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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, September 09, 2003
I think...
...that I will go home now. Blogging will be non-existent tomorrow morning so that I can do some of that good regulatory stuff, but after that, I'll see what sort of trouble we can get into. In the mean time, be sure to check out the fine folks up top in the blogroll and see what they have to say. And if you haven't voted yet, be sure you go on and make your mark before the polls close at 7.
Barbie deemed threat to Saudi morality The Associated PressShort dresses and tight pants? It gets much worse--she even has a car and is allowed to drive it without the permissions from al-Ken! The little harlot. I tell you, there's going to be trouble when those guys find out that everyone's naked under their clothes...
Synergy
AOL, Reuters link instant-messaging nets Now, you have the biggest Internet "service" provider joined with a hard-hitting "news" organization...just perfect.
Witness says Sept. 11 suspect a fanatic By GEIR MOULSONFanatic, huh? Y'think so?
Sad, but not particularly surprising... U.S. Investigators Find Phony Identities Work By Donna Smith WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Two years after the Sept. 11 attacks heightened U.S. security concerns, congressional investigators said on Tuesday they were able to use phony identities to obtain valid drivers' licenses in several states. Undercover investigators for the General Accounting Office were 100 percent successful at obtaining drivers' licenses in eight states using alias identities, according to a report by the congressional watchdog agency released on Tuesday by the Senate Finance Committee. In a few cases where state department of motor vehicles employees noticed that documents were counterfeit, they failed to notify security agents. In some instances, employees gave advice on what paperwork was needed to obtain the license, the GAO found. [...]
What's a Record Album, Daddy?
Mike Trettle with an interesting post (about which I understand ABSOLUTELY NOTHING) on a method for ripping trax from wax so you can soothe your ears with the wonderful sounds of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass or some early Jerry Clower. Being a youngish sort of an old fart, I still have a collection of real live mid-1970s vinyl that begs to be updated to what all the swingin' kids are playing today. None of it's rare, I don't suppose, but there are a couple of albums I inherited from my disinterested older sister of early-Sixties hot rod tunes, including a cover of Ronny and the Daytona's "Little GTO" by The Tigers. There's some early CSN&Y, and Steve Martin's original album, and lots of swing and big band stuff of my dad's. I even have some ancient 78rpm wax gospel records that belonged to my wife's aunt. The kids are amazed by these giant black discs.
Best News In Years!! Opus is returning to Sunday comic stripsSure hope it doesn't suck.
Air travelers may be assigned color codes The Associated PressI realize we have to be careful of each other's rights, but the danger in this seems to not be that there might be someone who might be falsely arrested, but that there might just be a particularly savvy bad guy who figures out how to get himself green-coded, and will then be able to "easily pass through security checkpoints".
Poll Violence Erupts
Possumblog News ServiceOh, it was busy this morning--looked like a good turnout, and it was good to see that the renovation work on City Hall due to the floods is about complete. I always enjoy going to vote--I don't think it's going to be anywhere close to passing, but no matter what, I still like standing there and listening to everyone visit and catch up on gossip, and telling the little lady my name, and signing the roll, and marking the paper, and feeding it through the machine. If you live here, be sure and go vote today. If you're registered, and active, and have some identification, that is. One lady didn't realize she was on the inactive list, so she didn't get to vote. And as I spoofed it above, one girl in front of me in line had apparently been living under a rock and had not heard that you had to bring some kind of identification with you to the polls. She seemed a bit peeved. The guy behind me kinda mumbled that he thought everyone knew you needed your ID by now, and I told him he might better not let her hear him say that. She was sorta on the largish side, you know. Monday, September 08, 2003
Unlicensed doctor gets 4 to 12 years
One hopes he is required to serve his sentence sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a stuffy waiting room with only a torn copy of Highlights and a June 1992 copy of Reader's Digest to keep him company.
No matter what you think of it...
All 2.3 million of you need to be sure and go vote tomorrow on Amendment One. Otherwise, you won't get to gripe about it.
Adventures in Headline Writing II: Major Union May Soon Endorse a Democrat
Absolutely stunning. What are the odds of that?!
Adventures in Headline Writing: Scouts officials look fishing to lure in new members
Apparently, AP has hired native Engrish speakers to write headlines.
Fifty pounds of mud in a five pound sack.
Yet, amazingly, little in the way of clean up. Friday evening, Boy to park—I have become so bumfuzzled by everyone’s competing schedules that even with it all written neatly on the magnetic marker board calendar stuck to the fridge, I still get it wrong. His practice is supposed to be at seven. It’s on the schedule. I know; I’m the one who takes him, and I'm the one who wrote it on there. So, Reba was home with the little ones after six Friday and I was near apoplectic because, well, you know, his practice starts at SIX. I was running around trying to get his stuff together and get him to get his sneakers off and his shin guards on and his water bottle filled and “I’m hungry, Daddy” and throwing a hunk of meat at him and trying to get out the door and the van needs gas and AAAAHHHHH out the door. At six-thirty. Race to the park, screech into a parking space, wonder where all the kids are, see a likely group, start walking toward them and…no. Well, it must be the other kids on the lower field. Walk all the way down there and…nope. “Buddy, where’s your team?!” Surely they hadn’t cancelled practice! Where COULD they be? “Is it seven o’clock yet, Daddy?” “NO, son, it’s after six-thirty and… and… ::sigh::… Your practice starts at seven, doesn’t it?” “Yes, Daddy.” What a dolt I am. It’s on the calendar. But at least I had an explanation for why no one was there yet. It also made me feel really bad because he didn’t get to eat any supper and we actually had plenty of time for it. Bad daddy. “Well, let’s go on back up to the concession stand and wait on everyone.” Trudged back up the hill and tried to get a few empty calories into him—a Pop Ice and some Airheads Extreme seemed to do the trick and get him suitably hopped up on sugar. Called Reba to let her know that I knew now that I was a real big goof. She agreed, but she was nice about it. We sat on the benches for a while and watched it get dark and greeted his teammates as they arrived. Sure is one snotty bunch of smart-mouthed brats. I don’t know what it is, but he sure seems to get on the teams with the most DDD kids (Discipline Deficit Disorder). The other kids’ parents don’t even seem to notice. The coach will wind up ten minutes into practice and have to make a whole clot of them run laps for not paying attention or fighting or acting generally stupid, and the moms and dads just sort of laugh it off. “Didja git in trouble, son?” “Yeah.” Oh. Well, ha-ha, then. Obviously, the kids wouldn’t act this way unless they were allowed to by their parents—their gape-jawed progenitors ought to have to run laps with them. Jonathan’s not perfect, but at least he knows that you say ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir’ (even to Mom and Dad), and you treat others the way you want to be treated, and you don’t pick on kids littler than you, and you listen to your coach, and you do you best. Having to put up with the normal crew of little monsters could be one reason why he doesn’t want to play soccer anymore, I don’t know. But, this might be his last season for a while—he wants to try something else—he has his eye on taking karate lessons. Might be good for him—good exercise, and the kids are generally much more disciplined. And, they have those kool karate outfits. Anyway, the rest of the team showed up and moved on to the field and I set up my folding chair on the sideline. It was getting close to sunset and there was an absolutely beautiful sky overhead. The tail end of a storm system (I think it was that Frankish Henri) was just moving out to the east and there were every different kind of cloud spread across from horizon to horizon. I know I’ve used the analogy before, that it looked like something Maxfield Parrish might paint, but I hardly know a better one since he was so good a painting huge, dramatic, golden clouds. The big stadium lights hadn’t clacked and buzzed on yet, and it was nice and tranquil, and just then the sun dipped down below the level of the clouds on the western horizon—the tips of the bottoms suddenly began glowing like a blanket of flame and after another minute or two, all the sky was like gold, the holes between the clouds dark blue. Absolutely gorgeous. Ten minutes later, it had all faded back to normal twilight, and the big halide lights had come on. Off toward the sunset, I could hear the distinctive low rumble of one of the KC-135s from the 117th ARW on approach to the airport. I don’t suppose it will ever change. That sound, superimposed on the sound of kids playing. On a Tuesday evening a couple of years ago, that was the only sound in the sky. I was sitting on a set of aluminum bleachers on another field across the road, watching my girls cheer at a football game—kids laughing and whistles blowing. I hear that rumble in the distance, and feel that cool breeze, and hear those kids, and that terrible morning with its terrible aftermath comes back. Trying to live our lives just as planned, but knowing that plans would never be the same afterwards. Writing about that day is part of what got me started writing this journal. Trying my best to make sense of something totally senseless. Trying to make sense of seeing my boy running around chasing a soccer ball, knowing there are evil men in this world who would rejoice in his death, just as they danced in the streets when their brothers killed 3,000 innocent civilians on that bright morning. Trying to make sense of a world that continually tells me that Arabs are a peaceful people, and that Islam is a religion of peace, yet I look around and see a world in which ‘Arab moderate’ seems to be defined as one who hasn’t blown anything up yet. One part of me has given up trying to make sense of it. I can do nothing but pity a empty ideology and people unwilling to denounce the evil in their midst. I know there are good people of all faiths and races, but at some point those good people are going to have to quit giving aid and comfort to the ungodly. They will have to understand that their women and children have died, not because we are trying to kill them, but because the supposedly brave defenders of their faith and race boldly hide behind the skirts of their mothers and daughters. I have no sympathy for those who would squall and cry about the infidelic desecration of holy places, as they methodically turn them into armories or go about blowing them up themselves. What sense can be made of someone who blames all their troubles on dark conspiracies of the Jews, or Christians, or the West, or anyone who disagrees with them; their minds seemingly warped by congenital paranoia? At some point, the idea that ‘yes, they are evil, but they are our brothers and worthy of protection’ must end. Stop it with your own hand, or it will be stopped for you, but it cannot go on. Such a prospect gives me no thrill or satisfaction, and it is not out of vengeance or malice that it is said. It is simply that justice has a grim inexorability—recognize it while there is still time to change. That is what I