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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. Friday, December 20, 2002
It's about that time
All next week will be spent with the chilluns, so there will be little in the way of scrumptious possumy goodness for a while. I know you will all make it just fine. I do want to correct a misstatement I made earlier, however, when I said I had a long, navel-gazing post prepared. For the record, as a non-placental mammal, possums technically have no navel into which to gaze. I hope I have not caused any confusion. In other matters, I would like to take a moment and thank all the folks who have visited Possumblog over the past twelve months. Some of you have become virtual old friends, and I greatly appreciate having made your acquaintance. May you, and all of the other ones of you who stumble in here searching for Norah O'Donnell naked, Jodi Applegate legs, the price of goat jelly in Malta, Patricia Heaton's clavicle, corporal tunnal sindroam, handguns, Underoos, what does finger smell like, possum fur, is Scotland fake, Brittiny Spiers, steakhouse Edina Minnesota, Lewitt-Him, moistened bint, Trent Lott in cheerleader outfit, nucular, liars, Hillary big ankles, Jim Dandy grits, rules of architecture, Alabama bloggers, James Lileks Newhouse, screaming fits, why does this hurt, and Mrs. Hanji Sal, likewise have a very merry Christmas. Please keep dropping by, the door is always open. See you all on the 30th.
Hey, someone else had a birthday!
Congrats to Mac Thomason for completing his first year of blogatory yesterday.
THAT was fun!
Except for trying to cross Highway 280 at lunchtime, and trying to find a place to park in a lot with about 53% too few parking spaces. We aren't going back there--too much peoples, too crappy tiny foods. Anyway, good conversation as usual. Topics included: 1. Former girl coworkers--I saw one at Target the other day, but I dared not speak to her since I had Screaming Tiny Child with me. She still looks REALLY nice, and she has FINALLY put on a few. Considering the way she used to eat (and still does, I guess), it's incredible beyond belief that she doesn't weigh 3,000 pounds. Good grief, she can pack the vittles away! The other former coworker, Big Tall Blond Marketing Girl, has gone and started another baby with her husband, which is okay, but she didn't check with us first. Sheesh. Some people, eh? I miss her a lot--after she got married a few years back she and hubby moved back up to their old hometown, so My Friend Jeff™ and I don't get to pal around with her anymore. Of course, it could be the continued humilation of being around us that drove her away. Whenever we used to go out and have lunch with her, I would stand on the curb and make her stand in the gutter before I hugged her so I would be approximately the same height as her. She alway screamed with laughter, but somehow, now that she's gone, I think maybe I was being insensitive. Nah. 2. Christmas--families are the weirdest things known to man. 3. His brother-in-law's '58 Buick Super--in pieces all across his sister's house. Plans are to paint it red. AAAAAGGGHHH! MFJ™ even went to the trouble of buying a '58 Buick paint chart off of e-Bay (man, you can get anything on the Internet) for him to encourage painting it back the way it was--aqua and white. This advice was studiously ignored. 4. Presents--MFJeff™ made his wife a ceramic cannister set, and bought her a neat piece of handmade jewelry from some woman here in town named Kevin. Yes...Kevin. Just roll your eyes and get it over with. 5. Other assorted coworkers who now have other businesses and I best not speak about due to legal concerns. 6. Iron skillets--proper care and seasoning thereof. I think I mentioned a while ago that I got myself a set for Christmas to replace one that became rusted because someone left water in it. I will not say who, so as not to damage my chances for a little Christmas cheer. 7. Vehicles--he still has a jones on for a new vehicle, and now even Mrs. My Friend Jeff™ is wanting something bigger to haul around their two tikes and their playgroup frenz. He wants something with three rows of seats that is not a minivan and not a big SUV. The one that he really wants is a Honda Pilot, except for not quite so many grickles. I suggested something like this. 8. Other stuff--soup du jour, napkins, morons, sphincters, skateboarders, tipping, glassblowing, Louisiana, a bad case of the stomach nerves, mullets, Velveeta, valises, hubcaps, and spam. All in all, a lunch well spent. Even if I did only get two magazines.
Know what time it is?
Why, it's time for another exciting lunch with My Friend Jeff™! Got a big stack of car magazines to swap with him today, and as usual, I will only get two in return. Piddling little CHEAPSKATE! That's why I like him, though. Be back after while with manly stories of decorating tips and shoes.
Hey, hey, hey, goodbye...
Sen. Lott to Step Down As GOP Leader WASHINGTON - Sen. Trent Lott will step down as Senate Republican leader, a senior GOP aide close to the Mississippian said Friday, two weeks after Lott's endorsement of Strom Thurmond's 1948 segregationist presidential bid touched off a national uproar.
Well, I’ll be.
This stupid pile of crap is a year old! At 11:29:35, Thursday, December 20, 2001, I started writing this thing. A lot sure does happen in a year. Luckily, one constant has been stupid Blogger server problems. Actually, it’s not really a surprise (my blogbirthday, not stupid, STUPID Blogger)—I’ve been anticipating the day for a while, and had come up with a overly long and tedious, contemplative, navel-gazing, sort of post talking about my thoughts about what I have been trying to do with this blog. Maybe another time. Seeing as I will be at home next week (and I really, REALLY doubt that I will have even five seconds free next week to post), I thought that instead of yakking on and on about my piddly concerns it might be good to remember that there are many hundreds of thousands of men and women this year who will not be complaining about the traffic and the jerk at Target, who will not be bemoaning the fact that Christmas is too secular, or too religious, who will not eat too much pecan pie, who will not tell their kids to calm down and be quiet, who will not worry about taking back the weird sweater, who will not dread going over to the Joneses, who will not wish Uncle Julio would shut up, who will not go to sleep halfway through the first quarter. They keep watch and allow us to live our lives. They don’t do it simply for the money or the snappy looking free clothes. Their lot in life is a tough one, and dangerous. Yet, despite the danger, they stand there at the fenceline. Some folks hate them, hate what they represent—even some of the same people who thrive under their protection. Yet, there they stand. It’s called duty, and honor. I’m sure there are some of the stylish and sophisticated sorts out there who would be willing to argue the paint off a wall to the contrary. Fine. Whatever. Believe what you will, but as for me, life is too short to bother arguing with idiots. Duty and honor mean something, otherwise, we would not exist as a nation. So then, to the men and women who stand guard along the ramparts, thank you. May God grant you peace and strength. Also, a special prayer of thanks for the men aboard SSBN 731, which proudly carries the name Alabama around the world. (This is the one instance in which it is very easy for this Tiger to say "Roll Tide!") UPDATE--For some reason, the link to the USS ALABAMA website has been taken over within the last few hours by another Navy website for CREDO Pacific Northwest. I'm sure that someone will eventually get this fixed, but until then, you might want to check out this private site devoted to the ALABAMA. Thursday, December 19, 2002
My Internet connection went down this morning after a few furtive moments clicking around on my morning blogwalk, explaining, in part, the lack of activity here at Possumblog. It’s odd not being able to know what’s happening on Internet time—surely I’m missing something. Or not.
Anyway, right now it’s about 9 a.m. Sometime in the future, I’m sure that the computer boys will have hooked the hose back up and this will be posted, but for the moment, let me tell you something… You know, nothing says “office Christmas party” quite like a big pot of collard greens! Not only does it give the table a touch of festive greenery, it smells just like Grandma’s house (after the toilet backs up, but right before she takes a big dip of snuff). Not only is it pretty and odorlicious, it is one of those holiday finger foods that you just can’t get enough of! Why, why, WHY did someone bring a seven gallon stockpot of collards? All the rest of the stuff is normal holiday fare such as a meat and cheese tray, crudite, desserts, chips and dip, sandwich fixings…do we really need a mess of greens? Is this really someone’s idea of light finger food? Now I love turnip and mustard greens and collards just like anyone else. But friends, at the office Christmas party they are just out of place, like a tur…well, I better not use that example or one will surely find its way into the punchbowl. You think people are weird? Try working with a herd of bureaucrats. In related news, it is now about 9:30, and I just went downstairs to get the first of many 20 ounce Diet Cokes I will consume today, only to find that the snack bar had been brightly decorated and posted with a sign saying it was closed so that the Finance Department could have their Christmas party in there. Which would be just fine, except in their exuberant decorating frenzy, they completely covered up all of the vending machines with pretty red plastic sheeting! The door was open, so I went in and went to my beloved Coke machine. Completely covered. Coin slot, buttons, and product bin. Sealed for your protection. Grrrrrr. Whadda bunch of inconsiderate bean-counting maroons! Luckily, I am a real man and had at my disposal the means of liberating these poor oppressed vending machines—the terrifying one and a half inches of cheap folding serrated Japanese stainless steel quickly sprang from my pocket and sliiiiiiiiced across the top of the bin…snipsnipsnipped at the coin slot…and ::poked:: a button hole. In went my coins, out came my caffeine fix. I imagine sometime today we will go into lockdown as the culprit is searched for. Oh good lord, it’s getting worse. 10:15 a.m. I just went to rid myself of about 8 ounces of that Diet Coke I bought 45 minutes ago, and found one of our little straw-boss drones in the men’s room, washing vegetables in the sink. I made a joke about him being like Kramer preparing a whole meal in the shower, but of course, since he works in an asylum and has no concept of popular cultural references, he just went right on washing his little baby carrots and cherry tomatoes and bits of cauliflower. I don’t know about you, but I ain’t eatin’ ‘em. 11:15. The official start of our noontide repast, except there are no forks. Gosh, you think people who are PLANNERS would have thought that out a bit. Sink-Washing Martinet Guy got to lead the prayer by virtue of his awesome authority—“’kay, let’s pray so we can eat!” With such heartfelt faith and piety, I’m surprised he didn’t say “in Jebus’s name” at the end of it. Tim the Cheese Seller dude I wrote about last week brought a nice selection of runny French stuff. I know one was Brie, and there was another one beside it that I got a gooey wad of. I don’t know what it is (and don’t really care) but it has an interesting flavor of butter and pecan sawdust and Clorox. Those French! I found out who brought the Pot o’Collards, and I’m not surprised. He could pass for a member of some conspiracy group (Left or Right—he has a real ecumenical spirit), except he’s just a bit too insane. Five minutes alone with him, and even Lyndon LaRouche would shake his head and let out a low whistle. Of course, I may have gotten on his bad side by opening the pot and loudly asking, “Hey, who cooked a Christmas tree!?” My contribution to the whole shebang was sandwich bread. This happened because I made a concerted effort to hide from the list-bearer, but I was finally found and could not escape. So, sandwich bread. BUT, not just any sandwich bread—“exotic” sandwich bread. This is the term dreamed up by our psychotic administrative support specialist to describe anything not square and white. So my “exotic” selection consisted of Jewish rye, pumpernickel, and sourdough, all purchased from that well-known purveyor of all such exotic foodstuffs, the Food World grocery store in Trussville. 11:40. Just went back for seconds and in order to keep from coming across like such a total cheese rube (as if you care), I asked Tim what the variety was that I had gotten earlier. Sounded something like “Geaumlahflahmlah.” Again, those French, and that wacky language of theirs! So if any of you want any cheese that tastes like swimming pool chemicals, be sure to ask for it by name. I got a few more little knickknacks and doohickies and Tim was holding forth to someone about the various cheeses, and I heard one little gem fly out, “blahblahblah…yeah, it’s a real popular cheese with people because it doesn’t offer a big challenge…blahblahblah.” Well, gee-stinkin’-whiz, excuse ME! Don’t I have enough challenges in life without some derned bacteria-laden milk concoction making it worse! I DON’T WANT CHALLENGING CHEESE! I want cheese in a pressurized can, cheese whose ass I can whip, cheese that sits there quietly and takes orders from ME! HEY, you want challenging cheese, be my guest, but go all the way! How about some nice Gouda with blowfish poison sprinkles, huh!? There’s you a challenge! How about a nice U238/Camembert blend, feta with ricin, or a sultry Reggiano Parmigiano with the clap. I got yer challenging cheese RIGHT HERE, bub! Anyway, the Internet connection is still not back up as of noon, so I am going to copy this to a floppy, go over to the library and post it (Lord willing and Blogger has not had another server disaster) and try to answer all the huge stacks of Nigerian e-mail. 12:30. SAYYYY, not so fast there, Fat Boy! I just walked over and was met with a sign stating that all Birmingham City Libraries are closed today for inventory. Must be getting ready for that last big push before Christmas or something. And, it started raining. Blech. So, I’m back here again. FINALLY!!! 3:00 o'clock and it's working again. And nearly time to pack up my bread and go home. Oh well. Wednesday, December 18, 2002
From my mole at Hill AFB, some sad news about a particular Holiday--Religious, Christian (Protestant), Christmas--Mark II, version Twelve Day...
That is all.
Congratulations to Axis of Weevil Ministress for Venture Capitalism Elizabeth Spiers on the launching of her new collaborative effort with Jason Kottke and Nick Denton known to the world as GAWKER, which promises radical Manhattanism in the form of "a live review of city news, and by news we mean, among other things, urban dating rituals, no-ropes social climbing, Condé Nastiness, downwardly-mobile i-bankers, real estate porn -- the serious stuff."
Heaven help us all.
Keeping and Bearing
Man shoots would-be carjacker; second suspect escapes MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- A U.S. Marine sergeant shot and killed a would-be carjacker in an exchange of gunfire in the drive-thru lane of a fast-food restaurant near a military base, police said Wednesday.Semper Fire
As I have noted before, I am probably in the top 2- to 3,000 smartest Marsupial-Americans in the entire state of Alabama who have their own blog. I don't say this out of false pride or anything, but simply to show that there is a reason that the whole world turns to Possumblog for important information and facts. Like this nice person who just Googled his way in here searching for List of Heights and weights of German Politicians. I bet William F. Buckley, Jr. doesn't get questions like that. That's because he don't know SQUAT about such things.
ON the other hand, the Possumblog Statistical Research Council is quite happy to oblige! We have just completed a survey of Bundestag members for the last ten years, with age, weight, sex (if determinable), height, political party, and shoe size, tabulated and bound in 48 volumes, each one produced using the most modern environmentally sensitive production processes, using recycled lint and soy ink. A companion Statistical Abstract with analysis of the raw data is also available, bound into a set of 63 volumes. An Executive Version can be procured, richly covered in non-petrochemically derived leatherlike material, in either brown or buff, with the spine and cover imprints embossed in gold leaf. A Standard Yearly Update Atlas is just now being printed, which includes Fold Out Maps, Pronunciation Chart, SI-English Conversion Data, Errata, Deletions, and Additions. The Update is handsomely printed in two colors, and is a handy 6,500 page single volume, made even more convenient by the addition of two handles. The entire set of materials is only USD25,000,000 (EUR24.357.387,42; DEM47.637.819,87 plus applicable customs duties or VAT). Send your order today, and you will receive a FREE poster of David Hasselhoff!
The other day, reader Garland Stewart (oops--not Smith, and I KNOW better--sorry Garland) sent me a note to ask that you all vote for Big Al as the Capital One Mascot of the Year. Although it hurt really, REALLY bad to encourage such behavior, I do understand that it would be even worse for someone outside of our fair state to take home the big prize.
So does Miss Lee Ann over at Spinsters.com, who has taken the time to detail the foul and horrifying drawbacks of all the other mascots, thus making your decision even easier: [...] Buzz the Yellow Jacket (Georgia Tech) – A bee? A killer bee? Sure, he wants you to think he’s a harmless mascot, until he turns on you and harpoons you with his poison-filled stinger! That’s biological warfare. Smooth move, Saddumb. Voting for Buzz would just be letting the terrorists win.[...]
