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.

Monday, May 19, 2003

Oops

In all the mindless drivel of my weekend, I forgot to mention that the U.S. Women's Soccer Team did okay, too. It's a shame that this was held on the last day of the local soccer league season--the crowd was announced at 12,000, but had all the folks who would normally have gone to this not already been engaged in games, there could have been three times as many.

Oh well. It's not like any of the players took off their shirts.

In other stuff related to stuff I've already talked about, the racetrack may sound nice to me, but there was a story on the news that the folks who live nearby aren't quite so enamored living next door to the live version of the "Sounds of Sebring" record. Seems some of the residents of a toney subdivision nearby were quite put out by all the combustion sound.

And here I was wondering when they would have their first 24 hour endurance race.

posted by Terry at 4:39:00 PM

Funny, funny Blogger Boys!

Noticed this morning that the good folks at Pyra Labs are prepping their updated version of the handy and simple to use Blogger software known as Dano, and will be migrating ALLLLLL existing Blogger blogs to it in a few weeks. Over at the FAQ page, there were these FAed Qs:

What have you done for me lately?

Dano is built from completely re-designed code. This allowed us to fix many of the known problems of the current version as well as provide a platform upon which to build new features.

Known problems? There were things broke in the old version?

It's sad, but true. Archiving in particular was a troublesome area that's been redone and expanded, so no more misposted archives. [...]

You guys are a riot.

In any event, I'm sure that in keeping with past practice, this changeover will go very smoothly with no glitches at all, and the new software will work very well.

posted by Terry at 4:00:00 PM

Oh, speaking of cars and roundy-round stuff, Nate McCord over at Wasted Electrons says that this would be the perfect family car for me. ON the other hand, Ron Bailey sent me this idea, and suggests it might be a fitting conveyance for the Possum brood.

I fear this is more along our line.

posted by Terry at 3:50:00 PM

Caution: The following account of my weekend can lead to partial paralysis and numbness of the lower extremities.

Rain. And how.

Up early Saturday morning to take Boy for his final soccer game of the spring season. All dressed up, get his junk bag and water bottle and head out to Liberty Park. All the rain from the preceding days had made all the grass real pretty and green, but their fields don’t drain well and the whole place wound up like a peat bog. What a stinking slippery mess. Like playing in Teflon-coated axle grease. Good game though—the boys played very hard and wound up tieing 1-all. Jonathan got stepped on once, which made him limp around and moan some, but later on he got going and managed to bash himself in the head a couple of times (on purpose!) with the ball. He had a good time, and didn’t get incredibly dirty. However, the kid who likes to slide down for no apparent reason looked like he had been hydroseeded.

Pictures, then up to the van, where I made Little Stinky change into his clean uniform, then it was Part Two of our adventure, in which I got to hotfoot it downtown in order to take Oldest’s baritone clarinet to have a pad put on it. ::sigh:: “I DON”T KNOW HOW IT CAME OFF! I WAS JUST PLAYING AND IT CAME OFF!”

Uh-huh.

“REALLY!! I mean, my finger got under there while I was playing, but MY TEACHER SAYS IT WAS MY FAULT!!”

Uh-huh.

“SHE HATES ME!”

Uh-huh.

Oldest has tryouts for symphonic band today. Much like the tryouts for volleyball which she could not sign up for because unknown hateful people removed the signup list BEFORE SHE COULD SIGN IT, and much like the unknown hateful people who somehow managed to break into her gym locker without a trace and STEAL HER GLASSES, once again mysterious persons unknown had conspired to DENY HER THE RIGHT TO TRY OUT FOR BAND by screwing up her clarinet. Seems to be a running theme of trying to cover up for potential disappointment by consciously or unconsciously sabotaging herself. Maybe it’s some sort of vast right-wing conspiracy. She certainly seems to have much less difficulty believing that than maybe that she might have pried on the key pad just a little too hard with her fingernail, and maybe if she had not been messing with it, it would still be in one piece…

Nah, couldn’t be.

In any event, from Jonathan’s game I had to go to Nuncie’s to see if they could fix it. Walked in, took it back to the Band Aid room (heh—funny guys) and they fellow said I could pick it up Monday. HE’S PART OF THE CONSPIRACY, TOO!! Told him we needed it Monday morning, and asked if there was anything I could do as a temporary fix with stickum. He got sort of a pained look on his face and went and got another guy from the back. “Hmm. Never seen a pad come apart like that before.” Yes, my friend, and you’re not likely ever to again—he said he would give it a try, so Boy and I looked around. Wonderful place—they’ve been around for a while, and have a ton of autographed memorabilia and stuff all crammed in with the instruments—fifteen minutes of playing with stuff while simultaneously telling Jonathan to leave stuff alone (“But Daddy, YOU’RE touching it!” “Yes, and when you’re forty, you’ll be able to bother your little boy.”)—and we were ready to go. The fixer-upper guy was impressed with himself, and I was, too.

Off to T’ville, where we were supposed to a) go by the store and get hot dog buns and drinks for Catherine’s postseason party, b) get Boy stuff for his party at school, c) get him into something not full of black mud, and d) get back to the soccer park in time for Cat’s game at noon.

Clothes—check. Processed white bread—check. Two big jugs of carbonated water—check. Off to park.

Got there and they were already well into the game with a bunch of little girls wearing orange jerseys. I plopped down in my chair and Reba filled me in on the progress to that point, and she told me that the opposing coach was the same one who Catherine’s team had played in the fall that ran the score up to 20-1 and who had gotten into a verbal smackdown with our coach.

A real prince of a fellow.

Moderate height, reflective bug-eye sunglasses, body by Soloflex, hiking boots, and with his buzzcut he had a mug exactly like Jim Carrey’s in Me, Myself & Irene. And the sparkling personality of a cross between Jim Carrey as the insane Hank, and the most obnoxious [insert name of most hated Southeastern Conference football rival] fan you could find.

This old world needs all types, I suppose, but some types are more appropriate for coaching little six year old girls, and some would be better off being crushed by falling scrap iron. Shouting at the kids, mouthing off at the fans, mouthing off at the referee...he was the type of jackass we around here describe as “so sorry he ain’t worth killing.”

As I was telling our coach after it was over, his behavior was reprehensible, and he doesn’t need to be coaching little kids. BUT the best revenge is winning.

Which we did, 5-1.

In your face, burrhead.

Off to the party, which featured a moonwalk, squealing kids, wieners, cake, a moonwalk, cake, hot dogs, squealing kids, and another approaching thunderstorm. ::sigh:: We stayed as long as we could, then swept up our crew and headed to Rebecca’s last game, once more in the soggy goo at Liberty Park.

In between Boy’s morning game and this one, it had rained a few more bucketsful, and a bunch more folks had played, so by the time we got there the surface was basically thick chunky black water. The other team jumped out to a quick 1-0 lead which held to near the end of the first half, when they got called for a hand ball down inside the box. We got a direct penalty kick, which went blasting like a tank round over the goalie’s head and under the crossbar, very nearly ripping out the back of the net. My little girl has quite a leg on her, you know.

She was overjoyed. She’s been real close all year and has had several assists, but only managed to get one other goal. I think this one meant just as much as the first one. Her mama and daddy and big sister and little brother and little sister sure seemed proud about it. They were very loud, but you know how they are.

The girls went on to score another goal against a tough, tough team, thus winding up the season 7-0-1. Good job, girls!

Got Bec washed off a bit and into her spare uniform so as not to muck up the Honda, then it was off again to the house. We got parked and started unloading, and then I heard it, faintly, then louder, then faint again…

mmmwwwWWWUUUPaaaaaaa, wwwHHHUPPaaaaaa, eeeeeeeiiiiIIIIIUPPaaaaaaaa

It was at that moment that I discovered that we are just in ear distance of the new Barber racecourse. I am truly blessed. Although I didn’t get to go to the races this weekend, at least now I can rest easy knowing that I can at least hear them race if I can’t go. Add to this that we are also within earshot (so to speak) of the Birmingham Police Department firing range with its occasional full-auto training exercises, and the fact that there’s a Norfolk-Southern rail line running at the foot of the hill, and, well…it’s just overwhelming—like having your own full size slot car track and Lionel train set and GI Joe Commando Play Set. And they’re all far enough away that it’s not too loud, thus damping down the curmudgeonly old-fart side of me which wishes for QUIET and for them danged kids to hush up.

Anyway, kids inside, kids get baths and hair washed, kids go to bed, then it’s Sunday.

Of a different sort. Ashley took the ACT exam as part of the Duke University TIPS program, and out of the 3,200 or so students in Alabama who took it, around 900 scored well enough to get to go to a special honor program down at the University of Alabama.

No jokes about visiting enemy territory, please. Although I went to Auburn, I still enjoy visiting Tuscaloosa and was excited for Oldest to get some recognition. But first, we had to get down there—since it was at noon, there was no time to go to church here, so we got up early and hit the road so we could visit down there and then have time to make the ceremony. Luckily the congregation we visited had an early service, so we stopped in for a while. (Oh, and by the way, it rained all the way down.)

Interesting building—they have a large multipurpose space with moveable chairs which doubles as a gym. Sometimes rooms like this work, but most of the time they wind up not being fish nor fowl—not reverent enough to make a really contemplative space to worship, too nice to really be a good gym. You don’t want big rubber kickball marks all over the wall behind the preacher, and the stage makes for a real obstacle when you have to chase a ball out of bounds. But that’s just me—in this case they erred a bit more toward the nice side, and if there hadn’t been sports markings on the carpet, it would have looked like any other large room. Nicely furnished and painted and reasonably good acoustics, and a cool projection system so you didn’t have to fumble with songbooks.

The only thing really distracting were the two middle-aged women sitting in front of me who talked nearly the entire service. Announcements—chatting amiably. First couple of songs—chatter and sing. Prayer—bow, then start up blabbering at the exact moment the ‘n’ stopped on the ‘Amen’. Communion—bow, chat, eat, chat, bow, chat, chuckle, drink, chat. Next songs—chat, compare stuff in purses, jabber, yammer, giggle. Sermon—eyes on podium, chat out side of mouth. Chatter.

The people in front of them kept turning around, someone down the row cleared his throat in the “I’m making this sound so that you will notice me and possibly think that maybe other people might be distracted by the fact that you won’t shut up except to take a breath, and with no small amount of embarrassment you might take this opportunity to zip it” sort of manner. To no avail. I realize my kids can be distracting, but even they don’t get this bad. Of course, maybe these two ladies just needed me to pinch a plug out of the underside of their arm.

Afterwards, we went and got some brunch at one the South’s finest purveyors of greasy starches, the Shoney’s on McFarland.

For reasons that still have not become clear to me, Reba’s dad, whose sinus problems are legend, did not ask for a seat in the non-smoking section. Meaning that after our very enjoyable meal we smelled like an ashtray. I was on the end of the table beside a booth of four hefty Druid Citizens who all spoke with a charming brogue equal parts phlegm and burlap, who all seemed determined to each finish a pack of smokes before the waitress could bring the check.

Again, it takes all sorts, I suppose.

After getting our fill of the smooth, tasty goodness of second hand smoke and consuming mass quantities of food designed specifically to anger PETA, it was time to head over to Coleman Coliseum. Ashley found her place down on the floor and we squished ourselves down in the chairs and waited for a while for the show to start. When it did, there was a nice introduction from one of the guys who works with the TIPS program, and then there was the main speaker. A nice youngish fellow who was a dead ringer for Darrin Number One.

A very nice man, I'm quite sure.

He gave a speech in which he compared the “Generation Y” (please make your own air quotes) kids down on the floor with their “Generation X” (again, your own exaggerated air quotes, please) parents in the stands. Now, looking around I would say that most of the parents in the audience were at the tail end of the Baby Boom generation but I won’t quibble with that. I would like to ask that in the future though, for the sanity of all who follow me, that the entire textbook-length listing of supposed generational differences between parents and children—as compiled by ‘many noted experts’, and ‘socialogical consultants’, and others of the sort who couldn’t find their butts with both hands—somehow be shortened.

Two of these things is somewhat instructive and mildly amusing. But running through an entire matrix full of anthropological claptrap is pushing it, bub.

“How many of you know what an “Em—PEE—threeeee” is? Oh, several—in fact, MANY of you know what an “Em—Pee—THREE” is. And what is it? Yes, that’s correct, it is a TYPE OF COMPUTER MUSIC that you can “down load” from the “Internet”. And now, I’m going to ask your parents if THEY know what an “Emm—PEE—three” is…Parents?”

EVERYONE KNOWS WHAT AN MP-3 IS YOU GIANT DORK!! SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP AND GET ON WITH THIS THING BEFORE I UNBOLT THIS STADIUM CHAIR AND RAM IT UP...

A smattering of the parents who had not slipped into a coma raised their hands.

“I seeee!”

Another—“How many of you “kids” enjoy working in groups, as opposed to working on a project individually?” (Said with negative emphasis on “individually”.)

About a quarter raised their hands.

I leaned over and told Reba that these were the ones who never got stuck on a team of five in which four were burnt-out slackers with negative GPAs.

Of course, the reaction of the kids goes against accepted wisdom—that being that the New Generation enjoys working on problems collectively and by reaching consensus and by empowering group members and all that goobledygook—so he just went on as if the entire group raised their hands. Wow, nothing like being educated beyond your wisdom.

Anyway, this went on long enough for me to take a nap and for Catherine to have to go to the pot two more times, and then they finally got to the point where the kids got to go get their award. It was very nice and formal, and no one fell or goofed around. Thus done, they all got a nice round of applause and we went down and took some photos, and then headed back home.

Through the rain.

The rest of the afternoon was blessedly uneventful, although rainy.

And then it was time to get up and start another week—so there you go.

posted by Terry at 2:57:00 PM

13,000 Fla. Seniors Fail Achievement Test

A recount is in the works. (Sorry, cheap shot)

posted by Terry at 10:41:00 AM

In a story not related in the LEAST to the one earlier about a certain former President, this just in from real smart scientist guys: Science Confirms: Politicians Lie

Color me shocked.

posted by Terry at 10:39:00 AM

First it was badgers, now this...

Hungry Ferret Terrorizes Train

LONDON (Reuters) - A hungry ferret caused chaos on a commuter train in central England on Sunday, leaping from passenger to passenger before ducking into the driver's cab and devouring his lunch.

The wild ferret jumped on to the northbound Midland Mainline train as it picked up passengers at Leicester Station.

"It ran up and down the train causing more than a little consternation -- although it is hard to say if the ferret or the passengers were more frightened," a company spokeswoman said. [...]

Once again let me just say that you never hear of such untoward behavior from possums. Yet, it's always, "ooh, look at the cute litte ferret, I want to hold the ferret, let me touch the ferret"! Yeah, just wait until they're good and tanked up on Bud and start doing that weird "wikiwikiwiki" noise and they sink their razor sharp weaselly teeth into your JUGULAR!! Possums wouldn't look so bad THEN, now would they?!

posted by Terry at 10:37:00 AM

Clinton Assails Bush at Commencement Talk

By BARBARA POWELL, Associated Press Writer

JACKSON, Miss. - Former President Bill Clinton accused President Bush of spending more time fighting the war on terrorism than on domestic issues during a commencement speech at Tougaloo College.

"I supported the president when he asked for authority to stand up against weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, but we can't be forever strong abroad if we don't keep getting better at home," Clinton said Sunday to a crowd of about 8,000.

Clinton also criticized Bush's position on affirmative action and tax cuts just two days after the President formally kicked off his re-election campaign. [...]

Clinton further criticized Bush, saying even on his best days he couldn't "drain it like this", as he held aloft a 40 ounce Colt 45 and poured into a large funnel attached to a length of plastic tubing. After finishing the beverage and releasing a satisfied belch, the former Rhodes Scholar and U.S. President left for his next speaking engagement. It is reported that he did not leave any genetic material behind.

posted by Terry at 10:21:00 AM

Afternoon, everybody. NORM!!!

AUBURN, Ala. - Stray dogs show up all the time around Auburn University. They don't usually belong 800 miles away in Kansas.

But that was the case with Norman, a beagle who wandered off from his owner in Solomon, Kan., one day in March and showed up Friday outside an Auburn University computer repair shop.

"I didn't think much of it — we've found dogs out here before," said Daryl Waites, Auburn's digital repair manager. "Usually just some student lost them."

Waites, a dog lover and owner, coaxed the beagle into the repair shop, where he and receptionist Cindy Darby checked the dog's collar. The collar's dull brass tag was inscribed: 2003, City of Solomon, KS.

Darby called City Hall in Solomon, a small town located 90 miles west of Topeka, and gave the tag number and a description of the dog.

"It sounded like a description of Norman," said an astonished Tallie Baetz, Solomon's city clerk.

Norman belonged to Baetz's neighbors, Tim and Jennifer Cross, two local schoolteachers. They had named the chubby dog — a wedding gift from Tim to his bride — after the character on "Cheers." [...]

posted by Terry at 10:09:00 AM

Heh-heh. And then some!

posted by Terry at 10:03:00 AM

ALIVE!!

Lot's of this, none of this. Finished this. AND SO MUCH MORE!!

Check back in a bit--long-windedness guaranteed--lots of rain, huge amounts of muck, three soccer games including one with a coach who is a man by genetics only, party, a trip to Shoney's AND the University of Alabama, Generation X + Y = Somnambulance, aural bliss, etc., etc.--all in all, one of the more lively weekends. BUT before I write this Ode to Suburbia, I must finish my paying work this morning. Be back in a bit, but until then, be sure to go see what everyone else up in the blogroll has to say.

See you in a little while.

posted by Terry at 9:37:00 AM

Friday, May 16, 2003

What I will not be doing this weekend

Well, not sports car racing. And not listening to live music. Of any sort. And not watching Brandi Chastain tear off her jersey.

Instead, I will be baking in the sun here. And out in my yard pushing one of these. And digging a hole for this. And playing with the kids.

SO, all of you have a good weekend--I'm fixing to go here, and when you come back on Monday, you'll get to read ALL SORTS OF EXCITING STUFF!!

posted by Terry at 3:33:00 PM

Why Me?

Well, who cares! If it’s got to be me, then I’m gonna give it all I got!! Especially for visitors who drop into the jumbled mess of Possumblog searching for: Calvin Coolidge cat draped over his shoulder.

Now I know this person was probably looking for a photo, but before we go on, we best make sure we’re talking about the correct Calvin Coolidge. Because you know, there is this famous relative of Silent Cal, about whom the Kansas Dental Association said:

"This is the first time we have used this type of entertainment for our Friday evening cocktail reception and banquet and we weren't sure what the reaction would be. I can say without hesitation that Calvin was a tremendous hit. He is a delightful person and I would be pleased to recommend him to any group seeking that type of entertainment."

No, no—surely this intrepid searcher was indeed looking for a feline-bedecked 30th President. Let’s see—probably not this, and although it appears in this photo taken with Helen Keller that she has a cat, nay, SEVERAL cats strung down her bosom, they are NOT on Mr. Coolidge’s shoulder. Likewise, Mrs. Coolidge’s raccoon probably doesn’t qualify, either, seeing as how it is not a cat, nor is it on anyone other than Mrs Coolidge, and it’s being held firmly in her arms.

Sadly, I must say that in the five to six minutes I spent poring over archival material, I have found nothing to indicate a fondness of cats sufficient to cause Mr. Coolidge to place one upon his upper torso area. Not that he didn’t like cats, and animals in general—this site has a complete listing of the zoocoolidgium, and it is impressive in the extreme. His menagerie included:

Peter Pan, terrier
Paul Pry, Airedale, originally named Laddie Buck
Rob Roy, white collie, originally named Oshkosh
Prudence Prim, white collie
Calamity Jane, Shetland sheepdog
Tiny Tim, chow
Blackberry, chow
Ruby Rough, brown collie
Boston Beans, bulldog
King Kole, police dog
Bessie, yellow collie
Palo Alto, bird dog
Nip and Tuck, canaries
Snowflake, white canary
Old Bill, thrush
Enoch, goose
Mockingbird belonging to Mrs. Grace Coolidge
Tiger, alley cat
Blacky, cat
Rebecca and Horace, raccoons
Ebenezer, donkey
Smokey, bobcat
Also: lion cubs, wallaby, pigmy hippo, bear

Whew. Bet the White House stank to high heaven.

In any event, my apologies for not finding any pics of Cal with Tiger, Blacky (alt. Blackie) or Smokey.

posted by Terry at 3:13:00 PM

Local Media Coverage of City Stages, or; I Become a Flagrant Stalker

Another pleasant aspect of City Stages, aside from the 300 vendors of funnel cakes and animal-on-a-stick, is that the local media types always set up camp around here to do promotional stuff and provide coverage.

As you all know, I have in the past corresponded with one particularly attractive local reporter, and on the off-chance that she was out and about, I left my lair and walked downstairs to see if I could just happen to find her and get an autographed picture and a coffee cup and maybe a hug. By accident, of course. ‘ Just in the neighborhood’ sorta stuff.

::sigh:: Nowhere to be seen. Devon Walsh was out front here on the Coke stage messing with some of the band equipment—she’s cute even if she did graduate from Notre Dame, but still, she wasn’t who I was stalking. Walked on around to their broadcast platform in front of Park Place; nothing but technicians and a producer sort whiling away the time. Walked on up the block past the NBC13 platform and truck and saw even less folks (and since Wendy Garner's on maternity leave, no hope of seeing anyone else I wanted to stalk.)

On up a bit more and just saw the normal complement of folks who seem to show up when this event’s in town—burly, mulleted women, traveling purveyors of junk, foodies, roadies, shirtless guys with vacant, far-away stares—in all, a very cosmopolitan crew.

But nobody to stalk.

Hmph!

[Friday 4:30 p.m. UPDATE---I almost forgot!! What would City Stages be without a blinding thunderstorm on opening night!! It's been beautiful all day long until about half an hour ago. Then the bottom dropped out--tremendous lightning and thunder and Olympic-sized swimming pools of rain. Just what you need for an outdoor festival with megawatts of moving electrons running all over the sidewalks. Oh well, best of luck folks.]

posted by Terry at 2:16:00 PM

Y'know, it never ceases to amaze me...

...but Star Trek fans seem inordinately interested in stuff like bumpy-headed Klingons. James Joyner links over to Frank at IMAO, who delves into the question of bumpiness, yet for some reason leaves out the fact that if you want to look at bumpy aliens, THEY SHOULD ALL LOOK LIKE THIS! Bumpy? Certainly. But in the proper places.

posted by Terry at 11:53:00 AM

How could I forget

Every year for the past seven, the Coca-Cola Stage has been set up right under my window at work. And I was just now once again reminded of the fascinating job of sound checker...

Two two TWO. Two Two.

TwotwotwoONEcheck.

TeWTeW. Two. Two. Two. Two. Two. one.two.CHECK.thump. ::feedback::

OneTWO!onetwoTWOone ::clickfuzz::

TWOtwoTWOtwoTWOONETWOCHECK.

CHKCHKCHKTWOthreeonetewtewtew.

::thump::One, two, two...two. Two.

TWO.

Two.

AAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!

posted by Terry at 11:31:00 AM

MiG Alley Meets Miracle Mile

Cool story about a German Luftwaffe fighter wing equipped with Mig 29s on a two month training deployment down at Eglin--you just gotta love a German nicknamed "Hooters".

One wonders if he got his nickname here.

posted by Terry at 10:53:00 AM

More of them veehickles...

Marc Velazquez at Spudlets has posted his own confessional of past conveyances--seems Marc might just have a little understood subform of vehicaholism known as moparicity. Don't know if it's true, but I hear tell he named his kids John Francis and Horace Elgin and Walter Percy. The boys don't mind too much, but his daughter is a bit miffed.

posted by Terry at 9:34:00 AM

ARRGGHHH!!

Massive backup from downtown all the way to the airport on I-20/59 due to some unseen, mysterious force--no wreck, no police in sight--then get downtown and all the streets are blocked around my building for City Stages, so I have to make a detour, along with the line of concrete trucks someone decided needed to be downtown at 8 a.m., AND at the very same time the stage crew for the Dixie Chicks (also in town this weekend) ALSO showed up at 8 a.m. at the Convention Center, which created still further frustration since they had no idea of where they were going nor did the motorcycle cop have any idea of how to direct traffic. BAH!! Took me an hour and a half to get to work.

BUT, to make it all better with happy stuff, none of the kids had soccer practice last night, so we all got to go to Oldest's end-of-year band concert. As always, excellent work, and a very nice time was had--aside from being in a stifling gym and aside from the Kenny Stabler-looking guy who plopped down in front of me and enjoyed the concert through some really heavy-duty beerophonic headphones, and who decided that it was a good idea to a) bring a live cell phone to a concert, and b) not turn off the ringer, and c) answer said phone when it inevitably rang, and d) loudly talk into said phone with the rich and cultured tones of a voice trained by years of Old Grandad and unfiltered Camels to tell the person on the other end that he was at a band concert.

[/grumpiness]

posted by Terry at 9:10:00 AM

Thursday, May 15, 2003

Is it just me...

Or has anyone else wondered if this guy ever spent some time in this guy's hometown about 1978 or so?

posted by Terry at 4:36:00 PM

A sad announcement.

AUBURN - Auburn lead announcer Jim Fyffe passed away from a brain aneurysm Thursday at Jackson Hospital in Montgomery. He was 57. He is survived by his wife, Rose, five children, five grandchildren and one great grandchild.

Visitation will be held from 5-7 p.m. (CT) Friday at Leak Memory Funeral Home in Montgomery. A memorial service will be held at First United Methodist Church in Montgomery Saturday at 11 a.m. A grave side service will be held at Greenwood Cemetery immediately following the service.

Donations can be made to the American Diabetes Association in the name of Jim Fyffe.

Fyffe spent 22 seasons as the play-by-play announcer for Auburn football and men's basketball games.

"In a very real sense, the voice of Auburn has been silenced," said Auburn athletic director David Housel. "There will be other voices, but no one else will carry the excitement and enthusiasm Jim did. He had a special talent and he used that talent in a special way for the glory of Auburn. As long as people remember what has happened here in the last 20 years, 20 of the best years in Auburn history, they will remember Jim. He will forever more be a very special part of it. I've lost a friend, Auburn has lost a patriot."

A native of Paintsville, Ky., Fyffe was known for his signature call, "TOUCHDOWN AUBURN". He called play-by-play for Auburn's Southeastern Conference championship seasons in 1983, 1987, 1988, 1989 and the Tigers' undefeated season in 1993. He provided the radio call for 15 bowl games and action for such Auburn players as Bo Jackson, Brent Fullwood, Tracy Rocker, Aundray Bruce, Lawyer Tillman, Reggie Slack, Stan White, Takeo Spikes and Rudi Johnson.

"This is a serious loss for the Auburn family and broadcasting industry," said Mike Hubbard, President of the Auburn Network. "Jim was a true professional and really became an icon to Auburn people throughout the country. It was a privilege for those of us at the Auburn Network to have the opportunity to work with him. We will always be thankful we were able to work and be friends with Jim. Our thoughts and prayers are with his family. He will be sorely missed." [...]

Indeed he will.

posted by Terry at 3:10:00 PM

Carrier Landing Unnecessary?

Steve Taylor, fellow Weevilite, political scientist doctor guy, and writer of Poliblog says maybe it was, but in the end, Presidents do lots of largely symbolic things that most folks would find unnecessary. (And he's not talking about schtupping the interns.) Presidents do things like pose with Boy Scouts, and Thanksgiving turkeys, and they even get to handle fossils. All part of the job (whether their time could be better spent doing real work or not), and in the end the Democratic carping about it comes off as a vineyard full of sour grapes.

posted by Terry at 2:54:00 PM

From The Tarheel Republic, Spudlets' own Marc Velazquez sends in the following, which was just handed to me by a very winded Chet the E—Mail Boy:

Hey vehicalholic - saw Lileks got your number today in the Backfence:
[...] From Carol:

This morning, I found myself driving behind a Buick SUV. Wouldn't the Buickness of this vehicle more than cancel out any coolness derived from owning an SUV?

Have you ever been walking along wearing headphones, and the cord catches on something? Your head jerks back, you feel as though you've been lassoed by a small rodeo clown. That's how I felt when I encountered the concept of "coolness derived from owning an SUV."

I am not one of those people who base their sense of self-worth on their hatred of SUVs. I do not believe the people who drive them are going to hell. (Unless they bought one to haul bodies around.) I don't drive one because I don't need one, and at my size I'd look like a rabbit in the cockpit of a 747. But cool? SUVs are not cool. Small manual-transmission silver cars that go from 0 to (sonic boom) in 8.4 seconds are cool. And I used to have one, too. Sold it for a small SUV. Couldn't carry Toddler™ around in a sports car. Can't wait until she graduates from high school; we're going down to the new car lot, and I'm buying the fastest, smallest sports car I can find. Then I'll throw her the keys to the Honda Dorkia I've been driving for the past few decades. You owe me, kid. [...]
I don't recall seeing any updates on your driving pleasure experience with your new Honda. Anything you would like to share with the legions of Possumblogger fans?!?

Well, first of all, after seeing Nate McCord’s and Larry Anderson’s and William Roberts’ recitation of automotive agony and ecstasy, I gotta say, right here and right now, that I am a mere piker in comparison. Oh, I may be able to pick out a few old cars in a lineup, and I might remember that the valve lift on the hi-po version of the AMC 390 V8 is .0425”, but that silly trivia is but a slim piece of chrome trim on the quarter panel of someone who is well and truly suffering mightily from advanced, chronic, terminal carnutitis and vehicoholism. Sickos.

Now then, having dispensed with the chore of pointing to others’ misdemeanors to hide my own faults, I will return to the original intent of Marc’s missive.

BUT, before sharing Honder stories, a disturbing recollection that might just push me back over into the realm of carnuttiness.

It was raining outside—big sheets of rain like a coastal squall. I was in a small, sparse waiting area that looked a bit like a rental car showroom—light colored cheap wood paneling, odd vinyl chairs, a counter with a formica top, big window looking out to an area that looked like a parking lot. It was the driver’s room at Watkin’s Glen. (Or, at least the REM version of it. Somehow, I think in real life it probably looks a bit nicer than the way I dreamed it.) It seems I was scheduled to drive an SCCA event in our Plymouth van. What!? In this rain?!? I quickly remembered that I needed to air the front tires up a bit, and I quietly thanked myself for ordering it with the handling package and heavy duty cooling when we first bought it—I sorta wished I had gotten the bigger engine, but these guys are still gonna feel reeeeeal funny when they get passed by a minivan! Wait—crap! I don’t have my wallet! And I’ve got to pay this guy a dollar to go out to my vehicle! I’m going to miss the line-up if I don’t…telephone. Gotta find a telephone! Payphone outside in the restaurant. It uses a single nickel. I start dialing numbers. No one answers. I don’t know who I’m calling anyway. It’s still pouring rain, and I hear a couple of cars start wiiih-RUMPohpahpohRRUM-Pop…popping to life out on the grid. I’m going to be late and it’ll be hard to every catch up if I can’t find my dollar or someone to give me one and then I lie down on the chairs for a minute and …. Nothing. I woke up and that was it.

I still think I could do pretty well, though. And I do have a dollar in my pocket right now. The tires really do need to be aired up a bit, and it needs an alignment. The 3.0 has some low-speed stumbles, but I am relatively confident that it could stand up to at least 60 miles or so at full clip, and it really does have the factory handling package and heavy duty trans and oil coolers and oversized radiator.

