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Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.) Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu. This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things. Friday, May 23, 2003
You know...
No soccer games this weekend. Which means that Miss Reba has been working overtime in order to devise manly, constructive activities to fill up the time in order to keep my mind away from thoughts of some quick rounds of playing tickle and slap with her. ::sigh:: First up? Painting Oldest Girl's bedroom. I dislike painting simply because of the mess--if I had some help to clean up, the actual act of rolling paint on the wall and carefully cutting in the doors and windows and stuff is actually sort of relaxing in that little-cheap-sand-and-rock-Zen-garden-you-got-as-a-gag-gift sort of way. Up, down, side, side--eeeee-ease around that.... ::mind starts to wander toward the carnal:: And the fumes are pretty trick, too. But it's never that easy--gotta go to K-Mart for to get something out of their Screaming Domestic Insider-Trading Harpy Collection--I suggested K-Mart the other night ONLY because the store stays nearly deserted nowadays, and I was looking for a way to get in and out quickly. Stupid, stupid Daddy. Boy wants to look at extrasuperneatocool video games, Four Girls spend miles of time carefully choosing between imperceptibly different shades of off-white, Dad leans agains nasty paint mixing counter, looking at ceiling and slowly drifting off in a reverie involving a Lamborghini Muira and a young Sophia Loren in a peasant dress. Fortunately for all concerned, I was able to break free from my daydream by the sounds of a Tiny Girl screaming her head off because her older sister pulled the paint card out of her hand and put it back in the holder. Wow. She's louder than an F-4 on afterburner. After choosing a stack of samples only slightly thicker than a phone book so that they may each be held up against various wall art hung in the room (in order to match the exact shade of light, grayey-lavenderish, pinkish rose beige in the corner of the third flower petal on the left behind the girl's hand in the picture), there is the final selection process, which boils down to two colors equally pleasing. "Well, let Dad pick which one he thinks is better." Thus guaranteeing that no matter what, the wrong color will be chosen, leading to Oldest's social ostracism and no small damage to her psyche, to be brought up on a psychiatrist's couch thirty years hence as the time Dad forced her to live in a room with black painted walls. Do I sound slightly less than enthusiastic? So sorry, but having been down these road before, I know just as surely as Kowalski that there's a bulldozer down at the end of it. And the worst part of this analogy is that Barry Newman didn't have to move all the furniture to the middle of the room and take all the pictures down and spackle the holes in the wall and clean up the mess at the end of it. So, on to manly activity two. More plants. As with painting, the prospect of digging a hole and dropping another living, breathing thing into it and covering it with dirt is not without its fun side, but somehow that gets lost in having to stand there with my Aerobic Post-Holeizers working on my pecs and lats. And then, you know what happens? That crap GROWS, meaning that there is a Manly Activity 2.1, Plant Trimming. Everything is in overdrive with the rain and all, so it all must be punished with the string trimmer and edger and hedge shears and a variety of defoliants. Stupid plants can't take a hint, either--just keep coming back for more. Exhausted thus by Manly Activities 1, 2 and 2 point one, I assume there will be Non-manly Activities in great abundance (cooking, cleaning, washing, doily-making) to insure, at least in Miss Reba's mind, that I am so thoroughly weakened that thoughts of a sneak attack upon her flanks will be cast far from my mind. Well, let her think what she will. Heh heh. See you all Tuesday, and have a happy and safe Memorial Day.
Today's The Last Day!!
If you can, be sure to pop in at Knebworth House, with its frothy spires and sitting in its lush, silvan landscape, so that you might help--in the way that is so well known to all your friends and even more so by your enemies--the family Lytton (of old and noble lineage) celebrate the bicentennial of the nativity of her most famous son, Edward George Earle Bulwer Lytton. While you're out and about, you might even wish to drop by and leave some of your finer jottings with the good folks at the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. You'll be glad you did; glad in the way that small children, when supplied with treacle and tea cakes, jump and cavort jollily even as their stern governess looks upon them with disgust in her small, bead-like eyes whilst she yearns for release from her charges--this despite the fact that her master pays her 3 and 10 a month, with the Sabbath to spend as she pleases--for she detests the noise and the mess.
Hussein Son, Uday, Is Thinking of Surrendering to U.S.
72 virgins breathe collective sigh of relief.
