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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. Tuesday, August 26, 2003
Tomorrow
...is either the second or the fourth Wednesday of the month. Meaning that I will be in before 7 for my twice-monthly duty manning the regulatory thumbscrews to insure the built environment remains pretty and pleasant. So, expect the normal low quality bloggage, BUT with the added benefit of low quantity! BUT WAIT!! A newfound toy which will be valuable for spending HOURS of time--Library of Congress to show new cartoons By CARL HARTMANIndeed. Although there is "Uncle Sam's Girl-Shower", which seems awfully racy. Anyway, the rest of the collection sampler can be accessed here.
Well, when the news is slow…
What better way to pass the time than a selection from the 1901 Edition of Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book! As I have mentioned previously, these little extractions have gotten less frequent due to the fact that the book, although full of good advice, is still a finite resource. I am going to have to bring in something else to quote from, I believe, but until then, let’s see what Messrs. Nisbet and Lemon have to say about: The Parts of a Sentence Should Harmonize.—That the different parts of any writing may be all congruous with one another, and even the boldest ‘figure’ extravagant, the whole must throughout be strictly subservient to the purpose in view, and the energy in any one part be duly correlated with the energy in all other parts. The writing on any one subject should be, in manner as well as in matter, all one creation, each part sustaining and complementing the others, and no part so silent or ‘ornamental’ as to obscure any other or divert to itself any of the attention due to the whole. Or, as the professor advised his students, whenever on reperusal you come on any particularly eloquent passage, out with it. If Memnon and the rising sun figure in the report of modern Egypt under British administration, the rest must be of the same texture. Else all the world that reads the report will point its finger at the patch.
News from good old Alabama Polytechnic Institute: The Cullars Rotation
A neat story--well, it is to me, at least--about a soil experiment that has been going on at Auburn University for 92 years. The field where the experiment has been conducted has just been listed on the National Register of Historic Places. (The world's oldest crop rotation experiment is the nearby "Old Rotation", which started in 1896. It's on the Register, too.)
Miss Janis is home now and blogging again--keywords include pernicious, Spanish, split bottoms, Bishop, slap me, and broken glass!
Do go tell her hello.
How very odd--Chinese union body pressuring Wal-Mart to establish trade unions Somehow, the idea of a Beijing Wal-Mart is just beyond my comprehension, not to mention that it's just one of 22 other ones in the country. But it's so nice that the Chinese are concerned about the folks who work there: The All-China Federation of Trade Unions is the only group China's communist government allows to organize workers. Unions do exist, but they are controlled by the government, and those who start independent organizations are routinely arrested and sometimes given harsh sentences as a warning to others.Nice people, eh?
Believe it or not, bagpipes are loud--Bagpipes hit sour note for hearing FOR many a Scots regiment, the Highland bagpipe was as potent in the advance toward battle as artillery and rifles.Well, as they say, "Than' Gad there's nae smell." Some 10 per cent also reported that their passion for the pipes had led to the break-up of marriages, while 84 per cent claimed to know pipe-band members who are alcoholics. [...]You know, it seems odd that a loud, deaf, cripple-handed, drunken man in a dress would ever have troubles at home... James Bousquet, an acoustics expert and bagpiper, said many band members ignored his advice to wear customised ear plugs at a cost of £60 per pair.60 quid'll buy a lot of Guinness. Almost enough to last a whole day. (And as an added bonus--The Bagpipe Joke List!)
For all you trivia buffs-- On August 26, 1791, John Fitch was granted a United States patent for the steamboat. Four years earlier, on August 22, 1787, Fitch demonstrated the first successful steamboat, launching a forty-five-foot craft on the Delaware River in the presence of delegates from the Constitutional Convention. He went on to build a larger steamboat which carried passengers and freight between Philadelphia and Burlington, New Jersey.Steam power is just as important today and, in fact, powers this blog.
From the "Headlines Which Defy All Attempts at Parody" File: Mike Tyson Offers Empathy for NBA Star Kobe Bryant
What's next, O.J. offering tips on shopping for gloves? Monday, August 25, 2003
Come with us now for a Thrilling Tour of Paradise Along the Pinchgut!
Good weekend—lots of dirt and sweat and hollering and tools and stuff. Bear with me. But even before we get into all of that, I was reminded yesterday at lunch by Middle Girl of something funny she said last week. Seeing as how this blog is fast becoming my substitute for memory, I figure I best write it down. (Part of the problem is being so harried in the mornings—anything that happens prior to letting the kids out at school every day seems to get washed away quickly by the sudden drop in adrenaline level.) Anyway, we had to go get Reba’s mom and dad’s mail last week while they were on vacation and as we drove into their neighborhood, we saw that one of the homeowners had been visited by one of the first signs of autumn, a yard full of toilet paper. (For those gentle readers who visit Possumblog from other parts of the globe, the festooning of trees and homes with rolls of toilet paper has a long and fascinating history in this country, and at least when I was a lad, signified that someone, somewhere, really hated your guts. So much so that they would strew paper all over you mom and dad’s trees, which is just asking for it, you know. It seems to pick up when school starts as old rivalries kick in again. Times seem to have changed, though—I was told recently by a young lady that having your yard rolled was a sign that you were really cool. Go figure.) In any event—huge, towering, mature trees, full of paper. Poor homeowner guy out there with his wife and kid trying to get some of it down. By lighting it. That’s right. Setting it on FIRE. Little tendrils of flame wound up into the tree branches and I could barely keep from running off the road in dismay. “Look kids! That guy’s trying to set the whole NEIGHBORHOOD ON FIRE!” The kinder were quite taken by the display, and Rebecca noted quite correctly that this seemed to be a rather dangerous endeavor to undertake. “They need a monkey!” I don’t know if it was the bright, self-assured, way she said it, or the idea of a panicky spider monkey spreading flaming toilet paper throughout an entire heavily-wooded subdivision, but I got to laughing and couldn’t quit. I chuckled all the way from there to school, and making Daddy laugh really seemed to make her day. I’m a tough audience, you know—stern, foreboding. But, it’s like I always tell the kids, “Dying is easy—COMEDY is hard.” They need good, solid, preparation. She seems to have learned well, though, that uncontrolled conflagration and lower primates just go great together . (She even managed to work in the hard-K sound that is the staple of all great komedy.) Nicely played. And then I completely forgot about it until yesterday when we were eating lunch after church and she mentioned it again. “Remember what I said? Tell Mama what I said.” Blank look from me. “You know, Dad…when we were on the way to school last week.” Still blank look from me. “And we had to go get Grandmama and Grandaddy’s mail.” Still a blank look. “And the man was lighting the toilet paper? And we said he shouldn’t be doing that?” OH, yeah, I remember that…but I don’t remember what you said. “DAAaaaaad—I said he needed a monkey!?” Oh yeah! And I started giggling all over again. A monkey! Heh. I need a monkey too, you know. One to write stuff down for me on little scraps of toilet paper so I won’t forget. ANYWAY, Friday night was soccer night, and Rebecca was supposed to be there at six, which is exactly the time that Reba got to the house, so I ran screaming out the door with Middle Girl’s bag and Jonathan’s bag and told them to jump into my van and we spent a nice ten minutes together in the Runaway Mine Car ride to the park. As they changed clothes. We were late, obviously, but the game had not started so she didn’t miss anything. And the ride itself was thrilling and terrifying. Turned out to be tougher than I thought it was going to be when I wrote about it last week—this was the first time the girls had played on the regulation-size field, and the first time with eleven players—practice has always been on a sliver of a shared field and broken up into small groups. And the boys they were playing had five subs, while the girls only have one extra player. SO, I don’t suppose that it was too surprising the lads got in two quick goals right off. And then another. But, the girls kept in it, scored a goal themselves, and then dominated the second half. No scores for either during the second, but the girls managed to look very poised toward the end, while the boys were getting ragged and going for the histrionics of dramatic slides and leaps and general falling and flopping about on the ground. There are about four of the girls who have incredible footwork skills and it was fun to watch them zipping around—especially Bathmat Dad’s daughter, who even at eleven years old, has The Look when she plays. Balanced and smooth and confident—a natural athlete. She’s going to be something in a couple of years. (Bathmat Dad gets his name from the fact that he ALWAYS wears shorts and a tee-shirt with the armholes cut out to his waist, so that we all get a nice view of his sweaty, deeply-burnt skin; which is actually only barely visible, obscured as it is by his plush covering of Brillo Pad body hair. He too, has The Look, but an entirely different one. And even though I refer to him as Bathmat Dad, I would not for a moment even THINK of touching any part of him with my feet. Eww.) While they finished up, Jonathan’s practice started and thankfully was on an adjacent field, so I just turned my lazy self around and watched him after Rebecca’s game was over. It appears he is going to have another long season—since he’s not that great of a player, he naturally gets stuck on a team with others of equal skill. But, their skill level has much less to do with physical ability than mental. I don’t think I have ever seen a group more needing of either a) massive doses of Thorazine, b) a daily appointment time at the woodshed, or c) both. The coach seems to be a good guy, but the kids have the attention span that can be measured in microseconds. Poor Jonathan tries to listen and do what the coach says and everyone else is acting like they should be confined to straitjackets. The parents seem glad to allow someone else to try and control them for a while. ::sigh:: They got finished up after 8:30 and we stopped off at Sonic for them to get something to eat. Neither one had been able to eat supper before we went careering off to the park, and they were both hot, and doggone it, every once in a while it’s nice to have your dad give you a forbidden late-night ice cream sundae. (Especially when he wants to try some of it.) Off home, then off with their stinky clothes and into the tub, and then to bed for everyone, and then it was time to get up. BLESSEDLY, Mom and Dad got to sleep in a bit Saturday morning—no phone calls, no weird dreams of phone calls, no mayhem in the corridors. ‘Bout time, I say! Up then, and I got on my yard-tending clothes and ate a couple of Miss Reba’s muffins and watched a little “Crocodile Hunter” and a little news and got started. First up, more hummingbird juice, then filled the bird feeders, then got out the ol’ Oracle of Murray for some spirited laps around the yard and noisy meditation. Nothing quite like the combination of high heat, humidity, physical exertion, and carbon monoxide to really clear the mind. Or confuse you more. As always, I spent a good deal of time arguing with myself (occasionally even doing this silently in my mind, so as not to arouse too much suspicion) about the world. My conclusion is that there sure is a lot of stupidity out there. Best to avoid it. Yep, that’s it. Stay away from stupid people, don’t congregate with them on street corners, avoid eye contact with them and if that’s not possible, nod politely and run away as soon as you can. And don’t try to argue with them—if you do, that makes you just as stupid. Which is probably the best advice—don’t be stupid yourself. If people are always saying you’re stupid, it’s probably a pretty good indication that you are, and that you need to change and not be so stupid. If you are around a lot of people who act stupid, and you decide to hang around for a while, you’re stupid, so you need to quit that. If you think someone has mistaken you for a stupid person, and the best you can say is, “am not, am not!”, well, you’re probably stupid. So, there you go. Worth exactly what it cost you to get in the door. In my many circumlocomotions, I also found a great treasure in our flower bed—a worn-out lawnmower blade, a brand new blade puller, and brand new Craftsman 12 inch adjustable wrench. Right out there in the open, left by the lawnmower repair fairies (who have names like Bud and Ed). Well, well, a nice new wrench for ME! You leave it in my yard and it’s MINE, bucko. Especially when you leave it with all your discarded cardboard and plastic bagging! Kept on cutting until my next-door neighbor’s middle-aged son came home and asked him if he had lost a wrench. Finally figured out it was his brother who had left all the junk out there. So I gave him his wrench and blade puller back. You didn’t really think I was going to keep it, did you? Finished up, then went to Marvin’s down at the foot of the hill for some weed killing chemicals. I have given up on finding the stuff that kills nutgrass, but I figured I had better find something because everything else is about to take over what’s not already taken over by nutgrass. Got back quickly—they had a new cashier whose idea of conversation was rudimentary at best, and she was not able to fall back on being young and blonde. Hooked up the sprayer and carefully poured in the prescribed amount of liquid destruction and after taking a big swig for myself, set about to spray everything down. Finished that and then it was time to get ready to go to the store. Reba had mentioned several times during the day that there was a wonderful sale going on at the High-Priced Purveyor of Moderate-Quality Goods, but by the time I finished all my stuff, she was worn to a frazzle by the combined effects of laundry and naughty little children. So, Wal-Mart. Of course! But first, kids in the tub, heads scrubbed, hair dried, then Mom and Dad similarly cleansed, and it was off to shop. BUT FIRST, we got some grub at Bennigan’s. Despite my ongoing hate affair with this place, I decided to stop in anyway because it was close and I was hungry. This time, the service was good, the waitress was professional, and the food was good and hot. First time we’ve ever hit the Trifecta like that. (For Jim Smith’s benefit, I had the smothered chicken—served with onions, mushrooms, Swiss cheese, bacon, and a tiny little pillow over the bird’s head. I have never like the idea of eating anything smothered—it just sounds like a bad way to go.) Got out of there and rolled over to Pappy Walton’s and spent the next three hours wandering around. Reba and Ashley and Rebecca stayed over in the clothes, while Jonathan and Catherine and I looked at fish, shampoo, bug killer, Japanese beetle traps, the bathroom, DVDs (I got The Great Escape with Steve McQueen. Incredible movie, although I’ve only seen it little. That Steve McQueen guy was cool—none like him today), video games, toilet paper (we need a monkey…::chuckling lightly::), various snack foods, bathroom, car stuff, books, bathroom, then back to the books again before we were finally summoned to go check out. Wow. That’s some expensive stuff, whatever it was. (But at least we were helping out the economy, according to this story.) Home, bed, up, breakfast, church, lunch, monkey talk, home, read paper, doze fitfully while slobbering on the couch, back to church, lead singing (without coughing a single time), home, supper, bed, here, meet, scramble around trying to tie up loose ends, type, post, and then go meet some more. Whee.
Hey--I made it!!
And now I have to go waste it on a staff meeting. ::sigh:: Oh well, could be worse, I suppose. Friday, August 22, 2003
Getting to be that time...
Soccer last night--Boy had his first practice and nearly ran himself in the ground. He has about four kids on his team that were on it in the spring--unfortunately, the ones who seem to take great pleasure in being constant nuisances. Middle Girl had her practice and was run around mercilessly, too, but tickled to pick up the handy skill of sliding on the ground to steal the ball away from someone. (Stealing the ball is called 'tackling' in soccer, but I steadfastly refuse to use that term because if you actually do a nice open field tackle on someone and put them on their backs in the grass, you get a penalty. What sort of game is that!? Well, it AIN'T football, that's for sure.) Reba had to go up to the school for a meet-the-teacher night for Jonathan's class. He got the same teacher Rebecca had last year, and she had nothing but high praise for both of them. She shouldn't have too much trouble out of Jonathan--I think he's rather sweet on her. Got home at nearly nine, then had to turn around and go get gas in Reba's van, then come back and try to get everyone in bed. Took forever, due to homework left undone. Grr. Tonight, right back at it--Jonathan has practice again, and Rebecca's team is scrimmaging the 11 year old BOYS!! I imagine her team will do very well--the boys tend to not think the girls are any good, and hold back a bit to keep from hurting any of them, which, given the group of girls on her team means that the boys should get their clocks cleaned. These girls, even at 11 years old, are big and fast and good. Should be fun to watch. Then, tomorrow, I HAVE to get out and cut the weeds down. They are taking over, and I haven't done my farm duties for far too long. And then, yet another trip to the park in the afternoon for YET ANOTHER scrimmage for Rebecca's team. I suppose I have no reason to be tired since I'm not the one out there running around, but still, I sense an impending period of great fatigue. And then there's our normal allotment of churching-up on Sunday, and I imagine there will be several small children in our house who will be plotting my overthrow as benevolent dictator during the weekend, and I forsee much effort expended trying to stay on top of the ever-lengthening honey-do list, and probably some food in there, and probably no nice, long, naps. BUT IN ANY CASE, I think I will head toward the ranch and see what happens, and if I make it back in one piece on Monday, I might even write something about it. (Not that I ever do anything like that, but you never know...) SO, you all go and have yourselves a nice weekend and let's see how it goes!
Fires, vanadalism hit cars at dealership WEST COVINA, Calif. (AP) -- Fires at an auto dealership destroyed several SUVs and a warehouse Friday. Other vehicles were vandalized with scrawled messages that included "Fat, Lazy, Americans."Fat? Lazy? Maybe so, Sweetpea, but I can always go on a diet. On the other hand, you'll always be an idiot. It might be putting too fine a point on it, but these precocious little imps never seem to understand that the burning of a single vehicle or building releases more toxins and pollutants into the environment than a lifetime of driving done by a whole fleet of vehicles. Morons.
West Nile: Caution, not panic, urged
Well, I'll be! I bet everyone was sitting around, just WAITING for the Panic Alert to be issued.
Mother given 25 years for placing infant in hot oven WETUMPKA, Ala. (AP) -- A 27-year-old woman pleaded guilty to attempted murder and received a 25-year prison term for placing her infant daughter in a hot oven.Would that her sentence was 25 years, served in an oven set on broil. But that's just my cruel and unusual side talking.
For a little light reading...
Those of you who may wish to find out all the reasonings behind the current Broadway show going on at our Supreme Court building in Montgomery, here is the original case opinion (pdf format) detailing the case for and against the placement of the monument, and the judge's ruling on the matter, then there's the appellate ruling from the 11th Circuit Court of Appeals (pdf format) which was issued back on July 1, and the final order from the original judge (Word format--silly thing kept crashing when downloaded as a pdf file) issued back on August 5. They give a good run down of the story of the whole production, unburdened by all the yammering.
Newhart Sets Sights on 'ER' for Guest Arc By Nellie Andreeva::sigh:: Yet another plum role, PLAYING AN ARCHITECT, goes to some other guy. And I WEAR GLASSES, too! AND, I can do that telephone-call schtick just as well as Newhart---"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. You say you're INSIDE the wall? Uh-huh. And the contractor has left for the day... Mmmhm. Are you near the bathroom? Oh. Well that might be a problem then." I would rather play opposite of Maura Tierney, though. Or Ming-Na Wen. Rrrowll.
The Kiss of Death--Al Sharpton to endorse governor's tax proposal THOMAS SPENCERSay goodnight, Gracie. If there was anything Bob Riley DIDN'T need, it was this lunatic coming to town. (It's not like we don't already have them pouring in over the gunwales already...)
Peg Watches Man Eat Burger...
And it makes the AP wire!!--Man Eats Burger in Every Kansas County (Of course, Mrs. Britton's version of events is much more interesting.)
In news about one of our other limelight-seeking, self-aggrandizing, mental homunculi--Scrushy continues to live the high life MICHAEL TOMBERLINOH BOO HOO! They should have cashed out early, just like Dickie-baby, and they could be living the high life, too. Donald Watkins, a Birmingham lawyer representing Scrushy, said Thursday his client has not done anything wrong and shouldn't have to change his lifestyle.Of course not. But everyone, please, just remember that past performance is no guarantee of future results. I mean, you know, it might lose a lot of money and have to be written off on taxes or something. Man, that would be terrible. Watkins said the boat race will do Scrushy good. Scrushy has entered his 40-foot Skater racing boat Monopoly in Sunday's "Thunder on the Gulf Coast" Super Boat Grand Prix event, and Marin Inc. is a sponsor of the race weekend.Oh, good. You know, I bet there are scads of former HealthSouth employees and broke stockholders who have just been beside themselves with worry wondering if po' Rich was doing okay and feeling good about himself. A nice boat race should cheer him us just fine--like a nice golf game does for O.J. Among the boats scheduled to race in the event is one owned by Nick Carter of the Backstreet Boys singing group. Watkins said Scrushy will pilot Monopoly.Oooh, Backstreet Boy meets Backroom Blowhard! I hope there's video. "I thought that was a healthy exercise for him to undertake," Watkins said. "I just told him if he decided to enter the race, he must win."At all costs? (Sorry, how impertinent of me.) Watkins said he is confident Scrushy will never have to surrender any of the wealth he accumulated while serving as chief executive of HealthSouth. Surveys in Fortune magazine have shown Scrushy was one of the nation's highest-paid CEOs.Of course he's confident. That's what he gets paid to be. Watkins said he recently joined Scrushy and his family on a trip to the Bahamas. Though Watkins was pursuing a business venture there, he said the Scrushys were there for pleasure. [...]And who doesn't need a little pleasure in life, eh? Oh, by the way, the business deal was reported here, and involves expanding Watkins' banking business to the Bahamas. Not that there's anything wrong with that. He also assures all of us that his client has no involvement in the venture. Oh. Okay then. Scrushy's spending comes after the SEC failed to persuade U.S. District Judge Inge Johnson in Birmingham to freeze Scrushy's assets, estimated at $150 million.But isn't enough that he's happy? At the hearing, SEC attorney Bill Hicks argued Scrushy shouldn't be allowed to "continue living the lifestyle of the rich and famous when every dollar he spends is one less dollar that will be around to compensate the victims at the end."Oh come now, let's remember HE'S a victim, too. No, really. In that hearing, Scrushy's attorneys argued he needed $223,237 per month to cover basic living expenses such as $3,180 for lawn maintenance at his mansions and $13,000 to pay the crew on his yacht. [...]So terribly, TERRIBLY, misunderstood... Bebel said Scrushy's public extravagance is likely not to win him new fans.Confidence inspired by the continued flow of cash--I would think that the percentage of supporters on his personal payroll is probably much higher than among the general public. Anyway, live it up, Dick.