But I don’t have a problem. Honest. I could quit anytime.

I have had far fewer than the nearly four-score vehicles that Nate and Larry have between them—the list includes only a couple of interesting ones, and the rest were just cars: 1972 Monte Carlo, 1969 AMX, 1974 Vega station wagon, 1980 Camaro, 1986 Nissan SE V-6 pickup, 1986 Camaro (brought in by marriage to Miss Reba), 1992 Ford Taurus, 1994 F-150, 1994 Plymouth Voyager, 1992 Mercury Sable, 1994 Olds 88, 1982 Ford F-100, and our newest addition, the 2001 Honda Odyssey.

The Odyssey continues to provide fine driving comfort, although it seems to be a magnet for rocks. It’s like it has some huge mystical vortex causing all road debris to fly up and smack it one. And we have already had several sticky candy incidents that caused much verbal abuse. Overall, it’s nicely screwed together and full of rich meaty Honda goodness, but it does seem to suffer a pretty large rear blind spot—I nearly ran over a blind-spot lurker the other day.

In any event, as for what will happen in three years when Oldest gets her license? Heh. Heh heh heh. Well, first, she’s going to learn how to drive a stick. Using Franklin the F-100. Then it will be free for her to use all she wishes. Heh.

(I’m not actually that mean. She will be allowed occasional use of the Plymouth.)

posted by Terry at 2:07:00 PM

“Open the doooooor,
To your…
MYSSSST’RY DAAAATE!”

(Odd 1960s reference there. Sorry.)

Combining the worst elements of FOX’s Who Wants To Eat Lunch With A Sub-Moron and Mr. Personality, your humble scribe found that telling a person that you look JUST LIKE TOM SELLECK can lead to palpable, visible, disappointment showing on the face of that person, who just happens to be your mystery lunch date. [Note to self: You don’t look much like Tom Selleck.]

In any event, the one and only sugarmama and I met up on the streets of The ‘Ham this afternoon for a light lunch at Cameo Café, just up the street from the Trust Jesus Sign Guy. (Who was apparently on vacation today.)

The other day I deduced from miss sugarmama’s blog that she worked nearby to Possumblog Central, so after some “how odd, we ought to eat lunch sometime” e-mails, we finally settled on a time and date and location, and I gave her a description of myself so she wouldn’t just go off with a complete stranger who might claim to be a marsupial.

In breathless and somewhat sweaty anticipation, I encamped upon the corner of the plaza at the AmSouth building and in just a few moments a gang of burly Southern Company toughs showed up with sugarmama safely ensconced within their perimeter. Sensing that I was moderately harmless, she sent them away to go eat Mexican food, and she and I exchanged the customary greeting I give to all I meet on the street—an outstretched hand and a plea for money for some smokes and a bus ticket. She dropped a slug into my begging cup and off we went.

Lunch was very good—I had the blackened chicken sandwich (that’s real blackening on there!) while sugarmama had the chicken pot pie and salad. First thing was to prove that I actually have four kids and a wife, so sugarmama got the full tour of my nasty, sweaty, butt-marked wallet, in which are carried ACTUAL PHOTOGRAPHS of Oldest, Middle Girl, Boy, and Tiny Terror, as well as Miss Reba. Suitably satisfied that I had not rolled a businessman for the pictures in his wallet, she took her pistol off the table and we settled in for conversation and dining.

Topics included blogging (what are the odds of that!?), college, work, houses, mama’n’em, bloggers we know (and the ones we wish we didn’t know), writing, and junk like that. All in all a very nice lunch with a great young lady.

SO, the next time you’re downtown for lunch, come on and get some food with us. No, you can pick up your own tab.

posted by Terry at 11:50:00 AM

Okay...

ONCE MORE I am coming to you, blog in hand, to say that The Ol' Man is making me come inside--'Get yer chores done, then you can go outside and play!' Mean old cuss.

BUT, I did just have to give a few lines to Middle Girl this morning. I just got here from her recital and it was just so darned sweet. The entire elementary choir was there, along with their marimbas and xylophones and other bangy-thumpy-type instruments, and they played for the parents and for the third and fouth grades. (The other grades get to go to a second performance). They were singing about the parts of speech--a ton of nice little songs about nouns and verbs and adjectives and adverbs and conjunctions and prepositions and pronouns and rhyming words and interjections--and I thought the teachers did a wonderful job of finding all these songs.

While I was listening, I thought to myself that there was probably some sort of website or book or something that had all the songs in there--they were common melodies like "Twinkle Twinkle" and "B-I-N-G-O" and stuff with cute lyrics and hand motions and stuff. I didn't realize it until afterwards, when the fact was announced by the lady who is the music coordinator for the entire system, that the two music teachers had put all the words together themselves. Wow. They did a great job and they had a pianist, and a couple of ladies reading parts, and even had some special choreography with one of the kid's dads who dressed up like a clown and did some schtick. They also had one of the coaches sit down front, and after each song, he would dramatically use those particular parts of speech in a little monologue: for pronouns--"I enjoy listening to THOSE kids!", verbs--"I will RUN to the lounge for some coffee!"

Cute.

But somewhat disturbing in that he was sitting there with an i-Book in his lap, apparently reading his phrases off the screen. Now I realize that laptop computers are all the rage for portability and all, but gee, wouldn't a sheet of paper been slightly more handy?

But it was too sweet to gripe about--Rebecca did fine, although she didn't crack a smile the entire time--she had her game-face on like when Ruben's listening to the judges. And I got to see Little Buddy, who was about to split a seam waving at me as I left, and then I got here and gee whiz, whaddya know, I got crap to do. So, not much stuff today, although I promise you will get all the details of the MYSTERY LUNCH MEETING WITH ANOTHER BLOGGER!!

Oh, and by the way, Loyal Order of the Possum Minion Jim Calloway from down in the Panhandle sent me a warning about tonight:

This evening I shall make the moon seem to disappear, beginning at oh, I don't know, say I'll start around 9:00 PM EST and complete the effect by somewhere close to 10:15 PM EST.

After a pause, to let the yokels marvel, I shall begin to make the moon reappear. I should be done by around midnight.

You might wish to inform your loyal readers.

Thank you for your attention. That is all.

Jim, Jim, Jim--people are much more sophisticated nowadays--they KNOW that the disappearing moon is not some sort of party trick by a shaman such as yourself, but rather it is the Great Sky Dragon eating his sacrificial meal. Science trumps superstition EVERY time, my friend. Oh, you might be able to get a few gullible souls to bow before you, but most are simply too frightened by the Big Sky Dragon to give you much mind. Sorry to be such a downer.

(But it might make you feel better if you know that one who uses frippery is not a frip. That would be a fripperee.)

Wow! I get interesting e-mail.

Anywho, back to work. See you after while.

posted by Terry at 10:03:00 AM

Wednesday, May 14, 2003

And Tomorrow?

Looks to be more busywork, with added bonus of a couple of hours in the morning spent at elementary school for a choir recital! So, once more, you will be freed from immense amounts of idle chatter. HOWEVER, tomorrow will also mark a first--actually MEETING a fellow blogger!! I have talked to Fritz Schranck on the telephone before (and a very pleasant conversation it was, I must say), but tomorrow I will get to sit down at lunch and watch this mystery blogger cram food down the ol' chatterbox. Cool!

Anyway, until then...

posted by Terry at 3:48:00 PM

Okay, I finally have the time to sit back, relax, and post the following:

Tiny Girl--woke up last night crying, got in bed with us in the early ante meridiems, continued to whimper and flail arms and legs like logs falling from a runaway pulpwood truck--doctor's diagnosis, raging ear infection. Eww.

Boy--is NINE entire years old today.

Me--busy, will be so until not.

Okee-doke. Now back to helping Sisyphus.

posted by Terry at 2:35:00 PM

Forecast Update for Wednesday

AAGGHHHHH!! Just got through with 2 hours of bureaucratic fun, so today's FICC Size Index will be dropping to near zero as I run around here and try to shovel out the paperwork stables. Might be some clearing late today, or the flood may continue to rise, leading to an outbreak of alligators snapping at my hinder parts, made worse by being up Ordure Creek between a rock and a hard place without a paddle. And also made worse by having a walnut-sized brain.

Anyway, I will see you all later on--if not, please contact the sheriff and have them start dragging the river.

posted by Terry at 9:22:00 AM

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

Forecast for Tomorrow

Very light blabber early Wednesday due to a high-pressure work front moving in. FICC (Free Ice Cream Cone) Size Index down 27%. Expected clearing in the early afternoon, with a steady increase in windiness.

posted by Terry at 3:58:00 PM

No, man--Dave's not here!!

posted by Terry at 3:47:00 PM

And you thought I had problems!

He bought a SKODA!!

posted by Terry at 2:01:00 PM

Oops! Or, should I say, ¡ay!

Just got back from YET ANOTHER beautiful walk down 20th Street to meet sweet wife for lunch. What a GORGEOUS day! High clouds, mid-70s, light breeze, record numbers of panhandlers (City Stages is coming up this weekend, and like Deadheads, these guys know when a show's in town and show up well in advance--or maybe they're just here to catch RICK SPRINGFIELD!) Got to the eating joint, which is known by at least four names--El Sabor De Mazatlan, just plain Sabor Mazatlan, Sabor Latino, and Tower Cafe (that last one is more than likely just a leftover from the previous tenant)--and sat down at a booth.

Reba and I both like going here because the food and service are always good. Of absolutely no concern to Reba is the fact that the staff also has waitresses. Each of whom are women. And Latin. And highly distracting. I always figured they had guys working there, too, but I didn't really care to find out. That is, until the busboy/chip basket bringer-outer/table wiper came out with a basket of chips. Seems he had become enamored of the look currently being sported by the fleshy young cashier, who went to la salon and had some auburn highlights put in her long, thick, soft, hair. I say this because the young fellow had gone and dyed his short spiky hair red. Not just red, but rojo llameante red. Tabasco red. Red.

Somehow, I just don't think it was the effect he was looking for.

HOWEVER, I did find a new (to me, at least) brand of hot sauce that is really, REALLY good--Salsa Valentina. Not blazing, can't-put-it-in-your-mouth hot, but nice and warm with a bit of a sweet flavor. Mmm--good!

posted by Terry at 1:53:00 PM

Awwww. How sweet! Panhandle woman has possum passion, or is it marsupial madness?

By WENDY VICTORA

If there is a heaven for downtrodden animals, it must look a lot like Carri Wieser's house.

The bathtub of her Fort Walton Beach residence is home to more than a dozen tiny baby possums, so small it would take three or four to fill an 8-ounce glass.

Why is it I get a mental image of Dan Aykroyd on Saturday Night Live with a blender, shouting, "MMMM! THAT'S GOOD POSSUM!"

The freezer is stuffed with the critters' cooked chicken wings, while dozens of slightly bruised apples fill her kitchen sink, waiting to be cut up for the evening meal.

I bet you didn't know possums had chicken wings, did you? Yep, you just can't see them for all the fur.

Wieser has a lot of mouths to feed. Last count, she had 47 possums living in her guest bathroom, porch and back yard.

"They're actually quite special," she said of possums, which are often mistaken for members of the rodent family. "They're the only marsupials in North America."

Special? Of course. But 47!? Sorry, but that might be crossing over into "insane possum lady" territory.

That means they're related to the kangaroo, an animal with far fewer image problems.

But which can be turned into lovely shoes and steaks, so it probably evens out.

For possums, every day is a bad fur day. Add their long pink snouts, beady eyes, rows of sharp pointy teeth and ratlike tails, and they wouldn't win any beauty contests.

Maybe so, in your insecure, anthropocentrically dominated culture! You wouldn't know true beauty if it crossed the road in front of you, and became mesmerized by your headlights!! SPECIEIST!!

Wieser, who has been the "possum lady" for the Emerald Coast Wildlife Refuge for two years, is used to sticking up for her charges.

"That's the hard part of them," she said. "Because they're not your cool dolphins or fuzzy baby squirrels, nobody cares."

She points out that one of their few methods of self-defense is looking mean and that they are nature's trash collectors, with their habit of eating everything from fruits and vegetables to roadkill.

See there?! What's not to like?

Wieser, an architect by degree,

Well, now, this just explains everything, now doesn't it?

always takes care of animals in some way, as she moves from base to base with her Air Force husband.

When they came here in 1999, she began volunteering with the refuge, which takes in more than 1,500 wild animals a year. Two years ago, the group reorganized to handle the increasing volume of animals, and volunteers decided it was more effective to specialize.

Nobody wanted possums, so Wieser took them on. Now, particularly in the spring, she spends between three and four hours a day taking care of them.

When her husband was deployed at the beginning of the year, she had five possums. She's been keeping him updated on her bulging possum population with e-mails.

Not only do possums have chicken wings, the population also has e-mail.

"My husband thinks I'm nuts," she said.

Hm. Y'think?

"I'm like, 'Don't come home. I don't have time for you.'"

Once you've felt the furry embrace of a possum, nothing else even comes close.

When baby possums are born in their mothers pouches, they are the size of a dime. If something happens to the mother in their first weeks, they cannot be hand-raised.

Once they get to about eight or nine weeks, Wieser has had more success. Using a tiny dropper, she feeds them special possum formula every three hours, around the clock. As they grow, she adjusts their feeding schedule to four times a day.

Special possum formula, eh? Gotta get me some of that...

The number of animals in Wieser's house changes daily, particularly in the spring when most new possums are born.

Amazing!! When animals are born, the total number of animals increases!! Fascinating, and dare I say, miraculous!

New animals are brought in, most injured by cars. After their mothers are struck, the babies will crawl out of the pouch, and passing motorists will spot them and bring them in.

Some she can't save. In her freezer, near the half-dozen bags of chicken wings, three tiny corpses wait in Ziploc bags for a decent disposal. One died while she was rushing it to the emergency animal clinic in Niceville.

Eww. But it's nice to know that there's a nice place called Niceville to rush them to. After returning from the unsuccessful run, all the other baby possums started conceptualizing a place of post-mortem eternal rest, and they dubbed it Niceville.

Most people wouldn't think of handling a possum, which can look quite menacing. Wieser opens the doors of their cages and hauls them out, hoping others will come to appreciate them.

"Smile for the camera," she said, holding one up. "Promote your species so people will slow down at night and not hit them. People think they're big rats and aim for them."

Apparently that second-to-last sentence also got in the way of a car. In any event, I can unequivocably say that no one aims for big road rats. They can tear your car up really well, as well as leave icky guts all over the side.

In any event, it's good to see that there is someone who cares for possums.

Even if she's half a bubble off level.

posted by Terry at 11:30:00 AM

Arlington National Cemetery

posted by Terry at 11:04:00 AM

Checkmate Police: Chess Grand Master arrested for trying to pick up a 15-year-old girl

By JAY NEWTON-SMALL
The Associated Press
5/13/03 1:58 AM

BALTIMORE (AP) -- A former chess star at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County was arrested in Alabama on charges he tried to meet a 15-year-old girl for sex.

Alex Sherzer, 32, was arrested Friday in Mobile and was being held in the Mobile County Metro Jail. A District Court judge will hear an appeal by U.S. Attorney David York of a magistrate court judge's decision Monday to grant bail. Sherzer will be held until the District Court judge hears the appeal Tuesday. [...]

According to court documents, Sherzer held e-mail conversations with the unidentified girl over several weeks. The girl's mother found printouts of the conversations in her daughter's backpack and alerted authorities, McNichol said.

Authorities continued the e-mail contact with Sherzer as if they were the girl.

Thinking the girl had a weekend pass from the Strickland Youth Center -- a juvenile detention center in Mobile where the girl was staying -- Sherzer arranged to pick her up Friday, McNichol said. Federal agents believe Sherzer arrived in Mobile late Thursday or early Friday and checked into a hotel.

"They had several very graphic conversations about what they would do if he went to visit her in Alabama," McNichol said. "He knew her age, but what he didn't know was that he wasn't really talking to her -- he was talking to authorities."

Sherzer was charged with interstate travel with the intent of engaging in a sexual act with a person under 18. The charge carries a maximum penalty of 15 years in prison. [...]

Moron.

posted by Terry at 10:58:00 AM

Once again, it seems to be time for a brief excerpt from the ever handy 1901 edition of Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book.

Today Messrs. Nisbet and Lemon talk about Sentences:

When to use Long Sentence.—Long and short sentences have, however, their respective advantages and disadvantages. It is in certain cases advisable, for the sake of a pure and complete impression on the mind of the reader, primâ facie, of an important declaration, to have the principal statement with its full complement of modifying clauses all organized into one compound sentence. A law or deliberative motion, comprehending a variety of particulars, and punctiliously restricted by a number of reservations and qualifications, will often solemnly impose itself on the reader in one exhaustive sentence. A long compound sentence symmetrically constructed, in entire harmony one part with each other, one word with all the others, is, moreover, a higher feat of art than is a simple sentence, and yields the appreciate reader a richer pleasure, just as harmony affords the cultivated ear more delight than simple melody.

When to use Short Sentences.—On the other hand, a statement is so much less liable to be overlooked, and so much more easily comprehensible, when standing out by itself in one separate sentence. A business letter, intent first and last on the due and prompt despatch of business, and disposing of only a few items, does well to give each item a paragraph to itself. And if an item comprises some distinct particulars, each of them may have a sentence to itself. The drawback of a series of long sentences is to tire, of a series of short sentences to distract.

Alternation of Long and Short Sentences.—In literature proper, the writer, disposing of a wider range of topics and contemplating a higher object, is less bound to short sentences than in the case of a business communication. Literature, aiming at a new and higher interpretation of nature, will, like nature herself, be not of monotonous, but of ever-varying construction. The impressiveness of mountain is its contrast with valley, and the charm of valley its contrast with mountain. Arduous mountain and easy valley brace and relieve each other. Nor should even hill and dale follow each other in monotonous alternation. A long succession of long sentences appals the reader at the start, and tires him at the end—if he gets so far. On the other hand, a page cut up all into little bits of sentences looks to a robust reader like so much French frippery. In literature proper, easy short-cut sentences are the rule, but they are every now and again relieved by long ones. The reader’s mind and wind, having been well breathed in a long but symmetrically constructed sentence, he recurs with the more enjoyment to a succession of shorter ones.

posted by Terry at 10:44:00 AM

Hmm. That's not something you hear about every day...

Five Hurt in Badger Rampage

LONDON (Reuters) - An angry domesticated badger savaged five people, leaving one man so seriously injured he needed skin grafts, and chased away pursuing police officers during a 48-hour rampage through a quiet English town.

Soccer hooligan more than likely.

One-year-old Boris launched what experts described as unprecedented attacks after finding himself hungry, alone and frightened after being stolen or released from a wildlife visitor center where he had been hand-reared and hand-fed.

Wow. That's gratitude for you.

"I have been involved with badgers for 24 years and I have never heard of anything like this, nor has anyone I have spoken to," Mike Weaver, chairman of the Worcestershire Badger Society told Reuters on Tuesday.

Incredible! Not only do they make a fine piquant sauce, they even have their own Badger Society!! The wonders of Worcestershire!

Weaver was brought in by police to catch Boris, who had bitten the five victims' arms and legs after getting loose near Evesham, Worcestershire, in central England.

The officers themselves had been chased onto the bonnet of their car as they tried to round up Boris, who was later put down.

Put down? "Boris, your mama's so fat, her butt got it's own ZIP code!" Hmm? What? OHhhh. That kind of put down. Taking the lead pill, turning in for a dirt nap, making like Beethoven and decomposing. I've got it now.

Weaver said badgers were notoriously powerful animals and the incident showed the folly of trying to turn wild animals into pets.

Maybe so, but you've never seen a 'Possum Gone Wild' story in the papers, now have you? Of course not. Them badgers is a bad seed.

posted by Terry at 9:09:00 AM

Monday, May 12, 2003

Okay now—dive with me headlong into the tiresome details of yet another round of weekendery!! Friday night we decided to do something not involving kicking a ball so we shoved the kids in the Family Truckster, dropped off Boy for his sleepover, and headed out to the theater, stopping along the way for some seared cow meat (with secret sauce!) from Milo’s. Mmm—MM! Hamburgers as they are meant to be served.

We got the kids fed and managed not to get more than a gallon or two of sauce on their clothes, then it was time to head for the movie theater. I sure wish they would have had an ATM—I had to run across the parking lot to use the one at Wal-Mart to get some cash, which meant that by the time I returned, we had MISSED all the trivia questions and entreaties to not smoke or use your cell phone, which most sane persons would think was a bonus, but which caused no small amount of distress to Oldest, for whom this lack of visual stimulation meant that we had missed THE ENTIRE MOVIE. No such luck.

I did manage to steer the selection process to Lizzie McGuire versus What a Girl Wants, and I suppose it wasn’t so bad…

Movie Review Time As I’ve mentioned in the past, I hate to read reviews before I see a movie, because I wind up looking at it through someone else’s eyes, but since I wasn’t expecting too much from this one, I did allow myself to read Ebert’s review of it. I will agree with some of what he says, and trust me, it’s no Roman Holiday, but having had to endure some real stinkers lately at the hands of my estrogen-gifted crew, this wasn’t so bad. The plot’s got about the same thickness as the photons you’re looking at right now, but Hilary Duff is cute and the story requires that the characters spend lots of time riding around Rome. Again, the experience of seeing people drive around Roma wasn’t as good as watching people drive around Torino, but there wasn’t any cussing or copulating or spraying corpuscles, so for once I didn’t feel compelled to throw my hands over the kids’ ears and eyes. They hate that. As do the people in front and behind us.

It does suffer a bit from the current mode of screenwriting in which impossible levels of clever, knowing, glibness are projected into the brains of teens and preteens, while portraying adults as either sweetly clueless or as vicious, grim-mouthed martinets. It’s a conceit, and generally harmless if your kids understand fantasy, but it does make it harder on those of us with thirteen year olds who grab at any little bit of fodder in order to put on airs of superiority over mom and dad. Not that I know anything about that. Oh no. Not at all. But a word to the wise for certain non-specified offspring—the pater familias does not respond well at all to Hollywood’s version of hip patter—if you think you’re gonna try it, better hire yourself your own writer.

Anyway, it’s a nice little 90 minute special edition of the Lizzie McGuire teevee show. Go see it if you don’t already have the Disney Channel.

{We interrupt this longwinded discussion to go to lunch with Miss Reba at Subway. Another INCREDIBLY gorgeous day—cool, breezy, sky the color of, of…the sky, and some girl in front of me in line that looked like a 5/8ths scale model of Carmen Electra, who fortunately LEFT before Miss Reba got there, thus sparing me from getting a dope slap in the back of the head. We now return you to whatever it was I was writing before.}

Back home, to bed, then right back up the next morning. I had to go get Boy so he could get to his game, which proved daunting given the floods that hit Trussville also hit further upstream in Leeds. There is a small bridge onto the street that leads to their neighborhood that was washed out, so I got the lovely experience of trying to find my way back to that point via a series of barely-marked detours. I took de tour, alright, but due to my prodigious homing-pigeon-like navigation abilities only took about fifteen minutes to find the proper route. Picked him up, and was eternally grateful that he actually managed to get some sleep, rather than stay up all night giggling and watching Pokemon. Once again, although completely bewildered by my unfamiliar surroundings and despite the fact that I left via a different route than the one by which I entered, I made it back out to the highway in less time than before! Yes, I know—simply AMAZING!

Back to the house, change clothes, up to the park to catch Tiny Titan play her game. For once, they lost a game, 7-2. Catherine really didn’t care, and she actually did better this time and only kicked a few out on purpose.

Pack up, move to the other field, watch Boy’s team do a good job on the team from Pinson. We won 4-0, and Jonathan played better than he has all season. I suppose not practicing for a week makes all the difference in the world! It was hotter than a furnace, though, and Bad Father forgot to bring sunscreen, so we all wound up with a nice set of farmer tans, made even more noticeable by the ear-lowering I got after the game.

Took forever to get in the chair, the place was packed to the oh-so-trendy exposed rafters, then took only about ten minutes once I did sit down. I didn’t want to wait any extra time, but I would have preferred an hour in the chair and a five minute wait. That’s just me though. As it is, I have much less bothersome fur.

Back home, everyone back to the park for Middle Girl’s game, which they won by an ugly 3-0. Rebecca assisted in a goal on the very first kickoff, and played very well, but the rest of the girls slowed down to near nothing for the rest of the game. But, a win’s a win, and I think this means they are first in their league.

Home, change, then off to meet Ashley’s grandparents for supper at Jim ‘n’ Nicks for some barbecue. Mmmm. Hard to beat smoked piggy. I nearly messed mine up with some habanero barbecue sauce that I doused it with, thinking it was just regular sauce. It sure was hot, but thankfully not enough to keep me from eating it. Mmmmm, pig.

Went to Target for a bit afterwards, wandered around, saw our preacher and his wife who were astonished at the fourteen bags of muffin mix in our shopping cart. “Hey, what can I tell you, Catherine likes muffins.” This indeed was her special surprise for something that is now lost to my memory, but I assume was a bribe for doing something nice like TAKING A NAP, please. She was very pleased with the variety, and arranged them just. exactly. right. in the cart. Which, of course, was an open invitation for the rest of the kids to start mucking around with them and set off the Howler Monkey Defense. Wow. She’s loud.

Home, bed, up for breakfast. MUFFINS! Yum! Off to church, and the skies turned dark again and the rain started up. Blech. Lots of folks were gone to see their moms, so the crowd was down my about 30 or so, but it was still good to see all the moms and their kids in the crowd.

Afterwards, time to go see MY mom, and my sister who drove up from Mobile. Time for more meat, too! Lunch was at Palace, the more swanky of the four or so Chinese restaurants in Trussville—excellent food and pretty good company. I sat two chairs down from my sister so we didn’t get into a slap fight or anything embarrassing. Although it did take her a bit by surprise when Catherine asked her if she was a mommy. A bit of discomfiture for sis, seeing as how she never mommied and is currently unhusbanded. “Uhh, well…I guess you could say my cats are like my little children.” Jonathan turned to her and with much gravity asked, “But did you actually HAVE them?” ::snort:: Reba saved the day by telling them that she adopted her kitties. “OHHhhhh.”

Good food, good to see Mom and Sis.

Off to the house, where the kids were forced to do the horrid, despicable act of taking a nap, which allowed me to remain moderately sane, and allowed me to 1) read the entire Sunday paper, and 2) take a 15 minute nap myself. Ahhh.

Got them back up and got them to put their church clothes back on, then on back for evening worship and more thunder. Only problem was that it was inside the building, and sitting next to me. It seems the dosage of barbecue on Saturday and sweet and sour chicken at lunch had conspired deep within the root cellar of sweet little mop-top Catherine to create a maelstrom of raging methane. Right there in the middle of Luke, she let loose with a rumble that sounded like someone hammering shingles on the roof. Don’t look. Don’t react. Wipe tear from eye. Stop, drop, and roll to extinguish flames. Repeat.

Whew. And then some.

Got through and took off our chemical gear and headed out to finally take REBA out for her Mother’s Day supper. We went to our normal Sunday night place of Ruby Tuesday, but the special thing this time was that the kids came to a truce of sorts and graciously allowed me to sit by her, as opposed to their normal Four Stooges routine of seeing which one can sit beside her. It was packed, but we still managed to get a seat quickly and got tiny Heather as our waitress. She’s almost as good as Perfect Waitress Jennifer (who managed to swing by and say hello) and she is invariably smiling and chipper. Despite the crowds, we got great service, as opposed to the poor group of eight guys who came in right behind us.

Judging by the French, Spanish, and English accents (and the Ford and ELF logos on one guy’s tee shirt) these fellows had stumbled into town to race at the upcoming Barber 250 sports car race at the newly opened Barber Motorsports Park in Leeds. They got a new guy as their waiter, and one whose Leedsian accent had absolutely nothing to do with West Yorkshire. Two peoples separated by a common language and all. In any event, they first tried to order some beer, only to be stymied by St. Clair Couny’s Sunday sales law. Y’all want some sweet tea? They ordered their non-booze drinks, and didn’t get them for another 20 minutes. They ordered their food, and didn’t get it until we had nearly finished ours. Poor guys. But they were perfectly calm throughout—either they had been told to expect poor, slow service, or they just figured this is the way it always is. Oh well. At least we had Heather, who let us know that she is just about to graduate. From high school! Hard to believe—Reba said she thought she meant college, then quickly made sure she was indeed going to go to college. Assured that she was, Reba wished her success—she’s a good, stable, very mature kid and I imagine she’ll go on to do some great things. (And she got a bit more than the usual tip, too.)

Back to home, kids in bed, wife in bed, me in bed, alarm clock goes off, and here we are again!

Whee!

posted by Terry at 4:07:00 PM

Hello, my name is Terry. I'm a vehicoholic.

Larry Anderson just posted the postulation over on Kudzu Acres that I may just suffer from carnutitis, simply because I knew what year and model of car was atop the Bleat banner for today:

For some time now, I have been aware that Terry over at Possumblog has a fairly advanced case of carnutitis but I was not aware of how bad it really was until he asked who was able to identify the car at the top of the today's "Bleat". Assuming that he is correct in his identification, I fear that his case may be terminal. The only hope is that he doesn't have a general case of carnutitis but that his is more of a case of big Merican iron syndrome.

I fear for him though, since I have seen comments in Possumblog that indicate he knows about certain yurpeen brands.

By the way, termination in carnutitis cases is usually at the hands of a spouse who can no longer handle the obsession. For some reason, carnutitis seldom affects women although there are a few famous cases but those are so rare that movies get made of them.

Faithful reader Garland Stewart also noted the fact that I have now been outed, and as with any disease, the first step in overcoming it is to admit you have a problem.

I lik...OKAY, leave me alone...I LOVE cars. As I told Larry and Garland, I know enough arcana to generally be able to pick out the year and model of just about any of the big Uhmurican stuff from about any year--I do better on the post-war stuff, but I can get pretty close on the pre-war cars. As for the Neuropean junk, I can get relatively close on the newer Italian stuff made past about '64 or so, same as with the German cars. English cars I don't do as well with--the hotter stuff like MG and Jag and Lotus and the occasional TVR or Sunbeam Tiger come to the brain with relative ease, however the rest of the lot sorta runs together like so much rust.

Anyway, it is a disease.

Just the other day, I was thinking how much I would really like to have an Alfa GTV6. Those were pretty cool cars back in the early '80s. Especially if you're SICK.

I have corresponded with Larry before about a forelorn little MG Midget up the road from us. The last I saw of it, it had been covered up with a plastic kiddie pool and a tarp. Poor thing. Driving to church Sunday, I noticed it had been released from bondage and was once again sitting on the owner's driveway. I casually mentioned this to Reba as we drove be.

She said, "mmhm."

I think that means I should get it!

Yes, I'm sick. But then again, I don't have a grotty old Mini Cooper like someone I know.

posted by Terry at 1:27:00 PM

Yet again...

I prove that I missed my calling, coming in SECOND PLACE in James Joyner's most recent caption contest!!

TODAY, captions contests, tomorrow FORTUNE COOKIES!!

posted by Terry at 10:25:00 AM

I'm NOT contradicting Lileks!

But in today's Bleat (which you should have ALREADY READ before you got to this pile of rubble) Mr. Lileks, in reference to Disney's The Jungle Book (both I and II), ponders the following:

And then I asked my wife the question that had never occurred to me before that moment: what was a bear doing in the jungle?