You know, millions of people ask the same question every day...
"Why is it, Mr. Possum, that the fearsome and highly agitatible Alabama Sunflower Fanciers and Reloading Guild (better known as the Axis of Weevil), only has thirty-eight members?" Well, it's like this, Millions of People--the standards for admission to the organization are so incredibly high, so tough, so obdurate, so (hold on ::flip flip::), so unyeilding, so exacting, so harsh, so stringent--that of the teeming swarms of life forms who write their own blog, only thirty-eight have been able to be brain-washe...convinced that being in such a group was worthwhile. BUT, every once in a while, some guileless, unsuspecting writer will come along--maybe even all the way to Birmingham, where he is buying a house, and having sushi with sugarmama, and provoking Acidman to link to him so folks will leave comments, and trying to wear corrective ophthalmological devices--maybe someone just like that will come along, and when I send him an e-mail inquiring of his interest in joining the AoW and maybe buying some magazine subscriptions so I can go on a trip with my noseflute ensemble to Anaheim, that this individual knows no better than to answer--such is the case with young Rich Miller, recent transplant from the Old Dominion, to whom I sent via Chet the E-Mail Boy, the following note: Hi Rich,As Chet stood by waiting patiently, Rich answered in the affirmative, filled out the application, slipped Chet a quarter, and sent him on his way with the all important package of information, which we reproduce below for your perusal and for your use in later attempts at blackmail: 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;Visitors from the Garden and the Golden States are reminded that HE said it, not me. My agreement with the sentiment expressed should mean nothing to you. 3) Staunchly anti-idiotarian, or can at least pretend pretty goodMust be the Prussian thing... 6) Update your blog more than once a monthYou learn quickly, young Skywalker. 8) Willing to make fun of yourselfOui, vous! Now quit all that French jibber-jabber before you are overrun by Prussians! 9) Have a framed picture of John Moses BrowningRemember folks, when the going gets tough, the tough go cyclic. 10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever readBloody showoff... 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 basisOooh, you're going to be a handful at the company picnic. SO THEN, having demonstrated a firm grasp of grammar, logic, rhetoric, arithmetic, music, geometry, and astronomy, it is with great pride. and by the powers granted us by the producers of the popular Telemundo novela "Ladrón de Corazones", that we, the Yellowhammer Yard Sale and Blogging Club do hereby welcome and induct one Rich "Brain Squeezings" Miller as the 39th Member of the Axis of Weevil, with all of the magical superhero powers and group discounts pertaining thereto. As with all new members of the Axis of Weevil, Rich will be receiving the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack containing a slab of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for his nonexistent pickup truck that he better be finding real quick so as to more better fit in, 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 to these wonderful items, Rich will receive one of our friend Jimmy's (the guy from next door) painted rocks to place at the end of his new driveway. Jimmy, whose condition is somewhat better, thank you for asking, has branched out in his rock-painting business, and is now doing celebrity likenesses--he says the favorites so far are Shania Twain, Jesus, and his brother Todd. Rich, be sure to stop by Louise's office in Personnel to get your identification card made and let her know if you will be cheering for Alabama or Auburn (these are the only two choices, and you better get used to it RIGHT now). Also, please remember as you drive around your new home here in Birmingham that using turn signals identifies you as a interfering, obnoxious, Hilary Clinton-loving, outsider. So, go see Rich right now and let him know you love him in that special way!
You want answers? Oh, we GOT answers!
Raelian set to explain beliefs GREG GARRISONPossumblog Exclusive--the only known photograph of Vorilhon and the four-foot-tall alien, taken at a private party, circa 1978.