thought of, sitting there in my folding chair, under the lights under a cool September sky, watching some kids kick a ball. As this time rolls around in the coming years, I suppose I’ll always get that odd little icy bit of melancholy in my stomach, and think those thoughts, and give thanks for the men and women, endowed with sense of duty and honor far beyond that of many of their fellow citizens, who willingly place themselves in danger so that the most my kids have to worry about is what flavor of Pop Ice they want. It got to be quitting time and Jonathan gathered up his stuff and came walking over. “Good practice?” He wearily nodded his head up and down and we loaded up and went on back to the house for a bite of supper. Bathtime, then to bed. Up again early Saturday—Rebecca had a game over in north Shelby County again, the same place as her tournament. This time we were all going however, so everyone had to get up and get dressed, which, as always, took forever. Out of the house, on to McDonald’s for some nice cholesterol and sodium, and a special treat for Miss Reba, who wanted one of their new yogurt parfaits. I told her at first that I didn’t think it was on their breakfast menu, so she pouted. But, when I asked at the window if they had it, the voice answered in the affirmative, so she was very happy. Good thing, that. On to the park, found a close by parking space and we all took up our places on the bleachers. The girls played well, but wound up getting beat 4-1. They seemed to have forgotten all the good stuff they did during the tournament—no passing, no stealing, precious little scoring (obviously). Oh well. Flew back home so I could get the grass cut in time to watch the Auburn game, but made the mistake of a side trip to Lowe’s to look for nutgrass killer once more. Which involved EVERYone getting out to the van and wandering through the garden shop looking at all the pretty plants and costing me valuable grass cutting time. Found myself something that I hope will do the trick on the nutgrass—they make some really tasty aspirin, so maybe it’ll work—then got everyone rounded back up with their pretty plants and got them loaded in the van. Back to the house and started the mad dash around and around the yard—started at 1:00 and finished right at kickoff, very nearly dead. Much too hot to spend an hour and a half wrestling a lawnmower. Especially to watch such a craptacular game. Absolutely no offense at all. Missed plays, stupid high-school level mistakes, a billion penalties. The defense wasn’t much better. On the other hand, you have to give a lot of credit to Georgia Tech—they played their hearts out and executed very well, with a good mix of plays and a very poised young freshman Reggie Ball under center. Looking at the raw stats for yardage, time of possession, and first downs, it’s hard to believe we lost, but one of the crucial differences was in sacks—GaTech got us behind the lines SEVEN times for a total loss of 49 yards. We play Vanderbilt next Saturday, the perennial whuppin’ boy of the SEC. I sure hope we can beat them. After that, it was time to break out the pump-up spray can and do the weeds. We’ll see, but from reading the safety label, I’m in greater danger than the nutgrass. Finished up and decontaminated myself (more or less) and helped get the kids scrubbed and in the bed. Sunday, another busy day—Rebecca had another game down in Riverchase, so we had to leave directly from church and she changed in the van on the way (again, if you buy a van, make sure it has tinted windows) and I made a long detour because I forgot to take the I-459 loop. Which worked out fine—I turned around in Irondale, anticipating going over the mountain there and hitting 459 again, when a tiny voice peeped from the back, “Daddy, did you get my shin guards?” ::sigh:: No. So we stopped at, you guessed it, Wal-Mart. Reba ran in and got what she needed and took Catherine to the bathroom to pee, then it was off again, on to the correct interstate and we wound up first at the park. Which means we probably would have had time to go back to the house rather than Wal-Mart, but you know, you just never know. Everyone else finally got there and we first sat on the bleachers, which faced the sun and were about the temperature of a blast furnace. Especially uncomfortable since we still had on our good clothes, so we wound up sitting in our chairs out in the gravel area beyond the end zone. Terrible view, but at least it was in the shade. And not that there was much to see—they played the same team that scorched them in the tournament last week, and it finished up being almost a repeat, except this time we did manage to score one goal. (They scored about 9 or so.) Rebecca played her usual good games both Saturday and Sunday—for such a sweet, shy girl, she is a hoss on the field. Loaded up, then swung back by the house to let her bathe and let the kids rearrange stuff, then it was right back to church—Reba and I both had meetings exactly one hour after the game finished up, so getting back and forth was a test of patience. But we did it. Evening services were over quickly, then it was some supper, then home, then the bed. Managed to cram a lot in this weekend, and judging by the schedule on the refrigerator, the rest of the month is going to be exactly the same. For some reason, I feel very sleepy. I think it must be the weed killer. Friday, September 05, 2003
What a slow day.
At least it was payday. Anyway, the weekend is coming up in a couple of hours, so it's probably time to start closing up the joint. Gonna be one of the usual busy sorts--Boy has practice tonight, Middle Girl has a game across the county tomorrow morning, then another one on Sunday afternoon, then there's all sorts of washing and drying of dirty clothing that SOMEone is going to have to do, and there's a lawnmower gently purring my name. Speaking of yardwork, it was harvest time the other day--Boy's pear tree gave up about 9 gigantic pears and about 3 little ones, and the other half apparently became bird food or were stolen by the feral six year old across the street. Jonathan and I split one of the big ones before practice the other day. We had put them in the refrigerator to get cold and I cut it up into little bits and we ate it all up. They're really cooking pears--rock hard--but sweet and juicy as anything I've ever eaten. Just incredible. He was shoveling the splinters in his mouth as quick as he could and got juice all over his face and shirt. "I really grew some gooood pears, didn't I, Dad!" You bet, buddy. His tomato plants finally started giving up some good produce a couple of weeks back. We've gotten probably about 20 or so off of the two plants, and they have been equally good as the pears. In their tomatoey sort of way. Big, solid, sweet, deep red. He grows good tomatoes, too, it seems. They've been a bit hamstrung from being in containers--the soil just doesn't keep enough moisture to keep the vines from withering up after a couple of days, so they have required constant monitoring by our highly skilled staff of tomato vine watchers. "Daddy, the tomatoes are wilted. You need to put water on them." Thanks, I'll do that. And probably even more stuff. Stop back in Monday and if I have not been carted off to the asylum, I'll tell you all about it. See you then! BUT WAIT!! Before I go, this one is just too preposterous to let go without a link. Quite possibly the worst way to perpetuate the stereotype of librarians as uptight, shrewish, bothersome, bluenose, harridans is to allow yourself to get your drawers in a wad over a doll...and be quoted in a news article about it.
Fit of Anger, Round II
Finally figured out (after getting lots of error messages) that my morning's work was not lost by my silly new OS but by my old friend, stupid, STUPID, Blogger. If'n it ain't one thing, hit's another. The Computer Boy came by earlier to see how things were going--let's see, no Word icon on my desktop and no way to make one appear; the tiny boneheaded toggle buttons at the bottom in the 'tray' won't switch back and forth to the desktop; my e-mail password has NEVER been synched with my log-in password--it has been malfunctioning perfectly well all along allowing me to access my interoffice mail as soon as the engine's fired up, but now with my new stuff, I will have to log on every morning; all my Word settings have been set to the default, which was apparently thought up by someone who never does any sort of writing; and, as always, there are no cool games. I didn't mention anything about my missing bookmarks, because the less they know about that, the better. As for disappearing posts, as I mentioned down in the comments, I usually do the long, involved posts in Word, then paste it into Blogger. Honest. I really do. But then sometimes you get to typing real fast and pulling things from multiple sources and it's just simpler to try it directly in Blogger. Until it gets eaten and burped up in Sri Lanka or someplace. Anyway, we'll see how this thing works as I click on Post and Publish righhhhhhhtttt....NOW!
Having now settled my fit of anger…
by pounding my head vigorously upon my desktop and screaming at the top of my lungs, it is now time to attempt to recapture the merriment and irreverent ad lib spirit of my initial post. Obviously, this replacement post will stink horribly, but the one that got erased was a jewel. Wish you could have read it—you would have burned all of your books by Shakespeare and pasted it on your wall to read over and over. Alas, ‘tis not to be. But as you read the following, just imagine how good it could have been. Onward then, to unlock the door to the Possumblog Sports Center and prattle on about the impending matchup between the Auburn Tigers and the Yellow Jackets of the Georgia Institute of Technology! The Plainsmen will be busing up I-85 to historic Bobby Dodd Field in Atlanta Saturday and will meet up with a team that was just barely bested by BYU last week. The Blacksmiths have had their share of woe over the past few years, but will still constitute a threat to the Tigers. They have a nice fellow as their coach—Chan Gailey has earned his stripes at all levels of play, and even did some teeth-cutting over here in Alabama at Troy State, Samford, and with the world-famous Birmingham Fire of the WLAF. Good fellow, and a sound coach who will be giving the Tigers all they can handle. Especially if they play like they did last week. (If you have a hankering, the game will be on ABC beginning at 2:30 Central Time.) The Ramblin’ Wrecks do seem to fall short in the most crucial measure, however. Their cheerleading website is not even linked from the Institute’s sports page and Googling for it for some reason brings up a host of sites that are not Grandma friendly. Then there is the issue of all those guys being on there cluttering things up, and the whole deal with the bug mascot. The main picture page of the varsity squad has a tiny picture that’s just way too dark, and the perfect opportunity to insert individual photos only leads to little pop-ups with assorted trivia. (Anything with scorpions scares me too, by the way.) Just simply not in the same league with the USC website from last week, although in all fairness, Auburn’s website has not seen a single change in the past seven days. It’s almost as if they don’t care what I think! Go figure. In any event, Possumblog Sports Center’s Chief Statistician Ipsa Dixie has forgiven me (at least I assume she has—I am, after all, still alive) for last week’s ill-advised invasion of her desk drawer and my inadvertent use of the incorrect prediction. All I can say is she should be more careful what she keeps locked up in her desk. Whatever, though, as she seems to be in much perkier mood this week. She just came by and heaved a hunk of concrete at my head (some arm on that girl—must be those large chest muscles) with her predicted score neatly written on it: Auburn 31—Georgia Tech 17. So, there you have it.
You know, I really hate getting new software. I just typed up the Auburn Football Preview Post, only to have it vanish into the ether because the browser did not remember my Blogger login, and it kicked me back out to the login and erased my post.
