I should post those endoscopic shots? (Well, I was fascinated by the striking resemblance of the buggered up parts to surimi, why shouldn't you be?) I really have missed Miss Moira. (And by the way, that crow story really creeps me out. They are already smarter than me, and now that they've learned that they can use tools, there'll be no stopping them.)
From the Republic of Texas, Quana Jones on the inadvisability of allowing the inmates to run the asylum: In my everyday world out here in central Texas how many myopic, (and I might add ‘murderous’) schizophrenics do you think we have running loose? Answer: not many, and most of the time damn near zero. And those that sometimes do careen out of control don’t do so for long.But does the House o'Saud?
There is much to do, there is work on every hand, so to prevent you from harkening to my cry for help ringing through the land, I gotta get some work done this morning. In the meantime, Happy Birthday to James Lileks! Thursday, August 08, 2002
THIS JUST IN!
Janis (Are You Joking, Of Course I'm Not Related) Gore sends me a link to a terrifying story of man against fish (strangely enough, not written by Hemingway), noting This story belongs to your neck of the woods.Knowing I'm a sucker for stories of piscine rapacity, and that Mac Thomason has the Dreaded Chinese Snakehead beat wrapped up pretty tightly, and because she always calls me "Hon," without further delay, I give you Man stable after being hit by leaping fish PANAMA CITY - A Panhandle fisherman is in stable condition after being hit in the chest by a big fish while on his boat.Obviously, this beats all the Snakehead stories hands down--sturgeons are much uglier, they apparently have discovered enough about Bernoulli's Principle to prepare rudimentary flying vehicles, they're willing to use this newfound power to terrorize innocent fishermen, and it's happening right down there along the Redneck Riviera! This threat must be stopped, and stopped now! (Of course, one would never wish to suggest that the sturgeon was merely trying to get a sip of Mr. Clemen's beverage. Whatever it might have been.) UPDATE: I have never EVER been accused of being particulary quick on the uptake, but this is embarrassing even for me--Mac Thomason DID comment on this horrific phenomenon, back on Monday JULY 29! His link is to a story in the St. Petersburg Times (which, with the convergence of "sturgeon" and "St. Petersburg," makes this whole thing take on a decidedly Czarist spin)--following is an excerpt: [...] Why do the sturgeon jump?I don't believe it! These big, ugly, deadly flying hunks of cartilaginous bastardosity are FEDERALLY protected!
This was too good to wait until this afternoon: Florida nursing home that alleged union used voodoo tactics is charged by labor officials
MIAMI (AP) -- A nursing home that accused union organizers of using voodoo to frighten its Haitian-American employees into joining has been accused by federal officials of mistreating workers.I bet the real kicker was the appearance of a zombie Jimmy Hoffa. (Also, who knew voodoo answered the question about the glass being half-full or half-empty!?)
And speaking of disgusting rain and sewage, I have just been handed a fine mess to fix. I will check back in later on this afternoon, if I am not swept downstream.
Rats, Jelly Fish, Diarrhea Follow Spain's Rains Hmm. This will certainly put an odd twist on My Fair Lady.
(At least the rain is just water, as opposed to what they get down in San Antonio.)
President Renames Month After Himself ASHGABAT (Reuters) - Turkmenistan's flamboyant President Saparmurat Niyazov, after whom cities, airports and even a meteorite have been named, has proposed a new honor for himself -- the month of January will now bear his name.Look, if it was good enough for Julius and Augustus...
Well, we made it through another first day of school yesterday--
Oldest Girl (7th Grade)--First time changing classes, but things went well. Revised schedule--now has PE 6th period, right before (::ahem:: HONORS) math. (Blech--nothing worse that having to go back to class after sweating through PE) Finally figured out which binder went with which class. Upstairs air conditioning not working, bringing on mild complaints "They had box fans set up!" Resisted urge to launch into long-winded speech about the poor kids who went there for 40 years without air conditioning, and that a little heat will do her good. Left clarinet in band room. Middle Girl (4th Grade)--Loves teacher (who has a dog). First day as afternoon safety patroller, opening car doors for parents picking up kids. She got a yellow vest (#81), and a popsicle from the principal for doing such a good job. Watched out to make sure Baby Girl got on the shuttle bus to the kindergarten annex. Boy (3rd Grade)--Found out he was qualified for the gifted program! He took a test at the end of last school year, and we didn't hear anything about it until yesterday. Still quite the playah-playah--made a special effort to find all the little girls he likes and what classes they're in. Tiny Girl (K-5)--First day of real big school. Talked about nothing else afterwards. Did not pee in pants. Had RECESS! Got to ride the CAT bus (the bus to and from the elementary school to the annex). And most significantly DID NOT MOVE HER CLOTHESPIN! She sometimes has a tendency to become involved in...situations. She's sweet, but occasionally succumbs to the dark gods of frenetic mischief. Moving the clothespin is a way most of the teachers let the kids know they are getting rowdy--if a kid starts acting up, they have to take their clothespin and move it from the "Happy Happy Good Sweet" mark to the "Less Than Happy" mark (or worse, to the "Frowny" mark). Any clothespin movery has always been a very serious offense at the Oglesby household, subjecting the mover to a special motivational series of long-winded harangues about the necessity of being good in school and keeping one's permanent record spotless. No one wants to hear a Personnel Director say "Sorry, we were going to offer you a job, but we have checked your references and find that on September 29 in K-5, you had to move your clothespin due to a backtalking incident."
Something stinks, and it ain't just sewage--
Commission holds sewer meeting unannounced Vicki HowellSure cuts down on all that silly crap they have to listen to from voters... County environmental officials had said at past public meetings that they would hold a special information session about the county sewer program for commissioners. The officials gave no specifics about when and where it might take place.Again, it's for the best, to spare our poor commissioners the indignity of having their judgement questioned in a public forum According to Alabama Supreme Court rulings on the state's open meetings law, public bodies such as the County Commission must give the public "reasonable notice" when their members call meetings when a quorum is present, said Montgomery lawyer Dennis Bailey, general counsel for the Alabama Press Association.Wow, I feel so much better with one of those Clintonesque apologies I can carry around with my gigantic sewer bill. It makes me feel warm and comforted to know that despite the fact that White is Commission president, he feels quite comfortable showing up at an illegal meeting he knew nothing about, and then allowing it to continue. THAT is real leadership! White said commissioners call informal meetings when they want to discuss various topics. He sets a date, then his secretary checks to see if they're available to come. Sometimes there is a quorum three or more commissioners and sometimes there is not.Happenstance!? Well, that certainly explains a lot about what's been going on in the County Environmental Services Department! Certainly inspires confidence, eh? Small and the Environmental Services Department staff scheduled the meeting before a July 23 public hearing on the supersewer, according to White's secretary.Meaning that the people present at the public hearing could have been told about the upcoming unknown "happenstance" meeting. If somebody had wanted to tell them. Which no one did. Sewage is such a dirty business, ain't it? Jack Swann, head of environmental services, said his officials had planned a presentation weeks ago to update commissioners on the sewer program and the Cahaba trunk sewer. "Do you feel we're obligated to call the press whenever we meet with the commission?" Swann said.Why, how silly! No, you big git, we expect the County Commission to abide by state law regarding public meetings, which means not only the friggin' press gets notified, but citizens, too. You know, the people who pay you. Small said he thought White notified the public about the meeting. He chalked it up to miscommunication and apologized. But he also said officials, at several meetings, announced their intent to meet Aug. 5. "Nevertheless, there were not formal announcements about it," he said.But you see, po' ol' Gary didn't know about no meetin', he jes showed up and there she were! Luckily, my anger is assuaged by a warm, heartfelt apology from Commissioner Small. I will tuck it in there with this one I got from the Commission pres. He promised to give notice of future meetings.Before or after it happens? At the Monday meeting, he said, county officials and geo-technical experts explained the project, presenting pictures and diagrams of rock formations and other details of the supersewer project. Small said the commission would make the same presentation to the Birmingham Water Works Board at a joint meeting with the commission. A date has not yet been set for that meeting.I'm sure one will just happenstance-ically happen along. Not to worry. Beth Stewart, president of the Cahaba River Society, said the meeting would have offered some answers for the scores of questions about the project, which her group has opposed. The fact that several hundred people came to the July 23 public hearing on the supersewer shows that the public is vitally interested, she said.Of course, this supposes that they are basing their decisions on information. Some have suggested that the decision-making process is driven less by information than by cashinstance. "Hey, look, a billion dollars just fell in my lap! Thank you, God!" Not that I would ever suggest such a thing about people who were nice enough to give me not one, BUT TWO apologies. Wednesday, August 07, 2002
FINALLY! A Google search that I can help with.
Just ripped this one off the Tele-Type: "Earnest T. Bass" pictures For the finest in Howard Morris photographs and information, one simply MUST visit The Official-Like Home Page of Earnest T. Bass. It's chock full of rocks, posstums, mother-figures, brother-figures, and sen-ten-ces. UPDATE: And yet there's more! pectoral developing cream flammable. Yes, it seems like only yesterday that I was lathering up my pecs with Doctor Napalm's All Natural Man-Breast Enlarger Emollient and Fondue Warmer Gel--I had no sooner pranced past a lit candle, when my entire chestal region was engulfed in hungry, flickering blue flames. My advice is to steer clear of anything with ethyl alcohol, ether, benzene, naphtha, turpentine, or nitromethane. Even if it is supposed to give you a more supple bosom. AND NOW, there's this--autozone mullet. Having shopped in AutoZone before, I know for a fact that a mullet is not required (but is essential nonetheless) for effective bench-racing, telling of hunting stories, looking at that girl over there in the blue jean shorts with her panties poking out the waistband, ordering a set of eight Badger P888-STDs, and hunkering. Possumblog is happy to be of service with all of your information needs.