California Gov. Suffers Double Blow of Bad News By Adam TannerWow--not only have evil Republicans tried to steal the governship, they have somehow managed to replace California's Congressional Democrats with ZOMBIES!! AND at least 576 of 993 likely California voters!! Boy, if poor Gray had only installed a 5,300 pound block of Old Testamentation, all of this could have been avoided!! Thursday, August 21, 2003
Ahhh--memories of life upon the Plains: Residents accuse trailer parks of discrimination The Associated PressThe more things change, eh? Oh, the nostalgia this brought back. Webster's was up the road a bit from Campus Trailer Court where I lived (long-time readers will remember my recollections of my tidy 7'x22' Terry Taurus Travel Trailer dwelling/changing room--scroll down to the entry for the 6th because Blogger is still stupid). Webster's was where all the really cool rich kids lived, and had quite the party reputation. Campus, on the other hand, was pretty darned quiet to have so many college kids in it. Although, I have to say that the family of screaming itinerant laborers and their assorted womenfolk who moved in next door during my junior year were a bit on the boisterous side. You know how folks are.
Oh, they're getting better!
Just got another nice e-mail from a guy in Nigeria--but with a twist!!: Jeff Adams. [yadda-yadda "liquefied Natural Gas (LNG) project", "over-invoiced", "we have worked out all modalities", "please contact me...with the following...Account Number", "Please be informed that this subject is classified sensitive"] Yours Faithfully, Jeff Adams.Most of these things are automatic deletes, but the use of a plain old Anglo-Saxon name was such a nice touch. Deserving of an answer: Jeff? THE Jeff Adams I went to high school with!? The last I heard, you and Nelda had gotten married and were living in Gulfport, Mississippi!! How in the world did you wind up over there in Nigeria? Are y'all still together?Nah, I didn't sign it. He knows me, after all.
That Peg Britton gal sure knows how to eat! [...] We ate at Potrillos, or however it is spelled. I like #19, Brit had #15. Actually, I like them all. [...]My father was quite fond of peanut butter and dill pickles on white bread sandwiches. Smooth, though, not crunchy. And by the way, Miss Peg, consider your arm twisted.
Hamas abandons truce after Israeli strike
I realize I am unsophisticated in the ways of the world, but it seems to me that Hamas abandonded the truce when one of its learned and esteemed academic clerics boarded a bus full of civilians and triggered his explosive belt.
A refreshing beverage AND a handy writing fluid!--NBA's LeBron James Inks Deal with Coke
Having suffered through the effects of a spewing 20 ounce bottle of the diet version while driving to work this morning, I can attest to its indelible qualities. At least when applied to a white oxford cloth dress shirt. OOPS! It appears there was some sort of headline snafu--here ya go: LeBron James Signs Deal With Sprite Okay, I hope that's more clear. Thank you, folks! You've been a great audience--be safe getting home!
Well, whaddya know...
The story is still being edited together, but the basics are that the other sitting members of the Alabama Supreme Court have agreed to overrule Chief Justice Moore: [...] The associate justices wrote that they are "bound by solemn oath to follow the law, whether they agree or disagree with it." Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Say what? Man with ear ache gets vasectomy
He's probably figured this out by now, but that ain't gonna help any.
Oh please...Dems start group to try to 'recall' Bush By SHARON THEIMERYou know, what's sad is that the reporter felt it necessary to include that last sentence.
What a cool idea!
The Bryn Mawrvelous Irene Adler has decided to host a story-writing contest!. You got yourself until September 19, so get to work.
This one's for the fellows at the Barbecue Emporium: Hunting wild hogs requires stamina By ELLIOTT MINORCletus' free-range barbecue idea suddenly becomes even more enticing.
Well, it's not like they're in charge anyway...Supreme Court rejects last-minute Alabama chief justice appeal By GINA HOLLANDIt is at times like these I am reminded of the words of a famous Oscar-winning American actor... Overture, curtains, lights, This is it, the night of nights. No more rehearsing and nursing a part, We know every part by heart! Overture, curtains, lights, This is it, you'll hit the heights. And oh what heights we'll hit, On with the show this is it! Tonight what heights we'll hit On with the show this is it!
[Maynard G. Krebs] WORK!?! [/Maynard G. Krebs]
A whole line of stables to muck out today, so blogitude will be light. In the meantime, Possumblog's Iron Ranger and Yankee States Reporter, Toni Albani, sent me word that the Minnesota State Fair in St. Paul will be beginning TOMORROW, and will run through Labor Day. Sadly, Lynyrd Skynyrd had to cancel, so you will all have to do an impromptu karaoke version of "Sweet Home Alabama", BUT there is still a way to smell "That Smell"! The State Fair in EVERY state is one of the best places to enjoy the rich aroma of Food On A Stick, and to assist you in this effort, the Minnesota State Fair has a handy food directory you can use. Just scroll down to the bottom, choose the category "On-A-Stick" from the dropdown menu, press search, and you will be rewarded with information on FIFTY-FOUR purveyors of tasty, nutritious, skewered fare, such as Bayou Bob's Gator Shack, which has Alligator (aka Chicken of the Swamp) On a Stick; Cheese on a Stick, which, in a shot to the head to snotty ironic postmodernism, actually serves cheese on a stick (with lemonade!); Grannie's Kitchen Fudge Puppies, serving those wonderful Belgian waffles dipped in Swiss chocolate, topped with a crunch coating and whipped topping (on a stick, I might add); all the way to the piscine crown jewel of Minnesota, Walleye on a Stick--BUT WAIT!! It's not JUST on a stick, it can also be had on a bun, and in a boat! I WILL eat it on a stick! I WILL eat it on a bun, and on a boat! I LOVE Walleye on a Stick! Anyway, y'all go look while I do something productive with my morning (and Miss Toni wanted you all to know she cribbed the link from those baseball-loving regular guys over at Fraterslibertas.com). Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Here's the story about the e-mail virus we all seem to have been getting today: New Fast-Spreading Sobig Worm Adds to 'Worm Week' [...] Sobig.F, a variant of an older worm, began spreading on Monday in Europe and has infected an estimated tens of thousands of Windows-based computers, said Patrick Hinojosa, chief technology officer at Panda Software, based in Madrid.Probably bears repeating, but DON'T OPEN FILES YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT.
Constant Positive Reinforcement…and FOOD!!
As you all know, I live for constant positive reinforcement, so imagine my surprise to see Chet the E-Mail Boy scuttle out of the coat closet to let me know I had received the following: Re:Sriracha!Oh, holy cats--another Nigerian e-mail! I have read and enjoyed your blog for months now.I admire your both your fortitude and your ability to lie convincingly! It was then that I read down and figured out that this was not from a spammer, but in fact, was a letter from an actual person. (Imagine!) Congratulations on discovering Sriracha hot sauce. It IS very tasty. As a 12 year resident of California, I have enjoyed it for many years, but didn't realize it was so hard to find, or so poorly known.Ah, yes—the wonderful, tasty concoction from our good friends at Huy Fong Foods, Inc. I don't know which it is--the little Chinese place we visited certainly puts great stock in it, so it may be better known than I realized. I just haven't found it in the bigger grocery stores yet. The Roomba Queen of Vidalia (who likes off-beat hot sauces, too) mentioned that she is familiar with Huy Fong's brand of salsa, Sambal Oeleck. Anyway, the Sriracha is good stuff--I first tried a little dab on an egg roll, and then started slathering it on everything. I have shipped it to my father in Chicago, and when I recently moved to Texas, I had to bring several bottles with me, as none was available locally. I offer the following suggestions for your further enjoyment.Well, as anyone who has ever read this pile of poo knows, you send in a recipe, and it gets posted!! But then, suddenly, the tone turns somber: Unfortunately for me, I fail several of the key tests for inclusion in the Axis of Weevil, (infrequent blog updates, no ties whatsoever to AL.) but perhaps, with work, some of my other character faults can compensate?Boy howdy, a cry for help if I ever heard one. I don’t know what we can do, though…everyone knows what sticklers we are for strict adherence to the rules around here. Of course, there is the oft-abused Calvinball rule... Congrats on your 12 years of marriage, and thanks for writing.Thank you very much, Bill, and thank you for writing to me. As I have told several of you, it never ceases to amaze me that anyone would ever read the silly mess I post, much less that they would ever come back for more! So, thank you, Bill, and thanks for the recipe!
French rock legend files defamation suit
"French rock legend"? A bit like being the world's shortest giant, no?
Oh. Boy.
Gender imbalance: Dallas County women flex massive muscles in choirs, on jobs and around town where ... A good man is hard to find CARLA CROWDERIs it just me, or does this sound like it has the makings of a brand new reality show? Maybe send in some nice Yankee guy to get mauled by desperate Dallas Countiettes. Naaaah, to make it more interesting, they would probably have to make it more difficult than that--maybe send in a midget Slovakian lesbian nuclear scientist or something. (Boy, am I gonna get some weird search hits now.) "We're in trouble," said Ashley Edwards, an Auburn student from Selma.OOOooooooWHEEE!!--looks like a catfight brewing!! Both women pondered their hometown gender imbalance on a recent Tuesday at Debbie's Shear Talent, a hair salon on the north side of Selma.For all you single guys, here's the map to the salon. It's not a problem for her, she's been married 12 years. Veach met her husband right in Dallas County, and says the dating situation is far from hopeless.Remember this, guys: Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not from some farcical aquatic ceremony. Indeed, the banks of the Alabama River appear fertile for more than just crappie and blue gill. Two pickup spots have earned the nicknames "Little Miami" and "Fort Lauderdale," say the lunchtime chatters gathered in the courthouse probate office.You know, there's an old joke about Adam and Eve and the river that I'm just NOT going to tell. "My husband's got boat fever, that ought to tell me something," said Chief Probate Clerk Suzanne Ingram, who was unfamiliar with the riverside courting spots. She was however, familiar with two women in their 60s who fled Selma to Alabama towns known to have more eligible fellas.Towns, you will note, which are not named. Mighty suspicious, if you ask me. And I think if I was Mrs. Ingram, I'd be putting the quietus on that boat deal right quick. Dallas County men still complain. Apparently, the plethora of women gives them license to be choosy.Of course, it's cheaper just to put in an ISDN line and order 'em off the Internet. I guess--I mean, I really don't know. "There are serious quality issues here, people who are heavily recycled," said Stephen McLamb, a 38-year-old single man, who gave a nod to the two-river rule. [...]No offense intended, Stephen, but don't you think it's a bit much for a single 38-year-old to blame quality control issues and intensive reuse for not being able to hook up? I mean, there's 1.29 women for every guy, right? Seems like you could at least find that point-two-niner and ask her out. Residents of smaller outlying towns such as Orrville and Safford were surprised to learn about Dallas County's gender breakdown.Yep. Reckon prob'ly so.
You know...
Around here, we used to say, "Thank goodness for Mississippi"--well, time for some updating: Bride in Conn. Rages at Reception, Jailed SOUTH WINDSOR, Conn. - A North Haven bride spent part of her wedding night in a jail cell, after police said she hurled things at reception hall workers who closed the bar.Thanks for taking up some of the slacker slack, Nutmeg Staters! (Wicked cool tats, by the way.)
Mmmmm-- Stocks waffle in mixed trading; Dow down 19
Ham radios came to rescue in blackout Sounds like...Breakfast!!
Hmmm.
This one is timestamped at 10:56 a.m. CT--FCC cracks down on unsolicited fax messages While this one is timestamped at 10:29 a.m. CT--FCC delays rules on junk faxes to 2005 You fellows go sort this out and get back to me. I have some nice Nigerian fellow on the phone right now who wants to give me $10,000,000 (Ten Millions UNITIED STATES DOLLARS!!).
There's someone with a virus out there--(Yes, really! Believe it or not!) I have gotten about twelve e-mails this morning with attached .scr and .pif files. They all have normal addresses, which means it's probably a variation on the virus that scoops up names out of someone's address book or outbox file along with various subject lines that have been used (i.e. Re: Your report, Re: You'll love this, Re: That movie, etc.), and then sends itself out using those names.
Remember, if you get something that is supposed to be from me, I never, EVER send out attached files unsolicited. DO NOT OPEN anything from anyone, including me, unless you are certain that it doesn't contain a virus. UPDATE: I just got an Undeliverable Mail message from an address with someone at the State of Michigan, indicating I had sent this person an e-mail with an attached virus. Again, just because my address is in the 'From' space, doesn't mean I sent it! It appears Mac is having the same problems, too. Chet the E-Mail Boy is now cowering in the coatroom. I told him it was not his fault, but you know how he is.
You know, I don't think I've ever read an AP headline like this--Ex-Guard Sentenced for Peeing on Inmates
I mean, etiquette seems to demand a more genteel, more clinical word. Then again, I guess they don't call it "A P" for nuthin'.
From the "Well, You Don't Read THAT Everyday" File: Giant Komodo dragon receives acupuncture The Associated PressHe still gets nervous at the dentist's office, though.
Alabama chief justice asks appeals court to stay monument removal MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- Alabama Chief Justice Roy Moore turned to a federal appeals court in an attempt to block the removal of his Ten Commandments monument from the Alabama Judicial Building.On and on. I got to thinking about it over the weekend and I wondered if Jedge Roy doesn't get his way with the U.S. Supreme Court, will he just refuse to obey that ruling too? Would certainly make sense given his current state of agitation. And make a fine show, indeed.
Since someone tripped on the cord a few days back...
and a sizable swath of the Northeast was without power (and some folks still are), I thought it was interesting to note the reactions of people--the media were quick to get out stories from titheads in various backwaters gloating about the disaster--you know, 'Amriki now knows our pain', 'Oh, America is not so powerful now', etc. Whatever. I also noted that New Yorkers ran their affairs pretty darned well--you know, like regular everyday folks getting out in intersections and directing traffic. They could have raged and marched and cried and screamed and ululated and all that garbage like it was some enlightened, noble Third World bedpan, but there was work to be done and some Joe Blow (or his sister, Josephine) out on the street did it. No one had to tell them, no one had to order them at gunpoint, and they didn't have to ask what to do. They just knew what had to get done. Somehow, I just can't imagine the same thing happening in Tinpotistan. Thus pointing out the difference between the truly civilized and the ones who just pretend. Yes, it was bad, and unnerving, and massively expensive, and is still going on in some places. But guess what? We'll get it fixed. Monday, August 18, 2003
And tonight?
A triumph of event scheduling conducted entirely by wild arm-waving and gesticulation! I have to pick up the dry cleaning, go by the in-laws to pick up their mail, get home in time to choke down some food, then turn right around and load up Middle Girl for soccer practice, AND take Boy and Baby Girl with me to the park, because Mom has to go to a meeting at school with Baby Girl's teacher to discuss all the wonderful things the dear child will learn this year. It is at times like these I realize how odd it is to have more than one child. The teacher meeting was specifically noted as being PARENTS ONLY. No children. "Send the parent who works more closely with child on homework." Right. Which would be fine if you have someone to watch your child, or only one child to watch, but having a litter of puppies with a broad range of ages and extracurricular activities makes such exercises a real test of endurance. Of which I have precious little. Maybe I could teach the 10 year old to drive.
Derned Blogger! Some days it won't post at all, then some days it posts the same thing three times!!
Sorry about that.
Interesting...Students' behavior instruction covers bullying
Not how to. How NOT to. In any event, what an odd little story: By JENNIFER GINSBERGSo far, so good... Under the Oxford school's new plan, teachers will discuss four levels of social behavior with their students: democracy, cooperation, bullying and anarchy. The students will learn that the only two acceptable levels at school are democracy, which is having total self-discipline[What th'?], and cooperation, which is following directions [Again, WTF?].Since when did democracy become the equivalent of having total self-discipline? When did cooperation start meaning "you do what I say"? Laudable goals to try to get the little imps to behave, but I believe I see an attempt by someone to cover the unpleasant necessity of maintaining a sane classroom environment (i.e.--NOT a democracy, and NOT a give and take between two equal partners) with some feel-good words designed to make parents feel warm and fuzzy. If students behave on the bullying or anarchy levels, the teacher will ask them reflective questions to help them understand their behavior.How sweet. Little Alex will quit his ultraviolence double fast! Then the teacher will ask the rest of the class how the misbehaving student can move from this level to one of the two acceptable levels.But aren't we afraid of stigmatizing the poor dear by holding him forth as a negative example? Will his self-esteem be damaged by being castigated for exploring his ambient nature? Under the previous policy, the teacher took the student aside and explained why the action was wrong. Now the child will have to explain what they did, why it is wrong, and what would have been a better choice.Not a bad way of doing it, but for heaven's sake, just say you want teachers to be in charge of the class! "If the teacher is asking, the students will be thinking. If the teachers tell, the teachers think," said Principal Charlotte Hubbard.Oh heaven forbid we have any of the teachers thinking! As for how this will work, there are always going to be some hard core munchkins who are going to just not say anything at all. You know, cooperating democratically. So the teacher will spend good classroom time trying to get poor Jim Bob to confess to his crimes. Yeah--that happens all the time. Most of the time, when children are being punished they don't realize what they are being punished for because the punishment, not the action, captures their attention, said Ali Iran-Nejad, a professor of educational psychology in the University of Alabama's College of Education.Yep, should be. Anyway, if it's so all-fired great, let's just call it what it is. Whatever that might be. Other than democracy. At the core of this plan is to have the teacher and other students help the misbehaving student see what his or her options are.You know, like an intervention. The plan also involves a "stop, think and go" component in which teachers will instruct students to "stop" and take a deep breath, "think" about their options and "go" with their best choice.And as long as their "best choice" is the one proscribed by the manual, everything is great. You know, it's that democratic cooperation thing. "As the students explore other choices, they are better prepared to determine more effective ways to handle potential problem situations as they develop their abilities to understand cause and effect," said Vicki Braden Sharp, the director of guidance at George Washington Community School in Indianapolis.Fine, as long as you quit trying to say that limiting the choices to the things you have predetermined is equivalent to being democratic. Is it THAT hard to just say you want to be in charge? As a result of thinking about their actions in response to the reflective questions, Sharp says, the Oxford students will become more responsible by "owning" their behavior, and will be less likely to blame others.Well, whatever. Seems like an awfully long walk to get to the woodshed, though. Why not just post rules, and tell the children if they disobey them, they will receive punishment? Hubbard said she and her faculty felt they needed to have a more positive behavioral-support policy instead of the traditional punishment/reward policy.Oh. Well, that explains it, now doesn't it. Although she stresses that her main goal is to establish behaviors that will carry the children through life, Hubbard hopes the plan also will cut down office referrals. Last year, she estimates, she spent one to two hours of each day dealing with students sent to the office for discipline.Ahhhh. Now, I believe now we have finally gotten to the reason. Jim Bob's taking up too much of the PRINCIPAL'S time. Back in the olden days, there was a reason kids feared being sent to the principal's office. One tends to think, rightly or wrongly, if today's principal would take the stand that 1) This ain't no democracy, and 2) No backtalk, that she might have a few more hours in the day for some quiet time. Yes, I know, I'm being even more of a dinosaur than Barney. Julie Dikeman, the mother of a first grader at the elementary school, said she likes the new plan.Maybe. Or not. Dikeman and another mother, who requested to remain anonymous, said they are a bit concerned that the reflective questioning could take away from instruction time; especially when disciplining children who frequently misbehave.Oooh. Time out. Sent to another classroom. Sent...well, somewhere out of the classroom. But HEAVENS to BETSY, don't send the little tyke to the PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE! She's busy, you know. Hubbard plans parent-training sessions to teach parents how to use reflective questioning at home to help their children learn to do the right thing because it's the right thing to do, and not for a reward.Uh huh. Start that questioning, and *poof* the scales fall from their eyes. I realize that there's probably more to this story than what's reported in the paper, but still, it reeks of misdirection and psychopablum. No, kids shouldn't be rewarded for NOT MISbehaving (Can I have a cookie? I didn't kill anyone!). It's not good for them to expect a reward simply for doing the right thing (Give me a cookie--I did my homework). They should expect to get in trouble if they misbehave, and (believe it or not) it won't hurt for them to be rewarded for exceptionally good behavior. They should come to an understanding that their actions have consequences, and that it is in their power to make those decisions, and that they can't blame anyone else when they make the wrong choices. BUT, it does them no good to insist they have a choice when it comes to the rules. Oh, it might take away the scary image of mindless little child drones sitting in ranks in front of a mean old battle axe, and now the principal gets to be seen as the Friendly Helpful Buddy Pal Flower Friend, but let's cut the pretense that this is some sort of shiny package of goodness and enlightenment. If you really want democracy and cooperation, send 'em to a Montessori school.