I am very angry.
Walked in this morning...
And the ultraspiffy new Windows 2000 Professional had been installed on my computer by the IT elves. It's got a pretty shadow underneath the hourglass icon, and in some sort of odd homage to the Three Finger Salute, it actually required that I press CTRL-ALT-DEL to start the silly thing. Finally got it cranked up, and found that my network password and e-mail system passwords weren't synched right, and that all of the helpful Windows popups which require killing were all back, ready to be killed again. Did all that, logged onto the Internet and found that I had a brand new IE browser--cool. Although it did start up on Google, and I use Yahoo! for my home page, but no biggie. Went up to Favorites, and...nothing. My list of bookmarks that I have carefully groomed for the past four years was gone. PIFF. Just like that. If you ever wonder how it is that I am able to come up with some of the obscure, esoteric information you see here, it is through the goldmine of informative links that I USED TO HAVE up there. Luckily, I had the foresight to transfer them to my home computer a few months back, so I'll eventually get them back, but still. How hard would it have been to click Yes on the box to say you want to keep the old bookmarks? ::sigh:: And it updated everything else, too. Clippy is back. Have to kill him, too. ::sigh:: Clicked over to my hit counter and WHOA NELLIE, IT'S AN INSTALANCHE, BOYS!!! Thanks for the link, Doc! Even more amazing is that Glenn had to wade through all the ton of other silliness on here to find that particular post. Incredible fortitude, that. In conjunction with the car theme, Professor Reynolds also has a post this morning noting the news story of earlier in the week that nervously trumpeted that Americans now have more cars than drivers. Once again, I was watching a report on the morning news sometime this week, and the reporter sternly intoned that this statistic might now offer some explanation for all the traffic congestion we have to deal with. ::sigh:: Look, ya putz, it doesn't matter how many cars you own, YOU CAN ONLY DRIVE ONE AT A TIME! Mo-ron. In any event, welcome to everyone dropping in from Instapundit--I'm sure some of you will find something here which will cause you to stop, thoughtfully stroke your chin, and vow never to use the Internet again. For the rest of you, please come back anytime and feel free to leave a comment or send me a note. Chet the E-Mail Boy is all a-tingle at the prospect of a flood of new correspondents! Thursday, September 04, 2003
Of interest to exactly...
Well, I better not try to guess. In any event, I was hauling the brood to school this morning when I spied an interesting brace of vehicles up on a car hauler headed the same way I was. Two big boxy looking panel vans, brand new, high roofs, and the label DODGE on the back end. What the!?! Looked nothing like the familiar Ram/Tradesman van that's been cranked out since 1971--looked like a cross between the full size Chevy/GMC van and a shipping container. I figured this must be something really new--the other label on the rump said Sprinter, so when I got in the morning, I found out that ONCE AGAIN I was outside the loop on the new vehicle thing. (Too many car magazines, not enough truck news, I suppose.) In any event, these things are the replacements for the soon to be extinct Ram van--they've been made by Mercedes-Benz in Dusseldorf since 1995, but are new to America for this year. They are powered by an MB five cylinder, common rail direct injection turbo-diesel. They come in three different wheelbases, two roof heights, in cargo and passenger guise, and they come in pretty colors, too. It is supposed to be assembled in a new DaimlerChrysler plant near Savannah, but I don't think this has been finalized yet. There is apparently a big following for this sardine can in Europe, and this site has a ton of information. (The Iglhaut-Allrad 4x4 version does look kinda neat, in a Tonka-truck sort of way.) Anyway, say goodbye to the old sin bins. And what were these doing in the middle of Trussville? Going down to Southern Comfort Conversions is my guess--someone's going to have themselves a mighty capacious tailgating accessory.
Ill Literacy
Just a couple of things that have popped up over the last couple of days that simulateously irk and tickle me--one of which involves, yet again, my supervisor's way with English. Jeff's company has been chasing some city work, and he contacted my boss about something, and got back an e-mail reply in which the word subtle was spelled "suttle". I don't suppose I should be shocked, and considering my oh-so-brainy coworker (who uses the word "prolithic" for prolific) pronounces the word sub'-tul, I suppose it's just to be expected. The other one came in off the magic television box this morning--one of the local NBC reporters was doing a story about the impact on this area of new federal regulations on staffing emergency rooms. The effect was that emergency department honchos would be able to comply, but the actual details would have to be worked out on a day-by-day basis to figure out what worked best. The reporter said this would be "a trial by error process". Let's see, I've heard of trial by ordeal, and trial by combat, but not trial by error. Trial AND error, on the other hand... Silly reporter person.
Those Magnificent Bloggers Who Are Flying Machines
Miss Janis’ suggestion for some quiztime fun ‘n’ games yesterday certainly brought in some interesting responses. As it stands, the Possumblog Air Force consists of: 1) Republic P-47D, as well as several other things (me) 1) Boeing KC-135-R/REMF (Nate McCord) 1) Mooney Mite (Allison Lane—but actually assigned by me) 1) Bell AH-1W SuperCobra (Francesca Watson) 1) Lockheed SR-71 (MommaBear) 1) One of several varieties of MD helos (Janis Gore) 2) Hawker Hurricanes (Mike Hollihan and Jim Calloway) 1) Royal Aircraft SE5-a (Jim Smith) 1) A blimp (TheMensaMan) And not a single one buried in the sand in the desert!
Well now, THAT was fun…
No, really! Other than a change of venue, that is. My Friend Jeff™ had originally suggested that we meet at a little place called The Garage Café, which would have managed to combine several of our usual themes—the place is a tiny row of mid-1920s garages that back in the day housed the Duesenbergs and Stutzes and Stearns-Knights of Birmingham’s swells who lived up the hill a bit in the ritzy apartment blocks on Highland Avenue. They had a concierge of sorts who would telephone down to the garages for the car to be brought up the hill, or the chauffeur would traipse down and get it himself. Over the years it went through the normal cycle of disuse and abandonment until a local architect (and Fellow in the American Institute of Architects) named Fritz Woehle (pronounced “way-lee”) fixed it up and turned it into a combination sandwich shop/juke joint/antique gallery/art studio/architect’s office. Probably one of the most interesting and cosmopolitan collections of stuff you’re ever likely to find. It’s one of those places that’s famous across the country, yet completely unknown. Ghosts of old cars, good food, architecture, odd chatchkies—fits pretty well our normal oeuvre. And with notoriously odd hours. Drove in right behind Jeff, only to find that it was closed, and would not open again until tomorrow at 3. ::sigh:: Three p.m.?! Whatever. We decided to go back over to Oak Hill Bar and Grill in Homewood, which I have now grown terribly tired of. Not that we’ll be able to go back—we tipped according to the service we received, so I’m sure we will not be welcomed back. Of course, after your patrons have decided not to come back is probably not the time to be concerned about them, but hey. And it took forever to get there for some reason. Usually, Birmingham traffic can be counted on to move as swiftly and signal-less as the Talladega Short Track, but today it seemed all the Over the Mountain moms had taken heaping double fistsful of Valium before strapping on their Navigators. Glacier slow. Parking was tough, too. The past three times I’ve been down on The Curve, parking has opened up quickly, but today I had to park up beyond the crosswalk, which forced me to try to be a good citizen and wait for the signal instead of jaywalking like I normally do. Got in, sat down, order up a fake Philly cheesesteak and home fries (only five kilograms of carbohydrates and saturated fat) and got down to business. “So, how is it you know [insert Sugarmama’s Real Name here]?” (As you recall from my lunch a couple of weeks ago with s.m., she swore up and down that Jeff hated her, based upon their interaction in the brief period of time they worked at the same firm. I assured her that Jeff hated nobody. Especially her.) “Oh, GOD, how I hated her! I have NEVER fought with someone that I WORKED with like THAT!!” Well, sugarmama, what can I say. I was dead wrong. Jeff never did go into any details about the exact nature of their conflict, other than it was exasperating and caused little cartoon puffs of steam to come out of their ears. Much worse, however, is that my cover has been blown a bit. As I have mentioned on a number of previous occasions, no one in my family, no one I socialize with, none of my non-computerized friends, none of my coworkers, not even the lovely Miss Reba, know I type this steaming pile. Although known to an audience spanning the globe, I live a secret double life in which the words ‘Possum’ and ‘Blog’ are never uttered in any sort of conjunction. And now, I had breached that wall of my own volition… “Hey, wait a minute—how do you know her?” Oooooops—if he figures this out, he’ll be in here all the time looking around and being all smart and everything... “Well, you see, Jeff, it all started because of my online pornographic website…” We chuckled and I absentmindedly looked out the windows, hoping the subject would chan… “So, really, how do you know her—I thought she worked at [a shockingly large local company]?!” “Oh, she does—and it just turns out that she knew you and said you probably hated her.” I continued to try to shake him off of exactly how I came to speak to her about him, but he would have none of it. “But how do YOU know HER?” “She writes an Internet journal thing, and you know, I was surfing around looking for local stuff and found her one day and we wrote back and forth and I found out she had worked with you at [Jeff’s Current Employer] and what a small world it is and all. You know.” “And she thinks I hate her?” “Well…yeah.” “What was it I said when you mentioned her name?” “That you hated her.” “Oh. Awww, I don’t hate her hate her. But she worked over in the [other division of Jeff’s Current Employer, which is run by a tiny little dictator] and…” “Well, I told her if you really DID hate her, it was nothing really personal; you just didn’t like anyone who had anything to do with him!! All better now!!” “Whatever.” Indeed. And at least I think I threw him off the trail to this Possumy treasure trove. (In case you’re wondering why I don’t let anyone know I do this, it’s because people tend to act different if they think you’re going to go blab about it to someone else. By being sort a fly on the wall, I get much better material. Not that you can tell.) Anyway, blessedly the food got there so I could change the subject, which as is the normal case, swung about between 1971 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supremes; coffee can mufflers; bringing up boys (one of which his wife will be bringing out in December); being geekily non-athletic (him, not me--I am geekily formerly-athletic); house painting; what’s wrong with General Motors (what ain’t?); fruits; firemen; the new Dodge Sprinter van (to be spoken about in loving detail in another post); incredibly poor service in not-quite-so-trendy-now neighborhood eateries stemming from the apparent sense on the part of the staff that customers should be grateful for being allowed in the door to eat your palatable, but not spectacular food; why were there so many really attractive blondes sitting in the chairs outside and why I was not alerted; the late Mr. Hale, an ancient former coworker who smelt of Old Spice and phlegm and who went recently to his reward; concrete paving patterns; and finally, if leaving a 10% tip is too high to show utter contempt, or only just high enough to mark us as a couple of rubes who can’t figure a tip right. I vote rubes, which is why I would rather not go back. We jaywalked back across the street and swapped magazines—I got the September and October Car and Driver, and he got a stack of stuff four inches thick. Which I figure should entirely make up for being the subject of derision and ridicule once this gets posted!