And speaking of national security (not that I was, but I needed some way to start this post, and that sounded as good as anything else), I did manage to get all the kiddies to school this morning, each with his or her own little clear backpack, mandated by the school board as a sure fire way of avoiding the problems of opaque backpacks, namely their opacity, which can obscure a concealed weapon almost as well as a brown paper bag (which are not prohibited)--BUT, that is not really the story here. (Again, not that it's a GOOD story, but hey...)
The story is the comical things that happen when people try to sell stuff, such as clear backpacks. When we were getting school supplies a couple of weeks ago, we got four new clear plastic backpacks. As I was putting the kids' lunch money in each one this morning, I was struck (hard, and viciously) by the sticker each one had neatly affixed on the front. In hip black lettering, on a clear plastic sticker, the words "CLEAR BACKPACK." As if the very clearness of its construction was not obvious enough, someone in the Clear Backpack Co., Inc. (name changed to protect someone) Marketing Department felt the need to further set forth its transparent nature with the addition of superfluous information. "J.J., what will help us make OUR clear backpacks stand out in a crowded field of barely visible substitutes?" "Hmmm. I'll get right on it!" Three months and $500,000 later, a collective gasp is heard around the conference table as the a gleaming new model fresh from a Chinese labor camp is plopped down and J.J. triumphantly slaps his "CLEAR BACKPACK" sticker on the front. Applause and much satisfied harrumphing is shared by all. Then again, this could have come out of the Clear Backpack Co., Inc. Legal Department. After the crushing defeat suffered by the company in Jones, Timmy v. Clear Backpack Co., Inc., in which poor Timmy walked right through a clear backpack and suffered the indignity of his playmates' laughter and a debilitating aversion to all clear plastic products, including drink tumblers and air mattresses, it was decided that henceforth each backpack would carry a prominent label to warn of the dangers it posed. Lawmakers quickly jumped on the "Clear and Present Danger" bandwagon, promoting accurate invisibility labeling through Timmy's Law, vowing that greedy corporate CEO's would never again prey "on the children." Environmentalists, however, still found fault with the law in that it tacitly supports the global petrochemical and plastics industry, and continue to press for backpacks utilizing renewable invisible resources such as air. Despite the fact that creating a backpack entirely out of air has never been successfully accomplished outside of Defense Department testing labs, protesters continue to demonstrate and support several lobbying efforts "on behalf of the children." OR, maybe since these backpacks were destined for Alabama, some smart-alecky Yankee decided to stick a label on them so we would know which ones were clear. Who knows. Anyway, I'm just glad I got them to school this morning.
Lech Walesa--Union leader, Nobel Prize winner, Polish president, fashion model.
(Look only if you dare...I no longer have any retinas.)
At least one stupid thing you probably won't see happen in Alabama: Man Dies After Fiery Summer Snowmobile Stunt VANCOUVER, British Columbia (Reuters) - A Canadian man who tried to drive his snowmobile through a ball of flames during a drunken summer party has died of his injuries, police said on Tuesday.(Well, at least it won't happen until we get a Bombardier dealership.)
The next Krispy Kreme? From the Birmingham Business Journal Dreamland pushes forward with franchising Ryan MahoneyMmmmmmmmm--barbecued ribs and white bread. Of course, unlike the wonderful Krispy Kreme, they are much harder to eat while driving, and don't taste good dunked in coffee. (Then again, the Barbecue Flavor Krispy Kreme never really went over very big, either.)
Bush administration looks for signs of reform in meetings with three Palestinian Cabinet ministers
...Administration officials seemed confused as giggling PA ministers said the reform plans were in the basement of the Alamo with Pee Wee's bike.
I just got back from a short meeting discussing building security (I am one of the "unit emergency coordinators" for our floor--in case of an evacuation, I stay and take roll until everyone gets out) and all I have to say is if you think the national Homeland Defense stuff is silly and intrusive and ill-thought-out, rest assured that it gets no better once translated to the local level.
Anti-idiotarian At Work.
This just in from War Liberal Mac Thomason! Really, people from outside the south (much less outside the country!) should never talk about Alabama politics. They always wind up looking stupid.We like you dirty, Mac!
Janis Gore talks about the uncomfortable proposition of a woman having to use lethal force to protect herself from harm. The decision to use a gun, or weapon of any sort, is difficult, but as with most things, having some information beforehand can be helpful. One of the best online sources I have found which deals specifically with women and firearms comes from a Pleasant Grove, Alabama police officer,firearms instructor, and range owner John Grigsby, who with his partner John Blue have developed a firearms self-defense course with an online study guide. It is well-written and although geared toward women, it includes tips which are useful for everyone, even if you don't wish to carry a gun.
Pulling Dick's Weeds, and The 85% Solution
Once more with cracking whip, Charles Austin takes on Richard Cohen, Version 46--but not before taking a bit of time to gaze inwardly at his own hopes and dreams: Well, I can dream. I can dream that one day some of the thousands upon thousands who currently keep Richard Cohen supplied with fancy doodaddery he cannot comprehend will drop me an e-mail or leave a comment and let me know that I helped them see the error of Richard Cohen’s ways. That I helped them dissemble the straw men, fend off ad hominem attacks, perform amazing feats of navigation through the maze of non sequiturs, and pickle the red herrings. No longer need they roam the blogosphere begging the question or, post hoc ergo propter hoc, imagining that the glory of this received wisdom is due Richard Cohen, because without him there would be no Scourge to guide them in pulling Dick’s weeds from this chatauquatic garden of civilized discourse. Tuesday, August 06, 2002
Once again time to hit the road--tonight is Middle Girl's soccer tryouts, so it'll be run home, grab her, and run to the field, where I will roast for two hours. Blech.
As I mentioned, Boy had his tryouts last night, and I was impressed--he hasn't messed with a ball all summer, and he got out there and was really kicking it hard. Of course, after about ten minutes he was about to drop due to the heat and humidity, but he managed to keep up pretty well. The biggest disappointment was the absence of Breck Girl Mom. ::sigh:: In fact, none of the little fellows from his spring team showed up, which I thought was odd since they had a couple of really good players. Maybe they'll show up later. And tomorrow morning starts back the old routine--up at 5, shower, dress, get kids up, get 'em dressed, feed 'em breakfast, grab stacks of backpacks, hit the door, drop off one at the middle school, three at the elementary school, and try to get to work before 8. I'll see you tomorrow and let you know how it works out.
Amtrak's premier service suffers from equipment problems, unreliable performance
By Laurence ArnoldAmtrak officials quickly pointed out that unlike the FBI, it hadn't lost any guns, and knew where most of its trains were located. Especially the ones that don't move.
CRASH! POW! I SURRENDER! Tune in to the newest adventure on MacTV--Captain Euro Vs. The Martians! Nyaaa, whata maroon! (Captain Euro, that is. Not Mac. Or Marvin the Martian. Or Dr. Banner. Or Hulk.)
That wasn’t so bad
I just got back from taking Oldest Girl to school to meet her teacher and put her supplies in her locker. Yes, I thought this was going to get done yesterday along with the rest of the kids, as did my wife. But there was a certain gym teacher at the middle school who decided to act like every stereotypical gym teacher in the whole country and told wife and four cranky kids that she wasn’t letting ANYone in the building. “Tomorrow. 1:30 to 2:30.” Thank you, nice lady! You put my wife into a funk that lasted until this morning! Anyway, since Reba couldn’t get time off again, I took a long lunch and schlepped back out to Trussville and picked up The 7th Grader and her stuff. I wasn’t sure how long this was going to last, and she’s at that horrid age when you never know if you’re petting a puppy or pulling the pin on a live grenade. Thankfully, it was puppy day. She was nice and sweet (I don’t know how she was five minutes before I got her, or five minutes after I dropped her back off) and good company. We got to the building and joined all fifty kabillion other parents trying to cram into the five parking places in front of the building—we pulled around to the back and found one and walked in and found her room. Inside at the desk sat an impossibly young and blonde and leggy girl, and I swear I could hear David Lee Roth singing “Hot For Teacher” in the background. She introduced herself as the homeroom teacher’s daughter (whew) and said her mom was in a meeting. She gave Ashley her locker card and followed us back out to the hallway to make sure she could get it open. We stacked stuff in and the flood of memories of first day jitters came right back, just like I had never graduated. (Which I’m sure will mean that I’ll have one of those stupid dreams tonight in which I HAVEN’T graduated, and I have forgotten my locker combination, and it’s dark, and I have one minute to get to class or be expelled. Love those dreams.) The teacher’s daughter had left for a minute, then came back after having written down the combination—she wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to give us the combination card yet or not, so she decided to give us something in lieu of it so Ashley could practice. Good grief, what a sweet girl! Then a minute or two later, a lady tapped me on the arm and introduced herself as Ashley’s teacher, and I figured out why her daughter was so sweet. What a nice lady! She brought us back into the room and gave Ashley her agenda book and other bits of to-be-signed-by-parent-or-official-guardian boilerplate papers, and told us a bit about herself. I kept thinking there was something odd about her name though, (and I kept doing this odd Ronald Reaganesque puzzled look as I tried to think of it) until she mentioned that the original teacher had gotten transferred. THAT’S IT! I knew something was wrong with her name, and I had this gnawing sense that Ashley was somehow in the wrong classroom (shades of another dream in there, I suppose). Anyway, she said they had just moved to town and her daughter was up from Auburn to help her out. BONUS! I turned and semi-hollered a quick War Eagle! to her and asked what she was majoring in—“MIS” she says. Wow. And her mom is a science teacher. Smart bunch o’girls. Ashley was impressed, too, (I suppose—again it’s hard to tell, but I think she was) and after we had gotten back in the car she said that she thought her teacher seemed okay. I’ll take “okay” any day of the week. So, she’s all set, along with the rest of the young'ns, to get started back tomorrow. Summer is over.