You know, if the Travelling Shoe fits...
Excellent post from well-known hotdog connoisseur and smart guy H.D. Miller: It's not often I get taken to task for something I wrote nearly eight months ago, and it's even less often it happens in a foreign language. But, that's exactly what the writer at this Spanish site does. Here's an excerpt for those of you who read the Español.Tip for Euro-twits: Assuming all Americans are simple and dull can be very embarrassing for you. But, then again, it is a quite satisfying read as Mr. Miller does a nice multi-lingual job of tearing our poor Spaniard a new one.
Former child star Adam Rich of "Eight is Enough" arrested for alleged DUI LOS ANGELES (AP) -- One-time child actor Adam Rich, who starred in the 1970s TV show "Eight Is Enough," was arrested early Wednesday after he drove onto a closed highway lane and nearly struck a California Highway Patrol car, authorities said. I suppose eight really is enough when your hammering back adult beverages containing the fruity bouquet of ethanol.
Lott vows to stand and fight to keep his job as Republican majority leader
Wow. He really IS sorta slow on the uptake. I guess it's all part of that learning process he keeps saying he has gone through over time, huh. Maybe in 30 or 40 years, he might be able to figure out that he's fighting the wrong fight.
I love pot stickers. Tender, flavorful, and apparently slightly hallucinogenic when purchased from the grocery store.
Reba got some the other day and we steamed them up last night. Not without high drama, as is normal around our house. In her distracted state of preparation, she inadvertently let all the water boil out of the double boiler and nearly set a good Revereware saucepan on fire. She was fussing and fuming and the pot had gotten to that ominous black color that signifies the start of Something Bad, so I managed to wrestle it away from her and quench it in the sink. It took several minutes to finally cool off (it's one of those with the extra thick bottom. HEY! No jokes about me!) Just as that crisis was abated, one of the kids said something about it. Kids. So young, so full of curiosity. So oblivious to danger. After a good dose of verbal guiltlashing, they remained remarkably quiet for the rest of the meal. Hey, they CAN learn! If Mama ain't happy, ain't NOBODY happy--learn it, live it. Anyway, the pot stickers were great even though those last few had an...odd flavor. And they were accompanied by nice crunchy spring rolls, and I ate too many of both. Which led me to my discovery of their odd power. Sometime after going to bed last night, I started dreaming about work. I was looking at some old aerial views of Birmingham, and there were all these cool buildings that have never existed except in this particular dream. I saw one that was really neat, and it appeared to be just across the street from City Hall. In the aerial, it was huge and had two low wings on each side of a gigantic dome or something. I thought how cool it would be to go through it, and then I was no longer at my desk, but walking down the street. (As with all my dreams, part of the time I was not really walking, but drifting along while laying on something, sometimes stopping for a quick nap along the way) Suddenly, I got to where the building in the picture was supposed to be, and HEY! It's still here! The storefront was all covered up with huge sheets of glass and wood framing, but you could look up and see the tall part which was not a dome, but a tower like the prow of a ship, sort of like the Flatiron Building, except razor sharp, with no windows or decoration. I walked around to the side and there was a large construction fence and a job trailer and some folks milling around with hard hats. Hey, lucky me, I had one on, too! (One of my obscure Rules of Architecture is that someone with a hard hat and a clipboard can get in anyplace in the world) I asked some woman what was going on and she said they were doing a safety inspection and they all started climbing through a small hole in the fence. No one stopped me, so I tagged along and found myself inside of a dark old building with all sorts of beams and scaffolding and junk all over the place. (Think Piranesi.) We walked and climbed over stuff, and finally got to a stair lobby, which looked like something in an old Sears store--crappy panelling, mod fixtures, battleship linoleum. There was a ladder going up, and the idea was that you climbed up a bit, and then grabbed onto something like a rolling swing that took you around to another part of the building. I decided just to walk. We were then all in a tiny little dark kitchen, which looked like it had not been cleaned in ages. I said something to some guy beside me about those cookies sure looking good, because there was this plate of cookies sitting on an old stove and I thought I was joking. I then looked, and the cookies actually DID look pretty good and then it dawned on me that someone had been cooking, as if someone was living in the place. Weird! And boy, some food sounded good right about then. We walked on through a door, and came to a bright open room with a fireplace and nice furniture. We couldn't figure out what was going on, and figured that the building must have a caretaker of some sort who lived there. And then, right there on top of the TV was a picture of my son! HEY! These people are RELATED to ME! I started trying to go through all the relatives I had sent pictures to who lived in abandoned buildings, and couldn't think of a one. Continuing our tour, the rooms were scattered all over the place, and there were these cool flat screen TVs everywhere, playing short loops of family pictures, sort of like the paintings in Harry Potter. Big ones, little picture frame sized ones, ones above the mantle, one used as a table. The place was huge and the more we walked around, the more "glamorous" it became, in that Lileksian Interior Desecrator's mode--like something out of a mid-'70s Architectural Digest. We looked out of a window, and there was a gigantic park behind the building so I walked out on the roof. (Of course. It WAS a dream, after all). There was no trace of the city, or even of the odd tower thing--it just looked like a nice old mansion on nicely kept grounds. I went back inside, and met up with some of the other people in the group, and we came to a surprising conclusion. It seems that DONALD TRUMP owned the building, and was, in fact, LIVING IN IT! I was about to go ask him how he got one of our family pictures when I heard a strange shoooosh... shoooosh... shooooosh sound. Shooooosh. Shooosh. I opened my eyes and heard it again...shoooosh. I dazedly figured out it was Tiny Girl, scooting along the floor of our bedroom on her butt, trying to sneak into bed with us. Raspy whisper, "Catherine!" No answer. Another low, hoarse, try-not-to-wake-wife call, "CATH-ER-INE!" (Shades of Pete--"DO. NOT. SEEK. THE. TREAS-URE!") I was hanging my head off the side of the bed, and she jumped up right in my face. Yes, it is scary when that happens. I whispered and asked her if she had wet the bed. No answer, which can be bad news. I asked again, and she shook her head "No," which is usually good news, if she is actually telling the truth. I figured I would send her right back to bed, and then... The alarm clock went off. Crap. I hoisted the dense little sack of wet cement up into the bed and turned on the news, and after a minute or two, she was back out again, happily snoring and kicking me in the groin. And giggling her head off in her sleep. The pot stickers must have had a good effect on her, too. (And I also found out this morning that the combination of spring rolls and pot stickers are not only hallucinogenic, but greatly flatulegenic, too, but I won't bore you with lurid tales of the Thunder From Down Under) ANYway, I have work to do, so I will see you this afternoon sometime. Tuesday, December 17, 2002
It's getting to be about that time...
...and I have to be here extra early tomorrow morning so as to protect the good citizenry from the perils of bad color schemes, and then I will need to do a intensive writing job on the minutes of that meeting in order to get the rest of my stuff done for the week, so I can have a nice Christmas break and not worry about things here at the office. (Shyeah, right!) So then, if I don't get to come out and play very much tomorrow, rest assured that I have an excuse.
Seminoles' QB Rix Declared Ineligible By BRENT KALLESTAD, Associated Press WriterBummer, dude.
Most have never used new dollar coin despite three-year campaign, survey says By DAVID HOAs long as the bill remains in circulation, there will never be mass appeal of a dollar coin. It would also help if the dollar coin didn't look like a Chuckie Cheese token; "golden" in this case being more along the lines of "creme" filling. The color does not age gracefully--the stacks I got for the kids looked fine when they came out of the drawer at Wal-Mart (remember when they were the distribution point to foist these off on people?), but even just sitting unused in my change bowl, they quickly looked worn. Not patinaed like copper, or satiny like nickel, just faded like a cheap giveaway prize out of a gumball machine. The Mint says they are made of manganese-brass, but whatever it is, it sure looks cheap. I don't guess it matters one way or the other since they have stopped making them.
Yasser Arafat says he accepts U.S. peace roadmap in principle Palestinian Authority Chairman Yasser Arafat said Tuesday, after several months delay, that he has in principle accepted the United States-proposed roadmap for peace in the region. [...]Wow. I feel all better.
Stranger returns cash found at gas pumps OPELIKA, Ala. (AP) -- Thanks to a good Samaritan, Christmas will be merry for a woman who thought she had lost her holiday cash.You know, it's a bit of a sad commentary when someone doing the right thing is considered newsworthy.
The Rednecks Take Over America [...] Though Redneck Nation is smart-mouthed and light-hearted (you will not be surprised to learn that [author Michael] Graham once worked as a stand-up comic), and it doesn't pretend to be a serious political book, its author does make some sober points between the riffs and jibes. On the subject of race, he says that today's left-wing neo-segregationists are morally worse than the white Jim Crow supporters, like his grandmother. ''But she didn't grow up with the memory of a martyred Martin Luther King, Jr., and she couldn't benefit from forty years of intense public struggle over the ridiculousness of racial obsession. You and I have,'' he writes.
Oh good grief
First it was the "Brutal Afghan Summer" (or Winter--take yer pick), and now we have the Brutal Iraqi Summer...U.S. Could Fight Iraq in Summer Heat-British Source By Howard GollerConventional wisdom, eh? Now I realize that Iraq has a lot of desert, but for the record, Baghdad is at latitude 33 degrees, 20 minutes north--while that wonderful town of Tuscon, Arizona where little old people go for the nice dry hot weather sits even further south, coming in at latitude 32 degrees, 08 minutes north. Yeah, it's searing heat alright. But it's a dry searing heat. (And by the way, my hometown is at 33 degrees, 37 minutes north)
As you all know...
I am a very deep thinker. Just the other day, I thought how much better this world would be if someone would come up with better single-site catalysts based on caged diimide ligands. And then in my morning blogstroll, I note that someone did! Congratulations, Greg! (And glad to hear Miss Possum is bouncy again.) Monday, December 16, 2002
I post this under extreme duress...
This just in from long-time reader Garland Stewart: Dear Friends,Whew! Hhmmmmmmh. whoooh. Hold on a minute. MMMMMmmmph. Urrrghhhuhhh. ::grunt:: Errrrrrrrgh. ::sigh:: Must. Not. Curse. The Possumblog Editorial Staff ask that you please support Big Al in his bid to become America's favorite mascot. Hhhhhmmmmmmmmmm. ::heavy sigh:: Man, that hurt.
Have a cuppa, luv... [...] It was now evening, and I immediately dressed myself in the costume of an Indian, equipped with a small hatchet, which I and my associates denominated the tomahawk, with which, and a club, after having painted my face and hands with coal dust in the shop of a blacksmith, I repaired to Griffin's wharf, where the ships lay that contained the tea. When I first appeared in the street after being thus disguised, I fell in with many who were dressed, equipped and painted as I was, and who fell in with me and marched in order to the place of our destination. [...]Via America's Homepage at the Georgia Institute of Technology, an account written by George Hewes, a participant in the Boston Tea Party, which occurred this night 229 years ago. Thanks from us all, Mr. Hewes.
Bellicose Women Update
Ohio Teen Girl Tackles, Hogties Intruder DAYTON, Ohio (AP) - A petite 17-year-old girl awakened by intruders sprinted from her house barefoot in pajamas and tackled one trespasser, pinning and hogtying him for police.Heh heh.
Adventures in Headline Writing
Shelby to continue hunt for terrorists in new banking post ...and how they got in my new banking post I'll NEVER know!
Fragmentary Fred First of Floyd Flees Flummoxed Fileserver, Failsafes to Friends Flat For Fortnight (or so)
It appears fellow Weevilite Fred First has been having some troubles with the host of his blog, so is hanging out in Ron Bailey's bloghouse until matters are settled. Be sure to keep a lookout for when Fred gets his new domain mastered, and until then, Fragments from Floyd can be found here.
Buhm-buhm BUUUUUUUHMMMM!!!
LOOK! Across the pond! It's a pest! It's a misguided moron! IT'S CAPTAIN EURO!!!! Via Mac Thomason, the next installment of our wondrously non-heroic nanny stater, as Captain Euro takes on... THE NIGERIANS!! [...] EURO: Citoyens, what seems to be the trouble?Mmmm. Wonder Woman.
On the Twelve Days of Christmas, Charles Austin gave to me...
So stinkin' many Scourges of Richard Cohen that my comprehension of Roman numeral has been exhausted--they are LXVII, LXVIII, and LXIX, which I believe translates to 100, 143, and 96. Maybe not. Anyway, entertaining as shooting fish in a barrel can be!
Hello!
Well, that certainly was an entertaining weekend. Did I mention that I got an e-mail from Denise McClug...oh, yeah I did, didn't I. Many thanks to Bill Quick over at the Daily Pundit for sharing in my glee and sending a bunch of folks over this way on Saturday. I'm just sorry I didn't spruce up a bit more, but as usual, I never expect anyone to drop by except the regulars who have grown accustomed to the mess around here. In any event, thanks to Bill, and also thanks to fellow blogger and fan of Larry Shinoda Ron Bailey who wonders what Harley Earl would think of a Pontiac Aztek. I imagine he would think it was a very interesting dumpster, but might complain that the lift gate is a bit too high to comfortably empty a garbage can into. Then again, he might just set it on fire. Or pee on it. Good thing he's dead. One thing Ron mentioned is that he once bumped into Automobile Magazine's Jean Jennings (nee Lindamood) at the Mall of America--I look forward to hearing the exact details of that one. (Lindamood's another cool gearhead/gun nut chick I wouldn't mind driving cross country with.) Speaking of my inelegantly named official list of "Old Broads I Would Really Like To Meet and....Well, You Know," reader Bet Mulligan from down in Inverness, Florida, wrote in with her thoughts on the New Beetle v. Real Beetle, and congratulated me on getting such a nice Christmas present from Miss Denise: Congrats on getting that neat email from the car columnist! As an aspiring Old Broad myself, I smiled a mile wide when you sighed over her :)For those who would take offense at the term "old broad," rest assured you are NOT on my list. And won't be on it. Ever. For the rest of you, I think by now you know me well enough to know the qualities I ascribe to such women--self-sufficient, confident, mentally agile, brave, wise, full of life and humor, enjoys being around guys--even when they act like guys. And yes, you need to have some age on you. This doesn't mean that you young ladies can't shoot for old broad status--keep working at it, but a lot of the magic comes from perservering and fighting and building up some battle damage over the years. If you can still manage to crack a smile or still get all goosey when you get dressed up to go out, even when life has been unkind, you've managed to do something. Or, if you have finally overcome that muzzle blast induced trigger flinch. Or figured out how to heel-and-toe. ANYWAY, the weekend was a blur of children and shopping for Mama. Target, Books-A-Million, Michael's, Target, Wal-Mart, Hallmark, Wal-Mart, CVS Pharmacy, Target, Wal-Mart. I still have difficulty getting the kids to concentrate on gifts for Mom rather than cool stuff they want Mom to have so they can play with it. SO, among other more Mom-appropriate items, Catherine got her a little stuffed Clydesdale, and Lil' Boy got her a Bedtime Care Bear with a lullaby video. I can't really complain, though. Several years ago after noticing how many times she asked me to cut something with my pocketknife, I got a cool little thumb-opener with a light on the end so you could see your door lock and gave it to her. She was somewhat less than thrilled, so I told her I would be glad to carry it for her. Still carry it to this day. And still tell her it's hers. Honestly, I really can't remember much else--just lots of "Don't touch!" and trips to the restroom, which I believe will last for only another 12 years or so. And today, and the rest of the week for that matter, will be spent trying to tie up as many loose ends as possible so that I can be on vacation next week. The whole week will be spent nestled into the bosom of my family, and I'm sure that I will only be slightly more insane after the end of it. Or not. So then, to work! Saturday, December 14, 2002
Life is Sweet
A few months ago in September, I wrote a post about Buick's new ad campaign using some thumb-faced mook in a fedora claiming to be Harley Earl--in part, it read like this: "What's that strange whirring sound? Why, it's none other than Harley Earl, spinning in his vault at about 8,000 RPM, that's what! Only got to see the last part of the Emmy Awards last night, but enough to be assaulted with some greasy, fedora-clad shmoo trying to convince me that he was Harley Earl and that he would actually be caught (even dead) within 50 feet of a Buick Rendezvous, much less that he would claim that it would represent his vision of the future! I have not seen these particular ads before, and hope I don't have to see them again. I have posted before about how the Cadillac "Break Through" ad campaign with the spot using the '59 Caddy is dumb, and about how GM seems incapable of appealing to the people who actually remember when they made desirable cars, and how they seem so incredibly inept when mining their own design past (i.e. the new "Impala" has four big ugly round tailights, which to those-who-know means "cheap-ass Biscayne," and all the Buick show cars have rediscovered Ventiports, yet the designers seem not to know that three per side says "cheap-ass Special"), and now these piles of crap advertisements.So imagine my supreme pleasure in when I got home last night, seeing that I had received my AutoWeek last night, and turning to Denise McCluggage's column: I'll bet Harley Earl is doing 7500 rpm in his grave. It's that Buick ad campaign with the tag, "My name is Harley Earl and I've come back to build you a great car." More correctly: "to witness the desecration of my image."Any of you out there who are amateur writers know that there is absolutely NOTHING like having a pro print something that validates your view of something. For those of you who are motorheads, there is nothing like reading the snappy prose of Ms. McCluggage, a giant in the industry who has been at her game for the whole history of the sports car movement in the United States, as both a writer, a photographer, and a driver (and is on my official list of "Old Broads I Would Really Like To Meet and....Well, You Know"). So surely you must know how I felt when I saw that she had the same thoughts about this as I did. I could barely contain my glee, and had to send her a note to let her know I thought she was dead on. I included the bit I wrote, and wished her well, not expecting ever to hear back. She is sorta busy after all. Then I woke up and checked my e-mail this morning: Hey, great minds rev in the same RPM range! Your piece is terrific.I now need no Christmas presents. For about the next forty years. Friday, December 13, 2002
Well, I thought I was through blogging for the week, but I just saw this: History prize rescinded for controversial book about guns in the United States By HILLEL ITALIEWow. But just think, if he had simply filmed a documentary instead of writing a book, it would have gotten an award from the International Documentary Association for being the bestest, most greatestest in the whole universe--obviously the standard of truth for documentaries is much, MUCH lower.