I was going to ask you the exact same thing, she said.

This never occurred to me before. Thirty-five years have elapsed, and in every day of every week of every one of those years, the presence of a bear in the jungle has not troubled me. If Walt Disney said there were panthers and pythons in the wheat fields of the Dakotas, I would have bought it. Think of it: he had the trust of an entire generation, and his worst abuse was the fanciful interpolation of ursine archetypes into rain-forest settings.

Resisting the obvious answer to what a bear does it the jungle (hint: the same thing a bear does in the woods), we have to remember that Uncle Walt was not coming up with Baloo out of thin air--that task landed upon our buddy Rudyard Kipling, who indeed put a bear in his Jungle Book, set in India. Why for put bears in India in the jungle in The Jungle Book?

Well, because India has bears!

Again, not that I'm contradicting or nothin'--just trying to help a fellow out.

[An aside--how many of you recognized the car at the top of the Bleat as a 1960 Olds 98 2-door hardtop?)

posted by Terry at 10:19:00 AM

Sorry to disappoint our visitors from the Bundesrepublik Deutschland, but Possumblog makes even less sense in German.

posted by Terry at 10:03:00 AM

Saw a story this morning on our local NBC station about the flood damage over at Camp Coleman, which long-time readers will recognize as one of the places yours truly and his kids spent several weekends over the last summer learning all about how to be cowboys and cowgirls. The video showed a lot of damage to the bridges and trails, as well as the canoe shed. The Cahaba Girl Scout Council had insurance on the camp, but they apparently also had a steep deductible, which they don't have on hand at the moment. Seeing as how the camp has been around since 1925, it has touched the lives of many local families, so if there are any out there who would like to help them rebuild, they are asking for donations of time and money--their telephone number is (205) 980-4750.

posted by Terry at 9:56:00 AM

Hephaistos Returns!

Despite the mockery and ridicule of the equally iron-headed John McCain, Vulcan, ugly and deformed Roman god of the forge, symbol of Birmingham's once mighty iron and steel industry, hawker of Heinz pickles and Liberty overalls, and all-around rake about town (rumored to have had late-night dalliances with both Miss Liberty and "Electra"*--not Carmen--thus creating the giant potholes in the streets) is about to go back up on his renovated pedestal.

Good to hear that the Moon over Homewood is returning to his rightful place.

[*Electra is a long-standing nickname for the allegorical statue atop the APCo building, but I believe the sculptor Edward Sanford originally titled her the 'Goddess of Power and Light'. I think I remember reading this in an article in a 1926 issue of Architectural Record from when the building was constructed. Time to head for the library and do a little research. She's a hottie, by the way.]

posted by Terry at 9:39:00 AM

If I had a fantasy league baseball team, this would be my pitcher...

posted by Terry at 9:16:00 AM

AACK!! At the moment trying to cram 50 pounds of mud in a 5 pound sack (stupid work!)--bear with me and I'll be back after while with stories of Meat, Moving Pictures, Detours, Soccer, Soccer, Sunburn, Haircutting, Soccer, Smoked Meat, Rain, Mom, Sweet and Sour Meat, Cat Children, A Nap (!), The Meat Variety Platter, International Race Car Guys Meet Blue Laws and Mother's Day, and Congratulations to Waitress Heather.

See you in a bit...in the mean time, you may want to get yourself tanked up on some strong stimulants in order to remain awake while you read all of the exciting details to follow!

posted by Terry at 8:31:00 AM

Friday, May 09, 2003

Getting to be that time of day...

Time for the regular schedule of trying to stay high and dry while going at it hammer and tongs, running hither and yon, to and fro, over hill and dale, willie-nillie, pell-mell, and higgledy-piggledy.

Hold on a moment...::slurp:: Ahhh, that's better--just needed some more 'medicine'.

Anyway, a busy weekend--Boy is spending the night with a buddy who's having a birthday, thus ensuring that neither one will get any sleep and Boy will be dragging his tail around at his game tomorrow. The Girls and I will be going tonight to see one of two possible movies designed to complete the removal process of the tiny remaining ration of sanity and testosterone I have left--either The Lizzie McGuire Movie, or What a Girl Wants. I vote for Lizzie McGuire only by virtue of the fact that it's ten minutes shorter. Such movies require that I go home and later watch Blazing Saddles, High Plains Drifter, and Mother, Jugs and Speed simply to keep from having to start spelling my name with an 'i' on the end. Terri, with a little heart dot on the i.

Saturday, soccer in the morning, soccer in the afternoon, laundry in betwixt, and maybe even some fun with lawn mowing! (Ooo!) Sunday, church and taking Mama'n'em out for lunch, church, then back here for some rest.

Have a good weekend and see you all Monday!

posted by Terry at 3:54:00 PM

Lose 1,100 Lb in Four Months with Zoo Diet

Of course, you may lose some friends when you start running around hooting and throwing poop at them. Not that there's anything wrong with that...

posted by Terry at 3:05:00 PM

Steven of Troy's latest Birmingham Post-Herald column on the similarities, and differences, between Election 2004 and Election 1992--

[...] A casual perusal of the news might give one a profound sense of déjà vu: a man named George Bush is in the White House, the United States has just won a decisive military victory in Iraq, the President is enjoying high approval numbers, and a key political issue is the health of the economy. Indeed, it could very well be May, 1991, rather than May, 2003. The Democrats hope that the parallels continue to include a plunge in the popularity of the incumbent President, and his eventual defeat at the polls in November of next year.

However, there are also some substantial differences, with perhaps the most significant being that the national security issue was off the table in 1991-1992, and the issue was the economy (we all should recall the famous “It’s the Economy, Stupid” banners in the Clinton election HQ). In 1992 the Cold War was over, the Berlin Wall toppled and the Soviet Union was no more. In that context, George H. W. Bush’s strong suit, i.e., national security, was not a huge help in his electoral campaign against Bill Clinton. The forty-first President’s impressive resume, which included Director of Central Intelligence, Ambassador to China, Vice President, and victorious Commander-in-Chief in Gulf War I were all simply niceties, not the strengths they would have been in years past. From the end of World War II until the Berlin Wall fell, Americans looked to the President, whomever he was, to protect us from the threat of Soviet ICBMs. In 1992, that threat, indeed almost all international threats, seemed faint memories. [...]

As they say, read it all.

posted by Terry at 2:26:00 PM

I wrote this a year ago, and made only a few changes in details which have been altered with the passage of time. I can't think of anything else better to say, so here goes again:

My mother was born in Walker County, Alabama in August of 1929. She was the youngest of six children (three boys, three girls) born to a shopkeeper who lost his store and his livelihood only a few months later as the Depression swept the United States. They moved from a comfortable home in town to a windowless, dirt-floored, two room dogtrot. One of her first memories (she couldn’t have been more than about three or four) was of her brothers cutting a small hole in the side of the wall of the house and filling it with the glass from a junk car. She particularly remembers how excited everyone was. A window, finally!

Her father went down into the mines. When she was still young, her mother died of breast cancer, and she was more or less raised by her oldest sister. She and her father and her brothers and sisters grew most of their own food; hunted; fished; and got by. They never asked for anything, but she tells me of one family they looked on with equal parts awe and pity who received government clothes which they would leave outside on their fence until the clothes literally rotted away. What could not be eaten of the government food they received was thrown out to the dogs. “Sorriest bunch of people you ever saw. None of them would work; never would take care of what they had. We sure could have used those clothes. But Daddy didn’t believe in that.”

There were no toys, but she knows how to whittle a hickory whistle, and knows how to make a click and wheel, and once she even built a playhouse with her siblings out of pine logs. And very nearly lost part of her foot to the axe that slipped as she was cutting a notch in a log. There was no card playing of any sort. My grandfather was a religious man and believed card games led to trouble. The only game her brothers and sisters were allowed was checkers. She can whip anybody at checkers. Later, as an adult, she learned to play canasta. She’s pretty wicked at that, too.

She went on to school, and excelled. When she graduated in 1948, she even got a small scholarship to the University of Montevallo. But they had no way pay for her to live or buy books or pay for the rest of her education. She went to work as a bookkeeper at the commissary in Praco, where she met my father, who pumped gas there.

They married not long afterwards, and had a little girl in 1954, and along about 1955 or ’56, they moved to a neat little cedar-shake-covered house close to the western side of Birmingham. At the time it was still pretty rural, but it was right on Highway 78 and close to the steel mills where my father had started working. This is the house where they brought me in 1962, and where I spent the first fourteen years of my life.

She has seen a World War, a Korean police action, and a Viet Nam. She has buried two sisters, two brothers, her father, and her husband. She has seen men walk on the moon, and has seen a moonshine still. She has seen thirteen men serve as President of the United States. I just got off the phone to confirm this with her, that of those her favorite is Ronald Reagan. Her least favorite is Bill Clinton. “He’s a sorry piece of shit.” Make no mistake, my mother is a very devout, God-fearing woman, but she has seen her share of presidents, sorriness, and shit, so I wouldn’t try to suggest an alternative wording if I were you.

She has lived through the Depression, the Cuban Missile Crisis, Bombingham, the Cold War, and Watergate. She raised a doctor and an architect. She has seen her daughter through a bitter divorce, and continues to see her son through a wonderful marriage. She saw herself through a marriage to a husband she loved more than any man, and late in his life managed to change him into a man truly worthy of her love .

She has four grandchildren. They like to look through her old pictures and listen to her tell stories about their daddy when he was three, coasting a ’59 Mercury down the driveway in Neutral, straight toward the highway, and how at the very last moment the car swerved into the ditch. They giggle bashfully when they hear her tell about looking up one day in study hall and seeing a handsome young Navy man just back from the Pacific, standing there in civilian slacks and a light blue shirt that matched the bluest pair of eyes she had ever seen. They tell her about school, and she always tells them to read and study hard. They tell her about their bumps and bruises and hurt feelings, and she tells them that all that stuff is a learning experience. My mother has always been big on learning experiences.

She may be 73, but she still works a full forty hours a week as a bookkeeper and office manager for an electrical contractor. She drives an Eldorado, mainly because it’s American and it has a V-8. “When I mash the accelerator, I want to GO!” She has moved twice since the old green house on the highway, and works outside in her yard just about every day cutting grass, pulling weeds, picking tomatoes and okra and squash from her little postage-stamp sized garden. Last year she was driving down to Orange Beach to visit my sister this weekend, so we didn't have the traditional Mother’s Day get-together on Sunday. Instead, my wife and I took her out today during our collective lunch hours. She insisted on paying for it—“Y’all don’t need to spend your money on me—you’ve got four kids to raise!” She's home this year, as is my sister, so we'll take her out for the traditional Sunday meal. And she'll probably insist on paying for it once again.

I love my mother.

posted by Terry at 2:07:00 PM

From the "Bumpin' and Rubbin'" File--N.C. Governor Uninjured in Speedway Crash

CONCORD, N.C. - Gov. Mike Easley slammed into a speedway wall at 120 mph during a charity event Friday, leaving him embarrassed but unhurt.

Easley, driving the car of Winston Cup driver Jimmie Johnson, hit an inside retaining wall that is protected with plastic foam to absorb impact. He also was wearing a neck and head restraint system that NASCAR made mandatory after Dale Earnhardt's fatal wreck in 2001.

"I am fine. They strapped me in good and tight," Easley said.

"It was fun for about four or five laps, but the last part wasn't too good. I was pushing and the car was running tight and it got loose on me and I wrecked."

About an hour after the crash, Easley was driving again, this time in Terry Labonte's car.

Speedway President H.A. "Humpy" Wheeler estimated the governor was averaging 165.8 mph during his laps on the track but was driving 120 mph when he crashed.

"You're not a real race car driver until you hit the wall," Wheeler said. [...]

Remember kids--speed doesn't kill. It's that sudden deceleration that gets you.

UPDATE: The governor apparently suffered severe head trauma that is only now becoming apparent--'American Idol' Contestant Gets Advice

[...] RALEIGH, N.C. - Even North Carolina's governor thinks "American Idol" contestant Clay Aiken needs to shake his booty a little bit more.

During an appearance Thursday at the state Capitol, Gov. Mike Easley met Aiken, a finalist on the Fox television talent show, and gave the singer a North Carolina lapel pin for good luck.

"You can either wear that or put it in your pocket," Easley said. "I don't want any more excuses about why you're not moving around enough when you sing." [...]

As I said before--it's not the speed, it's that sudden stop...

posted by Terry at 1:45:00 PM

This actually sounds like something I want to see--

[...] In the grand tradition of "Celebrity Deathmatch" and "Wallace and Gromit," NBC's "Late Night With Conan O'Brien" has been transformed into clay animation for an episode that will air Thursday night.

"This may be the best show we've ever done," O'Brien declared Friday — "in clay."

The episode, in production for months, is a clay recreation of a "Late Night" hour that aired in its original, live-action version last October — including the show's opening, monologue and even lead-ins to commercials.

Guests on the episode (which airs Friday at 12:35 a.m. EDT) are "Jackass" star Johnny Knoxville (news), comedian Richard Lewis and musical guest David Bowie (news). In addition, Mr. T appears in a sketch.

Mr. T, huh? Well, seems like Eddie Murphy as Gumby would have been even more appropriate, but hey, whadda I know?

posted by Terry at 1:39:00 PM

I read this headline--Toshiba Packs 36GB Onto Blue Laser Disc--and mistakenly thought they meant the disc was blue, not the laser. Which reminded me of a common prank among the building trades, in which a rookie is sent in search of a blue wrench. (Other popular items include left-handed screwdrivers. And boxes of bolt holes.) Continuing with the blue theme (and the general pointlessness of this entire recollection), I once worked with a young fellow whom I was able to convince that we had a giant blueprint folding machine.

You know, you don't get this kind of exciting stuff anywhere else but here.

posted by Terry at 1:28:00 PM

::snort:: "Sawed off slug-eaters"

posted by Terry at 11:58:00 AM

Possumblog Antipode Correspondent Simon Roberts sends the following in reference to the post yesterday about kangashoes:

I had to get this off my chest re the roo-hide ban in California.

1) The kangaroos used for their hides (including the Red) are not in danger of extinction. In fact they are in plague proportions and are frequently culled.

2) Kangaroos are not bludgeoned to death; they are shot.

3) It is not legal to take baby kangaroos for their hides. In any case, it makes no sense to take baby kangaroos because their hides are not big enough to be worth much.

With the culls going on and roo carcases littering our roadsides (I’ve run over two or three over the years and I wasn't even trying) it wasn’t going to take an entrepreneurial type long to realise that a lot of good meat and leather was going to waste. Good on them!

There is no argument about eating kangaroo meat and wearing kangaroo leather in Australia because the facts are staring us in the face. The animal rights groups had to fall back on the argument that we are the only country in the world that eats an animal on its coat of arms. Eventually they decided that argument was a bit silly and gave up completely (or rather they moved it overseas where people didn’t know if the kangaroo was in danger or not).

Regards

simon

All I know is, if Ben Franklin would have had his way, we'd be chowing down on our national symbol, too.

Given Simon's explanation, all I can think of is that it's time for the Research Department of the Possumblog Food Service Divison to swing into action once more so that all of you will be able to go to your local supermarkets in the coming months and purchase KORN-GAROOS™--Cornbread battered, deep fried kangaroo on a stick! Yummy and nutritious, they will take a place of honor among our original battered and deep fried animals-on-a-stick products: Corn-atees™ (manatees), Corn-guins™ (Emperor penguins), Corn-nutria™ (marmots), and Corn-nets™ (Japanese killer hornets) in your grocer's freezer!

posted by Terry at 11:53:00 AM

This deserved mention yesterday, and I completely forgot about it. May 8, 1945 was V-E Day.

Here is a speech from that day:

May 8, 1945 London

My dear friends, this is your hour. This is not victory of a party or of any class. It's a victory of the great British nation as a whole. We were the first, in this ancient island, to draw the sword against tyranny. After a while we were left all alone against the most tremendous military power that has been seen. We were all alone for a whole year.

There we stood, alone. Did anyone want to give in? [The crowd shouted "No."] Were we down-hearted? ["No!"] The lights went out and the bombs came down. But every man, woman and child in the country had no thought of quitting the struggle. London can take it. So we came back after long months from the jaws of death, out of the mouth of hell, while all the world wondered. When shall the reputation and faith of this generation of English men and women fail? I say that in the long years to come not only will the people of this island but of the world, wherever the bird of freedom chirps in human hearts, look back to what we've done and they will say "do not despair, do not yield to violence and tyranny, march straightforward and die if need be-unconquered." Now we have emerged from one deadly struggle-a terrible foe has been cast on the ground and awaits our judgment and our mercy.

But there is another foe who occupies large portions of the British Empire, a foe stained with cruelty and greed-the Japanese. I rejoice we can all take a night off today and another day tomorrow. Tomorrow our great Russian allies will also be celebrating victory and after that we must begin the task of rebuilding our hearth and homes, doing our utmost to make this country a land in which all have a chance, in which all have a duty, and we must turn ourselves to fulfill our duty to our own countrymen, and to our gallant allies of the United States who were so foully and treacherously attacked by Japan. We will go hand and hand with them. Even if it is a hard struggle we will not be the ones who will fail.

posted by Terry at 10:24:00 AM

Typing Monkeys Don't Write Shakespeare

They do, however, enjoy the free and easy-to-use Blogger software.

posted by Terry at 9:18:00 AM

Thursday, May 08, 2003

From the "Cutting Your Nose Off to Spite Your Face" File

This little gem comes to me from Janis Gore via obscurestore.com--it is the heartwarming story of a homeowner fighting The Man, man.

I have to occasionally deal with folks like this in the course of my occupation--the experience ranks right up there with contracting malaria.

posted by Terry at 4:44:00 PM

In praise of macropodic Australian marsupials

Just noticed this story--Group Sues Adidas Over Kangaroo Leather

SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters) - An animal rights group sued Germany's Adidas-Salomon AG in a San Francisco Superior Court on Wednesday, alleging the company is selling cleats that include kangaroo products barred in California.

The suit also named several California stores that sell the Adidas cleats and running shoes that they say use kangaroo leather. The case seeks to halt imports of those products.

"Adidas is getting away with murder in Australia and California,' said Lauren Ornelas, an official at Viva!, the Davis, California-based animal rights group that sued. 'They are showing the same disregard for California law that the hunters show the baby kangaroos whom they bludgeoned to death.'

A spokeswoman at Adidas America Inc. in Portland, Oregon, declined to say whether any of their footware products contain kangaroo skin and she declined to comment on the lawsuit.

I just wanted to say that I still have a pair of 'roohide high-top football cleats (just like Fred Biletnikoff's) my dad bought back when I was in high school and they still look like new. They were his, but I wore them several times, and it's hard to believe something so light and flexible could be so stinkin' tough.

posted by Terry at 3:00:00 PM

Well, I'll be...you don't mean it!!

U.S. Iraq Occupation Gets Mixed Reviews After Month

Sorta like the old Robin Williams joke about Elizabeth Taylor standing in front of a microwave screaming, "HURRY UP!"

posted by Terry at 2:09:00 PM

What a difference a day makes.

Just went to go meet Miss Reba for lunch--temperature in the mid-70s, bright with high overcast, breezy, dueling carillons at St. Paul's Cathedral, Cathedral Church of the Advent, and First Presbyterian, school kids having some sort of jump rope contest at the AmSouth building's plaza, the "Trust Jesus"-sign guy waving to folks, folks who don't know you nodding and saying 'hey', lunch at Zoe's--hard to beat.

posted by Terry at 1:33:00 PM

Fix yer links!

In an effort to have a blog that actually works, Weevilite Wind Rider and all of his buddies at Silent Running have now moved into a comfortable new mansion on Tuvalu. The new URL is http://silentrunning.tv/--go over take a look, and be sure to wipe your feet before going it.

posted by Terry at 11:49:00 AM

Spinnin' the Wax and Moppin' the Water

My earlier mention of the watery wonderland which flows through our valley here brought the following comment from reader Jim Smith, part of the Alabama diaspora up in Andy Griffith Country:

You reminded me of the slogan they used at a radio station in the western part of the county. I think it was WYAM then -- an AM station that was country a long time ago. It was located in the Hueytown-Brighton area right beside Valley Creek. Some of them used to say--"WYAM -- On the banks of Valley Creek, and sometimes in it!"

Just what you want--lots of electrical junk and water!

For the trivia buffs among you, WYAM is now assigned to a station out of the Hartselle/Decatur area (formerly WHRT), and its fomer liquidy home along Valley Creek is now occupied by WSMQ-AM, a 1kW station still broadcasting great country hits at 1450kHz.

I imagine it still floods, too.

posted by Terry at 10:02:00 AM

MO' Trailer Stories!

From up in The Small Wonder, Sneaking Suspicion's own Fritz Schranck sends in the following:

Subject: old joke about your former type of abode

Question on the Delaware [or select other Southern/border state] bar exam:

Q. What does a Sussex County divorce and a tornado have in common?

A. One way or the other, somebody's gonna lose their mobile home.

Sure, you probably knew that, but your string of trailer stories brought up fine memories.

Ah! Not so fast, as Janis Gore says:

I don't have much to add to the trailer discussion as I have never lived in one. Lyman did during law school. I have observed, however, that the double-wide would be a real convenience when splitting up community property during a divorce.

See there! Although the lack of a permanent wall across the entire side of the house might tend to make it a bit uncomfortable, a bolt-together house DOES have its advantages!

posted by Terry at 9:20:00 AM

The Pinchgut is a Fickle Mistress

That sure was a lot of water. We had several large storms move through here yesterday afternoon which dumped around 6 inches of rain on ground that was already saturated, all within about 3 or 4 hours. The results were predictable--Village and Valley Creeks which run through Jones Valley where Birmingham is situated jumped over their banks and flooded a couple of major secondary streets, leading to massive congestion on the interstates, which themselves had portions under water. My normal 16 mile, 25 minute drive home took TWO AND ONE HALF HOURS. It took an hour just to get down Highway 11 to my neighborhood. The worst part of the drive home was that I was still operating on only two hours of sleep. Ease along BUMPER!! Stay awake! Move forward, inch along, I am mowing the yard and Reba says I should WAKE UP! BUMPER!! WIDE awake, now, boy-o! Gonna stay WIDE awake. Rain. Wipers. Warm. Soft. Pillow. WAKE UP!! I took to singing incoherently at top volume. And rolling the window down. Which worked for about a minute or two. Then the boredom and lethargy would overtake me again TRUCK! Those quick shots of adrenaline when I awoke to find there was a SEMI! a quarter of an inch ahead of me just didn't last long enough. I finally roused back somewhere about halfway home and managed to stay with it the rest of the time.

Got out to Trussville to find that both of our creeks, Stinking and Pinchgut (yes, they are lovely sounding names), that lead into the Cahaba had flooded, with Pinchgut and the Cahaba both spreading all the way out to Main Street, flooding City Hall and every one of the little businesses down by the tracks. What a mess.

Luckily, since we live perched atop Talladega Hill, we didn't have any flooding in our neighborhood, but all our flower pots and assorted gardening junk was blown all over the yard, and our power was out. The young couple who lives next door were sitting in their kitchen when I went out to the Large, Plastic, Not A Storage Shed to get another lantern--Husband called out the window, "Hey, Mr. Oglesby--is y'all's power off, too?" I successfully resisted the urge to call forth my superhuman powers of derision and ridicule, 'cause they're both such nice kids. I told him it was, and that it was out all over the place. I kept trying to get into the shed to get my light, but he wanted to talk. And talk. "You know, when we bought this house, we were really happy it had underground utilities, but I guess that don't help much." "Ah, no--it may be underground here, but it does eventually have to come back up and get on a pole somewhere." "Yep." FINALLY got the lantern and went back inside and had supper, then got all the kids bathed and in the bed. One good thing about not having power is that they have little incentive to stay up, thus allowing me to get into bed at the not-quite-so-bad time of 9:30. Halleluiah.

The power came back on briefly sometime in the wee earlies, then flickered out, and came back on to stay around 3 a.m., after having been out for about twelve hours. This morning, everything down by the river still has the coating of leaves and branches and junk, but the water has returned to its place, and the drive in took the normal amount of time.

I'd still like a nap, though.

posted by Terry at 8:47:00 AM

Wednesday, May 07, 2003

Maybe I'm slow...

...and heaven knows I've been called worse, but I just had the most stupidest e-mail exchange with a fellow employee. We are in the process of designing a park here in town. The first step is to get an accurate survey, so I sent the following message [with the appropriate names and specifics redacted] to the guy what's supposed to do this stuff:

Subject: Request for survey

[Survey Guy],

We are in the process of designing a new walking track over in [Beautiful, Safe Neighborhood] and if possible we need a survey of the area in question-- [My Boss] said I should ask you to help us with this. In case you need it, the project is [Beautiful, Safe Neighborhood] Walking Track, PTK ######.

The block is bounded by [Nice Sounding] Avenue to the north, [Another Pleasant Sounding] Avenue to the south, [Numbered] Street to the west and [Numbered, Minus One] Street to the east--we need a complete survey with structures, elevations, topo lines, underground and above ground utilities, property lines, etc.

Can you help us with this?

Thanks,
Terry

I figured that covered it. I hit the send button and seconds later a reply came back:

Subject: Fwd: Request for survey

Please request a survey.

Thanks...

Huh? WTF?! And he forwarded to three other folks and sent me a copy. I read back through what I had written, and THOUGHT I had covered everything. ::sigh:: Bureaucrats. I supposed that in order to keep the Paperwork Gods smiling that I was going to have to fill something out or stand on the roof or submit to a cavity search. I sent [Survey Guy] a reply:

Subject: Re: Fwd: Request for survey

Sorry--didn't know the procedure--how do I do this?

Short and to the point--no use dragging this out. Got back this:

Subject: Re: Fwd: Request for survey

You did it right...no need to apologize. You can request a survey through either [Another in the Long String of Straw Bosses] or me.

WHAT!? Well, if THAT'S the case, why the initial e-mail? Am I missing something here? Just to be sure, I sent back one more message just to preclude any hidden paper trail generation steps:

Subject: Re: Fwd: Request for survey

Thanks, [Survey Guy]--is there any more information you need or a request form to fill out?

And got this one in return:

Subject: Re: Fwd: Request for survey

I think it's pretty clear. If we need additional info we'll get in touch with you.

::blink:: I am at a complete loss. I just wonder how long it will be before the requested survey is forgotten and I get blamed?

posted by Terry at 4:12:00 PM

From the "Headlines Which Defy All Attempts at Parody" File: Shatner's Ex-Wife Sues Over Horse Semen

JIM!! I'm a doctor, NOT a veterinarian!

posted by Terry at 2:56:00 PM

As predicted...

The trailer stories are proliferating like furniture beetles in particle board! The next one comes to us from the fellers at the BBQ Emporium:

[...] Cletus lived in a trailer for a while and he says it is not bad. It came from the factory with all the furniture you could want and it was real easy moving in since he didn't have to load all his old stuff on the old F250 and truck it over to his new digs. In fact, he didn't even have to use the F250 at all since he had the trailer pulled in back of his Mama's house and hooked up to her water and electricity. Of course when he put the hot tub in his living room, Mizz Jones got a bit upset over the increase in her utility bills and made him get his own meters. Took a bit of the niceness out of trailer living so Cletus sold his trailer and moved in with Sally Jo who became his 5th or 6th wife before she ran off with the dog enthusiast she met on the internet. Cletus took it real hard and had to eat an extra bait of pecan pie to assuage his hurt feelings. He took his hot tub and moved back to his Mama's. Mizz Jones would have been better off to just pay for the extra water and electricity to run his trailer. [...]

Yep.

posted by Terry at 2:14:00 PM

Somehow, I think this has more to do with trying to get the Hornets to move back to Charlotte...

Long time reader, contributor, writer of Spudlets, and Holder Down of The Tarheel Frontier Marc Velazquez sends in the following, prompted by this morning's post about lethal bugs:

With the Axis of Weevil so popular,

That's right! We're right up there with SARS!

it may be time to have an elite squadron of bloggers ready to put the sting on idiotarians.

But, that's so unkind! So intolerant! So appropriate! Go on, please...

The "Order of the Hornet" would be set apart by fashionable berets (possum gray?) having the AoW patch with a hornet buzzing around the logo.

Ahhh--nothing like a beret to make a fashion statement. Possibly a better idea, though, would be to use some of those old hornet's nests (empty, of course) and set those atop our heads. I mean, if them Japanese guys can make a giant rabbit out of them, surely you can make some snappy headwear! Going on--I have a question for you Marc--how would a person be allowed entry into your proposed group?

To be considered for entry, the candidate would have to pass the Hornet hazing:

Candidate, dressed in only a swimsuit, would be locked into a closet in a 22 ft. Terry Taurus travel trailer with a REAL JAPANESE KILLER HORNET for 22 minutes. Before entering the closet, the candidate will down a shot of hornet spit. After coming out of the closet (no, not that!) the candidate will sing the AoW fight song, and then will have the opportunity for medical attention.

Obviously, each hazing is an excuse to gather the AoW members for a picnic, where plenty of barbeque, pork rinds, beef jerky and Milo's sweet tea will be available. Volleyball nets will be setup for team practices.

We have a fight song?! Who knew?! As for the festivities, it certainly sounds like a pleasant way to pass a lazy afternoon--food, frivolity, anaphylactic shock, humiliation, swimsuits, volleyball...

This could cause some strain on Bob (Carl?) your e-mail room boy,

You know, it's not often that you see an octogenarian cry, but poor CHET is inconsolable.

but perhaps you could open it up to the rest of your faithful readers and have them come up with entrance requirements for the Order of the Hornet. This may also help on the attendance for the picnic. Wonder if you could set up an e-picnic? Might be interesting, but the volleyball just wouldn't be the same.

Well, there you have it--any of you wish to ante up to Marc's challenge? There's lots of valuable prizes, you know!! Just send in your suggestions and we'll post them. (If I can get Chet up off his lazy back end.)

DISCLAIMER: The Possumblog Editorial Review and Legal Action Committee wish to inform readers that there are no valuable prizes.

posted by Terry at 1:40:00 PM

Henson Family to Buy Back Muppets

Gee, just go to the craft store and get some fake fur, felt, and styrofoam balls and make some new ones...

posted by Terry at 11:10:00 AM

A few days ago Miss Janis offered that the secret to the fine crapulosity of what you read here on Possumblog is sleep deprivation. I'll vouch for that, as well as the salutory effects of pork rinds and Diet Pepsi.

Last night was the Assemble The Alabama History Project Notebook project that we've been helping Middle Girl with. Fortunately, I had printed off a bunch of stuff before last weekend's travelling funshow, but there was still the chore of getting it all in order and put into nice plastic sleeves and into a binder.

And finding additional information that Someone did not feel the need to let Daddy know about. Like comparisons of life in Alabama in the 1800s with today. (The helpful instruction sheet mentioned that this could be done in the form of a Venn diagram. As if.)

And the task of that same Someone having to write short introductions to each topic. Someone who didn't really want to do it.

And then the further task, performed by Someone's Dad, of typing up and printing out all the short introductions. And section dividers. And cover sheet. And table of contents. And short introductions to topics that Someone just couldn't figure out what to write.

I went to bed at 3 this morning. I got up at 5.

But my...err, Rebecca's project is finished. And I feel great!! All swirly-headed and confused... Which, again, is what makes Possumblog one of the literary treasures of the modern world.