Groundhog Day
As I was driving home from work yesterday, I got to thinking, "Hey, it's been hours since it last rained." And then it started. Just as I pulled in to the Winn-Dixie parking lot. And it kept raining--I ran in to get some soft drinks and cash so I could go pick up our dinner (takeout from Big Dragon!) and the Big Guy turned on the spigot again. Oh well. At least it wasn't so bad for me, but yesterday afternoon was graduation day for the kids at Hewitt-Trussville. I took what I figured was going to be a shortcut around the afternoon traffic on North Chalkville, and ran smack into all the moms and dads and seniors traipsing over, in the rain, to the stadium. So much for a shortcut, but inching along did give me time to peoplewatch, which is usually pretty entertaining. As usual with such events, there seemed to be a disproportionate number of young guys for whom this was the first occasion that Mom and Dad INSISTED that a suit be worn, so there were a goodly number of lanky, somewhat self-conscious eighteen year olds walking around with trousers wadded up around the tops of their uncomfortable new shoes, and with jackets that had sleeves and shoulders made for men two inches taller and fifty pounds heavier--"Don't worry, you'll grow into it." Not no more, mama--he's growed as much as he's going to. This was in marked contrast to the girls. Each one looking like she could have just stepped out of a fashion magazine, yet all so oddly unaware of how they look that they are going to go out after graduation with the scrawny boys in the too-big suits. This is why America is the greatest nation on earth. Drove on down a bit, and saw the unfortunate side of having a pretty young daughter--that is, if you quietly envy her good looks and freedom and wish it was you going out afterwards with the kid in the too-big suit. From up the block a ways, it was just two girls under a couple of umbrellas--got closer and found I was half right. The one walking slightly ahead on the sidewalk was decked out in her sandblasted jeans and her cute top that had some jiggle coming up out of the neckline and the cute shoes she got at Saks. Just behind was Mom--same cute shoes from Saks, preternaturally emaciated in order to fit into her own pair of sandblasted capri jeans and a kewl blue-camo shirt that appeared painted on, wearing the too-taut, grim-mouthed look of someone on a first name basis with the receptionist at the plastic surgeon's office--she loves it when her daughter's friends say she's like, sooo cool. She refuses to hear the part about 'for someone so old'. Takes all sorts, I suppose. Finally got past all the graduation traffic, and the sky lightened a bit, and then the Devil started beating his wife with a frying pan. This is the odd old expression used to describe the phenomenon of when it's raining, but the sun is also shining. I'm not sure who came up with it or exactly what it's supposed to mean--I suppose it means the combination of good and bad at the same time...it's rainy but sunny. You figure it's a bad thing to beat your wife, but then again, it is Scratch's wife getting it, so maybe it's alright. Still don't know if the frying pan has any signficance aside from it was just the nearest thing at hand. Or hoof. Google comes to the rescue on this one--I just typed in "devil beating his wife" and got 62 results! This one says the phrase originated in Hungary, this one claims the raindrops are Mrs. Satan's tears, and THIS ONE seems to be compendium of all the phrases in the world used to describe the thing (and it notes that down South we are supposed to be saying "behind the back door" instead of "with a frying pan". I like my version just fine.) Since I originally started this thing going for Chinese food, I guess it would be more appropriate to use the Chinese expression, but one wasn't listed in there, so I suggest he was beating her with a wok. ANYway, got on up the road and got our food and got back home and the rain clouds finally went on off. Ate, put up the dishes, the kids went to the den to play, and Reba and I went outside to walk around and see what all the water had done for us. Well, for one, the roses are starting to die off a bit on the tops, and a branch on Jonathan's pear tree shrivelled up, and the iris leaves have started turning a sickly yellow green. Eww. The grass and weeds seem to be enjoying themselves, however, along with the wisteria, so if it's even remotely dry this afternoon, they all get to feel the edgy, whirling death of the old Murray. Of course, I've been saying for three weeks now that I was going to get the lawn mower out, but in the immortal words of Bullwinkle J. Moose, "Thith time, fer sure!!" And you thought I'd get a break once soccer season was over! Thursday, May 22, 2003
Well, there's losing, and then there's just not scoring as many times as the other team...
I choose to believe the girls from Cape Henlopen just ran out of time. (Fritz, be sure and tell that certain right fullback that she has a rooting section down in Dixie!)
Hey, today's National Maritime Day!
It was first proclaimed by FDR in 1933 to honor Merchant Mariners and to commemorate the passage of the steamship SS Savannah across the Atlantic in 1819. The Savannah is generally credited as the first steamship to cross the Atlantic, but it was also rigged for sail, and used its engine only a small portion of the time during the passage. (Thanks to the magic of Google, we find at least one very partisan fellow who notes that the Dutch ship Curacao made the first transatlantic passage entirely under its own power a few year later in 1826.) Anyway, go do boaty things to celebrate.
Hooray!