Okay now…
Well, first, the trip to Fine-Fingered Felicia, my Fysician, who let me know that, just like the old song says, I’m doing pretty good for the shape I’m in. Still need to lose some more avoirdupois through the twin evils of more exercise and fewer calories, so as not to burden my children with my invalidity later on in life. ::sigh:: But I WANT to burden them! I want to climb in bed with them and pee! I want to throw bits of paper all around their houses! I want to leave towels all over their bathrooms! I want to run to my room and cry when they turn off the television! Is that too much to ask? Of course not. Anyway, that taken care of, you may recall there was another big event I was leading up to when we last spoke. So what was that whole anniversary thing like, you ask? Well, first let me say that of all of the suggestions I received, Nate McCord’s was very nearly spot on. Now don’t feel bad, but I had already begun shopping around before I put out the solicitation for ideas—I just thought it would be neat to see what you all came up with. As I said, though, Nate got closest. But I get ahead of myself. As you recall, last Friday there was some talk of skullduggery and sweatiness. This was occasioned by a lunchtime ramble—first stop, Parisian. They had a very pretty necklace there that I saw a couple of months ago, and so I went back Friday to get it and found another one that I liked even better—simple long strand of freshwater pearls with two little dangly pearl tassels on the end. I had told Mrs. Gore that I had been looking around at some of the local antique stores, but I never did quite find what I was looking for, but this one fit the bill nicely and has a sort of antiquey feel. Thus hardwared, it was time to head over to the software store for some roses. Since we haven’t been eating lunch together a lot lately, I figured I would surprise her by bringing these directly to her. Whenever I send her flowers, it seems to make all the other women in her office jealous, so an in-person delivery makes it even more green-eye inducing. (She likes the flowers, but I think she likes showing off, too. Heh.) Anyway, a nice arrangement of pale peach roses it was (trying to stay in the silk/pearl color palette, y’know). Now then, the delivery…I had intended to sneak the necklace into her van, so I set off with the jug of flowers and the plastic bag containing my nicely gift-wrapped treasure, but then realized I was going to have to make a slight detour so she wouldn’t accidentally see me out the window, or worse, one of her coworkers see me going into the garage. Oh well, it was only about 190 degrees, so four extra blocks was nothing. Even if your hands are getting sweaty, and that pretty vahhhhz of flowers and gallon of water is getting heavy. Got to the garage about ten minutes later thoroughly drenched in possumy perspiration, but unseen by anyone. Walked around inside for a while and finally found her van, opened the door and laid the gift box on the seat and covered it up with a handy piece of paper, then scooted back downstairs and back out into the heat. Did I mention it was hot? Block and a half on down, and walk in with roses to universal applause and envy and placed them on Reba’s desk. TaDAAAAAH! Then back to work. Good old work, where I tracked my UPS shipment to see that the pearl-colored silk charmeuse Grand Prize had only an hour before been delivered to our door. (As I said, Nate was spot on as far as sexy and silky, but Miss Reba is a gown girl.) I love it when a plan comes together! Well, almost. Got home, found that Oldest had gotten the UPS box inside, I opened it up, laid the handsome gift box upon Reba’s side of the bed with her cards, and greeted her when she got home with the younger kids. She marveled at my sneakiness in getting her jewelry hidden in the van, and then went upstairs to freshen up before we went out to eat. Oh, and what’s this!? Why, Terry, how sweet you are!! Yes, I know!! She opened the lingerie box and was all aquiver at the naughty sheerness of it. “But, you know what?” Oh no. No, no, no. “I started this morning…” Done in by Aunt Minnie!! Pummeled by Aunt Flo!! Stabbed in the back by Cousin Tom! Overrun by the danged Commies! CURSES!! ::sigh:: Well, we still got to go out to a nice restaurant. Got the kids bundled back into the van and started out to my mom’s house, dropped by the chicken place to get them something to eat, then dropped them out with strict instructions to be good little children and not kill anyone, then Reba and her friend and I went on to the Galleria. Haven’t been there in a long time, and it seemed strangely empty for a Friday night. It’s not that there weren’t people, but there just didn’t seem to be the same bustle there was when it was new. Which is to be expected, I suppose. It was sad to see the Macy’s closed down—it was one of the original anchors of the place, and even had its very own parking deck. Odd to feel nostalgic for a gigantic mall tenant, but there you go. Anyway, we decided to drop by the Wynfrey Hotel in the mall and see what was going on and found that the precious little Chicory Grille was having their normal Friday seafood buffet, so we decided to get that. Pretty good—I got a salad, and then a tiny piece of Salmon with Incredibly Rich Sauce, and some Pecan Encrusted Chicken and Crab, and a few bits of smoked salmon, and a little piece of Genuine Authentic New Orleans Blackened Style Catfish, and some of the Fried Seafood Medley, consisting mainly of calamari since no one likes calamari and everyone had already picked out the shrimp and oysters. Pretty good, I suppose. The grilled salmon was a little too much, and the chicken was ever so slightly tough. The Blackened Catfish wasn’t. I realize that the Prudhommerie was very popular ten years ago, and blackening has now been extended to every conceivable meat, but you know, when you say “blackened”, you tend to think “blackened”, and not broiled or poached with Cajun seasoning. Thick piece of meat, a nice, even, light caramel color all over, with lots of pretty sprinkles. Good, but blackened it wasn’t, which requires you to throw a spicy buttered catfish onto a nearly red hot iron skillet. It flames up and creates a ton of toxic smoke, but when done right is REAL good. (Don’t try this at home unless you’re outside using a gas burner.) The calamari was okay—the flavor was good but it had been sitting out a bit too long. I never have been particularly fond of it anyway, especially after seeing Kirk Douglas poke one with a harpoon. The dessert table was…interesting. Lots of cakes and pies and stuff, all artfully arranged on framed mirrors. Not trays, mind you; actual framed mirrors, with deeply carved Baroque-Style™ wood frames—deep carvings which would seem to be perfect hiding places for any one of about a billion different types of germs which would attack your insides without thinking twice. I appreciate the intended effect, but you know—and I realize this just may be the unsophisticated hick in me—but I think I would rather keep the picture frames up off the table and on the wall where they belong. Of course, trying to get the cheesecake and apple pie to stay on the wall would be a problem, I’m sure, but still… Anyway, we got finished up and completely stuffed, so we walked around the mall for a bit to work off some of the meal. Window shopped for girl stuff for a while, and finally got Miss Reba into a popular mid-priced mass retailer, where I FINALLY found the pair of dress shoes I’ve been trying to get forever. Nice pair of black Florsheim wingtips, built the way God intended with a real leather sole and heel. And they were on sale! And they are the size of clown shoes! I asked for my normal size, 9 1/2 D, which they didn’t have, because since that’s a common size, they don’t have any. They did have a 10 EEE. Why, that’s RIDICULOUS! It’ll FALL OFF my foo…hmmm, hey, you know what? These feel pretty darned good! So, I now have gigantic comfortable shoes. Back to my mom’s house, where we discovered that the children had indeed acted exactly like children, so after sternly demanding apologies to Granny Jean from each, it was time to hit the road and go home. And even though the small craft advisory flag was up, Reba did agree to at least try on her new thin filmy thing for me to gain some momentary amusement. SO, kids to bed and on with the show! Which lasted about five seconds, which was the time required to see that I had made an error in judgment as far as size. If only I had gotten it in 10 EEE, everything would have been fine—too loose is much more better than too tight. ::sigh:: At least there is a handy return receipt. Up Saturday, nice breakfast, a special anniversary song from Rebecca and Jonathan, laundry, and after almost two months, I finally got the curtains hung back up in the kitchen. Went and got a few groceries and then started getting the kids cleaned up early so as to take them shopping for some school clothes. Good grief, they sure are expensive little animals. And time consuming. Four hours of fun trying on clothes and trips to the restroom. We got the younger three outfitted, which reduced me to a a fine pulp, so Reba and Ashley went to go shop for her stuff and I went out in the food court to find a place to sit and stare at people. I got the kids an ice cream cone apiece and we sat down as they jabbered happily and managed to eat their treat without a single wayward glob escaping onto their clothing or hair. Small wonder. Thus sugared-up, I made them endure an hour of sitting quietly with me on a bench. Reba and Oldest finally came out, and seeing as how none of us had eaten lunch, we figured we would get something quick there in the food court. Ashley started yammering about eating at the Ming Wok place and seeing as how I was tired and hungry and in no mood to suggest alternatives, that’s where we ate. You know, scientific folks say the human body is made up of about 60-70% water. I have discovered a way to alter this so that your entire insides turn completely liquid. I believe it has to do either with eating from a diffidently prepared seafood buffet, or from a food court Chinese restaurant near closing time. In either case, or by whatever cause, I have since become quite a prokaryotic playground. At least they’re having a good time. So, home from shopping and directly to bed for the kiddies and directly to the porcelain throne for yours truly, which allowed me a few moments of quiet time to enjoy MY anniversary present from Miss Reba, Rudy Giuliani’s book, Leadership. It came packaged with a thin book of quotations, too, which is kind of neat since I like quotations—an apt one for my condition could be one from Socrates: “Let him who would move the world, first move himself.” Moving, indeed. Finally to bed, then up again Sunday and to church, where I managed to make it through an entire 45 minutes of class without exploding like Mr. Creosote. Good service, then on to visit Ashley’s other grandparents, about which, as always, I will say nothing. Other than they gave Catherine YET ANOTHER Skating Barbie. After we managed to leave, Cat scrambled to get it out of the sack to play with in the van, then started protesting for the tiny accessories that came with it. Reba told her no, not wanting to have to listen to her whine when she would invariably drop something under her seat. So, Tiny Terror ratcheted up the protests, and in a stunning reversal of fortune, Evil Daddy said that not only would there be no tiny water bottle or hair brush coming her way, Twirly Barbie would be going right back in the sack until we got home. Thirty minutes. Nonstop weeping of, “IwantmyBarbieIwantmyBarbieIwantmyBarbie IWANTMYBAR-BIE IwanmaBooohooobrrrreeeeewhaaaaaaaaaaa I WANT MY BARBIE IwantmyBarbieIwantmyBarbie…” Thirty solid minutes. But, you know what they say, never negotiate with terrorists. Got home and she ran off to the couch and buried her head in the cushions until such time as she figured that she might be able to work a deal. She came in the kitchen and we had a little talk about when Mommy says “No,” Mommy means “No,” and our proper response should be, “Yes, ma’am.” Hugs and kisses for Mommy, “I sorry I din’t say yes ma’am and I acted ugly.” Next, the response to losing our toy due to churlishness should never be MORE naughtiness, so we had a little talk about not going on a crying jag for half an hour. Hugs and kisses for Daddy, “I sorry I screamded in the van.” Okay, final chapter, how to ask for something in a way that approaches being a human rather than a gibbon—“Daddy, may I play with my Barbie and her stuff, please?” Absolutely. Happy as a clam. Speaking of which, I retired to the reading room for a bit more edification, then it was time to head back to church for another good sermon and then home for some supper and then to bed and then impossibly, it was once again time to get up and come to work. How does that happen? Anyway, here I am again.
HA!
Once more, I emerge from yet another weekend, weary and bleary-eyed, BUT NOT DEFEATED! Well, not a lot defeated. Anyway, a good weekend and you'll get to hear all about Gang Aft Aglae, Seafood (of a Sort), Lace Curtains, Loose Shoes, Why Is It Called Penney's When It Cost So Darned Much, My Insides Turn to Water, I WANT MY BARBIE!, and other assorted tales of an odd life, but I have to go to our staff meeting first, and then I have to type this silly mess up. SO, check back in a bit. Friday, August 15, 2003
Okay. NOW it's time for my doctor's appointment...
I called just to make sure. I don't look forward to this, mainly because I went out and did a little skullduggery during lunchtime and it's about 266 degrees outside and I got all hot and sweaty from walking all over downtown with fabulous prizes for Miss Reba. Details of which will follow, in due time. For now, though, it is time to kick off the weekend with a trip to see my health care professional. All of you have a good weekend, and I will see you all in here bright and early Monday, and you will get to hear ALLLLL about my weekend. Lucky you, eh?
Well, this is interesting...
I rely a lot on the feed from AL.com (and its sister organizations) for news and stuff, but since the blackout, they have had to switch to something of a blog format. And even more interesting, the Alabama Live! arm of the organization has set up its own separate blog. Using Blogger! (And not even Blogger-Pro, the poor guys.) One doesn't want to gloat or anything, so let's just say, 'welcome to the club, fellers.' (Mac noted this much earlier this morning, but I'm just getting around to figuring out what's going on.)
Got home yesterday afternoon and while I waited for Reba to get home with the little kids I got supper started [NOTE FOOD REFERENCES FOLLOWING] which consisted of leftovers—Spanish rice and baked chicken breasts—and the quickest things I could grab out of the freezer, some burritos and some On-Cor Salisbury steak entrees. Oh, and some canned sweet peas out of the pantry. Yes, it sounds DELICIOUS, I know, but all the meat was frozen solider that Otzi the Ice Man, and Rebecca and I had to throw down some sort of chow before traipsing off to soccer practice.
Mom home, kids start slinging book bags around and we quickly do a run down of who has what sort of homework to finish, get their agendas signed, get snacks loaded, and get Middle Girl into her shin guards and cleats. And enjoy a nice bean burrito while standing at the sink! Mmmm. SINK FOOD! Reba came back downstairs from unloading her stuff on the bed, and from having Oldest unload on her about one of her teachers—I have gotten to the point where I can’t even be around when she starts this garbage, but Reba gave me the low-down. “HE IS ::sigh:: Such fury. Such melodrama. Wednesday she was complaining that she had gotten moved to second chair for ONE tune, and that her music teacher told her the reason was that she was horrible and that she stank. Reba was handling that one, too—“Ashley! Do you mean to stand there and tell me that your teacher actually said that?!” Sullenly, “No.” Then the rage cranked back up, “BUT I KNOW SHE THINKS IT!!” ::sigh:: it’s a phase…it’s a phase…it’s a phase… Honestly folks, all I can tell you is that she doesn’t get this from us. It never seems to occur to her that some subjects might be interrelated. That someone with a master’s degree in music or history might know more than her about teaching (or anything else, for that matter). That there is such a thing as reality. That no matter how stupid you may think the assignment is, YOU STILL HAVE TO DO IT. Which is what Reba told her—“Just do your work.” Hard to argue with that. Having gotten my fill of teen angst, I fled for the wide open spaces of the soccer park. And the gas station. And the pharmacy. Multitasking, suburban-style. I dropped Bec out and told her I would be right back, then ran back and filled up Reba’s van with expensive petrochemicals (that still cost only half as much as bottled water), then on up the street a bit more to the CVS. Walked back to the counter, found that they only had one box of the icky ointment for the rash on the back of Reba’s hand, so I have to go back today, AND THEN there was that little mixup with my prescriptions… I looked down, and even though the writing was upside down, I could see across the top of all three packages that they had given me three prescriptions for something called “PROMI SED”. I kept trying to think what PromiSed might be (sounded like some sort of tranquilizer), but I KNEW it wasn’t something I was supposed to take, much less three different prescriptions for it. “Uhh, sorry, but, my medicine…” I picked up the packages and turned them around to look at the writing right-side-up, “…is not for Prom… Oh. ‘PROMISED FOR 5:00PM’…” What a friggin’ loon. The cashier looked at me quizzically, I explained that I am an idiot, and I paid my bill. Still, you gotta think that Promi-Sed would make a good name for a sedative… Back to the park, get out the folding chair and one of the Road & Tracks that Larry Anderson gave me (yes, I’m still reading them) and my Diet Pepsi and trudge down to the field. Plopped down and immediately started sweating—last night was the first time in a while that it was so nasty and humid. This summer has been very mild, so I shouldn’t complain, and I’m not…but is sure was dank. The girls were on one half of the field and the Under 16 girls were on the other half, both doing their warm-ups and dribbling drills. Which, no matter what age, is something they hate doing—the older girls had just run back and forth three times across the field and started nagging the coach about wanting to scrimmage—“Coach, can we scrimmage?” “Can we scrimmage with the boys?” “YEAH! Boys without SHIRTS!” I had to laugh at that one. The coach did, too, but he still made them stay put and do their work. Practice wound down around 8, then it was back to the house, get everyone kissed and tucked in, and then to bed. I want to be well rested for tonight, you know. My mom is going to watch the kids for a few hours, and the Missus and I are going to go kick up our heels a bit and have ourselves a fancy dinner—Part One of Our Anniversary Fun. I promise not to take my shirt off. At least in the restaurant.
Annnd, if it's not food...
Another report from our Ten Thousand Lakes correspondent, Toni Albani, who wanted to inform all of you of an important upcoming conference on November 7-9 of this year. All of you please mark your calendars.
What is it with you people and food!?
Possumblog's Tasmanian stringer Simon Roberts set Chet the E-Mail Boy to tapping with this one: Subject: Cheese!One of the great things about having small children who are kind and loving is that they make great straight men. "Catherine, would you like Daddy to cut the cheese?" "Yes, please." "Are you sure?" "Yes, Daddy--cut the cheese NOW!" Heh. Silly Daddy. Almost as good as when we're driving and they all yell that we just passed a school bus. "Did it hurt, kids?" Always good for puzzled looks. ANYWAY, back to cheese. As you all know, I am quite the cheese connoisseur. Seems like all of us have our favorites, but I am particulary smitten at the moment with the Nacho version of this. It's rich and flavorful on a saltine, or on your finger. AND it has that great trendy Southwestern flavor! MMmmm! Let me tell you, there's nothing like coming in after a hard day to a big wet gob of pressurized cheese. Thursday, August 14, 2003
New York Official Says Power Grid Overloaded WASHINGTON (Reuters) - A New York State official said the Niagara Mohawk power grid overloaded on Thursday, causing a massive power outage, CNN reported, and New York Major Michael Bloomberg said it was likely a natural occurrence. [...]Yep, just like the aurora borealis. The article goes on to say Bloomberg said there is no evidence of terrorism, which I think is what the reporter was trying to get across. "Electrical malfunction" would probably have been a better term. Then again, I went to a doctor's appointment a day early, so whadda I know?
Love, Suicide, Murder and Other Exciting Things
As told by Cletus! As an aside, Larry Anderson mentioned in the comments below that the gentlemen from the Barbecue Emporium are all het up about BJ Roberts having a seemingly non-exalted position in the Axis of Weevil blogroll up above, while newcomer Bessemer Jim flounces in and is given one of the corners. PLEASE REST ASSURED that the blogroll above is not intended in ANY WAY to show favoritism or otherwise serve as an analog of hierarchy within the group. Remember, as an anarcho-syndicalist commune, we take turns about to act as a sort of executive-officer-for-the-week. But, all the decisions of that officer have to be ratified at a special bi-weekly meeting--by a simple majority, in the case of purely internal affairs, but by a two-thirds majority, in the case of more major...ahhh, in any event, everyone's just the same, the only idea was to get the thing to display right at 800 x 600 so that everyone's name stays together and everyone fits in the margins. As for the barbecue being mislaid, all I can say is that when Benji loaded up the Maverick and headed out, he had a map to the Emporium, and when he got back, he said he gave it and the rest of the Gift Pack to some guy who said his name was Billy Joe. I asked if he was sure it was the SAME Billy Joe Bob, and he said he wasn't sure. Since it appears Mr. Roberts and the boys did miss out on their presents, we will be resending another box of stuff up their way to make up for the mixup.
Well, color me wrong all over... Alabama Justice Won't Remove Commandments By BOB JOHNSON, Associated Press WriterGot that one wrong--yesterday I said I figured he would grudgingly comply--you know, since being a state Supreme Court chief justice tends to make one think you have a respect for the rule of law and all. That, and the tendency of folks to be, rightfully, more unwilling now to follow the orders of a judge who himself refuses to follow orders from a higher court. That ugly pile of granite doesn't offend me for any other but aesthetic reasons. Nor should the fact that one of the messages is religious in nature offend anyone--if there was a justice somewhere who decided he was going to post an inflammatory anti-religious 5,280 pound monument in his court, I kind of have a feeling that the ACLU would be all over protecting his right to self-expression. BUT. Failing to comply with a lawful judicial decision simply because you disagree with it is a recipe for trouble. This is the wrong fight, for the wrong reasons. American political life is hearty enough for speech of all sorts--including that of a religious nature--but this little show of Phariseeism is getting to be a bit much.
Celebrity worship can be dangerously addictive: study
Darn. I guess I'll have to throw away all of my Alec Baldwin posters.
HOLY CATS!!
You know, it just occurred to me that I have work to do. UPDATE: AND, it now being noon, I have to go to my doctor's appointment. SO, this will be the extent of my pitiful efforts for today--tune in tomorrow, though, for even more pitiful efforts! EVEN MORE OF AN UPDATE: AND, now I have gone to lunch and then to the doctor's office, where I found out that I have completely lost all connectivity with reality. I found this out by the stunning news that my appointment is not for today, rather, it is for tomorrow. It was in my calendar for today, but that didn't seem to help. ::sigh:: It sure is hard having a brain the size of a walnut.