However, I may occasionally nod off today, so local reader and fellow bureaucrat Stan Graham sends along this handy tool, which does a fine job of electronically generating a wonderful array of cobbled together bits of Possumosity and regurgitating them back up as poetry. To whit:

Possumblog Some sort of them. from here
because we speak,
Yet what
happened to highest
possible Weevil? Charles Nisbet and no nuance that
my order here yet,
what I write this
time. that
Annnnnddd.... Tim Blair added in
the busted
knee Stuff in the
few minutes ago
sang The nest The nation. on U.

Wow. You know, that's so true. And so true to my distinctive literary form.

So, if I hit a sleepy spell, just hit reload and you'll get another bracing and refreshing dose of jibber-jabber.

posted by Terry at 11:05:00 AM

Wasted Electrons Has Comments!!

Folks, your opportunity to talk back to me has just been improved with a comments section here at Wasted Electron HQ. Its your chance to let me know when my spelin is lousy an my gramer is slipppin and my sentanc structuer is fallin apart. And you can tell me if (when) I'm stupid or way off base with my opinions or that I'm ugly if you like. Just be warned that your words will be out there for the other 2 people who occasionally stop by to read and comment on as well.

These new upgrades are of course brought to you by the kind folks at Blogger- NOT! They are actually provided, free of charge by these kind folks; the Klink Family! If you're a poor homeless, barely got an archive Blogger like me and you would like to add comments to your page like those paying folks with their own domain name and all the frills, why go see the Klink family and get fixed up. I think I'm going to send them a couple of dollars just to say thanks.

As always, commenting here at Possumblog is via the magic of e-mail. Chet the E-Mail Boy thanks you for your continued support.

posted by Terry at 10:21:00 AM

Trailer Stories!!

May have started something here--Larry Anderson (who managed to not get washed away in the deluge yesterday) recounts his time spent in manufactured housing:

[...] The trailer was everything you could hope for, cramped, no AC and in the middle of a trailer park inhabited by college students. A real fine place to live. I learned a lot in my few short weeks there. I had barely moved in when Mrs. Boozer who owned the Court started coming over to see me almost everyday to complain about the constant traffic in and out of my trailer and to let me know she did not approve of boys and girls mixing so freely. Well, that was certainly a revelation to me since I was working as a cook in the college dining hall and my day started at 4:30 AM and ended after 6:00 PM. I went to class between meals and usually managed to catch a little study time in the PM at the trailer which was when Mrs. Boozer caught me. I hadn't seen any of these "boys and girls" she was talking about. [...]

Heh. Read it all.

posted by Terry at 9:15:00 AM

Mmmm-boy!

From Possumblog's far-flung network of foreign correspondents comes an interesting stomach-churning tidbit from Tasmaniac Simon Roberts, who sends along this link to a story which ran on Australian Broadcast Company television. And what might this be about--well, Japanese Killer Hornets, what else?!

Japan - Killer Hornets
Broadcast: 6/5/2003

Reporter: Mark Simkin

Transcript

SIMKIN: In the valleys of Nagano, ancient Japanese traditions remain strong. It is here that Yoichiro Tateishi and his hornet hunters go about their work. They are searching for Japan's deadliest creature. A nest full of the monsters has been discovered in a nearby backyard. Everyone within 30 metres has to wear protection. The hornets are smoked out of their hole and the fun begins, they're captured one by one.

YOICHIRO TATEISHI: There are not many hornets yet. In the coming weeks, they will grow much bigger and become more numerous. But right now, this is the situation.

SIMKIN: Now this isn't my idea of the perfect day job, it's rather dangerous and somewhat uncomfortable – it must be at least 40 degrees inside this suit but these men aren't even being paid for their labour, they're doing it because they're obsessed with hornets and because they get to take their work home with them.

The nest is taken back to Tateishi san's house, where a band of happy helpers has gathered. Adult hornets are put in one pile, the immature ones in another and this morsel, well it goes somewhere else entirely.

YOICHIRO TATEISHI: This is a queen. It is delicious. It is very sweet.

SIMKIN: This isn't a scientific exercise, it's a culinary one and it turns out there's more than one way to cook a killer hornet. Catching and eating hornets dates back hundreds of years to the days when protein was scarce. No matter that the creatures contain deadly poison, that only adds to the challenge and flavour.

[Shot of Simkin eating hornet] It tastes like prawn.

Or chicken.

To feed his fascination and stomach, Tateishi san has begun breeding killer hornets. He keeps seven nests in his house, the equivalent of having several hundred thousand funnel webs roaming around as pests. Empty nests are kept as ornaments.

YOICHIRO TATEISHI: I should be called a hornet freak.

Y'think?!

I have had a long relationship with them – ever since my childhood. I think eating them was the starting point, and because they are delicious, I have maintained my interest. As well, I enjoy braving danger and pain.

Well, you know, who doesn't. Why just the other day, I braved the danger and pain of a shopping cart WITH A BAD WHEEL that I was pushing past the breakfast cereal aisle. Hey, I live on the edge...

SIMKIN: There's a lot of danger and pain to be braved. The hornets are ferocious killers. A handful of the creatures can slaughter an entire hive of bees in a matter of minutes. Their venom is powerful enough to dissolve human flesh. They kill 40 people each year.

Somehow, I think I would just rather stick with nice, docile chickens.

Misao Inoue knows that better than most. Last year, her husband was picking mushrooms in the Nagano countryside when he stumbled across a hornet nest. The 61 year old was stung twice and was dead within a few hours.

MISAO INOUE: When my husband returned home, he was bleeding from here and this part had turned purple. I assumed this was the cause of his death, but he actually died from the one hornet sting on his shoulder.

Thank goodness I don't do pictures. Just imagining where "here" might be, or which part turned purple gives me a nice case of the willies. Again, what's wrong with a nice, docile shrimp? Or pork rinds?

SIMKIN: Inoue san refuses to blame the insect for what it did. She says the hornets and the Japanese people have a special bond.

MISAO INOUE: The main similarity between us and the hornets is the crowd mentality. Japanese people like to work as a group, and it's the same with hornets.

Wonder how long it will be before there is a Japanimation series on a group of Japanese kids who turn into killer robot hornets?

SIMKIN: Teteishi the hornet hunter isn't only Nagano local who collects hornet homes, on the other side of town there's a museum full of them. These pieces are considered highly artistic. The hornets did need some help and they got it from this man.

ASAKAZU TOMINAGA: [NO SUBTITLES AND NOTHING IN SCRIPT – PLEASE COMPLETE]

Oh, hey, it's tempting, let me tell you!! But then again, there's nothing more entertaining that reality...

SIMKIN: Asakazu Tominaga showed us his workshop. The master is in the process of turning these nests into a giant rabbit.

HARVEY-SAN!!

ASAKAZU TOMINAGA: If you come closer to them, it will be dangerous because there are lots of hornets – there are about 40,000 of them.

SIMKIN: Tominaga san says he shapes the nest by telling the hornets where to go.

ASAKAZU TOMINAGA: They are like cute children to me. I can communicate with them for the most part. Because I know their habits, I know whether they are angry when they are making a noise, or if they are in a good mood and laughing.

Uh...yeah, dude, whatever. (I think someone's been hitting the hornet juice a little too hard, if you know what I mean.)

SIMKIN: Unfortunately, just as the masterpiece was taking shape, our cameraman, Jun Matsuzono, ignored the advice about getting too close. His protective suit and preventive medicine proved useless.

JUN MATSUZONO: Ouch, the pain! Ouch, I am stung!

There is no indication in the transcript if Jun-san's words synchronized with his mouth movement. Somehow, I doubt it.

SIMKIN: Jun survived but had to spend time in hospital. My amateur camerawork was also pretty crook.

JUN MATSUZONO: It's very, very dangerous. It's so big pain. It's so dangerous.

SIMKIN: A few days later with Jun up and about but very tender, Tominaga san vowed to repair the damage with a special potion. He set about collecting the key ingredient. The insects, subdued but still alive, were taken to a nearby brewery. Tominaga san concocted a brew that makes the worm in a tequila bottle seem positively pathetic – hornet sake.

[Shot of Simkin drinking hornet sake] Kampai! Oh it's very strong isn't it? Extremely strong!

Well, there you go. Always comes back to booze, don't it?

The sake isn’t the only hornet beverage to have a big impact on those who consume it, there's a rival product that's modern, rather than traditional.

Naoko Takahashi is Japan's most famous athlete. She won the Sydney Olympic marathon. The secret of her success – Takahashi san gulps own hornet saliva before every race. Each day killer hornets fly the equivalent of two marathons at 30 kilometres an hour. It turns out the source of their energy is their spit and so the saliva has been turned into a sports drink. The hornet juice is creating a huge buzz.

Wow. Hard to get that kind of pun nowadays...

It's flooded the Japanese gym scene

Ewww. A flood of hornet spit.

and many of the country's top athletes have started drinking it.

Oh please! For the love of all that is holy, just shoot up on steroids!

WOMAN IN GYM: When I consume Vaam, I have no trouble exercising. It has become a necessity for me.

REDNECK FROM ALABAMA IN GYM: YOU ARE DRINKING HORNET SPIT!! What's WRONG with you!?!

WOMAN IN GYM: I have an image of hornets as creatures that are small but work very hard. I would like to be able to work hard like the hornets do.

Well, you DON'T HAVE TO DRINK THEIR SPIT!! Just buy a Billy Blanks Tae-bo tape and work out at home, for pity's sake!

SIMKIN: It's been a remarkable rehabilitation. Anywhere else, such a fearsome predator would be shunned but in Japan, the locals have forged a special relationship with the hornets, a relationship based on respect.

Say, you know, they're right. Maybe it's time for the Possumblog Foods Division to explore the creation of a new treat for the Pacific Rim market--that's right, CORN-NETS!! Cornbread-battered, deep-fried Japanese hornets on a stick!! With special Hornet Slobber Dipping Sauce!! MMMmm--MM!! Tasty and nutritious!

All your hornet are belong to us! He set us up the bee!

posted by Terry at 8:26:00 AM

Tuesday, May 06, 2003

Byrd Blasts Bush's Aircraft Carrier Use

Somehow, this would carry a bit more moral weight if every bridge, armory, old folk's home, and outhouse built in West Virginia with federal funds wasn't named for a krusty, klownish koot who's had a noticeable break with reality.

posted by Terry at 7:56:00 PM

Giving the word "bouncer" an entirely new meaning...Bouncers in the nude

London - A German nightclub says it has doubled its turnover and reduced the level of violence after it started using naked women as bouncers.

Management at Beatclub in Cologne came up with the idea as a way to combat troublemakers.

Club goer Stefan Wurz said: "It makes standing in the queue a lot more fun. When they come out on the streets they have to wear a coat, but it's not fastened and there is plenty to see. It takes your mind off everything else." [...]

Even losing your head coaching job at Alabama? (Sorry, cheap shot.)

Anyway, the real reason I posted this is because Janis Gore said I was way too tasteful to post it. Tasteful? Maybe. Contrary? DEFINITELY!

posted by Terry at 4:41:00 PM

Trailers, Redux

Mysterious 'Jim Smith' from the land of exceedingly limber and attractive pirates writes in:

SUBJECT: Trailers

This is not original with me--heard it years ago.

What is it that God really hates?

Popcorn husks between his molars? I know I hate that...

Tornados destroy mobile homes but never mobile home sales lots--it may
be just the trailer parks themselves.

AaaaHAH!! God may not like trailers, but he loves trailer salesmen!! (But who doesn't.)

Anyway, lest any of you think I am being all uppity for making fun of trailers, I have you know I lived in one for five years while at Auburn--Lot 41, Campus Trailer Park. It was a 22' Terry Taurus travel trailer.

Yes, that's right, TWENTY TWO luxurious, real live English-measurement feet of bus-station-locker-like accomodations. Why, it even had FOUR wheels--no cheapo two wheeler for ME!

Made of robust aluminum and particle board, it served me well those years and was a near constant source of amazing stories of survival. Let's see--there was the Christmas that I came back to find that the inline plastic auxiliary water pump had broken, allowing water to spew all over the floor. Luckily, it was below freezing and it all froze into a nice sheet of crystaline fun. Then there was the unhappy (and much too regular) circumstance of when the two 40 pound LPG tanks would run out during the winter and I was left shivering in the bed until I could get up in the morning and go get them refilled at the Shell station. My alarm clock was a playful squirrel that threw himself onto the wafer thin aluminum roof of the trailer at five o'clock every morning--WHAM! ::scrabblescrabblethump::

Then there was the time I was enjoying a nice pre-shower alimentary purgation upon the tiny little potty, which was jammed next to the tiny little sink, which was fed by a tiny little hot water line made of durable soft plastic held to the faucet's sturdy plastic pipe nipple with an aluminum compression collar and much faith.

As I sat there, I heard a slight hissing sound. I stood up and looked under the sink and found that there was a tiny high pressure leak right at the end of the hot water tubing. This was about one-fifteenth of a second before the durable plastic pipe loosed itself from its restraints and began spraying scalding hot water all over naked me and the inside of the trailer, which prompted me to gird myself with an extra-large towel and run out the door with a pair of Vise-Grips to turn off the main water supply.

See? Living in a small box can be very interesting!

(Oh, and by the way--Jim raised a point about the pluralization of "tornado"--my 1913 Webster's says it's '-es'.)

posted by Terry at 3:58:00 PM

Hard to believe that the land that gave us Blackstone now gives us this--Government lawyers say burglars 'need protection'

By Robert Verkaik, Legal Affairs Correspondent
05 May 2003

Government lawyers trying to keep the Norfolk farmer Tony Martin behind bars will tell a High Court judge tomorrow that burglars are members of the public who must be protected from violent householders.

The case could help hundreds of criminals bring claims for damages for injury suffered while committing offences.

In legal papers seen by The Independent, Home Office lawyers dispute Mr Martin's contention that he poses no risk to the public because he only represents a threat to burglars and other criminals who trespass on his property.

They say: "The suggestion ... that the Parole Board was not required to assess the risk posed by Mr Martin to future burglars or intruders (on the grounds that they do not form part of the public at large) is remarkable."

"It cannot possibly be suggested that members of the public cease to be so whilst committing criminal offences, and whilst society naturally condemns, and punishes such persons judicially, it can not possibly condone their (unlawful) murder or injury." [...]

Now I realize a lot of time has passed, and the world has much changed, but it might be good to look back for a minute to Blackstone's Commentaries, Book IV, Ch. 16-- [Edited to change all the long-esses (which look like an "f" and render text difficult to read) to regular esses]

[...] II. BURGLARY, or nocturnal housebreaking, burgi latrocinium, which by our antient law was called hamesecken, as it is in Scotland to this day, has always been looked upon as a very heinous offence: not only because of the abundant terror that it naturally carries with it, but also as it is a forcible invasion and disturbance of that right of habitation, which every individual might acquire even in a state of nature; an invasion, which in such a state, would be sure to be punished with death, unless the assailant were the stronger. But in civil society, the laws also come in to the assistance of the weaker party: and, besides that they leave him this natural right of killing the aggressor, if he can, (as was shewn in a former chapter) they also protect and avenge him, in case the might of the assailant is too powerful. And the law of England has so particular and tender a regard to the immunity of a man's house, that it stiles it his castle, and will never suffer it to be violated with impunity: [...]

posted by Terry at 2:52:00 PM

Kmart Emerges from Ch.11 Bankruptcy

...Sees Shadow--Long Winter of Crappy Service and Messy Stores to Continue

posted by Terry at 1:52:00 PM

Hussein's Son Took $1 Billion Just Before War, Bank Aide Says

Hmm. Probably heard that the ATMs in Hell are always out of service.

posted by Terry at 1:16:00 PM

World's First Internet Loo Planned

LONDON (Reuters) - The world's first portable lavatory with internet access is due to be unveiled in Britain this summer. [...]

Won't George Michael be pleased!

Boot me up, before you go-go...

posted by Terry at 11:58:00 AM

Speaking of frightening...

In my multihundred word essay about driving all over the country this weekend, I forgot something infinitely more interesting. Rebecca and I were coming back from Heardmont Park in Shelby County, which took us near the Greystone Country Club, which was hosting the Bruno's Memorial Classic. All sorts of muckety-muck celebrities and assorted rich guys in town, one of whom just happened to get behind us as we were coming up Highway 280. Driving a sweet-looking 427 Cobra replica in deep blue and white stripe livery. (Sorta like this one, without the sponsor decals).

I drove on down the entrance ramp to I-459, and was at the bottom doing 70 while he was still halfway up the ramp about an eighth of a mile back. By the time I had reached the end of the acceleration lane, he was past me in full happy-foot mode. Heh.

I have never asked for a single penny from anyone who has ever visited this blog, but if I was going to beg, I would beg for one of these. It doesn't have to be turnkey--I messed around with cars and boats back in my youth, so I'll be glad to drop in the engine and trans and hook up the wires and hoses. Not that I'm begging.

posted by Terry at 11:23:00 AM

Again with the tornadoes...

Yesterday was another bad day for those of us in Tornado Alley--40 dead across three states. Ours got to town last night about 8:15 or so, but fortunately we were spared this time. The weatherguys tracked one big rotating storm just north of our neighborhood, so the kids had to spend a miserable few minutes crammed into the laundry room while I got to do the dangerous stuff that grown-ups get to do that their parents prevented them from doing when they were young--namely, standing at the back door watching the wind and the rain and the lightning. I'm a sucker for storms, which is Not A Good Thing, especially with cyclonic activity a mile to the north, but doggone it, they sure are cool to watch. I pretended to be safe by keeping the television on and the radio in my hand and I was only a few feet from the container of wiggly children.

"Is the tornado here yet, Dad?"

"No, it's north of us."

"Okay--Dad, Catherine keeps pooting."

"I AM NOT!!"

"YES YOU ARE!!"

::big tears:: "BWAAAhoo-hoo--I DIDN'T MEAN TO!!"

"Kids, unless you want me to make you go stand outside in the yard with a big metal rod in your hand, you really, REALLY need to keep quiet and quit squirming around."

"Dad, that's dangerous..."

"Only if you get struck by lightning or blown away--now be quiet so I can listen to the weather."

"Yes, sir."

::whispered:: 'He oughta make Catherine go out there!'

HUSH!!

Yes, sir.

Tornadoes are bad news. Probably the only thing I can think of as bad are big earthquakes--floods are bad, but you can live on higher ground. Hurricanes are bad, but they tend to move slow enough to get away if you have some warning. Tornadoes are mean, unpredictable bastards that just drop out of the sky and destroy stuff. Or not. One house gets leveled, another one next door still has all its shingles.

Everyone jokes about God hating trailers, since they seem to be the intended victims of tornadoes, but believe me, a swirling vortex of 300 mile an hour winds moving across the ground at 70 miles per hour will destroy just about anything less stout than a concrete bunker. Trailers are more likely to be hit since there are more of them out in rural areas where these storms start, but no normal house, even if it's brick, is immune if it's in the direct path. A few years back, a horrific F-5 tornado hit out in the western part of Jefferson County around the community of McDonald's Chapel. The whole place looked like pictures from France in World War I--shells of buildings, trees blasted apart at mid trunk, ground chewed up like it had been plowed--terrible stuff. (Some photos here, here, and here)

Nothing to take lightly--if you live around here, a good resource for fixing yourself a place in your home can be found on the FEMA website. If you're building a new house, it costs little to fix up a small windowless shelter incorporated into the house. We are fortunate that we have a small, windowless room on the lower floor in the center of the house--I just hope we never need it for anything else than hanging up laundry.

posted by Terry at 10:54:00 AM

Via Iranian Girl, another English blog by an Iranian girl--Lady Sun. She sounds like a real hoot:

[...] I'm 25, single, with a big potato-like nose, giraffely tall, terribly messy in every aspect of my life, and obviously a girl since men usually don't call themselves a lady! [...]

[...] I wanted to start this blog much sooner, but I was kind of busy to do so. I have to confess before anything that my English is not that good. I may have lots of mistakes, specially spelling mistakes. I guess I have to start using this spelling check sooner or later. [...]

::snort:: "Giraffely"!! I have found someone who enjoys making up words as much as I do! Excellent site, and despite her protestations to the contrary, very well written and informative.

posted by Terry at 9:49:00 AM

Frustrated by Blogger and Blog*Spot?

Ha ha ha. Ha. Of course not! What's not to like?! I mean, just because no one can link to you, and just because it decides to spontaneously combust, and just because the "archive" function is about as secure and user-friendly as the Iraqi National Archives, and just because all the cool kids with their own domain names and Moveable Type laugh at you and act like you're the ugly girl in the pageant, who everyone says has such a sweet personality, but who still gets made fun of and who has to run away and hide so that the hot tears of her shame and embarrasment do not stain the dress that her mother made for her out of a tablecloth and a baby blanket...ahem, sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, what's not to like!?

For those of you who have been having trouble linking to those poor, wretched souls who have not yet abandoned Blogger, Mommabear has come up with a workaround so that you can kinda link to posts:

MB is as frustrated as anyone in the Blogdom about those abominable blog*spot permalinks that go absolutely nowhere. In sheer frustration, she tried a ridiculous thought that actually turned out to work, but it's hell's delight to do, so it's only worth it if you simply MUST see what's at that post.

Instead of left-clicking on the LINK word, right-click and choose: copy link. Paste that in the destination bar, but do NOT click "GO". Instead, bravely punch in with your mouse just after the slash, delete all to the right up to the #, so that the URL now reads as follows:

http://xxx.blogspot.com/#nnnnnnnnnn

Now you can click on the GO. Works about 95% of the time, going straight to the wanted post.

Thanks from all of us, Mommabear--I hear that Google is wanting to discuss a buyout with you!

posted by Terry at 9:11:00 AM

Hey COOL!!

I WIN!! I WIN!! Whew! Well, I would like to thank the Academy, and of course my wonderful producer Lili Zanuck, all the wonderful folks at Sony and the beautiful, BEAUTIFUL cast members--THIS IS YOUR AWARD!--and the crew, all the way down to the craft services guys, and my mom and so many more people...sorry, just a moment...whew, ah, sorry...just, just overcome...thank you. Thank you all!

posted by Terry at 8:47:00 AM

Hmm

Looks like it's going to be a very slow news day: Texas Man Rides Bike Wearing Black Thong

posted by Terry at 8:15:00 AM

Monday, May 05, 2003

Okay.

Long, boring, tedious moronitude following. Skip it if you have no interest in following me as I drive up and down the interstate.

enter
enter
enter
enter
enter
enter
enter—Okay now.

Wow. Never seen a room empty so fast! Oh well, whether it’s one person or millions…thousan…hun… or five, it makes no matter—a story must be told! And you are the lucky glutton for punishment that gets to hear it!!

So, let us wander back to Friday afternoon… [insert dreamy music and make the screen go all wiggly like a dream—push the degauss button if you have to]

Got home, waited for wife to pick up kids from school and get to the house. Jonathan’s game was at West Homewood Park, which in ideal conditions is about 35 minutes away from the house. The game was at 7 p.m., and he was supposed to be there at 6:30, which meant we had to leave the house at 6 AT THE LATEST.

Reba pulled in the driveway at 5:55. I threw Jonathan’s stuff on him, grabbed his socks and cleats and junk bag, and flew out the door with barely a kiss and a pinch on the rear for Reba, which turned out to be the pattern for the remainder of the weekend. IN the van, throw it into Drive and head out for Homewood.

Into the teeth of a huge cell of thunderstorms and tornadoes that was just then arriving from out of the west.

The sky was a wall of black, and the local TV weatherguys were just apoplectic. I, on the other hand, was just in a hurry.

Huge drops of rain, lightning all around the sky, thunder like an artillery barrage, tornado warning sirens going off, and I’m trying best to make it across town knowing that once it quits, Boy will be playing. Water rolling over the interstate like a river. WHOO slick…WHOOOO ABS kicks in…YOW! sideways judder. Cars everywhere. Tree limbs. Rain so hard it sounds like someone turning a fire hose on the roof of the van.

On we press.

Managed to get to the park at the frighteningly rapid time of about 6:40. The lot’s full, but of course no one’s out on the field. I park and turn on the dome light and start reading and listening to the radio. It finally slacked off as the weatherguy on FOX6 (hi Nikki!) tried not to hyperventilate—it was well and truly A Bad Storm. Baseball-sized hail in some spots, a few funnel clouds, a couple of them touching down, all of it coming right at us.

The heaviest rain had stopped but there was a swirling cloud mass right above the ridge where the field is—little tendrils of cloud kept spilling down every so often, and then a few minutes later the sky to the north turned a brilliant lime green. All in all, not a pleasant thing. We heard that they were going to wait about 45 minutes to see if it would clear, so I went back to reading and Jonathan went back to exploring all the stuff in the front seat.

Another storm blew in with great flashes of lightning and thunder and rain and all the games were finally called at 8. ::sigh:: Wish they had figured that out a bit earlier.

Home, supper, fix bags for Saturday, watch news—looks like it’s gonna be clear for Saturday, bed.

UP Saturday morning. Rebecca had to be at Heardmont Park down in Shelby County for a 9 o’clock game against Mountain Brook, which meant she had to be there by 8:30, which meant we needed to leave by 7:45. At the same time, Reba had to get the rest of the kids up to Trussville’s park for his game, also at 9.

Get her dressed, grab some cereal bars, head out.

Right into another storm.

Same as the day before—lightning, sheets of water, thunder, wind—and then we get to I-65 and traffic’s backed up onto I-459. Construction. CONSTRUCTION?! Not really, they just had I-65 going south necked down to one lane. No one was working. But it SURE WAS SLOW.

Finally got to the park, park the car, wait. Talk to coach--maybe 45 minutes, then play? More rain. I read and listen to the radio. Finally, everyone gets up to the main building, we’re going to play half a game, just to get it in. Get to the field (which, along with the rest of the place, is absolutely gorgeous) and although it is wet, it’s not muddy. Stand around, set my folding chair down. The field marshal says it’s too wet to play. Game called. At 10. ::sigh:: Another white knuckle ride down the Corridor of Fear, all for naught.

Back toward home, because we had decided to swap kids—they both had 2 pm games, and I would take Jonathan BACK to West Homewood since it was the furthest, while Reba would take Rebecca and the other girls to Liberty Park off of I-459 in Vestavia. Got home, Reba was outside pulling up strawberry vines that had volunteered in the flower bed outside the door. I sat down and helped her for a while and found out from her that Little Boy's team had lost 2-1. He got to sit on the bench most of the time since he wasn’t paying attention—apparently this was a big deal to the other parents whose boys got caught in a similar circumstance. Reba said they were all yammering at the coach—he was very apologetic to Reba, but she told him that he was the coach and he could play who he wanted to play. This seemed to shock him. Hey, you play the game—mess around and you don’t get to play. Jonathan got in a few minutes toward the end, so he wasn’t too sad.

Ate a bit of lunch, back out the door with Boy.

Back to West Homewood, where it was now blazing hot. They played the team from Leeds and won and they all paid attention this time. They were playing a co-ed team, and interestingly enough, one of the little girls in Jonathan’s Sunday School class was on their team. I went up to her as they were going to their side of the field—“Emma, be sure to take it easy on poor little Jonathan!”

“Oh, I don’t think I can do that...”

“You sure?”

“Yes sir. You know, I play sweeper, and they call me Shin Kicker.”

“Well, try not to hurt him too bad.”

“Yes sir!”

She’s a sweetie—cute as a button and mean as a snake. And a darned good player. She’s about the size of a pencil eraser, but she’s fast and a strong kicker. She played sweeper and forward and did great in both places. We teased Boy about it after church last night and asked him if he said anything to her about the game during Sunday School. He just blushed and protested WAY too much. Then went on to gush about how good she was. Heh. Little playah-playah.

Anyway, good game. Left, drove back across town to home, hoping for the rest of the day off. No such luck.

Got there and found out the game Rebecca missed in the morning due to rain was going to be replayed at 6 p.m. At West Homewood, where we had just left. ::sigh:: And it was time to go back right then.

‘Nother flying kiss for wife and back out the door. Got back to West Homewood for the FOURTH time in 24 hours. Little Emma’s team was playing another game. I went over and bothered her mom and dad a bit—“Why don’t all you Leeds people just pack up and get outta here!” Her mom started to get insulted and then figured out the voice behind her coming from under the big dorky straw hat was me. I related to them the story of their little shin-kicker, and they seemed suitably proud. Went back down the line of spectators and saw the lady I had sat by at Jonathan’s game earlier. “Are you not ever going home?” She just rolled her eyes. “Nah—gonna stay all night.”

Rebecca and her team started warming up. The other team on their field finished and left. No Mountain Brook team to be seen. No referee. Hmm.

The coach from the team that had just finished called up on behalf of our coach—trouble.

Earlier, our coach had called the tournament director to find out when our makeup game was going to be. Seems that Mountain Brook’s coach relied on the website posting, which had not been updated. He was not going to make it by 6. Hmm. Sounds like a forfeit.

But NOOOOOO!!!

Despite having been repeatedly warned in their coach's meetings to call the director FIRST if there was EVER a question, our counterpart ASSUMED. And you know what happens when you ASSUME. We never did quite figure out when he thought we were going to play the makeup. I guess he just thought it vanished.

Many words exchanged; wait; more words; coach pacing field with cell phone glued to his ear pan. Wait, more words. Final call was to wait around to 6:30, see if the other referee on the other field will call our (soon to be non-existent) game. Make him wait even though he's about to go home; he then officially checks everyone in; checks cleats and shinguards; girls line up in positions; more phone calls, tell other coach we’re waiting, he won’t forfeit.

Says it’s still not fair.

Wait 15 more minutes, ref finally calls game. Sounds like a forfeit.

But NOOOOOO!!! Have to settle this later. ::sigh:: The second trip to West Homewood for a game to be cancelled. Back home.

Bec has a game Sunday at noon at Heardmont. Jonathan has a makeup at 1 at Trussville. Church gets out at 11. More running.

Scrub kids. Repack bags. Wash uniforms. Put Bibles and junk bags in both vans—tomorrow will be another two vehicle day. Sleep.

Sunday. Wake up. Eat. Rebecca puts on soccer shorts under her church dress to save time. Everyone out. Church. Sit in back in order to allow us to sneak out a few minutes earlier. Get ready to leave, and Emma and her mama get up to leave, too. We exchange knowing glances.

Wild ride to park, with Rebecca making the van swerve as she gets her dress off and her uniform on in the back of the van. All dressed. On time. Play game. Lose 2-0. Tough game against a group that had dropped down a division to play. Rough bunch, lots of hands pushing, lots of high kicks. Piss-poor referee who stopped and started play like he was playing with an electric football game. Over with, we find out that the tournament director has decided that we would settle our duel with Mountain Brook with a penalty kick shootout at Liberty Park at 3. Because heaven forbid that precious Mountain Brook should have to forfeit for screwing up.

Time enough to go home and see if Jonathan’s game is finished—if so, we’ll all go with Bec to her game. They're not home. Leave note. "STAY PUT. Will be back shortly. Love you."

Go back out door to Liberty Park. Get the girls down to the field. Meet coach coming back up sidewalk—“We ready?” Shaking head—“They’re not coming.”