Sunshine!! I just went next door to Sneaky Pete's for some chicken for lunch, and the sky was blue (some) and Ol' Mister Sun was shining proudly (a bit) and the little pavement birds were sweetly chirping (except for one which had a pretty bad cough) and all the bums who followed City Stages into town last week are gone now and the regular crew is now back (with the exception of Screaming Guy, which is probably just as well) and I just know that some nice guy from Nike (or Nigeria) will be contacting me soon to give me a great big suitcase full of money! Ahhh, sunshine.
High School Hoop Star Lebron James in Nike Deal CHICAGO (Reuters) - A bunch of ping-pong balls in the NBA draft lottery will decide Thursday which team gets high school basketball star LeBron James, but the phenom has already hit the endorsement lottery, agreeing to tout Nike shoes in a deal reportedly worth more than $90 million.[...]ATTENTION NIKE EXECUTIVES: I will happily tout Nike shoes for considerably less than $90 million. Give me a call.
Deer Walks Through Airport Security OMAHA, Neb. - It had to look suspicious.Aroused from their sleep, agents with the Transportation Safety Administration quickly found the deer, standing next to Mrs. Idalene Mabe, a ninety-year-old grandmother of twelve. After Mrs. Mabe was tackled and subdued, she was subjected to two hours of intensive questioning before being released.
Iraq was no immediate threat to US, senator says in slam at Bush WASHINGTON (AFP) - US Senator Robert Byrd -- a senior Democrat -- issued a scathing denunciation of White House military and diplomatic policy, particularly of the recently-concluded war in Iraq which he said may have been waged in violation of international law.Amazing how different the world looks when you see it through two eyeholes cut in a sheet, eh?
Chet the E-Mail Boy is on the MOVE today!!
This just in from Jim Smith in Dan'l Boone country: Subject: chia possumSadly, although flattering to think it might be true, I am not too young to have to wrestle with the spector of male pattern baldness. I am well into my golden curmudgeon years, and only a few short winters away from total decrepit bittertude. I do have, however, a nice thick pile of head fur, making the addition of mildew not the least bit welcome. Yes, I realize it may be styled and shaped nicely in a Ron Popeil, hair-in-a-spraycan fashion, and it is certainly cheaper. But, it is simply too much. I know, I know--you say, "what about the sloth and his algae-coated hair?" WHAT OF HIM!! I say. Nasty, seven-deadly-sin, green-haired punk-rocker sort of critter--not the least bit noble like your lovable marsupial type people. I just cannot care how well it covers, the mildew must go. I now retire to my chambers for a nice Clorox rinse.
Nate McCord over at Wasted Electrons took note that I posted a VERY rare, non-8-5 weekday entry last night FROM HOME. I told Nathaniel not to make fun of me, that I couldn't help myself because I HAVE OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE BLOG DISORDER! To which Nate helpfully replied: Next thing you know you'll be saying "I was either going to kill myself or I was going to kill the blogger persona." And forging your expense reports to the Possumblog accounting department!Actually, I had to laugh when I read that. From my perspective, and I know I shouldn't be saying this, I fooled some of the most brilliant people in bloggerism. They're all so smart, but I was sitting right under their nose fooling them.* As for forging the expense accounts, I have not been charged with any crime, and I need at least 170 million dollars in order to pay my legal expenses and the salaries of the crew of my personal yacht. Really. *Or not.
Groundhog Day
As I was driving in to work today, I got to thinking, "Hey, it's been hours since it last rained." And then it...it...DIDN'T START RAINING! Of course, it's still awfully cloudy, and I have a rather thick coating of mildew, but at least I didn't need a snorkel to get to my desk. As for American Idol, my only comment is, what was the deal with Clay standing facing Ruben right before they announced the winner? It looked like he was going to kiss him on the cheek or something. In any event, again, congratulations to an incredibly talented young fellow and to his family, and a special thanks to Ruben for his unfailing support of Alabama and of Birmingham. It's not easy for us to get positive press, but his success and willingness to tie that success to his hometown means a lot. Wednesday, May 21, 2003
Well, well, well...