So where have I been today?
Working. I do occasionally have to do that. And then there was the sub rosa requisition of some new (well, new to me, at least) hardware and office furnishings. Our deputy director got appointed to be the director of another department. He cleaned his office out (mostly) last week of all of his ephemera and files and junk, leaving some interesting bits of stuff for the rest of us to plunder through. Although it may shock some of you, this is the way things work on this floor. We're sort of the cast-off forgotten idiot relative kept locked in the attic, and always get the butt end of budget requests. There really is no such thing as any of us lower level sorts ever being able to get anything new requisitioned, so everything I have in my office is cast-offs from other folks who have left over the years. The day after someone's departure, the vultures swoop in to pick up not-completely-broken tape dispensers and staplers which are only five years old, as opposed to twenty. As I look around me, I see a bookcase, a drafting table, a drafting stool, two guest chairs, and a speed dial phone that all came from someone else's office. The phone has an interesting history. I originally had a plain phone with twelve buttons and no way to put anyone on hold or transfer calls--this museum piece was quickly relocated to the conference room in exchange for one with all sorts of buttony glory and the wonder of speed dial. I made this switch only after putting in a requisition for a real phone with the Communications Department, expecting to swap out with them when they got to my request. A couple of years later, my newly requisitioned telephone crapped out, but by this time, the conference room had gotten another button phone after someone figured out they couldn't transfer calls or put anyone on hold with my old one. Since my plan worked well before, I took my old new old phone and swapped it for the one in the conference room AGAIN, and it has happily worked just fine ever since. Of course, there was a big stink when someone tried to use the conference room phone and IT didn't work AGAIN, but they got it switched. Anyway, four years after I got here, and I was on my third phone, I got a call from a buddy in Communications, "Hey! We got you a phone!" Huh? "Yeah, your phone...you put in a requisition for one with speed dial." I hated to tell him that this problem had already been resolved to my satisfaction, but I did tell him, and noted to him that the request had been made four years ago, half expecting that he would be down in a minute to yank it out of the wall. "Well, would you look at that!" In the end, he was just glad to be able to file the requisition as "Done." Everything is old stuff, except for the computer. That's relatively new. It even had a one of those highly advanced Microsoft scroll meeces when I first got it. The mouse eventually broke, and the MIS guys downstairs wouldn't even give me a used one! I had to go back to a regular mouse, which I hated. And the way we have things set up around here, even though the computer came preloaded with a Windows Media player and all sorts of other junk, this was disabled before they turned it over to me. It does have a CD drive with a separate headphone jack, but again, it is doubtful this actually works. Luckily, with the departure of our demiboss, a wondrous world of crap lay just beyond my wall. Yesterday, I carefully (and very quietly) relocated a four drawer file cabinet (I have had a standing requisition for another file cabinet for seven years). We have a very nosy secretary, so this work had to be done in the utmost secrecy. Which is difficult, as any of you who have ever slid an empty file cabinet across carpet can attest. Not much else is left that I really need, except...today I liberated a nice set of harman/kardon speakers and a scroll mouse. The mouse works fine and it sure is nice to have the scroll feature back. The speakers will have to wait until I can get the MIS guy to loosen up the lock on the Media Player, but at least I HAVE them. Possession is 9/10 of the law, you know. Anyway, I have been busy, and the weekend looks to be similiarly arrayed with more selections from the Endless Buffet of Things To Fix and Do, Except for Sleep. I fully intend to fill you all in Monday morning, but for now, I must get back to pilfer...working. See you Monday!
Our Birthday
Via the Alabama Legislature website: Tomorrow marks the 183rd anniversary of Alabama's admission to the United States of America. From the Avalon Project, here is an online version of our first Constitution. It is an interesting study to examine its correspondence with the Federal Constitution, along with the ways in which it differs. The first Article contains 30 sections enumerating various rights of the citizens, with five of the first seven speaking directly about religious freedom: SEC. 3. No person within this state shall, upon any pretence, be deprived of the inestimable privilege of worshipping God in the manner most agreeable to his own conscience; nor be compelled to attend any place of worship, nor shall any one ever be obliged to pay any tythes, taxes, or other rate, for the building or repairing any place of worship, or for the maintenance of any minister or ministry.To this day there are people who can't quite grasp the full meaning of establishing a religion by law. If it helps any, the Prime Minister of Great Britain selects the leaders of the Church of England, the Archbishops of Canterbury and York (along with all the other diocesan bishops), and the Queen nominates his selection to the College of Canons. THAT is an establishment of religion by the state. Some colonial charters (such as the Delaware Charter of 1701)expressly stated that to be a member of the legislative delegation, a member had to swear allegiance to a particular religion. THAT is an establishment of religion by the state. The next Section is interesting in that the Federal "freedom of the press" was seen as an individual right: SEC 8. Every citizen may freely speak, write, and publish his sentiments on all subjects, being responsible for the abuse of that liberty.Every citizen. Not simply established outlets of media. For those today who believe that the freedom to publish and disseminate information lies only with the vaunted members of the Fourth Estate, and not with lowly morons with a computer and a blog, it might be good to go back and look at this. Sections 9 through 22 track closely with the language of the U.S. Constitution on the subjects of unreasonable search and seizure, trial by jury, double jeopardy, the right of habeus corpus, the right to assemble and petition for redress of grievances, etc. When we get to the 23rd Section, we are again faced with something that further expands on the meaning of something found within the United States Constitution: SEC. 23. Every citizen has a right to bear arms in defence of himself and the State.Every citizen. An individual right. Period. One thing that should be of interest to those who think govermnent supported public education is a relatively new thing, education is given a mention within its own section in the General Provisions: Schools and the means of education shall forever be encouraged in this State; and the General Assembly shall take measures to preserve, from unnecessary waste or damage, such lands as are or hereafter may be granted by the United States for the use of schools within each township in this State, and apply the funds, which may be raised from such lands; in strict conformity to the object of such grant. The General Assembly shall take like measures for the improvement of such lands as have been or may be hereafter granted by the United States to this State, for the support of a Seminary of learning, and the moneys which may be raised from such lands, by rent, lease, or sale, or from any other quarter, for the purpose, aforesaid, shall be and remain a fund for the exclusive support of a State University, for the promotion of the arts, literature, and the sciences: and it shall be the duty of the General Assembly, as early as may be, to provide effectual means for the improvement and permanent security of the funds and endowments of such institution.Pretty progressive, eh? Of course, our progress was impeded by a heavy anchor: SLAVES.A sad chapter, indeed. But not one that should limit our future. One of the neighborhood presidents here in town said something in a recent meeting that has hung with me: "A place is in trouble when the people can remember more than they can imagine." Thursday, December 12, 2002
Apollo's Cernan proposes teens in orbit HUNTSVILLE, Ala. (AP) -- An old moon walker has a new idea -- teens in space.Well, I tell you what...he'll be up there taggin' the Space Station and stickin' his butt up to the glass and moonin' people and trying to sneak beer and a chick on board and the whole place will smell like that horrible Tommy cologne and feet and dirty bong water.
'Patch' Adams Looks for Humor in Mideast By JASON KEYSER, Associated Press WriterNoting the ease with which Dr. Adams was able to gather a crowd of children, Palestinian activists asked the mirthful comic if his costume was large enough to conceal a bomb belt.
A Gift from Francesca Watson [...] So on this particular Saturday, I wasn't paying much attention to the beauty of the place I call home. Silly me. As I made the turn into our drive, a large buck broke out of a small stand of trees on the corner of the neighbor's property at the end of the drive, and ran directly in front of my car. I didn't even have time to hit the brakes before he slowed to a trot, pacing my car down the expanse of lawn between me and the trees. He was big, with racks of at least seven points, and he exuded good health and raw power. If I had thought to open my window and stick out an arm, I could have touched him.
Occasionally, believe it or not, people searching the Internet mistakenly wind up at Possumblog searching for something else. Such as this request from the Bloomfield, New Jersey school system: whata the temperature of the space shuttle.
How sweet! Obviously a little fan of the hit HBO series, The Sopranos. Luckily for our intrepid young science researcher, Possumblog is well known to have a vast storehouse of highly scientific and technical information, and we even have Dr. Weevil's brother Steevil on retainer at NASA to let us in on exciting new finds. According to my sources, the temperature of the Space Shuttle varies, depending on its surroundings and various things like loud sound and bad thoughts. Usually, it goes from like around 12 to maybe a 40 or something. I don't really know...does 40 seem too high? Let's just say a nice average is around about 32. Hope that helps you out, little fellow!
Extending Alabama's Cultural Hegemony, One Blog at a Time
Belated congratulations to Larry Anderson of Kudzu Acres for helping to birth a blog written by famed North Alabama barbecue chef, William Joseph Roberts, aka Billy Joe Bob, who lives quite near (some would say suspiciously so) to the good Mr. Anderson, and who also has occasional blogging help from his running buddy Cletus. Billy Joe Bob and Cletus hold forth on a variety of world events, using small words, but big ideas. Lest any of you think that Mr. Roberts is merely a sock-puppet for a better known blogger, let me just say that I am offended that you would dare suggest such a thing about my first grand-blogchild! Why, if you keep that up, I won't show you all my pictures of him! In every aspect, our sweet BJB fulfills all requirements for inclusion in the Axis of Weevil, especially if the Calvinball rules are invoked heavily. SO THEN, as is common practice, by the power vested in my by the State of Alabama Department of Agriculture (Weights and Measures Bureau) and the small, quiet voices in my head, it is with GREAT HONOR AND CHARITY that we, the Alabama Recoil and Chamber Music Society do hereby extend to Billy Joe Bob and his good friend Cletus, full and forcible membership within the mighty and powerful Axis of Weevil, granting him fully all the wondrous rights, benefits, and plausible deniability such status holds. As with all new members of the Axis of Weevil, Billy Joe Bob will be sent the world-famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, consisting of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for his pickup truck; 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 16 ounce bottle of dale's Steak Sauce; and the best gift of all, a coupon for free Kool Seal for the top of his trailer roof, done by Jimmy from next door! (His condition does flare up now and again, so it would be best not to park too close to the trailer or some of the Kool Seal might slop over the edge and land on the roof of your truck.) The management regrets to inform us that we must limit our Gift Packs to one per blog, meaning Billy Joe Bob and Cletus will have to come up with an equitable scheme for distributing their loot. We apologize for the inconvenience, but even Axes have budgets, and I have to get a new Aeron chair for my office, but that's neither here nor there. ANYWAY, be sure to visit with Billy and Cletus, who are telling also telling possum stories this morning, right along with Meryl, and be sure and go see what BJB has to say about Hotty Toddy Lotty.
Iraq Denies Giving al-Qaida Nerve Agent [...] "This is really a ridiculous assumption from the American administration," Lt. Gen. Hossam Mohammed Amin told a news conference. "They know very well we have no prohibited substances." [...]'Is the milks for babies a prohibited substances? Of course not! This is the only things we have give them--only the baby milks, because mercy demands that our brothers must be able to feed the babies.'
I just got off the...finished...stopped...well, you know what? There's really no good, elegant way of saying that you have just concluded sending a series of e-mails back and forth to someone. I didn't hang up, or get off the phone, so it wouldn't work to say "I hung up the e-mail." I didn't say "over and out," and any other broadcastish term just doesn't sound homey enough--everything's too jargony, although I suppose we could use 10-code like Broderick Crawford--"I just did a 10-3 with..."--nah. I didn't really just get through talking to someone, I was writing them, even if it is nearly instant, like passing notes in class.
There needs to be something for this phenomenon. Something distinct and catchy and all 21st Century and something that will catch on with young people in France and give their language minders fits as they try to coin a suitable official Frankish version that everyone can ignore. Any suggestions? Anyway, I have just "concluded sending a series of e-mails back and forth" to the Vidalia Homemaker of the Year, Janis Gore of Gone South fame, who initially sent a message full of good cheer, which eventually made its way through several backs-and-forths to a point where she allowed that she was going to be having company tomorrow, and has had precious little time for blogging. Curious about the vittles, I foolishly asked what she and Lyman were a'preparing: Shrimp cocktail, seafood gumbo, a lovely green salad, Oysters Bienville, Oysters Rockefeller, garlic bread and chocolate mousse. My charming other half will do most of the cooking. I will do most of the cleaning up. Which includes handwashing about 60 pieces of his grandmother's Havilland china (Apple Blossom) and Fostoria crystal because it was made before dishwashers were common.I am SO STINKING HUNGRY! And this is for LUNCH tomorrow!
Defiant North Korea says it will reactivate nuclear reactor that was frozen under 1994 deal
North Korean civilians hail move, say radioactive waste will make great dietary supplement to grass and sticks.