Explanation later was that they had decided to forfeit after all. After they had made us show up at two different venues, after they had insisted that they be allowed this opportunity. After eleven other sets of parents and I had wasted 8 hours and tanksful of gasoline driving from Trussville across the county six times. Thank you, Mountain Brook. May you get everything you so richly deserve. The tournament director talked to the girls a bit and thanked them for playing—each of our girls will be getting a sportsmanship trophy, which they thought was pretty neat. Daddy, however, is not near so sanguine. Probably why I will not be receiving a trophy.

Back home, change for church, get there just in time for my 4:30 meeting. Meet. Church. Eat.

We were at our normal Sunday evening place, Ruby Tuesday’s in Leeds, and after I got back from the restroom, Reba said one of the waitresses who knows us came by and asked if we saw Charles Barkley in the restaurant. No. During the time I was gone to the restroom, Reba had tried to explain to Oldest who he was, and managed to place him at Alabama. SHOCK!!!

I got back and gave them all the full rundown of the Round Mound of Rebound, who played at glorious Auburn University. He was in town for the Bruno’s Pro-Am out at Greystone (he has a wonderful swing on his drives, reminiscent of someone being repeatedly shocked with a stun gun), and apparently decided to run home and see his Mama’n’em—he grew up in Leeds and played for the Green Wave. Anyway, Reba asked if I saw him over in the smoking section—nope. Hadn’t felt the need to look him up when I was at school, didn’t figure it was time to start. Unless he wanted to buy me dinner. Which he didn’t.

Home. Kids to bed.

I have to go to the grocery store.

Catherine decides to become whiney. ::big tears:: “But, Mama, you promised I could have a surpriiiiiiiiiiiiise, ::sniff:: and we not been to th’ STORRRRRRE!” ::more big tears:: Off to bed with promise of a surprise later. Daddy thinks to himself that he WILL NOT be blackmailed into buying useless trinkets.

Go to store, where it is blissfully quiet. Get stuff. Look at cat toys. ‘She wants a toy? I’LL get her a toy!’ Forgot then remembered something, which just happened to be nearby the toy section.

Cap pistol? Nah.

Checkers? Got ‘em. Just like these Barbies.

Hmm. Except for tiny little Kelli doll in jammies. Aww. That’s cute.

Darn it.

Into the basket. Curse being wrapped so tightly around a six year old’s little finger.

Go on to check out and get to go through the six-foot tall, fully-packed, red-headed, high school Amazon princess’s aisle. (What do they put in the water here!?! What do they FEED these girls!?! Not that I’m complaining.) She swiped the stuff across the scanner and came to the Kelli doll and said it was soooooo cute, and, as is the way of young folks acting like they are all grown up, allowed that it had been years since she had played with her Barbies. “Well, you know y’all got a WHOLE section of them back there! You could find you one and play with it when you’re on your break!” She took my teasing quite well—a confidence that comes from knowing she could crush me like a cantaloupe. She put Kelli into her own little special sack.

Got home, put up the stuff, read the paper, went to bed.

MONDAY alarm goes off. It was just five minutes ago that I set it! Where does the time go? Get the kids up. Get Catherine up, get her dressed.

“Catherine!You know last night when you said you were supposed to have gotten a special prize? Well, I got you something at the grocery store last night!” She took the sack, got the doll out, and large globs of hot tears plinked out of her tear ducts. “I already GOTS this onnnnnnnne! Ooo-hoo-hooo! I already has her!!!! Oh BWAHhhhooooooo ::sniff::” I finally got her calmed back down.

Guess what I get to do tonight?

posted by Terry at 4:24:00 PM

WOW!

Hard to believe it's that time already, but it is yet again Magazine Swapping Time with My Friend Jeff™. Today's restaurant will be Juliano's, a small Eyetalian place somewhere over in Homewood. As always, Jeff will be bringing the latest edition of Car and Driver, and I will be bringing a STACK of Automobiles and AutoWeeks.

No it's not fair, but you know, he's just that way.

UPDATE: And I also just found out that in December he will get one child closer to the Possumclan! Don't know yet what it's going to be, but I know it will be able to identify all major car models by the time it's three years old. (Based on past experience with his other two kids). Lunch was good, if a bit slow. If we were paying by the hour, I suppose it was a pretty good deal. He had giant salami and olive salad something or other on a hoagie roll and I had an Italian sausage sandwich. Mmm. Italian sausage--tastes like licorice. The place is a small and quiet--aside from our continued blabber--sort of place. Interesting, and thankfully not a chain-restaurant.

posted by Terry at 11:00:00 AM

Fun With Referrer Logs

Still working on the weekend post, but in the mean time, I thought it would be instructive to see how some of you come to Possumblog. Some of you obviously have heard what a whiz I am in geography, witnessed by the person who came here looking for mileage from demopolis alabama to beaufort south Carolina. It is exactly 544.2 miles, and takes exactly 8 hours and 22 minutes to drive it. Unless you miss that left turn in Albuquerque.

As you know, Possumblog is better than an entire library of history books when it comes to looking up pictures of charles woodmason. For those of you who don’t know, the Reverend Woodmason was an itinerant Anglican minister who traveled into the Carolina backcountry between the years 1761 and 1767. He kept a detailed journal of his travels and the people he met—my favorite quote is this one:

The Young Women have a most uncommon Practise, which I cannot break them off. They draw their Shift as tight as possible to the Body, and pin it close, to shew the roundness of their Breasts, and slender Waists (for they are generally finely shaped) and draw their Petticoat close to their Hips to shew the fineness of their Limbs—so that they might as well be in Puri Naturalibus—Indeed Nakedness is not censurable or indecent here, and they expose themselves often quite Naked, without Ceremony—Rubbing themselves and their Hair with Bears Oil and tying it up behind in a Bunch like the Indians—being hardly one degree removed from them—In few Years, I hope to bring about a Reformation, as I already have done in several Parts of the Country.

Judging by the infield crowd at Darlington, he didn’t have much luck breaking them of this practise. Oh, I don't have a picture of him. Sorry.

And finally, knowing that Possumblog has the finest of heartwarming family stories, is it any surprise at all that a concerned first-time parent came here after Asking Jeeves about hard ass baby names? No, I think not! In the Possumblog Baby Name Book, there is a whole chapter devoted to just this sort of thing!

You know, you don’t want your baby growing up with any sort of wimpy names, or something that will get his or her squishy little baby-soft butt kicked in reform school, so sometimes it helps out if the child is given an appropriately intimidating name. Giving your little girl a name like Big Mama will insure she gets the deference she deserves when she grows up, as will naming your son San Quentin or Rahway. Of course, what can be more endearing than commemorating your child’s conception with the beverage being consumed at the time—a little girl named Thunderbird, or a little fellow named Jaegermeister, will be all set for a life on the hard edge. And speaking of conception, there is also the possibility of commemorating the location of the encounter—names such as Backseat and Parking Deck conjure up all sorts of images of romantic getaways!

Happy to be of help, and stop in whenever you need information!

posted by Terry at 10:32:00 AM

Torrential Rain! Vehicular Mayhem! Tornadoes! Baseball-Sized Hail! Lightning! Warning Sirens! Charles Barkley!

And THAT, my friends, was just Friday night!! (Well, except for Charles Barkley. That's Sunday night.)

What a weekend. I am plumb tired out, but that won't stop me from concocting a plausible story with which to regale you concerning the happenings of the past two days. Mostly it was a blur of driving, and driving rain, and soccer. You'll hear all about it later whether you want to or not, but until then, be sure to patronize our fine, fresh blogroll offerings--but please, just remember not to let your lap dancer run up a thousand dollar room service tab.

posted by Terry at 8:25:00 AM

Friday, May 02, 2003

Contractor Boy--Epilogue

As I mentioned at the close of business yesterday, I had to go home early and let the painters in yesterday afternoon. But before I let them in, I had to ONCE AGAIN pick up the derned den floor and furniture of dolls and cars and puzzles and socks and shoes...and tiny bits of Hershey’s Kisses tinfoil which none of the children would claim was theirs, meaning it must have been dropped by the Easter Bum.

Pick all that mess up, get out the HATED vacuum cleaner, which I hate with a hatred of a thousand angry vacuum cleaner-hating Luddite jihadis, do a quick swipe, then settle down to wait for the guys, who show up promptly for their 4:00 p.m. appearance at 4:45. Two young guys, English no good, ‘we paint side house okay, now inside.’ But must wait for brother. What-flippin’-ever.

They leave for a bit, and another young guy comes by, the other brother, I guess—I let him in and he starts work, sanding down the wall, then goes and gets a filthy dropcloth and an open bucket full of what appears to be baby diarrhea (Parchment #342). I sit in the kitchen and finish watching “Divorce Court” and reading Shotgun News (hey, what can I say? I have eclectic tastes.) and he starts tentatively dabbing on paint.

Whoa.

That’s dark. He does a bit more, and then furtively glances around and catches me staring a hole in the wall. He gestures and Spanglishcizes a bit and I shrug my shoulders and we go back to what we were doing. Out comes the roller, and he well and truly commits. This is the color, and there’s no going back. It’s always a crapshoot when you try to match colors, anyway, so I wasn’t really so scared—I figured after it flashed off it would match pretty well. The other guys show up and they stand back and look over the wall. Yep, it no match very too good. We exchange shrugs and okays and they finish cleaning up and leave.

Sadly, there was no appearance by Contractor Boy.

No call. Nothing.

It made me so very sad. But I may call him up later and mess with him.

I turned on the ceiling fan and started the REST OF THE EVENING. (Has that decrepit Paul Harvey ring to it, doesn’t it?)

Reba’s up at the park with all the kiddies, and Boy and Middle Girl both have after practice team meetings requiring parental involvement, so she’s forced to stay up there for the duration. Not so bad, but Catherine wasn’t practicing which meant she was ripping and roaring doing things to Make Mom Frustrated. I got there and walked up to the concession stand and found that Cat had been playing on one of the park benches and had taken a header and busted her lip open—she looked a bit like Leon Spinks. But with long bouncy blonde curls. This boo-boo was in addition to the one she had at school earlier in the day—her little kindergarten class took a walking tour to the elementary school and she fell on some rocks and opened a gash on her knee. Stuff like this devastates a first-time parent. After four kids, though, you tend to look at the poor, quivering-lipped child and say, “I hope you didn’t tear up any of those rocks.” Which I did. “Noooo, Daddy!! Those rocks was HARD!” What about the concrete where you fell off the bench? “Silly Dad—that’s hard TOO!!”

Sat there for a while admiring the busted knee and lip, and then a bit of weather blew in—like the infamous Iraqi sandstorm (which, in case you didn’t know, was actually caused by a secret experimental CIA weather weapon) the wind started whipping dirt and sand off the field and all sorts of other stuff around, so Reba and Oldest and Youngest got in the van while I went to round up the other two kids.

Thunder, lightning, a few drollops of rain, hard, sharp sand blowing everywhere, but by golly, those coaches were still practicing. ::sigh:: At least the soccer parents aren’t quite as competitive as the baseball parents. I figure this has a lot to do with the fact that so few of us know one thing about soccer. All the football and baseball parents know EVERYTHING, and aren’t afraid to take on the coaches and refs and umpires—our games are always full of stuff like, “What’s going on!?” “I don’t know. Must be some sort of soccer rule.” It’ll probably change as this generation gets older, but for right now, it’s still fun for the kids and the parents. By jingo the coaches are serious, though.

Anyway, I told Little Boy to run to the van when they got through—no meeting for him—thankfully it was all handled with a handout. Got down the hill to Rebecca’s field, and stood with a couple of other dads watching them play a bit more, as I pondered the wisdom of standing out in an open field by a large metal-framed soccer goal while big dark clouds rolled by. Oh well, just a little lightning. Couldn’t hurt too bad.

Practice over, gather ‘round for all the news about this weekend’s TOURNAMENT. Blech.

Both kids, six games between them, one tonight at 7, four (!) tomorrow—two at 9 at two different fields on two sides of the county, one Sunday exactly one hour after church lets out, again across county. Only two at home. This weekend promises to be somewhat confused and tiring. Imagine that.

Oh well. Back to home with all the kids—the weather blew over without any rain or anyone making like a cartoon and getting all lit up with electricity, and we started getting ready for baths and the game tonight and laundry and trash and OH YEAH, supper.

Too late to cook, so I headed out to one of the fine purveyors of fried potatoes, hushpuppies, and battered whitefish, comfortably housed in a faux Cape Cod shanty down at the foot of the hill from our house. I ordered the Cap’n’s Giant Draught of Fishes Special and dutifully began writing out the check as I waited in the drive-through line. Got up to the window and DOH! No checks. Dang. I sat there for a moment, then lightly tapped on the window frame to get the girl’s attention at the register. A young guy—clean cut, a bit vacant, standing beside her—opened the window. “I was writing a check, but I just saw that you don’t take ch…”

“Sir, we don’t take personal checks.”

::blink:: “Right, I know—I was just saying that since you don’t take checks, could you just hold my order here at the window and let me run next door and get some cash.”

“Uh, well, ‘kay.”

The girl leaned out the window and almost whispered—“You might want to come inside when you come back—it might be busy at the window.”

Why she said this, I had no idea. It’s not like I was going to come back hours later or anything. Did she expect some flood of patrons? Did she know disaster was brewing in the kitchen? Who knows.

Anyway, went back down the street to the CVS where I used my debit card and bought a Coke and got cash back (no ATM fees that way—yes, I’m that cheap) and drove right back to the fish joint. Took maybe seven or eight minutes. Sure enough, the drive-through line was wrapped all the way around the building. How’d she know?!

Went inside, and only a couple of folks at the counter. Not in a good mood, by the way. One man grouched about the service, and the prices, “Hmph. I don’t know why I’d pay $2.99 for a gallon of THEIR sweet tea when I can go to Milo’s and get it for $2.19!!” “Uhhh, yep.” (Best not to engage this one.)

He finally got his order, and I stepped up to the counter—same young guy from before. Let’s call him “Kenny”.

“Hey, I came to pick up my Captain’s Feast.”

Blank stare, mouth slightly agape.

“You know—I was just at the drive-through.”

Blank stare, mouth slightly agape, but moving a bit. “You…you want to ORDER a dinner?”

“No! I was the guy you talked to a few minutes ago at the window over there—you know, I was writing a check…”

“Sir, we don’t take personal checks.”

“Yes, and I told you I was going to go get some cash and I’d be right back and for you to hold my order until I got here…”

Blank look, mouth slightly agape. The girl at the window repeated what I said. He looked at her with utter incomprehension. “So you DO want to order a Captain’s Feast, right?”

“Yes, sure do! Thanks!” He made a slow-motion move as if he was going to start operating the little buttony, money thing, give-the-order machine there on the counter when the window girl tried once more to jog his memory—“Kenny...remember? That’s why he left to go get money?” In extreme exasperation, he quickly turned to her and with a perturbed huff snapped under his breath, “Ra-CHULLLL!” And he was, like all, y’know blah, blah, and I go, duh, and he’s all like, shyeah, right, I’m sure.

I paid my money and sat down to wait. For a long time. Finally, the food came and I grabbed it up and turned to go out the door when I heard the voice of a fine Slacker-American, “Sir?” In my mind, I could not imagine what more he could torture me with—“You can’t go out that door—you have to use the exit.” So like this dumb fat guy comes in, and he’s like all dumb and all, and he’s like tryin to go out the in door! What a rod!

Got home and we sat down to eat an hour after the kids’ bedtime. They didn’t care, but I was beat. And still am.

Luckily, I have all weekend to recuperate!!

So, if I’m a good boy and play my cards right, I’ll be back in here bright and early Monday with all sorts of incredible tales of middle age and suburbitude.

See you all then, and have a great weekend!

Oh, and the wall? The paint dried and just as I suspected it lightened up. Of course, it’s LIGHTER than the surrounding paint…but, hey.

posted by Terry at 4:53:00 PM

Cheese Mail!!

Reader Jim Smith writes in to say:

In keeping with last week's theme, could we have a few thousand words, by Monday, on perhaps grilled cheese sandwiches?? Assuming you are in a mood today to play, have a nice weekend. I cannot wait to read about it. no really

Do I sense a slight tweaking? Nah. Everybody likes a good cheese story. In any event, you don't have to wait for Monday for an exciting snack that's GOOD and GOOD FOR YOU!! So then, Possumblog Kitchens presents: GRILLED CHEESE SANDWICH

Ingredients:

Cheese
Bread
Butter

Put butter in skillet.
Put big iron skillet on stove and turn stove knob to highest possible temperature. (Works best if knob controls the element under the skillet. Turning on any of the others slows cooking time appreciably, and makes for scorch marks on forearms.)
While skillet heats, place a slice of cheese between two pieces of bread.
When butter begins to sizzle, drop bread/cheese combination into skillet.
Turn once with a spatula. (Or as we say, spatchler.)

Eat.

One More From The Everybody's A Critic File

After pouring my heart and soul into the above grilled cheese post, Reader Smith says:

Now I have nothing to look forward to on Monday. Thanks a lot.

No problem!! But don't worry about Monday--I can almost GUARANTEE you WILL have something to look forward to on Monday. Assuming you enjoy pointlessness.

posted by Terry at 2:53:00 PM

Via Belle of Vidalia Janis Gore via Belt of the Way's James Joyner, check and see what movies were made the year YOU, faithful Possumblog reader, were born. Pretty cool--and I must say, 1962 was a darned good year for fillums.

posted by Terry at 2:29:00 PM

Don't worry, Billy Joe!

No one is EVER kicking YOU and the fellers from the BBQ Emporium out!! You got too many of them Redstone missile boys to mess around with.

posted by Terry at 2:23:00 PM

Hey, remember what I wrote this morning...

...about architecture and the language of America and directness and stuff like that? Here's an article that says sorta the same thing.

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - British Prime Minister Tony Blair, whose closeness to U.S. President George W. Bush earned him praise from Washington and derision at home, says he thinks the American leader's lightweight image is "complete bull."

In an interview with Vanity Fair magazine, Blair said the image was not only "complete bull" but "total nonsense."

He added in the interview with contributing editor David Margolick, "I was about to say, 'He's not someone who will philosophise,' but actually that's not true, because he does. But 'directness' is the best way I can describe it. He has a very, very direct way of stating exactly what he feels about a situation."

Blair added about Bush, "He is highly intelligent, and it's not clotted by so many nuances that the meaning is obscured. The good thing about (Bush) is that once he does really think that an issue has to be tackled he has big reserves of courage for doing it, and he won't really be diverted." [...]

Sounds good to me.

posted by Terry at 1:16:00 PM

A Pitiful Charade--Literally and Figuratively

or...Dick Does Pictionary

Yet another chapter in the silly saga as--Scrushy's lawyer says HealthSouth at risk of selloff . (For the record, Scrushy's lawyer is NOT Jackie Chiles)

ROY WILLIAMS and RUSSELL HUBBARD
News staff writer

Richard Scrushy still behaves like he knows what's best for HealthSouth Corp., planning strategies from his home office for the company that fired him.

Interesting that he's now such a very hands-on sort of former leader, given his counsel's protestations that he was merely a figurehead when he ran the joint...

HealthSouth is in the hands of people who want to break it up and sell its profitable hospitals and rehabilitation centers at discount prices to friends in the health care business, Scrushy lawyer Donald Watkins said Wednesday.

The interview was at Scrushy's home. The former chief executive was present and didn't speak.

Yet he managed to say volumes.

"They're creating a smokescreen of misinformation to keep people unaware of what's going on," Watkins said. "Our investigation has determined they're having meetings right now as we speak, discussing ways to break up the company."

And this took investigation!? A company gutted of its value is actually discussing ways to remain afloat?! How can this be?! (Gee, sounds like someone's earning every penny--oops, I mean, $30,000,000--of his legal fees.)

The HealthSouth founder, who was fired March 31, agreed with his lawyer's comments during the two-hour interview. He frequently nodded while Watkins spoke. He often illustrated Watkins' points by drawing on white butcher paper propped on an easel, marking out little boxes representing HealthSouth operating units, then connecting them with lines.

Maybe not Pictionary. Maybe it was Win, Lose, or Draw.

`R.S. did a good job!':

Scrushy wrote HealthSouth had a 25 percent profit margin under his leadership. The government and the company's new management have said every financial statement in its corporate history is unreliable.

"R.S. did a good job!" Scrushy wrote below the profit margin figures.

I think there's no doubt he did a "job", alright.

Federal prosecutors believe that little of what Scrushy said was true in the 19 years he ran what became the largest operator of physical therapy clinics.

Every finance chief in the company's history has pleaded guilty to criminal fraud charges they helped Scrushy fake profit by $2.5 billion since 1997.

In all, 11 former HealthSouth executives have told investigators that Scrushy orchestrated the scheme to inflate profit.

None of Scrushy's illustrations or written comments touched on the accounting fraud he was accused of in a March 19 lawsuit by the Securities and Exchange Commission.

Scrushy's greatest worry, Watkins said, is that competitors will sneak off with what they were unable to buy or build when HealthSouth was at its apex.

Uh-huh. Just my two cents, but I think what my successors do with the broken company they now control would be the least of my worries at this moment. I think I would be much more concerned about the tennis court schedule down at the Federal Pen at Maxwell Air Force Base. But that's just me.

Rivals will try "steal the very valuable assets that Richard Scrushy spent 20 years collecting and building," Watkins said.

I don't know if any of you have ever read Walter_Miller's hysterical website, but this allegation sounds just like Granfathor ranting about his two older brothres, Unlce William and Unkle Zeke tryin to steel his valuoble colectable hubcaps and old whashing machins.

On the easel, Scrushy wrote that he built the company's locations from "one to 2,000 in 20 years ... largest health care in America."

Of course, he built them with other people's money, but hey.

Watkins said those who would buy what Scrushy once supervised include United Surgery Partners Inc., HealthSouth's biggest competitor in day surgery; and Select Medical Inc., the company's No. 1 rival in physical therapy.

Another interested buyer is MediSphere Inc., a surgery center company that employs as a vice president the son of HealthSouth Acting Chairman Joel Gordon, Watkins said. Gordon also has had business partnerships with Welsh Carson, a venture fund that is a large investor in Dallas-based United Surgery, Watkins said.

"It's the foxes guarding the hen house," Watkins said. "They've got everybody focused on Mr. Scrushy while they're doing these backroom deals to split up the company and let their buddies buy it at pennies on the dollar."

As opposed to the good old fashioned way of fraudulently inflating earnings and then cashing out when the share price is at its peak, making millions upon millions in the process. Or course, those are just the allegations of the SEC, and they have no basis in reality...

Scrushy echoed Watkins, writing "pennies on the dollar," on his butcher paper. [...]

Which is the value of HealthSouth stock now. Somehow, I don't think that's what he meant, though.

[...] The dangers feared by Scrushy appear remote even if HealthSouth management wanted to sell clinics and hospitals to friends.

The company has defaulted on $367 million of bond payments and is closely supervised by bondholders and bank lenders who have frozen a $1.25 billion credit line.

Also, neither Gordon nor any other HealthSouth executive has the ability to influence the sale of clinics and hospitals, even if he wanted to, Brimmer said.

The company's board in March hired outside corporate management firm Alvaraz & Marsal, which has a long track record of operating troubled companies, to run HealthSouth and negotiate with creditors and lenders, Brimmer said.

"Alvaraz & Marsal was hired to lead any efforts related to asset sales that might one day come to pass," he said. [...]

Yeah, that's what YOU say, but I don't see you writing it down on white butcher paper!! So THERE!!

[...] Watkins said HealthSouth's management has taken advantage of the publicity surrounding the asset hearing.

"If these guys would quit blaming Mr. Scrushy, the company's stock price can go up," Watkins said. "They don't want the price to go up because it'll be easier to sell off parts of the company to their friends."

And they said irony is dead. In any event, whether guys quit blaming Mr. Scrushy or not, the only place the stock can go is up...

HealthSouth shares trade for about 17 cents. Acting Chairman Gordon is one of the company's largest individual stockholders, owning 1.45 million shares.

The shares were removed from the New York Stock Exchange in March after they plunged and Scrushy was accused in a civil lawsuit of falsifying profit to make sure the company met the expectations of Wall Street analysts.

HealthSouth investors have lost about $12 billion of market value from the stock's historical high price.

Sorry, I misspoke. It could fall another 17 cents, thus becoming worth not a bucket of warm spit, but merely a thimbleful.

Scrushy also disagrees with HealthSouth's recent cost-cutting moves.

The company has "fired long-time employees essential to building the company," Scrushy wrote on his easel.

HealthSouth cut 165 jobs last month at its headquarters on U.S. 280, or 20 percent of the total. Some of them were in the marketing department that Scrushy founded, which spent money on promotional tours that featured athletes and recording artists.

One of the fired was marketing Vice President Jason Hervey, a former child actor who became a close confidante of Scrushy.

The company's new management has slashed marketing ventures such a weekly radio show Scrushy and Hervey hosted, calling them secondary expenses that distract from performing surgeries and treating injured patients.

It is at this time that I pull out my large pad of white butcher paper and with a giant black marker write "JASON HERVEY!?"

The fraud to which lower executives have pleaded guilty seems to be a footnote to Scrushy and his defense team.

"We are all saddened by the alleged fraud that several people in the accounting and finance department have admitted to," Watkins said. "That's no excuse to let insiders rip the company apart."

Scrushy, out of his job of running HealthSouth for the first time in 19 years, tries to keep abreast of what people are saying about the company and his record.

Thursday, he faxed to The Birmingham News several messages about HealthSouth that were posted in the Yahoo! Internet chat room devoted to discussing the company. Each of them criticized Gordon and Acting Chief Executive Robert May.

Faxed them? Wow, and I thought I was just kidding about Chet the E-Mail Boy. Why not just e-mail the News links to the messages? Ah, well. I feel better knowing there's someone out there even more technically unsophisticated than me.

Anyway, despite the fact that some of the first inklings of malfeasance at HealthSouth were alleged against it by an insider leaving messages on the Yahoo! Finance message board, Yahoo! message boards are not quite the best places for unbiased information. Believe it or not, you can sign up and post hundreds of messages on them which criticize existing company officers! Yes, amazing, I know! Go take a look.

Hmm. Seems that there are some in there that are just a bit critical of the target of the SEC investigation. Imagine that.

I don't quite understand what Dick thought this interview would accomplish--for someone who built an empire on slickness and sizzle, this has to be the most hamfisted attempt yet at spin.

Oh well.

posted by Terry at 10:34:00 AM

From the Everybody's A Critic File

World Trade Center architect's plan criticized by another architect

No, not me (although I've already done it once). This time it's another Noo Yawker who has a project next door.

By KAREN MATTHEWS
The Associated Press
5/2/03 2:23 AM

NEW YORK (AP) -- One feature of architect Daniel Libeskind's winning design for the World Trade Center site is that sunlight will flood the plaza every Sept. 11 morning to commemorate those who died.

But another architect -- a critic of the rebuilding process who has circulated his own design -- is questioning Libeskind's plan for a so-called Wedge of Light, saying his math shows sunlight will be sparse.

In presenting his plan to the public in December, Libeskind promised that every Sept. 11 "between the hours of 8:46 a.m., when the first airplane hit, and 10:28 a.m., when the second tower collapsed, the sun will shine without shadow."

Yet rival architect Attia contends that the Millennium Hilton Hotel -- which he designed -- will cast a shadow over the plaza where the sun is supposed to shine.

"By 10:28 every Sept. 11, the so-called Wedge of Light will in fact be a Wedge of Darkness and Shame, covered by about 99 percent shadow," Eli Attia said in a report released this week and posted on his Web site.

In an interview Thursday, Libeskind said that even with the shadows of existing buildings, visitors to the site would experience the Wedge of Light effect.

"At 8:46 they'll see the buildings suddenly illuminated with light, casting no shadow, and at 10:28 they'll see a bright line of light," he said.

Attia disagreed.

"Light is light and shadow is shadow," he said. "He promised the world that within that time it will be flooded with light, and this is simply a lie."

Meow. Sour grapes? Maybe, but Attia has nothing to gain by being wrong on this--I imagine he's done his homework and I imagine he's right--the weasel word from Libeskind is "effect". Effects can be very distinct or ephemeral, and one man's glorious bright light is just as likely to be another's rather melodramatic Wedge of Darkness and Shame. Whatever.

Attia, who advocates a different plan as head of the Phoenix Project, contends that the process by which Libeskind was chosen was flawed and that the plan itself is "an absolute embarrassment on every level."

But Libeskind, whose plan includes a 1,776-foot tower and the preservation of part of the original trade center's foundation walls, has supporters in the architectural community.

"I fundamentally think the Libeskind plan is, if not perfect, very close, because of how it engages the historical imperatives of what happened on the site in a way that isn't simplistic," said Ric Bell, executive director of the New York chapter of the American Institute of Architects.

Beverly Willis, founder of a community group called Rebuild Downtown Our Town and president of the Architecture Research Institute, said Attia appears to be motivated by "sour grapes."

"Obviously Attia feels that he can do a better design job than Libeskind, and I would think 50 percent of the architects in New York think they can do a better job," Willis said. "But Libeskind was selected in a fair competition."

Only 50%?! Then the rest ought to pack it up and go home. Not because they are actually any better than Libeskind, but any artist worth his name better think like he's the best in the world. That little bit of bravado and arrogance, that idea that you could do better work with a broken pencil on a soggy napkin, is what gives the spark and makes something architecture rather than simply a building. Of course, that could explain a lot of what passes for architecture.

Matthew Higgins, a spokesman for the Lower Manhattan Development Corp., which together with the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey hired Libeskind, said that "Daniel has produced a compelling vision for the site. ... It's a complex and nuanced vision that requires a lot of explanation to fully appreciate."

Which is exactly why I think it is a silly solution.

Architecture has a language, as does New York and in a larger context, America. The language of American public and private life has a simplicity and directness which we see in our everyday interactions and which permeates nearly all aspects of our life--think of our language of international politics which, while causing hoots of derision from abroad (and from folks here with a bad case of Europeans-envy), is unmistakably American and unflinchingly direct. No complexity simply for the sake of complexity, no nuance that requires a two-inch thick three ring binder full of blather to decipher. That's why the solution chosen by the Port Authority leaves so much to be desired--the design says a lot about America, but not in the language of America.

But hey, it's their dime.

posted by Terry at 9:11:00 AM

Foreign-born sailors back from war in the Persian Gulf take citizenship oaths

By ELLIOT SPAGAT
The Associated Press
5/2/03 2:49 AM

SAN DIEGO (AP) -- After 44 sailors aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln returned from fighting for America in the Middle East, they had a special task awaiting: They became Americans.

The sailors from 16 countries took the oath of citizenship in a ceremony Thursday that underscored how the military has accommodated immigrants seeking naturalization by their adopted country.

Their applications were moved to the top of the pile thanks to an executive order President Bush signed in July ending a three-year wait required for military personnel to gain eligibility.

Rear Adm. Jose Luis Betancourt, himself a Mexican immigrant, told the new citizens his rise from humble origins to commander of the Navy's Southwest region illustrates how the military can be a launching pad.

He spoke on a hilltop with sweeping views of the Pacific Ocean, San Diego Bay and the downtown skyline. An Iranian immigrant who became a citizen four months ago sang "The Star-Spangled Banner."

Sixteen of the new citizens were from the Philippines, six hailed from Mexico and the rest were from countries scattered around the globe, including Cuba, Ukraine, South Korea and Vietnam.

Among the new citizens sworn in Thursday, nearly one-fourth were women, compared to one in six in the military overall. Nearly half of the 44 sailors live in California. [...]