Interesting story this afternoon via the Birmingham Business Journal , who heard it from Bloomberg News: Donald Watkins making bid for HealthSouth Steven Mackay StaffNor are you likely to. In any event, the millions that Mr. Scrushy said he needed to to be unfrozen by the SEC to pay for his extry-'spensive legal services and living expenses seems like it might be recycled back into the local economy by way of his attorney. How very convenient! And it's not like Mr. Scrushy will own the company, now is it? No...someone else ENTIRELY will own it. [...] In debt by some $3.3 billion, the company is trying to stave off bankruptcy. It already has defaulted on a $1.25 billion credit facility, but says lenders are unlikely to sue. A HealthSouth spokesman says the company's finances are still being reviewed by auditor PricewaterhouseCoopers and turnaround firm New York-based Alvarez & Marsal Inc. The results are due in late June.Ball team...hospitals--what's the diff? Overall, I'd say the whole thing has the fragrant aroma of a rendering plant.
I have this thing I do occasionally (alright now, stop that train of thought RIGHT now!) when things get slow--I'll type in the day's date into Google, along with a year significant in American history, such as the years of 1776-82, 1861-65, 1917-18, 1941-45, you get the picture--and see what sort of letters and other correspondence might be out there. It's usually pretty interesting, and it's a good way to get some historical perspective.
I did the same for today, using "May 21, 1864" as the search string, and found a website devoted to the career of Sam Clemens at the Virginia City (Nevada) Territorial Enterprise (during the time in which he became Mark Twain). On the date in question, Mr. Clemens became embroiled in a feisty exchange with James Laird, Esq., proprietor of the rival Virginia Union, which had published a snide response to a Clemens' editorial which Clemens wished to have retracted, or else that he be satisfied as a gentleman. That's right, he was calling Mr. Laird out. After and exchange of seven letters (the carrying back-and-forth of which probably exhausted his equivalent of Possumblog's Chet, the E-Mail Boy) and the refusal of the publisher to either fight or retract, Mr. Clemens had the following last words: I denounce Mr. Laird as an unmitigated liar, because he says I published an editorial in which I attacked the printers employed on the Union, whereas there is nothing in that editorial which can be so construed. Moreover, he is a liar on general principles, and from natural instinct. I denounce him as an abject coward, because it has been stated in his paper that its proprietors are responsible for all articles appearing in its columns, yet he backs down from that position; because he acknowledges the "code," but will not live up to it; because he says himself that he is responsible for all "editorials," and then backs down from that also; and because he insults me in his note marked "IV," and yet refuses to fight me. Finally, he is a fool, because he cannot understand that a publisher is bound to stand responsible for any and all articles printed by him, whether he wants to do it or not.Take that, "Paper of Record"--nary a moose in sight. In any event, there are a stack of transcriptions of Clemens work at the Enterprise, including this beaut about a local theater production: REVIEW OF "INGOMAR THE BARBARIAN"Man alive, that Twain feller needs to get a blog! (The entire compendium of Twainiacal articles can be found here, and the entire twainquotes site is the result of the hard work of Barbara Schmidt, who describes herself as an "independent researcher, writer and consultant for Mark Twain related projects. So there you go.)
Did I happen to mention that it's raining?
I did? Hard to keep track of it. I went out to get a bite to eat for lunch, and the sky is filled with great, huge bowling-ball-sized drops of rain. Not to be ungrateful, because I know come August everyone will be whining about wishing they could get some of that nice rain we had back in May, but I am getting a bit more that satisfied with the amount of precipitation.
"I'll catch you."1
H.D. Miller discusses plagiarism: I am especially angered by Goggle[sic] Plagiarism, because the act implies that the professor (me in this case) is too stupid to figure out what's going on. That's why my syllabus now contains the following very direct warning on academic honesty: If you cheat, I’ll catch you. Guaranteed. Resist at all costs the temptation to download or copy entire papers or large sections of research. Not only have I read extensively in the usual sources, but I also have an excellent idea of your writing abilities and styles, and can tell when students are not using their own words. If you’re caught cheating, you’ll fail the class.Pretty direct, no? So perfectly direct and perfectly clear that none of those I caught cheating (including an officer of the History Club, a junior who should have known better) could deny the meaning of my policy. Nor could they reasonably appeal the "F" they earned by their behavior. [...]When did reason get mixed in here!? 1H.D. Miller. "Cheater" Travelling Shoes 20 May, 2003, 6:13 p.m. Available from http://travellingshoes.blogspot.com/#94662628. Internet. Accessed 21 May 2003.