Whew.
Had to get a mail-out done. For those of you youngsters out there, a "mail-out" is where you actually print a copy of what you wrote on your computer, take it to the copier, run 70 copies of it, then carefully fold each one into three roughly equal portions and put each little bundle into an "envelope". (An envelope is a cleverly folded piece of paper which serves a sort of protective pouch into which to place the copies of the printout.) Each of these envelopes was previously fed through the laser printer and printed with the name and "street address" of the intended recipient. The name has to that of an actual person, too! And the address, although it has numbers in it like an URL, is meant to be the location of a building. After all of these sheaves of paper are carefully placed into addressed envelopes, they are connected together with thin latex loops called "rubber bands", and placed into a handy and convenient bin in the outer office, where they are whisked away by other persons to be given to the United States Postal Service. All of this work used to be done by people called "secretaries", which is what we now call administrative assistants . As you notice, I said they used to do this work--nowadays, such repetitive and simple tasks are considered beneath the high aspirations of some, and it falls to others who have no illusions of importance to accomplish the tasks. Those of us who wind up doing the work don't really mind so much, in that it negates having to deal with certain people who, by virtue of the Byzantine employment regulations we all work under, are incapable of doing neither any substantive labor nor of being fired. Further, certain of these people require large doses of Lithium to maintain an even temperment. Which is important, because to hear such a person when their medicine level reaches bottom screech and holler and whoop and howl is unnerving. I imagine it must be even more so for telephone callers. Would that I were exaggerating. In any event, it is done, and now I am off to go meet My Friend Jeff for an enjoyable round of lunch and car magazine swapping. Details to follow. (Speaking of cars, I will say that this 2Fast2Furious craze has become epidemic--yesterday on the way home, I saw a plain old dark green Kia Spectra four door sedan with a coffee can muffler hanging out the back. End of the world is nigh, I tell ya.) But, let's have lunch first. See you in a bit.
The paying gig has to be taken care of this morning, so all three of you will have to go visit some of the other fine folks in the roster up top. Alternately, you can just sit and have a snack. I wouldn't drink the milk--although with some chocolate syrup it might be okay. There's also some crackers and squirt cheese in the pantry. And some oatmeal. The stuff in the refrigerator that looks like fruit punch is the stuff for the hummingbird feeder, so it might taste sorta odd at first. Just leave enough to refill the feeder.
Anyway, back in a bit. (And remember, don't click on the link in the post below.) Wednesday, September 03, 2003
IRS workers mistaken almost half the time WASHINGTON (AP) -- IRS employees at tax help centers gave correct answers to just 57 percent of tax law questions asked by Treasury Department investigators posing as taxpayers. [...]Wow. Hard to believe it was so high.
Hordes of icky-sounding pests invade Alabama
And for once, thankfully, it's not about possums!! BIRMINGHAM, Ala. (AP) -- The little black bugs buzzing around central Alabama aren't as nasty as their name suggests: Fungus gnats.Well, now...that explains where all my bleu cheese and chanterelles went! Hu said the pesky fungus gnat, from the Sciaridae family, thrives in humid weather. Most should die within the next few days, she said.That Sciaridae bunch has always been trouble. "These bugs are not only a problem in central Alabama; they're a problem in Georgia and Florida as well," she said. "They are not uncommon, but the population has never reached so high."Ahem...well. I never recall Herbie doing anything like THAT.
To my kind and affectionate Portuguese-speaking visitors...
It is with great regret that I tell you that even if you translate Possumblog into your native tongue, it makes even less sense than in English. However unbelievable that may be. (It is rather humorous, though, that the term "smarty pants" in Googlefied-Portuguese is pantalones smarty.)
Oooooh, that's a good question!!
Miss Janis left a comment below in the post where I referred to her as 'Lucy's mama'. She said Lyman's mom told her she wouldn't be a good people mommy, due to the fact that she's too hovering. Maybe so, said me, but she'd make a fine helicopter. WHICH LED TO her idea that we needed us a new quiz here at the Possumblog Center for Personality Exploration--namely, what sort of airplane are you? Excellent question!! For my own part, I have always had a particular fondness for WWII aircraft, having built hundreds of scale models as a youngster. Gotta say I think of myself as a P-47D. An enormous, loud, flying anvil. Not sexy like a P-51, or graceful like a Spit, or maneuverable like a Zero--just 2,400 horses, hauling 17,000 pounds of fun. Incredible aircraft. (I also will occasionally pretend to be a Hellcat, or a Skyraider.) So then, what sort of airplane are you? No matter if you're a Pitts Special, or a Staggerwing Beech, or an A-10, leave a comment and the reason why you are what you are. And please clean up any leaking fluid from the hangar floor before you leave.
September 3 is a happening date, it appears.
From the Library of Congress "American Memory" website, today marks the date of Frederick Douglass' escape from slavery in 1838; the birth of one of America's greatest architects (and mentor to Frank Lloyd Wright), Louis Sullivan, in 1856; and the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1783, ending the American Revolution.
Bush meets with leader of the Netherlands
"I want to thank all of you good... Netherlandese... Netherlandites... Netherlandians... Hollandaises... Dutchmen... whatever it is you folks are, for coming out to see me today!"
Hey, Cool!
I've been haikued by sugarmama!! if Webster's had aJust be glad I keep it hidden most of the time...
Johnny Depp Says U.S. Is Like a 'Dumb Puppy' [...] "America is dumb, it's like a dumb puppy that has big teeth that can bite and hurt you, aggressive," he said.I realize Johnny, being an actor and all, may not be that bright, but it takes a special kind of pinheadedness to say America is dumb on the one hand, then to admit in a newspaper article that you think the Bush Administration renamed french fries. I guess it does prove his point that Americans are dumb, though. Or at least those who dropped out of high school.
Man, go on vacation and your mind explodes.
To the point that you completely overlook such things at the birthdays of Lee Ann Morawski and Francesca Watson! Happy Birthday, ladies, and thanks to Lucy's mama for reminding me.
Cultural Awareness 101
Some selections from: THE BELOIT COLLEGE MINDSET LIST FOR THE CLASS OF 2007I feel so much better.
Red Light District
Story from this morning's Birmingham News about a earnest fellow seeking to do away with red light runners. Alabama ranks fifth in the nation in fatalities caused by red light running, so on the face of it, it sounds like a worthy thing to undertake. But, as with anything begun by Bothered-Americans, there is probably more than meets the eye to the scientific study cited in the article. [...] Daniel S. Turner, director of the University Transportation Center at the University of Alabama, and other researchers took the rankings one step further. They studied statistics for a nine-year period from 1993 to 2001 and found there were 47,501 traffic crashes caused by red-light running in Alabama. The crashes resulted in 16,500 injuries and 194 deaths during that period.I'm sure it's in the report, but it would be nice to know what time of the day these occurred, whether the majority were in rural or urban locations, and if alcohol was involved. That sort of information might point to different solutions than the ones proposed in the article-- [...] Turner said stronger legislation, a public awareness campaign and traffic cameras would be a start to reducing the number of red-light deaths in the state.Again, no real information about time and condition of the driver, just cold numbers. Which when you do the math, comes out to about 1/2 of 1 percent of the vehicles going through the intersection. Obviously, it only takes one loon to kill someone, but the ideas of how best to deal with the Half-Percenters should give all drivers some concern. The traffic camera is the one that appeals most to public scolds--and is the one which has caused the most conflict among the population in places where they are installed. Four separate articles by Csaba Csere (9/01) and by Patrick Bedard (2/02, 9/02, and 12/02) of Car and Driver magazine point out the drawbacks to such systems--tickets are issued to a vehicle owner, regardless of who might be driving; the systems are usually installed, monitored, and maintained by private companies who get a cut of the revenue generated, making them susceptible to the temptation of jiggering the machinery to insure a steady flow of cash; there is a relatively high level of false results, which require time and money to fight in court. The abuses by public officials of this enforcement tool are well detailed in the articles, and although the camera systems sound like a win-win for cash starved muncipal goverments, there is probably a better way to cut down even further the number of otherwise nondrunk, nonidiotic, everyday folks running the red lights--make the yellow light last longer... [...] D.C. police defend their ticket machine by saying red-light running has dropped 64 percent since they cranked it up. Congressman Armey, a skeptic, observes that all those violations that were dismissed due to irregularities are back in the count to make "before" look worse that it was.No word if our fellow in Tuscaloosa explored this alternative.
Oh, heavens to Betsy!
You know, for someone who seems to take great pride in knowing what all is going on with the world of television, I have been shown as being WOEFULLY out of touch--Jim Smith left a comment below noting that he was under the impression the raven-haired Soledad O'Brien had left the Weekend Today show for cable. Could this be?! How could I have missed that?! But, sadly, 'tis true--she started on CNN's American Morning BACK IN JULY!! Why didn't anyone tell me? ::sigh:: First Jodi Applegate left and started that horrid show with Mrs. Brady and then went off to dumb ol' Boston, and now Soledad O'Brien is no longer available for us backward noncable sorts. Campbell Brown is okay, I suppose, but she just seems too prissy and stuck-up. I guess I could get cable. But if I'm too cheap to get my own domain name and some sort of blog software that works all the time...well, I guess that'll never happen. At least Norah O'Donnell is still on. And how could I forget Miss Nikki!? She's still on FreeTV, and one of these days my tireless stalking of her will pay off with a nice lunch (which we have still not managed to schedule). Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Newly Discovered Asteroid to Be Monitored
There's probably a lawyer somewhere who's going to sue to protect the asteroid's right to privacy from being violated.
