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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, March 07, 2003
Well, Mr. Possumblogger…
…where have YOU been today? Thank you for asking—I have been up to my chin with stuff to get done. Sometimes it just gets like that. So no time for playing. EXCEPT, for a quick tour of the blogroll and a look at the referrer log, where I was SHOCKED to find the following: reba's revealing red dress. You oughta be ASHAMED of yourself!! My dear wife has NO such revealing red dress, although…yesterday she did wear her big knit sweater that has little tiny open squares across the upper torso area which, when the angle is just right, provide a nice vie…ahh, ahem, hmm…well, nothing. Forget I said anything. She ain’t got no revealing red dress, although I know where she can get one. Last night was a killer—Middle Girl had soccer practice (at the elementary school gym—it was raining), and Oldest had another rehearsal for The Jungle Book, the opening of which is mere days away. Oh me. Such…such, energy these kids have. Unfortunately, none of it seems directed toward any recognizable tasks such as learning lines or places. Most of it goes into some sort of parallel production they must be working on, “Tourette’s!!”, or maybe “St. Vitus—The Dance”. Ashley knows her lines and positions, but most of the rest of the kids are working on their endorsement deal with the makers of Sugar-Coated X-Treem Ritalin Puffs. And the poor adult cast members. Poor, poor adults on stage. I have come to the conclusion from enduring these rehearsals that 95.36% of successful acting is knowing what to do with your hands. Ah well. At least it’s not me up there. In other news, you may recall a month or so ago that Boy’s Future Egghead Class was busily preparing to learn the ins-and-outs of capitalism. He and his little smart friends were instructed to think of something they could make and sell—little small stuff like cookies or necklaces or other junk. They were instructed to get Parental Support™ to assist them in this little endeavor, which according to the instructions meant we were supposed to loan them some venture capital, charge them “rent” on their “workspace”, and assorted other evil capitalistic things like helping with the marketing plan. Again, as you recall, the real kick in the jewels was the requirement that when they did their little afterschool marketplace to sell this junk to the other kids, they were going to have to give ALL their profits back to the RLC program. Not some, not a percentage. All. As in all. To which I replied, “in your sweetest socialist scum dreams, sweetheart.” If you think you’re gonna teach my kids that capitalism is a non-representative government taking all your hard-earned money away from you—even if it’s for The Children™—you have misunderestimated who you’re up against. (For the record, I don’t mind giving extra money to this program—they do a lot of cool stuff with the kids, and Jonathan enjoys it immensely. I’ll give ‘em money if they ask for it honestly. But they aren’t going to shake down my kid.) So then, on to the lesson in how to cook the books. First, Boy and Mom decided the product was to be little foam flower pins. My wife does craft stuff all the time for the kids at church, so we had some of this stuff, but she went ahead and bought two big clear plastic cylinders full of little cutout foam flower pieces. Each container cost about five bucks. 10 bucks total. With about a billion pieces in each container, the per piece cost was about equal in value to one dinar. BUT, we still had to add that excess inventory cost on the books. We had to get some pin backs, which ran us about 4 bucks. Each one probably cost a dime. We used all of those. Then there was the money for the workspace. Our house is worth a LOT of money, especially when it comes to people wanting to use it for commercial purposes. We figured we would charge $15,000 for that. (Not really—it was some small amount, 5 or 10 bucks.) Reba made the pins for him, which required that she use some hot glue. The bag of glue sticks cost $5, and just because she used maybe a dollar’s worth didn’t mean we didn’t have to pay for them—we had to stack THEM over in inventory, too, you know. The final result was 62 brightly colored foam Pinny Pals™, 12 little ones, 50 big ones, which were given a right reasonable price of $0.25 for the Mini Pinnies, and $0.50 for the Maxi Pinnies. Now if you do the math on that, you will see that the maximum expected revenue will be $28. Total spent on producing these babies—about $29. Ohhhhh. Man, a loss. How sad for our little company! It won’t even break even! Wow—it’s just like being in the motion picture industry!! Poor Smart Kid Program should have asked for a cut of the gross!! Schmucks. Anyway, yesterday, all the kids got to set up shop after school—Jonathan sold about $16 worth—yikes, an even bigger loss than anticipated! Rebecca came by after school to help him sell stuff and make sure no one tried to swindle him on making change, and at some point in there, a little girl in her grade came up to Jonathan and quietly told him that she did the sale last year and didn’t make anything—then she sorta winked and said, “But, it’s Oooooo-kay.” Heee. Apparently I’m not the only heartless capitalist pig parent at school. THEN, there is the weekend—tonight is another rehearsal, this time the whole shebang, all the way through. I can barely contain my glee!! (Not really—I was merely…Acting!) And then again tomorrow (but thankfully no more horseback riding), and there’s laundry and housecleaning and finishing up my unified field theory and then there’s church and Bible Bowl on Sunday and then there’s probably a long list of stuff some person has decided that I need to finish since it is now springtime outside and the weeds are in furious bloom. AND FINALLY, a big public thank you to Nate McCord over at Wasted Electrons who went to an inordinate amount of trouble to come up with a nice linky button for Possumblog for those of you who use linky buttons. Just be sure to copy the image to your server, so you’re not using up his bandwidth--  Anyway, that’s all for now. See you all Monday! Thursday, March 06, 2003
Virginia Police Recover Missing Cher Wig RICHMOND, Va. - Police have recovered the teal-and-black wig that was reported stolen from Cher's concert tour.Another stunning victory in the War on Cherorism.
Hey Cool!!
Mac Thomason sends along a link to a very interesting site, ArchNet, which is devoted primarily to Islamic architecture, both historic and modern. Lots of good documentation, discussion, and resources on the art and science part of the profession, and as a special treat for those of us who just like to look at the pictures, a HUGE digital library of photographs of buildings from around the world. Fascinating stuff.
What the world has been crying out for, Part II--Irish fans to attempt karaoke record DUBLIN (Reuters) - Their efforts may not turn out to be pretty, but the massed voices of 50,000 Irish rugby fans could earn a place in the Guinness Book of World Records on Saturday for singing in the world's largest karaoke session. [...]Somehow, I think more than one sort of Guinness will be involved.
Clinton, Dole to Debate on '60 Minutes' NEW YORK - Former President Clinton (news - web sites) and his 1996 election opponent Bob Dole are joining the CBS newsmagazine "60 Minutes" for weekly debates on national issues in the show's old "Point-Counterpoint" style. [...]Actually, I think it would be much better if they did it like Jane Curtin and Dan Aykroyd on Saturday Night Live--"Bill, you ignorant slut!" (And I even beat Opinions Journal's Best of the Web with that snappy bit of repartee!)
Interesting search request from yesterday--How are tax dollars spent in Alabama?
Vigorously, with little regard for the source. Here is the General Fund budget for this year. Lots of boards and agencies and all nice sounding things--but the one thing you don't see is where the money goes after it goes into those boards and agencies and councils. I wouldn't call it money laundering--that's illegal, and all those little line items are all perfectly legal (and some probably even serve an actual need)--anyway, let's just call it "helping out our good, influential friends." That's much nicer, now isn't it?
Skakel complains about prison treatment in letters to cousin, paper reports CHESHIRE, Conn. (AP) -- Michael Skakel, serving 20 years to life for the 1975 murder of his teen-age neighbor, has complained in letters to a cousin that he is receiving harsher treatment in prison than other inmates.Hmm, you know, Mike, I'm really not feeling any sort of sympathy here.
From Nate McCord, who has MUCH too much time on his hands, this site devoted to the majestic Didelphis virginiana, which includes a fascinating page of Possum Politics, and a legal defense of the noble beast.
(And of course, Snopes has all sorts of good information about possum urban legends.)
Madison County leads Alabama in retaining workers [...] Madison County has a higher percentage of residents who commute to work within their home county than anywhere else in Alabama, according to Census Bureau statistics released Thursday.Frankly, I believe this is statistic is the result of the presence of The Barbecue Emporium.
Here's one for Mac Thomason, Icthypundit...
AU RESEARCH TO AID IN RECOVERY OF HIGHLY ENDANGERED FISH AUBURN -- A century ago, Alabama sturgeon were abundant in the swiftly flowing waters of the Mobile River Basin. So plentiful were these long, slender, ancient-looking fish that they were freely harvested and sold commercially for food, their prized roe processed and retailed in high-end markets as caviar.See, there is more to Auburn University than just cows! Additional information about this lovely fish can be found at the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service website, along with this interesting article from back in 1999, about the Marion Fish Hatchery. Wednesday, March 05, 2003
Enraged Computer Owner Shoots Up Machine [...] In police reports, Doughty said that he realized afterward that he shouldn't have shot his computer but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do. [...]Who among us hasn't harbored the same thoughts?
Two brothers serving in the Army take different views on a possible war with Iraq By JOHN GEROMEWell, whatever you say, but that really only works if one of the boys IS ON THE OTHER SIDE! Travis describes himself as a pacifist. In high school, he was kidded about being not aggressive enough for sports. During basic training, he refused to chant "kill" with the other soldiers. More recently, he marched in anti-war protests and spoke openly about his objections.Let's stop here for a moment. Our armed forces are voluntary. No one is compelled against his or her will to enlist. The Army doesn't really make a big secret out of the fact that it has big, big numbers of guys carrying real rifles which shoot real bullets, and helicopters, and tanks, and mortars, and mines, and cannons, and rockets, and grenades, and $500 hammers, and all sorts of other stuff that are intended to be used with the express purpose of agressively and collectively destroying another human life. (What a shock!) With this, why would someone who is a conscientious objector enlist in the first place? In joining the military, the two men followed the example set by their father, Jeff, and oldest brother, Preston. They enlisted in peacetime to earn money for college, gain discipline and see the world.Hmm. But the Coast Guard had a 22-month waiting list and Travis was impatient. He signed up for a five-year hitch with the Army and is now assigned to the 10th Mountain Division as a photojournalist.Ah, the Clinton Administration. Nuff said, I suppose. In any event, Travis, they probably didn't mention anything about war, enemy, shooting, or death since the sergeant assumed that as you walked in under your own power and could carry on a conversation, you could probably figure out THAT STUFF WAS SELF-EVIDENT!! (And for what it's worth, in 1999 when dain-bramaged Recruit Burnham mustered in, the Army was engaged in some sort of activity somewhere called Kosovo. I think there might have been something about it on TV or something, but I guess he missed it. You know, the economy was so good and all...) [...] The Army is investigating [Travis'] conscientious objector application. The process involves 26 steps and usually takes at least 90 days. Travis has already been interviewed by a chaplain and a psychiatrist.Just a tip here, folks. If the only reason you are enlisting in the army is to get free college money and snappy berets and a pass to the PX, AND you think it's really, like, mean to have an army that might actually use all the heavy ordnance lying about, then it might not be the best idea to sign up.
Human Shield Buses Stuck in Beirut, Seek Fare Home BEIRUT (Reuters) - Two red double decker buses and a white London taxi that ferried anti-war activists to Baghdad to serve as "human shields" are stranded in Beirut with their owner short of the $5,500 it costs to ship them home.Joe, I'd like you to meet someone I call Charlie Foxtrot... [...] "We were taken to see some of the installations that the Iraqis thought were suitable for protection," he said, adding that he had feared a bombing campaign could start at any time.That was nice to identify yourselve, but I'm sure your Iraqi minders didn't care where you were from. Some 50 other Swedish anti-war human shield activists who had traveled to Iraq began to leave on Monday, saying they had wanted to protect hospitals and schools but had been forced out to refineries, power plants and water works.You know, the stuff that might actually GET HIT. Letts said about 200 human shields, including many who traveled on his bus, remained in Baghdad when he left. But he said that although he stayed on as a shield for a week, he had no intention of staying in Baghdad for the duration of a war.Of the others on the trip, several noted that they had forgotten to turn off their stoves, let the cat out, or forgotten they had an overdue book from the library. One man said he thought the bus was on a holiday excursion to Dover, and was very angry at having missed several episodes of Kilroy. When he left London, he thought he had enough money to pay to ship the buses home, but ended up spending his personal finances to help pay for the trip.(Scene opens--Michael Palin (or Terry Gilliam) dressed in wig and floral housedress, screaming into cell phone...) JOE!? JOE!! You silly git, why did you take the buses!! I can't get to market without the bloody bleedin' BUS, now can I?! An' we were supposed to go see my MUM on Friday! Anything to get out of going to Bristol--SHE was right--you ARE a smelly twit!! DID YOU HANG UP ON ME!?
Thai mystics predict start of Iraq war
Golly, guys, would you stop giving away our se...oops, used that one already. BANGKOK (Reuters) - After thumbing charts and calculating planetary positions, Thailand's top mystics have settled on April 8 as the last possible date for the launch of a U.S.-led war on Iraq.Wow--Mars need OOOIIIILLLLL!! At least now we can start blaming it all on this guy, or maybe this guy. (Note the strong similarity to this picture and the one in the post below.) Mars would be at its closest point to earth on April 8, but war could start as soon as the end of March because Uranus was in Aquarius, Pinyo Phongcharoen, president of the 6,000-member National Astrological Association of Thailand, told Reuters Television. [...]Man, I just HATE it when Uranus gets into Aquarius. [...] "There can be long-lasting peace afterwards, with Jupiter entering the orbit of Uranus."Whew, that's a relief. It goes without saying that this story is great fun for the juvenile schoolboy in all of us as we contemplate the question, "Hey, Saddam! Guess where the one of those BLU-82s is gonna hit? URANUS!!"
U.S. Plans Heavy Bombing Campaign in Iraq
Golly, guys, would you quit giving away all of our secrets!! Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Now here's somebody with the proper sense of what Mardi Gras is all about--one inventive searcher dropped in here looking for Krewe of Homeland Security! Janis Gore is the Axis of Weevil Krewe Coordinator, and I am at this very moment placing this in her inbox to investigate. Our float this year didn't quite turn out as well as planned, but with this idea, we should do very well next year.
UPDATE!! Wow, that's service! No sooner do I post this than I receive a link from Miss Janis to a story in which the Krewe of Homeland Security is prominently featured-- Hon,(I love it when she calls me hon.) Anyway, here is the pertinent excerpt: [...] A dozen maskers calling themselves the Krewe of Homeland Security wore plastic drapes and duct tape, with colored dots representing smallpox. They handed out Mardi Gras Alerts, declaring the security status as purple, green and gold, the traditional Carnival colors.THAT'S the spirit, Jane!! Many thanks, Janis. Keep calling Condi--maybe she can work us in next year.
The Real McCoy (or one of them, at least)
Just had a visitor stumble in here via Google who searched for an american expression meaning the real thing came from an invention of this rail road worker. I must admit I was going to do a quick bit of silliness and move on, but my curiosity got the better of me and I started doing my own little bit of Googling. After a couple of quick edits of the search string, I punched in "american expression," "real thing," and "railroad," and found out a little something about Elijah McCoy, inventor of an automatic oiler (among other things) for rail stock. (As for the expression, "the real McCoy," there are several theories, as with most slang phrases.)
PLEASE!! PUT DOWN ALL LIQUID CONTAINERS AND BEVERAGES!!
John Hawkins the HolyWarrior ICQs a Brazilian. Remember, you were warned...
Victory?
Those of you who've been following my house travails were last left with the information that my homebuilder guy was supposed to call me back Friday. Guess what? No call. I wasn't really surprised--I figured they were either trying to remount and reload, or trying to find the cheapest illegal alien labor they could find to fix it. I could wait the weekend to find out. Then, yesterday--no call. Hmm. Well, this might be a bit toward the Not Good side of the ledger. I furrowed my brow, like this. Oh, wait, no X-10 cam. Imagine a husky man who looks constipated. Today, I figured if I didn't hear anything it would be time to start issuing ammo and grenades, so imagine my surprise when I checked my messages at home (he never will call me and talk to me at work--always leaves messages. Contractors...) and he apologized for not getting back in touch Friday. He did have a pretty good excuse, a death in his wife's family (and yes, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt on that one) and said he had "talked to the people he needed to talk to" about the problem. I really wish he would just say "his boss," or "the insurance adjuster"; whenever he's deliberately vague, it sounds like he's working for Don Corleone. (If there's a horse head in my bed in the morning, I promise I'll scream like a little girl.) Anyway, he said he was going to get their siding installer out there to get it fixed, and would call back and set up a time. Well, now. That sounds promising. If nothing else, it's a lot better than him saying it's my fault--BUT...these are contractors. I won't believe it until it's done.
Magazine: Michael Jackson Put 'Curse' on Spielberg LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - Embattled pop star Michael Jackson (news) wears a prosthetic nose and once paid $150,000 for a "voodoo curse" to kill director Steven Spielberg (news) despite being deep in debt, Vanity Fair magazine reported on Monday. [...]And people have the nerve to call him a freak...
Hey, don't mess with us--we got us some rockets...
Decatur gets Boeing rockets KENT FAULKWow, looks like I'm going to have to get a bigger gun rack for Franklin...
For those keeping score--U.S. arrests 3 Rwanda rebels in 1999 murders of tourists in Africa By CURT ANDERSONNo quarter.
Code Duello Redux--White House and Democrats offer dueling plan for Medicare drug plan
Well, this will never work--old people having to fight duels just to get discounted prescription drugs!? If it's competition they want, a better, more benign, contest would surely be to have an electric scooter drag race.
A big drivel of mendacious tripe!!