Updates
I have been remiss in not keeping up with folks, and while all the rest of you have already updated your links to Matthew Stinson's A Fearful Symmetry, I'm just now getting around to it. Apologies. AND there's a new addition of Kim Crawford's Velociblog. Kim lives down in the Sunshine State and stumbled in here last week sometime and fell atop a heap of Erskine Caldwell, which prompted him to opine about the author of Tobacco Road: [...] Caldwell has the burden of creating the tobacco road white trash creature that was easily lampooned, but few scholars ever looked through the castigation and found the heart in Caldwell. And that's too damned bad. All of us, ultimately, have a Jeter Lester in our heritage, the issue is how do you deal with that? [...]Equal parts love, hate, envy and revulsion.
I love the mint flavor.
This from the Birmingham Business Journal: Wal-Mart to carry 'mental_floss' Steven Mackay StaffDespite the Friends appearance, mental_floss is actually pretty neat--I've picked up copies before, and it's a bit of a cross between Scientific American and MAD Magazine, with a bit of Jeopardy, some of Bullwinkle as Mr. Know-it-all, and several Milton-Bradley board games thrown in, too. Here's a link to their staff bios, which might explain it better. And Fritz Schranck might like to know that it has a Delaware connection, too! Best of all, now I don't have to go to one of them fancy book selling places to get it!
Baa.
Obviously, you've already been HERE already, but just in case you haven't, you should. [...] Contrary to the slogans of Orwell’s nightmare, Ignorance is not strength.
That's a ton of money--Flood recovery may cost Trussville over $4 million ANITA DEBRO10 inches may not sound like a lot, but when you consider that the floor level of City Hall sits about two feet above the surrounding parking lots, you get a better idea of how much water was in there. But at least the city government has a way to pay for repairs--there is a whole line of small shops along Main Street that were hit just as hard, including a car dealer who stored other people's RVs in a lot in the rear of the dealership. Not very much of a building, but a tremendous amount of dollars sitting out in a big puddle of muck. Three restaurants, two banks, a couple of clothing stores, a mini-storage place, a couple repair shops--all completely unprepared for what happened. Most appear to be working on getting back in business, but it's going to be tough. Such is life.
Groundhog Day
As I was driving in to work today, I got to thinking, "Hey, it's been hours since it last rained." And then it started raining. AAAGGGGHHHHHHHH!! It's supposed to stop soon. Really. I saw it on the teevee. All gone by tomorrow. Tuesday, May 20, 2003
McDonald's, Tyson Fall on Canada Mad Cow
Man, I would hate to fall on a Canada mad cow like that...I just hope they didn't get hurt, and that they washed their hands afterwards.
The American Whistle Company!! Link via this article: Ohio whistle manufacturer prides itself on custom designs [...] The company also creates the NFL commemorative gold-plated whistles for the officiating crew at the Super Bowl each year. Since the league does not have an official whistle, referees must use whistles they buy themselves, said Mike Pereira, league director of officiating.I have a 300-I, by the way.
Oh, great--just what I need...
Just got an interesting interoffice memo out of the mailbox: SUBJECT: Threat Letters From BrazilWell, you know a phone number would have been nice to include, but hey, whadda I know. Well, for one thing, how to use Google, from which I found that the only information about this mysterious zamparina is confined almost entirely to the fact that it afflicted one Antonio Francisco Lisbon, a.k.a. Aleijadinho; sculptor, architect, wood carver, considered an important Brazilian artist of the colonial period, and was the bastard son of the architect and Portuguese master builder Manuel Francisco Lisbon. This site delves a bit into the supposed identity of the disease, which was characterized by crippling degeneration of the extremities. The name of the illness is supposedly taken from an Italian singer who also suffered from it, and it is variously speculated that it could have been leprosy, rheumatoid arthritis, syphilis, polio, and even porphyria. Basically, no one really knows what it was, but it's doubtful he got it from a box of leafy, green substance. Just me, but it seems like it would have been nice to explain in the memo a little of this, just to keep folks from wondering if they've got the zamp or not. Other information that would have been nice to see is something about the North Alabama Joint Terrorism Task Force, which is administered out of the U.S. Attorney's office here in Birmingham. But there you go. Man--I used to love Brazil nuts...