Extending Alabama’s Cultural Hegemony, One Blog at a Time
As you recall, one of my ever-growing stack of blogchildren by the name of Jim Smith up in East Carolina is eligible for inclusion within the swollen ranks of the Cotton State Internet Gossip and Time-Wasting Society. I was just now sitting here in the Command Center and Miss Jimmi Nell from the Registrar’s Office came in and plopped this into my inbox: Please accept this application to the Axis of Weevil. I promise to be a good boy and not start any trouble.Hmm. Well, this looks bad right off the bat… Please feel free to edit any and all the answers, I did get long winded in some of them.But then again, quoting Mel Brooks is a good move. Now, on with the actual application: 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;Remember, Jim—in blogwriting, nothing is irrelevant. 2) Not ashamed to admit to #1;They bump ‘em up to Administration pretty quick, then, eh? 4) Functionally literateWell, as long as you don’t start agitating for the company to pay for your dyslexia treatment, this shouldn’t be a problem. 6) Update your blog more than once a monthI does for now, but I ask that you refrain from ever using the N-word in my presence EVER AGAIN. 10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever readKeeps out the riff-raff. My first thought was to run away, run away, run away. No problem with the first one here, O' woodland companion of fierce rabbits. You know, it is getting harder to teach when your students have no Monty Python reference.That is why it is incumbent on you, as a shaper of young minds, to ensure that your charges understand and come to fully appreciate the subtle grandeur of Finland. I live in North Carolina now, do you really think I could get away with not being up to date on my Andy? An Andy test was part of the pre-employment package. Well truthfully, you could select one of two tests: Andy or college basketball. Being from Alabama and coming here from Mississippi, I took the Andy test.Bough? Brush? When was the last time you traced the development of western individualism from Ernest T. Bass back to Locke, Hume and Mill, with a side trip to Rousseau. All of that from a few broken lights.Is Rousseau anywhere near Mount Pilot? The two funniest things ever done were the Andy pickle episode and the dead parrot bit. Sorry I went overboard here.Not to worry. Overboard is the new black. 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 basisWell, funny you say that, because I just got an e-mail from a nice doctor promising he can make your Ranger 3-5 inches longer. I’ll forward it to you. So to speak. Having a truck is programmed into my DNA, just like the overwhelming desire to go to Sears and fondle the Craftsman tools. Sort of like salmon going back up stream I think.Hmmm. Looks like somebody is going to have to read up on the office sexual harassment manual. No tool fondling, no spawning. It makes other workers uncomfortable in the workplace. BUT, despite that, Professor Smith seems to be an imminently well qualified addition to the Alabama Blog Rodeo, SO THEN, by the mighty power vested in me by the Carcass Removal Division of the Alabama Department of Transportation, it is with GREAT PRIDE that we, the mighty and fearsome Axis of Weevil do HEREBY grant one Jim Smith, writer of Unfreezing, full, complete, impartial, non-negotiable, insouciant, and void where prohibited by law Membership, with all of the pain and slight nerve damage devolving thereto. CONGRATULATIONS, Jimbo, and in celebration of your new status, you will be receiving the World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, containing a slab of Dreamland ribs (no carbs), a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea (95% carbs); a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for your Ranger, 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—and has no carbs); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs (all carbs); a box of Jim Dandy grits (all carbs); a 16 ounce bottle of Dale's Steak Sauce (all salt); AND a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale (carbs, too). As an added bonus, you will receive a package of twelve greeting cards designed by our very own Jimmy (from next door, not Jimmy from Accounting) whose “condition” has abated sufficiently to allow him to expand his rock-painting business to include handcrafted stationery. He asks only that you ignore the letterhead on the reverse side, as the paper was given to him by the insurance company when they changed names. Remember to stop by the supply closet and pick up a pack of pencils and some paper, and remember that if you leave anything in the refrigerator more than a day or two, Cindi will throw it right in the garbage can. (She has problems, you know.) You can park over by the storage shed for right now, until we get the plumber to come back and finish fixing the sewer line. There is a spare key to the door in the back by the stack of tires, but don’t tell anybody. NOW, all of you please feel free to run over and say hey to Jim!
Some may ask…
“Terry, why exactly do you continue to produce Possumblog?” Constant positive reinforcement, dear reader—getting a letter like the following (written by an AOL user who wishes to remain anonymous) makes it all worthwhile: Subject: What a neat site. Like GRIT magazine, but better.See?! With readers like this, how could I ever stop? And to be compared favorably to The GRIT!! Take THAT, Steve Den Beste!! In your FACE, Glenn Reynolds!! TOP O’THE WORLD, MA!! TOP O’THE WORLD!!! AHHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA!!! Er, ahem…well. Anyway, thanks to each of you who take the time to write in. Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Swinging for the Fences
Possumblog's Gopher State Reporter, Toni Albani, just got Chet the E-Mail Boy hopping (or, a reasonable fascimile thereof) with this missive: Subject: IRSHeh. Well, as I told Miss Toni, you at least have to give them credit for dreaming big. As for what this bunch actually does, the best thing I could find was from the Cincinnati Service Center, in (naturally) Covington, Kentucky. Page 5 of their handy manual tells us that after your tax return comes in and is opened and sorted and batched that: [...] The batched returns go to Document Perfection Branch, where tax examiners check for completeness and obvious errors and then code and edit the return for transcription by employees in the Data Conversion Branch. Certain conditions require the tax examiner to send the return back and/or to correspond with the taxpayer: missing signatures, SSN’s, or Forms W-2, for example. Many refunds are delayed each year because returns cannot be processed but must be sent back for missing information. [...]Somehow, I think that "perfection" may still be a bit of an overstatement... (By the way, Chet thought you all might like a photo of him as a youngster with his favorite keyset.)
Lunch!
Which was actually a while ago now--but what the hey. Anyway, Miss Reba and I have lately been taking nuclear meals to work to try and economize a bit, but today the freezer had run dry so we hied up to Roly Poly for some rolled up meat and bread. Good stuff, as usual--we got the Buffalo Chicken and the Rueben, and today sat in the outdoor area. Sidewalk dining is one of those things that sophisticated people do, you know. Only the very sophisticated will eschew a clean and perfectly good air-conditioned building in the summertime South to sit outside among the flies and blowing trash and bus exhaust and truck noise and dirt and screaming panhandlers to experience some sort of commune with nature. Which consists of a nice row of shrubbery that smells muchly of pee. But doggone it, the sidewalk's where all the interesting stuff happens! Also makes our favorite activity of people-watching much easier. Today's feature presentation was a couple sitting across from us. He--old, uncomfortable, struggling to be stylish with his powder blue pinstriped shirt with white color; she--young enough to be his mistress, self-possessed, sleekly anorexic, dressed completely in an expensive black silk shirt and snug black slacks and uncomfortable black strappy shoes and black leather backpack purse, all of which must have come straight from New York. Or maybe even Atlanta. They sat and ate and chatted, but there was just an incredibly weird vibe--both seemed so out of kilter. The exaggerated speed of conversation, with every reaction stilted and every body motion out of synch, made it look like they were trying very hard to appear normal. Trying to look normal never works. I got Reba's attention and did my ventriloquist's act of pointing with my eyes and mumbling with my mouth closed. "Whatd'youthink'sthedealwiththem?" She casually took a bite and watched for a bit, and she went through the possibles: Boss/Employee? Nah, she'd never work for him, nor him for her. Father/Daughter? Right ages, but she keeps leaning toward him ever too close. Lawyer/Client? Not at all--no brief case, which means the lunch wouldn't be billable hours. Just Friends? Well, could be, I suppose. But they act like they don't know each other. The Only Other Alternative? Well, after he studiously picked up her backpack purse off the concrete and put it on the table while she was throwing away her garbage, I figure there's probably something there; which, while in the spirit of seeing interesting things in the great outdoors, still gives me the creeps. THEN AGAIN, others who were forced to witness me smooch on Miss Reba as I sent her back to work may have experiences a similar sense of unease--"How in the world did HE get HER?!" Good ol' divine intervention, my friend. (And pheromones. And good eye/hand coordination. And surprise.) Anyway, whatever the reason, remember that I am still looking for good suggestions as to what should be given her for our upcoming twelfth anniversary--the final result will be revealed Monday morning. (Ooooh--it's my own version of a FOX reality show!!)
Crouchy [sic] Old Yorkie Lady delves into the mental machinations of the idiot fringe, and is forced to respond.
The tinfoil hat brigade certainly have an easier time of back-predicting the future than the rest of us, you know. One thing I can just about guarantee you is that the 2004 popular vote will not be quite so close as that in 2000. Just call it a hunch. Or a crouch.
Saudi Raids Uncover Network of Extremists
Wow. I just can't believe it. And in Saudi Arabia, of all places.
Fritz Goes A'Shopping...
And starts singing the Zoom-Zoom-Zoom song while accompanying himself on the Ed Grimley Signature Edition Triangle. A startling sight for the folks in Rehobeth, to be sure. I just hope he didn't pass on the cool alloys. Fritz dropped in the other day and got the Possumblog Road Test Review of his proposed new toy before plunking down his hard earned cash. I think the Protege (pronounced pro-TEE-GEE) is a very handsome little car, although I really like the Mazdaspeed version the most. (Except without the ridiculous boy racer rear wing.) I also noted to Fritz that if he could wait, the new Mazda 3 will be coming out in the fall--interesting because it will share architecture with the Ford Focus, which is interesting because it's possible to shoehorn a Windsor in one and drive the back end of it, the way God intended. Fritz was unimpressed, I think.
Malaysia says don't cook, wash in toilets KUALA LUMPUR, Malaysia (AP) -- Officials in a southern Malaysian state will soon enforce a new law that forbids people to wash clothes, cook or light a fire in public toilets, a news report said Wednesday.But you know, a Potty Grill would be kinda handy--it sure would be easy to just pull the handle and put out the fire and flush the ashes, all at the same time! I may install one of these out on the patio. Or should I say, 'the potty-o'? No, probably not.
Moore to announce monument decision on Thursday MONTGOMERY, Ala. (AP) -- Supreme Court Chief Justice Roy Moore will announce Thursday whether he plans to obey a federal court order and remove the Ten Commandments monument from the rotunda of the Alabama Judicial Building.I look for him to grudgingly comply. There will be much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth (and I am not speaking figuratively), but in the end he will probably realize that if he can flout a higher court's decision, someone might turn around and do the same to the Alabama Supreme Court. Not that anyone would ever disagree with one of their decisions.
Police say methamphetamine lab found at site of house fire ROBERTSDALE, Ala. (AP) -- Police arrested a man inside a house when firefighters responding to a report of smoke spotted items used in the manufacture of methamphetamine [...]Well, you know what they say, 'where there's smoke, there's probably some goob in there cooking meth.' At least I think that's what they say.
Techss begin task of fixing worm's damage
Oh my! The damage was even worse than feared--looks like it hit spellcheck, too!! Everyone knows it should be "techses"...
Not Everybody Loves "Raymond"
Maybe not, but judging by the number of hits I get from people looking for photographs of one or more of Patricia Heaton's unclothed and newly renovated breasteses, I think they could get by just fine without Ray. (I also get way too many hits from pervgooglers looking for her toes. And ears. Just a tip, guys. Something called "Possumblog" is probably NOT the place to look.)
Adventures in Headline Writing
From that punk new kid Jim Smith over at Unfreezing (who really would like for you to drop by and say hello, by the way. That is, if he's not out playing GOLF instead of blogging), comes the following headline--State Leaders Hear Complaints Of Racism At Eastern N.C. School For Deaf. Reminds me of the old ditty-- "I see, I see," said the blind man to his deaf wife as he picked up his hammer and saw.
Get to work at 6:55...
Log in, set up conference room, set handy agendas at each chair, lovingly place sign-in sheet at the office door on top of our high-tech, Height Adjustable Mobile Dictation Station/Padded Buttocks Levitation Device (aka my drafting stool, which I roll out to the door for people to use as a desk), start meeting at 7:30, furiously scribble notes to capture the blab spoken by eleven committee members, nine staff members, and nineteen applicants each speaking simultaneously for an hour and a half, clean up the snowstorm of paper after it's over, retrieve my sign-in sheet, wheel my chair back to my orifice, and now at 9:22, I'd say it's time to go downstairs and purchase a beverage! Complaining? Not at all--having done my time as a punch press operator in a steel fab shop and pulling a wooden concrete screed for a roadway contractor--I am quite sure that although there may be better ways to earn a buck, there are about a billion others that are a whole lot harder! I'm still going to go get me a Coke, though. Tuesday, August 12, 2003
You know...
It's probably not a good idea to shop for particular sorts of anniversary presents on something other than your home computer. Oh well. Anyway, until the commenting thingamabob comes back on (you'd think they would at least give you a test pattern like back in the old television days) I am going to do some more searching for filmy, flimsy fabrics. Tough work, let me say. AND TOMORROW MORNING will be one of those regular bureacratic endeavors that come up twice a month, so I will be nonblogatory until such time as I can make every good citizen angry with me. You're welcome to wander around all you want, but please be sure to leave your shoes at the door. And the lamp by the couch has a bad switch, so be careful turning it on. There is some slice cheese in the refrigerator if you want a sandwich. Only end pieces of bread, though--I have to go to the store. SO, until I get back...
From your good friends at HaloScan (We Suck Almost As Much as Blogger Used To!!) this message: Server work in progressYou know, I resisted putting comments on here with a mighty passion, and after finally deciding to do it, found that it was a nice addition. UNTIL IT BECAME ONE GIANT CHARLIE FOXTROT ALL THE TIME!! Sheesh. ANYway, for those gentle readers who wish to offer suggestions for 12th Anniverary gifts for me to give to the lovely Miss Reba, please send them to me via old fashioned e-mail and I will post them. BE WARNED, however, that Chet the E-Mail Boy has somewhat of a weak constitution, so if you use words like "heaving" or "throbbing" or "moist", he is apt to require a trip to the fire station to have his blood pressure checked.
Schwarzenegger uses star-power strategy
GOOD GRIEF, THE MAN'S A GENIUS!! Who would have ever thought a celebrity running for political office would use his name-recognition to his advantage?!
Celebrities Protest Mass. Wind Farm
If only there was a way to harvest wind energy from celebrities...
From the "Perpetuating the Stereotype" File: Married couple in Theodore plead innocent to incest chargeThe State contends that simply because Daughter Wife changed her birth certificate to conceal the identity of her Daddy Beau, she is guilty of some sort of crime. Go figure.
A slow day...
And I just don't have a whole lot to talk about. SO, let's do something sorta dangerous... There is a woman I have had my eye on for a while--dark blonde, about 5 and a half feet tall, blue eyes, high cheekbones, nicely padded, and judging by the hardware on her left ring finger...very married. She works here in town not far from where I do. The other day I was out walking to lunch and saw her walking up the street toward me, and I must confess that I had some very naughty thoughts about her, and I think she caught on, because she gave me that look that women give you when they know you're thinking very naughty thoughts about them. ::blush:: Now then--if you were me, and you wanted to get this woman, say...a gift of some sort. And let's say that you and she had been married, ohhh, about twelve years on Saturday. And the traditional gifts are silk/linen, and the modern ones are pearl. And let's just say that this woman thinks that you are a quite a romantic rake, and let's say that over the years you have set a rather high standard for yourself when it comes to gifts. Gifts which, on certain past occasions, have caused this woman to act in a somewhat randy fashion toward you. And finally, you know that this woman has never read a single thing you ever posted on your blog, so whatever musings you muse won't be discovered by her (at least until it's too late). WHAT THEN, old chap (or chapette, as the case may be), would you get for such a woman as a gift?
Oh, that silly James Lileks!
It's funny sometimes the things he comes up with--in today's Bleat he does a riff on Sambo's: [...] But before we went for breakfast at the old Sambo’s. It hasn’t been Sambo’s for a long time. And even when it was Sambo’s, the mascot wasn’t that dreadful pickaninny archetype - this Sambo was an Indian child. That always made me wonder why they named the place Sambo’s at all.Surely he knows that the popular stereotype of Sambo as being African was NOT the intent of the author, Helen Bannerman. Here is the preface to LBS, from the Project Gutenburg site: [...] The Story of Little Black SamboNo word on if the restaurant uses butter made from melted tigers. Monday, August 11, 2003
And with a great heave…
Yet another Possumbaby hits the scene! Through my striking combination of suave charm and an entire tankful of nitrous oxide, I have once more convinced another unwary soul to enter the foul stink of Bloglandia and start his own site—long time reader Jim Smith has gone and done it now with Unfreezing, which Jim promises will be about changes. (And I’m almost certain his first correspondence will be from admirers telling him to change to something other than Blogger!) Jim and I have corresponded for a long time now and I think you will find he’s a good guy—he is eligible for the Axis of Weevil, you know, but has asked that I not do the Grand Induction just yet until he gets things sorted out with his site. I readily agreed, knowing that although I promised to belay the order for a new Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, I SAID NOTHING about not just giving him a friendly plug! Heh. I’m sneaky like that. ANYWAY, until Raynelle gets the application processed and we get the key made to the storage closet at the Weevil World Headquarters, all of you scamper over and see what Jim has to say.
Antipodean Alliteration--Absolutely positively perfect possum plan By Miriam MeisterOy, Sheila--possums may be stupid, filthy, pests (expecially the Australian brushy tailed variety) but at least we know that a peninsula is not surrounded by water! Mr Wright says the campaign aims at total eradication but admits that as the very last one will be hard to find, the successful outcome heavily relies on local residents to report when they see a possum.Time to stop rummaging through garbage cans and start gnawing through telephone lines, sounds like to me. Once the last pest has been removed from the peninsula Mr Wright says the likelihood of re-invasion is quite small.I never knew possum was both singular and plural, but in the end it doesn't really matter IF THERE AREN'T ANY!! (They could at least have the decency to run over them instead of poisoning them.) Thanks to Mac the Fauna Loving War Liberal for the link.
One of the bad things...
...about not doing a whole lot of Internet surfing on the weekends is that sometimes you just completely miss a whole set of perfectly good stories about weddings and advice to the love-worn!
One for Stan the Gummint Man...Social Security center gets OK MICHAEL TOMBERLINThis follows on the heels of the recently announced plan for the FBI to move into new digs, and should be good news to Regular SSA Reader Stan who works in the current building. The site in question is right down the block from me and is another one of those that has been in the hopper for a while, and another one that I have done a couple of sketches for. Like the FBI building, it requires a large open area compared to the footprint of the building, which is not the most pedestrian-friendly thing to have, but it does have the benefit of being located in an area that could use some activity. It's what we call The Armpit, which is where Interstate 59/20 makes a large loop to connect in with I-65. The site (which you should be able to see in this MapQuest aerial photo if it doesn't do its normal thing of messing up) is also thankfully free of beautiful historic buildings. In 1969, Birmingham's Terminal Station was demolished in anticipation of the Social Security Administration placing a building there. The building that actually got built is the one where Stan works today. The site of the Terminal Station has remained a vacant lot underneath the Red Mountain Expressway.
And now for something compleatly different...
My first post on Friday morning, I mistakenly wrote about a news report I THOUGHT I had heard about one of Richard Scrushy's lawyers being dismissed, and came up with a completely wrong name--I contacted Wendy Garner with the station and she set me straight, so the post has been corrected. I also told Miss Wendy I sure was glad she was back, and she very graciously thanked me for the watching. Little does she know the effect such minor kindnesses have upon me...
