Possumblog

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, 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!

posted by Terry at 4:19:00 PM

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!!

posted by Terry at 2:21:00 PM

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.

Similarly, a beautiful style of writing is not a style adorned with similes, metaphors, or other figures of speech. Beautiful style, on the contrary, is the normal expression of high health and strength, of majesty and grace. The true writer rather feels the shame of the praise that ‘his sentences are bons-mots’, that they ‘bristle with points’, ‘dazzle with paradoxes’, etc. The true writer writes only with a single sense of the word he has to say. He wants his reader to know nothing of the writing or the writer, but only to stand face to face with the meaning of the whole. All perfection of style is invisibility, all vice conspicuousness. The more perfect is the identity of ‘word’ and ‘thing’, of writing and meaning, the more perfect is that word, that writing. Homer’s, Virgil’s, Dante’s, Shakespeare’s, Goethe’s metaphors are only the normal speech of each, in perfect correspondence with the pith and scope of each word each speaks.

posted by Terry at 2:09:00 PM

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.

On 28 February 1953 biologists James Watson and Francis Crick discovered the structure of DNA - the chemical code for all life. The breakthrough revealed how genetic information is passed from one generation to the next and revolutionised biology and medicine.

But in a documentary series to be screened in the UK on Channel 4, Watson says that low intelligence is an inherited disorder and that molecular biologists have a duty to devise gene therapies or screening tests to tackle stupidity.

"If you are really stupid, I would call that a disease," says Watson, now president of the Cold Spring Harbour Laboratory, New York. "The lower 10 per cent who really have difficulty, even in elementary school, what's the cause of it? A lot of people would like to say, 'Well, poverty, things like that.' It probably isn't. So I'd like to get rid of that, to help the lower 10 per cent."

Watson, no stranger to controversy, also suggests that genes influencing beauty could also be engineered. "People say it would be terrible if we made all girls pretty. I think it would be great." [...]

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.)

posted by Terry at 1:32:00 PM

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.

posted by Terry at 10:08:00 AM

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.

posted by Terry at 3:58:00 PM

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.

posted by Terry at 3:16:00 PM

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."

posted by Terry at 11:47:00 AM

R. Lee Ermey. Marine. Actor. Symphony Conductor.

posted by Terry at 11:15:00 AM

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).

posted by Terry at 10:35:00 AM

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.

Riley said Kathy Sawyer, state commissioner of mental health and mental retardation, suggested a move to see whether bed spaces in nearly a dozen hospitals around the state can be consolidated so that one or more of them may be closed.

Riley said the state doesn't have the luxury of keeping open more mental hospitals than necessary. [...]

If only we didn't have the luxury of a Legislature. Somehow, though, they manage to survive quite well. Funny, huh?

posted by Terry at 10:30:00 AM

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.

posted by Terry at 8:19:00 AM

Wednesday, February 26, 2003

As predicted...

I have too much stuff to do today to play with the blog--see you all tomorrow!

posted by Terry at 11:07:00 AM

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.

posted by Terry at 4:56:00 PM

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.)

posted by Terry at 4:21:00 PM

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.

[...] "We're proud of the program and we're disappointed that the show was not able to attract the viewership we had hoped for and expected," said Erik Sorenson, MSNBC president.

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.

posted by Terry at 4:10:00 PM

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.

posted by Terry at 3:24:00 PM

Cajun Car Company: Only Blown Up Once

Semper Fi.

posted by Terry at 2:31:00 PM

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.

posted by Terry at 2:02:00 PM

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.

posted by Terry at 11:25:00 AM

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.

"A fight broke out among two groups of men over a CD player," said police spokesman Wendell Johnson. The suspect was well-known both to employees and other laborers, he said.

"People who know him say he is a very unstable individual," said Johnson. [...]

"Very unstable," eh? I would say so.

posted by Terry at 11:08:00 AM

The Timeline of a Fraud

posted by Terry at 10:18:00 AM

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!!

posted by Terry at 9:43:00 AM

THE NEW CORPORATE ALLEGORIES ARE HERE!! THE NEW CORPORATE ALLEGORIES ARE HERE!!

posted by Terry at 9:35:00 AM

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.

posted by Terry at 9:22:00 AM

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.)

posted by Terry at 9:08:00 AM

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 ABACHA

ATTN:

I AM MRS. MARIAM ABACHA, THE WIDOW OF THE LATE GEN.SANNI ABACHA FORMER NIGERIAN MILITARY HEAD OF STATE WHO DIED MYSTERIOUSLY AS RESULT OF CARDIAC ARREST.