Crack found in plumbing of shuttle Discovery, NASA checking rest of fleet
SWAT team members gained entry to the shuttle by using a battering ram on the front door as other officers covered the back door. "Yeah, they usually try to flush the stuff, but we usually catch 'em," said lead officer John Ramirez. Officers found several engineers inside who were led away in handcuffs. One shirt sleeve and polyester slacks-clad man complained about brutality as officers forcibly removed his pocket protector, knocking his glasses off in the process. "Say, this is just "whack," you "dudes." My brainy "homies" and I were simply "chilling" in our "crib."" Officers also found large amounts of cash and several stacks of Scientific American magazines.
COOOL! By sheer power of persuasion, I was able to convince an unsuspecting blogger to participate in my evil plan for the takeover of your puny Earth by marsupials! BWAAAAAHAHAHAHA! I WILL HAVE YOU ALL WEARING FUR AND HANGING FROM TREES IN NO TIME!!!
ahem...In any event, go see what Meryl Yourish has to say about possums. (I sure hope she takes my other advice and posts more stuff about guns. And food.)
Now this is a pretty cool story... Savoring cheese along with a loaf of crusty bread and a bottle of wine has long been a favorite way to spend lunch, an afternoon or an evening for the French.The actual article in the paper last night was much longer, and goes on to list all of the different brands favored by surrender monkeys Mr. Gambrel has taken to importing, along with some neat information about cheeses in general. Unfortunately, this all got edited out of the online edition, but I post this mainly because if you notice, Tim is a city planner. And he just happens to work right down the hall from me! (Guess what he's bringing to our office Christmas party.) Here is a link to his business address.
John Adams commissioned by the San Francisco Opera to compose opera about atom bomb
Maybe it's just me, or the time when I was born, or the things I was exposed to as a child, but doggone it, all I can think about is what a great opera this would be with Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.
New York never sleeps my great hairy rump!
HEY! I got news for you people--I can do the same thing down here! And all that hoohah about being able to get anything anytime you want it ain't such a big deal! Why, just last night, when we got home at 9 o'clock from church, and after 3/4 of the kids were bathed and put to bed about an hour and a half later, I was right in the middle of redoing my schedule of teachers and typing up a letter to e-mail to the church secretary this morning and was informed by the last un-sleeped child that she was supposed to get information off the Internet about the Creek Indians for class tomorrow, then only a few minutes later, I was informed by my good wife that her car needed precious, sweet Iraqi OOOOIIIILLLL, and that her mom wanted her to go to the bakery and get a coconut cake for her (something to eat for the constant stream of guests who come to stare at her in her post-operative state), and then I noticed that if some particular Middle Girl child wanted to take a paper copy of her assignment about Creek Indians with her tomorrow, she would need her daddy to pick up a pack of printer paper. SO, along about 11, I was left to finish my work as everyone else did the sensible thing and went to bed. I finished part of my letter, redid my schedule, sent them to myself here at work so I could put the final polish on them this morning. I even managed to chat a bit with Mr. Schranck on the covered bridge thing, and I found a bunch of websites devoted to Muscogee history. It was time to print, and with no paper, it was time to embark on my sojourn, my quest to find out what all can be bought after midnight in the tiny village of Trussville. A WHOLE HEAPING WAD, that's what! I dropped down to the foot of the hill and first went to see if Target might be open. You know, it being Christmastime, you would figure it would be open 24 hours, at least temporarily. Nope. The only thing open was Books-A-Million, and I came this close (imagine my fingers about an inch apart) to going in and shopping a bit. But I had to go fill up with gasoline, so on over to the RaceTrac for some good, cheap $1.289 gasoline to feed my profligate hunger for petrochemicals. Having done that, I stopped by that beacon of get-everythingness, Winn-Dixie. Printer paper? Check! Coconut cake? Check! (although I will probably lose style points with the mominlaw since it didn't come from Marsh's Bakery). Take THAT! big city dwellers! Then it was back home to finish printing, and I was snug in bed by 0030. And up a 0455. Boy, am I sleepy. The worst part of the whole deal was being aurally assaulted by quite possibly the world's worst rendition of "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer." Driving along, listening to the all-Christmas-music station, and suddenly I hear Bing Crosby start up with a pseudo-swingy, scat-like (in both the musical sense and in the sheer dreckiness of it) version that made me pull over and slam my head in the car door repeatedly. Imagine Bill Murray doing his lounge singer schtick with a dose of William Shatner after he has rummaged through the medicine cabinet. Feed that to a goose, then follow it around until it comes back out, then press it onto vinyl. Yes, that bad. "YEAH! You know Dash!er and Dancerrrrrrr, And that Com!et and Cupidddddd, but HEY! do you cats recalllll, THE! MOST! FAM! OUS! REINDEEEEEER OFffffaaaaLLLLLLLLLL?!" (Yes, I realize that the last word could be misinterpreted as "offal.") Bingola sings Crapola. Bbuhbuhbuh-barf. Oh well. At least I could sleep soundly knowing that I can go out at midnight and get anything I want around here, just like them big city folks. As long as it's cake and paper and gas. Wednesday, December 11, 2002
Larry Anderson at Kudzu Acres notes the post below about the Boll Weevil Monument, and takes a moment to reflect on its greater meaning: In my little North Alabama neighborhood, farmers continued to plant cotton long after they ceased to have a chance of turning a profit. One man continued to plant into the '90s, but didn't pick his acre. When asked about it, he said that his daddy, granddaddy and great-granddaddy all planted cotton and so would he as long as he farmed.I can stand up from where I'm sitting right now, look out my window, and see the exact spot where the Dixiecrats held their convention in 1948. I can walk downstairs, go outside, and see the inscription on the time capsule in the foundation of the building listing the city commissioners in 1950, including that of Eugene Conner. And I can turn around, look toward the park across the street and see people walking and talking and acting perfectly...normal. People--people from all walks of life, from all races, and even from across the world--just being people. If there is hope and peace in this place, never let it be said that there can be no hope or peace elsewhere.
Well, here is is! For all of you who keep stumbling into the warm, toasty fur of Possumblog by Googling for newhouse lileks lott, here is the article in question from Al Roker's newest buddy: GOP Should Tell Lott to Step Down and Clam Up [...] Every partisan in every party has to learn one thing: Sometimes your people are wrong. To paraphrase an old retort, saying "My party, right or wrong" is like saying "My Kennedy, drunk or sober." Credibility is earned, and standing up and saying "Fie!" now and then reinforces your truthfulness....But darned fine looking in a cheerleading sweater. Always helps to have something to fall back on, don't you know.
A Great and Auspicious Day It Is...
Via the Library of Congress: On December 11, 1919, the citizens of Enterprise, Alabama erected a monument to the boll weevil, the pest that devastated their fields but forced residents to end their dependence on cotton and to pursue mixed farming and manufacturing. A beetle measuring an average length of six millimeters, the insect entered the United States via Mexico in the 1890s and reached southeastern Alabama in 1915. It remains the most destructive cotton pest in North America.So there. And here's you a link to a photograph of the dedication back in 1919, along with a pretty interesting history. (Note that the original was a fountain--the bug was added later.)
It being the Christmas season, I believe it is quite the time to post this--everyone, please sing along...
Deck us all with Boston Charlie, Walla walla, Wash., an' Kalamazoo! Nora's freezin' on the trolley, Swaller dollar cauliflower alley'garoo! Don't we know archaic barrel, Lullaby lilla boy, Louisville Lou? Trolley Molly don't love Harold, Boola boola Pensacoola hullabaloo! Bark us all bow-wows of folly, Polly welly cracker n' too-da-loo! Donkey Bonny brays a carol, Antelope Cantaloup, 'lope with you! Hunky Dory's pop is lolly gaggin' on the wagon, Willy, folly go through! Chollie's collie barks at Barrow, Harum scarum five alarum bung-a-loo! Duck us all in bowls of barley, Ninky dinky dink an' polly voo! Chilly Filly's name is Chollie, Chollie Filly's jolly chilly view halloo! Bark us all bow-wows of folly, Double-bubble, toyland trouble! Woof, Woof, Woof! Tizzy seas on melon collie! Dibble-dabble, scribble-scrabble! Goof, Goof, Goof! Thank you, I Go Pogo!
Whew!
Had to take Little Boy back to the dentist today for his other filling. I don't think I've ever seen someone who likes going and getting his head drilled as much as this kid. Must be all the knobs and lights and tools and Mr. Slurpy. Anyway, it seems like the post I did yesterday on my wonderful wood seminar struck a nerve with some of you. Fritz Schranck of Sneaking Suspicions sent me a nice e-mail with a link to a Delaware Department of Transportation project for the construction of a new covered bridge to replace a much older single lane covered bridge. Great shots of the progress during construction. Click here to go see it. There is also an online photo album done by the folks in Centreville, Delaware that offers some additional shots. Not to be outdone, here is a link to a University of Alabama site documenting Alabama's covered bridges. Next, Nate McCord asks the following: Hmm, sitting on my table right now is an 18" Flexible Stainless Steel Ruler. Sold by Fiskars. I know its a ruler because it says so, permanently photo-etched on its face. And since it is sold by Fiskars, the famous scissor selling folks, it must be useable for cutting too... Don't ya think? Made in China to BTW... Bought with your tax dollar by the US gummamint from the land of "reeducation through labor" camps. Grrr!Yes, indeedy-do, Nate, that is a genuine ruler, or to some of us a "metal straightedge." There is such a fear among us old-timers of improperly calling something a ruler, that even when it IS a ruler, we have to come up with another name for it. And yes, a metal straightedge is perfect to use as a guide for your trusty X-Acto Number 11. Just remember, measure twice, cut once. And never try to catch a falling knife. As for the country of manufacture for this piece of equipment, I think it's a bit of an unfortunate stereotype to suppose that simply because it was made in China that it had to have been manufactured by political prisoners. I mean, come on, they have lots of kids working in factories, too. Now then, I have a load of garbage to finish up for today, so I must, well, go finish up my load of garbage! I'll check on all of you later. Please feel free to make yourself a sandwich. Tuesday, December 10, 2002
Thank goodness televisions have an off switch--Whoopi Goldberg to Produce, Star in New NBC Series.
You know, it's not that I don't like her, it's just, just...aww, who am I kidding.
Frank Lloyd Wright lamp brings record price at auction
NEW YORK (AP) -- A leaded glass lamp designed by Frank Lloyd Wright has been sold for just under $2 million, a record for a Wright piece at auction, Christie's auction house said.Wow. That's one 'spensive lamp. Here is a link to the Dana-Thomas House, and here is a link to the Christie's brochure with a picture of the doodad. (I sorta like this one.)
Ahhh, college lit. And those annoying writing assignments! Which apparently led one lazybones to Possumblog searching for Free essay of Forrest Gump Written by Groom, Winston. Dang it all, can't even get dressed and go rent the movie! 150,000 Google hits for just plain old "forrest gump," with probably a good two or three thousand online essays written by college attendees just like (well, kinda like) you, and you wind up here, you poor soul!
Well, let me be of help. Forrest Gump says, "Stupid is as stupid does." There now, go flesh that out a bit.
What an interesting article--Top Europe Scientists Want Funds to End Brain Drain LONDON (Reuters) - Europe's leading scientists criticized the European Union's science policies Tuesday, calling for reforms and more funding to curb further brain drain to the United States.Simplisme, indeed.
More Adventures in Headline Writing--Thousands of Screws Prompt Flats in Ky.
By the way, did you know that K-Y was first trademarked in 1906? It was originally made by a New York suture and medical products firm named Van Horn and Sawtell, which was purchased by Johnson & Johnson in 1919.
Uh-oh. Someone at CBS News has been watching too many old gangster movies...Giant Satellite Sleeps With Fishes.
Baddabing.
Jimmah [...] "War may sometimes be a necessary evil. But no matter how necessary, it is always an evil, never a good. We will not learn to live together in peace by killing each other's children." [...]Hmm. Well, I'm sure someone has already posted something similar, but there is a quote from another guy (although not a Nobel winner) who might differ with Brer Jimmah... War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.
Hey, congratulations fellers--'Rick & Bubba' among top 20 syndicated a.m. shows
(Although I think their slogan about being "the two sexiest fat men alive" is inaccurate, seeing as how they have never met me. But congratulations anyway.)
Notable Quotes
"My right ear, which encounters my own edgy guitar and the machinegun strokes of the drums, has suffered badly. I've no idea what I can do about this."Possibly not using terms like "my own edgy guitar and the machinegun strokes of the drums" would be a good start. Just say, "I'm bloody deaf." And then there's this from a wonderful philosopher-- "The sea holds a large amount of water, but what is important is each droplet that makes up the body of water."But what about those poor forgotten atoms of hydrogen and oxygen?! Don't they count, too? Without them, the droplets would not exist, nor the ocean, and then we could all walk to Europe. Is that really what we want?
Riley upset Siegelman administration pursuing DPS radio deal
MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- Gov.-elect Bob Riley is upset that Gov. Don Siegelman's administration is spending $8.3 million on a communications network for law enforcement shortly before leaving office.Yep, move along folks, nothing fishy here. All legal and above board, it is. Favors?! Oh no, that wouldn't be at all the right thing to do.
The Fascinating World of Engineered Lumber!