Perpetuating the Stereotype, Volume LXVII
'You Can't Beat a Drinking Pig' DECATUR, Ala. - There's nothing like a beer-sipping swine to lure visitors to Alabama.Well...yeah. The drawing for the ad was inspired by an illustration of the pig in a book by Alabama tale-spinner Kathryn Tucker Windham.Yeah, but it could really use some sort of celebrity tie-in--GET ME ARNOLD ZIFFEL ON THE PHONE!! (Well, his estate anyway--he's been bacon for over 30 years) The other separate ads will feature Eufaula and Monroeville.Well, you know, once you start that drinking pig bandwagon rolling, folks are just bound to want to jump on. (And no, it has not escaped my notice that possums are not part of this little scheme. Not that I'm bitter.)
Shooting blanks, eh?
Dr. Reynolds and others have been talking about the allegations that the whole Jessica Lynch thing was staged and that the troops used blanks. Funny, but in the grainy night-vision photos, I never seem to recall seeing a BFA on any of the weapons. A blank firing attachment is required on M-16s and the M-249 SAW (and most gas-operated firearms, for that matter) to allow the weapons to properly cycle--blanks don't produce enough compressed gases to make the bolt operate, so the BFA fits over the muzzle and allows sufficient pressure to build up in the barrel's gas port. While they are sorta small, they are noticeable since they are painted either yellow or red and they're hanging out there on the end of the weapon. Oh, but maybe the military sent soldiers in with the tiny, Hollywood style blank adapters, which require you to remove the flash hider (which in turn requires a barrel vise and a healthy dose of torque), slide the adapter down into the end of the barrel, then put the flash hider back on. Once in place, they make firing live rounds (just in case some bad guys did show up) a recipe for the barrel to peel back like a banana, but you know, conspiracy theories don't require facts to operate properly.
Oh, I forgot something else.
No big surprise there, but in my mind-congealing recap of the weekend, I forgot that we had hamburgers Saturday evening for supper. 'Big whoop,' you say? Well, these weren't just any hamburgers, but hamburgers cooked the insane idjit way, flame-broiled on the grill in the middle of a raging thunderstorm. When I started the grill, it was only a bit windy, and the giant black thundercloud was way to the south. By the time I slapped the dead cow down, said storm had suddenly moved northward, along with giant flashes of lighting and thunder. Hmm. Daddy better go get the umbersal. Around front to the van for the big golf umbrelly, then back around to the patio. In that minute or two, the leading edge of the rain started beating a line right behind me--a hard edged line with nothing in front, and a complete deluge behind. I quickly flipped the burgers and closed the lid as the line reached me, then it was almost like sitting at the foot of Niagara Falls. Wind, water, noise--AND the added goodness of the mmmMMM-good smell of hot meat. You know, you think about a lot of things when you're cooking hamburgers in the middle of a potential cyclone.
Palestinians in Gaza town hold rare demonstration against militants By IBRAHIM BARZAKOne hopes they do not suffer the fate of others seen by the "militants" as being friendly to Israel.
Sorry--just can't leave it be...
But I am still pumped up about the opener at the Barber Motorsports Park, which has quickly become just "The Park"--it's a beautiful course that has earned some well-deserved kudos. Here is a link to some photo galleries from TheRaceSite. Some good ones include the miscellaneous photos by Juha Lievonen (Be sure to check the whimsical insect sculptures and the real purty grounds, and this particularly dramatic shot with one of the many thunderstorms in the background, and this shot of the new Porsche Cayenne.) Neat stuff.
Oh, now this just CAN'T be true...Teens Report Peer Pressure to Have Sex.
I am shocked...SHOCKED! that this is going on. Next thing you know, they'll be telling us that kids are trying to get each other to do things like smoke and drink and watch MTV!
Riley introduces plan for state at crossroads
Upping the ante 1.2 billion with a B dollars. Right into the gaping maw of the people who got us into this trouble to begin with. No, I don't want The Children™ or The Elderly™ or The Poor™ to suffer, and I'm sure that to the folks who praise this plan as not being a stopgap, band-aid approach do so only out of ignorance to what a real solution would look like, but in the end this only shifts around the same financial burden and does little to fix what truly is the problem--an antiquated system of governance and taxation that benefits a very few, very powerful groups. Until that system changes, there will continue to be inequities and the past pattern of fiscal crisis every few years will continue.