Mr. Lileks has a playgroup day: [...] In all fairness: I raised the issue with the group’s facilitator, just as I did the last semester when the Earth Pledge, Million-Mom-March and the March for Peace fliers were included in the big binder. As before, I didn’t object to the material’s inclusion, just the lack of balance. As before, the facilitator grasped my objection in a trice, and even though I sense that she’s inclined to side with the material, she gets it. This is tripe. This is mendacious drivel. Failing to teach children that the United States is more important to their lives than the United Nations and the World Court is educational malpractice. [...]Man, are the Belgians ever gonna be steamed to hear THAT!
Po', po' possum...
A haunting elegy for a tragic occurence on Hickman Street, from the ever observant Fritz Schranck: [...] A large, fully mature turkey buzzard calmly stood near the semi-flattened marsupial, picking at a fine morsel or two as I approached. (Fine for the buzzard, that is. Raw possum is not my idea of lunch.)Ah, yes, a bitter, bitter end. Such is the way of the passing of many of my less speedy brethren. Speaking of carrion-eating avian scavengers, (and a story that should give Chuck a chuckle) a couple of weeks ago when I was taking Catherine for her pony lesson, just near the front entrance to Camp Coleman I caught a glimpse of a dark shadow moving through the underbrush down toward the river. "Catherine!! You know what?" "What, Daddy?" "I think I just saw...A TURKEY!!" She was unimpressed. "Where?" "Back down the hill there!" I was going along at a pretty good clip since I was going to go in the back gate, but halfway up the hill I had already decided to go back and see what I could see. Got to the top and turned around, "Where we going, Daddy?" "We gonna go see us that turkey, little girl!" "Okay." She wasn't really very excited. Got back to the lower road, and pulled off. No bird. "Cat, I think it's done gone home." "You not see it?" "No, swee...HEY! Look over yonder!" "WHERE?!" Right over there under the low hanging branches, a long, low, carefully walking black shadow...I was so surprised to see one anywhere close to houses and stuff--but their reputation is for being so smart that they can read the hunting schedule and know that he was still safe for another month. I rolled down the window, "What you gonna DO, Daddy?!" I gave a few little hen turkey squawks, and all a sudden the magnificent bird took flight! "OOHH!! DADDY!! It flews up! What a pretty turkey!" "Ahh, no sugar--daddy just called up a big buzzard." "Oh." Oh well.
Plundering the Referrer Logs
Don't look at me like that--everyone does it. Anyway, first from the ever formal Jeeves, a querist wishes to know what qualities do people look for in their majority leader? I always look inside and make sure they have all their internal organs. But that's just me. Next, one youngster wants to know how can i learn to build a bong off of the internet? WHY, these kids today! Back in my day, we didn't need no fancy computerized thingamajig to learn how to build a bong. That was just all part of growing up--mothers would teach their daughters, and daddies would teach their sons, just like they taught them milking and sewing and slopping the hogs. OH, but now parents are too consarned BUSY to teach their kids how to build a bong, and kids ain't got no sense of inventiveness since the television done sucked all their creativity out of them. Humph! Third up to the plate, "James Watson" concept soul crap. Don't quite know what to say about that. Other than I am very proud that somehow Possumblog was a search result. Next up in our cavalcade of mystery, we have this one: Love Quote For A Guy. Simple is better--go with something like "Hey, you're okay, guy." Then, we have a visitor with a chilling and frightening bit of stuff: "mr. mcfeeley" and "hose". (A darkened room in KING FRIDAY'S castle. A small Domestic Shorthair puppet sits strapped into a chair with a blinding light shining in her eyes. A bespectacled man in uniform quickly approaches, nervously slapping a short length of rubber hose in his hand...) McFEELEY: Time to talk! Time to talk! Must be hurrying along, now!! HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: But meow don't know anything! Meow, please, meow! McFEELEY: ENOUGH LIES, PUSSYCAT! We can play this hard, or we can play this easy--NOW TELL US WHAT LADY ELAINE SAID TO X THE OWL!! (Strikes HENRIETTA severely about head and neck with hose) HENRIETTA PUSSYCAT: MEOW meow will meow talk, meow! (Iris Close to black--Iris Open to very shocked MR. ROGERS.) Next, an interested person who climbed up the persimmon tree to find a "Soccer poem" Here's one for you-- Roses are red, Violets are blue, When Mia Hamm yanked off her shirt, That was, like, really cool. As most of you know, the Possumblog Internet Ambulatory Care Center is one of the finest places to go for information of a medical nature. That's probably why we had a recent visitor searching for information on breastfeeding carpal tunnel loose joints. Let me just say that if any of these things are connected, somebody's doing SOMETHING completely wrong. And finally, something that the editorial staff here at Possumblog has a great deal of experience in--get paid for typing and sending by e-mail no monye to start. In over a year of work, we have amassed a small fortune by typing and sending by e-mail--at this very moment, I have a quarter I found in the Coke machine downstairs, and a button, and a free pen from Amoco! Riches such as this can be yours too!! And it require no monye to start!! Thank you, and that's all for now. Monday, March 03, 2003
Made it!
But the story of it will have to wait until I finish typing up the stuff I was supposed to type last week, so check back in this afternoon for wondrous yarns of Bitter Cold, Mud, Defeat, Unexpected Horses, Mud, Defeat, Bitter Cold, Rebecca Kicks the Ball, and The Jet Propelled Six Year Old. Friday, February 28, 2003
Getting about that time
Time to set the autopilot for T'ville and take a nice, long, relaxing...well, nothing. Entire weekend is jam-packed with stuff to do other than sit still for five minutes and vegetate. Soccer tournament tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday for Middle Girl and for Boy. Pain and woe for all sure to follow. Homebuilder Guy has not called. Pain and woe for SOMEBODY sure to follow. NO horseback riding lessons, thank goodness. No Ol' Paint and no whoa to follow. Laundry MUST be done. Pants and...something-clever-that-rhymes-with-woe-and-has-something-to-do-with-clothes...sure to follow. (Although, on the good side, I might find a penny. Or some popcorn. Or a Pez.) Church on Sunday and I get to sub for the 8th grade teacher AND do announcements. BUT, no pain nor woe, only a serene peacefulness that makes staying awake the most difficult task known to man. Fortunately, The Tiny Wrecking Ball will keep me awake by either a) deciding to sing I Am A Man of Constant Sorrow, b) talking in her patented "I learned to whisper in a sawmill" whisper, c) deciding to cry about...something, ANYTHING, d) walking all the way down the pew cushion, or e) getting up five times to go pee or drink some more water. All of which explains why I never answer e-mail or blog during the weekend. But come Monday morning...whooo-BOY! are you folks gonna get it!! You have been warned. See you Monday, and have a good weekend yourselves!
Once again--this time with gusto...
Stupid, STUPID Blogger! Post below--instead of 'with', I type 'wit', try to fix it immediately, and it hangs out there h-lessly for agonizing minutes. BAH!!
How to Write
THE NEXT INSTALLMENT of my ongoing series of lifting material from a long out of print book in order to provide content for my blog--as always, this is from Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book, published in 1903 and written by Charles Nisbet and Don Lemon, and given to me by my sweet wife as a Christmas present. Enough! On to today’s topic— No Embellishments.—All ornament of the person, such as jewelry, flowers, feathers, etc., is vulgar so far as not constitutional, i.e., the due expression of the entire person—and of the unseen character whereof the visible person is itself expression. So, likewise, is all ornament of literary style vulgar so far as it is other than the natural expression of the writer’s thought. No dress is ever beautiful of itself, but only in relation to the wearer. A man or woman is best dressed when the dress least diverts the eye of the spectator to itself, and only serves all that is in the power of dress to illustrate, the character of the wearer. A beautiful person transcends and subordinates beautiful parts, nor suffers the eye of beholder to do it so much dishonor as to take note of single parts. It is disparagement to count dainty hands, shapely arms, pure eyes, classic nose, fine cut lips, clear tones, etc., whose proper value is only their collective expression of an integral beauty transcending all partial expressions.
Stupidity should be cured, says DNA discoverer
Fifty years to the day from the discovery of the structure of DNA, one of its co-discoverers has caused a storm by suggesting that stupidity is a genetic disease that should be cured.This is an outrage!! That tiny lower 10% of the population provides 98% of all humor in the world! (The part about making all girls pretty is okay, though.)
WORK!!
Huuuuh!! What is it goo-ood for? ABSOLUTELY NOTHIN'! Except for, like, being able to pay the mortgage and not having to come home to find the sheriff has put all our belongings out on the curb, and having health insurance, and dental insurance, and money to buy clothes and food, and stuff like that. WHICH MEANS, that Work is a Very Good Thing, and I must do some of it right now! or run the risk being sent to time out. I should be back after while. Thursday, February 27, 2003
You know, this little deal Blogger has where it waits an hour to post stuff is driving me bonkers--there were several typos in the post below that I have been trying to get fixed and the whole thing is a mess and people are coming by from Meryl's house and from Floyd County, Virginia and it looks like a train wreck around here and you can't read this that I'm typing now because IT probably won't post for another HOUR or more and all the other goofish misspellings will just hang out there tormenting me...hey, wait a minute...wouldn't it be neat if there was a candy just for when you're all worked up and angry--it would be called Tor-mints...anyway, so all this crap is messed up and the Blogger boys are sitting around smoking big ceegars and picking out a new Jag.
Hmph.
I get a letter!
From Tater Spud Man Marc Velazquez up in the frozen North of Carolina: Curious to hear your take on the "winning" design on the new World Trade Center.(Yes, there was more to the letter than that, but it was just stuff about Bill Clinton and pain and kneecaps and bosomosity--nothing you need to know about) Anyway, in a semi-serious vein, back to the question. First, my biases--I think that it is impossible to design any great artwork--building, painting, sculpture, book--based upon a committee decision. The greatest works of literature or art or music or architecture are the distillation of a singular vision, either by the maker or the patron. Strength, vigor, timelessness are the result of a single-mindedness of purpose or outlook. This is not to say that some very good design decisions cannot come through collaboration, but that collaboration must not come at the expense of the central idea. In too many cases, the desire to please everyone leads to solutions that filter out uncomfortable genius in favor of a more palatable design that offends no one, but one which also one which inspires no one. I don't think all ideas are equivalent in their greatness. Despite our deep respect for the idea of democracy and making sure everyone has a voice, in the end we must realize some ideas are just plain dumb, and some of those voices are to be heard only inside of someone's head. A process that does not rightly discard the ill-thought and ignorant is doomed to produce a mess. This CNN site has tons of designs submitted by folks all over the world--each person who submitted something was intensely earnest about the value of their solution, but in the end 98% of them are just mindless drivel. And that includes most of the ones which were obviously produced by architects. Swiss Army knives aren't very good at anything. Applying that concept to the built environment works about as well. The desire to load the emotions of this site into one design is nearly impossible to do and still maintain the integrity of any of the individual parts--it is a unique battlefield/ subway stop/ cemetary/ workplace/ memorial/ marketplace /visual anchor /symbol of New York /symbol of America place which calls for both exuberance and solemnity, pride and humbleness, reason and passion, love and hate. I don't think that this is insoluable, but expecting one thing to do all things equally well is probably too much. Again, it is impossible to please everyone, and attempting to give equal weight to all possible viewpoints damps down the overall level of utility to the point where the saw blade is too dull, the knife blade is too short, the tweezers are too springy, the magnifying glass is too tiny, and the whole thing is too big and bulky to fit in your pants pocket. Last bias--my own ideas about what I value in architecture. I detest novelty for the sake of novelty; I prefer clearly visible design intent with a minimum of mumbo-jumbo and hand-waving; I prefer whittling away the unessential to adding layer upon layer of philosophy; I prefer a design with strength and unity of purpose (even if some might find it disagreeable) to something inoffensive, weak and dissipated. But, that's just me--I am not, and never will be the world's greatest architect (or anything else, for that matter). But I know good when I see it. HAVING SAID ALL THAT, on to the design itself, which can be seen here. Whatever. It's the Port Authority's money; if that's what they want to spend it on, I say go for it. To me, it has too much of the wacky, folded-glass-origami-and-odd-intersected-lines vernacular that is all the rage with Serious Architects, and none of the muscular vitality of Lower Manhattan. The tallest tower is meant to house a "virtual Windows on the World," while the tops of the buildings all bow toward Ground Zero (which is intruded upon by more glass and sticks), to which I say, "Nuts!" I want me a real, live, restaurant on top of the place, and I want the whole building complex to stand there with its sleeves rolled up and its hands on its hips. The site deserves a place to remember, and a place to look forward. The jumbled shards and angles and swoops and blips and chirps prohibit any sort of dignified sense of grief down at ground level, while the surrounding buildings simultaneously interfere with our ability to get up off our knees and go on with civic life--in this case, a historically vital civic life that gave us the "New York minute" and the "New York alphabet." But, that's just my opinion. That and buck will get you a cup of coffee.
I know this is wrong...
By now most of you know that Fred Rogers, host of the long-running PBS show Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, has passed away. I watched the show from just about the time it first aired in 1968--I always like it (although my mom thought he was just a little...odd) because he seemed like such a nice man, and because there were only four channels on TV, and one of them was the crappy CBS station that only came in good if you held on to the antenna while you watched (so much for Captain Kangaroo). Anyway, I did enjoy his show, and of all the episodes, one which has always stuck out a bit in my mind is the one where he comes by to feed the fish, and discovers a floater. Poor fish. The fish has died. Mr. Rogers gently scooped up the little fish and set him unobtrusively on the counter while talking about life and the feelings you might have if a pet dies and some things to do to make it better. He said that maybe we should give Mr. Fish a nice burial. A handy shoebox was found, and the fish and its paper towel were ever so gently placed into the box. Mr. Rogers then found a small piece of wood--pentagonal in shape, if I remember correctly--on a little stick. He carefully used a big black marker and wrote "f i s h." "Fish," he said. He quietly gathered up his things and went outside to the artificial back yard, where he knelt down and dug a shoebox sized hole in the floor of the studio, inserted the box, covered it, and placed the simple marker. The rest of the show I don't recall, although I'm sure there was a discussion in a similar vein over in the Neighborhood of Make Believe, and Mr. McFeeley probably had some words of comfort. Now that Mr. Rogers has passed along, despite my best intentions, all I can imagine is a neat, clean, quiet man in a cardigan and deck shoes, lying in a large shoebox with a small sign above him reading "f r e d."
Annnd, once again, Blogger is acting the fool, and won't update posts. It really irks me when I catch a mistake and try to fix it quickly, then am jackhammered by a stupid bunch of electrons. If there was ever any question about Google changing the way Blogger operates, I think it has been answered quite completely.
Indigo has an Insight on this from yesterday, as well (scroll down a bit).
Hey, I may be crazy, but I ain't stupid
Mental hospitals eyed to house state inmates MONTGOMERY Gov. Bob Riley is considering the idea of closing one or more of the state's mental hospitals and using the facilities to house female convicts, he said Wednesday.If only we didn't have the luxury of a Legislature. Somehow, though, they manage to survive quite well. Funny, huh?