Look, if I have to sit through it, you have to, too! As I mentioned yesterday, I decided to attend a seminar about laminated lumber to help fulfill my architectural licensing requirements. Here in Alabama, we have to do twelve hours annually of such stuff, and this class knocked out two hours of that. It also provided much content for my inner curmudgeon to rant and rave about. First, the product itself is best described by their website, which is here. Basically, engineered lumber is made from bits and pieces of trees pressed together with adhesive. Doesn't sound particularly interesting, but actually the stuff is pretty amazing, and allows a much greater utilization of a tree which might normally get thrown away as waste material. It also allows the use of younger, faster growing farmed trees instead of old growth timber, and the controlled method of manufacture helps to negate the effects of soft wood, knots, and other defects, and means that less desireable species of wood can be used without a loss of strength. It gives a product that is straighter, truer, and less prone to warpage and cupping than sawn lumber. In general, pretty neat material. Although sorta expensive. Now then, having dispensed with that, the seminar itself was certainly an...experience. I skipped lunch so I could go to the bank and not have to ask for too much time off, so when I got to the lovely Mountain Brook Inn, I decided to head for their restaurant. The waitress gave me a takeout box and I proceeded to fill it with some really disappointing and mundane food from the buffet. I really was expecting...I don't know, something more in keeping with the high class reputation of the place, but it was just lukewarm junk that would get thrown out of a chain like Piccadilly's or Golden Corral. Good to see that the quality didn't prevent them from pretending it was good--the mess set me back ten bucks! But, it was lunch, and I was hungry. I took it back to the seminar room and figured I would get in the very far back by the wall so I wouldn't distract people and spread out a bit so no one would sit by me. There was a whole room full of tables in front of me, and lots of open chairs, which meant that the two old codgers who came in a few minutes later really had to think hard to be able to decide to come and sit down right by me. ::sigh:: I moved my free product information binder and my free doodle pad and my free coffee mug with the handle in the shape of an elephant's head (part of their old ad campaign that shows an elephant standing on a floor made from their products), and my food over so they could grab a couple of chairs. Gosh, first bad food, and now the bracing aromas of Old Spice and Camel Unfiltereds. They were definitely Old School guys and rambled on like Statler and Waldorf on the Muppets. Except not funny. They got to talking about pens, because one of the giveaways was a wood-barreled ballpoint, and were going on about those Mount Blank ballpoint pens [sic--I know it's Mont Blanc, pronounced in a suitably Frogophilic fashion, but to these fellows it was Mount Blank] that are the best in the world, and then they got on a tear about those Rolex watches that are the best in the world, and how to tell a fake Rolex from a real one (which is really an outdated bit of lore, as there are now Swiss makers knocking off Rolexes using a sweep-second ETA 2824-2 Automatic movement, which is similar to the ones used in the Tudor line until pretty recently, and they are actually pretty nice looking watches--I resisted the urge to hold forth on this, however--no one likes a smarty pants.) They managed to keep up a low raspy chatter the entire class, about not much in particular. It was pretty funny when they picked up part of the sales-guy/presenter's patter about "what we do is take the tree apart and put it back together," which got repeated about a thousand times. They managed to grab one of the samples making its way around the room, and one said with great authority, "You know, what they've done here really is just take the tree apart and put it back together." Yes. Very true, indeed. Of course, my own old-fartitude showed through near the start of class when the sales guy was passing out his schwag. One of the items was an 18 inch long scale, and one of the young computer savvy duuuuudes down at the other end of the table said something about really wanting one of those "rulers." AAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH! Scale, SCALE, SCALE! It's a stinkin' SCALE! To the general public, a long plastic and wood stick thing with equally spaced numbers on it looks like a ruler, but for those who went to architecture school, a scale is a measuring device used for making scale drawings, NOT for measuring the curtains or drawing lines in your Power Puff Girls notebook. And definitely not for cutting! This used to be the first thing they taught you in school, and those who insisted on calling it a "ruler" where publicly humiliated and forced to endure horrible punishments. Hmmph! Not anymore, I see! "Ruler!" Sheesh! Kids today. (Then again, he might have gotten out of architectural school without ever having picked up a lead holder--I hear tell they use them there "computers" to draw with.) Anyway, the class itself was a marvel of confusion. The guy teaching the class was not an engineer, but a salesman. So he spent most of the time making lame jokes and trying to act like he was an engineer. In general, sizing structural members is relatively straightforward, and he gave us a huge stack of product binders and load tables which tell you everything. This didn't stop him from insisting on acting like he was teaching us how to properly size stuff, in a peculiar, rapid-fire chatter that made me forget everything I knew. He also was apparently enamored of Socrates, and used a variation on his pedagogical method. I say variation, because although he tried to lead the discussion by asking questions, the questions themselves had absolutely no relation to the subject at hand, and it was impossible to tell what point he was trying to make-- "Okay, let's say that you've got a building, and it's Tuesday. What are you thinking?" Huh? "Okay, so you've got a snow load, and you're in Madison, Wisconsin, and the load chart tells you that there are fifteen different sizes that could be used. What is the contractor's shoe size?" WTF? "Okay, is is hot in here? If I dim the lights, will y'all go to sleep? Okay, these joists come from our factory a little ways north of here in Canada...That's really not a short way away, is it? NO, it's a long way! Almost 600 miles north of Detroit!" Wha? "Okay, you've got your L/360, and L equals what? Length, right, so then where should you stand?" Please, stop, mister. Chatterchatterchatter. It became painfully obvious that his technical knowledge was limited to repeating various jargon, so the whole thing was an exercise in not being rude and shouting at him, at least for me. He also had an interesting way of abusing the English language. Now I realize I do a lot of that in this blog, but it is usually done knowingly to pump up the silliness factor. However, when I am out having to do my actual job, proper usage and grammar are very important--something misstated or unclear can have some pretty dire consequences. When I'm around people in the trade, I make a point of using the proper terms properly. In a seminar like this, I sorta expect a similar courtesy from the presenters. Imagine my surprise when I found out that the past tense of "span" is not "spanned," but "spun"! As in, "Okay, we had a project and we had a 40 foot long joist that spun over two walls." I couldn't figure out WHAT he was talking about until it finally occurred to me that he was just a silly putz. Then there was a question from the audience about how much bearing area did the end of a particular truss need. (The bearing area is where a beam or joist sits on top of a wall or other member--in general, heavier loads require a larger area to properly transfer the load down) He expressed this area as a "circumference." "Okay, you've got a lot of material on both sides and that makes that load circumference better." Then there was his use of the word "masonary." "Masonary" does not exist. There is such a thing as masonry, however, and people who do what this fellow does for a living ought to know that. Then again, most everyone should know that if you want someone to contact you "via e-mail," that you do not say, "Okay, you can contact me V-I-A e-mail." What did he think VIA stood for? Probably something French, like RSVP. Or C.O.D. And did I mention that he started every sentence with "okay?" What makes it worse is that he got his business degree the same place I got my architecture degree. ::sigh:: At least when I went there, they made a point of telling us if we screwed something up to say we graduated from Georgia Tech. Monday, December 09, 2002
Oh, my, now THAT was a good weekend! Fascinating suburban tales of holiday cheer!
And it started off good--we decided to go have supper Friday evening at the Local Chinese Restaurant With Two Inexplicably Anglo Waitresses, and we got the good one who is always on the ball. The other girl, for some reason, seems always to be in perpetual training, always having to be cued to wipe the tables or bring a chair or whatever. Anyway, it was fanstinkintastic, which is pretty rare on a weeknight. (The Sunday buffet is usually much better.) Saturday was the real workhorse day, and I managed to get just about everything done that I wanted to do, and managed to avoid some other things pretty handily. Like being able to sleep in. 6:30 in the a. of m. ...creeeeaaak...pad, pad, pad, pad, pad...pause...padpadpadWHUMP...::sawmill whisper:: "HEY MAMA, I DIDN'T WET THE BED!" "Mmelphmmebu. MOrhoomsl." Translated as 'Mama sleeps on the other side of the bed, first, and second, if you keep coming in here and waking Daddy up early on Saturday mornings he will personally make sure that Santa Claus leaves you a lump of coal. And crappy high-sulfur soft coal, too. Or maybe even peat.' Boy, I sure would like to sleep late one morning. "CAN I WATCH CARTOONS?!" "Yes, please quit talking quite so loud, though, because I'm not deaf and you're right beside my ear." "But I was awhisperin', Daddy." "Maybe on the Planet Hearing Impaired, but not right now." "Okay, can I watch the cartoons now?" She scrambled up into the covers as Mom got up and started getting ready to start the day. "Catherine?" "Yes, Daddy?" "You do realize that with you in bed, it makes it very difficult to convince Mommy to get back under the covers so I can snuggle with her, don't you?" "We gonna watch cartoons." ::sigh:: I got up and started getting ready, too. Laundry was bundled up and taken downstairs, and then it was the beginning of the first project--changing the shower lightbulb. I have avoided this one for a while, to the point that Reba gave up prompting me with small verbal asides about how dark it was in the shower. I get a bulb and the step ladder and head upstairs. Hmmm. Can't reach it with ladder outside of shower, ladder won't go all the way IN shower, meaning ladder must be half in, half out. SUCCESS! Barely reach cover, pop it off, change the bulb (thus answering the question, 'How many bloggers does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but all he can think about is what a great blog entry it would make.') and gather all the stuff and take it all back downstairs. Although I did not make a big deal out of it, neither did I make this repair in secret. There was an awful lot of rattling of ladder parts and asking where the light bulb was, yet it was not until Sunday morning that Mrs. Oglesby took notice of my efforts. She was somewhat pleased. I'll take what I can get. Then it was time to take Oldest Girl over to the church building so she could study with her friends for Bible Bowl. I decided to take Franklin since it has been over a month since he was exercised. Good thing I did--real slow to crank, and everything felt creaky and cranky and sluggish. But after a few miles, he was back to normal, or at least normal for 255K miles on the clock. Dropped off Girl, stopped and got gas, and two really cool STP keyrings, which were on the two bottles of STP Fuel System Glop That Might Work As a Placebo for Various Engine Ills. But it had keyrings, so I had to get it. Back to the house, and it was time to put back the errant shutter that has lain on the ground for several weeks, awaiting my magical fixative abilities. These things are lightly held on with little plastic anchors, which somehow manage to sprout little legs and run away, leaving the shutter to explore the effects of wind and gravity. I have tried in vain to find these at the hardware store, which always leads to an interesting conversation with some mop-haired slacker or two. "Uhhhh...no, I don't think we have anything like that." Great. But, you know what? I'm an OPTIMIST, so I figured I would take ANOTHER trip to the Marvin's at the bottom of the hill and just see once more how little they can help me. Or just get some bright shiny expansion screws and washers. I just wanted the shutter back up. To the Possummobile! Franklin was finally getting into the mood of working again, and he fired right up and off we went. The place was packed. Mainly it was folks getting those messy old real Christmas trees, but also full of people seemingly just wandering around the parking lot or blocking my way with their vehicles. I started to do the engine racing backfire bit, but hey, it's Christmastime. FINALLY got parked and went inside. Lots of Christmas decorations and a guy in a Santa suit, all of which just looks odd in a hardware store, and then I saw it...a WHOLE AISLE full of shutters, just like the ones on my house! And there was a non-mopheaded clerk, RIGHT THERE! It was a Christmas MIRACLE! Or not. He was having a conversation with an old timer about the shutters..."Naw, I don't want 'em if'n they're plastic. I need them vinyl ones." "Well, vinyl and plastic are about the same thing." "I don't know...I got me vinyl sidin', and that plastic stuff just won't hold up." They looked intently at the box. I looked at the stock tag--"56INCH VYNIL SHTR LOUV" "Maybe these are ABS." "Whut's ABS?" "Ahhhh, it's...ABS? Umm, it's another type of plastic...that's...ummm, durable." Oops. Shouldn't be working without a net, there, Chief. "Durable plastic? I don't know, I got vinyl sidin'." After a minute or two, the older fellow decided he would look around town some more and walked on off, a bit disappointed. The clerk turned to me and I showed him my one remaining plastic fastener from the shutter. "Have any of these?" "No, I don't think so, but I can call the factory and see if they can send some extra." Fair enough, I supposed. "Hey, I guess you didn't see it, but your stock tag here on the rack says that these shutters ARE vinyl...see?" I pointed at the tag and he took a moment to process this epiphany. "HEY, they are! You should have said something!" I really suppose it wouldn't have hurt to have pointed it out while we were all standing there together, but it just felt so...intrusive. He was almost beside himself with the pain of a lost customer when a split second later the old fellow walked back by, "SIR! These ARE vinyl! Says here on the stock tag!" And there was much joy. He took my name and number and asked how many I wanted of the fasteners. Two thousand, three hundred and fifty six. "Oh, whatever comes in their bulk pack. Probably 20 or 50 or whatever I have to get." He promised to call back today. I can hardly wait. After getting this all squared away, there was still the question of how to get the shutter back up in the mean time, so I walked over to the Various Metal Bolts and Anchors Thingies aisle and got a box of tiny expansion bolts and went to the cashier. Cute fleshy blonde girl from the high school, and behind her in the checkout corral was another much more petite young thing. I put my stuff on the counter and as my cashier rang it up, I must confess that I could not quit looking behind her at the behind of the girl behind her. Petite Girl had on a pair of the ubiquitous soft jersey sweat pants and a top that didn't quite hit the waistband, just like what all the hip young things wear nowadays, and those soft pants just laid right there on her backside with that little bit of nekkid lower back peeking through under her shirt and her light brown hair bobbed side to side and then she turned around and put money in the cash register and AHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! UNIBROW!!!! WOW, if eyebrows and wooly caterpillars work the same way, it looks like we're in for a really hard winter. All those pliers, all those hedge clippers, all those putty scrapers, all those chemicals, and yet, she had not managed to avail herself of all the heavy duty brow thinning toolery and technology around her. I would say that she probably made up for it in other ways, like being all brainy, but when I had to come back to get more anchor bolts because the ones I was buying were too big, she was not at her register when she should have been, and had to be paged, and she sort of wandered back from some hidden part of the store, and when she arrived, her fellow cashier who just happened to be waiting on me again gave a big, exasperated eye-roll as if to say, "What a clod." Of course, I am one to talk--as I said, I DID have to come back and get something that would actually work. Reba said that's what I get for looking at her butt. Fair enough. Anyway, when I went back home the first time, not only did I attempt to fix the shutter, but also cleaned the accumulated brake dust off of our cars, requiring much scrubbing and playing in ice cold water, AND installed a new seat cover in the truck, requiring much tugging and pulling and inhaled huge quantities of dryrotted manmade fibers which I sure hope are non-carcinogenic, AND removed the pumpkins and pumpkin guts which had been slowly decomposing in the front flower bed since Halloween, AND then finally managed to get something to hold the shutter in place after a second trip to the hardware store, AND then, for the centerpiece of the Oglesby weekend there was... THE HAULING OF THE TREE AND DECORATIONS FROM THE ATTIC! I have this down to a science now. There are only three things to remember--Do not fall through the hole where the pull-down stair is (potentially fatal), do not grab onto the furnace flue (definitely painful), do not step on anything except the plywood (potentially painful or fatal). Tree box, light boxes, and ornament boxes were all carefully brought down and thrown gracefully into the floor of the den, managing to avoid hitting anything or anyone. And then I had to stop everything and go back and get Oldest from church. "Daddy, are you not going to put up our tree?" "Yes, Catherine, but I have to go get Ashley." "Is it in that big box?" "Yes..." "Can I get it out and put it up?" "NO, Daddy will do it." "When?" "When I get back." "What's in the box?" "THE TREE!" "Can I see it?" "When I get back." "Not now?" ::sigh:: "Why don't I just go ahead and put it up and we'll decorate it when I get back." "YEA! We're gonna put up the TWEEEE-eeee!" Luckily, this part is down to a science, too, and it was up in just a few minutes (although the 1,876 tips were not fully fluffed out--that's for later). Went and got Oldest, got back and set in to fluff and decorate. Always nerve wracking due to huge amounts of breakable, tear-upable, bend-out-of-shapeable stuff, which, along with the potential for getting electricuted by all the wattage from various twinkly stuff make decoration something not for the faint of heart. But it sure looks nice now. The rest of the evening was spent scrubbing kids and folding laundry, and by bedtime, I just about dead. Or nearbouts whupped, as some would say. But, to make a good day even better, the mail had brought the newest Autoweek, Automobile, and National Geographic, all on the same day! Hardly gets any better than that. So I collapsed across the bed with my magazines and promptly started snoring. Sunday was another good day. The kids did good in their competition, and I got to see one of my cousins and her husband and son, and I even managed to read the giant newspaper, and then got to lead singing Sunday night and totally messed up only one song. (You know, having a five note range is not really optimal for this assignment.) Then, to home, supper, and to bed. And now, here I am again. And away I go again. I have a continuing education seminar to attend this afternoon on the glories of engineered lumber, so today is already shot for me. So in lieu of my continued rambling, be sure to check out the folks up in the header and see what all they have to say, and check back in tomorrow when there might be something else here. Friday, December 06, 2002
Weekend, HO!
Well, I'm still armpit deep in work, and yet, still strangely compelled to fill you in on my plans for the weekend. Yes, aren't YOU the lucky one. There's a tree to put up, two weeks worth of laundry to wash, some Christmas shopping with the kids so they can get Mommy something (No, son, I don't think she wants a Harry Potter Lego set. No, Catherine, you probably don't need to buy her some leopard-print bras--she takes care of that on her own. No, we're not through yet. Well, yes, it's a very nice washing machine, but that's gonna be hard to wrap. No, we're not through yet. No, Ashley, we can't afford a new van. Put that back. Come here NOW and stand RIGHT here. No, I don't think she wants a Micropet. Or a guitar.) and there's some assorted craft stuff that Reba's been working on for the past few weeks that will probably require me to get dirty or go to the hardware store, I have ANOTHER fake shutter that has unattached itself from the front wall of the house, and I STILL have to get the seat cover on my truck (and drive it some--I fear he's getting stiff and that's not good), and we will need to go see Grandmama and check on her and make sure she's not polishing the roof or waxing the driveway in her postoperative state, and then there's the Nigerian E-mail Christmas Cards I'm going to send to everyone (THE BABY JESUS HAS A LARGE BOX OF GOLD LEFT OVER, AND WE ARE CONTECTING YOU TO HEPL US GET IT OUT OF THE COUNTRIE!), and then we have church on Sunday and later that afternoon we have Bible Bowl for the kids (a Q&A competition with some other local congregations on various books of the Bible--thankfully it's not across the county this time but at our building) and there's that great huge fat Sunday paper screaming to be read, and all sorts of other things that you could probably guess at. Or, just check in Monday and see what transpires. Have a happy weekend!