For those of you citizens who blither on about how fine and patriotic your reflexive anti-Americanism is, somehow I think you have to stand in line behind a group of folks who, despite not being citizens, put their lives on line in service to this country. They're better Americans than you'll ever be.

posted by Terry at 8:37:00 AM

You know...

I haven't said anything about this: Strippers, drinks and a $1,000 room service bill, but it is a bit disconcerting for those of us who remember when the head football coach at Alabama said "Great Pair!", it meant something entirely different.

posted by Terry at 8:12:00 AM

Thursday, May 01, 2003

The Return of Contractor Boy, Final Chapter

Must be off now to head out to the house and let the painters in. The long and agonizing tale of rainwater and gyp dust is finally drawing to a close as Contractor Boy called me (!) at my office (!!) early this week to say the painters were ready to roll (so to speak). "Yeah, I think we got that color pretty close." I sure hope so. But you know what? Just between you, me and the leaky chimney, if it's not exactly right I'm not going to be upset. The big picture that usually hangs there will cover it up. HOWEVER, that won't stop me from antagonizing Contractor Boy. Some things must be done as a matter of course.

So, until tomorrow, good day and may the good news be yours!

posted by Terry at 3:12:00 PM

Hey, don't complain--there coulda been two big pink ones...

New exhibit shows how first U.S. professional architect envisioned the U.S. Capitol

WASHINGTON (AP) -- Benjamin Latrobe, sometimes called the father of American architecture, wanted a flattish dome on the U.S. Capitol, like those on buildings designed by amateur architect Thomas Jefferson. Nothing like the present towering structure. [...]

The flattish Capitol dome design that President Washington, Jefferson and Latrobe favored was never built. It had first been drawn by another amateur, Dr. William Thornton, and approved by Washington.

Twenty years after Washington died, Thornton saw the original, taller dome -- not the present one -- and labeled it ridiculous, like an upside-down sugar bowl. [...]

Everybody's a critic.

And having established that, let's also say that using the word "flattish" twice within the first three paragraphs is probably not the best thing to do.

posted by Terry at 2:52:00 PM

Fast. Neat. Average.

posted by Terry at 2:12:00 PM

It's Okay, I'm a Benevolent Despot

In response to the earlier call to the rookies for them to un-essimate the word 'Weevil', I just received the following from Steven Taylor:

Yes, I am the guilty soul who referred to the revered list as "Axis of Weevils"--and Janis chastised me and I fixed it :)

And I have seen the Enterprise statue in person, and, quite frankly, it looks bigger in the photos (at least the one that used to be on the city's website). What they need is one big enough that you can crawl up into the weevil. Now that would be a statue.

At any rate, I promise to stop pluralizing Weevil. I don't want to get kicked out of the Axis!

Now THAT'S the way to do it--contrition and correction and no small amount of SHEER DREAD!! BWWWAHAHAHAHAHHHAHHHHAAAA! Ahem. Sorry.

Now then, on to Steven's really Big Idea--one of the things that has been sadly lacking at the lovely and spacious Axis of Weevil World Headquarters Building (aside from a suitable cover over the abandoned coal bin) is some really cool and scary world-domination sort of statuary--we don't have any big metal globes or such, and a gigantic weevil perched atop a handy hilltop (hey, Vulcan's not using his pedestal right now...) might be just the thing! And we could have a gift shop, with little foam weevil noses and great big pencils with weevil erasers and porcelain thimbles with tole painted weevils!! It could be an even bigger draw than The Peach!!

Steven also wanted to know why Possumblog doesn't have a comments section--a good question, and one that several of you have wondered about. A few reasons--first, I am hamstrung enough by the various technical gremlins of Blogger and Blog*Spot, and adding one more bit of dodgy code in to the template practically guarantees something else will screw up. Second, I don't have time to police a comments section to slap trolls around and referee flame wars. And I don't want anyone mucking around with my hard-earned Waltonesque tranquility by posting nekkid photos of Judy Norton. Some folks are better able to moderate such things, but I just don't have the patience. Third, if you really have something to say, I do keep up to date with my e-mail, which is much easier to delete when the wild-eyed conspiracy nuts decide to come by, and easy to include in a blogpost if it's interesting. Them that wish to argue had better be prepared to not do so anonymously. That no-name crap goes right in the round file with no regrets. On the other hand, general chit-chat from folks with a pen name is fine. Fourth, e-mail gives Chet the E-Mail Boy something to do. Chet, 86, is one of the few people I know who are both a telegrapher and a Linotype operator. Obviously, neither of these skills are in much demand nowadays, but Chet has fun by having all incoming e-mails routed to his desk, where a program converts the data into Morse code. Chet dutifully takes this down, then runs to the basement and sets it all in fresh, hot lead, runs two proof copies of the message, and comes back upstairs with them. I proof them and he makes any required corrections, then he presses the final copies. After reading the e-mail, I dictate a reply which Chet scribbles onto one of the old telegram forms that they let him keep after he got laid off. Chet then hurries back to his desk, taps out the message into the computer program which then sends it back to the original sender.

posted by Terry at 2:05:00 PM

Hey Cool!

Thanks to Rob Smith over at Gut Rumbles for the link in his post about blog names--

[...] If you want The Waltons, go read Possumblog, which is non-political, rated "G" and all about family values. Lots of interesting historical stuff in there, too. [...]

Thanks for continuing to drop by and visit, Rob--in case any of you have never visited Acidman, his blog is G-rated, as well. Usually each one is followed by an "oddamn", but there you go.

Anyway, it's sort of odd how different folks see different things whenever they visit Possumblog. I suppose that's because I have always deliberately tried to pretend that you're all folks who stop by my desk to sit and shoot the breeze for a while. I have a lot of different interests, and so I jabber about a lot of different things. I write to you as if you're sitting over there in the chair by the door, and some days I get cranked up on the kids, some days on cars, some days on stupid morons, and some days I'm too busy to talk. Some days I feel like joking around, some days I don't. The junk on here is not necessarily my most private thoughts--just like with everyone else I know, there are some opinions I keep to myself because I know how easily they could be misconstrued.

Other thoughts are a bit more obvious--I believe God's blessed me with parents who worked their whole lives to make sure I grew up a man worthy of being called a man; with a wife whom I love more than my own life; with four kids I love even when I have to spank 'em; with a home in the greatest nation on earth. None of these things I deserved, which makes me ever more grateful for them--and protective of them. I consider myself a peaceful fellow, but I also believe a prudent thing to keep in mind is si vis pacem, para bellum. I make mistakes, and when I do, I try to fix them. If you need help, I'll do what I can. I occasionally poke fun at those that need poking, but I'm just as hard on myself.

So, given all that, this journal is what it is. I write this stuff because I like doing it. If you like it, that makes it even better, and I hope you keep coming by to talk. If you don't, you'll notice that there was no entrance fee; likewise, there is no exit fee. If you can't quite figure it out, welcome to the club!

posted by Terry at 11:41:00 AM

A gentle reminder to our newest members

Janis Gore of Gone South wrote in to say that one of the new kids insists on saying "Axis of Weevils" rather than the singular form. Just as President Bush didn't say "Axis of Evils" (or Axis of Elvis, or Axis of Elves) we, rightly or wrongly, just leave off the ess. Probably not the best form grammatically, considering 'evil' is a concept which can encompass multiple parties and 'weevil' is one single, non-divisible bug, but good grammar is less important than making sure all nails which stick up are HAMMERED DOWN!! (That's from page 4 of the employee manual)

Some of you may wonder what the deal with weevils is anyway. Well, drag up a chair and click on this link and you will find out how a tiny little pest, the cotton boll weevil, destroyed the livelihood of a large portion of south Alabama farmers (and farmers across the South). The agricultural disaster forced farmers to diversify their crops, and after a few years they managed to find themselves in better shape than before. Realizing that the weevil infestation had indirectly brought them a more durable prosperity by forcing them to change their ways, the citizens of Enterprise, Alabama decided to honor the boll weevil, first with a plaque, and then about 30 years later with a statue of a lady holding a bug.

posted by Terry at 10:11:00 AM

Government that WORKS!!

Another thing that restores my faith in the Goat Hill Goobs are stories like this--Committee votes to make blackberry state fruit

MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- From the same elementary school that brought Alabama its state amphibian comes an effort to designate a state fruit.

Third-graders at Fairhope Elementary School have proposed a bill to make the blackberry the state fruit. This was the same school that in 2000 began a successful effort to make the Red Hills salamander the state amphibian.

The House Agriculture and Forestry Committee approved the bill sponsored by Rep. Randy Davis, R-Daphne, whose district includes Fairhope.

"I'm sure all of you fondly remember going out and picking blackberries in the wild," Davis told committee members.

And they say the Age of Oratory is dead.

I just hope all those wild pickers were fully clothed and sober, or there's gonna be a new crop of videos out this summer--Blackberry Pickers Gone Wild!

He said the school children researched the history of the blackberry, including the part it played in providing a food source for early pioneers, and wrote letters to legislators.

The committee passed the bill after a light-hearted debate.

"There is a thorny side of this issue," Davis said.

"There is also a chiggerish side," said Rep. John Robinson, D-Scottsboro.

You guys are a scream. Stop. Stop. You are making my sides hurt. Ouch. Hah.

The helm of the ship of state is held in good hands.

Rep. Billy Beasley, D-Clayton, wanted to know if the blueberry was considered for state fruit.

Terry Oglesby, Bull Moose-Trussville, wanted to know if a state berry promotion could be funded featuring Sela Ward covered in a thin layer of blackberry jelly. This amendment was quickly added to the bill.

Davis assured Rep. Thomas Jackson, D-Thomasville, that the state fruit designation would not lead to a law preventing people from picking wild blackberries.

"We're not going to do that," he said. [...]

Or much of anything else, for that matter. But then again, maybe it's for the best not to encourage them to do more than designate a state fruit.

posted by Terry at 9:39:00 AM

On occasion...

...I will bait our friends in the legal profession (since they make it so darned easy), but when you find a good lawyer or a good judge, it tends to restore your faith that being a nation of laws is a pretty good thing. Case in point can be found in this Birmingham News article this morning about Judge Inge Johnson, the U.S. District Court judge handling the hearing on whether to release Richard Scrushy's frozen assets. She sounds like a good one--

VAL WALTON
News staff writer

U.S. District Judge Inge P. Johnson sat in the midst of high-profile lawyers, Birmingham's most flamboyant tycoon, federal investigators armed with a secret recording, reluctant witnesses and flow charts detailing corporate hierarchy.

But there was never a question of who would run the hearing in which former HealthSouth CEO Richard Scrushy sought access to his frozen assets. From the moment lawyers stepped into the courtroom, Johnson's wit and vigor kept all sides reigned in.

"No, sir, I didn't ask you anything," Johnson said to Donald Watkins, a Scrushy lawyer, during the first day of the 11-day hearing. "Have a seat."

Prosecutors observing testimony in the hearing chuckled when James Goodreau, a former Scrushy bodyguard and head of HealthSouth's corporate security, expressed fear from the witness stand that the FBI might come after him for his testimony. Johnson asked if prosecutors thought it was funny. They stopped chuckling.

Johnson was blunt and sometimes biting, curious, attentive and assertive. More than anything, Johnson, who was the state's first female judge in Colbert County, was in charge. [...]

[Attorney Jimmy L.] Hunt calls the judge a "modern, immigration miracle."

Johnson, who was born in Svendborg, Denmark, cannot comment on pending cases. She earned a law degree in 1969 from the University of Copenhagen's School of Law, which is equivalent to an American juris doctorate degree. She also earned a certificate in English Law from the City of London College in England.

She came to Alabama, where she earned a master's of comparative law from the University of Alabama's School of Law in 1970, through the American-Scandinavian Foundation's "Thanks to Scandinavia" scholarship. She later received a juris doctor degree from the same school in 1973. She met her husband, William T. Johnson, also a lawyer who is a nephew of Tuscumbia native Helen Keller, while attending law school.

Johnson practiced law with her husband in Tuscumbia and became a Muscle Shoals city judge.

In 1978, she became the first woman elected to a state circuit court in Alabama.

Gary Alverson, the county's district attorney since 1987, said Johnson ran against part of Colbert County's old establishment, an opponent whose family was politically-connected. The county had never had a female judge.

"She came in and surprised everybody," Alverson said. "She turned out to be one of the best judges in Colbert County."

Voters re-elected her three times. She also became the presiding judge for the 31st Judicial Circuit from January 1979 until she joined the federal bench through President Clinton's nomination, receiving the lifetime appointment in 1998.

Those who know her say she is self-assured and isn't afraid to make decisions. Johnson gained notice as a circuit judge for overruling a jury and sentencing a man to death for murdering a woman and her two daughters. She tossed out a federal criminal case against former Jefferson County Sheriff Jim Woodward, but the U.S. 11th Circuit Court of Appeals overturned her. [...]

Lawyers said they have learned to read certain facial expressions of the judge.

More than once, Johnson has leaned over and dropped her jaw during witness testimony as if astonished, lawyers said. If that happens, Hunt said, "somebody better look out" because she is likely to question the witness herself. [...]

Johnson was visibly baffled at some of the revelations from witnesses. When Scrushy's personal accountant was unable to answer questions about his finances, Johnson stared, mouth agape, at the lack of answers. She asked the accountant, Mary Schabacker, to return another day with more details. [...]

Johnson would often ask her own questions of witnesses, at times even interrupting a questioning attorneys to get something clarified or to further her understanding of the mechanics of the sophisticated fraud.

"Do you understand that," Johnson asked one witness, who responded no. "I didn't either." [...]

A keeper, for sure.

And for your viewing pleasure, the U.S. District Court, Northern District of Alabama website.

posted by Terry at 8:37:00 AM

Wednesday, April 30, 2003

And finally, what would Wednesday be without the weekly Lileks Newhouse column--today he's geeking on the ICC:

The International Criminal Court, like most international institutions, is a wonderful idea. A noble idea. All it needs to work is planetary government, worldwide democracy and the triumph of reason over tribal loyalties, political doctrines and individual ambition. In other words, it requires that we all live in the world described by the "Star Trek" television shows.

Some think we already do. One of the more fascinating characteristics of those devoted to international law is their insistence that such a thing exists. Oh, it does, but it's something we all accept without too many questions, like Michael Jackson's popularity. [...]

[...] Has anyone pressed the Belgian court to indict the various Baathist officials the United States has in custody? You know, the ones whose government forced pregnant women to strap explosive belts around their wombs?

If the United States hadn't destroyed Saddam's regime, every day in Iraq would have seen a violation of every human right the United Nations professes to uphold. Page through the 10 kajillion laws the United Nations has passed and you'll probably find one that outlaws jails for children, or corrective genital electrotherapy for dissidents.

But that's not the crime. The crime consists of deposing that regime without the consent of a Belgian court.

Who died and made them Capt. Kirk?

Nobody--they're just in that parallel universe with the groovy, beard-wearing evil Spock.

posted by Terry at 4:37:00 PM

Musta been some sort of contest...

...because all day long I've been getting hits from a multitude of places (8 or 9 different ISPs) wanting to know the answer to a variation of the question: Who did Aunt Bea replace on the Andy Griffith show.

Well, I apologize for not being on top of this earlier, but Frances Bavier, playing Aunt Bea Taylor replaced Rose, played by Mary Treen in Episode One. (Oddly enough, Miss Treen returned in Episode 12 as Clara Lindsey, "Sam's wife.")

So now you all know why it is important to keep up with your Andy Griffith Show knowledge. (And let me know who was running the contest!)

posted by Terry at 3:54:00 PM

Yet another unsuspecting victim...

As you recall from our show yesterday, we indentured poor unsuspecting Steven Taylor into the service of Greater Alablogma--he graciously posted a notice on his blog of his capture. Not realizing the danger he posed to himself, another one of them smart poli-sci docs left a message congratulating him, which offered yours truly just enough of a incentive to want to go see what HE had to say on HIS blog, where Dr. Joyner let it slip that Alabamaosity ran through his veins thicker than cat fur.

Although James has now left the leafy confines of Troy State University and moved up to the Metro D.C. area (where he works for a publisher), I sensed his longing for the down home life. I also sensed the potential to add yet another doctor to our club (thus paving the way for our hostile takeover of HealthSouth), so I sent James the following e-mail:

SUBJECT: Hmmm...another possible Weevil?

Good afternoon, Dr. Joyner,

I saw your comment over on PoliBlogger and followed it over to your blog, where I noticed that you had spent some time here in the greatest state ever to exist in all of human history. Given that, and your abundantly overqualified curriculum vitae, is it possible we could interest you in joining up with us?

I like to be polite and ask, because believe it or not, there actually are some folks who would rather not be associated with us! Shyeah--I know--go figure!

In any event, I have included the OFFICIAL membership rules--

1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;
2) Not ashamed to admit to #1;
3) Staunchly anti-idiotarian, or can at least pretend pretty good
4) Functionally literate
5) Don't type in ALL CAPS or all e.e. cummings case or MiXeD.
6) Update your blog more than once a month
7) Willing to be made fun of
8) Willing to make fun of yourself
9) Have a framed picture of John Moses Browning
10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever read
11) Must be able to recite Monty Python and the Holy Grail and give an episode synopsis of all Andy Griffith shows from memory
12) Your pickup truck must be in good working order--use of ether to get it started is not recommended, but will be allowed on a case-by-case basis

DISCLAIMER: As with the well-loved Calvinball, the rules may change in the middle of the game.

So that's about it. Remember, the Axis of Weevil represents not only those who live in the state, but the entirety of the Redneck Diaspora--many of the blog writers listed as members no longer live within the confines of our borders, but have gone forth to spread the goodness of Alabama across the nation.

If you even remotely qualify, there is your very own Axis of Weevil Gift Pack sitting right here, waiting for the order to be delivered.

In mere moments, Chet the E-Mail Boy came back with the following from James:

I got a PhD from The University of Alabama, which is something of an oxymoron.

HEY! He said it, not me!

Also a high school diploma and a couple other degrees. And the folks still live there.

Otherwise, I meet all the qualifications except 9 (although I did have a student named John Browning in several of my classes at Troy State) and 12 (my pickup done died and has been replaced by a succession of cars). Of course, I'd have thought the vehicle would be required to be on cinderblocks in the front yard to qualify; go figure.

Well, there you go! First off, here is a nice picture of John Moses Browning which you may clip off of your computer monitor with a pair of sharp scissors and put in a frame, so that takes care of Number 9. The pickup truck requirement seems to be tripping up a good many folks--they get all edumicated beyond their upbringing and don't seem to recall that with a couple of hours, a reciprocating saw, and a big can of Bondo, ANY car can be turned into a nice El Camino-style truck--just the thing for work or play; for pulling up to the country club, or picking up hot chicks around Reagan International!

As for the vehicle being up on blocks...well, to each his own, but it's awful hard to drive 'em like that. However, they do make nice yard art, jungle gyms, or sources of cash by parting them out.

So, having dispensed with these minor annoyances, I dashed off a congratulatory reply and told James we would add his name to the roll, to which he said:

Sure. What the hey.

THAT'S THE SPIRIT!!

SO THEN, without further delay or detention, by the power bestowed upon me my The Lady of the Lake, her arm clad in purest shimmering samite, and with feelings of great soberness and dignity we, The Heart of Dixie Jazz Ensemble and Mortar Squad, a.k.a. The Axis of Weevil, do FORTHWITH add, promote, inculcate and invest one James Joyner into our cast of characters, with all of the benefits (such as they are) and responsibilities pertaining thereto.

ANYONE OBJECTING to this may not wish to say it too loudly, given Dr. Joyce's background: "Dr. Joyner served as an officer in the U.S. Army from 1988 to 1992, primarily as a Multiple Launch Rocket System platoon leader. His stint included tours in Germany and deployment to southwest Asia for Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Along the way he went to Airborne school at Fort Benning, Georgia and Air Assault school at Fort Rucker, Alabama. His military awards include the Bronze Star Medal, the Army Commendation Medal, and a host of "I was there" medals."

He can put a world of hurt on you. Hopefully he can help us get the recoilless rifle working again.

BUT enough of that--it is time for us all to traipse over to Outside the Beltway and say hello to the newest Weevil!

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE--And you thought we would forget about the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack! Au contraire, Pierre! After she gets through putting in a new battery in the Pinto, Miss Janie will be loading up all your goodies and setting off for ol' Virginny. She's slow (you would be too at 93), but she's a hard worker and a very safe driver, so be on the lookout for her.

posted by Terry at 1:54:00 PM

BULL!

Time once again to dip into the tiny treasure known as Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book, co-authored by Charles Nisbet and Don Lemon.

For those new to Possumblog, my wife gave me this book as a Christmas present (eerily peculiar, seeing as how she doesn’t know that I have a blog) and it has been a source of sage writing advice and interesting historical flummery ever since.

Today’s excerpt (from the 1901 edition edited by Dr. James Baldwin) is from pages 40-42, and deals with…

6. CONGRUITY OF FIGURES.

An Important Rule.—A sentence, or any complete series of words, is properly congruous only when the sensuous images its several words represent are just as harmonious as are the ideas, or mental realizations, they suggest.

EXAMPLES OF CONGRUITY

Obvious Incongruities.—When Sir Boyle Roche, in the House of Commons, declared how he ‘smelt a rat, saw him floating in the air, and was determined to nip him in the bud’, every one laughed at the obvious incongruity of these three figures in conjunction.

The most patent sort of incongruities of speech are those known as ‘Bulls’, ‘Irish Bulls’, or ‘Hibernianisms’—a product, however, not confined to Ireland. Of such was the somewhat hesitating address of an Irishman to a rather distant acquaintance. “When I first saw you I thought it was you, but now I see it is your brother”. Of such was also the modest reply of an English student when asked what progress he had made in medicine: “I hope I shall soon be fully qualified to be a physician, for I think I am now able to cure a child.” The progress from the cure of a child to that of a full-grown man would probably be quick.

In an old Dublin paper we read: “General — scoured the country yesterday, but had not the good fortune to meet with a single rebel”. A washing-machine was advertised under the title “Every man his own washerwoman”. Grey, in his notes on Hudibras, tells of a lawyer who in an action of battery explained to a judge “that the defendant beat his client with a certain wooden instrument called an iron pestle”.

It is not uncommon to read in the newspapers of a “unanimous resolution, with only one or more dissentient voices”. A vote of thanks is sometimes given to the chairman for his “spirited behavior in the chair”! Chairs have been reported to be “worm-eaten by rats”. Sir Boyle Roche, writing to an Irish nobleman, expressed the hope “if ever you come within a mile of my house you will stay there all night”.

An Irish newspaper, giving an account of Mrs. Siddons’s appearance, relates: “On Sunday, Mrs. Siddons, about whom all the world has been talking, exposed her beautiful adamantine, soft, and lovely person. . . . The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators who went away without a sight.” (English as she is Wrote.)

An advertisement was worded, “Two young women want washing”. Another, “Teeth extracted with great pains”.

Not quite so obvious are the following incongruities, which we take the liberty of citing from W.B. Hodgson, Errors in the Use of English:—

“Bacon was the great father and inventor of common-sense, as Ceres was of the plough.” (Sydney Smith.) So that Ceres, the goddess, was a father!

“The pestilential air of Hong Kong destroyed them (as it does everything living belonging to animate and inanimate creation.)” (H.C. Stirr, China and the Chinese.)

“In this book, Lady Morgan embodies her own views in the heroine, who is as wild . . . as ever trod the stage of theater or page of romance.” (Lady M.’s Memoir.)

“We are all Englishmen and men of Devon as you (Lucy Passmore) seem to be by your speech.” (Kingsley, Westward, Ho!)

“It was our duty not to give hasty judgments until both sides of the question were before us.” (Speech of Hon. E.L. Stanley, 14-12-’65.) Hasty judgments may be given after?

“Was he able to dine upon £800 a year, or did he require twice that amount to do so satisfactorily?”—i.e., dine on £800 a year.

The following from Blackmore is either sublime or ridiculous:—
”He roared so loud and looked so wondrous grim,
His very shadow durst not follow him.”

Indeed.

Anyway, what always strikes me whenever I do these little exercises is how much cultural literacy the authors demanded of their readers—we have references to Roche, Butler, and Grey, as well as examples of the 18th century stage and Greek mythology.

And so, with the help of Google, I get some much needed learning up.

As for the title of the post, there is a great Richard Lederer article about Irish bulls and the colorful Sir Boyle Roche in the March 2001 Journal of Court Reporting (Googlecached). Seems Sir Boyle would have had great success deciphering ‘misunderestimated.’

The next bit of needed cultural info is the reference to Hudibras, a series of burlesque poems written by Samuel Butler. Later editions of the books carried engravings by Hogarth and commentary by Zachary Grey:

[…] Another clergyman of literary tastes, Zachary Grey, rector of Houghton Conquest, Bedfordshire, wrote much on church questions, but is mentioned here because of his edition of Hudibras, “with large annotations and a preface,” which appeared in 1744, with illustrations by Hogarth. The text was explained by plentiful quotations from puritan and other contemporaries. Warburton rendered some help, which he apparently thought was not sufficiently acknowledged; for, in his Shakespeare, he said that he doubted whether “so execrable a heap of nonsense had ever appeared in any learned language as Grey’s commentaries on Hudibras.” A Supplement to Grey’s valuable work, with further notes, appeared in 1752. Grey attacked Warburton in several pamphlets, and charged his antagonist with passing off Hanmer’s work as his own. In 1754, Grey published Critical, Historical and Explanatory Notes on Shakespeare. He died in 1766. […]

Sounds like Grey would have enjoyed blogging.

The cryptic (to me at least) reference in EW-DB to a 'Mrs. Siddons' (sorta like someone a hundred years from now puzzling over mononymous stars such as Cher or Elvis) got me to searching, and I found that in her time she was just as much a celebrity as Nicole Kidman or Catherine Zeta-Jones today. An actress with all sorts of juicy history, there is a good biography of her at the Burns Country site and at Encyclopædia Britannica.

Being a big star, she knew the importance of image, and despite not having a swarm of paparazzi around her, she still managed to get herself two-dimensionalized quite a bit. Here is a portrait of her in the National Gallery by Thomas Gainsborough, and then one by Joshua Reynolds, and one by Sir Thomas Lawrence, and an engraving by Adam Buck.

Personally, I still prefer Miss Zeta-Jones.

posted by Terry at 10:58:00 AM

Tuesday, April 29, 2003

What would Daffy say?

Paris restaurant serves millionth strangled duck

posted by Terry at 4:50:00 PM

Say...that was no earthquake! That was the sound of a NEW WEEVIL A'BORNIN'!

Shrugging off the torpor of winter, springtime bursts upon us bringing with it the rebirth of a new crop of pestilence and woe in the form of a brand new addition to the Cotton State Reloading and Quilting Society, a.k.a The Axis of Weevil!! [cue recorded applause]

One Steven Taylor, author of PoliBlog (not associated with PoliGrip® or polliwogs, at least that I know of), and an assistant professor of political science at Troy State University (Troy--mythical home of 6 foot redheads) came up this afternoon and started banging on the screen door, clutching his freshly filled out membership application to his chest. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to work, he even comes to us with his very own set of post hole diggers! At least I think that's what Ph.D. means.

In any event, Steve managed to get very high marks on his test, although he does admit that his knowledge of The Andy Griffith Show needs some work. (As an aside, in order to benefit all members, a continuing education seminar on TAGS will be held the afternoon of World Domination class. The Rude Haiku class normally taught at that time will be rescheduled. Those interested in the seminar should sign up in the breakroom. And Merilene says to get your mess out of the fridge or she'll throw it out herself.) Anyway, Doc Taylor is real, real smart, and more importantly, his pickup truck works just fine.

SO THEN, by the power vested in me by Merle at Mid-South Truck Driver Training School, and as is the odd and peculiar habit of this august band, the Yellowhammer Internet Fun Club and Button Collecting Society does hereby take this time to convey and put upon Steven L. Taylor FULL, UNEQUIVOCAL, and VOID WHERE PROHIBITED BY LAW membership into the Axis of Weevil, with all of the pain and misery, mental discomfiture and carpal tunnel syndrome concomitant thereto.

Welcome aboard, Steven! And as with all new members, you can look forward to receiving your very own World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, consisting of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for your pickup truck; a package of Bubba's Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; a 16 ounce bottle of Dale's Steak Sauce; AND a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale. In addition, we all remember that Jimmy from next door has returned to help out by providing our new inductee with one of his very nice painted rocks. These rocks make wonderful keepsakes or driveway markers for your trailer.

By way of orientation, please park in your designated parking space--Mr. Briscoll next door is mean and will have you towed. And don't park in Edna's space, or she'll slash your tires. You must wear your ID badge at all times-since the raccoon incident, this has been standard company policy. Do not complain about the VFW surplus softball uniforms--we're working on it. The copier is for official Axis of Weevil business only. No copies of body parts AT ALL. Again, this stems from the raccoon incident. As noted earlier, Merilene is real picky about stuff left in the refrigerator more than a day or two and unless you want her to dump it in your desk drawer, it's best to not leave it in there. Pencils and pens are in the supply closet next to the mop sink. The Personnel Department is short-staffed right now due to having to cover both it and Accounting due to the indictment situation, so if you need insurance forms, be sure to go up there and ask instead of using interoffice mail.

What are you waiting for--go read PoliBlog!

posted by Terry at 3:55:00 PM

Hey, don't worry about your English--it's better than mine.

Good to see some activity over in Persia again!

As a reminder for all my daft friends on this side of the world, writing a blog in Iran takes infinitely more courage than calling yourself a protestor and covering yourself with ketchup and blocking traffic downtown.

posted by Terry at 2:13:00 PM

Saddam to deliver message within three days: unknown Iraqi group

The message, limited to texts written on small placards, will be held aloft by Saddam in a manner reminiscent of Wile E. Coyote after being flattened by a runaway boulder or falling anvil or safe, or being blown up by that really big rocket he built.

Beep-beep, baby.

posted by Terry at 1:30:00 PM

Oh, in case you were wondering...

You may not know it but Fort Payne, the epicenter of this morning's tremors, is the Sock Capital of the World.

Just thought you should know.

posted by Terry at 11:59:00 AM

Good Job!

Leeds educator named National Teacher of Year

MARY ORNDORFF
News Washington correspondent

WASHINGTON Leeds Elementary School teacher Betsy Rogers on Monday was named the National Teacher of the Year, a first for an Alabama educator.

President Bush will formally honor Rogers on Wednesday in a ceremony in the east garden of the White House.

Her excellence in the classroom, however, will take her away from her first- and second-graders for the next year and put her on a national and international speaking tour representing the profession.

"My whole issue is equity in education," Rogers, 51, said Monday. "I really wish we had a country where there was no need for legislation because we would take care of all our children. It's unthinkable some children would not have the best facilities and a nurturing, safe environment. My message is all children should have a quality education." [...]

Congratulations to Mrs. Rogers!

As for making sure Alabama's kids get the best education, there are only a couple of obstacles--this, and this.

posted by Terry at 9:48:00 AM

Eerie Silence in Hollywood as Anti-War Stars Vanish

Wow. Musta been some sort of big idiotarian Rapture or something.

[...] Mike Farrell, star of television's "MASH" and organizer of "Artists United to Win Without War," told Reuters that those who joined the loyal opposition in Hollywood had not been silenced and certainly were not backing down.