A cautionary tale about not divulging too much information (along with an absolutely horrid pun at the end) from Snopes.com in the Case of Casey O'Brien
And here's one for the "Whoda Thunkit" File: Cyprus wants to be rid of exiled Palestinian militant, claims he causes trouble
By Alex EftyNext: Cypriots decide running with scissors while playing in traffic with a lit match and a jar of gasoline is bad idea.
From Vidalia's Sweetheart and Axis of Weevil Krewe Coordinator Janis Gore, her thoughts on...well...you know what: How can I be so isolated? I have to read Joanne Jacobs in California to find a reference to this article in the New York Times regarding current sexual trends in the south.
Why I Always Carry A Pocket Knife: Man Recovers After Battling, Killing Cougar By Allan DowdYou just never know when you might get attacked by a 90 pound cougar.
From the Inspector Renauld "I am Shocked--SHOCKED!" File: Pentagon Board Told Saudi Arabia Is an Enemy [...] The sources declined to provide details of the meeting, but the Post reported direct quotes from Rand Corporation analyst Laurent Murawiec, who it said provided a harsh assessment of Saudi Islamic fundamentalism at a time when Washington is preparing military contingency plans for a possible invasion of Iraq to oust Iraqi President Saddam Hussein.Well, it's not like they're flying planes into buil... Well, it's not like they're paying money to families of suicide bo... Never mind.
And from Chuck Myguts favorite candidate for governor, Libertarian John Sophocleus, we see this analysis:Libertarian candidate: Nominees 'childish' [...] To Siegelman, who boasted about his administration's hard work: "We might be better off if you didn't work as hard, given what you've accomplished."But again, the problem goes much further than the man in the governor's office--there must be a fundamental change in the House and Senate (and among voters who keep electing these morons). Even if Sophocleus were elected, the Legislative branch, still beholden and bought and paid for, would effectively cut him out of any decision-making authority. Anything good he wanted to do would die at the hands of Seth Hammett, the Speaker of the Alabama House, who weilds tremendous power over lawmaking (once the purview of the lieutenant governor, which was fine as long as it was Don Siegelman--as soon as a Republican was elected to the office, all substantive power was shifted by the party in control, i.e. Dems, to the Speaker of the House.) Such shenanigans are why Alabama is perpetually chasing its tail and failing to progress in concert with the rest of the South. It won't change, though, until citizens get fed up enough to make it happen.
Putting the Goober back in Gubernatorial
Last night we got to see our first debate between incumbent governor Don "For the Children" Siegelman and Republican challenger Bob "Not Don Siegelman" Riley. [...] The two candidates did not use the debate to unveil policy proposals, falling back instead on familiar themes.Given that I missed the first few minutes of the debate due to Little Boy's soccer tryouts, I am unable to ascertain which candidate first violated the Godwin's Law-"For the Children" Corollary. However, having come to know The Dapper Don as the king of pandering, I would say he probably mentioned it within five seconds of speaking, and so is the one to be tied in the sack. I'll notify President Khatami that he's on the way. What I did see of the "debate" didn't really change my mind about either candidate, nor my opinion that this state will never go anywhere until we provoke a change in our method of governing ourselves. Monday, August 05, 2002
Investigation Casts Light on the Mysterious Flying Black Triangle They are big, black, and triangular. In UFO folklore they are proof-positive that planet Earth is a rest stop for joyriding, but road-weary, extraterrestrials.Balloons, eh? Oh, sure, that's what "they" would have you believe... Actually, it is pretty interesting, in that most non-aluminum-foil-hat-wearers have concluded that the Roswell crash was part of Project Mogul, a test of high-altitude surveillance balloons. Balloons are so cool.
Politics: Feds missing 775 weapons, 400 laptops, report says WASHINGTON (August 5, 2002 1:48 p.m. EDT) - Five agencies under Justice Department jurisdiction, including the FBI and DEA, have reported 775 missing or stolen weapons and 400 missing laptop computers, says a report released Monday. [...]Administration officials quickly pointed out that under the proposed Homeland Security Administration, the five agencies at fault would all be part of one big organization, able to lose or misplace much larger amounts of materiel in a much more efficient manner.
Pilots accused of trying to fly drunk ordered not to travel
"But you gotta let me fly--I'm too drunk to walk!"
Thanks to Sine Qua Non Pundit Charles Austin for sending along this item from The Bradenton (Florida) Herald: Politicians flock to tiny town for Possum FestivalMmmm. If you do wish to prepare possum, remember to keep it penned up for a few weeks and feed it only nice sweet corn and clean water. They are scavengers, and whatever they have managed to eat before you catch them can make them taste gamier than necessary. And they are greasy. Best to boil them awhile until tender, like squirrels, before finishing them in the oven. Also, be sure and kill it before it gets a computer and starts a blog.
Why Wuxnputl Can't Read
Well, obviously he is being oppressed by a cerebro-centric cultural mindset that values "reading." Luckily, we have Fred Reed, who documents the efforts of academia to correct this solution. [...] Soon schools were fighting each other to recruit the cerebrally understated.
Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeha!
Come with me now as I ride in Slim Pickens fashion yet another air-dropped atomic bomb of a weekend, laden with a critical mass of not very interesting stuff--Scintillating Tales of Lunch, Goodbye to the Fishies, Lady Doctors, Pernell Doesn't Know Me (But He Sure Knows Steve Miller), Mickey Sure is an Ugly Horse, UnBoxing, and The Evils of Cleavage WARNING: As with all Possumblog Weekend Updates, this post is entirely too long, and is entirely too mundane. Extended reading may cause paralysis or numbness in the extremities, hacking cough, dandruff, halitosis, a metallic taste on the left side of the mouth, drowsiness, or sudden death. As we left our protagonist at the end of the week past, he was taking an early leave to sally forth to eat lunch. (Shocking!) As planned, I met My Friend Jeff over at Demetri’s, which is an ancient barbecue joint over in Homewood. We have lunch every so often so we can swap car magazines—he subscribes to Car and Driver, and I get Automobile and AutoWeek and we exchange them because we’re cheap. Anyway, since I had my doctor’s appointment, I decided to lay off the jumbo pork plate with large fries and slaw and just got a salad and water. Jeff just found out he’s got GIRD, (which is nothing like C.H.U.D.) so he decided to skip the jumbo pork plate with large fries and slaw and just got a salad with water. Now, you may be asking yourself why would these two dunderheads go to a barbecue joint with an inch thick layer of grime coating the inside and then order dainty little salads like a couple of yuppie girlie men. Well, I’ll tell you—barbecue joints have the best looking waitresses. So sue me. Got through, stood in the parking lot for a minute and got heat stroke, he went back to work, I stopped by The Little Professor bookstore (which has a yuppie girlieman ristorante inside with all sorts of things like biscotti and flavored teas and pretentiousness and spiky haired waiter guys) and looked around for a bit and headed to the doctor’s office for my in-between checkup. There was the stupid fish picture again (lovingly detailed in this post from February 1) and Doc came in to go over my vitals, which were surprisingly good—BP was 120 over 80, fasting glucose was 113, mean glucose 130, bad cholesterol 140, good cholesterol was 25. Hmm? My what? What do you mean “your weight?!” Don’t you think that’s an awfully personal thing to be asking?! Do you really think I would be so free with such personal medical information!? Why, the NERVE! (For the record, I could be used to make three female Olympic gymnasts, or about half a sumo wrestler.) Doc is retiring at the end of this month, and I’m sad to see him go. He has a wonderful way about him—part country doctor and part world’s smartest physician. He asked if I was going to stay on with his group and I said I reckoned so, and he asked who I wanted to go with. I told him I didn’t really care, and so now I’m going to have a lady doctor. (I blame the salad) Apparently all of his patients were following Linda his nurse, who was reassigned to one of veteran doctors in the group, which meant the new lady doctor coming in to take Doc’s place was going to start out with none. Part of that is some weird thing about older folks (which make up the bulk of his practice) who don’t want a female doctor. My mother and father-in-law to name two. They were both Doc’s patients, too, and neither one of them wanted ANYTHING to do with any sort of woman doctor. I don’t know—maybe it’s because my sister’s a doctor, but I just can’t figure out the antipathy. And dingburnit, if I am going to HAVE to be subjected to the humiliation of an annual digital cavity search, I’d somehow feel better if it was NOT a guy. Of course, this might be a bad deal, because Doc mentioned that her married name is an odd Scandinavian moniker that sometimes gets mistaken for “Noriega.” He said it would be best not to make the mistake. I’ll keep that in mind. And I also asked him about the fish picture (hoping in some perverted way that I could talk him out of it). “Yep, that one’s going home with me. My wife got me that for my very first office and it is definitely going home.” Awww. How nice. It’s still a disturbing picture, though. So, then it was back on the road toward home, with one