I Am Not Yet King, and Hardhead Bad, Hardhead Good
What a day. AS YOU MAY RECALL, our hero had a dental appointment yesterafternoon, and a meeting with the home builder guy at 3:30. I had thought that I was going to get my permanent crown yesterday, so you can imagine my utter disappointment when my pain administration specialist said she was just going to check the tooth and make sure she didn't have to grind anymore off. I vaguely remember the last time two weeks ago when she said that the gum was so "angry" that she really wasn't sure that she had ground away all she needed to and might need to do some more later. At the time, I thought this meant "later, but only moments before I cement in your permanent crown." Actually, this meant that she might do some, and then wait some more to put the crown in. ::sigh:: Well, crap. She told me she was going to lift up the temp and have a look, and I thought this might sting a bit, but no big deal. I was, of course, wrong. Had to have more injections into my now famously hard head. This time though, she started out with the big guns, three jabs with giant cylinders of go-numb juice. Ow. Ow. Ow. She then told me that she was quite sure the problem last time was due to my extreme bone density--she said with some folks she can even feel the needletip penetrate into the jawbone a bit [insert full body shiver here] but that when she gave me my shots, it was just like the needle hit a rock. "Why thank you--you know, that's probably because I have an uncle on my dad's side who was an Australopithecus robustus." Which actually came out more as, "Uhmph uu gah dahg bahm." Anyway, off she went to yank on someone else's teeth, and I sat there trying to remember the lyrics to Comfortably Numb. It seemed the stuff was working quicker this time, thank goodness, and after just a few minutes the tell-tale rubberface feeling had set in. She came back to check on me, and I told her it seemed like I was ready to go. She got her assistant in and they started to work. She worked the little pointy gum jabber thing under my temp and pulled it off, I guess, and was suitably impressed with the lack of any angriness on the part of my gum tissue, and as a reward I was treated to a shot of air across the raw tooth. This was painful. Pain of a painosity so painish that mere painjectives cannot adequately describe the sense of sheer pain and pain that painfully radiated painfully throughout my pain-wracked body and penetrated to the very painful pit of my pain-twisted guts. "Sorry, hon, but we have to get it dried off a bit to make an impression." "UUH!! OOH! AaccAchagga u ow oh i itwou!!" "I know, sugar." I don't think you do! They finished up with the Blast-O'-Air torturefun and they then put a wad of caulking in my gaping painhole, which I got to clamp down on for a bit. That set, she popped it off and very carefully examined the impression to make sure that there were no voids or defects. There were. "Open wide, sweetie, I think we're gonna need to get another one--this one has a tiny little void on the edge." SO?! I have a tiny void in my head, and you don't see me filling it with a caulk gun! I opened up, and guess what? They had to dry my tooth off again. It hurt. I became the cartoonist's model for use in drawing visible radiating pain waves. They projected out in a giant cloud, reflecting off of the walls and the ceiling, yet strangely they seemed to have no effect on my two Serbian interrogators. "Just a bit, hon, and it'll all be over." And it will be lovely, with all sorts of smelly flowers, and all sorts of nice people signing the guest book and commenting on how peaceful and lifelike I looked. "He looks like he's just a'sleeping away, don't he?" Finally through with the Airgun of Joy, and another impression, which this time impressed the good doc with how finely made it was. Thus suitably satisfied, it was time to button me back up and send me home to meet the contractor. The assistant set about regluing my temp. In order to make me powerless to resist coming back again, she had to reach over me to get something off the tray on the other side, thus insuring that her full breastal region contacted my person. "'Scuse my reach, Terry." ::sigh:: "Thath kay." Got through in only thirty minutes, which seemed like only four or five days, but in any event, I had time to go grab a bite to eat and run home. Got my fast food and got back to the house with plenty of time to spare. Before I sat down to eat, I had the foresight to run around upstairs closing off the bedroom doors to keep our slovenly habits from becoming more widely known and was just coming down the steps when I saw someone at the door. Huh? I glanced at my watch--3:00 p.m. I told him 3:30. Ah. AH! Sneaky contractor trick. 'I showed up and waited a while and you weren't there' deal. Not this time, bucko. I went on down and let him in and cordially invited him in, "Hey, come on in. You doing alright? Good. Hey, lemme ask you--did we say 3 or 3:30?" "Uh, well, 3...3:30, sometime around in there." Uh-huh. Jackhole. "Oh well, I guess it's a good thing they got me out ahead of time--come on in and let's go upstairs and let me show you what I think I've found." It might be good to remind you, gentle reader, that until now, I have not disclosed to these folks my educational or professional background--for all they know, I'm just some big fat dude with a complaint. Rebecca asked me last night why I didn't tell them I was an architect, and as I explained to her, I wanted to give these folks the benefit of the doubt and give them every opportunity possible to do the right thing and act in good faith without resorting to acting like I was expecting better treatment than everyone else. Just because I'm in the trade doesn't mean I should get preferential treatment. And, as I told her, I could be wrong about the problem. Not bloody likely, but still within the realm of possibility. I reassured her though, that if the people decided to still say that this was her Daddy's fault, that I would begin by rolling out the diplomas and the resume, and if that didn't work, the mention of our local TV ombudsgadfly, and then the phone number of the lawyer I know who is feared by every contractor in town. Measured response, mailed fist/velvet glove--that crap. She seemed to understand and was quite excited about the possibility of Daddy going nuclear. Anyway, I led him up to the attic and we tiptoed over to the chimney. "Okay, now this is what I'm seeing," as I pointed with the flashlight, "--you see that round white bloom of mold there? That's coming from that nail. That nail is right where that little bit of roof slopes down and intersects with the wall of the chimney. Now, the way I figure it, that nail is through the flashing, and it has been leaking little by little since the house was built, and it eventually saturated all this sheathing here--which you can see has turned black and has little moldy things growing off of it--and finally the water made its way allll the way downstairs. When the sheathing got all saturated, it swelled up, and that's what caused the caulk joint outside to open up. If you remember, the other joint over here on this side is still tight, and all the other joints are tight, too. And you can see up top there that there is no water line above the nail, only below." He got his flashlight and stepped over. Shone it up. Looked. Looked. Shone it slowly down. Up. Down. Uppppp. Dowwwwwn. OVER. Dowwwwn. Stepped to the side and looked out the gable vent at where the roof comes into the chimney. Looked back in chimney. Light up. Down. Felt of sheathing. Wet. Ovvvvvver. Down. Stepped back and looked outside. Back over, looked back in chimney. Up. Up way up. Dowwwn. "Okay." He turned around and started walking back to the attic stairs. Retreat, or tactical withdrawal? No comments. He started getting the insulation fuzz off his shoes--"Oh, that's alright, I'll get that up later," I said sweetly. I closed up the stairs and went downstairs, and he was back over at the fireplace, studying the big crack and stain. "Yeah, it really came in...what was it?...Sunday?...Saturday night when we got all that rain? It ran all over the top of the mantlepiece." He went outside. Slow rain. He looked up. Studied hard for a few minutes. "You see here? This is what I was saying about all the caulk joints being tight except that one." He looked. Finally, "Well, okay. I'm gonna have to get with some folks I need to talk to, and I'll have to get back with you." "Oh, that's great! Do you have an idea when they will have an answer for you?" I said brightly. "Uh, well, umh, I should hear back by Friday." "Okay, then, I look forward to hearing from you Friday, and listen, I REALLY appreciate you coming back out here like this. It's such a messy, dreary old day--so thanks!' I shoved my hand out and shook his, and he slowly walked to his truck and I went back in the house and ate my lunch. It tasted very good. Sometimes it pays to have a hard head. ALTHOUGH... They being contractors, I will not claim that I have won the war here. This was a minor skirmish, and though won decisively, there is still the possibility of further counterattacks or prolonged negotiations to sue for more favorable terms. Unconditional surrender, my friends. Unconditional surrender. Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
All for now, lovers of gristly Possumosity--tomorrow will be post-deficient due to my biweekly bureaucratic exercise regimen, and then later on tomorrow, I will be having my permanent crown fitted (I proclaim myself Permanent World Monarch) at the dentist, and then after that I will be meeting ONE LAST TIME with my contractor's warranty rep.
All in all, a day full of excrutiating excitement. Whee.
Adjust Your Permalinks!
Ron Bailey has moved to a new domain, and has started blogging again--his new URL is http://troutstream.org/, and it's now entitled The Riverkeeper. On Sunday, Ron noted that he was giving the blog thing one more try-- [...] Up till now, I have always had sort of a scattergun approach to the whole thing. "Give yourself plenty of leeway, don't paint yourself into a corner, keep everthing wide open" I would tell myself. Problem is, after two weeks of working at it, I would always look back and see, well, a rambling, unfocused mess. Which is NOT what I wanted. [...]Darned right, bucko! There's only room for one rambling, unfocused mess around here, and that's Possumblog!! (Ron also told me that he went and saw a new Honda Pilot this morning, although the one he saw did not come equipped with the optional Breastfeeding Soccer Mom like the one I saw. Just keep looking, Ron--there are bound to be more out there.)
Is it just me, or does fifteen minutes seem a lot shorter than it used to be? (AP) MSNBC fired Phil Donahue on Tuesday, abruptly ending the veteran talk show host's return to television after six months of poor ratings.Well, you know, the number of lobotomized research primates has declined markedly in the past few years. [...] The show's failure is "a footnote" to Donahue's career, [television news consulting firm ADT Research head Andrew] Tyndall said. "His legacy is unharmed," he said. "He invented an entire genre of television."Yes, I believe that was the one that gave rise to the term "vast wasteland." Buh-bye, Phil.
Despite my earlier post...
I really do love the information on the Internet. You can find just about anything, such as a 1936 Walker Evans photograph of a Birmingham, Alabama shop window full of penny portraits, or this Marion Post Wolcott picture showing what a 1939 Birmingham steel mill and worker housing looked like. Both of these came from the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Online Catalog, one of the few websites you could look at all day long and not think you're just wasting time.
You know...
As one of the most highly rated marsupial bloggers in the Metro Birmingham area, I am often called upon to answer questions both great and small. One intrepid reader happened upon Possumblog after asking that nice Jeeves fellow Describe what a blog is. Jeeves ever so politely sent our visitor to several sites, but obviously not finding an answer to his liking (even though Aussie Tim Cobber Mate was the first stop!), he came here. Well, now, let me begin by saying that I am by no means an expert on computational engines and their various paraphernalia, but this subject should lend itself well to my poor skills. First, the word "blog" itself is an abbreviated compound word, derived from the combination of "barouche," a four-wheeled cart with a folding top over the rear seat, "loach," a carplike freshwater fish, and "soubrette," a minor female part in a comedy, or any flirtatious girl in general. (Do note that they make "blob," not "blog." The "g" was inadvertently inverted by mistake, and was allowed to remain uncorrected.) These particular words were first sectioned then sewn together and used in 1965, as part of a top secret CIA experiment in distance viewing, wherein a team of 35 subjects were each locked into a room with a primitive keyboard device and urged to type recipes, random opinions of world affairs, movie reviews, humorous anecdotes, and pithy comments about the other test subjects. Over the course of many months, a pattern developed in which researchers noted that the three words never used by any of the test subjects were those above--barouch, loach, and soubrette--which analysts were able to conclude were coordinates of six different Russian missile sites along the Kamchatka Peninsula, as well as the possible plot of an Ingmar Bergman film. Records indicate that the test subjects were allowed to continue their work, and after a period of approximately 14 months, they all went mad and were institutionalized. The project was intended to remain locked within the intelligence community, but with the development of ARPANET, it was clear that the information security was compromised, or more shockingly, that the original test subjects had found a way to continue their previous activities. The network was continually inundated with texts of various ribald jokes, ASCII pictures of cats, accounts of trips to Woolworth's for batteries, and comments about Raquel Welch's breasts. Unable to control the seeping flood of inanity, various methods were attempted to keep the "blog" phenomenon from reaching the general population. Working node by node, agents were making progress with eliminating the more prolific practitioners of the science, but their efforts came to naught when in 1988, a then-senator from Tennesse named Albert Gore, Jr. began promoting the "Inter-Net" as a way of making an army of zombies. Thus throwing open the technological door, legions of users began clogging the electronic arteries of the country with yet more "bloggage," until a critical number was reached in 1998, and somebody said there were large amounts of money to be earned from zombies. Huge piles of "Dot Com" money was lavished upon tiny companies, who used it to develop ever more efficient software and purchase Aeron chairs. The boom continued, with ever greater numbers of the population signing on to various services, until one day, someone figured out that zombies aren't the best credit risk. All the companies went bankrupt, except those dealing in used office furniture, and one run by a young man named Ev, who managed to survive by gluing labels on shoe polish bottles. One day he was found on a curb by a kindly gentleman named Mr. Google, took him in and fed him, and saved him from a life on the streets. And that's what a blog is.
Does this mean that Cletus's political ambitions are now toast? Will the good citizens of Madison County elect a man to the County Commission who by his own admission, and by his own volition, took a test which proved him to be an Aaron Sorkin Big-L Liberal?
NO! Of course not--the folks that would vote for Cletus ain't got no use for that Internet foolishness.
Understatement
Well, you've probably already read stories about the shooting up in Huntsville this morning, but here is the latest: Standoff After Deadly Alabama Shooting [...] Police said the shooting occurred about 6:30 a.m. in the lobby of Labor Ready, where as many as 15 people were gathered waiting for work."Very unstable," eh? I would say so.
Why won't Blogger display my posts? Because it's all part of the new strategy of offering maximum consternation for the lowest possible price, that's why!! But how do they make any money on this? VOLUME, my friend!!
No sooner am I dumbstruck by the hilarity of a Nigerian e-mail scammer writing a letter to the Tooth Fairy, than I am further astonished to see that Mistress Ariaad has received YET ANOTHER letter, this one purporting to be from Mr. Ademola Williams, Bank Of The North, Lagos, Nigeria.
Things must be getting pretty difficult for these poor guys. Maybe they should just set up a PayPal account.
Nathan Lott Goes to Court...
And reads a very interesting book! Hamlin's Architecture Through the Ages, to be precise, in which Nathan notes that Hamlin's view of the growth of the Republic, and later Empire, of Rome is much less scathing than many of today's pseudosophisticates who think "Pax Americana" is an epithet. Hamlin notes that Rome's growth could not have come about without a high level of tolerance and acceptance of diversity among her citizens, coupled with a network of efficient commerce and a flair for organization. These qualities were made tangible in the built form of Roman architecture, which likewise showed a great flair for adaptation, innovation, functionality. The relative permanence of architecture, in contrast to the more transitory nature of other arts, was an impressive visible reminder of Rome's power throughout its realm, especially considering that the majority of all construction was done from public funds. Private property did exist, but generally the bases of power--markets, forums, temples, courts, coliseums, theaters, baths, aqueducts, roads, bridges, shipyards, docks--were built and maintained by the government. An architectural parallel of America's influence is much harder to find--obviously, the skyscraper is one of America's most visible innovations of form, but these are mainly constructed for profit by private groups, not as means to remind people of America's hegemony. The single family detached house, likewise, is a form more peculiar to America--which has long valued individualism, the sanctity of private property, and mobility for all its citizens, not simply a landed gentry. Again, however, as with the skyscraper, the 3BR 2BA Colonial w/ESIK, frml LR/DR, den w/FP, clg fans all rooms, is not really a very good symbol of a brutal American jackboot on the throat of the world. The closest thing to a formal architectural statement of power abroad would probably be our embassies, but even then, the federal government goes out of its way to insure that local architects and builders are employed in their construction, and the local building vernacular is respected. We don't plop down the White House in every country (although given some of our incredibly horrendous embassies, that might not be such a bad thing). If anything, our military bases are probably the closest thing to an architecture of power, but their form is intensely utilitarian. Although they can be seen as a symbol of power or greed or whatever (if you squint hard enough), they aren't meant to be a political statement in built form--they're just a place to take-off and land. The power of America's architecture, along with the rest of American culture, is not the result of our forcing it on everyone. Its power is that it is seen as useful and desireable by other people. There is not some bureacrat in Washington trying to make sure everyone in France speaks English, or that Britney Spears is in every record store in Madrid, or that every new building in Hong Kong is a glass box skyscraper. Free people create things, and free people are able to decide if they want to have those things. Maybe freedom, then, is the architecture of America. The world could do a lot worse. (Oh, and Nathan, Sophia's Deli has really good food--I always get the Howard Special--with slaw instead of potato salad.) Monday, February 24, 2003
As some of you know...
...I have a GeoCities site that I began a while ago B.B. (Before Blogger)--it has some stories about my dad's Navy service, and some links, and some silly stories similar to what I now pump out here. One of those stories is a recap of some letters my oldest daughter wrote to the Tooth Fairy a couple of years back. Little did she know that the Tooth Fairy has her own Yahoo e-mail acccount! Oldest wrote a flurry of letters back and forth to the Tooth Fairy (whose actual name is Ariaad Branwen Clyym de Arianrhod, by the way) and she was regaled with tales of Middle Earth and the exciting and profitable world of dental exchange. (It's not Multi-Level Marketing! It's not Illegal! And you can retire within 5 YEARS!!) Her excitement dimmed a bit when she told some kids at school about her experience, and I think she figured out from their reaction that something was amiss and after a couple more letters, she stopped. (Silly brats.) Anyway, I...I mean, Ariaad has kept the account open since then, and over the past year or two, the account has received a couple of messages--hard to tell if they were from actual kids or older folks being silly, but I...dang it, SHE answered them anyway. There was one letter from an older kid in Australia who acted a bit snotty, but the others have been generally benign. Until today. Because today, the e-mail account belonging to Mistress Ariaad Branwen Clyym de Arianrhod, Warrior of Caer Ibormeith, Gatekeeper of Dara, The Original Tooth Fairy, received the following: FROM:MRS.MARIAM ABACHACan there be anything sweeter than a Nigerian e-mail scammer sending something to THE TOOTH FAIRY!? Why yes, there can--a reply FROM the Tooth Fairy! Having pushed Mrs. Hanji Sal to the brink of sanity, it is now time to let loose the Wee Folk upon the Abacha family! Here is my reply: Dear Mrs. Abacha:Well, now, let's see what happens...
Well, hello there!