Take the Snopes Christmas Legends Quiz!
(I am ashamed to admit it, but I missed numbers 2 and 5. Just flat out didn't know 2, and had always misunderstood 5. Oh well.)
Man, I hate going home during the day
11:15 phone rings....tiny, nearly inaudible voice dad... ::sigh:: I know what that means every time I hear it. Oldest Girl has a very low threshold of pain...well, scratch "pain" and make it "discomfort," which itself might be too harsh. Even the slightest bit of "not perfectly acceptable" that can possibly be an excuse for a) getting to check out, b) missing a particulary icky class, or c) avoiding someone, conflates into awe-inspiring levels of sheer agony, which prompts a trip to the school nurse, which prompts a call to mom or dad, which prompts the usual series of questions: "Hey sugar, what's wrong?" "I don't feel good." This is occasionally followed with descriptions of a horrifyingly graphic and complex nature in which various bodily discharges are documented as to time, amount, color, and contents. A few years ago, after these became much too regular, and it became more apparent that there was more than a hint of malingering about the whole story, and the fact that there were absolutely no witnesses to these episodes, and the fact that a trip home or to Grandma's house was more beneficial than the miraculous cures found in the Gospels in both immediacy and efficacy, we decided that it would be best to hedge our bets and let her know that no matter how much of her innerds came flying out, if it wasn't accompanied by a fever of 100 degrees Fahrenheit as measured by the nurse, she would have to suffer through her math or science test like a big girl. That won us few points, but did cut down on the trips across town. "Where do you feel bad?" "I don't know. All over." Again, usually these things aren't specific, and I am sure are much seen better in person in order to get the full effect of the mopey gaze, the slow shuffling walk, the pained grimaces. Today, the answer was more specific: "My stomach." Hmm. I asked if she had eaten lunch, knowing that sometimes cafeteria food can be truly distressing, and was told that she hadn't, then it was time for the Big Question: "Do you have a fever?" As stated before, she knows that a verifiable "yes" means sweet release, "no" means back to the salt mine. Today was no. I asked to speak to the nurse, whom I have come to know on a first-voice basis. She is invariably chipper and nice, and understands well the way of middle-schoolers. She never comes right out and says "She's fine," but if I suggest that it might be better for her to go back to class, I usually get something along the line of "That's probably going to be best." Hard to be a kid when all the adults are always conspiring against you. Today, I am informed that it's not a stomachache, but cramps. Yes, THOSE cramps. It is at these times I wish she had at least a tiny bit of Reba's astounding, superhero-like capacity for absorbing bodily pain. Obviously, the nurse can't give Oldest anything for the pain without our written instructions, and come to find out, she has told Oldest on several occasions that she should get her parents to send something to school for her to take for THOSE cramps. As I told the nurse, first I've heard about it. I guess I should have continued to pay for those mind-reading lessons. In any event, I got Ashley back on the phone and told her that I would be there in a little while with some medicine. "okay" Off to Trussville, turn into the pharmacy, walk purposefully to the feminine products aisle with all of its wonders for keeping the girlpipes working right, and spent a nice few minutes shopping among the various available products. I knew that it would need to say something specific about THOSE cramps--just plain storebrand ibuprofen would NOT do, and finally settled on something with MAXIMUM STRENGTH with lots of detailed descriptions about the magnificent cures it could accomplish. Went to pay for it, narrowly avoiding being seen by a lady I go to church with (too much explaining to do, not enough time), paid and drove over to the middle school, went to the office, left the bottle and a note of dispensing descriptions, got some lunch at Sonic, and came back here. "Effuse." E-F-F-U-S-E. "Effuse." The word Oldest spelt correctly the other day to win the spelling bee. Ironic, huh? (My only hope is that the word that stumped her opponent doesn't somehow work its way into the mix. "Pheasant.")
Just a reminder...
Periodically I like to remind everyone that if you get an e-mail with an attachment from someone using my e-mail address, don't open it unless I told you ahead of time that I was sending something. Miss Yorkieblogger just mentioned that she received something which had my Yahoo address, but it was blank. I assume her company's virus software stripped out an attachment, making it look blank, and I assume that someone out there with both her and my e-mail addresses must have a mail virus running. If you are among that number, you might want to run a scan of your machine and see if you've caught something.
Hello, there!
First off, once more my profound thanks to everyone who sent me messages on behalf of my mother in law. They were very greatly appreciated, and had the desired effect--the surgery was a breeze (well, in a relative sense) and everything points toward a full recovery. The tumor turned out to be a bit smaller than thought, and pending a final report from the pathologist, it doesn't look like it spread anywhere else. She gets to come home today, and as I told Miss Lee Ann, she will probably start overdoing it immediately. After the first of the year, she will have a six week course of radiation, and will be placed on tamoxifen. The worst part of the whole thing was the waiting. Not from worrying or whatnot, just the sheer boredom of standing or sitting around with nothing to do. I read both the morning and afternoon papers, the People Sexiest Man 2002 issue, a pain medication office display, and a brochure about the cardiology department. We got to the hospital around 8:15, got her admitted, waited, went to the nuclear medicine department, waited, watched someone else get an armload of isotopes, took her upstairs to wait for her tracer to spread around, which took two hours. By this time, four of her siblings arrived from the far distant reaches of Millport--three sisters and a brother (she has eight siblings)--and they all kept up a running conversation for the full two hours. My father in law's sister and her husband came by and added to the din. They all talk a lot like I blog--lots of unimportant detail, references to places and people no one else knows about, much earnestness, a fondness for the odd--the only exception being you aren't stuck in a small room with me with nowhere to stand and no means of escape. Finally, it came time to take her to surgery, so the escort came in, commented on the heavy packing of the room, loaded up his patient and led us to the next floor. We even all managed to get on the elevator together--mom, Hill-Rom bed, escort, dad, Reba, me, four siblings, two siblings in law. We got to the surgical floor and had an explosion of burly folks out into the elevator lobby, then in a few minutes she was whisked off to parts unknown. Reba and I went and got lunch and brought some back for her dad, which killed an hour and a half or so, our preacher came by for a few minutes, the doctor came out and told us everything went fine, ANOTHER one of her brothers and his wife came by for a bit, and then we found out that all the hospital beds were occupied and she was going to have to wait in recovery until one opened up. She finally got into a room around six. In the mean time, I had gone to pick up the kids from school while Reba waited with her dad. We got back up and finally she got a room, so the kids got to go back and gape at her in equal amounts of fear and fascination. They have all been to the hospital numerous times and seen people hooked up to IVs and monitors and stuff, yet they still have to touch every part of the bed, screw with the adjustable table, play with the swing down bedpan washer on the toilet, keep putting their fingers jussst....thissss....clooooose to the IV regulator, asking what this is for, playing right beside the sharps containter, picking up stuff off the floor. Of the whole procedure, I was unstrung more by watching the Wrecking Crew than by anything else. I finally convinced Catherine to come with me to the "other little room with chairs" just for my own sanity. I bribed her with a handful of Jelly Bellies from the vending machine, and she picked up another of the cardiology department brochures and pretended it was a menu and that she was the maitre d'. At least she wasn't yanking on the nurse call. We finally left around 7:30 or thereabouts, stopped and got some fast food, got home and dunked them all in the tub and sent them to bed. Long day. And going to be a long one today--I have to catch up on all the stuff I was supposed to do yesterday. When I'm here, it never seems busy, but leave for a day and there is a huge stack of crap to catch up on. SO, not much more from me this morning, EXCEPT... Many of you remember my fun with MRS. HANJI SAL of the BIG INTERNATIONAL BANK in the COTE D' IVOIRE. I thought it was pretty funny to string one of these jokers along, but H.D. Miller at Travelling Shoes has found an Aussie fellow who is the absolute KING of Nigerian e-mail spoofery. Read 'em all, and be prepared for a good chuckle, and don't miss the archives! So then, to work all of you, and I'll check back in with you this afternoon. Wednesday, December 04, 2002
As I mentioned earlier, tomorrow my mother in law will be having some pretty heavy duty surgery. Her prognosis is very good, and the surgery should be limited to a lumpectomy and a low dose of radiation, but it was still a shock when she got the test results back, and the sudden sense of urgency was disconcerting. Everything was going along fine and BANG "We need to set up an appointment for you to talk to the surgeon. Tomorrow." Fortunately, she comes from a long line of very stoical Lamar Countians, and despite the shock and fear, she still has a right high level of fight in her. Thanks to everyone who has written and offered your good thoughts and prayers on her behalf--they are greatly appreciated.
Since I will be at the hospital all day tomorrow, Possumblog will be resting until Friday. See you then.
What's Wednesday without a Lileks Newhouse column? Not very nice, that's what. Having said that, trot on over now as Mr. Lileks peeks under Hans' pillow at his diary and divulges his most secret thoughts: [...] MONDAY. We went to the Iraqi Baby Milk Distribution Centre, which Iraqi officials insist is a depot for storing infant formula. The Bush administration believes it houses deadly toxins, but that's hardly news; they think everything is suspicious. By the end of this week I expect they'll ask us to sift the desert, looking for dissidents' fillings. Sigh. Anyway, we gave the Iraqis notice that the surprise inspection was scheduled for 5 p.m. Wednesday. By "give notice" I mean, of course, that we spoke into the lamp in the hotel. We have found this is a much more direct way of communicating with the authorities.I'm looking forward to receiving this Christmas' hottest gift from those wacky geniuses at Parker Brothers--it's called "Blixionary." The starting Blixurist selects a word card from the front of the deck and has five seconds to examine the word to be played. The timer is then turned and the Blixurist begins sketching clues for the team. The Blixurist may use any sorts of verbal or physical communication he can think of to teammates during the round. Sketching and guessing continue until the word is identified. After the clue is accurately guessed, it is completely ignored and everyone goes home.
Richard Gere Wins Waffling Prize for Giraffe Quote LONDON (Reuters) - Actor Richard Gere's animal magnetism has won him the unwelcome accolade of being declared the year's worst celebrity waffler by Britain's Plain English Campaign.Wow. You know, if I was a possum, and someone said I was a giraffe, I'd think, no, actually that's that moron who gets millions of dollars for being a movie star.
King of Pop Models Next Stage of Plastic Surgery
Asked to comment on the necessity of this proposed surgery, Jackson said "I think having my hands sewn to my eyes will only make me an even greater performer, and grabbing my crotch will be even more fun. OOOOoooooo!" Jackson then swung from a courtroom light fixture. (Not really)
Proud Daddy Alert
Humor me. Nearly a month ago, Oldest Girl decided to enter the school spelling bee. I have never been a big fan of spelling bees, despite being a stickler for good spelling. I guess the big gripe I have about spelling bees is that they have such limited real-world usefulness--being able to spell "onomatopoeia" in front of a big crowd of nose-picking kids and hyperventilating parents is not my idea of a Big Deal. Better to know how to write sentences that whir and pop and jingle and sizzle. Or to know that "it's" is not possessive. Anywho, every year she decides to enter, mainly because she is obsessively competitive. I gripe about having to shell out $5 bucks for a stupid "Official" spelling book which is full of such interesting unspellables as "haruspication" and "opisthenar" and "vinegarroon," and which never even gets looked at. This year was no different--it sat right there in the middle of the kitchen table the entire time. "Ashley, have you studied your spelling book?" "YES! Uh, YES! Yes, I've studied it!" Uh-huh. Right. Last year she got knocked out quickly, but this year we were pleasantly surprised to see that she made it to the school final. Today was the big day, and she was all full of butterflies. "Look, quit saying you're nervous. If you do good, fine. If you don't, that's fine, too." "But I'm nervous." ::sigh:: She even managed to coerce Reba's mom, the same one supposed to go under the knife tomorrow morning, to come watch her. She came in first, and gets to go to the District final. Grandmom reports that she was very excited and happy. IN YOUR FACE, SNOTTY NOSED LOSERS! Oh, sorry, that just slipped out. I'm really not competitive like that. WOO-HOO! Sorry, that slipped out, too. Congratulations, Kid!
Gripping Tales of Old Birmingham!!!
Old revolver discovered in Birmingham finance office BENJAMIN NIOLETCool. This department is four floors downstairs from where I'm sitting right now. Interesting how times have changes, eh? I will say that it's a shame they want to destroy the gun--it could be deactivated and be a neat part of a display at the police department or at the Archives. Oh, well. (By the way, lest any of you think this has been hidden and moldering away for 72 years in the same place, the Finance Department moved into its current space only a few years ago--when the department moved, so did the revolver and the envelope. My guess is that when the department moved, someone opened up the envelope, figured it was best to shut the heck up and then stashed it away for someone else to find...and get blamed.)
Shades of the Shirtless Father-Son Duo--Mother arrested over fight at school SOLOMON CRENSHAW JR.The family that plays together...
It's not nice to make fun, but...
When you get a visitor to your blog based on a search string like this: what tip of food pepole that are in the middle western region, it is very difficult to stifle a bit of a chuckle.
Holy cats, that sure was a long meeting.