Well, now, that went pretty well
Friday was a blur of blurriness, brought on by a condition the medical journals call “Brain Blurriness”, indicated by extreme fatigue, tiredness, listlessness, ennui, blurriness, and torpor. I remember we had supper, and there was some laundry in there, and then there was blessed sleep. I thought long and hard about disconnecting the phone—I even felt around on the back for the power cord, and then felt that pang of guilt about it all. I mean, so what if relatives call and wake me up? It’ll be good for me to get up, right?! I just left the phone alone, and prayed I would get enough shuteye. Phone rings. ::sigh:: Pitch black, I answer, mother in law. ::sigh:: I look over at the clock—9 a.m. Why is it so dark? So I turn to her as we stand in line at the counter, and we carry on a conversation on our respective handsets, standing there facing each other as we wait our turn. I notice that even though the shop is dark, through the venetian blinds there are tons of people walking on the sidewalk, which make me tired, so I lie on the floor for a bit as my mother in law continues to chat. AAARGGHH!! Stupid STUPID dream! I woke myself up enough to see that it was indeed still dark, although morningish. GRR. And went back to a fitful sleep. That lasted until I felt Reba bungee out of bed and heard her rustling Catherine to the potty. ‘I might as well jusssgehhhhtottathhheee…’ [insert image of little Xs over my eyes as I drift back off] Which lasts about until CRASH-SKREEEEE-WHAM-TINKLETINKLE-WHUMP-SKIIIIITCH exactly 7 a.m. Real time, this time, no dream. Reba’s downstairs fixing breakfast. Just like her mother does, with maximum pan-whangage so that the whole house is briskly awakened. She was in the drawer under the stove pawing through the muffin pans and cooling racks and cookie sheets and skillets and all the other percussion instruments. Why she and her mom do this, I do not know. Her mother could wake the dead with her rummaging and slamming about in the kitchen, and I guess that arcane knowledge just got passed along. The food’s always good, but it sure is loud. I started to go back to sleep, but figured I might as well not fight it. Up, pee, shave, take medicine, brush teeth, pants on, look at the computer for a minute, watch the news, mumble at kids, creak down the stairs and see pretty wife eating a bowl of cereal. I gave her a good one and got myself some milk and drew open the blinds so I could watch the hummingbirdies and sat down and said hey. “Burnt up the bottom element this morning.” “Huh?” “In the oven. The bottom element flamed up like a welding torch. I was going to make muffins this morning. But I couldn’t.” “Hmm. Have to get that fixed.” “Yeah, because I was going to cook some muffins this morning. But I couldn’t. Because the oven wasn’t working.” I sat there looking out the window for the longest time, watching the little buzz bombs work the feeder, drinking my milk, watching the TV. *ping* Oh. OH! “Hey, you want me to get something and fix the oven RIGHT NOW, don’t you?!” “Well, I started to come wake you up, but I figured I would wait until you got downstairs. But it would be nice to be able to use my oven.” Ladies. Please. If you want something fixed, please just say “Fix This”. You really don’t have to be subtle about it—just come on out and say it. Remember, boys are like hammers—we may be very useful, but we are rather dense, and we can’t read minds. So, after reading the tea leaves and finally discerning the signs of my future, I brightly wagered that one of the plethora of hardware stores around our lovely burg would most surely have a range element. You know, because I’m sorta stupid that way. Finished my milk, added AA size batteries and nutgrassicide and bird seed to the shopping list, yanked out the burnt-up element, put on my Officially Licensed Bedhead Concealment Device and was off to Home Depot. Okeedoke—batt’ries, seed, no chemicals, annnnd, no element. WHA? They had tons of burner eyes, but no oven deals. I carried around my little burnt up part and finally found a guy—“Do you ha…” “No sir, we don’t carry those, but Lighting and Lamp up the road here does, and Mayer Electric, and there’s some applicance place out in Gardendale that carries them.” ::sigh:: Paid for my seed and batteries, then decided that surely he was just overlooking the obvious. There’s a Lowe’s less than a quarter of a mile away, and I bet anything he was just trying not to steer me to a competitor. Out to the van, off to Lowe’s. Who don’t carry range elements, either. Shoulda known. An interesting aside is that even though they didn’t carry oven elements, I did happen across Little Baby Smoking Girl over in the plumbing supplies. Little Baby Smoking Girl is the name I gave to a girl that Reba and I used to see all the time downtown when we would go to lunch. The first time I saw her, she was walking away from us and I nudged Reba and whispered, “Look at that little kid smoking!” Some time later, we saw her again, this time from the front, and even though she tops out at 4 feet and a few inches, she quite obviously weren’t no little kid. But, boy, she could burn up a pack of Camels. Anyway, her nickname became Little Baby Smoking Girl, and I steadfastly refused every opportunity to go up to her and tell her smoking would stunt her growth. We haven’t seen her in a long time, so it was good to see that she still exists. (If for no other reason than it makes interesting blogfiller.) ANYway, off to Lighting and Lamp. Who are closed on Saturday. Grr. Then on to Mayer Electric. Who are closed on Saturday. GRR. Then finally on to home, which was open. Hauled out the phone book, and thank goodness, the first place I called, Southeastern Appliance Service in East Lake was 1) open, and more importantly 2) had the right thing. Off again. (Wind Rider, a shout out to you here, because Southeastern sits at the corner of First Avenue and 76th Street, right next door to the dirty movie theater and the dirty book store, and right across the street from your favorite eating place, Andrew’s Barbecue!) Parked in the back by the tiny loading dock, walked up the old steps and saw an older fellow with his name on his pocket and a younger guy who looked a bit like the Unabomber. I held up my now bent and forlorn oven element—“I need one of these, please.” “You want one all burnt up like that?” Ahhh…a real character. Been in the business a jillion years, heard every complaint, developed a line of patter for each one. I stopped in my tracks and looked down a bit, and began to study the wire loop in front of me. After a good while, I looked up at him and carefully said, “No…no sir, I think I might better get me one that ain’t all broke.” “Well, we can fix you up then—awful hard to make biscuits like that!” Yep, chief, if you only knew… We walked into the front of the store, which didn’t appear to have changed since 1966. He went over to a pegboard full of parts and held up the element to several before coming up with one. Which was decidedly a different shape and length as the one I brought in. The cashier lady roused up and wrote out a receipt—“I’m the one who had called a little earlier, ma’am, with the Kitchen-Aid?” “Yes.” “Well, I was just looking at this new element—it looks a bit different from this one, and I was just wonder…” “It’s the same one.” “Uh. Okay then.” I had my doubts. She totaled up the bill—34 bucks and some change. Whew! Derned things must be made out of gold. Which I had none of. I told her I might have to go get some cash and stood there counting out what I had in my billfold, which came up about ten shy of where I needed to be. ::sigh:: “I’ll be right back, ma’am.” [redacted portion of unverbalized vile language] Walked back out the shop and met up with the Name Tag Guy—“Did they get you fixed up so you can cook you some cornbread?” In so many words, no. Jumped in the van and whipped around to the SouthTrust two doors down. No ATM. (Bad neighborhood—who in their right mind would stop there anyway?) Then on down the street to the CVS Pharmacy, where I picked up a bag of peanuts and a cold drink and got enough change back to get my stove fixed. Back to the shop, back in the back door, once more exchange banter with Name Tag Guy, go to counter, hand over my money, receive my not-quite-the-same part, and meet up with the Unabomber coming around the corner—“Well, looks like you’re going to be able to cook up a nice batch of biscuits, now!” I resisted the urge to say that I was going to cook my neighbor’s springer spaniel, and it was back to the house. I just KNEW it wasn’t going to fit—it was about an inch longer toward the front of the oven and I figured it would hit the door, but HALLELUIAH, the silly thing still fit and it worked and there was GREAT JOY IN ALL OF THE KITCHEN. Amen. Then on to the rest of the day, which included feeding the birds and other vermin, picking and eating a couple of Jonathan’s tomatoes (which are fantastic, by the way), cleaning, folding clothes, moving stuff out of the kitchen floor so Reba could mop, and watching Some Like It Hot on DVD in fits and starts all afternoon. (You know, I don’t know if any of you have ever noticed this, but that Marilyn Monroe girl was real attractive. And despite the attempts of some to say she was a porker—here’s a nice debunking from Snopes for you! And here’s one about her NOT having six toes.) Anyway, I love that movie—then again, I like Jell-O on springs, too. Supper, then kids scrubbed and hair dried—this is the first time I’ve gotten to do Middle Girl and Cat’s fur since they got it all sheared off—what a dream. Dry and tangle-free in ten minutes! Off to bed, and time to collapse. Up again Sunday, get the crew rousted, shove some breakfast down them, then out the door. Class—I gave myself the 5th and 6th grade this quarter—all girls, with an occasional stray from the other species. They’re at a good age, and mostly still respectful of adults. And Rebecca’s in there, too, which makes it fun. She is always amazed when I throw out some bits of Greek or write it on the board. “Daddy, do you speak Grecian?” Heh. “No, sugar, I just know some words and how to spell some of them.” “Oh. Well, how do you know all those words!?” “Well, you have to STUDY!” “Oh. Okay, then!” One year, your child thinks you’re the most brilliant, most handsome man alive. Wait two, and you’re on the same level as a planarian. ::sigh:: Class over, on to sermon, kids remain blessedly wiggle-free for most of the time, then time to go, pack us all in and start to leave and are assaulted by two little five-year-old demons hiding in the bushes who sling a handful of gravel at Miss Reba’s vehicle. Same two who have become synonymous with the terms “lack of parental control” and “uncontrollable brats” around the building. They basically run wild while their parents stand around inside and chat. Grr. I stopped and got out, and they had started running back to the other part of the parking lot. I got back in and started backing up the driveway, and then saw in my mirror one of our friends hauling them back toward the building by their arms. Heh. She’s as sweet as can be, and has a couple of girls herself who can be quite a handful, too, but she can also make a dandy Grand Inquisitor, which they weren't at all expecting. (She also cuts her own firewood.) Torquemama stopped them by the side of the van and gently told them to tell Mr. Oglesby what they had done and that they were sorry. They immediately blamed each other and denied doing anything wrong, which turned out to be the exact wrong answer. She pressed them and finally they relented that yes, rocks had somehow managed to get in their hands; and yes, those rocks did manage to leave said hands with vigor; and yes, they might have impacted the side of my vehicle, as well as several other vehicles which left the parking lot behind mine; and yes, in those circumstances some might say they were wrong; and yes—ooh, here comes the dad of one. The prisoner will most certainly be scolded for at least thirty seconds before being allowed to roam free once again. The other kid’s mom was still inside, so after a few more seconds of fruitless interrogation, he was led into the building to face a stern glance and a finger wag. ::sigh:: I closed the door and the kids were about beside themselves—Catherine spouted off first, “Them those there boys shouldn’t have oughta done throwed those rocks AT OUR VAN!!” “Catherine, what would have happened to you if you were out there throwing rocks?” “I woulda gotted my butt tored up!!” Indeed. They continued on discussing their own ideas of the level of punishment the boys would receive, and to a one they decided it would be negligible. All of that went by the wayside because it was time to eat. New place this week (and actually, for the past two weeks)—a tiny little storefront Chinese place called Golden Gate. The food was better this week, and the few tables they had were packed. I miss our old place there in Trussville with the Inexplicable Anglo Waitresses, but this one has the advantage of being cheap and on the way. And it has Sriracha! A new one on me in my ongoing quest for hot sauces, it’s made by Huy Fong, Inc. in California and it’s mighty good. Hot, but not inedible, with just a touch of sweet. And it comes in an entertaining giant bottle with all sorts of foreign writing on it! (Alas, none of it Greek) Full, we went on home, read the paper, played on the computer a bit, then back to church, answered questions from the mom of one of the boys—yes, the precious little darling actually had rocks in his hand; yes, he actually threw them; yes, he actually hit our van; yes, he half-heartedly said he was sorry before blaming the other kids…you know, why would you not believe it if someone went to the trouble to haul your kid in from outside, all the way to you, and then proceeded to tell you he had been out throwing rocks at cars? Anyway, home again, supper, and beddie-bye. And now I’m here today!! Friday, August 08, 2003
Week End Fun
Oh, who knows what's going to go on?! This past week has been a real high-water mark for testing the "what doesn't kill me makes me stronger" theory. I ain't dead, but my perkiness is just not perking as much as is normal. But, blessedly, there are no soccer games this weekend, no funerals to attend, nowhere to be on time, no grass to cut (unless I really feel like it), we got paid today, I didn't have to take a single BC Powder, and it's pretty outside. Oh, there is the normal pile of laundry to wash and housecleaning to avoid, but maybe it won't be so bad. There'll probably even be a trip to Wal-Mart! In any case, I do intend to remember to unplug the telephone tonight to insure that there are no early-Saturday-morning wakeup calls from interested inlaws. So, I'm fixing to get--all of you have a good weekend, and if you're real nice, there will be a hot pot of freshly perked Possumblog bright and early Monday!
Gore chides Bush as divisive, misleading
The Commander in Chide. You know, if there ever was a headline that accurately captured the lispy, weepy, wooden, prissy, morose, pedantic nature of ol' Albert, this is it. "Chide" captures perfectly the persona of someone whose idea of an alpha male is the hall monitor. 'Not only did George Bush illegally invade Iraq, he did so without a hall pass, and he ran, and he was chewing gum.'
Okay, now. The tax thing.
As I mentioned yesterday, Sugarmama sent me an e-mail she received from a very earnest opponent of Gubnah Bob Riley’s tax plan (known around these parts at Amendment One—The End of The World; or, Amendment One—The Savior of All Mankind) and she asked my opinion on its contents. I let loose with a long-winded, point-by-point dissection of it and came to the conclusion that I still was undecided about the whole mess. She did suggest that I should post it for all of you fellow Cotton Staters to look at, and I figured I would. But then I found out that in my latest round of asking Chet the E-Mail Boy to take out the trash, I forgot to tell him to save that particular exchange. D’oh. SO, rather than try to reconstruct the major points of SM’s original post and what I had to say about them, I’ll just launch into this little diatribe. Before we get there, though, the backstory of the matter is that Alabama has a history of financial messes, in large part due to two things—an outdated Constitution which has been used by timber and mineral resource owners to keep property taxes low (and politicians in their thrall), and the resulting reliance by the state and by local governments on income taxes and on sales taxes to fund services. Now, no one wants to have to pay taxes. BUT, if we want to provide ourselves with services such as education and police protection, it has to be done. The bad thing about taxes on anything other than property (aside from the regressive nature of sales and use taxes) is that they can be very volatile—when the economy’s good, everybody’s happy, but if people ratchet down their buying, sales tax revenue likewise takes a hit. If you’re not relying on it to provide what you think are essential services, that’s not quite so bad, but when it is supposed to be going for running the schools and keeping State Troopers on the road, it’s pretty bad. Especially if you’re a politician. The pattern over the past few years for overcoming revenue shortfalls is one we like to call “proration”, in which money budgeted for disbursement is prorated by whatever percentage it is as a part of the state budget and by whatever the expected budget shortfall is. The Goat Hill Goobs get to fight amongst themselves so as to adjust the percentages a point or two one way or the other and crow about how they fought for the [insert name of special interest group here] to make sure they got less than their fair share of the misery. And then they give themselves a hearty slap on the back. It continues like this, because as you can suspect, someone benefits from our financial disarray. I’ll leave it to you to figure out who, but the campaign against Amendment One is heavily bankrolled by a few heavy hitters: More than $490,000 combined from county chapters of the Alabama Farmers Federation, the state's largest farming organization, which has historically opposed property tax increases.(To be fair, the groups promoting the adoption of Amendment One are thick with organizations which make their way in life by feeding at the public trough.) Both sides in the debate are using the exact same scare tactics in their television and print ads—if it passes or if it fails, The Children™ will be irreparably harmed and will grow up to be ignorant savages, The Aged™ will be turned out on the street in their thin bathrobes to scrounge in garbage cans, Criminals™ will move in with you and kill you, and the best one of all, Montgomery Politicians™ [insert ominous music and images of cigar-smoking, short-armed fatties] will find a way to steal all the money. Oh, whatever. As it stands, the state will be running a deficit if SOMETHING isn’t done. It means either cut services or raise taxes. The problem with cutting services is that the people who are supposed to be served are the ones who will suffer—the bulky layers of school bureaucrats will continue to haul in their paychecks whether Tommy Bob gets to play football or not, and the marketing departments for the various non-profit entitlement pass-throughs will still manage to find enough money to buy their favorite senator a nice dinner or two, whether Suejeanne gets her free grocery money or not. The problem with raising taxes is that while Tommy Bob will be happy to get books that are only two years old AND his team will all get new helmets, and while Suejeanne will get a 1.3% raise in her free grocery money AND learn how to type on one of them computer deals, a much greater percentage will now go to insure that Beady-Eyed Roger and Robber Barron and Semiliterate John and Smilin’ Seth will have enough walking-around money to hand out to their buddies. Which means, no matter which way you vote, the Montgomery Politicians™ are going to get what they see as rightfully theirs. Personally, I think Riley’s plan is a small baby step toward reform of a broken system; rather like methadone is a cure for heroin addiction. There’s not much he could do. He ran on a platform of fiscal responsibility with an emphasis on cutting waste, which he found out could only take him so far. Since Democrats control both Houses and all other top elected posts, it was either wait for the Democrats to come up with something, or try to fire the first shot and maybe work things around to something that would be to his advantage. I think Riley intended this plan to be a good faith attempt to redistribute the tax load in a more equitable manner toward those who are better able to pay, and to a more stable source. As it stands, though, there is too much in it to hate for the folks who think ALL taxes are bad, and not enough to buy off the loyalty of those who might otherwise work to see it passed. In all of the blabber, what no one seems to recall is that none of these things even had to be put up for a vote—the Legislature has the power to levy taxes on anything they want, in just about any way they see fit. Riley knew the only way these measures would even have a chance of passing were to bypass the Legislature and get the people to vote for it, and the Democrats were only too willing to let him go with it. The Democrats have nothing to lose by standing back and offering faint praise—if the measure passes, they will be rolling in cool mud and will waste no time in shouting about how it was through their efforts that they saved the state from sure ruin. If it fails, they can proudly crow that they knew Alabamians were too smart to fall for that evil Republican plan. And then they will pass their own tax measure. Without a vote. For The Children™. Or, alternately, we’ll go right back to proration. It would be nice if those who hate this plan this would start working now on a counterproposal; but that’s not the way things work in real life. It would be nice if those who are so dead set against Riley’s plan because it perpetuates and nourishes a train wreck of a state government would start working now on a way to fix or replace the system; but that’s not the way things work in real life. It would be nice of those championing the plan would realize that good government is not simply finding enough money to throw around; but that’s not the way things work in real life. It would be nice if both sides would shut up the boogey-man blithering and get down to business; BTNTWTWIRL. You know what the weirdest thing of all is? I like living here. Go figure.
It has been brought to our attention...
...by the work-overwhelmed Francesca Watson, that Miss Janis, upon receipt of her Tingler, has not posted anything since 11:17 p.m. Tuesday evening. In such instances, it is customary to call out a sheriff's posse, but the thought of walking in on her surrounded by stacks of Fabio pictures and a warm Tingler is simply too much to contemplate.
Many Democrats Are Unhappy With Party
Well, maybe they didn't follow Nancy's instructions and forgot to find the restrooms and telephones, or maybe the sheet cake was too little. (The Hill link via Wednesday's Opinion Journal)
Oh, that Indigo!
Just got the following in the inbox from Miss Indigo, which gave both Chet the E-Mail Boy and me a big chuckle: Subject: WOMEN DRIVERS
Hmmm.
UPDATE--CORRECTION 8/11/03 I misheard a report on Friday, August 8 from the local NBC affiliate that one of Richard Scrushy's defense attorneys, Thomas Sjoblom, had been dismissed. On Saturday, August 9, I contacted Wendy Garner, the anchor for the report, and received this reply: Hi Terry. Thanks so much for watching NBC 13. We reported it was James Richey who was dismissed from the case.Sorry for any confusion this may have caused. Thursday, August 07, 2003
You know...
Possumblog is known for many things, and reaches its mighty prehensile tail across vasty sweeps of the blogosphere gathering information for its visitors. Sometimes, seemingly dissimilar things such as African politics and automotive artistry combine in unexpected ways, so that lonely wanderers come to the screen door looking for information on such things as... restoring a 59 sudan deville cadillac . The choice of warlords everywhere, I'm sure. Of course, it should not be confused with a closely related model, the Coup de Ville.
Clash of the Worlds!!
What a nice lunch—I met Sugarmama (not her real name, by the way) over by the statue of John Harbert, which perfectly captures in bronze the full effect of what it’s like to have rigor mortis. I know the family loves the statue, and I’m sure the sculptor thought it was a grand piece, but it is rare (outside of various Third World dictatorships) to find the human form portrayed so lifelessly in the medium of statuary. At least he’s not hailing a cab. ANYway, Miss Sugarmama was looking lovely as usual and was in her normal good spirits. We went in and decided to sample the scrumptious ethnic flair provided by Chan Lee’s. She got the sesame chicken, I the kung pao, and soon I was a large puddle of hot, sweaty, sniffling, molten lava. I have a feeling this is going to be with me for a while—the combined effects of whole red peppers and the BC Powders I’ve been eating all day to quiet my ankle pain promise a night full of fireworks. Before all of that, though, we stood there waiting on our food, and SM commented about how the whole food court was giving her the meat market willies. Hey, just because hundreds of guys keep staring at your bosomal region doesn’t mean they’re thinking naughty thoughts! (In this case, however, I think she was right. Please, guys, a tip—it would be a lot easier on all of us if you would be a bit more discreet in your ogling. If you do it to the point of creeping out another guy, it’s probably best to dial it down a bit.) Conversation swung wildly back and forth, and we talked about work, and house stuff, and former jobs, and that she once worked in an architect’s office for about ten months. “Oh, cool! Where at?” She answered (and no, you won’t hear me repeat the name of the company), and I replied, “What a coincidence! That’s where Jeff, the guy I sometimes write about, you know My Friend Jeff ™? That’s where he works!” “Uhhh, how long ago did he start?” “Been about four years or so,” and I gave her his full name. She looked as though she had been hit by a bus. “He hates me.” What an incredibly tiny little world! What are the odds, huh?! “HEY COOL! HE HATES ME, TOO!” Unfortunately, she was serious—when pressed for details about how it came to be that his antipathy waxed strong against her, the best I could figure out is that she worked for one of the partners he is less than fond of, and the hatred-by-association just came as a natural impulse. I’m going to call him right now and find out for sure… The little pill’s not in the office. ::sigh:: Well, I WILL find out the rest of this story—it promises to be a good one! So, we discussed how it was that Jeff and I know each other, which is through our mutual employment oh-so-long-ago by The Bad Place. Sugarmama noted that the architecture biz seems to be a bit heavy with anti-womanosity. “Hey, just because hundreds of guys…” Oh, wait—already used that line. Actually, she’s right, at least when talking about some of the smaller, old-line companies. The Bad Place where Jeff and I used to work had a similar bias, and while some might want to give such behavior the old ‘boys will be boys’ chuck under the chin, that’s really not the way to treat employees. Further compressing the size of the earth (and providing no small amount of levity) was when she endeavored to reveal to me the name of the guy where she worked who gave her the ickiest feeling, and I guessed the old goat’s name before she even gave me a hint! (He’s one of those who gives me the creeps, too.) I tried my best to reassure her that Jeff didn’t really hate her, though. He’s just that way. I don't think she bought it. Onward then, and we managed to cover grad school stuff, financial planning, house cleaning, interpersonal relationships, blogging, teenagers (she was once one, it turns out), being weird—and accepting is as your lot in life, and…and then it was time to go back to work. ::sigh:: BUT, seeing as how I behaved myself, looks like I’ll be able to swing another lunch! It pays to be on your best behavior, you know. AND SPEAKING OF WHICH, my ongoing stalking project of the voluptuous Miss Nikki from the teevee station is still continuing—I've had to reschedule so many times now that I would feel really bad about insisting that she bring me all of those FOX-logoed coffee mugs and shirts and stuff she promised. Not bad enough to refuse them, mind you…
LUNCH!
Yet again, Sugarmama and Mr. Possum have managed to arrange a vittle adventure for noontime today over at the grandiose AmSouth-Harbert food court. She promised that her posse of Reddy Kilowatt thugs would be skulking nearby to pounce upon me should anything untoward occur. (You all know how I am...) Anyway, it should be interesting, so please stay tuned--AND as a special added bonus, I will later attempt to recreate the long-winded response I sent her regarding an e-mail she received about Alabama's proposed tax package! Food and politics...heaven help us all.
Here goes nothing--I had removed my link to the Comments Place to keep from continually getting those maddening "Do You Wish To Debug" popups, but it looks like HaloScan might be getting back online, so back in they go. We'll see how this works.
(And yes, I know that the automatic debug thing can be overridden--IF you don't have all setting control removed from your machine by the system administrator.)
Dining on the mounds VIVI ABRAMSMmmm! Gotta love that falcon meat!
Stupid, STUPID Haloscan is out of sorts this morning--apologies to anyone who is just dying to comment on large possum droppings in Texas, but remember that Chet the E-Mail Boy is on the job. Wednesday, August 06, 2003
And speaking of marsupials...