Come with me now as we hear the wondrous sounds of Happy Birthday; Rain; Sweet Home Alabama; Four Whiny Children; An Odd Clang; and Backfiring; otherwise known as My Weekend. Friday evening was blessedly free of having to haul anyone anywhere, so we got to stay home and do the normal week’s wrap-up of gathering up the laundry, and getting the kids ready for all their stuff Saturday, and the real big event, Little Girl birthday cake! Shoklit cake an shocklit icin, with blue flowahs, and six glitter sparkle candles AND a big candle with an electronic base having a flashing number 6 that we have had for years and always forgot about until when I changed the microwave several weeks back and had to clean out the cabinet. (I think this might have needed to be two or three sentences. Oh well) Anyway, we sang and Cat beamed with pride and blew out her candles and immediately started yanking them off, “I wanna lick the candles!!” An entire cake full of sugar and shortening, but PLEASE, some things are more important! We got through and it was off to bed for them and it was time for the parents to watch a movie. “I got this the other day—you want to watch it?” Sweet Home Alabama. The thought of plowing through YET ANOTHER chick flick, and this one with the added craptitude of Hollywood’s vision of my home, was almost too much to bear, even if it was on DVD. “Sure! Come on, and we’ll make some popcorn, too!” Remember fellows, if mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy. So I sat there and watched it. Including the outtakes. And the alternate ending. What a dumb movie—can’t decide whether to Make A Statement or be A Lighthearted Spoof, and in the end fails to do either. If the whole movie had been as good as the scene where Reese cold-cocks Murphy Brown, it would have been okay. It does have one thing going for it, Rhona Mitra as one of the fashion model hangers-on/Friend of Reese. Wow. But, no matter—I got to spend an hour and a half snuggled up with Miss Reba listening to the rain. That manages to cover a multitude of crappy movies. Although the sound of the rain wasn’t quite as dreamy as it should have been. Seems our chimney leak has gotten more pronounced—I could hear drops hitting the top of the fireplace insert. Not good. Saturday was going to be investigation day. But, before the forensic fun, there was getting the kids to their final horseback riding lesson. Up early Saturday, got dressed, answered some e-mail, ate breakfast, and rounded the three older ones up to go. I was really, REALLY hoping they would get a break, and figured with all the rain the night before that they wouldn’t have to ride. I called the barn and some woman answered and said she thought the lessons were going to be cancelled because they were going to a horse show. Hmm. I don’t mind being put off due to weather, but Another Commitment sorta irked me. Anyway, off to the camp and found out that, at least according to the instructor, the wind was too strong and it kept blowing deadwood out of the trees in the woods up the hill and was spooking the horses. No riding. Obviously, I didn’t want the kids on the back of a spooky horse, but after having had the earlier conversation, I was a bit dubious about the real reason. Not that I said anything—I had other things to do anyway, and there was also the matter of the lunchtime Chinese dinner for Cat’s birthday, and seeing what I could find in the attic. Back home, kids out of their horse clothes and into something—ANYthing—else to wear. And I got me a hammer. As you recall, the homebuilder came out last week and pronounced that our water troubles were all the fault of missing caulk on the corner boards. Remember, homeowners, corner boards are meant to be trimwork, not part of the building envelope, and that absence of caulk should have no effect on the watertightness of the exterior. He was convinced, however, that since there was flashing at the roof and at the small bumped out sections of the chimney, that they had done all they were supposed to do. Some things he should have noted in his “thorough” inspection— 1) The trim had separated only on one corner of the chimney. All other caulking was intact. 2) The interior damage was not of a type which would typically occur if their was a leak at the corner. 3) The mere presence of flashing does not mean that it was installed properly, nor that it is watertight. 4) He didn’t do any sort of hose test to ascertain at what point the water might be infiltrating. SO, then, mystery fans, come with me up to the attic. Watch your step and don’t go through the ceiling, please! Okay—here is where the flue enclosure is attached to the gabled end of the roof—there is a waferboard panel over it to keep it separated from the attic space. Uuuumph-creeeak-thump. (That was me pulling a nail. Repeat five times) Okay, the board is loose, and I now swing it slowly over to the side and… (wow, sorta like opening Al Capone’s vault, ain’t it!) and HOLY LOAD OF …the entire side of sheathing on the outside wall of the enclosure is black as coal, from the TOP TO THE BOTTOM! It even has little shelflike bits of fungus growing out of it like a tree trunk. This is Not Good. At All. Okay, so we have ascertained that it is indeed leaking, so where is it coming from? I shone the flashlight up to where the black line stopped. There was a nice concentric white mold stain right around…a nail. A nail that had penetrated the flashing on the outside, which just happened to be the one little tiny bit of roof that sloped INTO the side of the chimney. Well, it’s pretty clear now what happened. That little bit of slope directed water against the side of the chimney. Which is not a great thing, but not the worst thing, which is that the flashing that was put there to catch the water has a nice hole in it. Allowing water to run around the nail and start soaking into the sheathing. From Day One. As the sheathing grew saturated, the water continued to drain down over the years, puddling up at the various metal flue spacers and spreading around, until if finally got to the bottom and met Mr. Fireplace and decided to come on in to the den and visit for a while. The sheathing, having soaked up so much water, began to expand, which is what caused the corner boards to separate and the caulk joints to open up on that one corner. BUT, as you know, solving the mystery and solving the problem are two different things. I can see this being a long and involved contest of urinary output. But I take comfort in the words of a former client who works for the Postal Service Facilities Division. Once, when advised by a contractor that surely he didn’t want to get involved in such a battle of wills, he rather loudly said—“I eat barbed wire, and I piss napalm—the FIRST thing I want every DAY I WAKE UP is a pissin’ match!!” Forewarned is forearmed, gentlemen. Then it was time for Catherine’s Big Chinese Lunch! (Talk about your segues!) I had told my mom to just come by our house at 12:30 and follow us over, since she is skittish of going anywhere unfamiliar with a deadline looming. So she showed up at our house at 12. While I was still dripping wet from my shower. ::sigh:: Can’t get my wife and kids to not be late, can’t get my mom to not be early. Somewhere in there is SURELY a happy medium I like to call “On Time.” Yeah, I know, who am I kidding. Anywho, got finished getting dressed and we were out the door. As always, Palace was very nice, and for once, not crowded. We got in and got a table with no problem. Of course, for some reason, Reba’s mom decided photographs were in order. And not just one. Or two. Or three. AAAAGGHHHHH!!! Make it stop!! Oh well, it goes well with her habit of commenting loudly about other people she sees or overhears. Bless her heart. Got all through and quite full, and then it was time to go to…WAL-MART. Catherine had gotten some money for her birthday, and the other kids wanted to shop, too, so we went exploring. Cat’s selection was some Betty Spaghetty dolls (OOO, I just LOVES Basgheddy Getty!!), and a Barbie Sing With Me Microphone, a deal that hooks to your belt and has a microphone and a headset and multiple sound effects. The operative word being SOUND. Why is it I keep getting things that make noise? (Although, being the devious parents we are, Reba and I managed to show the children the horrors of such an instrument by singing Paul Anka’s Breaking Up Is Hard To Do with the echo effect on. Actually, we sound really good together, even on a cheap toy microphone, but it drives the kids absolutely BONKERS anytime we sing together. Heh.) Other selections included Spirit, the Mustang of the Old American West Which Is Also An Animated Movie, And His Family—With Loving Wife Horse Rain, and Baby Horse Which Has No Name, (But Does Go On To Be Immortalized In Song.) “OOOOOhhh, I just LOVES Spiwit!!” Actually, any toy horse is fair game to her. She could have them all, and would only want to get more. Got all through, after about 12 or 15 hours or so (might have been longer—I believe I lost consciousness in there sometime), and then it was home and time for scrubbing the kids and fakepooing their easily tangled hair. Thank goodness I have one little boy whose head can be washed and dried in five minutes. I was beat once they got into bed, and Sunday was going to be another killer. We had church, and then a nice banquet afterwards that for once I didn’t have to clean up after (the congregation was honoring the elders and deacons, so they gave us a break. This time.) After that, Cat had HER final horsey lesson, and Rebecca was simultaneously supposed to be at a soccer practice, and then not long after that, we were all supposed to be back at church for them to take a Bible Bowl quiz. Whew. And if the soccer fields were closed, we were supposed to practice some other place. And the team mom would leave a message to tell us where. That didn’t quite happen. No messages when we got home. We got Tiny Terror and Middle Girl changed (and this time I changed, too—no wandering around a soccer field in church clothes!) and Reba decided to take Catherine, and I got the other three and headed for the park. Black flag flying, which meant the field was closed, but even if it was closed we were supposed to meet there. But there was no one there. We waited, and then I announced we were going to Clay (the supposed alternative site) and see if they were there. Clay is just a bit northeast of Trussville—just up the road a bit, so off we went. Got to the field, annnnd. No one. Not a soul. Drove back by the fields at the elementary school. Annnnd, no one. Well CRAP! “Let’s go back home, kids!” Like they could disagree. Back down Deerfoot Parkway—beautiful blue sky, redbuds starting to bloom, wonder where everybody was, wonder if Reba is back at the house, at least I’ll have time to change clothes, the kids won’t be late for their Bible Bow...GRRRRRRRRTHUMP-UMP-UMP-UMP-BDDRDRDRDRDRDR—CLANGCLANG-CLANG-THWOMP-rumblerumblerumblePOP! “WHAT WAS THAT DADDY!?!” That was me, crying as another gaping hole appears in our bank account. I glanced up in the rear view mirror and saw something metal and serious-looking bounding down the road behind us after having been dropped out from under the hood. I didn’t have power steering left, but at least the engine was still going. “We seem to have lost a very important part of the engine, kids.” “WHAT PART, DADDY!?!” I pulled off, “Lemme go see.” I parked and walked back up the road. Well, there she was. Idler pulley. Same thing that had sheared off on the Olds, and now it appears it was time for it to come off the van, too. I stooped down and grabbed it and looked at the mounting stud. Clean break. ::sigh:: Back to the van, lifted the hood, and thankfully, nothing else looked bent or broken, but there was no sign of the serpentine belt anywhere. This connects the power steering pump and the water pump and the alternator, all of which are necessary things to have. I closed it back up and started trying to figure out how to get Reba to come get me. She had the phone, but I knew it wasn’t on. I decided to find someplace and call home and wait for her to come get us. I thought if I could make it up to the vet clinic ahead I would at least have a better place to pull off and wait. I gingerly cranked it back up, half expecting to hear it explode. It didn’t. Hmm. I put it in gear, half expecting to hear it explode. It didn’t. HMm. I started off, and aside from having manual steering fighting against the front wheel drive and a pair of big Goodyear gumballs, it seemed like it was driveable. Poor little kids were now in the clutches of It’s Never To Broke To Drive To A Garage Daddy Man. My goal—Gray Automotive. Distance—Five miles or so. Onward. Except for an occasional transmission hiccup (I figure caused by the fluctuating battery current, since I had lost alternator power) and a temp gauge that got a bit too high for comfort, I actually got to Highway 11. Even if I got no further, this alone was pretty impressive. Not satisfied, though, so I turned right and figured I would go till it quit. Got to the traffic lights in Trussville, and who pulled up beside us and blew the horn? “HEY!! It’s MOMMY!” They were coming back from Camp Coleman and had managed to cross our paths at just the right moment. I rolled the window down and told her to follow us, and we got all the way to Gray’s. Success. Of a sort. Benny was even in the shop, although it wasn’t open, but he wrote up my ticket anyway and I left him the key. Back home, changed clothes, and we all piled in the car and made it back to church with ten minutes to spare. (Forget that part I wrote earlier about being “on time.”) So, they did their thing, and I read the paper, and we got back home, and we put them to bed, and I went through and put the snacks in the backpacks and signed the notebooks, and this morning thanked the Lord that I have Franklin the F-100 to fall back on as alternative transportation. Although Ashley was embarrassed to be seen in it as we pulled up at the middle school. Lucky for her it hadn’t started backfiring yet. And that’s it. Two fun-filled, action-packed days in suburbia. And how was your weekend? Friday, February 21, 2003
In A Very Weekend Condition...
It's nowhere near time to leave yet, but that shouldn't stop a boy from wishing, should it? Of course not. Last night was a killer--from work, straight to the soccer park where Mom handed over Middle Girl and Boy for me to watch, while she went home to get supper started AND simultaneously take Oldest to Jungle Book Rehearsal--after soccer I brought the kids home, then had to go get gas in Reba's car, then go pick up Oldest from Jungle Book Rehearsal. In between all the relaxing driving around Paradise-on-Cahaba, there was much walking. Jonathan's practice was on a field completely across the park from Rebecca's, so I spent the whole time going from one to the other to make sure they didn't get into any mischief and trying to track down the lady who knew who Catherine's coach was going to be. Found her on ANOTHER field, so I detoured down and, thank heavens, Cat has a different coach from the one in the fall. As an added bonus, one of her little kindergarten friends is on the team and her friend's dad is the coach, so it should be much more enjoyable for her. She got new cleats for her birthday and has been about to bust to try them out. The park was full, as usual, although sadly I did not see Breck Girl Mom, or our rear-yard, looks-like-a-young-Phyllis George neighbor mom, but maybe they'll show up when practices get started in earnest. I did see a brand new Honda Pilot in the parking lot on one of my many traverses--we can't afford to get anything right now, and even if we could, we probably would opt for another minivan instead of a Pilot, but they are still interesting for no other reason than their ability to seat eight. Or one and a half. I decided on one of my rounds that I should be nosey and see what this one looked like inside so I traipsed up the hill and came alongside it and was just about to raise my hand and squint inside the window when I caught a glimpse of something in the second row...a...oops... an occupant. I had slowed my pace a bit and was just about to ask her if she would mind if I looked at her car when I noticed that she had a bundle across her chest. Wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. YIKES!! BREASTFEEDING WOMAN!!! AAGHHH!! I just kept walking on past and then stood there in the driveway, looking both ways, acting like I was looking for someone...hmmmm, nope nobody up that way....ahhhh, nope, "they" aren't down that way, either. Hmm. Welllll, I guess I'll just mosey overrrr HERE and wait for "them" somewhere else. I ducked into the men's room and decided that it would be better to go to the dealer and look. Went and watched Jonathan some more, then went back and watched Rebecca, whose team had started a scrimmage. I stood up at the top of the field and noticed that the world was out of alignment, since I had gotten on the same side of the field as the tall, thin, balding dads. The short, fat, bushyhaired ones (well, there is one guy who looks like Drew Carey, right down to the buzz cut and BCUs) were clean across on the other side of the field. I wish I had made the effort to move, because I was soon discovered by two little feral four-year-old boys. "HEY! HEY! You is a BABY! I DON LIKE YOU! YOU STUPID!" Little turds. "Well, young fellows, you don't have very good manners." "YOU DUMB! BABY!" Good grief. I leaned down to the closest one, "Son, where's your mother?" "She HOME!" ::sigh:: "Well, where's your dad, then? You really need to go find him." "I DON KNOW. He somewhere ove dere." Ass. Of course, if my kids acted like this, I'd abandon them at the soccer park, too. "You've never had a spanking before, have you?" Vigorous head shake side-to-side--"NO!! I don get NO spankins." Figures. "YOU BIG STUPID DUMB BABY MAN!!" They finally went off to go get hurt or fall down a hole or something so their loving parents can sue somebody for their own neglectfulness. For what it's worth, my children have never, and will never, talk to an adult like that. Or else. Anyway, practice over, got the kids home and got them started taking their baths, then went back out to get some sweet, sweet OIIIIILLLLLL (actually a refined petroleum product I like to call GASSSSS-o-LEEEEEEEN) in the Oldsmoboogie, then back over to the theater to pick up Oldest and watch a minute or two of rehearsal. Wow, hell hath no fury like community theater. Keep chewing up the scenery like that and you're not gonna have any left. Thankfully, the wolf parts had all been done, so Ashley got to leave and we could get home and get something to eat. At nearly nine p.m. Just a tip, but it's best not to eat spicy chicken with onions and peppers and tomatoes two hours before beddy-bye. Unless you just really like being chased all night by huge, angry, red-eyed poultry. Tomorrow is the final day of pony riding for the older three, and then we are going to take Catherine out to her favoritest restaurant for her no-little-kids-just-family-members birthday dinner (the hyperactive-little-friends skate date is next weekend). She decided she wanted to go to Palace, the swankiest of the Chinese joints in T'ville, over by the movie theater and across the parking lot from her other most favoritest place, Wal-Mart. She has quite the sophisticated palate, you know, as well as a finely tuned ability to find toys. I am forgetting something else we're supposed to do, but for the life of me I can't remember what it is. I'm sure that I'll get informed five minutes before it happens. Anyway, y'all have a good weekend and I'll see you Monday.
Interesting question, eh?
Had a visitor earlier who Asked Jeeves when will a new moon be over Baghdad. According to the calendar on my wall, the new moon will be Monday, March 3 at 02:36 GMT, which works out to 6:36 PM EST. Which is just in time for the evening news--I figure there will be a few more things over Baghdad that night than just the new moon. (Probably why this story says : "The lower house of the Russian parliament called on Friday for legislators from around the world to meet in Baghdad next month to discuss how to stave off a U.S. attack on Iraq -- a dramatic idea that seemed unlikely to materialize. [...] The measure, passed by a 377-1 vote in the 450-seat State Duma, called for countries to send parliamentary representatives to Baghdad on March 4-7 [...]") "Sooner, not later," indeed.
"JR est bien plus intelligent que George Bush", selon l'ex-acteur de Dallas
Golly, when the French decide Larry Hagman is the Voice of Reason, you know they are up a creek. The story is about an interview Hagman did with the German paper Der Tagesspiegel to promote his autobiography. My French skills are non-existent (just like my English skills), but basically Hagman is saying that Bush isn't near as smart as J.R. was (what is is with these Hollywood sorts who think their fictional characters are somehow smarter than real people? I guess I should ask President Bartlet, eh?) and that J.R. was crafty and ruthless, but managed to connive his way to getting what he wanted without violence. Hagman goes on to say that if Bush attacks Iraq, tens of thousands will die without reason, and further, Hagman says something like Bush is a evil, ignorant fellow who doesn't get out of America much, and is leading us all into fascism. When asked if Bush knows what Hagman thinks of him, Hagman replies that it doesn't matter, and that Bush doesn't even know what fascism is. Larry Hagman. Actor, author, idiot, spokesman for the Union Members Discount Network. Bless his little heart. UPDATE: Here is the link to the Der Tagesspiegel's artikle, and a link to the Google translation of the interview. As with most computer translation, a lot gets mangled, but there is one nice bit down at the bottom-- We travel much. For example past week after Texas.Yes, it's amazing--you don't spout this crap at home because you figure it might damage your career (such as it is), but once you're in Germany, you figure you can say anything and some dumb ol' cracker in Alabama won't hear about it and post it on his silly little blog. Wow, you know, J. R. is a LOT smarter than you. UPDATE II: Here is a link to the English version of the AFP story--for some reason the only English version is at Yahoo Singapore. Go figure.