Instead, he said, the "huge coalition" of those opposed to the war were gathering strength and preparing to fight another day -- over post-war Iraq, domestic issues and future "preemptive strikes" by the Bush administration. [...]

Thanks, Baghdad B.J.!

[...] "There was a well-orchestrated campaign to do that through hate radio and Web sites and voices that sprang from the (Bush) administration and said 'take your choice, you're with us or with the terrorists,"' he said.

Ooo. Hate radio. Disembodied voices. Obviously, a vast right wing conspiracy is afoot...

"But the Dixie Chicks are back on the air and their record is number one again," he said.

HAH!! Take THAT! Annnnnddd....

"Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon are not going to stop making movies for a long time.

THAT!! Annnnddd....

Janeane Garofalo has a (TV) pilot going forward.

THAT!! HaHAA to you, all you narrow-minded evil people!! Your feeble attempts have FAILED!! We will be starring in Afterschool Specials and direct-to-video presentations for MANY YEARS TO COME!! Hmph!

These ugly-mouthed people like to think they are more powerful than they are."

Don't be so hard on yourselves, Mr. Farrell--oh, wait--you mean the who disagree with you. Well, carry on, then!

posted by Terry at 9:29:00 AM

Yep, we get 'em, too.

Of course, I thought one of the kids was trying to get in bed with us--a thump, junk on Reba's nightstand jingling around--then nothing. Hmm. Must have been Reba rolling over and bumping the nightstand. There was the normal five seconds of runaway-heartbeat, fright/flight response that comes from being awakened from a dead sleep by an unfamiliar noise, then an almost immediate collapse back into slumber.

Alarm clock went off, I turned around and lounged on the bed with my head at the foot and halfway dozed and watched the CBS early news, then turned it on to the local NBC news (sorry Nikki) and found out I was disturbed not by kids, but by a 4.9 earthquake up around Fort Payne--

[...] Carolyn Parker of Gadsden, Ala., says the earthquake lasted about 45 seconds and woke her up.

"My husband jumped out of bed," she told WSB-TV. "He said he thought it was like the end of the world or something. He ran outside."

Hmm. I guess he wanted to be sure and see it. End of the world don't happen every day.

Nick Jebeles of Remlap, Ala., said he and his wife also were awakened.

"I went out on my back porch because I thought it was a tornado, but the weather was fine," he said. [...]

Hmm. Guess Nick didn't want to miss the tornader.

Can't wait to hear what the boys at the BBQ Emporium have to say about it.

By 7 a.m., the NBC13 folks had swung into full "let's go to the Waffle House and ram a microphone into everybody's face and ask them what they were doing when the EARTHQUAKE!!!! hit" mode. It's exciting, I suppose, but after two or three breathless stories about how the junk on the nightstand jingled and all the dogs in the neighborhood barked, it's probably time to pack up the mobile truck and go cover something else...

LIKE THE SWARM OF KILLER LOCUSTS!!!!

posted by Terry at 8:47:00 AM

Monday, April 28, 2003

Proving Once Again...

...that it's impossible to please everyone, as I was just about to launch into my funhouse of wordiness about the past weekend I was interrupted by the boy who delivers my e-mails breathlessly bursting through the doorway with the following message from reader Jim Smith (an alias if I ever heard one, especially since it comes from the made up land of EAST Carolina):

RE: weekend

Were you teasing us about the cheese toast? There had better be cheese toast.

::sigh:: Yes, yes, YES! There will be cheese toast, but if any of you people think I'm gonna do 4,000 blogwords on it, you're even more unbalanced than I am. Anyway, all that stuff is covered in my new book, War and Cheese.

[...] When Princess Mary returned to her room after her nocturnal talk with Pierre, Natasha met her on the threshold.

"He has cut the cheese? Yes? He has cut it?" she repeated.

And a joyful yet pathetic expression which seemed to beg forgiveness for her joy settled on Natasha's face.

"I wanted to listen at the door, but I knew you would tell me."

Understandable and touching as the look with which Natasha gazed at her seemed to Princess Mary, and sorry as she was to see her agitation, these words pained her for a moment. She remembered her brother and his love of cheese. [...]
($54.24 at Amazon, signed copies available while supplies last)

ANYWAY, no sooner do I inform "Jim Smith" of this than I am quickly met with a reply--

I think I had that book but I went to a seminar and someone moved it.

And AGAIN, only nanoseconds later, the wheezing e-mail boy (I call him Chet) stumbled in with this:

Please excuse the earlier non-funny and reaching reference to moved cheese.

Organizational development references are rarely funny--even when they are good.

Indeed.

Fortunately, using my OTHER book, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Bloggers, I was able to seamlessly blend reader mail into my own writings, thus adding bulk and topicality to what otherwise would be...

THE STORY OF MY WEEKEND!

Okeedoke--Friday's fun with bureaucrats was actually okay--it didn't last nearly as long as I had feared, and the presenter used a PAPER pad in lieu of the dreaded PowerPoint. If there was ever a topic that begged for the useless inclusion of spiffy, mid-90s computerized overheads, it was this one, so it's even more remarkable that it wasn't used.

Anyway, got through, came back to work and finished some junk, then jumped into the van and headed to the soccer park for the first of FOUR stinkin' games this weekend. Jonathan was making up an earlier rainout, and the field was still pretty squishy from the morning rains we had. They were playing St. Aloysius from over in Bessemer, and it looked like nearly half the team was girls. I was expecting our guys to make short work of them, but St. Al is apparently the patron saint of butt-kicking little girls--we wound up with a 1-all tie, and were quite happy to get it.

Back home, clean up the kids, go to bed so as to get right back up the next morning and shuttle him over to Moody for an 8 a.m. game. Went to bed at midnight, had to get up at six. Blah.

It was, however, during my Friday/Saturday sleepytime when I had the disturbing dream that I was in Las Vegas, and was married to Charlotte Church. SO wrong, on so MANY different levels, the worst of which being that I can't forget it! BAD! For the life of me, I have no idea why her in particular (aside from the obvious pulchritudinal reasons--BAD!!--sorry) nor why Las Vegas. Probably best not to eat crispy fried chicken with 11 herbs and spices less than 8 hours before going to bed.

In any event, the alarm clock stopped any more involuntary, unconscious, yet still supremely guilt-inducing exploits or horrifying images of the bizarre, so I stumbled around and got dressed and woke Boy up and got him dressed and off we went.

You know, since it's springtime, I figured a shirt would be just fine. I would have been well served to watch the news for about five minutes before leaving, because it was cold and damp and windy and I near about froze. But, the boys didn't seem to mind at all--real good game, and they won 4-2. Back to Trussville just in time to meet Reba and the girls for Catherine's game. For once, their team had a little competition. They managed to win, but only by a score of 8-1. It would have been higher except for some reason Cat had decided that the bestest thing to do was to kick the ball as hard as possible out of bounds any time she got near it. "But Coach Craig said if it was goin' in th' goal to kick it out!" "Going in YOUR goal--you can kick it IN TO the other team's as MUCH AS YOU WANT!!" "Oh. Okay!" We'll see how she does next week.

Home again, jiggety-jig, and as Reba worked on the laundry, I fired up the ol' Murray and began doing laps around the Ponderousrosa. Which always leads to entirely too much introspection. I have thought about getting Reba's hands-free microphone off her cellphone so folks will think I'm talking to someone on the phone instead of myself. In any event, the first lap around the perimeter, and I get off on this topic--'Why do I do this?'

Because the grass will get...No, not that, doof--why do I write this garbage. Oh. Well, who knows? If I didn't write it, someone else would and I wouldn't get all the fame and adulation and wealth and...hmm. Why, indeed. Then there was this--'Why are there so many really nasty morons out there?' Whew--good one. You know, being not-so-bright is not so bad if the person is nice and calm (like me), but the paranoid conspiracy theorists and flat-earthers and dictionary abusers and nearly illiterate and trolling seekers of someone to validate their existence and ignoramuses and outright liars just irritate me to no end. I have always thought it possible that someone might have a reasoned opinion that differs from my own--that's part of life. We disagree, then we move on. Sure would be nice if everyone thought like that, but I realize it doesn't quite work that way. For what it's worth, if you disagree with what I write here, don't think that I will dignify your thoughts with a response if you insist on being willfully ignorant. Or anonymous. If you expect courtesy, be courteous. If you can't bring yourself do that, go get yourself a hands-free microphone and mow your yard and talk to yourself, but please leave me out of your thought processes.

As I said, much too much introspection--but the grass looks awfully nice. Got through with that and it was time to load everyone BACK up and head to the park again for Middle Girl's game. Another fine effort from the girls--poor Rebecca wants to score again so bad, but they just didn't drop this time. She must have had six or seven attempts (including a booming kick that sailed over the top crossbar), but she only managed an assist. But they won 5-0, so they all were charged up about that, as well as the tournament they have coming up this weekend. They seem to be getting a bit cocky, so they might be in for a bit of a surprise.

Back home, and time to fire up the grille for some tasty seared cow flesh. Mmmm-MM! We need a new set of wires, though. The actual grille part that makes those pretty scorched lines on the meat has gotten a bit rusty, and despite my best efforts to knock all the tender, flaky bits of enamel and iron oxide off, there were still a few hangers-on that managed to attach themselves to my steaks, leading to some terribly gritty portions. A little A-1 sauce cured it. Mostly.

Got finished, got the dishes done, time for baths, hear Tiny Terror crying about the potty being broked-ed. Went up and found that she had torqued the plastic flush handle around like she was trying to turn the handbrake on a runaway freight car, thus guaranteeing said plastic to be twisted apart and lying at the bottom of the tank.

"You BROKE it!" [Apparently said with the combined fearsomemess of Snidely Whiplash and R. Lee Ermey]

::eyesquirt:: "Buh...BWWWWWAAAA AAAAHHHHHHHHHH ...uhuh BWAHAAHAHAAAAA AAAGGGHHHH!"

"Oh, good morning Viet Nam, I can fix it! Just don't break it after I do!"

::sniff:: "Okay."

Off to the hardware store, down to the broken potty fixins, get exact replacement (thus insuring another trip in a few years), back home, pop it in under the careful watch of several curious offspring (so THAT'S how it works--Yes! Now forget everything you've seen!), and then perform the Ceremonial Flush of Dedication. All better.

Kids scrubbed, hair washed, hair dried, off to bed, collapse into bed myself, wake up in daze for to get some churching up.

Get to church, find I have two teachers and one sub out of action, so I get Reba to teach Cat's class and put the seventh graders in with the eighth graders and then go try to stay awake in class. Class over with, time for church, and Catherine is wide awake and ready to wiffle and fidget and talk and lie in the floor and on top of me and kick the pew and then sit ever so still and then quickly bend over to pick up her purple purse in the floor and release a ripping backburp that sounded like a two-stroke McCulloch chain saw cranking up. Thankfully, she only pulled the cord once, and the smell of burning oil dissipated quickly.

Morning worship complete, back home, leftover lunch (including the remainder of the KFC--not that I was trying to recreate any sort of dreamstate entertainment for myself), read the newspaper, load everyone back up, head back to the church building, lead singing and DON'T mess up for once, get some supper, back home, collapse into bed again after signing notebooks and fixing snacks and soccer bags.

Wake up, come here, work like a madman, write this, and then look forward to the morrow.

And make some tasty cheese toast--here's my recipe:

Bread
Cheese

Place cheese on bread.

Place in oven on Broil. Heat until bread is toasted and cheese is melting.

Remove.

Eat!

posted by Terry at 2:37:00 PM

Fun With Referrer Logs

Yes, I know you are all hepped up to read about the mind-numbingly banal details of my weekend, but in order to properly prepare you, sometimes it helps to prime the pump with the mind-numbingly banal details of why people come to Possumblog in the first place.

Such as this nice person who visited all the way from Jollye Olde looking for information on Extreme Zombies Woolworth.

You know, hardly a day goes by that I wonder why Woolworth wasn’t able to make a go of it, but in the end, I think it was never able to get over the image of all the nickel-and-dime variety zombies they had, and their inability to move the 'extreme' ones. You know, kids today demand their extreme (or X-TREEEEEM!) zombies, and Woolworth’s just couldn’t deliver. Wal-Mart, on the other hand, kept an eye on the profitable youth market and on bargain shoppers, and has been able to leverage beneficial deals for high quality extreme zombies using their large size and buying power. This has squeezed all the mom-and-pop stores who carry zombies, but there are a few who continue to plug along by playing over in the specialty, boutique zombie side.

Next up, an Israeli visitor who wants to know "how to make your car faster" free.

Most of you know I had a long misspent youth messing around with various hot rods and such, so this one is right up my alley. Basically, there is absolutely NOTHING you can do to make your car faster for free, except to sell it and let someone else dump all THEIR money into it. Better yet, simply decide that a particular car is yours, and pretend that you have given the real owner permission to drive it. See, Michael Schumacher’s Ferrari is really mine, and I just let him drive it. My car is really fast, and with him driving it wins a lot, and that’s pretty neat for me. And when he goes and does something bad, like bending it, I can calmly sit here, knowing I do not have to write a check for a million dollars.

Next, someone with a scientific bent wants to know: what is the airborne velocity of an unladen swallow?

::chuckle:: Obviously, our interlocutor meant “airSPEED” velocity, but sadly the equation has a few variables which need to be filled in before we can solve—we need to know if it’s an African swallow or English, and if it really intended to be unladen, or if it decides it would rather carry a coconut by gripping said coconut by the husks with its tiny little feet. Assuming the English swallow, and assuming a weight of 200 grams, and the coconut weighing 1kg, and assuming the swallow beats its wings 2.6b/second, and the wind is calm, and the temperature is 15 degrees C, and barometric pressure is 900mb, we can calculate that in level flight the swallow can attain a LADEN airspeed velocity of approximately 322kph, or about 200mph. Unladen, the sparrow could theoretically break the sound barrier, but they have been known to become unstable at around Mach .9.

Glad to be of assistance, and remember to plug in the actual values for weight and so on.

Of course, Possumblog is more than just hard science, there is also the fine entertainment value it offers—much like a combination of People and Ladies Home Journal magazines, with just a touch of Highlights and the wonderful GRIT. Probably why someone came here looking for julie chen gossip.

Well, keep this to yourselves, but I have it on good authority that the hot Ms. Chen has quite an affection for dimwitted non-placental mammals, AS WELL AS dimwitted placental writers of online journals! (But you didn’t hear it from me!) I hear she also likes pickup trucks.

So anyway, that’s all the pump-priming you’ll get for now—I’m fixing to go eat lunch with Miss Reba, and then I’ll fill you in later on stuff.

posted by Terry at 11:56:00 AM

Good Morning!

No 4,000 word essays on cheese toast this morning--I have stuff I have to go get done early, and only afterwards will I have time to fill you in on all the incredibly wondrous events that can occur in the 63 hours that separate 5 p.m. Friday evening from 8 a.m. Monday morning--there will be tales of Soccer, Soccer, Soccer, and More Soccer; Grass Mowing; Cooking of Cow Parts; The Broken Toilet Lever; Wicked Dreams; The Sound of Ripping Canvas (Luckily, Including No Smell of Burning Canvas); Shopping, Wife, Four Children = Not as Much Fun as One Might Think, and so much more. Run away while you can.

posted by Terry at 8:28:00 AM

Friday, April 25, 2003

Time to head out...

I have a wonderful three hour lecture to attend about the new Jefferson County Personnel Board rules and regulations that I must dash off to. I'm sure it will be fun and exciting! Much like being strapped to the underside of a Humvee.

In any event, this is it for this week--after the lecture I will be heading off into the unknown reaches of The Weekend, which will, I'm certain, be equally fun and exciting.

SO, may you all have a great weekend, and in the off chance I do not fall down a cliff, or get hit by an errant blowgun dart from a Jivaro hunter, or suffocate under a pile of laundry, I will see you all bright and early Monday morning.

posted by Terry at 12:25:00 PM

Remember the Maine!

(And yellow journalism!)

(And the Krag!)

(And McKinley!)

(And T.R.!)

posted by Terry at 10:57:00 AM

Long Pig

posted by Terry at 10:11:00 AM

I was helping Middle Girl with her Alabama social studies project last night--she has to put together a book of interesting things and places here in the state--so I was on the Internet getting her some information about our state song (with its haunting Teutonic musical stylings courtesy of the inimitable Edna Gockel-Gussen), and about Bellingrath Gardens (go see it--it is absolutely beautiful), and information about Fort Morgan and the Battle of Mobile Bay, and the one that turned out to be the most interesting, the History section of the Redstone Arsenal website. I couldn't believe the amount of stuff on there, including the story of the Keller Super Chief (0-60 in only 25 seconds!), film clips of various missiles getting launched (like this 1957 clip of a Hawk intercepting a drone at White Sands, and a really cool clip of a guy fooling around with a jetpack), a huge photo archive (with hot chicks and 'splosives!)--all sorts of neat things.

Anyway, what was my point...OH YEAH, don't help your kids with their homework unless you want to learn something.

posted by Terry at 10:07:00 AM

Five outta five...

HealthSouth co-founder to admit to bank fraud

RUSSELL HUBBARD
News staff writer

Former HealthSouth Corp. finance chief Aaron Beam Jr. agreed Thursday to plead guilty to criminal charges and help the government investigate the role of fired CEO Richard Scrushy in accounting fraud totaling $2.5 billion.

Beam, a company founder, agreed to plead guilty to bank fraud, admitting he lied when using HealthSouth financial statements to secure loans from Birmingham's AmSouth Bank and other lenders, prosecutors said.

He is the fifth out of five HealthSouth finance chiefs in company history to agree to help the government build a criminal case against Scrushy, who is accused in a government civil lawsuit of orchestrating a profit-inflating scheme between 1997 and mid-2002. [...]

Hmm. This one is going to be much harder to explain away as some sort of wild conspiracy by a jealous cohort of underlings bent on dumping Dickie Bird and taking over the company. Beam was there from the beginning, and was a friend of Scrushy--

[...] Beam's guilty plea agreement makes him the first of the company's founders to submit to government charges of fraud. He worked at Houston-based hospital operator Lifemark Corp. with Scrushy and quit with him in 1984 to found HealthSouth.

HealthSouth's corporate history published last year quoted Beam on his decision to leave Lifemark and join up with Scrushy:

"I went home and told my wife that I just interviewed with the biggest con artist I ever met or the most brilliant young man I ever met," the book quotes Beam as saying. "Either way, I was taking the job because he was really, really good at what he did." [...]

I know they'll try, but Scrushy's legal team are going to have a very difficult time spinning this as something positive for their client.

posted by Terry at 9:15:00 AM

Fan Mail

As all of you know, I have legions of loyal readers who like nothing better than to sit down and write loving, sweet e-mails to me--let's read one, shall we? From the Sunshine State's sunniest correspondent, Bet Mulligan--

Subject: Madonna for Iraqi Information Minister!!

Dear Mr. Possum,

How could you?!

It was easy, let me tell you! (I wonder what we're talking about...)

You have besmirched the name of the best deadpan comedian of our lifetime. Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf (M.S.S.) is a national treasure. If you go to his websites http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com/ and http://www.theinformationminister.com you will see the love.

Now, now--although it may seem that I was besmirching Baghdad Bob by saying some incredibly wealthy (yet cheap) Hollywood Hypocrite could fill his ample comedic combat boots, in reality, nothing could be further from the truth!! (Oddly Enough!) As you all can tell from the above websites, Saeedude's career is skyrocketing--the InfoMin job was always a dead-end sort of gig (in more ways that one) and one which was always much too small for his ample talent. The office does seem perfect for Mrs. Richie, however, whose career seems to be bundled into the same one-way flaming handbasket as al-Sahaf's former boss.

Drawing any sort of parallel between M.S.S. and Madonna is a scandal and a tragedy. I can only shake my head wondering what drove you to such an utterance. Perhaps it was the lack of Lileks (altho personally I think James Lileks is Andrew Sullivan without the disco). The mind reels.

Oh, come now, Bet! Having seen TRUE scandal and tragedy, i.e., the Andy Griffith Show getting rid of Barney and bringing in Warren, and then going to color, I think it's laying it on a bit thick to say this even comes close. As for what drove me to make such a statement, I will confess that the momentary loss of a solid link to Lileks did cause no little consternation here at the keyboard and did, in some small way, make me feel compelled to link to a story with all sorts of twitlike twaddle from a tawdry tart.

Luckily, I had a Wet-Nap in the desk drawer, and after using it, I did feel refreshed.

You are a good man. Err, possum. I will continue to read and enjoy your pixels of pearls.

Awwww...See!? She still loves me and my warm soft fur and my acorn-sized brain!

Go Bucs!

Ah, Tampa Bay...what a team! What a wonderful group of folks! Thank you, Bet Mulligan, for your kind letter and for your support.

posted by Terry at 8:41:00 AM

Thursday, April 24, 2003

Whew!! Just in the nick of time...

Iceland opens world's first hydrogen fuel station

The zeppelin is darned near sitting on empty.

posted by Terry at 5:00:00 PM

Wow. A renaissance you say?

Nation to Get Newly Designed Nickels

WASHINGTON – The nickel will soon have a new look. President Bush has signed an historic bill that authorizes the Secretary of the Treasury to change the designs of 5-cent coins issued in 2003, 2004 and 2005 in recognition of the bicentennial of the Louisiana Purchase and the Lewis and Clark expedition. The design of the nickel has remained unchanged since 1938. In 2006, the nickel will return to a depiction of President Thomas Jefferson on the “heads” side and an image of Jefferson’s home, Monticello, on the “tails” side.

“It is a new century, and the United States is in a renaissance of coin design,” said United States Mint Director Henrietta Holsman Fore. “This is a very historic moment. It marks the first time in 65 years that Americans will reach into their pockets and pull out newly designed nickels.” [...]

::sniff:: At last liberation comes!! An entire generation doomed to grow up without having the joy of reaching into their pockets and pulling out a newly designed nickel!! We is SAVED!!

[...] More than 130 million Americans are collecting coins in the United States Mint’s 50 State Quarters® Program. I expect these new nickels will encourage even more interest in coin collecting,” added Director Fore. “Through these coins, Americans of all ages are learning about the geography, the history and the values of our great Nation. Now we will have new designs on the nickel commemorating the Lewis and Clark expedition and the Louisiana Purchase. Think about the discussions families will have around the dinner table!”

It simply boggles the mind, don't it.

"Why dear, is that a roll of Lewis and Clark nickels in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?!"

"Yes on BOTH counts, sweetheart--you know, I knew nothing of our country's great heritage until I won these new nickels as I was playing the video poker game at the truck stop. But now, I know that our great nation was explored by two tiny little explorers--look here--see how little they are? And you know this Jefferson guy--he's NOT the same guy as on The Jeffersons!"

posted by Terry at 3:03:00 PM

He's Back!

posted by Terry at 2:29:00 PM

The Girls...

Not that it matters one whit, and maybe it's just me, but does it not seem that Nat has gone on a very strict airbrush diet?

posted by Terry at 12:32:00 PM

If you are having Lileks DTs...

There's always the Wednesday Newhouse coll-yum--this one on C-o-n-s-p-i-r-a-c-i-e-s (shhhhh)--

[...] Perhaps Galloway's being framed. But if the Dark Forces of War really wanted to discredit the anti-war movement, they'd have pasted Dixie Chicks posters in Odai's workout room. They'd have hung a gold-plated baseball bat inscribed by Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon in a prison interrogation room known to locals as the Kneecap Clinic.

If true, this bombshell will leave a very small crater. The anti-war movement is curiously impervious to the sort of scandal that could sink, say, the career of a popular evangelist. Find a preacher in a fleabag motel with a hooker, and his empire sags, groans and collapses. Prove that the outfit orchestrating all the big anti-war rallies has more communists on board than a 1930s Works Progress Administration documentary called "Paul Robeson Visits a Soviet Grain Co-Op" and the world yawns. Shrugs. Moves on.

Doesn't matter, you see. It was a war for oil! Oil! Oil, I tells ya! But then we learn that the son of the biggest shareholder of the TotalFinaElf French oil concern is married to the daughter of Canada's premier. You'd think that might put Jean Chretien's obstructionism in perspective, eh? Perhaps the fact of being Canadian insulates one from questions of corruption and self-enrichment. But the halos don't seem to show when we see these luminous beings on American TV. [...]

If c-o-n-s-...oh, whatEVER, don't fit your mood, then there's always time to hang over the Backfence

[...] From Paul, down in Kentucky:

Do you recall the cereal from the '70s, "Freakies"? They used to include in the cereal plastic figurines of the Freakies. They were troll/animal things that hung around a "freaky tree." Of course, they sang a song:

"We are the Freakies, we are the Freakies, we have a Freaky Tree . . . "

Something was seriously wrong with both the inventors and the marketing folks who thought this was a good idea.

They sound like drug-addled Manson family rejects. Having blocked all recollection of the Freakies, I turned to the Internet, resigned to spending an hour on eBay, poking around until I found the proper category (Things >: Stuff >: Plastic Crap >: Cereal >: Seventies >: Proof you have no life or taste >: Collectibles) but to my surprise, a google search steered me to http://www.freakies.com. Someone's devotion to a long-dead cereal is so strong that he has paid actual American money for the freakies.com domain name so he could set himself up as the curator of all things Freakie.

The Freakies were: BossMoss, Hamhose, Snorkledorf, Grumble Goody-Goody, Gargle and Cowmumble. Their copious adventures were detailed on the back of the box, and the site notes that they were popular with college students as well as kids. I'm always amused when someone brings up "college students" as proof that some infantile hobby has crossover appeal. Of course college students love them. They're hopped up on goofballs, for heaven's sake. They'll giggle for six hours over Richie Rich cartoons and think they're subversive anticapitalist morality plays. [...]

Go ahead and laugh it up--for those of use who survived the 1970s, with its H.R.Puffinstuffian vision of reality, the dread that comes with remembering the Freakies is nearly too much to bear.

posted by Terry at 10:51:00 AM

Fun with Referrer Logs

This one is from yesterday--picks anvil lavigne. Must be one of Acme Records' new artists. Gotta love that soulful rendition of "Anvil Chorus."

And another, from that kindly Jeeves fellow, who directs a person to the smoldering trash dump that is Possumblog when he or she asks him: I think better at work when I sit down instead of stand, why?

I often get questions like this, because of the many long years I studied both brainiology and workpathy (the combined form of "work" and "apathy"). Discounting the possibilities that our querist is not a race car driver or an airline pilot, probably the best reason you think better at work while sitting goes back to the fact that although our brains are like, real smart, they are limited in what they can do. When you stand up, your brain thinks, "Whoa, something ELSE to keep up with!", because, you know, it has to make you balance and all. If you sit down, your brain is freed from worrying itself about your body suddenly tumping over, and thus it is able to use its Balance Thingy (or BT for those of us who have studied it) for complex computational tasks, like trying to figure out how to play Minesweeper.

So there.

posted by Terry at 10:34:00 AM

Madonna For Iraqi Information Minister!!

Madonna Slams American Values

LONDON (Reuters) - U.S. pop superstar Madonna, one of music's richest performers, has attacked her fellow Americans for being obsessed with the "wrong values" such as getting rich and looking good.

Madonna told the Radio Times that Americans had opportunities people in other countries did not have but got caught up in superficial dreams.

"We as Americans are completely obsessed and wrapped up in a lot of the wrong values -- looking good, having cash in the bank, being perceived as rich, famous and successful or just being famous," Madonna told the television listings magazine.

"It's the most superficial part of the American dream and who would know better than me? The only thing that's going to bring you happiness is love and how you treat your fellow man and having compassion for one another." [...]

::blink::

::blink::

Very easy to say you don't need it when you already have it, eh?

posted by Terry at 10:16:00 AM

Notable Quotes!

HOLLYWOOD (Reuters) - They really said it -- notable quotes from the news:

"We strive for perfection but when you're typing that fast, there are occasional mistakes. We regret the error."

--ABC's CATHIE LEVINE after a closed caption for an ABC News' Tuesday broadcast said Federal Reserve Chairman ALAN GREENSPAN was hospitalized for "an enlarged prostitute" instead of an enlarged prostate, quoted in The Washington Post.

-- - -- -

"He should be so lucky."

--Greenspan's wife, NBC correspondent ANDREA MITCHELL, reacting to the "enlarged prostitute" in the Post.

For anyone who ever sees the multitude of typos I make before I get a chance to correct them--remember, when you're typing fast, there are occasional mistakes. Now some of you may not think 12 words a minute is fast, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

posted by Terry at 10:10:00 AM

The Free Ice Cream Cones Will Be THE EXACT SAME SIZE!!

Via Snopes.com, a link to the Fourth Annual Free Ice Cream Scoop Give Away Deal In Which You Get 2.5 Ounces of Frozen Stuff From Baskin-Robbins and A Kid Gets A Book!

For every scoop given away, Baskin-Robbins will make a donation to First Book to provide new books to children from low-income families. To date, Baskin-Robbins has supported the distribution of more than half a million books to children throughout the United States and parts of Canada.

Of course, those of us who life in the Birmingham area might have a bit of a drive in order to participate.

posted by Terry at 9:48:00 AM

When you dream...

...that Ken Layne is staying in your guestroom, it might just be time to work outside in the yard a bit!

Nah.

posted by Terry at 9:03:00 AM

Toddler twins go on rampage

PARIS (Reuters) - Two French three-year-old twin boys who disappeared from home then reappeared hours later without their clothes had been off wreaking havoc in a neighbour's empty house.

Police initially feared an abduction by a paedophile when the missing boys were discovered late in the evening walking through their home town of Deols, western France, stark naked and holding a bedside lamp, newspapers said on Thursday.

But a call from a neighbour to report a suspected burglary revealed the boys had broken into a nearby house and gone berserk, emptying out drawers, bouncing on beds, scribbling on walls and gobbling up orange-flavoured vitamin pills.

Ah, the French...

The twins discarded their clothes after getting covered in shampoo and toothpaste after a rampage through the bathroom, squeezing out bottles and tubes.

They grabbed a bedside light and took it away with them thinking it would help them find their way home in the dark. [...]

Now wait a minute--are these kids French toddlers, or two University of Florida frat boys?

posted by Terry at 8:59:00 AM

Llama Chat

posted by Terry at 8:47:00 AM

Home Town Folks

Great Scot! Athlete dons kilt as a Highland Games pro

ANITA DEBRO
News staff writer

During the week, Trussville's Kearney Smith works out of his home as a software writer for a community company.

He spends time with his wife, Paige, who is expecting twins and their two sons, 12-year-old Kearney and 8-year-old Graham.

But come weekends from April to November, Smith hits the road for towns and cities in such places as North Carolina, Georgia and Tennessee to participate in Scottish Highland Games.

The 6-foot-2-inch, 320-pound Smith dons a kilt and throws heavy objects such as stones, wooden poles, hammers and metal weights in the seven traditional sporting events at the games. He is a professional Scottish athlete. [...]

Smith won his first title as a professional at the Charleston Highland Games in South Carolina in 2001. He plans to compete in nearly 15 games this year.

But as he gets older, Smith's main concern will be fighting off injuries, which are prevalent in the sport.

"You can do this for a while, but the injuries kind of catch up to you," he said. "This is not like other sports, where youth is the only way, but you have to pace yourself."

Smith has already suffered several injuries including a detached biceps in his left arm, which kept him off the circuit for three months.

When he is not competing, Smith judges amateur events and he recently hosted his own training clinic in Trussville.