I GOT YOUR CONTACT FROM THE BRITISH CHAMBERS OF COMMERCE AND INDUSTRY, WHERE YOU WERE RECOMMENDED AS A TRUSTWORTHY PERSON.

SINCE AFTER MY HUSBAND DEATH MY FAMILY IS UNDER RESTRICTION OF MOVEMENT AND THAT NOT WITHSTANDING, WE ARE BEING MOLESTED, POLICED AND OUR BANK ACCOUNT BOTH HERE AND ABROAD ARE BEING FROZEN BY NIGERIAN CIVILIAN GOVERNMENT.FURTHERMORE,MY ELDER SON IS STILL BEING DETENTED BY THE NIGERIAN CIVILIAN GOVERNMENT FOR INTERROGATION ABOUT MY HUSBAND's ASSET AND SOME VITAL DOCUMENTS.

FOLLOWING THE RECENT DISCOVERY OF MY HUSBANDS BANK ACCOUNT BY THE NIGERIAN GOVERNMENT WITH SWISS BANK IN WHICH THE HUGE SUM OF $700,000,000(SEVEN HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS)WHICH WAS SECRECTLY DEFACED AND CEALED IN TWO METAL BOXES FOR SECURITY REASONS.

I THEREFORE PERSONALLY,APPEAL TO YOU SERIUOSLY AND RELIGIOUSLY FOR URGENT ASSISTANCE TO MOVE THE SUM OF $10,000,000,00 INTO YOUR COUNTRY WHERE I BELIEVE IT WILL BE SAFE SINCE I CANNOT LEAVE THE COUNTRY,DUE TO THE RESTRICTION OF MOVEMENT IMPOSED ON THE MEMBERS OF MY FAMILY BY THE NIGERIAN GOVERNMENT.

ALL ARRANGE TO MEET YOU IN PERSON OUTSIDE NIGERIA, IN ORDER TO LIASE WITH YOU TOWARDS EFFECTIVE COMPLETION OF THIS TRANSACTION.

HOWEVER,ARRANGEMENTS HAVE BEEN PUT IN PLACE TO MOVE THIS MONEY OUT OF THE COUNTRY,EITHER TO EUROPE OR AFRICA IN A SECRET VAULT THROUGH A SECURITY COMPANY HERE IN NIGERIA WHICH HAS AFFILIATE OFFICES IN EUROPE AND AFRICA,AND AS SOON AS YOU INDICATE YOUR INTEREST, MY LAWYER SHALL SEND YOU THE DEPOSIT CERTIFICATE OF THE LUGGAGE AND OTHER RELATED DOCUMENTS, SO THAT YOU CAN HELP CLAIM THE LUGGAGE.

CONCLUSIVELY,WE HAVE AGREED TO OFFER YOU 20%(TWENTY PERCENT) OF THE TOTAL SUM WHILE 70%(SEVENTY PERCENT)IS TO BE HELD ON TRUST BY YOU,UNTIL WE CAN DECIDE ON A SUITABLE BUSINESS INVESTMENT IN YOUR COUNTRY,AND 10%(TEN PERCENT)FOR ALL INCEDENTAL EXPENCES,SUBSEQUENT TO OUR FREE MOVEMENT BY THE NIGERIAN GOVERNMENT.

PLEASE REPLY URGENTLY AND TREAT WITH ABSOLUTE CONFIDENTIALITY AND SINCERITY .

YOU SHOULD NOTE THAT EVEN IF YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED YOU SHOULD NOT LET OUT THIS PROPOSAL TO ANYONE
WHOSOEVER.