Got here at 7 and haven't stopped until now. And the fact that I used a moment's rest to blog is pretty disturbing, but hey, that's just me. In any event, first thing is in response to Janis Gore's pitying [not really] tut-tutting--yes, the Possumclan has a plaskit Christmas tree. I am now in my 41st year on this earth, and I have known a live Christmas tree only one Christmas in there. The first Christmas tree I ever recall was one of space-aged aluminum foil, which are now back in vogue as a sort of snotty self-referential ironic comment on the pop culture of the early 1960s. We thought it was nice though, and I always thought that if we ever got to the moon, the astronauts would surely like one planted right there by the rocket with all sorts of presents wrapped in Reynolds Wrap under it. A couple of years later saw the introduction of a four-color spinning light wheel, which truly was spectacular. After a while, the foil began to look a bit threadbare, so we made the leap into the luxurious lap of white flocked glory. It was a honkin' big puffy white Vegas Elvis tree, which are now back in vogue as a sort of snotty self-referential ironic comment on the pop culture of the late 1960s. But, as with the first, I thought it looked cool and with the blue and red glass balls, and the TWO four color spinning light wheels (we upgraded) it was something else. Not sure what, but whatever it was, it was Christmas. I would occasionally ask my mom why we never had a real tree. "Too messy." That's it. Anyway, the white flocked tree spent time in the garage, along with our cats, which found the softly padded branches perfect for curling up in. We opened the box up after they had discovered this nice nest, and half the branches had been wallowed to the point that the flocking had disappeared right down to...little silver needles. Well, whaddya know. This is what happened to all the excess aluminum trees from 10 years earlier--they got new lives with flocking! We decided that the tree was too far gone, and since we had moved to a new house, it was time for another tree. This time we got a bit closer to a naturalistic tree, in that it was green. Like the ones before it, it had individual wire branches fit into holes on the side of the broomstick trunk, and it was a sparse covering, but green. Lots of decorations covered up the gappiness so we didn't care a bit. It, too, finally got a bit mashed and flattened (although not by cats--my mom took to duct taping the boxes closed and keeping it in the attic) so we got another one. This one was also green like an almost tree, with the promise of easy assembly due to the use of long wire things that held a multitude of branches and hung from a center carrier, and had a separate piece for the top. We put it all together and you could see clean through it! Now THAT was a sad tree, so I salvaged the better looking individual branches from the previous tree and shoved them in between the new ones, and actually managed to make a pretty good looking fake tree. Again, with lots of decorations, it looked just fine. This is the tree that saw our family through most of the bad parts of our lives--my sister's divorce, my dad's death, my sister moving way out to St. Louis--along with my years away at Auburn (not bad--but not home, either). Putting this pile of branches together and decorating it became one of the things I really looked forward to on holiday break, and no matter what happened, it was one constant for my mom and sister and me. It sounds sort of goofy to say, but it was nice to have something like that, something comfortably corny yet something that held the promise of better times. Especially the year that I rounded up my fiancee to help me decorate it. By this time, my mom had moved to where she is now, and my sister was coming back to Alabama (although still too far away in Mobile). And I had decided that my secret childhood crush was going to be proposed to on Valentine's Day, and so it was time to bring her into the ritual of tree assembly and decoration. She got to see the careful positioning of the extra filler branches, and the story behind each of the ornaments, some which were given to my sister by her patients, some which were gifts, some which were little colorful cloth Peruvian fertility baubles that someone got from the store at the art museum and gave my sister as a gag gift. (These were a big hit with Miss Reba). Great fun. And still is--my mom still has that nasty old tree. The first year Reba and I were married, we decided to get a real live tree for our first Christmas. It was beautiful--large, symmetrical, nicely tapered, rich deep green. There were two ways into the living room--up twelve steps and through the front door, or up the hill in the back yard, up onto the deck and into the back door, through the kitchen and into the living room. Thinking that the front offered the path of least resistance, that was the route chosen. Did I mention that it was large? A seven and a half footer. Imagine trying to drag Manute Bol up a set of rickety wooden steps while he spread out his arms and tried to catch the porch railings at every step. At least it didn't scream. Finally got it in the door and set into a specially purchased stand. How pretty, and it smelled glorious. It was our first tree and we loved it very much. Then Christmas came and went, and then New Year's came, and it was time to get rid of it. Which is sort of sad. All that energy and effort and now it was out to the curb. Oh well. Off came the decorations. Off came billions of needles. Despite my obsessive efforts to keep our pretty tree fed and watered and exercised, the inevitable process of shedding dead needles could not be abated. Up and out of its special stand, which turned over and spilled the gallon of specially prepared water, 7-Up and aspirin tablet mixture all over the carpet. Well, it got to the carpet after it got through the needles. Despite having lost a hefty load of water, the tree was still one big heavy piece of lumber, and unwieldily bulky. Oops! Dropped the butt end onto the middle of the carpet. Big nasty bark/pitch stain. Stupid friggin' tree. Back down the steps, leaving a one inch deep layer of needles from the front of the bookcase all the way down to the street. I got back in, looked at Reba and said, "We're gonna get us a nice fake tree next year." She concurred. And so the next year I went to K-Mart and picked out a nice big fake tree that had the latest branch technology--little individual wired tips with soft textured polyester needles that looked just like fake fir needles, all attached to branches that were permanently attached to the tree--just put the stand on, turn it upright, and they all fall down into position. Well, except for the tips, all 1,876 of which have to be individually bent into lifelike poses (the criteria I used to detemine tree quality was this very same number of tips--I bought the one with the mostest). This tree will now have been through 10 Christmases. The birth of three kids, a move to a new house, and all the other stuff that comes with life. Even though I complain every year about bending down those tips, and every year have to explain why the porcelain ornament should not be thrown back and forth even though it looks like a ball, and have to keep a stern eye out for a certain small child who likes to hide completely under the tree, I still sort of like the way it looks, even if it is plastic. I sure wish I had gotten to put it up last night--I got home with Ashley from her clarinet class to find the inmates had taken over and there had been a terrible inter-sibling poop smearing incident requiring the washing of various clothes and the hair of the tiniest antagonist, and there was a wife who was not in a good mood due to these occurences, and a small boy who just wanted to hide and not be blamed, and confirmation that my mother in law will have surgery for breast cancer tomorrow. Wow. Life, huh? Tuesday, December 03, 2002
Wow. It's almost time to go home. Tonight will be devoted to transporting Oldest Daughter to her clarinet lesson, then the setting up of the Christmas tree. Nothing says "holiday" like a great big plastic tree with 1,876 individual wired tips which must be manually unfolded in order to give the proper tree-like appearance. And then there are the lights, which occasionally even work, and the search for stored ornaments, and a trip to Wal-Mart for some new wreaths, and little kids so overpowered by the thoughts of Santa that they nearly smush each other trying to get close to the fireplace to look up the flue.
I love Christmas. Tomorrow morning will be slow blogging--it will be time for my usual foray into the fascinating world of regulatory excess, so until later on tomorrow, have a good evening, drive safely, and all that other stuff.
Hey Nathan Lott--Open Your E-Mail!
(Nathan says in his bio that he works right down the street from me--meaning in roundabout terms that he is potentially the next inductee into the Alabama Blog Writing and Truck Repair Consortium, also known as the fearsome Axis of Weevil. He has been sent an official invitation--let's see how long it takes for him to write back!) WOW! Not long at all... Apparently not scared off by my introductory e-mail, Nathan writes back to say: Yes, I too blog from the Magic City, downtown in fact. I can't recall how I found your site (as per the norm) but I've really[Editor note--content edited for being too nice by far. Or for being a liar]. Ditto for a few other Weevil sites although I've only hit each a couple times. Can't say as I have a Browning portrait (father-in-law might), but I meet the other criteria (went to Samford and I've been here since; folks are from SC and live in GA). I don't blog too much on Alabama topics, but in part that's because I try to suit a wide audience in my ongoing search for anyone interested. Although I'm not an expert, I think a blog (Alablog.com?) on state politics would be great, just because there are plenty of oddball characters. [Editor intrusion, again--Really?! Gee, I don't know. It seems pretty tame.] Southern culture, of course, has given the world a library's worth of fine literature, so why not a few good blogs. I need to get to at least some work done today (spent all morning in a meeting), [Ed. again--sorry, but work is not an excuse for not obsessively blogging.] but thanks a lot for getting in touch with me. I'll try to post Weevil props this afternoon. Nathan Well, now, seeing as how Mr. Lott did not threaten any sort of legal action, it is high time that the Axis of Weevil crank open the hangar door and admit another member. Of course, poor ol' Dirk Benson is getting unceremoniously shoved aside, but such things are not without precendence among us Mayberry Machievellians, so he will just have to make do. Without further ado, by the power vested in me by the Goldenrod Poetry Council, the Butler County Chapter of the Future Dairy Farmers of Alabama, and Courtney at the Platinum Club, we the members of the Cotton State Blogging and Aerobatic Society do hereby grant FULL AND UNCONDITIONAL membership to Nathan Lott, with all of the power and fungal infections pertaining thereto. As with all new members of the Axis of Weevil, Nathan will be receiving the world famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack consisting of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for his pickup truck; a package of Bubba's Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; and a new addition, a 16 ounce bottle of dale's Steak Sauce. (We got a deal--don't ask any questions.) Although I stated otherwise to Nathan, it has just been brought to my attention that we will once again be able to offer a coupon for free Kool Seal for the top of your trailer roof! As some of you may recall, this work had been done in the past by Jimmy, who lives next door and has a "condition" (and is not the same as Jimmy from Human Resources), as a method of expressing his artistic side. Several months back, he fell off of a roof and thought that his therapeutic hobby was over for good, since it made his "condition" worse. But, through much agony and heartache, he is once again able to clamber atop even the largest manufactured homes and do a respectable job of it. So the coupon is back. So then, go say hello to the newest Weevilite!
Whitney Houston Acknowledges Drug Abuse
Gosh, how many times a day can one resurrect poor Captain Renault? "Oui, oui--I am shocked. Now leave me alone." Well, I guess at least once more--Sites on democracy, Tibet and Taiwan among those frequently blocked in China Nooo. REALLY?! But there is some encouraging not-the-least-bit-ironic news from the Land of Qin...China wins right to host 2010 World's Fair. Way to go, fellows!
Hey, look, Ma--It's working again!
More or less. The hard-working Blogger crew say they've fixed whatever was wrong, and I can publish now, but I still get odd Error 503 messages, and still no archived posts from September to this week. Silly, silly, Blogger.
Awww. Poor things...
Saudis Say Criticism of Them Is Unfair WASHINGTON (AP) - Saying that Saudi Arabia has been unfairly criticized, a Saudi official is laying out the steps his country is taking to cut off money to terrorists.Yeah, life's like that Sparky--plain ol' normal billionaires just can't get a break from those mean, unfair infidels who would rather not have their arms and legs forcibly separated from them by random car bombs planted by nice, sweet, charity-deserving martyrs. Good to see that although you think the criticism is unfair, you are about to take the initial steps to maybe begin to possibly curtail the alleged behavior that prompted the criticism in the first place. Al-Jubeir says his country has been active in fighting terrorism, and says he finds the latest allegations "very shocking." [...]Uh oh--someone's been watching Casablanca again! Round up the usual suspects, eh? Well, Captain Renault, it is heartening to know that you are on the case. I feel so much better.
Adventures in Headline Writing: Study Supports Using Camera to Explore Bowels
Well, that's a relief. Although I'm sure it's disappointing to those who thought tiny little airplanes would be just as good.
Recipe for Disaster...College Boy Debaters + Beer
Five Penn students accused of attacking Princeton debater surrender PHILADELPHIA (AP) -- Five University of Pennsylvania students were charged with beating, kicking and pouring motor oil on a Princeton student visiting for a debate tournament.And tiny little brains.
Hmmph.
Well, it's now 10 a.m., and still the tireless workers of the fabulously reliable Blogger have yet to exorcise the problems with their server and restore publishing to all of us miserly Non-BloggerPro Users. In addition to their new site update, how about a new motto--"It's Free--And It Shows!" Continued disturbances like this are just killing the Possumblog Merchandising Plan--not being able to continually update is driving millions of customers away. Well, not really. But what about all the loyal readers out there, who think that I am merely being lazy and not updating, when in fact I continue to madly peck away in the normal stupid fashion? WHAT ABOUT THEM!!!? Will they decide that, "Hey, you know, there is actually a lot of stuff I would rather read than crap about some old guy's car repair problems or what kind of soup he spilled on his tie." If this persists, Possumblog readership will take a nosedive, and I'll just be sitting here typing for no reason at all! IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT, BLOGGER MINIONS?! I think not. What to do then? In such instances, a LIST OF DEMANDS is always in good taste: First of all, I want a refund of all the money I've spent on Blogger. Second, I want a personal interview with Jodi Applegate. Third, FIX THE STUPID SOFTWARE! Fourth, I want my own television show which will be called PossumblogLIVE! and will be just like reading my blog, except with pictures and a genial sidekick. And a band. And supermodels. And a live studio audience. Fifth, FIND MY ARCHIVED POSTS! Sixth, I want a nice fence for the backyard so my kids will quit bugging me about getting a dog. Seventh, I'm not quite sure about, but probably has to do with food or something. Eighth, I would like a framed, life-size oil portrait of Norah O'Donnell clad only in white ermine, which will hang in its own special place in the aforementioned TV studio set. Ninth, Rosie O'Donnell will change her name to anything other than "O'Donnell," preferably to something more appropriate like "Blahblahblahblah." Tenth, QUIT SCREWING AROUND AND FIX THE SOFTWARE. That's it--that's all I'm asking for--is THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK!?
A library is a pretty good thing...
Especially if it's the Library of Congress. I was poking around on the part of their site devoted to "Today in History" and noticed an online exhibition of panoramic photographs of cities and towns from the early part of the 20th Century. The panorama shots were apparently a pretty hot item way back then and a big part of stock photographer's business. Anyway, there are shots from all across the country, including 48 from Alabama alone. A few favorites include this 1916 skyline of Birmingham, this panorama of the old Tennessee Coal and Iron Ensley Works (which you might recall from the Halloween Scary Story Blogburst), and this 1918 shot of cadets upon the lawn of Alabama Polytechnic Institute (that impressive Romanesque building in the background is Samford Hall, and the cadets are standing about where College Street runs through Auburn, Alabama. Yep, this is what Auburn U. used to look like.) On down the road a bit from Auburn is this lovely place, Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute. And then there's Wilson Dam, which is just pretty impressive. Finally for all of you Lileks fans, here's one of the Minneapolis skyline taken from Nicollet and Seventh.
Fun With Referrer Logs!
Just had a very confused visitor via Lycos searching for glow in the dark nose rings. Yep, that's what draws most visitors here--luminescent nasal baubles. Luckily, we have a wide assortment of the famed Nostrildamus rings just in from our factory in Juarez. They are really something to behold--order yours today! DISCLAIMER: Contains radioactive isotopes--do not allow interior contents to spill or come in contact with skin or mucous membranes. May cause tumor growth under certain circumstances. Not legal for sale in California, Idaho, New York, or American Samoa. Manufacturer makes no warranty, express or implied, as to the suitability of the product for human use. So there!
Wow.