Notable Quotes! "I personally think actors should remain actors, but I know he's always had blind ambition for that, so maybe it'll work out great for him."Yeah, Arnie wants to be a politician sorta like Stallone wants to be an actor. Maybe it'll work out great for Sly.
SHOES!!
We hopped in the van to head across the parking lot to visit one of the smaller shoe stores in the strip to see if they had anything to fit Boy. No luck. Then it was time to swing by our home away from home (i.e., Wal-Mart). I had turned the radio on and found that in the brief time we had been in the restaurant, the Trojans had already begun the awful butt-whupping of the Tigers. Which went on the rest of the afternoon. We didn’t get back home to be able to see it on a television until the middle of the third quarter, and aside from the occasional third and long conversion or second and short, Auburn looked absolutely horrid. No offense, no offensive line, some defense but not nearly enough. Ick. Better get better quick—next game will be to travel to Grant Field in Atlanta to take on the Ramblin’ Wreck who, although not ranked, are sorta mean. The Jackets do have the disadvantage of not having an easily navigated cheerleading site, which is the sort of thing I predicted last week would haunt Auburn as they took on the USCeans and their song leaders. Oh well. At least we found shoes. Boy has been begging for some new penny loafers for months now—he’s been hobbling around like he’s got razors in his shoes (except when we aren’t looking, at which times he seems perfectly fine). It’s hard to find little boy shoes that look dressy, all of them being afflicted with the oversized Doc Marten look. Sorry, but dress shoes shouldn’t look like combat boots. Anyway, the only thing we’ve found that we both really like are these nice little “Faded Glory” brand loafers from Wal-Mart. We have looked and looked lately and haven’t found a single pair, but we hit the jackpot this time. He quickly found a pair and was excited as a little boy with a new pair of loafers. (Far be it from me to criticize, but isn’t “Faded Glory” a bit of a let-down of a name? What’s next, Paradise Lost? Sunset of Life? Squandered Opportunities? Washed Up Has-Been? Good For Nothing Loser?) He also needed yet another pair of soccer cleats, so we got some of those, and then it was time for the real burden—a pair of church shoes for Catherine. She doesn’t like anything. Well, I take that back—she likes EVERYTHING except Shoes Young Children Should Wear to Church. Bright red tap shoes with sequins? Gotta have. (NO.) Platform hippie shoes? Gotta have. (NO.) Doc Marten hiking boots from the boy’s aisle? Gotta have. (NO.) Hello Kitty pink patent leather with clear heels? Gotta have. (NO.) We went through several more restrained styles, but aside from her not particularly liking the way they looked, none of them fit her. Rebecca found one pair of suede ones with a little Velcro strap that she absolutely refused to try on. ::sigh:: It being the end of the season, they had stacks of white shoes, though. “Can I have white shoes with the white bows like dis!?” “Sweetheart,” I said with much weary exasperation, “it’s almost Labor Day…” “Oh.” No explanation—I just glanced sidelong at her to watch the wheels spin trying to figure out what the day of the week has to do with shoe choice. On to K-Mart. Wandered around looking at everything but shoes for a while—found a couple of bathmats and toilet seat cozies in the Insider Trader section, which reminded me that I needed to go get some toilet seats. This time was going to be different. Nothing with metal, nothing with a wood core. Just thin, hard, solid-color plastic. (By the way, it was A Good Thing.) I am tired of rusty stains from the hardware and tired of hearing the kids slam the wood ones down like gavels, and tired of the nasty looking hard water stains on the bottoms that won’t come off with anything short of a wire brush mounted on a grinder motor. So I got two of the plain ‘uns. “DAD!! LOOK!!” No padding, you little tenderbutt! WHYYYY, back in my day, we had to walk to the outhouse a mile back in the woods, and sit on a cold hard hunk of tree trunk with splinters as big as sixteen penny nails, and all covered in weevils and termites and brown recluse spiders and copperheads. “No, sugar—we don’t need one like that. No, not the one with ducks, either. Put it down.” Over to the shoes for Tiny Loud Girls, where we once again tried on every possible shoe. Including a nice black suede one with a little Velcro strap, that was just a tiny bit too small. She really like it and was quite disappointed that it didn’t come in her size. “That’s the same kind I found at Wal-Mart that she said she didn’t like,” said Middle Girl. ::sigh:: Back to Wal-Mart. This time I stayed in the van to listen to some more of the game, which was better than traipsing back through Wallyworld for the second time. They came back later with the suede shoes she wouldn’t try on to begin with and some other stuff that was Essential for the Well Being of the Entire Universe. (You people can thank me later.) Then it was back home to finish watching Auburn get mauled. Got the kids bathed and their heads scrubbed and got them into bed and settled down with Miss Reba for a nice romantic evening of watching The Great Escape. Which she liked just fine, believe it or not, although it lasted a bit too long to watch as a late movie for folks who had to get up early the next morning. Which we did. Difficult though it was. Got the squids ready for church, gave them some breakfast and watched a little Sunday Today—Soledad O’Brien, please come back from wherever you are. Off to church, taught Rebecca’s class, then had worship, then we had our fifth Sunday meal—and a nice spread it was. Took forever since we only had one line, but some really good food. I had garbage duty, so I didn’t get to relax much and jabber with everyone as I was too busy trying to get people not to throw full cups of drinks into the cans—whenever you lift out the garbage bag, if there’s a hole, you get a nice little trail of ick all the way to the dumpster. Some folks are just real clueless. You have a big bowl of obviously thrown-out beverages sitting right there beside the trash can, and people will look at it, make a face, then just chunk their still-full cups into the trash can. I laid hands on several and gnashed on them with my teeth and smote them and didst mightily rebuke them and gave them many wounds. After that, they were better about it. Somewhat. Got all hot and sweaty from making runs to the dumpster, then we went right back into the auditorium for our evening service. We did an earlier service than normal so the kids could go to a youth meeting that afternoon. It was very nice—the young guys got to do the whole thing. We have a couple of young fellows who are surprisingly good. Thus finished up, we had the entire rest of the day for to relax. Went home and changed into slob clothes and read the paper and watched part of Rocky and Bullwinkle and then watched part of the second episode of Lord of the Rings. Like the first, a stunningly beautiful movie with lots of scary stuff. For some reason, the obvious little kid stand-ins for the Hobbits were much less noticeable than in the first movie. The gollum Smeagol is done very seamlessly—there is still something CGIey about some of his movements and some of his anatomy, but overall it’s incredibly well done. On the other hand, that Miranda Otto girl had nothing wrong with the way she looked. She's one real fine looking Eowyn, and she can do all that sword-flinging bit with admirable skill. And she has nice hair. Sometime in there we finally all went to bed, then it was up again early yesterday so we could go over to Reba’s mom and dad’s for the traditional Labor Day meal of concentrated carbs and grilled animals. Pork spare ribs, hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, deviled eggs, corn on the cob, baked beans, macaroni and cheese, cole slaw. MmMM! I kept the high starch stuff to a minimum, but had to eat several of those ribs. Good stuff. Finally full, it was time to head back to the house, where I laid on the couch the rest of the afternoon and snored while the kids watch MORE Rocky and Bullwinkle and Sabrina, the Teenaged Witch and the parts of the LOTR that they had missed the other night, and All Sorts of Other Stuff. Then I came here and wrote it all down. Why? Who knows. But I did it anyway. And I was just informed by our computer guy that I might be getting my new Windows 2000(!) this afternoon. Or tomorrow morning. Maybe. Or not. Stay tuned!
TV's New 'Whoopi' Takes on Race, Terror and Bush
Having only seen the promo spots, it's hard to say how good it will be. You know, on the teasers they try to show the funniest stuff to hook you and make you want to watch. I sure hope they are doing the old switcheroo, 'cause the promos look about as fresh as the syndicated version of Weakest Link, as hosted by that stupid mushhead guy. But hey, whadda I know.
BUT, before we get to Supper,
I forgot to mention the outcome of the tournament—the girls had another game at 8 o’clock Sunday morning, which meant we couldn’t make it—they played a team called the Lady Jets (sorry, no idea where they were from) and jumped out to a 4-0 lead in the first half, so the coach called them back a bit and they coasted to a final of 4-2. The three victories put them in the final game, which was scheduled for 12:30 Sunday afternoon, which once again she had to miss because of church. This one didn’t go so well—another one of the Hoover Phantom teams who had kicked butt all weekend was the opponent, and unlike our coach who thought four points in the first half was quite enough to be sporting, they decided they didn’t need to stop until they had shut us out 10-0. Ouch. But, the girls still came in with a respectable 27 tournament points, only 2 less than the 29 of the team that beat them, and a solid 6 ahead of the third place team from Mountain Brook. So, not so bad. And now we have someone to shoot for. Heh. SO, going back to Saturday, we packed back up and headed to home as fast as we could. We had to meet my mother and sister for my mom’s belated birthday dinner, so Middle Girl had to get home and destink and then we were going to have to race to get to the restaurant on time. A time which I myself set. Being 5 p.m. Otherwise known as the kickoff time for the Auburn game. Why I did this, I have no clue. In retrospect, it turned out to be the right thing to do. Got home at close to 4:00, and no one was ready to go. ::sigh:: I started playing drill sergeant to get everyone dressed and tried to get Bec in the tub. I would walk by and she would be sitting on the pot, or singing, or talking—anything but bathing. Finally, we couldn’t wait anymore so I just told her to scrub down with a bathcloth and douse herself with deodorant, because WE HAVE TO LEAVE!! Shoved them all in the van and made it to the oh-so-swanky Palace Chinese restaurant in the Wal-Mart shopping center at exactly 5:00 p.m. How we did this (without me stroking out) is something of a miracle. Mom and Sis had already gotten a table, so we sat down and the mayhem ensued. Our kids usually have wonderful table manners. Usually. But not then. Like the ill-advised timing of our little soire, their rabid-baboon-like antics likewise stood as an ill omen for what was happening down in the Loveliest Village. Supper, though, was very good—half of us got the stim chickeh an’ wegabah, which is very healthy but devoid of ANY seasoning. The hot and sour soup was great, too. Lots of chunks of…something. And not too mucousy, either. (Sometimes restaurants will go heavy on the cornstarch and skimp on real ingredients. Like chunks. Mmmm. Chunks.) My mom, by the way, is now 74 years old and I want to say I am dreadfully sorry for every time that I acted like a rabid baboon. Had I known at the time that such shenanigans would be revisited on me, and yea, increased by a factor of four, I really think that I would have refrained from at least half of what I did. Now, of course, she is very calm, and reassures me with words supposed to be of comfort, “Oh, Terry, they’re just kids.” Yeah, right. THEY’RE OUT TO GET ME, I TELL YA! Settled up the tab, which my loving sister picked up all by herself, and received a surprise gift that she forgot to give me on my birthday! Cool! A whole box of cheddar cheese straws from the HM Thames Nuthouse & Three Georges in Mobile (neat old place—the whole story is here), and the entire season of Bullwinkle in a four DVD box set! Hokie-smokes!! Hard to get much nicer gifts. Those cheese straws are absolutely the best I have ever tasted. And nothing is better for becoming more cultured than watching Rocky and Bullwinkle. You see what it has done for me… We said our goodbyes then it was time for our next exciting episode--To Go Shopping for Shoes! Come back by in a bit…if you dare.