quick stop for a hair cut. As always, I stopped by Head Start in Trussville. Once more it seems, I keep coming up against some sort of strange clash-of-the-worlds thing going on—first salad, then a female doctor, then getting my hair cut in a “family hair salon.” But again, if someone’s going to be messing around with my hair and rubbing up against my arm, I’d just rather it be someone that looks like Kirsten Dunst instead of Billy Bob Thorton. I walked in and very nearly ran away. Two stylists, and the one who wasn’t busy was…a guy. Aw, crap. All that planning and anticipation, and I’d wound up with Billy Bob. Or in this case, Pernell. He gave me a husky handshake, as if to say “Yeah, I work in a hair salon, but I work here for the same reason you come in here—it’s for the chicks!” This is really what I want to believe about Pernell. But the earrings didn’t help. Nor the tight pants. Nor the fact that the soft rock station (and when they say soft, they mean it—definitely a 1 on the Mohs scale—the equivalent of talc radio) playing in the background started playing “Abracadabra” by the Steve Miller Band, and Pernell knew ALL the words. And Pernell quietly sang as he clipped my hair: I heat up, I can't cool down You got me spinnin' 'Round and 'round 'Round and 'round and 'round it goes Where it stops nobody knows Every time you call my name I heat up like a burnin' flame Burnin' flame full of desire Kiss me baby, let the fire get higher Abra-abra-cadabra I want to reach out and grab ya Abra-abra-cadabra Abracadabra After the song went off, Pernell gently continued to hum the chorus: HM hm HM hm, hmhm hmmmmm Hm hm hm HM hm hm HM hm HM hm HM hm, hmhm hmmmmm HMhmHMhmHmmmmm And hummed it the entire rest of the time I was in the chair. But my hair looks very nice now—it had gotten close to the 1974 Las Vegas Elvis length, and now is back down to a much nicer 1960 G.I Blues Elvis length. As Pernell finished up, he brushed me off and asked the eternal question… “Would you like any mousses or gels?” “Ah…no. Not today, thank you.” The rest of the day was spent collecting children from grandmom’s and reading story books and watching the hummingbirds out the back window. We seem to have really started attracting them in the last few weeks, and have a steady stream of the little boogers. They really got active when our neighbor’s cat decided to plop herself down on the stone bench underneath the feeder. She was just trying to get someplace cool (it was about 160 degrees) but the hummers pestered her until she got up and left. Now THAT’S a bird! Saturday was clean-up-the-house day and time for horseback riding, as usual. We got to Camp Coleman and the kids started tacking their ponies and I swapped insults with the ‘Bama mom. I took particular care to wear my best, cleanest, brightest blue Auburn cap, just to annoy her. Of course, it annoys her to no end that her daughter wants to be a vet and wants to go to Auburn. HA! Take that! Auburn has a great vet school and one of the fondest recollections I have of my days in Auburn was driving home down Wire Road after a long day in the architecture studio, and passing by the Large Animal Facility as a group of young vet students would be standing patiently in the pasture, up to their elbows exploring God’s wondrous creativity, as manifested in the internal layout of various bovine and equine patients. Ah, enough of that reverie… The kids went out into the paddock briefly, and Rebecca had gotten to ride Mickey. All the other horses must snicker about him behind his back, because he is NOT an attractive horse—he was a sort of grayish-beige brindle colored—but at least he was nice. They got to go on a trail ride this time, so after Bamamama left, I was stuck there at the barn by myself for an hour. I read the paper twice, talked to the horses, looked at all the icky gunk they put on horses, looked at the saddles, looked at the sheep, talked to the horses, went to the outhouse, read all the stuff on the wall in the barn, sang cowboy songs, read the classifieds (which had not been part of the previous two reads of the paper), thought about stuff, and told myself two jokes. I sure was glad when they got back. They were, too—the ride was about more than they could stand, since it was edging up toward 140 degrees and they had been in the sun for most of the ride. I helped them get their stuff put up and Boy complained about his sore butt and Oldest Girl had a drama fit about feeling sick and Middle Girl just looked at them like they were crazy. (Of course, she wants to go to vet school, too, even though she is a bit put off by the idea of live cow puppets. I’m sure she’ll get over it.) I dropped them back by the house, took boxes upon boxes of too-little kid’s clothes to the charity place, along with another hunk of no-longer-needed babydom. Two potty chairs. Believe it or not, I got a bit of a twinge of nostalgia when we loaded them up. One had been over at their grandparents’ house since Oldest Girl was born, and we’ve hung onto the other one, even though Little Big Girl has long since started using the toilet, mainly for her to use as a stepstool at the sink. But, she’s tall enough now to not need it anymore, and it was taking up space, and it was time to go. But it still gave me that twinge to see it go. My babies are growing up. Then they started fighting over who would get to put them in the back of the van. “HEY! All you ever did was pee in ‘em! Quit screaming and put ‘em in the van before I put you in there and take you off, too!” ::sigh:: As with everything else at our house, nostalgia doesn’t last long after the kids get a hold of it. After the drop-off, I went up to the church building and put together storage cabinets for the classrooms. Someone really put some thought in these things—they are made up of 21 big pieces of plastic, each one cleverly designed to only be able to be constructed in one configuration, and all the pieces snap together like a Lego toy. By the time I had gotten to the last one, I was able to get it together in a bit more than five minutes. Pretty slick. Back home, find wife working on a pile of books in the floor and the kids alternating between picking up stuff and replacing it with other stuff. One picks up a sock, the other puts down a coloring book. One picks up a game, the other puts down a doll. No wonder we can never get everything picked up. I decided to get all their school supplies together. That got done with no interference, thankfully. Afterwards, it was time to get everyone scrubbed down for church on Sunday, which only took forever. Part of the delay occurred when Middle Girl was waiting for her hair to get dried, and we had the PBS reruns of the Ed Sullivan Show on. One happened to be from 1969, and featured The Jackson Five. I must say that it took some effort to try to explain what happened to cause the cute little black boy in the group to grow up into a really weird looking white woman. For some reason, I don’t think I did a very good job. Go figure. Anyway, finally got them all stowed away into bed, after much storytime and assorted trips to the bathroom and requests for Band-Aids for nonexistent boo-boos. Sunday was nice, and as a change of pace after church we went to Big Dragon (Home of Sunday Buffet and Inexplicable Anglo Waitresses) instead of Ruby Tuesday. I still can’t quite figure out the use of the two non-Asian waitresses, but as always they were nice and helpful. Too helpful. Cat spilled her drink toward the end of the meal, and Built-Like-a-Bank-Vault Girl rushed over with a towel to help her clean up. Unfortunately, wiping tables requires bending over, so even though we got a clean table out of the deal, I was forced to grab two bamboo skewers from the cho-cho chicken and repeatedly jam them into my eyeballs to keep from lingering over the (absolutely incredi…STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!) view. I should recover soon. Maybe. Back toward the house, quick stop by the grocery store to pick up snacks and drinks for starting school and eye patches for me, then time to get Wild Girl ready for her pony lesson. This time Reba got to go, since I had a meeting at church (luckily, no one asked why my eyes were jabbed out). This time the little kids got to help put the tack on the ponies, although they had some “help” from some of the resident campers. Rebecca had gone with them, and she had to keep telling the older helpers the right way to put on the equipment. One even managed to put on a bridle upside down. But they finally got it all sorted out and Catherine had great fun, and Reba got slobbered on just like I did last week. Wheee! Back to church for everyone, then back to home, then to bed. Today, Reba took off at lunch to take them all to their new classrooms and unload all their supplies. For some reason, the schools all scheduled this for a thirty-minute period today, which is fine if you only have one kid, but four kids at three different locations makes it a bit hard to accomplish. Luckily, there is the indefatigable Miss Reba. (And I get to look down her dress all I want.) Saturday, August 03, 2002
NEWSFLASH!
In a break from my normally nonexistent weekend blogging, I felt that I must announce the appearance of the eagerly awaited Tuscaloosa News story by Stephanie Hoops about blogging! (With quotes from various Cotton State luminaries such as Mac Thomason, Ray Mikell, and yours truly!) An excerpt: [...] The media giants sniff that blogs, revolutionary as they may appear, pose no threat to them. People want news from sources they can trust, not from some ranting self-obsessed blogger.Hmm. Media giants say "ranting self-obsessed blogger" like it's a bad thing. ANYWAY, just a word of relieved thankfulness to Miss Stephanie, who decided not to take the opportunity to quote all of my inept blather. (Most of which can be read in this post from June 24.) And an encouragement to hurry up and get her blog restarted! NOW, back to the weekend. Friday, August 02, 2002
Well, that's gonna have to be it for today.