Blogger has named a winner in their site makeover contest, and for some reason, such a momentous event has had absolutely no effect on the ol' "Disappearing Archive" bug, or this morning's latest--"Sorry, publishing is temporarily unavailable." Clicking on [why?] gets me this comforting message--"Trouble with a template server. We are working on it. Pro publishing is working -- but only if you were Pro before this happened." Gee, I feel all better. Maybe I will also feel better when I discover whatever became of all my archived posts from the beginning of September to this week. I am assured that they are safely nestled inside the Blogger database, but for some reason, I just feel a bit uneasy about it. Then I remember that Blogger is going to get a new site update, and I feel all better again. Thanks Blogger! Monday, December 02, 2002
Back, and none the worse for wear
Loooong weekend, and back to work so I can get some sleep. Whew. Too much even for me to blog about. But a wonderful holiday it was, full of the normal things that come along at this time of year--booze, firearms, jail. (Just joking--we don't drink.) Anyway, finally did manage to get the house sorta clean Wednesday, despite the concerted efforts of the kiddies and my tooth. Which still hurts, and every once in a while has that horrible aluminum-foil-stuck-in-between-your-teeth feel to it. Eeeeeyah. The Wednesday church stuff was very nice, and a nice way to start the weekend. Being gotten up at the crack of dawn Thursday, however, reminded me that there is no such thing as a REAL holiday, which is one in which my nicely wrapped present is being able to sleep until I quietly stretch and wake up at about 11 o'clock. Oh, well. Got up and watched Katie and Matt and the Macy's parade with the kids and went over to Reba's folks' house for Food, Round One. Traditional fare--ham, turkey, black-eyed peas, cornbread, mustard greens, sweet potatoes, dressing, pecan pie. And giblet gravy. I hate organ meat and hard boiled eggs in grease and flour, let me just say. Sometimes Reba's mom will make me some plain gravy, but this year I was just out of luck. Not complaining, there was plenty of other stuff. But giblet gravy just gives me a terrible internal quivering. The kids sat at the card table, and of course, Oldest Girl decides to act rude and condescending since she has an appreciative audience of her Grands, who believe her to be Beyond Reproach. Ahhh, holiday tension--nothing like it for fun, is there? Middle Girl was on the receiving end--"SHE'S TOUCHING MY FORK!!!" "I. WAS. NOT!!!" "QUIT LOOKING AT ME!" The unilateral interventionist in me wants to wade in and klonk their heads together and make them sit in sullen silence, while the isolationist in me wants merely to go on with my meal and let them work it out on their own. Pity us all when they get nukes. As it was, they were eventually brought back together at the card negotiating table to work out their differences, with the understanding that if they didn't, there would be an overwhelming response from the swaggering, simplistic redneck who is the household hegemon. All the while, the non-aligned children quietly worked out their strategy of playing both the older two against each other, and managed to get some pecan pie. Which was the best, by the way--Reba's uncle make them, and they are the best I've ever had. I have tried and tried, and never can quite get the things to work right--always too runny or something. After supper, there was the rest of the National Dog Show to watch, which would have been much easier if I could have quit snoring and opened my eyes. After a while, our welcome thoroughly worn out, it was time to head over to my mom's house. We packed up a pile of leftovers (which became supper) and headed out to Shelby County. Nice drive, although none of the kids would go to sleep, which is probably good since it kept me from going to sleep. Got there and went in the front door, along with a special visitor. Seems my mom has a plague of wrens which keep trying to nest in the wreath on her front door, and the moment I came in, one flew in right past my head. Into the house. Which was now full of curious, squealing children. Loverly. We took them into the den and closed the door, and waited a bit for the bird to calm down. Which is really not very likely to happen, now that I think back on it. Anyway, my sister and Reba had gone into the dining room to look at some clothes for the kids (odd, yes, but that's just where my sister dumped her stuff) and they found Mr. Wren doing aerobatics all over the china cabinet and chandelier. Thus enused The Chase. In a scene reminiscent of some of the better Harold Lloyd silent films, combined with the sound and action of a John Frankenheimer blockbuster, my mom got a dishtowel and started either trying to capture the bird, or shoo it out the door. My sister kept trying the door route, but my mom was dead set on catching the thing. Flutterflutter. Alight. Throw towel. Flutterflutter. "On the floor!" Throw towel. Flutterflutter. "Make it go out the door!!" "NO, close that door it's cold-just let me catch the derned thing with this towel!" Throw towel. Flutterflutter. China cabinet. Swish! Flutterflutter. "If we just get it to the door it'll go out!" "Close the DOOR! They've come in before and you throw this towel on it to get 'em out!" Watching this display triggered my male hunter/gatherer response, and I relieved my mom of the towel. "Here, gimme that towel." The problem was that cavemen didn't have towels to do their mastadon hunting, so I was no more effective than the girls were. Chase, alight, flop, flutterflutter. Chase, alight, throw, flutterflutter. "You know the problem? This towel's too light--I need me a big heavy towel that doesn't just float around!" Once more, landed by the door to the den, loft towel, sudden shrill shrieks from beyond door--"IT'S IN HERE!!! LOOK, THE BIRD!! IT CAME UNDER THE DOOR!" Poor bird. The kids alternated between chasing and running from the bird, and I came in bearing my liteweight towel, swishing and throwing it and still having absolutely no luck. Then, it found its way back out to the foyer, and upstairs. ::sigh:: "Would one of you PLEASE give me a big old heavy towel!" "Let's get it to the front door!" "Close. The. Front. DOOR! ::grumblegrumble::gritted teeth::thing's probably pooping every time it lands." Upstairs Mom, Sister, and I went. Followed closely by Catherine. "No--go back in there and keep the den door shut!" "But I wants to see the little bird, Daddy!" "There's a set of encyclopedias in there--go find a bird picture to look at." What palpable disappointment. But, it was made up for by my renewed energy with my new weapon, a thick cotton bath towel. "Now THIS is a towel!" Finally we track the bird to my mom's bedroom. Swishflutterflutterthrowswishflutterflutter. The little fiend has taken to flying back and forth between the valences over the curtains on the two windows, to the dresser mirror, to the highboy, back to the valences. Even my big heavy towel was just too slow to get it trapped. "Let it land and just swat it!" Golly, Mom was getting a little bloodthirsty. Finally, it lit on the valence by the door, and the big towel popped through the air and the poor little bird hit the bedroom door with a awful thud. Oooch. Suddenly, I felt like Lennie in Of Mice and Men (or his alter-ego the Abominable Snowman in the Bugs Bunny cartoons--'I will rub him and pat him and call him George. And hit him with a towel.') Silence. "Oops. I think I hit it a bit too hard." "Yeah, I think so, Terry--get it and put it outside." "You don't think he's big enough to eat?" Nothing like inappropriate humor to revive a lagging holiday. Back downstairs, over to the neighbor's bushes, and back in to a barrage of questioning--"Did you catch the birdie, Daddy?!" "Did you catch it in your big towel?!" "Did it fly away?!" "Is it still outside?!" "Kids...kids...HEY! I put it in the towel and put it outside--now, who wants a sandwich?" The rest of the evening was uneventful, mainly because after supper the kids found Star Wars on TV, and the rest of us sat around the kitchen table doing the other thing my family is good at (aside from killing small animals with loomed goods) which is talk. As usual, this consisted of about 80% politics--a feisty roundtable which would caused even Chris Matthews to wince and blanch and squirm uncomfortably in his chair--and the remainder being a catch-up of everyone who is sick, dying, or dead, or who has had cosmetic surgery. Now THAT'S a holiday. And it was over too soon. My sister has to go back to Mobile today, and I hardly got to see her. Hurry up Christmas! To home then, and then up once more way too early on Friday, which I can remember little about, other than I made a gigantic crockpot full of homemade chili, and we went and did some Christmas shopping, and cleaned out some stuff from the kids' closets, and something else. Likewise, Saturday is a bit of a blur, except for going to see Santa Clause 2. What a darned nice movie! I am the biggest sucker in the world for sentimental stuff with kids and Christmas and Elizabeth Mitchell in a cashmere sweater. As my friend Zippy says, "YOW!" Anyway, the movie itself was so sweet, and it made me sniffle and laugh and display all sorts of other non-hunter/gatherer-type behavior, and Reba and the kids just loved it. I give it four Possumblog opposable-toe-thumbs up. BUT, if you're going to go see it, and your kids want to see the first movie on video, and you don't already have it, be sure to buy the video FIRST because it has a voucher inside for a free movie ticket to the Second Movie. Just a tip from a very disappointed cheapskate. Back home after a bit more Christmas shopping, then it was time to take the children to the creek and douse them with water and soap and dry tangly hair and discuss Santa some more and clean ears and clip razor sharp toenails that slice your legs to ribbons when one particular little tiny girl decides to sneak into bed with her ice cold bare feet and uses your shins like a ladder to pull herself up under the covers, and then there is some more talk of Santa, and it's time for bed and then the alarm clock is ringing again and it's time to get up and go to church again and see who all is visiting and say hey and then go eat and get a paper to read and start watching the TV and almost doze off when the phone rings. AAAArrrgh. How I wanted to sleep Sunday afternoon. Back to church for a couple of meetings and then services and to home, where supper is cooked and the bills are paid and the notebooks are signed and snacks packed inside backpacks and lunch money is enveloped and repeatedly mentioned as being required to be given to various teachers and then the plates are put in the dishwasher and I tromp upstairs and read My Crayons Can Talk to an appreciative audience of giggling girls and I sneak into a little boy's room who is supposedly already asleep and I stand there until he squeaks like a mouse and says "I know it's you, Daddy!" and manage to get Oldest Girl to give me a goodnight kiss not accompanied by her eyes rolling upward and then snuggle under the cold sheets with a nice soft warm woman who is wearing my great big blue Auburn sweatshirt and who slaps at me when Mr. Hand Takes a Journey to the Mountains and I turn off the lights and set the alarm and then I wind up here, writing all about it as if it were a normal thing to do. Hmm. Imagine that. Wednesday, November 27, 2002
Thanks
Just a quick post--I am knee deep in kids at the moment, and am jaw-achy with a just-repaired dental filling that required the good excruciodontist to drill even further down to about my left shoulderblade, and there is clothing to dry, and a leaking washing machine that will need to be manhandled out from its hole and turned upside down to find said leak, and the kid's bathroom throne is full of cleaner (meaning all of them disregard all the other available porcelain conveniences and the wide open spaces of the backyard and make a beeline for the one with caustic chemicals, requiring constant attention and shooing) and somewhere in here we're supposed to get all our stuff together to go to church tonight (no classes tonight, just when my high schoolers were starting to like the class well enough to bring friends--oh, well), and then there is preparation for a four day turkey eating contest, and my sister is supposed to be in town today sometime, and, whew, life. And how! But I wanted to just take a moment and thank everyone for coming by, and to wish each of you a very happy Thanksgiving. 4 Rejoice in the Lord always: again I will say, Rejoice.Peace to you all--see you Monday. Tuesday, November 26, 2002
As predicted...
I am up to my ample behind with stuff to do today, and have only had the briefest of opportunities to check the blogroll this morning. I did notice that Delaware's Finest Fritz Schranck is having himself a birthday today, so I sent him a ridiculous e-mail version of The Beatles "You Say It's Your Birthday." The pure delight of such a thoughtful deed on my part sent him into paroxysms of glee, to the point of donning an Ed Grimleyesque red shirt and high-waisted black pants and perfoming the Dance of Joy as he sent his return e-mail. Being the Very Largest Ed Grimley Fan Type Person Upon the Planet, I Must Say, I was as pleased as pleased could be to see that Fritz was a fellow fan, and sent him back ANOTHER e-mail suggesting we should make plans for a big jam session on the triangle. ::ting:: And then something happened that has never happened to me in my entire life. I was shoveling papers around the desk and the telephone rang. Now despite the silly cornpone act I sometimes put on here and other places, whenever I first answer the phone I always use my very professional Midwest television anchor voice--rich, deep, manly, and devoid of regional cues, and today made even more husky and masculine by the world's worst case of pneumocrappiness. After I determine the identity of the person, I will either switch to Efficient Bureaucrat, Clueless Bureaucrat, Lazy Bureaucrat, Educated Guy Caught in a Bureaucracy, Somewhat Friendly Acquaintance, or full bore Down Home Boy modes, depending on the caller. Ringring--"This is Terry Oglesby." "Hi Terry, this is Fritz Schranck." Do what?! Wow! IT'S HIM! "Well, HEY THERE!" What a fun call! And a first, because in close to a year of blogging, I have never talked live and in person to another blogger. Oh, lots and lots of fun (and serious) e-mails, but never a voice at the other end. Until today. We covered just about all topics known to man--the new Apple commercials, in which Fritz found that Teen Girl Culture transcends mere distance? you know? like, because everyone dresses and acts the same? Which then took us to our plan to outlaw the Internet, then on to taxes, Delaware corporations, working in government, libel, slander, our respective volumes of e-mail (he--one per day, me--one per day, hate mail--none for either), being spambotted by a domain jumper using your own name to spam you with secret methods of increasing the size of the old John Thomas, tips on increasing traffic from Google using such innocuous words as "hole," "monkey," and "hot," family, Erma Bombeck, if this blog makes my butt look big ('yes' was the consensus), birthdays (343 ain't old, by the way), blogging, blogging, bloggers, blogs, trolls, blogging, barbecue...Stop here. Imagine sitting at your desk and hearing someone talking about slow cooking a Boston butt all day long so that by the end of the day, the meat just falls off the bone. I nearly gnawed the mouthpiece off the phone. Then it was on to various smoked pig eateries, holiday travel, and finally a promise that should the Schranck family every cross the border of the Cotton State, there will be another call placed and much fun will be had. Much to the mortification of our children, as we will each be nattily dressed as Ed Grimley. ::ting:: Monday, November 25, 2002
Well, now, THAT was a weekend!
Movie, popcorn, Christmas shopping, sleeping in, Christmas shopping, barbecue, football, hot and sour soup--wow. Friday night we got the kids loaded up and taken to the grandparents. I had thought we might get to eat before James Bonding, but we got such a late start that we just went on to the theater. Movie Review Time (With Spoilers of a Sort--scroll way down to miss them) As I mentioned last week, I was looking forward to this movie--I've had to sit through some mildly enjoyable non-guy stuff and it was time for some mindless action and women in danger. The 007 movies are also good from the Miss Reba perspective, because she tells me that Bond is hot. Which is a good thing after the movie is over. Nuff about that. Die Another Day more or less follows the familiar Bond formula--opening gun barrel montage, first Bad Situation, escape, capture, escape, hook up with Unknown Good Girl, chase bad guys, get help from former bad guy, manage to get in trouble with Unknown Bad Girl/Mistress of Evil Guy, get captured, yack yack yack, cut some wires, escape, find out true plan, countdown clock, break into secret lair, yack yack yack, destroy it and Evil Guy/Girl, nearly die in escape, wind up in bed with Good Girl. And there are Toys--lasers, satellites, guns, got his Aston Martin back now, Q. But, it was a movie and time spent with Reba, so it couldn't have been too bad. Then on to Wal-Mart for a little Christmas shopping without the kids, which was very helpful. Sadly, the movie lasted so long that it was too late for barbecue, so we stopped and got a quick hamburger at the Burger King drive through. Mine was supposed to be some sort of smoky cheddar something, which had the invigorating taste of garbage, sandwiched between two slices of "sourdough" with the consistency of a life jacket. Blech. Saturday, got up late, got dressed and did a bit more shopping and then FINALLY got my barbecue, which was really, REALLY good. Right in the middle of it, as I was holding forth to Reba about all the stupid stuff in the movie in a wildly gesticulating fashion, I felt a tap on my shoulder--"War Eagle" a nice older lady said as she and her hubby were walking out. I had forgotten that I had my Auburn sweatshirt on, and I was so taken by surprise I almost didn't know what to say. "Thanks you, War Eagle, too!" or something. What a dork. Anyway, got all through, made a final pass through Target to finish propping up the American economy and it was time to go see the game. I timed it just right so that we would arrive at the grandparents as the game was starting so I could finagle an invite to watch the game. What a game! And no rioting after it was over with. One thing that makes the Alabama-Auburn game the nation's best rivalry is that the rivalry is settled between the end zones. After that, everyone goes back to normal. Such as it is. But throwing bottles and fighting is just so...crude. Morons. Better would be to just go write a joke book or something. Home, bed, up Sunday, and the icky sinus crud of last week has transformed itself into a lung-filling beast of mythic scale. I blow my nose and all I get is that odd high-pitched squealing sound as my sinuses try to open up. HONK-whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeEEK. Ouch. Go to church, probably infect everyone, afterwards go eat many bowls of hot and sour soup and spoonsful of hot mustard sauce in attempt to loosen grip of demon. Works only a little, which should tell you how bad it is. Back home for some clothes folding exercises, read the paper, go back to church, try not to sleep by constantly hacking, back home for supper, kids to bed, sleep, and wake up here. Today is going to be a short one, as I have to go pick up the kids and take them to the dentist this afternoon. So this day is already about shot. Tomorrow is going to be busy, and then I will be off Wednesday for the rest of the week for the holidays. Meaning that this may be about the only bit of Possumblog you get for this week, so I will leave you this, which was written by my 10 year old daughter Rebecca for an assignment in class last week:
In case I don't get back to blogging this week, have a joyous Thanksgiving at your home, with your family and friends.
...and the greatest of these is love.
From Francesca Watson-- [...] I felt a persistent tugging in my heart, which I tried to ignore. My instinct in such situations is to try to “fix” things – I hate seeing people in pain or emotional distress, but I didn’t know this woman or what her situation was. It was none of my business. But whenever I looked over, there she would be – tears streaming down her face, her hands clenched in her lap, her head trembling ever so slightly. Perhaps she herself is ill? I wondered. It looked like Parkinsons, that little tremble.
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