New Asteroid Threat Seen
Well, you know when Aunt Tiny had that problem, we just went to the drugstore and got her one of these. Hmm? What? Oh. Never mind then.
There now,
Staff meeting done and my feverish typing of meeting notes is now complete, so it’s time to sit a spell and hear ALLLL about what I did this weekend. Why you want to read this, I have no idea, but here we go. First up—Soccer. Up at dawn Saturday to get Middle Girl ready for her tournament. They haven’t played a regular conference game yet, but they’re already playing a tournament. Why? Who knows. Anyway, got me dressed and roused her up and made her a nice breakfast by getting some fruit out of the refrigerator, loaded up her sea bag with spare shoes and socks and her other uniform and a tee shirt and bug spray and sunscreen (which I forgot to use on her), grabbed my ever-so-stylish straw hat and we set out for the other side of the county. Well, almost. I had to stop at the grocery store and stock up on some soft drinks and beef jerky and other assorted snacks and get some cash. THEN it was on the road time. And no, we didn’t take anyone else with us. It’s hard enough to get ONE kid up and dressed and ready to leave on time, much less three others plus a sleepy wife. They stayed behind to do whatever it is they do when I’m gone. Nice drive, sorta cloudy, through the mess that is Highway 280 (even at 8 a.m. on a Saturday), up Double Oak Mountain, then back down to Soccer Blast. Nice INDOOR soccer place with five or so outdoor fields. Being me, I had forgotten to get the schedule, so I had no idea which field she was supposed to be on so we drove around looking lost until I found the check-in table. Found her field number, then figured out from the crude maps where is actually was, then drove around some more looking for a parking spot. Had I only known, we could have parked right beside her field, but since it was unfamiliar, I just parked at the building and we started hiking. Got to the Porta-Let area beside the access road, staked my claim on a hunk of gravel by setting down all our junk, and waited for everyone else to show up. (That’s one nice thing about not traveling with the entire Possumy Mongol Horde—I get where I need to be ON TIME. Much less stress on the old ticker.) The other girls started showing up in a few minutes and when enough were there they went out and started warming up so I grabbed up my pile of groceries and my chair and made it on around to the bleachers. Since the bleachers were outside the fence and they had flags and other stuff hung on the fence, the folding chair was just in the way, other than as a way to keep other people from sitting near me. Not that it helped. The older sister of one of the girls managed to get beside me and yammered the entire game. And tapped on the bleachers with her cleats. Constantly. And was loud. And insufferably self-absorbed. And talkative. And fidgety. And obnoxious. And loud. AAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHHH!! Fat lot of good it did to be nice and calm from getting there early, when it was all undone and my mellow was harshed by some ratchet-jawed adolescent know-it-all. The game was good, though. They played a team from up around Larry Anderson’s way, the Madison Soccer Club. Good game, and the girls seemed much more at ease on the big field now. They managed to score a nice goal at about the 20th minute, then another at around minute 45. The Madison club stayed uncomfortably close over on our side for most of the first half, but we managed to keep out all of their way-too-high number of shots on goal. The second half we picked up the pace a bit and stayed on their side a bit more, but they played very good defense, and we just couldn’t quite get settled down to make shots. But, a win is still a win, and the girls worked very hard for it. I figured after is was over we would run over to my mom’s house and see her and my sister, so after we got all of Bec’s stinky clothes off and put her on some regular shoes, we set out. Got there, rang the doorbell, no one home. ::sigh:: And we needed lunch. SO, turn around, back toward the field and we stopped in at McDonald’s for a couple of their new salads. Good stuff—the lettuce and tomatoes were nice and cold and crispy, the chicken nice and hot—just like the ill-fated McDLT. (And actually made from an entire piece of chicken by the looks of it—not something made from chicken splinters). And that handsome Paul Newman fellow gave us some of his very own salad dressing for it! He’s so nice. The salad was good, and more than enough food. We finished up and went on back to the park, and THIS time, I got to park right by the bleachers. Other girls got there, Rebecca had to completely change her uniform (it pays to have dark tinted van windows, let me tell you) then it was 2:00 and time to play again. They took on the Hoover Phantoms from here in the J.C. (hip new slango for Jefferson County) and it was a much tougher game. Lots of sun and humidity, and the Hoover team was much more physical than the team from the morning. Lots of elbows and knees and ankles and collisions, but not particularly anything unsportsgirllike. Just hard play. We started off with a quick goal, but they came back and scored two more unanswered goals in the first half. You could tell we were starting to drag a bit. Came back out for the second half both teams played tremendously well but along about the 40th minute or so, we got loose on a breakaway and almost had a goal except our girl got tripped up by her defender and fell flat on her face. So, we got a penalty kick and a goal to tie things up again at 2 all. It went back and forth for another 9 minutes or so, we would run, they would run, we would shoot, they would shoot. Terrific playing until the very last minute when we got loose one more time. Our girl got it before midfield and beat two defenders all the way down and scored the winning goal with only seconds to spare. Wonderful job, especially given the conditions. Rebecca played very well—she mostly stayed at right or center midfield and played with great understanding. She always seemed to be right where she was needed, doing her job without any fuss. She has also gotten VERY fast. She’s hefty, but she has finally gotten just as fast as the little girls, and has incredible leg strength. Good player. NOW, it’s time for me to got get me some lunch, so when I get back and get it typed up, you’ll get to hear the next chapter—SUPPER!
Goodness me!
Already time to put away the straw boater, the white bucs, and the seersucker suit! Time sure gets away from you. Anyway, before I unload the pile of paragraphs from the weekend, I have our normal post-Labor Day staff meeting to attend, and I have to actually type something to post, and I also have to catch up on what I missed out on doing yesterday. Check back after while and you will be served fresh, hot new baskets of the same old pixels, including Soccer, Supper, Shoes, Superior Song Leading, Sighs, Suds, Sunday Stuff, Socks, Squirrel (& Moose), Swordplay, Some Ribs, Slumber, and Some Other Stuff. Friday, August 29, 2003
Ohh, a weekend we will go, a weekend we will go...
Gonna be a tough one--Boy has soccer practice tonight, then Bec has two tournament games tomorrow, then my sister is home and wants us all to take our dear old mommy out for her birthday meal tomorrow, and there's church, and there's Labor Day on Monday (which around my house really is a day of incredible physical labor), and all sorts of other stuff that I will be told all about in due time. So, I am already pre-tired. And I still have this nagging pain in my throat, and the headache, and the stiff neck... Anyway, all of you have a good weekend and holiday, and I'll see you Tuesday.
Once again, the mighty Axis of Weevil swallows up another unsuspecting victim...