BEST REGARDS,

HAJIA(MRS)MARIAM ABACHA

Can 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:

Although I appreciate the attention you intend to shower upon me, perhaps you should first note the address of the e-mail account to which you have sent your missive. As you can see, it is original_tooth_fairy@yahoo.com. My name is Mistress Ariaad Branwen Clyym de Arianrhod, and I am a collector fairy, specializing in human dentition. Although I travel widely, I find it difficult to believe that you received my name from anything called the "British Chambers of Commerce and Industry"--first, because nothing like that exists either in the Human World or in Middle Earth, and second, because even if it did, I don't believe they would have much credibility if they handed out the name of the Tooth Fairy as a business contact. For the record, I live beyond the human realm, in Distal Ossea along the Sagittal Plain, and do not enter the human world except under cover of night. (This does cut down on my social life, but it does allow me to move more freely, which is something with which I'm sure you can relate.)

As for your family story, it is incredible, to say the least. Despite the fact that we fairy folk are often reputed to have a very passive outlook, I am frankly shocked that the lot of you weren't shot and strung up from a lamppost. That seems to be a very popular way for you humans to deal with dictators, and one which also works well on orks and trolls.

But then again, maybe I have misread your plight, and am willing to offer what help I can.

Tonight, please place one of your teeth under your pillow, and in the morning, I will have replaced it with US$10,000,000 (Ten Million United States Dollars.)

Good evening, and sweet dreams,
Mistress Ariaad Branwen Clyym de Arianrhod

(P.S. Although I make no pretension to knowing all the ways of human etiquette, I am savvy enough of your ways to request that in the future you NOT TYPE IN ALL CAPS. Doing so indicates that you are shouting, and it hurts my ears. Second, there are so many other Nigerian letter writers such as yourself out on the Internet, don't you think that maybe you could find a copy of a letter that wasn't full of spelling and grammatical errors? Although they would be considered minor trifles for someone who is unschooled, such a lack of skill in composition from a lady claiming to be the wife of a former head of state borders on the comic, don't you think?)

Well, now, let's see what happens...

posted by Terry at 3:24:00 PM

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?

posted by Terry at 11:57:00 AM

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.

posted by Terry at 4:18:00 PM

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.

posted by Terry at 1:27:00 PM

Why does this article remind me of this?

posted by Terry at 10:28:00 AM

Palestinians Vow Revenge at Militant's Gaza Funeral

Gee, what are the odds of that!

posted by Terry at 10:24:00 AM

"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.

Did you talk there also so openly about of Americas politics?

No, not possibly.

Maj Hagman: "Larry said in the airplane: for the next days you sew yourself the mouth too."

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.

posted by Terry at 9:47:00 AM

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.

posted by Terry at 8:23:00 AM

Thursday, February 20, 2003

Hey, cool--deer hunting and accordians make it onto Snopes.

posted by Terry at 3:59:00 PM

'Yawn?' 'Scream' is probably more like it.

posted by Terry at 3:41:00 PM

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!

posted by Terry at 3:34:00 PM

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!!

posted by Terry at 2:41:00 PM

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.

First, he put the seat down for her. Then he began work on a tool to help people with similar dilemmas, a gizmo to assist them in raising and lowering the lid.

Jones named his invention the "Courtesy Wand," and once it's manufactured, it will sell for $19.95.

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.

That wasn't her problem.

"Mama was holding the hand rail, and asked, 'Would you please put this dang seat down for me?'" Jones said.

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!)

posted by Terry at 11:44:00 AM

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 Dakota

It is, indeed, a story worthy of the Coen Brothers--

Robert Franklin
Star Tribune

Published Feb. 19, 2003

To John Deal, it seemed like an odd phone call from a sheriff's office before 4 a.m. Tuesday: Did he own a green Steiger tractor towing a chisel plow, and how much fuel did it have?

Deal's 325-horsepower tractor -- with a full tank, four-wheel drive and towing an 18-foot-wide plow that could fold out to 35 feet -- had been stolen and was leading law officers on a low-speed chase through Traverse County in western Minnesota.

THAT, 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.

"It was really a dangerous situation," said Deal, who was told about the chase by law officers. "He was going down these side roads with no lights on."

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.

The driver didn't head back to his pickup, so "I would have no idea what his intention was," said Deal, who speculated that the man might have been lost or disoriented.

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.

Christopherson crossed into Traverse County west of Herman, came upon the tractor and stopped it. But, as he approached, it "sped" away, said Traverse County Sheriff Donald Montonye.

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.

Cars from Grant, Traverse, Otter Tail counties and the Wheaton Police Department took up the chase.

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.