I am about to leave to go have lunch with My Friend Jeff over at Demetri's in Homewood, then I have a doctor's appointment, at which, for one last time I will get to look at the stupid Lewitt-Him picture of fish, then it's off to lovely Trussville for a hair cut (actually, I am getting them all cut) and then go get the kids, and then do important weekend stuff like taking outgrown clothes to Goodwill, and hauling kids around, and in general doing all the same things I do every weekend, that for some reason I think is just about the most exciting and important topic ever. (Whew! That's one long sentence!) So, have a great weekend as I intend to do, and I'll see you all back here on Monday morning, bright-eyed and nekkid-tailed (Hmph! Squirrels!--Not about to give THEM any props) .
In departure, Iraq goes quiet on Kuwait invasion anniversary
BAGHDAD, Iraq (AP) -- In a significant departure from previous years and under the threat of U.S. military action, Iraq did little Friday to mark the 12th anniversary of its invasion of Kuwait, an act that triggered the 1991 Gulf War.I think it's called "whistling through the graveyard."
Nestled there in the warmth of Fred Firsts' Friday Pot Pour Ee, I see a challenge of sorts regarding how best to dispense the accumulated wisdom of the manly art of housekeeping to our spousal units. In Fred's post about the Dog Hair Collection Miracle (scroll down--archives are hammered), he notes: What I have discovered is that eventually, the dog hair will come to me. If I just sit patiently, I can pluck it right there where my arm hangs down off the couch, right next to my beer. I consider it a wonderful observation that the fans, if turned up to turbo speed, in effect, create dog-hair tumbleweeds that move about the room, gathering more and more hair until by virtue of sheer weight, they gather in corners, or against objects, like the couch of which I speak.Fortune has smiled upon me, in that the lovely Miss Reba is no more inclined to picking a fight with clutter and debris than I am. Of course, this does mean that rather than trying to come to terms with the best way to pick up bits of stuff, we discuss how long it will be before we have to move to another house to escape the ever encroaching tide of Pokemon cards, shoe laces, Barbie accessories, hair barettes, bits of string, small sparkley notebooks, Hot Wheels, socks, books, jigsaw puzzle pieces, crumbs, skillets, bills, earphones, wrappers, and great huge wads of long, flowing girl hair which cling to every square inch of carpet in the house. We estimate another three days before critical mass is reached.
HEATHER MILLS DISCOVERS CURE FOR HOMELESSNESS! Poor Heather describes life on the mean streets and decides to cure herself after a bum drains the snake on her head. Her cure? Get a shower, get a job. (One wonders what sort of hue and cry would have risen from the rest of the slacker community had this been suggested by someone who already knew about showering and getting a job.) In other news from the same story, we find out that Heather is jockeying to be as insufferable as Yoko: [...] "Men fall in love with who I am, but they end up resenting my charity work because I can't help giving myself totally to anything or anyone who's in need. One of them said that when I go off to a war zone, they feel inadequate staying home." [...]Yeah, me too, Heather. I used to get that from all my boyfriends, too. And then there's this: [...] Mills also describes her relationship with McCartney, whom she married in a lavish ceremony in Ireland in June.But will you still need him when he's 64?
Hmm. It's Thursday, so that must mean it's time for Axis of Weevil Minister of Corporal Punishment Charles Austin to break out the cat o'nine tails for his semiweekly Scourging of Richard Cohen! Let's take a peek, shall we?: [...] The latest victim is Joel I. Klein, who is to become New York City's next school chancellor.Heaven help them all.
Miss Lee Ann (hey!) over at Spinsters notes a Boston Globe review about Winston Groom's newest book about The Great War, A Storm in Flanders. Lee Ann mentions that it sounds like it might be pretty good.
I mentioned last month that I had gotten a copy, but I only finished it last week sometime. I generally agree with the reviewer--Groom didn't start out to write a scholarly essay full of footnotes--it is meant to be more of an overview, and as that it does relatively well. It is a good book, but it seems to suffer the indexcarditis that I keep seeing lately, such as in The Wild Blue by Stephen Ambrose. There are several instances when phrases or passages seem to repeat themselves (of course, part of this is simply the shear repetitiveness of action along the Ypres front), and the blending of first-person recollections and Groom's narrative is sometimes a bit choppy. The most powerful parts of the book are, in fact, the letters home from what was essentially a 400 mile long open grave. Even those written by the least educated men have a power and eloquence that is difficult to describe, and Groom's additions and commentary don't do them justice. It's not a bad book, but publishing is a business. There are many more, much better books about World War I out there, but none of them written by the author of Forrest Gump.
I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille... Hollywood project to be filmed in Alabama
BIRMINGHAM, Ala. (AP) -- After being frustrated in the past when major films set in Alabama wound up being filmed elsewhere, Alabama has landed a Columbia Pictures project that will star five-time Oscar nominee Albert Finney."These pretzels are MAKIN' me THIRSTY!" How was that? Do you think I need to update my headshots?
Well, that was sooo much fun. And then I come in this morning and stumbled over the big, fat "Oh, Surely You Jest" file, and this slid out: Jon Voight: Angelina Needs Help Wednesday, July 31, 2002
No blogging tomorrow--I still have a load of real work-type stuff I must get done, and playing on here does tend to slow down the real work-type stuff process. So, until Friday sometime...
Saddam: U.S. arms claims a joke [...] Given the Iraqi track record, "it's difficult to comprehend - even begin to think that they might accept" the unconditional inspections, Rumsfeld said.Saddam was then seen turning his head and giving an exaggerated wink to the assembled Organization members. Members of the IAEO shifted nervously in their seats and managed a bit of a chuckle. Photographs taken surreptitiously of the members' families were then displayed on a large screen and Saddam said, "All of your FAMILY members think such claims of stockpiling are a very LARGE joke!" At this point, raucous laughter was heard from all corners, and Saddam turned to son Uday and said "You gotta know how to work a room, my handsome, yet imbecilic, son."
Scientists Grow Mice Eggs Outside the Body
Pinky, are you pondering what I’m pondering? I think so, Brain, but me and Pippi Longstockings? I mean, what would the children look like?
Bombed cafe rare enclave of coexistence
Well, we sure can't have that, now can we? Just takes all the fun outta the jihad.
And thanks to Fred First for pointing me to this story: Death-trap cave reveals fossil giants Eight complete skeletons of prehistoric marsupial lions are among an astonishing menagerie of megafauna fossils discovered in a hidden cave in Australia's outback desert. Only partial skeletons have been found before. [...]I vote for possums. RRRRrrrrowwwwlll, baby!
Very nice story by Roy Hoffman of the Mobile Register for Newhouse News Service on trying to save a vanishing architectural legacy--The Rosenwald Schools. GALLION, Ala. -- Almost eight decades have passed since Charles S. Foreman Sr. entered the first grade in the farm community of Gallion.
WE'RE NUMBER FIVE! WE'RE NUMBER FIVE!
Darn that Mac Thomason--he beat me to this one! Heat, mosquitoes, put city fifth on Lanacane's itch list Carol RobinsonLanacane has an "Itch Information Center"? Anyway, that's us, just asittin' around stinkin' and scratchin'. Please, come and visit!
I missed this yesterday, but I must not let a Scourging of Richard Cohen lay about without linking to it. Join us for just a glimpse into Episode Forty Four! [...] As it happens, the Europeans caught on to Bush before the American public.It's not every day in which Henry Cabot Lodge comes up in conversation, you know, and it offers a wonderful opportunity to remind us all of his many accomplishments. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.
Hooray! He's posted again! Larry Anderson from up in Kudzu Acres talks about the finer points of genetic engineering the old-fashioned way, extralegal production of corn-based drinking products, the Army, knifeplay, and managerial creativity. The moral? Why, it's a matter of principle.
Also, Larry worries that his lack of a firearm might disqualify him from the Axis of Weevil. He notes: I have a couple of swords and two wicked chainsaws, but not any guns.All we ask is that you yell "BANG! BANG!" whenever you wield them.
I am up against the wall with stuff to do today, so nothing much to say right now except
Wow! A part of the unruly Weevil mob for only a day, and already Fred First has done outdid himself with his exciting James Bondian tales of his secret agent life in Scottsboro! He also runs up against the bad side of Agnes when he came in the ostentatious and gaudy Axis of Weevil World Headquarters: [...] although Agnes at the front desk pressed the security buzzer under her desk when I told her I was now part of the AOW team. I forgive you, honey, bless your little heart, you and me gotta sit down over a sweaty glass of sweet tea and have us a heart to heart after I get my desk arranged.Luckily for Mr. First, we disconnected Agnes' button, because she got to where she was buzzing it anytime anyone came to the desk. She hasn't noticed, and we don't tell her. Also, although she probably appreciated the offer for some tea, we have to keep an eye on her so her blood sugar doesn't get out of whack. Last time that happened, the paramedics wound up having to take the doors apart to get her out to the ambulance. Fred also asks when we teach him the secret handshake and stuff. Well, we have never really gotten around to having a secret handshake--everyone has such a hard time with the carpal tunnel syndrome (or "competitive stress disorder" as Fred puts it) that we just gave up. Tuesday, July 30, 2002
Via Mac "Don't Call Me Snakehead" Thomason, this one from CNN:Fleeing males, manatees beach in Florida MIAMI, Florida (Reuters) -- Six endangered manatees beached themselves in Florida on Tuesday but wildlife agents assured would-be rescuers the sea cows were not stranded -- just taking a breather from the amorous attention of pursuing males. [...]Several fraternity members from the University of Miami were quoted as saying, "Man, those are some REALLY ugly chicks!" although their compatriots pretended not to notice and offered to buy the manatees a beer. One fraternity member could be heard shouting, "SHUT UP, dude, they're topless!"