Lots of exciting poop this morning (not really, same old stuff, but told with brand new electrons), but I have some real work to do before I get around to the blather. Thursday, February 20, 2003
Many Thanks to Quana!
Just bounded over there, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a banner proclaiming her proud membership in the Axis of Weevil! (The Blue Ribbon Campaign and the Movement of Iranian Students must be so proud to have us wedged in betwixt them.) Next stop--CafePress!
Once again with the flummoxation by tabulating machine…
I don’t seem to be able to catch a break—yesterday Blogger was spiked all day, then I get back from lunch and find someone in DP has yanked the string out of my tin can. Not just no Blogger, but no Internet AT ALL. ::sigh:: Oh, well. What better way to pass the time than working on my carpal tunnel syndrome some more by providing you yet another excerpt from my little Christmas gift from sweet Reba, Everyone’s Writing-Desk Book, (the 1903 edition) written by Charles Nisbet and Don Lemon. Today, the boys were talking about Words and Their Mutual Congruity, in which they paid special attention to the organic nature of language; using native speech in lieu of foreign; and gave a unique exegesis on the growth of Romance languages out of their pure and sturdy Latin roots (except, strangely, German, which in their eyes seems to have sprung fully formed from the dank, mossy forests of Prussia—thus explaining words like “Schönheitsgefühl.”) All fine and dandy, until they come to a beastly mongrel— English a Mixed Tongue.—Unhappily, in some wise, the English tongue is a manifold blend. The grit and staple of it, however, is Anglo-Saxon, and no speaker or writer need hope that his words will find their way straightly and tellingly to the great body of English-speaking folk, if his speech do not ring, most of all, of Anglo-Saxon. It is Anglo-Saxon that names all the homely things, whether in cotter’s house, in workshop, or afield, in Britain, and all the homely bearings that British folk hold to one another. Anglo-Saxon are sun, moon, and stars; winds, waters, and seas; hill, dale, stream, brook, and burn; wood, bush, tree, timber, hurst, holt, weald, field, meadow, grass, turf, and hay; father and mother, husband and wife, children, son and daughter, sister and brother; farm, house, town, home, hearth, roof, fireside, and hall; birth, wedding, and death; cradle and bed; sleep and slumber; garden, horse and cow, geese, cocks and hens, laverock and linnet; daisies and buttercups; head, face, eye, nose, ear, tongue, chin, neck, breast, limbs, arms, fingers, etc., etc. It is Anglo-Saxon that sees, hears, smells, smacks, feels, handles, walks, strolls, talks, sings, whistles, plays, dances, works, ploughs, harrows, reaps, spins, weaves, builds, rigs ships, sways land and sea, and, doing most of the rough and hard toil of the world, speaks the words of truth and pith.Sounds about right to me. Now it's off to my secrete remote bunker to post this. UPDATE: Well, trying to post this has been problematic. I tried e-mailing it to myself at my Yahoo account from work, but since apparently everything is down here, it didn't go through. Luckily, I had the foresight to save it on a disc and took it with me to the Bunker. Unluckily, the silly computers that were available at the Undisclosed Location don't have any sort of word processor program. (All the ones with Word were taken up by homeless guys and students.) Thinking very slowly, I decided to save it to my Yahoo Briefcase thingy. Tried to open it and got a huge amount of Wordpad goobledygook, but figuring I could edit in Blogger, I cut it anyway. Then went to Blogger and hit Paste. Got this--ø#[]. Crap. Turned it off and came back over here and met up with our MIS guy in the lobby, who says that there's a building up the street with a big DS3 line we route through, and it's their line that's down, and until BellSouth could fix it, nobody was doing anything for several blocks around. ::sigh:: Got a Coke from the snack bar, and came up here and HEY! IT WORKS!!
The Seat Shall Rise Again...Ga. Man Invents Toilet 'Courtesy Wand' STATESBORO, Ga. - Four years ago, when his mother couldn't bend over to lower the toilet seat, Emory Jones sprang into action.Couple of thoughts here--First, is this a great country or what? Second, please notice that this boon to mankind didn't come out of any snooty Yankee research university, but is the product of a fertile Southern mind. "You really have to use it to appreciate it," Jones said.That's what I keep telling Miss Reba... His mother was recovering from triple bypass surgery when she had her encounter with the toilet, so when she yelled for his help, Jones feared she had suffered a heart attack.No word on the position of her drawers at the time of the request. The wand is a contoured rod with a hook for the lid on one end and a handle on the other. It might look simple, but Jones struggled with several variations before settling on the final version.Well, you know what Edison said--5% inspiration, 95% perspiration. Anyway, some more thoughts--First, is this a great country or what!? 20 bucks for a stick with a hook on it (i.e. a backscratcher). Second, seems like this would also be good for hitching up your drawers, too. "You ought to see some of the crude drawings I first came up with," he said.One can only imagine. Godspeed, Emory! (And Cletus, too!)
Possumblog News Center's Minnesota Correspondent Toni Albani (who has been snowed in her Frostbite Falls home since late August) sends the following dispatch: Terry - I got a guffaw from this, hope you will too. Tractor leads officers on low-speed chase to South DakotaIt is, indeed, a story worthy of the Coen Brothers-- Robert FranklinTHAT, my friends, is a TRACTOR!! And, Deal said, when he told them about the fuel and "they knew that thing would go for 24 hours without stopping, they were a little concerned."When reached for comment, sheriff's department officials were quoted as saying, "Yup, we were a little concerned." The chase didn't last 24 hours.Aww, darn. But it went on for more than 20 miles until the tractor crossed into South Dakota and rammed a patrol car and two pickup trucks at a Hutterite colony near White Rock.Did you say, HUTTERITES!?! No one was injured, but the squad car and one pickup were totaled. A 29-year-old man from Herman, Minn., was jailed.Maybe it's just me, but I think 'insufficient illumination while under way' was probably the least of their worries. I could be wrong, though... Some reports had the tractor traveling at up to 30 miles an hour, but Deal said the likely top speed was 22 to 24.I don't know, it might have got up to 24.6, although if it bogged down a bit, it might only get to 19.35. But 30? Yeah, that's WAY too fast. Unless it was downhill part of the way, and he got on some ice. Mighta got up to 29.21 or so. Dany Pederson, general manager of Pederson's Agri-Sv implement dealership in Herman, said, "They're a pretty hefty tractor. It's not the speed that's going to cause the damage, it's the bulk of it."Much like 'it's not the fall that kills you, it's that sudden deceleration at ground level.' That is a pretty hefty tractor, though, just like he says. By the way, please be sure and stop by Pederson's Agri-Sv, newest sponsor of Possumblog--the open house is March 21st--don't miss it! Anyway, on with our story...just HOW did this all come to be, you may ask-- The chase started after a 2:30 a.m. call to 911 from someone seeking a ride -- a call apparently made by the driver himself after his pickup truck had run into a snowy ditch. The man apparently walked 1 1/2 miles, past another farm, to Deal's father's place, where he found the Steiger Panther 325 with a key in it.Obviously, he had to drive something, he was too drunk to walk any further. Oh, and by the way, I give you the Steiger Panther 325, in all of its seductive glory. (Well, it's actually the Case-IH version--Case bought out Steiger a while back.) "Anything else he got into wouldn't have started," said Deal, who with four other family members farms 3,000 acres of crops between Herman and Wheaton.Yup, lost or disoriented, I speculate. Meanwhile, the Grant County Sheriff's Office in Elbow Lake,Okay, look--when you've got Ten Thousand Lakes, you're gonna have to start naming them after anything you can think of, including out of the way body parts. Just be glad you don't live near a lake named after something gynocological. which had received the 911 call, dispatched deputy Dale Christopherson to find the stranded motorist.Yup, musta been goin', oh, what say, 4, 4 1/2, mebbe even 5 mile an hour. The deputy had to take evasive action twice when the tractor reversed direction and drove directly at him, the sheriff said.Thus providing a rich source of stories for years to come... At the White Rock colony, the tractor swung around and plowed into the back of Christopherson's car, Montonye said.Better'n new! "It never crossed our mind that someone would steal a tractor with a chisel plow in your own yard," he said.Well, you know, it's them kids watching that MTV and drinking all that Zima and stuff. Used to be a body could leave his snowplow on the street with the engine running and no one would bother it, and now you can't even leave the keys in it in your own yard. Of course, you don't even wanna think what he woulda done if it didn't have the plow on there and woulda had the rake or the drill or the moldboard or the spray rig or the disc on there. "It's a happy ending that nobody got hurt."Except for the tractor. Anyway, that's not the end of the story--looking at today's paper, we see the following: Tractor-chase suspect charged, jailed in S.D. Thomas Arthur Dahl, 29, of Herman, Minn., has been charged in conjunction with a low-speed tractor chase early Tuesday in western Minnesota and eastern South Dakota.Look, just 'cause he was drunk doesn't mean he wasn't polite. Anyway, many thanks to Toni--I almost posted your dentist story, but thought you might not want that much information out there, especially the part about having to clean up someone else's Technicolor yawn in your dad's dental office. (Then again, if enough people want to hear it, the Editorial Staff may have to bow to the will of the readers...)
Meth lab tools found in dorm VIVI ABRAMSWow, I bet they get in trouble with the dorm manager, too, for having a hotplate! (NO, I don't knowt he guy from Trussville. Although I'm sure his parents are very proud of all the stuff he learned in chemistry class.)
Alabama's Newest Product...
Riley may export inmates DAVID WHITE "The state of Alabama saying we can't run state government in the state of Alabama." Hey, Mac, admitting you have a problem is the first step.
Glue my urethra shut, then consume five gallons of Diet Coke at one sitting...
Repeatedly gouge my eyeballs with a spork... Say, "Why, yes, now that you mention it, your butt does look huge in those pants." These are just three of the things I would rather do than meet with the warranty guy from the company that built my house. As you may remember, back in December one of the fellows came out to see about the water leaking into the wall above our fireplace, and proceeded to unload a big steaming pile about the house mystically being able to suck rainwater into itself. But he promised they would do something. So for three months they hid. The big ugly water spot has in the intervening time gotten larger, and more paint has let loose. Not nice. I left a couple of calls the past two weeks, and finally got someone to call me back, who seemed baffled, simply baffled, that no one had come and cheerfully tended to my problem. Yes, it is a mystery, all right. So he said he could come this morning. So I waited on him. I will stop now to say that it is wrong to hate people. I will say that it is wrong to stereotype certain occupations as being more dishonest than others. I will say that the construction process is complicated and demands workers and supervisors with a high degree of skill and knowledge. I will say that as an architect, I would rather be around most construction workers than most architects. Having said all that, I will say that once we implement Shakespeare's solution for the lawyers, that we start with home builders next. Oh, he was thorough in his examination--looked in the fireplace, got up in the attic, looked in the kids' bedrooms, looked at the wall outside--but, true to form, decided that the open caulk joint on the corner boards of the little framed-in flue enclosure was the cause of the inside problem. And you know, caulking is the owner's responsibility. Despite the fact that the corner boards are merely trimwork and aren't meant to be a moisture barrier, and despite the fact that there is a layer of sheathing under the siding that should catch anything not kept out by the caulking, and despite the fact that the water somehow has to travel three feet horizontally to actually get to the inside wall... ::sigh:: Good thing I'm a not a violent person. At least on the outside. Wednesday, February 19, 2003
Well, now I've done it...
I mentioned the story yesterday about the wild hogs loose in Florida, suggested they call Billy Joe Bob's BBQ Emporium, and managed to get Cletus upset!! [...] Cletus just came in from reading Mr. Possum and said that he thought that Mr. Possum was our friend. Bubba asked what made him think otherwise. Cletus said that Mr. Possum had insinuated that we used wild pigs for our barbeque. [...]I never said no such thing, but you know how perception becomes reality if allowed to go on, so let me say one more time that Cletus and Bubba and Billy Joe Bob have no greater friend in the world than the editorial staff here at Possumblog, and that in no way did we intend to demean the fine porcine products so ably and tenderly smoked and flavored by the gentlemen at the Emporium. We regret any confusion over the intent of the comment about the news story--our only thought was to 1) point the authorities to someone better able to dispatch hogs with supreme efficiency, 2) dispose of the carcasses in an enviromentally-friendly and flavorful way, 3) allow Cletus and them the opportunity to go to Florida on someone else's dime, 4) provide the necessary basis for a long and interesting series of posts for the Compleat Redneck weblog, 5) such posts maybe being useful for the Emporium, its staff, and various and assorted hangers-on to parley into high-paying careers in the money-laden publishing industry. In fact, should any of you wish to know some of the money-making secrets that have propelled Possumblog into the lucrative and exciting world of literature, please send me $20 (U.S. currency only) and a self-addressed stamped envelope and you will receive "Secret Get Rich Quick Ideas That Can Fit in a SASE!"* So, boys, please accept my humblest apologies for any mistaken or mispoken words on my part. *(Void where prohibited. For entertainment purposes only. Results may vary. Certain statements contained on this Site, including statements regarding events and financial trends that may affect our future operating results, financial position and cash flows, may constitute forward-looking statements within the meaning of the federal securities laws. These statements are based on our assumptions and estimates and are subject to risks and uncertainties. You can identify these forward-looking statements by the use of words like "strategy," "expects," "plans," "believes," "will," "estimates," "intends," "projects," "goals," "targets" and other words of similar meaning. You can also identify them by the fact that they do not relate strictly to historical or current facts. For these statements, we claim the protection of the safe harbor for forward-looking statements provided by the Private Securities Litigation Reform Act of 1995. Remember, possums have brains the size of a walnut.)
Bloogle is hammered ONCE AGAIN this morning, proving that the much-heralded buyout of Pyra Labs by Google will have no discernable effect on the reliability, stability, and usability of Blogger and Blog*Spot.
Anyway, since there is no way at the moment for me to post anything, I am just gonna collect stuff here on my handy Word 2000 piece of paper and post them sometime in the far distant future. (Yes, I realize everyone else will have already read and commented on all the newscrap by the time I finally get it posted—but, no one else’s stuff will be NEAR as bland or monotonous.) First up: Powell: Anti-War Nations 'Afraid' of Duty …Nations Shout, “ARE NOT!”—Storm Off to Room and Cry …Nations Rebuke Powell, Say ‘Duty’ Just One Thing Among Many Of course, this sort of talk by anyone in the Administration will not do much to get the F-words to act any less…well, French. They’ll just throw their arms around and fume about these low-class rubes who have the temerity to call them fraidy-cats. (Which are related to polecats, which are related to weasels, so I guess it all works out now, doesn’t it.) Just got off the e-mail box and it appears that some folks are experiencing Blogger trouble and some aren’t. Wonder if someone’s hacking on them since they made the big time. Or if it’s just more of the same crappy service. Oh well, at least it’s free. Next up: How much does it cost to be an accessory to murder? According to this story, about the conviction of Moroccan “student” Mounir el Motassadeq, the punishment is 1.798 days (more or less—I didn’t figure leap years in there) of incarceration per life taken. 3,045 live lost, and 15 years in the slam. 43 hours and some change for each infidel. Hmm. From the Home Front: Housing Construction Strongest Since '86 Wonder how long it will be before a particular political party starts saying this is bad news? From Yankeeland: Former Sen. Moseley-Braun says it's time to take the 'men only' sign off White House Well, you know there was that magical time when the sign read “Dim, Fleshy Young Interns Welcome.” Anyway, in order to help things along, Carol, here’s your sign. Well, now—I have moved to an undisclosed remote location to see if the stupid Blogger deal is the fault of stupid Blogger or my stupid connection at work—annnnnd, it appears it must be something wrong in general. I just checked the Booger Status Page and see that they are supposed to be installing new computerized something-or-others either today or tomorrow. (It was posted at 0119 Wednesday, which to Ev might seem to still be Tuesday). I just now checked back in after a nice lunch of blackened catfish, green beans, and steamed carrots, and see that it is STILL not working, at least for some of us. At least it’s free. Strangely enough, the lunch wasn’t. Hmmm. Not Quite So Dumb-- Five Questions With Jeff Daniels 5. Any regrets about moving back to Michigan?As I said, not quite so dumb… Finally! 3:00 and the silly thing’s working again—nope, wrong big guy. I can get the edit page, but nothing will post. ::sigh:: Here it is! The blogjam has finally unblocked itself!! (At nearly 4 p.m.) I have it on good authority that all of the Blogger servers have been replaced with a room full of Magic 8-Balls. Of course, it's nearly time to go, so time for one more story... To end, a short article close to home-- Leeds plans festival, parade for war medal recipients Leeds is a town east of Birmingham and was home to three Medal of Honor recipients. Their citations may be read on the US Army’s Center of Military History Website. ERWIN, HENRY E. (Air Mission)Erwin died last year. LAWLEY, WILLIAM R., JR. (Air Mission)Lawley died in 1999. McLAUGHLIN, ALFORD L.McLaughin died in 1977. May they all now rest in peace. Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Seems like there was something I was forgetting….