The driver, whose name wasn't released because he hadn't been charged Tuesday, was taken to the Roberts County jail in Sisseton, S.D.

The tractor had little damage other than a broken hitch that was welded back together, Deal 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.

He was being held Wednesday in lieu of $2,000 bail in Roberts County, S.D., after being charged with aggravated assault, two counts of first-degree intentional damage to property and possession of stolen property. He made a first court appearance in Sisseton, S.D.

[...] The sheriff said the man had been drinking but was "rational, coherent, cooperative and apologetic" when the chase ended.

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...)

posted by Terry at 11:18:00 AM

Meth lab tools found in dorm

VIVI ABRAMS
News staff writer

Two students and a young man were being held on drug charges Wednesday after police found methamphetamine lab equipment in a University of Alabama at Birmingham residence hall.

University police arrested Sarah Suzanne Forrest, 21, of Boynton Beach, Fla.; Derrick Michael Vann, 22, of Trussville; and James William Phillips, 23, of Hueytown, Tuesday night on charges of possession of controlled substances and drug paraphernalia. Police turned the case over to the Drug Enforcement Administration on Wednesday morning. Forrest is a junior with an undeclared major and Phillips is studying biology at UAB.

UAB police were alerted after someone reported Forrest smoking in her non-smoking room. Birmingham DEA agent Greg Borland said the clandestine response team found glassware, chemicals and other materials used in making methamphetamine in the suite. Included were two three-neck flasks which are illegal to possess and carry a minimum sentence of five years upon conviction, he said. [...]

Wow, 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.)

posted by Terry at 9:13:00 AM

Alabama's Newest Product...

Riley may export inmates

DAVID WHITE
News staff writer

MONTGOMERY Alabama may send 700 to 800 men and women inmates to private prisons in Louisiana later this year in a bid to reduce crowding in state prisons, Gov. Bob Riley said Wednesday.

"I want to emphasize, this is something we're looking at as a temporary, stopgap-type measure to get us out of the criticality we're in today. This is not a long-term solution," Riley said.

Mac McArthur, executive director of the Alabama State Employees Association, said he couldn't believe Riley would even consider using out-of-state prisons run by private companies to house Alabama inmates.

"This is ridiculous. This is the state of Alabama saying we can't run state government in the state of Alabama. We would strongly oppose any such effort," said McArthur, whose association includes prison correctional officers.

"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.

posted by Terry at 9:10:00 AM

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.

posted by Terry at 9:04:00 AM

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.)

posted by Terry at 4:50:00 PM

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?

Daniels: Kathleen and I are both from Michigan, and we had a 2-year-old boy at the time. We just wanted to raise the family in the Midwest. We did not want to raise them in Hollywood. And New York is just a tough place. It's a great place to go now when the kids are older. And I also didn't want to raise the kids in Hollywood. Everybody's famous, and our friends, probably more often than not, would have been people in the industry or famous people in the industry. And I just wanted our kids to be away from that. There's a fantasy world there that can mix with reality and I just didn't want them to be confused about that.

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)

Rank and organization: Staff Sergeant, U.S. Army Air Corps, 52d Bombardment Squadron, 29th Bombardment Group, 20th Air Force. Place and date: Koriyama, Japan, 12 April 1945. Entered service at: Bessemer, Ala. Born: 8 May 1921, Adamsville, Ala. G.O. No.: 44, 6 June 1945. Citation: He was the radio operator of a B-29 airplane leading a group formation to attack Koriyama, Japan. He was charged with the additional duty of dropping phosphoresce smoke bombs to aid in assembling the group when the launching point was reached. Upon entering the assembly area, aircraft fire and enemy fighter opposition was encountered. Among the phosphoresce bombs launched by S/Sgt. Erwin, 1 proved faulty, exploding in the launching chute, and shot back into the interior of the aircraft, striking him in the face. The burning phosphoresce obliterated his nose and completely blinded him. Smoke filled the plane, obscuring the vision of the pilot. S/Sgt. Erwin realized that the aircraft and crew would be lost if the burning bomb remained in the plane. Without regard for his own safety, he picked it up and feeling his way, instinctively, crawled around the gun turret and headed for the copilot's window. He found the navigator's table obstructing his passage. Grasping the burning bomb between his forearm and body, he unleashed the spring lock and raised the table. Struggling through the narrow passage he stumbled forward into the smoke-filled pilot's compartment. Groping with his burning hands, he located the window and threw the bomb out. Completely aflame, he fell back upon the floor. The smoke cleared, the pilot, at 300 feet, pulled the plane out of its dive. S/Sgt. Erwin's gallantry and heroism above and beyond the call of duty saved the lives of his comrades.