We just received an interested querist wondering about size Texas possum droppings Well, you know what they say about Texas, and as expected, this is no exception. The largest ever recorded was found outside of Fluvanna, Texas on October 10, 1966, by a housewife named Verna Sludden. It was photographed by her husband Hunko "Jeb" Sludden alongside of a basketball for size comparison, although is was actually more the shape of a rugby ball. It was weighed on the Sludden's bathroom scale and is reported to have weighed 88 pounds, 4 ounces. Several scientists from the Texas A&M Department of Wildlife and Fisheries Science examined the dropping and were impressed both with its size, and after laboratory analysis, its contents, which included portions of three bobcats, a flashlight, a rear seat ashtray from a 1962 Chrysler, pages 8-95 of J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, an Oklahoma State Fair ceramic thimble (undated), an inert WWII grenade, a size 36B Playtex longline brassiere, $15 in assorted change (not including 4 pesos), a harmonica, and a variety of other items. The items were later cataloged and photographed, and published in a small book (now out of print) called Interesting Texas Finds, 1960-1968, which featured The Rio Grande Cave Creature and Jim Tertigan's Amazing Hat. As always, the Possumblog Science Staff are happy to assist in all matters of furthering man's knowledge of the universe.
Lileks Handicaps 'Em (As if they weren't already doing a good enough job by just being themselves)
From today's Newhouse column, on the Raging Democratic Fists of Fury-- [...] -- Dennis Kucinich: No man with a Mo Stooge haircut has ever been elected president, and Kucinich will be no exception. His Web site compares him to Seabiscuit -- another famous horse who came from behind, electrified a depressed nation, and was oddly unconcerned about Saddam Hussein's crimes. Kucinich's most notable proposal so far is the creation of a Department of Peace, which would presumably issue Karma Level Alerts depending on how much other nations hated America.Mmm. Graham crackers... Anyway, it might do well for the Democratic Party stategerists to remember that there is a large swath of the population who really don't like having to put up with whiney brats in restaurants or in Congress. Likewise, Swath-Americans tend to think that while America may have its faults, it's not quite a gulag. But hey, whadda I know, I'm just a possum.
When Life Overtakes The Onion...North Korean leader has passion for hoops By JAE-SUK YOOOnce again, good to see that SOMEONE has their priorities right...
Truth, Justice, and the Noble Moon Pie
Only U.S. marshmallow pies allowed in Daphne parades By BRENDAN KIRBYWell, at least SOMEBODY has their priorities right...
J.Lo and Ben Look Forward to Next Film
One is reminded of the last scene in Life of Brian, as Mr. Frisbee leads everyone in a rousing rendition of "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life".
Tranny Love
The post from yesterday about working on vee-hickles brought out a lot of comments from folks—MommaBear continues to allure with her self-described ability to lay mat, set points, and hand lap valves (Rrrrowlllllllll!), and Miss Janis thinks of Toploaders and Rock Crushers when she gets p0rn spam, and Vachon made note of her desire to learn more about cars. A noble goal, indeed. Everybody should know at least the basic stuff about the cars they drive, and rest assured, being ovary-gifted is not an impediment. Even if you have no desire to do your own clutch rebuild, it is beneficial to take the time to learn a little bit. Cars have gone through a revolution in the past ten years, and have become increasingly reliable, making it less likely you would ever need to know how to unstick a carb float (my mother used the heel of her shoe on our ’58 Merc) or carry around a pint of brake fluid. Computers and fuel injection—from someone who’s had to pour gas down a carb—are a godsend. The downside with newer cars is that if something DOES go wrong, there is really no such thing as doing a roadside repair. (The other part of the revolution is easy access to a cell phone to call a tow truck.) Stuff’s more reliable, but not perfect, and when it does break, it is usually much more expensive to repair. BUT, there are still things that require an owner’s attention, and again, this advice goes for both pointers and setters— First, read your owner’s manual, cover to cover. Then, read through all the maintenance stuff again as you are standing there in front of your car. Find out how to check the fluids, figure out where the fuse box is, find and identify every piece you can, and most important, learn how to change a tire. Find a nice flat spot in a parking lot or a driveway to practice in and follow the instructions in the manual and actually put on the spare. Don’t quibble with me! Even if it’s a spacesaver and you have to take it right back off, do it. You will never know how important this is until you need it, and it's better to have learnt it on a nice, dry day than to have to figure it out at midnight in the rain. If you do decide to learn a bit more, the best thing to do before you start laying out lots of dough is read as much as you can. Go to the library and check out books made for beginners, or get on the Internet and go to places like Auto Education.Com or the auto repair part of About.com, both of which have a huge amount of general information about how cars work and how to work on them. Read, read, read. At some point in there, you’ll decide you want to start taking things apart, and if you have the time and inclination, most local schools have a shop class or community education program and would be happy to have you. The benefits of these classes are that you get to be around people who are just as inept as you, so nobody can make fun of you, and there is an instructor standing by who can call an ambulance for you. If you just want to dive in and learn-by-doing, the best advice I can give (aside from reading the shop manual first) is a) be sure and label EVERYTHING, b) put everything you remove in a plastic bag or a container, c) label the container or bag, d) make a list of the part labels and bag labels and make two copies, keeping one in your freezer and the other posted on the wall of the garage, e) occasionally read the lists and check them against your parts, f) know the name of the guy at your local parts dealer for when you lose the lists and/or the containers, and g) buy good tools. Don’t ever buy tools at the drug store, don’t ever buy tools that look “cute”, and under no circumstances let anyone borrow ANYTHING. Swapping partners may be your thing, but then the worst that can happen is you get some sort of nasty, fatal disease—but to let someone have their way with your tools?! That’s just sick. Anyway, after many years and thousands of dollars later, you will proudly look back over your handy skills and your mechanical accomplishments and wonder why you have a box of labelled parts for a car you no longer own.
In my absence…
Chet the E-Mail Boy has kept himself occupied with the small stream of correspondence trickling in (he does not seem to notice that the volume of mail is now smaller with the Comments feature, and I shan’t tell him), and just yesterday Jim Smith of Mayberry, North Carolina wrote in to say: Subject: DietSuper, Jim! Long-time readers will remember Jim Smith (he assures me this is his real name. “As if!” as the kids say) is Atkinsing his way to the slim, girlish figure he had back in the day. I myself have been struggling with my spare tire since, oh, about high school, and it has alternately inflated to tractor-trailer-sized and deflated to a less-huge-but-still-formidable P255R-16 size over the years. Never does quite go away, though. Part of my problem is those darned complex carbohydrates. I have been doing much better the past couple of years and tried to cut back on them French fried taters mm-hm and bread and sweet stuff and every other thing in the world that tastes good. I dropped about 40 or so pounds over a three month period, and have managed to keep about 30 off since then. Sure is difficult. I still indulge every once in a while, but try to stick to stuff that’s not just plain raw sugar. Eat your fruits and vegetables, exercise, and blog a lot. I know you really do not care, the only thing worse than another's diet is their dreams. However, I just wanted to tell someone and my friends have stopped listening.Oh, stuff and nonsense, Jim, of course I care. Really. I don’t know what Chet may have said, but he’s wrong. You know how he is. I DENY IT ALL. Anyway, remember what I told you—when your friends stop listening, it means it’s time for you to start your own blog. Then millio…thousand…hund…several people a day will come by and be very interested! ThanksNo, Jim—thank YOU!! PSWell, Jim, good to hear that the slave drivers at East Carolina have allowed you a respite from those long hours of looking at co-eds! And as for starchy food, Chet also handed me this short, yet informational message from Larry Anderson: Subject: FoodNow, now—I think the prepackaged sirenia market is large enough for several competitors, and who can deny that manatees are juicy and flavorful!? As you all know, The Possumblog Kitchens™ division of Possumblog Food Service Corporation has had a very successful time with our premier brand, Cornatees®--the cornbread battered, deep fried manatee treat on a stick, as well as our other fine breaded, fried, meat-on-a-stick products such as Cornutria®, which uses the best tender Midwestern marmot, and Cornguins®, with the great taste of Emperor penguin. (Be sure and try the newest Mesquite Grilled Flavor with Chipotle Seasoning!) HOWEVER, you know sometimes you want to have a good, special, sit-down Sunday meal, and it’s then when you might want to try one of my favorite recipes, Manatee and Dumplings: 1 manateeJim, if you don’t have friends who want to hear about your diet, just wait until they try some of this! It’s great, and it keeps just fine in the fridge for those late-night bouts of the hungries!
Whew.
Well, yesterday wasn’t quite so bad. Of course, getting to school an hour before Rebecca’s safety patrol meeting, and two hours ahead of the scheduled time to meet the teachers certainly helped. We zipped in and found a parking place right at the front door, went in, figured out where the meeting was going to be, got a map of the building, and went back outside and sat for an hour. Jonathan and Rebecca get sort of rambunctious, believe it or not. I very nearly decided to put them out and let them be rambunctious in the blazing sun on the fresh asphalt, but thought better of it. Time came and we went back in, found the patrol room and sat around for a bit as the coordinator went over assignments. (For those who are new readers, the safety patrollers open car doors and help kids get on and off buses and help the teachers keep order in the mornings and afternoons. They have to be the oldest kids, have mostly all ‘A’s, and good conduct. Rebecca had wanted to be one ever since she started school there, and finally got her chance last year. She was VERY proud. Jonathan wanted to be one this year, but now that fifth grade has been moved from the middle school, he has another year to wait. He was VERY sad.) Assignments having been assigned and procedures discussed, they took a walk up the hallways to see a few of their stations. Which, with the crowd of just-now-arriving regular kids bringing supplies, was a repeat of the crazy-house scene from yesterday over on the primary school side. That done, they were dismissed and we went to the Blue Hall and met Rebecca’s teacher, who looked about twelve years old and was just as nice as could be. It should be a good year for them both. Then it was off to the Orange Hall to meet Jonathan’s teacher, who just happened to be Rebecca’s teacher from last year. We walked in and she just loved all over Rebecca, who remained, as always, quiet as a mouse. She gently teased her and asked if her brother was going to be as noisy and naughty as she had been, and I allowed that although he is a very good little boy, he does have a bit less restraint of himself. He’s excited to be in her class though, and she’s real pretty, so I think he’ll do just fine. We explored a bit more and went to the library and then made our way back to the van. The road traffic wasn’t near as bad as it had been the day before—many folks have kids in both parts of the school and knew what to expect, and others had been warned. Today, who knows what will happen. Should be interesting though. Anyway, got home and Reba decided she needed to get her hair cut and go buy things, and asked if she should take Rebecca and get her hair cut. Like Catherine, she’s only had her hair cut once (about six inches a couple of years ago), and it had grown back out to below her butt. And with it being put in a pony tail everyday, and her sweating on it at soccer practice, it knots up just like Cat’s. We’ve been hinting around that she needed it cut again, but she has been whiney and not at all amenable to it. Part of the problem is that a lot of her self-image is in being The Girl With The REAL Long Hair, and I think she didn’t want to give that up. But it had gotten nearly impossible to get a brush through, and took ten minutes every morning to get fixed. So, the Leadership Council decreed that she would go with Mom. Tears, wailing, whining, pouting, tears, crying, ululating, lots of snot, wailing, tiny baby voice, sweat—went on about thirty minutes. Kept trying to show her that it was going to STILL be longer than just about anybody else’s, appealed to her sense of charity in that her pony tail would go to the sick kids without hair just like Catherine’s pony tail, told her it would let everyone see her jersey number, told her she would finally be able to fix it herself, then just told her to shut her pie hole and get in the car. Three hours later, Mom and Daughter returned with locks shorn. Rebecca’s now comes to the middle of her shoulder blades, and she can’t quit running her hands through it. Mom’s is now a sassy cut just below her ears. (Especially humorous, considering her father always made her keep her hair short when she was young, and after she got in college, she let it grow to prodigious lengths. Since we’ve been married, it has progressively gotten shorter, and with the latest cut, I noted to her that it is now exactly the same length it was when she had her senior picture taken in high school. She looked in the mirror and closely examined it, “Hm, well…maybe.”) Girls. Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Meeting the School Marm
AS YOU RECALL, yesterday afternoon was the Go Get Cat and Take Her To School trip. And what a long strange trip it was. Got out to T'ville a little bit early, so I stopped at Sonic and got some greasy food and ate it, then scooted over to the old elementary school (where they have the summer care program) and picked up Cat. Had to wait while she went to the restroom, which took forever because she had to talk to herself and to the paper towels, but it was still only a little past 2:00 and we didn't have to be at the new school until 2:30. It's only about three miles from the old school, right up old Highway 11. (Highway 11 is a bit of a misnomer--for most of its length from Trussville on to the east it's just a little two-lane country road.) Finally she got finished saying goodbye to the sink and the potty and we were on our way. Turned onto the highway and right where it turns back into two lanes, we stopped dead. Bumper to bumper. It seems some incredibly bright person decided that not just first graders, but every single child in elementary school was to meet his or her teacher yesterday, and every single one of them in the 2:30 to 3:00 time span. Eeeeeejits. So, we sat in traffic from 2:10 to 4:00. 2.7 miles--14,256 feet--of cars. Cars full of small, bored children. You know, if you say that each car is about 22 feet long, and add a car's length of space between each, that comes out to about 324 cars in line, which is probably about right. 2.7 miles in 1 hour, 50 minutes. About 1 1/2 miles per hour--I could have walked it faster than driven it. Although I don't think Tiny Terror could have managed it. I just sure am glad I made her go to the restroom before we left. We watched the train go by. We discussed traffic--"Why don't you just go on that side?!" "Daddy would get a ticket, sugar." We looked at the horsey. There's an old pale swaybacked one that lives in a stable right on the side of the road. No, I don't know its name. No, I don't know its mommy. No, I don't think we can stop and ride it. Yes, it's eating grass. No, I don't know where its friend is. We looked at the hot rod shop. "Look Cat, it's a '56 Bel Air!" "Oooh, it's RED, Daddy!" We talked about her new teacher, and I read her the letter she got when she registered. "She likes to play the pinonno, Daddy?" "'S'what it says here..." "I like the pinanner, too!" Finally got to the building, and then the next test was finding a parking space--obviously, an elementary school doesn't need a whole lot of parking. Unless you are going to insist every child in school bring his car. In which case, you find out that part of the delay was trying to find a slot for 400 Suburbans and Navigators and Expeditions. We wound up parking on the furthest paved portion of the site from the entrance. Then did the same slog we did last Friday during registration. Sure would have been nice if some of the doors had been unlocked. Got inside, and it was like walking into an asylum. We managed to find her room after a bit and met her teacher, who seems like a very sweet young lady. Cat stowed away her supplies and then I took her to the potty again, and then it was time to go see her kindergarten teacher and show off her new short hair and pierced ears, and then to tour the library and show the librarian her new short hair and pierced ears. And then blessedly time to go home. Well, not home exactly--had to go get Jonathan and Rebecca from daycare, THEN go home. Where I found that Reba was going to be home late, so as Rebecca got her junk ready for soccer practice, I donned my chef's apron and prepared a lovely meal of chicken fingers, okra, green beans, and some sort of prepackaged Lipton rice mix stuff. Reba home, then we ate, then it was up and back to the soccer park for me and Bec, where I sat and got sucked dry by mosquitoes, then home where I stayed up much too late playing on the computer. And now? Well, I'm leaving early AGAIN, this time to take Boy and Middle Girl to the new school. Seems they want the students to show up between 2:30 and 3:00 to meet their teachers. I might leave about five minutes or so earlier than normal, just in case there might be some traffic. (Actually, Rebecca has a safety-patroller meeting at 1:30, so we're all going to get up there real early. Probably still won't get a good parking space, though.) AND, Ashley has her meet-and-greet the exact same time, so Reba is leaving early to go take HER to the middle school. I'm just glad I don't feel the least bit tired!
And speaking of prolithic...
I was just shanghaied by the coworker I mentioned earlier to go out to an onsite meeting with her and some nice fellow trying to start a business. Wouldn't be so bad, except that in addition to being a language murderer, she's a tobacco fiend and smokes in her car. I was in her car for about ten minutes going, spent twenty minutes out in the open air, then ten minutes coming back, and I now reek like a ashtray full of cigarette butts. We got inside and I very nearly sprinted to get on the elevator to go get a Coke from downstairs to try and wash the stench out of my mouth and she mistakenly got on the elevator with me, thinking I was going up. She was momentarily flustered, but I told her not to worry, she could just ride down with me and get a drink--"Oh, I can't drink sodas anymore--they're bad for your bones." ::blink::blink:: Yes, we want our bones to be nice and tough, just like our rock-hard lungs. Some people, eh?
Catching up...
Thanks to those of you who stopped in yesterday--not a lot to see, but you know how life is, always butting in and causing a distraction from productive bloggery. ANYway--I did want to answer a couple of the comments...Indigo took note of the excellent price for the tree-getting-down work. Indeed, it would have been cheap at twice the price, but one must remember that a hundred bucks goes much further when you don't have to pay insurance and bonding and overhead and taxes and business licenses and snappy looking duds with your name on the pocket--basically, he's out some gas for the chain saw, a six of PBR, and maybe half a pack of smokes. Then, on the the car thing--vachon THOUGHT she was going to be all smarty-pants like by suggesting that if Oldest would be satisfied with nothing less than a Jag, then she should have it in Tampa Bay Buccaneers livery. Little did vachon know, but the mighty Trussville Huskies also use the same red and white with silver and black accents as her beloved Bucs, so a red one would be JUST FINE--a moot point to be sure since the only way we could afford an XK8 is for me to drop dead. Tarheel Tater Man offered the first suggestion, namely: You could tell Ashley in order to get a car she has to be able to work on and repair a car, so that she'll know how the thing operates. Two good possibilities could come out of this:Well, now--don't think I haven't thought about this angle. I think girls SHOULD know how to work on cars, and in my little essay I did a long time ago that's over on the GeoCities part of this site, one of the points I stress to Little Boy in his selection of potential date material (for later in life) is to try to choose a girl who's handy with the wrenches. A gearhead for a girlfriend is one of those wondrous dreams, almost up there with meeting a girl whose dad owns a Porsche dealership and whose brother runs a gun shop. Anyway, as of this morning, Oldest has shown ABSOLUTELY NO interest in doing anything requiring a) effort, or b) effort. The idea of learning about how to work on cars is somehow going to have to be HER idea--if I suggest it she'll just refuse and then sulk and fuss about how everybody hates her. So, I'll let her look at all the cars she wants and try to sneak in some valuable knowledge without her realizing it--"LOOK DAD!! It's a 2004 Lamborghini Gallardo!!" "Hmm, that's VERY interesting--by the way, did you know that the tri-power unit for the L-88 Corvette operated with the center carb having a mechanical linkage and the two end carbs with vacuum actuation?" That'll work, I'm sure. As for her driving Franklin, I truly believe she would just run away from home instead. Just a few months ago when she was doing the local theater production of "The Jungle Book", I had to use it to chauffeur her butt over to the theater. We got there early and since the door was locked, she had to sit there with me in the truck until someone came. She spent the entire time with her whole body jammed against the passenger door, alternately mumbling and whimpering, certain that her short life had been ruined completely and with prejudice. Heh. It would be a good thing for them all to use to learn on--hard to break it any more than it already is. And the physical effort alone is worthy of Grasshopper's long years learning Kung Fu from Master Po--"If you can press the clutch pedal and not break your toes..." NOW, as for Miss Reba's place in this...I will get little help from her in turning her daughters into grease monkeys. Over our nearly twelve years of married life, I have managed to teach her only about two things--the body-style differences between a '67 and a '68 Camaro, and the pretty car with the three pointed star is not a Rolls Royce, it's a Mercedes. She wouldn't know the difference between a carburetor jet and a jet engine, and doesn't care as long as she gets where she's going. SO, right now I think I'll just play it cool and see what happens, and try to herd the cats toward something that is both interesting and kind to Daddy's wallet. And prepare to be road kill.
Cervically.