You know...
As I was driving in to work today, I got to thinking, "Hey, it's been hours since it last rained." And then it started raining. This is getting to be a lot like the rain sequence in One Hundred Years of Solitude, and while interesting from a literary life-imitating-art sort of viewpoint, it would be okay now if it stopped raining for a day or two. 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.
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?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.
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.
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.
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.
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.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?!
Clinton Assails Bush at Commencement Talk By BARBARA POWELL, Associated Press WriterClinton 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.
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.
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. 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!!
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, terrierWhew. 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.
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.]
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.
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!!!!
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.
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.
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] 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?
A sad announcement. Indeed he will.
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.
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: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.[...] From Carol: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?!? 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.)
“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.
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.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. 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...
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.
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. 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.
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!
Awwww. How sweet! Panhandle woman has possum passion, or is it marsupial madness? By WENDY VICTORAWhy 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.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.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.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.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.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.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.
Checkmate Police: Chess Grand Master arrested for trying to pick up a 15-year-old girl
By JAY NEWTON-SMALLMoron.
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.
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.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. 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!
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.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.
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!!
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?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?)
Sorry to disappoint our visitors from the Bundesrepublik Deutschland, but Possumblog makes even less sense in German.
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.
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.]
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! 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!
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...
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.As they say, read it all.
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.
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.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.As I said before--it's not the speed, it's that sudden stop...
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.Mr. T, huh? Well, seems like Eddie Murphy as Gumby would have been even more appropriate, but hey, whadda I know?
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.
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.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!
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
Typing Monkeys Don't Write Shakespeare
They do, however, enjoy the free and easy-to-use Blogger software. 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.
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.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.
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!"
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.
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.
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.
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 abodeAh! 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!
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. 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 surveyI figured that covered it. I hit the send button and seconds later a reply came back: Subject: Fwd: Request for surveyHuh? 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 surveyShort and to the point--no use dragging this out. Got back this: Subject: Re: Fwd: Request for surveyWHAT!? 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 surveyAnd got this one in return: Subject: Re: Fwd: Request for survey::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?
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!
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.
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: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.
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...
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.
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.As always, commenting here at Possumblog is via the magic of e-mail. Chet the E-Mail Boy thanks you for your continued support.
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.
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 HornetsOr 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.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.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.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.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.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.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.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.Wow. Hard to get that kind of pun nowadays... It's flooded the Japanese gym sceneEwww. 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! 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.
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.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!
Trailers, Redux
Mysterious 'Jim Smith' from the land of exceedingly limber and attractive pirates writes in: SUBJECT: TrailersPopcorn husks between his molars? I know I hate that... Tornados destroy mobile homes but never mobile home sales lots--it mayAaaaHAH!! 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'.)
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 CorrespondentNow 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: [...]
Kmart Emerges from Ch.11 Bankruptcy
...Sees Shadow--Long Winter of Crappy Service and Messy Stores to Continue
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.
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...
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.
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.
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! [...]::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.
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.Thanks from all of us, Mommabear--I hear that Google is wanting to discuss a buyout with you!
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! 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?
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.
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!
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. 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.
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 reallyDo 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.
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.
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.
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."Sounds good to me.
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 HUBBARDInteresting 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... 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!':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.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.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.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.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.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.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.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.
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 MATTHEWSMeow. 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."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.
Foreign-born sailors back from war in the Persian Gulf take citizenship oaths By ELLIOT SPAGATFor 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.
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. 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!
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. [...]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.
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 :)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.
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!
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.
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.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.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.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.
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 WALTONA keeper, for sure. And for your viewing pleasure, the U.S. District Court, Northern District of Alabama website. 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.Nobody--they're just in that parallel universe with the groovy, beard-wearing evil Spock.
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!)
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?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.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.
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… 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. Tuesday, April 29, 2003
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!
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.
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.
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.
Good Job!
Leeds educator named National Teacher of Year MARY ORNDORFFCongratulations to Mrs. Rogers! As for making sure Alabama's kids get the best education, there are only a couple of obstacles--this, and this.
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.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!
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.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.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!!!! 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::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.($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.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!
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.
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.
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