Smell Like Celine [...] the scent wizards at Coty Inc., the perfume and cosmetics company that has has partnered with the singer to come up with an eau de Celine, say the fragrance "will capture the talent, style, femininity and confidence of which she has become a symbol."In keeping with the thoughts of The Greatest Singer Ever To Live, I will be introducing my own fragrance line, eauPossum.
"Eight Thousand men in arms..."
Toren Smith has been kind enough to link to a post I made back on the 23rd, dealing with an excerpt of a letter I ran across in the book Quaker Records in Georgia edited by Robert Scott Davis. I thought it might be interesting to examine it a bit more closely in light of H.D. Miller's comments over at Travelling Shoes, particularly the one dealing with The Allusions of Z. Moussaoui, in which H.D. notes that: Arabic speakers are immersed from birth in two deep streams of immensely beautiful, immensely difficult literary Arabic, the Qu'ran and Classical Arabic poetry, in much the same way that at one time English speakers were immersed in Shakespeare and the King James Version of the Bible.Whenever you read 18th Century letters or text in English, it pays to be a bit circumspect in their interpretation. Meanings change over time, and exactness sometimes takes a backseat to literary effect. Oftentimes when reading soldier's letters or official accounts, someone might mention that the soldiers were "naked"--in most cases this doesn't mean "not a stitch of clothing," but "not enough clothing to be considered fully dressed by polite society." A man without an outer coat and waistcoat could be accurately described, at least in their way of putting it, as naked. Likewise, for a soldier it could also mean "not having his full complement of arms and accouterments." A soldier might be described as naked if he did not have his musket and cartridge box. Other examples include observations of battles in which thousands are said to be fighting, when actual muster rolls may indicate only a few hundred--in most instances, this is sort of like the wildly varying crowd estimates at events like the Million Man March. The basic idea is that there were a bunch, and more than any little piddling bunch. Literary license is granted in most cases, and was understood as such by most readers of the time. Given this tiny bit of exposition, it might be good to revisit that quote, this time paying a bit more attention to the context and the ideas which are meant to be gathered. Again, this quote is from a letter written in 1775 by a 17 year old Orkney boy named Baikia Harvey, an indentured servant in Friendsborough, Georgia: The Americans are Smart Industrious hardy people & fears nothing. our people is only Like the New Negroes that comes out of the ships at first whin they come amongst them. I am Just returned from the Back parts where I seed Eight Thousand men in arms all with Riffeld Barrill guns which they can kill the Bigness of a Dollar Between Two & three Hundreds yards Distance. the Little Boys not Bigger than my self has all thir guns & marches with thir Fathers & all thir Cry is Liberty or Death. Dear Godfather tell all my Country people not to come here for the Americans will Kill them Like Deer in the Woods & they will never see them. they can lie on thir backs & load & fire & every time they Draw sight at any thing they are sure to kill or Creple & they run in the Woods like Horses.How best to interpret this? First, remember that this young man had left the Orkneys as a 16 year old and had gone to a wilderness. He was probably lonely, weary, and homesick, and since he was in east-central Georgia, he had lived through a whole 9 month long summer of stifling heat. From the letter it is pretty obvious that he is impressed by the Americans he has met who have managed to thrive in such an environment. As to his trip to the "back parts," the number of the men he saw must be seen as a stretch in a literal sense--there were not eight thousand free white men total in the unsettled back country of Georgia and South Carolina at this time (some estimates put the number of men eligible for military service in Georgia at about 3,000 in 1775)--but looking at it from his point of view, there were more angry armed men than he could begin to count. Not just a few, not just many, but more than there were peas in the cookpot or corn in the crib--a huge number, thousands even. If a number was actually taken, though, the eight thousand were more likely to number in the hundreds. Further, it is highly doubtful that there were eight thousand rifles to be had in all of Georgia, and no matter how many men there were, most would have been armed with a smoothbore fowler, the equivalent of a single shot, 12 or 10 gauge shotgun. Rifles were carried by militia members, but their military efficiency left a lot to be desired since they took longer to load and usually could not mount a bayonet. The figure for accuracy of the shooters, however, does get pretty close. Properly loaded and patched, a rifled ball could be deadly accurate out to around 150 yards. (Until about the second or third shot, when fouling starts playing havoc with accuracy. 300 yards is right out.) On the other hand, no matter how well a ball-loaded smoothbore was prepared, its accuracy beyond 50 yards or so necessitated that they be fired in volley to provide an adequate volume of lead on the target. In any instance, marksmanship was highly prized among anyone who carried an arm, whether smoothbore or rifled. Missed shots meant missed dinner. One thing that is certain--every man young Baikia saw had a weapon, regardless of the actual, literal number or their type. And they didn't get those guns, or their powder, or their shot from the British colonial governor James Wright or from Royal storehouses. (The Carolinas and Georgia had a tiny British contingent at the onset of fighting.) These men carried what they owned, and their sons along with them. Despite attempts to rewrite history--everday contemporary accounts, even those which might be written with literary license--indicate that individual ownership of arms was common and accepted. What we can be relatively certain of is that Baikia saw more armed, rebellious Americans than he had ever seen before. Knowing them as he did, he was one frightened young man.
Mystery Benefactor Revealed!
PREREAD UPDATE: Charles Austin writes to say: Wouldn't it be more correct to write "Mystery Benefactor Discovered" or even "Mystery Benefactor Reveals Himself (Herself?)" since you did not in fact reveal the identity of the mysterious benefactor.::sigh:: As always, the Possumblog Editorial Board welcomes the opportunity to correct or clarify entries in order to mitigate any possible ill effects from a much-too-literal reading of anything written herein. Mystery Benefactor Reveals Himself to Possumblogger (and To Possumblogger Alone) Because He, That Is, The Mysterious Benefactor, Still Wishes To Remain Anonymous (But Is Willing To Allow That He Is Not Juan Gato). Upon This Revelation, Possumblogger Writes a Short Entry to Say Thanks. As noted yesterday, I noticed that some very gracious person had slipped a bribe to the Blog*Spot guard to get rid of the banner ad which used to grace the top of the page. That person, who wishes to remain anonymous, wrote me back to confess and to express his thanks for the piddling bit of assistance I was able to lend to his own (now growing in influence) blogging effort. Again, as I told him, any help I have been able to offer is certainly NOT worth such a nice gift, but I do sincerely appreciate the thoughtfulness. He supplied me with an official statement to post to explain his motivation: Thank you Possumblogger for [snipped hubristic part out here about being great and wonderful and pretty and stuff]. As a patron of fine arts, I know good art when I seez it, and you ain't half bad! At a time when chuckles are scarce, you are a great source of snorts, chortles and the occasional lol's. God bless, and tell Reba and the yung'uns that (you-know-who) sez hey!Thank you, Anonymous Patron of the Marsupial Arts! I would also like to say thanks to everyone who continues to visit and read. It may be hard to figure it out, since I never really come right out and say it, but if there is any sort of intent to this whole enterprise, it is to ask all of you to be decent, treat each other decently, love your family, defend those who cannot fend for themselves, honor the sacrifices of your forebears, and cherish the blessings of freedom.
Just when you thought it could become no more ponderous or overburdened, the Weevilland Defense Force adds YET ANOTHER new member!
In a stunning addition of literary firepower, the mighty Axis of Weevil vaults to the leading edge of world blogging supremacy with the addition of Fragments from Floyd, written by none other than famous Auburn graduate (BS Biology, MS Vertebrate Zoology) and Birmingham native Fred First. Now despite what you may think, "Floyd" refers not to Howard McNear, but to the verdant home of Mr. First--Floyd, Virginia--along the grassy banks of Goose Creek. Fred stumbled into the furry mess that is Possumblog via N.Z. Bear's Blogospheric Ecosystem, after taking an ill-advised look around at his fellow Crawly Amphibians. He sent a very nice note, which I answered with a long-winded tirade against the League of Nations and an advocacy of a return to the gold standard, which I think scared him slightly. However, despite his well-founded reservations, he has agreed to throw in with those of the Greater Alabama Society of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome Sufferers, and vows to continue to supply the world with some absolutely gorgeous photographs of his home town and its environs. THEREFORE; BY the power vested in me by the Shop Superintendent of the Julia Tutwiler Womens' Correctional Facility and by my neighbor's cat, KNOW ALL YE MEN by these presents that one Fred First is now and hereafter (until such time as he turns in his door key and his name tag, or other such calamity) a full and faithful member of the Heart of Dixie Home Canning and Vengeance Association, otherwise known as the Axis of Weevil, AND is entitled to all the benefits and group insurance discounts flowing thereto. Welcome Fred, and as with all of our new members, an overflowing Axis of Weevil Gift Pack (detailed in the post from yesterday) is being loaded into the Greyhound bus even as I type. (Assuming that Ricky our new runner got to the station on time--I don't think he's quite all there, if you know what I mean) UPDATE: Fred writes back: I am deeply humbled and honored by your most gracious introduction to the Axes and Absissas of WeevilHomeLand. I promise to do my duty to poke fun at myself, to honor all requests for emailed veggies (sorry, that was last week and to obey the laws of the pack.Someone's been watching Earnest Angely!!!!