I would do this, except all my bosses do it without prompting. I have one fellow who pronounces caveat kah-VAHT. One of my coworkers uses the word "prolithic" for "prolific". You'd think they hadn't gradumicated from college. Monday, August 04, 2003
So, we drove to a park named Kentuck,
Which the rain had turned into muck. I sat on my stool, While the kids acted the fool, Thinking, “Boy, this really does lend itself to all sorts of rich bloggy goodness for Monday morning, and I sure hope I remember some of it enough to make a clever limerick or something. But before all that, I had to do my normal Saturday grass cutting Friday evening, but before THAT, I walked in to the kitchen to find Reba on the phone and Oldest poring over my latest AutoWeek. Huh!? “Whatcha doin’?” Weird nervous giggle—“Looking at your magazine!” Of all my stuff, the last thing I would have ever thought she was interested in would be my car magazines. She ran off somewhere else and Reba hung up—“What’s the deal with her?” “She’s been talking the past couple of days about the type of car she wants when she gets sixteen.” WHOA, CAMEL! WHOA! Did I say WHOA? WHOA! Derned kid’s THIRTEEN, and she’s already thinking she’s just gonna FLOUNCE down and get herself a car and she’s THIRTEEN for cryin’ out loud and, and…she’s looking at my AutoWeek. Hmm. “She had one of your Car and Drivers the other day looking at it.” Hmm. “What sort of things is she looking at?” “Oh, nothing really, just sorta looking at all the pictures—she keeps looking at all the expensive ones and I told her not to get her hopes up.” “WELL, YEAH! This is weird.” Reba patted me on the arm—“Yes, but at least she’s looking in YOUR magazines…” The unsaid thing being that ‘she may otherwise loathe you as only a headstrong, authority-averse thirteen year old can, but she at least knows that Dad likes cars.’ What a quandary. If I come on too strong, will it cause her contrarian streak to kick in? And of the things I have usually been reliably able to claim as mine and mine alone, car magazines were right up there with my guns and my underwear. Hmm. I figure it’ll be best to play it cool—which worked pretty well when she came pounding back down the stairs with the mag turned to the ads in the back, “Look, Dad—this one’s REALLY nice!!!” ’01 Jag XK8 convertible, 59 large. Whew. Maybe I could get her hooked on something cheaper, like crack or something. “Yeah, sugar—it’s real pretty, but you know we could never afford anything like that, right?” “Oh, I know, I just thought it was neat.” Then she ran off again. Hmm. As if I didn’t have enough on my mind. Maybe I should go cut the grass. Which I did, with much vigor and no small amount of mind-swirliness. You know, one day you’ve got a wiggly, poop-spewing little bundle, and the next, she’s wanting a car and you’re the one who’s a wiggly, poop-spewing little bundle. And then your neighbor is yelling at you. In my concentration, I had not noticed that the lady next door and her daughter-in-law had walked up with the non-specific, male near-kin of the people across the street. Uncle, brother, brother-in-law, cousin—not sure exactly what the familial relation is, although there is always the possibility that he fills more than one slot in the line-up. Dirty camo pants, green tee-shirt with the sleeves artfully clipped away to reveal ropey arms the color and texture of saddle leather—he had come by a few weeks ago and wanted to know if my neighbor wanted him to cut down them there dead hickry trees in the back yard yonder. She told him one was in the neighbor’s yard, and that she wasn’t sure if the one between our houses was hers or mine. She told me about their conversation some time last week or the week before, and I told her that the tree actually sat right on the line between our yards. She said he quoted her $50 to cut it down, which sounded real good, so I told her I would be glad to go half on it. So, Friday, he was back. “Uhh, well, yonder tree I’ll get down for 85, and that one over yonder’ll be 85, and then it’ll be 15 t’ haul ‘em off.” Huh? Luckily, my neighbor and her daughter-in-law (who lives across the street, next door to the relative of Noble Woodsman) were even more confused than me—“So, for this one here, it will be $100?” “Right, for all of them it would be 230.” “No, wait, that tree over there isn’t hers, she’s just going to share the cost of this one with this man. You had quoted her $85 for cutting the tree, then $15 to haul both of them off, so to haul this one would be $7.50, plus $85 would be $92.50, right?” “Yeah, right, this one here will be 115 to cut and haul away.” Oh good grief. They went back and forth forever, and I finally figured that the price of cutting our tree had doubled up to a hundred dollars. That darned meth must be getting expensive. I got Reba to go get the checkbook and I wrote out a check to our neighbor for $50 and came back out to find that she and her daughter-in-law were still working out the price. ::sigh:: In the intervening time, Noble Woodsman had gone back over to move his truck and knock back a few, and by the time I had gotten back outside, the price had once again dropped to $85. I stood there and tried to recount all the various iterations of price with the ladies and finally went ahead and told my neighbor just to keep the fifty and we’d be even. She protested that it wasn’t fair, but I told her not to worry about it, as long as the tree got gone. I made the daughter-in-law (who was having him cut two of her trees) to be sure and stay out and supervise him since we were going to be gone on Saturday, and she promised she would. After our trip Saturday (more of which in a moment) Reba and I went out to go look at the stump. It looked like he had done a good enough job, and had cleaned up the yard and not torn a gaping hole in the side of the house. The neighbor lady came out and recounted his efforts, “And you know what? He wound up charging a hundred dollars! He came out and first said he was going to cut if for a hundred, then add thirty to haul it off!” After another round of negotiating, she and her daughter-in-law I guess managed to get him back down to something not quite so bad. Good thing I went ahead and gave her that check, I suppose. I allowed that maybe the next time we need a tree cut down, it might be advantageous for us to shop around a bit. She agreed. But somewhere there is a Noble Woodsman with a fridge full of 40s, half a case of Marlboros, and a satisfied smile. PICNIC!! Got up early Saturday and started getting the chilluns ready for the trip. Part of the preparation took longer than expected due to the fact that during the night Catherine, whose bed is right beside the bedroom window, had managed to wrap one of the curtains all around herself and in between her legs, and then peed all over it. This necessitating removing the curtain and the sheets and giving her a bath before we left. ::sigh:: I knew those curtains were going to be trouble. Everything else was relatively uneventful, and we managed to throw some cereal down their mouths and scoot over to the store for some ice and soft drinks and cash and snacks and reading matter. I had lobbed the groceries into the back of the van and slid into the driver’s seat with my sack of goodies when before I could even get my seatbelt on, Ashley had grabbed my copies of Southern Rodder and Hot VWs out of the bag and starting squealing like she was holding a lock of Aaron Carter’s hair. “Ahhmmm…those ARE mine, you know.” “LOOK REBECCA! JONATHAN! LOOK AT THIS!!” ::sigh:: Reba patted me on the arm and gave me that look. Poor Reba doesn’t know what she’s letting herself in for—my poor mother, bless her heart, spent nearly ten years with paint fumes wafting up from the basement, all of her towels disappearing, stumbling over consoles and bumpers and tires and wire—some of which occupied the area underneath my bed. Oh well. She’ll figure it out. We followed her mom and dad down to Northport. I had not been to the old part of Northport, and it’s pretty cool, but Kentuck park is…well, not what I had pictured. There is a big festival every year that attracts artists from all over the country and has even garnered a mention in the New York Times, and I guess I was thinking of something a bit more spiffy. Without the artists and stuff, it’s just a regular park with some picnic pavilions and a walking path. Oh well, that’s what I get for thinking, I suppose. Anyway, lots of folks turned out from pop-in-law’s company, and they had a couple of DJs from a local radio station playing tunes, and a bank of charcoal grills cooking up hamburgers and hot dogs, and a little train to haul the kids around, and a dunking booth to raise money for their Christmas project, and several blow-up things to occupy the kids—one in particular was rather bizarre—a big caterpillar/obstacle course which required the children to enter the front of the caterpillar and stumble and bounce through its intestines to the very end, where they plopped out between two giant butt cheek-looking things. Ewww. Yet strangely compelling for the younger set. The grounds were sloppy from a rain earlier that morning—nothing terribly bad, but enough to drive my mother-in-law batty trying to get bits of dirt off the kids’ new sneakers she had gotten for them the other day. You may not believe this, but some people do not think that using a wet paper towel to clean the bottom of shoes is a very good idea, especially when the shoes in question are standing in mud, and the entire area is covered with mud and bits of leaves. But what do I know? She chased them around all day trying to keep the soil off. They enjoyed the caterpillar and the dunking booth, and I did my dead level best to just sit in my folding chair and read and eat my Cheezits. I got corralled into supervising a couple of them, but was usually able to coerce them to come back and sit down with poor old Dad, who would give them drinks out of the cooler and Cheezits. We finally left around 3, and made a side visit to Green Pond on the way back so the kids could see where their great-great-great-great-great grands were buried. The Presbyterian church pictured in the link was begun in 1826 by Sabert Oglesby, who had come with his father Sabert and uncle John and the rest of their family members from South Carolina to Alabama along about 1819 or so. It is reported that he built the church building himself, as well as a homestead that has long since vanished. It’s been a long time since we had been there—I think it was probably while Rebecca was still a baby. The kids couldn’t believe all the Oglesbys—it’s not a very common name, after all—nor could they quite fathom the number of graves of infants. The good old days did have their limits. They ran all over the place looking before they finally succumbed to the heat and mosquitoes, and then we were back on the road. The rest of the evening was devoted to scrubbing them down and trying to get their hair washed. Poor Cat had managed to get herself a rat’s nest the size of my fist in her hair, and it took Reba nearly an hour of careful pulling and yanking to get it out. And a full hour of screaming from Catherine. Which led to Sunday’s big event… Catherine Gets a Haircut Oh, if you only knew how much trauma this caused. For Reba. 6 1/2 years of pretty little baby curls that have never met scissors, all the way down past Cat’s bottom. Daddy has had the chore for most every day of those 6 1/2 years of having to brush and care for this mass of hair. While I am a sentimental lad, and have always loved her wild mane, it has become increasingly difficult to do anything with. I have been telling her (within earshot of Mommy) for months now that she needed to have her hair cut, and she could donate it to make wigs for little children who lose their hair because they’re sick. After her tug of war, she was more than ready to give it to the sick kids. SO, after church and lunch Sunday, Mom called the Cancer Society here in town and they referred her to Wigs for Kids. She got on the Internet and did her homework and steeled herself for the coming loss. She wanted to go with Cat, and she wanted ALL of us to go, too--for moral support, I suppose. Off we went to Head Start, up Cat hopped into the chair, Dad did the “cut it off to here” speech (lest Mom back out) and in a minute or two, fourteen golden inches of thick, fine fur was lopped off. Her hair STILL comes to the middle of her shoulder blades, though. The stylist trimmed up the raggedy ends, and in just a little while, I had a grown up girl. She looked so sleek, so stylish. And the rest of the afternoon she kept running her fingers and various combs and brushes through her hair, putting it in ponytails and taking it down again, all by herself. First she gets her ears pierced, and now this. And Ashley wants a car. They were just babies yesterday! ::sigh:: AND for the rest of today, I have to leave early and go pick her up so she can meet her teacher and put her supplies in her brand new classroom at her brand new school. Then tomorrow, I get to repeat this exercise with the other three. Which means, that there isn’t going to be a whole lot of productive blogging in the next couple of days. BUT, I do have TWO special secret luncheons on the calendar for later in the week, so there is the promise of other interesting stuff. Really! Honest! Well, maybe. OH, P.S.!! Forgot about it (several times) but those of you who have been pining for a good sound "Scourging of Richard Cohen" are in luck! Axis of Weevil Ambassador to Mizoo Charles Austin has upped stakes from the clutches of stupid BlogSpot and FINALLY moved to capacious and swanky new digs at http://sinequanon.spleenville.com/. All of you be a'changing your bookmarks and permalinks and such and go tell him hello. AND, IN LIKE MANNER...Young Christopher Johnson of the Midwest Conservative Journal has unmoored from the crumbling seaside of Bloggerdom to also sail into a new homeport at http://mcj.bloghorn.com/. Again, for proper enjoyment, please adjust your receivers to the proper frequency. Friday, August 01, 2003
Receipting
Oh, my. That really was something. Reba called after her last client had left and I swung by and picked her up (we rode together today), and then we beat it out to Grandmom’s house to pick up the kids, then on to the new school. [insert sound of little children saying “Hooray”] Now, their new building was supposed to have been ready a year ago, but there were some, ahem, difficulties in getting it finished, the greatest of which was the collapse of a towering mountain of earth behind the new campus. Anyway, from all reports everything is ready to go to start up on the 6th. Heh. Talk about positive spin. We rolled up and the entrances to the drives, as well as some of the main drives themselves, were still gravel, while only a couple of the parking lots had been finished. Apparently just that morning, because they were still oozing oil. All the various subcontractors were fidgeting around all over the place trying to make 95% complete look more like 98%. I’m always hypercritical of stuff like this, mainly because I used to do field observations, but I was astonished at the poor quality of detail work. Paint on doors that looked like it was done by Jackson Pollock, gaps big enough between masonry and fixtures you could stick in your thumb, missing caulk, drywall that looked like it had been carefully beaten with a hammer around the edges—a right good mess. The bad thing is that once the kids start moving in, most of this stuff won’t ever get fixed right. Brand new, and it already looks three years old. Anyway, the school is really two separate facilities on one campus, a kindergarten through 2nd grade primary school, and a 3rd through 5th grade intermediate school. And registration was handled in opposing corners of the campus for each. Which meant we got to stand in two different lines. Sure would be nice just to handle it all in one place, but what do I know. Luckily we have done this enough so that we had copies of our driver’s licenses and power bill already done and ready to go, so the only real wait was for the other folks to move it along. We did Cat first, which took about thirty minutes or so. We then trekked around to the back of the campus underneath the still-being-assembled canopy, across the still-being-laid sod and still-being-installed sprinklers (because the sidewalks were still in their conceptual form), and across the small expanse of still-to-be-installed shrubbery, all the while as I glared angrily at the laborers who kept leering at Oldest. I am a man of quiet and level temper, but I would suggest that when I am perambulating with my family you at least have the common courtesy to be rather discrete in your pervy daydreaming. Blunt force head trauma always take so long to heal, you know. Got the older two signed up a lot quicker (shorter line or more efficient setup, I’m not sure), and then we discovered that the Jefferson County school system is not giving itself due credit for being an educational innovator. How many other systems across our great land can boast of such diligence in adopting wonderful new verbified nouns! Today’s shining example was prominently taped above the tables where we went to pay our fees: “RECEIPTING”. Isn’t that a lovely word! And they even spelled it right! You know, just the other day I was thinking how great it would be if we could do away with that silly old “cashier” word. So we monied the receipter and were duly receipted. Then it was back across the campus to our van, then I took the family and wife back home, and now I am back here at work, because I still have crap to do, because even though we have already been to the new school, we have to go back Monday AND Tuesday to meet teachers, so I have to get ahead just to stay not so far behind. Blech. And when I get home today, I have to cut the stupid grass. It’s been three weeks now, and I can’t do it tomorrow because we have to drive to Tusca-derned-loosa to attend Reba’s dad’s company picnic. Why? I have no idea, I just go where I’m told. It promises, however, to be another one of those events that provides a rich vein of ore for mockery and invective, but I sure wish I could have figured out a way to sit at home and do it. ANYway, all of you have a good weekend, and I’ll see you bright and early Monday morning with incredible tales of the ordinary and the everyday!
Hmm. Something seems to be wrong with Blogger today. What are the odds of that?! OOH--well, now it seems to have magically fixed itself. Again, what are the odds!?
As previously mentioned, ultralight bloggage today due to silly old work, and the need to leave in a bit to go pick up Miss Reba and the kids and go get the kids put back in school. It starts next week on Wednesday, which is just so wrong from so many angles--a) who starts in the middle of the week?!, b) what happened to summer vacation?!, and c) Catherine will be a first grader. How did she get to be so old?! Anyway, might be back in a bit, or not, depending on if I can concentrate on doing my job. No wagering, please. Thursday, July 31, 2003
I think I...
...will go home now. Got soccer practice for Middle Girl tonight, and a whole stack of magazines to peruse while she and the rest of the kids run around getting all stinky. I might even go over to the Country Convenience store and get me some Vi-inner sausages and a cold drink. TOMORROW, I will be hard after it getting actual paying stuff done again, and then during the middle of the day will be going with Miss Reba to go get some of the kids registered and tour their new school. Which is your warning that the free ice cream cones will be dramatically smaller tomorrow, possibly even more than the customary 27%! Chet the E-mail Boy will be standing by, however, eager to receive various abusive and rude transmissions from the customers.
As you recall, it is...Noon-thirty.
I stand there baking in the hot sun, sweat dripping down my neck. Delivery trucks roar by as I wait for my mark. A lively joe blows past, a porkpie hat sliding off the back of his pate--not him. I'm watching a dame sashe up the bricks toward the jail, and I feel that feeling. Hairs standing up on my neck, sorta cold like when Sam the barber splashes me with witch hazel. I ease my eyes around, and there's a big jamoke standing there. Tall, six-footer. Hair that used to be brown. I says to him, "Hey mack, you oughtn't sneak up on a fish like that--you wouldn't happen to be Anderson, would you?" "Yeah, I'm Anderson. And you...?" "Yeah, it's me. Come on." I pushed open the heavy door and we walked into the cool air of the museum. The taps on my heels echoed off the hoity-toity marble walls, "Art-shmart, eh?" I motioned toward the junk on the wall. He kept his pipe shut. Lunch With Larry! What a fun time! Larry Anderson, famous Kudzu Patch dweller and boon companion to William J. Roberts, had driven down to B'ham today to attend some SBA meetings over at the Sheraton. Obviously, any of you who come to town must have lunch with me, but since Larry and I have never laid eyes on each other, we were forced to devise an elaborate, 1930s film-noir role-playing game in order to identify each other. Everything went fine until he cracked my skull open with a blackjack... I got to the museum at exactly 12:29 (1229 for you military sorts) and stood there with my very loud Mondrian-inspired tie waiting for him to show up. Unbeknownst to me, I was late. Oops. I happened to look through the doors to the lobby and saw some guy motioning with his hands--I walked in, "Are you Terry?" I am, and according to his name badge, he was Larry. Tall, distinguished-looking fellow, and both exactly- and nothing like I had pictured him. "I'm sorry, Larry, I thought you were going to meet me up front, but you must have come through the back!" "No, actually I've been here waiting for you--I was out front earlier, but didn't see you." ::blush:: Again, oops. We were seated at a table by the big window and both of us got the Thursday special, crab cake on a bed of mixed bitter weeds. Which was awfully pricey, but pretty good. Not the best crab cake in the world, but I wasn't there for the cholesterol and carbs, I was there to blabber with Larry. I think we covered it all--work, bureaucracies, pointless meetings, growing up, reading, writing, rocket science, Cletus, dealing with Uncle Sugar, dangerous things to do with chemicals, stupid people, riding the Iron Butt, good employers, bad employers, blogging, newspaper reporters (actually a subset of the stupid people part of the conversation), children, barbecue, wives, baby eclectus parrots, our new book publishing venture (Boll Weevil Press--we are looking for Other People's Money™ right now, but in the mean time, we have each advanced the other five genuine dollars against future sales). You know, the stuff everyone talks about. OH, and Road & Track magazines!! Larry brought a stack with him, and again I was embarrassed; this time because I had nothing to give him in return. So while he wasn't looking, I slipped a set of silverware and an ashtray off the table into his briefcase. It's not much, but it's all I had. It got time to go, so we went to the cashier, where we were charged an astronomical pile of money for our lunch. We paid, turned, and started walking away, and with no small amount of pain I mentioned that I had never eaten such expensive crabmeat (especially considering all the other entrees on the menu were about half the price of what we were charged). Larry, who is my hero, thought it was a mite too much too, and bravely taking charge, went back looking for an explanation. We got to the cashier and she was already shaking her head in self-loathing, realizing she had made a mistake adding up our bill on her handheld calculator. She apologized profusely and gave us back a 25% rebate. That made it better, but that was still one expensive hunk of crustacean and undergrowth. I thought Larry might get to come back and explore the ever-so-lovely Possumblog Work Environment, but he had other things to go do, so we had to make do with a quicky point-to-the-landmark exercise--"...that's Linn Park, that's the Courthouse, that's City Hall, that's the jail, that's Boutwell Auditorium..." Couple of more handshakes, and it was time to get back to work. That Larry is a pretty good guy.
Hmph!--Justin Timberlake Joins Stones At Toronto Benefit, Gets Pelted With Garbage TORONTO — In perhaps his most memorable cameo since donning a furry dolphin suit at a Flaming Lips performance, Justin Timberlake joined Mick Jagger and the rest of the Rolling Stones onstage during the veteran rock band's set at the concert for Toronto on Wednesday night. [...]Well, this is just horrible--no matter HOW much you dislike Justin Timberlake, these people throwing trash and bottle should have at least understood the danger of these items to the other performers--poor Mick's walker could have slipped and he could have fallen and broken his hip or something!
Interesting, maybe.
From yesterday's online edition of the Birmingham Business Journal: Birmingham chef to be on TV's 'Off the Menu' Birmingham chef Frank Stitt of Highlands Bar & Grill is joining the cast of Turner South's "Off the Menu," which profiles the South's finest chefs. Stitt, along with a chef from Charleston, S.C., and another from Memphis, Tenn., will join original show host Troy McPhail of Commander's Palace in New Orleans, to round out the new cast. The men will "showcase their outdoor and cooking skills on (the) half-hour daily 'catch and cook' series," according to Turner Broadcasting System Inc. "The chefs will remove their aprons and don everything from camouflage to wading boots as they literally hunt for ingredients found in the outdoors of the Southeast region," a promo from the network states. "Then it's into the kitchen with these culinary experts for a taste of what it takes to prepare dishes such as roasted quail and corn-crusted trout." Debuting Sept. 8, the new format will air weekdays at 10:30 a.m. CST and 5:30 p.m. CST. "The addition of these highly creditable restaurants allows us to create enough compelling episodes to offer our viewers a daily dose of this exciting and captivating series," says John Parry, Turner South's vice president of original programming in a press statement. "(The show) will continue to bring together two worlds close to every Southerner's heart - the outdoors and the kitchen." [...]Stitt is one of the best chefs around, but I have never pegged him as the outdoorsy type. Should be fun to watch, though--as you know, I can just never seem get enough compellitude, excitement, or captivation. If I only had cable...
Oh, that was fun.
Another sort of bureaucratic exercise of the pretty police, this time conducted by one of the guys over on the planning side--they keep dragging me in on these so they can have someone to blame if someone doesn't like the way it looks when they go to their Big Meeting--"Well, we had one of the architects on staff look at it, and he didn't say A WORD about it..." That kind of CYA diddly-poo. My planning counterpart is...well, he...let's just say he pretends to great wisdom. And I am being as honest as I know how that I DO NOT believe it has anything to do with graduating from UA. I have met thousands of Bama grads and they are invariably smart folks--however, I suppose the occasional statistical outlier manages to get through. I will occasionally mess with him, but I had to stop when he started taking my personal jibes personally. (Imagine that!) Probably the best one was the Monday morning a while back when he announced during our staff meeting that he was getting married. "You're all invited--I'll be pinning an invitation to the bulletin board." "Thanks, man--I'll be sure and pin your gift up there." It's no fun when everyone in the room is laughing at you. Poor dim dude. He did get the last laugh, though--he went and mailed me an invitation, so I had to break down and actually buy him something. (I consoled myself that I was actually buying it for his wife and not him.) He has an odd habit of trying to sound non-Southern, too. On occasion, he will attempt this weird vocal gymnastic thing which makes him sound both retarded and effeminate. But he thinks it makes him sound educated, I think. Hard to tell. Anyway, today's attempt at erudition was the development of a new pronunciation for "kiosk". kee-ahsk, right? Maybe some bit of emphasis on first syllable, long e sound; second syllable unaccented, short o sound? Sorta like the way EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD SAYS IT? Nah--we're gonna make it "kee-OASK". Long o, heavily accented, and drawn out until it plops off your lips like spit--kee-OOOOOAS-K. ::sigh:: People is something.