He hopes to have a good 10-year run in the sport and when that's done he's thought about pursuing power lifting.

"I don't know, maybe I'll just learn to play the bagpipes."

Adding insult to injury, eh?

(No angry e-mails from pipers, please!)

posted by Terry at 8:45:00 AM

AAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

What the heck's going on!!!

posted by Terry at 8:12:00 AM

Tuesday, April 22, 2003

Not much in the way of bloggery tomorrow--time once again for my twice a month exercise of bureaucratic ineptitude and furious notetaking, so be sure to wander around and go say 'hey' to all the neighbors.

OOO!! Before I go--Good News for Texas, Louisiana, Alabippi, and Florida! -- US lifts travel warnings for four Gulf states, citing end of Iraq war. The Redneck Riviera Rejoices!! Just when we all though the trip to Gulf Shores was going to be cancelled and now...hmm? Huhwhat?! Persian Gulf? Not 'of Mexico'?

Well, never mind.

posted by Terry at 3:46:00 PM

Stay safe, good girl.

For some reasons, I won't be able to update my weblog regularly for a while...actually I'll write but I can't do as much as before; I'm really sorry about this but the present situation don't allow me to spend much time in the net, And also sorry that I can't reply e-mails at the time...

You know, I really don't have the right to complain about too much.

posted by Terry at 1:32:00 PM

What could be better...

...than a 12 gauge shotgun? Via Nate McCord, it would have to be this.

Heh. Cool!

posted by Terry at 1:27:00 PM

Poor Marc...

Spudbuddy Marc Velazquez writes in from the wilds of North Carolina:

Whilst perusing the Possumblog lair for "nuggets" of literary gems,

Oooh, I don't think I would touch anything remotely resembling a nugget in this place...

a brief mention of an Axis of Weevil softball team was made. Not previously seeing any sign-up sheets or notice of try-outs, I wondered if the team had already been filled.

With the "Axis" roster at 35 rip-roaring bloggers, you have enough to field a football team, let alone a softball team. Is the team set? If not, I would like to try out for "the guy what sets on the cooler and doesn't let anyone have a cold one until the 7th inning (unless the coach yells at me)". My experience at riding pine should come to the forefront for this critical assignment.

Poor Marc--I just wrote him back to remind him that as of the game with Bob's Trucking on Highway 78 back at the start of the season, not only was Marc on the team, but he was our PITCHER. Sadly, Marc didn't get his glove up in time and took a heavy line drive right to the melon (and Tammy, Bob's dispatcher, is still distraught about it, so please don't tease her about it). Since then, Marc has done an admirable job of providing inspiration and moral support to his teammates, although we do occasionally find that he has wandered through the gate and fallen down into the gully behind the dugout.

WE ARE GRATEFUL, however, that Marc seems to be recovering enough to realize that he should BE BACK ON THAT FIELD!! Way to go, bud! It will be so nice to finally have you back at full speed so we don't have to keep hearing the terrible taunts of "We Need A Pitch-er, Not A Belly Itch-er!" (Not to say anything bad about our current pitching rotation, but we really could use some defense).

As for other sports, we do have the hockey team and, of course, fifteen different shooting teams, and then there's also the nude beach volleyball team.

Marc goes on--

Also, to help defray uniform costs, you should shake down the contributors to the "Axis of Weevil Gift Pack"™ and get some nice new pinstripe numbers, rather than those old hand-me-downs from the VFW.

::sigh:: Yes, I know. This really has been a bone of contention--those things smelled like Old Spice and yack when we got them, and since nobody thinks they have to do their own laundry, things haven't gotten any better. And I have to admit that reusing the VFW logo and calling ourselves the "Very Fine Weevils" just didn't work too well. But it was the best we could do at the time, doggone it. With Jimmy from Accounting under indictment, the Intramural Activities Fund has had to be used to cover the copier bill. HOWEVER, a sponsorship deal with some folks interested in extending Alabama's cultural hegemony throughout the known universe might have some possibilities... Marc continues--

It's just too late in the year for a bake sale, and besides, the kids have already been bleeding us dry all year for their school "fund raisers". [Decorum prevents me from saying what I'd like to do with those fund raisers.]

In the future, baseball caps with AoW and a picture of the Weevil mascot should be big sellers, and maybe make enough money for you to sign up for Blogger Pro, so you won't have to suffer through those Blogger "downtimes". Makes your head swim just thinking about it, eh?

Actually, I always thought the swimmy feeling in my head was the result of some sort of vascular problem.

As for the ball caps, that might actually be a pretty good idea!

posted by Terry at 12:02:00 PM

Wow, two years in Internet time is an eternity!

Two whole years ago, Meryl Yourish started writing her online internet journal (you know, a "web log" or "blog" for short)--lot happens in 730 days:

[...] Two years ago, weblogging was a new phenomenon to many, and not nearly as popular as it is today. Most of the bloggers were techbloggers or diarists. Rebecca Blood was wonderful. She responded quite kindly to my letters and was extremely helpful to a newbie. (Can't say the same for Dave Winer, but hey, that's Dave.) Warblogging didn't exist. Charles Johnson was a techblogger, although even then, he was posting about anti-Semitism and Arab terrorism. I was a regular reader of MetaFilter, Salon, and a sometime reader of Slashdot. All in all, the first year of my weblog had a much different voice—until the bloody Israeli spring of 2002. Between six straight days of terror bombings that culminated in the Passover Massacre, and the kidnapping and murder of Daniel Pearl, my feelings hardened considerably. Shortly thereafter, I found myself unable to remain in the neighborhood I'd established myself, over by Shelley Powers and Jonathon Delacour and the rest of that crew. Our thoughts were too far apart, and we kept getting into arguments. Bad ones. [...]

Ahh, those were the days. I remember I was addicted to The Straight Dope message boards in the Long Ago, until the Great Server Crash. Then I saw the Lileks Bleat where he had discovered LGF and Den Beste and Doc Reynolds (as well as the evil known as Blogger) and I was hooked on something else to scratch the typing itch. Which led to the mess unfolding below. And it also led to finding Miss Meryl, whom I congratulate for having the sticktoitiveness to keep plugging away and for serving as a fine third baseman on the Axis of Weevil Softball Team.

Happy Blogiversary!

posted by Terry at 10:14:00 AM

Once again...

Blogger is acting up. All sorts of really dumb stuff lined up below, and it's nearly 9:30 and nothing has been posted yet. Why, it's almost enough to make me say something mean and spiteful about stupid, STUPID Blogger. But I won't because I'm nice.

UPDATE: It finally started working at around 11:15.

posted by Terry at 9:22:00 AM

Nigerian Presidential Election Marred by Charges of Fraud

Thus insuring a steady supply of fresh, new e-mails.

posted by Terry at 9:09:00 AM

What is this, some sort of race?

Ex-CFO to plead guilty

VAL WALTON and MICHAEL TOMBERLIN
News staff writers

HealthSouth Corp.'s former treasurer and chief financial officer agreed Monday to plead guilty in the company's massive accounting fraud that federal authorities contend was directed by ex-CEO Richard Scrushy.

Federal prosecutors charged Malcolm "Tadd" McVay, 41, the 10th former HealthSouth executive to enter into a plea agreement and assist investigators, in the financial deception at HealthSouth, the nation's largest operator of outpatient surgery and rehabilitation centers.[...]

Number 10, eh? Looks like the Feds are ahead of the Iraqi Card Game by two at the moment--of course, I don't think they have fifty-two to round up, and fleeing to Syria is not really an option.

[...] McVay's name has already surfaced on a few occasions in the hearing in which Scrushy seeks to get millions of his assets unfrozen.

On April 9, SEC lawyers asked Scrushy a battery of questions in which he invoked his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination. Among them was whether McVay asked for a $500,000 bonus or certification contract before signing the company's third-quarter earnings statement in 2002.

McVay's name also came up last week when Thomas Sjoblom, a Scrushy lawyer, asked [former CFO Weston] Smith if a group of HealthSouth executives had met at McVay's home in late 2002 to plan a "coup" to push the founder out of the company. Smith said he knew of no such meeting. [...]

There was an article in the paper Sunday about Sjoblom, one of Scrushy's attorneys in this case, and a former SEC attorney himself. In it, he heavily discounts the SEC's case against his client, but perceptions being what they are, it certainly doesn't look good when your client pleads the Fifth on a laundry list of questions, nor when all the people who had access to the moneybag are rolling over right-and-left.

Sounds, looks, acts like a duck.

posted by Terry at 8:18:00 AM

Monday, April 21, 2003

From Francesca Watson, her comments on this Washington Post article (requires registration):

[...] When I sit down and think about the horrors that comprised life in Iraq over the last few decades -- I mean really sit down and think about it -- I am more and more appalled and angered by the behavior of the privileged class in this country over the last few months. Bush is the terrorist? Really?? It doesn't take much effort to spout the party line, of course, and it is so much easier to simply believe what one likes, or indulge in political stereotyping, than it is to actually look for the truth. The resulting intellectual dishonesty of the Tim Robbins, Martin Sheens, Susan Sarandons and Barbra Streisands of the world is just breathtaking -- are their children in danger of being summarily executed by government thugs because they chose to speak out? Is there really anything about the consequences of speaking out in America that can possibly equate with the slaughter, the terror, the brutality this Iraqi family suffered? How do you survive for 20 years without knowing what happened to your child? How do you go about daily life when all around you are the images of the man responsible for destroying your family? How do you quiet the hatred and loathing that twists in your heart every time you see a government official or military uniform? How do you hold on to what is essentially you when you are powerless -- powerless to protect your children, powerless to bring their killers to justice?

This article brought me to tears. I cannot begin to comprehend the evil that was Saddam Hussein. Oh, I see the proof, and I see the complicity, and I see the pain, but I cannot comprehend it. And I cannot understand the hearts of people who make it the equivalent of honest political disagreement in the richest, most powerful and most generous democratic country in the world.

So I will remember -- I must remember -- what they said, what they stood for. And I will remind them -- in my own small way -- every time I don't buy a movie ticket, or watch a television program, or buy a book, or support their favorite charity. Of course these people are entitled to believe and say whatever they choose. But it matters -- it matters enormously -- what we, as a culture, choose to support. So I choose not to support people who cannot make a distinction between authoritarian regimes and the freedoms we enjoy as Americans, whether our president is Republican or Democrat. [...]

Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter!

Woe unto them that are wise in their own eyes, and prudent in their own sight! Isaiah 5:20, 21

posted by Terry at 4:59:00 PM

I wonder...

Given these sorts of headlines--No. 18 on Most-Wanted List Arrested in Iraq--how long it will be before we have John Walsh in Baghdad with a special "Iraq's Most Wanted" show? "COPS" should be pretty interesting, too.

posted by Terry at 4:16:00 PM

The Dream of All Headline Writers...Syracuse Police Say Man Bites Dog

posted by Terry at 3:50:00 PM

Have I ever mentioned how much it pains me that when I spot a typo, and try to correct it, that Blogger takes anywhere from one minute to several hours to update the post? I have? Oh, well, let me just say it ONE MORE TIME!

Stupid Blogger.

posted by Terry at 3:25:00 PM

Mental Novocain Alert--Now Complete!

In which our hero and his family spend an action-packed weekend in Atlanta!

To be skipped in its entirety if you are the least bit susceptible to boredom.

ANYwho, the reason more details of the past weekend were not mentioned in Thursday’s post was that we were going out of town, and I didn’t want to give all of you an invitation to come over to Chateau d’Possum and help yourself to my collection of antiquities, such as my lovely collection of Saddam ashtrays.

As you will no doubt NOT remember, as with our trip to Nashville last year, this trip was done in conjunction with a program our kids are involved with at church—all the Bible Bowl competitions, the scrapbooks, the song leading, the Bible reading, the Good Samaritan things I talk about—all those are part of the program, and it’s intended to help train the kids to become better leaders in the future. (Hard to believe it, but we’ve been doing this for five years now.)

Every year, the national group has a convention which is held at two or three different sites at the same time, depending on how many local congregations sign up. They are usually in Atlanta and Nashville, and this year was no exception—around 4,000 folks where we were, and around 7,000 up in Tennessee. Despite the more touristy lure of the Opryland Resort, we actually prefer going to Atlanta, mainly because the convention is smaller and you can leave the same night as the last event and still get home at a relatively decent hour.

The kids get to compete in some events while they’re there, as well as get recognition for other work done during the year—all of them are involved in Good Samaritans, then Jonathan and Rebecca were both in Bible reading and Bible Bowl, Jonathan submitted some artwork, Rebecca did a scrapbook, and Ashley competed in songleading.

For the parents (or at least for me) it’s juuuuust like a vacation—exhausting, bothersome, stressful to the breaking point, expensive. ::sigh::

On with our story…

THURSDAY P.M.

Got through with work, met Reba at the soccer park to let the kids get in their last practice. Got home, and it was time to pack.

Blech.

Reba started packing the previous Sunday, and told me in great detail what each of the kids would be wearing on the two days we were going to be gone. I must give her credit—usually a two day trip for us is like packing up an airborne unit for extended duty, despite my best efforts to lead by example: for me, two days = two sets of underwear, two pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, two shirts, the pair of shoes on my fee, a tie, electric razor, comb, toothbrush, and giant, 4,000 count bottle of Super Ultimate Strength Maalox tablets. The rest of the family usually multiply everything by a factor of six. (Except for the Maalox.)

Hair bows, multiple pairs of shoes, underwear for a month, clothes enough for filming a movie, hair dryers (even though there’s one clamped on the wall of the hotel bathroom), makeup, hair rollers, books, magazines, toys, favorite blankets, pillows—on and on.

BUT, this year, Reba said, “You know what? We are only going to be gone two days. I’m just taking some jeans and a nice pair of pants and a couple of tops. I’m tired of having to lug all that stuff around that I never wear.”

AND LO, the heavens were parted asunder, and the heavenly hosts didst sing, and in his mind a large silly man didst leap for joy at these words…

“Hmm. Yes, that’s probably a good idea—like you say, there’s no use packing a bunch of stuff you won’t wear and have to carry that around.”

In my mind I was doing the Endzone Dance To End All Endzone Dances; I was Steve Martin with ‘Happy Feet’; I was shouting from a mountaintop, “I TOLD YOU SO!!! AND BY THE WAY, IT’S MY BIG LARDY BUTT THAT HAS TO HAUL THIS JUNK AROUND!!”

Outside? Well, let’s just say never play me in poker.

So, I got my little bindle together and got the Odyssey (which I may rename the Ordeal) all loaded up and ready to go—one big bag of girl stuff, one rolling backpack with mine and Boy’s stuff, a shoe bag, a couple of hanging bags, The Striped Bag (holding various toiletry items and Maalox), book bag full of coloring books, assorted video games—and managed to finally crawl into bed at the nice, normal time of midnight:30.

How it got that late, I’m not quite sure. Luckily, I was able to get an entire FOUR WHOLE HOURS of sleep before having to get back up and shoo everyone downstairs on…

FRIDAY!

(Despite having earlier written “Saturday”, there was indeed another day wedged in there.)

Up early, because we had to be out of the house by six, which means that everyone had to be up by five, which meant that I had to be up a 4:30, which meant that I am still sleepy. Got them all up and dressed, loaded up the cooler with ice and packed it between the back seats, threw some microwave breakfast vittles at the kids, made several trips to load more stuff that I forgot Thursday night. Grr. Kids walking around like zombies—“Kids, we HAVE to get out of here NOW!” Each one goes back to fetch something else, then the dreaded question… “Did all of you pee?” Each one goes back to play in the water. FINALLY, after much spasms of Dad in a Hurryistis, we were on the way at exactly 6:10.

“I forgot my kitty!”

“It’ll be fine.”

“But Mama SAID I could have it!” ::start sniffling::

“Well, your kitty had to stay so it could watch your puppy and make sure it and all the Barbies and your horsies and your socks are safe from bugs.”

“BUT I WAAAAAAANN—…WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, PLEASE STAND BY…and then she was laughing and singing and everything was just peachy keen and the birds were chirping and the sun was shining and everyone was happy to be on the road.

Got to the church building right at 6:30 and the convoy of folks was forming up to head out. Sixty some-odd folks (some more odd than others) in ten or so vehicles including our big fifteen passenger bus. ONWARD!

Got out on the road and had a remarkably uneventful drive except for the time just outside of Riverside when I had pulled over to pass a tractor trailer and nearly got rear-ended by an Isuzu Trooper that had been cruising along in my blind spot. I am usually pretty scrupulous about keeping track of whom I have passed and where everyone is around me, but he managed to sneak in there and I didn’t do a full head check (I DID signal, though—not that it excuses me, but around here, most people apparently think you have to pay to use your turn signal, so the fact that I signaled put me ahead of most Bama drivers).

I’m not sure what made him angrier—the fact that I pulled over onto him, or the fact that I didn’t whip back in behind the tractor trailer when he laid over on the horn. Of course, being a nice man who is a careful, considerate driver, he felt compelled, after regaining his composure, to fly up onto the tailgate handle and demonstrate his horn-using ability for the entire time it took for me to pass and return to the left lane. THANK YOU, Mr. Isuzu Driver Man, and I think YOU’RE NUMBER ONE, TOO!

Stopped at the Georgia Welcome Center, which, due to construction, featured outhouses. Which were not well received by the more feminine members of the group, so we went on to the next exit. Well, everyone else did—we had to go find Catherine, who wandered off inside the building with someone else from the group. Sorta like Jesus getting left behind in the Temple, except instead of astounding the doctors of the Law, she was crying about poop. ::sigh::

Caught up with the group, then lost them again as my crew abused the Chevron and decided it was a nice place to take a break. Not that it made me anxious. Or overwrought. Or foam at the mouth. Or turn red. Nosiree, bob. Just stood there calm as a turtle. Not really. “NO, YOU DON’T NEED TO LOOK AT THE THIMBLES!! PUT DOWN THE BIG PENCIL AND COME ON!! LOOK—EV-ER-EE-ONE has LEFT!!”

Thankfully, the Georgia State Patrol was about as active as the Alabama version, and through the concerted effort of a size 10 Rockport on the go pedal and 210 smooth Honda VTEC horses, we finally managed to catch up with the rest of the caravan after about twenty minutes.

The rest of the ride into Atlanta was uneventful—got off at the right exit, turned on the right streets, and rolled into the parking garage at the Hyatt right on time. Bags on the cart, met our advance guard who had come in on Thursday, and went up to the lobby. Where we waited. And waited. No rooms for us and a few other folks. So much for the wonders of advance registration. Grr.

Oh well.

We stowed our stuff in another person’s room from our group, and piddled around a bit—I decided I would help Jonathan and Rebecca and highlight their verses they were going to read so they wouldn’t get lost, we watched a minute or two of the television, and then got lunch.

Got back, still no rooms, waited, finally got word that some were ready but they might not be on the same floor with everyone else, said fine, got keys—Reba and the girls on 20, Jonathan and I on 2. Swap with someone else on 2, and finally get it to where the girls are in 237, and we’re in 203.

Call me crazy, but I got to thinking…wouldn’t it be neat if there was, like, some sort of system, maybe on a “computer”, where people who are checking into a hotel could know where their rooms were going to be ahead of time, and they could maybe request rooms next to each other, and…nah, what a silly thought.

But at least our rooms had the wonderful aroma of stale tobacco smoke. Oooh—maybe if, in that system I was thinking about, they could not put people in stinky smoke rooms if they didn’t like the smell of someone else’s cigarette sm…oh, who am I kiddin’?! There’s no WAY something like that could work!

Got everyone back together and went to the first of three different award ceremonies for the weekend. This one was for the activities where you get a certificate or medal for participating, and is more informal. And I screwed up the camera, opening the back before letting it rewind the film. Why yes, that crunching sound IS me grinding my teeth. Lost several pictures, including some older ones on the roll from when Catherine and Reba had gone to the zoo on Thursday.

That done and done, and then it was time to go get Bec and Jonathan into their nice clothes for Bible reading and the rest of us ready for the evening award show. (Yes, it’s just about as harried as it sounds.)

Boy was changed and then all slicked down and spiffed up, and I actually managed to get him to put on a tie. If you only knew what a victory THAT was…

Got him down to the meeting room and we sat down for a few minutes of peace and quiet. Cup of water. Instructions for him to brush up on his verses. “Dad?” Uh-oh. “Yeah, buddy?” “This isn’t right.” “I marked what you told me, buddy, are you sure?” “Yeah, I was supposed to read something else.” “What?” “I don’t remember, maybe it was Mark 10. Or Luke. I don’t know”

I will say, he was remarkably calm about changing at the very last moment. I turned to several suspect passages, and each one brought not a glimmer of recognition. “Well, son, do you remember what it was about?” “Yes, Daddy, it was about ten verses…” Say Goodnight, Gracie— “No, sugar, do you remember what the SUBJECT was.” “Oh, it was about the man named Legion.”

Bingo. I borrowed a green highlighter from the lady next to me and quickly marked off his verses.

He did just fine, although he got a point taken off for going a bit long—it was supposed to be under three minutes. Otherwise, he was on target, and even managed to look up and not lose his place. And he was cute as a button!

Rebecca did fine, too, although she too missed a point for being a bit hard to hear, but she was tickled anyway.

Off for supper, which wound up being gyros for all from the place in the mall. Which in retrospect was NOT a good idea.

After supper, time for the first of the so-called “premier” award ceremonies, for the competitive events of the morning. A bunch of our other kids from church got a stack of trophies and ribbons, and Little Boy managed to score a 3rd place ribbon in the 3rd and 4th grade group for one of the drawings he submitted. He was exceedingly pleased.

Catherine, on the other hand, was suffering from some sort of respiratory gunk. She had been coughing all day, resulting in great wads of icky sticky sinus stuff pouring out of her. She had slept through most of the award ceremony (despite the World Wrestling Federation-volume of sound) and woke up right as it was over, all bleary-eyed and sweaty. We got up to leave and she hacked up a pile of goo that looked like a Portuguese man-o-war, which required an entire box of tissues to clean up. Yick. Then she got over to the side of the room and started her coughing fit, which resulted in more monsters of the deep coming into contact with her gag reflex, which resulted in…yep, supper. All over the carpet. I had turned my back for a SECOND and when I turned back around, Reba was valiantly trying to corral the flood with spent tissue and a Gyro Station drink cup. One of the other ladies in our group ran and got some paper towels, which we quickly spread over this little Technicolor fantasy, and I arranged the other three kids around her as a visual screen, lest we start a chain reaction. After I was sure she was going to be alright, I told Reba to hold them there so I could go find someone to help clean up the mess.

You know, it seems like that in a hotel the size of the Atlanta Hyatt Regency that there would be someone around who works there. I looked and looked, and finally decided I had better just use the house phone. I explained to the operator what had happened, and she assured me someone would be right in to clean up.

Thus assured that we were in good hands, I got back and arranged a few more towels over our Great Pile of Shame and got everyone back to the rooms so we could get Little Bit cleaned up and get everyone else in bed.

Everyone back in place and calmed down and cleaned up, we boys went back to our swinging bachelor pad in 203, where we got on our jammies and went to bed at 9:30. What a blessed sleep. Of course, with thousands of kids in the hotel, screaming and slamming doors and running up and down the atrium, it took me nearly TWO SOLID MINUTES to fall asleep. And boy, did I sleep. All the way to 8 the next morning. Exquisite, sleep-the-sleep-of-the-dead sleep for an entire ELEVEN hours.

And the next morning, in keeping with our theme today, was…

SATURDAY

8:00 a.m. Buzzer went off, and it was time to get moving. Since we weren’t spending the night Saturday, we had to check out and get all of our stuff BACK down to the van, which meant we had to be all dressed up and ready to go first thing, and stay that way all for the next 12 hours. I got in and took my shower while Boy watched cartoons, then we both got all dressed (and again he allowed himself to be shackled with a tie—“You’re lucky, Dad—your tie ties and doesn’t clip on!”) and we got our little bit of Manstuff dumped back into the backpack. I even managed to work up the energy to iron my shirt. Thus all packed, I called to see if the girls were up and at ‘em.

Call me a dreamer.

Very groggy Mommy answered the phone, a victim of the same yelling, pounding, running bunch of teenagers who had disturbed by sleep for TWO WHOLE MINUTES, except in her case they had kept her up till midnight. As had the unfortunate circumstance of having to sleep with Catherine. Cat has a peculiar way of sleeping, consisting of treating her bed partner much as Rocky Balboa treated the side of beef in Rocky. And, she talks. And giggles. And coughs in your face. And thunderously farts like her daddy. And still occasionally has accidental nocturnal enuresis. We love her anyway. Then again, I say that having been spared close proximity this time.

Luckily, the other two girls were able to mitigate the presence of Tiny Girl through a carefully planned campaign of mutual loathing that quite overshadowed other discomforts. You know, they say the American Civil War was fought by brother against brother. Heaven help us all had it been sister against sister.

Poor Reba.

I started getting stuff stowed in bags and making the first of numerous trips to the parking garage in the basement to put stuff away. By the time it was through, the valet guys knew me. Got completely though and checked out right on schedule at 11:00 a.m. Although, in retrospect, I’m not quite sure why I felt the need to be so accommodating given how long it took for us to get the room in the first place…oh, yeah—they charge you if you keep the room. ::sigh::

Got some lunch, then on to take the girls downstairs for song leading. The men don’t get to stay in the rooms while the girls are singing, but I sat around for a few minutes with Ashley before everyone got in the room and acted like the insufferable Dad every teenager rolls their eyes at. Heh. Anyway, made sure she had her pitch pipe, and her song sheets, and then she and I just started singing—no starting note, no beating time, just singing—I suppose she didn’t mind since the room was still empty except for us and Jonathan, and also it just gave her a way to calm down some.

It was a nice moment—one of too few here lately, but I’ll take what I can get. Finished up, and she sounded great, so we sat back down with Boy. As we did, a fellow outside the room stuck his head in the door and looked around, “Where’s everyone else?” “It’s just us—the rest of the kids haven’t gotten in here.” “Wow! You two sounded like three or four in here; that sounded really good, both of you. And you especially, young lady!”

I thanked him and Ashley smiled and thanked him, too. Oh, to have that smile all the time.

The other girls started showing up, so Jonathan and I excused ourselves and messed around for the next couple of hours, riding the escalator, picking up our artwork and scrapbook and taking THEM to the van (trip number five), making the electric sensor urinals flush, talking about the Easter Bunny, drinking water, making faces at each other.

The initial round wrapped up, and little Rebecca didn’t make it to the finals, but Ashley did, so we all waited around a bit more, this time with Bec and Cat to make it more interesting. The illness of the day before had subsided, so Catherine was back at full steam, meaning lots of legwork to keep her corralled in one place. Thank goodness I had a pen and a piece of paper. I managed to get her to sit in my lap for a moment and started playing a guessing game. I would write down a number between one and ten, she would try to guess it. Then she would write and I would guess. The little stinker was GOOD at it! She even knew to throw in a few random repeats to throw me off, or write down the same number I had just asked her. Smartypants! Kept her occupied for the rest of the time and kept my blood pressure down off the top of the scale.

Ashley and Reba reemerged from the meeting room and by all accounts the second try was even better than the first. Thus completed with all of our events, it was time for one more overpriced supper, then on to the final award ceremony. We got there early and to our great surprise, guess what was STILL on the carpet! Someone had been kind enough to remove the paper towels and cup, but the ghost of the gyro was still to be seen. You know, if…ah, never mind.

We settled in, and after a good long time of head-achingly loudspeakered announcements and raucous applause from everyone, Ashley got to go up on stage and see how she had done. Out of ten finalists in the 7th and 8th grade group, she came in a very pleased second place! And one of the other girls from our group got first, so everyone was extremely happy. Our bunch got another big batch of trophies, and Catherine slept through the majority of the proceedings once more. Thankfully, no more unexpected calling of Ralph upon her awakening, and since all of our belongings were already packed, it was a quick exit to the basement and out the door to the van.

Thanks be.

Of course, there was still the drive home.

Uneventful, aside from my having to fight extreme fatigue for two and a half hours.

Home, kids to bed, van unloaded.

Time for to make like the Easter Bunny and fill baskets with surprises.

In bed by midnight:30. Seems to be a recurring theme around here!

Up Sunday and get kids dressed and to church, manage not to fall over and snore too loudly, go eat lunch with Reba’s mom and day, drift off on couch afterwards, startled awake by the arrival of old friend of mother in law’s who just happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to drop in, snuck off to bedroom, had just managed to drift off again when someone creaked the door open then left, drifted back off just as someone bumped against door then left, drifted off for final time, then was awakened by a loud sharp knock on the door—“Dad, where’s the remote?” Get up, go into den, pick up remote off of coffee table, hold it out, say “let’s go”, get us all back in van, go home, unload gift of leftovers from inlaws, start doing laundry, go back to church, come home, eat a bite, do more laundry, send kids to bed.

Find out I had gotten an e-mail from a local television journalist, answer it, go to bed. And then I woke up and here I was.

Amazing…BUT TRUE!!

And that’s enough sheer boredom for all of you today.

posted by Terry at 11:08:00 AM

From the hills of Tennessee...

To the pages of Snopes, to Volokh Brother Eugene, on to Alan K. Henderson's Weblog, and now to you--the heartwarming story of a boy and his GPS guided tractor. Alan notes that a few, ahem, "liberties" were taken with the boundaries of the various states, and observes rightly that Alabama and Mississippi have merged into one giant Land of the Statistical Outliers.

Alan believes the whole thing is now one big Alabama, but in the spirit of kinship, it would probably be better for us to combine our multitudinous talents, and likewise come up with a whole new name.

My suggestions include "Jim Ed" (or "Junie Nell" if you are set on having a girl name), or my favorite, "Alabippi".

(My only wish is that we would have gotten North Florida, too.)

posted by Terry at 9:46:00 AM

A word of caution.

Before I get heavily into my normal long-winded recapitulation of the mundane aspects of Life Upon the Pinchgut, let me offer a bit of a suggestion for my fellow online journal writers, to whit: if you just happen to have a favorite local television reporter, and you just happen to describe her as "lusciously zaftig" in a particular post on March 19, don't be embarrassed when she takes the time to write to you and let you know that a friend sent her that entry!

Thankfully, I think I am now at that particular age of decrepitude where I can tell a young lady that I think she's right purty without a) seeming like a filthy old man, or b) seeming like I'm a creepy lothario trying to get a little action, AND WITHOUT getting a high-power rifle round through my brainpan courtesy of Miss Reba.

In any event, Miss Nikki was incredibly gracious and had some great insights on the travails of working as a television reporter, especially those times when you're saddled with doing a standup and NOTHING'S HAPPENING. And we both share a similar disdain for the preening, self-centered reporters (no names, please!) who think THEY are the story. (Apparently there are a lot of Ted Baxters out there.)

Anyway, thanks to her, and to all of you, for dropping by and reading.

(Oh, and by the way, in addition to her aforementioned curvosity, she has brilliant, mesmerizing, blue eyes and perfect, blindingly white teeth. I figure I better say what I gotta say while I have the window of opportunity open!)

Time for staff meeting! See you in a bit.

posted by Terry at 8:33:00 AM

HOME - ARCHIVES - E-Mail terryoglesby@gmail.com - The slow moving, omnivorous, prehensile-tailed marsupial of the web.

free hit counter Visits since 12/20/2001--
so what if they're mostly me!