I got home yesterday and had a big envelope from the National Personnel Records Center containing information about my dad's time in the Navy. (I have been trying to collect this stuff for some pages I have done to document his service over on my GeoCities site.) I had sent away for this almost exactly one year ago, and had just about given up on receiving anything back, so getting it was just like Christmastime.
The copies were of my dad's basic enlistment and transfer paperwork, and although they didn't have much detailed information, it was a bit more than I have had. I found out that after being assigned to the 7th Amphibious Force in the South Pacific, and before being stationed at Hollandia, he had been assigned to the USS BLUE RIDGE (AGC-2), an amphibious force flagship, and to the USS HENRY T. ALLEN (APA-15), an attack transport. (here's a picture) In both instances he was assigned to the boat pool. It was interesting too to see his performance ratings--he made excellant marks in seamanship and general duties, and 4.0s (the highest mark) in conduct. Hard to believe, knowing what a cut-up he was, but I guess when it came time to be serious, he did his job. And did it well. So, a couple more pieces in the puzzle. To his fellow veterans--those who gave their lives, those who have since gone home, and those who remain--thank you for your sacrifice.
"Yet another "George W. Bush is dumb" story has been taken up by those who like their caricatures drawn in stark, bold lines." From Barbara "ears of corn" Mikkelson over at Snopes.com, the latest debunkery of a supposed Bush verbal gaffe--"The problem with the French is that they don't have a word for entrepreneur."
One for the "Inspector Renauld 'I Am SHOCKED!'" file:Ousted Congressman Uses Profanity NEW YORK (AP) - A profanity used by ousted Ohio Rep. James Traficant in an interview with Don Imus was excised from Imus' radio show Monday but slipped past censors during the MSNBC simulcast.Given my slim knowledge of Anglo-Saxon curse words, I think the expletive in question rhymes with "duck." Sheer speculation, though. [...] Despite the outburst, Traficant stayed on the line and Imus returned to him. Imus said he couldn't use such language, and Traficant said, "it's in the dictionary."Reached for comment later, Mr. Wiffles, the furry, moderately-sized service animal Traficant carries upon his head, stated that the former Congressman's comments were a natural mistake. "I was reading the dictionary right along with my owner, and I can state for certain that it was a common error, and he really meant to use the word "fuschia," or possibly "fuddle." He was just confused." Monday, July 29, 2002
And, now...the much anticipated Weekend Post
First, for the Marc Velazquezes of you out there, the Executive Summary: Friday: Wal-Mart. Harpy. Angry. Disappointed. Saturday: Horses. Trotting. Baths. Wal-Mart. Success, finally. Still disappointed. Lawn Mowing. Cool hat. Incredible lightheaded feeling due to living in Hell's own blast furnace. Happy birds. Sunday: Church. NOT the four-year-olds. I sure sing pretty, except when gagging and coughing. Not Jennifer (#@&* it all.) Aforementioned slobbery horse. Still hot. Typhoon. Church. Eat. Bed. All in all, just one more in a very similar set of weekends. BUT, with the addition of all sorts of extraneous details and outright lies, I am able to create yet another thrilling and suspenseful journey through suburbia. Hold on tight! Whoa, not like that. That chair is broken and if you keep holding it like that the arm comes off. Anyway, picked up Oldest from her grandparents Friday and got ourselves back across town with nary a smart comment or sarcastic roll of the eyes. (Gee, I don't know where she gets THAT from. And this could have been because she was asleep by the time we got to the interstate.) 45 minutes later we pulled up at Wal-Mart to get her glasses and walked in. Fashion Model Girl was there, studiously ignoring us, as was another entire crew of people I had never seen in there before. Including one woman of indeterminate age and the aloof bearing of those who are Wal-Mart department managers. Told her I needed to pick up some glasses--"Do you have the tray number?" Well, gee, NO, I don't but my daughter does happen to have a name. And it's a darned good thing you can't read my mind, ma'am. I promptly and politely gave her name to Ms. Lady, who tapped on a computer and got the tray number then disappeared into the grinding room. Wait. Wait. Wait. She walked back out. "Sir, it's only been four days since your daughter's exam." Well, yeah. "Yes?" "Well, sir, we usually only are able to do these within 5-7 days. Not including weekends. That's our policy." I am a patient man. Despite the rambling moronofest that you read here on Possumblog, I really am a nice, polite, quiet, patient man. "Well, he told my wife they would be ready today." "Who, sir?" HE, you yap! The HE whose name appears on the little receipt in your hand that you are trying so very hard NOT to let me see! "Whoever took her order last Tuesday told her they would be ready to pick up today!' "Hmm. That's odd. We don't usually promise 4 days. Our policy is 5-7 days. Not including weekends. And anyway, it's 6 o'clock, and our technician is getting off now. She works till 6." I am a patient man. I really am a nice, polite, quiet, patient man. I watch as a nice young girl waves goodbye to her friends in the grinding room as she leaves with her lab coat over her arm. "But if you want, you can check back first thing in the morning. Let's see, we open at 8, so if you come by at 9, they should be ready." As you all have no doubt figured out by now, someone screwed up and didn't do what they were supposed to do. And oops, gee, the person who screwed up just left. And wow, we can't get her back, now can we. And golly, the BAZILLION other freeloading dunderheads milling around laughing and talking with each other just don't have the four brain cells required to chuck two pieces of plastic in the dingderned grinding machine, punch in the prescription and sit their butts down in a chair and watch the machine. And we happen to think that just because it only takes about 30 minutes to grind a set of lenses, it's really immaterial, because we decided to tell people that our policy states 5-7 days, and heaven forbid that we should try to maybe deliver a little extra service to our customers and give them their glasses when we said we would. Fortunately, I am a patient man. I really am a nice, polite, quiet, patient man. ::heavy sigh:: "9, eh?" Passive Agressive Lady--"Yes. But you might want to call first." I just looked at her. "Come on, Ashley." We got clear of the store and Ashley said "That was disappointing. I thought I was going to be able to get them today. Were you mad at her?" "Nah, sweetie; just disappointed, too." Somewhere, I just hope there is a small tally board marked "Points For Not Succumbing to Baser Instincts in Front of Children." If there is, I better have at least one mark. Saturday was horseytime, so after a bit of cartoon watching I set off with the older two girls. Little Boy had been feeling poorly (and Jackie Chan was on TV) so he stayed home with Mama. I went to sit on the bleachers and the lady from last week who wanted to know my opinion of preteen dating was there with her newspaper. "Would you like the paper?" "No thanks, I've already read it." "Well, looking at that hat of yours, I'm surprised you could read!" "Huh?" "Your cap," pointing to the center of her head. It then occurred to me that she was one of those University of Alabama folks, and I just happened to have on my RealTree cap with the big blue and orange AU on the front. Yes, hah-hah, you're a real funny woman. I am a patient man. Despite my....NO, not again! Lucky for her, I have a great sense of humor about my beloved alma mater, so I reacted as though I was insulted and we both laughed. Next time she won't be so lucky. The girls did fine once more, and this time they even got to trot. Which scared the bejabbers out of them, but they kind of liked it anyway. And this time, after they dragged all the accouterments off their ponies, they got to give them a bath. (Rebecca likes doing this kind of stuff, but Ashley just hates it.) They got all finished and it was time to head back to... Wal-Mart. Walked in--two smelly, dusty, horsey, children and one real big redneck looking dude with dirty jeans, a camo hat, and an attitude. Once again, we were courteously ignored by YET ANOTHER completely different crew of people, until finally I saw Ms. Harpy. "I've come to get her glasses." "Do you have a tray number?" AAAAAAGHHHHHHHHH! I AM NOT PATIENT, I REFUSE! "Why yes, today I do have it, because I brought the receipt with me." She typed, then disappeared. Wait. Wait. Finally, out walks some girl who was not the Fashion Model Girl, and who was not the happy girl who left at 6, but at least she had the glasses and they were ready. She put them on Ashley and sort of halfway adjusted them, and we were set to go. And they do look real cute on her, and she was happy with them, and with the sunglasses that attach with little magnets. And there was much rejoicing. Got home and cut grass. By now it was about 12:30, which is when Satan shovels in another load of hard coal into the firebox. No one goes out when it's this hot. Except me, because I got a snappy new straw hat for my birthday so I don't get sunburnt ears and neck parts. Of course, I could wait until the sun goes down some, but then the hat would be sorta extraneous, now wouldn't it. Took forever, and depressed me to no end to see all the stuff I've let grow up in the past few weeks. Weeds growing up everywhere, including the pernicious mimosa, and the ugly but edible pokesalad. And the poor birdies needed water and food. So after some amount of time (I don't know how long, because after about 15 minutes I was hallucinating) I got through. Filled the feeders, filled the bird bath, and saw my very first hummingbird of the season, here at the very end of July. But, at least we've got some now. You know, I could sit and watch hummers for hours. (Of course, I like sitting and doing anything not involving real work.) The rest of Saturday was as the rest of all Saturdays are--scrubbing a bunch of mopheaded children and doodling ears and cutting finger and toe nails and reading just one more story and multiple trips to the bathroom to pee, or look at the wall, or whatever else they could think up. Sunday I got all my stuff together to bribe my new charges with. Two sacks--boy sack and girl sack, full of nice stuff for little kids who were good. Sat down and immediately kids start showing up with quizzical parents. Had to explain situation as delicately as possible, but everyone already knew the reason. Then, out of the blue, the 3rd and 4th grade teacher showed up, who also helps me with the curriculum. "What?" Explained to her the whole situation, without the delicate touches. And lest you think miracles do not happen, she volunteered to switch with me! Carefully shielding my joy, I weakly protested and said "no" while thinking "YES!!!' and finally relinquished the chair to her. And I got to teach Boy and Middle Girl and their classmates in the 3rd and 4th grade. They were great, and it was an eye opener for these two kids, as this was the first time they had ever had me as their teacher. After the initial silliness, they stopped treating me like Dad and really started paying attention, which was neat. They and the rest were all interested and excited and learned well. This is just about the best age to teach--they can, and do, pay attention and they haven't yet decided how cool it is to be a smart aleck. I was just glad that I didn't have to scream at them, since I was supposed to be leading singing. Which went pretty well--we had a good sized crowd of about 230--but as always, I dislodged a hidden cache of ick and had to cough. Never fails. But everyone was on key for once, and everyone stayed with me, and everyone was loud, so it wasn't so noticeable. No more so than Peter Brady singing "It's Time to Change." Lunch was without Miss Jennifer, who we've come to find out comes on duty at noon. Reba said we should go to the store and shop and wait on her from now on. Our waitress was nice enough, but took forever and was just a bit neglectful. Miss Jennifer is never like that. If I can figure out a way to go into a store without the kids wanting to get everything they see, we might have to try this. Got home, got Tiny Girl ready for her pony lesson, and finally got to have actually one. Well, almost. We walked around for about 45 minutes before the thunder started and the horsies had to go bye-bye. Three weeks in a row, three monsoons right around 4 or 5 o'clock. At least she did get a little time. And the slobber I have mentioned? Her pony was Harley, who just prior to entering the paddock had consumed her afternoon repast, and spent the time of our lesson chewing and dripping on my hand. Eww. After that, back home to towel off and change back into presentable clothes, then on back to church, then back home, then supper, then blessed bedtime. And then? It was time for work.