Dumb old gainful employment...
...once again rears its head. Paying work to get done this morning, so you might have to wait until after my sure-to-be-exciting lunch with Mr. Anderson to see anything here. ::sigh:: Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Mmmm...Dolphin Meat!
Shula to open steak house at Wynfrey Hotel Like football and steak? Then, you're in luck: Legendary Miami Dolphins football coach Don Shula will open a Shula's Steak House at Wynfrey Hotel at the Riverchase Galleria in Hoover."Hand-painted football menus"? Yep--lookee here. Anyway, now that he's coming to Birmingham, it should be much more convenient to get into the 48 oz. Club™. I might need to pick me up some of them steak knives, too. Maybe a nice bathrobe. Yep, just me, sitting around in my bathrobe, knife in each hand, eating a big ol' pile of cow.
State bans commercial fishing in polluted waters By DAVE BRYANAll together now..."Eww."
Adventures in Headline Writing-- Spain gymnast stripped of medal at worlds
Maybe it's just me, but shouldn't that be "Spainish"?
Hey James and Laurence--that Word of Mouth deal got Snopified back on June 11-- [...] If you want to find out what this anonymous contributor actually said about you, you have to communicate with him through Word-of-Mouth's ANONYMOUS EMAIL SYSTEM which — this is where the "sucker" part kicks in — is only available to Word-of-Mouth "Power Users": One-Year Subscription $19.97, Two-Year Subscription (BEST VALUE) $29.97. However, all the "Power Users" who have written to us about their experiences with Word-of-Mouth have reported that after they paid the fees to learn what was being said about them, all they learned was that the anonymous contributors had "misplaced" whatever information they supposedly had to share.Hey, send me twenty bucks and I'll say all kinds of stuff about you.
And what would Wednesday be without the Wednesday Newhouse News Lileks column? [...] Expect bad news for the foreseeable future. It's sexier than success. Eventually every network will do the Six Months Later story, and you know how that will go:Oh no. I better vacuum. I sure hope he brings the good stuff this time. The last time, all he had was a bottle of Vitalis and three Sominex. In fairness, that was better than Peter Jennings, who just sat there on the couch crying. Man, how I hated that.
Powell: Saddam Is 'Piece of Trash' to Be Collected
Sitting in the shadows of an dark, sweltering safe house on the outskirts of Baghdad, Saddam quietly dips his hand in a bowl of water and pats his head while whispering--"You're an errand boy, sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill." Wonder how long it will be before the outrage and breast-beating will start from those who think it's mean-spirited to call this psychopath a piece of trash?
HE'S BACK!! And he's COMING TO BIRMINGHAM!!
Or; What do you get when you cross a possum with kudzu? Obviously, lunch. Yes, the day is at hand when I get to meet another blogger face-to-face for a round of lunch. Larry and I will be dining on the morrow at the oh-so-precious cafe at the Birmingham Museum of Art (over 21,000 works of art, spanning 7,000 years...and vittles, too!!). Larry has been instructed to be sure he wears a shirt and shoes, even though I don't think this is a hard and fast rule at the museum. I will be respendent in my normal cotton long-sleeved dress shirt, which will be tucked into uncuffed, unpleated, stylish, polyester Haggar slacks. My ID badge will be tucked neatly into my breast pocket alongside my pens, and I will be screaming into a bullhorn about the gold standard and the Masons. In other lunchitudinal matters, the ongoing stalking of Miss Preede continues apace, and we have each now managed to require rescheduling at least twelve times each. We have set another date (which will remain secret until it has happened)--I will not be denied my promised FOX6 coffee cup. I may have to ask for an autographed picture, too. As well as one from Larry. Right now, it is time for today's fare--l'poulet noirci pour la micro-onde.
...Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree. On July 30, 1918 during the battle of Ourcq, Sergeant Joyce Kilmer was killed. In addition to his most famous poem, Trees, he also wrote the Rouge Bouquet: In a wood they call Rouge Bouquet There is a new-made grave today, Built by never a spade nor pick Yet covered with earth 10 meters thick. There lie many fighting men, Dead in their youthful prime, Never to laugh nor love again Nor taste the Summertime. For Death came flying through the air And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, Touched his prey and left them there, Clay to clay. He hid their bodies stealthily In the soil of the land they fought to free And fled away. Now over the grave abrupt and clear Three volleys ring; And perhaps their brave young spirits hear The bugles sing: "Go to sleep! Go to sleep! Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, You will not need them any more. Danger's past; Now at last, Go to sleep!" There is on earth no worthier grave To hold the bodies of the brave Than this place of pain and pride Where they nobly fought and nobly died. Never fear but in the skies Saints and angels stand Smiling with their holy eyes On this new-come band. St. Michael's sword darts through the air and touches the aureole on his hair As he sees them stand saluting there, His stalwart sons: And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill Rejoice that in veins of warriors still The Gael's blood runs. And up to Heaven's doorway floats, From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, A delicate cloud of bugle notes That softly say: "Farewell! Farewell! Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! Your souls shall be where the heroes are And your memory shine like the morning-star. Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!" The Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest in North Carolina is dedicated to him.
Looking out the window…
I can see that it is well past time for yet another rendering from that classic of late Nineteenth- and early Twentieth Century literature, Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book. Today, Lemon and Nisbet are discussing aspects of the: ARTS OF ABBREVIATION.Well, yeah.
Air marshals pulled from key flights WASHINGTON, July 29 — Despite renewed warnings about possible airline hijackings, the Transportation Security Administration has alerted federal air marshals that as of Friday they will no longer be covering cross-country or international flights, MSNBC.com has learned. The decision to drop coverage on flights that many experts consider to be at the highest risk of attack apparently stems from a policy decision to rework schedules so that air marshals don’t have to incur the expense of staying overnight in hotels. [...]You know, nothing surprises me anymore. Although it would have been nice to have an air marshal on every flight when this all got started, at least there was some peace of mind knowing that even though they might not be on every flight, there were enough to be a credible deterrent--sorta like to the sign you occasionally see--"These premises guarded by Smith & Wesson four days a week. You just have to guess which ones." Well, I don't suppose anyone intent on doing harm will have to guess now. What's really going to chap me is if this is some bureaucratic nonsense to create a false budget crisis, similar to the one when the FBI created an artificial backlog of document interpretation to plump for more money.
Are you the lucky girl he'll share them with?
"YOU can be if... ...Looking at a big beautiful old oak tree and realizing that it took years of growing" It's full-bore Lileks insanity! Tuesday, July 29, 2003
We need to have a talk...
...with whoever it was that came up with the word “funeral”, because despite taking up almost half the word, “fun” really isn't part of it. A long-time friend of our family—we knew him from church, and from school. One of his boys was a grade ahead of me, another a grade behind me, and the third was about three back. We all played football together, and his wife had been a kindergarten teacher and librarian at our school, and had been one of my Cub Scout den mothers (and she shares my birthday). A man of incredible handiness and quiet optimism, he and the boys built their own garage and shop in their backyard using rough lumber, a few hand tools, and a good eye. Always full of good humor, and even at threescore and ten, he had a handshake like a vise. In the last couple of months, he was diagnosed with cancer, which spread rapidly despite several drastic surgeries. The family thought that a corner had been turned last week, though, and he got to move from the SICU to a private room. And then he was gone. I dropped by my mom’s office and picked her up. NO way I was letting her drive again. Although she did want to go by the Farmer’s Market on the way back. No. Reba decided to take the day off and had gone with the kids to get her mom. My father-in-law, bless his workaholic self, had gone into work (in Tuscaloosa) and then driven BACK up for the funeral, and was going to go right back to work afterwards. Half a day on the road, that. We all sat in the back of the funeral home chapel, which is good for getting to see everybody. Which we did—folks we knew that had been former customers, folks from school, folks from church. A moment or two of quiet, then a couple of short eulogies by the current preacher and the man he replaced, and then it was time to go. A few more hugs and handshakes and bits of hurried gossip in the lobby. It was good to see folks I hadn’t seen in forever. But it wasn’t fun.
And then again, sometimes it DOESN’T pay to be off-handedly impertinent…
I had no sooner gotten sat down from my return from the funeral when Chet the E-Mail Boy came rushing (charitably speaking) through the doorway with the following missive: Subject: Christine Terhune HerrickHuh? What!? I confessed to Chet no small amount of consternation, given that I had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what this was all about. (To myself I kept my fears that possibly once again I had been latched onto by a raving moonbat who had mistaken me for someone else—it has happened before, although at least this time there was a bit more to go on to deduce the reasoning behind this Herrickean fury.) To the magic Google machine I flew, where I tapped in good Mrs. Herrick’s name and the name of this blog, and LO AND/OR BEHOLD, there it was—back on Wednesday, January 3 of this year, I was waxing rhapsodic about my then-new Christmas gift of Everybody’s Writing-Desk Book, an interesting feature of which was a listing of books in the back by authors of the time—including one Christine Terhune Herrick! One of her titles from the list (What To Eat -- How To Serve It) I had managed to find on Barnes and Noble’s Out of Print Book site, and I then had this to say about her: Apparently a well-known cookbook [author] and general household scold of the late 19th- and early 20th centuries, with a name that desperately belongs to a high society dinner party hostess in a Three Stooges movie. Looking at her copious list of titles on B&N, it's hard to believe that they are missing some of her other fine works published by Harper's, which are listed as House-Keeping Made Easy and Cradle and Nursery. Bet those are some corkers, alright.Ahhh. Well, now. Ahem. Hmm. I suppose my waywardness with the vowels and consonants could have caused some pain to devotees of Mrs. Herrick, so I cobbled together a response to Mrs. MacMurray and pled insanity, begging forgiveness for being a brash upstart and sporting about with the Terhune legacy, and asked if posting her defense of Mrs. Herrick would be acceptable. Thankfully, Mrs. MacMurray had been in the teasing mode, and she quickly wrote back that she knew my gentle prodding was done with tongue firmly encheeked. It seems that Kathleen has written several scholarly articles and a book about the Terhune family, and is quite up on many obscure facets of Terhunania. In addition, for many years she dealt in rare books, specializing in the Terhune family. Breathing a great sigh of relief (along with the Possumblog Legal Department), I told Kathleen I would be happy to direct my readers to her website. She demurred (having not yet taken the plunge into the icy waters of Oceanus Interneticus) but did not object in the least if I directed you all to her book, Albert Payson Terhune : A Bibliography of Primary Works, which is listed on Amazon. Although the book is about brother Albert, it also contains Christine’s bibliography and a photograph of her. So, there now! Go, read! Or I shall scold you once more!
I make myself a liar--no posting this morning EXCEPT to note that long-time Axis of Weevil member and Gawker contributor Elizabeth Spiers has taken the plunge with her very own domain name and pretty, pretty Moveable Type software. Go tell her hey at http://www.elizabethspiers.com/, and as always, please adjust your permalinks. Monday, July 28, 2003
Dowdiness From Where It's Already Tomorrow Today, or something...
Aussie Tim Cobber Mate gets an e-mail from an alert Yellowhammer, H.J. Farmer, in reference to Mike Marshall of the Mobile Register and his ongoing search for clarification from the New York Times on the actions by a certain [...] standup comic specializing in insults -- Don Rickles with an exceptionally high language quotient [...]who gave rise to the newest fun verb in all of Bloglandia--"dowdify". The big question in my mind is when is Tim going to come visit Alabama?
Wow--everybody it seems is sprucing up--John Hawkins just got some spiffy new clothes.
I feel so...plain.
What do you get for the twenty year old who has everything?
Obviously, a Harry Potter birthday cake. And maybe some Legos. Happy birthday, ya' little punk ya'!
So Anyway,
Got home Friday and found out that I had made a dreadful error in cognition. It seems that when my wife’s mother had asked that the children spend this week with her and Gramps, it was only intended to be during the daylight hours. No night-spending. And it would begin today, not Friday night. Good thing I like my kids, that’s all I’ve got to say. So, Reba’s desire to clean house, and my desire to, uh…clean house will require some adjustments. ::sigh:: Whatever—so I got home and Miss Reba and I decided to take the kinder to see a movie. You know, everyone has their own benchmark bad movie—for some of you, maybe it’s Battlefield Earth, others of you, Ishtar, some find Santa Claus Conquers the Martians to be unwatchable. My own yardstick of craptacularity is a little fill-um called Where Angels Go, Trouble Follows. A rockin’ little sequel, which for me encapsulates every reason why the late-1960s should be wiped from the history books. It is stupid, annoying, and if I may say so, stupid. And annoying. Little did I know that people were still able to make such steaming piles of horse manure, until I plunked down close to forty bucks to go see Spy Kids 3D -- Game Over. Move Review Time—(I would say “spoilers ahead” but this scream-inducing pool of dreck is already far beyond spoiled. I’m going to give everything away, so scroll way down if you really want to go throw you money away on this stinker and don’t want to know how it ends.) What a bad movie. I came away with actual, visceral, throbbing HATRED for it and for the persons who caused my time to be wasted sitting through this mindless, idiotic drivel. How many ways is it bad? Well, first off there’s 3D. 3D is what you do when there are no more ideas left. 3D is a crutch for moviemakers who somehow think the audience will forgive you if you make a point of poking your finger at them-WHOA 3-DDDDD!-or throwing things out into the audience-WHOA 3-DDDDDD!-or any of a number of other things that do absolutely nothing except give everyone a headache. And oh, what a headache. The print we had wasn’t quite registered exactly right, so even with the tiny, stupid glasses, everything had fuzzy edges, and even today my eyes hurt. According to Miramax co-chair Bob Weinstein, "When you get the franchise right and (audiences) have such an enjoyable experience, you build a brand name," Weinstein told Reuters. "The 3-D was something fresh. Parents hadn't seen that in a long time and wanted to turn their kids on to it."For the love of all that’s holy, why not facilitate parents in turning their kids on to something else they haven’t seen in a while, something that’s better for them—like mescaline. Aside from the nausea-inducing stereopticon sensation, there was the nausea-inducing story. The Spy Kids franchise has continued to get worse with every movie, and surely this one will be the death of the series. It mostly revolves around Juni, who has the vapid, cloying, highly annoying screen presence of a young Danny Bonaduce. He has left the spy business to scrounge pennies from stupid kids who hire him as a private detective. He has lost all contact with his family, who desperately need him to rescue his sister, whose mind has become trapped inside of a new computer game designed by Rambo. The idea of the game is to trap unwitting children on the Fifth Level. Why? Because this is a moist, curly dog turd of a movie, that’s why. Anyway, after a call from the President (played by Dr. Doug Ross), Juni goes to the spy place and Salma Hayak convinces Juni to hook himself up to the game to save Carmen, and she convinces him without taking off her clothes. There is a brief bit of what is supposed to pass for double-entendre banter between Hayak and her on-screen husband, which zooms over kid’s heads (which is good, I suppose), and falls like a lead block on the adults (which made me want to punch the screen, which is probably not a good thing, I suppose). Juni gets into the machine and everyone in the audience puts on their glasses to start the headache-fest. He meets other kids inside who are “Beta Testers” (ooooohhh) who are actually nerds when you get to see them later in the film. They go through various levels of the game (you know, like in Tron, except hard on the eyes). Lots of stupid game play, none of which are anything as good as what kids actually play on video games now. Juni and the Beta Testers (ooohhhh) run into a girl, whom Juni falls in like with, whom he has to clobber a couple of times, but who then takes his place when he has to fight with one of the other guys or get kicked out of the game. The girl is not real, though, she’s just a decoy being played by Rocky to get Juni to the Fifth Level, but Juni doesn’t figure this out until the end of the movie. Anyway, Juni manages to also get Khan Noonien Singh to come into the game to help him, because a) he needs help, and b) Mr. Roarke wants to confront Judge Dredd because it was HE who paralyzed him and put him in a wheelchair and made him do commercials. So, they all wander around and fling stuff into the audience and poke things out there for us to be amazed by, and finally they find Carmen, who leads them to the Fifth Level and they shut down the game, thus foiling the nefarious schemes of Nick Martinelli. BUT, it’s not over, because Rambo Returns and somehow manages to build a big robot and starts rampaging through the city, and then since they had only a tiny bit of money left over, all the characters from previous adventures got to show up long enough to stand there and put on 3D glasses while the words “PUT ON GLASSES” flashed in front of them. Ten minutes later, the movie is over and Antonio Banderas is laughing his happy hindquarters to the bank, and I am fuming because Carla Gugino is on screen for about a minute. The robot Rocky is defeated when Zachary Powers confronts him in the control room and forgives him for being mean. Everyone hugs and the credits roll, and in the outtakes that must now accompany all motion pictures to make the audience laugh (since they didn’t get to during the feature), George Clooney mugged while chewing up his line and after the cut, grinned and quipped that he had probably just managed to wreck his entire career. Yep. Probably so. Game Over. Back home, off to bed after a handful of Advil, then up early Saturday. Off to the sporting goods place to get the youngest two registered for fall soccer and to unload perfectly good cash money for registration. Thankfully, no new uniforms this time, so that saved a little bit. Then back to the house to take stuff to the charity folks—Reba had a backlog of stuff in boxes, which she had put in the back of the truck while I was gone. SO, Franklin got a bit of a workout, and as a reward for his hard work, I stopped and got him some glue to put back on his rearview mirror. Once they get in the habit of coming off, they keep it up. It just occurred to me that since my readership has risen into the high ones, that some of you may not be familiar with one of the other members of the family. Franklin is my truck. He was named by the kids in honor Franklin the Turtle, because he is green and slow. The name also works well because he’s an F-100, and Benjamin Franklin’s picture is on a $100 bill. So there you go. (Oh, and he has 257,000 miles on him. Which might explain the slow part.) Anyway, got my glue and got home, to be confronted with several children and a wife who had gotten themselves cleaned up to go to the store. Hmm. “You know Catherine has been wanting to get her ears pierced and I had told her last week she could if she didn’t pee in her pants.” Some inducement, eh? Oh well. Got us all in the van and away we went to Wally World, where we wandered around for several hours gathering up a treasure trove of valuable prizes, none of which I can really recall at the moment. The important part of the trip went just fine, though. Catherine sat there all prim and ladylike (a first) after first picking out a pretty little set of earrings with rhinestones. Two pops later and she was even more of a prissy little girl. Not a fidget or a whimper, although she did confess to Mommy that “that ear poker thing hurted some.” We had some lunch at McDonald’s solely to satisfy the kids’ craving for cheap plastic Happy Meals toys and cheap plastic food. The big attraction was that the toys were tie-ins to the garbage we had seen the previous night. ONE MORE STRIKE! The movie and the Happy Meals seemed to have been conceived on two parallel-dimension Planets of the Stupid. The Happy Meal toys had Juni looking like a lobotomized Prince Valiant riding a unicycle. There was also a comic book (in 3D!) that had absolutely no relationship to the movie—different story, different-looking characters (yet, surprisingly, no better than the movie crap—go figure!). To say the kids were disappointed is an understatement. Finished that mess up and went BACK to the store, this time to the nearly deserted Big K-Mart to look for other junk we could have done without, then back to Wal-Mart AGAIN for the stuff we forgot that we couldn’t find at K-Mart, and then finally back home. Got the kids scrubbed and shampooed and into bed, and then it was time for Reba to visit The Possumblog Style Center. She had tried to get an appointment to have her hair colored early that morning, but was met with the studied indifference that can only come from a teenager who thinks being a receptionist in a salon is like, the coolest thing. So, she got some goo for me to play with on her hair. Yes, yes—I’ve done this plenty enough, so I know what I’m doing. Most of the time. This time was a bit different in that the goo she bought had a neat little comb applicator, making it less likely I would leave her with big streaks of uncolored hair. Not that that has ever happened… It worked really well and it looked good enough so that no one at church Sunday asked if she had gotten her hair colored. And saved about 70 bucks. Which is about what we had wasted on stuff at the Wal- and K-Marts. Sunday, churching up for everyone, and then some. Reba’s mom called at 6:30 wanting to know if we could come eat lunch with them at their church (which is the one where Reba and I grew up). They were having a special Sunday with a guest speaker, who just happened, a couple of years ago, to be the preacher where Reba and I go now. (Confused yet?) We got ready, went to our services, drove across the county to our old home, ate lunch, caught up on the gossip, was berated for not visiting more often, listened to the next sermon at 1, went home, collapsed, went back for our evening service, then went to the GROCERY STORE afterwards, then went home and ate a VERY late supper, then hit the bed like a sack of wet cement, then up bright-eyed this morning so I could come in here! I wonder why I feel so tired.
You know what this old world needs? More stories about Yorkshire Terriers!!
But who could we trust to give us such needful words?! I say no one but Francesca Watson, who has been incommunibloggo over on Yorkie Blog for much too long! SO, go over there and send her an e-mail and bug her until she answers!
Phenix City's Nattering Nabob of Negativity...
Chuck Myguts of Redneckin' fame has up and moved to new digs at http://idlehourwebs.com/redneckin/nucleus2.0/. All of you please reset the buttons on your radios.
Whew.
Against all odds, I have once again managed to make it through another weekend. Lots of junk to cover, and as always, I have our wonderful staff meeting to go doze through before getting on with the somewhat enjoyable tales of Lady Mondegreen, The Most Hated Movie Experience EVER, Franklin Gets a Mirror, Wal-Martians, More Head Holes, Salon d'Rat du Bois, Visitin', and Other Junk. In the mean time, reader Garland Stewart sent me a link to a story in yesterday's Birmingham News--I had already read it myself in the paper before getting Garland's e-mail, and I agree with him that although the circumstances of the story are terribly sad, the writing by Carol Robinson is first rate. It's about 5,000 words long--a long read, and a hard one given the subject matter, but worth it.
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