Erwin died last year.

LAWLEY, WILLIAM R., JR. (Air Mission)

Rank and organization: First Lieutenant, U.S. Army Air Corps, 364th Bomber Squadron, 305th Bomber Group. Place and date: Over Europe, 20 February 1944. Entered service at: Birmingham, Ala. Born: 23 August 1920, Leeds, Ala. G.O. No.: 64, 8 August 1944. Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action above and beyond the call of duty, 20 February 1944, while serving as pilot of a B-17 aircraft on a heavy bombardment mission over enemy-occupied continental Europe. Coming off the target he was attacked by approximately 20 enemy fighters, shot out of formation, and his plane severely crippled. Eight crewmembers were wounded, the copilot was killed by a 20-mm. shell. One engine was on fire, the controls shot away, and 1st Lt. Lawley seriously and painfully wounded about the face. Forcing the copilot's body off the controls, he brought the plane out of a steep dive, flying with his left hand only. Blood covered the instruments and windshield and visibility was impossible. With a full bomb load the plane was difficult to maneuver and bombs could not be released because the racks were frozen. After the order to bail out had been given, 1 of the waist gunners informed the pilot that 2 crewmembers were so severely wounded that it would be impossible for them to bail out. With the fire in the engine spreading, the danger of an explosion was imminent. Because of the helpless condition of his wounded crewmembers 1st Lt. Lawley elected to remain with the ship and bring them to safety if it was humanly possible, giving the other crewmembers the option of bailing out. Enemy fighters again attacked but by using masterful evasive action he managed to lose them. One engine again caught on fire and was extinguished by skillful flying. 1st Lt. Lawley remained at his post, refusing first aid until he collapsed from sheer exhaustion caused by loss of blood, shock, and the energy he had expended in keeping control of his plane. He was revived by the bombardier and again took over the controls. Coming over the English coast 1 engine ran out of gasoline and had to be feathered. Another engine started to burn and continued to do so until a successful crash landing was made on a small fighter base. Through his heroism and exceptional flying skill, 1st Lt. Lawley rendered outstanding distinguished and valorous service to our Nation.

Lawley died in 1999.

McLAUGHLIN, ALFORD L.

Rank and organization: Private First Class, U.S. Marine Corps Company L, 3d Battalion, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division (Rein.) Place and date: Korea, 4 and 5 September 1952. Entered service at: Leeds, Ala. Born: 18 March 1928, Leeds, Ala. Citation: For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as a machine gunner of Company L, in action against enemy aggressor forces on the night of 4-5 September 1952. Volunteering for his second continuous tour of duty on a strategic combat outpost far in advance of the main line of resistance, Pfc. McLaughlin, although operating under a barrage of enemy artillery and mortar fire, set up plans for the defense of his position which proved decisive in the successful defense of the outpost. When hostile forces attacked in battalion strength during the night, he maintained a constant flow of devastating fire upon the enemy, alternately employing 2 machineguns, a carbine, and handgrenades. Although painfully wounded, he bravely fired the machineguns from the hip until his hands became blistered by the extreme heat from the weapons and, placing the guns on the ground to allow them to cool, continued to defend the position with his carbine and grenades. Standing up in full view, he shouted words of encouragement to his comrades above the din of battle and, throughout a series of fanatical enemy attacks, sprayed the surrounding area with deadly fire, accounting for an estimated 150 enemy dead and 50 wounded. By his indomitable courage, superb leadership, and valiant fighting spirit in the face of overwhelming odds, Pfc. McLaughlin served to inspire his fellow marines in their gallant stand against the enemy and was directly instrumental in preventing the vital outpost from falling into the hands of a determined and numerically superior hostile force. His outstanding heroism and unwavering devotion to duty reflect the highest credit upon himself and enhance the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.

McLaughin died in 1977.

May they all now rest in peace.

posted by Terry at 3:49:00 PM

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