Say, wait just a doggone minute here!
Some very kind person has apparently gone and paid off the Blog*Spot mooches to remove that banner ad at the top of the page! Whoever you are, that was incredibly nice of you, and absolutely, entirely unnecessary. If you would, please send me a note so I can thank you personally.
Extending Alabama’s Cultural Hegemony, One Blog (or Two, or Three) at a Time
In a stunning display of naked ambition, we turn your attention to Quana X. Jones, writer of Eristic who asked the following question at 2:18 a.m. on Saturday, July 27: Here's a stupid question for 2:18 a.m. Does Possumblog believe a blog gets to count as a 'bamablog if someone lived in 'bama for a year? I'm wondering...Sensing with my keen sense of…something…that this might be a really good thing (because I really like fish sticks, and "eristic" sounds like some really cool sort of fish sticks), I quickly ran to find out about this mysterious Quana person and found this: Quana X. Jones lives in the middle of central Texas on a small patch of land that was once cotton fields. The land is poor and worn out. So is Quana.Wow. Was I ever disappointed. Not a single mention of fish sticks. But, recognizing that there is more in life than frozen prepackaged processed fish products, and that she seemed to be heavily armed, I contacted Quana to let her know that her sojourn in Alabama was but one of many stringent rules for inclusion in the Axis of Weevil. Being quite careful to refer to her only in the third person, she was led into the darkened recesses of the Axis of Weevil Air Defense Command bunker deep underneath Sand Mountain and shown the mystical runes which constitute the membership requirements of the Greater Alabama Society of Vegetative Husbandry and Armed Conflict. (It having been a while since these were made public, it might be a good time for review:) 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama; 2) Not ashamed to admit to #1; 3) Staunchly anti-idiotarian, or can at least pretend pretty good 4) Functionally literate 5) Don't type in ALL CAPS or all e.e. cummings case or MiXeD. 6) Update your blog more than once a month 7) Willing to be made fun of 8) Willing to make fun of yourself 9) Have a framed picture of John Moses Browning 10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever read 11) Must be able to recite Monty Python and the Holy Grail and give an episode synopsis of all Andy Griffith shows from memory 12) Your pickup truck must be in good working order--use of ether to get it started is not recommended, but will be allowed on a case-by-case basis DISCLAIMER: As with the well-loved Calvinball, the rules may change in the middle of the game. After careful review, Quana ticked off each item, and upped the ante to say that as for the picture of Mr. Browning, he is stapled to the wall between Mr. Colt and Mr. Winchester in a group that includes Mr. Savage, Mr. Stevens, Mr. Smith, Mr. Wesson and Mr. Marlin.All thoughts of breaded piscine morsels melted from my mind, knowing that we had found yet another worthy candidate for inclusion in the Goldenrod Writer’s Colloquium. As we turned to go back to the Registrar’s Office, I stumbled over a Small Black Blog crumpled in the floor. OH NO! It was none other than Dirk Benson, who had started his blog at the unceasing prodding of Axis of Weevil Director of Lingerie Sue Lizano, and who had asked to have his application processed before I went on vacation! In an apparent paperwork snafu, we have concluded that Dirk’s application was misrouted to Roberta, who took one look at this passage on his written essay: I might as well tell you the truth. I'm a Yankee. A Damn Yankee, born on the outskirts of Boston, no less. So I may not be quite the fine company Suli made me out to be.and had a hissy fit. Being that I was incommunicado whilst on holiday, Roberta took it upon herself to draw dirty pictures on the back and scrawl anti-Kennedy messages across the front. All the while, poor Dirk had been patiently waiting for the thumbs-up, and had decided to encamp upon the floor of the bunker and patiently reread the membership requirements and an old copy of an Argosy left over from when Todd, Jr. went to the barber shop and they were having a get-rid-of-stuff day. (Dirk's painful solitude is more than likely the reason he has only posted one thing since beginning his blog.) In any event, two things immediately sprang to mind after returning to Headquarters—first, figuring out how to pin all of this on Roberta, who has been a pain in the neck ever since we stopped providing free coffee in the breakroom; and second, we really need to do a better job with security in the bunker. Dirk should not have been able to penetrate through our perimeter, especially since we got a new screen door AND a door bell. So, in dealing with the staff issue, Roberta came in this morning and found that she had been summarily fired for such mean-spirited trashing of our good Yankee members—despite our reputation as close-minded and bigoted toward those above the Mason-Dixon, the Axis of Weevil has a well known non-discrimination policy regarding national origin, so even though some may think us foolish, we welcome Yankees into the organization. Yankees offer much in the way of necessary humor—I mean, who else wears shorts, black socks and loafers to the beach? And as for Dirk’s plea for acceptance, he joins us here now along with Quana for their induction into the Yellowhammer Action Society. SO THEN; By the power vested in me by the Alabama Department of Travel and Tourism and by the Alabama Anti-Idiotarian Party Caucus, Dirk Benson and Quana X. Jones are hereby admitted to the Righteous and Dignified Collector’s Guild and Blogging Society of Alabama (known to some as the Axis of Weevil) with all of the rights, privileges, group discounts, and legal liability attaching thereto. [Insert tape recording of “Sweet Home Alabama” here] Now that Dirk and Quana are members in good standing, they will be receiving upon the first truck 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 their veehikles; 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; a one quart bottle of Pilateri's Steak Sauce; and a coupon for 25 pounds of propane FREE from Dixie LPG. So, now, go welcome them to the club! AND THAT'S NOT ALL!!!! Possumblog is a daddy! The Pride of Vidalia, Louisiana Janis Gore has started her very own blog called Gone South. Janis has a very special place in my heart, as she was the very first person who ever wrote me a fan letter, way back on February 27, 2002. She has kept in touch since then, always with good humor and a wry attitude, and I have found her pithy comments here and there all over Bloglandia. Given her way with words, I bugged her several times to start her own blog, but she demurred. That is, until now. So, grab yourself a Presidente on the way out and go give her a look! AND DADGUMMIT ALL, THERE'S ANOTHER UPDATE! I didn't realize it, but Janis and her hubby have found themselves in the unenviable position of paying property taxes on a condo down on the Redneck Riviera, which not only makes her eligible for inclusion in the Axis of Weevil, it also means we have a place to PARTY!!!! So, ONCE MORE, by the power vested in me by the Alabama Marine Patrol, Open Water Division, and by this card which promises me a high paying career in air-conditioning repair which was neatly clipped from Popular Science, it is with great pride and pompous braggery that we herewith ordain and appoint Janis Gore into the Cotton State Heavy Ordnance Club and Quilters Union, otherwise known as the Axis of Weevil, with all of the pain and suffering concommitant thereto. And as with Quana and Dirk, Janis will soon be receiving her very own Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, which I intend to personally deliver to her condo.
COMING SOON! Fascinating Tales From Paradise Along the Pinchgut!
HA! Made it through yet one more action-packed weekend! I have exciting yarns of baby blog births, new Weevilistas, hummingbirds, slobbery horses, heat, reprieves, and other really boring stuff, just like every other weekend story. Oh, and ninjas! (Well, not really.) BUT, all of this minty freshness will have to wait a while--we have our usual Monday morning staff meeting (consisting of sitting on long wooden planks in a barbed wire enclosure and being forced to listen to a loudspeaker-delivered harangue) and I must finish some notes from last week, and then there is the requisite time that I devote to hiding in the restroom reading MAD magazine. So, bear with me for a bit while I do dumb old work stuff.
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