Oh yeah—the much anticipated, full and mind-numbing recitation of my weekend. Sorry, no ninjas. Anyway, Friday evening I got home and a particular wife and mother was beyond frazzled with uncooperative chilluns, making the prospects of cashing in on a post-Valentine’s Day date-without-the-kids-night grow dimmer by the moment. I managed to buttonhole a couple of the younger ones and began pleading with them to allow Daddy one small bit of joy by doing all in their power to make their loving Mommy very happy. “Because children,” (yes, you know what’s coming) “if Mama’s not happy, NO ONE’S happy. Capiche?” “Huh? Daddy, what does ‘cuh-PEESH’ mean?” “It means, ‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME that if my wife is not perky and movie-ready that Daddy will get the most supreme disappointment he has seen in the last 3 or 4 hours, which will be NOT THE LEAST BIG GOOD for anyone who can hear me talking right now?’” They looked at each other, “Yes, sir?” Good answer. So they started fighting over who had what game in whose Gameboy. ::sigh:: Got their seabag packed, finally, and smooshed them into the van and headed off down the hill to the wonderful land of Grandmama and Grandpapa. (In a not-the-least-bit-related story, 30 minutes after we went down the hill, this accident happened where we had just driven by. We use this route all the time, and Reba has already had a close call. ::shiver::) They pile out and we were off again, and THANK THE LORD Fun Wife was slowly returning. YES! Got our popcorn and Cokes and settled in to watch Chicago. Movie Review Time Gangland Chicago, speakeasies, gunplay, women of questionable virtue—what more could you want?! It was a bit odd to watch, because the 1975-Fosse-ness of it really shines through, which in this case is not a bad thing at all, but still less like watching a new-for-2003 movie than watching Cabaret or The Pajama Game. As for the stars, Renee Zellweger is just about perfect as Roxie Hart, but needs desperately to gain some poundage. 10 or 20 all over. Please. On the other hand, Catherine Zeta-Jones is jusssst right, like a bowl of butter pecan ice cream with hot fudge sauce. And a darned fine hoofer, too. Richard Gere was in the movie, too, looking spiffy and I guess he was okay for all the girls to look at. Overall, give it an A, but with all the shooting and adulterating and hanging and mayhem and language, it’s NOT for little kids. Got out and went across the parking lot to shop at Wal-Mart for something for Cat’s birthday and for once, managed not to spend huge hunks of dough—and got someone very happy again by finding the soundtrack to the movie we had just seen. Whatever it takes… Saturday was horse-bothering lessons for the older three, with the added bonus of my sister tagging along. She came up from Mobile for a day or two, and for some reason decided that she wanted an alternate route to my house. “Just go the way you know!” “I don’t want to.” ::sigh:: Gave her very explicit instructions based entirely on right and left turns. No confusing signs, no landmarks, just turn left or right at the intersections. (I don’t remember the street names in my neighborhood, and since all the houses look alike, no use trying to give directions based on unique buildings.) 30 minutes later, she called and was lost at the foot of the hill. No amount of cajolery could convince her that if she would JUST FOLLOW THE DIRECTIONS she would wind up at our house, so I went and led her home. “Oh, well, where you said ‘turn right’, it just didn’t look like the right place.” Logic. Must. Not. Use. Logic. “But if you don’t know what the neighborhood looks like, how can you say whether it looked right or wrong—just turn when you come to the ONLY FOUR WAY STOP ON THE ROUTE!” “But that didn’t look right.” ::sigh:: Got the kids in the van, got Sis in the van, started out—“Can we stop and get something to drink?” This was from my sister, not my kids. My kids know better. “I want some Propel Fitness Water.” Hmm. Let’s see, lessons start in fifteen minutes, and we are exactly thirteen minutes out. ::sigh:: “Yeah, I reckon, but I don’t think the Main Street Exxon is gonna have your Propel Separate-Silly-People-From-Their-Money Water.” At least it gave me the opportunity to get some breakfast—all the kids had eaten, but poor Daddy still had not. I’ll wait a moment for you to dry your tears. There now, as I was saying, Exxon station and water. Walked in and lo and behold, there in the cooler were bottles and bottles of this junk. Whaddya know. Scooped up one and then proceeded to pick out my morning repast. Mmmm! Vienna sausage and crackers. Lest any of you think me a poor retarded redneck, I’ll have you know that Viennas have come a long way—they ARE still pronounced ‘VIE-inners,’ but our good friends at Hormel now have flavorful and satisfying selections such as the Jalapeno, the Smoked, and the Hot and Spicy! (Not that they advertise the fact that they even make this stuff—the only mention on their website is to say that these little tasty snacks have no gluten. Whew. And this definition.) I chose the meaty Smoke flavor, and the rich and juicy Hot and Spicy. And crackers? NO plain saltines for ME! No, as a refined connoisseur of flavor, the choice had to be Better Cheddars. Now THAT is Vie-inners and crackers for us swanky sorts. Got to the barn with five seconds to spare and sat there for two hours shooting the breeze with my sister about nothing in particular, eating my food, and having great fun watching the kids try to steer their ponies. The weather kept threatening rain, and the horses had decided that they were about fed up with carrying folks, so they were very recalcitrant. Poor little Little Boy was having the worst of it with Fritz, one of the camp’s little Haflingers. All muscle, all stubborn. The horse, not Boy. They were all ready to head home after that was over. Which we did. Home again, and time for housecleaning and childscrubbing, and then later on there was a quick trip to Target thrown in there, to shop for a wedding gift for one of the girls from church. We found The Good Space, right in front of the store and Reba disappeared inside while I tried my best to listen to the radio and ignore the border war in the back seats. After an agonizingly long wait, Reba came back with all sorts of stuff, even with what she went in to get in the first place, and then it was time to head home. Long, long day. Sunday was cold and drizzly (but I’m not complaining, seeing as how folks a couple of hundred miles north got the worst of it) and it didn’t look like Middle Girl was going to get to go to soccer and Baby Girl was not going to get to do her pony riding. Which was fine by me. After church, we puttered around and got some lunch, and then got home where to my shock I found that Cat DID have horseback riding, which necessitated me yanking off her dress and pretty shoes (which she informed me that morning were too small) and put her in some sweats. I, on the other hand, had no time to change. Meaning I had to go to Funkyhorseland in my nice wool two-piece suit and wingtip shoes. Yes, thanks for asking, it was a very strange sight. It misted off and on the entire time, so I sat in the van and read the paper—Prince Valiant and Dilbert were the highlights. Tot got finished and we headed back when she reminded me that her church shoes still hurt. I looked back at her—hair frizzled up from the rain, shirt dirty as a horse, pants covered with sandy mud, little lace up boots equally covered with mud—“Okay, let’s go to Wal-Mart!” So I in my suit and the little girl I scooped out of the dumpster went and found some very pretty black patent leather Mary Janes. “Ooooo, these is VERY pretty!” She was VERY proud—“Yes, well So. Are. YOU!” She giggled like a maniac. (Apple doesn’t fall far from the maniac tree, I suppose.) Back home, found wife and other kids vanished without a trace, and figured out that not only was it not too wet for ponies, it likewise wasn’t too wet for soccer practice. They finally got back and after another quick change it was time to head back to church. (Boy, I’m getting tired just reading back over this.) Grabbed some supper, then it was time to get back to the house and collapse like Lil’ Abner on my bed. So, that was my weekend! You are to be commended for staying all the way to the end, even without the contrivance of angry ninjas. (And yes, the combined effects of popcorn and momentary freedom and movie and a slight chill in the air all had a most salutary effect on Miss Reba’s disposition.)
Fun with Referrer Logs
Although I was working hard yesterday, I did have the foresight to occasionally drop by the room full of Cray supercomputers in the basement of the Possumlair and paw through the billi...thousan...small but interesting variety of search strings which visitors have used to find their way to this magical place. Such as... barefooted cockroach Poor little things, scrabbling around in the cold with nothing but rags on their feet. wedding gift idears From Down Under, no less! Well, the best thing I can say is that a good dictionary is always appropriate for any occasion. sela ward the day after tomorrow nude Hmm. Since this was from yesterday, by my calculations, this event will occur tomorrow. I may not get much done tomorrow. dodge caravan boiling noise I have a Plymouth Voyager, which is identical to the Caravan aside from labeling, and I am quite familiar with this particular noise. That boiling noise is the sound of money leaving your bank account. Finally, one intrepid searcher simply could not escape the pervasive influence of Possumblog, no matter how many different ways he typed in the search string--first, at 12:14 pm there was governor george wallace called lynyrd skynyrd I never heard him called that particular name, but I'll take your word for it. Then at 2:23 pm, our intrepid searcher is back with Governor George Wallace HONOR Lynyrd Skynyrd Ooohhhh. Well, again, this ain't the place to find it. Not to be stymied by my complete lack of information, at 3:02 pm the final hit comes in as what honor Lynyrd Skynyrd by Governor George Wallace For the record, George Wallace never honored Van Zant, et al. with anything. Which is probably just as well for all concerned.
Wow.
Greg Hlatky with THE roundup of the Westminster Kennel Club Pooch Review, and he offers his new, improved, and more accurate proposal for a name change for the organizers--"Kidneystone Pass Dog Fanciers Association."
Florida tried to disguise herself to escape arrest, police say
Oh no, what will J.J. think!? (The corrected headline and story is here. Dyno--MITE!!) UPDATE!! Thanks to Nate McCord at Wasted Electrons who sends along this link to the whole story on The Smoking Gun.
Keep diggin', Frenchmen...
We won't shut up, Mr Chirac, says East Europe By Sean MaguireWell, poor child, bless her heart. Only when the ex-communist states were full members did they have the right to take a position on European affairs, she said bluntly, suggesting they might be punished for their insolence when EU parliaments come to ratify their membership treaties.And if there's ANYONE who knows insolence... But the east Europeans said France was being unfair in criticising future EU countries for backing Washington when the bloc itself was deeply divided on how to rid Iraq of its alleged arsenal of weapons of deadly destruction.Hey, Mr. Kukan, just wait till they read this story and call you a stupid bohunk. Although that's probably already happened. [...] One East European diplomat said Chirac had spoken in a tone that not even the Soviet Union would have used with its Warsaw Pact clients during its 40 year dominance of the region.Well, there's a reason for that... Former communist states have long been grateful to Washington for helping them throw off Moscow's dominance and for sponsoring their NATO entry drives. They had no qualms about openly backing the United States on Iraq, irritating Paris and Berlin.[...]How dare they be grateful to a bunch of cowboy rubes! Ahh, Europe.
Hungry Wild Hogs Damage Fla. Town PALM CITY, Fla. - Palm City has gone hog wild. Hordes of huge, hungry, wild hogs have been running rampant in this town 35 miles north of West Palm Beach, scarring yards as they search for worms and roots and causing thousands of dollars in damage.THIS sounds like a job for...BILLY JOE BOB'S BBQ EMPORIUM!!!
I would like to have mentioned it yesterday...
But Nathan Lott has a good link to an NPR story about Alabama's constitution and tax code mess, noting that the story "suggests that Alabama's tax structure more or less makes hypocrites of its religious citizenry." I'm sure there are some folks out there who would like nothing better than to use the inequity of Alabama's system as a way to swat a few evangelicals. But, the current system makes every citizen of Alabama a hypocrite, regardless of their party, race, or class. Every citizen, that is, except for a precious few souls who believe that stuffing great wads of lobbyists' cash in their pockets and making sure their good buddies have a big suction hose hooked up to the Treasury is the equivalent of good government. That's why it doesn't work, and it's been that way since 1901. Alabama deserves better, but until we decide we deserve better, it's going to be more of the same. We're like the poor sap you know who has a pretty good job, but then blows his whole paycheck on booze and dope and new wheels for his Tahoe (which he's been upside down on for three years), who then goes to his mom's house and rifles her purse to get money to buy diapers for the baby. It didn't get this way overnight, and the folks who like it this way don't want it to change. But we'll always be poor and backward until it IS changed.
So...
Evan chose Zora, eh?! (Note how I cleverly manage to link to seemingly unrelated stories which combine aspects of popular culture and timely news information into a synergistic and dynamic bit of confusing gobbledygook!) On Joe Brain Stem, Zora at least manages to get some money out of the deal, which sounds like a lot until you realize how much moolah FOX made on this steaming pile, and the fact that she will have to give half of it to the gummint, and then will in all likelihood spend the rest of it on someone other than herself. And yes, I could never hear her name without thinking of Zora Arkus-Duntov, so the whole deal sorta gave me the creeps. I mean, who would want to date a dead Belgian engineer. Evan got an even bigger deal when a suitor named Google came knocking and bought him and his five buddies drinks and promised them a big night on the town. Glenn Reynolds mentioned yesterday he wondered if Blogger and Blog*Spot would now have the resources to fix the colony of roaches inhabiting the software. Silly man. They even go so far as to say 'no changes' in all their press about it. The same old crap, but with much higher capacity. ::sigh:: Oh well, at least it's free. As for the teevee dude, I predict his share of the $1M will quickly be spent on bling. One hopes he at least gets a hair cut.
Yes, yes, YES...
I AM here now! Today was the day of "You do remember you're supposed to take Catherine back to the doctor to make sure here ears are okay...right?" "Yes, I remember." Translation--"Yes, I remember I have a little girl named Catherine, and that she had an ear infection, and that we were supposed to bring her back to the doctor five days after she finished her medicine, and that if I know what's good for me I won't act like I forgot I was supposed to take her there." Luckily, my wife has already figured out the language of Me, so this conversation was repeated several times over the weekend. "And since she's there, why don't you see if they will go ahead and give her her annual checkup." "Okay." Translation--"Okay." Another one of those special instructions that got repeated several times. Including as I was stuffing all the kids in the van to get them to school. That one almost got me. "YES! I REM..." Easy there, big fellah! Almost set off a claymore! I gingerly stepped over the tripwire, "I..ahhh...will be sure and ask." Whew. My initial reaction was hidden by the vehicle and my grunting to get them all situated. Finished shoving them in and off we went--dropped off three at school, then it was off to Birmingham to the doctor, then back to kindergarten, then back to Birmingham to excitedly write all this crap down. The nurse even managed to get Little Big Girl set up for her physical, thus saving us another trip later on (and another co-pay). Good on you, Nurse Sandy! Back to school for the late check-in, and a demonstration of why things bear repeating several times--"Did you bring a doctor's excuse?" TAKE COVER!! ::sigh:: The one thing I forgot. The one thing I always remember! Dangitall! "Or if you have a receipt...?" Salvation. "Yes ma'am, I do have that!" The secretary made a copy and Cat was ready to go to class. She hung her backpack on the hook, efficiently unzipped it and took out her folders, unzipped the front pocket and plopped her paper-bagged snack on the shelf and turned to say bye-bye. "I love you, Daddy!" Big hug and kiss. "I love you, too, sugar; have fun today!" "I'm six!'' "Yes, I know, Happy Birthday!" Wicked little laugh, and off she went. Stinker. Monday, February 17, 2003
Wow. (With Special Late-Breaking Update!)
What a weekend--the repeating of which will have to wait a while in order for me to do actual, productive-employee type stuff and thus continue to receive a paycheck. Check back after while, and you will be regaled with snapping tales of Why I Like Catherine Zeta-Jones; Late Night Shopping at Wal-Mart; My Sister Visits; HORSES!; Late Night Shopping at Target; HORSES! (The Sunday Church-Clothes Version); and 50 ENRAGED NINJAS!. (Actually, there are no ninjas. Just added that purely for the excitement value. Sorry.) UPDATE: Well, I'm still at it ('it' = stupid STUPID work) and it looks like all the hair-raising tales of frivolity, malicious intent, and Vienna sausages and crackers will have to wait until tomorrow. I know all five of you are very disappointed. (The five being the guys I hired to be Enraged Ninjas. It was going to be so cool when they broke in during the middle of my post and started howling and throwing stuff. Oh well.) Friday, February 14, 2003
Keep Your Fingers Crossed...
It has come to my attention that I might--MIGHT--just get to go to a movie tonight that 1) I want to see, 2) my wife wants to see, 3) AND WILL BE SEEN WITHOUT ACCOMPANYING LOAD OF CHILDREN! Depending on if we can get the in-laws to ride herd on the younguns, we might be going to see Chicago, which has received rave reviews, (although I gotta say the official Miramax site looks as cheaply done as Possumblog--this fansite is way better, despite the five million annoying popups). For those who have been living under a rock, Chicago is the story of Catherine Zeta-Jones, who is a brunette,and Renee Zellweger, who is a blonde. They sing and wear lots of sheer stuff. In Chicago. CONTINGENCY PLAN--If we don't get to go, there will be all sorts of other fun, such as cleaning out the lint trap, picking up all the toys out of the den floor, vacuuming the den floor, emptying all the trash cans, unloading and reloading the dishwasher, putting the covers back on the patio grilles (the covers blew off last night), picking up all the toys out of the kids' bedrooms, hiding out in the bathroom with a car magazine to keep from doing anything else, and that kind of stuff. Again, please keep your fingers crossed. Please. UPDATE!! 3:38 p.m. ::sigh:: Oh, well, uncross 'em, folks. On the bright side, we do have some lovely lint. UPDATE!! 4:30 p.m. HOORAY!! Grandpa comes through! Despite decidedly chilly reception of original idea by tired and overburdened Grandma, Grandpa acts with unilateral recklessness and asks not only for children to come over, but also requests stockpile of CLOTHING in order for them to SPEND THE NIGHT!!! Now I must completely reorganize my thoughts and plan for ANOTHER possible outcome...hehehehe. Pardon me now as I go and groom my fur. I'll see you all Monday!
France Says It Won't Back War Resolution
Also Threaten to Sue in ICC to Enjoin Rest of World From Continuing to Use Term "Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys" Saddam Says "Merci, Beaucoup!" And Leaves Five Euros on Nightstand Afterwards, France Leaves to Go Oppress Some Ivorians Muslim Terrorists in France Say, "Big Deal--We Just Move Them Lower on The List" French Long For Sophistication in US Government--"GIVE US JERRY LEWIS!!" World Fascinated With Ability of French To Nail Own Coffin Shut
Hey COOL!!