I was just lounging around doing a bit of welding in my new kilt when Chet the E-Mail Boy very nearly caused me injury as he blasted in the door screaming at the top of his lungs. (He's not that loud, but he has a nasty, rather rattly wheeze.) Chet has been not the least bit busy lately and was greatly excited that a new message had come clicking across his keyset. It was from Dougal Campbell (of the South Alabama Campbells) who, being now fully dug in to his surroundings, was casting about for inclusion into the Alabama Blog Writing and Monument Carving Association. He wrote: So, what must one do to be considered a member of the Axis of Weevil? I live in Enterprise, home of the Boll Weevil Monument. Is that good enough? Or must I perform some depraved act of weevilness?Well, Dougal (and the rest of you, too), the Axis is a fine and upstanding group of folks, and the idea that any of us would countenance any sort of depravity is beyond imagination. When I was in college, I was once detained for questioning by the police regarding an incident involving goats...::thumbing through handy Internet Lingo book:: Three Mile Island? No. Temporomandibular Inflammation? No. Too Much Information? That's it! But really when you think about it, not enough information! Look, around here, goat incidents and police questioning stemming therefrom aren't that uncommon. Just because you did the same things every other college student does is not necessarily evidence of the high creativity demanded by the rest of the team. And in any event, there ARE rules you know... Anyhow, please enlighten me on weevil qualifications.Oh. Okay. So I quickly scribbled down a response to Dougal on Chet's pad of yellowing Western Union telegram forms and sent him back down to the basement to send them on their speedy electronic way. I went back to work cleaning my cutting torch and not long Chet fell into the office with Dougal's response-- 1) Born in, or now live in, or once lived in, or would like to live in, Alabama;Well, a lot of that depends on what the definition of "is" is, now isn't it? 4) Functionally literateFor the kids in the audience, "10-4" is the number we all used to use before we invented "24/7". 7) Willing to be made fun ofI hope that's not some sort of oblique reference to The Crying Game. Anyway, men who wear skirts should never cry, no matter what. How am I doing?So far, very well. Just keep standing up straight and you should be fine. 8) Willing to make fun of yourselfWell, there's no requirement for frequency, so as long as you're willing, it doesn't have to be every day. Don't want to tire yourself out. 9) Have a framed picture of John Moses BrowningDid Cerebus invent the M-1911 pistol? NO! So your going to have to go here and cut you out a picture from your computer screen. (And why would you want an aardvark picture when you could have one of Jaka!?) 10) Personal library must contain more books than you will ever readEven better than the one in which Helen Crump is given a sound thrashing with a birch rod by Terry Gilliam. 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 basisI don't see why not--once you cut the roof off and take out them back seats, it'll haul just like a regular truck. SO THEN, it looks like Dougal is MORE than well qualified for inclusion into our august group, so by the power vested in me by the 8 out of 9 members of the Alabama Supreme Court, it is with great passion and pride that we hereby grant unto one Dougal Campbell, writer of geek ramblings, full, complete, permanent, indelible, non-smearing membership in the The Cotton State Free Range Blog Society, also styled as the Axis of Weevil, with all of the benefits and promises of greatness falling thereto. CONGRATULATIONS, Dougal, and as with all of our new members, you will receive your very own World Famous Axis of Weevil Gift Pack, containing a slab of Dreamland ribs, a gallon jug of Milo's sweet tea; a G-Lox Wedgee gun rack from Mark's Outdoor Sports for your sweetie-pie's Explorer, a package of Bubba's Beef Jerky (according to Dr. Weevil, this is homemade and is available only at the gas station at the end of Highway 82 in Bibb County); a three piece, 24 ounce box of Priester's Pecan Logs; a box of Jim Dandy grits; a 16 ounce bottle of Dale's Steak Sauce; AND a six pack of Buffalo Rock Ginger Ale. As an added bonus, Jimmy (from next door, not Jimmy from Accounting) has once again branched out in his therapeutic line of handmade crafts--as you know, he has gone from Kool Sealing trailer roofs, to painting rocks, to handpainted stationery, but his newest line is the Ten Commandments lovingly engraved in a variety of clean-smelling and vigorous soaps for your bath. All of these valuable gifts will be heading your way sometime within the next couple of days, although since Monday is a holiday, Lurdean is not wanting to have to go anywhere and make delivers. Anyway, we'll work it out somehow.
Principal breaks 'ugly' school windows
The Associated PressWell, a kid probably wouldn't have a teacher's union and tenure, either. (Probably working with about the same level of intelligence, though.)
What It Was, Was FOOTBALL!!
With the autumn sky ablaze with the brilliant colors of changing leaves and waving pennants; the crisp air filled with the smells of hamburgers and popcorn and the sounds of cheering and brass bands, it can only mean one thing...that's right, Wal-Mart already has their Christmas stuff out for sale!! AND it means FOOTBALL SEASON! AND not just football season, but time for the ferocious Auburn Tigers to take the field! The Plainsmen have been talked-up a great deal this year, predicted to win the Western Division of the SEC, along with the SEC title, and then the really stupid guys at The Sporting News ruined our chances for any sort of success by predicting we would wind up the season at Number One. As it stands, the AP has positioned the team in a bit more realistic berth at 6th place, which gives some breathing room. The Tigers look relatively strong this year, with 18 starters returning, although the loss of sophomore offensive lineman Taylor Bourgeois is bound to be a detriment. Troy Reddick, another sophomore of equal tallness and girth, shares duty at the weak-side guard position with Bourgeois, and might be slotted in his place. Biggest hoss of the team is sophomore offensive tackle Marcus McNeill of Decatur, GA, tipping the balance at 322 and scraping the ceiling at 6'-9". Tiniest Tiger honors belong to kicker John White, a junior from Midlothian, VA who at 5'-7" and 143 pounds is too small for a picture OR a jersey number. The Tigers' foes for their first game of the season (Saturday, 5 pm Central, CBS, with lead reporter Jill Arrington) will be the 9th ranked Trojans from the University of Southern California. Despite being named after a brand of male contraceptive devices, and having a man in a dress as a mascot, the Trojans beat the tar out of the Tigers at the opener last year out in the depressing, smog-filled LaLa Land. This year the Ancient Warriors might have their hands full when they reach the sweet-smelling and verdant plains of east Alabama. (No jokes about having their hands full of cow poop, please.) Although ranked a bit lower, So Cal is still a very strong team with a lot of young talent, but of even more worry to the Tigers is their incredibly strong lineup of Song Leaders. This is what USC calls their cheerleaders, despite the fact that they do not sing nor carry any sort of karaoke machinery. In any event, this is one area where Auburn has usually held a relatively strong lead over rivals, but it appears that the Trojan's webmaster has been hard at work in the off season and come up with a exciting and handsome layout for the girls. They have their own page with a photo of the entire squad (and PLEASE notice that there are no guys in the picture), as well as individual pages for each of the young ladies. Such as Lindsey, a Business major who is hot and whose favorite movie is Dumb and Dumber, favorite book is Love In a Time of Cholera, and favorite TV shows are Friends and Sex and the City! And then there's Michelle, a junior in communications from Fresno, CA whose hobbies include reading, going to church, and spending time in the sun--one reason why she is hot. Nice looking bunch of kids, but when you look over at the Auburn crew and do a comparison, you see some potential pitfalls--still a good looking bunch, but there are all sorts of guys in the picture. This is bad. And there are no individual pictures--with the guys, this is no problem, but they need some for the girls. Finally, the actual cheerleader website appears to have been done by someone whose only exposure to the Web is the stack of AOL 8.0 discs he found in a dumpster. If they keep this up all season, I don't know what will become of us. Anyway, to wrap it all up here at Possumblog Sports Center, I have asked our Chief Statistician Ipsa Dixie to give us her scientific prediction. However, being that she is not speaking to me at the moment (other than the stream of invective and obscene hand gestures wholly unrelated to the game) due to the toaster oven incident, it makes it difficult to discern what she might have come up with. I did go by and rummage through her pencil drawer, where I found a slip of paper upon which it appeared she was predicting a score of Auburn 21--USC 17, although it's a bit hard to read. It might say Auburn 0--USC 23. Nah, that COULDN'T be right. So there you go.
And once more on the hometown front...
Jim Smith over at Unfreezing was shocked on Tuesday to see that I had let go an opportunity last week to make mention of this article from The Birmingham News about the proposed dredging of portions of the mighty Cahaba River and its tributary, seething, roiling Pinchgut Creek. Professor Smith opines thusly: [...] Trussville's mayor wants to dredge these two main waterways. The stated cause is flooding but I think other things are going on. If Alabama could pass a law, like in Mississippi, to allow riverboat gaming, then Trussville would be set. Ah, casinos on the Pinchgut. The Pinchgut Palace Casino. What a thought, all we need now is the ability to get the things in there.Well, that may be less a function of statute than stature. Seeing as how even the most geezerly and feeble old man could easily send an arc of pee from bank to bank, fitting a full-sized riverboat between the shores would be something more difficult than even getting a permit from ADEM or the Corps to dredge the creek. The Cahaba is a bit wider. However, the gaming experience might have to be limited to a canoe. Also, as I was reading the article, I wondered when silt became siltation.Jim refers to the sentence in the article reading: Under the agreement, Trussville would provide the track hoe and operator for the dredging, while Jefferson County Roads and Transportation would provide dump trucks and drivers to haul the siltation away.Well, you see, by removing the process of silt accumulation ("siltation") you eliminate any further silt buildup! It is a very clever way to deal with the problem. Just get that whole siltation deal up in a truck and put it in a landfill, where it will automatically siltate to fill in the hole. Either that, or the reporter gets paid by the letter.
Birmingham, Birmingham--Greatest City in Alabam'
Candidates target city blight, apathy, negative attitudes As if we don't have a negative enough image among folks from beyond our borders, we seem determined to enhance it as much as possible. It's really not a bad place here at the foot of Red Mountain--could be better, but then again, what couldn't (aside from Trussville, obviously). But that kind of talk won't get you elected. Of course, it doesn't help attract new people and businesses to a place you describe as a crime-ridden, broken down, blighted, illiterate, poor, and apathetic, so you're probably not doing the folks who live here any favors.
Good Morning!