Janis Gore is havin' a PARTY--and we're ALL invited!! This is a virtual party invitation to the people who stop by this blog. If you come into town tonight, you will have red beans and rice. Tomorrow night at 7 you will have crab ravioli in cream sauce, crawfish pies, chicken wings, assorted dips and vegetables, assorted dips and chips, and oatmeal-peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies. You'll be with a crowd of people ranging from 70 to 40 years old who have known each other for 10 or more years. Well, there are two newbies--a college student niece and an unknown brother. You're expected to bring an unusually shaped vegetable so you can Play With Your Food. If you can't make it, I understand. If you do come, make yourself comfortable, but keep the heck out of my way. And be careful of Gloria, she's just coming out since she lost her husband to a massive heart attack.But, this being me, and tomorrow being the weekend, the chance of me doing anything other than ferrying the kids to their Equine Exploitation Lessons and then washing piles of horse-hair covered laundry are virtually nil. And I just got all this eelpout and these 12-count boxes of Corn-dollies that I could have brought to play with! Oh well. Janis sure knows how to cook, though, so all of the rest of you be sure to descend onto Vidalia, Looziana and say "Hey."
Blix: No Weapons of Mass Destruction Seen
Well, of course not, silly! They're against the law, you know.
Dolly the Cloned Sheep Put to Death
Hmm. Sounds like it's time for the wizards at the Possumblog Kitchens subsidiary to crank up the production line for a new product--Corn-dollies, cornbread battered, deep fried cloned sheep on a stick!
Yankee Culture
Toni Albani, regular Possumblog reader and frost-encrusted denizen of the Land of 10,000 Lakes sends along a link to what all the high-tone folks up her way are doing for Valentine's--ladies and gentlemen, I give you... THE 24th ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL EELPOUT FESTIVAL!! (AND THERE ARE PICTURES!) Thank you, Toni, and welcome to Possumblog's newest sponsor, StrikeMaster Ice Augers! (By the way, just in case you want to know what an eelpout is, there's a lota-lota information HERE. [...] Physical CharacteristicsMMmmmMMM! That's good eelpout!
I never really remember meeting my wife. We more or less grew up going to church together, so I’ve sorta always known her. We went to different grade schools and high schools, and we never socialized outside of church, but we always were friends. She is two years older than me, and with my immense adolescent awkwardness and shyness, I never worked up the nerve to ask her out on a date. But she would always save me a seat in Sunday school. And I would always sit with her. Her name is Reba.
The first time I ever had one of those pubescent rush-of-hormone moments was because of her. One Sunday when we were waiting for class to start, she was standing at the door talking to her dad. She had on a sleeveless blue dress. Just a plain, A-line, to the knee, homemade, God-fearing polyester church dress. But I couldn’t look away from those soft, pale, naked arms. I can still feel my ears turning red, and trying to make sure my Bible was firmly placed across my lap to cover the embarrassing results of my wandering eyes and the machinations of my limbic system. We grew up together, through junior high and high school, and my mom would pester me to ask her out. I always scoffed and said it would be like dating my sister. Reba went off to college at Jacksonville, and then I graduated a couple of years later and eventually went off to Auburn to study architecture. Whenever we would meet up again in those years, it was always at church. We would talk, although I can’t remember any of our conversations. She would always sit on the pew behind my mother and me. In my third year at Auburn, I got to spend a quarter studying in Europe, and my mom told me that she would ask about me every week. But, I was still in school, and semi-stalking another girl, and well, you know. I finally made it out of Auburn with two degrees and a minor in business, after going to school for five straight years—twenty complete quarters, breaking only for a two week respite in my very first quarter there, due to my father’s death. I moved back home; bone tired and lonesome. I started my first job two weeks after I got back and started the next chunk of my life, which was centered on passing my licensing exam. Not much time for socializing, although some of my well-meaning coworkers would allow their wives to use me as a test case for their unmarried girlfriends. There had to be something better. Since I was back home, I had started going back to our old church again with my mom. My wife-to-be had gotten a job at a local hospital, and wasn’t around a lot. But I had finally decided that I even though I was still awkward and shy, dadgummit, I was going to ask her out. Then I learned why she had not been around much. Seems she had starting dating an acquaintance of mine, and he had asked her to marry him. I went to their wedding, which was held right there at our old church. I have no remembrance of it at all; even watching the video of it I cannot remember anything of it. I guess I was trying hard to forget it. She and her husband left and went on their honeymoon. When they got back, they moved to the other side of the county and moved to another church. A few months later, she was pregnant. I was at work one day when I got a call from my best friend in high school. “Rick died.” I couldn’t say anything except to keep saying ‘no.’ 29 years old. Married six months. Baby due in five months. Dropped dead of a heart attack. The funeral, I do remember. There was a group of us who had all run around together in high school, and Rick had been one of the group. When I got there, all of the rest of the guys were just standing there, silent and somber. Reba sat back behind a curtain with her girlfriends on either side of her. She had a wad of tissue in her hands, which were crossed across her small pregnant belly. I didn’t really know what to say—what came out was something like “This may sound stupid, but no matter how bad you think this is, it will get better.” I reminded her of her family, and the folks at church, and that I would help watch out for her, too. Some time passed, and she started coming back to church at our old place. She grew and grew, and I made a point of finding her every Sunday she was there at church to talk to her. And to flirt. She tells me now that she thought I was crazy for telling her she looked good pregnant. Despite all that had gone on over the years, to me she was still that girl in the blue dress, leaned up against the door of the classroom. And whether I had ever wanted to admit it to myself or not, I was, and had always been, very deeply in love with her. On March 27, 1990 her baby was born. From then on, I had to flirt with both of them. Which I did, rather shamelessly. In December of that year, the moment finally arrived. It was time for my office Christmas party. A couple of weeks before time, I sidled up to Reba at the card rack at church and pretended to be looking for something. I asked her to the party. She said yes. We went, and had wonderful time. A week later, we had a second date, ostensibly to look for a kitchen table for me. After that, we have rarely been apart for longer than a day. 11 years ago today, I asked Reba to be my wife. Since then, we’ve been through a lot. Another wedding. Passing my registration exam. Three more kids. Two houses. Five vehicles. Moved to three different school systems. Three job changes between us. More college for both of us. More deaths in the family, and more births. A couple of wars. Three presidents. We even moved to a different church. 11 years, and it seems like only yesterday. And to this day, I still have to be very careful when I see that she is wearing a sleeveless dress. So Mrs. Oglesby, Happy Valentine’s Day. And thank you for saying yes. I posted this one year ago, and after reading it again, couldn't really think of anything I would change about it. Thursday, February 13, 2003
For all of you who are getting sick and tired of France being the butt of everyone's humor, Nate McCord over at Wasted Electrons has a stirring and compelling recap of French military history.
(And NO smart comments about how 'recap' is short for 'recapitulation.' Also, I note one of the bright spots of Frankish military might is missing, that being the great warriors Asterix and Obelix.)
Well, then...
As was the case yesterday, I have to bug out early today to receive MORE medical attention. The other day at my physical I made the mistake of saying something about these teeny little hard blisters on the bottom of my right foot, and when this discovery was combined with the doc noticing the large patch of psoriasis on my elbone, she felt compelled to go and refer me to a dermotologist. Not that I'm complaining. Anyway, I will see you all tomorrow.
"Fourth Best" My Furry Haunches
Today marks a great grand occasion, that being the blogthday of none other than Weevil Ambassador to Mizzoo, Charles Austin at Sine Qua Non Pundit. AND it marks the return of yet another Scourging of Richard "I May Be A Snob, But That's Only Because I'm Better Than You" Cohen! What a wonderful day for a thwacking. [...] Richard comes flying out of the starting gate with The Crude Crusader:::snicker::snort:: Anyway, go and read it all, as they say. You're Number One with us, Charles, you old Cross of Saint George-wearing softy!
Southern Culture
For the past week, the two referrals that have shown up the very most have been queries regarding two Men of Size--The Fatchelor over on the Rick and Bubba Show, and 205-wearing Ruben Studdard from American Idol. Thanks to everyone who drops by, and for the rest of you, a quick recap-- ON the Fatchelor--Jesse (aka Casio Kid) eliminated Marine Corps Reservist Alana (who ironically has been activated and will be shipping out to California) and has taken the other two girls, Candas and Megan, home to me the family. Gotta say that I think Candas is just cute as pie, and she's the one I would pick, were I the picker. HOWEVER, Megan is also real pretty, and even though I think she's been coming in a bit too hot, I have a feeling that she's going to get that final biscuit... Ruben Studdard got himself voted into the Final TEN, so congratulations to him and his family. My only request is that I not see ANY topless photos of him on the Internet. Please. As for the final outcome on this, I have no idea--I haven't gotten to watch much of the show because of ferrying kids around to various practices and stuff--but best wishes to Ruben who seems like a genuinely nice kid. So, there you go.
Hey Cool!
A new outpost of the Sweet Tea Line has been found in DELAWARE of all places! (Well, Southern Delaware) Fritz Schranck fills in the details on Smiths Family Restaurant in Georgetown. Tell them we say 'hey,' Fritz, and keep to up the good work! (Wonder how good their smoked pig is?) UPDATE********Fritz Write In!! Actually, some of the best pork in the State is available at Where Pigs Fly, a fine little restaurant in our State Capital, Dover.But of course! Some of us are more open to the notion of sacrifice than others.But when a difficult job comes along, it's good to know there are selfless individuals willing to make that sacrifice. Where Pigs Fly's pulled pork is basically the North Carolina version, with more vinegar than sugar in the BBQ sauce. The sides are good, especially the cole slaw and the baked beans. The ribs come in a couple different sauce options, all of them good.Indeed. It's about 10:30, and I could eat a great big plate of it right NOW!! Everyone has their peculiar idears about sauce, so it does get to be a bit testy amongst us as to what is best. BUT, one thing that is essential is slow-cooking with hickory wood. You can mess it up however you want, but unless you get you a good hickory fire, it's just not the same. In like manner, Hello Bloggy (scroll down a bit--stupid Blogger is doing its thing) points you to Wallace Barbecue in Austell, Georgia,a legend since 1966, and interestingly enough, located on Bankhead Highway (US 78). I spent the first fourteen years of my life in a small house on Highway 78 in the western part of Birmingham, and just as Route 66 is called "the Mother Road," 78 is The Barbecue Road. It runs from Washington, D.C. to the Pacific Coast, and was named for Senator John Hollis Bankhead (the grandfather of famed actress Tallulah Bankhead). One of these days, I will drive it in a '64 Vette (no, not a '63--I want a '64 roadster, Tuxedo Black, with a fuelie, four-speed, knock-offs, posi, F40 suspension, and Miss Reba beside me instead of Buz or Linc) and stop at every pig shack along the way.
Also from yesterday, H.(just like the clock) D. Miller picks up a copy of the Weekly World News and simultaneously gets famous and filled up with all sorts of wise knowledge via his boss. Sorta.
I didn't get a chance to mention it yesterday, but be sure to check out Lee Ann Morawski's ongoing series on poetry--the good, the bad, and the plumb stupid.
AND THEN go check out the Lileks' Newhouse column of yesterday, in which he further explores the wonders of meterless mumbo-jumbo.
I have a hard head.
That's dentistspeak for "incredibly resistant to all known local dental anesthetics to the point that it requires at least eight separate injections into a patient's mandible before even being able to touch a damaged tooth without patient levitating out of the chair due to radiation of extreme pain waves emanating from all parts of body." Ouch. First three--two in back of jaw, one at gumline. Come back in 15 minutes after it has time to work, start high-pitched siren of pain drilling implement, "YAHHHAHwMMWMrlvlmwH!! UU! UU! Yeth, that hurth!" 'Nother one in the jaw, 'nother one in the gum. Leave alone to allow maximum time for fear to build. Come back, use nuclear-powered jackhammer-- "UUMRN! MMMAAO! UNGHMAAM! Blath gul go flath math go glag! Glag!" Received incredibly interesting seminar on being 'hard-headed,' various causes for anesthetic not to work quite right (inflammation, infection, dead raccoons in backyard, misaligment of universe) then start hauling out barrels of numb-juice (not barrels, really--it was only gallon jugs) and start poking multiple holes into lower jaw using a short length of copper tubing and a very large hammer. At least by this time, although the ol' #30 was still quite live, the entire rest of my face was quite numb, so the rest of the shots into the root of my tooth didn't hurt a bit, and I had the droopy-eyed look of Robert Mitchum in the prime of his career. The place where my tooth was broken still hurt, though. Muchly. After I was thoroughly awash in spit and perspiration, a halt was called to the proceedings, and the dental assistant made a second impression for the temporary crown. I like the impressions, because the molding compound has a wonderful vanilla ice cream flavor. I asked for seconds. I didn't get them. Figures. She came back and the process of getting the temp ground properly began, which thankfully was not painful. Except when she touched my tooth with metal. Ouch. Finally finish, and not only do I have a beautiful new temporary plastic tooth, I am also lighter by 300 smackers (only half the total--luckily we have dental insurance). Wow! Who knew dentistry could be so FUN! Wednesday, February 12, 2003
As predicted...
Too much reality intrudes and I gots no time for bloggitude. Meeting went well, though long, and no one left crying. I always hate it when that happens. Especially if it's contractors. Today was the big county-wide spelling bee for Oldest, and due to my stupid job obligations I had to miss it, but Reba said she made it all the way to the sixth round before getting tripped up on "placards." P-L-A-C-K-A-R-D-S. She was upset, because she had started the process of counting her chickens before they were scrambled, and was all ready to go to Washington (with that brief sidetrip for the Alabama finals), only to be undone by a word she SWEARS can be spelt as she spelt it. "I KNOW!! I've SEEN it like that before! A BUNCH!" Well, if you saw it like that, whoever did it misspelled it. (Not that logic would work.) I figure she was thinking of "plackets," or "packets," or "gun," or something. After they got home, Mom said that she began making excuses--didn't hear because the guy was too quiet (he wasn't), she got too hot, she felt bad, etc. Nothing, however, about the perfectly understandable inability to spell an unfamiliar word. ::sigh:: The bliss of infinite denial. Oh well, there's always next year! And now, it is off to the tooth doctor so she can look in my mouth--were it a cartoon, she would take one look and little dollar signs would magically appear and swirl around her head. If it's too expensive, I intend to inform her that I saw Tom Hanks in Castaway, and I have access to a skate and a rock. See you all tomorrow. (Again, were it a cartoon, I would have a big swollen jaw and a towel wrapped around my head with a big bow on top.) (On second thought, with the current Threat Level Assessment set at ORANGE, it would probably be better not to aggravate anyone by prancing about like Sammy the Binster.) Tuesday, February 11, 2003
Time to hit ye roade.
Well, almost. In any event, tomorrow will be mostly non-bloggatory due to my regularly scheduled morning meeting of the Pretty Police, and then I have to go see about getting my stupid broken molar (!) fixed tomorrow afternoon, so there may not be much new here. HOWEVER, be sure to check out the folks in the list above! And 'Hey!' to everyone who has dropped by in the past couple of days from John Hawkins' and Tim Blair's joints--feel free to sit anywhere and stay for a while. But don't sit there, that's broken. And you have to hold the bathroom door closed or it swings open. If you want, there is a new container of pimiento cheese in the refrigerator and some bread over there in the breadbox. NO, not that one, that's something el...look, just don't touch that one. Anyway, everything else you should be able to find. Just hang around and turn out the light when you leave. See you tomorrow sometime!
How to Write
Another lesson from our good friends, Charles Nisbet and Don Lemon, authors of the tiny little Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book (received from my sweetie as a Christmas gift). Today’s installment from pages 18 and 19:
O Canaduh
UPDATED JANUARY 5, 2005 A story from the Ottawa Citizen reprinted at The Volokh Conspiracy about promoting a higher level of moronicity in Lombardy Public Schools. This update is prompted by the receipt of this message from the writer of the article: From: Sarah Ruttan However, since I have no desire to engage in a pissing match with a complete stranger over $150 (whether in Canadian or U.S. dollars), I have removed the portions of this post that were quotations from the original article. An article that, by the way, can also be seen here; and here; and here; and here, on the site of the Ontario Federation of Anglers and Hunters. Let's see--that's five other sites that reprinted the article--at a hundred and fifty bucks a pop, that's pretty darned good scratch, whether it's in Loonies or greenbacks! I might have to get in on this freelance writing thing! Then again, if it requires kissing a man's stomach, I might have to pass. Anyway, the offending freelance writer written passages have been removed, although my commentary is staying as it is. In order to make some sense of what I have written without its explanatory context, I had to just make up stuff in the blockquoted section. It's not copyrighted by anyone, that I know of. Two fairly odd parents in Canada decided they didn't want their little girl to learn anything, or any other kid for that matter, so they complained about the word "gun" being on her spelling list. And the school board said they'd remove it.Well, gee whiz--where are all the folks who stampede the doors when someone wants to censor all the naughty dirty cursey words in books?! Where are all the folks fighting for intellectual freedom?? Oh, sorry. Shoulda known better. There's some sort of garbage here about the word "gun" being synonymous with "kicking the bucket." The parents wonder why anyone would ever want to have a word to describe such an inanimate object. The female parent did say she didn't want people to think she was being too politically correct.Ya think? Maybe in her dictionary gun is synonymous with death, but then again, who is she to push her views onto everyone else? If she were some sort of religious loon who wanted to remove the word "penis" from all the health education books, there would be an angry purple-helmeted horde on her doorstep with great big papier mache puppet penes. Mom goes on to say, 'Gun BAD! FRIGHTEN ME! NO MORE TALKING OUT OF MOUTHS OF YOU!' Or something like that.Translation: "I never even thought about not fighting this or raising the issue, and I think it has everything to do with political correctness, which in this case is typlified by the irrational anthopomorphizing of inanimate objects, giving them frightening attributes, and further by the demonization of anyone who disagrees with me. Finally, I wrap this up in the warm cuddle of The Children™, thus further attempting to politicize the problem and alienate those who do not share my view. I don't care about anyone else, and all I care about is protecting my own preconceived notions of how people should behave. Oh, and that part about this not being right is silly, because the concept of absolute right or wrong is simplistic and naive. At least for those people who disagree with me. The story goes on with the horror of the child being subjected to an actual drawing of a gun.HOLY CRAP!! She could get a paper cut!! Man, had I only been there, I would have snatched it out of her tiny hand and wadded it up in a great big show and thrown it in the garbage can, and as she stood there crying, I would have screamed at her that guns were violent! Mom called the Government Sanctioned Authority Figure.I'm sure he was absolutely thrilled. Authority Figure returned call and groveled at the insensitivity and horror of it all, and removed the offending series of consonants that had been connected by the letter "u."Well GOOD! Next we take out "man," so that we aren't burdened with further oppression by an androcentric oligarchy, then we get rid of "pet," which oppresses animals and forces them into involuntary servitude to hupersons, then we can dump "ear," because it unfairly demeans children who have been gifted with ungood hearing, and then we HAVE to get rid of "pen" which as we all know is even mightier than the swor* (I just can't bring myself to spell it!), and then we have to erase "mind", which signifies a defiant, evil, individuality not in keeping with the benefits of the collective good--oh, the mind just jumps with glee for all the stuff we can take out. Authority Figure is quoted about the use of the offending three-letter word, saying it's easy to spell and say.Oh, good Unspecified But All Loving Mother Deity--how dare this little lumpen prole even think about the patronizing and outdated construct of "education" and "learning"! There is a principle at stake here!! Authority Figure grovels some more.And magically, with the horrid evil of a single word expunged from memory, the world was suddenly transformed into Happy Flower Puff Land with gambolling multiculturality and Organically Grown and Nutritionally Complete Soy Derivative Gingerbread Communal Houses! Authority Figure declines to even be caught saying the word, lest someone reading the article be offended.fnordWell, great jumping cats, Mr. Authority Figures says he's glad it's all over now.And thus was struck yet another blow for universal illiteracy. Parents state that they are still upset that the word was ever invented in the first place, but are very happy with their efforts to get it removed.They must be so proud.
Iraq Grants Anti-War 'Human Shields' Entry Visas
I know I'm being uncharitable, but the headline reminds me of this product.
"The rooftops of our past have evolved into the internet domain names of our present."
Good one from Fritz Schranck on a First Amendment/trademark infringement/cybergriping case out in Plano, Texas. (As a completely unrelated aside, Sammy (one of the guys I went to school with) told me that one summer when he was interning at an achitect's office, one of the draftsmen sent him to the art supply store with the instructions to pick up a Plano tackle box, Plano being the preferred brand of box for what we drawy-types used to use to keep our leads and lead holders and erasers and templates in. He went to the store, came back and was nearly beaten to death with a tee-square for having picked up some sort of flimsy little plastic box--"But you said you wanted just a plain ol' tackle box!!" ::snicker::)
Big Ol' Boy Does Us Proud
Nice article about Birminghomie Ruben Studdard, one of the kids competing on American Idol. He's out there in Hollywood living it up, but-- [...] besides deciding which key to sing in, he's got something else on his mind.Mmm. Green Acres knows how to cook chicken. And despite all the silly political crap that goes on around here, and the difficult-to-overcome stigma of the Jim Crow era, Birmingham and the surrounding area really is a good place with good people who, like Ruben, love it.
Today marks an auspicious day in that the Pride of Vidalia, Louisiana has gone and gotten herself A BIRTHDAY! Happiest of days to you, Miss Janis.
As with most singular occasions, the mind often turns philosophical. I believe it was Jean-Jacques Rousseau who said, "Oooh, I wanna lick the candles!" and you know, that is just so true. It also brings to mind the words of Walt Whitman--"Man, I hate plain white cake." SO as you celebrate the day in 1957 when you got your first whack on the bum, may these words be an inspiration to you. Monday, February 10, 2003
Poetry
From the lyrical and sensitive Larry Anderson over in Kudzu Acres, a beautiful paean to the world of computers. "Repeat until numb," indeed.
Weevil Proliferation Strikes Fear Into the Hearts of Dozens!
In its quest to grow even more unwieldy and cumbersome, the Board of Registrars of the Alabama Writerly Arts Colloquium and Coon Dog Association has taken it upon itself to look favorably upon the just received application of one Alan K. Henderson, who writes the oddly-titled "Alan K. Henderson's Weblog." Alan came by over the weekend after being told of the mythical Axis of Weevil by our good Weevilette, Emily Jones over at Give War a Chance. Alan poked a hole in the screen door and slipped his application in--or at least what passes for his application...despite ample postings of the Almighty Serious Rules for Admission, Alan decided to chuck those into the round file and present his own list of accomplishments and qualifications, being these-- 1. Born in Mobile, AlabamaAhhh, I see now why he decided not to go by the REAL rules--look up there at number 5! Yep, he's "a bit slow." Not that there's anything wrong with that. Poor ignernt 'Bama fans like Alan need all the love and understanding they can get in order to function in today's fast-paced society. Fearing a discrimination lawsuit if Alan were rejected outright for failure to properly fill out his application, the Board recommended that young Mr. Henderson be assisted by one of our helpful staff members in properly filling out his paperwork, making sure he appears to folks to be "all there." Thus, we were able to protect his justifiably fragile self-esteem, and make him able to participate in trips to the zoo and the skating rink and all the other Weevilly activities. Having brought Alan into the Indoctrination Center and Vending Area (by the way, whoever put the slug in the coffee machine is in for it!), our interns guided him along the way, carefully making sure that he checked the box about being "willing to be made fun of," and also allowed him to color his very own picture of John Moses Browning, which he proudly said he would put on his refrigerator. SO THEN, by the power vested in it by Ed in the Sign Shop of the Alabama Department of Transportation--Maintenance Division, it is with great joy and much foot stomping that we hereby induct one Alan K. Henderson into the vaunted and muchly feared Heart of Dixie Scuppernong Growers and Bird Hunting Guild, aka The Axis of Weevil, with all of the fun and frivolity concomitant thereto. As with each and every new member of this august group, Alan will be receiving his very own 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 gigantic brutish gas guzzling pickup, 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 a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale. In addition, Alan will receive one of Jimmy's (the guy from next door) painted rocks to place at the end of his driveway. Jimmy is happy to paint one with the likeness of Bear Bryant, and they look remarkably lifelike. Welcome to the organization, Alan! Now get back to work.
Da Weekend
Well, looking back I have to say the high point was Friday night. As a respite from the normal Pizza Night, Miss Reba wondered if there could be such a thing as Rib Night. Ohhhh, yes there can! Decided to down the hill to Jim 'n Nick's (click on the Trussville picture and you'll get to see it), apparently along with everyone else in town. Packed, with folks out the door and a line of ten cars at the drive-through. Oh well. Went up to the takeout register at the bar (which is always sort of disconcerting--I am always worried that someone I know will think I'm over there downing shots) and looked over the menu. Even the bar was full of folks eating and the poor girl tending it was a tiny little blur, trying to handle the call-in phone, the take-out, and the folks on the stools--all the time being the sweetest girl in the world. Even when she's running, she always stops long enough to smile and be nice, which of course is why I go inside instead of waiting at the drive-through. Anyway, ordered the gigantic meal of smoked pig parts--two pounds pulled meat, two big cups of sauce, beans, slaw, cheese muffins, and an extra rack of spare ribs. Finally got it after nearly 40 minutes, but that's NOT a complaint. Scurried home and everyone was in full Pavlov's pooch mode. Dropped it on plates and stood back. Mmm. Mmmuphnm. Mm manmmhshph! MMMM! Repeat. Good night a'living that sure was some good pig. The ribs got all gone, but we ate the pulled meat for breakfast and lunch and supper Saturday. Did I mention how good this was? If any of my friends who keep kosher ever decide to invoke the wrath of YHWH, let me just tell you right now to go ahead and do it right--I mean, shrimp and catfish and all is fine, but don't go halfway. Come here, visit a hickory temple, and gnaw a bone or two. Good grief, I'm hungry. Anyway, that was the highlight--Saturday we all split up and did other stuff. I took Ashley out to Jeff State and she took her ACT for the Duke U. TIPS program. Charles Austin wrote me and said his own hormonally-possessed twelve year old also had been chosen , but they decided not to do it so as not to put additional unnecessary pressure on her. There's a lot to be said for that--Reba and I saw it as a way to get a little insight on her strengths, and never intended to share the results with her. The way she's been acting lately, if they were good she would slack off even more than she already is, and if they were bad, she would slack off even more than she already is. And she has a friend at church who got chosen too, and the LAST thing her friend needs is something else meaningless and spiteful to either annoy her or ignore her about. Despite our best efforts to downplay this thing, she's still been jumpy and nervous about taking it. Of course, not nervous enough to actually look at the study guide. ::sigh:: Which was actually okay by me--the only thing to study for is methodology--my advice to her was this--answer what you know, eliminate the impossible and mark the most likely on the stuff you sorta know, and put down B or C for the ones you have no clue on. That's the way I made a perfect score. (Not really...I copied off some Asian kid. Not really. I made 30s in both English and Social Studies, a 24 in Science, and a ::gulp::14 in Math.) In any event, we got there to the building, which was cold as the devil's dangly bits due to there not being any sort of airlock between the exterior door and the corridors. Moron architects. (And I say that as an architect. And a moron.) Icy air flowing in unabated is not A Good Thing. She went upstairs, and I noticed her friend would be in another building. Good. Less pressure on my kid without the other one jabbering about being nervous. Interesting to see the kids who were taking it. There were about four or five other seventh graders, then the normal bunch of oversexed juniors and seniors, and strangely, some rather mature women taking it. I guess they're going back to school or something. Good for them. They were as nervous as Ashley, which I also thought was interesting. She got settled, and I left and went to the grocery store and bought some pork rinds and Diet Coke and a Guns and Ammo Annual, a Hot Rod, a Car and Driver, and a Popular Science. Yes. I am a frightening person. She got all finished around noon, and seemed to think she did okay. She thought the reading and language parts were a snap, and was stumped by the math and science. Figures--she reads constantly. We'll see how she does. Got to church yesterday and the other girl's mom and one of our other acquaintances (who was very hurt her son had not gotten selected) pounced on Reba wanting to know how Oldest did. She firmly told them that whenever she got the results, they were going to remain strictly confidential. Which made for some awkward silence. Good. Yammering bunch o'busybodies. While Ashley was testing and I was enjoying a bit of light reading and a snack, Reba took the other three kids over to Camp Coleman for their horseyback riding fun. Middle Girl and Boy did their thing and Mom and Tiny Terror played on the frigid playground and looked for restrooms. I think the kids had fun. Reba got cold. We met back up afterwards and went and took Reba to get her vision checked at Wally World, then went and saw a movie. I'm not going to say what it was, because I am so tired of having to be dragged along to light-hearted, yet earnest, chickflicks that I could SCREAM, and I don't want to encourge anyone else to make it any more successful than it already is. It had a scene with a completely unnecessary reliance on bovine scatology that was not suitable for little kids. Seems that this is a recurring theme in the latest crop of light-hearted, yet earnest, chickflicks. I suppose it adds that "believable" angle to it; believable from the point of view of screenwriters who think everyone cusses like a sailor. Oh well. Back home, supper, thorough children-scrubbing and to bed. Sunday was...eventful. I got a call right at time to go with the news that the mother in law of one of my teachers had to go to the hospital (thankfully they got everything squared away, but it was nerve-wracking for them) and that her substitute, whose husband was calling me, was going to be out of town and could I find a teacher. Hmm. Let's see--it's five minutes to go time and I am about to walk out the door. "Yep, don't worry about it." So I got to teach the 3rd and 4th Grade. Which is really okay--two of them are mine, and even the ones who aren't mine are a pretty good bunch of kids, so it went by really quick. Interesting too, given my award of this morning, for our lesson was on the rebellion of the Moabites found in II Kings 3. Lots of folks getting all Old Testament on each other, and actually a pretty good chapter for a variety of lessons. They liked the part where Jehoram, the wicked (though non-idolotrous) king of Israel was snubbed by Elisha. The kings and their armies had been tromping around looking for water for seven days and Jehoram decided that God had brought them all out so the evil, and quite idolotrous, Moabites could destroy them. They found Elisha and begged him to know what God was going to do to them. Verse 14--"And Elisha said, As Jehovah of hosts liveth, before whom I stand, surely, were it not that I regard the presence of Jehoshaphat the king of Judah, I would not look toward thee, nor see thee." Hmph! So there, yah big gasbag! If it weren't for the king of Judah standing here with you, you'd be TALKIN' TO THE HAND, baby! Takes some guts to insult a king. And then there was a big fight and they killed all the Moabites and leveled their cities and sowed their farms with stones and cut down all their timber and filled up their wells. So there. Bell rang, time for worship, and time for Oldest to embarrass Mom (seated next to her) by continually nodding off. Then I had to take Cat out because she wanted to sit in Mom's lap. Which already had a Little Boy's head in it. Not that that would have mattered. So I got up and took Miss Salty Eye Water to the back, where she cried some more adn drank some water and quit crying and decided to draw a picture. Clouds, trees, flowers, Mommyndaddy, her, several kitties, Mr. Sun. All better. Afterwards, we headed back to the house, and Reba took the oldest three off to Gardendale for Bible Bowl (got beat) and I took Catherine for HER horseyback riding. Such MORE fun! Actually, it was kinda fun. This was her first time to ride and control the horse herself, as opposed to me leading it around and getting horse slobber on my hand. She did very well, considering she spent much of her time giggling and looking around to make sure I saw her. Her horse was one of the lazier ones, and he requires a pretty firm hand to make him go where he's supposed to go. She finally got it right near the end, and giggled like a hyena when he decided he would trot. Fearless little tyke. She whoa-ed him up like she was a regular Dale Evans. Back home, met up with Team Two, went back to church, the song leader (being me) managed not to choke on post-nasal drip or sing anything more than three notes too high or low, out to Ruby Tuesday (but with no Jennifer the Perfect Waitress), home, sign notebooks, fix snacks, and find YET ANOTHER GRADE ALERT IN ENGLISH for Oldest. ::sigh:: Didn't write the outline like she was supposed to do. Got a ZERO. Teacher doesn't like me. Teacher never told us we were supposed to write an outline. Pain. Reproach. Agony. Another giant patch of gray hair shows up overnight. Aargh. And then I got here. Hello everyone!
Wow.
What a pleasant and completely unexpected surprise. John Hawkins at Right Wing News has just this morning posted the results of his Inaugural Warblogger Awards, and stupid old Possumblog got in the mix! In the category Most Underrated Blog, Possumblog wound up in a three-way tie for second place with Martin Devon at Patio Pundit and Aaron Oakley at Bizarre Science, and Brothers Judd came in at number one. And in the category Best Unknown Blog, Eric at Viking Pundit and Possumblog share the top prize. And thank everyone for not voting me the Most Annoying. I appreciate the recognition, especially in these categories, because I go out of my way to keep a relatively low profile. I don't ever submit stuff to Carnival of the Vanities, or send out calls for visits, mainly because this silly thing is a hobby. I write what I want to write, when I want to write it, the way I want to write it, with absolutely no supposition that anyone else will find it remotely interesting. So, whenever someone does like it, it makes it that much nicer. And even though John has previously (and very graciously) linked to me as one of the 10 Best Unknown Political Bloggers, it's really hard to call Possumblog a warblog or a political blog, because I don't have the concentration skills required to keep at one topic for very long. I also have pretty well-defined beliefs (most of which don't get aired here), and don't really have the patience with people necessary to carry on long-winded philosophical discussions (especially if they are particularly ignorant). As I've mentioned before, Possumblog takes the place of someone coming in to my office to chat for a while--so I wind up talking about kids and animals and stupid stuff I've done and trivia and politics and art and cars and guns and what to get for Valentine's Day and movies and gardening and barbecue and women and this thing I've got right here and pens and books and Norah O'Donnell--just as if you happened by and had a seat. If you don't want to hang around, it's okay; or if you do, that's okay, too. Check back in a few minutes and the subject will have changed again. I do appreciate everyone who has written in over the past 14 months or so. To my supreme surprise, I have managed to write this silly pile of crap without getting a single hateful or rude letter; every letter I've received has been written by some awfully kind and caring people. Some of you even went on to start your own blogs, and I am grateful that I was able to be a part of that. So, anyway, thanks again to whoever nominated me, and to all the folks who voted for me, and to John for his continued support, but most of all, thanks to everyone who dropped by, either on purpose or by accident and found something that made them want to return. Now, on to the rest of the day...
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