My, aren't you all looking chipper today! Hmm? What's that? Why yes, I am about to fall under my desk and go to sleep--thank you for noticing! Long day yesterday. The cont. ed. seminar was pretty good--it was held down the street at the Southeastern Conference headquarters building, and there was a nice box lunch with a sandwich, pasta salad, a pickle, a cookie and a drink. Yumm. Saw a bunch of folks I haven't seen in a while, including several I graduated with--Prissy Boy, Mullet Dude, Mike the Aging Hippie, and an even larger number of current and former employees of The Bad Place. (Many times more former employees, by the way.) The fire marshal was from the City of Fairfield, one of the smaller cities next door to Birmingham, and he had some good comments. Building codes are funny things--there is a huge effort that goes into continually upgrading them with the results of new research and testing, but it's rare that cities likewise continue to adopt the latest version. For folks working in a place like Jefferson County, you have to be very conscious that every incorporated entity is more than likely going to have adopted something different. Even though they may say they've adopted one of the standard codes, it could still be the 1994 Edition. Or the 1988. Jefferson County has 33 separate municipalities, plus the county government. Most use some variation on the Standard Building Code, but few use the latest version, and none have adopted the new International Building Code, which is the result of the merger of all the former competing building code publishers across the U.S. Aside from those codes are the entity-specific standards for folks like the Federal government, the military, and the postal service. The kicker is that even though the city has adopted a particular code edition, it is still up to the city building official and the city fire marshal to interpret and enforce those codes, and they generally have the authority to modify those requirements with further changes as they see fit. Some officials are more interested in protecting the public, others are more interested in showing who's in charge. SO, the best advice he had was to check first before you get going. Hard to believe we don't do that already, but the 'local interpretation' clause has bitten more than one architect. Sadly, there are those of my professional brethren for whom every project is their first. (You know people like this--give them something to do, and no matter how many times they've done it, they still make the same mistakes.) ::sigh:: After the fire marshal was the guy from the International Code Council. He used to work here in our department before moving on to the Southern Building Code Congress International, which is the long fancy name of what was one of the grandaddy code-writing groups around the country, which produced the Standard Building Code. The other groups writing codes were Building Officials and Code Administrators (BOCA) and the International Congress of Building Officials (ICBO). As I mentioned, all three of these groups merged with the intent of regularizing, coordinating, and streamlining building codes to cut down on the amount of conflict and confusion within the building professions and among product suppliers. They no longer publish updates to their old codes, which means that if a city or state wants to update its building code, they will eventually have to adopt the new IBC. It is step in the right direction, but there will still be a problem of one city having maybe the 2001 edition, while the one next door will adopt the 2006. The International folks have tried to lobby for adopting agencies to attach language to their ordinances which automatically adopt the newest versions of the code as it is released, but I'm not sure how much success they've had. Anyway, the ICC Guy talked about fire alarms and sprinklers as they are handled under the new codes. Although he is a big, boisterous, animated sort of guy--tiny little esoteric changes from one version of code to another can be bit on the tedious side and cause you to nod off. Much like you're doing now. Don't feel bad, I'm bored, too. He brought along a couple of brochures of all their spiffy products--probably the most useful thing in there for foks working around here is a book titled, Jobsite Phrasebook, written by Kent Shephard-- "Improve communication on your jobsite with the handy new Jobsite Phrasebook, English-Spanish. This handbook is filled with Spanish translations and pronunciations for common jobsite phrases in the most heavily populated Hispanic construction fields: concrete, framing, drywall, and roofing." Hard to beat at 23 bucks. ICC Guy had to keep talking for a while, which he was more than happy to do, due to the rep from the fire extinguisher place not showing up. A break, and then it was time for the Mohawk door guy, who was a very entertaining older Yankee fellow. And sweaty. Reminded me a lot of Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker. As with everyone else who sells stuff, he had the requisite product binders full of info, and his very own white cotton terrycloth sweatbands. Cool. I didn't get one, though, although at the end of his speech on testing methods for fire doors, he did put one on his own head. He also gave out samples of intumescent fire door seals. These look like rubber gaskets, but they have magical foamy material inside that expands to seal off the door when fire hits it. The kind they use is a fast-react sort that when the temp hits about 300 real, Fahrenheit, degrees, it Jiffi-Pops to about twenty times its compressed size. Can't wait to get a lighter and try it out. And then, that was it. Only 6 1/2 more hours to go by the end of September, and I'll be nice and legal for another year. AFTER THAT, I walked back here for a bit to check on stuff, then it was off to the house for a five minute meal with the family, then over to the City Hall in Exile for our local Board of Zoning Adjustment meeting. The city of Trussville had to move everything out of City Hall due to the floods from earlier this year--the fire department moved to the two other stations, the police department moved to the old junior high, City Hall itself moved to the Community Center, then all of the other boards and stuff met where they could--we are meeting in the Heritage Hall, which is a small meeting room that's part of the Chamber of Commerce and which also serves as the green room for the community theater. They say we can move back into City Hall by next month--we'll see. Anyway, if you ever have grumped and complained about such boards and agencies, you ought to at least go to the meetings to find out how they work, or better yet, find a way to get appointed to one. It's a good way to get to meet your neighbors and get them all mad at YOU for a change (hasn't happened to me yet--last night was mainly just folks wanting exceptions to allow them to run their business out of their home) but more importantly, it's just very American. You know, I complain about dumb stuff in government all the time, but in the end I at least have some sense that I am the one to blame if it's not going right. Nothing irks me more than some sanctimonious foreign schmutz prattling that while he hates the U.S. government, he really loves the Amrikan pipple. Actually, the one thing that irks me more are Americans saying the same thing. Up yours, dudes. It's all one and the same. Hard to believe a fellow could get all hot just because he got to sit at a table in some small town meeting, but there you go. Got finished up pretty quickly, then ran to the park to meet Reba who had brought Middle Girl for her soccer practice, jabbered with the parents some, then sat in my folding chair and read and swatted West Nile virus vectors. Every time I get a headache or sleep funny so that my neck is stiff, I swear I'm coming down with West Nile. And I've got this scratchy throat... Home late, check homework, get some of the kids in bed, get Oldest an article off the Internet about the London blackout for one of her classes, read some more, nodded off several times, bothered the wife some, got the rest of the kids in bed, and finally could stay awake no more. And then came here, where staying awake is still VERY HARD. Thursday, August 28, 2003
What a day
Lot o’stuff in the news yesterday, and here I was stuck with no Internet having to do actual work. Oh well. In case you’re wondering how I got up my single post from yesterday, I copied it onto a disc and took it over to the Regional Library Computer Center, which is a room full of pretty machines over on the third floor of the Linn-Henley Research Library over across the park. The Linn-Henley used to be Birmingham’s central library building, until a new facility was built across the street in 1984. This is what it looked like when it was built in 1927, and this is what it looks like today with the new building in the background. Pretty cool place, and the short walk over was a nice way to catch up with our wonderful group of urban campers making themselves at home on the park benches. Looked like we had a good crowd yesterday of approximately 30 men, highlighted by one who felt moved by the urge to remove his shirt to show us all his prodigious belly and saggy chest. Thanks, guy! At least I was able to get part of my stuff done. UNFORTUNATELY—I will not get to play anymore today, either. I have a continuing education seminar to attend starting at 11:30 that runs all day, so I have to put my shoulder to the wheel, my nose to the grindstone, my hand to the plow and lift that barge and tote that bale and sit here and type. Whee. At least the topics for the seminar sound interesting— during lunch, the city fire marshal will be discussing buildings and fire safety, then from 1:00-2:00 a fellow from the Birmingham office of the International Code Council will be chatting us up about sprinklers and fire alarms, then from 2:00-3:00 will be a presentation from the fine folks at Amerex (world headquarters in the lovely hamlet of Trussville) to talk about fire extinguishers, and then the final hour from 3:00-4:00 will be wrapped up by a rep from Mohawk talking about the exciting topic of fire door testing. I have to do 12 hours a year of stuff like this to maintain my registration—8 hours of which has to be directly related to health, safety and welfare topics, and 8 hours of which must be done in a structured setting with an instructor. As always, I tend to wait until time to renew to start scrambling around for hours—so far this year I have only done 1.5, which was the fun time I had back in December of last year with the moron talking about laminated lumber. (I am also a licensed procrastinator.) So, no play time for me today. Tomorrow, on the other hand, will be jam packed with capriciousness, and FOOTBALL!! And not that silly European crapola, but REAL football! The Possumblog Sports Center is cranking back up, and Possumblog’s Sports Statistician Ipsa Dixie is once again back at her desk in all of her redheaded, vivacious (or vicious, depending on whether one of the male staff made her uncomfortable in the workplace) glory with tale of the tape on the Auburn Tigers and their August 30 foes, the University of Southern California, with their Man in a Skirt on a Pretty Horsie Mascot. Until then, then. OH WAIT!! Speaking of manliness and evening gowns, Dougal Campbell left us a note down in the comments below and I didn't want any of you to miss it. [...] The Alabama Highland Games are coming up next month.Thanks, Dougal! Our, well, MY only request is that you not bend over. For those of you out of the Scots loop, the Highland Games consist of several competitions, including piping, dancing, riot, mayhem, and the traditional athletic competitions of: The Clachneart or "Stone of Strength" (similar to shot put, but done with a stone and a pint) The 28 and 56 Pound Throw (thrown using steelyard weights on a chain and a pint) The Scottish Hammer (a twenty two pound hammer thrown for distance--some contestants wear spiked shoes in addition to carrying a pint) The Sheaf Toss (hurling of a twenty pound bag of straw over a crossbar using a pitchfork and a pint) The 56 Pound Weight Toss (not the same as the 56 Pound Throw, in that this one is attached to a handle then flung over a cross bar--pint is still included, however) And finally, The Caber Toss (130 pound tree trunk tossed so that it turns end over end--requires such incredible strength and concentration that a bystander is usually asked to hold the pint until the toss is completed). Glad to be of assistance in giving you all some culture--you may now return to your regular blogreading schedule. Wednesday, August 27, 2003
Experts: Put kids in back seat of car
Well, okay, if you say so...but I gotta wonder how they’re going to reach the steering wheel and pedals when Daddy’s all passed out down in the floorboard. Such as, say, our Internet connection being down And then there was the mysterious “Wizards of Redmond Anger-Inducing Error”, which shut down my computer entirely—working along happily, click, fade to black, then a nice helpful blue screen with red and white ASCII text from back in the Olden Days, informing me of some sort of foul distemper and imbalance of humours which had gripped my machine, and recommending that I chant the otherworldly “Ctrlaltdel” incantation. Or just try to keep working. Whatever pleased me more. I hit the Any Key, and was dumped back out into the Forest of Word, which had been clearcut and otherwise rendered unusable. I carefully read the entire Windows Operating Manual, then hit the power switch. The computer guys tell me not to do this, as it really screws everything up on their network. Whatever. “Turn it off, turn it back on again” works 99% of the time. Which is actually an order of magnitude more reliable than the operating system. According To The Guy Downstairs, I am in for a vigorous upgrading tomorrow in which I will receive the wondrous Windows 2000. I can barely wait. Even though at the moment I have an operational computer, it’s been very hard to do without the Internet. I really like having some connection to the outside world, virtual though it may be. Otherwise, I have to interact with the real live people here, and a high percentage of them are Insane-Americans. Which makes that interaction somewhat less than rewarding. Anyway, I really need not to worry so much about that and exercise my carpal tunnels by typing up the thrilling and thought-provoking minutes. I’ll check in with you If I’m not passed out. 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!!
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